i am quite sure that sermon cost me more anxiety and trouble than father letheby suffered. i was deeply interested in its success, of course. but that was not the point. i am probably the feeblest and worst preacher in my diocese. this gives me the indefeasible right to dogmatize about preaching. just as failures in literary attempts are the credentials of a great critic, so writers on sermons can claim the high authority and ambassadorship to dictate to the world, on the grounds that they are incapable of producing even a catechetical discourse. but they fall back upon that universal and indisputable privilege of our race—the belief in their own infallibility. it often surprised me that the definition of papal infallibility, which concentrated in the vicegerent of the most high the reputed privilege of our race, did not create a greater outcry. it was the final onslaught of the holy spirit on the unspeakable vanity of the race. it was the death-blow to private judgment. at least, it ought to have been. but, alas! human vanity and presumption are eternal and indestructible. from the corner-boy here at my window, who asks indignantly, "why the deuce did not gladstone push his bill through the house of lords, and then force the commons to accept it?" to the flushed statesman, whose dream is imperialism; from the little manikin critic, who swells out his chest, and demands summary vengeance on that idiot of an author who has had the daring presumption to write a book on the greek accent, or binary stars, up to the jupiter tonans of the world-wide circulating journal, which dictates to the universe, it is all the same. each from his own little pedestal—it may be the shuffling stilts of three feet high, or it may be the lofty security of the vendôme column—shrieks out his little opinion, and demands the silence or assent of the universe. would that our modern stylites, like to those of old, might, from their eminences, preach their own nothingness! would that, like the muezzins of islam, they might climb the minarets of publicity and fame, only to call the world to praise and prayer!

but i, sharing the weaknesses, and, therefore, the privileges of a common humanity, claim the right to the luxury of preaching, which comes nearest to that of criticising, and is only in the third degree of inferiority from that supreme pleasure that is involved in i told you so.

and so, here by the western seas, where the homeless atlantic finds a home, do i, a simple, rural priest, venture to homilize and philosophize on that great human gift of talk. imagine me, then, on one of those soft may evenings, after our devotions in my little chapel, and with the children's hymns ringing in my ears, and having taken one pinch of snuff, and with another poised in my fingers, philosophizing thus:—

"i think—that is, i am sure—that the worst advices i ever heard given in my life were these:—

"on preaching.—try to be simple; and never aim at eloquence.

"on meditation.—keep your fingers in your breviary, and think over the lessons of the second nocturn.

"and they are evil counsels, not per se, but per accidens; and for precisely similar reasons. they took no account of the tendency of human nature to relax and seek its ease. when the gray-haired counsellor said, 'be simple,' he said, 'be bald and vulgar.' for the young men who listened aimed at simplicity, and therefore naturally argued, the simpler the better; in fact, the conversational style is best of all. where, then, the need for elaborate preparation? we shall only vex and confuse the people, consequently preparation is superfluous. we know the results. 'a few words' on the schools; an obiter dictum on the stations; a good, energetic, demosthenic philippic against some scandal. but instruction,—oh, no! edification,—oh, no! that means preparation; and if we prepare, we talk over the people's heads, and we are 'sounding brasses and tinkling cymbals.'"

"but surely, sir, you wouldn't advise young men to study the eloquence of massillon, or bourdaloue, or lacordaire? that would be talking over their heads with a vengeance."

"do you think so?" i said. "now, listen, young man. which is, you or i, the elder? i am. all right. now, my experience is that it is not the language, however eloquent, the people fail to follow, but the ideas, and they fail to follow the ideas because they are ill-instructed in their religion. of course, i'm involved in the censure myself as well as others. but i proved this satisfactorily to myself long ago. we were in the habit of 'reading a book' at the lenten exercises in the last town wherein i officiated as curate. now, the people hate that above all things else. they'd rather hear one word from a stuttering idiot than the highest ascetical teaching out of a book. nevertheless, we tried it; and we tried the simplest and easiest books we could find. no use. they couldn't follow one paragraph with intelligence. one evening i read for them—it was in passion week—the last discourse of our lord to his disciples—words that i could never read without breaking down. i assure you, they failed to grasp the meaning, not to speak of the pathos and divine beauty, of those awful words. they told me so."

