ENGLISH: ITS NECESSITY TO A YOUNG PRIEST
Let me begin by asking one plain question—If all the scholastic wealth with which St. Thomas has enriched the world lay embedded in the mind of a Missionary priest: if he more than rivalled Suarez as a casuist, and Bellarmine as a controversialist, yet if he failed to acquire a mastery over the only instrument by which he could bring to bear the riches of his own intellect on the minds of those around him, of what value is all the wealth entombed within his head?
If he has acquired no command of the rich vocabulary, the graceful elegance of diction, the mysterious beauty of expression, the abundant illustration, the art of storing nervous vigour and living thought into crisp and pregnant terseness: if this one weapon, a finished English education, is not at his disposal, his knowledge, as far as others are concerned, is so much lumber: to the one spot alone—the Confessional—his efficiency is narrowed. The other fields of his ministry are deprived of the immense service this learning might afford.
Let us see how this works out in practice. The unctions of ordination are scarcely dry on your hands till you begin to realise what you never realised before—viz., that in the most literal sense of the word you belong to the Church Militant.
You go out from college, you are quickly confronted with opposition. At once your brain begins to hew arguments of massive solidity; had you but the skill with which to hurl them you would overwhelm the stoutest foe. This skill you have not got, you never mastered the sciences by which you could smite the aggressor. With rage you, perhaps for the first time, realise your own deficiency. Your arms are pinioned by helpless ignorance of the use of what should be one of the first weapons of the priest. Your thoughts now struggle for birth, but are fated to die stillborn, while the foe laughs you in the face.
Is this not a sad pity: yet it is an everyday fact.
There are sixty millions of Irish money lying in the banks throughout this country, yet the nation is perishing from atrophy, starving for want of commercial nourishment. If the gold now piled in banks were but circulated through the channels of industry, every limb of national life would pulse with new vigour, the remotest corner of the land would feel the influence of the golden current; so, within the mind of the priest may be hoarded treasures of deepest learning, but unless he has the art of minting and 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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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 wish, burn it, yet, it is a distinct gain. You are shaping a sword that will stand you in good need yet.
2. During study hours an English author should lie on the desk. When the head grows wearied, instead of uselessly goading the tired jade or consuming brain tissue on that most fatiguing of occupations, day dreaming, sip a page or two of English. You rest your brain, and while doing so store up knowledge, silently develop taste and acquire style.
3. Again, how are vacations consumed? The student who does not read at least two hours a day is letting a golden opportunity pass and wasting a precious gift of God—time. It may be said that this after all is a rather slow process; it will only mean about a volume a month. Yes, but that means twelve in a year, or at least eighty-four in your course, not a bad stock to start life with.
4. In the training of the future priest the recreation hour can be converted into the most important item on the day's programme. He plunges from the silence of the study hall into the vortex of the world, for it is the world in miniature; its passions, its pride, its meanness, as well as its gentleness of heart and heroism of spirit are all flowing around him. If properly utilised, the recreations can be minted into veritable gold. In the term "recreation" I include all those occasions of free intercourse where students meet to interchange thought—the hall, the club, &c.—and the more numerous these are the better. Here the student is his natural self, unrestrained by a master's presence. The young minds are free to wrestle, and opposing thoughts to clash. The fire of contradiction will test the genuine ore: the same fire will consume all that is worthless in his opinions and principles: the clay and alloy of his character too will go.
He learns to cast away many a cherished notion now dinged and broken in the war of minds; he is taught to distrust himself and tolerate the opinions of others. If the recreation, however, is to be a mental gymnasium it must be guided by fixed rules, and this is most important.
The tone must be of a high level. No vulgarity; no scurrility. In the hottest debate we must not forget that we are gentlemen.
We should argue, not to overcome an opponent, but to make truth evident. Minds in debate should resemble flails on the threshing floor, that labour not to overcome each other, but to separate the solid grains from the chaff and straw.
No man should be ashamed to say "I don't know" or "Perhaps I am wrong."
Without these safeguards the recreation or debate might easily become a cock-pit of unbridled passions. "Our fortunes lie not in our stars, good Brutus, but in ourselves." The making of the priests depends not merely on the college, but also on the students' own endeavours. This latter fact is but imperfectly understood, or acted on only in a very limited extent. It is from intercourse between minds of various bents, the debating clubs, the social unions, and not the lecture halls or study desks, that the Oxford student draws strength and elegance of character. It is the want or misuse of these opportunities that leaves the young Irish priest so raw and unfinished.
Knowledge only comes from the professor and the book, but the character is shaped, rounded, and polished by a variety of agencies lying outside both these. The creation of these agencies is almost entirely in the student's own hands.
The dangers of the hour and how to meet them
If the Irish priest on the foreign mission is to become a force in the future, his course of philosophy must be both solid and practical.
The last half century has not only changed the arms of his adversaries but transferred the conflict to new grounds.
Protestantism is dying. The mere veneer of Christianity is fast fading off among the sects.
The cobwebs of neglect are overspreading the works of theological controversy; but in the domain of ethics and metaphysics activity daily grows in intensity.
The student would do well to keep this fact before his eyes. It is proper that a priest should be conversant with the errors of the past and the arguments by which they are met. Many of these errors he will discover exhumed, draped in new disguises, and paraded as the fruit of modern "thought." But it will be well also, in his studies, not to ignore the fact that the Agnostic and the Socialist are, under his very eyes, digging what they confidently assure us is to be the grave of Christianity.
Agnosticism and Socialism are the two great forces to be reckoned with in the immediate future.
Poison-thought has eaten the vitals of non-catholic sectaries. The teaching of so-called Christian churches has evaporated into a mere natural theism, the supernatural element has disappeared. Both the Socialist and Agnostic frankly confess that the demolition of the sects is but a preliminary skirmish: the real battle lies farther afield. The lines of conflict between us and them are daily drawing closer, and it is a question of brief time till we are locked in deadly grip. How are we preparing for this struggle, which may yet convulse the world?
The future priest must be made familiar with the modern objections in their native dress and form.
The aspirant for the foreign missions has a tough quarry before him: it behoves him to steady his hand and point his weapon.
Young men complain of the length and tediousness of the years consumed in preparation for the Ministry. Could I but engrave on their minds the conviction as it lives, fixed and definite, on my own as to the equipment requisite for the efficient discharge of their great office; could I but show them the thousands untouched that might be within her fold to-day, were the Church's workmen fully aware of the pressing needs of modern life, they would count that hour as lost that did not contribute its quota towards their arming for the future.
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P.S.—I cannot do better than here append a list of those books I found in practical experience most valuable in meeting modern thought. I would earnestly ask every aspirant for the foreign mission not to leave the college till he has a familiar acquaintance with every page of them. I take it for granted that the transcendent merits of "Catholic Belief" and "Faith of our Fathers" are so well known, especially as books for intending converts, that there is no need to add them to the list on the following page.
Dealing with Agnosticism, &c.
"Liberalism and the Church" Brownson.
"Notes on Ingersol" Lambert.
"The Newest Answer to the Old Riddle" Gerrard.
"New Materialism" Gaynor.
Dealing with Socialism
"Pope Leo XIII. on Labour."
"Labour and Popular Welfare" Mallock.
"Socialism" Cathrein.