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his common conversation, that even now I am frequently shocked by his profaning the name of that sacred Being, before whom he, most probably, will soon be obliged to appear.

7. It must surely be exceedingly painful to a sensible heart, feeling for the best interests of a valuable friend, and otherwise excellent acquaintance, to observe the person he so highly regards, confirmed in such a shocking habit, even while standing in the most awful situation in which it is possible for a human creature to be placed.

8. Almost every other vice affords its votaries some pretences of excuse, from its being productive of present pleasure, or affording a prospect of future advantage; but the profane swearer cannot even say that he feels any satisfaction; or that he hopes to meet with any benefit from this foolish habit.

9. But let not the force of habit be urged as an excuse for its continuance. As well might the highwayman, who is unacquainted with any honest employment, expect on that account to be allowed to plunder every passenger he meets, with impunity. The following anecdote will prove that this habit is not so inveterate that it cannot instantly be checked.

10. In the presence of men who are his superiors, the swearer is never profane. Why did you cut short your oath? said a gentleman to a man who was notoriously profane. I was afraid the king, who was present, would hear me, said the swearer. Why, then, said the gentleman, do you not fear to be heard by the King of kings, who is alway.s present?

LESSON LXXI.

The Blind Preacher: Extract from a Letter of the British

Spy.

RICHMOND, OCTOBER 10, 1803.

1. I have been, my dear S...AH., on an excursion through the counties which lie along the eastern side of the Blue Ridge. A general description of that country and its inhabitants may form the subject of a future letter. For the present, I must entertain you with an account of

a most singular and interesting adventure, which I met with, in the course of the tour.

2. It was one Sunday, as I travelled through the county of Orange, that my eye was caught by a cluster of horses tied near a ruinous, old, wooden house, in the forest, not far from the road side. Having frequently seen such objects before, in travelling through these states, I had no difficulty in understanding that this was a place of religious worship.

3. Devotion alone should have stopped me, to join in the duties of the congregation; but I must confess, that curiosity, to hear the preacher of such a wilderness, was not the least of my motives. On entering, I was struck with his preternatural appearance. He was a tall and very spare old man; his head, which was covered with a white linen cap, his shrivelled hands, and his voice, were all shaking under the influence of a palsy; and a few moments ascertained to me that he was perfectly blind.

4. The first emotions which touched my breast, were those of mingled pity and veneration. But how soon were all my feelings changed! The lips of Plato were never more worthy of a prognostic swarm of bees, than were the lips of this holy man! It was a day of the administration of the sacrament; and his subject, of course, was the passion of our Saviour.

5. I had heard the subject handled a thousand times: I had thought it exhausted long ago. Little did I suppose, that, in the wild woods of America, I was to meet with a man whose eloquence would give to this topic a new and more sublime pathos, than I had ever before witnessed.

6. As he descended from the pulpit, to distribute the mystic symbols, there was a peculiar, a more than human solemnity in his air and manner, which made my blood run cold, and my whole frame shiver.

7. He then drew a picture of the sufferings of our Saviour; his trial before Pilate; his ascent up Calvary; his crucifixion; and his death. I knew the whole history; but never, until then, had I heard the circumstances so selected, so arranged, so coloured! It was all new: and I seemed to have heard it for the first time in my life. His enunciation was so deliberate, that his voice trembled on every syllable; and every heart in the assembly trembled in unison.

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8. His peculiar phrases had that force of description, that the original scene appeared to be, at that moment, acting before our eyes. We saw the very faces of the Jews: the staring, frightful distortions of malice and rage We saw the buffet; my soul kindled with a flame of in dignation, and my hands were involuntarily and convulsively clinched.

9. But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiving meekness of our Saviour: when he drew, to the life, his blessed eyes streaming in tears to heaven; his voice breathing to God, a soft and gentle prayer of pardon on his enemies, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do"-the voice of the preacher, which had all along faultered, grew fainter and fainter, until his utterance being entirely obstructed by the force of his feelings, he raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loud and irrepressible flood of grief. The effect is inconceivable. The whole house resounded with the mingled groans, and sobs, and shrieks of the congregation.

