assertion. Sir John Hawkins attests Johnson's obligations to the divines of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. But we are certainly not impressed with the sagacity of a critical judgment which could admire Taylor for his "amazing erudition," or Sir Thomas Browne for his "penetration," to the exclusion of their more characteristic qualities. Nor is it very easy to comprehend his declaration respecting the Holy Living and Dying-that he found in it little more than he had brought himself. If Johnson intended to say that the imagination, the decorations, or the arguments, were his own importation, he must have been labouring under a delusion: he could have brought nothing but the piety; and even his religion differed from Taylor's in many particulars of practice. But to return: Voltaire described an English sermon to be a dissertation read without action or elocution to the congregation—and his description is a fair one. Nothing can be more opposite to the fiery, rapid, and interrogatory style of French eloquence; in which, as it were, the passions are put into action; and the sermon itself is not so much an address, as a gesticulation. No English preacher would prepare himself for the pulpit, like the celebrated Massillon, by a preparatory tune upon the violin.* It has been observed, that the rhetorical figures of the French divines vanish like the flourishes of a band -brilliant, animated, noisy, and quickly forgotten. They resemble true eloquence, for the most part, as much as a musical composition, adapted for the display of a rapid mechanical execution, resembles the solemn and intricate harmony of Mozartthe soul is wanting.

The English sermon has been usually constructed upon the principle of Aristotle's definition of rhetoric, namely, the selection of topics most fitly adapted to the objects of persuasion. His words areἔστω δὲ ἡ ῥητορικὴ δύναμις περὶ ἕκαστον τοῦ θεωρῆσαι τὸ ἐνδεχόμενον πιθανόν. (Lib. i. cap. 2.) Upon this passage, if we rightly remember, Browne founds the solution of eloquence into a species of poetry applied to persuade. And undoubtedly this is the kind of appeal most calculated to be beneficial.

That ardent and impetuous temper which, in threatening attitude, stands waving the sword of vengeance at every avenue of hope; or that enthusiastic love and tenderness of nature which address themselves only to the kindlier and more susceptible emotions, are equally dangerous in their unbalanced supremacy; while they are equally salutary in their careful adjustment. As the cloud and the sunshine chase and succeed each other upon the external world of nature; so would we see the terror and the mercies of religion passing over the internal world of the understanding. The beauty and, as we believe, the efficacy of

* See Spence's Anecdotes.

a discourse will depend, under the blessing and the inspiration of Providence, upon the happy and harmonious connexion of very discordant and different elements. The chain requires not only a sufficiency, but a variety, of links. But the assertion of Johnson, that our theological literature is destitute of any sermons peculiarly addressed to the passions, may be immediately refuted by a reference to South. This extraordinary writer, who possessed some of the most striking features of eloquence, will deserve a more extended notice and examination in a subsequent article. He is only introduced incidentally upon the present occasion. Cecil, who cannot be suspected of any partiality towards him, said that he tells the truth with the tongue of a viper, but that every now and then he darts upon us with an unexpected and incomparable stroke. His sermons have been wittily called, not Sunday, but week-day discourses; and undoubtedly they are frequently kindled by the breath of the most impetuous satire and indignation. He wielded the iron scourge of Juvenal, with a more relentless arm and a fiercer personality. He is too often girded for the battle by the Spirit of Controversy, instead of the Spirit of Meekness; and in ruffling his plumes, and waking his thunder, he forgot that it was the Dove that rested upon his MASTER. South's addresses to the political passions of his hearers we abandon, and cast out of the argument; but his addresses to the nobler passions of his hearers are abundant enough for our purpose. We give up the invective against the Puritan, but we retain the appeal to the Infidel; we pass over the ridicule of Milton and Cromwell, but we hold fast the contemptuous scorn of profligacy, and the judgments denounced upon the leprosy of vice. The declamation of South is not the artificial thunder of the rhetorician. A very ingenious and accomplished critic has noticed the linked succession of his ideas, and his transition to others by consequence from the preceding; and he proves that, while his language is full of the eloquence of passion, the train of his reasoning is never forgotten, but that the argument is worked out in fire.*

