CHAPTER V.

AFTER CONSIDERATIONS—SUCCESS—REST—IMPROVEMENT.

When we have concluded a fervent discourse, especially if successful,

there comes a feeling of inexpressible relief. For the burden of a

speech accumulates on the mind, from the time the subject is chosen,

until it grows almost intolerable. When we begin to speak all our powers

are called into play, and exerted to the limit of their capacity. The

excitement of the conflict hurries us on, and although we may not

realize the gigantic exertions we put forth, yet when we pause, with the

victory won, the sense of relief and security is exceedingly delightful.

Yet we must not indulge too deeply in the self-gratulation so natural at

such a moment. If we have conquered, it has been in God’s name, not our

own, and the first thing to be done is to offer him thanks for our

preservation. This is but the complement of the prayers made at the

beginning of the service, for if we ask help with fear and trembling,

before the real perils of speech begin, it would be very wrong, in the

hour of triumph, to cease to remember the arm upon which we leaned. But

by pouring out our thankfulness to God, we are at the same time

preserved from pride and undue exaltation, and encouraged to depend upon

Him more fully the next time we speak.

If the effort has been an earnest one, both mind and body need rest.

There are speakers who profess to feel no fatigue after an hour’s labor,

but these seldom occupy a place in the first class. If the soul has

really been engaged, and all the powers of mind and body bent to the

accomplishment of a great object, relaxation must follow, and often a

sense of utter prostration. It is well, if possible, to abandon

ones-self to the luxury of rest—that utter repose so sweet after severe

labor. Even social intercourse should be avoided. A short sleep, even if

only for a few minutes, will afford great relief, and it is much to be

regretted that circumstances so often interfere with the enjoyment of

such a luxury. After the morning service, especially if the minister has

to preach again in the evening, all labor, even in the Sabbath-school,

should be avoided, although, before preaching, such toil will only form

a grateful introduction to the duties of the day. No practice is more

pernicious than that of inviting the minister to meet company, at

dinner-parties or elsewhere, immediately after service. This is

objectionable for two reasons; the conversation at such parties seldom

accords with the sanctity of the Sabbath, and if unexceptionable in this

respect, a continued tax is made upon the already exhausted brain—a tax

greater during such a state of relaxation and languor, than ten-fold the

labor would be at another period. Let the preacher, when he can, retire

to the privacy of his own home, and there enjoy the freedom of

untrammelled rest.

It is well to ponder closely the lessons derived from each new

experience in speaking. The minister can never exactly measure his own

success, and may often lament as a failure that effort which has

accomplished great good. He has in his mind an ideal of excellence by

which he estimates his sermons. If this be placed very low, he may

succeed in coming up to it, or even pass beyond it, without

accomplishing anything worthy of praise. But in such a case he is apt to

be well satisfied with the result. And often the sermons with which we

are least pleased, are really the best. For in the mightiest efforts of

mind the standard is placed very high—sometimes beyond the limit of

possible attainment, and the speaker works with his eye fixed upon the

summit, and often, after all his exertions, sees it shining above him

still, and closes with the conviction that his ideas are but half

expressed. He feels mortified that there should be such difference

between conception and execution. But his hearers, who have been led

over untrodden fields of thought, know nothing of the heights still

above the orator’s head, and are filled with enthusiasm, or have

received new impulses to good. This is the reason why we are least able

to judge of the success of sermons that have been long meditated, and

are thoroughly prepared. The subject expands as we study it, and its

outlines become grander and vaster, until they pass beyond our power of

representation. And each separate thought that is mastered also becomes

familiar, and is not valued at its full worth by the speaker. If he had

begun to speak without thought, intending to give only the easy and

common views of his subject, all would have been fresh to him, and if a

striking idea presented itself, its novelty would have enhanced its

appreciation. This is no reason against diligent preparation, but rather

a strong argument in favor of it. It should only stimulate us to improve

our powers of expression as well as of conception.

But with all these sources of uncertainty in our judgment of our own

productions, we should not be indifferent to our perceptions of success

or failure. In the greater number of instances will be correct, and we

can very frequently discover the cause of either, and use this knowledge

to future profit.

Even if we imagine our failure to be extreme, we have no need to feel

unduly discouraged. God can, and does, often work with the feeblest

instruments, and the sermon we despise may accomplish its purpose. The

writer preached one evening when very weary, and almost unprepared. From

first to last a painful effort was required to find anything to say, and

to prevent utter failure the intended plan had to be abandoned, and new,

detached thoughts thrown in as they could be found. And yet that

discourse, which was scarcely worthy of the name, elicited warmer

approval, and apparently accomplished more good, than any one from the

same preacher ever given at that point. But such instances should never

lead us to neglect all the preparation in our power, for usually when

failure springs from a real defect, the verdict of the people will

coincide with our own.

However we may judge of our success it is not wise to ask any of our

hearers for their opinion. We may observe any indications of the effect

produced, and, if the criticisms of others are offered spontaneously, it

is not necessary to repulse them, especially if they are marked by a

spirit of candor and good will; but all seeking for commendation is

debasing. It is sweet to hear our sermons praised, and most of men can

endure an amount of flattery addressed to themselves, that would be

disgusting if applied to others; but if we indulge this disposition it

will become ungovernable, and expose us to well-deserved ridicule. It is

pitiable to see a man who is mighty in word and thought, who wields the

vast powers of eloquence, stooping to beg crusts of indiscriminate

praise from his hearers. Nothing contributes more to destroy our

influence, and make our audience believe that we are merely actors,

unaffected by the sublime truths we declare.

It is well to think over our sermons after they have been preached, and

if any defect appear, amend it in the plan, and add all the new ideas

that may have been suggested during speech. This prepares us to preach

still better when we have occasion to use the same plan a second time.

Some ministers are accustomed to write their sermons after delivery.

This may do well, especially when the theme is of great importance, but

in general, it is questionable whether the advantage is great enough to

warrant the expenditure of so much time.

But to review and correct a verbatim report of our sermons would be far

more profitable. If some short-hand writer—a member of our family, or

any other who is willing to take so much trouble—will preserve our words

for us, a revisal of them on Monday would be of immense benefit. The

offensiveness of pet phrases, which we might otherwise be unconscious of

for years, would be detected at once. Faults of expression, and

especially the profuseness of words, in which extempore speakers are apt

to indulge, would be forced upon our notice; and if any really valuable

ideas occurred, they could be preserved. There would be little use in

writing the sermon over in full, for we would commonly find that it

might be reduced to one-third or one-fourth its bulk without material

injury. The habitual condensation of our sermons after delivery, would

teach us to express our thoughts compactly even in speech.

The only difficulty in applying this capital means of improvement, is

the small number of persons who can write short-hand with sufficient

rapidity—a difficulty that may be less in the future than it has been in

the past, and can now be obviated by the minister’s wife or daughters,

who may have sufficient perseverance and devotion to master the

laborious, but precious art for his sake.

PART III.

MISCELLANEOUS ADDRESSES.

CHAPTER I.

INSTRUCTIVE ADDRESS.

We will give only a brief consideration to the various fields of oratory

outside the pulpit, because the greater number of principles already

laid down can be applied, with slight modifications, to any kind of

speech. The different varieties of secular address may be divided as

follows:

I. Instructive Oratory.

II. Legal Oratory.

III. Deliberative Oratory.

IV. Popular Oratory.

V. Controversial Oratory.

We apply the first term to all oral teaching, more connected than

question and answer, and to all lectures that have instruction for their

primary object. This species of discourse differs from the sermon in the

absence of persuasion, rather than in its positive character. The

lecturer should thoroughly understand the topic he attempts to unfold,

and place it in the clearest possible light. Much illustration is

needed, for the subject is usually a novel one to the greater portion of

the audience, and can be best explained by comparison with familiar

objects. It should have its strong central points, which can be easily

remembered, and around which the minor parts of the discourse may be

grouped, for if the whole consist of isolated facts poured forth without

generalization or arrangement, no distinct impression will be left.

Appeals to passion and emotion are less necessary in lectures than in

most other kinds of speech. Yet so closely are heart and intellect

connected, that we can arouse attention, and secure a more durable

result, if the facts we narrate are linked with the experiences and

emotions of life.

The practice of writing is even more prevalent when applied to lectures

than to sermons, and the reasons urged in its favor have more

plausibility. As the lecturer does not aim to move his hearers to

immediate action, the advantages of direct address are less required.

Still he wishes to interest them, and it may be questioned whether this

can, in any case, be so well accomplished from manuscript. But it is

urged that in a scientific lecture there is often too great a number of

detached facts to be easily remembered. This may be true, but it

suggests another important question: if they cannot be recalled by the

speaker who has reviewed them again and again for days together, how can

it be expected that those who only hear them read over once, will retain

any distinct impression? A clearer generalization of the whole

discourse, and a proper arrangement of each fact under the principle

which it illustrates, would go far to obviate both difficulties. Yet, in

the use of statistics or other items, about which the speaker wishes to

be precise, though he may only care to give the audience a general

conception of them, notes will be a great relief to the memory, and the

statement of principles deduced can be still made in direct address.

After a man has become so famous that each word he utters will be

listened to with profound attention, because it comes from him, he may

write safely. This is especially the case with those who have become

authorities in their own departments of knowledge. What they say is

received rather as a conclusion to argument, than as an assertion to be

weighed, and the calm, deliberate reading of such final statements has

all needed impressiveness. But if we have not attained this position, we

had better employ every legitimate means to interest our audiences.

It is often claimed by the advocates of reading, that a literary lecture

must be written to secure the polish and smoothness needful in the

treatment of such themes. It will not do, say they, to give, in our

words and manner, an illustration of the absence of the very qualities

we praise. But surely men can speak on a subject they understand in good

grammar and fitting language, without having first placed each word on

paper! And if they attempt much beyond this they lead the mind of the

hearer from the subject to a consideration of the skill of the lecturer.

We are ready to grant that compositions should be read, not spoken, when

ever they cease to instruct about something else, and become an

exhibition in themselves. A poet is right in reading his poem; and even

in prose, if we wish to call attention to our melodious words, and our

skill in literary composition, instead of the subject we have nominally

taken, it will be well to write. But the resulting composition will not

be a lecture.

The field for instructive lectures is constantly enlarging. In former

times they were monopolized by university professors, and very few

persons sought to teach the people. But this has changed. There are now

many more schools where courses of lectures are given on various topics,

and every town of any pretension has its annual lecture course. Even

these are not sufficient to meet the increasing demand, and, as every

community cannot pay Beecher or Gough from one to five hundred dollars

for an evening’s entertainment, there is abundant scope for humbler

talent. Strolling lecturers, without character or knowledge, reap a rich

harvest from the credulity of the people. Even the noble science of

phrenology is often disgraced by quacks, who perambulate the country and

pretend to explain its mysteries—sometimes telling character and

fortunes at the same time. So far has this prostitution of talent and

opportunity gone, that the village lecturer is often placed in a

category with circus clowns and negro minstrels. But this should not be,

and no class could do more to prevent it than the clergy. If they would

each prepare a lecture or two upon some important subject they have

mastered, they could extend their usefulness, and teach others besides

their own flocks.

Lecturers are becoming more numerous and popular. New sciences and arts

are continually springing into being, and there is no way that a

knowledge of them can be so readily diffused among the masses of the

people, as by public addresses upon them. Even the oldest of the

sciences—Astronomy—has been brought to the knowledge of thousands who

otherwise would have remained in ignorance of its mysteries. It was thus

that the lamented General O. M. Mitchel succeeded in awakening public

interest, and in securing funds for the erection of his observatory at

Cincinnati.

Benefit lectures are very common. In these the services of the lecturer

are given gratis, or for a nominal compensation, and persons are induced

to purchase tickets that some good cause may be benefited by the

proceeds. This is the most pleasant of compromises, and is surely better

than fairs, gift drawings, etc., although when the patronage of the

public is thus secured for a lecture that has no real merit, the benefit

is more questionable.

