།

single person by preaching the Messiah to the immense crowds in Tottenham Court Road and Moorfields. On the other hand, Summerfield may be compared to Mozart, rich, tender, pensive and pathetic; and like that great master, who is said to have composed his own requiem, seeming in some of his last efforts to be preaching his own funeral sermon. The success of the former was, I had almost said, without bounds till death, which puts a period to every thing earthly, sealed his labors, and sent him to their reward. The success of the latter was necessarily more limited, for his life was indeed a span, though a noble one. Such minds of ethereal flame often spring most quickly to their heavenly source. If those thus planted in the house of the Lord do flourish in the courts of our God, how transient their bloom and beauty?

"Like a tree

That with the weight of its own golden fruitage
Stoops gently to the dust."

Seven brief years completed his ministerial career, while that of the immortal master of pulpit eloquence was protracted through a whole generation, which he so faithfully "served" till the very hour when he " fell asleep;" a generation on which he exerted so mighty an influence to the day when he descended from the pulpit for the last time, and was unrobed for his dying bed.

The subject of this sketch can never be forgotten by those who beheld his successful labors in the cause of benevolence; for young as he was, he was a distinguished and influential patron of the various religious societies which form so brilliant an era in the commencement of the present century. How great was the blank created in the "feast of weeks," as he was accustomed to call the May anniversaries. For meetings of this character he possessed a peculiar aptitude. It was on such occasions that he appeared as one in whom the spirit of charity was blended in beautiful alliance with the soul of genius and eloquence; and by the charm of this consecrated union did he hold captive the hearts of listening thousands.

His first speech after his arrival in this country, which was before the American Bible Society, awoke a thrill of admiring surprise which, swelling into an expectant wonder, took strong possession of the public mind, and at once prepared the way for those immense congregations which assembled to hear whenever it was known he was to preach. By a kind of natural and unanimous consent, the voice of the public became the unsolicited herald of his preaching. The question was not when or where-that was speedily knownbut how shall we get a seat, or a stand? Hours were patiently waited by many for the sake of a convenient seat, and they thought themselves amply repaid by the preacher.

VOL. VII.-No. 4.

His last speech before his departure for the "better country" was delivered before the American Tract Society at its formation, and in the same hall-that of the New York City Hotel-in which he delivered his first. But oh how changed in 1825, even from the delicate youth of 1821! It was the writer's happiness to hear him on that memorable occasion, and we all felt or feared, as we looked on his fragile form and pale, attenuated features, that we were listening to the dying cadences of one whose spirit was already attuned to the harmonies of the Seraphim in Heaven. He was seldom equalled, never surpassed in the ability with which on short premeditation he conducted his part in assemblies for the promotion of charity. There was no dull prosing-no labored harangue-no artificial display, but an easy and familiar address, always pertinent, generally arising out of what had been previously said, (for he usually spoke last,) and often accompanied by high dramatic interest and effect. He could suffuse the eyes of his audience with tears or gild their faces with smiles at pleasure. Pictures of religious happiness, of filial and parental tenderness, he drew with a masterly pencil. There were the soft tints of hope, the full light of assurance and the dark shades of fear, all brought out in striking relief when he would present us the portrait of the Christian. The prosperity of the Church and the glory of her Lord and King were favorite subjects with him. It was not in logical acuteness and great argument that he excelled, but rather in the graces of thought, style, elocution and action. His was not the sententious brevity, the terse diction and compact argumentation of Wesley, but his taste was delicate and correct; his imagination lively, brilliant and discursive, though chaste, as might be expected in one who had so earnestly studied the poets of the English classical age, and who above all had made himself familiar with the language and spirit of the Bible. If his thoughts were not original, their combinations were often original and striking. His metaphors and images were managed without the appearance of art. There was no extravagance in his hyperbole beyond what a just taste would sanction. In personification and apostrophe he sometimes indulged with great power and effect. In climax he was at times admirable. An interrogation or exclamation from his lips came with a spirit and meaning, which evaporated in the process of the press, or of recital by another.

