"He was never much on stirrin' round,Sich wasn't his desire;When weather cool, he was always found,A sittin' round the fire."When the frost was comin' down,And the wind a creepin' higher,He spent his time just that way,A sittin' round the fire."Same old habit every day,He never seemed to tire;While others worked and got their pay,He sat there by the fire."When he died, by slow degrees,Some said, 'he's gone up higher;'But if he's doin' what he did,He's sittin' round the fire."
"He was never much on stirrin' round,Sich wasn't his desire;When weather cool, he was always found,A sittin' round the fire.
"He was never much on stirrin' round,
Sich wasn't his desire;
When weather cool, he was always found,
A sittin' round the fire.
"When the frost was comin' down,And the wind a creepin' higher,He spent his time just that way,A sittin' round the fire.
"When the frost was comin' down,
And the wind a creepin' higher,
He spent his time just that way,
A sittin' round the fire.
"Same old habit every day,He never seemed to tire;While others worked and got their pay,He sat there by the fire.
"Same old habit every day,
He never seemed to tire;
While others worked and got their pay,
He sat there by the fire.
"When he died, by slow degrees,Some said, 'he's gone up higher;'But if he's doin' what he did,He's sittin' round the fire."
"When he died, by slow degrees,
Some said, 'he's gone up higher;'
But if he's doin' what he did,
He's sittin' round the fire."
The man or woman who lives in this age of the world and lives in idleness, should have lived in some other age. When ox-teams crept across the plains, and stage coaches went six miles an hour, idleness may have been in some kind of harmony with the age, but now, when horses pace a mile in two minutes, express trains make fifty miles an hour, and aeroplanes fly a mile in a minute; when telephone and telegraph send news faster than light flies, the idler is out of place. Carlisle said: "The race of life has become intense; the runners are tramping on each other's heels; woe to the man who stops to tie his shoestrings!"
Young man, if you would keep step with the energy of the age in which you are living, and be ever found on the safe side of life, you must not only be equippedwith education, stability and ambition, but to make sure you should start right. If you are going to California tomorrow, which way would you start, east or west? You say: "We would start west." A man riding along a highway said to a farmer by the wayside: "How far to Baltimore?"
The farmer answered: "About twenty-five thousand miles the way you're going; if you'll face about and go the other way, it's fourteen miles."
Young man, which way are you going?
Does someone in my presence say: "I have started wrong; I take a glass of beer now and then; occasionally utter an oath, and am sowing wild oats in a few other fields; but I'll come out right in the end." Two diverging roads keep on widening; they don't come together at the other ends. If you would make sure of the safe side of life in the end of the journey, then start right. Luke Howard graduated from a fine college and went to a large city to practice his profession. He boarded in a fine hotel and frequented fine saloons. He became dissipated and one morning after a drunken debauch the landlord said: "Sir, you disturbed my boarders last night and I must ask you to leave." Young men, didLuke Howard go to a better hotel? No, but to a grade lower; he started wrong. In this hotel a few months later, he was asked to move on. Did he go to a better? No, still lower, until at last he went to board in the low tavern on the river front. The landlord said: "I remember when you graduated from college. I was present, saw the flowers and heard the applause that greeted your success. I feel honored to have you as a boarder." A few months later, on Christmas night, Luke Howard lay drunk on the bar-room floor. The landlord had borne all he could and, with a kick, he said: "Get up and get out, you brute; I will not keep you another hour." The drunkard with help arose and said: "Where am I? Why, this is my boarding place, my home, and you are my landlord. You said you felt honored to have me board here. What's the matter?"
"Luke Howard, you're not the man you once were, and I want you to leave here at once."
The poor fellow started for the door muttering: "I am not the man I was. I'm not the man I was." Missing the step as he went out, he fell, striking his headagainst the stone curbing. A physician was summoned and recognizing the injured man as an old friend said: "Luke, speak to your old college chum; I'm here to help you."
The poor drunkard, looking through the blood that flowed from the gaping wound said: "Listen to me, Tom, I'm not the man I was, I'm not the man I was." And thus died the poor fellow.
Young man, start wrong and end right? No, start wrong and you may expect in the autumn of life a penniless, friendless old age; opportunity gone, health shattered, and the "long fingers of memory" reaching out and dragging into its chambers thoughts that will "bite like a serpent and sting like an adder." Bad as this is, it is even worse when your depravity involves another life. What if that other life is your mother, who went to the door of death to give you life, and whose every breath is another thread of sorrow woven into her wasting heart while her boy is bound like Mazeppa to the wild steed of passion.