The most important point in a lecture is that the subject be thoroughly

understood, and so arranged that there may be no difficulty in grasping

the whole thought. Vivacity and life will prevent the audience from

growing weary; wit, if it be true and delicate, will add to the

interest, and has a far larger legitimate sphere than in a sermon.

Ornaments, too, may abound, provided they do not call attention away

from the subject, or weaken the force of expression. The plan of a

lecture may be constructed in a manner similar to that of a sermon, as

the end in view is not very different. If this be well arranged, and all

the principles, facts and illustrations be properly placed, no need of

writing will be felt.

CHAPTER II.

MISCELLANEOUS ADDRESS—LEGAL—DELIBERATE—POPULAR—CONTROVERSIAL.

The speech adapted to the bench and bar presents some peculiar features.

The lawyer deals with facts and living issues. He works for immediate

results, and therefore uses the means best adapted to secure them. The

use of manuscript, which increases in proportion as we remove from the

sphere of passion, finds no place when life and property are at stake.

The lawyer who would read his appeal to the jury in an exciting case,

would have few others to make. At the bar the penalty for inefficiency

is so rapid and certain, that every nerve is strained to avoid it. To

argue with a lawyer against the use of written discourses, would be like

proving the advantage of commerce to an Englishman. His danger lies in

the opposite direction—that of caring too little for polish, and of

making the verdict of the jury his only aim.

A lawyer should never contend for what he believes to be wrong. Yet the

common estimate of the morality of attorneys is not based on fact. They

may have greater temptations than some others, and many of them may

fall, but another reason than this accounts for the grave imputations

cast on them. In every suit, at least one party must be disappointed,

and it is natural that, in his bitterness, he should throw discredit on

all the agencies by which his hopes were destroyed. But this is most

frequently groundless. The lawyer may be counsel for a man whom he knows

to be in the wrong, but he ought never to take his stand on a false

position. He may show any weakness in his adversary’s case, and see that

all the provisions of the law are faithfully complied with, but must not

endeavor to distort the truth. An adherence to this determination will

soon give his words a power and influence that will more than

counterbalance all disadvantages. Let him seek for the strong points in

his own case, and then throw them into the simplest and boldest shape,

not forgetting the importance of appealing to the heart, as well as

head, of judge and jury.

The judge differs from the advocate in having both sides of the case to

present, and in seeking truth rather than victory. As he stands upon the

law, and unfolds its dictates, which are obeyed as soon as known, he has

no need to appeal to passion, and can give his words with all calmness

and certainty.

Under the most absolute monarchy there are always some things that men

are left to settle according to their own pleasure, and when a number of

persons have equal interest and authority this can only be done by

discussion. In our own land the people bear rule, and the field of

deliberation is almost infinitely widened. City councils, State and

national legislatures, the governing societies of churches, parties,

companies, and all organizations, have more or less of power to be

exercised. If this were vested in a single will, silent pondering would

determine each question, but in assemblies these must be decided by

discussion, argument and vote.[1]

Footnote 1:

See rules for these in Appendix.

There is one general peculiarity that marks the speeches addressed to

such a body; their main object is to give information. All are about to

act, and are supposed to be diligently looking for the best course to be

taken. This secures an interest in everything that really throws new

light on the subject, while it often renders such an assemblage

intolerant of mere declamation. In representative bodies there is also

constant reference to the opinions and wishes of those for whom they

act.

Such speeches are frequently intended to be read beyond the bounds of

the audience where they are delivered, and for this reason are often

elaborately prepared, and read at first. If they do truly give

information, either in reference to principles or facts, they suffer

from this less than any other class of addresses. They may be dry and

unattractive in form, but if each concerned, feels that he is obtaining

new facts for guidance, he will listen with patience. Yet, even then, a

greater impression would be produced if the same accuracy and sureness

of statement were embodied in spoken words. Let there first, be broad,

statesmanlike views, a clear comprehension of the effects of measures,

and perfect confidence in what we advocate, and then all the graces of

speech may be added with the certainty that their effect will be that

always produced by true eloquence.

A popular address differs from a lecture in having an element of

persuasion in it. In fact, this is its principal characteristic. When we

desire to incline the hearts of the people to some favorite cause, we

assemble them together, and labor by all the arguments we can command,

to induce them to adopt our views and enter on the course we recommend.

Energy and earnestness are the qualities most uniformly successful. The

people care little for the subtile niceties of speech, but they require

that the man who addresses them should believe what he says, and feel

the power of his own reasoning. A deep, strong, unfaltering conviction

is always an element of strength.

Many speakers think it an advantage to flatter the prejudices of the

people, but they are mistaken. Temporary applause may be won, but second

thoughts are apt to detect the lurking insincerity, even if they do not

overthrow the prejudice itself If the speaker be really under the

influence of the same misconception as the audience, this is a different

matter, for hearty devotion, even to the wrong, is contagious. But calm

reasoning and truth are always best. These gave Abraham Lincoln the

superiority over Stephen A. Douglas, making him more effective with the

people than the latter was, not withstanding his fervid eloquence. The

one appealed to the reason of the people, the other to passion.

Humor has a place in the popular address not second to any other

quality. A telling anecdote, or a good illustration (the homelier the

better, if it be not coarse), will arrest attention and dwell longer on

the memory, than the strongest argument.

Controversial oratory partakes of the nature of a battle, but should be

something more than strife for victory. There is little danger of

languid attention in this species of address, for opposition arouses

both speaker and hearer.

The golden rule in all controversies, is to be certain of a solid basis

of fact, and follow the guidance of true principles. Then we deserve

success. But fair means only should be employed. It is so hard to see an

adversary triumph even, when convinced of the correctness of his

position, that we can scarcely forbear employing every artifice to

prevent such a result. But we should never misrepresent our opponent.

Even if he has been unfortunate in his explanations, and leaves the way

open for a natural misconception, we should use our best efforts to

understand what he really means, and give him the credit of that. We

must also allow his reasoning its due force. No just argument ought ever

to be weakened. Let us bring forward our views, and, if possible, show

that they are truer and more firmly based than his. And if we see that

this cannot be done, there is only one manly course left—to surrender at

discretion. If we cannot maintain our views by clear proof, we should

abandon them, and seek others that need no questionable support.

PART IV.

EMINENT EXTEMPORE SPEAKERS.

AUGUSTINE—LUTHER—CHATHAM—PITT—BURKE—MIRABEAU—PATRICK

HENRY—WHITEFIELD—WESLEY—SIDNEY SMITH—F. W.

ROBERTSON—CLAY—BASCOM—SUMMERFIELD—SPURGEON—H. W.

BEECHER—BINGHAM—GLADSTONE—SIMPSON—WENDELL PHILLIPS—J. P. DURBIN.

EMINENT SPEAKERS.

USE OF EXAMPLES.

Notwithstanding the popularity of unwritten speech, and the innumerable

arguments in its favor, there is an impression in some quarters that the

very highest excellence cannot be attained without the previous use of

the pen. It may be shown that it is more natural to find the words in

which our thoughts are clothed at the moment of expression; that a

stronger and better frame-work of thought can be constructed, if the

mind, in preparing for speech, is occupied with that alone; that the

speaker and hearer may thus be brought into closer union; that this, in

short, is the order of nature, which leaves the solid frame-work of the

tree standing through many winters, but each spring bestows its graceful

robe of leaves upon that which was prepared to receive it. But this is

not enough to produce lasting conviction. It is still maintained, almost

with obstinacy, that in the highest fields of oratory, words must be

previously chosen, fitted together, and polished.

This nearly every speech-writer proves from his own experience. The

efforts that have afforded him most satisfaction were those in which

nothing had been left to the chance of the moment. But it is easy to see

how even experience may mislead in this particular. We can judge the

comparative merits of another in his different modes of address with

some approach to accuracy, for our mental state—that of

listeners—continues the same under them all. But it is different when we

judge ourselves. When we extemporize, our best expressions fade from the

mind after they have been given forth, and can only be recalled by a

strong effort. On the other hand, when we have wrought our language

slowly, and lingered over each sentence, we see all the beauty it

contains, and begin to admire our own production. If we see anything

faulty, instead of lamenting it, as we would an unfortunate, spoken

sentence, we change it, and take credit for the keenness of our critical

taste. Is it wonderful that when we come before an audience with an

address made as nearly perfect as we can construct it in every line, and

the whole clearly written, or firmly engraved on the memory, and then

repeat it, with a full appreciation of each beauty as we pass along,

that we consider it to be of far higher merit than the impassioned

torrent poured forth on another occasion, when we scarcely knew that we

were using words at all? If the people do not seem to appreciate it,

their want of taste and culture affords a ready excuse for them, even if

the speaker is not too much occupied with his own eloquence to notice

them at all. He is always ready, too, with the examples of Massillon and

Bossuet, or of Chalmers, to prove that it was thus the most powerful

orators spoke.

We do not deny that great effects may be produced, under certain

circumstances, by committed words. The fact that many actors have won

great fame by repeating the words of others, proves how much may be done

in this direction. It is but reasonable, that if some gifted minds can

thrill an audience to tears, and rouse every feeling to its highest bent

by merely copying others, that those who, in addition to this ability,

possess the power of framing their own thoughts in suitable words, may

accomplish as much. John B. Gough is an instance of the power that may

be wielded in this manner. But such men cannot occupy the highest

position in the temple of fame. They are but actors. When they speak

they will be listened to with eagerness and pleasure, as great

performers always are, but it will be as performers rather than as

authorities. They have placed themselves on a level with those who deal

in unreal things, and there they must be content to remain. Doubtless it

is more noble to speak the sentiments and feelings that we once

possessed, in the language adapted to _that_ time, than to deal in those

belonging to another person, but the resemblance between the two is very

close, and the people feel it so acutely that they make no

discrimination.

But we maintain that even in momentary effect—the quality which is

supposed to belong peculiarly to the powerful declamation of prepared

language—extempore speakers have passed beyond all others; while in

power of thought and lasting influence, there can be no comparison.

There is no single quality of speech that cannot be reached as well

without writing as with it, while perpetual readiness, vast and profound

knowledge (which writing extensively leaves no time to acquire), and

weight and authority with the people, belong almost exclusively to the

extemporizer.

These assertions may seem bold to many, but we are prepared to

substantiate them. In the preceding pages we have aimed to show how this

species of address may be acquired, and improved to an almost unlimited

degree. The ideal thus sketched is not an impossible or imaginary one.

It has often been attained, and for the encouragement of those who may

be disposed to throw away their manuscripts, and trust to the method of

nature, the following examples are selected. These are chosen because of

their eminence, and also because of the wide variety of qualities

displayed in their eloquence. Many more might be given, but these are

sufficient for our purpose, which is to show that in every department of

speech the highest eloquence that ever flowed from the lips of men has

clothed itself in unpremeditated words.

In these sketches we, of course, make no pretension to originality, but

have compiled what was adapted to our purpose from every available

source. And as the matter so obtained has been frequently abridged, and

two or three different accounts woven together, it has sometimes been

impossible to give full credit. We are under especial obligation to the

“New American Cyclopedia,” Mosheim’s Church History, Stevens’s History

of Methodism, Harsha’s “Orators and Statesmen,” “Kidder’s Homiletics,”

with the current biographies of the speakers treated of.

Much of the oratory of antiquity was recited. This has been used as an

argument to prove the comparative inferiority of that speech which is

the offspring of the moment, forgetting the great difference between

ancient and modern life—a difference arising from the greater diversity

of the latter, and the nobler aims to which it gives birth. The typical

Grecian oration is as much a work of art as a statue. It was made to be

admired, and if, by the beauty of its arrangement, the melody of its

language, and the elegance of its delivery, this object was achieved,

the orator was satisfied. It was so, to a less degree, in the classic

age of Rome. The form of the oration was of greater importance than its

matter, and it was judged that this would be best perfected by the use

of the pen, and of the memory. Yet the practice of antiquity on this

point was far from uniform. Some of the noblest orators spoke extempore,

and have less fame than those who adopted the opposite plan, only

because at that time the art of reporting was too imperfect to preserve

their eloquence. The effect they produced remains, and from it we obtain

a faint view of their greatness. Pericles spoke without previous

writing, and the sway his speech established over his countrymen was

more undisputed than that of Demosthenes. The latter had an assemblage

of talents that, with his tireless industry, would have made him eminent

in any mode of address that he might have adopted; but even he did not

recite exclusively.