One would as soon think of appreciating the beauty and excellence of a piece of music by reading the notes, instead of hearing it performed by the master-composer. He reminded us of Cicero's definition of an eloquent man: Eloqui composite, ornate, copiose, oratoris est; for orderly arrangement, chaste and ornamental imagery and copious12

ness of thought and expression, were predominant qualities in his oratory.

His familiarity with the English Bible-for he did not claim to be deeply learned in the languages gave him immense advantage in preaching. So gracefully was its diction interwoven with the structure of his discourse," like apples of gold in a network of silver," that the whole came with the beauty and energy of inspiration. For example:

At a public missionary meeting in Baltimore, a distinguished preacher, who preceded him, concluded an able speech thus:

"I will not detain you longer. I know the anxiety of the audience to enjoy the rich feast that is to follow, and I wish to enjoy it with them. We have reserved the best wine to the last."

His imagination kindled at the allusion. He arose, and looking round on the immense congregation, said:

"The gentleman says he has reserved the best wine till the last.' This is inverting the order of the feast; 'every man at the beginning doth set forth the good wine, and when men have well drunk, then that which is worse;' but I have not the worse wine to offer you, mine is mere water; but if the master of the feast should deign to touch the water, and turn it to wine, it may be the very best wine; but recollect, my friends, the excellency would not be of man, but of God."

So when at the meeting of the American Bible Society in New York, the venerable president, Elias Boudinot, his head silvered over with the frost of a sparkling old age, and his form bending under the weight of well-spent years, moved with feeble step but with an animated soul to take the chair, Summerfield, seizing the interest of the passing scene, as he rose to speak, said:

"When I saw that venerable man, too aged to warrant the hope of being with you at another anniversary, he reminded me of Jacob leaning upon the top of his staff, blessing his children before he departed!" Then adverting to the progress of the cause in England and America, he added:

"When we first launched our untried vessel on the deep, the storms of opposition roared, and the waves dashed angrily around us, and we had hard work to keep her head to the wind; we were faint with rowing, and our strength would soon have been gone, but we cried, 'Lord, save us, or we perish!' when a light shone upon the waters, and we saw a form walking upon the troubled sea, like unto that of the Son of God, and he drew near the ship, and we knew that it was JESUS! And he stepped upon the deck, and laid his hand on the helm, and he said unto the winds and the waves,

critic, who had expected little from the stripling, yet unknown to American fame, succeeding a powerful speaker of ripe intellect, and a logical and finished eloquence, who had just sat down amid murmurs of applause; "he talks like an angel from Heaven." The breath of the young orator's eloquence had scattered his prejudices to the winds, and awakened in their stead the most enthusiastic eulogium. It was a heartfelt tribute to the natural, inimitable eloquence of the man. When to such sentiments, so finely expressed, we add the charm of the voice, the eye, the gesture, the person, the whole manner, all admirably adapted to them, we may imagine how complete and overpowering was the impression made on an assembly of minds, linked together by a common sympathy, while one magic hand struck that wondrous chord, that trembled with ecstacy in every responsive bosom.

The death of this amiable young man, which was in keeping with his life, took place in the city of New York, on the 13th of June, 1825. On the previous night, a beloved sister approached his bed, and imprinting the kiss of affection on his wan and pallid cheek, bade him "good night.” He responded in feeble, but affectionate accents, "good night." These were his last words. He continued gently to sink away, till he fell asleep in Jesus.

The concourse of people that attended his funeral was immense. His body reposes in the Methodist burial ground in Brooklyn, and on his grave rests a monumental tablet with the following inscription composed by the writer of this sketch, at the request of his friends, which he will be pardoned for subjoining, as a suitable conclusion of his reminiscences:

Sacred to the Memory
of

THE REV. JOHN SUMMERFIELD, A. M.,
Æt 27;

A Preacher of the Methodist Connection ;
Born in England-born again in Ireland;
By the first a child of Genius; by the second a child
of God:
Called to preach the gospel at the age of nineteen,
In England, Ireland and America.
Himself the Spiritual Father of a numerous and
happy family.

