The utility of apt illustrations in preaching, the necessity of their being simple, and not in too great profusion, are well stated by a writer in the London Quarterly Review, in an article on Hare's sermons. The preacher had spoken of 'smugglers and poachers,' 'tea and wheaten bread,' upon which expressions and their like, the critic remarks:

We have preachers in our time who would have flinched from expressions so natural and straight-forward; and would infallibly have warned their poor people against holding any intercourse with the nocturnal marauder on the main or the manor; and have suggested to them the gratitude they owed for a fragrant beverage and farinaceous food. And so might Mr. Hare, if his taste had been less correct, and his desire of doing good less earnest. Affectation is bad enough anywhere; in the pulpit it is intolerable.'

The writer goes on to condemn the excessive quaintness which prevailed about the time of the Reformation:

'Accordingly, within a century after the Reformation, we find Thomas Fuller, the last man, from natural temperament, one would have thought likely to offer a caution upon such a subject, saying of the faithful ministers: His similes and illustrations are always familiar, never contemptible. Indeed reasons are the pillars of the fabric of a sermon; but similitudes are the windows which give the best light. He avoids such stories whose mention may suggest bad thoughts to the auditors, and will not use a light comparison to wake thereof a grave application, for fear lest his poison go farther than his antidote.' Preaching, therefore, now took an opposite tack, and from having been certainly once too succulent, by the time of John Wesley had become sapless. This was one cause which rendered the new style of preaching adopted by him and his followers so attractive. The standard, according to which the character of the imagery and diction of the pulpit of modern days was regulated, was not fixed before the divines of Queen Anne's time; as the vocabulary of poetry, according to Johnson, was not determined before the age of Dryden. In both cases the restraint has been injurious to the subject of it. There was a Doric simplicity-wood-notes wild' - in the poets before Dryden, for which the greater correctness, it may be, of those who have since lived, is but a poor substitute; and there was a homely vigor in the sentiments and phraseology of the pulpit of the first and second Charles, which has been ill-replaced by the decorous tameness of later times. Surely it is a morbid taste, and one that requires correction, which would kick at images that satisfied a Barrow; and yet we could point to numbers in his sermons which would now be rejected by the preacher, even the village preacher too, as mean and pedestrian. The familiar illustrations, therefore, by which a subject is rendered clear to persons slow to apprehend, and interesting to persons hard to be excited, is a figure not lightly to be renounced in deference to the false refinement of the magnates of a congregation; though doubtless capable of abuse. We say false refinement, for there are parables both in the prophets and in the gospels, against which the same parties might raise the same objection.'

In a similar strain, and with a like object, though with still more expansion of thought, a masterly writer in the Edinburgh Review remarks:

'We have long felt that the eloquence of the pulpit in its general character has never been assimilated so far as it might have been, and ought to have been, to that which has produced the greatest effects elsewhere, and which is shown to be of the right kind, alike by the success which has attended it, and by an analysis of the qualities by which it has been distinguished. If we were compelled to give a brief definition of the truest style of eloquence, we should say it was 'practical reasoning, animated by.strong emotion; or if we might be indulged in what is rather a description than a definition of it, we should say that it consisted in reasoning on topics calculated to inspire a common interest, expressed in the language of ordinary life, and in that brief, rapid, familiar style, which natural emotion ever assumes. The former half of this description would condemn no small portion of the compositions called sermons, and the latter half a still larger portion.

We would not be misunderstood. It is far, very far, from our intention to speak in terms of the slightest depreciation of the immense treasures of learning, of acute disquisition, of profound speculation, of powerful controversy, which the literature of the English pulpit exemplifies. In these points it cannot be surpassed. In vigor and originality of thought, in argumentative power, in extensive and varied erudition, it as far transcends all other literature of the same kind, as it is deficient in the qualities which are fitted to produce popular impression. We merely assert that the greater part of 'sermons' are not at all entitled to the name, if by it be meant discourses specially adapted to the object of instructing, convincing, or persuading the common mind.'

Speakers, constituted like Dr. Bascom, are in danger of two vices in style, a surplussage of decoration and extravagant display.

