chapels. They are seen rather in some of the darker recesses of the vast and gloomy, though magnificent, pile-prostrate in the very dust-beating their breasts in great apparent anguish, while tears sometimes stream down their cheeks; and in some cases at least, such disquieted spirits have found out that they "are very great sinners." In spite of all the self-righteousness of Popery and the human heart, which found an expression in the cockpit of the Victory, and which reigns with greater or less power in every unconverted soul, such worshippers as we now mention have been "found out" by their sins. (Numb. xxxii. 23.) All the grandeur of the temple in which they worship all the effect of its music, merely sensual as it for the most part is all the glare of their high festivals, even when Archbishops preside, are insufficient to still the tumult which the consciousness of sin raises in the soul. While men measure themselves by a graduated scale of sin, as Nelson did, all may seem promising and serene-when sin as sin is known, and felt, and mourned for, some other appliance than man invents must be discovered and employed ere true peace be regained. With God the soul must deal; but against that God the soul has offended, and there is but one way-an exclusive, a narrow, and a blood-marked way into his presence with acceptance -the way to which the Redeemer points when he says: "I am THE way, the truth, and the life." One could not but hope that minds, exercised as we have seen some on such occasions, will be led by the Spirit of all grace to walk in that way; and then, not in consequence of their religion, but in spite of itnot by its help, but as surmounting all its encumbrances-these souls are safe.

Could one forget eternity, and put the religion of the Bible for a time in abeyance, much that is gratifying might be found in Milan. In the days of Ausonius it was full of wonders-"mira omnia;" and, as an Italian city, it is so still. We would call it, perhaps, the Glasgow of Italy, in point of activity and enterprise; though the comparison will appear ludicrous to those who know that, in such a case, contrast rather than comparison would convey a right notion of Milan. The people are devoted to music, dancing, theatres, and display; and it had not been our home for many hours, when we could perfectly understand why the philanthropist, Howard, when he first travelled in Italy, hastened home to England from Milan, without proceeding farther, when he saw the extent of its Sabbath desecration. He stood in awe lest he should be contaminated by its "evil communications;" and it had, perhaps, been well had thousands of our fellow-countrymen imitated Howard's example; Popery would not have been "first pitied, then embraced," by so many of our travelled men.

To maintain order among our remarks, however, let us point out some of the wonders of Milan in detail:

I. THE CHURCHES.-It is known that Milan has not been reckoned perfectly orthodox by the Church of Rome. Its religion is called Ambrosian, after the founder of its Church and the framer of its Liturgy. Ambrose held his own opinions, and impressed them on his diocese; and traces of his peculiarities still

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exist in the creed or the superstition of the city. But whatever sentence would be passed on its religious sentiments, its churches are laden with the tokens of wealth, so profuse is their gold, silver, and precious stones. The wonder diminishes, however, when we read above their porches, in large inviting letters, like the placard of some new player-" Indulgentia plenaria pro vivis et defunctis"—A plenary indulgence sold here for the living and the dead. In these circumstances, to build or beautify a church is to purchase a title, at least an immediate entrance into heaven; and who will wonder though the churches be gorgeous there?

The Church of St Ambrose, however, contains one relic which deserves the attention even of those who would not join the throng of starers in the Italian churches. That temple is not merely the most ancient in the city, but contains a pillar of granite said to be Egyptian, having on its summit the figure of a serpent in a metal resembling bronze. This image is alleged to have been at one time worshipped; and antiquarians have published whole quartos on the subject. The appearance of the figure and the pillar favour the supposition; and, assuming it to be true, we felt it strange to be thus surrounded with such various forms of superstition-that of Popery through all its ramifications in the adjoining churches, and the worship of the serpent represented by the emblem before us. Bryant, and more recent writers, have made it certain that that revolting form of superstition was at one period widely spread throughout the world; in fact, they have found vestiges of it in the superstitions of nearly every age and country; and if so, if we connect this, as some of those authors do, with the history of the fall of man, we have here the hideous truth, that the symbol of all evil has actually been adored by myriads of immortal beings. "Ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil," was the first lure of the father of lies; and that very sentence contained one of the greatest deceptions with which he ever duped mankind. Instead of becoming gods, his victims became the parents of a race, many of whom were so abject and degraded as to worship the symbol of the seducer of their progenitor. It has been remarked that Satan's chiefest victory is to have convinced men that he himself has no existence. We would say that it seems a yet greater triumph to persuade the being who was created in the image of God to believe and to worship Satan; nay, a mere image of the form which he wore when he, and wretchedness with him, first crept into this world.

