"below the middle stature, a little stout; with a very youthful, comely face, animated expression, florid complexion, a head of almost enormous size, but not disfiguring, because of its admirably balanced development. He is agile in his movements, and withal graceful, frank, and easy in his manners. In the pulpit he is calm and self-possessed, ready in utterance, and apt in expression. His choice of language is admirable; so that his style is simple, forcible, and chaste-more accurate than you often hear. His elocution is good; articulating distinctly, insomuch that while his voice is not powerful-although very sweet-he is easily heard. You listen to him with delight, everything is in such perfect keeping. The discourse is thoroughly digested, well-arranged, and harmoniously proportioned; blending lucid exposition, and ample, searching analysis of the subject, with well-put, earnest, practical applications. He never startles, much less overwhelms you. You pay close attention, but never forget yourself, and wonder, on recovery, where you are. He is tranquilly thoughtful; so are you. He is, moreover, devout, and communicates a kindred feeling. He never speculates, and seldom invites you to a comprehensive sweep of thought. But so luminously is the subject put, and so variously and felicitously illustrated, that you possess an abiding reprint of it. His other duties have prevented his preaching as much, and in the way, justice to himself demanded. The Church has lost one of its noblest pulpit men, in a finished professor and accomplished editor. Other professional posts demand time, patience, and toilsome practice for the effective performance of their duties, and the attainment of their richest possible excellence; but none in this respect compare with the pulpit. And, except in peculiar cases, and under rarely occurring circumstances, no man becomes the preacher he ought, save in the pastoral office so that, with all his capabilities and accomplishments, Dr. M'Clintock does not compare with what he right have been as a minister of the word, had the Church kept him in the pulpit all these years."

We do not indorse this estimate of Dr. M'Clintock as a preacher, having had no adequate opportunity of judging of his pulpit traits. It will be deemed, we think, by those who most frequently hear

him, quite sufficiently fastidious. Another newspaper scribbler, for whose judgment we have reason to entertain less respect, described the doctor in the Herald and Journal, during the late Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church, in the following terms of nonchalance :—

"He is of Irish descent, and has a decidedly Hibernian look of the better kindbeing sanguine almost to repletion; his face is florid and even flushed, and there is an incessant play of sanguine activity and eagerness about his fine rosy features. He is evidently a man of tireless energy, and is fat in spite of his temperament. His motions are quick, and his speech rapid. His head is his capital attraction, figuratively as well as etymologically so. It projects out and rounds off 'prodigiously,' as Dominie Sampson used to say; and is one of the best-balanced crania in the assembly. His stature is small, stout, and apparently strong, and in conjunction with his eager features and prompt "nervous" manners, gives him a peculiar and most significant air of pugnacity. His appearance would incline you to suspect that his Irish blood would rise egregiously at Donnybrook Fair, and his shillalch move right and left; but he is in fact as cool as he is prompt a scholarly, discriminating critic, never falling into pugilistic attitudes toward the literary wights who come within the purview of his editorial arena, and always dispatching a case of literary butchery with as little bloodshed as may be."

A rough draught this, certainly, but, in connection with our other passages, it must suffice for our present introduction of Dr. M'Clintock.

ALL that has been written in song, or told in story, of love and its effects, falls far short of its reality. Its evils and its blessings, its impotence and its power, will continue the theme of nature and of art, until the great pulse of the universe is stilled. Arising from the depths of misery, descending from heaven the most direct and evident manifestation of a divine and self-sacrificing spirit, it is at once the tyrant and the slave. Happier as the latter than as the former-for the perfection of love is obedience; the power of obeying what we love is, at all events, the perfection of a woman's happiness.

UT a few months ago we had been strolling about Palace-yard, when we instinctively paused at No. 19 York-street, Westminster. It was evening: the lamplighters were running from post to post, but we could still see that the house was a plain house to look at, differing little from its associate dwellings-a common house, a house you would pass without a thought, unless the remembrance of thoughts that had been given to you from within the shelter of those plain, ordinary walls, caused you to reflect, aye, and to thank God, who has left with you the memories and sympathies which elevate human nature. Here, while Latin Secretary to the Protector, was JOHN MILTON to be found when "at home;" and in his society, at times, were met all the men who, with their great originator, Cromwell, astonished Europe. Just think of those who entered that portal; think of them all if you can-statesmen and warriors; or, if you are really of a gentle spirit, think of two-but two-either of whom has left enough to engross your thoughts and fill your hearts. Think of JOHN MILTON and ANDREW MARVEL! think of the Protector of England, with two such secretaries!

For a long while we stood on the steps of this building, and at length retraced our steps homeward. Our train of thought, although checked, was not changed, when

seated by a comfortable fire. We took down a volume of Milton; but "Paradise Lost" was too sublime for the mood of the moment, and we "got to thinking" of Andrew Marvel, and displaced a volume of Captain Edward Thompson's edition of his works; and then it occurred to us to walk to Highgate, and once again enjoy the sight of his quaint old cottage on the side of the hill just facing "Cromwell House," and next to that which once owned for its master the great Earl of Lauderdale.

