them that trespass against us;' as if he almost feared to utter it, lest he should condemn himself and others." "I remember what an impression he made when preaching for me, by an interjective parenthesis; for when, in reading the chapter, 1 Thessalonians v, he repeated the verse, 'Abstain from all appearance of evil,' he lifted his eyes, and said in a very solemn voice, 'O, the infinite delicacy of the Gospel!" "His brother, Sir Richard, once told me of an early instance of his adroitness, remarking that he was the same from a lad. It occurred while he was at Eton College. Even then he was under deep impression of a religious nature; and as he felt the importance of divine things himself, he was concerned and active to do good to others; and thus he did with an old female servant that frequently waited upon him. She one day rather reproved him for his zeal, saying that persons should not be righteous overmuch, and should be careful to avoid extremes in religion. 'Some,' she said, 'were too cold, and some were too hot.' 'Then,' said young Rowland, 'I suppose you think that we had better be lukewarm?' 'Yes,' she said, 'that was the proper medium.' He then took up his Testament, and read the Savior's address to the Church of Laodicea I would thou wert cold or hot. So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew thee out of my mouth;' at which his tepid admonisher seemed a little surprised and aghast." "I know that once at Wotton he was preaching in the afternoon-the only time when it seemed possible to be drowsy under him-he saw some sleeping, and paused, saying, 'I have heard that the miller can sleep while the mill is going, but if it stops it awakens him. I'll try this method;' and so sat down, and soon saw an aroused audi ence." With his excellences he had his defects. His temper was irascible and resentful. He seemed to live to "treasure up wrath against an enemy;" but, then, we are compelled to remember that "Defects through nature's best productions runRowland had spots, and spots are in the sun." The elocution of Whitefield was a thing different from that possessed by Mr. Hill. Whitefield's anecdotes were never like some of Hill's, forced in to fill out a blankness of thought; but they were always exactly adapted to the time and place. On occasion of a great fair being held at Bristol, he went down there and was called on to preach in the British Tabernacle the evening be fore the fair begun. He took for his text the words in the first verse of the fifty-fifth chapter of Isaiah: "Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money; come ye, buy and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without money and without price." The Tabernacle was crowded, and he launched forth thus: "My dear hearers, I fear many of you have come to attend Bristol fair. So am I. You do not mean to show your goods till to-morrow; but I shall exhibit mine to-night. You are afraid purchasers will not come up to your prices; but I am afraid my buyers will not come down to mine; for mine [striking his hand on the Bible] are 'without money and without price.'" Could any thing have been more appropriate than this, and could any thing else have struck the auditory as being more fit? On the death of his wife Whitefield preached her funeral sermon from Romans viii, 28, "And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to his purpose." In a description of her character, he took occasion to descant on her fortitude, when suddenly stopping and turning he exclaimed, "Do you remember my preaching in those fields, by the old stump of the tree? The multitude was great, and many were disposed to be riotous. At first I addressed them firmly; but when a desperate gang of banditti drew near, with the most ferocious looks and horrid imprecations and menaces, my tongue began to fail. My wife was then standing behind me, as I stood on the table. I think I hear her now. pulled my gown, [he then put his hand behind him, and touched his gown,] and, looking up, said, 'George, play the man for your God.' My confidence returned. I again spoke to the multitude with boldness and affection; they became still; and many were deeply affected.” She Rev. John Newton, the friend of the poet Cowper, was also one of Mr. Jay's special friends, and a most eccentric yet pious man he was. We have room but for a few of the characteristic incidents of the man furnished by Mr. Jay: "In the family worship, after reading a chapter, he would add a few remarks on some verse or sentence, very brief, but weighty and striking, and affording a sentiment for the day. Whoever was present, he always prayed himself; the prayer was never long, but remarkably suitable and simple." "Some people,' said he, 'believe much better than they reason. I once heard a good old woman arguing in favor of eternal election. 'Sir,' said she, 'I am sure if God had not chosen me before I was born, he would never have chosen could I think when, walking toward me, he laid me after.'" "At another time he mentioned facetiously, and with his peculiar smile, the language of a poor good woman when dying, 'I believe his word, and am persuaded, notwithstanding my unworthiness and guilt, that my Lord Jesus will save me from all my sins and sorrows, and bring me home to himself; and if he does, he will never hear the last of it!" "He one day told of a countryman who said to his minister, 'You often speak of our FOREfathers; now I know only of three-Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Pray, sir, who is the fourth?" "He also more than once mentioned that he knew a good man and woman, who read the Scriptures morning and evening in their daily worship, to whom a gentleman gave a folio commentary to aid them. But after they had tried | it for some time, the husband said to the wife, 'I think we did