suffocated by a redundance which abhors all discrimination which compares till it perplexes, and illustrates till it confounds.

To the oäses of Tillotson, Sherlock, and Atterbury, we must wade through many a barren page, in which the weary Christian can descry nothing all around him but a dreary expanse of trite sentiments and languid words.

The great object of modern sermons, is to hazard nothing their characteristic is, decent debility; which alike guards the authors from ludicrous errors, and precludes them from striking beauties. Every man of sense, in taking up an English sermon, expects to find it a tedious essay, full of common-place morality; and if the fulfilment of such expectations be meritorious, the clergy have certainly the merit of not disappointing their readers. Yet it is curious to consider, how a body of men so well educated, and so magnificently endowed as the English clergy, should distinguish themselves so little in a species of composition to which it is their peculiar duty, as well as their ordinary habit to attend.

To solve this difficulty, it should be remembered, that the eloquence of the Bar and of the Senate force themselves into notice, power, and wealth, — that the penalty which an individual cliant pays for choosing a bad advocate, is the loss of his cause, that a prime minister must infallibly suffer in the estimation of the public, who neglects to conciliate the eloquent men, and trusts the defence of his measures to those who have not adequate talents for that purpose: whereas, the only evil which accrues from the promotion of a clergyman to the pulpit, which he has no ability to fill as he ought, is the fatigue of the audience, and the discredit of that species of public instruction; an evil so general, that no individual patron would dream of sacrificing to it his particular interest. The clergy are generally appointed to their situations by those who have no interest that they should please the audience before whom they speak; while the very re

verse is the case in the eloquence of the Bar, and of Parliament. We by no means would be understood to say, that the clergy should owe their promotion principally to their eloquence, or that eloquence ever could, consistently with the constitution of the English church, be made out a common cause of preferment. In pointing out the total want of connection between the privilege of preaching, and the power of preaching well, we are giving no opinion as to whether it might, or might not be remedied; but merely stating a fact.

Pulpit discourses have insensibly dwindled from speaking to reading; a practice, of itself, sufficient to stifle every germ of eloquence. It is only by the fresh feelings of the heart, that mankind can be very powerfully affected. What can be more ludicrous, than an orator delivering stale indignation, and fervor of a week old; turning over whole pages of violent passions, written out in goodly text; reading the tropes and apostrophes into which he is hurried by the ardor of his mind; and so affected at a preconcerted line, and page, that he is unable to proceed any farther?

The prejudices of the English nation have proceeded a good deal from their hatred to the French; and because that country is the native soil of elegance, animation, and grace, a certain patriotic solidity, and loyal awkardness, have become the characteristics of this; so that an adventurous preacher is afraid of violating the ancient tranquillity of the pulpit; and the audience are commonly apt to consider the man who tires them less than usual, as a trifler, or a charlatan.

Of British Education, the study of eloquence makes little or no part. The exterior graces of a speaker are despised; and debating societies, (admirable institutions, under proper regulations,) would hardly be tolerated either at Oxford or Cambridge. It is commonly answered to any animadversions upon the eloquence of the English pulpit, that a clergyman is to recommend himself, not by

his eloquence, but by the purity of his life, and the sound, ness of his doctrine; an objection good enough, if any connection could be pointed out between eloquence, heresy, and dissipation; but if it is possible for a man to live well, preach well, and teach well, at the same time, such objections, resting only upon a supposed incompatibility of these good qualities, are duller then the dulness they defend.

The clergy are apt to shelter themselves under the plea, that subjects so exhausted are utterly incapable of novelty; and, in the very strictest sense of the word novelty, — meaning that which was never said before, at any time, or in any place, this may be true enough of the first principles of morals; but the modes of expanding, illustrating, and enforcing a particular theme, are capable of infinite variety.

ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT.- John Quincy Adams.

