gregation rather than the gathering in of outsiders. Theoretically of course the Church ought to be making constant inroads against the world, the flesh, and the devil. I wish such inroads were more marked. When I observed that we did things quietly, and without the aid of the big drum, I thought I had that chap, but I must confess he tripped me up. I fear that somehow or other we have not discovered the right way of dealing with that vast body of people who don't come to church, or attend any place of worship whatever, but just drift on in forgetfulness, if not denial, of their immortality. There must be a screw loose somewhere.

COLLOQUY THE NINTH.

THE TWO STICKS.

SCENE: The Garden of a London Square.

A. Ah! Brown, so you have turned in for your usual constitutional. Did you go to hear Canon Vevasour at St. Helen's on Friday?

B. Indeed, I did.

A. What did you think of him?

B. I scarcely thought so much of him as

of myself.

A. In what way?

B. I came to the melancholy conclusion that, as a preacher, I am-a stick.

A. A stick! It might be ungentlemanly to contradict you, but please explain.

B. That was preaching. Have I ever

preached? The question forced itself upon me with most unpleasant pertinacity. No doubt I have publicly read sermons, whereby I have sent a vast number of people to sleep, and have banished many more into the region of far-away thought; but have I ever done. anything that was worthy of being called preaching? The Canon was in touch with his audience from start to finish. I feel I have never got into touch with mine.

A. Dear me! You must have taken a fit of the blues. Of course you and I cannot expect to preach like Canon Vevasour. He is one of the first preachers of the country.

B. Yes, but all the same, what I saw and heard has set me thinking: what I saw of the congregation, quite as much as what I heard of the Canon. It never before occurred to me what sermons might be made.

A. I heard the Canon, too, and was pleased with him, though perhaps scarcely so much as I had expected. It was good, but there was very little eloquence or originality

H.

about it. He hesitated, too, rather painfully at times.

B. That's just it. If the sermon had been letter A, No. 1, it would scarcely have given me these disagreeable sensations. I should have said, 'Well, it is out of the question that I should ever come within a hundred miles of that.' But, as you observe, it really was nothing astonishing. There was hardly a thought in it that soared above the commonplace. The utterance of the Canon, though generally fluent, was every now and then momentarily at fault. Yet there was a reality about the whole proceeding which struck me as being in strong contrast to those perfunctory performances which both clergy and laity believe to be essential, but in which neither seem to have much faith or interest. Not a word appeared to fall to the ground between pulpit and benches. The Canon clearly intended to teach, and the people as clearly were almost compelled to be taught.

A. You see he had his reputation to help

him, and I cannot but think it must have been made by better sermons than we heard on Friday.

B. Very likely, and yet I feel sure that if he were to preach in any church in the country unannounced and unrecognised, the same sort of sympathetic understanding between him and his audience would at once be established. A. How do you account for it? B. It is what I have been trying to do ever since. That man means business, and does it. There was really very little in his sermon, or its delivery, to which, as it seems. to me, most ordinary clergymen of the Church of England might not have attained. Yet here I am in middle life, that which I have described myself to be—a stick. I bore myself and others by writing and reading sermons, but I don't feel in the least that I am actually teaching, or that anyone in the church is really learning. The plain fact is, I ought to be stopped preaching, till I can do it better.