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worth was, that poetic diction is, or ought to be, in all respects the same with the language of prose; and as prose has a wide range, and numbers among its triumphs such luxuriant eloquence as that of Jeremy Taylor, the principle, if just, would be no less available for the advocates of ornamented verse than for the defense of the homely style of the "Lyrical Ballads." But the proposition is certainly too broadly stated, and, though the argument holds good for the adversary, because the phraseology which is not too rich for prose can never be considered too tawdry for poetry, yet it will not warrant the conclusions of Wordsworth, that poetry should never rise above prose, or disdain to descend to its lowest level. The great mass of the English tongue is common ground, but there are images which would sound affected out of poetry, and, still more frequently, there are combinations of words which would appear mean in verse. Wordsworth's works, notwithstanding his horror of poetic phraseology, present examples in the first kind as well as the second.

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"Evening now unbinds the fetters Fashion'd by the glowing light,"

would be a fantastic mode of saying, in any description of prose, that the coolness of evening restored the activity suspended by the sultriness of the day-and we question whether the person exists who honestly believes that the stanza which follows is sufficiently dignified for what is, in design at least, a sentimental poem :

"And Susan's growing worse and worse,
And Betty's in a sad quandary;
And then there's nobody to say
If she must go, or she must stay!
-She's in a sad quandary.

Such was the nature of the innovation for which Wordsworth struggled. In the species of diction where he had no precursor he is never likely to have any successor, and the compositions of his that promise to live exhibit a style of which the antiquity is the best security that it will never grow obsolete. No generation has been so prolific in distinguished poets as his own, and, dissenting from the prediction that posterity will allot him the highest place in the brotherhood, we yet cannot question that he will keep the sufficiently eminent station which the world has long since assigned him amid that illustrious



E have grave charges to urge against gen eral adapted to the various characters and circumstances which are to be found in every audience. It is still more lamentably mal-à-propos to the wants, cravings, and circumstances of our present age. It is by far too strictly and slavishly modeled on the preaching of the past. When it departs from that model it is too apt to degenerate into twaddle and commonplace, or else to talk the language of an obscure and pointless intellectualism. It is in general too dry, formal, didactic, and dogmatical in its tone. It does not give itself sufficient scope and range. It is still too harsh and ferocious in its management of the doctrines of sin and future punishment, and too crude and one-sided in its pictures of the happiness here and the prospects hereafter of the good. It either ignores, or abuses, or makes awkward obeisance to genius, science, literature, and art. It is not sufficiently dramatic and imaginative. It is conversant more with the letter than with the spirit of the Bible. It has altered the position of the pulpit, which, in other ages, was far more than now a prophetic and prospective pinnacle. And hence our modern preaching is far inferior in power to our modern press-is wielding comparatively little influence either on the lower, or the upper, or the intellectual orders of the community, and seems rather, like the lines at Torres Vedras, to be covering a great retreat, than, like the fire of the final charge at Waterloo, to be carrying dismay and destruction into the ranks of the enemies of the Christian faith.

A volume could easily be filled with illustrations of these remarks. We can only at present drop a few hints upon each of them, in the order in which they have been now named, premising, however, that our remarks refer to the general state of preaching as it has fallen within the sphere of our own knowledge or personal observation. We deny not that there are in all Churches many and brilliant exceptions.

We very seldom find preaching studiously or successfully accommodated to the various characters and circumstances to be found in the audiences the preacher is addressing. A certain vague universality— such as Foster charges even on Hallpervades the majority of sermons. The

third, the half of which is taken up in proving that Christ's body was not a phantom, or with a fourth, showing elaborately that the fish with the piece of money in its mouth was an emblem of Christ coming back from the grave with the price of the world's redemption!


