From past regrets, from dark remorse, From burning hate, and sense of loss Of home, and friends, and honor, all Cover'd by sorrow's thick'ning pall.

Worn, weary, wasted; still his eye,
Fix'd on that image on the wall,
In the faint rays which on it fall,
Sees the pale victim start to view,
In form and feature, full and true,
As faith had mirror'd on his heart,
While every feature seems to start
From the cold stone, and smiling give,
Gizors, thy victim's griefs a grave.
Who, whence, or what, no record tells,
Neither whispers through these cells;
His faith that speaking marble keeps,
None tells his fall, or where he sleeps.

HOW IS PULPIT POWER TO BE ACQUIRED?

LE

ET the preacher aim at growing holiness by constant devoutness. His position is eminently favorable to the culture of this primary requirement. He who performs a ceremony needs but the graceful acting which the frequent celebration brings with it. The didactic exposition of truth or its argumentative defense, trains the teacher to accuracy, and the reasoner to vigor. Thus, the endeavor to win men from evil to good re-acts on a man's own spirit. But no man makes such endeavor if he is not honestly devoted to God. The priest could disable himself for the genuflexions and cadences of a bodily adoration. The teacher might so weaken his intellect as to be unfit for explaining or defending truth. So may the preacher lack that elemental power in preaching which comes from the entire absorption of the soul in religious thoughts and spiritual aims. For his own sake, it behooves him to resist stoutly the temptation to modes of thinking which he finds to have the effect of deadening his devotion, by drawing him from the things on which the heart of Christ was set for if such temptation be yielded to, no matter what he would be, he would not have power in the pulpit. For the sake of others, even more than for his own, let him be jealous of himself. He should be like the cherubim in Ezekiel's vision-"full of eyes within," as well as "full of eyes without ;" the whole surface of his being a retina of delicate fibres, shrinking from every touch, recoiling from every approach of evil. Holiness is not a mystic quality, gliding into the soul whe

seasons, to act spasmodically in appointed places; it is not a look, a tone, a gesture, a demeanor; it is not the portentous gravity that hangs like a thunder-cloud near the sunny landscapes where the merry heart lifts its voice in songs; it is not the coarse garment of the ascetic, nor the scowl of the cynic, nor the sour visage, nor the hoarse murmur of the censorious; it is neither the trick of artifice, nor the uniform of imposture; neither the mummery of superstition, nor the arrogance of bigotry. Holiness-in God-is the ineffable harmony of all the aspects of his one glorious nature. Holiness—in creatures who have fallen-is the steep ascent which begins in sorrow, climbing with hard steps and slow to that pureness in which the instincts are guided by reason, listening to the voice of God, and doing his will upon earth as it is done in heaven. The holy man is he who is led by the Divine Spirit to the development of his own spirit in the spontaneous yielding of his harmonized self to God. This can no more be imitated than superseded. Some of its outward showings may, indeed, be copied; yet the copy must be essentially defective. There are trees wrought in iron or silver-they yield no fruit. Flowers there are in silk and other tissues-they breathe no odor. There are fruits of varied hues in waxthey have no taste. There are birds and men, rivers and landscapes, exquisitely painted, or done in cunning carved-work— they have no motion, no life. So are these appearances of holiness-shapes of godliness without the power. Now it is the reality, not the show-the substance, not the figure, which we regard as holiness; and this can be insured to the preacher in no other way than by devout vigils. The common creed of Christendom acknowledges that God is everywhere. To feel that this is true, not in sudden starts, but as the habitual consciousness, is, before all things, what the preacher should be sure of; for in that presence he dare not sin-cannot doubt-will not fear; every spot is within the precincts of the temple, every moment a golden grain of Sabbath; every pulse, homage; every thought, incense; every word, worship; every deed, sacrifice. Such a life is on

the verge of heaven. There is in it a simplicity which cannot be put into words; a transparency through which the heart is seen as in a crystal vase—a magnetism that touches the springs of action, at one moment, in a thousand souls-a power, compared with which all other human energies are weakness. The preacher who thus walks humbly with his God is ever clothed in the majesty of a silent gospel; and when he speaks, it is as natural as the law that shapes the dew and forks the lightning, that his word should be with power.

