reader must not expect absolute accuracy; but I will be as nearly correct as possible. He had been preaching a long sermon, and seemed somewhat fatigued, but suddenly he blazed up and exclaimed: "Ah, my time is nearly up, I see, but I feel as if I was only just beginning to preach now. Yes, yes, I could keep on for hours to come; but I must close. But I can't do so without a few more words to some that I may never see again. I've been engaged in the work many years, and my toil may be most done. be most done. Ah! where are all my old shipmates gone, they who lay in hammocks beside me, and who have fought at the same gun? Gone, gone, they are all gone. No, blessed be God, not all; there's one left. [Here he pointed to an old salt with a bald head, a red nose, and a regular man-of-war cut.] Yes, there's old Timberhead! He and I have weathered many a storm together. But he's moored safely now, and waiting for the last bell. [Here poor old Timberhead began to show symptoms of tears, as did many more, myself included.] The summons will soon be heard, brother. Aye, and many of you, my aged friends, will soon hear it too. You are tossed and tempest-driven now, but it's only a little farther you have to sail; look ahead; you'll have only to beat round that last point, and then you'll be safe moored. Yonder's the haven full in view." And a murmur of "bless God" concluded the appeal.

From this description it will be easily understood that Father Taylor is possessed of remarkable dramatic power. He acts, indeed, with the pulpit for a stage:

but he does not act the buffoon. In him, that is natural and effective which in others would be strained and affected. Sometimes he is pungent and pointed. If he observes any of the congregation sneaking out just before the contribution-box goes round, he is very apt to send a hot shot after the shabby defaulters. Does he observe any of his congregation asleep, he will not hesitate to pointedly reprimand and inform them that there is a certain place where the temperature will prevent their indulging in a nap; or if any "fast" young men are guilty of light or trifling behavior, woe to them, for verily they will have their reward of rebuke. In whatever he says or does you may be sure he is thoroughly in earnest, and that is perhaps the secret of his great success among the class to which he especially devotes his time and energies.

It has been said that Father Taylor gives one the impression of a person who hates the devil more than he loves Christ. I do not think so. Fierce indeed is the. warfare which he wages against the powers of Darkness, but not less powerful is he when he dwells on the glories of Heaven and the mercy of Jehovah. With such hearers as his it is necessary that the battering-ram of Truth should be worked by no feeble hand; but happily he can heal the breach after he has made it. No, no; Father Taylor loves Christ all the more for hating Satan so much.

A volume might be filled with Mr. Taylor's pithy remarks. And we could not conceive of one which would be more interesting and instructive. His sermons entire

would never be popular, but extracts from them would be. Why has no one attempted to collect his "sayings," whose " doings" have been described by so many sketchers from Dickens down to this, the humblest recorder of them all? Doubtless many of his remarks have been remembered by his sailor hearers when they were far away from North Square, and possibly Father Taylor covets no wider popularity than this.

On one occasion we visited Bethel Church in company with a New York Comedian of high reputation in his walk. Father Taylor commenced by an appeal in behalf of a Sunday-School pic nic, and spoke so beautifully of children, and showed how much he loved to see them at their little sports, that he almost seemed himself to grow young again in the recollection of them. The actor was perfectly fascinated; and at an after part of the discourse, while Mr. Taylor was indulging in a strain of pathos, I chanced to look round, and my friend, used as he was to artificial scenes and descriptions, was so affected by the unstudied art of the preacher, that he fairly blubbered behind his pocket-handkerchief.

FATHER TAYLOR is, I believe, highly esteemed and valued by sailors. And so should he be. For many a year he has loved them and labored for them. He has stood by the desolate bed of many a forlorn tar, and soothed his last hour. Many have had reason to bless him, and still he labors on heedless of age and its needed repose. Rest, however, he does not, and will not whilst there remains work for him to do. Long may he be spared to those whom he so affectionately calls his

"children," for such lives as his are of priceless worth, and their value is only adequately estimated when forever lost. So ends our reminiscence of the sailors' preacher, Father Taylor.

"HAVE you heard Theodore Parker?"- Such is the question which will be put to a stranger in Boston, who asks any questions respecting the pulpit of the "Athens of America." Should you inquire to what denomination the preacher belongs, or at which church he preaches, you will be informed that he delivers his orations in no ecclesiastical edifice, but in the new Music Hall; and as for his particular sect, very few appear to know, or indeed care anything about it. He is never spoken of as being identified with any body of Christians; and indeed, the prefix of "Reverend" is seldom accorded to him. Theodore Parker, and Theodore Parker alone, seems to be all that his admirers care about.

But, if you are curious on the subject, you will learn

by consulting the title page of his published volume of sermons, that he is "Minister of the Twenty-Eighth Congregational Society." Many, indeed, are the disputes as to which body he really belongs. The orthodox folks, of course, repudiate him. The Unitarians show him the cold shoulder, and the whole legion of sects, in fact, will have none of him. Evangelical Christians pronounce him an infidel of the first water. Religionists

of the old Puritan School, shudder when his name is mentioned, and forbid their children hearing him; and this whilst his followers boast of his piety of life and his boundless benevolence. But Theodore Parker, it is said, cares for neither praise nor censure, and Sunday after Sunday, from his desk in the Music Hall, with a sort of "Bucks, have at ye all" spirit, he discharges his arrows sharp and fast at each of them.

Reader, accompany me, in imagination, to the Boston New Music Hall. It is a brilliant Sabbath morning, and, quitting the now silent Washington street, we stroll along the verdurous walks of the "Common;" Heaven's glare of blue, tempered and toned down by the flickering masses of foliage above, through which creep sunbeams that pave as with brilliant Mosaic the grass at our feet. Scores of bells are swinging out their invitations to praise and prayer, and through Tremont street goes a long procession of church-visiting Bostonians. Following in their track, we pass Park street church, and then, suddenly turning to our right hand, enter Bumstead place, at the end of which is one of the gates of the Hall, which we enter.