"do you mean then to conclude that we, young priests, should go in for high, flowery diction, long phrases, etc.? i could hardly imagine any man, least of all you, sir, holding such a theory!"

"you're running away with the question, my boy. the eloquence that i recommend is the eloquence of fine taste, which positively excludes all the ornaments which you speak of."

"by jove, we don't know where to turn," said my curate. "i never ventured, during my late english experience of seven years, to stand in the pulpit and address the congregation, without writing every word and committing it to memory. i daren't do otherwise; for if i made a mistake, fifty chances to one, some methodist or socinian would call at the presbytery next morning and challenge me to deadly combat."

"and why should you give up that excellent habit here," i said, "and go on the dabitur vobis?"

"because you may conjecture easily that i shall be talking over their heads."

"better talk over their heads, young man, than under their feet. and under their feet, believe me, metaphorically, they trample the priest who does not uphold the dignity of his sacred office of preacher. 'come down to the level of the people!' may god forgive the fools who utter this banality! instead of saying to the people: 'come up to the level of your priests, and be educated and refined,' they say: 'go down to the people's level.' as if any priest ever went down in language or habit to the people's level who didn't go considerably below it."

"'pon my word, father dan," said father letheby, "if i did not know you so well, i would think you were talking nonsense."

"hear a little more nonsense!" i said. "i say now that our people like fine, sonorous language from the altar; and they comprehend it! try them next sunday with a passage from lacordaire, and you'll see what i mean. try that noble passage, 'il y a un homme, dont l'amour garde la tombe,'—'there is a man whose tomb is guarded by love,'—and see if they'll understand you. why, my dear fellow, fifty years ago, when the people were a classical people, taught only their homers and virgils by the side of the ditch, they could roll out passage after passage from their favorite preachers, and enjoy them and appreciate them. it was only a few days since, i was speaking on the subject to a dear old friend, who, after the lapse of fifty years, quoted a passage on hell that he had heard almost as a child: 'if we allowed our imagination, my dear brethren, to dwell persistently on this terrific truth, reason itself would totter on its throne.' but the people of to-day cannot quote, because they cannot get the opportunity. the race of preachers is dead."

i shut him up, and gave myself time to breathe.

"would you say then, sir," he said meekly, "that i should continue my habit of writing out verbatim my sermons, and then commit them to memory?"

"certainly not," i replied, "unless you find it necessary to maintain the high level on which all our utterances should be placed. and if now, after the practice of seven years, you cannot command your language, you never will. but here is my advice to you, and, as you are a friend, i shall charge nothing for it, but i make it copyright throughout the universe:—

i. study.

ii. preach not yourself, but god.

iii. live up to your preaching.

that's all."

he appeared thoughtful and dissatisfied. i had to explain.

"a well-filled mind never wants words. read, and read, and read; but read, above all, the holy scriptures. never put down your breviary, but to take up your bible. saturate yourself with its words and its spirit. all the best things that are to be found in modern literature are simple paraphrases of holy writ. and interweave all your sentences with the sacred text. all the temporal prosperity of england comes from the use of the bible, all its spiritual raggedness and nakedness from its misuse. they made it a fetish. and their commentators are proving, or rather trying to prove, that it is only a little wax and pasteboard—only the literature of an obscure and subjugated race. but, even as literature, it has had a tremendous influence in forming the masculinity of the british character. they are now giving up the bible and the sabbath. and the débâcle is at hand. but i often thought we would have a more robust piety, a tenderer devotion, a deeper reverence, if we used the sacred scriptures more freely. and our people love the sacred writing. a text will hang around them, like a perfume, when all the rest of our preaching is forgotten. why, look at myself. forty years ago i attended a certain retreat. i forget the very name of the jesuit who conducted it; but i remember his texts, and they were well chosen:—

'i have seen a terrible thing upon the earth: a slave upon horseback, and kings walking in the mire.'