The preacher's faith should be nourished by self-discipline, the true askesis. It may be that his belief as a Christian is hereditary-an inheritance which it were monstrously prodigal to throw away, fearfully profane to despise. Yet his personal holding of these truths has become the act of reason-it is his own proper faith. If it now appeared to him, in his maturity, that there is higher reason for repudiating these traditionary holdings than for cleaving to them, he would make up his mind, it is to be hoped, to tear them up by the roots if he could. But he has become a witness for the gospel, and its champion. His call to propagate it is imperative. It is the seat of his strength-the glory of his life. He does not undertake, as a hireling for a morsel of bread, to uphold the creed of others; he does engage to make known what he believes to be taught by the Spirit of God. He rejoices that other men have been anointed with the same anointing which teacheth us all things," and that they, like him, have the witness in themselves. He would sound out the truth with the clearness of a bell.

There is a general law of persistence on which men rely for expecting to find a preacher going on in the same direction to the end of life; but we have witnessed changes in this class of men, and we trace some tendencies in several quarters which forbid our leaning blindly on this law of human persistency. We perceive, also, that there are other laws of human action by which this law is sometimes countervailed. We are not now complaining of either the general law-though it stereotypes much untruth; nor of the exceptional laws-though they may generate grave errors; but, looking at the preaching of the gospel as a great practical work for man's highest weal, we are concerned to

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see men engaged in it who are neither bigots nor changelings: who have fixity of rudimental belief with freedom of expansive thought; who can utter the ancient saying" of the gospel in the speech of our day, rather than in that of half a century ago, acting in this respect like Jesus and the apostles, and the old prophets before them; speaking not the words consecrated by the Churches, but in those of shops and markets, of men around them in the halls of popular science, in the jury-box, on the hustings, at the gatherings of free citizens, and in the debates of Parliament. The power of a believing mind, to which we have referred, requires the preacher's acquaintance with the truths of the gospel to be intimate, as they are found, not in human "composures," but in "the divine instrument," so that men feel that he is speaking to them fairly in a way to be understood, and that, though he may not always be arguing as against opponents, he makes it clear to them that he could and does, on fit occasions. make least show of strength. Faith is a tranquil power. What we venture to recommend is that spiritual askesis-selfdiscipline of all the faculties-which imparts to the preacher's faith the property of being imperturbable, not because he dares not think, but because he has thought—not because he takes for granted that other men are to be trusted who tell him that the foundation is all right, but because he knows this for himself, whether men tell him so or not, and that he is sure what he preaches is true, even though the whole world were laughing him to scorn for saying so. So Luther preached that a man who has sinned can be set right with the righteous God by trusting in Christ. Thus Baxter warned. Thus Wesley and Whitefield pleaded. Thus Chalmers reasoned. Thus thundered Mason in New-York. Thus Hall poured out the affluence of his learning, and the creations of his genius, in the kindling stream of golden sentences. These were men of power. In their faith there was no staggering; in their words no faltering; in their ministry no weakness. Luther was a tower of strength, because his whole "trust" was in the Lord. Baxter was a burning flame, because he lived hard by the mercy-seat, whereupon the glory dwelt between the cherubim. Whitefield and Wesley were "the voice of one crying in the wilder

ness," because, like John, their cry was— "Behold the Lamb of God!" Chalmers foamed like a cataract, because the deep rapids came rushing down upon him from the everlasting mountains. Hall's words were molten in the furnace where his faith was tried with fire. These were great preachers because they were strong believers; and they were strong believers because they loved the truth, kept their hearts with all diligence, and walked in the light of heaven. There is no age in which such preachers would not have power. Men gaze on their effigies as though they were of an order different from themselves. Nobly, truly, was the mold in which their Maker cast them; but the mold is not broken. Rare, indeed, were the stores that filled these golden vessels; but the mines whence they were digged are not worked out. Let the preacher press into that mold. Let him delve in those rocks. Let him be no man's copy. Let him be himself original-not in oddity or extravagance the least original of all absurd impertinences-but in simplicity, and independence, and naturalness.

Finally, let him who would have power in preaching turn all his reading and observation to account in the study of men. His reading is of small use if it help him not here. By a sort of intellectual chemistry he can analyze and apply the properties of any writer on any subject in history, biography, in controversies of every kind, in voyages, travels, science; in them all he sees, as in a phantasmagoria, the movements of life opening to the glance of genius; while in the Bible -his Book of Books-man is revealed in his secret thoughts by the unfailing light of God.