There are some things I cannot understand about this drink question. I can understand how a young woman with jeweledfingers can tempt a young man to drink wine. I had a bit of experience some years ago down in Texas, that helped me to appreciate how young men are tempted. I gave an address in a Y.M.C.A. lecture course in a city, and at the close of my address a prominent citizen said to me: "Kentucky has a reputation for beautiful women, but we think Texas has the handsomest women in the world. At the hotel where you are stopping, there is a leap year ball tonight and the most beautiful women for a hundred miles around are gathered there. I will call for you at your room in a little while and you must take a look at our Texas girls." A little later I stood in a hallway where I could see down the long ball room, and I declare they were as pretty women as I have ever seen, and I live in Kentucky. I was invited to step inside the door, where between dances I was introduced to couple after couple. It being leap year the ladies were soliciting their partners for the dance, and a very handsome young lady invited me to be her partner. Having never danced and being a Methodist steward, I declined. Another and another asked me to dance, and again and againI declined, giving as an excuse my utter ignorance of the function. Finally a very beautiful, blue-eyed, charming young lady said: "Since you do not dance, may I engage you for a promenade around the ball room?" Boys, if I had been a young man the chances are I would have started down the "turkey-trot" road that evening. I can appreciate how young men are tempted.
There is one thing, however, about the drink habit that is difficult for me to understand, and that is how a young man, who loves his mother, whose mother loves him as only a mother can love, loved him first, loved him best and will love him to the last, can go from home and mother to the impure, degrading vileness of a liquor saloon. If we enter that young man's home what do we find? Perhaps on one of the side-walls, "What is home without a mother," on the altar the family Bible, every picture on the walls suggestive of home life and purity, every chair and piece of bric-a-brac linked with the sweet association of childhood, the conversation as pure as the sunlight on which the young man lives; yet he will kiss his mother, leave this home, and down the street makehis way to a liquor saloon, where often vile pictures hang on the walls, cards lie on the table instead of the family Bible and the air is freighted with oaths and obscenities.
Boys, have any of you done this within the past month, or six months? Promise me now you will never do this again. Oh what a grand meeting this would be if every young man and boy in my presence would make the promise! I plead with you, young man, by the sleepless nights your mother spent to give you rest; by the shadow you have hung over her pathway; by the bleeding heart you've wounded but which loves you still:
"Come back, my boy, come back, I say,And walk now in thy mother's way."
"Come back, my boy, come back, I say,And walk now in thy mother's way."
"Come back, my boy, come back, I say,
And walk now in thy mother's way."
I would that every boy in our land were as grateful to his mother as was that Southern girl to her father, who stood years ago in front of an open fire, her back to the fire, her face toward the door, her bare arms full of flowers, waiting for her brother to call with a carriage to take her to a party. While standing there a flame caught her dress; she gave a scream, dropped the flowers and ran through the door to where her father was standing inthe yard. When the father saw his child coming with flame following, he ran toward her. As he ran he took off his coat and wrapping it about her face, arms and shoulders, threw her to the ground. With his left hand he kept the flame from the body, while with his right hand he fought the fire. He saved his daughter but burned his right arm to the elbow. Day after day when the doctor would unwrap the arm to dress it, the girl, though burned herself, would go to her father's bed, gently lift the burned arm and caress it. When the father recovered his hand was so maimed and scarred, that when introduced to strangers, he would hold his right hand behind him and shake hands with the left. One day his daughter, seeing him do this, went to his side and reaching for the scarred hand, held it to her lips and kissed it. She was not ashamed, for that hand had been burned for her. When the father died and lay in his casket ready for burial, the family came to take their last look. First came the mother of the girl, then a brother and sister, and then the girl herself. She kissed the cold brow of her father, then kneeling she took up the disfigured hand and kissed it over andover again. My boy, your mother has suffered more for you than that father did for his daughter. I beg you, go home and kiss your mother. If she is dead or far from you, kiss her memory. Go to your bed room, kneel there, and pray God to help you to live worthy the love of your mother.
I now turn from young men to parents and say, use every means possible to make safe the way of your boys. Some years ago in one of our cities, after a lecture in which I appealed to parents, a leading merchant of the city said: "I wish I had heard that lecture years ago."
"You never used liquor?" I said.
"No, but I am responsible for its use in my family. I am a Methodist, and a total abstainer. In my employ I had a number of clerks, and let it be known I would not allow any of them to drink even moderately. One day a man came to my store with a paper in his hand and said: 'I want to set up a saloon on the next block and I am getting signers to my petition. I am one of your customers; you know me and know I will keep an orderly place.' I said to myself, 'if he doesn't sell others will and we need the revenue anyway,'so I signed the petition. A few months later I chanced to see my youngest boy and one of my clerks coming out of the door of that saloon. Soon after when they entered the store I called them into my office and said: 'Young men, did I see you coming out of a saloon, and had you been taking a drink in there?' When they admitted they had, I said to my son: 'Did I ever set such an example for you to follow?' He answered: 'No, father, but you signed that man's petition to set up the saloon; whom did you expect him to sell to? Did you sign it for him to sell to other fathers' sons and not yours?' I realized as never before the wrong I had done, not only to my own son, but to every father's son to whom that saloon-keeper would sell if they had the money to pay for liquor. I said: "Forgive me, my boy. Promise me you will never enter a saloon again and I promise never to sign a petition or vote to have a saloon-keeper sell to anybody's boy!"
