Chapter III

PRELIMINARIES—FEAR—VIGOR—OPENING EXERCISES.

It is an anxious moment when, after having completed his preparation, the preacher awaits the time for beginning his intellectual battle. Men who are physically brave often tremble in this emergency. The shame of failure appears worse than death itself, and as the soldier feels more of cold and shrinking terror while listening for the peal of the first gun, than when the conflict deepens into blood around him, so the speaker suffers more in this moment of expectancy than in any that comes after. He sees the danger in its full magnitude without the inspiration that attends it. Yet he must remain calm and collected, for unless he is master of himself, he cannot expect to rule the multitude before him. He must keep his material well in hand, that it may be used at the proper time, although it is not best to be continually conning over what he has to say. The latter would destroy the freshness of his matter, and bring him to the decisive test weary and jaded. He only needs to be assured that his thoughts are within reach.

It is very seldom possible to banish all fear, and it is to the speaker’s advantage that he cannot. His timidity arises from several causes, which differ widely in the effects they produce. A conscious want of preparation is one of the most distressing of these. When this proceeds from willful neglect no pity need be felt, although the penalty should be severe. If the speaker’s object is only to win reputation—to pander to his own vanity—he will feel more terrified than if his motive were worthy. Such is often the position of the uncalled minister. He can have no help from on high, and all his prayers for divine assistance are a mere mockery. But if we speak because we dare not refrain, a mighty point is gained, for then failure is no reproach. And the less of earthly pride or ambition mingles with our motives, the more completely can we rely on the help of the Spirit.

Another cause of fear is less unworthy. The glorious work in which we are engaged may suffer from our insufficiency; for, while God will bless the truth when given in its own beauty and power, there is still scope enough for all the vigor of intellect, and the strongest preacher feels the responsibility of rightly using his powers resting heavily upon him.

A general dread, that cannot be analyzed or accounted for, is perhaps more keenly felt than any other. Persons who have never spoken sometimes make light of it, but no one will ever do so who has experienced it. The soldier, who has never witnessed a battle, or felt the air throb with the explosion of cannon, or heard the awful cries of the wounded, is often a great braggart, while “the scarred veteran of a hundred fights” never speaks of the carnival of blood without shuddering, and would be the last, but for the call of duty, to brave the danger he knows so well. A few speakers never feel such fear, but it is because they do not know what true speaking is. They have never felt the full tide of inspiration that sometimes lifts the orator far above his ordinary conceptions. They only come forward to relieve themselves of the interminable stream of twaddle that wells spontaneously to their lips, and can well be spared the pangs that precede the birth of a profound and living discourse.

This kind of fear belongs to oratory of any character, but especially to that which deals with sacred themes. It resembles the awe felt on the eve of all great enterprises, and when excessive, as it is in some highly gifted and sensitive minds, it constitutes an absolute bar to public speech. But in most cases it is a source of inspiration rather than of repression.

There is a strange sensation often experienced in the presence of an audience before speaking. It may proceed from the united electric influence of the many eyes that are turned upon the speaker, especially if he catches their gaze. It may enchain him and leave him powerless, unless he rises superior to it, and, throwing it backward to its source, makes it the medium of his most subtile conquests. Most speakers have felt this in a nameless thrill, a real something, pervading the atmosphere, tangible, evanescent, indescribable. All writers have borne testimony to the effect of a speaker’s glance in impressing an audience. Why should not their eyes have a reciprocal power?

By dwelling on the object for which we speak, and endeavoring to realize its full importance, we will in a measure lose sight of the danger to be incurred, and our minds be more likely to remain in a calm and tranquil state. But no resource is equal to the sovereign one of prayer. The Lord will remember his servants when they are laboring in his cause, and grant a divine influence to prepare them for the work.

No change in the plan should be made just before speaking, for it will almost inevitably produce confusion. Yet this error is very difficult to avoid. The mind has a natural tendency to be going over the same ground, revising and testing every point, and is liable to make changes, the consequences of which cannot at once be foreseen. After all necessary preparation has been made, we should wait the result quietly and hopefully. Over-study is possible, and when accompanied by great solicitude, is a sure means of driving away all interest from the subject. If the eye be fixed too long upon one object, with a steadfast gaze, it will be unable to see at all. So the mind, if confined to one point for a great period, will lose its vivacity, and grow weary. Nothing can compensate for the want of elasticity and vigor in the act of delivery. It is not enough to enumerate a dry list of particulars, but we must enter into their spirit with the deepest interest. This cannot be counterfeited. To clearly arrange, and weigh every thought that belongs to the subject, lay it aside until the time for speech, and then enter upon it with only such a momentary glance as will assure us that all is right, is doubtless the method to make our strength fully available. To await the decisive moment with calm self-confidence, is very difficult, especially for beginners, but the ability to do it may be acquired by judicious practice and firm resolution. M. Bautain, whose experience was very extensive, says that he has sometimes felt so confident of his preparation, as to fall asleep while waiting to be summoned to the pulpit!

But those who misimprove the last moments by too much thought, form the smallest class. Many, through mere indolence, permit the finer lines of the future discourse, that have been traced with so much care, to fade out. This not unfrequently happens to those who preach a second or third time on the same subject. Because they have succeeded once, they imagine that the same success is always at command. This is a hurtful, though natural error. It is not enough to have the material for a sermon where it may be collected by a conscious and prolonged effort, but it must be in the foreground. There is no time, in the moment of delivery, for reviving half obliterated lines of memory.

We once witnessed an instance of most unexpected failure from this cause. The speaker was much engrossed with other duties until the appointed hour, and then, having no leisure for preparation, he selected a sermon he had preached shortly before, and with the general course of which he was no doubt familiar. Yet when he endeavored to produce his thoughts they were not ready. He became embarrassed, and was finally compelled to take his seat in the midst of his intended discourse.

