the severe draughts which are continually made upon the pastor's spirits, is not study too much neglected? Are not "the old acquaintances," if we may whisper such a question among ministers, too often brought forward? "The barrel" too often upturned ?— the yellow, blotted manuscript too frequently exposed? Or are not the same generalities, though on fresh paper, too often repeated. We know the ready apology, and it has weight. In the multiplicity and pressure of duties, there is not time for study. But may we not as well reverse the position and say, in the absolute necessity for study, there is not time for so many miscellaneous avocations? Why should study so indispensable to success be placed last in the catalogue of our employments? Ought not this to be a fixed principle with every settled clergymen, that the most sacred purpose for which time is given, next to actual preaching and the cure of souls, is study? "Give thyself to reading," said Paul to Timothy. "Neglect not the gift that is in thee. Meditate upon these things, give thyself wholly to them; that thy profiting may appear to all." We do seriously advise every young minister, if he would give the pulpit its true power, if he even desires to retain his situation, to let study be the last duty which he neglects. In addition to some general knowledge of the current literature, by which he acquires a perception of present modes of thought, and the condition of the popular mind, let him discipline his powers occasionally at least, if not by mathematical demonstrations, by the close study of such works as Butler's Analogy and Edwards on the Will, by reading the magnificent prose and poetry of Milton, by attention to such delineations of character as are found in Othello and Macbeth. Let him also give some attention to the ancient classics, to those immortal works which always have been and always will be models of good composition. Let him be as deeply read as possible in theology and in theological and general history. Above all, let him meditate upon the sacred Scriptures, catch the spirit of the sweet psalmist of Israel, and rise to the sublimities of those grand old prophets whose anthems resound like the sea. The New Testament will be the source of his authority, the chief fountain of his eloquence. The masters of Christian oratory are Paul and John, and-bowing reverentially at the name,-JESUS. "Never man spake like this man."

Study is both general and particular. We have spoken of it generally, though only in reference to eloquence. But there is a particular study which each particular sermon requires. "There

1847.]

The Value of Argument in Sermons.

261

are," says Mr. Sheridan, "a few leading thoughts on every subject, and he that will chain his mind to the work may detect and bring them out." It is this chaining of the mind, in each successive preparation, which brings up the truth that is to be urged, rouses and inflames the spirit, and fits it for a powerful utterance. With this general training and particular study, the orator is prepared for composition.

Force depends, secondly, upon a clear perception and exhibition of one's whole subject. The attainment of this clearness is often the most difficult part of the speaker's work. But previous training in the severer studies, with some attention to the best rhetorical canons, combined with practical experience, will constantly diminish the task which the uncultivated find it impossible to perform. A steady contemplation of the material to be arranged, with the end to be accomplished, will then prepare the mind, -like a general born to command, whose word brings every soldier to his place, to collect the thoughts, and arrange them in their appropriate divisions and ranks.

Clear arrangement is among the essentials of good oratory. One secret of the unequalled power of a certain most eminent jurist, consists in the transparency, fulness and precision with which he states his case. There is no better way," says Mr. Baxter (Reformed Pastor), "to make a good cause prevail, than to make it as plain and as thoroughly understood as we can." And says Fenelon, " the best way of proving the truth of religion, is to explain it justly," (Fenelon's Dialogues).

With clear statements the doctrines of a discourse are to be commended by illustration and sustained by arguments. Apt illustration illumines, vivifies, magnifies truth. The mind is pleased by it, and detained in contemplation of the sentiment ad. vanced, till a corresponding emotion is enkindled. But our principal dependence in confirming truth must be upon sound and convincing reasons, drawn from the nature of things and the word of God. By these the understanding is satisfied, the intellect yields assent, cavilling scepticism, so natural to the human mind, is silenced, faith is strengthened, and that restraint which a wise man keeps upon his feelings till truth has been demonstrated, is removed.

In no country is the demand for argument more imperious than in this. We are a questioning, discussing, arguing people. This disposition is our birthright. It runs in the Saxon blood. It has been fostered by the Reformation, and by its acknowledged rights

of private judgment. The old puritan was a living book of logic. His indomitable will could be swayed only by reasonings. He submitted to God, but acknowledged nothing to be of divine authority till it was demonstrated to be such from the unquestioned principles of things, or "cleared" to him out of the Scriptures. Argument also was both the parent and the child of the revolu tion; nor can the great idea of American republicanism-liberty regulated by just law-be sustained without it. With us, all are readers, all are law-makers, all are voters; independent judgment, independent accountability, is the great doctrine of protestantism and Americanism. Our people are educated to discussion. It is as natural to them as their breath; and whoever, in this country, announces God's messages unsustained by their appropriate reasonings, as far as any powerful influence over the intellectual classes, or over the mass of our strong-minded yeomanry is concerned, speaks to the wind.

In any attempt, then, to enforce divine truth, it is the preacher's business, first to convince the understanding. Error must be opposed, its walls must be assailed and shattered by the hardheaded battering rams of logic. Sound doctrine must be presented, shown up, proved. The reasoner must be reasoned down, the arguer must be out-argued, the questioner mightily convinced, and the caviller silenced.