But it was too late; that boy went to ruin and carried his old father to financial ruin with him. The store was sold and the father went on to a little farm in Missouri, where he died a disappointed, grief-strickenman. He was a good man and a kind father, but he did not realize the full meaning of the warning, "whatsoever ye sow, that shall ye also reap." Fathers, be careful of your example. Your sons think they can safely follow where you lead. Could the turf break above the drunken dead; could they come back to earth in their bony whiteness to testify to the cause of their ruin, how many would point to the old sideboard filled with all kinds of liquors, to father's moderate use of strong drink, or his vote for the saloon at the ballot box.
Too often the careless indulgence of mothers is responsible for the ruin of their sons. If mothers were as watchful of their sons as of their daughters, the magic chain of mother love would be far more binding to their boys. There are homes in this city where at night you can hear the mothers say to servants: "Are the clothes in off the line; did you bring the broom and the pitcher from the porch; are the blinds all down; are the girls in bed; is everything in order for the night?" No, mothers, everything is not in order. Your girls are safe, the windows and doors are locked, but your boys are on the outsidewith night keys in their pockets, to come in at midnight from God only knows where. The double standard reaches too often back into the home.
"Mother, watch the little feet,Climbing o'er the garden wall,Bounding through the busy street,Ranging garret shed and hall:Never count the time it cost,Never think the moments lost;Little feet will go astray,Watch them, mother, while you may."Mother, watch the little tongue,Prattling, innocent and wild,What is said and what is sungBy the joyous, happy child;Stop the word while yet unspoken;Seal the vow while yet unbroken,That same tongue may yet proclaim,Blessings in a Savior's name."Mother, watch the little heart,Beating soft and warm for you;Wholesome lessons now impart,Keep, O keep, that young heart pure.Extricating every weed,Sowing good and precious seed;Harvests rich you then shall see,Ripening for eternity."
"Mother, watch the little feet,Climbing o'er the garden wall,Bounding through the busy street,Ranging garret shed and hall:Never count the time it cost,Never think the moments lost;Little feet will go astray,Watch them, mother, while you may.
"Mother, watch the little feet,
Climbing o'er the garden wall,
Bounding through the busy street,
Ranging garret shed and hall:
Never count the time it cost,
Never think the moments lost;
Little feet will go astray,
Watch them, mother, while you may.
"Mother, watch the little tongue,Prattling, innocent and wild,What is said and what is sungBy the joyous, happy child;Stop the word while yet unspoken;Seal the vow while yet unbroken,That same tongue may yet proclaim,Blessings in a Savior's name.
"Mother, watch the little tongue,
Prattling, innocent and wild,
What is said and what is sung
By the joyous, happy child;
Stop the word while yet unspoken;
Seal the vow while yet unbroken,
That same tongue may yet proclaim,
Blessings in a Savior's name.
"Mother, watch the little heart,Beating soft and warm for you;Wholesome lessons now impart,Keep, O keep, that young heart pure.Extricating every weed,Sowing good and precious seed;Harvests rich you then shall see,Ripening for eternity."
"Mother, watch the little heart,
Beating soft and warm for you;
Wholesome lessons now impart,
Keep, O keep, that young heart pure.
Extricating every weed,
Sowing good and precious seed;
Harvests rich you then shall see,
Ripening for eternity."
Once more I turn to the young men to say, if you would make life safe take the Bible as the man of your counsel and the guide of your life; love God and keep His commandments. In this age of glittering literature, many consider the Bible dull reading. Sir William Jones, one of England's greatest jurists and scholars, said: "I have carefully perused the Bible, and independent of its divine origin, I believe it contains more true sublimity, more exquisite beauty, purer morality, more important history and finer strains of poetry and eloquence than could be contained within the same compass, from all the books ever published in any age or any idiom."
A passionate lover of poetry has said: "The Bible is a mass of beautiful figures. It has pressed into its service the animals of the forest, the flowers of the fields and the stars of heaven; the lion, spurning the sands of the desert; the wild roe, leaping the mountains; the lamb led to the slaughter; the goat, fleeing to the wilderness; theRose of Sharon; the Lily of the Valley; the great rock in a weary land; Carmel by the sea; Tabor in the mountains; the rain and mown grass; the sun and moon and morning stars. Thus hath the Bible swept creation to lay its trophies upon the altar of Jehovah." Patrick Henry continually sought the Bible for gems of expression, while today the politician on the rostrum and the lawyer at the bar, quote the Bible to give force and effect to their speeches.