better before we had this great book. When we read the Bible itself only it was like a glass of pure wine; but now it is like a glass of wine in a pail of water.'" "One morning a forward young man said, 'Pray, Mr. Newton, what do you think of the entrance of sin into our world? Sir,' said he, 'I never think of it. I know there is such a thing as moral evil, and I know there is a remedy for it; and there my knowledge begins, and there it ends.'" "I saw Mr. Newton near the closing scene. He was hardly able to talk; and all I find I had | noted down upon leaving him is this: 'My memory is nearly gone; but I remember two things: That I am a great sinner, and that Christ is a great Savior.' And, 'Did you not, when I saw you at your house in Bath, desire me to pray for you? Well, then, now you must pray for me.'" Another minister, a friend of Jay's, and remarkable for his eccentricity, was Rev. John Ryland, sen., a Baptist preacher of Northampton. Besides being a preacher, he was also a schoolteacher. "The first time I ever met Mr. Ryland," says Jay, "was at the house of a wholesale linendraper in Cheapside. The owner, Mr. Bh, told him one day, as he called upon him, that I was in the parlor, and desired him to go in, and he would soon follow. At this moment I did not personally know him. He was singular in his appearance; his shoes were square-toed; his wig was five-storied behind; the sleeves of his coat were profusely large and open; and the flaps of his waistcoat encroaching upon his knees. I was struck and awed with his figure; but what hold of me by the collar, and, shaking his fist in my face, he roared out, 'Young man, if you let the people of Surrey Chapel make you proud, I'll smite you to the ground! But then, instantly dropping his voice, and taking me by the hand, he made me sit down by his side, and said, 'Sir, nothing can equal the folly of some hearers; they are like apes that hug their young ones to death.' He then mentioned two promising young ministers who had come to town had been injured and spoiled by popular caressings; adding other seasonable and useful remarks.” "Once a young minister was spending the evening with him, and when the family were called together for worship, he said, 'Mr. you must pray.' 'Sir,' said he, 'I can not.' He urged him again, but in vain. Then, sir,' said he, ‘I declare, if you will not, I'll call in the watchman.' At this time a watchman on his round was going by, whom he knew to be a very pious man-I knew him, too-he opened the door, and said, 'Duke, Duke, come in; you are wanted here. Here,' said he, 'is a young pastor that can't pray; so you must pray for him.'” "He took my place one Tuesday evening at Surrey Chapel, and preached a most striking sermon from Daniel's words to Belshazzar-'But the God in whose hands thy breath is, and whose are all thy ways, hast thou not glorified.' After an introduction, giving some account of Belshazzar, he impatiently and abruptly broke off by saying, ‘But you can not suppose that I am going to preach a whole sermon on such a — rascal as this'-and then stated, that he should bring home the charge in the text against every individual in the place, in four grand instances." From his peculiarly liberal views and his general candor in theological matters, Robert Hall became a favorite with Mr. Jay. Hall was disposed to believe, as our readers generally know, in free communion and free grace. He especially hated the doctrine that because a man was not a Baptist he had no right to come to the Lord's table. Some of his rebukes cut to the quick, and nothing, in fact, delighted him more than to wilt down those self-admiring preachers, who were strongly disposed to flourish and caper in the mazes of metaphysical hair-splitting, or else eager to soar in the realms of ether and cloud-land. One day he happened to be in company with a lady who wished his opinion in reference to one of these pompous nothing spouters; whereupon he gave it: "Ma'am, I always thought the gentleman predestinated to be a fool, and he has now made his calling and election sure." Our limits forbid any reference to the numerous other cotemporary preachers with whom for many years Mr. Jay had fellowship. We pass to notice briefly some of Mr. Jay's own peculiarities as a minister. He was a practical preacher. He had the good of his people, and not his own glory, constantly in view. Written discourses he avoided from principle; for he thought them too much like opiates to his congregation. "Nothing could satisfy him in his preaching but bringing forth the whole story of Matthew Henry's three R's, Ruin, Redemption, and Regeneration - Jesus Christ and him crucified, to meet the condition of poor sinners-to try to save souls. He was especially observant of devotion when he had public services in prospect. He always took a prayerful review of his subject, and often was a tearful, wrestling season of communion with God in private the prelude to the holiest and happiest seasons in public. His practice uniformly was to go from the closet to the pulpit. Nothing was allowed to intervene. In this, doubtless, may be found one of the elements of his efficiency and success. He came as from the Divine presence with a message from God to men." He was a plain preacher. Sometimes he selected a text which seemed obscure, but he always managed, by simplicity of language, to render it clear to the understanding of all listening. He never took flights starward, where the understanding could not track him; nor yet did he plunge into a wood, where his hearers lost sight of him, and could not afterward find him; but he kept himself and his subject in sight all the time, and "the hungry sheep" who came to hear "looked up and were fed," so that when they went home they had something to think about, and something to stir them up