His observation needs not travel over a wide surface. In the quietudes of rural life, and in the busy hives of industry, the human heart has only coverings of gauze to him whose eyes are opened. The preacher is to look at the population, not as skilled in many crafts, or as frequenting this church, and that chapel, or aliens from both-but as men, women, and children, making one another what they are, and what they will be. Let him strike into the pith of that humanity which is essentially alike in all, and catch the "pressure" which the way in which they live has stamped on each. The preacher's mission is to the many-to "the common people."

He must know how to preach to the common people. They do not want him to be disrespectful to himself, or rude to them. They look in him for the polish of education. In the depth of their hearts they look up to him; because they know that, in religious things, at least, he is wiser than themselves, and, without any airs of condescension, is working for their good, both in this world and in the next.

It is not easy to judge how much our preachers have of this element of pulpit power; but we would respectfully advise each of them to "covet" it " earnestly" as one of the “best gifts." Among the common working people, the modern preacher will find some stern principles, stout prejudices, pithy sayings, large capacities of action, some fine specimens of muscular Christianity, and, now and then, a bold bad man, who will put his knowledge, ingenuity, and self-control to beneficial tests. Therefore he must be A MAN HIMSELF, in his thoughts, in his life, in his mode of thinking, and in his way of saying what he thinks.

He who has might of the genuine sort, and who preaches “with his might," will be a living illustration of "the theory of an evangelical ministry," and his pulpit will be-a throne of POWER. Happy he who fills that throne, and happy they by whom he is surrounded.

VALUAR

KNOWLEDGE.

ALUABLE knowledge can be attained only by personal effort. Every one must traverse the hills and valleys for himself, and it is only by unremitting application and perseverance that the attempt will be crowned with success. But to the devoted persevering seekers success is certain. The state of mind is such as to insure the best use being made of any accessible helps, and of the exercise of ingenuity and application in surmounting difficulties even in the absence of all foreign aid. Whatever may be his present deficiencies and disadvantages, the person-especially the young person-who is so insensible of the value of knowledge as to apply his heart to understanding-to seek for it as for silver, and search for it as for hid treasures-assuredly shall not seek in vain. Knowledge is the prize of application.

To part is painful; nay, to bid adieu
E'en to a favorite spot is painful too.
That fine old seat, with all those oaks around,
Oft have I view'd with reverence so profound,
As something sacred dwelt in that delicious
ground.

There, with its tenantry about, reside

A genuine English race, the country's pride;.
And now a lady, last of all that race,
Is the departing spirit of the place.
Hers is the last of all that noble blood
That flow'd through generations brave and good;
And if there dwells a native pride in her,
It is the pride of name and character.
True, she will speak, in her abundant zeal,
Of stainless honor; that she needs must feel;
She must lament that she is now the last
Of all who gave such splendor to the past.
Still are her habits of the ancient kind;
She knows the poor, the sick, the lame, the blind:
She holds, so she believes, her wealth in trust;
And being kind, with her, is being just.
Though soul and body she delights to aid,
Yet of her skill she 's prudently afraid :
So to her chaplain's care she this commends,
And when that craves, the village doctor sends.
At church, attendance she requires of all,
Who would be held in credit at the Hall;
A due respect to each degree she shows,
And pays the debt that every mortal owes;
"Tis by opinion that respect is led,
The rich esteem, because the poor are fed.
Her servants all, if so we may describe
That ancient, grave, observant, decent tribe,
Who with her share the blessings of the hall,
Are kind, but grave-are proud, but courteous all,
Proud of their lucky lot! Behold, how stands
That gray-hair'd butler, waiting her commands;
The lady dines, and every day he feels
That his good mistress falters in her meals.
VOL. II, No. 6.-PP

With what respectful manners he entreats
That she would eat-yet Jacob little eats;
When she forbears, his supplicating eye
Entreats the noble dame once more to try.
Their years the same; and he has never known
Another place: and this he deems his own-
All appertains to him. Whate'er he sees

Is ours!" our house, our land, our walks, our trees!"

But still he fears the time is just at hand,
When he no more shall in that presence stand;
And he resolves, with mingled grief and pride,
To serve no being in the world beside.
"He has enough," he says, with many a sigh,
"For him to serve his God, and learn to die:
He and his lady shall have heard their call,
And the new folk, the strangers, may have all."
But, leaving these to their accustom'd way,
The seat itself demands a short delay.
We all have interest there-the trees that grow
Near to that seat, to that their grandeur owe;
They take, but largely pay, and equal grace
bestow:

They hide a part, but still the part they shade
Is more inviting to our fancy made;
And, if the eye be robb'd of half its sight,
Th' imagination feels the more delight.
These giant oaks by no man's order stand;
Heaven did the work; by no man was it
plann'd.