Some say: "There is so much in the Bible we cannot comprehend." Yes, there's very much in there doubtless God did not intend you should understand. One wades in the ocean knee deep, waist deep, neck deep, and gives it up that he can't wade the ocean. If God had intended one should wade the ocean He would have made it shallow enough to wade. So, one finds he can climb to the mountain's top, or sail thousands of feet above the mountain in an air ship, but he can't sail to the skies. Two good women went to Sam Jones and said: "Mr. Jones, here are several passages of scripture we don't understand. We have been to several ministers and they cannot explain them satisfactorily; perhapsyou can." The great evangelist said: "Sisters, you haven't as much good hard sense as my cow. We keep a cow and through the winter we give her hay to eat. Now Georgia hay has a considerable mixture of briars. When we give the cow an arm full of hay she has sense enough to eat the hay and let the briars alone. But with the blessed Bible full of good hay, you are 'chawing' away on the briars." Young people, there is enough in God's word you can understand to serve you if you live a thousand years, enough in there to save you if you die tonight, so don't worry over what you can't understand.
During the Civil War a terrible battle raged all day between the armies of Grant and Lee. When the night shadows shut out the light, dead and dying were strewn for miles. Surgeons were busy and the chaplains going their rounds. A chaplain heard a voice say, in clarion tone: "Here." Going to the spot from whence came the voice and bending over the prostrate form of a dying soldier, the chaplain asked: "What can I do for you?"
"Nothing, sir; they were just calling the roll in Heaven, and I was answeringto my name."
Blessed book, in which there is enough a wounded soldier, dying far away from home and loved ones, can so understand as to fit him to answer the roll call in Heaven.
We may not comprehend the full meaning of faith, but we can grasp sufficient to be to our souls what the force of nature is to the trees, by which they stand with their branches reaching skyward and their roots drawing earth-centerward. Take from me this faith and you take away the best friend I ever had, the friend that stood by me in the darkest hour of my life, when a daughter in the bloom of womanhood said, "good-bye," and went away to live with the angels; that stands by me now pointing to where my child is waiting for me in the bowers that kiss the very porch of Heaven. Without this faith how awful would be the dirge, "earth to earth, dust to dust." Blessed book that tells us we shall meet "beyond the river, where the surges cease to roll;" that death is but the doorway to a better land, "the grave a subway to a sweeter clime."
My dear young friends, accept this faith and you will find in it a sweet companionup the hillward way of life, and down the sunset slope to the valley of death, where it will not leave nor forsake you, but will wait till you throw off your "burden of clay," then "bear you away on its balmy wings to your eternal home." Young men, may you so follow the safe side of life, that when its great trials come, you can with the wings of faith cleave the clouds and soar safely above the thunders that roll at your feet.
My closing advice is, "Walk not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor stand in the way of sinners; but delight in the law of the Lord; and in his law meditate day and night. In due season your life will fruit and whatsoever you do will prosper."
Though announced to lecture on Platform Experiences, it is my purpose to give you a kind of platform analysis, to tell you what I know about lecturing, lectures, oratory and orators, using personal experiences for illustration.
We have about eight thousand Chautauqua days, and fifteen thousand lecture courses in this country every year, and yet comparatively few persons know the history of the platform. Many have an idea that free speech, like free air, has ever been a boon to mankind. They have no conception of what it has cost, in imprisonment, exile, blood and tears.
I am indebted to "Pond's History of the Platform" for facts and illustrations in the early history of the platform in England. Two hundred years ago in our mother land, the word platform meant no more than a resting place for boxes and barrels. A religious service was simply a routine of ritual, while such a thing as apublic man addressing the masses was unknown. Sir William Pitt, one of England's greatest statesman and orators, in all his public life uttered only two sentences to the public outside of Parliament. If William Jennings Bryan had lived in Pitt's day, he would have been ignored by the Prime Minister of England.
The first leaders of thought to come in contact with the people and thrill them by the power of speech were John Wesley and George Whitefield. "On a mount called Rose Hill, near Bristol, England, George Whitefield laid the foundation of the modern platform." From Rose Hill his audiences grew until on Kensington Commons thirty thousand people tried to get within reach of his captivating voice. It has been truthfully said: "At the feet of John Wesley and George Whitefield the people of England learned their first lessons in popular government."
This innovation, however, met with sneers, jeers and persecution from the established conservatism of church and state, and when the platform attempted to enter the arena of politics, Parliament decided the "public clamor must end." A bill was framed forbidding any publicgatherings except such as should be called by the magistrates.
In advocating this bill a member of Parliament said: "The art of political discussion does not belong outside of Parliament. Men who are simply merchants, mechanics and farmers must not be allowed to publicly criticise the constitution." To this the platform made reply: "From such as we the Master selected those who were to sow the seed of living bread in the wilds of Galilee." The bill passed by an overwhelming majority. Punishment ran from fine and imprisonment to years of exile from the country, and from this time on, the battle raged between Parliament and platform. Later on we shall note the results.
I am often interviewed by men, and sometimes by women, who desire to reach the platform. They say to me: "What steps did you take?"
My answer is, I never took any; I stumbled, was picked up by circumstances and pitched upon the platform.
At a picnic in a grove near Winchester, Ky., in 1869, a noted temperance orator was to give an address. He failed to reach the grove on time, and I was prevailedupon to act as time-killer until his arrival. I was not entirely without experience, having belonged to a debating society in a country school.
When I had spoken about thirty minutes, to my great relief, the orator of the day made his appearance. The flattering comments upon my talk induced me to accept other invitations to address temperance meetings, and before I knew what had happened, the platform was under my feet, calls were numerous and my life work was established. I suppose those who consult me are encouraged to know a mere stumble directed my course, and if so, by purpose and preparation they can surely succeed.
Some persons seem to think lecturing a very simple occupation, requiring only a glib tongue, and a good pair of lungs. Several years ago, I received a letter from a young man in which he wrote: "I heard you lecture last week. I would like to become a lecturer myself. I have no experience and very little education, but I have a very strong voice and am sure I could be heard by a large audience. I have been working in a horse-barn but am now out of a job. If I had a lecture, I thinkI could make a living; besides I would get to see the country. If you will write me one I will send you two dollars." I do not know whether the young man gauged the price by the estimate of the lecture he had heard me give, or his monetary condition, but if audacity is a requisite for the platform, this young man was not entirely without qualification.
This is an extreme case, and yet there are those whose minds are storehouses of knowledge, who can no more become popular platform speakers, than could the young man, who was ready to set sail on the sea of oratory, with a lusty pair of lungs and a two dollar lecture.
Charles Spurgeon, the great London preacher, said: "I have never yet learned the art of lecturing. If you have ever seen a goose fly, you have seen Spurgeon trying to lecture."
Mr. Spurgeon called lecturing an art, and why not? If the hand that paints a picture true to life and pleasing to the eye, is the hand of an artist, why is not the tongue that paints a picture true to life and pleasing to the mind's eye the tongue of an artist?
It is an art to know how to get hold of an audience. There was an occasion in my experience when I had extreme necessity for the use of this art. When President Cleveland wrote his Venezuela message in which he threatened war with England, the threat was published in Toronto, Canada, on Saturday and I was announced to lecture in the large pavilion on Sunday afternoon.
The message of President Cleveland had aroused the patriotic spirit of Canada. The hall was packed. It seemed to me I could see frost upon the eyebrows of every man and icicles in the ears of the women.
When introduced there was a painful silence. I began by saying: "Doubtless many of you have come to hear what an American has to say about Venezuela. I must admit I am not acquainted with the merits of the question. I suppose, however, the message of our President is one of the arts of diplomacy. But I do know I speak the sentiment of the best people of my country when I say: 'May the day never dawn whose peace will be broken by signal guns of war between Great Britain and the United States.'" I said:
"When John and Jonathan forget,The scar of anger's wound to fret,And smile to think of an ancient feud,Which the God of nations turned to good;Then John and Jonathan will be,Abiding friends, o'er land and sea;n their one great purpose, the world will ken,Peace on earth, goodwill to men."
"When John and Jonathan forget,The scar of anger's wound to fret,And smile to think of an ancient feud,Which the God of nations turned to good;Then John and Jonathan will be,Abiding friends, o'er land and sea;n their one great purpose, the world will ken,Peace on earth, goodwill to men."
"When John and Jonathan forget,
The scar of anger's wound to fret,
And smile to think of an ancient feud,
Which the God of nations turned to good;
Then John and Jonathan will be,
Abiding friends, o'er land and sea;
n their one great purpose, the world will ken,
Peace on earth, goodwill to men."
The great audience arose and cheered until all sense of chill had departed.
It is not only an art to get hold of an audience, but equally a matter of good taste to know when to let go. This is a qualification some have not acquired. I followed a very distinguished man several years ago and the comment was: "He was fine the first hour and a half, but the last hour he grew tiresome."
In this busy age, the world wants thoughts packed into small compass. The average audience wants a preacher to put his best thoughts into a thirty-minute package. The day was, when people would sit on backless board benches and listen to a sermon of two hours; now they won't swing in a hammock and endure one of more than fifty minutes.
Rev. Dr. Dewey, of Brooklyn, New York, tells of a minister who was given to reading his sermons. On one occasion when he had read about twenty minutes, he halted and said: "I have a young dog at my house that is given to chewing paper. I find he has mutilated my manuscript, which is my excuse for this short sermon." A visiting lady after service said: "Doctor, have you any more of the breed of that dog? I would like to get one for our pastor."
In this age of crowded moments concentration means executation; energy means success. If you can't put fire into your sermon, put your sermon in the fire.