His sermon upon Genesis i. 27-"So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him,”—contains passages equal to any in English literature for vigour, originality, and eloquence. The textures of South's mind, while they often glow with the colours of a vivid and lively fancy, are also remarkable for their strength-it is almost impossible to rend them; they retain their beauty in the hands of the most hostile criticism. Having taken a rapid glance at the formation of the world, and the vain dreams of the ancient philosophy, he proceeds to show what the image of God in man is, and wherein it consists. His argument is twofold: negative, by showing

* See Foster's character of Hall as a preacher.

wherein it does not consist; positive, by showing wherein it does; these two great divisions are subdivided into others, which are again resolved into minuter trains of reasoning. By the image of God in man, he understands the universal rectitude of all the faculties of the soul, by which they are disposed to their respective offices and operations. He then descends to a particular examination of the soul in the faculties of the Understanding, the Will, and the Passions, or Affections. His sketch of the Understanding in the morning of the creation, is admirable; to borrow his own image, the light of his invention irradiates the whole subject-" And first for its noblest faculty, the Understanding it was then sublime, clear, and aspiring, and as it were, the soul's upper region, lofty and serene, free from the vapours and disturbances of the inferior affections. It was the leading, controlling faculty; all the passions wore the colours of reason; it did not so much persuade, as command; it was not Consul, but Dictator; discourse was then almost as quick as intuition; it was nimble in proposing, firm in concluding; it could sooner determine, than now it can dispute. Like the sun, it had both light and agility: it knew no rest, but in motion; no quiet, but in activity. It did not so properly apprehend, as irradiate the object; not so much find, as make things intelligible. It did arbitrate upon the several reports of sense, and all the varieties of imagination; not like a drowsy judge, only hearing, but also directing their verdict. In man it was agile, quick, and lively; open as the day, untainted as the morning, full of the innocence and sprightliness of youth; it gave the soul a full and bright view into all things, and was not only a window, but itself the prospect." He goes on to display the intellectual eye-sight of Adam,-viewing Essences in themselves, and reading Forms without the comment of their respective properties; Principles unfolding into remote discoveries; ignorant of nothing but sin; with the Creation for his Catechism; and Reflection in the place of study. From the Intellect and Will he passes to the Passions. He commences with Love, which he calls the grand and leading affection of all. "This is the great Instrument and Engine of Nature, the bond and cement of society, the spring and spirit of the Universe. Love is such an affection, as cannot so properly be said to be in the Soul, as the Soul to be in that. It is the whole power of man wrapt up into one desire; all the powers, vigour, and faculties of the Soul, abridged into one inclination. And it is of that active, restless nature, that it must of necessity exert itself; and, like the fire, to which it is so often compared, it is not a free agent, to choose whether it will heat or no, but it streams forth by natural results, and unavoidable emanations-so that it will fasten upon an inferior, unsuitable object, rather than none at all. The Soul may sooner leave off to subsist, than to love;

