become blunted, the best day of his usefulness is passed. This
treadmill of ineffectual toil fills with disgust, till finally
all efforts are abandoned, and the people are treated to Hamlet's
reading: "Words, words, words." This is the usual series of
evolutions through which an extemporary preacher passes. He
begins with good intentions and bad theories. The system breaks
down, but his habits are now too set to try another, and so he
runs to seed. Here you have explained the fruitlessness, indeed
the paralysis, of many a pulpit.

In the written sermon, on the other hand, you have a treasure for
life; years pass, but your sermon remains, an instrument becoming
more flexible and telling every time you use it. You are
independent of your mood, on which the extemporary preacher has
to lean so much. You can also defy chance that may call you to
the pulpit at a day's notice. Your motto is: _Semper paratus_.
Your brain may be barren and your feelings frigid, but here are
thoughts already made and shaped. They are your own; and the mind
instinctively responds to the children of its own birth. It
rises, clasps, and embraces them. The passion glow enkindles
afresh; and heart and words are aflame with the ancient fires.
When for the first five years you lay aside a well-written sermon
a month, what a handsome stock-in-trade is at your disposal for
life--your fortune is made.

[Side note: Incitements to toil]

The world is in no humour to stand half-hearted work; it will bow
its proud head only to the man who pours out sweat; and
Bourdaloue's standard of excellence will hold for all time. His