By the sight of wonderful and costly vanities men are prompted to give, rather than to pray.  Some beautiful picture of a saint is exhibited—­and the brighter the colors the greater the holiness attributed to it:  men run, eager to kiss; they are invited to give, and the beautiful is more admired than the sacred is revered.  In the churches are suspended, not coronae, but wheels studded with gems and surrounded by lights, which are scarcely brighter than the precious stones which are near them.  Instead of candlesticks, we behold great trees of brass fashioned with wonderful skill, and glittering as much through their jewels as their lights.  What do you suppose is the object of all this?  The repentance of the contrite, or the admiration of the gazers?  O vanity of vanities! but not more vain than foolish.  The church’s walls are resplendent, but the poor are not there....  The curious find wherewith to amuse themselves; the wretched find no stay for them in their misery.  Why at least do we not reverence the images of the saints, with which the very pavement we walk on is covered?  Often an angel’s mouth is spit into, and the face of some saint trodden on by passers-by....  But if we cannot do without the images, why can we not spare the brilliant colors?  What has all this to do with monks, with professors of poverty, with men of spiritual minds?

Again, in the cloisters, what is the meaning of those ridiculous monsters, of that deformed beauty, that beautiful deformity, before the very eyes of the brethren when reading?  What are disgusting monkeys there for, or satyrs, or ferocious lions, or monstrous centaurs, or spotted tigers, or fighting soldiers, or huntsmen sounding the bugle?  You may see there one head with many bodies, or one body with numerous heads.  Here is a quadruped with a serpent’s tail; there is a fish with a beast’s head; there a creature, in front a horse, behind a goat; another has horns at one end, and a horse’s tail at the other.  In fact, such an endless variety of forms appears everywhere, that it is more pleasant to read in the stonework than in books, and to spend the day in admiring these oddities than in meditating on the law of God.  Good God! if we are not ashamed of these absurdities, why do we not grieve at the cost of them?

FROM HIS SERMON ON THE DEATH OF GERARD

“As the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon.”—­Sol.  Song i. 5

Perhaps both members of the comparison—­viz., “As the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon”—­refer only to the first words, “I am black.”  It may be, however, that the simile is extended to both clauses, and each is compared with each.  The former sense is the more simple, the latter the more obscure.  Let us try both, beginning with the latter, which seems the more difficult.  There is no difficulty, however, in the first comparison, “I am black as the tents of Kedar,” but