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and we are not certain that it does not arise, partly, from a natural or constitutional (but yet defective) peculiarity; still, as bishops are usually models for imitation among the younger clergy, the latter may properly enough be advised of some of their liabilities. It would be well for them to recollect that Cicero tells us of a great cotemporary orator who, notwithstanding his superb powers, had some very grotesque grimaces, &c.; and that the young oratorical aspirants of the day, in endeavoring to imitate him, copied all his faults, but none of his excellences. Nature takes delight sometimes in resenting, with ridicule, the mental coxcombry of men who would be great, as monkeys would be men, by putting on the mere external dress of their superiors.

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In spite, we repeat, of his peculiar defect of voice, Bishop Simpson is one of the most powerful preachers now extant among us. He follows the old plan of "homiletically" dividing and sub-dividing his subjects; his "skeletons" or "plans are usually very thoroughly defined, and the parts taken up seriatim with nice precision. His verbal style is clear, direct, and rather plain; he throws abundance of apt and brilliant illustrations over his subject; (this is, in fact, one of his most striking excellences :) his emotions kindle and glow, brightening the declamatory monotone of which we have spoken more and more, and sweeping over the audience like an increasing gale on the bending grass of the prairie. There is a heart-subduing emotion with it also, that gives it a profoundly devout effect; the hearers, from the first, look eagerly at the speaker; they soon begin to wipe their eyes; and before he is through, you will be very apt to hear not a few outspoken, spontaneous responses to the stirring appeals of the preacher - especially in a western audience.

His neglected and inferior personal appearance adds, by contrast, to the strong impression of his discourse. The newspapers report that some time since, traveling east, he arrived in Lancaster-a place in which, personally, he was unknown on Saturday evening, and being unwilling to travel on the Sabbath, he remained until Monday. On Sunday morning he set out from the hotel to find the Methodist Church. On his way he happened to inquire of one of the members

going to it. As they were walking together, this brother discovered that he was a preacher, though, from his appearance, he supposed a local one from the country. On arriving at the church, he introduced him to the pastor, Rev. William Bishop. Although Mr. Bishop heard the name, he never for a moment thought who it was. Hesitating whether to ask him to preach, lest he should be ashamed of the effort of one whom he supposed to be a country farmer, he at last gave the invitation, and the bishop consented. All fears of him were dispelled while he offered his first prayer. During the sermon he enjoyed peculiar liberty," and such a heavenly influence rested upon the congregation that almost every soul was melted, subdued, or carried away on a tide of exultant joy. Mr. Bishop was perfectly astonished. Soon after the bishop had taken his seat and the intensity of feeling had a little subsided, the pastor said to him :—

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"Are you a traveling preacher, brother?" "Yes; I have been an itinerant for several years, and now travel a very large circuit."

"What conference do you belong to ?" "I did belong to the Pittsburgh, but I cannot say that I am now attached to any particular conference."

"What did you say your name was?” "Simpson."

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Simpson! Simpson! not Bishop Simp

son?"

"Why, they call me bishop sometimes," was the reply.

In the excitement of the moment the pastor sprang to his feet and informed the congregation that they had had the pleasure of listening to Bishop Simpson. The day will not soon be forgotten by the Method ists of Lancaster.

But we have not designed to prolong these sketches. Dr. Simpson ought never to have been elected bishop. We helped by our own vote to make him such; but we have twinges of conscience whenever we think of the fact. If our repentance could undo the wrong we then did him, we would vote down our old vote; but, alas! some sins are irrevocable. doctor is not at all the man for such a place; but so grave a charge requires proof, and we cannot detail ours here; we must defer it till our sketch of Bishop Ames, against whom we must bring the same charge in our next number.

The

CASA WAPPY.

WHAT a wonderful effect the pet

WHA a wonderful effect the pet

fond parent! How tenaciously the
endearing manner in which the little
one answered your call clings to the
memory, and how fondly yet sadly all
his little sayings and doings are re-
called, none but those who have ex-
perienced the loss of a sweet child
can realize. Satisfied though you
may be that the one whom you so
tenderly loved is in a brighter habita-
tion than the wealthiest of monarchs,
who dwell here below, can possess ;
that his companions are angels and
himself an angel, still it is natural to
mourn the demise of one whom you
had loved with a father's love or
cherished with a mother's holy affec-
tion. It was this fine feeling that in-
duced the sweet poet, Moir, to write the
beautiful poem which we here present
to our readers, on the death of a child
whose pet name was "Casa Wappy," and
whose early departure was a source of
deep grief to the poet.

AND hast thou sought thy heavenly home,
Our fond, dear boy-

The realms where sorrow dare not come,
Where life is joy?

Pure at thy death as at thy birth,
Thy spirit caught no taint from earth;
Even by its bliss we mete our death,

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Casa Wappy!

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IT

THE TOMB OF THOMAS GRAY.

was a lovely Sabbath morning, before summer had quite finished her sojourn among us, and when autumn had barely touched the topmost branches of the trees with her golden wand, that we determined on a pilgrimage to Stoke Pogis, and left the pretty hill of Clewer at an early hour to go to church,* at the place rendered immortal by the poet who wrote so little, and yet so much. We passed through the ugly scrambling town hanging on the skirts of royalty, as a tattered parasite around a lordly tree; and over the bridge, which Eton youths may not cross, into the town of the boy-college where the poet was educated with his friend West: and though West went to Oxford, and Gray to Cambridge, their friendship only termi

nated with the life of the former.

Eton lies so very low that it is well the lads have long vacations, though all look

The altar-tomb seen near the church, beside which two figures stand, covers the grave of Gray's aunt and mother; it was erected by

him, and the concluding words of the epitaph simply, but most touchingly, record his sense of that most melancholy bereavement, for which the world can offer no substitute-a mother's love. The poet's name is not upon the tomb; but he also lies with them in their grave, and it is recorded on a tablet fixed in the church wall:

"Opposite to this stone in the same tomb upon which he has so feelingly recorded his grief at the loss of a beloved parent, are deposited the remains of Thomas Gray, the author of the Elegy written in a Country Churchyard, &c. He was buried August 6, 1771."

happy and full of life, and in the very
spirit of health. The previous day we
had seen scores of them playing foot-ball
in the meadows appropriated to their
amusement-recalling one of the most
finished poems of our most finished poet-
"Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,

The paths of pleasure trace;
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?
The captive linnet which enthrall?
What idle progeny succeed

To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball?"

But now, on the Sabbath, all was still— the dew, unmarked by a single footstep; the shadows-shadows which are to the eye what echoes are to the ear-lying heavily upon the grass! We passed too (though somewhat out of our road)" the ivy-mantled tower " of Upton Church.

It added to our enjoyment to visit the scenes of the poet's early days on our way old walls within whose sanctuary he imto his favorite village; to look upon the bibed that classic taste, perfected at Cambridge, and the fruit of which seemed the chief solace of his life. It is impossible to read his few poems and letters and journals without feeling that his affections were circumscribed within a very small compass-and all under his control. We could not imagine him betrayed into an emotion, or shaken by a sympathy. And

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