appearances of the spiritual horizon, and soaring so as to extend that horizon itself. There are some men who are very impatient of these flights; who think that all writing and speaking is valuable only so far as it is distinct and scrupulous; who call everything nonsense, which is not exact sense. A man, glowing with sublime visions, discourses to them on what he sees, or thinks he sees, of the unexplored magnificence of the upper heaven of thought; and they do not suffer themselves to be moved. They receive only what appears to them to be accurate. "Tell us precisely what you mean by this. How is this expression of yours to be reconciled with that other? Make your ideas distinct to us." Thus they say, and any irreconcilable inconsistency, much more a confession on the speaker's part, that he does not know exactly what he means himself, (a confession which a man at once aspiring and sincere, will sometimes be called to make,) stamps the whole as worthless in the minds of these censors. Now is not this very narrow? Are any discoveries to be hoped for, if we limit our view to that clear field which lies immediately about us? Is not every truth, like every outward object, indistinct in proportion to its elevation? And is it not for the noble mind frequently to turn away from those accessible objects, which good sense pleases itself with illustrating, to the dim, and often obscured, but changeless orb of heaven? Above all, the religious thinker, the true philosopher, is impatient of the bonds of logic. He knows that the highest objects of thought are those, the connexion of which with acknowledged truth is not yet clear. He knows that he can feel what he cannot prove. He spurns all bounds but those of his own nature; and is fond of sending his raised spirits up into the illimitable realms of space. And why scout such a man,

because his vision is sometimes dim? It is none the less a new planet that he has discovered; because he is not able as yet to tell its diameter, or the number of its satellites. He sees a new star in the sky; and what he sees he tells. Let him be honored as a discoverer. But the worst of it is, that superiority and praise straightway beget conceit; the eye is obscured by vanity; and the next time that our philosopher announces a discovery to the world, the new star will, as likely as not, turn out to be only a glittering particle of earthy matter, which has been raised into his atmosphere by the shuffling of his own selfcongratulation. Such an error may fairly amuse us. But it is better to be sometimes mistaken than to be always dull.

VOL. XXV.-3D s. VOL. VII. NO. II.

33

The field of eloquence then is wider than that of good sense, for the simple reason that the mind may be excited by that which it does not comprehend. And yet within the sphere of clear understanding, eloquence should always be faithful to judgment; for we are always more moved by what we understand, than by what we do not. Strong sense is often the chief characteristic of eloquence; and this is the source of the power of several of our most persuasive legislative orators. Notwithstanding this, however, eloquence may be very great without its faithful ally. Who will deny the consummate eloquence of Rousseau for instance; and yet who would allow him the praise of good sense? Perpetually offending against the common sense of men, yet continually surprising you with his shrewd observations on society, his sentiments corrupted by his own vices, and his judgment misled by regarding his idiosyncracies as the universal attributes of humanity, accommodating his theories to an impossible state, which is nevertheless assumed as real, but, on the other hand, with a boundless capacity for abstract truth, a sincere love of virtue, and an enthusiastic faith,

false to the world, yet true to his own convictions, the most unsafe of writers, and requiring to be watched with an indefatigable jealousy, he is so eloquently wrong, when right so genial and possessed, that while few authors offer so much instruction, or so move the heart, few can read him without danger, none profit by him without fatigue.

The secret of his power was, as he told the Jesuit priest, that he said what he thought. His writings are pervaded by a deep sincerity. If he misled others, he first thoroughly deceived himself. He had the spirit of truth; though he was so often betrayed into error. Good sense is not essential to eloquence; but this spirit of truth is. With sincere enthusiasm one may be eloquent in a bad cause. And yet, can eloquence exist in the highest degree without good sense? Does not error enfeeble as well as distort the mind? Does it not disturb the harmony of the faculties; cause the sympathies of the soul to contradict and counteract one another; and so produce a feverish excitement, which finds relief in returning at last even to judicious dulness? One sometimes gladly escapes from the eloquent flood of Rousseau or Byron to the terra firma of the simplest common sense. And, still more, does not the perception of any fundamental mistake in a writer or speaker immediately check the influence of his address? Is not our admiration of

Massillon, for instance, continually arrested by our dissent from his gloomy theology; and does not his great mind move with far less power, from being shackled with doctrines which good sense condemns? It would appear so. Good sense is essential to the highest eloquence; and sincerity, temporary sincerity at least, to any genuine eloquence at all.