and, like the vine, it withers and dies if it has nothing to embrace. Now this affection, in a state of innocence, was happily pitched upon its right object; it flamed up in direct fervour of devotion to God, and in collateral emissions of charity to its neighbour. It had none of those impure heats that both represent and deserve Hell. It was a vestal and a virgin-fire, and differed as much from that which usually passes by this name now-a-days, as the vital heat from the burning of a fever." He then with great ingenuity characterises the Passion of Hatred and Anger, venting itself in the measures of Reason. The mind, unagitated by the transports of malice, the bitterness of revenge, the violence of injuries, was unacquainted with the sentiment of Anger as known to ourselves. He compares it to the sword of Justice-keen, but righteous; not sanctifying Fury under the name of Zeal, nor kindling any thing but sacrifices to God. He then proceeds to speak of the lightsome Passion of Joy, which is painted with a life, a beauty, and a poetic colour of expression, that almost transport us into the Paradise of Milton. "It was not," he exclaims, "that which now often usurps this name; that trivial, vanishing, superficial thing, that only gilds the apprehension, and plays upon the surface of the soul. It was not the mere crackling of thorns, a sudden blaze of the spirit, the exultation of a tickled fancy or a pleased appetite. Joy was then a masculine and a severe thing, the recreation of the Judgment, the Jubilee of Reason. It was the result of a real good, suitably applied. It commenced upon the solidity of truth, and the substance of fruition. It did not run out in voice or undecent eruptions, but filled the soul, as God does the universe, silently and without noise. It was refreshing and composed, like the pleasantness of youth tempered with the gravity of age, or the mirth of a festival managed with the silence of contemplation." We have been unintentionally seduced into anticipating, though briefly, our analysis of South, but from such a production of genius it was not easy to turn away; and we venture to hope, that this slight taste of the fruit will incline the reader to break with greater readiness and courage through the thorny hedges of controversial difficulty, which surround the gardens where it is to be gathered. But while we confidently advance the sermons of South against the dictum of Johnson, we have no intention of proposing them as models either of temper or of composition. Some drops of Polemical bitterness too often mingle with and pollute the waters of comfort; the biting epigram of the Satirist too frequently lends a sting to the vehement exhortation or appeal of the Pastor. For a specimen of an address to the passions, constructed, carried out, and applied with wonderful skill, energy, and appropriateness, we refer to the following extract from a sermon by one, who departed too soon for the world, though not for himself; who, to the sweetest

vein of poetic sentiment, united the mildest humility of a christian disposition, and the patient endurance of a martyr. We allude to the author of the "Elegy upon the Death of Sir John Moore;" he died a curate in a remote parish of Ireland, bequeathing his name and his virtues to the admiration and the love of the accomplished and the good:

"Such is our yoke and our burden. Let him who has thought it too hard and too heavy to bear, be prepared to state it boldly, when he shall appear side by side with the poor and mistaken Indian, before the throne of God at the day of judgment. The poor heathen may come forward with his wounded limbs and weltering body, saying, 'I thought thee an austere master, delighting in the miseries of thy creatures, and I have accordingly brought thee the torn remnants of a body which I have tortured in thy service.' And the Christian will come forward and say, 'I know that thou didst die to save me from such sufferings and torments, and that thou only commandest me to keep my body in temperance, soberness, and chastity, and I thought it too hard for me, and I have accordingly brought thee the refuse and sweepings of a body, that has been corrupted and brutalized in the service of profligacy and drunkenness-even the body which thou didst declare should be the temple of thy Holy Spirit.' The poor Indian will, perhaps, show his hands, reeking with the blood of his children, saying, 'I thought this was the sacrifice with which God was well pleased:' and you, the Christian, will come forward, with blood upon thy hands also-'I know that Thou gavest thy Son for my sacrifice, and commandedst me to lead my offspring in the way of everlasting life; but the command was too hard for me, to teach them thy statutes and to set them my humble example : I have let them go the broad way to destruction, and their blood is upon my hand, and my heart, and my head.' The Indian will come forward and say, 'Behold, I am come from the wood, the desert, and the wilderness, where I fled from the cheerful society of my fellow mortals, because I thought it was pleasing in thy sight.' And the Christian will come forward and say, 'Behold, I come from my comfortable home and the communion of my brethren, which thou hast graciously permitted me to enjoy, but I thought it too hard to give them a share of those blessings which thou hast bestowed upon me; I thought it too hard to give them a portion of my time, my trouble, my fortune, or my interest; I thought it too hard to keep my tongue from cursing and reviling, my heart from hatred, and my hand from violence and revenge.' What will be the answer of the Judge to the poor Indian none can presume to say. That he was sadly mistaken in the means of salvation, and that what he had done could never purchase him everlasting life, is beyond a doubt : but yet the Judge may say, 'Come unto me, thou heavy-laden, and I will give thee the rest which thou couldst not purchase for thyself.' But to the Christian, 'Thou, who hadst my easy yoke and my light burden; thou, for whom all was already purchased '-Thank God! it is not yet pronounced-begone, and fly for thy life."-Wolfe's Sermons (Remains), Sermon x. pp. 371–373.

Appeals so diligently elaborated, and so heightened by the touches of a lingering pencil, were not common among our elder