' Again the congregation kneels
to the sound of a silver bell; the smoke of incense curls through the
aisles, and the golden beetles move up and down; again there is a
scraping of chairs, a shuffling of feet, and a general movement towards
the pulpit, the men standing in groups round it with their hats in their
hands; then a pause, and for the first time so deep a silence that we
can hear the movement of the crowd outside, and the distant rattle of
drums.
All eyes are now turned to the preacher; a man of about forty, of an
austere but ordinary (we might almost say low) type of face, closely
shaven, with an ivory crucifix at his side and a small black book in his
hand. He makes his way through the crowded aisles, and ascends the new
pulpit in the centre of the church, where everyone of the vast
congregation can both see and hear him.
His voice was powerful (almost too loud sometimes) and most persuasive;
he was eloquent and impassioned, but he used little gesture or any
artifice to engage attention. He commenced with a rhapsody--startling in
the sudden flow of its eloquence, thrilling in its higher tones, tender
and compassionate (almost to tears) in its lower passages--a rhapsody to
the Virgin--
'O sweet head of my mother; sacred eyes!'
* * * * *
and then an appeal--an appeal for us 'true Catholics' to the 'Queen of
Heaven, the beautiful, the adorable.
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