The gates of the Church of St Ambrose are said to be those which that father shut in the face of the Emperor Theodosius, after he had violently put to death seven thousand of his victims at Thessalonica. Arianism was at that time struggling hard for the ascendency; and its allies, abetted by royalty, sought to substitute it for the religion of God our Saviour; but Ambrose boldly opposed the enemies of God's truth, even though they occupied a throne, and maintained it in spite of all assailants. "I can grieve," he said, "I can weep, I can groan. Against arins De Serpente Eneo Ambros. Basilica, per P. Paolo Busco.

and soldiers, tears are my weapons-such are the fortifications of a pastor;" and in that devoted spirit Ambrose drove back the battle from the gatesheresy was abashed, and the heretics were vanquished. In those days (about the year 380) even an emperor was no match for a bishop; and Theodosius was obliged to make ample amends for his injuries or insults to the Church in the person of its priest. He passed to the Basilica arrayed in mean garments-submitted to all the awards of Ambrose -prostrated himself in abject humiliation, there repeating the words: "Adhæret pavimento anima mea; vivica me secundum tuum verbum;" and at the Communion, the emperor took his place among the people, instead of on the throne which he usually occupied. Such was the religion of Ambrose; and, judging from the spirit of the proceedings, one is tempted to fear that neither in the bishop nor the emperor did the pure and the spiritual religion of Jesus preside.

We do not attempt a further description of the Duomo or Cathedral of Milan-it must be seen. In examining the interior, however, we were admitted into the crypt-a subterranean den, so rich in gold and silver, the gifts of devotees, as to rival the accounts of Peru and its Incas, when the Spaniards first invaded them. The modern saint of Milan, who has somewhat jostled its ancient Ambrose, is Cardinal Carlo di Borromeo. His remains are in the crypt; and the fame of his miracles, alive and dead, has made this one of the richest shrines in Italy. The estimated value of the gifts and bequests appeared fabulous and incredible. Exhibited as they were by the light of lamps perpetually burning, though superstitiously dim, fancy had scope to revel in this Italian Potosi, to which the crown-rooms in Edinburgh Castle, or even the Tower of London, are not a rival; and the thought instinctively occurred, How much better to use all this as the means of feeding the hungry, and clothing the naked, and enlightening the ignorant, and turning men from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan unto God! The "roguish twinkle" in the eye of the monk who escorted us, suggested the thought that he had more admiration for the gold and silver than for the saint.

We had neither gold nor homage to offer at the shrine of San Carlo, and turned to notice another relic of the cathedral-a relic, however, in which genius triumphs over superstition. It was Algrati's famous statue of St Bartholomew. The saint is represented there just after he had been flayed, according to the legend of his death. Every muscle is sculptured in horrid truthfulness-indeed, too minutely and anatomically correct; for, as you gaze on the image, it requires no effort to think-you can scarcely help it that the muscles are still quivering, as life ebbs away-the fibres and the nerves appear still writhing under the knife, as the bones are distorted with the pain of the martyrdom. Working thus on the feelings of an emotive people, Popery wisely adapts itself to human nature in every phase. In civil society, that most subtle system lays every power and gift of man under contribution. Childhood, womanhood, manhoodevery age, rank, condition—the wise and the stolid

the eloquent and the taciturn-the cunning and the bold-all have their part to play. Jesuitism embodies the subtlety of the Papacy. The Dominicans long represented its ferocity against the truth. The Franciscans brought even poverty and filth to the aid of Popery; in a word, through all its sects-and in spite of its boasted unity, their name is Legion, one principle is acted on-Whatever gift or acquirement we possess, bring all to the aid and upholding of our system. We saw this exemplified in the Cathedral of Milan and elsewhere; for here is Art, exquisite and inimitable Art, consecrating its graces to Superstition, and throwing around it the halo of genius. Artists come to admire Algrati's statue; and as pity is akin to love, admiration in an artist easily becomes homage-idolatry-worship-in the ignorant and the superstitious.