At this Tomb Genius, Eloquence and Religion mingle their tears. Holy in life, ardent in love and incessant in labor, He was to the Church a pattern, to sinful man an angel of mercy, to the world a blessing. In him were rarely combined gentleness and energy;

By the one attracting universal love, By the other diffusing happiness around him. Singular sweetness and simplicity of manners,

THE subject chosen by the artist is of less stirring and vivid interest than those of many other pictures which have been and will be painted; battle scenes, for instance, or shipwrecks, or mighty conflagrations, such as that of Moscow, or groups embodying the portraits of men who have filled the world with the echo of their renown, as the coronation of Napoleon or Cromwell dissolving the Long Parliament. Yet to the thoughtful mind, imbued with a deep and loving sympathy for our wonderful humanity, there are few things or occasions more profoundly suggestive than the rite by which, in the judgment of those who administer it or desire its administration, the little human scion, all passive and unconscious, is admitted within the pale that sets apart, as it were, the family of man to the acceptance of special relations with the Creator, involving peculiar duties, hopes and privileges. And even without reference to this, in the aspect of a little child there is matter for a world of thought. The small specimen of humanity lying there, in the arms of its nurse or on the bosom of its mother, helpless, ignorant, unthinking, almost formless, mind and body alike incapable of effective action-the merest lump of inchoate animation-who can tell what stir and uproar it shall yet make on the surface of the earth and among the millions who dwell thereon? That placid, unmeaning face [may in after years put on a smile or frown that shall carry rejoicing or dismay to the hearts of thousands. That squab form may yet assume a majesty of port to which the royal crown and robes can make no addition. That squalling, piping voice may come to speak with an effect potential in Council chamber or admiring Senate, or sway with absolute command the minds and passions of a mighty multitude for good or ill. Yes, the feeble infant may be the germ, or perhaps we may rather say the chrysalis of a Charlemagne, a Bajazet, a Cæsar Borgia, a Demosthenes or a Masaniello.

And then again it may turn out nothing of the kind. Manhood may find it plodding tranquilly along through life. a respectable husband, father and citizen, and doing its part in the great workshop of the world as an honest husbandman, wood cutter, shoemaker or small dealer in teas, treacle and groceries in general. Or it may be cut off in the very outset of its career by some

unlucky attack of croup or measles-strangled ignominiously by a paroxysm of whooping cough, or burnt out of existence by a fatal attack of the dreaded scarlet fever. A melancholy anticipation this. But does it not enhance the interest with which we look upon the small homunculus to know or to reflect that its frail hold on life is subject to these and a host of other mortal dangers? We remember how the heart of the young mother cleaves to the existence of her little one; with what loving patience she ministers to its wants, watches over its safety, gives up her whole being, in complete surrender of all which gave to that being its solace and delight, to the one fond work of playing well her part as mother. We consider that this woman has a soul; that the world has a place for her, which she fills, in which she has been planted by Heaven's decree; and does it not ennoble the existence of that little child, feeble and incapable as it is, to know and see that this woman, one of God's creatures-perhaps one of His noblest and most admirable-is content, aye more than content, is glad thus to devote herself and all her energies to its security, its comfort, its preservation through the hazards and dangers of infantine existence?

Suggestive? Yes indeed there are few things more suggestive of thoughts neither idle nor unbecoming than the aspect of just such a little human dumpling as Mrs. Nurse is proudly carrying there in the picture, behind the proudly stepping, fondly yearning mother. The scene is simple enoughcommon enough in Italy-but the artist has made a pretty picture of it, and we venture to say that it appeals to the sympathies of many who will look upon it,with greater effect than attends the contemplation of far more brilliant and pretentious subjects.

