propriate to his theme. And this he did without embarrassment, though his discourses were neither read, nor recited verbatim from memory. His doctrine unfolded itself with great force and beauty. This resulted from various causes; namely, his clear method, his excellent style of language, and his impressive elocution. You will allow me to dwell a little upon every one of these.

His method of arranging the parts of his subject was natural and luminous, remote from all trick and finesse. The particulars were seldom more than three or four, and so bound together as to converge ultimately to one point. And the whole plan of the sermon was announced, and that very deliberately, at the beginning. Thus his auditors were enabled to follow his train of discussion and illustration with understanding; and even to recollect, with facility and profit, the substance of what they had heard. He strongly disapproved the principle, adopted by some in the present age, of preaching with a concealed method; as he thought that such preaching must lose much of its utility for want of the requisite visible order and connexion.

In regard to style, our preacher invariably chose the plainest words he could obtain to express his meaning; never using a hard or learned word but with reluctance, and through necessity. For he was anxious that the weakest hearer might not be deprived of one particle of what was spoken. Yet he would not, for the sake of plainness, descend to vulgarity. His sentences, sufficiently diversified in their structure, were rarely very long, and never involved in ambiguity. All was artless and perspicuous in the highest degree. In fact, while he was speaking, our attention was só riveted to the matter of his address that we scarcely ever thought of his style.

When Eusebius ascended the steps of the pulpit, wè could see that his object was by no means to "preach himself." Every motion of his body, every feature

of his face, indicated the trembling reverence with which he approached that awfully responsible station, When he arose, his solemn but affectionate glance fixed every eye, and reduced the most careless to sobriety of behaviour. A deep sense of the majesty of God, and a lively concern for the conversion and salvation of the people, evidently occupied him during all the exercises of the sanctuary. He was always serious, always in earnest. The disadvantages of a voice rather untoward he overbalanced by an unhurried and very distinct utterance, and by a felicity of emphasis and cadence arising from unaffected feeling. His gestures were few, but spontaneous, and therefore at.once pleasing and weighty. There was no lightness of carriage about him; no theatrical start; no attempt to dazzle us with wit, or amuse us with oddness and humour. No; he bore us away from thinking of him or his talents, and compelled us to regard ourselves, our sins, our duties, our Redeemer, our all-seeing Judge, and the eternity of bliss or wo which lay before us. But there were times, and those not unirequent, when he was more than serious; when his heart melted and overflowed with the most fervent sensibility. At such a season, his lips became tremulous with emotion; his voice assumed an indescribable tenderness, and the tears streamed copiously down his checks; while, with eloquence truly divine, he bewailed the mad obstinacy of the impenitent sinner, and depicted his danger; or turned our view to the Son of God bleeding on the cross for our redemption; or enlarged upon the unfailing love of God to his children, and raised our thoughts to that "exceeding and eternal weight of glory" which he has reserved for them beyond the skies. I have seen hundreds weeping together under the influence of these sacred effusions. We felt as if Jesus Christ stood in the midst of us, urging and beseeching us to escape from boundless evil, and secure an infinity of good, by flying to his bosom. The impression was sometimes transient;

but not seldom it proved durable. Accompanied with the power which comes from above, these sermons produced the most salutary issue in many happy instances; affording to this faithful labourer the enrapturing prospect of a rich harvest of souls, to be his "crown of rejoicing" at the great day.

I will only add, in a few words, that Eusebius, in the church and in the world, through life and at his death, was the same character, in every thing steady and consistent. He was the example as well as the advocate of that heavenly wisdom which "is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, and easy to be entreated; full of mercy and good fruits; without partiality, and without hypocrisy." Think what we have lost by the removal of such a pastor! But we must console ourselves by reflecting that he was long spared to us, and that our loss is his unspeakable and eternal gain. CHRISTIANUS.

No. 38. JULY 20, 1815.

On the Borrowing of Books.

IN the mind of a man who knows the exquisite pleasure of reading, it requires no great stretch of be. nevolence to communicate that pleasure by lending his books to his neighbours. Accordingly, I never knew a man of this description who was not cheerfully willing to lend a book; provided only that he felt reasonably secure of integrity in the borrower. Integrity!' perhaps the reader will say; do you apply so serious a word to the small matter of borrowing a book?' I certainly do, and without hesitation. Many will think it a trifling subject; but others will thank me for endeavouring to banish a crew of bad practices, which have often put their patience to a considerable trial. I request attention to the following rules and observations.

Do not borrow a book, unless you have reason to

believe that you will take an interest in the reading of it. It is not right to bear off my book from a momentary whim merely, and keep it weeks or months, to no purpose, out of my possession. Yet this is a fault not very seldom committed.

When you borrow a book, make a point of beginning it more early, and going through it with more industry, than if it were your own, that it may be returned the sooner.--A man of sense keeps such books only in his library as he believes worthy of being repeatedly read or consulted. When, therefore, he lends you one of these, he sacrifices one of his daily necessaries, or at least of his favourite luxuries. You do not treat him well, if you keep for a month, or perhaps several months, as people often do, a book which you might easily read and restore to his hands in a week. I have been sufficiently troubled by my neigh bours in this way. You take my book with you, and occasionally read a few pages in it. Along with this, you are carrying on the reading of half a dozen other things. Month after month passes away; and you forget that I should be glad to have my book at home, though I am reluctant to ask you for it.

Take special care of a borrowed book.-I know that much use of a book, even in the most careful manner, must gradually wear it out; and this is allowed for, of course. But a man of any taste hates to see his book soiled by dirty fingers, the blank pages or margin scribbled by foolish hands, the leaves broken by being folded at the corners, or the binding shattered by negligent throws or falls. These are sore evils. You borrow from me a book which I value highly; perhaps elegant also in its paper and binding. You pick it up, and fling it down, with as little care as if it were a block of wood; and when I get it again, I find it so injured and defaced that I scruple to place it on the shelf which it formerly adorned. Sometimes I have seen, not without indignation, the most heedless children, suffered to make a plaything of a book

of great merit; turning it over and tossing it about as they would an old almanac. If you choose, indeed, to have your own books transmuted to wreck and filth in such a way, I have no right to complain ofit; only I may be tempted to associate you, in some degree, with my idea of a Hottentot. But when the property is mine, it is a different affair. Your telling me that you treat my book no worse than you treat yours can afford me no satisfaction; you might as well give me a blow on the face, and attempt to justify it by referring to a silly habit of beating yourself. Such unreasonable abuses as I have mentioned are so common, that it is no wonder if those who have books, and know how to value them, are found rather shy and cautious about lending them. If you have been faulty, mend your manners; and by doing so, get free access to the stores of literature which may be in your neighbourhood.

Make

With one more direction I shall conclude. it a fixed rule to return your friend's book as soon as you can, after having read it.—Why should you keep it longer? Why forget to return it, when the owner is probably in want of it? The philosophy of my temper is frequently brought into perii by the laxity which prevails upon this point. It seems as if some people have made up their minds that they are under no sort of obligation spontaneously to restore a borrowed book at any time; and many others pay no attention to the doing of it for years together. I have asked gentlemen, on inspecting their libraries, how it came to pass that I saw so many odd volumes or broken sets. The answer was that the volumes wanting to complete sets had been lent to friends, and never returned; many of them so long ago that it was not remembered who the borrowers were. Sometimes the broken appearance of the library was increased by the very fault which the owner, with a kind of defensive lenity, imputed to others; namely, his having the books of other people lying on his shelves