The libraries, with the ancient and the modern embellishments of Milan, remain to be mentioned, and then we proceed, by Brescia, Verona, Vicenza, and Padua, to Venice.

ON MAN'S TWO ENEMIES. Two potent enemies attend on man— One's fat and plump-the other lean and wan. The one fawns and smiles-the other weeps as fast; The first Presumption is-Despair the last. That feeds upon the bounty of full treasure, Brings jolly news of peace, and lasting pleasure; This feeds on want, unapt to entertain God's blessings-finds them ever in the wane. Their maxims disagree; but their conclusion Is the self-same-both jump in man's confusion. Lord, keep me from the first; or else I shall Soar up and melt my waxen wings, and fall! Lord, keep the second from me; lest I then Sink down so low, I never rise again! Teach me to know myself, and what I am, And my presumption will be turned to shame! Give me true faith to know thy dying SonWhat ground has then Despair to work upon? To avoid my shipwreck upon either shelf, O! teach me, Lord, to know my God-myself." QUARLES.

THE MOUNTAIN COTTAGE. FOR the purpose of enjoying some romantic scenery, on a warm afternoon in June, I left the little village where I had been residing, for a solitary walk. It dozen miles from Long Island Sound. was in the southern part of New England, about a After roaming from hill to hill, now gazing at the fertile plains covered with the richest garments, and now looking at the dark blue waters at a distance, with here and there a white sail slowly moving upon their surface. I found myself among the wildest works of Nature. I had wandered over a mountain covered with timber culty be climbed by seizing the bushes which grew of different kinds, so steep that it could with diffion its sides, and now found myself in a gap, between two ranges of steep mountains. Delayed on the hills in search of minerals, it was not till near sunset that || I came into this gap, sometimes known by the name of "The Den." It is a fearful place, extending separated just wide enough to admit a foaming stream several miles, with high and steep hills on each side, if between them; while their dark shaggy tops seemed

to scowl, as if in disdain, at the waters that were dashing at their feet. The stream is dark and deep; now whirling in eddies ere it bounds and dashes over opposing rocks, and now silently and sullenly moving along, as if indignant at the obstacles which stand in its way. There was a little path along the side of the river, trodden chiefly by single persons, though sometimes passed by a team. Besides this, you could see no traces of man. The frowning pines sighed on the tops of the mountains-the rocks reared their eternal breast-works -the savage stream dashed along in its pride, and all around was solitude. It was just sunset; and there is an indescribable stillness attending the setting of a summer's sun, which every feeling bosom notices. He threw a veil of gold over the heads of the aged pines on the hills at my left, and sank with a stillness that seemed like a stop in the wheels of nature. It seemed as if the wild flood murmured with a less hoarse voice at this moment, and the heron on its banks forgot his screaming. I might not have remembered this moment, had it not, in a measure, prepared me for what followed.

About a mile fron the entrance of "The Den" was a little opening on the side of the eastern mountain, and nearly half way up its summit stood a small, but neat cottage. It was in the midst of woods, save a place cleared around it for a little barn, a garden, a sheep-cot, and the little winding path which led to the door. The small habitation, the garden, &c., were not only neat and in good repair, but I noticed that they even had something like ornament; for a lovely honeysuckle was creeping over the mossy roof, and some beautiful flowers were waving in the garden. Though somewhat surprised at seeing these signs of life, I soon recollected that this must be the habitation of James Orwell, "the mountain cottager," whose character I had lately learned, and in whose history I had taken a lively interest.