'you have taken my gold and silver, and made idols unto yourselves.'

'if i am a father, where is my honor?'

'if i am a master, where is my fear?'

i have made hundreds of meditations on these words, and preached them many a time. then, again, our people are naturally poetic; the poetry has been crushed out of their natures by modern education. yet they relish a fine line or expression. and again, their own language is full of aphorisms, bitter and stinging enough, we know, but sometimes exquisite as befits a nation whose forefathers lived in tents of skins. now give them a few of the thousand proverbs of solomon, and they will chew them as a cow chews the cud. but i should go on with this subject forever."

"but what about the use of sarcasm, sir? your allusions to the gaelic sarcasms reminded me of it. i often heard people say that our congregations dread nothing so much as sarcasm."

"i'm glad you reminded me of it. i can speak on the matter like a professor, for i was past-master in the science. i had a bitter tongue. how deeply i regret it, god only knows. i have often made an awful fool of myself at conferences, at public meetings, etc.; i have often done silly and puerile things, what the french call bêtises; i think of them without shame. but the sharp, acrid things i have said, and the few harsh things i have done, fill me with confusion. there's the benefit of a diary. it is an examination of conscience. i remember once at a station, a rather mean fellow flung a florin on a heap of silver before me. he should have paid a half-crown. i called his attention to it. he denied it. it was the second or third time he had tried that little game. i thought the time had come for a gentle remonstrance. i said nothing till the people were about to disperse. then i said i had a story to tell them. it was about three mean men. one was an employer of labor in america, who was so hard on his men that when his factory blew up he docked them, or rather their widows, of the time they spent foolishly up in the sky. there was a titter. the second was a fellow here at home, who stole the pennies out of the eyes of a corpse. there was a roar. 'the third, the meanest of the three, i leave yourselves to discover. he isn't far away.' the bolt went home, and he and his family suffered. he never went to a fair or market that it was not thrown in his face; and even his little children in the schools had to bear his shame. i never think of it without a blush. who wrote these lines?—

'he who only rules by terror

doeth grievous wrong;

deep as hell i count his error,

listen to my song.'"

"i'm not sure," said father letheby. "i think it was tennyson."

"thank god, the people love us. but for that, i should despair of our irish faith in the near future."

"you said, 'preach not yourself, but god'?"

"aren't you tired?"

"no!" he said; "i think you are speaking wisely." which was a direct implication that this was not in my usual style. but never mind!

"let me carry out my own suggestion," i said. "take down that bible. now, turn to the prophecy of ezekiel—that lurid, thunder-and-lightning, seismic, magnetic sermon. now find the thirty-third chapter. now find the thirtieth verse and read."

he read:—

"and thou, son of man: the children of thy people, that talk of thee by the walls and in the doors of the houses, and speak, one to another, each man to his neighbor, saying: come and let us hear what is the word that cometh forth from the lord. and they come to thee, as if a people were coming in, and my people sit before thee; and hear thy words, and do them not; for they turn them into a song of their mouth, and their heart goeth after their covetousness. and thou art to them as a musical song that is sung with a sweet and agreeable voice; and they hear thy words and do them not."

"very good. now, there is the highest ambition of many a preacher: 'to be spoken of by the walls, and in the doors of the houses.' and, when judgment came, the people did not know there was a prophet amongst them."

"it isn't easy to get rid of ourselves in the pulpit," said father letheby.

"no, my dear boy, it is not. nowhere does the εγω cling more closely to us. we are never so sensitive as when we are on ceremonies, never so vain as in the pulpit. hence the barrenness of our ministry. the mighty waters are poured upon the land, to wither, not to fertilize."

"you said, thirdly, 'live up to your preaching' that's not easy, either."