It is well, during the last interval, to care for the strength of the body, for its condition will influence all the manifestations of mind. It is said that the pearl-diver, before venturing into the depths of the sea, always spends a few moments in deep breathing, and other bodily preparation. In the excitement of speech, the whirl and hurricane of emotion, it is necessary that our physical condition should be such as to bear all the tension put upon it. Mental excitement wears down the body faster than muscular labor. To meet all its demands we must reserve our strength for the time it is needed; for any illness will operate as a direct reduction of the orator’s power, and he must not hope, under its influence, to realize full success.

Holyoake makes the following pertinent observations in reference to this point:

“Perhaps the lowest quality of the art of oratory, but one on many occasions of the _first importance_, is a certain robust and radiant physical health; great volumes of animal heat. In the cold thinness of a morning audience, mere energy and mellowness is inestimable; wisdom and learning would be harsh and unwelcome compared with a substantial man, who is quite a house-warming.”

The picture painted in romances of a speaker with attenuated form, and trembling step, scarcely able to sustain his own weight as he ascends the platform, but who, the moment he opens his lips, becomes transfigured in the blaze of eloquence, is more poetical than natural. Let the instrument be in perfect tune, and then can the hand of genius evoke from it sweet and thrilling music.

As the time for speaking approaches every fatiguing exertion should be avoided.

In the “Rudiments of Public Speaking,” Holyoake gives a passage from his own experience which well illustrates this:

“One Saturday I walked from Sheffield to Huddersfield to deliver on the Sunday two anniversary lectures. It was my first appearance there, and I was ambitious to acquit myself well. But in the morning I was utterly unable to do more than talk half inaudibly and quite incoherently. In the evening I was tolerable, but my voice was weak. My annoyance was excessive. I was a paradox to myself. My power seemed to come and go by some eccentric law of its own. I did not find out till years after that the utter exhaustion of my strength had exhausted the powers of speech and thought, and that entire repose instead of entire fatigue should have been the preparation for public speaking.”

Absolute rest is not generally advisable, for then the preacher would enter the pulpit with languid mind and slowly beating pulse, and would require some time to overcome this state. A brisk walk, when the health is good, will invigorate and refresh all his faculties, and in part prevent the feebleness and faintness of a listless introduction, by enabling him to grasp the whole subject at once, and launch right into the heart of it. Should any one doubt the power of exercise to produce this effect, let him, when perplexed with difficult questions in his study, start out over fields and hills, and review the matter in the open air. If the minister cannot secure this kind of exercise he may easily find a substitute. If alone, he can pace back and forth, and swing his arms, until the circulation becomes brisk, and pours a stream of arterial blood to the brain that will supply all its demands.

Another simple exercise will often prove of great advantage. It is well known that many ministers injure themselves by speaking too much from the throat. This results from improper breathing—from elevating the upper part of the chest instead of pressing the abdomen downward and outward, causing the air to pass through the whole length of the lungs. To breathe properly is always important, and does much to prevent chest and throat diseases. But it is worthy of the most careful attention on the part of the speaker, for by it alone can he attain full compass and range of voice. But in animated extempore speech there is no time to think of the voice at all, and the only method possible is to make the right way so habitual that it will be adopted instinctively. This will be greatly promoted if, just before beginning to speak, we will breathe deeply a number of times, inflating the lungs completely to their extremities.

At this last hour, the speaker must not dwell upon the dangers he is about to encounter, or picture the desirability of escape from them. He has taken every precaution and made every preparation. Nothing remains for him but to put his trust in God, and bravely do his duty.

The order of opening services is different in the different churches, but in all they are of great advantage to the minister by overcoming excessive timidity, and giving an easy introduction to the audience. The hymn, or psalm, is to be read, which is not a very embarrassing task, and in doing it he becomes familiar with the sound of his own voice. Yet it requires many rare qualities to read well. Good sense and modesty are essential. The theatric method, sometimes admired, exaggerating every tone, and performing strange acrobatic feats of sound, tends to dispel the solemn awe and reverence that should gather around the sanctuary. Let the hymn be read quietly, with room for rise as well as fall, and all be perfectly natural and unaffected. The sentiment expressed by the voice should correspond with the meaning of the words. Even in this preliminary exercise, it is possible to strike a chord that will vibrate in unison through the hearts of preacher and people.

Prayer is still more important. When it is read, the same remarks apply as to the reading of the hymns. Each word should be made the echo of an inward feeling. But in most American churches prayer is extempore. The minister addresses heaven in his own words, on behalf of himself and congregation. The golden rule here is to pray really to God. That minister had no reason to feel flattered, whose prayer was commended as the most eloquent ever offered to a Boston congregation! The mass of humanity before us should only be thought of, in order to express their wants, and to intercede for them at a throne of grace. The simpler our language the better it is fitted for this purpose. Gaudy rhetoric, and even the charm of melodious words, if in the slightest degree sought for, is out of place. The only praise that should be desired from a congregation, in regard to their pastor’s prayers, is the acknowledgment that their holy yearnings and aspirations, as well as their needs, have been clearly expressed. All beyond this is disgusting.

Neither should fervid utterance be strained after. If deep emotions arise, and express themselves in the voice, it is well. But without these, mere loudness of tone will be empty noise; the prayer will be the hardest part of the service; and complex metaphors and profuse poetical quotations will afford very inadequate relief. But if the heart be full it is easy to pray, and this renders all the remainder of the service easier. A bond of true spiritual sympathy unites the preacher with all the good in his congregation, and as he rises to speak, their prayers are given for his success.