ever with himself, that the subtile essence of oratory, its life and virtue, are as evanescent as a beautiful cloud or a grand thunder-peal. Roscius has a classical immortality, but it is only a name to be called and given. He is celebrated by those whom we venerate, and thus has a sort of life, and yet it is nothing. The Hermit of the Crusades has a better hold upon us; for, though we cannot conceive his eloquence, yet we know that it set the heart of Catholic and chivalrous Europe on fire, and drove countless multitudes upon expeditions that have left their mark on all ages since. We may read descriptions of pictures, buildings, and statues, and, if we have an eye or mind for such things, we may obtain distinct, and perhaps just ideas. But how is the orator to be brought before us? How is the ear to gather the lost note that thrilled living masses, and made them as one man? This music cannot be written and reproduced through ages. How is the look, the movement, or even the attitude of passionate or graphic eloquence to be preserved in words? Cardinal Maury has described Massillon. From another writer we have an elaborate account of Lord Brougham's manner. It is no matter that their descriptions are exaggerated. This may be necessary for true effect. The colossal need not be monstrous. But it is observable, that each has painted a scene rather than an individual, and given us a good idea of a result, while all the painful minuteness of description was intended, and we think in vain, to acquaint us with the means. It must always be so. The best descriptions will fail of what we most want. Without pursuing this familiar topic, we repeat, that Whitefield may be thought to have died with his voice. And why lament it? He had his day of glory. He had the pleasure of ceaseless activity. He had his battles and victories. He drew all eyes and ears to himself. He was not shut up in the theatre of a city, like Garrick, but sent forth his voice over the earth, day and night, in the wilderness and in the streets, amidst the blasphemies of sailors and the howling of the ocean storm,in old, populous England, and along the scattered settlements of the new world. It is enough to have made such a stir in his own time. It need not be regretted, that a day like his has past, and that he has not left us one great sermon. But this very obvious view of Whitefield's case is also a very imperfect one. He has many claims to present notice. His character is original, his course original; his errors are useful, and his sacrifices memorable. To an American it is of some account, that he made seven voyages to this country to do good, and, moreover, that his name is closely associated with the great religious movements here about the middle of the last century. It may be of some interest, that he died and was buried here. And, further, it should be considered, that, though we hear of him chiefly as an eloquent man, yet his power as an orator included qualities of mind and character, which might have made him remarkable, if he had chosen quite a different line of life. The charm was not wholly in voice and gesture. His invincible spirit, the fruit of religious faith and ardor, and not of constitutional hardihood; his passion for activity; his love of new results, and desire to see a changed face put upon the religious world; his prodigal benevolence, which is seen at its height when he is in peril, or denouncing woes upon the impenitent, and which gives a reasonable air to his romance, and almost a respectable one to his "mad pranks and splendid irregularities" as a field-preacher; his recklessness as to all temporal consequences to himself, and his absorption in the saving of souls; his consuming desire, that others may enter into his rapture and his peace; and, almost above all these, a childlike simplicity, an humbler sense of self, and a growing gentleness in his deportment towards his adversaries, as he lived longer among men; these are points of character, that may well give a man figure among his contemporaries, and a higher distinction than mere eloquence could obtain. But we are asked, Where then are his monuments? Could all perish of so much power, ardor, and effort, and in less than seventy years from his death? It might be replied, that Whitefield was not a wise man for himself. He was lavish of his resources. He seems to have had not one selfish or ambitious object, -no pride of a leader, no forecast to provide for organizing a party, with institutions, codes, badges, and rulers, which might perpetuate his name, and sustain the interest which his presence had excited. Instead of seeking to break up episcopacy or presbyterianism, or religious societies of any name, that he might bring the dispersed flocks into his fold, he sought only for hearers; it mattered not what were their opinions or forms, or their places and sea and used, and diligently put to its work in the advancement of Arabic learning in these western ends of the earth. With regard to the Nepos of Freytag, the abridgment of his lexicon, we may, in closing, make a single remark. Abridgments are bad in their best estate. If a work is abridged by its author, it is usually a monster. Every thing else is apt to be so curtailed, as to give prominence to his pets, his awkward hobbies. If it is abridged by another, the process is commonly that of distillation, in which the spirit or essence is distilled out. The architect must plan his work at first, either large or small. He must lay his keel for a ship or a boat, and finish accordingly. A razeed thing can never be better than a deformity. But if one will perpetrate an abridgment, he is surely bound to his reader and to his bookseller, to explain on what principles the curtailment is made, else we will not buy, or so much as borrow it, lest we be deceived in our dependence on it. This, Freytag has not done in his abridgment. We find roots with unbroken masses of derivatives, or with important conjugations left out; and we know not why. The reason may have been a good one; but, as we know it not, we cannot trust the work. It may have been prepared for certain chrestomathies, or courses of Arabic reading; but, as we are ignorant what it was designed to be used for, we can use it, with satisfaction, for nothing. Accordingly, for a work at once small, cheap, and convenient, we still cleave to Wilmet, with which we know we can read the Koran, which is fundamental in Arabic scholarship, Hariri, the great and only epic poet, the Homer of the Desert, and the life of Timur, one of the most delightful Arabic histories. ART. VIII. The Life and Times of the Rev. GEORGE By ROBERT PHILIP. 