"no; the most difficult of the three. yet here, too, your words are barren, if they come not supported by the example of your life. a simple homily from a holy man, even though it were halting, lame, and ungrammatical, will carry more weight than the most learned and eloquent discourse preached by a worldly priest. i know nothing more significant in all human history than what is recorded in the life of père lacordaire. in the very zenith of his fame, his pulpit in toulouse was deserted, whilst the white trains of france were bringing tens of thousands of professional men, barristers, statesmen, officers, professors, to a wretched village church only a few miles away. what was the loadstone? a poor country parish priest, informed, illiterate, uncouth,—but a saint. and i know nothing more beautiful or touching in all human history than the spectacle of the great and inspired dominican, coming to that village chapel, and kneeling for the blessing of m. vianney, and listening, like a child, to the evening catechetical lecture, delivered in a weak voice, and probably with many a halt for a word, by the saint of ars."

here i could proceed no further. these episodes in the lives of our holy ones fill me up to the throat, for my heart swells for their beauty. and i am a soft old fool. i can never read that office of st. agatha or st. agnes without blubbering; and st. perpetua, with her little babe, kills me outright.

we had a great debate, however, the following evening about the subject-matter of the sermon. he wanted to preach on the magnificat. i put down my foot there, and said, no!

"that poor duff will be there; and you'll be like the victor rooster crowing over a fallen antagonist."

"but duff and i are the best friends in the world."

"no matter. i suppose he has nerves and blood, like the rest of us. try something else!"

"well, what about the ave maria, or tu gloria jerusalem, tu lætitia israel, etc.?"

"the very thing."

"or, the place of the blessed virgin in scripture?"

"you've hit the nail on the head. that's it!"

"well, now," said he, taking out a note-book, "how long shall it be?"

"exactly forty-five minutes."

"and i must write every word?"

"every word!"

"how many pages will that make?"

"twenty pages—ordinary copy-book. the first fifteen will be expository; the last five will be the peroration, into which you must throw all the pathos, love, fire, and enthusiasm of which you are capable."

"all right. many thanks, father dan. but i shall be very nervous."

"never mind. that will wear off."

i said to myself, you have heavier troubles in store; but why should i anticipate? the worst troubles are those that never arise. and where's the use of preaching to a man with the toothache about the perils of typhoid fever?

i went down to see my little saint.

she was "happy, happy, oh! so happy! but, daddy dan, i fear't won't last long!"

"you are not going to heaven so soon, and leaving us all desolate, are you?"

"no, daddy dan. but mr. ormsby, who thinks that i have made him a catholic, says he will bring down a great, great doctor from dublin to cure me. and i don't want to be cured at all."

"if it were god's holy will, dear, we should be all glad. but i fear that god alone can cure the hurt he has made."

"oh, thank you! thank you! daddy dan. you have always the kind word. and sure you know more than all the doctors. and sure, if god wished me to be cured, you'd have done it long ago."

"i'm not so sure of that, my child," i said; "but who is the great doctor?"

"he's a doctor that was in the navy—like my poor father—and he has seen a lot of queer diseases in india, and got a lot of cures."

"well, we're bound to try every natural specific, my child. but if all fails, we must leave you in the hands of the great physician."

"that's what i should like best, daddy dan!"

"you must pray now for father letheby. he is going to preach a great sermon."

"on what?"

"on our blessed lady."

"i should like to be there. the children tell me he preaches lovely. they think he sees the blessed virgin when he is talking of her. i shouldn't be surprised."

"i think he'll have crosses, too, like you, my dear. no, no, i don't mean illness; but crosses of his own."

"i should be sorry," she said, her eyes filling with tears.

"of course, you want heaven all to yourself. aren't you a selfish saint?"

"i'm not a saint at all, daddy dan; but father letheby is, and why should he be punished?"

"why, indeed? except to verify that line of dante's of the soul in paradise:

"'e dal martirio venni a questa pace.'"