The great rival of Cicero, Hortensius, whose wonderful power excited the

emulation of the former, spoke from the impulse of the moment, as did

many of the more eminent of the Roman orators. Cicero was a man of

tireless energy. He applied himself to the study and practice of

eloquence with a singleness of aim, and a concentration of purpose that

may well command our admiration. He accumulated vast stores of

knowledge, perfected his logic, and improved his voice until it became

music, and brought all the resources of a mighty mind to bear on

oratory. It is not wonderful that he was listened to with profound

attention, while he recited what he had previously composed. But some of

his most brilliant passages were extemporaneous. The outburst that

overwhelmed Catiline when he unexpectedly appeared in the senate, was

coined, at white heat, by the passion of the moment.

The reason why so many of the ancients committed their speeches, was

because they could not be preserved otherwise, unless the orator could

remember and write down what he had said. Every unwritten speech

perished, and left nothing but a dim memory of the results it had

produced. This is the reason why the extempore speakers of the ancient

world are less known than the reciters. But the art of short-hand has

effected a revolution in this particular, and the most impassioned

speeches are now photographed for the admiration of future generations.

The man who wishes his speech preserved is no longer compelled to write

it.

EARLY PREACHING IN THE CHURCH.

We may be sure that the preaching of Christ and the Apostles was without

notes. It seems scarcely less than profanation to picture even the

latter as reading from a previously prepared manuscript, after they had

been promised the help of the Spirit in the hour when help was needed;

and it is inconceivable that the Saviour should have taken any other

mode of imparting His wisdom to men, than that of direct address. Paul

deprecated the eloquence of mere words, although the sketch of his

sermon on Mars’ Hill, with other addresses, shows that he did not

neglect the eloquence of thought, and the strength of orderly, logical

arrangement. We have no direct evidence of the manner of preaching in

the first century, but from all intimations we are led to conclude that

sermons were composed without the use of the pen, and consisted of easy,

familiar scripture expositions and deductions of moral lessons. Origen,

the most celebrated divine of the third century, preached without

manuscript, and Eusebius says of him:

“Then, as was to be expected, our religion spreading more and more,

and our brethren beginning to converse more freely with all, Origen,

who they say was now more than sixty years of age, and who, from

long practice, had acquired great facility in discoursing, permitted

his discourses to be taken down by ready writers, a thing which he

had never allowed before.”

This shows not only that he had been accustomed to preach extempore, but

that he would not permit the sketches of his sermons which could be made

by the imperfect reporting of that day, to be published until late in

life. This would be very natural, when unstudied explanation was the

main object of the address, but very unnatural if the sermon had been

written according to the rules of rhetorical composition. In the sermons

of Chrysostom there are many passages which could not, from their

nature, have been precomposed, and these are among the most brilliant of

all. But Augustine, who flourished in the fourth century, affords us a

still more conclusive proof of the power of the natural mode of address.

AUGUSTINE.

The father of this great man was a pagan, but his mother was a

Christian. She was a most remarkable woman, and from her he doubtless

inherited some of the strongest elements of his character. Her prayers

for his conversion were almost continual, but for many years produced no

apparent result. He plunged into many excesses, and lived a most

irregular life, but from this he was aroused by the death of his father,

and by the study of philosophy. For a time the latter seemed to satisfy

his ardent mind, but soon he saw its insufficiency, became an earnest

searcher for truth, and explored the writings of the sages of antiquity

without being able to find anything on which he could rest. The problems

of life pressed upon him with a terrible weight, and he was too profound

a thinker to be satisfied with any superficial explanation. The doctrine

of the ancient Persians—that of the two antagonistic principles of good

and evil in the world—for a while charmed his imagination, but its

influence over him soon passed away. During all this time he was rising

in fame as a teacher of rhetoric and eloquence, and had established a

school in Rome which became widely celebrated.

His reputation as a teacher caused him to be summoned to Milan, where

the Emperor then was. The great preacher, Ambrose, then in the zenith of

his power, officiated in that city. Augustine heard him, and felt that

his doubts were answered. But it required a terrible struggle before he

could yield, and it was only after he had passed the whole series of

Christian doctrines in review, and tested them by all his mighty power

of argument, that he at last reposed in the truth. The joy of his good

mother can scarcely be conceived at this answer to her unceasing prayer,

and she soon passed away triumphantly. He spent a short period in

seclusion and profound meditation, was then baptized, and four years

after began to preach.

The success of Augustine was as great in preaching as it had been in

teaching, and he was promoted to the office of Bishop. His power was

soon felt all over the Christian world. He at once entered on a course

of labor like that of Whitefield and Wesley, but still more varied. He

preached once every day, and sometimes twice; visited the sick and poor

with great assiduity; governed his diocese wisely; was the Christian

champion against almost innumerable forms of heresy all over the world;

composed some most beautiful hymns; wrote extensive commentaries that

are still valued; kept up a vast correspondence with emperors, kings,

and church dignitaries everywhere; and indited works of theology,

literature, criticism, and philosophy in immense profusion. Some of

these will live as long as the language in which they are written is

known. For thirty-five years he remained at his post, and died at last,

while his city was beleagured by a barbarian army, in time to escape

witnessing the ruin that burst on the flock he had so long loved and

served.

The power of Augustine as a preacher can scarcely be overrated.

Everywhere the people flocked to hear him, and the most enduring fruits

followed his ministry. His sermons were not calculated simply to win

admiration for the preacher, but pointed to the holier life, and led men

to love and strive after it. He was the real founder of what is known at

the present day as Calvinism, and by his vast power made it the

prevailing doctrine of the church for centuries after his death. There

can be no question about his sincerity and earnestness, and just as

little regarding the influence of his solemn eloquence. He quieted

tumults, changed the opinions of whole towns, and wielded assemblies at

his will. He left a large number of sermons in a fragmentary condition,

but fully justifying all that his contemporaries have written of him.

It is not possible that such a man should have read or recited his

discourses. To have done so would have left him no time for such grand

works as the “Confessions,” “City of God,” and others too numerous to

mention, which will endure while the world stands. But he has not left

us in doubt as to his mode of preaching. He enjoins the “Christian

teacher” to make his hearers comprehend what he says, “to read in the

eyes and countenances of his auditors whether they understand him or

not, and to repeat the same thing by giving it different terms, till he

perceives that it is understood, an advantage which those cannot have

who, by a servile dependence on their memories, learn their sermons by

heart, and repeat them as so many lessons. Let not the preacher become

the servant of words; rather let words be servants to the preacher.” In

his charity, however, he does allow of reciting under certain

circumstances. “Those who are destitute of invention, but can speak

well, provided they select well written discussions of another man and

commit them to memory for the instruction of their hearers, will not do

badly if they take this course.”

LUTHER.

The name of Luther is so well known that it will not be necessary to

give more than a very brief sketch of his wonderful life. The peasant,

who was raised by his virtues to more than kingly power, and to be the

leader of the greatest religious movement of modern times, cannot be a

stranger to the world. Luther was bred in the midst of poverty and

almost of want. As he grew older, his father, who was a kind-hearted,

though stern man, began to rise in the world, and found means to send

him to school. The patronage of a wealthy lady named Cotta, was also of

great benefit to him. He was distinguished very early for quickness and

profundity of intellect, and the highest hopes were formed of him. But

in the midst of flattering prospects, he was deeply convicted of sin,

and terrified concerning his spiritual state. After he had spent a long

time in mental struggles, full of agony, he resolved to become a monk,

as the surest way of allaying all doubt, and obtaining the spiritual

rest for which he longed. His father never forgave this step, until his

son stood in direct opposition to the power of Rome. But the ardent

heart of Luther could not find peace in the dull routine of a convent

life, and every spiritual trial was redoubled. At last, while he was

reading in an old copy of the Bible, which he had found in the library

of the convent, the great doctrine of justification by faith dawned upon

him with all the freshness of a new revelation. He at once began to

teach the people the same blessed doctrine, with the most gratifying

results. His preaching was marked by great power, and soon his sphere

widened. He was made a doctor of divinity in the University of

Wittenberg, and began to lecture on Paul’s Epistles, and the Psalms. He

was still a devoted adherent of Rome, although he taught the students

under his care to look to the Scriptures as the fountain of all

authority. But the germs of the Reformation were already hid in his own

mind, and it only required circumstances to bring them into vigorous

life.

These were soon supplied. When a monk came to Wittenberg, selling

pardons for every kind of sin, even that which was to be committed,

Luther felt it his duty to warn the people against any dependence on

such sources of forgiveness. The Pope took part with the monk in the

strife that followed; and the contest went from one point to another,

until the Pope hurled a decree of excommunication at Luther, which he

burned, in the presence of his adherents, as a token of defiance and

contempt. The reformation spread wonderfully, and although surrounded on

every side by threatenings and enemies, the life of this great man was

spared, and for years he exerted an influence in Germany not second to

that of the Emperor himself. When he fell at last, in the midst of his

labors, the people mourned for him as for a personal benefactor.

All through his life, Luther had the secret of reaching the hearts of

the people in a wonderful manner. No other of the great men who abounded

at that time possessed a tithe of his power in this respect. It has been

said “that his words were half battles.” His discourses were not smooth

or graceful, yet it was not for want of ability to secure these

qualities, for he had great command of every style of language, and

loved softer and more ornamented speech in others; but he was too much

in earnest, with an empire, and the vastest hierarchy the world ever

saw, arrayed against him, to stay to use them. Whenever he preached the

people would flock together from great distances, and listen as to a

prophet, while he unfolded the grand and simple plan of salvation in the

plainest words. He had every element of a great preacher. His

imagination was most vivid, and he did not fail to use it to the utmost.

He could paint a scene in all the completeness of action before his

hearers, and awaken their tears or smiles at his will. He used no

manuscript, but spoke from the vast fulness of knowledge he possessed on

every subject. His pen was employed as well as his voice. By it he not

only produced a great number of books that advanced the cause of the

Reformation almost as much as his spoken efforts, but by the combination

of the two methods of expression, writing to meet the eye and speaking

for the ear, he taught himself both accuracy and readiness, and was thus

prepared for the part he was called upon to act. Added to these, were

his strong emotions, and indomitable will, which gave him an energy that

bore every thing before him. For beauty and grace in themselves he cared

nothing, but when they came unbidden, as they often did, they were

welcome. He rightly estimated his own character and work when he said

“that he was rough, boisterous, stormy, and altogether warlike; born to

fight innumerable devils and monsters, to remove stumps and stones, to

cut down thistles and thorns, and to clear the wild woods.”

LORD CHATHAM.

It may well be doubted whether the eloquence of this great and wonderful

man did not surpass that of either Cicero or Demosthenes. It is certain

that the effects he repeatedly produced have never been surpassed. And

he had not to deal with a populace easily moved, although cultivated in

some particulars, as they had; but his mightiest triumphs were won in

the British Parliament, from an acute, critical, and often hostile

assembly. His example, with that of his son, who was almost equally

great, afford an irrefutable answer to those who doubt the capacity of

unwritten speech to convey impressions as mighty as any ever produced by

man.

He was born in 1708, and was educated at Oxford, quitting it without a

degree, but with a brilliant reputation. Soon after he entered

Parliament, and gained such power that he was shortly advanced to the

office of Prime Minister. This was in the reign of George II. and at the

opening of the Seven Years War, by which England won the province of

Canada, and became the most powerful empire in the world. But when he

took the reins of government it was far different. The armies of the

nation had been beaten in every quarter, and the people were almost in

despair. But he infused new spirit into them, and by his energy and

farsighted combinations, won the most glorious series of triumphs that

ever crowned the arms of England. His fame did not cease when he left

the ministry, and, in America at least, he is best known for his

friendly words to us during the revolutionary war. He opposed with all

the strength of his wondrous eloquence the oppressive measures that

provoked the colonists to revolution. Yet there was no element of fear

or compromise in his disposition. He only opposed the ministry in their

government of our country because he believed their measures to be

unjust. But when, after seven years of defeat and disaster, the body of

the nation became convinced that the Americans never could be conquered,

and the proposition was made to recognize their independence, Chatham

fought against the accomplishment of the separation with all his vigor.