We scarcely need commend this picture to the favoring study of our fair readers. To figure as one of the principal actors in such a scene as it presents either has been or will be the destiny of almost every one among them. And the destiny is one for which they have no cause to feel either shame or sorrow, but rather pride and gladness. "Mother" is a holy name; maternity a blissful and honorable though solemnly responsible relation.

J. I.

JOCELYN.

I.

"T WAS St. Valentine's day; the rosy post-boys were knocking about the streets, with humorous intimations in their winking eyes of the load of fun and folly they were carrying. The bright-eyed urchin who answered the door of a respectable boarding-house in S———— street went bounding up stairs to distribute the numerous letters, and was soon by the desk of a pale, genteel young man who wrote busily. Open books were before him and others were marked with slips for easy refe

rence.

"Writing, writing all the time, and that bad pain in your breast growing no better," said the boy, looking anxiously in the fine, serious face that at length looked up.

"Not all the time, Johnny, for what I write today is a digest of what I read yesterday."

"Those great, heavy books; the ugly, murderous things will be the death of you. Well, when I am up for some mischief you'll plead my cause all the better. Meanwhile, here's a letter to digest; rather a dainty affair, too."

"Humph," muttered young Lisle angrily, as he broke the mottoed seal; "a valentine! I think my friends might play off their 'quips and cranks' upon some one more in the humor for such things. Who has sent me this beautiful epistolette? my mischievous cousins, the girls at home? No, none of them, humph."

The barrister had moved nearer the blazing grate as he spoke, but the half-vexed smile with which he regarded the white winged messenger left his lips as he caught the burthen of the first few lines, and he flung himself into his easy chair to read and re-read the missile, which, though adorned with emblems of the "quivered boy," expressed only friendship and interest in the sweetest language of poesy. The passionless lily might have shaken from her bells sounds as softly pure, yet the music of praise, and the voice of the "noble encourager, hope," blended with the strain, and from every line, like the mouse eyes under the acanthus leaf, peeped out woman's merry malice. No fair incognita ever seemed more confident of preserving her secret than this sweet masque, and the planet-struck reader was immediately inspired with the strongest desire to lift the veil.

"Edward," said a friend entering, “I think I can put you in the way of a brief." "Brief and beautiful," rhapsodied the lawyer. "Who can she be?"

"How should I know," responded the good-humored man, glancing at the sheet. "Oh, you have a valentine there, have you? From some sweet and short little body, I dare say, but your aunt Jane says-"

It's no use stopping to mention at length what his prosy aunt Jane said, but as it involved his leaving his present quarters and taking up his abode with her for some weeks, we will merely hint at his delicate health, her excellent nursing qualities, a chamber, sunny and south, hareskins on the chest, tinctures and tonics, and exquisite ratifia to destroy their bitterness. And we will see the goodhearted old lady on his arm the next morning on her way to church. Yes, every body that kept proper observance of the good saint's day, knows that it fell on a Saturday, and of course t' was on a Sabbath morning that Edward Lisle-quite a good height he was when not bent over that wearying desk-and aunt Jane, looking like a nice, warm bear in her brown velvet hat and cloakings, were on the sunny side of Hudson street, just under that row of willows, and with the first comers turned into St. Luke's. I dare say there are many even in New York city that reck not of St. Luke's square tower and modest grey walls; of the court yard round, that all Summer lies so fresh and green, dotted here and there by white flag stones or fair-limbed young trees, or the glossy ivy boughs that cling to the walls close by. A charming eye-rest of greyness and greenery is that little church in the heat of the city Summer, but this morning our pair were glad to hurry in from the wet pavement whose snowy deposite, like the dove among the pots," was something the worse for the numbers that trod the noble streets, and soon they were ensconced in the comfortable cushions and listening to the hallowing tones of the deep organ.

Mr. Lisle had not been seated there for years. When a mischievous lad he had been his aunt's pet, and she had often carried him to Sabbath school, and afterward planted him by her side to keep him steady and demure during service. Of late years he had worshipped among a different