to diligence and Christian duty. He was an earnest and a pathetic preacher. Like one of Bunyan's pilgrims, wherever he saw the print of the Lord's shoe there he wished to put his foot. "I want to be an earnest preacher," said he once; "I try to be such, but I do not succeed as I desire." "Our old divines and the Methodist preachers, when they just sprung up, had something to rend or melt, to strike and stick-to lead their hearers to think of again and again when alone, and to talk of again and again when in company. But what is the recommendation of many of the moderns? O, they glitter-they do-but, as Foster says, with frost." Naturally he possessed a good voice, and he knew well how to manage it. His intonations possessed remarkable power, and oftentimes, when he discovered that his people were in a prepared He was an uncontroversial preacher. He seldom took polemics into the sacred desk, and scarcely ever would spend time with skeptics in arguing out abstract and metaphysical points. There was one Dr. Cogan, a Unitarian in his predilections, with whom Mr. Jay had considerable intercourse. The Doctor often visited Mr. Jay's Chapel, and heard him preach, and sought opportunities for discussion. "Not being inclined or qualified for controversy," remarks Mr. Jay, "I never entered into dispute with him, but I sometimes dropped a few words from experience or observation, to which he listened, and which seemed to strike him, especially when I spoke of persons who had recently died in confidence, peace, and comfort, commending and recommending those truths which they said were all their salvation and all their desire. And when I mentioned what I had lately met with, namely, a female, young and beautiful, agreeably espoused, with two lovely babes, with every thing that could render life desirable, dying of a consumption-which destroys so many of our roses and lilies-and when reduced by the lingering disease almost to a shadow, she asked an attendant to hand her the looking-glass-after glancing at which she returned it, saying with a smile, "Then while ye hear my heart-strings break, A mortal paleness in my cheek, and soon expired-he could not avoid weeping. morality and holiness; and where the change has not been produced by practice, but the practice has been the effect of the change; and sin has not only been left but loathed; and duty has not only been performed but delighted in; his pause and manner have seemed to say, 'Why, we hear and see nothing of this!" reformation was expected in the swearing parrot, from listening to his more decent neighbor; but imagine the consternation of good Mrs. A. on the return of her more grave and decorous bird, to hear him swearing like a trooper! The fact is, that instead of teaching he had been learning; and from that sad day his language was as bad as that of his scapegrace associate: thus, 'evil communications corrupt good manners.'" One may imagine the effect of such a parable on a large congregation. But although the parrots would haunt their memory, we may be sure that the inimitably artless art of the preacher wound up with a lesson that lay deeper, and would doubtless spring up again to memory amid the confusion of worldly intercourse. The last words, except the benediction, ever delivered by him in Argyle Chapel-his own 1852, from the Apocalypse: "Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his temple; and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb, which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." He made no comment; and how could he? But he pronounced these final words: "If this be heaven, O that I were there!" He was eminently a Scriptural preacher. He was much in his closet, and oftentimes in the day upon his knees with God's word outspread before him. His discourses were redolent with the fragrance of flowers culled from the garden of inspiration. He made numerous quotations of Scripture in his sermons, and they were frequently so exquisitely appropriate and beautiful that they seemed made to order for the occasion. Sacred poetry was an auxiliary employed by him with great effect and frequency. "He often surprised his audience," says his biog-church-were these, uttered Sunday, July 25, rapher, "by the ingenuity he displayed in the appropriation of texts to particular occasions. As specimens of this take the following examples: On the death of George the Fourth-'Another King, one Jesus.' On the reopening of his chapel after a temporary closing-'A door was opened in heaven.' After an enlargement of the chapel'Be ye also enlarged.' For a communion address-'One of you is a devil.' Who but he would have thought of such a passage as this for the text of a funeral sermon for a great man: 'Howl, fir-tree; for the cedar is fallen? From this passage he preached first, after the death of Mr. Hall; and then again at the death of Mr. Rowland Hill. How poetic, how striking, how appropriate to express the Church's lament over the grave of one of her illustrious pastors!" He was well able to reason and be logical, but he seldom preached a sermon without one or more anecdotes or incidents for illustrations. Sometimes these anecdotes had a semblance of oddity about them; but they were never of a character to disgust or offend. On one occasion when he wished to impress on his people the truth of the declaration, "Evil communications corrupt good manners," ," he told the following tale of two parrots: "Two friendly neighbors bought each a parrot. That of Mrs. A. was a bird of grave | deportment, and had been taught to speak a good many godly words. That of Mrs. B. was an impious fellow, for his language abounded in bad words. Now Mrs. B. felt quite shocked at the irreverent talk of her parrot, and prevailed on her friend to allow the grave parrot to pay a visit to the swearer, in hope