He made his last speech on this subject, and while the house was still

under the solemn awe that followed his address, he was stricken down by

apoplexy and borne home to die.

We have little upon which to base an estimate of this almost unequalled

orator, save the effect he produced upon his contemporaries. Nothing has

been preserved of his speeches, but a few passages that stamped

themselves indelibly upon the minds of his hearers. Yet through his

eloquence, backed by his strong will, he was for many years virtually

dictator of England, and even when most alone, scarcely any one dared to

meet him in debate.

Many curious instances are given of the uncontrolled ascendency he

obtained over the House of Commons. His most celebrated rival was

Murray, Earl of Mansfield, who had just been promoted to the office of

Attorney-General, when the incident narrated below occurred. Chatham

made a speech, really intended to overwhelm Murray, but on a totally

different subject. Fox says “every word was MURRAY, yet so managed that

neither he nor anybody else could take public notice of it or in any way

reprehend him. I sat near Murray, who _suffered_ for an hour. At its

close he used an expression that at once became proverbial.” After the

unhappy Attorney had writhed for a time, and endured the terrible, but

indirect, satire of Chatham until endurance was scarcely possible any

longer, the latter stopped, threw his piercing eyes around as if in

search of something, then fixing their whole force on his victim,

exclaimed, “I must now address a few words to Mr. Attorney; they shall

be few, but they shall be daggers!” Murray was agitated; the look was

continued, and the agitation became so uncontrollable as to be noticed

by the whole house. “_Felix trembles_,” roared Chatham, in a voice of

thunder, “_he shall hear me some other day_.” Murray was too completely

stricken to attempt a reply.

On another occasion, having finished a speech, he walked out of the

house with a slow step, being at the time an habitual invalid. There was

a profound silence until he was passing through the door. Then a member

started up, saying, “Mr. Speaker, I rise to reply to the right honorable

gentleman.” Chatham caught the sound, turned back, and fixed his eye on

the orator, who instantly sat down. He then walked slowly to his seat,

repeating in Latin, as he hobbled along, the lines from Virgil, in which

is described the terror of the Grecian ghosts when Æneas entered the

dark realm:

“The Grecian chiefs....

When they beheld the MAN with shining arms

Amid those shades, trembled with sodden fear,

... and raised

A feeble outcry; but the sound commenced,

_Died on their gurgling lips_.”

Reaching his seat, he exclaimed in a tone that terrified the whole

house, “Now let me hear what the honorable gentleman has to say to me.”

There was no response, and the whole body was too much awed to laugh at

the situation of the poor orator.

Yet he did not deal in the terrible and overpowering all the time. In a

most eloquent speech in opposition to a measure that he believed

violated the sanctity of the English home, he gave the following

description of that privilege which is justly the proudest boast of an

Englishman. A single passage is all that remains, but it will not soon

be forgotten:

“The poorest man may in his cottage bid defiance to all the forces

of the Crown. It may be frail—its roof may shake—the wind may blow

through it—the storm may enter—the rain may enter—but the King of

England cannot enter!—all his forces dare not cross the threshold of

the ruined tenement!”

Lord Macaulay, who was in no sense friendly to the great orator, gives

him a glowing eulogy:

“His figure, when he first appeared in Parliament, was strikingly

graceful and commanding, his features high and noble, his eye full

of fire. His voice, even when it sank to a whisper, was heard to the

remotest benches; when he strained it to its full extent, the sound

rose like the swell of the organ of a great cathedral, shook the

house with its peal, and was heard through lobbies, and down

staircases, to the Court of Requests, and the precincts of

Westminster Hall. He cultivated all these eminent advantages with

the most assiduous care. His action is described by a very malignant

observer as equal to that of Garrick. His play of countenance was

wonderful; he frequently disconcerted a hostile orator by a single

glance of indignation or scorn. Every tone, from the impassioned cry

to the thrilling aside, was perfectly at his command.”

He was a truly extemporaneous speaker, and seldom attempted any other

style. When he did he failed. His memory was strong and retentive, and

his mind so fully stored with information on every subject that he was

always ready for debate. Some of his grandest efforts were called forth

by an unexpected circumstance, or a single glance of his eye. Once,

while replying to Suffolk, he caught a view of the tapestry on which was

painted some of the achievements of the ancestors of that lord, and

instantly seized the hint it conveyed and gave expression to one of the

noblest bursts of eloquence in any language. One of his contemporaries

says:

“When without forethought or any other preparation than those

talents nature had supplied, and education cultivated, Chatham

rose—stirred to anger by some sudden subterfuge of corruption, or

device of tyranny—then was heard an eloquence never surpassed either

in ancient or modern times. It was the highest power of expression

ministering to the highest power of thought.”

WILLIAM PITT.

The manner in which the younger Pitt succeeded to the talents and

position of the elder is one of the most wonderful things in history.

His father trained him from his infancy in the models which he himself

had imitated so successfully. Some of these means of improvement, which

at least assisted in producing the peculiar character of the eloquence

of father and son, are worthy of our attention. They both translated

from the best classical authors, committed to memory choice passages

from the poets, and prose writers they valued, thus acquiring great

command of words. With such previous training, it would have been

useless for them to write even in their most elaborate efforts.

When the younger Pitt had finished the traditional college course and

was admitted to the bar, he also entered Parliament, being then only

twenty-three years of age. He delivered his first speech, which was

entirely unpremeditated, only about a month afterward. It took the house

by storm. In the midst of that brilliant assembly, accustomed to the

eloquence of Fox, Burke, and others worthy of any age, there was a

universal burst of enthusiastic admiration. When some one remarked,

“Pitt promises to be one of the first speakers ever heard in

Parliament,” Fox replied, “_He is so already._”

When only twenty-four years of age he was made Prime Minister, and held

the post for seventeen years. Although there is room for a wide

difference of opinion regarding many of his acts during this time, there

is none concerning his ability. Among other reforms that he advocated

was the abolition of the slave trade. He made a speech on this subject

that is still celebrated. Wilberforce said that “for the last twenty

minutes he really seemed to be inspired.” Windham declares “that he

walked home lost in amazement at the compass, until then unknown to him,

of human eloquence.” Pitt died at the comparatively early age of

forty-seven, holding the highest office in the gift of his country.

Brougham gives a glowing account of his power as an orator. “He is to be

placed without any doubt in the highest class. With a sparing use of

ornament, hardly indulging more in figures, or even in figurative

expression, than the most severe examples of ancient chasteness

allowed—with little variety of style, hardly any of the graces of

manner—he no sooner rose than he carried away every hearer, and kept the

attention fixed and unflagging until it pleased him to let it go; and

then

“’So charming left his voice that we awhile

Still thought him speaking, still stood fixed to hear.’

“This magical effect was produced by his unbroken flow, which never for

a moment left the hearer in pain or doubt, and yet was not the mean

fluency of mere relaxation, requiring no effort of the speaker, but

imposing on the listener a heavy task; by his lucid arrangement, which

made all parts of the most complicated subject quit their entanglement

and fall each in its place; by the clearness of his statements which

presented a picture to the mind; by the forcible appeals to strict

reason and strong feeling which formed the great staple of the

discourse; by the majesty of the diction; by the depth and fullness of

the most sonorous voice and the unbending dignity of the manner, which

ever reminded us that we were in the presence of more than the mere

advocate and debater, that there stood before us a ruler of the people.

Such were the effects invariably of this singular eloquence; nor did

anything, in any mood of mind, ever drop from him that was unsuited to

the majestic frame of the whole, or could disturb the serenity of the

full and copious flood that rolled along.”

Macaulay says: “At his first appearance in Parliament he showed himself

superior to all his contemporaries in command of language. He could pour

out a long succession of round and stately periods, without ever pausing

for a word, without ever repeating a word, in a voice of silver

clearness, and with a pronunciation so articulate that not a letter was

slurred over.”

These men, father and son, were never excelled in debate. They were

always ready. Every advantage that the occasion allowed was taken at the

time, and the favorable moment never went by while they were preparing.

They each attained a power they never would have possessed had it been

necessary for them to use manuscript or depend on their memory. The time

others have wasted in writing special orations, they employed in such

wide culture, and in accumulating such vast stores of knowledge, that

they were always ready. They were able to come to great intellectual

contests with their minds fresh and un-fagged by previous composition.

But it may be said that with all their power they were destitute of

polish and beauty. In such fragments of their speeches as have been

preserved, it is true that gracefulness is less conspicuous than force,

and the opponent of unwritten speech may imagine that this is a

necessary consequence of the manner in which they spoke. The advantage

they gained was worth the cost, even if this lack of the finer and more

elegant qualities of speech was inevitable. But that this does not

necessarily result from extempore speech, is abundantly proved by the

example of their great rival—

EDMUND BURKE.

This prince of imaginative orators was an Irishman. He was born in 1730,

and graduated in Dublin University at the age of twenty. For a short

time afterward he studied law, but soon grew weary of it and turned his

attention to philosophy and literature. The productions of his pen

speedily won an enviable reputation. A “Vindication of Natural Society”

was speedily followed by the celebrated “Essay on the Sublime and

Beautiful.”

His appearance in Parliament, the great arena of British eloquence, was

comparatively late in life, but as soon as elected he gave promise of

the great brilliancy he afterward displayed. For more than thirty years

he had no superior in that august body, and scarcely an equal. He stood

side by side with Pitt in defence of America, and endeared himself to

every lover of liberty in both hemispheres. The great impeachment of

Warren Hastings was mainly brought about by his influence, and afforded

room for all his powers. The war with France was the last great theme

upon which his eloquence was employed, and in it his strongly

conservative views alienated him from most of his former friends.

During all this time his eloquence was a wonder both to friend and foe,

and in its own style was never equalled in the House of Commons, or in

the world. His speech on the impeaching of Warren Hastings, made at the

bar of the House of Lords, was an unparalleled effort. It extended over

a period of four days, and bore everything before it. On the third day

of this great speech, he described the cruelties inflicted on some of

the natives of India by one of Hastings’s agents, with such vividness

that one convulsive shudder ran through the whole assemblage, while the

speaker was so much affected by the picture he had penciled, that he

dropped his head upon his hands, and was for some moments unable to

proceed. Some, who were present, fell into a swoon, while even Hastings

himself, who disclaimed all responsibility for these things, was

overwhelmed. In speaking of the matter afterwards he says: “For half an

hour I looked upon the orator in a revery of wonder, and actually felt

myself to be the most culpable man on earth.” Lord Thurlow, who was

present, declares that long after, many who were present had not

recovered from the shock, and probably never would.

Soon after, the great speech of Sheridan was delivered. Like Burke’s, it

was extempore, and no report of it, worthy the name, remains. It was

only inferior to the mighty effort that preceded it. A clergyman who

came to the house strongly prepossessed in favor of Hastings, said at

the close of the first hour, to a friend who sat by him, “This is mere

declamation without proof.” When another hour had passed, he remarked,

“This is a wonderful oration.” Another hour went by, and again he spoke:

“Warren Hastings certainly acted unjustifiably.” At the end of the

fourth hour he said: “Hastings is an atrocious criminal.” When the

speech closed at the end of the fifth hour, he vehemently declared, “Of

all monsters of iniquity, Warren Hastings is certainly the most

enormous.”

For seven long years this unprecedented trial went on. More than

one-third of those who sat on the judge’s bench when it began were in

their graves. When, at last it drew to a close, Burke made to the Lords

a closing charge worthy of his genius:

“My Lords,” said he, “I have done! The part of the Commons is

concluded! With a trembling hand we consign the product of these

long, _long_ labors to your charge. _Take it! Take it!_ It is a

sacred trust! Never before was a cause of such magnitude submitted

to any human tribunal.... My Lords, it has pleased Providence to

place us in such a stage that we appear every moment to be on the

verge of some great mutation. There is one thing, and one thing only

that defies mutation—that which existed before the world itself. I

mean JUSTICE; that justice which, emanating from the Divinity, has a

place in the breast of every one of us, given us for our guide with

regard to ourselves and with regard to others; and which will stand

after this globe is burned to ashes, our advocate or our accuser

before our great Judge, when He comes to call upon us for the tenor

of a well spent life.”