In the first place, it is of the greatest importance to avoid the two extremes of glare and monotony. As an adroit artist breaks his colors, carefully distributing light and shadow over his landscape, so the preacher, if he would be constantly interesting, must be continually diversified. A luxuriance of ornament, especially of the same kind, destroys that simplicity and repose, which are the perpetual accompaniments of true dignity. The refined Greeks were wonderfully acute to the proprieties of things, and in their master-pieces of plastic art have left us the most striking symbols of every grade of excellence. In their hands, Minerva's drapery was made to descend in long uninterrupted lines; while a thousand amorous curves embrace the limbs of Flora. Considered as types of pulpit eloquence, it is needless to say which of these we should emulate.

Dr. Bascom in some respects resembles Jeremy Taylor, of whom it has been said, that he thought in pictures, and his ideas were shadowed out in lovely images of beauty. His fancy colored his understanding, which rather painted elaborate metaphors, long drawn out,' than analyzed the complexity of a problem, or conducted

the discussion of a topic, by logical processes. The material world furnished his stock of similes. He drew on it for illustrations, rather than seek them in the workings of his own mind. His descriptions are almost palpable. They have an air of reality. His landscape is enveloped in a warm and glowing atmosphere; his light is from heaven.' His style is rich and luxuriant. He is all grace, beauty, melody. He does not appear so anxious to get at the result of an argument, to fix the certainty of a proposition, as to give the finest coloring to a received sentiment. He is more descriptive and less speculative. He reposes on the lap of beauty. He revels in her creations. The thirst of his soul was for the beautiful. This was with him almost synonymous with the good-the first good and the first fair.' Is it not so? Is not the highest truth the highest form of beauty? Our common idea of beauty is more sensual and tinged with earthliness. But the Platonic and spiritual conception is nobler and truer. His style is naturally poetic from the character of his mind; he had that poetic sensibility of feeling that saw beauty and deep meaning in every thing. His imagination colored the commonest object on which it lighted, as the bow of promise throws its tints over all creation; through this, as a veil, every object appeared bright and blooming like the flowers of spring, or dark and terrible like the thunder-cloud of summer. Its general hue was mild and gentle; he had a more genial feeling for beauty than for grandeur; though his awful description of the Last Judgment is stamped with the sublime force of Michael Angelo, or rather, like Rembrandt's shadows, terrible with excess of gloom. In this grand picture are collected all the images of terror and dismay, fused into a powerful whole by his so potent art. It is first a solemn anthem; a version of the monkish canticle; then you hear (in imagination) the deep base note of the last thunder that shall ever peal through the sky. You are almost blinded by the lightnings that gleam in his style. Presently, a horrid shriek of despair, (the accumulated wailing of millions of evil spirits,) rises on the affrighted ear. And anon, the trumpet with a silver sound is blown several times, and all is still. With what a subtle power this master plays on the conscience of his readers! He makes the boldest tremble; he magnifies, he reiterates, until the best of men shall think himself a fellow of the vilest!'

The instance we have just quoted is a monition, as well as a marvel, in respect to pulpit exercises, since the mere beauty and flow. of outline will unavoidably lead toward sameness and insipidity. 'The things most delicate require most pains.' The poet Mason called Simplicity the 'arbitress of all that's good and fair;' but this is by no means incompatible with richness of material and elaborate finish. In short, as Mr. Alison has said: 'In all the Fine Arts, that composition is most excellent in which the different parts most fully unite in the production of one unmingled emotion, and that taste the most perfect, where the perception of this relation of objects, in point of expression, is most delicate and precise.' The unity of a discourse cannot be too manifest, nor can the finish of all its members be too carefully executed, but it must be the harmony of real substance and

many varied but correlative parts. Artificial constructions, loaded with affected embellishments, are like wax fruit and paper foliage in a dusty, confined vase; or rather they are like diamonds on a superannuated woman, they may array, but they cannot adorn. The cold and servile spirit of copyism inevitably destroys all valuable originality. To deviate into occasional abruptness, and extravagance even, is better than to preserve a perpetual monotony of style.