of reclaiming the rogue by good example. Well, the two birds staid together for about a month, and a great He died at home, Bath, Eng., December 27, 1853, aged eighty-four years. We regret that we can not furnish the particulars of his final illness in detail. The following, from the pen of one of his near friends, will show that his death, like his life, was the Christian's: "One day, while suffering under great bodily distress, he said, 'I fear God has forsaken me. Let me not be impatient; let me repose in his love. I fear I am impatient.' Mrs. Jay replied, Think of the feelings of your precious Savior: like you, he said, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" He has promised never to forsake you. His grace is sufficient for you.' He then replied, 'I mourn, I do not murmur. "It is the Lord; let him do what seemeth him good." I desire to lie passive, and know no will but his. "In patience possess ye your souls." Lay no more upon me than thou wilt enable me to bear; and I will glorify thee in my sore affliction. 'Dear Lord! though bitter is the cup I cheerfully would drink it up; "The language of the publican,' he said, ‘did, does, and ever will, befit me; and even down to death must be my cry, "God be merciful to me a sinner." "I do not murmur-allow me to groan. It seems to ease my pain. Objects most dear and attractive now fail to interest. O for a grateful heart! I have made some little stir in life, but now I am nothing. God seems to be saying, "I can do without you." An official character is not to be judged of by his ministerial work. He is compelled often to administer comfort to others when he is perhaps not enjoying it himself. You see the sail, but not the ballast.' "On Christmas day his sufferings were very severe, and he said to Dr. Bowie, 'O Doctor, what a Christmas day! but I can say, "Thanks be unto God for his unspeakable gift;" and then he quoted 1 Peter i, 3, 4, 5, 'Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, which according to his abundant mercy hath begotten us again into a lively hope, by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance incorruptible and undefiled, and that fadeth not away, reserved in heaven for you, who are kept by the power of God through faith unto salvation ready to be revealed in the last time! He was particularly partial to the hymn, 'Guide me, O thou great Jehovah! often repeated it, and especially the last verse When I tread the verge of Jordan, Bid my anxious fears subside; I will ever give to Thee.' "On the morning of Tuesday, December 27th, the day of his death, he said, 'O, none of you know what it is to die.' From this time he spoke little, but sank gradually into the arms of death, becoming so still and calm that the precise period of his departure could not be perceived. Though he uttered but few words on the bed of death, yet there was the silent testimony of a settled peace; while his long life and entire labors had afforded a faithful and consistent witness for God and truth." His remains were deposited, January 2, 1854, in the cemetery of Snow Hill, belonging to Argyle Chapel, and there will they rest till the morning shall dawn of the resurrection day. "PEDARATUS, when he missed of a place among the chosen three hundred, rejoiced that there were three hundred in Sparta better than himself." THE SERMON OF WINTER. F one did not know the contrary, one would be apt to fancy that death is the very last subject there is any need of preaching about to | mankind-the very last subject there is any need for a minister of Christ to talk of. So many sermons about death are preached to us every day of our lives, so many finger-posts pointed toward death meet us at every turn, one might verily fancy, if one did not know the contrary, that it would be a waste of time to preach about death from the pulpit. But we never hear any of those daily sermons about death, many of you perchance will tell me. We go forth in the morning, and come home in the evening, and never see any of those finger-posts pointed toward death. Long as we have lived, we have never fallen in with one such. What, my friends, can you walk to and fro from year's end to year's end, and see no mark of death on the earth, and hear no sound of death in the air? What is winter, the skirts of which are still lying around us? Is it not the death of the year? Has not death been spreading out its cold hand over the trees of the forest, stripped them of their bloom and their beauty, and turning them into great staring skeletons, that lift up their bare bones in the face of day to admonish us that we, too, before long, shall be even as they are-that our bloom will in like manner have faded away, that our leaf will have fallen off, and that nothing will be left of these bodies, which we so fondle, and pamper, and trick out, and are so vain of, but a parcel of naked bones? Every tree you see shorn of its leaves, may preach you the sermon of death-may stand before you as a great fingerpost pointing to death-may warn you that the hour is at hand when you, too, will be shorn of your glory. Ay, the leafless wood, how awful its sermon! Not only may you look upon it as a host of skeletons: it may also cry to you to bethink yourselves, that even as those trees stand naked from head to foot before the eye of heaven, so will your souls erelong stand utterly bare and naked before the eye of God. Every cloak and mask you may have clad them in will be torn off. Every fading leaf and perishing flowerwhatever is bred by the sun of this world, or put forth to win the eyes of this world-all the dress and drapery of our minds and hearts-our cleverness, our skill, our learning, our knowledge, our prudence, our industry, our gayety, our good fellowship-all those qualities of fairseeming which have no higher aim than to look |