righteous, and sober life." So, too, the Sun, of New York, speaking of the half-million people who in that city "adhere to the strictest rules of the Lenten observance," stated a few years ago: "Eminent doctors declare that the forty days of fasting as practiced here are of inestimable value to the health of the community that observe them."

Without observing either the strict fast or the abstinence ordained by the Church for Lent and Advent and Ember Days and vigils, however, one may effectively mortify the appetite, and that, too, without appearing to do so in the eyes of those with whom we sit at table. We can give the appetite less than it craves; can deprive it of all or some of the condiments to which it is accustomed; can choose the less, rather than the more, palatable dishes set before us; can abstain from desserts partially or altogether. The man, be he priest or layman, who pooh-poohs such acts as these on the principle that they are mere trifles unworthy of the consideration of a big, broad-minded personality, is simply proving to a demonstration that his spiritual perspective is a false one. Disregard of little things in the sphere of self-denial is a mistake as pernicious as it is common. If the widow's mite merited the panegyric of our Lord, if the cup of cold water given in His name shall not go without its reward, if for every idle word we speak we shall have to render an account in the day of judgment, who shall say that any action, however small, that costs an effort, that goes against our natural grain, that represents ever so slight a victory over appetite or passion, is not, if done for

God's sake and in a penitential spirit, of positive merit in the sight of Heaven? "Unless you do penance," says our Lord, "you shall all likewise perish”; and so intimately is the idea of partial abstinence from food associated with genuine penance that St. Basil goes so far as to say, “Penance without fasting is fruitless."

It may be worth while to remark that, in the quotation just given, St. Basil used the word "fasting" in a more literal or specific sense than is commonly the case in Scripture or in the works of ascetic writers. The phrase, "fasting and abstinence," in many such writings is employed as a generic term for all kinds of penance. As for penance itself, the sense in which the term is used in this essay is of course that given as its definition in the best of our dictionaries: sorrow for sin shown by outward acts; self-punishment expressive of penitence or repentance; the suffering to which a person voluntarily subjects himself, as by fasting, flagellation, self-imposed tasks, etc., as an expression of penitence. If considerable prominence is given in all treatises on mortification to fasting and abstinence in their proper sense, it is because their authors agree with this declaration of St. Vincent de Paul: "Mortification of the appetite is the A, B, C of the spiritual life. Whoever cannot control himself in this, will hardly be able to conquer temptations more difficult to subdue." Of one species of such temptations to which priests as well as laymen are subject, it is pertinent to remark that authoritative commentators of Holy Writ hold that it was of the demon of impurity

that our Lord said: "But this kind is not cast out but by prayer and fasting."

Other senses besides that of taste, however, need to be mortified. Of one of these Rodriguez well says: "It is a common doctrine of the Saints that one of the principal means of leading a good and exemplary life is modesty and custody of the eyes. For, as there is nothing so adapted to preserve devotion in a soul, and to cause compunction and edification in others, as this modesty, so there is nothing which so much exposes a person to relaxation and scandals as its opposite." There is too pronounced a tendency nowadays, even among the clergy, to look upon this custody of the eyes as a peculiarly feminine virtue, altogether congruous, to be sure, in Sisters and Catholic maidens, but rather effeminate in robust, common-sense men. Yet every priest must know, from the experience of others, if not his own, that sin still enters by these windows of the soul, and that failure to exercise control of the eyes is not infrequently to expose one's self deliberately to dangerous occasions such as we are bound to avoid.

"If any man offend not in word," says St. James, “the same is a perfect man." The priesthood is, as we have said, a state of perfection; but individual priests who measure up to this standard of St. James are probably not so numerous as the "autumnal leaves that strow the brooks in Vallombrosa," and accordingly one bodily member that may very profitably be subjected to habitual and systematic mortification is that "unquiet

evil, full of deadly poison," the tongue. St. Francis of Sales says that one of the things that keeps us at a distance from perfection is undoubtedly our speech, and he proffers this wholesome advice: "And since one of the worst ways of speaking is to speak too much, speak little and well, little and gently, little and simply, little and charitably, little and amiably." Just how common, not to say universal, is one particular fault of the tongue, the making of uncharitable remarks, any reader may determine for himself by recalling how often, or rather how seldom, in his experience he has heard this tribute truthfully paid to a recently deceased cleric: "He was never known to utter an unkind word about anybody." A good many of us very probably merit some such rebuke as was administered to a loquacious penitent who asked his spiritual director for a hair skirt in order to mortify his flesh. "My son," said the director, laying his finger on his lips, "the best hair shirt is to watch carefully all that comes out at this door." Interior mortification, in other words, is preferable to external penances. And yet, as the two are not mutually exclusive, one may judiciously follow the advice: Do this, and don't neglect that. Apropos of interior repressions, this bit of doctrine from St. Francis of Sales is quite in harmony with what we have said of the value of little things in the spiritual life: "Above all, it is necessary for us to strive to conquer our little temptations, such as fits of anger, suspicions, jealousies, envy, deceitfulness, vanity, attachments, and evil thoughts. For in this way we shall acquire strength to subdue greater ones."

To return from this quasi-digression and resume our consideration of distinctively exterior penitential exercises: one mortification which many a priest would do well to practice is-spending from fifteen to thirty minutes every morning in alternately reading and pondering a brief series of supernatural truths. "Mortification?" comments the reader. "Why, that's not mortification; 'tis meditation." Quite so; or, at least, 'tis the framework, the mechanical structure of meditation: and nevertheless if one is to believe a not uncommon assertion in clerical circles, it is to many priests a genuine mortification as well. In point of fact, actual neglect of daily meditation, and alleged inability to meditate as the pretext for such neglect, characterize a larger number of American priests than the devout reader of this page is apt to consider possible. Not very many years ago the present writer was, to say the least, mildly surprised at this declaration of an experienced retreat-master who was mentioning the subjects he purposed discussing in his sermons and conferences to a body of several hundred diocesan priests: "I'm not going to talk to them about meditation; they won't make it, anyway." Making due allowance for the unquestionable exaggeration of the remark, the residue of truth which it contains is worth while considering-and deploring. No amount of external activity, strenuous labor about the temporalities of his parish, or punctilious performance of all his pastoral duties, can compensate or indemnify a priest for the neglect of mental prayer,