er 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