The Young Priests Keepsake | Page 6

the scales till you come to your
twenty-fifth year; or if it is your ambition to be a great painter, permit a
quarter of a century to roll over your head before you learn how to hold
the palette or mix the paints." The man that would tender such
ridiculous advice would be laughed at. Yet it is not one whit more
absurd than the transparent nonsense that has grown hoary from age,

and passes unchallenged as a first principle.
It is often asked how is it that the Irish Church has remained so barren.
Eighty years have passed since the bells of the thatched chapels rang in
Emancipation. During that time over three thousand talented priests are
on the land; yet how small the number of works produced. Why such a
miserable result? What has sterilised the intellects of these men?
Mainly this fatal advice. How could we have literary tastes among the
priests in their pastoral life when such tastes were either frowned down
during their college career or postponed to a period when their
cultivation became an impossibility.
[Side note: You must begin while young]
No man can become a preacher without becoming a writer first. I need
not labour this proposition. A single quotation from the highest
authority establishes it. When Cicero was asked the question--"How
can I become an orator?" his one answer was-- "Scribere quam
plurimum." The first step to oratorica eminence was--write as much as
possible.
Now, ask any distinguished writer when did he begin to cultivate a
literary taste. He will tell you with Pope that he "lisped in numbers." He
began almost with the dawn of reason. If, then, pen practice must be the
first step towards pulpit success, it is while the fancy is tender that it
should be trained; while the receptive powers are hungry in youth they
should be fed; while the habits of thought are fresh and flexible they
should be exercised. Wait till the hoar frost of age nips the rich blooms
of imagination and stiffens the once nimble powers of the mind, and
the cast-iron habits of maturer years have settled on you: literary
culture is then an impossibility.
What does this culture imply? A developed insight into the beauties of
thought; a just appreciation of style; an intimate acquaintance with the
best authors; an abundant vocabulary and graceful expression. Can
these be acquired in a year? or is the time for acquiring them seasoned
manhood?

How worthless and pernicious is this one word "Wait," here more than
ever, where mastery of language is in question. But a glance shows
how much more absurd it is to let a man pass out of his teens before
putting him through a thorough course of elocution. It is while the
muscles of throat and lungs are as flexible as a piece of Indiarubber,
and the young ear sensitive to every nuance of sound, the future priest
must learn to articulate, to pronounce correctly, to husband his
breathing, to bend his voice with ease and mastery through the varied
octaves of human passion.
A piece of advice which I would give to a young priest who may find
himself within reach of an elocution master is to place himself under
his guidance for at least the first twelve months.
The very best student elocutionist has, on leaving college, but a
theoretic knowledge of the art of preaching. To weave the principles
and graces he there acquired into his own compositions in the pulpit is
a new experience. To do this with effect he still requires the master's
guiding hand.
He should deliver his sermons in the presence of that master, invite him
to his church, and ask him to note defects for correction. This plan I
have seen acted on with eminent results: it may be a young priest's
making: at its lowest estimate it is worth gold.
[Side note: A workable plan]
I can well imagine the young reader objecting that I would have him
turn from his study-desk, where Lehmkuhl and St. Thomas lie, to
practise composition and elocution. No, but I want to show how all I
have put before him can be done without encroaching to the extent of
one hour on his ordinary class studies.
I. Let the most hard-working student gather carefully the golden sands
of wasted time that lie strewn even through the busiest ordinary day
and see what they amount to in a year. Why not hoard and mint them;
for his class knowledge will, to a great extent, be buried treasure except
he has the engine by which to deliver it to others.

A student should permit no day to pass without writing out at least one
thought. Cover but half a sheet of notepaper--correct, prune, condense,
clarify, and then, if you