I found that there were no good sermon writers among us, that there were several able to compile passable ones, but there were many, perhaps the greatest number, utterly incapable of writing any- thing of the kind. And the conclusion I came to, as to my own case was, that I was too ignorant of theology to be able to produce anything that had the slightest claim to originality, but that I might, by diligent reading, attain respectable rank as a compiler or adapter. Perhaps in time I might have something of my own worth telling to the people at present I contented myself with little originality except style and diction. I never found a Welsh sermon that pleased me so well as to induce me to copy it the style was not to my fancy, or the doctrine not to my taste-hence I was driven to English authors for my stores. Those I found most useful were not elaborate compositions like those of our classical sermon writers, but either notes of sermons like Robertson's, which I could amplify, or else unstudied discourses like the sermons of Moore and Melville. But it was at best an ungracious and perfunctory task, and I never gave it the best of my powers. How my fellow-curates managed I never ascertained most probably it was by some similar method that the weekly tale of bricks was furnished -some getting straw, some stubble. And it is likely enough that we were mostly like the broom makers in Joe Miller, some stealing the broom, some the handles, and some stealing them ready made. I had always been of opinion that the incessant preaching by all the Clergy, young and old, capable and incapable, is a great mistake. There are doubtless many who listen with some sort of pleasure to these effusions-they feel defrauded of their rights if the discourse be omitted, but I thought it a strange task. For my part, I should have been glad as a worshipper to be rid of the necessity of trying to THE RIME OF THE NORTH WALES MAN The hospital walls are washed clean and white (Meirion and Maldwyn and Mdn), But the wall, of her cottage are far more bright. (Oh, it's Arvon and Denbigh and Flint for me, And the light in the eyes of my own). Then I sleep, and I'm back in the north again (Meirion and Maldwyn and Mdn), And sometimes its sunshine, and sometimes its rain, But my cariad waits still at the bend of the lane. (So its Arvon and Denbigh and Flint for me, And the love in the eyes of my own). listen to an address on nothing in particular by somebody for whose opinion on any given subject I had little respect, and as a parish priest I sym- pathised with others who might have had similar antipathies. I should have been very happy to have discoursed once or twice a month, or on great feasts and fasts, when one had really a subject to discourse on, but I could not resist my fate, I had to preach. I had only to make the infliction as little grievous as possible by making my sermons short at least, if I could not make them interesting. Sermons, I used to think, were like novels-if you get a good one, it is a real pleasure and a benefit. A new work by George Eliot or Thackeray is a godsend-an addition to your circle of friends, a peep into Paradise. But the general run of novels- what weariness to the flesh to wade through them The dullest old Chronicle, the dreariest blue book, is light reading in comparison with a Minerva Press novel. So to hear a really good preacher is a pleasure long remembered it braces the mind and strengthens it it gives one a tonic. And even to read a sermon of this class is a great positive benefit. But to hear a dull, dead treatise droned forth without life or energy, the subject of no interest, some dead heresy, probably-the diction elaborate, involved. frigid the action ungainly, the voice rasping-oh, the weariness of listening to it You hear the end with a sense of unutterable relief. and rise from it with a dull sense of having been soundly beaten (mentally), and require a strong dose of something strong to set you right again. Well then, my sermon writing was alwa)s a perfunctory work with me. I did not love preaching, and knew that I should never excel in it. However, I did pretty fairly, and in time held my own very tolerably. (To be continued) I murmur them over in bed at night (Meirion and Maldwyn and Mdn), Very soft-for the Jock next to me sleeps light And the Somme hasn't shown him enough of a fight. (Still it's Arvon and Denbigh and Flint for me, And the smile in the eyes of my own). H. E. B.