ly large class, who,
in ordinary conversation, could speak in a manner both natural
and pleasing; who, when roused, could be even eloquently
convincing; who, at the dinner-table and even on the platform,
are listened to with pleasure, yet let one of them go into a
pulpit, and fifteen minutes exhausts the patience of the most
charitable congregation. Should he exceed this limit there are
suppressed sighs and ominous consulting of watches. Why? Because
in the pulpit he adopts an artificial tone of voice. In some
instances it takes the shape of a pious whine, in others of a
drone. But in whatever shape it finds expression the hollow ring
of the unreal is there to damn it.

[Side note: How he came to acquire it]

A hoary tradition made it venerable in his eyes. As a boy he
heard it from a pastor to whom he was accustomed to look with
reverence.

He came to persuade himself that, like a "judge's gravity" or a
"soldier's step," a priest too should bear a professional
hallmark, and this should be a "preacher's voice," so he acquired
it. Fatal acquisition!

The peculiarity of it is that this tone is reserved exclusively
for the pulpit. Not a whisper of it heard during the week. It is
his "preaching voice," and like his "preaching stole" or
"preaching surplice" it is laid aside till Sunday brings him
again before the congregation.

[Side note: The result of the artificial tone]

What madness! Adopting this tone is like drawing the lead from
the pistol or putting a foil on the rapier: it defeats his
purpose, it renders his weapon ineffective. So far from setting
his congregation on fire he sets them asleep; instead of sending
them away with clenched convictions they leave the church
tittering, or perhaps in bad temper.

[Side note: Priests never use in moments of serious issues]

I would like to ask such a man--If you were pleading in a court
for your character or before an angry mob for your life is it on
this antiquated weapon you would rely? Would not nature's
unerring instinct tell you to fling it to the winds and stake
your fortunes on the untrammeled outpouring of head and heart?
Every tone would ring with earnestness: every sentence thrill
with passion.

The thoughts, how clear! How convincing the arguments! Nature's
unfettered strength would then, like a tidal wave, sweep you
triumphantly onward to the goal.

Yet when you stand in the pulpit to plead a brief for Christ the
simple, unaffected earnestness t