The effect of this speech upon the auditory was such that it was only

after some time had elapsed, and after repeated efforts, that Fox,

himself a giant in eloquence, could obtain a hearing.

The character of Burke’s eloquence is well summed up in the following

account, given by Wraxall, one of his contemporaries:

“Nature had bestowed on him a boundless imagination, aided by a

memory of equal strength and tenacity. His fancy was so vivid that

it seemed to light up by its own powers, and to burn without

consuming the aliment on which it fed: sometimes bearing him away

into ideal scenes created by his own exuberant mind, but from which

he, sooner or later, returned to the subject of debate; descending

from his most aerial flights, by a gentle and imperceptible

gradation, till he again touched the ground. Learning waited on him

like a handmaid, presenting to his choice all that antiquity has

culled or invented, most elucidatory of the topic under discussion.

He always seemed to be oppressed under the load and variety of his

intellectual treasures. Every power of oratory was wielded by him in

its turn; for he could be, during the same evening, often within the

space of a few minutes, pathetic and humorous; acrimonious and

conciliating; now giving loose to his indignation or severity; and

then, almost in the same breath, calling to his assistance wit and

ridicule. It would be endless to cite instances of this versatility

of his disposition, and of the rapidity of his transitions,

‘From grave to gay, from lively to severe,’

that I have, myself, witnessed. . . . What he was in public he was

in private; like the star which now precedes and now follows the

sun, he was equally brilliant whether he

‘Flamed in the forehead of the morning sky,’

or led on with a milder luster the modest hosts of evening.”

A Frenchman gives a graphic description of one of his speeches. At first

he was disappointed in his appearance.

“I certainly did not expect to find him in the British Parliament

dressed in the ancient toga; nor was I prepared to see him in a

tight brown coat, which seemed to impede every movement, and above

all, the little hat-wig with curls. . . . He moved into the middle

of the house contrary to the usual practice, for the members speak

standing and uncovered, not leaving their places. But Mr. Burke,

with the most natural air imaginable, with seeming humility, and

with folded arms, began his speech in so low a tone of voice that I

could scarcely hear him. Soon after, however, becoming animated by

degrees, he described religion attacked, the bonds of subordination

broken, civil society threatened to its foundation.... When in the

course of this grand sketch, (to show that England could depend only

on herself,) he mentioned Spain, that immense monarchy, which

appeared to have fallen into a total lethargy: ‘What can we expect,’

said he, ‘from her?—mighty indeed, but unwieldy—vast in bulk, but

inert in spirit—_a whale stranded upon the sea shore of Europe_.’

The whole House was silent; every mind was fixed; ... never was the

electric power of eloquence more imperiously felt. I have witnessed

many, too many political assemblages and striking scenes where

eloquence performed a noble part, but the whole of them appear

insipid when compared with this amazing effort.”

Burke was an extemporaneous speaker in the sense we have used the word

in the preceding pages. He thought over the ideas of his speech as fully

as his time permitted, and when he spoke, threw them into the language

of the moment. At the conclusion of one of his speeches on the American

question, his friends crowded around and urged him to write what he had

said for the benefit of the world. He did so then, and also on five

other occasions. Of the hundreds of other speeches he delivered only

broken and imperfect fragments remain.

Burke exerted himself in conversation, and thus improved his powers of

language in the method we have recommended. Dr. Johnson says of him in

his oracular way:

“Burke is an extraordinary man. His stream of talk is perpetual; and

he does not talk from any desire of distinction, but because his

mind is full. He is the _only_ man whose common conversation

corresponds with the general fame he has in the world. Take him up

where you please, he is ready to meet you. No man of sense could

meet him by accident under a gateway to avoid a shower without being

convinced that he was the first man in England.”

MIRABEAU.

The career of Mirabeau more resembles a strange romance than a sober

history. He was of a good family, but during his childhood and early

manhood his father treated him like a brute. His very appearance was

peculiar. His head was of enormous size, his body so much misshapen that

his father, who persecuted him for his deformity, declared that he

looked more like a monster than a human being. The whole of his early

life presents a picture of dreariness and misery exceeding that of

almost any other man who has risen to greatness. Several times he was

imprisoned—once for three years and a half—by order of his unnatural

parent. Finally he began to use his pen, and soon won general

admiration. His father, having failed to crush him, now became

reconciled, and allowed him to assume the family name, which he had not

permitted before. By this time he had a wide experience of vice, and was

deeply in debt. His struggles for several years were still severe.

But at length the great revolution came, and he found his true element.

The powers of speech which had already been displayed to a limited

extent, were now exercised in a noble field. The people soon recognized

in him the qualities necessary for a leader, and elected him to the

General Assembly of France. Here he was feared and respected by all. He

had no party to support him, but worked alone, and often by the mere

force of his genius bent the Assembly to his will. During his whole

career there, he was not an extremist, and for a time before his death

was engaged in upholding the crown and the cause of constitutional

government against the party of anarchy and death. This lost him his

unbounded popularity with the fickle populace of Paris, and they began

to shout for his blood. He was charged in the Assembly with corruption,

and treason to the cause of liberty. This only prepared the way for his

triumph. The very tree was marked on which he was to be hung. But he did

not quail before the storm. When he reached the hall, he found himself

in the midst of determined enemies already drunk with blood, and with no

friend who dared to speak on his behalf. But the mere force of eloquence

prevailed. He spoke in words of such power that the noisy multitude was

stilled, and the tide turned.

After this triumph he took part in every measure, and was really the

guiding power of the state. The king leaned on him as the only stay of

his reign, and the moderate of every party began to look to him as the

hope of France. Sometimes he spoke five times in one day, and at the

sound of his magical voice the anarchical Assembly was hushed into

reverence and submission. But his exertions were beyond his strength. At

last he was prostrated. Every hour the king sent to enquire of his

health, and bulletins of his state were posted in the streets. It seemed

as if the destiny of France was to be decided in his sick chamber. He

died, and the whole nation mourned, as well it might, for no other hand

than his could hold back the reign of terror. It is indeed a problem

whether that terrible tragedy would not have been prevented, if he had

but lived a few months longer.

Some of the speeches of this remarkable man were recited, but in these

he never attained his full power. A French writer well describes him:

“Mirabeau in the tribune was the most imposing of orators, an orator so

consummate, that it is harder to say what he wanted than what he

possessed.

“Mirabeau had a massive and square obesity of figure, thick lips, a

forehead broad, bony, prominent; arched eyebrows, an eagle eye, cheeks

flat, and somewhat fleshy, features full of pock holes and blotches, a

voice of thunder, an enormous mass of hair, and the face of a lion.

“His manner as an orator is that of the great masters of antiquity, with

an admirable energy of gesture, and a vehemence of diction which perhaps

they had never reached.

“Mirabeau in his premeditated discourses was admirable. But what was he

not in his extemporaneous effusions? His natural vehemence, of which he

repressed the flights in his prepared speeches, broke down all barriers

in his improvisations. A sort of nervous irritability gave then to his

whole frame an almost preternatural animation and life. His breast

dilated with an impetuous breathing. His lion face became wrinkled and

contorted. His eyes shot forth flame. He roared, he stamped, he shook

the fierce mass of his hair, all whitened with foam; he trod the tribune

with the supreme authority of a master, and the imperial air of a king.

What an interesting spectacle to behold him, momently, erect and exalt

himself under the pressure of obstacle! To see him display the pride of

his commanding brow! To see him, like the ancient orator, when, with all

the power of his unchained eloquence, he was wont to sway, to and fro in

the Forum, the agitated waves of the Roman multitude. Then would he

throw by the measured notes of his declamation, habitually grave and

solemn. Then would escape him broken exclamations, tones of thunder, and

accents of heartrending and terrible pathos. He concealed with the flash

and color of his rhetoric, the sinewy arguments of his dialectics. He

transported the Assembly, because himself transported. And yet—so

extraordinary was his force—he abandoned himself to the torrent of his

eloquence, without wandering from his course; he mastered others by its

sovereign sway, without losing for an instant his own self-control.”

PATRICK HENRY.

The fame of this great man cannot soon be surpassed. He not only

produced a great impression at the time he spoke, but had an agency, by

his eloquent words, in bringing about the most important changes. He was

more than the mouthpiece of the American Revolution. He not merely

interpreted the feelings of the mass of the nation to itself, but in a

large degree originated the enthusiasm that led them through war to

independence. It is certain that the aristocratic and powerful colony of

Virginia would have occupied a far different place in the struggle for

liberty, if it had been deprived of his almost irresistible influence.

It is hard to speculate on what might have been the result if

temporizing measures had carried the day, and the union of the colonies

been interfered with by want of cordial sympathy. The political wisdom

of Franklin, and the military skill and constancy of Washington, did not

contribute more to final success than the bold councils and fervent

utterances of the country lawyer who is the subject of our sketch.

Patrick Henry was born in Hanover county, Virginia, in May, 1736. In

childhood he acquired the common elements of education, and some

knowledge of Latin and mathematics, and was not the ignorant youth that

some of his admirers delight in representing him. But he was exceedingly

fond of hunting and fishing, and would often spend the hours in this

way, that might have been devoted to more useful employment. But he

became a great day dreamer, thus at once revealing and exercising the

unbounded imagination he possessed. He loved to wander alone, that he

might give full play to the visions and reveries that floated through

his brain.

When about fourteen, he heard the celebrated Presbyterian minister,

Samuel Davies. His eloquence was the most powerful that Henry had

hitherto enjoyed, and awakened in him a spirit of emulation. All his

life Henry delighted to do him honor, and attributed the bent of his own

mind to oratory and a large measure of his success to this man.

In business, the future statesman was uniformly most unsuccessful. He

twice failed as a storekeeper, and once as a farmer. But all this time

he was really studying for his future profession. He was fond of talk,

and by indulging in it freely doubtless improved his power of language.

He would relate long stories, and do it so well that those who thronged

his counter took as little note of time as he did, and yielded their

hearts as fully to him as larger audiences did afterward.

As a last resort he studied law, but for a time his success was no

better in this than in his previous occupations. But after two or three

years, during which he lived without practice, and in a dependent

condition, he was retained in what seemed merely a nominal capacity—as

defendant in the noted “Parsons case.” The preachers of the established

church were paid so many pounds of tobacco per annum. But when the price

arose, in a time of scarcity, the Legislature passed an act allowing all

persons to pay their assessment in money at the rate of 2d per pound,

which was much less than it was worth at that time. After an interval

this law was declared void by the king and his council. Then the clergy

instituted suit to recover what they had lost during the time the act

was enforced. There was no doubt of the legality of their claim,

although more of its intrinsic rightfulness, and the law question was

decided in a test case, almost without controversy. This really

surrendered the whole matter, and the only issue then was as to the

amount of damage they had sustained—a very plain question, apparently

affording no room for argument by the defense.

A vast array of the clergy were present, and on the bench was Henry’s

own father. No circumstances could be imagined more unfavorable for the

maiden speech of a young lawyer. The case for the plaintiff was clearly

and forcibly stated by a leading member of the bar, and Henry began his

reply. It is no wonder that he faltered, and that his sentences were

awkward and confused. The people, who were present in great numbers, and

who were intensely hostile to the preachers, hung their heads, and gave

up the contest. The father of the speaker was shame-faced and dismayed.

The preachers smiled in derision, and exchanged congratulatory glances.

But it was too soon. The power of eloquence began to assert itself. The

strong mind of Henry mastered all embarrassment, and was brought to

bear, with irresistible force, upon his subject, and upon those around.

All eyes were drawn to the almost unknown speaker. His rusticity of

manner had disappeared; his form became erect, and his piercing eyes

shot forth lightning. “A mysterious and almost supernatural

transformation of appearance” passed over him. Every pulse beat

responsive to his, and throbbed with his own mighty indignation. He

turned his withering invective upon the clergy, speaking of their

greediness, oppression, and meanness, until they fled from the court.

