章节正文
Henry M. Stanley, who knew him well, referred
to him as ``that double-sighted Yankee,'' who
could ``see at a glance all there is and all there
ever was.''
And never was there a man who so supplements
with personal reminiscence the place or the person
that has figured in the illustration. When
he illustrates with the story of the discovery of
California gold at 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" target="_blank" title="n.创造；发明；虚构">invention of the
sewing-machine, he adds: ``I suppose that if any
of you were asked who was the inventor" target="_blank" title="n.发明者">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, and a harp, and they
shall sing.' ''
Music is one of Conwell's strongest aids. He
sings himself; sings as if he likes to sing, and often
finds himself leading the singing--usually so,
indeed, at the prayer-meetings, and often, in
effect, at the church services.
I remember at one church service that the
choir-leader was standing in front of the massed
choir ostensibly leading the singing, but that
Conwell himself, standing at the rear of the
pulpitplatform, with his eyes on his hymn-book,
silently swaying a little with the music and
unconsciouslybeating time as he swayed, was just
as unconsciously the real leader, for it was he
whom the congregation were watching and with
him that they were keeping time! He never
suspected it; he was merely thinking along with
the music; and there was such a look of
contagious happiness on his face as made every one
in the building similarly happy. For he possesses
a mysteriousfaculty of imbuing others with his
own happiness.
Not only singers, but the modern equivalent
of psaltery and tabret and cymbals, all have their
place in Dr. Conwell's scheme of church service;
for there may be a piano, and there may even be
a trombone, and there is a great organ to help
the voices, and at times there are chiming bells.
His musical taste seems to tend toward the
thunderous--or perhaps it is only that he knows
there are times when people like to hear the
thunderous and are moved by it.
And how the choir themselves like it! They
occupy a great curving space behind the pulpit,
and put their hearts into song. And as the
congregationdisperse and the choir filter down,
sometimes they are still singing and some of them
continue to sing as they go slowly out toward the
doors. They are happy--Conwell himself is
happy--all the congregation are happy. He makes
everybody feel happy in coming to church; he
makes the church attractive just as Howells was
so long ago told that he did in Lexington.
And there is something more than happiness;
there is a sense of ease, of comfort, of general joy,
that is quite unmistakable. There is nothing of
stiffness or constraint. And with it all there is
full reverence. It is no wonder that he is
accustomed to fill every seat of the great building.
His gestures are usually very simple. Now and
then, when he works up to emphasis, he strikes
one fist in the palm of the other hand. When he
is through you do not remember that he has made
any gestures at all, but the sound of his voice
remains with you, and the look of his wonderful
eyes. And though he is past the threescore years
and ten, he looks out over his people with eyes that
still have the veritable look of youth.
Like all great men, he not only does big things,
but keeps in touch with myriad details. When
his assistant, announcing the funeral of an old
member, hesitates about the street and number
and says that they can be found in the telephone
directory, Dr. Conwell's deep voice breaks quietly
in with, ``Such a number [giving it], Dauphin
Street''--quietly, and in a low tone, yet every
one in the church hears distinctly every syllable
of that low voice.
His fund of personal anecdote, or personal
reminiscence, is constant and illustrative in his
preaching, just as it is when he lectures, and the
reminiscences sweep through many years, and at times
are really startling in the vivid and homelike
pictures they present of the famous folk of the
past that he knew.
One Sunday evening he made an almost casual
reference to the time when he first met Garfield,
then a candidate for the Presidency. ``I asked
Major McKinley, whom I had met in Washington,
and whose home was in northern Ohio, as was
that of Mr. Garfield, to go with me to Mr.
Garfield's home and introduce me. When we got
there, a neighbor had to find him. `Jim! Jim!'
he called. You see, Garfield was just plain Jim
to his old neighbors. It's hard to recognize a
hero over your back fence!'' He paused a mo-
ment for the appreciativeripple to subside, and
went on:
``We three talked there together''--what a
rare talking that must have been-McKinley,
Garfield, and Conwell--``we talked together, and
after a while we got to the subject of hymns, and
those two great men both told me how deeply
they loved the old hymn, `The Old-Time Religion.'
Garfield especially loved it, so he told
us, because the good old man who brought him
up as a boy and to whom he owed such gratitude,
used to sing it at the pasture bars outside of the
boy's window every morning, and young Jim
knew, whenever he heard that old tune, that it
meant it was time for him to get up. He said
that he had heard the best concerts and the finest
operas in the world, but had never heard anything
he loved as he still loved `The Old-Time Religion.'
I forget what reason there was for McKinley's
to him as ``that double-sighted Yankee,'' who
could ``see at a glance all there is and all there
ever was.''
And never was there a man who so supplements
with personal reminiscence the place or the person
that has figured in the illustration. When
he illustrates with the story of the discovery of
California gold at 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" target="_blank" title="n.创造；发明；虚构">invention of the
sewing-machine, he adds: ``I suppose that if any
of you were asked who was the inventor" target="_blank" title="n.发明者">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, and a harp, and they
shall sing.' ''
Music is one of Conwell's strongest aids. He
sings himself; sings as if he likes to sing, and often
finds himself leading the singing--usually so,
indeed, at the prayer-meetings, and often, in
effect, at the church services.
I remember at one church service that the
choir-leader was standing in front of the massed
choir ostensibly leading the singing, but that
Conwell himself, standing at the rear of the
pulpitplatform, with his eyes on his hymn-book,
silently swaying a little with the music and
unconsciouslybeating time as he swayed, was just
as unconsciously the real leader, for it was he
whom the congregation were watching and with
him that they were keeping time! He never
suspected it; he was merely thinking along with
the music; and there was such a look of
contagious happiness on his face as made every one
in the building similarly happy. For he possesses
a mysteriousfaculty of imbuing others with his
own happiness.
Not only singers, but the modern equivalent
of psaltery and tabret and cymbals, all have their
place in Dr. Conwell's scheme of church service;
for there may be a piano, and there may even be
a trombone, and there is a great organ to help
the voices, and at times there are chiming bells.
His musical taste seems to tend toward the
thunderous--or perhaps it is only that he knows
there are times when people like to hear the
thunderous and are moved by it.
And how the choir themselves like it! They
occupy a great curving space behind the pulpit,
and put their hearts into song. And as the
congregationdisperse and the choir filter down,
sometimes they are still singing and some of them
continue to sing as they go slowly out toward the
doors. They are happy--Conwell himself is
happy--all the congregation are happy. He makes
everybody feel happy in coming to church; he
makes the church attractive just as Howells was
so long ago told that he did in Lexington.
And there is something more than happiness;
there is a sense of ease, of comfort, of general joy,
that is quite unmistakable. There is nothing of
stiffness or constraint. And with it all there is
full reverence. It is no wonder that he is
accustomed to fill every seat of the great building.
His gestures are usually very simple. Now and
then, when he works up to emphasis, he strikes
one fist in the palm of the other hand. When he
is through you do not remember that he has made
any gestures at all, but the sound of his voice
remains with you, and the look of his wonderful
eyes. And though he is past the threescore years
and ten, he looks out over his people with eyes that
still have the veritable look of youth.
Like all great men, he not only does big things,
but keeps in touch with myriad details. When
his assistant, announcing the funeral of an old
member, hesitates about the street and number
and says that they can be found in the telephone
directory, Dr. Conwell's deep voice breaks quietly
in with, ``Such a number [giving it], Dauphin
Street''--quietly, and in a low tone, yet every
one in the church hears distinctly every syllable
of that low voice.
His fund of personal anecdote, or personal
reminiscence, is constant and illustrative in his
preaching, just as it is when he lectures, and the
reminiscences sweep through many years, and at times
are really startling in the vivid and homelike
pictures they present of the famous folk of the
past that he knew.
One Sunday evening he made an almost casual
reference to the time when he first met Garfield,
then a candidate for the Presidency. ``I asked
Major McKinley, whom I had met in Washington,
and whose home was in northern Ohio, as was
that of Mr. Garfield, to go with me to Mr.
Garfield's home and introduce me. When we got
there, a neighbor had to find him. `Jim! Jim!'
he called. You see, Garfield was just plain Jim
to his old neighbors. It's hard to recognize a
hero over your back fence!'' He paused a mo-
ment for the appreciativeripple to subside, and
went on:
``We three talked there together''--what a
rare talking that must have been-McKinley,
Garfield, and Conwell--``we talked together, and
after a while we got to the subject of hymns, and
those two great men both told me how deeply
they loved the old hymn, `The Old-Time Religion.'
Garfield especially loved it, so he told
us, because the good old man who brought him
up as a boy and to whom he owed such gratitude,
used to sing it at the pasture bars outside of the
boy's window every morning, and young Jim
knew, whenever he heard that old tune, that it
meant it was time for him to get up. He said
that he had heard the best concerts and the finest
operas in the world, but had never heard anything
he loved as he still loved `The Old-Time Religion.'
