ty hair covered his head, and was combed partially over a broad, white forehead. The nose was prominent and slightly aquiline, the mouth expressive of decision and energy. As I have before said, his voice was deep and melodious, varied, however, in its modulations, by the topics on which he dwelt; now melting by its pathos, now arousing by its earnestness, and anon attracting attention by its pleading cadences. You could not look at Baron Stow's face without feeling persuaded that it was the index of a holy and devoted mind. It attracted you towards it by the very force of gentleness. Mildness and benevolence were traced on it as on an open book, and looking on it we could realize Cowper's exquisite description of the faithful minister, which will occur to every reader's mind. So much for personal appearance. Now for an attempt, feeble though it must necessarily be, to delineate his mental aspect.

The person who visits Rowe street church in the expectation that he may be gratified by listening to remarkable flights of oratory, will be almost certainly disappointed. Great plainness of speech, depth of thought, simplicity of diction, scriptural language and affectionate appeals, are the staple of Dr. Stow's sermons; but you will look in vain for rhetoric flash, metaphysical subtleties, brilliant metaphors, or affluence of imagery. His sermons are distinguished for the great naturalness of their divisions. The texts, as it were, divide themselves of their own accord. For instance, a friend informs us that when he preached from the text "And the door was shut," he remarked that there were two classes implied

by the shutting of that door-they who were shut in, and those who were shut out. This reminds us of a sermon we once heard preached by a Welsh minister from the text "Why will ye die?" In that case the minister, by emphasizing in turn each separate word, made four divisions: Why will ye die? why will ye die? — why will ye die? and why will ye die? A minute analysis also characterizes his discourses, and the very basis. of all of them is fervent piety. Of pathos he is a master, and with a gentle hand does he often unseal the fountains of tears. Perhaps no man's sympathies are more universal, and hence, in hours of trial, or

"When languor and disease invade

This trembling house of clay,"

his ministrations are peculiarly acceptable. The funeral sermons of no other minister whom we can call to memory are so impressive as Baron Stow's; take those which he recently delivered on the deaths of the late Rev. N. W. Williams and Dr. Sharp, as specimens. Without divesting death of its solemnity, he so addresses himself to the living as to gild the gloom of the grave. For public, and we hear for private benevolence he is remarkable, and few men in the ministerial ranks are so universally esteemed, both among his clerical brethren and by the church generally.

One remarkable feature in Dr. Stow's ministrations is the charm by which he attracts so many young perWe noticed a greater proportion of young men at Rowe street church than we have seen at any other.

sons.

That must be indeed a fine and amiable mind which can so enlist the generous sympathies and ardent impulses of youth. As a pastor, he stands high, and though I am far from estimating a minister's usefulness by a dollar and cent standard, yet it is some credit to him that, owing partly to his endeavors, his church has been freed from debt. The congregation is remarkable for intelligence, piety and usefulness, and the Sabbath school is in a highly flourishing condition.

I have intimated that Dr. Stow is rather a Teacher than an Orator; indeed the two are very rarely combined. Why not? The orator knows his power, and so long as he can bind his auditors by the spell of his speech, of his imagery, of his action, he disregards the remainder. The teacher knows that he has solid and substantial worth to communicate; he scorns the artificial; has in utter disregard all manner, and thinks only of his ideas, and likes them best in unadorned vestments. Ever, of course, the teacher merits most of our regard. The orator, perhaps, in the highest sense, few men can be; but every man inducted into the office of the ministry, ought to be a teacher, or he has no business in that office.

I have grown suspicious of orators, especially since I long ago found that the most frivolous of them secured the most extensive and profound attention. The orator should be great in virtue of the continued attitude of the soul; he should not mount a pair of stilts to excite the wonder of the vulgar. I confess I have never been able to see why there should be an elaboration of manner and matter for the pulpit or platform which would be scorned

in the parlor or drawing-room. What we want is honest rhetoric, manliness of speech, plainness, and a determination to make the thought in hand known and felt; to put it in its largest and lowest relations; to set it in the frame work of a most simple diction. The secret of all oratory in the genuine sense will be to be alive to the subject and dead to self, and this is possible. When these requisites blend in the speaker, it is needless to say the orator and the teacher are one.

The latter Dr. Baron Stow most assuredly is, and there are times when he most happily adds to it the attributes of the former.

THERE are few things so disagreeable to me, as being in a strange city on the Sabbath. On other days the business and bustle of the thoroughfares, the attractive shop windows, the kaleidoscopic changes of the costume of the passers-by, and other novel objects which greet

one at every turn, greatly relieve the sense of utter loneliness. But on Sundays the case is widely different. Spite of yourself you are flung upon the worst kind of solitude, the solitude of the streets. Far from his own kith and kin, the family man, in a foreign land, sees with moistened eye and quivering lip, the household groups as they proceed to their accustomed places of worship. In the notes of every church bell that swings in tower and turret, he fancies he recognizes the old familiar chime of the venerable sanctuary that is now far, far away. Kinglake, in that fascinating book of his, "EOTHEN," tells us that whilst one day reposing beneath a palm tree in the great desert, he suddenly seemed to hear the bells of the church of his native village, and so perfect was the illusion that he was absolutely startled thereby. And so in the pauses of the chimes of Trinity church, New York, there seemed to float around me echoes of the bell notes of old Saint Mary Redcliffe, the church described by Chatterton as

"The pryde of Bristowe, and the westerne londe;"

But a dozen strange objects speedily dispelled the momentary illusion, and convinced me that though water is a good conductor of sound, too many billows rolled between me and old England to allow even a Fineear, such as we read of in the fairy tale, to catch a random bellnote amid their eternal roar.

It wanted yet an hour to the time of commencing service in the churches, to one of which I intended going. So descending the steps of that great caravan