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One of the most critical observers and powerful writers of this age has well said that 'the truths of nature are one eternal change infinite variety. There is no bush on the face of the globe exactly like another bush; there are no two trees in the forest whose boughs bend into the same network, nor two leaves on the same tree which could not be told one from the other; nor two waves in the sea exactly alike. And out of this mass of various, yet agreeing beauty, it is by long attention only that the conception of the constant character, the ideal form, hinted at by all, yet assumed by none, is fixed upon the imagination for its standard of truth.' With equal propriety it may be remarked, that there is no climate, no place, no hour of the day or night, in which nature does not exhibit new tints and tones, effects of light and shadow of the most diversified and fascinating kind. Such should be the model of all eloquence, secular and religious. It is necessary constantly to recur to nature and animate rigid forms with the air of life, but we should be careful not to descend to that emasculated softness which is a very poor substitute for the loftier attributes of manly strength. The most ornamental style requires large measures of simplicity to set off its decorations to the greatest advantage.

EARTH hath her deserts mixed with fruitful plains;
The word of God is barren in some parts;

A rose is not all flower, but hath much
Which is of lower beauty, yet like needful;
And he who in great makings doth like these,
Doth only that which is most natural.'

The other vice in style to which a mind like Dr. Bascom's is exposed, is vociferous elocution and extravagant display. We do not assert that such is the fact with respect to this distinguished preacher, but only that a temperament of his high tone is naturally impelled toward this fault. Such a speaker is inclined, from an ardent and impetuous flow of feeling, to begin on a high key, which it is impossible and disagreeable to maintain through an ordinary discourse, so that oft expectation fails, and most there where most it promises.'

Oratory differs from a cold formal narration by a liberal though chaste use of figurative and metaphorical expressions; more ornamental than dull prose, less ardent and glowing than poetry. It is a style which strongly addresses the two most excitable faculties of the mind, its imagination and its sensibility. In order to attain this oratorical excellence one must have seen much, read much, and pondered a great deal on all that he has either perused or observed. many aim at popularity, by reducing their language to the lowest strain, and employ the merest puerilities for embellishment. The subjects preferred by such are chiefly dogmatical; and if a moral

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theme is introduced, their preaching betrays no knowledge of mankind. They deal almost entirely in violent common-place declamation, as deficient in doctrinal precision as it is void of all just discrimination of character. Exaggeration prevents the rational hearer from applying the description to himself; and as the way of salvation is neither intelligibly nor humanely pointed out, he is rather exasperated than improved. Preachers who habitually wander through the barren fields of scholastic disquisition, or spin out labyrinthine allegories of interminable length, can create but little interest in a common audience. Neither can he be instructive or entertaining for a long time, whose voice is like a trumpet whining through a catacomb;' and whose whole action in the pulpit reminds one of the unfortunate bulls of Barrowdale, that went mad by the echoes of their own bellowing. Said old Thomas Mace, 'It is sad to hear what whining, tooting, yelling or screeching, there is in many country congregations, as if the people were affrighted or distracted.' But wherever and whenever such preachers are found, that which they most clearly exemplify is

"LETTING down buckets into empty wells,
And growing old in drawing nothing up.'

The habit of talking boisterously where no premeditated and welldefined purpose is to be executed, and where the excitement of the puerile declaimor must be entirely factitious, is undoubtedly very prejudicial. It produces that artificial style of address, which in emergencies that require real ability, fails to produce results corresponding with the high reputation which fluent wordiness may have acquired. Men who prefer to shrink from the patient drudgery of the library, and the unwearied emulation of the best models in matter and manner, cannot hope to be greatly admired, or even respected by intelligent people.

An old writer, with some quaintness, but much truth, observes: 'I grieve that anything so excellent as divinity is should fall into a sluttish handling. Sure though other interposures do eclipse her, yet this is a principal. I never yet knew a good tongue that wanted ears to hear it. I will honor her in her plain trim; but I will wish to meet her in her graceful jewels, not that they give addition to her goodness, but that she is more persuasive in working on the soul she meets with. When I meet with worth which I cannot over-love, I can well endure that art which is a means to heighten liking. Confections that are cordial are not the worse, but the better, for being gilded.' But this kind of refinement may be carried to excess, as La Bruyère complained was the case with the French preachers in his day. Preaching,' said he, is now-a-days become a mere show; that evangelic gravity, the life of preaching, is absolutely laid aside; an advantageous mien, a pretty tone of voice, exactness of gesture, choice of expression, and long enumerations, supply its place. To attend seriously on the dispensation of the holy word is no longer customary; going to church is an amusement among a thousand others, and preaching a diversion. The preachers play for the prize, and the hearers bet upon their heads. Oh the vain, unprofitable ser