The pulpit is especially the throne of modern eloquence. There it is, that speech is summoned to realize the fabled wonders of the orphean lyre. The preacher has no control over the will of his audience, other than the influence of his discourse. Yet, as the ambassador of Christ, it is his great and awful duty to call sinners to repentance. His only weapon is the voice; and with this, he is to appal the guilty, and to reclaim the infidel; to rouse the indifferent, and to shame the scorner. He is to inflame the lukewarm, to encourage the timid, and to cheer the desponding believer. He is to pour the healing balm of consolation, into the bleeding heart of sorrow, and to soothe, with celestial hope, the very agonies of death.

Now tell me, who is it, that will best possess and most effectually exercise these more than magic powers? Who is it, that will most effectually stem the torrent of human passions, and calm the raging waves of human vice and folly? Who is it, that with the voice of a Joshua, shall

control the course of nature herself, in the perverted heart, and arrest the luminaries of wisdom and virtue, in their rapid revolutions round this little world of man? Is it the cold and languid speaker, whose words fall in such sluggish and drowsy motion from his lips, that they can promote nothing but the slumbers of his auditory, and administer opiates to the body, rather than stimulants to the soul? Is it the unlettered fanatic, without method, without reason; with incoherent raving, and vociferous ignorance, calculated to fit his hearers, not for the kingdom of heaven, but for an hospital of lunatics? Is it even the learned, ingenious, and pious minister of Christ, who, by neglect or contempt of the oratorical art, has contracted a whining, monotonous, sing-song of delivery, to exercise the patience of his flock, at the expense of their other Christian graces?

Or is it the genuine orator of heaven, with a heart sincere, upright, and fervent; a mind stored with that universal knowledge, required as the foundation of his art: with a genius for the invention, a skill for the disposition, and a voice for the elocution of every argument to convince, and of every sentiment to persuade? If then we admit, that the art of oratory qualifies the minister of the gospel to perform, in higher perfection, the duties of his station, we can no longer question whether it be proper for his cultivation. It is more than proper; it is one of his most solemn and indispensable duties.

THE FATAL FALSEHOOD.-Mrs. Opie.

[The following extract is designed as an example of impressive narrative reading, such as is sometimes introduced in discourses from the pulpit. "Expression" and "variation" are, in passages like this, the main objects of attention in the practice of elocution. The thrilling effect of the story requires that these should be deep and subdued, yet intensely vivid.]

Mrs. Opie, in her " Illustrations of Lying," gives, as an instance of what she terms "the lie of benevolence," the

melancholy tale of which the following passage is the conclusion. Vernon, is a clergyman in Westmoreland, whose youngest son, at a distance from home, had, in a moment of passion, committed murder. The youth had been condemned and executed for his crime. But his brothers had kept the cause and form of his death concealed from their father, and had informed him that their brother had been taken suddenly ill, and died on his road homeward. The father hears the awful truth under the following circumstances, when on a journey.

The coach stopped at an inn outside the city of York; and as Vernon was not disposed to eat any dinner, he strolled along the road, till he came to a small church, pleasantly situated, and entered the church-yard to read, as was his custom, the inscriptions on the tombstones. While thus engaged, he saw a man filling up a new-made grave, and entered into conversation with him. He found it was the sexton himself; and he drew from him several anecdotes of the persons interred around them.

During their conversation, they had walked over the whole of the ground, when, just as they were going to leave the spot, the sexton stopped to pluck some weeds from a grave near the corner of it, and Vernon stopped also; taking hold, as he did so, of a small willow sapling, planted near the corner itself.

As the man rose from his occupation, and saw where Vernon stood, he smiled significantly, and said, "I planted that willow; and it is on a grave, though the grave is not marked out."

Indeed!"

Yes; it is the grave of a murderer.”

"Of a murderer!"-echoed Vernon, instinctively shuddering, and moving away from it.

“Yes,” resumed he, “of a murderer who was hanged at York. Poor lad! — it was very right that he should be hanged; but he was not a hardened villain! and he died so penitent! and as I knew him when he used to visit