Here I behold no puny works of art;

None give me reasons why these views impart Such charm to fill the mind, such joy to swell the heart.

These very pinnacles and turrets small,
And windows dim have beauty in them all.
How stately stands yon pine upon the hill
How soft the murmurs of that living rill!
And o'er the park's tall paling, scarcely higher,
Peeps the low church, and shows the modest spire,

Unnumber'd violets on these banks appear,
And all the first-born beauties of the year.
The gray-green blossoms of the willows bring
The large wild bees upon the laboring wing.
Then comes the summer with augmented pride,
Whose pure small streams along the valleys
glide;

Her richer Flora their brief charms display;
And, as the fruit advances, fall away.

Then shall th' autumnal yellow clothe the leaf,
What time the reaper binds the burden'd sheaf;
Then silent groves denote the dying year,
The morning frost and noon-tide gossamer;
And all be silent in the scene around,
All, save the distant sea's uncertain sound,
Or here and there the gun, whose loud report
Proclaims to man that death is but his sport:
And then the wintry winds begin to blow,
Then fall the flaky stars of gathering snow,
When on the thorn the ripening sloe, yet blue,
Takes the bright varnish of the morning dew;
The aged moss grows brittle on the pale,
The dry boughs splinter in the windy gale,
And every changing season of the year
Stamps on the scene its English character.
Farewell! a prouder mansion I may see,
But much must meet in that which equals thee!
I leave the town, and take a well-known way
To that old mansion in the closing day,
When beams of golden light are shed around,
And sweet is every sight and every sound.
shall then behold
Pass but this hill, and

The seat so honor'd, so admired of old,
And yet admired-

Alas! I see a change,

mean.

As thus my spleen upon the view I fed,
A man approach'd me, by his grandchild led-
A blind old man, and she a fair young maid,
Listening in love to what her grandsire said.
And thus, with gentle voice, he spoke :-
"Come, lead me, lassie, to the shade,
Where willows grow beside the brook:
For well I know the sound it made,
When, dashing o'er the stony rill,
It murmur'd to St. Osyth's Mill.”
The lass replied: "The trees are fled;
They've cut the brook a straighter bed;
No shades the present lords allow;
The miller only murmurs now;
The waters now his mill forsake,
And form a pond they call a lake."
"Then, lassie, lead thy grandsire on,
And to the holy water bring;
A cup is fasten'd to the stone,

And I would taste the healing spring,
That soon its rocky cist forsakes,
And green its mossy passage makes."

"The holy spring is turn'd aside,
The rock is gone, the stream is dried;
The plow has level'd all around,
And here is now no holy ground."
"Then, lass, thy grandsire's footsteps guide
To Bulmer's Tree, the giant oak,
Whose bows the keeper's cottage hide,
And part the church-way lane o'erlook.
A boy, I climb'd the topmost bow,
And I would feel its shadow now.

"Or, lassie, lead me to the west,

Where grow the elm-trees thick and tall,
Where rooks unnumber'd build their nest:
Deliberate birds, and prudent all;
Their notes, indeed, are harsh and rude,
But they're a social multitude."
"The rooks are shot, the trees are fell'd,
And nest and nursery all expell'd:
With bitter fate, the giant tree,
Old Bulmer's oak, is gone to sea;
The church-way walk is now no more,
And men must other ways explore:
Though this, indeed, promotion gains,
For this the park's new wall contains;
And here, I fear, we shall not meet
A shade-although, perchance, a seat."
"O then, my lassie, lead the way

To Comfort's Home, the ancient inn,
That something holds, if we can pay-
Old David is our living kin:
A servant once, he still preserves
His name, and in his office serves."
"Alas! that mine should be the fate
Old David's sorrows to relate;
But they were brief: not long before
He died, his office was no more:
The kennel stands upon the ground,
With something of the former sound."
"O then," the grieving man replied,

"No further, lassie, let me stray;
Here's nothing left of ancient pride,

Of what was grand, of what was gay,
But all is changed, is lost, is sold-
All, all that's left is chilling cold;
I seek for comfort here in vain ;
Then lead me to my cot again."— Crabbe.