happens to you frequently. You are the kind of man to whom the
Times fails to come on the morning you specially wish to see it.
Your horse falls lame on the morning when you have a long drive
before you. Your manservant catches a sore throat, and is unable
to go out, just when the visitor comes to whom you wish to show the
neighboring country. I felt for the preacher. I was younger then,
but I had seen enough to make me think how Mr. Snarling of the
next parish (a very dull preacher, with no power of description)
would chuckle over the tale of the summer sermon on the stormy
day. That youthful preacher (not Mr. Snarling) had been but a few
months in the church, and he probably had not another sermon to
give in the unexpected circumstances: he must preach what he had
prepared. He had fallen into error. I formed a resolution never to
do the like. I was looking forward then with great enthusiasm to
the work of my sacred, profession: with enthusiasm which has only
grown deeper and warmer through the experience of more than nine
years. I resolved that if ever I thought of preaching a summer
sermon, I would take care to have an alternative one ready for that
day in case of unfavourable weather. I resolved that I would give
my summer discourse only if external nature, in her soft luxuriant
beauty, looked summer-like: a sweet pervading accompaniment to my
poor words, giving them a force and meaning far beyond their own.
What talk concerning summer skies is like the sapphire radiance,
so distant and pure, looking in through the church windows? You
do not remember how blue and beautiful the sky is, unless when you
are looking at it: nature is better than our remembrance of her.
What description of a leafy tree equals that noble, soft, massive,
luxuriant object which I looked at for half-an-hour yesterday
through the window of a little country church, while listening to
the sermon of a friend? Do not think that I was inattentive. I heard