preacher--vain, pompous, decked in borrowed ornament, anxious
about the embroidery, and careless about the soul of his
discourse. The species, thank God, is extinct.

At any rate, if Cardinal Manning meant to condemn the written
discourse such as we understand it, is he triumphantly answered
by himself. The man who advises you to preach from notes and then
launches upon the world a goodly set of volumes of carefully
written sermons, every line of which passed under his correcting
pen, requires no refutation. His action nullifies his advice. It
is to be feared, too, that in forming his judgment he relied too
much on his own experience, and out of it drew conclusions for
others, who could never hope to have his exceptional advantages--
a fatal mistake.

Before his conversion he had completed a distinguished career at
Oxford. Of the English language and its perfect use he was a past
master. The copiousness of diction, elegance of phrase, the power
of expressing himself in graceful strength were eminently his.
His intellect was stored with abundant knowledge drawn from many
sources. The thoughts of his well-ordered mind stood in line as
definite and orderly as soldiers on parade. The fibres of his
reasoning had waxed strong in encounters with the ablest
intellects of the day and before the most distinguished audiences
in the literary and debating clubs at Oxford. Add to this the
fact that in a keen knowledge of the human heart, its strength
and weakness, he was surpassed by no man of his age. This was the
equipment with which Manning started life, and it is to be feared
he pre-supposed this, or a great part of it, to be in possession
of those for whom he wrote.