worthy man. On this occasion he was preaching in the open air to a large special congregation who had made a pilgrimage to the ancient home of one of the priests who had come to grief for political misfortunes under Elizabeth. The preacher was eloquent, carried away, apparently, by his feelings on the subject. My informant, however, a keen critic of elocution, noticed that one gesture—a graceful sweep of the wide-sleeved arm—was unduly prolonged, and, looking more closely, he saw that the preacher was signalling to a photographer in the opposite corner of the quadrangle. The preacher told him afterwards that he had arranged to be photographed at this specially prepared gesture. The photographer had been so captivated by the sermon that he had to be recalled to a sense of duty by the perfervid orator himself.
I remember in my younger days being grievously shocked at one of the London ‘stars.’ I happened to be near the door when he re-entered the cloister after an unusually fervent discourse, and he immediately burst out with the exclamation: ‘Now, where is that port you promised me!’ Five years afterwards I used to feel grateful myself for a glass of port after preaching: it is not apostolic, but this is not an apostolic age, and only merits contempt when it professes to be one.
If the priest has an educated congregation he usually prepares his sermon with care. The sermons are rarely original, for there is a vast library of