A few years ago when in New York City, I went to see Madame Bernhardt in her famous play, Joan of Arc. She spoke in French, an unknown tongue to me; but when she came to her defense before the court, I realized as never before the power of speech and action. She had given one-fourth of that marvelous appeal, when the great audience arose and began to cheer. Madame Bernhardt folded her arms, bowed her head and waited for silence.
When order was restored she sprang a step forward. It seemed to me every featureof her face, every finger on her hands, every gleam of eye and movement of body was an appeal to the stern tribunal. In the trembling, murmuring voice that ran like a strain of sad, sweet music through sunless gorges of grief, the great audience read her plea for mercy and wept. Some who could not restrain their emotion sobbed aloud.
When from the depths of solemn sound that same voice arose like the swell of a silver trumpet, and in clarion tones demanded justice, cheer after cheer testified to the power of the orator actress. Never was there a sob of the sea more mournful, than the voice of Sarah Bernhardt as she played upon the harp strings of pity; and never did words rush in greater storm fury from human lips, than when she demanded justice. No stop nor note nor pedal nor key in the organ of speech was left untouched by this genius in tragic art.
It would be well if every public speaker could hear Sarah Bernhardt give that defense of the Maid of Orleans. Indeed I believe if the forensic eloquence of the stage could be transferred to the pulpit greater audiences and greater rewardswould follow. If you doubt this, go read the sermons of George Whitefield or the lectures of John B. Gough and you will wonder at their success unless you take into consideration their mysterious power of delivery.
I cannot give you one sentence Madame Bernhardt uttered, but I do know the influence of that address remains with me to this day and now and then I find myself reaching out after the secret of oratory. "It is not so much what you say as how you say it," has become a proverb.
Some years ago I lectured in an Iowa village on a bitter cold evening. The rear of the hall was up on posts. When introduced there was only one inch between my shoe soles and zero, while a cold wind from a broken window struck the back of my head. It occurred to me that if I would play Bernhardt I might save a spell of pneumonia.
In a few moments I was pacing the platform, swinging my arms and stamping my feet to keep up circulation. I put all the intensity, activity and personality possible into one hour and left the platform.
Returning to the hotel a commercial traveler who had heard me a number of times said: "I congratulate you; you get younger. I never heard you put so much life into your lecture."
I replied: "Why man, I was trying to keep my feet from freezing."
He said: "I advise you to go on the platform every evening with cold feet."
John and Charles Wesley were going along a street in London when they came upon two market women engaged in a wordy war. John Wesley said: "Hold up, Charles, and let's learn how to preach. See how these women put earnestness and even eloquence into their street quarrel. Can't we be just as earnest and eloquent in dealing out the truth?" No wonder John Wesley gave such impetus to the platform.
It is said what John Wesley and George Whitefield were to the religious platform, Fox and Burke became later on to the political platform. They saw the platform was fast becoming the voice of public sentiment and dared to indorse it.
When Mr. Fox made his first platform address he said: "This is the first time I ever had the privilege of addressing an uncorrupted assembly." Going back intoParliament he said: "Let's put an end to a policy that separates us from the people. Let's cut all cables, snap all chains that bind us to an unfriendly shore and enter the peaceful harbor of public confidence."
When Mr. Burke made his platform debut, he was so inspired by the enthusiasm of the people, it is said, he made the greatest speech ever made in the English language up to that time. When he appeared in Parliament next evening a leader of the government took occasion to denounce the platform as a disturber of public peace, directing his remarks to Mr. Burke. The great orator was ready with the reply: "Yes, and the firebell at midnight disturbs public peace, but it keeps you from burning in your beds."
It would seem after years of fruitless effort to silence the platform, Parliament would accept it as a power for good and give it wise direction. Yet we are informed that in face of its growing popularity when Henry Hunt attempted to address an audience in a grove in England, a regiment of cavalry charged the grove. Eleven were killed and several hundred wounded. Henry Hunt wasthrown into prison, but when released later one hundred thousand people welcomed him to the streets of London.
As well now had Parliament attempted to prevent a London fog as to prohibit platform meetings. John Bright said: "When I consider these meetings of the people, so sublime in their vastness and resolution, I see coming over the hilltops of time the dawning of a nobler and better day for my country."
It is our privilege to live in the good day of which John Bright spoke. Yet while a public speaker today is in no dread of arrest or imprisonment for any decent expression of opinion, the platform is not without its hindrances; and some of these will never be cured, while babies cry, architects sacrifice acoustics to style, young people do their courting in public, janitors smother thoughts in foul air, and milliners persist in building up artistic barriers between speaker and audience.
Here let me give a bit of advice to my own sex. Gentlemen, when you purchase a new hat, no matter if a ten dollar silk, or a twenty dollar panama, do not attend a lecture, and taking a seat in front of some intelligent lady forget to removeyour hat. The lady may want to see the speaker's face, and he may need the inspiration of her countenance, while you are interfering with both. "A hint to the wise is sufficient." This hint may not be in accord with the advice of Paul, but Paul never saw a twentieth century "Merry Widow" hat. Then too, Paul was already inspired and didn't need the inspiration of human countenances. I am speaking for the uninspired, to whom an audience of hatless heads is an inspiration.
