his sermons. On one occasion when he had read about
twenty minutes, he halted and said: "I have a young dog at my house
that is given to chewing paper. I find he has mutilated my manuscript,
which is my excuse for this short sermon." A visiting lady after
service said: "Doctor, have you any more of the breed of that dog? I
would like to get one for our pastor."

In this age of crowded moments concentration means executation; energy
means success. If you can't put fire into your sermon, put your sermon
in the fire.

A few years ago when in New York City, I went to see Madame Bernhardt
in her famous play, Joan of Arc. She spoke in French, an unknown
tongue to me; but when she came to her defense before the court, I
realized as never before the power of speech and action. She had given
one-fourth of that marvelous appeal, when the great audience arose and
began to cheer. Madame Bernhardt folded her arms, bowed her head and
waited for silence.

When order was restored she sprang a step forward. It seemed to me
every feature of her face, every finger on her hands, every gleam of
eye and movement of body was an appeal to the stern tribunal. In the
trembling, murmuring voice that ran like a strain of sad, sweet music
through sunless gorges of grief, the great audience read her plea for
mercy and wept. Some who could not restrain their emotion sobbed
aloud.

When from the depths of solemn sound that same voice arose like the
swell of a silver trumpet, and in clarion tones demanded justice,
cheer after cheer testified to the power of the orator actress. Never
was there a sob of the sea more mournful, than the voice of Sarah
Bernhardt as she played upon the harp strings of pity; and never did
words rush in greater storm fury from human lips, than when she
demanded justice. No stop nor note nor pedal nor key in the organ of
speech was left untouched by this genius in tragic art.

It would be well if every public speaker could hear Sarah Bernhardt
give that defense of the Maid of Orleans. Indeed I believe if the
forensic eloquence of the stage could be transferred to the pulpit
greater audiences and greater rewards would follow. If you doubt this,
go read the sermons of George Whitefield or the lectures of John B.
Gough and you will wonder at their success unless you take into
consideration their mysterious power of delivery.

I cannot give you one sentence Madame Bernhardt uttered, but I do know
the influence of that addr