His Power as a Speaker and Preacher

EVEN as a young man Conwell won local fame as an orator. At the outbreak of the Civil War he began making patriotic speeches that gained enlistments. After going to the front he was sent back home for a time, on furlough, to make more speeches to draw more recruits, for his speeches were so persuasive, so powerful, so full of homely and patriotic feeling, that the men who heard them thronged into the ranks. And as a preacher he uses persuasion, power, simple and homely eloquence, to draw men to the ranks of Christianity.

Even as a young man, Conwell was known locally as a powerful speaker. When the Civil War began, he gave patriotic speeches that persuaded men to enlist. After he went to the front, he was sent home on leave to give more speeches and attract recruits. His speeches were persuasive and powerful, full of simple, down-to-earth feeling and patriotism. Men who heard him flocked to enlist. As a preacher, he uses persuasion, power, and simple, down-to-earth eloquence to draw men to Christianity.

He is an orator born, and has developed this inborn power by the hardest of study and thought and practice. He is one of those rare men who always seize and hold the attention. When he speaks, men listen. It is quality, temperament, control—the word is immaterial, but the fact is very material indeed.

He is a born speaker who has developed his natural ability through the hardest study, thought, and practice. He is one of those rare men who always capture and hold people’s attention. When he speaks, men listen. Whether it is quality, temperament, or control, the word does not matter. But the fact matters a great deal.

Some quarter of a century ago Conwell published a little book for students on the study and practice of oratory. That “clear-cut articulation is the charm of eloquence” is one of his insisted-upon statements, and it well illustrates the lifelong practice of the man himself, for every word as he talks can be heard in every part of a large building, yet always he speaks without apparent effort. He avoids “elocution.” His voice is soft-pitched and never breaks, even now when he is over seventy, because, so he explains it, he always speaks in his natural voice. There is never a straining after effect.

About twenty-five years ago, Conwell published a short book for students on studying and practicing public speaking. One point he emphasized was that “clear-cut articulation is the charm of eloquence.” His own lifelong practice illustrates the point well. Every word he says can be heard throughout a large building, yet he always speaks without apparent effort. He avoids “elocution.” His voice is soft and never breaks, even now that he is over seventy. He explains that this is because he always speaks in his natural voice. He never strains for effect.

“A speaker must possess a large-hearted regard for the welfare of his audience,” he writes, and here again we see Conwell explaining Conwellism. “Enthusiasm invites enthusiasm,” is another of his points of importance; and one understands that it is by deliberate purpose, and not by chance, that he tries with such tremendous effort to put enthusiasm into his hearers with every sermon and every lecture that he delivers.

“A speaker must care deeply about the well-being of his audience,” he writes. Here again, we see Conwell explaining Conwellism. “Enthusiasm inspires enthusiasm” is another of his important points. We can see that his tremendous effort to inspire enthusiasm in his listeners is deliberate, not accidental. He makes that effort in every sermon and every lecture he delivers.

“It is easy to raise a laugh, but dangerous, for it is the greatest test of an orator’s control of his audience to be able to land them again on the solid earth of sober thinking.” I have known him at the very end of a sermon have a ripple of laughter sweep freely over the entire congregation, and then in a moment he has every individual under his control, listening soberly to his words.

“It is easy to make an audience laugh, but it is dangerous. The greatest test of a speaker’s control is whether he can bring them back to serious thought.” I have seen him make the whole congregation laugh at the very end of a sermon. Then, in a moment, he has everyone under his control, listening seriously to his words.

He never fears to use humor, and it is always very simple and obvious and effective. With him even a very simple pun may be used, not only with-out taking away from the strength of what he is saying, but with a vivid increase of impressiveness. And when he says something funny it is in such a delightful and confidential way, with such a genial, quiet, infectious humorousness, that his audience is captivated. And they never think that he is telling something funny of his own; it seems, such is the skill of the man, that he is just letting them know of something humorous that they are to enjoy with him.

He is never afraid to use humor, and it is always very simple, obvious, and effective. He may use even a simple pun without weakening what he is saying. In fact, the pun makes his point much more vivid and impressive. When he says something funny, he does it in a delightful, confidential way. His warm, quiet, infectious humor captivates his audience. They never think he is telling a joke of his own. He is so skillful that he seems to be sharing something funny for them to enjoy with him.

“Be absolutely truthful and scrupulously clear,” he writes; and with delightfully terse common sense, he says, “Use illustrations that illustrate”—and never did an orator live up to this injunction more than does Conwell himself. Nothing is more surprising, nothing is more interesting, than the way in which he makes use as illustrations of the impressions and incidents of his long and varied life, and, whatever it is, it has direct and instant bearing on the progress of his discourse. He will refer to something that he heard a child say in a train yesterday; in a few minutes he will speak of something that he saw or some one whom he met last month, or last year, or ten years ago—in Ohio, in California, in London, in Paris, in New York, in Bombay; and each memory, each illustration, is a hammer with which he drives home a truth.

“Be absolutely truthful and scrupulously clear,” he writes. And with delightfully concise common sense, he says, “Use illustrations that illustrate.” No speaker has ever followed this advice more faithfully than Conwell himself. Nothing is more surprising or interesting than how he uses impressions and incidents from his long and varied life as examples. Whatever the example, it bears directly and immediately on the point he is making. He may mention something he heard a child say on a train yesterday. A few minutes later, he may speak of something he saw or someone he met last month, last year, or ten years ago. It might have been in Ohio, California, London, Paris, New York, or Bombay. Each memory, each example, is a hammer with which he drives home a truth.

The vast number of places he has visited and people he has met, the infinite variety of things his observant eyes have seen, give him his ceaseless flow of illustrations, and his memory and his skill make admirable use of them. It is seldom that he uses an illustration from what he has read; everything is, characteristically, his own. 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.”

He has visited countless places, met countless people, and seen an endless variety of things with his observant eyes. These experiences give him a constant flow of examples, which he uses skillfully thanks to his memory and talent. He rarely uses an example from his reading. Characteristically, everything is drawn from his own experience. Henry M. Stanley, who knew him well, called him “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 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.

No one adds personal memories to stories about people and places as he does. When he tells the story of the discovery of California gold at Sutter’s, he adds almost as an aside: “I delivered this lecture on that very spot a few years ago. That is, in the town that grew up on that very spot.” When he tells the story of the invention of the sewing machine, he adds: “I suppose that if any of you were asked who invented the sewing machine, you would say Elias Howe. But that would be a mistake. I served with Elias Howe in the Civil War. He often told me how he had tried for fourteen years to invent the sewing machine. 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 connected to everyone and everything in a friendly, personal 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.

Whether preaching, speaking on a platform, or talking in private, the man and his words are always entirely simple, sincere, and honest. In his book on public speaking, he writes, “A man has no right to use words carelessly.” In saying this, he expresses a respect for the craft of using words 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.

“Be deeply sincere,” he writes. In saying this, he states a key principle of both his public speaking and 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:

A young minister told me that Dr. Conwell once said to him with deep feeling, “Always remember, as you preach, that you are trying to save at least one soul with every sermon.” Dr. Conwell also spoke to a close friend in a conversation that revealed his inner thoughts:

“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.

“Whenever I preach, I feel there is always someone in the congregation I will probably never preach to again. So I feel I must do my utmost in that last chance.” Even if this were all, it would explain why each of his sermons is so impressive and his energy never fades. He always feels that he is in the world to do all the good he possibly can. He must not waste a moment or miss an opportunity.

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!

The moment he rises and steps to the front of his pulpit, he has everyone’s attention. He holds their attention until he finishes. Yet he never gains it through any dramatic effort, except that his complete simplicity is striking. I remember him saying one Sunday morning as he began his sermon, “I want to preach so simply that you won’t think of it as preaching, but simply as listening to a friend.” He then continued just as simply as those plain, kind, friendly words promised. And how effective he was!

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.

He believes everything should be expressed so that everyone can understand it. He applies this belief not only to his preaching but also to his reading of the Bible. He pictures its descriptions in his own mind and makes them vivid for his listeners. The result is often fascinating.

For example, he is reading the tenth chapter of I Samuel, and begins, “‘Thou shalt meet a company of prophets.’”

For example, he is reading the tenth chapter of I Samuel and begins, “‘You will meet a group 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—‘”

“‘Singers’ is how it should be translated,” he adds, looking up from the page at his people. Then he continues, taking the change as a matter of course: “‘You will meet a group 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.

Then he interrupts himself again with an irresistible explanation. It instantly brings the desired picture to everyone’s mind. He says, “That means, from the little old church on the hill, you know.” From that moment, the scene is so plain, clear, real, and interesting. Most of all, it is interesting! Another man would have simply said that prophets were coming down from a high place. That would not have seemed alive or natural at all. But Conwell suddenly gives us a 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.’”

And he goes on reading: “‘You will meet a group of singers coming down from the little old church on the hill. They will have a psaltery, a tambourine, a pipe, and a harp, and they will 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.

Music is one of Conwell’s greatest strengths. He sings as if he enjoys it, and often finds himself leading the singing. He usually leads at prayer meetings and often effectively leads at 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 pulpit platform, with his eyes on his hymn-book, silently swaying a little with the music and unconsciously beating 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 mysterious faculty of imbuing others with his own happiness.

I remember one church service where the choir director stood in front of the assembled choir, seemingly leading the singing. But Conwell himself was standing at the back of the pulpit platform, looking at his hymnbook. He swayed silently to the music, unconsciously keeping time as he did. Without realizing it, he was the real leader. The congregation was watching him and keeping time with him! He never suspected it. He was simply following the music in his mind. And the infectious happiness on his face made everyone in the building happy too. For he has a mysterious ability to fill 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.

Dr. Conwell’s church services have a place not only for singers, but also for modern versions of ancient string instruments, tambourines, and cymbals. There may be a piano, and even a trombone. A great organ supports the voices, and sometimes bells chime. His taste in music seems to favor thunderous sounds. Or perhaps he simply knows that people sometimes like to hear such sounds and are moved by them.

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 congregation disperse 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 how the choir loves it! They fill a large, curved space behind the pulpit and put their hearts into singing. As the congregation leaves and the choir comes down, sometimes the choir is still singing. Some continue to sing as they walk slowly toward the doors. They are happy. Conwell himself is happy. The whole congregation is happy. He makes everyone feel happy to come to church. He makes the church attractive, just as Howells was told so long ago 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.

And there is something more than happiness. There is an unmistakable sense of ease, comfort, and general joy. There is no stiffness or restraint. Yet there is complete reverence. No wonder he regularly fills every seat in 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.

His gestures are usually very simple. Now and then, when he wants to emphasize a point, he strikes one fist into his other palm. When he finishes, you do not remember that he made any gestures at all. But the sound of his voice and the look in his wonderful eyes stay with you. Though he is over seventy, he looks out over his people with eyes that still have the unmistakable 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.

Like all great men, he not only does big things but also keeps track of countless details. His assistant announces the funeral of a longtime member but hesitates over the street address. The assistant says the address can be found in the telephone directory. Dr. Conwell quietly interrupts in his deep voice: “Such a number [giving it], Dauphin Street.” He speaks quietly and softly, yet everyone in the church clearly hears every syllable.

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.

He constantly uses personal stories and memories to illustrate his sermons, just as he does in his lectures. His memories span many years. At times, they offer vivid, intimate portraits of famous people from the past whom he knew. These portraits can be truly startling.

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 moment for the appreciative ripple to subside, and went on:

One Sunday evening, he mentioned almost casually when he first met Garfield, who was then running for President. “I had met Major McKinley in Washington. He lived in northern Ohio, as did Mr. Garfield. I asked him 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 for a moment to let the appreciative response die down, then continued:

“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 especially liking it, but he, as did Garfield, liked it immensely.”

“We three talked there together.” What a remarkable conversation that must have been: McKinley, Garfield, and Conwell. “After a while, we started talking about hymns. Both of those great men told me how deeply they loved the old hymn ‘The Old-Time Religion.’ Garfield especially loved it because of the good old man who raised him as a boy. Garfield owed him a great deal of gratitude. The man used to sing the hymn every morning at the pasture gate outside the boy’s window. Whenever young Jim heard that old tune, he knew it was time to get up. Garfield said he had heard the best concerts and the finest operas in the world. But he had never heard anything he loved as much as he still loved ‘The Old-Time Religion.’ I forget why McKinley especially liked the hymn, but he loved it just as much as Garfield did.”

What followed was a striking example of Conwell’s intentness on losing no chance to fix an impression on his hearers’ minds, and at the same time it was a really astonishing proof of his power to move and sway. For a new expression came over his face, and he said, as if the idea had only at that moment occurred to him—as it most probably had—“I think it’s in our hymnal!” And in a moment he announced the number, and the great organ struck up, and every person in the great church every man, woman, and child—joined in the swinging rhythm of verse after verse, as if they could never tire, of “The Old-Time Religion.” It is a simple melody—barely more than a single line of almost monotone music:

What followed showed how determined Conwell was to miss no chance to make an impression on his listeners. It was also astonishing proof of his power to move and influence them. A new expression came over his face. Then he spoke as if the idea had just occurred to him, as it most likely had. “I think it’s in our hymnal!” In a moment, he announced the number, and the great organ began to play. Everyone in the great church, every man, woman, and child, joined in the lively rhythm of “The Old-Time Religion.” They sang verse after verse, as if they could never tire of it. It is a simple melody, barely more than a single line of nearly monotone music:

Thus it went on, with never-wearying iteration, and each time with the refrain, more and more rhythmic and swaying:

So it went on, repeating tirelessly, and each time the refrain grew more rhythmic and swaying:

That it was good for the Hebrew children, that it was good for Paul and Silas, that it will help you when you’re dying, that it will show the way to heaven—all these and still other lines were sung, with a sort of wailing softness, a curious monotone, a depth of earnestness. And the man who had worked this miracle of control by evoking out of the past his memory of a meeting with two of the vanished great ones of the earth, stood before his people, leading them, singing with them, his eyes aglow with an inward light. His magic had suddenly set them into the spirit of the old camp-meeting days, the days of pioneering and hardship, when religion meant so much to everybody, and even those who knew nothing of such things felt them, even if but vaguely. Every heart was moved and touched, and that old tune will sing in the memory of all who thus heard it and sung it as long as they live.

They sang that it was good for the Hebrew children and for Paul and Silas. They sang that it would help you when you were dying and show you the way to heaven. They sang these and other lines softly, almost like a mournful cry. Their voices had a strange sameness and a deep sincerity. The man had brought them under his remarkable control by recalling a meeting with two departed great figures of the past. Now he stood before his people, leading them and singing with them, his eyes glowing with an inner light. His magic had suddenly brought back the spirit of the old camp meetings. Those were days of pioneering and hardship, when religion meant so much to everybody. Even those who knew nothing of such things felt that spirit, if only vaguely. Every heart was moved and touched. That old tune will live in the memories of all who heard and sang it for as long as they live.