preacher forgets of what a motley and mingled yarn his hearers are composed, and that each has a right to expect something in the discourse especially adapted to him. Here is seated a mourning family, expecting a morsel of comfort, a movement, as it were, across their weeping eyes of a finger of that Hand which is to wipe Of course a unity and a main subject away tears from all faces, and that he there ought to be; but surely the preacher, should manfully, and not sentimentally, if he has tact and imagination, if he be supply. Here is a poor, untaught, half- able to realize to himself, and map out human creature, whose nakedness has been with some accuracy, his audience, will be newly clothed, who has come from a "rag-able so to diversify the illustrations of his ged Church" to this-surely a crumb" theme, as to have in it something suited might be spared from an overflowing feast to most of the wants and most of the to this "dog under the table," and yet often tastes of his hearers—ay, and may do so he has to go empty away. Here, again, ere three-quarters of an hour have sped is a hopeful little boy, whose soul is in his by. And this he may effect with greater eyes you see just awaking, and the emer- ease, and greater success, if he will make ging of the evening star suddenly from his applications pointed, particular, and black clouds is not so beautiful as the first comprehensive-not so much a series of shining out of immortal mind in a child's deductions as of practical and searching dark or deep-blue eye, and he is waiting appeals. It is because this diversity for for an incident, or little comparison, or which we plead is not aimed at nor atsome such barleycorn of truth, and shall tained, that, paradoxical as the statement not his young hunger be fed? Here, may seem, it is nevertheless true that auagain, perhaps, is one bowing under a diences are often at once starved and fed, sense of secret sin, shrinking away from at once satisfied and tantalized. the preacher's eye, as if he knew all about it-shall there be no "Go and sin no more" for that poor fluttering heart? Here, on the other hand, is a proud and impudent transgressor, glorying in his shame; there should be a shaft in the gospel quiver to pierce him to the heartsome one word that shall stamp fire upon his callous cheek. Yonder is a conceited youth, who deems himself wiser than all his teachers the preacher should have a word in season that may abate his pride. And here is another young and ardent inquirer seeking for truth; let there be a handfull of truth for him. And here is an artistic critic, demanding the beautiful; let the beautiful be there, either coming out in sudden gushes, or shed like a fine dew over the whole performance. There should be milk for babes, and strong meat for those that are of full age. There should be much that every one can understand, and perhaps (it was Baxter's avowed and uniform plan) there should be something in every discourse that only a few in the audience, if any, can understand. Contrast this ideal with a whole sermon employed in trying to prove the doctrine of the infinite evil of sin, or with another on the Arminian controversy, or with a VOL. III, No. 1.—D

Or, if it be thought too much to demand this diversity in every sermon, let it at all events characterize the sermons of every preacher as a whole. Let all stiff, and monotonous, and fixed idea schemes of sermonizing be abandoned. Let the pulpit be a "large place," where the flocks are liberally fed. But more of this afterward.

Modern preaching is not, we think, sufficiently adapted to the cravings, and wants, and circumstances of our present age. It seldom even recognizes that these are peculiar. It either cries out "Peace! peace!" when there is no peace, or proclaims war against phantoms, which were never aught else, and which have long ago vanished away. What, we ask, is the pulpit doing in order to meet the manifold skepticisms, and shams, and mammon-worships, and commercial frauds, and political wrongs of this section of the nineteenth century? Some eccentric and able men have indeed become famous by grappling, in their pulpits, more or less successfully, with some of these. But we repeat that in this part of the article we speak of rules, and not of exceptions. Premising this, we do not find that relation to the age in the pulpit, far less that precedence of it, which we should have expected and desired.

The skepticisms of the present day are not sufficiently attended to in our daily ministrations. Whether preachers know it or not, there is now a great deal of secret or lurking skepticism in all assemblies. Some are doubting about the very existence of a God, while listening to his word, or standing or kneeling in his worship. Others, with the leaves of the Bible open before them, are skeptics as to their divinity. Others, while joining in ascriptions of praise to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, are doubtful all the while whether these three are one, or "whether there be so much as a Holy Ghost." Others are perplexed about inspiration, or about Churches, or about baptism. Could, in short, the dark doubts passing through the hearts of a congregation in the course of one act of public worship be laid bare before the speaker, he would tremble amid the fullest tide of his oratory, and hide his eyes from the terrible display thus given of the uncertainties and dubities of thinking and earnest men in this age of ours.


UEEN CAROLINE, wife of George


But he ought not to turn away his eyes .from phenomenon. Far less should he, when he handles the subject of skepticism, do so in a harsh and peremptory spirit. He should distinguish between the dogmatist and the doubter; between the man willing to doubt and the man anxious to believe; above all, between the proselytizing skeptic and the man who, like that Spartan boy, allows the fox to gnaw his bowels rather than betray his secret. On the willful circulator of poison-whether in the coarse, crude opium of a Paine, or in the refined morphia of an Emerson-he should have no mercy. But to the man, whose doubt, like a demon, rends and tears him, and yet who keeps it to himself, or reveals it in a modest manner, he should extend sympathy, counsel, and compassion. For who has made him to differ? Who has taught him to cease to doubt? If he has never doubted, may it not be because he has never thought? and if he never doubted, is not that enough to prove him disqualified for, or should it not at least render him exceedingly cautious in, deal-"Then," said this excellent parent, "if ing with the case of those who have?

