time in my life. His enunciation was so deliberate, that his vace trembled on every syllable, and every heart in the assembly trembled in unison. His peculiar phrases had that force of description, that the original scene appeared to be at that time acting before our eyes. We saw the very faces of the Jews; the staring, frightful distortions of malice and rage. We saw the buffet: my soul kindled with a flame of indignation, and my hands were involuntarily and convulsively elenched.

But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiving meekness of our Saviour; when he drew, to the life, his blessed eyes streaming in tears to heaven; his voice breathing to God a soft and gentle prayer of pardon on his enemies, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!" the Voice of the preacher, which had all along faltered, grew fainter and fainter, until his utterance being entirely obstructed by the force of his feelings, he raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loud and irrepressible flood of grief. The effect was inconceivable. The whole house resounded with the mingled groans and shrieks of the congregation.

It was some time before the tumult had subsided so far as to permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual but fallacious standard of my own weakness, I began to be very uneasy for the situation of the preacher; for I could not conceive how he would be able to let his audience down from the height to which he had wound them, without impairing the solemnity and dignity of his subject, or perhaps shocking them by the abruptness of his fall. But-no; the descent was as beautiful and sublime as the elevation had been rapid and enthusiastic.

The first sentence with which he broke the awful silence was a quotation from Rousseau:-"Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a God!"

I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by

this short sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the whole manner of the man, as well as the peculiar crisis in the discourse. Never before did I completely understand what Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on delivery. You are to bring before you the venerable figure of the preacher; his blindness constantly recalling to your recollection old Homer, Ossian, and Milton, and associating with his performance the melancholy grandeur of their geniuses; you are to imagine that you hear his slow, solemn, well-accented enunciation, and his voice of affecting, trembling melody; you are to remember the pitch of passion and enthusiasm to which the congregation were raised; and then the few moments of portentous, death-like silence which reigned throughout the house; the preacher, removing his white handkerchief from his aged face, (even yet wet from the recent torrent of his tears,) and slowly stretching forth the palsied hand which holds it, begins the sentence, "Socrates died like a philosopher,"-then paus. ing, raising his other hand, pressing them both, clasped toge. ther, with warmth and energy to his breast, lifting his "sightless holes" to heaven, and pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice-" but Jesus Christ-like a God!" If he had been indeed and in truth an angel of light, the effect could could scarcely have been more divine. Whatever I had been able to conceive of the sublimity of Massillon, or the force of Bourdalone, had fallen far short of the power which I felt from the delivery of this simple sentence

If this description gives you the impression that this incomparable minister had any thing of shallow, theatrical trick in his manner, it does him great injustice. I have never seen in any other orator, such a union of simplicity and majesty. He has not a gesture, an attitude, or an accent, to which he does not seem forced by the sentiment he is expressing. His mind is too serious, too earnest, too solicitous, and at the same time too dignified, to stoop to artifice. Although as far removed from

ostentation as a man can be, yet it is clear, from the train, the style, and substance of his thoughts, that he is not only a very polite scholar, but a man of extensive and profound erudition. I was forcibly struck with a short, yet beautiful character which he drew of Sir Robert Boyle; he spoke of him as if "his noble mind had, even before death, divested herself of all influence from his frail tabernacle of flesh;" and called him, in his peculiarly emphatic and impressive manner, "a pure intelligence; the link between men and angels."

PETER, THE INDIAN PREACHER.

THE following anecdote equally illustrates the genius and talent of the speaker to whom it relates, and the usefulness of Mr. Kirkland, the honoured missionary under whose labours he had received his Christian instruction.

While Mr. Kirkland was a missionary to the Oneidas, being unwell, he was unable one Sabbath afternoon to preach, and told Good Peter, one of the head-men, that he must address the congregatiou. Peter modestly and reluctantly consented. After a few words of introduction, he began a discourse on the character of the Saviour. "What, my brethren," said he, "are the views which you form of the character of Jesus? You will answer, perhaps, that he was a man of singular benevolence. You will tell me, that he proved this to be his character by the nature of the miracles which he wrought. All these, you will say, were kind in the extreme. He created bread to feed thousands who were ready to perish. He raised to life the son of a poor woman who was a widow, and to whom his labours were necessary for her support in old age. Are these, then, your only views of the Saviour? I tell you

they are lame. When Jesus came into our world, he threw his blanket around him, but the God was within !”

This anecdote was related to the late Dr. Dwight, by Mr. Kirkland himself.

tREV. Z. ADAMS.

THE REV. Z. Adams was well acquainted with a neighbouring minister, a very mild, inoffensive man, and the exchange of labours for a Sabbath was proposed. Knowing Mr. Adams's peculiar bluntness of character, the minister said, “You will find some panes of glass broken in the pulpit window, and possibly you may suffer from the cold. The cushion, too, is in a bad condition; but I beg of you not to say any thing to my people on the subject; they are poor." "O no! O no!" said Mr. Adams. But before he left home he filled a bag with rags, and took it with him. When he had been in the pulpit a short time, feeling somewhat incommoded by the too free circulation of air, he deliberately took from the bag a handful or two of rags, and stuffed them into the window. Towards the close of his discourse, which was upon the duties of a people towards their clergyman, he became very animated, and purposely brought down both fists with a tremendous force upon the pulpit cushion. The feathers flew in all directions, and the cushion was pretty much used up. He instantly checked the current of his thoughts, and simply exclaiming, "Why, how these feathers fly!" proceeded. He had fulfilled his promise of not addressing the society on the subject, but had taught them a lesson not to be misunderstood. On the next Sabbath the window and the cushion were found in excellent repair.

A CLERGYMAN IN MASSACHUSETTS.

ABOUT one hundred years ago, a clergyman in Massachusetts had a respectable neighbour belonging to his parish, who was notoriously addicted to lying: not from any malicious or pecuniary motives, but from a perverse habit. The minister was every day grieved by the evil example of his neighbour. This person was Captain Clark, a friend of the clergyman in all temporal matters, and a man useful in the parish. But his example was a source of much inquietude to the divine. He was determined to preach a sermon for the occasion. Accordingly he took for his text, "Lie not one to another." He expatiated on the folly, the wickedness, and evil example of lying in such a pointed manner, that nearly every person present thought that the clergyman was aiming at the Captain. The service being ended, some one said to the captain, "What do you think of the sermon?" Excellent, excellent," he replied; "but I could not for my life keep my eyes off old mother Symington, thinking how she must feel, for he certainly meant her." This story was told by a daughter of the clergyman, who heard the sermon; to which she added, "When you hear any folly or vice exhibited from the pulpit, before you look out for a mother Symington, look within yourself, and see if Captain Clark is not there." Her advice had some effect, and may have again.

A GOOD PREACHER.

It has been well remarked that no individual is benefited by preaching, till he supposes that it means him. It sometimes appears so personal to wicked men, that they feel as though they were just about to be called out by name before the con