And I think we
can guess what that manner was.
Say the words aloud: `Were not Dodd's sermons addressed to the
passions?' They are words which, if you have any dramatic and
histrionic sense, cannot be said except in a high, thin voice.
You may, from sheer perversity, utter them in a rich and sonorous
baritone or bass. But if you do so, they sound utterly unnatural. To
make them carry the conviction of human utterance, you have no choice:
you must pipe them.
Remember, now, Johnson was very deaf. Even the people whom he knew
well, the people to whose voices he was accustomed, had to address him
very loudly. It is probable that this unregarded, young, shy
clergyman, when at length he suddenly mustered courage to `cut in,'
let his high, thin voice soar too high, insomuch that it was a kind of
scream. On no other hypothesis can we account for the ferocity with
which Johnson turned and rended him. Johnson didn't, we may be sure,
mean to be cruel. The old lion, startled, just struck out blindly. But
the force of paw and claws was not the less lethal. We have endless
testimony to the strength of Johnson's voice; and the very cadence of
those words, `They were nothing, Sir, be they addressed to what they
may,' convinces me that the old lion's jaws never gave forth a louder
roar.
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