I HAVE always been a lover of eloquence. No matter whether it issued from the pulpit or the platform; from the calm elevation of the sacred desk, or the stormy surface of the political hustings, it had an indescribable attraction for me. If I entertained any preference in the matter, I believe the fervid outpourings of religious orators were the most prized by me in the days of my boyhood.

How this taste or passion, for at one period, it really amounted to such an exaggeration of feeling, arose, I cannot tell. Certainly it was not called into existence by the weekly ministrations of the very good, but very dull preacher who officiated as pastor of the church of which my parents were then members. Child as I was,

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when I used, in accordance with my beloved father's ideas of family discipline, to go unwillingly, Sunday after Sunday, to C- Chapel, I well remember that I often felt weariness, if not disgust, while listening to Mr. H's heavy discourses. I can see him now, and call up again the whole chapel scene, just as it was in those days of "long ago." Mr. H was a large, fat man, with a red, expressionless face, a partially bald head, and very little medullary matter of any consequence beneath its highly polished surface. This lack of hair, he once, at the persuasion of his wife, I believe, attempted to supply with a "front," or fragment of a wig. The poor man used to perspire freely, and the only pleasure he ever afforded me was the unconscious displacement of this "front" by his pocket handkerchief, as he swept the latter across his moist forehead. The flock tittered, but the shepherd, with his "front” adorning one side, went on preaching until he discovered his disaster, and confusedly removing the cause of it, hurried it into his coat pocket. He never wore false hair again.

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How terribly tedious were his sermons to me. The only consolation I found was in Watts's hymn book, which by stealth I consulted in my pew corner. a joy and a relief it was when on a wet Sunday evening I was permitted to stay at home with my mother, who had a fine taste for poetry, and loved to repeat hymns to me. I see myself now sitting beside the parlor fire, on a carpet-covered footstool, whilst the flames were brightly reflected from the Dutch tiles which lined the fireplace,

and flickered on the golden pipes of the little chamber organ, that had one "barrel" of sacred tunes for Sabbath days; and on the frames of the portraits of my brothers and sisters; and listening to her soft gentle voice as she read Bible narratives, or Doddridge's hymns, (Philip Doddridge's mother used to teach her son Scripture stories from Dutch tiles, too;) or as she would tell me of Mrs. Hannah More, whom she well knew, and of Mrs. Newton, (the sister of Thomas Chatterton, the "marvellous boy" of Wordsworth) who had been her schoolmistress; and she would sing in her low pleasant voice, hymns which I now never listen to, but the days when I first heard them come back again. More than thirty years have passed since then; but neither life's storms nor calms have banished from my heart, and they never will, these home memories.

What a pleasure, too, it was to me, when occasionally my father, who was a deacon of the church, would come home from a week-evening service with the intelligence that a stranger was to preach on the following Sunday. Any change to me seemed a change for the better. I think now as I thought then, that it could not well be for the worse. At such times my delight was increased by the prospect of a personal acquaintance with the new preacher, who my father, by virtue of his office, frequently entertained at his table. Even then I was a bit of a hero worshipper; and I was thus afforded opportunities of seeing and hearing some of the notabilities of that day. As I grew older, these facilities became more frequent and were greatly prized, especially as I became

a sort of favorite with our visitors, chiefly, I believe, because I possessed a good memory, and so could readily quote the "heads" of sermons when required. For this accomplishment I used to get many an approving pat on the head from the reverend gentlemen, and I have no reason to doubt that I rose considerably in my own estimation in consequence. But there were some who used to notice me, of whose commendations, a child, or one of larger growth, might not without reason be proud.

Among these, I well remember one who now occupies a foremost station in the ranks of London preachers. This gentleman was then a young, thin, delicate, curly headed student of Divinity, with a soft, pleasant voice, and a smile that was fascination itself. At that period he could not have been more than nineteen or twenty years of age, but already he had become popular. Every week, almost, he took tea at our table; and by me his coming was looked for anxiously, and his appearance hailed with delight. He did not as our old pastor used to do, bore my childish mind with grave, almost dismal lectures on religion, which I could understand just enough of to be frightened by; but he gently led me by the "still waters" of piety, and charmed whilst he instructed. This was JAMES SHERMAN, now the successor of Rowland Hill, at the Surrey Chapel, Blackfriar's Road, London, and the pastor of the largest church in the British metropolis. Fully has his now more than middle age confirmed the promise of his youth. By the young he is still almost idolized, as he was in the early

part of his career. grey his flowing hair, and spectacles intimate that the bright eyes are less capable of performing their visual office than of yore; but his warm heart has lost none of its benevolent pulsations, and his watchful eye none of its looks of love.

Time has thinned and streaked with

Mr. Sherman was a prime favorite of my childhood, as he now is of my "older day." Reader of these reminiscences, should you visit London, go and hear him, and my word for it, you will not be disappointed. Hereafter, I may have to speak further of him; at present I must go on with this half autobiographical chapter.

Time flew on. The old pastor of whom I spoke, at length tired out his hearers, so that his congregation dwindled down to a few dozen. Oh! those dreary Sunday services, during which I used to gaze on a wilderness of deserted pews, and listen, per force, to the melancholy echoes of the church choir! If I had not been kept in strict subjection, I should have run in disgust from the chapel. As it was, many were the excuses I invented for going to hear some other preacher in the city. At length the farewell sermon of Mr. H-was preached, and I was taken to his vestry after the discourse, to bid him good-bye. Some of the women mem

bers were weeping, and I suppose some soft portion of my heart caught the infection, and I blubbered also, young hypocrite that I was, for the certainty that I should have to listen to no more dull thumpings of his ecclesiastical drum, filled my heart with delight.