daughter always employed one of the ladies
of the court to read to her till she fell
asleep, and that on one occasion the prin-
cess suffered the lady, who was indisposed,
to continue the fatiguing duty until she
fell down in a swoon, determined to incul-
cate on her daughter a lesson of humanity.
The next night the queen, when in bed,
sent for the princess, and commanded her
to read aloud. After some time her royal
highness began to be tired of standing,
and paused in hopes of receiving an order
to be seated. "Proceed," said her ma-
jesty. In a short time a second pause
seemed to plead for the rest. "Read
on," said the queen again. The princess
again stopped, and again received an
order to proceed, till at length, faint and
breathless, she was forced to complain.

you thus feel the pain of this exercise for
one evening only, what must your at-
tendants feel who do it every night?
Hence learn, my daughter, never to in-
dulge your own ease,
while you suffer
your attendants to endure unnecessary

The genuine preacher will not only look at doubts in the face, but will inquire into their causes. He will not rest till he has explored, so far as he can, the "dark bosoms" of the sufferers, and found out whether their skepticism spring from se

cret or open vice, or from a restless tendency to speculation, or from that excess of the imaginative faculty which so often unsettles men's views of Christianity, or from a gloomy temperament, or from false views of Christianity, or from the influence of great names, or from a combination of such causes; and according to the result of this diagnosis should be his mode of treatment and his plan of cure. It will not do now to stamp, stare, roar, and dogmatize down all skepticism in the same monotony of coarse and wholesale condemnation. Such may be the panacea for it of vulgar men and vulgar ministers, but cannot be approved of by any who have studied modern skepticism calmly, who have looked at it in a philosophical point of view, or who have compared its working in the hearts of others with its working in their own; for need we say that a portion of doubt has its dwelling in every thinking soul, and that religion lives in a constant state of warfare with it, and is glad, even when it cannot strangle, if it can suppress and silence its voice?



When it was proposed to build Bethlehem Hospital, many benevolent individuals volunteered to solicit contributions by calling upon the inhabitants of London. Two of these gentlemen went to a small house in an impoverished neighborhood; for the pence of the poor were solicited as well as the pounds of the rich. The door was open, and, as they drew nigh, they overheard an old man scolding his female servant for having thrown away a match, only one end of which had been used. Although so trivial a matter, the master appeared to be much enraged, and the collectors re

terpretation of the gifts of these parsimonious philanthropists; but, right or wrong, it is the interpretation given, and the influence of a man's example is greater than that of his gold. It is somewhere written, "Let not your good be evil spoken of." We believe there is often much good hid under a parsimonious habit.

HE example of the parsimonious man is almost always bad. His neighbors see his anxiety about what they rightly consider trifles; and, perhaps, are witnesses to outbreaks of passion because all around him are not as parsimonious as himself. There is every probability, then, that his acts of wondrous, and, it may be, disinterested liberality will be ascribed, not to any goodness of heart, but to desire of applause-an ostentatious telling how self-denying he is, and how prudent. We do not say that this is often the correct in-mained some time outside the door, before the old man had finished his angry lecture. When the tones of his voice were somewhat subdued, they entered, and, presenting themselves to this strict observer of frugality and saving, explained the object of their application; but they did not anticipate much success. The miser, however, for such he was reputed in the neighborhood, no sooner understood their object, than he opened a closet, and bringing forth a well-filled bag, counted therefrom four hundred guineas, which he presented to the astonished applicants. They expressed their surprise and thankfulness, and could not refrain from telling the old gentleman that they had overheard his quarrel with his domestic, and how little they expected, in consequence, to have met with such munificence from him. "Gentlemen," replied the old man, 'your surprise is occasioned by my care of a thing of such little consequence; but I keep my house, and save my money in my own way; my parsimony enables me to bestow more liberally on charity. With regard to benevolent donations, you may always expect most from prudent people who keep their own accounts, and who pay attention to trifles."


Some years ago there lived in Marseilles an old man of the name of GUYOT: he was known to every inhabitant, and every urchin in the streets could point him out as a niggard in his dealings, and a wretch of the utmost penury in his habits of life. From his boyhood, this old man had lived in the city of Marseilles; and, although the people treated him with scorn and disgust, nothing could induce him to leave it. When he walked the streets he was followed by a crowd of boys, who, hating him as a grasping miser, hooted him vociferously, insulted him with the coarsest epithets, and sometimes annoyed him by casting stones and filth at his person. There was no one to speak a kind word in his favor, no one to bestow an act of friendship, or a nod of recognition upon Guyot. He was regarded by all as an avaricious, griping old miser, whose whole life was devoted to the hoarding up of gold. At last this object of universal scorn died, and it was found that, by his parsimony, he had amassed an ample fortune. What was the surprise of his executors, on opening but they do not use. It may be, the

