wood was kindled, and the fire began to burn near him, stretching out his arm, he put his right hand into the flame, which he held so stedfast, (saving that once with the same hand, he wiped his face,) that all men might see his hand burned before his body was touched. His eyes were lifted up into heaven, and oftentimes he repeated, this hand hath offended; O this unworthy right hand,' so long as his voice would suffer him; and using often the words of Stephen, 'Lord Jesus, receive my spirit,'-in the greatness of the flame, he gave up the ghost."

Every one may see how easily this artless and tender narrative would be spoiled, by the addition of a few tawdry decorations. As it is, the whole transaction is brought before the eye as a vivid reality.*

* The following picture of the plague in London in 1665, as a specimen of simple and impressive description, the editor ventures to add to the illustrations cited by the author.-"In its malignity it engrossed the ills of all other maladies, and made doctors despicable. Of a potency equal to death, it possessed itself of all his armories, and was itself the death of every other mortal distemper. The touch, yea the very sight of the infected was deadly: and its signs were so sudden, that families seated in happiness at their meals, saw the plague spot begin to redden, and wildly scattered themselves forever. The cement of society was dissolved by it. Mothers, when they saw the sign of infection on the babes at their bosom, cast them from them with abhorrence. Wild places were sought for shelter-some went into ships and anchored themselves afar on the waters.-But the augel that was pouring the vial, had a foot on the seas, as well as on the dry land. No place was so wild that the plague did not visit it, none so secret that the quick sighted pestilence did not discovernone could fly that it did not overtake.

It was as if Heaven had repented the making of mankind, and was shovelling them all into the sepulchre.-Justice was forgotten, and her courts deserted. The terrified jailers fled from the felons that were in fetters-the innocent and the guilty leagued themselves together, and kept within their prison for safety-the grass grew in market places-the cattle went moaning up and down the fields, wondering what had become of their keepers-the rooks and the ravens came into town and built nests in the mute belfries-silence was universal, save when some infected wretch was seen clamouring at a window.

For a time, all commerce was in coffins and shrouds:-but even that ended. Shrifts there were none; churches and chapels were

But incomparably the finest specimens of noble simplicity are found in the sacred writings. Take for example the story of aged Eli, watching, hoping, trembling, at the gate of the city, while he expected every moment to hear the result of a great battle. The messenger arrives from the army-you see the tumult, and hear the outcry in the city; you see the agitation of a man ninety-eight years old, the father and the judge of the people; while it is announced-"Israel is fled before the Philistines;-there hath been a great slaughter among the people;-thy two sons also, Hophni and Phinehas are dead, and the ark of God is taken." You see the patriarch sink under the weight of this intelligence, drop from his seat, and expire.

Take another example from the account which the Evangelist gives of our Lord's resurrection. "Behold, there was a open, but neither priest nor penitent entered: all went to the charnelhouse. The sexton and the physicians were cast into the same deep and wide grave; the testator and his heirs and executors were hurled from the same cart into the same hole together. Fires became extinguished, as their element too had expired-the seams of the sailorless ships yawned to the sun. Though doors were open, and coffers unwatched, there was no theft;-all offences ceased, and nought but the universal wo of the pestilence was heard of among men. The wells overflowed, and conduits ran to waste: the dogs banded themselves together, having lost their masters, and ran howling over all the land; horses perished of famine in their stalls-old friends but looked at one another when they met, keeping themselves far alooflittle children went wandering up and down: numbers were seen dead in all corners. Nor was it only in England that the plague so raged. It travelled over a third part of the whole earth, like the shadow of an eclipse, as if some dreadful thing had interposed between the world and the sun, the source of life.

At that epoch, for a short time, there was a silence, and every person in the street for a moment stood still; and London was as dumb as a church-yard. Again the sound of the bell was heard-for it was the sound, so long unheard, which arrested the fugitive multitude and caused their silence. At the third toll a universal shout arose, as when the herald proclaims the tidings of a great battle won, and then there was a second silence.

