tousness. 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 [Greek: ego] 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 Pere
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