F all the rides since the birth of time, Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass, Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Body of turkey, head of owl, Tarred and feathered and carried in a Of voices shouting, far and near: cart By the women of Marblehead! Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur Through the street, on either side, "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Marble'ead!" "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Marble'ead! "Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,- The wife of the skipper lost at sea Cut the rogue's tether, and let him run!" PULPIT ORATORY. 81 PULPIT ORATORY. T DANIEL DOUGHERTY. HE daily work of the pulpit is not to convince the judgment, but to touch the heart. We all know it is our duty to love our Creator and serve him, but the aim is to make mankind do it. It is not enough to convert our belief to Christianity, but to turn our souls towards God. Therefore the preacher will find in the armory of the feelings the weapons with which to defend against sin, assail Satan and achieve the victory, the fruits of which shall never perish. And oh, how infinite the variety, how inexhaustible the resources, of this armory! how irresistible the weapons, when grasped by the hand of a master! Every passion of the human heart, every sentiment that sways the soul, every action or character in the vast realms of history or the boundless world about us, the preacher can summon obedient to his command. He can paint in vivid colors the last hours of the just man-all his temptations and trials over, he smilingly sinks to sleep, to awake amid the glories of the eternal morn. He can tell the pampered man of ill-gotten. gold that the hour draws nigh when he shall feel the cold and clammy hand of Death, and that all his wealth cannot buy him from the worm. He can drag before his hearers the slimy hypocrite, tear from his heart his secret crimes and expose his damnable villainy to the gaze of all. He can appeal to the purest promptings of the Christian heart, the love of God and hatred of sin. He can depict the stupendous and appalling truth that the Saviour from the highest throne in heaven descended, and here, on earth, assumed the form of fallen man, and for us died on the cross like a malefactor. He can startle and awe-strike his hearers as he descants on the terrible justice of the Almighty in hurling from heaven Lucifer and his apostate legions; in letting loose the mighty waters until they swallowed the wide earth and every living thing, burying the highest mountains in the universal deluge, shadows of the coming of that awful day for which all other days are made. He can roll back the sky as a scroll, and, ascending to heaven, picture its ecstatic joys, where seraphic voices tuned in celestial harmony sing their canticles of praise. He can dive into the depths of hell and describe the howling and gnashing of teeth of the damned, chained in its flaming caverns, ever burning yet never consumed. He can, in a word, in imagination, assume the sublime attributes of the Deity, and, as the supreme mercy and goodness, make tears of 82 THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. contrition start and stream from every eye; or, armed with the dread prerogatives of the inexorable judge, with the lightning of his wrath strike unrepentant souls until sinners sink on their knees and quail as Felix quailed before St. Paul. What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? Some of the starry spikes left in. Where did you get that little tear? What makes your forehead so smooth and A soft hand stroked it as I went by. What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? I saw something better than any one knows. Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss? Where did you get this pearly ear? God spoke and it came out to hear. Where did you get those arms and hands? Feet, whence did you come, you darling From the same box as the cherubs' wings. How did they all just come to be you? But how did you come to us, you dear? THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. F. M. WHITCHER. ES, he was one o' the best men that ever trod shoe-leather, husband was, though Miss Jinkins says (she 'twas Poll Bingham,) she says, I never found it out till after he died, but that's the consarndest lie that ever was told, though it's jest a piece with everything else THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. 83 she says about me. I guess if everybody could see the poitry I writ to his memory, nobody wouldn't think I dident set store by him. Want to hear it? Well, I'll see if I can say it; it ginerally affects me wonderfully, seems to harrer up my feelin's; but I'll try. Dident know I ever writ poitry? How you talk! used to make lots on't; haint so much late years. I remember once when Parson Potter had a bee, I sent him an amazin' great cheeze, and writ a piece o' poitry, and pasted on top on't. Parson Potter and his wife was wonderfully pleased with it; used to sing it to the tune o' Haddem. But I was gwine to tell the one I made. in relation to husband; it begins as follers: He never jawed in all his life, He never was onkind, And (tho' I say it that was his wife) Such men you seldom find. (That's as true as the Scripturs; I never knowed him to say a harsh word.) I never changed my single lot, I thought 'twould be a sin (Though widder Jinkins says it's because I never had a chance.) Now 'tain't for me to say whether I ever had a numerous number o' chances or not, but there's them livin' that might tell if they wos a mind to; why, this poitry was writ on account of being joked about Major Coon, three years after husband died. I guess the ginerality o' folks knows what was the nature o' Major Coon's feelin's towards me, tho' his wife and Miss Jinkins does say I tried to ketch him. The fact is, Miss Coon feels wonderfully cut up 'cause she knows the Major took her "Jack at a pinch," -seein' he couldent get such as he wanted, he took such as he could get, -but I goes on to say— I never changed my single lot, I thought 'twould be a sin,— For I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott, I never got married agin. |