they have great propriety. But these subjects produce not the high effects of preaching. Attention is much more commanded, by taking some particular view of a great object, and employing on that the whole force of argument and eloquence. To recommend some one virtue, or inveigh against a particular vice, affords a subject not deficient in unity or precision; but if that virtue or vice be considered as assuming a particular aspect, as it appears in certain characters, or affects certain situations in life, the subject becomes still more interesting. The execution is certainly less easy, but the merit and the effect are higher.

A preacher should be cautious not to exhaust his subject; since nothing is more opposite to persuasion than an unnecessary and tedious fulness. There are always some things which he may suppose to be known, and some which require only a brief attention. If he endeavour to omit nothing which his subject suggests, he must unavoidably encumber it, and debilitate its force.

To render his instructions interesting to his hearers, should be the grand object of every preacher. He should bring home to their hearts the truths which he inculcates, and make each suppose that himself is particularly addressed. He should, consequently, avoid all intricate reasonings; avoid expressing himself in general speculative propositions or laying down practical truths in an abstract, metaphysical manner. A discourse ought to be carried on in the strain of direct address to the audience; not in the strain of one writing an essay, but of one speaking to a multitude, and studying to connect what is called application, or what immediately refers to practice, with the doctrinal and didactic parts of the sermon.

It is always highly advantageous to keep in view the different ages, characters, and conditions of men, and to accommodate directions and exhortations to each of these different classes. Whenever you advance what a man feels to touch his own character, or to be applicable to his own cir

cumstances, you are sure of his attention. No study, here fore, is more necessary for a preacher, than the study of human life, and of the human heart. To be able to discover a man to himself, in a light in which he never saw his own character before, produces a wonderful effect. Those ser mons, though the most difficult in composition, are not only the most beautiful, but also the most useful, which are founded on the illustration of some peculiar character, or remarkable piece of history, in the sacred writings; by the pursuit of which, we may trace, and lay open, some of the most secret windings of the human heart. Other topics of preaching have become trite and common; but this is an extensive field, which has hitherto been little explored, and possesses all the advantages of being curious, new, and in the highest degree useful. Bishop Butler's sermon on the character of Balaam, is an example of this kind of preaching

Fashion, which operates so extensively on human manners, has given to preaching, at different times, a change of character. This, however, is a torrent, which swells to-day and subsides to-morrow. Sometimes poetical preaching is fashionable; sometimes philosophical at one time it must be all pathetic; at another all argumentative; according as some celebrated preacher has afforded the example. Each of these modes in the extreme, is very defective; and he who conforms himself to it, will both confine his genius, and corrupt it. Truth and good sense are the only basis on which he can build with safety. Mode and humour are feeble and unsteady. No example, however admired, should be servilely imitated. From various examples, the preacher may collect materials for improvement; but the servility of imitation will extinguish his genius, and expose its poverty to his hearers.

SELECTIONS.

ELEGANT EXTRACTS,

IN POETRY AND PROSE.

Extract from Cain-a Mystery BY LORD BYRON.

ACT III, SCENE I.

The Earth near Eden, as in Act I,

Enter Cain and Adah.

Adah. Hush! tread softly, Cain.

Cain.

I will; but wherefore?

Adah. Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon bed Of leaves, beneath the cypress.

Cain.

Cypress! 'tis

A gloomy tree, which looks as if it mourn'd
O'er what it shadows; wherefore didst thou choose it
For our child's canopy?

Adah.

A

Because its branches

Ay, the last

Shut out the sun like night, and therefore seem'd
Fitting to shadow slumber.

Cain.

And longest; but no matter-lead me to him.

[They go up to the child

How lovely he appears! his little cheeks,
In their pure incarnation, vying with
The rose leaves strewn beneath them.

Adah.

And his lips, too,

How beautifully parted! No; you shall not

Kiss him, at least not now he will awake soon-
His hour of mid day rest is nearly over:

But it were pity to disturb him till

'Tis closed.

Cain.

You have said well; I will contain

My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps!-Sleep on
And smile, thou little, young inheritor

Of a world scarce less young: sleep on, and smile!
Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering
And innocent! thou hast not pluck'd the fruit-

Thou know'st not thou art naked! Must the time-
Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unknown,
Which were not thine nor mine? But now sleep on!
His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles,
And shining lids are trembling o'er his long
Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er them;
Half open, from beneath them the clear blue
Laughs out, although in slumber. He must dream-
Of what? Of Paradise!-Ay! dream of it,
My disinherited boy! 'Tis but a dream;
For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers,
Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy.

Adah. Dear Cain! Nay, do not whisper o'er our son
Such melancholy yearnings o'er the past:

Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise?
Can we not make another?

Where'er thou wilt: where'er thou art, I feel not
The want of this so much regretted Eden.
Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and brother,
And Zillah our sweet sister, and our Eve,

To whom we owe so much besides our birth?

Cain. Yes-death, too, is amongst the debts we owe her.
Adah. Cain! that proud spirit, who withdrew thee hence,
Hath sadden'd thine still deeper. I had hoped
The promised wonders which thou hast beheld,
Visions, thou say'st, of past and present worlds,
Would have composed thy mind into the calm
Of a contented knowledge; but I see

Thy guide hath done thee evil: still I thank him,
And can forgive him all, that he so soon
Hath given thee back to us.

Cain. Adah.)

So soon?

'Tis scarcely

Two hours since ye departed: two long hours

To me, but only hours upon the sun.

Cain. And yet I have approach'd that sun, and seen
Worlds which he once shone on, and never more
Shall light; and worlds he never lit: methought
Years had roll'd o'er my absence.

Adah.

Hardly hours.

Cain. The mind then hath capacity of time, And measures it by that which it beholds, Pleasing or painful; little or almighty.

I had beheld the immemorial works

Of endless beings; skirr'd extinguished worlds;
And, gazing on eternity, methought

I had borrow'd more by a few drops of ages
From its immensity; but now I feel

My littleness again. Well said the spirit,
That I was nothing!

Collins' Ode on the Passions.

WHEN Music, heav'nly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greee she sung,
The Passions, oft to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exalting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest, beyond the Muses' painting.
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd.
'Till once, tis said, when all were fir'd,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
From the sporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her nstruments of sound,
And as they oft had heard apart,
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness rul'd the hour,
Would prov his own expressive power;
First Fear, its hand his skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightning own'd his secret stings,
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurry'd hand the strings.
With woful measures wan Depair,
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguil'd
A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild,
But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the scene prolong,
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on echo still, through all the song;

And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice, was heard at every close,

And Hope enchanted, smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.
And longer had she sung, but with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose;