Chapter XVII: Part IV: Eminent Extempore Speakers (2)

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:

“The chair announced the Rev. Mr. Summerfield, from England. ‘What
presumption!’ said my clerical neighbor; ‘a boy like that to be set
up after a giant!’ But the stripling came in the name of the God of
Israel, armed with ‘a few smooth stones from the brook’ that flows
‘hard by the oracles of God.’ His motion was one of thanks to the
officers of the society for their labors during the year; and of
course he had to allude to the president, then reposing in another
part of the house; and thus he did it: ‘When I saw that venerable
man, too aged to warrant the hope of being with you at another
anniversary, _he reminded me of Jacob leaning upon the top of his
staff, blessing his children before he departed_.’ He then passed on
to encourage the society by the example of the British institution.
‘When we first launched our untried vessel upon the deep, the storms
of opposition roared, and the waves dashed angrily around us, and we
had hard work to keep her head to the wind. We were faint with
rowing, and our strength would soon have been gone, but we cried,
‘Lord, save us, or we perish!’ _Then a light shone upon the waters,
and we saw a form walking upon the troubled sea, like unto that of
the Son of God, and he drew near the ship, and we knew that it was
Jesus; and he stepped upon the deck, and laid his hand upon the
helm, and he said unto the winds and waves, Peace, be still, and
there was a great calm._ Let not the friends of the Bible fear; God
is in the midst of us. God shall help us, and that right early.’ In
such a strain he went on to the close. ‘Wonderful! wonderful!’ said
my neighbor the critic; ‘he talks like an angel from heaven.’”

C. H. SPURGEON.

No minister now living has been heard by so many people in the same number of years, or has been the subject of so much controversy as Spurgeon. The great populace of London has been moved to its depths by his preaching, and he has met with the same enthusiastic reception wherever he has preached. He is yet very young—only thirty-four years of age—and had become celebrated before he was twenty-one. Such speedy recognition is certainly a proof of great merit, and his example is well worth our attention.

Spurgeon’s parents were poor but respectable—his father and grandfather being Independent ministers. He early felt it his duty to preach, and even when a child was accustomed to preach to his playmates. His father wished him to go to college to qualify himself for the work in regular form, but after giving the matter careful consideration he declined. Even when he became usher at Cambridge, and began to preach occasionally, he refused the tempting offer of a college course, and gave it as his opinion that he was called to go to the work at once, and not to waste years in preparation. We can hardly tell what effect a long course of training, that would have allowed time for his fervid zeal to cool, would have had upon his after life. About the same time he left the church of his fathers and united with the Baptists, believing that immersion was the proper baptism. His occasional ministrations were marked by modesty and good sense, as well as loving earnestness.