It is very pleasing to observe how faithful human nature is to its guides. You will sometimes see a speaker exerting all the powers of his constitution under the impulse of a selfish zeal, roaring with an unmeasured capacity of lungs, while his audience remain entirely unaffected, or it may be, asleep; and then a true-hearted man will perhaps rise, and with a voice trembling from physical weakness, and scarcely audible, and a frame hardly strong enough to support itself, will move the very depths of the soul, tears will gather even on the hardened cheek, and the indifferent be roused to anxious thought. The difference between two such speakers every assembly appreciates. They perceive that it is the difference between something and nothing. The heart remains unmoved by mere physical exertion. I have seen a Franciscan monk in an Italian pulpit, spending the extreme energy of his body, striding to and fro like a lion in a cage, grasping the crucifix, embracing it, tearing his hair, foaming at the mouth, pale, trembling, his eyes distorted like a maniac's, and his auditors meanwhile occupied with asking alms of the strangers who were among them. They were only chilled by the cataract of his zeal. His speech was nought, because he was not moved by the Holy Spirit.

This bombastic style of speaking is heard mostly from ambitious imitators of distinguished orators. Thus many of the followers of Whitefield, without any of the self-sacrifice and faith which kindled such a flame within his breast, yet bent on possessing his power even without his merit, have substituted violence for energy, and extravagance for zeal, looking to their bodies for inspiration, and to language for material; not urged by the truth, but, like the horses of the Roman carnival, spurred into mad speed by their own exertions. An audience immediately perceives that this is all false fire. Ambitious worldliness never has received, nor ever will receive, the rewards of faith. But noisy declamation is an excess very infrequent among We run into opposite follies. A large portion of our public speakers content themselves with an unexcited and unexciting judiciousness. Perhaps to a wise observer this would seem

us.

to be peculiarly the case with the Unitarian pulpit. If it be so, the peculiarity is to be accounted for from the fact, that our chief business for a period has been to deny and to examine, to refute with calmness what was maintained with passion, and to reestablish Reason on the throne from which she had been expelled. But very unfortunately, Reason seems to have been confounded with reasoning; and some of our most conscientious ministers have become jealous of everything but argument. Stirring appeals to the imagination and the heart seem to them out of place, or at least unnecessary. Their home, their friends, their country, their freedom, their lives, these they would defend in extremity with passionate attachment, But God and Jesus, the principles of piety and of morals, though not only in danger, but violently assailed, the spiritual lives of their friends actually periled, they hold it best to defend with unexcited self-possession.

Is it a mere superficial evil that we oppose? Is not the very heart diseased? Are not the very affections, principles, faith, hopes of the people unchristian and worldly? Does not vice spread like the plague? Is not the public eye blind to the greatest realities? Does not every-day life, do not the public prints, manifest a hearty alienation from those principles which we preach? If so, what then is going to work the radical reform, which, now as well as in the days of the apostles, is the end and aim of gospel preaching? Will good sense do it? Never. "You have no hold on the passions but by the passions.' ""* And if we are to overcome the passionate attachment which men have to the silly trifles of this showy world, it can only be by infusing into them, by means of an eloquent transmission from our own hearts, a passionate love of God and of virtue.

G. F. S.

1

* "On n' a de prise sur les passions que par les passions."- Rous

seau.

NOTICES AND INTELLIGENCE.

A History of the Presbyterian and General Baptist Churches in the West of England; with Memoirs of some of their Pastors. By JEROM MURCH, Minister of Trim Street Chapel, Bath. London: J. Mardon, Farringdon Street. 1835. 8vo. pp. 579.

Whoever wishes to obtain a correct idea of the history, principles, and prospects of English Unitarians, may safely refer to this volume, which, though it confines its notices to the Unitarian societies in the West of England only, is so minute and careful in these, that better means are furnished in it of judging of the character of the whole body, than in any other volume with which we are acquainted. It is also filled with that curious interest which belongs to antiquarian research and biographical anecdote. The history of the churches is commenced at their several fountains, which, as is well known, are generally in the old field of Presbyterianism, and, as it is followed down, is accompanied by notices of men who have played a part, more or less distinguished, in their day and generation. As we turn the pages of this book, we meet with the familiar and respected names of Toulmin, Towgood, James Peirce of Exeter, Merivale, Estlin, Butcher, Bretland, Kenrick, John Jones, Jervis, Carpenter, besides others, who though less known, deserve remembrance. We also meet with names of more domestic sound names of those whose ministerial services have been acceptably performed in both Old and New England; of. Dr. Increase Mather, who, going to England, was first settled at Great Torrington, Devonshire, then in the island of Guernsey, and then in Gloucester, before he returned to New England, where he became, as old John Dunton says, " metropolitan clergyman of that country, and rector of Harvard College;"― of Dr. Benjamin Colman, who was ordained in London, and who ministered in Bath, before he was finally settled in Brattle Street, Boston of Mr. Isaac Smith, who, not gifted and celebrated as those just named, has left behind him a respected memory, and who, before we knew him as the chaplain of one of our eleëmosynary institutions, was minister of the little chapel in Sidmouth, Devonshire.

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That little chapel in Sidmouth, we recollect it well. It was a most perfect specimen of a lowly house of worship. You might have passed it ten times a day, without suspecting that it was anything more than a tenantless cottage. Its low walls, entirely unadorned, were stained with a yellow wash, and its thatched roof was only ornamented with clusters of moss, which,

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