Spectators say that their blood ran cold and their hair stood on end!

When he concluded, the jury in an instant brought judgment for one penny

damages! a new trial was refused, and the young but unparalleled orator

was borne away in triumph by the shouting multitude.

His first appearance in the house of Burgesses was not less brilliant,

and far more important in its results. The majority of the Assembly

seemed to be bent on new petitions and remonstrances against the

oppression of England, when Henry introduced his celebrated resolutions,

declaring in plain phrases that the acts complained of were

unconstitutional and void. This, which was little short of a declaration

of war, was received, even by well-meaning patriots, with a storm of

opposition. A most bitter debate followed. Henry at first stood almost

alone, with the wealth and talent of the Assembly arrayed against him.

But his clear conviction, determined will, and powerful eloquence turned

the scale, and the resolutions passed, committing Virginia to the cause

of resistance.

When Henry attended the first Congress he found an array of men, whose

fame was already becoming world-wide. But he soon won his way to the

very highest rank among them, and maintained it to the close. His

extraordinary eloquence excited the same astonishment on this broader

field, as in the seclusion of the Virginia hills. It was “Shakespeare

and Garrick combined.” When he took his seat after his opening speech,

the first speech that had broken the silence of the great assembly,

there was no longer a doubt that he was the greatest orator in America,

and probably in the world. This pre-eminence he maintained all through

the exciting struggle. His voice was ever like an inspiration, and the

people looked up to him almost as a prophet.

His vast power remained until the close of his life. The last great

speech, made in a contest with John Randolph, when he was nearly seventy

years of age, and only three months before his death, was equal to any

of his former efforts. “The sun had set in all its glory.”

These few sketches will sufficiently illustrate the eloquence of this

wonderful man. It only remains to state what is known in regard to his

methods of preparation. He never wrote. His mightiest efforts were made

in situations where the use of the pen would have been impossible. The

Virginia resolutions were written on a blank leaf in a law book, and

during the whole of the terrible debate which followed, he was ever

ready, and mastered all opponents. He thought much, but wrote little. He

spoke only on great occasions, while in political life, but gave

attention to all that was passing, and by keen observation learned the

characters of those upon whose minds he wrought. Thus he was prepared to

drive every word home to its mark. He was a great student of history,

and this knowledge doubtless contributed very greatly to the clearness

and precision of his views upon the great struggle in which the country

was engaged, as well as gave him an ample fund of illustration in his

speeches. Study of character and of history, cultivation of the power of

narration and of language, seem to have been the means by which his

wonderful natural genius was fitted for its triumphs.

GEORGE WHITEFIELD.

Few men of any age have been instrumental in accomplishing more good

than the subject of our present sketch. Without deep logical powers, and

with little claim to originality of thought, he chained vast multitudes

by his eloquence, and was one of the foremost actors in a mighty

religious movement.

None of the converts Whitefield gathered into the church ever passed

through a more strongly marked experience in personal religion than he

did. The agony of conviction he underwent was terrible, and he struggled

long and desperately before he obtained peace. “God only knows,” he

exclaims, “how many nights I have lain upon my bed groaning under what I

felt. Whole days and weeks have I spent in lying prostrate on the

ground, in silent or vocal prayer.” His mind almost failed under the

violence of his mental conflicts, and he endeavored, by wearing the

meanest apparel, and almost continual fasting, and many works of

self-mortification to find relief. But all this was in vain. We see in

it an indication of the terrible earnestness and sincerity of the

man—qualities which never passed away from him. These months of vivid

emotion affected his whole life, and imparted an intensity to his

pictures of sin, and a vividness to his realization of its horrors, that

he never would have had otherwise.

At last his health gave way beneath the pressure of his spiritual

trials, and he fell into a long sickness. At the end of seven weeks he

found peace, and his raptures became as great as the horrors of

conscience had been. “But oh! with what joy, joy unspeakable, even joy

that was full of glory, was my soul filled, when the weight of sin went

off, and an abiding sense of the love of God and a full assurance of

faith broke in upon my disconsolate soul.” This rapturous experience

continued with few interruptions through life, and really formed the

spring of his wonderful exertions. For thirty-four years his soul glowed

in all the fervors that he had experienced at his first conversion, and

he put forth his great strength in unwearied efforts to bring others to

the same blessed enjoyment.

His career opened with wonderful brilliancy. The first sermon preached

after his ordination as deacon, was said to “have driven fifteen persons

mad,”—a kind of madness that soon became common in England. Everywhere

the people flocked to hear him in crowds, and soon no church would

contain the multitude, even when they were opened for him. Once, when

preaching with “great freedom of heart and clearness of voice,” with

thousands of persons standing outside of the church, after hundreds had

gone away for want of room, he was struck with the thought of preaching

the word in the open air. Friends discouraged, but the die was soon

cast, and from that time forward his mightiest triumphs were won in

imitation of his Master, “who had a mountain for His pulpit, and the

heavens for a sounding board!” This was the proper theater for the

display of his wonderful power, and his spirit felt the beauty and

grandeur of the scene. Sometimes as many as twenty thousand people were

gathered together.

The theater of his most marvelous triumphs was at Moorfields during the

Whitsun holidays. The lowest class of London population was then poured

forth, and the most riotous scenes enacted. He resolved to begin early,

in order to secure the field before the greatest rush of the crowd. Ten

thousand people were gathered impatiently waiting for the sports of the

day. “He had for once got the start of the devil,” and soon drew the

multitude around him. At noon he tried again. The odds against him were

greater. Between twenty and thirty thousand people were present, and

shows, exhibitors, and players were all busy. He shouted his text,

“Great is Diana of the Ephesians,” and began the battle. It was waged

fiercely, and stones, dirt, and rotten eggs, with every other means of

annoyance, were brought to bear on the steadfast preacher. “My soul,” he

says, “was among lions.” But soon his wonderful power transformed the

multitude into lambs.

At night he renewed the assault on the stronghold of the adversary.

Thousands had been added to the throng, and their leaders, who had lost

much of their day’s gain by his preaching, were determined to endure it

no longer. A harlequin attempted to strike him with a whip but failed. A

recruiting sergeant, with many followers, and with drum and fife, made

the next effort. But Whitefield called to the people to make way for the

king’s officer, and the people yielded before, and closed up behind him,

until he was in this manner conducted harmlessly out of the crowd. Next,

a large number combined together, and taking hold of a long pole charged

furiously on the assembly, roaring like beasts. But they too were

foiled, and threw down the pole, many of them joining the hearers. At

times the tumult rose like the noise of many waters, drowning the voice

of the preacher, who would then resort to singing, until silence

returned. He kept the field to the last, and gathered mighty spoil into

his Tabernacle that night.

Very different were the sermons he preached at the mansion of Lady

Huntingdon, but they were marked by the same power. Courtiers and

noblemen joined in praising him, and Hume declared that he would go

twenty miles to hear him. No one seemed to be impervious to his

wonderful eloquence, and even in this selected circle he gathered

trophies of the Cross.

He passed and repassed from England to America several times, and was

everywhere as a flame of fire. The languid zeal of lukewarm churches was

revived, and the careless and immoral led into new lives. He was soon

looked up to as an apostle by thousands who dated their first religious

impressions from the time when they listened to his fervid words. But

opposition was not wanting, and once he very nearly received the crown

of martyrdom.

After he had finished preaching in Dublin, he was attacked by an immense

mob of infuriated Papists. His friends fled for their lives, and left

him to the mercy of the rioters. Stones from every direction struck him,

until he was breathless and dripping with blood. He found a momentary

refuge, when almost at the point of death, but the inmates of the house

which he had entered, fearing it would be demolished, entreated him to

leave. He was offered a disguise, but refused it, and in his proper

dress passed through whole streets of threatening Papists, and as soon

as he had reached a place of safety, and had his wounds dressed, began

to preach again!

Thus year after year passed, crowded full of labors. He considered it an

indication of great feebleness that for a short time he could only

preach one sermon a day. Thousands in Europe and America called him

blessed, and everywhere countless multitudes crowded to hear him speak

of the grace of God. For the lifetime of an ordinary generation his

unequaled power and untiring labor continued. After speaking he

frequently vomited great quantities of blood, which he regarded as

relieving his over-taxed lungs.

His death was romantic and beautiful, as befitted such a life. There are

few more touching, and yet more happy in the records of biography.

He preached his last field sermon at Exeter. It was continued for two

hours, and was among his most powerful efforts. He reached Newburyport,

Mass., the same evening, where he intended to preach the next day. While

at supper, the pavement, and the hall of the house where he sat, were

crowded with people impatient to hear the wonderful orator. But he was

exhausted, and said to one of the clergymen who accompanied him,

“Brother, you must speak to these dear people; I cannot say a word.” He

took a candle and started for his room, but before he reached it, his

generous heart reproached him for even seeming to desert the people who

were hungering for the bread of life. He paused on the stairway, while

the piece of candle he had taken when he started cast its flickering

light on the crowd below, and began to speak. The people gazed with

tearful awe and affection on his venerable form. His musical and

pathetic voice flowed on in words of tenderness and exhortation until

the candle went out in its socket. Before the morning he was dead!

His remembrance did not die with him. Europe and America vied together

in mourning for him, and Methodists, Churchmen, and Dissenters revered

him as a departed prophet.

What was the secret of his unparalleled power with the people? Clearly

its spring was his own profound and overwhelming emotions. It is

sometimes thought that his almost perfect elocution explains the

fascination he exerted, but it does not. He is classed by many as one

who committed and recited his discourses. But it may be safely assumed

that he could not have commanded one tithe of his success in that

manner. He may have done this at the beginning of his career, before his

marvelous genius was fully developed, but not after. It is indeed given

as a reason of his embarrassment when he began to preach in the open

air, that he had not long been accustomed to preach extempore. He says

that often, in his own apprehension, he had not a word to say either to

God or man. Think of a person who has a fully committed sermon, making

such an assertion, and afterwards thanking God for giving him words and

wisdom!

The very best possible evidence that his sermons took their external

form at the moment, was that he complained of the reports that were made

of them. If they had been written before preaching, he would have had

the means of making these as perfect as desired. Yet he repeated sermons

on particular subjects very often. Foote and Garrick estimated that they

improved up to the thirtieth and fortieth repetition. Going over the

same ground so often, many striking phrases would doubtless fix

themselves in his mind, but he would still be free to introduce new

matters as he wished. His illustrations, too, many of which were

gathered from his own wide experience, would be given in nearly the same

manner on successive occasions. But he was a fine talker, and by his

unlimited practice in speech improved the power of language to such an

extent that it was fully capable of expressing the ocean of feeling that

flowed in his soul. His published sermons show few traces of the pen,

but bear every mark of impassioned utterance. Untroubled by doubt, all

that he preached was felt to be present reality. He was a pure and holy

man, moved by the Spirit to the work he entered on, and endowed with a

heart of fire, a soul of love, and a power of expression such as is

given to few mortals. No wonder that the multitude felt him to be little

less than inspired.

JOHN WESLEY.

Both Henry and Whitefield were men of such vast genius as to be lifted

above ordinary rules. When we look upon them we feel imitation to be

almost hopeless. But we will give an instance of an altogether different

kind, and thus show how easily unwritten speech may be the medium of

every species of address. John Wesley was not an impassioned or

impetuous orator, and yet he wielded an almost boundless influence. He

was fluent and easy in his language, but exact and logical, leaving no

careless word on which an enemy might seize. Yet his power was great,

and even the scenes of excitement that marked the preaching of

Whitefield, and other early Methodists, were even surpassed under his

clear calm words.

We have no intention of sketching the life and great achievements of

Wesley, but will only consider a few events that bear on his character

as a preacher. Before he found peace in believing, which he did not

until he had preached for years, his sermons were not characterized by

any extraordinary power. They were strong, clear, fluent, and no more.

