THERE is one kind of preaching that draws attention almost exclusively to the preacher himself, and with certain classes of hearers, comprising generally a large majority, he is held in very high admiration. Their recollection, indeed, of his sermons, is very vague and indistinct, and unless they have any definable purpose to obey the truth, neither do they get any vivid conception of Christ; somehow he is kept in the background, being overshadowed by the towering form of his ambassador. When the people retire, it is not to weep and pray, but to talk of the preacher. "Magnificent man," a "real Spurgeon." "Chapin himself cannot surpass him," "lofty thoughts," "burning eloquence." Such are the commendations, that fall alike from Universalists, Spiritualists, formalists, half alive professors of religion, and men of the world. One class alone are silent and sad; the praying members of the church, the burden bearers before the Lord. There is another kind in which the preacher is almost entirely lost sight of. The congregation are arraigned at the bar of conscience and confronted with God. For the time being they are in the midst of the realities of eternity. Each unconverted hearer is searched by the truth, in the secret chambers of the soul, and many are led to inquire, with deepest concern, "What shall we do to be saved?" Christ is most conspicuous, walking among the golden candlesticks. His voice, full of sweetest encouragement, is heard saying to the believing, "Peace be unto you," and to the fearful, "It is I, be not afraid." In tones of mercy, it falls upon the ear of the repenting sinner, saying, "Thy sins are all forgiven thee." The skeptical and proud are startled into fear or rage by the awful words, "Except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish."—Ex.