But few persons realize how a public speaker is affected by little influences. The flitting of a blind bat over a church audience on a summer evening, will mar the most fascinating flight of eloquence ever plumed from a pulpit.
When Nancy Hanks broke the world's trotting record at Independence, Iowa, some years ago, her former owner, Mr. Hart Boswell, of Lexington, who raised and trained her, was asked if Nancy would ever lower that record. He replied: "Well, if the time comes that the track is just right, the atmosphere just right, the driver just right and Nancy just right, I believe she will." See thecombination. Break it anywhere and the brave little mare would fail.
Just so speakers are affected by conditions, by acoustics, atmosphere, size and temper of the audience, and the speaker's own mental and physical condition. Many a good sermon has been killed by a poor sexton. Many a grand thought has perished in foul air.
Charles Spurgeon was preaching to a large audience in a mission church in London, when want of ventilation affected speaker and audience. Mr. Spurgeon said to a member of the church: "Brother, lift that window near you."
"It won't lift," replied the brother.
"Then smash the glass and I'll pay the bill to-morrow," said Spurgeon.
Suppose the great horse Uhlan should be announced to trot against his record; suppose at the appointed time, with the grandstand crowded and every condition favorable, as the great trotting wonder reached the first quarter pole, some one were to run across the track just ahead of the horse, then another and another; what kind of a record would be made?
What management would allow a horse to be thus handicapped? Where is theman who would be so inconsiderate as to thus hinder a horse? Yet when a minister has worked while the world slept, that he not only might sustain his record but gather souls into the kingdom; when the opening exercises have given sufficient time for all to be present; when the text is announced and the preacher is reaching out after the attention and sympathy of his audience some one enters the door, walks nearly the full length of the aisle; then another and then two more, each one crossing the track of the preacher and yet he is expected to keep up his record and make good. If you are a friend of your pastor be present when he announces his text; give him your attention and thus cheer him on as you would your favorite horse.
An eminent minister said: "There, I had a good thought for you, but the creaking of the new boots of that brother coming down the aisle knocked it quite out of my head."
One who had heard me many times said: "Why do you do better at Ocean Grove than anywhere else I hear you?" My answer was: "Because of conditions. The great auditorium seats ten thousand,the atmosphere is invigorated by salt sea breezes; a choir of five hundred sing the audience into a receptive mood and the speaker is borne from climax to climax on wings of applause."
I would not have you infer from this that a large audience is always necessary to success. Indeed the most successful and satisfactory address I ever made was to an audience of one. If I can make as favorable an impression upon you as I did upon that young lady I shall be gratified.
In Pauling, New York, Chauncey M. Depew by his attention and applause inspired me more than the whole audience beside; while time and again have I been helped to do my best by the presence of that matchless queen of the platform, Frances E. Willard.
The very opposite of greatness has had the same effect upon me. At the Pontiac, Illinois, Chautauqua after lecturing to a great audience, I was invited by the superintendent of the State Reformatory to address the inmates of the prison. At the close of a thirty minutes' talk the superintendent said: "Your address to my boys exceeded the one you gave at the Chautauqua."
Why was it better? At the Chautauqua I was trying to entertain and instruct an intelligent audience. Within the grey walls of that prison I was reaching down to the very depths, endeavoring to lift up human beings, marred and scarred by sin and crime, but dear to the mothers who bore them and the Savior who died for them.
If I were a preacher in New York City and were announced to preach a sermon on home missionary work I would not go to the church by way of the mansions of the rich where children, shod in satin slippers dance and play over velvet tapestry, but by way of the slums where I would meet the children of misery, where,
"To stand at night 'mid the city's throng,And scan the faces that pass along,Is to read a book whose every leafIs a history of woe and want and grief.As in tears of sorrow and sin and shame,You read a story of blight and blame,Your heart goes further than hand can reachAnd you feel a sermon you cannot preach."
"To stand at night 'mid the city's throng,And scan the faces that pass along,Is to read a book whose every leafIs a history of woe and want and grief.As in tears of sorrow and sin and shame,You read a story of blight and blame,Your heart goes further than hand can reachAnd you feel a sermon you cannot preach."
"To stand at night 'mid the city's throng,
And scan the faces that pass along,
Is to read a book whose every leaf
Is a history of woe and want and grief.
As in tears of sorrow and sin and shame,
You read a story of blight and blame,
Your heart goes further than hand can reach
And you feel a sermon you cannot preach."
Whoever would prove worthy of the platform must have a message and give to it the devotion of mind, heart and conscience, no matter whether his purpose is to convince by reasoning, convert by appeal, delight by rhetoric, or cure melancholy by humor. Each has its useful influence on the platform.
