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liberately and purposely tread the poor beneath their feet. To gain any just idea of Mr. Beecher’s style of eloquence he must be seen in the pulpit. The moment that he arises to commence religious service the listener is struck with his manly, vigorous appearance. There is nothing soft or bland in his manners; he reads a hymn, or a chapter from the bible, in a clear, firm tone of voice, or utters a prayer, not as if he were studying to so modulate his sentences as to create an effect, but as if he were really wrestling with his Maker. We by no means would give the idea that he is harsh, coarse, and without a proper manner, for such is not the case. We have heard him pray when every word sounded like the moaning sob of a child upon the heart of its mother ; so too we have heard him launch his electrical eloquence at the heads of notorious sinners in the most impassioned, declamatory manner. But we were saying, when he rises in the pulpit his manliness strikes first upon the attention of the stranger, and next his eager, almost terrible earnestness. Не scarcely ever writes out his sermons, but comes into the pulpit with but a few rough notes before him. This allows him a command over his audience which he could not hold were he confined to written ser

He seems to be talking directly to each individual hearer. There is no escape; he bends over the pulpit and looks you in the face; he intends that you shall not go home without appropriating a portion of the discourse to yourself. You come perhaps prejudiced against him. You have heard that he is harsh, impudent, and an unpleasant orator; but when you have heard his opening prayer, you feel inclined to give a candid hearing to what so sincere, so honest a man can say. To tell the truth, your prejudices have half melted before a word of the sermon is uttered. He does not open abruptly, but in a clear, straightforward manner lays the subject before his congregation. By and by he warms up with his subject. Is it upon intemperance or slavery? With what vigor does he expose the wickedness of the rum-traffic, or the traffic in human flesh! How clearly he unfolds the law of God! How plainly exhibits the loving humanity of Christ! He draws a picture of the poor hunted fugitive; he leads you among the cotton fields of the fair, sunny south, where the breezes are scented with orange blossoms; and there he asks you to listen to the heart-broken sighs of some miserable slave mother, parted from her children. His voice and manner are not vehement, though solemnly in earnest. His manly tones are modulated by feeling; there is a slight tremble in his words; his eyes overrun with tears! You are weeping yourself, for your sympathies are touched. lle


grows more impassioned-passes from the slave to the master ! His voice changes; his manner grows more declamatory; his tears are dried. You leap along with him, and as he smites the oppressor with God's truth, you have no thought of rebuking him for vehemence; he expresses your own thoughts in better language than you could command. But before he is done he smites you; he charges those before him with indifference to this giant wrong; he tells them that the blood of the oppressed will be found on their skirts, for conniving at the servitude of three millions of their fellow-men.

It is the same with every subject; he is fearless yet tender, vehement yet gentle. He preaches few of what are called doctrinal sermons, but he dwells often and fully upon the wonderful love of Godupon the every day duties of men.

He never preaches upon “the exceeding sinfulness of sin,” but addresses himself to sinners. But though he is bold, he rarely offends any honest inquirer after truth. Such a mind likes his frankness-is charmed by his boldness-is moved to tears by his pathos.

There are some who charge Mr. Beecher with uttering irreverent, witty things in the pulpit. He is sometimes almost humorous in the pulpit, but it is because he cannot help it. It is as natural for him to speak his thoughts in an original manner, as it is for some clergymen to preach stupidities. Occasionally a sentence drops from his lips which starts the sinile upon the faces of his audience. He intended no wit, but

His own

the odd comparison, or the sparkling sentence bursts forth involuntarily. To set down and snarl over this feature of his pulpit oratory, when there are others so rare and attractive, is the mark of a small intellect and a still smaller heart.

We have spoken of the contrasts presented in Mr. Beecher's sermons—they are in the man. character is full of contrasts—his writings are the same. No man has a more refined love of the beautiful. We cannot resist the temptation to copy one of his most exquisite sketches of a country scene, and when we have done that we will contrast it with one of his vehement, magnificent outbursts against despotism and wrong. The article which we quote is entitled


Where shall we go? Here is the More brook, the upper part running through bushy and wet meadows, but the lower part flowing transparently over the gravel, through the grass and pasture grounds near the edge of the village, where it curves and ties itself into bow knots. It is a charming brook in which to catch trout, when you catch them, but they are mostly caught.

Well, there is the Caney brook. We will look at that. A man might walk through the meadows and not suspect its existence. The grass meets over the top of its upper section and quite hides it; and below, through that iron tinctured marsh land, it expands only a little, growing open-hearted by


degrees, across a narrow field; and then it runs for the thickets—and he who takes fish among those alders will certainly earn them. Yet, for its length, it is not a bad brook. The trout are not numerous, nor large, nor especially fine; but every one you catch renews your surprise that you

should catch any in such a ribbon of a brook. Still farther north is another stream, something larger, and much better or worse, according to your luck. It is easy of access, and quite unpretending. There is a bit of a pond some twenty feet in diameter, from which it flows, and in that there are five or six halfpound trout, who seem to have retired from active life, and given themselves to meditation in its liquid convent. They were very tempting, but quite untemptable. Standing afar off, we selected an irresistible fly, and with a long line we sent it pat into the very place. It fell like a snow-flake. No trout should have hesitated a moment. The morsel was delicious. The nimblest of them should have flashed through the water, broken the surface, and with a graceful but decisive curve plunged downward, carrying the insect with him. Then we should in our turn, very cheerfully have lent him a hand, relieved him of his prey, and admiring his beauty but pitying his untimely fate, buried him in the basket. But he wished no translation. We cast our fly again and again; we drew it hither and thither; we made it skip and wriggle; we let it fall splash, like a surprised miller; and our audience calmly beheld our feats.

“ Next we tried ground bait, and sent our vermicular hook down to their very sides. With judicious gravity they parted, and slowly sailed toward the root of an old tree on the side of the pool. Again changing place, we will make an ambassa

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