But after his return from his final voyage to America, there was a great

change. The external characteristics remained nearly the same, but the

fervor and power of the spirit that breathed through his mildest words,

soon produced the opposite effects of exciting bitter enmity and of

drawing the hearts of the people toward him. It mattered not what the

nature of his congregations might be, there was something in his manner

and words adapted to all. He began field preaching about the same time

that Whitefield did, and sometimes gathered as many as twenty thousand

into one congregation. While he spoke the whole assembly was often

bathed in tears, and frequently many fell down as dead. He gathered

those who were convinced by his preaching into societies, and these soon

spread over the whole country. He was thus required to exercise more

authority in caring for them than any bishop of the Established Church.

For upwards of fifty years he averaged fifteen sermons a week.

Although Wesley was the founder of Methodism, yet he differed widely

from the typical Methodist preachers. He dressed neatly, was most

courteous and polished in manners, graceful in the pulpit, and

considered violent exertions of the voice or furious gesticulation to be

little less than sin. His published sermons are models of thoughtful

analysis, close reasoning, and orderly arrangement. Yet he always spoke

without manuscript and without memorizing.

Wesley would certainly have been justified, if any person ever was, in

reading his discourses. For he was surrounded by those who had been led

into the way of life by him, and who treasured up every word that fell

from his lips, while on the other hand, unscrupulous enemies

misrepresented him continually, and sought for occasion to accuse him of

teaching pernicious doctrine. Yet amid such ceaseless preaching, he was

always able to command the very words to express his ideas, and was

never compelled to retract an unguarded sentence. The volumes of sermons

which he published are to be regarded as mere abstracts of his teaching,

recorded for the benefit of his societies, and not as the very words he

used upon particular occasions. In his later years he came before the

people, as a father instructing his children, and imparted to them the

weighty truths he thought they ought to know, in all simplicity, and

without the slightest care for outward ornament or word-nicety.

SIDNEY SMITH.

This eccentric, whole-souled, humorous, and eloquent clergyman was born

in 1771, and died in 1835. He graduated at Oxford, received a

fellowship, worth five hundred dollars a year, and thought to study law,

but at the instance of his father, changed his mind and entered the

Church. In connection with three others he started the _Edinburgh

Review_, and for years contributed sparkling articles that did much to

establish its reputation and popularity. He also became known to a wide

circle for his brilliant conversational powers, and, like so many

extempore speakers, took great delight in this most pleasant means of

improvement.

At first his preferment in the Church was slow, but his favor with the

people was undoubtful. While he preached in London large and fashionable

audiences were drawn wherever he officiated.

Finally he was presented with an obscure country living, and after some

delay went to it. It was a desolate place, far away from all the centers

of intellectual life, and previous incumbents had resided away from it

for more than a century. He says, “When I began to thump the cushion of

my pulpit, on first coming to Foston, as is my wont when I preach, the

accumulated dust of one hundred and fifty years, made such a cloud that

for some minutes I lost sight of my congregation.”

He soon made a change for the better in all the affairs of the parish;

built an ugly but comfortable parsonage, and won the devoted affection

of his people. He passed much of his time in literary avocations, and

after fourteen years, received preferment to more desirable churches.

During the remainder of his life he used his pen so as to greatly

increase his already wide reputation, and became still more noted as a

preacher. He was very witty, and cared little for the common rules of

sermonizing, but had a power and earnestness that compensated for every

defect. The following extract will indicate his method of preparation:

“Pulpit discourses have insensibly dwindled from speaking to

reading; a practice which of itself is sufficient to stifle every

germ of eloquence. It is only by the fresh feelings of the heart

that mankind can be very powerfully affected. What can be more

ludicrous than an orator delivering stale indignation and fervor a

week old; turning over whole pages of violent passions, written out

in goodly text; _reading_ the tropes and apostrophes into which he

is hurried by the ardor of his mind; and so affected at a

preconcerted line and page that he is unable to proceed any

further!”

F. W. ROBERTSON.

No minister of the present generation has lived a purer life, or left

the stamp of his thought more deeply on the public mind than the young

incumbent of Trinity Chapel in Brighton. His sermons, not published

until after his death, are meeting with an unparalleled sale, and every

scrap of his sermon preparation, no matter how fragmentary, is seized

for the press with the greatest avidity. He now addresses a far larger

and more important audience than ever during his life time.

F. W. Robertson was born in 1816 and died in 1853—only thirty-seven

years of age. He received the traditional English education at Oxford,

and had a strong inclination for the military profession. This he was

induced to renounce by the expressed judgment of his father—himself a

military officer—that Frederick was better fitted for the Church. After

he had received ordination, he acted as curate for twelve months at

Winchester. His health being by this time broken, he took a trip to the

continent under the advice of a physician. He was gone a year, and

during this time entered into marriage. When he returned he served for

four years in the parish of Cheltenham. Here the field for the exercise

of his talents was comparatively narrow; but many persons were led to a

higher life by his ministry—many more than he, with his habitual

self-depreciation, was willing to believe until years had passed. After

this he spent two months at St. Ebbs, in Oxford, receiving a miserably

small salary. During this short time his talents became known, and he

was offered the rich, aristocratic, and intellectual church at Brighton.

The offer was refused at first, and was only accepted at last through

the urgent solicitation of the Bishop, who felt that this was his proper

field. Here his popularity became unbounded. The working people, who had

almost deserted the Establishment, flocked to hear his bold, true words.

His biographer says:

“His eloquence and originality could not fail to be marked. And if

the congregation was intellectual he was pre-eminently so. The

chapel became crowded. Sittings were scarcely ever to be had. For

six years the enthusiasm never slackened: it grew and spread

silently and steadily, and when he died broke out in a burst of

universal sorrow.... But he put no faith in mere excitement, the

eager upturned face, the still hush of attention. ‘What is

ministerial success?’ he asks. ‘Crowded churches—full

aisles—attentive congregation—the approval of the religious

world—much impression produced? Elijah thought so; and when he found

out his mistake, and discovered that the applause of Carmel subsided

into hideous stillness, his heart well nigh broke with

disappointment. Ministerial success lies in altered lives, and

obedient humble hearts; unseen work recognized in the judgment

day.’”

That success was his. James Anderson says:

“I cannot count up conquests in any place or by any man so numerous

and so vast—conquests achieved in so short a period, and in many

instances over the hearts and consciences of those whom, from their

age or pursuits, it is always most difficult to reach—as were the

conquests of that devoted soldier of the cross of Christ.”

But his labors were too great for his strength. For at least two years

before his death he preached in continual pain, and yet there was no

abatement in his power. Many of the sermons by which he is best known

were then produced. We can scarcely realize as we read his calm

sentences, radiant with beauty, and full of profound thought, that they

were spoken during the ravages of a cerebral disease, that was soon to

still his eloquent voice forever. When he died, having preached almost

to the last, the city (containing sixty thousand inhabitants) was draped

in gloom, and mourning was universal. A monument was erected, to which

the working-men contributed a touching memorial.

The manner in which so many of Robertson’s sermons were preserved, is,

when we consider his manner of preaching, very remarkable. He spoke

extempore, and never wrote out a sermon before delivery. His leading

thoughts were indicated by short notes, and the whole subject was

carefully arranged in his own mind. But his words and his most powerful

illustrations sprang from the inspiration of the moment. Usually he took

a small piece of paper containing the headings of his thoughts with him

into the pulpit, but never referred to it after the first few moments

had passed. His sympathizing biographer thus describes him:

“So entirely was his heart in his work, that in public speaking

especially, he lost sight of everything but his subject. His

self-consciousness vanished. He did not choose his words or think

about his thoughts. He not only possessed, but was possessed by his

idea; and when all was over and the reaction came, he had forgotten

like a dream, words, illustrations, almost everything.... After some

of his most earnest and passionate utterances, he has said to a

friend: ‘Have I made a fool of myself?’

“If the most conquering eloquence for the English people be that of

the man who is all but mastered by his excitement, but who, at the

very point of being mastered, masters himself—apparently cool, while

he is at white heat—so as to make the audience glow with fire, and

at the same time respect the self-possessed power of the orator—the

man being always felt as greater than the man’s feelings—if that be

the eloquence that most tells upon the English nation, he had that

eloquence. He spoke under tremendous excitement, but it was

excitement reined in by will. He held in his hand a small piece of

paper with a few notes on it when he began. He referred to it now

and then; but before ten minutes had gone by it was crushed to

uselessness in his grasp; for he knit his fingers together over it,

as he knit his words over thought. His gesture was subdued;

sometimes a slow motion of his hand upward; sometimes bending

forward, his hand drooping over the pulpit; sometimes erecting

himself to his full height with a sudden motion, as if upraised by

the power of the thought he spoke. His voice—a musical, low,

penetrative voice—seldom rose; and when it did it was in a deep

volume of sound which was not loud, but toned like a great bell. It

thrilled also, but that was not so much from feeling as from the

repression of feeling. Toward the close of his ministry he was wont

to stand almost motionlessly erect in the pulpit, with his hands

loosely lying by his side, or grasping his gown. His pale, thin face

and tall, emaciated form, seeming, as he spoke, to be glowing as

alabaster glows when lit up by an inward fire. And, indeed, brain

and heart were on fire. He was being self-consumed. Every sermon in

those latter days burned up a portion of his vital power.”

But though thus surrounded by an admiring congregation, and weekly

giving out thoughts that were worthy of still wider notice, when some of

his people, who realized that his words were too precious to die, raised

a subscription to employ a short-hand reporter, with a view to the

publication of his sermons, he refused to sanction the scheme, and wrote

the parties a characteristic letter, telling them that he had no time to

correct, and, without it, the discourses were not fit to be given to the

public. Yet a number were preserved in this way, and though not

published until after his death, they are almost faultless in form and

expression. Other sermons were written out briefly by himself, after

being preached, for the use of some private friends. It was thus that

those almost incomparable discourses were preserved, which are without

doubt the most valuable contribution that has been made to their

department of literature during the present century.

We will give two extracts showing the power that may be wielded over

language without the use of the pen. The first is from a speech made to

a workingman’s institute opposing the introduction of infidel works into

their library. He is speaking of the compassion that should be shown to

the honest doubter:

“I do think that the way we treat that state is unpardonably cruel.

It is an awful moment when the soul begins to find that the props on

which it has blindly rested so long are many of them rotten, and

begins to suspect them all; when it begins to feel the nothingness

of many of the traditionary opinions which have been received with

implicit confidence, and in that horrible insecurity begins also to

doubt whether there be anything to believe at all. It is an awful

hour—let him who has passed through it say how awful—when this life

has lost its meaning, and seems shriveled into a span; when the

grave appears to be the end of all, human goodness nothing but a

name, and the sky above this universe a dead expanse, black with the

void from which God Himself has disappeared. . . . I appeal (for the

truth of the picture drawn) to the recollection of any man who has

passed through that hour of agony, and stood upon the rock at last,

the surges stilled below him, and the last cloud drifted from the

sky above, with a faith, and hope, and trust, no longer traditional,

but of his own, a trust which neither earth nor hell shall shake

thenceforth for ever.”

The second passage we will quote is an illustration from a sermon on the

doubt of Thomas, showing how weak are all arguments for immortality,

except those that are exclusively Christian. He speaks of many things

that are valuable as suggestions, but worthless as proofs, and next

shows how the same suggestions may point the other way:

“Six thousand years of human existence have passed away. Countless

armies of the dead have set sail from the shores of time. No

traveler has returned from the still land beyond. More than one

hundred and fifty generations have done their work and sunk into the

dust again, and still there is not a voice, there is not a whisper

from the grave to tell us whether, indeed, those myriads are in

existence still. Besides, why should they be? Talk as you will of

the grandeur of man; why should it not be honor enough for him—more

than enough to satisfy a thing so mean—to have had his twenty or

seventy years life-rent of God’s universe? Why must such a thing,

apart from proof, rise up and claim to himself an exclusive

immortality? . . . Why may he not sink, after he has played his

appointed part, into nothingness again? You see the leaves sinking

one by one in autumn, till the heaps below are rich with the spoils

of a whole year’s vegetation. They were bright and perfect while

they lasted, each leaf a miracle of beauty and contrivance. There is

no resurrection for the leaves—why should there be one for man? Go

and stand, some summer evening, by the river side; you will see the

May-fly sporting out its little hour in the dense masses of insect

life, darkening the air a few feet above the gentle swell of the

water. The heat of that very afternoon brought them into existence.