1838. One WHITEFIELD has enjoyed a traditional reputation in some respects, no doubt, resembling that of a great player; and, as he has left nothing behind him, in theology or literature, to justify his celebrity as a preacher, it has seemed that he was to remain a traditional wonder of pulpit acting, and nothing more. He was to have that popular, but not wholly desirable kind of fame, which is perpetuated by anecdotes, pointed sayings, and ingenious and amusing exaggerations. We might read, that Hume thought it well worth one's while to go twenty miles out of his way to hear him; and that Dr. Franklin, on one occasion, instead of listening to the sermon, walked from street to street in the neighbourhood, to make some exceedingly characteristic calculations of the reach of his voice. His pathos and thunders were proverbial. There was something picturesque in his preaching to thousands under the open sky, and turning every incident and object to his purpose. There was something romantic in his adventurous itinerancy on an errand of love to human beings. Surely here was material enough for stories and descriptions of the wonderful preacher. Whitefield had evidently made a deep impression on the imaginations of the men of his day; for, in every account they gave of his preaching, there was a distinct image of the man, of his look, his action, his fervor; and some particular point was remembered, that he had made in his discourse. It seemed as if there was, every time, some new effect or uncommon incident, to fix the sermon in every memory, to be transmitted to at least one generation. We remember hearing two of our public men describe Whitefield many years ago. They were then aged, and disposed to value the solid more than the showy. They were of ripe years and judgment when they heard him, and, though of strong passions, yet good masters of themselves and disposed to see the whole of things. And the imagination of the one was filled with his preaching a farewell sermon on Boston Common at sunrise, and investing the new-born day with a glory the eye had never seen; it became a religious memorial. The other dwelt upon the flight of the dove towards heaven, and gave Whitefield's action as his soul seemed to follow the waving of its wings. They had probably forgotten much of the doctrine, but the image was fixed for ever. But what can narrative and description do to give us an idea of a great speaker? If fond himself of contemplating renowned and useful examples, that are never to perish, he may think it a hard fate, that so much power must cease for ever with himself, that the subtile essence of oratory, its life and virtue, are as evanescent as a beautiful cloud or a grand thunder-peal. Roscius has a classical immortality, but it is only a name to be called and given. He is celebrated by those whom we venerate, and thus has a sort of life, and yet it is nothing. The Hermit of the Crusades has a better hold upon us; for, though we cannot conceive his eloquence, yet we know that it set the heart of Catholic and chivalrous Europe on fire, and drove countless multitudes upon expeditions that have left their mark on all ages since. We may read descriptions of pictures, buildings, and statues, and, if we have an eye or mind for such things, we may obtain distinct, and perhaps just ideas. But how is the orator to be brought before us? How is the ear to gather the lost note that thrilled living masses, and made them as one man? This music cannot be written and reproduced through ages. How is the look, the movement, or even the attitude of passionate or graphic eloquence to be preserved in words? Cardinal Maury has described Massillon. From another writer we have an elaborate account of Lord Brougham's manner. is no matter that their descriptions are exaggerated. This may be necessary for true effect. The colossal need not be monstrous. But it is observable, that each has painted a scene rather than an individual, and given us a good idea of a result, while all the painful minuteness of description was intended, and we think in vain, to acquaint us with the means. It must always be so. The best descriptions will fail of what we most want. It Without pursuing this familiar topic, we repeat, that Whitefield may be thought to have died with his voice. And why lament it? He had his day of glory. He had the pleasure of ceaseless activity. He had his battles and victories. He drew all eyes and ears to himself. He was not shut up in the theatre of a city, like Garrick, but sent forth his voice over the earth, day and night, in the wilderness and in the streets, amidst the blasphemies of sailors and the howling of the ocean storm,—in old, populous England, and along the scattered settlements of the new world. It is enough to have made such a stir in his own time. It need not be regretted, that a day like his has past, and that he has not left us one great sermon. But this very obvious view of Whitefield's case is also a |