ngly
desire to urge the practice of it in every church every Sunday.

It is one of the most difficult parts of the glorious ministry since the
time of St. Luke that can engage the attention of the ordained ministers
of Christ's Church. It needs to be done well. It ought not to be a very
nice, simple sermonette. This, though very beautiful, is not
catechising. Perhaps, if at once followed by questions upon the
sermonette, it might thus become very useful. But a catechesis in which
the catechist simply tells a simple story or gives an amusing anecdote,
or when questioning, so puts his inquiries that "yes" and "no" are the
listless replies that are drawn forth from the lads and girls, is not
interesting or profitable. Whenever I have the opportunity I go to an
afternoon catechetical service. Some failed by being made into the time
of a small preachment; some because in a few minutes the catechist
easily asked questions and then answered them himself. Others were
really magnificent, securing the attention and drawing forth answers
admirably. Was it the great bishop Samuel Wilberforce who said, "A boy
may preach, but it takes a man to catechise"?

I cannot boast of being a good catechist; but I know that catechising
costs me more mental exhaustion (alas! with sad depression under a sense
of trial of temper and failure) than any sermon. But I will say to any
clergyman, _My dear brother, catechise; try, persevere, keep on. It will
not be in vain. But secure an answer_. If need be, become a
cross-examining advocate for Christ, and don't give up until you have
made the catechumens, by dint of a variety of ways of putting the
question, give the answer you desired. You have made them think and call
memory into play, and made them feel that they "knew it all the time,"
if only they had reflected. And you have given them a "power of good."

But what has all this to do with a clerk? Well, I want to tell what made
me _try_ to be a good catechist, and what makes me, over eighty-three
years of age, _still wish_ to become such, though the incident must have
happened some seventy years ago, for I recollect that on the very Sunday
we crossed the Greta my father whispered to me as we were on the bridge
that it was the poet Southey who was close to us, as he as well as our
little family and a goodly congregation were returning from Crosthwaite
Church in the afternoon. For "oncers" were unknown in those times,
neither by poets and historian