We know nothing more invigorating than to breast the breeze up a hill, with a bright clear sky above, and the crisp ground under foot. The wind of March is as pure champagne to a healthy constitution; and let mountain-men laugh as they will at Highgate-hill, it is no ordinary labor to go and look down upon London from its height.

Here then we are, once more, opposite the house where lived the satirist, the poet, the incorruptible patriot.

It is, as you see above, a peculiarlooking dwelling, just such a one as you might well suppose the chosen of Andrew Marvel-exquisitely situated, enjoying abundant natural advantages; and yet altogether devoid of pretension; sufficiently beautiful for a poet, sufficiently humble for a patriot.

It is an unostentatious home, with simple

gables and plain windows, and is but a story high. In front are some old trees, and a convenient porch to the door, in which to sit and look forth upon the road, a few paces in advance of it. The front is of plaster, but the windows are modernized, and there are other alterations which the exigencies of tenancy have made necessary since Marvel's days.

The dwelling was evidently inhabited; the curtains in the deep windows as white as they were when we visited it some years previous to the visit concerning

which we now write; and the garden as neat as when in those days we asked permission to see the house, and were answered by an elderly servant, who took in our message, and an old gentleman came into the hall, invited us in, and presented us to his wife, a lady of more than middle age, and of that species of beauty depending upon expression, which it is not in the power of time to wither, because it is of the spirit rather than the flesh; and we also remembered a green parrot, in a fine cage, that talked a great deal, and was the only thing

which seemed out of place in the house. We had been treated with much courtesy ; and emboldened by the memory of that kindness, we now ascended the stone steps, unlatched the little gate, and knocked.

Again we were received courteously and kindly by the lady we had formerly seen; and again she blandly offered to show us the house. We went up a little winding stair, and into several neat, clean bedrooms, where everything was so old-fashioned, that you could fancy Andrew Marvel himself was still its master.

"Look out here," said the old lady; "here's a view! They say this was Andrew Marvel's writing closet when he wrote sense; but when he wrote poetry, he used to sit below in his garden. I have heard there is a private way under the road to Cromwell House, opposite; but surely that could not be necessary. So good a man would not want to work in the dark; for he was a true lover of his country, and a brave man. My husband used

to say, the patriots of those times were not like the patriots now; that then, they acted for their country-now, they talk about it! Alas! the days are passed when you could tell an Englishman from every other man, even by his gait, keeping the middle of the road, and straight on, as one who knew himself, and made others know him. I am sure a party of Roundheads, in their sober coats, high hats, and heavy boots, would have walked up Highgate-hill to visit Master Andrew Marvel with a different air from the young men of our own time-or of their own time, I should say-for my time is past, and yours is passing."

That was quite true; but there is no reason, we thought, why we should not look cheerfully toward the future, and pray that it may be a bright world for others, if not for ourselves; the greater our enjoyment in the contemplation of the happiness of our fellow-creatures, the nearer we approach God.

It was too damp for the old lady to venture into the garden; and sweet and gentle as she was, both in mind and manner, we were glad to be alone. How pretty and peaceful the house looks from this spot! The snowdrops were quite up, and the yellow and purple tips of the crocuses bursting through the ground in all directions. This, then, was the garden the poet loved so well, and to which he alludes so charmingly in his poem, where the nymph complains of the death of her fawn:

"I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness."

The garden seems in nothing changed; in fact, the entire appearance of the place is what it was in those glorious days when inhabited by the truest genius and the most unflinching patriot that ever sprang from the sterling stuff that Englishmen were made of in those wonder-working times. The genius of Andrew Marvel, was as varied as it was remarkable; not only was he a tender and exquisite poet, but entitled to stand facile princeps as an incorruptible patriot, the best of controversialists, and the leading prose wit of England. We have always considered his as the first of the "sprightly runnings" of that brilliant stream of wit, which will carry with it to the latest posterity the names of Swift, Steele, and Addison. Before Marvel's time, to be witty was to be strained, forced, and conceited; from him-whose memory consecrates that cottage-wit came sparkling forth, untouched by baser matter. It was worthy of him-its main feature was an open clearness. Detraction or jealousy cast no stain upon it; he turned aside, in the midst of an exalted panegyric of Oliver Cromwell, to say the finest things that ever were said of Charles I.

The patriot was a son of Mr. Andrew Marvel, minister and schoolmaster of Kingston-upon-Hull, where he was born in 1620; his father was also the lecturer of Trinity Church in that town, and was celebrated as a learned and pious man. The son's abilities at an early age were remarkable; and his progress so great, that at the age of thirteen he was entered as a student of Trinity College, Cambridge; and it is said that the corporation of his natal town furnished him with the means of entering the college and prosecuting his

studies there. His shrewd and inquiring mind attracted the attention of some of the Jesuit emissaries who were at this time lurking about the universities, and sparing no pains to make proselytes. Marvel entered into disputations with them, and ultimately fell so far into their power, that he consented to abandon the university, and follow one of them to London. Like many other clever youths, he was inattentive to the mere drudgery of university attendance, and had been reprimanded in consequence; this, and the news of his escape from college, reached his father's ears at Hull. That good and anxious parent followed him to London, and after a considerable search, at last met with him in a bookseller's shop; he argued with his son as a prudent and sensible man should do, and prevailed on him to retrace his steps and return with him to college, where he applied to his studies with such good-will and continued assiduity, that he obtained the degree of Bachelor of Arts in 1638. His father lived to see the fruits of his wise advice, but was only spared thus long; for he was unfortunately drowned in crossing the Humber, as he was attending the daughter of an intimate female friend, who, by this event becoming childless, sent for young Marvel, and, by way of making all the return in her power, added considerably to his fortune.

