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