Every gauze wing is traversed by ten thousand fibres, which defy the

microscope to find a flaw in their perfection. The omniscience and

the care bestowed upon that exquisite anatomy, one would think

cannot be destined to be wasted in a moment. Yet so it is. When the

sun has sunk below the trees its little life is done. Yesterday it

was not; tomorrow it will not be. God has bidden it be happy for one

evening. It has no right or claim to a second; and in the universe

that marvelous life has appeared once and will appear no more. May

not the race of man sink like the generations of the May-fly? Why

cannot the Creator, so lavish in His resources, afford to annihilate

souls as He annihilates insects? Would it not almost enhance His

glory to believe it?”

Such language Robertson was able to employ without the use of the pen.

But the art was not attained without long and laborious toil. He

committed much—memorizing the whole Testament, both in English and

Greek, and storing his mind with innumerable gems from the poets. He

also studied the modern languages, particularly German, and delighted to

translate their treasure into his own tongue. He read much, but not

rapidly, dwelling upon a book until he could arrange the whole of its

contents with precision in his mind. Thus he attained an almost

unequalled mastery of both thought and language. If he had been required

to write every sermon, he could never have pursued such a thorough and

long continued course of cultivation, besides mastering such a vast

amount of knowledge.

We have dwelt less upon the general character of his preaching, with its

strong originality, than upon the beauty, force, and accuracy of his

language, because these are the qualities usually believed to be

unattainable without written composition. But it is safe to say, that in

these respects he has not been surpassed by any preacher ancient or

modern.

HENRY CLAY.

We will take Henry Clay as an example of the American political

eloquence of the last generation. He was one of a bright constellation

of great men—most of them, like himself, extemporaneous speakers. In

some respects he was, perhaps, superior to them all. His hold upon the

public mind was great, and even yet he is regarded with love and

reverence all over the Union. This, however, is not the result of his

genius alone. In some points his great rivals were more unfortunate than

himself. Calhoun’s influence was immense; but the effect of his teaching

has been so deadly that it is not to be wondered at if his fame is of an

equivocal kind. The badness of Webster’s private life, and his

unfortunate course on some great questions, caused his reputation to

decline, and his really great abilities to be undervalued. But the

genial, large-hearted orator of the West is still a favorite with the

people.

Clay was a Virginian by birth. His father was a Baptist preacher, very

poor, who died when Henry was quite young, leaving a large family of

children. Henry obtained all his schooling, which was meager enough, in

a log school-house. The young boy was employed first as a clerk in a

store, and afterward as an assistant in a lawyer’s office. Next he

became an amanuensis to Chancellor Wythe, who treated him kindly and

gave him an opportunity to study law. Finally, he was admitted to the

bar, and removed to Kentucky. He immediately acquired practice, and met

with a hearty welcome from the rough backwoodsmen of that section. He

tells us how he acquired the ability to speak with fluency and power:

“I owe my success in life to one simple fact, namely, that at an

early age I commenced and continued for some years the practice of

daily reading and speaking the contents of some historical or

scientific book. These off-hand efforts were sometimes made in a

corn-field; at others in the forest; and not unfrequently in some

barn, with the horse and ox for my only auditors. It is to this

early practice of the art of all arts that I am indebted for the

primary and leading impulses that stimulated my progress and have

shaped and molded my destiny.”

An amusing instance is given of Clay’s first attempt at debate. He was

so much embarrassed that he forgot where he was, and called the chairman

“Gentlemen of the Jury.” Yet when this difficulty had been overcome, he

soon made a powerful impression. In fact it was spoken of by some as not

inferior to any of the addresses in which he achieved a national fame.

The policy of emancipation was then under debate in Kentucky, and young

Clay gave it his full support. But although he had almost unbounded

influence on any other subject, the people of his State loved slavery

better than any man, and the measure was defeated.

The vast power of Clay as an orator was early displayed. When only

twenty-two years of age he, with another very able speaker, addressed a

popular meeting. While the other spoke there was great applause and

deafening acclamations, but Clay’s address was so much more thrilling

and effective, that the popular feeling became too deep for utterance,

and he closed amid unbroken silence. It was some moments before the

crowd recovered sufficiently to give vent, in thundering cheers, to the

emotion that he had kindled.

It is hardly necessary to follow the career of Clay through all the

years that were devoted to the public service, for the country is still

familiar with it. Many of the measures with which he was connected may

not meet our approval, but no one will question the honesty of his

motives, or the ability with which they were advocated. In Congress he

had scarcely a rival. Calhoun was equally active, and more logical, but

had not the magic of voice and eye, the nameless graces of delivery that

distinguished the Kentucky orator. Webster spoke more like a giant, but

was hard to call out in his full force, and on ordinary occasions did

not speak nearly as well as Clay. The voice of the latter was an

instrument of great power, and he well knew how to use it. “Nature,” he

said on one occasion, referring to an effort made years before, “had

singularly favored me by giving me a voice peculiarly adapted to produce

the effects I wished in public speaking. Now,” he added, “its melody is

changed, its sweetness gone.” These words were pronounced as if in

mockery, in tones of exquisite sweetness. One who had heard him often,

says:

“Mr. Clay’s voice has prodigious power, compass, and richness; all

its variations are captivating, but some of its base tones thrill

through one’s whole fame. To those who have never heard the living

melody, no verbal description can convey an adequate idea of the

diversified effects of those intonations which, in one strain of

sentiment, fall in whispering gentleness like the first words of

love upon a maiden’s lips, and anon in sterner utterances ring with

the maddening music of the main.”

A gentleman who witnessed an oratorical encounter between Clay and

Webster describes it as inconceivably grand:

“The eloquence of Mr. Webster was the majestic roar of a strong and

steady blast pealing through the forest; but that of Mr. Clay was

the tone of a god-like instrument, sometimes visited by an angel

touch, and swept anon by all the fury of the raging elements.”

Clay, Webster and Calhoun were all extempore speakers. Webster sometimes

prepared very elaborately, but never confined himself to his

preparation. And some of his very best efforts were made on the spur of

the moment when circumstances conspired to arouse his vast but somewhat

sluggish genius. Both the others prepared their discourses in thought

alone, and those who were obliged to rely on their manuscripts or their

memories stood no chance at all with them in the fiery debates through

which they passed.

HENRY B. BASCOM.

It may be doubted whether the late Bishop Bascom is properly classed

among extempore preachers. His mode of preparation certainly bordered on

the memoriter plan. But he did not write. He would first construct a

skeleton, usually very simple, and then throw each point into words

mentally. His memory was very great, and the fine expressions he coined,

as he rode through the forest or meditated in his study, were impressed

on his mind so strongly as to be recalled afterward. It was a common

practice with him to repeat his sermons over and over again to himself,

till every line of thought and every strong expression became perfectly

familiar. Bascom once stopped at a backwoodsman’s house, and left it to

take a short walk. Soon a neighbor came rushing in, declaring that he

had seen a crazy man walking back and forth on the edge of the woods,

swinging his arms wildly, and muttering to himself in a strange manner.

The neighbor was told not to be alarmed, but to come to church the next

day and he would see the crazy man again. He did so, and listened to

strains of eloquence as admirable as ever charmed his ear.

The sermons which were thus prepared, were preached a great number of

times, and each time reviewed and improved. Bascom traveled a vast

extent of country, and the sermons which thus combined all the strength

of his really powerful mind, for years together, soon became famous.

Probably no preacher ever did so much with so few discourses.

His delivery was wonderful. Henry Clay, who was well qualified to judge,

pronounced him the finest natural orator he had ever heard. His form was

almost perfect, his carriage noble and graceful, every movement light

and springy, so that, as some of his hearers have declared, “he scarcely

seemed to touch the ground.” He dressed with great taste, and on this

account was often objected to by the early Methodists, and came very

nearly being refused admission into his Conference. But he soon became a

general favorite with the people, who would throng to hear him from the

whole country for miles around. When he entered the pulpit he seemed

nearly borne down by the weight of his accumulations, and it was only

after he had begun to make headway that he became easy and

self-possessed. Then he poured forth torrent after torrent of highly

wrought eloquence, until the hearers were lost in admiration of the vast

powers he displayed.

A very partial biographer considers it as very strange that he took but

little part in any Conference discussions, or debates on general topics.

The truth is, that with his mode of preparation, carried as far as he

carried it, he could not. There was no time to forecast his sentences,

and slowly build up a gorgeous fabric, and he therefore remained silent.

He had a mighty imagination, and could so represent any object he

undertook so describe, that it would live before the eyes of his

hearers. But he cared so much for beauty that he wandered too far from

his way to seek it, and the consequence was that the object of his

discourse

——“Passed in music out of sight,”

and his hearers after recovering from their rapture and astonishment

remained as they were before. He drew vast audiences together, wrought

effectually for the building up of some colleges, collected much money

for various agencies, was made a Bishop of the M. E. Church, South, in

compliment to his eloquence, but in real work was far inferior to many a

Methodist minister whose name is unknown to fame.

JOHN SUMMERFIELD.

The eloquence of the good and noble, but early fallen Summerfield was in

sharp contrast with that of Bascom. A lady who had heard them both, gave

the preference, in some neat verses, to the latter, on the ground that

he was more grand, awe-inspiring, and tempest-like. The melody and

pathos of Summerfield she compared to the mild zephyr, and thought this

was necessarily inferior to the earth-shaking storm. But the world has

not agreed with her. Bascom held assembled thousands for hours beneath

the charm of his voice, weeping, smiling, or shouting, at his will. Yet

when all had passed, and the spell had been dissolved, the only

impression that remained was one of simple wonder. The man and his own

eloquence had risen so far above the subject he was to enunciate that

the latter faded from the mind. More earnestness for truth and sympathy

with it, would have enhanced his real power a hundredfold.

But it was very different with Summerfield. His soul was full of

earnestness, and he moved in an atmosphere of tenderness and pathos. The

eloquence of the great Whitefield might be compared to the whirlwind,

prostrating everything in its path; that of Bascom to an iceberg glowing

in the rays of the morning sun, displaying a thousand colors, but cold

and impassive; and that of Summerfield to the light of the sun, calm and

genial, shining on fields of green, filling the air with life and light.

His speech was simple, easy, and unadorned, flowing right out of his own

heart, and awakening an answering echo in the hearts of all who heard.

The sermons which he has left are mere fragments—sketches such as he

employed in his preparation, and of course give no idea of the real

power he wielded.

Stevens thus describes his method of preparation:

“Though in the delivery of his sermons there was this

facility—felicity we might call it—in their preparation he was a

laborious student. He was a hearty advocate of extempore preaching,

and would have been deprived of most of his popular power in the

pulpit by being confined to a manuscript; yet he knew the importance

of study, and particularly of the habitual use of the pen in order

to success in extemporaneous speaking. His own rule was to prepare a

skeleton of his sermon, and after preaching it, write it out in

fuller detail, filling up the original sketch with the principal

thoughts which had occurred to him in the process of the discourse.

The first outline was, however, in accordance with the rule we have

elsewhere given for extempore speaking, viz., that the perspective

of the entire discourse—the leading ideas, from the exordium to the

peroration—should be noted on the manuscript, so that the speaker

shall have the assurance that he is supplied with a consecutive

series of good ideas, good enough to command the respect of his

audience, though he should fail of any very important impromptu

thoughts. This rule we deem the most essential condition of success

in extemporaneous preaching. It is the best guarantee of that

confidence and self-possession upon which depends the command of

both thought and language. Summerfield followed it even in his

platform speeches. Montgomery notices the minuteness of his

preparations in nearly two hundred manuscript sketches.”

This great man died at the very early age of twenty-seven, having

preached seven years. But from the very first he produced a profound

impression. Dr. Bethune thus describes one of his earliest efforts in

this country. He was then scarcely known. It was at an anniversary of

the Bible Society, and an able man had just spoken with great

acceptance: