step from the throne to lift up this poor, fallen world. He struck a higher chord that night, and it was glorious. The next night there was an immense crowd, and he said: "Turn to the third chapter and sixteenth verse of John," and he preached his fifth sermon from that wonderful text. He did not divide his text up into firstly, secondly, and thirdly, but he took the whole text and threw it at them. I thought that sermon was better than ever. I got so full of love that I got up and told my friends how much God loved them. The whole church was on fire before the week was over. Tuesday night came, and there was a greater crowd than ever. The preacher said: "Turn to the third chapter of John and the sixteenth verse and you will find my text," and he preached his sixth sermon from that wonderful text, "God so loved the world," &c. They thought that sermon was better than any of the rest. It seemed as if every heart was on fire, and sinners came pressing into the kingdom of God.

On Wednesday night people thought that probably he would change his text now, as he could not talk any longer on love. There was great excitement to see what he was going to say. He stood before us again, and he said: "My friends, I have been trying to get a new text, but cannot find any as good as the old one, so we will again turn to the third chapter of John and the sixteenth verse." He preached his seventh sermon from that wonderful text. I have never forgotten those nights. I have preached a different gospel since, and I have had more power with God and ran since then. In closing up that seventh sermon he said: "For seven nights I have been trying to tell you how much God loved you, but this poor stammering tongue of mine will not let me. If I could ascend Jacob's ladder and ask Gabriel, who stands in the presence of the Almighty, to tell me how much love God the Father has for this poor lost world, all that Gabriel could say would be 'That God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'"

When he got through preaching in Chicago we had to get the largest building there, and then thousands went away because they could not get in. He went to Europe, and returned again. In the meantime our church had been burned, and you people of Philadelphia put us up a temporary building. When he came there he preached in this temporary building, and he said: "Although the old building is burnt up, the old text is not burnt up, and we will preach from that." So he preached from where he had left off preaching about the love of God.

I

BOOK VIL

Leaders in the Lecture Field

T is not alone in the legislative hall or the pulpit that oratory flourishes. It is also to be found in the field of forensic argument, and the lecture field. In the former of these, while rare displays of eloquence are ot times given, their subject is usually one of local and passing interest, which fact renders them unsuitable for popular reading. In the latter, while the topic is usually of an educational character, this is by no means always the case. The lecturer's purpose may not be to teach, but to convince and reform. Of such character are the many addresses on the subjects of temperance, woman's suffrage, industrial oppression, and numerous other topics in which some wrong is to be righted, some evil to be overcome. At the present day the lecture is a widely-prevailing form of the oration. In the absence of stirring causes for legislative eloquence, even the political speech verges towards this form. In a nation that is entirely peaceful and prosperous, with no vital difference of opinion between its citizens, the oration will become more and more of the lecture character, its purpose being to instruct, interest or amuse, rather than to cure the political or social evils of the age. In the past many lecturers of fine powers have appeared, and English and American literature contains numerous readable and inspiring examples in this field. We shall here give extracts from some of the more eloquent and famous of these public favorites.

293

J

JOSEPH STORY (1779-1845)

JURIST AND COLLEGE LECTURER

UDGE STORY, appointed a Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States in 1811, when thirty-two years of age, had

the honor of being the youngest man who had ever held so high a judicial position either in America or England. He continued to hold that office until his death in 1845. He had previously been a member of the Legislature of Massachusetts, and of Congress, and for many years during his judicial term was at the head of the Law School of Harvard University. Throughout his life he pursued an active literary career, beginning as a jurist and devoting himself after 1804 to legal study. His subsequent treatises upon the law were of the most profound character, his writings being more voluminous than those of any other lawyer of great eminence. "For learning, industry, and talent," says Chancellor Kent, "he is the most extraordinary jurist of the age."

As an orator Judge Story won wide esteem, and his lectures upon the dry themes of the law were delivered with such an enthusiasm, and were sc richly embellished with anecdotes and illustrative episodes, that they gained the piquancy of literary lectures. No educator ever had a stronger hold upon his students or a more unbounded influence over their minds, and he was great and popular alike in the college ball and on the judicial bench.

THE DESTINY OF THE INDIAN

[Of Judge Story's oratory, the best known and most picturesque example is the often-quoted passage npon the melancholy fate of the American Indians. This formed part of his discourse, before the Essex Historical Society, upon the first settlement of Salem, Massachusetts. No nobler specimen could be chosen of his oratorical style, it being a gem of literary finish and sympathetic eloquence.]

