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 supreme20 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 chapel21, and with the children's hymns22 ringing in my ears, and having taken one pinch of snuff, and with another poised23 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 Meditation25.—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 precisely26 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 simplicity27, and therefore naturally argued, the simpler the better; in fact, the conversational28 style is best of all. Where, then, the need for elaborate preparation? We shall only vex30 and confuse the people, consequently preparation is superfluous31. 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 brasses32 and tinkling33 cymbals34.'"
"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 eloquent35, 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 censure36 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 pathos37 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 positively38 excludes all the ornaments39 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 conjecture40 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, metaphorically41, they trample42 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 banality43! 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 considerably44 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, sonorous45 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 lapse46 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 persistently47 on this terrific truth, Reason itself would totter48 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 meekly49, "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 utterances50 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 Scriptures52. Never put down your Breviary, but to take up your Bible. Saturate53 yourself with its words and its spirit. All the best things that are to be found in modern literature are simple paraphrases54 of Holy Writ2. 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 raggedness55 and nakedness from its misuse56. They made it a fetish. And their commentators57 are proving, or rather trying to prove, that it is only a little wax and pasteboard—only the literature of an obscure and subjugated58 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 robust59 piety60, a tenderer devotion, a deeper reverence61, 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 mire62.'
'If I am a father, where is my honor?'
'If I am a master, where is my fear?'
I have made hundreds of meditations64 on these words, and preached them many a time. Then, again, our people are naturally poetic65; the poetry has been crushed out of their natures by modern education. Yet they relish66 a fine line or expression. And again, their own language is full of aphorisms67, bitter and stinging enough, we know, but sometimes exquisite68 as befits a nation whose forefathers69 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 sarcasm70, sir? Your allusions71 to the Gaelic sarcasms72 reminded me of it. I often heard people say that our congregations dread73 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 puerile74 things, what the French call bêtises; I think of them without shame. But the sharp, acrid75 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 remonstrance76. I said nothing till the people were about to disperse77. Then I said I had a story to tell them. It was about three mean men. One was an employer of labor29 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 corpse78. 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 lurid79, thunder-and-lightning, seismic80, 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 forth81 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 covetousness82. 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 ministry83. The mighty84 waters are poured upon the land, to wither85, not to fertilize86."
"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, lame87, 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 deserted88, 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, illiterate89, uncouth,—but a saint. And I know nothing more beautiful or touching90 in all human history than the spectacle of the great and inspired Dominican, coming to that village chapel, and kneeling for the blessing91 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 outright92.
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 antagonist93."
"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."
"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 peroration95, 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 perils96 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!"
"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.'"
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1
credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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imperialism
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| n.帝国主义，帝国主义政策 | |
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swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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binary
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| adj.二，双；二进制的；n.双(体)；联星 | |
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dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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14
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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15
stilts
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| n.（支撑建筑物高出地面或水面的）桩子，支柱( stilt的名词复数 )；高跷 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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eminences
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| 卓越( eminence的名词复数 )； 著名； 高地； 山丘 | |
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minarets
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| n.（清真寺旁由报告祈祷时刻的人使用的）光塔( minaret的名词复数 ) | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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poised
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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brasses
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| n.黄铜( brass的名词复数 )；铜管乐器；钱；黄铜饰品（尤指马挽具上的黄铜圆片） | |
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tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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cymbals
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| pl.铙钹 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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metaphorically
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| adv. 用比喻地 | |
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trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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banality
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| n.陈腐；平庸；陈词滥调 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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46
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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50
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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51
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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52
scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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53
saturate
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| vt.使湿透，浸透；使充满，使饱和 | |
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54
paraphrases
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| n.释义，意译( paraphrase的名词复数 )v.释义，意译( paraphrase的第三人称单数 ) | |
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55
raggedness
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| 破烂，粗糙 | |
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56
misuse
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| n.误用，滥用；vt.误用，滥用 | |
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57
commentators
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| n.评论员( commentator的名词复数 )；时事评论员；注释者；实况广播员 | |
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subjugated
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| v.征服，降伏( subjugate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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64
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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aphorisms
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| 格言，警句( aphorism的名词复数 ) | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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72
sarcasms
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，挖苦( sarcasm的名词复数 ) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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seismic
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| a.地震的，地震强度的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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covetousness
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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fertilize
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| v.使受精，施肥于，使肥沃 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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peroration
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| n.（演说等之）结论 | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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