I forget what reason there was for McKinley's
- illustration [,ilə´streiʃən]
n.插图，图解，例证 (初中英语单词) - invention [in´venʃən] n.创造；发明；虚构 (初中英语单词)
- invent [in´vent] vt.发明；捏造 (初中英语单词)
- speaker [´spi:kə] n.演讲人；代言人 (初中英语单词)
- writer [´raitə] n.作者；作家 (初中英语单词)
- minister [´ministə] n.部长；大臣 v.伺候 (初中英语单词)
- preach [pri:tʃ] v.宣扬；鼓吹 n.训诫 (初中英语单词)
- whenever [wen´evə] conj.&ad.无论何时 (初中英语单词)
- utmost [´ʌtməust] a.最大的 n.极端 (初中英语单词)
- energy [´enədʒi] n.活力，精力；能力 (初中英语单词)
- striking [´straikiŋ] a.显著的，明显的 (初中英语单词)
- belief [bi´li:f] n.相信；信仰，信条 (初中英语单词)
- reading [´ri:diŋ] n.(阅)读；朗读；读物 (初中英语单词)
- standing [´stændiŋ] n.持续 a.直立的 (初中英语单词)
- platform [´plætfɔ:m] n.(平)台；讲台；站台 (初中英语单词)
- mysterious [mi´stiəriəs] a.神秘的；难以理解的 (初中英语单词)
- faculty [´fækəlti] n.才干；天赋；院，系 (初中英语单词)
- scheme [ski:m] n.计划；阴谋，诡计 (初中英语单词)
- musical [´mju:zikəl] a.音乐的；悦耳的 (初中英语单词)
- attractive [ə´træktiv] a.有吸引力；诱人的 (初中英语单词)
- assistant [ə´sistənt] n.助手；助理；助教 (初中英语单词)
- funeral [´fju:nərəl] n.葬礼，丧葬；困难 (初中英语单词)
- distinctly [di´stiŋktli] ad.清楚地，明晰地 (初中英语单词)
- constant [´kɔnstənt] a.坚定的；坚贞的 (初中英语单词)
- candidate [´kændideit] n.候选人；投考者 (初中英语单词)
- pasture [´pɑ:stʃə] n.牧场；放牧 v.吃(草) (初中英语单词)
- inventor [in´ventə] n.发明者 (高中英语单词)
- honesty [´ɔnisti] n.诚实，老实 (高中英语单词)
- simplicity [sim´plisiti] n.简单；朴素 (高中英语单词)
- saying [´seiŋ, ´sei-iŋ] n.言语；言论；格言 (高中英语单词)
- sermon [´sə:mən] n.说教；训诫；讲道 (高中英语单词)
- homely [´həumli] a.朴素的；不漂亮的 (高中英语单词)
- disperse [di´spə:s] v.解散；驱散；传播 (高中英语单词)
- reverence [´revərəns] n.尊敬；敬畏；尊严 (高中英语单词)
- emphasis [´emfəsis] n.强调；重点 (高中英语单词)
- startling [´stɑ:tliŋ] a.惊人的 (高中英语单词)
- presidency [´prezidənsi] n.总统的职位(任期) (高中英语单词)
- ripple [´ripəl] n.涟漪 v.(使)起涟漪 (高中英语单词)
- pulpit [´pulpit] n.讲坛 (英语四级单词)
- intensely [in´tensli] ad.激烈地；热切地 (英语四级单词)
- congregation [,kɔŋgri´geiʃən] n.集合；团体 (英语四级单词)
- fascination [,fæsi´neiʃən] n.魅力；强烈爱好 (英语四级单词)
- irresistible [,iri´zistəbəl] a.不可抵抗的 (英语四级单词)
- unconsciously [ʌn´kɔʃəsli] ad.无意识地；不觉察地 (英语四级单词)
- similarly [´similəli] ad.类似地，同样地 (英语四级单词)
- filter [´filtə] n.滤器 v.过滤，渗入 (英语四级单词)
- myriad [´miriəd] n.极大数量 a.无数的 (英语四级单词)
- anecdote [´ænikdəut] n.轶事；趣闻 (英语四级单词)
- old-time [´əuld-´taim] a.老资格的；古时的 (英语四级单词)
- earnestness [´ə:nistnis] n.认真，急切；坚定 (英语六级单词)
- oratory [´ɔrətəri] n.演讲(术)；修辞 (英语六级单词)
- preaching [´pri:tʃiŋ] n.说教 a.说教的 (英语六级单词)
- vividly [´vividli] ad.活泼地；生动地 (英语六级单词)
- taking [´teikiŋ] a.迷人的 n.捕获物 (英语六级单词)
- beating [´bi:tiŋ] n.敲；搅打；失败 (英语六级单词)
- unmistakable [,ʌnmi´steikəbəl] a.明显的；错不了的 (英语六级单词)
- threescore [´θri:skɔ:] n.&a.六十(的) (英语六级单词)
- veritable [´veritəbəl] a.真正的；确实的 (英语六级单词)
- appreciative [ə´pri:ʃətiv] a.欣赏的；感激的 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
章节正文
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