The people fell on their knees, and with anthems of thankfulness rejoiced in the dismal sound of that tolling death bell: for it was a signal of the plague being so abated that men might again mourn for their friends, and hallow their remains with the solemnities of burial."

great earthquake; for the angel of the Lord descended from heaven, and came and rolled back the stone from the door, and sat upon it. His countenance was like lightning, and his raiment white as snow. And for fear of him the keepers did shake, and became as dead men!" Here is not one swelling word, and yet the representation is so perfect that it carries us to the spot, and makes us spectators of the scene. The same simplicity appears in the correspondent narrative of another Evangelist, which is still more delicately minute and interesting. In reading it, you see the affectionate Mary, on the morning of the third day, while it was dark, visiting the sepulchre. The stone is rolled away ;-she runs to Peter and John. They set out together in haste,-John outruns Peter, comes to the sepulchre, looks in, and wonders; Peter arrives, and with his characteristic ardor goes in,-examines the linen clothes, and the napkin folded by itself;-John assumes courage, and goes in also; the body of Jesus is gone;they slowly retire, meditating on this scene of mystery and amazement. In the mean time, Mary returns, weeping. The narrative proceeds; "And as she wept, she stooped down and looked into the sepulchre, and seeth two angels in white, sitting the one at the head, and the other at the feet, where the body of Jesus had lain. And they say unto her, woman, why weepest thou? She saith unto them, because they have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have laid him. And when she had thus said, she turned herself back, and saw Jesus standing, and knew not that it was Jesus. Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou ?—whom seekest thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away. Jesus saith unto her, Mary: she turned herself and saith unto him, Rabboni! which is to say, Master."

Here is no effort at display: all is unaffected simplicity. And yet to any man, I will not say who has refinement of taste, but to any man who has a heart, this painting must be exquisite. He seems to hear every word that is spoken. He is there him

self; sees every motion, every look :—sees the tears of Mary, her heart now agitated with the hurry of surprise, now melting with the anguish of grief, and then, bursting with astonishment and joy, to see her beloved Saviour alive again.

It is proper here to make a remark, which will be more fully illustrated in another place, that real passion never utters itself with studied ornament. Let an artificial writer describe to you the grief of a father for the loss of his son, and he will probably do it with frigid brilliancy of epithets. But let the father himself speak, and you hear the language of the heart: "O my son Absalom!-my son,-my son Absalom! Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son."

To conclude; An elegant writer possesses something more than that sprightliness of fancy, which substitutes pertness and brilliancy for simplicity and good sense. He possesses genius, sensibility, and cultivated taste. It is this character, in an eminent degree, which Cicero ascribes to Caesar, in the remark on his Commentaries; that "while he seemed only to furnish others with materials for writing a history, he discouraged all wise men from attempting to write on the same subject." If I were to give a summary description of an elegant style, I would say, it is that which expresses the best thoughts in the fittest language; with neither exuberance nor defect. It has regularity without stiffness, sprightliness without levity, light without glare, ease without carelessness, and dignity without ostentation.

LECTURE VIII.

STYLE.-SUBLIMITY.

I proceed in this Lecture, to some remarks on sublimity of style.

Longinus, whose treatise on this subject has been universally regarded as possessing a standard authority, says, "that performance which does not transport the soul, can never be the true sublime. That, on the contrary, is grand and lofty, whose force we cannot withstand; which sinks deep, and makes such impressions on the mind as cannot be easily effaced." Accordingly subsequent writers have defined sublimity as not merely an exhibition of great objects with a magnificent display of imagery and diction; but that force of composition, which strikes and overpowers the mind, which excites the passions, and which expresses ideas at once with perspicuity and elevation. As an example of this, Quinctilian mentions Cicero's eulogium on Pompey the great, in his defence of Cornelius Balbus; in which the orator was interrupted by cries and clapping of hands. The splendor, and majesty, and authority of his eloquence, forced from his auditors a spontaneous burst of enthusiasm, which suspended reason, and made them forget themselves and the dignity of the place.

As a quality of style, sublimity consists either in thought or expression. It consists primarily and chiefly in thought.

One might suppose this to be so nearly self evident as to require no illustration, if the eloquence of words had not been so commonly mistaken for that of sentiment. And yet it is ex