10. It was some time before the tumult had subsided, so far as to permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual, but fallacious standard of my own weakness, I began to be very uneasy for the situation of the preacher. For I could not conceive, how he would be able to let his audience down from the height to which he had wound them, without impairing the solemnity and dignity of his subject, or perhaps shocking them by the abruptness of the fall.

11. But-no: the descent was as beautiful and sublime, as the elevation had been rapid and enthusiastic.

The first sentence, with which he broke the awful silence, was a quotation from Rousseau: "Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a God!"

12. I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by this short sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the whole manner of the man, as well as the peculiar crisis in the discourse. Never before, did I completely understand what Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on delivery.

13. You are to bring before you the venerable figure of the preacher: his blindness, constantly recalling to your recollection old Homer, Ossian, and Milton, and associat ing with his performance, the melancholy grandeur of their

geniuses; you are to imagine that you hear his slow, solemn, well accented enunciation, and his voice of affecting, trembling melody.

14. You are to remember the pitch of passion and enthusiasm to which the congregation were raised; and then, the few minutes of portentous, de ath-like silence which reigned throughout the house: the preacher removing his white handkerchief from his aged face, (even yet wet from the recent torrent of his tears) and slowly stretching forth the palsied hand which holds it, begins the sentence:"Socrates died like a philosopher"-then pausing, raising his other hand, pressing them both, clasped together, with warmth and energy to his breast, lifting his " sightless balls" to heaven, and pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice" but Jesus Christ-like a God!" If he had been in deed and in truth an angel of light, the effect could scarcely have been more divine. WIRT.

LESSON LXXII.

Charity to Orphans.

1857 15

1. They whom God hath blessed with the means, and for whom he has done more, in blessing them likewise with a disposition, have abundant reason to be thankful to him, as the Author of every good gift, for the measure he hath bestowed to them of both: it is the refuge against the stormy wind and tempest, which he hath planted in our hearts; and the constant fluctuation of every thing in this world, forces all the sons and daughters of Adam to seek shelter under it by turns.

2. Guard it by entails and settlements as we will, the most affluent plenty may be stripped, and find all its worldly comforts, like so many withered leaves, dropping from us; the crowns of princes may be shaken; and the greatest that ever awed the world have looked back and moralized upon the turn of the wheel.

3. That which has happened to one, may happen to every man: and, therefore, that excellent rule of our Saviour, in acts of benevolence, as well as every thing else, should govern us; that whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye also unto them.

4. Hast thou ever lain upon a bed of languishing, or laboured under a distemper which threatened thy life? Call to mind thy sorrowful and pensive spirit at that time, and say, What was it that made the thoughts of death so bitter? If thou hast children, I affirm it, the bitterness of death lay there! If unbrought up, and unprovided for, What will become of them? Where will they find a friend when I am gone? Who will stand up for them, and plead their cause against the wicked?

5. Blessed God! to thee, who art a father to the fatherless, and a husband to the widow, I entrust them.

Hast thou ever sustained any considerable shock in thy fortune? or, has the scantiness of thy condition hurried thee into great straits, and brought thee almost to distraction? Consider what was it that spread a table in that wilderness of thought,-who made thy cup to overflow?

6. Was it not a friend of consolation who stepped in, saw thee embarrassed with tender pledges of thy love, and the partner of thy cares, took them under his protectionHeaven! thou wilt reward him for it!-and freed thee from all the terrifying apprehensions of a parent's love?

7. Hast thou-But how shall I ask a question which must bring tears into so many eyes? Hast thou ever been wounded in a more affecting manner still; by the loss of a most obliging friend, or been torn away from the embraces of a dear and promising child by the stroke of death? Bitter remembrance! Nature droops at it, but Nature is the same in all conditions and lots of life. A child, thrust forth in an evil hour, without food, without raiment, bereft of instruction, and the means of its salvation, is a subject of more tender heart-aches, and will awaken every power of Nature:-as we have felt for ourselves, let us feel for Christ's sake, let us feel for theirs. STERNE.

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