The really miserly have no end but that of hoarding. They are generally termed selfish, but they seem to have hardly so much of man in them; they gather,

his will, to find these remarkable words:
"Having observed, from my infancy, that
the poor of Marseilles are ill supplied with
water, which can only be procured at a
great price, I have cheerfully labored the
whole of my life to procure for them this
great blessing, and I direct that the whole
of my property shall be expended in build-
ing an aqueduct for their use!"

pleasure they find in reckoning their
accumulations is as great as that of the
spendthrift in squandering them. Jem-
my Taylor used to say, that "if his suc-
cessors had as much pleasure in spend-
ing his property as he had in hoarding it
up, they need not complain of their hard lot
in the world." Sure we are it is a pleas-
ure few others seem to appreciate. Con-

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sequently, the miser is the most wondered a year. The nobleman soon died, and his and laughed at, and the least pitied, of all | heir neglected to pay the annuity. Audley the fools by whom this earth is crowded. had execution upon the property, and by And yet it seems to us he more deserves legal trickery, in which he was well versed, our pity than almost any of the others. he managed to obtain, in the way of fines We cannot say, as our author does, "We and forfeitures, about four thousand pounds detest the miser." He is hardly, if at all, profit upon his original six hundred. His distinguishable from the insane. His pro- master being one of the clerks of the pensity to gather, manifested at first among Compter, Audley had many opportunities his playmates, cherished, it is probable, at of practicing his disreputable cunning, and home, has become a passion; and so pow- of obtaining vast sums by deluding insolerful, that useless as well as useful articles vent debtors, and in deceiving their credare eagerly added to his store. He someitors. He would buy bad debts for a mere times satisfies his craving by blindly rob- trifle, and afterwards compound with the bing one heap to increase another. poor insolvent. One instance of his avarice and villany is so curious that we cannot refrain from giving the anecdote to our readers. A tradesman, named Miller, unfortunately got into arrears with his merchant, whose name was White. Many fruitless applications were made for the debt, and at last Mr. Miller was sued by the merchant for the sum of two hundred pounds. He was unable to meet the demand, and was declared insolvent. Audley goes to White, and offers him forty pounds for the debt, which the merchant gladly accepts. He then goes to Miller, and undertakes to obtain his quittance of the debt for fifty pounds, upon condition that he entered into a bond to pay for the accommodation. The drowning man catches at a straw, and the insolvent, with many protestations of thanks, eagerly signs a contract which, without consideration, he regarded as one so light, and so easy in its terms, as to satisfy him that the promptings of benevolence and friendship could alone actuate his voluntary benefactor. The contract was, that he should pay to Audley, some time within twenty years from that time, one penny progressively doubled, on the first day of twenty consecutive months; and, in case he failed to fulfill these easy terms, he was to pay a fine of five hundred pounds. Thus acquitted of his debt of two hundred pounds, Miller arranged with the rest of his creditors, and again commenced business. Fortune turned, and he participated liberally in her smiles. Every month added largely to his trade, and at last he became firmly established. Two or three years after signing the almost-forgotten contract, Miller was accosted one fine morning in October by old Audley, who politely demanded the first installment of the agreement. With a smile, and many renewed expres

AUDLEY was a celebrated miser of the time of the Stuarts; he amassed his wealth during the reign of the first Charles, and flourished amazingly under the protectorate of Cromwell. Audley was originally a clerk, with only six shillings a week salary, and yet out of this scanty sum he managed to save more than half. His dinner seldom cost him anything, for he generally made some excuse to dine with his master's clients; and, as to his other meals, a crust of bread, or a dry biscuit, was regarded as fare sufficient after an ample dinner. In one circumstance he was somewhat different from other misers: he was clean, if not neat, in his outward appearance. But he was thus scrupulous in his apparel from principle; for Audley often asserted, that to be thrifty, it was necessary to pay some respect to such matters. He was remarkably industrious, even when a young man. At an age when others were seeking pleasure, he was busy in lending out, and increasing his early savings. He was always ready to work when the usual hours of business were over, and would willingly sit up the whole night to obtain some trifling remuneration. He was never above soliciting trifles, and touching his hat to his master's clients. So rigid was he in his economy, and so usurious in his dealings, that in four years, during which time, however, he had never received more than a salary of six or eight shillings a week, he managed to save and amass five hundred pounds. The salary of the remaining years of his apprenticeship he sold for sixty pounds, and after a while, having made up six hundred pounds in all, he lent the whole to a nobleman for an annuity of ninety-six pounds for nineteen years, which annuity was secured upon property producing eight hundred

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