But here force requires condensation and concentration. Two or three invincible arguments clearly, fully stated, without redundance of detail or of qualification, and expressed in the fewest possible words, will complete the work of conviction in the minds of a popular audience, better than long-continued processes, or innumerable feebler proofs. Whatever force there may be, over here and there a highly disciplined mind, in conclusions arrived at, after wearisome and tortuous wanderings through the labyrinths of a thoroughly metaphysical discourse, the mass of the people will neither be edified nor convinced. They must have argument, but it must be clear, invincible, and so brief, that the media of proof can be seen from beginning to end, and recollected. This is the preaching which captures the strong common-sense intellect of an American, and prepares the way for those effects which, based on solid and well remembered argument, rouses to action the powerful energies of his mind.

Next to argument comes passion. From the cooler region of the understanding we descend to the heart, and by metaphor, by imagination, by emotion, we kindle our foregoing logic into a flame.

1847.] The Preacher should lose himself in his Subject. 263 When the machinery and everything else is in readiness, the steam, which has been gradually rising and condensing, is made to press upon the wheels of discourse and set it in rapid motion. But here there is a point to be reached, there is an end to be obtained. The mastery of one's whole subject implies the clearest perception of this end, a full vision of the stopping place to be aimed at, with a knowledge of the moment in which it is reached. Perhaps popular speakers (and the remark applies to all parts of a discourse) fail nowhere more frequently than here. They sometimes neither see the thing to be done, nor know when it is accomplished. They begin before they have studied the subject through. They talk and talk on; and when the first hour is out, they may just as well talk through the second. They have proved nothing, have come to no result, have made no progress. Like a bewildered guide, they go round and round through the woods, and at length leave their audience in the swamps, or come out where they entered. If such oratory is ever entertaining, it is never forceful or effective. We should never commence our journey till we know where we are going to. Let the exordium and peroration of a discourse stand over against each other like the two continents at Beering's Straits, with one or both of which always in sight, while you cross as soon as practicable the intermediate sea of discussion, and complete the voyage.

With this clear perception of the whole subject, force requires a deep sense of its importance, with corresponding self-forgetfulness and abandonment to its power. He who attempts eloquence for the sake of being eloquent, or securing a reputation for oratory, or gaining applause, may be sure of failure and of deserved contempt. Let no man speak till he has something to say. We must have a subject, and deeply feel our subject, and try to impress not ourselves but our subject upon our hearers. Even the stage-player must enter, for the time being, into the character he assumes. He must be frenzied Lear, maddened by the ingratitude of his daughters; or thoughtful Hamlet, shaken in spirit by his mother's crime and troubled by his father's ghost. We must sincerely feel what we say, and never think to excite emotions in others which we do not experience ourselves. "Si vis ne flere," says Horace, "dolendum est primum ipsi tibi; tunc tua me infortunia laedent, Telephe vel Peleu: male si mandata loqueris aut dormitabo aut ridebo (Ars Poet. 102-105)—If you wish me to weep, you must weep first yourself; then will your misfortunes grieve me, O Telephus or Peleus; but if you speak badly things

commanded or on commission, I shall either sleep or laugh." It is this speaking on commission, speaking for hire, or because one must, particularly for personal display, speaking on subjects in which the would-be orator feels no real interest, that produces so much fustian and inefficient declamation: Parturiunt montes, nascetur ridiculus mus.

We do not say that an ambitious man may never become eloquent. Ambition may stimulate to preparation, and sometimes lie at the foundation of great efforts. But we do say that consciousness of admiration, a desire to obtain applause rather than a verdict, even the idea of an audience present to witness an exhibition, paralyzes eloquence. Any self-consciousness in the act of utterance is always painful to the sincere. Hence that shrinking and distress of mind which the sensitive preacher experiences, when he knows that some person, whose opinion he values, has come to meeting just to hear him preach. He can preach to men, but he cannot preach before them. If the idea of a spectator being present, to hear in cold blood and to criticise, cannot be overcome, the preacher always falls below himself. It is a thousand times easier to address one's enemies, in direct opposition, than to perform before one's friends, who come simply to observe the performance. Self, for the time being, must be annihilated; and the circumstances, the occasion, the subject, fill the soul. Otherwise the attention of the speaker is divided, and his emotion quenched. His words descend upon an audience like shot without powder, with a great pattering, but with little execution.

In the Philippics, we can hardly suppose Demosthenes to have remembered that such a man as Demosthenes ever lived, much less that this same was the prince of all orators of the world. In reading those magnificent productions, the mind is filled with Athens, with Philip, with the coming flood of war, with the apathy and danger of its now effeminate victims. We draw the sword, we rouse all Greece, we rush out to meet the Macedonian and conquer or die.

In the splendid orations of his known rival, we are interested, charmed, enraptured. But we too rarely lose sight of the man. The speaker revels in the delights of his own eloquence. He seems often to be saying, as he lays his hand gracefully upon his heart, "here you see-quod nihil est aliud eloquentia ipsa-nothing less than eloquence herself."

Robert Hall may have been constitutionally ambitious. But by self-discipline and by the power with which his gigantic