The Young Priests Keepsake | Page 5

circulating through his parish the glittering coin
of polished thought, though his brain be an El Dorado of wealth, that
parish will run into spiritual bankruptcy.
"You are the Light of the World," said Christ to His Apostles. The
same, in effect, He will say to the young priest the day he sets out to
continue the work they began; but how will that light, of which he is
the bearer, reach the darkened world for which God has destined it if he
neglects to arm himself with the light-diffuser: the only medium of
communication between him and his people? Though the sun is poised
in the firmament above us, this earth would remain for ever wrapped in
midnight darkness were it not that there is an interposing
medium--whatever it be--to waft to us its heat waves and carry its
splendours to the tiniest nook and crevice. The language, its graces and
powers, are for the priest the instruments by which darkened minds are

illumined, by which the clear rays of living truth are flashed into their
gloom.
The man that neglects to acquire a mastery of this instrument incurs a
great responsibility.
The devil, too, has a message to deliver, a message of error; but at his
command there are not only perverse intellects but all the elegance of
polished language and all the persuasive graces of elocution.
[Side note: An illustration from everyday life]
Let me take an illustration from everyday life. A Catholic child under
his father's roof has religion instilled into him. He goes to school, and
here his knowledge is developed and enlarged. From the schoolroom he
is transplanted into the world to strike roots if he can in stubborn soil
and preserve his faith amidst the ice-chills of infidelity.
Foes beset him on every side. He turns to the public library. The infidel
review is crisp in style, its arguments catchy, and the brilliancy of its
diction captivates. The pages of the fashionable novel are strewn with
the rose leaves of literature: the plot enthrals. The arguments of the
free-thought lecturer are well reasoned, the sophistries artistically
concealed, whilst his mastery over the graces of elocution holds his
audience spell-bound.
The young man staggers. He now turns to where he should expect to
find strength. Under the pulpit next Sunday is a mind where the mists
of doubt are gathering and darkening. He looks up to the "Light of the
World" to have these mists dispelled. Instead of seeing his foes battered
with their own weapons he sees these weapons, that in every domain
are conquering for the devil, here despised.
He is forced to listen, perhaps, to an exhibition of tedious crudity. He
goes away disheartened; perhaps to fall.
Now, the solid theological knowledge in that preacher's head is more
than sufficient to shatter the arguments of infidelity; the analytic power

acquired during his college course would enable him to tear every
sophistry to shreds; but the art of making both of these effective for the
pulpit, the mastery of clear and nervous English, the elocution that
sends every argument like a quivering arrow of light to its mark, these
he neglected, or perhaps contemned.
This is our weak spot; here our position wants strengthening.
Sit by the fireside with that preacher and suggest the advisability of
cultivating English and elocution. He replies: "I have two thousand
souls to look after, sodalities to work up, schools to organise, and
attend, perhaps, four sick calls in one night." No, _not now, but long
years before_, he should have been trained. It is not on the battlefield,
when the bugle is sounding the "charge," that the soldier should begin
to learn the use of his weapons. In the college, and not on the field of
action, is the place to acquire this science.
[Side note: A ruinous advice]
One of the most fatal directions ever tendered to Irish students
is--devote all your college years to Classics, Philosophy, and Theology
_exclusively_--these are your professional studies--and when you
become a curate it will be time to master English and Elocution.
Analyse this and see what it means. Do not learn English or its
expression till you are flung into a village without a soul to stimulate or
encourage you; or, worse still, till you find yourself in the fierce whirl
of an English or American city. "Wait till you are in the pulpit and then
begin to learn to preach" is very like advising a man to wait till he is
drowning and then it will be time enough to learn how to swim. Would
any sane man give such an advice to an aspirant of the fine arts? What
would be thought of the man who would say--"If you wish to become a
good musician neglect to learn