Some persons have an impression that the student deals in logic, while the orator simply starts his tongue to running, and goes off and leaves it to work automatically.
Bishop Robert McIntyre was one of the greatest pulpit orators of his age, yet I dare say this gifted man gave as much time and thought to his famous word painting of the Chicago fire, as Joseph Cook ever gave to mining any treasure of thought he laid upon the altar of education.
I know many teachers of oratory say: "Study your subject, analyze it well, and leave words to the inspiration of the occasion." But suppose when the occasion comes, instead of inspiration one has indigestion, then what?
While a speaker should not be so confined to composition that he cannot reach out after, and cage any passing bird ofthought, yet as the leaf of the mulberry tree must go through the stomach of a silk-worm, before it can become silk, so climaxes should be warped and woofed into language before they can be forceful and beautiful.
At the Lincoln, Nebraska, Assembly some years ago a noted humorist gave an address on the "Philosophy of Wit." He called oratory a lost art, and to prove his contention he quoted from William Jennings Bryan's famous Chicago convention speech. He said: "What would a young woman think of her lover who would say 'My darling, the crown of thorns shall never be pressed down upon your fair brow?'" The humorist expected applause but it failed to materialize, for Mr. Bryan is highly respected in his state and his oratory is a charm wherever he is heard.
The speaker not only exhibited poor taste, but his wit was pointless, for when a man can go before a convention of fourteen hundred delegates and by one burst of eloquence capture the convention, secure the nomination for the presidency, and then with the press and the leaders of his party against him go up and down the country, and from the rear of a railroadtrain, almost capture the White House, the day of oratory is not gone by.
Schriner, the great animal painter, painted the picture of a bony mule eating a tuft of hay. That picture sold in Petersburg, Russia, for fifteen thousand dollars, while the original mule sold for one dollar and thirty cents. If the painting of Schriner made in the price of that mule, a difference of fourteen thousand, nine hundred, ninety-eight dollars and seventy cents why is not word painting worth something?
Listen, while I give you a short extract from the address of James G. Blaine at the memorial service of our martyr President Garfield. With the audience wrought up to the greatest sympathy by his tribute he said:
"Surely if happiness can come from robust health, ideal domestic life and honors of the world James A. Garfield was a happy man that July morning. One moment strong, erect with promise of peaceful, useful years of life before him: The next moment wounded, bleeding, helpless.
"Through the days and weeks of agony that followed, he saw his sun slowly sinking, the plans and purposes of his lifebroken and the sweetest of household ties soon to be severed.
"Masterful in mortal weakness he became the center of a nation's love, and enshrined in the prayers of the Christian world.
"As the end drew near, his youthful yearning for the sea returned. The White House palace of power became a hospital of pain. He begged to be taken from its prison walls and stifling air.
"Silently, tenderly the love of a great people bore the pale sufferer to the longed-for healing of the sea. There with wan face lifted to the cooling breeze, he looked wistfully out upon the changing wonders of the ocean; its far-off sails white in the morning light; its restless waves rolling shoreward to break in the noon-day sun; the red clouds of evening arching low, kissing the blue lips of the sea, and above the serene, silent pathway to the stars.
"Let us believe his dying eyes read a mystic meaning only the parting soul can know; that he heard the waves of the ebbing tide of life breaking on the far-off shore, and felt already upon his wasted brow the calm, sweet breath of heaven'smorning."
Place behind these utterances the rich voice and magnetic manner of the "Plumed Knight" of the platform, and you can realize what oratory means.
If you will here pardon me for going from the sublime to the ridiculous, I will show you how a bit of a school boy rhetoric may win its way over solid argument. In the country school I attended, there was a debating society. Parents as well as their sons were admitted to the society and the public was invited to the debates. On one occasion the question for debate was: "Which is the more attractive, the works of nature or the works of art?"
There had been an appeal from a general debate and this time one speaker was chosen from each side. My father was chosen to represent the negative and I the affirmative. My father was a good speaker but so fond of facts he had no use for rhetoric. I had the opening address of thirty minutes, my father had forty-five minutes and I had fifteen minutes to close the debate.
As father talked I wondered how he ever got hold of so many facts. He piled them up until my first address was sweptaway by the triumphs of art. The only hope I had for the affirmative was in the closing fifteen minutes. Fortunately for me, the judge was a bachelor and very much in love with a golden-haired, accomplished young woman who lived in a country home very near the schoolhouse, and was then in the audience. In closing the debate I referred to father's address in a complimentary manner, and then asked the judge to be seated in imagination on a knoll nearby. On one side of that knoll I placed all my father had claimed for art, withholding nothing. On the other side was the home of this Blue Grass belle. I began a description of her home and personality. I pictured "the orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild-wood and every loved spot" the judge well knew. I pictured the brook that ran through the meadow into the woodland and on down the valley, singing as it ran,