Acres of Diamonds [32]
Sutter's he almost parenthetically remarks, ``I delivered this lecture on that very spot a few years ago; that is, in the town that arose on that very spot.'' And when he illustrates by the story of the invention of the sewing-machine, he adds: ``I suppose that if any of you were asked who was the inventor of the sewing-machine, you would say that it was Elias Howe. But that would be a mistake. I was with Elias Howe in the Civil War, and he often used to tell me how he had tried for fourteen years to invent the sewing-machine and that then his wife, feeling that something really had to be done, invented it in a couple of hours.'' Listening to him, you begin to feel in touch with everybody and everything, and in a friendly and intimate way.
Always, whether in the pulpit or on the platform, as in private conversation, there is an absolute simplicity about the man and his words; a simplicity, an earnestness, a complete honesty. And when he sets down, in his book on oratory, ``A man has no right to use words carelessly,'' he stands for that respect for word-craftsmanship that every successful speaker or writer must feel.
``Be intensely in earnest,'' he writes; and in writing this he sets down a prime principle not only of his oratory, but of his life.
A young minister told me that Dr. Conwell once said to him, with deep feeling, ``Always remember, as you preach, that you are striving to save at least one soul with every sermon.'' And to one of his close friends Dr. Conwell said, in one of his self-revealing conversations:
``I feel, whenever I preach, that there is always one person in the congregation to whom, in all probability, I shall never preach again, and therefore I feel that I must exert my utmost power in that last chance.'' And in this, even if this were all, one sees why each of his sermons is so impressive, and why his energy never lags. Always, with him, is the feeling that he is in the world to do all the good he can possibly do; not a moment, not an opportunity, must be lost.
The moment he rises and steps to the front of his pulpit he has the attention of every one in the building, and this attention he closely holds till he is through. Yet it is never by a striking effort that attention is gained, except in so far that his utter simplicity is striking. ``I want to preach so simply that you will not think it preaching, but just that you are listening to a friend,'' I remember his saying, one Sunday morning, as he began his sermon; and then he went on just as simply as such homely, kindly, friendly words promised. And how effectively!
He believes that everything should be so put as to be understood by all, and this belief he applies not only to his preaching, but to the reading of the Bible, whose descriptions he not only visualizes to himself, but makes vividly clear to his hearers; and this often makes for fascination in result.
For example, he is reading the tenth chapter of I Samuel, and begins, `` `Thou shalt meet a company of prophets.' ''
`` `Singers,' it should be translated,'' he puts in, lifting his eyes from the page and looking out over his people. Then he goes on, taking this change as a matter of course, `` `Thou shalt meet a company of singers coming down from the high place--' ''
Whereupon he again interrupts himself, and in an irresistible explanatory aside, which instantly raises the desired picture in the mind of every one, he says: ``That means, from the little old church on the hill, you know.'' And how plain and clear and real and interesting--most of all, interesting--it is from this moment! Another man would have left it that prophets were coming down from a high place, which would not have seemed at all alive or natural, and here, suddenly, Conwell has flashed his picture of the singers coming down from the little old church on the hill! There is magic in doing that sort of thing.
And he goes on, now reading: `` `Thou shalt meet a company of singers coming down from the little old church on the hill, with a psaltery, and a tabret, and a pipe,
Always, whether in the pulpit or on the platform, as in private conversation, there is an absolute simplicity about the man and his words; a simplicity, an earnestness, a complete honesty. And when he sets down, in his book on oratory, ``A man has no right to use words carelessly,'' he stands for that respect for word-craftsmanship that every successful speaker or writer must feel.
``Be intensely in earnest,'' he writes; and in writing this he sets down a prime principle not only of his oratory, but of his life.
A young minister told me that Dr. Conwell once said to him, with deep feeling, ``Always remember, as you preach, that you are striving to save at least one soul with every sermon.'' And to one of his close friends Dr. Conwell said, in one of his self-revealing conversations:
``I feel, whenever I preach, that there is always one person in the congregation to whom, in all probability, I shall never preach again, and therefore I feel that I must exert my utmost power in that last chance.'' And in this, even if this were all, one sees why each of his sermons is so impressive, and why his energy never lags. Always, with him, is the feeling that he is in the world to do all the good he can possibly do; not a moment, not an opportunity, must be lost.
The moment he rises and steps to the front of his pulpit he has the attention of every one in the building, and this attention he closely holds till he is through. Yet it is never by a striking effort that attention is gained, except in so far that his utter simplicity is striking. ``I want to preach so simply that you will not think it preaching, but just that you are listening to a friend,'' I remember his saying, one Sunday morning, as he began his sermon; and then he went on just as simply as such homely, kindly, friendly words promised. And how effectively!
He believes that everything should be so put as to be understood by all, and this belief he applies not only to his preaching, but to the reading of the Bible, whose descriptions he not only visualizes to himself, but makes vividly clear to his hearers; and this often makes for fascination in result.
For example, he is reading the tenth chapter of I Samuel, and begins, `` `Thou shalt meet a company of prophets.' ''
`` `Singers,' it should be translated,'' he puts in, lifting his eyes from the page and looking out over his people. Then he goes on, taking this change as a matter of course, `` `Thou shalt meet a company of singers coming down from the high place--' ''
Whereupon he again interrupts himself, and in an irresistible explanatory aside, which instantly raises the desired picture in the mind of every one, he says: ``That means, from the little old church on the hill, you know.'' And how plain and clear and real and interesting--most of all, interesting--it is from this moment! Another man would have left it that prophets were coming down from a high place, which would not have seemed at all alive or natural, and here, suddenly, Conwell has flashed his picture of the singers coming down from the little old church on the hill! There is magic in doing that sort of thing.
And he goes on, now reading: `` `Thou shalt meet a company of singers coming down from the little old church on the hill, with a psaltery, and a tabret, and a pipe,