There is, indeed, in the fate of these unfortunate beings, much to awaken our sympathy, and much to disturb the sobriety of our judgment; much, which may be urged to excuse their own atrocities; much in their characters which betrays us into an involuntary admiration. What can be more melancholy than their history? By a law of their nature, they seem destined to a slow but sure extinction. Everywhere, at the approach of the white man, they fade away. We hear the rustling of their footsteps like that of the withered leaves of autumn, and they are gone forever. They pass mournfully by us, and they return no more. Two centuries ago, the smoke of their wigwams and the fires of their councils rose in every valley, from Hudson's Bay to the farthest Florida, from the ocean to the Mississippi and the lakes. The shouts of victory and the war-dance rang through the mountains and the glades. The thick arrows and the deadly tomahawk whistled through the forests; and the hunter's trace and the dark encampment startled the wild beasts in their lairs. The warriors stood forth in their glory. The young listened to the songs of other days. The mothers played with their infants, and gazed on the scene with warm hopes of the future. The aged sat down; but they wept not. They should soon be at rest in fairer regions, where the Great Spirit dwelt, in a home prepared for the brave, beyond the Western skies. Braver men never lived; truer men never drew the bow. They had courage, and fortitude, and sagacity, and perseverance, beyond most of the human race. They shrank from no dangers, and they feared no hardships. If they had the vices of savage life, they had the virtues also. They were true to their country, their friends, and their homes. If they forgave not injury, neither did they forget kindness. If their vengeance was terrible, their fidelity and generosity were unconquerable also. Their love, like their hate, stopped not on this side of the grave.

But where are they? Where are the villages and warriors and youth; the sachems and the tribes; the hunters and their families? They have perished. They are consumed. The wasting pestilence has not

alone done the mighty work. No-nor famine, nor war. There has been a mightier power, a moral canker, which hath eaten into their heartcores, a plague which the touch of the white man communicated, a poison which betrayed them into a lingering ruin. The winds of the Atlantic fan not a single region which they may now call their own. Already the last feeble remnants of their race are preparing for their journey beyond the Mississippi. I see them leave their miserable homes-the aged, the helpless, the women and the warriors-" few and faint, yet fearless still." The ashes are cold on their native hearths. The smoke no longer curls round their lowly cabins. They move on with a slew

unsteady step. The white man is upon their heels, for terror or despatch; but they heed him not. They turn to take a last look of their deserted villages. They cast a last glance upon the graves of their fathers. They shed no tears; they utter no cries; they heave no groans. There is something in their hearts which passes speech. There is something in their looks, not of vengeance or submission, but of hard necessity, which stifles both; which chokes all utterance; which has no aim or method. It is courage absorbed in despair. They linger but for a moment. Their look is onward. They have passed the fatal stream. It shall never be repassed by them-no, never. Yet there lies not between us and them an impassable gulf. They know and feel that there is for them still one remove farther, not distant nor unseen. It is to the general burial-ground of their race.

HASTY WORK IS PRENTICE WORK

It was a beautiful remark of Sir Joshua Reynolds that "Great works, which are to live and stand the criticism of posterity, are not performed at a heat." "I remember," says he, "when I was at Rome, looking at the Fighting Gladiator in company with an eminent sculptor, and I expressed my admiration of the skill with which the whole is composed, and the minute attention of the artist to the change of every muscle in that momentary exertion of strength. He was of opinion that a work so perfect required nearly the whole life of man to perform."

What an admonition! What a melancholy reflection to those who deem the literary fame of the present age the best gift to posterity! How many of our proudest geniuses have written, and continue to write, with a swiftness which almost rivals the operations of the press! How many are urged on to the ruin of their immortal hopes by that public favor which receives with acclamation every new offspring of their pen! If Milton had written thus, we should have found no scholar of our day, no Christian Examiner, portraying the glory of his character with the enthusiasm of a kindred spirit. If Pope had written thus, we should have had no fine contests respecting his genius and poetical attainments by our Byrons and Bowleses and Roscoes. If Virgil had written thus, he might have chanted his verses to the courtly Augustus; but Marcellus and his story would have perished. If Horace had written thus, he might have enchanted gay friends and social parties; but it would never have been said of his composition: decies repetita placebit.