Mr. Stockton's fancy is remarkably brilliant and sparkling, yet commonly held in proper subserviency to truth and reason. His subjects are thoroughly analyzed; his logic is cogent and conclusive; his style, finished to the highest point of classic elegance and ornament. There is, occasionally, in the structure of his sentences, something very remarkable-a certain antithetic correspondence of members a frequency of a peculiar kind of repetition; which, on the printed page, seems rather too elaborate; but which, with the taking accompaniments of voice and manner, appears quite appropriate in the pulpit, and adds wonderfully to his power. His style is an eminent instance of what the French denominate the style coupé. His sentences are brief and transparent; his enunciation, slow and distinct; his entire elocution, graceful and emphatic. He seems to be a man of deep evangelical piety; whose heart is evidently in his Master's work; and the fruit of whose labors, I trust, will be realized in in heaven. In short, he is worthy of that beautiful effusion of Mrs. Welby, entitled "Pulpit Eloquence"-one of the sweetest productions of her gifted muse, intended as a description of Mr. Stockton, as she recollects to have seen and heard him in her youth.

Of all the pulpit men, with whom I am acquainted, personally or by reputation, I know of none with whom to compare Mr. Stockton. Bating the mechanical structure of sentences to which I have

alluded, I should think him more like Summerfield than any other man, living or dead. There is something of the same meekness and humility of aspect; the same chastened sweetness of expression; the same beauty of conception, brilliancy of diction, wealth of imagery, and fervid love. On account of his fondly cherished theory of Christian union, and his plan for demolishing the sectarian walls which divide the church of Christ, he has been called an enthusiast and a visionary; but O, his enthusiasm is divine, and his visions are those of heaven! Long may he be spared, a blessing to his brethren, and a light in the world, before he exchanges the pulpit for the throne!

VII. REV. E. T. TAYLOR.

(July, 1846.)

IN Baltimore, the other day, I had the privilege of hearing the famous Father Taylor, the Sailor's Preacher in Boston. He is a very eccentric character; but a holy, useful, and truly eloquent minister of the New Testament. He was a sailor from his childhood; and at the time of his conversion, could neither read nor write. But having traveled extensively, his deficiency of education is almost compensated by his knowledge of the world, and his acquaintance with human nature in its various

aspects and relations. His imagination is unrivaled; his style, figurative beyond a parallel. Sea and land, heaven and hell, are alike subject to his will, and send their teeming population forth at the waving of his wand. Every thing lives, moves, speaks and sparkles about him. His voice is like the sound of his own ocean in a storm; his heart, such as he describes the sailor's—“ as fine as a lily, and as open as a sun-flower." He is a "man full of faith, and of the Holy Ghost." He stands in the pulpit, as he used to stand upon the deck amidst the tempest, all excitement and energy. He converted the ministers of Christ into battering rams, beating down the castles and fortresses of the devil. He represented the church as a vast circle, hand in hand, begirding the world, and bearing it up to God. The manner in which he illustrated the feelings of a newly converted soul was characteristic and thrilling:

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"I had a friend," said he, "who kept an eagle in a cage. What American does not love that noble bird-the bird of his country? Some men will shoot an eagle; for my part, I would as soon shoot an angel. Below man, there's nothing so much like God. He flies above the clouds, and gathers the thunder under his wings. Whenever I see an eagle, I am almost ready to fall down and worship. My friend's eagle always appeared melancholy. For a long time, he had not seen the mountains, nor the sun. Confined in his cage, he had forgotten

that he had wings, and was an eagle. Yet he was
restless and unhappy. He would walk round and
round within the bars that enclosed him, as if seek-
ing means of escape. I thought it was cruel to
keep him thus imprisoned, and besought my friend
to set him at liberty. He at first refused; but after
much urging, consented. The noble bird, once
outside of his prison, walked round it several times,
as if to satisfy himself that he was free. After
a while, he stopped, stretched his limbs, shook his
feathers to the wind, and spread his wings as if to
try them.
Then he fixed his eyes upon the sun,
and felt himself an eagle. In a moment, he clapped
his wings, bounded from the earth, and soared out
of sight in the bright blue heavens. Thus," said
the speaker, "we languish in this miserable prison,
which we call the world;

'And Satan binds our captive souls
Fast in his slavish chains.'

We are enervated by evil habits, and know not our capabilities of ascending to God-know not the privileges of our redemption and immortality. Earth and time limit all our views and hopes. There is no rest—there is no happiness. But Christ comes to set the prisoner free. Now he feels a new life-pulse within him. Old things are passed away; all things become new. He looks up; feels a divine attraction; bids adieu to earth and sun; and speeds him to the bosom of his God!"

Father Taylor was very severe upon Christian croakers. "They are religious overmuch," said he; "they eat religiously, and breathe religiously, and walk religiously, and dress religiously, and comb down every hair religiously. With such I have no connection. There is a great gulf between us. I have been watching them for thirty years. They soon begin to fall out with the world; fall out with their brethren; fall out with the church; and become too holy to remain in it; and finally, quarrel with Almighty God himself; and then they turn rank infidels, walking pestilences, scattering mildew and death over society, staggering to their graves under the curse of God, and cursing God as they go!"

Some one has defined eloquence to be "logic on fire." Father Taylor has the fire if not the logic. His discourse is less remarkable for unity, than for variety-brilliancy-energy. He cannot cramp himself into the ordinary systems of sermonizing, any more than David could fight in Saul's armor. His eloquence is not of that studied, elaborate and artificial kind, for which some pulpit orators are distinguished. It is the unwritten eloquence of the heart. Every sentence seems instinct with the inspiration of feeling-legitimate and holy feeling; and his words-to use the expression of Longinus— come out as if hurled from an engine." There is no softness-no effeminacy-nothing that can be called fine, florid or beautiful; but there is thought,

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