This accession of wealth gave him an opportunity of traveling; and he journeyed through Holland, France, and Italy. While at Rome he wrote the first of those satirical poems which obtained him so much celebrity. It was a satire on an English priest there, a wretched poetaster named Flecknoe. From an early period of life Marvel appears to have despised conceit, or impertinence, and he found another chance to exhibit his powers of satire in the person of an ecclesiastic of Paris, one Joseph de Maniban, an abbot, who pretended to understand the characters of those he had never seen, and to prognosticate their good or bad fortune, from an inspection of their handwriting. Marvel addressed a poem to him, which, if it did not effectually silence his pretensions, at all events exposed them fully to the thinking portions of the community.

Beneath Italian skies his immortal friendship with Milton seems to have commenced; it was of rapid growth, but was firmly established. They were, in many

ways, kindred spirits, and their hopes for the after destinies of England were alike. In 1653 Marvel returned to England, and during the eventful years that followed we can find no record of his strong and earnest thoughts, as they worked upward into the arena of public life. One glorious fact we know, and all who honor virtue must feel its force-that in an age when wealth was never wanting to the unscrupulous, Marvel, a member of the popular and successful party, continued POOR. Many of those years he is certain to have passed

"Under the destiny severe

Of Fairfax, and the starry Vere-”

in the humble capacity of tutor of languages to their daughters. It was most likely during this period that he inhabited the cottage at Highgate, opposite to the house in which lived part of the family of Cromwell, a house upon which we shall remark presently. In 1657 he was introduce by Milton to Bradshaw. The precise

words of the introduction ran thus:

"I present to you Mr. Marvel, laying aside those jealousies and that emulation which mine own condition might suggest to me, by bringing in such a coadjutor." His connection with the State took place in 1657, when he became assistant secretary with Milton in the service of the Protector. "I never had," says Marvel, "any, not the remotest relation to public matters, nor correspondence with the persons then predominant, until the year 1657."

After he had been some time fellowsecretary with Milton, even the thicksighted burgesses of Hull perceived the

merits of their townsman, and sent him as their representative into the House of Commons. We can imagine the delight he felt at escaping from the crowded and stormy Commons to breath the invigorating air of his favorite hill; to enjoy the society of his former pupils, now his friends; and to gather, in

a garden of his own,"

the flowers that had solaced his leisure hours when he was comparatively unknown. But Cromwell died, Charles returned, and Marvel's energies sprung into arms at acts which, in accordance with his principles, he considered base, and derogatory to his country. His whole efforts were directed to the preservation of civil and religious liberty.

It was but a short time previous to the Restoration that Marvel had been chosen by his native town to sit as its representative in Parliament. The session began at Westminster in April, 1660, and he acquitted himself so honorably, that he was again chosen for the one which began in May, 1661. Whether under Cromwell or Charles, he acted with such thorough honesty of purpose, and gave such satisfaction to his constituents, that they allowed him a handsome pension all the time he continued to represent them, which was to the day of his death. This was probably the last borough in England that paid a representative. He seldom spoke in Parliament, but had much influence with the members of both Houses; the spirited Earl of Devonshire called him friend, and Prince Rupert particularly paid the greatest regard to his counsels; and whenever he voted according to the sentiments of Marvel, which he often did, it used to be said, "he had been by the opposite party, that with his tutor." Such certainly was the intimacy between the Prince and Marvel,

that when he was obliged to abscond, to avoid falling a sacrifice to the indignation of those enemies among the governing party whom his satirical pen had irritated, the Prince frequently went to see him, disguised as a private person.

The noted Doctor Samuel Parker published Bishop Bramhall's work, setting forth the rights of kings over the consciences of their subjects; and then came forth Marvel's witty and sarcastic poem, "The Rehearsal Transposed." And yet how brightly did the generosity of his noble nature shine forth at this very time, when he forsook his own wit in that very poem, to praise the wit of Butler, his rival and political enemy. Fortune seems about this period to have dealt hardly with him. Even while his political satires rang through the very halls of the pampered and impure Charles, when they were roared forth in every tavern, shouted in the public streets, and attracted the most envied attention throughout England, their author was obliged to exchange the free air, apt type of the freedom which he loved, for a lodging in a court off the Strand, where, enduring unutterable temptations, flattered and threatened, he more than realized the stories of Roman virtue.

The poet Mason has made Marvel the hero of his "Ode to Independence," and