James Orwell, whose house I was now approaching, was a native of Scotland; he had come to this country some fifty years before, in the hope of becoming rich. This country was then new, and he had but little experience that was of any value. During the revolutionary war, he had a little shop in a village near the sea, where he traded on a small scale. He had acquired a pretty property, when the village was burned by the enemy, and in an hour he lost all his earnings. This stroke was heavy to one who had placed his whole heart upon property, and the more so as it was unexpected. For a time he was cheered with the hope of remuneration by Government; but this hope was soon dashed, and he was discouraged. He gradually became morose and disgusted with mankind; and, with a wife whom he had lately married, and an infant son, he retired to the lowly retreat where his cottage now stands. Here he had lived unmolested for more than twenty years, having little to do with the world, save when he went to the neighbouring village once a fortnight, to dispose of the wooden dishes which he made at home. unsocial, and rather repulsive during all this time. But about three years ago his wife was suddenly taken sick, and in a few days died. At the time this event took place there was a revival of religion in the next village. The old man invited the neighbouring minister to attend the funeral of his wife. It was then that the minister endeavoured to soften and sympathize with him; and there are but few whose hearts will not soften at such a season. He gradually gained his confidence, and more gradually drew his attention to the great subject of personal religion. At the time of his wife's death the old man had an only daughter with him, then about fourteen years of age. His only son had the restless disposition of his father, and at the age of fifteen had left his home and gone to sea. Before the close of the revival, the

He was

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good pastor had the pleasure of numbering the hardy Orwell and his daughter among the subjects of the work, and of rejoicing that these sheep upon the mountains were gathered into the fold of Christ. From this time the appearance of the old man was greatly altered. Instead of sauntering over the hills on the Sabbath, and selecting the best maple trees of which to make his wooden dishes, he was now seen going regularly to the village church, with his cheerful daughter hanging on his arm. Every Lord's-day he was seen in season at his seat, dressed in his threadbare drab coat, with his silvery hair hanging in ringlets over his shoulders. His neck was surrounded by a red silk handkerchief; a black vest and pantaloons, and a smooth-worn cane, completed his dress. As the people saw how great was the change in the old man-how devout was his attention to the duties of religion-and saw his daughter sitting by him, and both mingling their notes of praise in the sanctuary, they all felt that there must be something in religion. I said that from the time of the death of his wife, the old man and daughter were both regularly seen in their humble seats on the Sabbath; but for a few Sabbaths previous to my visit at the cottage, they had both been missing; and the reason was known-because the daughter had been too unwell to go out.

Possessing naturally a slender constitution, she had of late been drooping; and people of the village, who loved her much on account of her many amiable qualities, all shook their heads with a sigh, and declared they feared that she was not long for this world. Her first symptoms were those of a cold; but it was soon discovered that she had a fixed cough; and the little burning hectic spot which played over her cheek in the early part of the day told that the worm of disease was preying at the vitals. Yet this mountain floweret was wasting so gradually, that many of her friends hoped it would recover, and flourish. The father looked upon the decaying form of his child, and saw that her days were marked with the finger of Death, and that she could not pass their limits. From the hour of her close confinement, he scarcely ever left the side of her bed, as if by paternal kindness he wished to ease the last moments of the spirit which he could not detain. The daughter saw that she could not live; but she looked upon the disease, which was fast conquering the body, as a deliverer who was to lead her from captivity to glory. When her father was by, she was cheerful, and apparently composed; yet, when he was absent, a tear was often seen to stand in her eye, as she looked out of her window upon her little garden before the house, and thought how lonely she should leave her poor father. The father, too, seemed occasionally to have the same reflections, as he gazed upon the sunken face of his child with an earnestness that showed how much he felt.

They talked of their little earthly plans, as if each was unwilling to realize that they were soon to be separated. Thus week after week went by, every hour of which left the few moments of her life still fewer, till the afternoon on which I visited them, when it was believed that her last hour had come.

Thus much I knew of the inhabitants of this little dwelling ere I entered it. On entering, I found the daughter lying in one corner of one of the two small rooms which the house contained, on a neat small bed, at the foot of which sat the disconsolate father. The good clergyman was sitting at its head. After a needless apology for my intrusion, I became a silent spectator, and felt how great was the privilege. The pastor was in close conversation with this lamb of his flock which was about to leave him, and he was conversing about her departure. When he ceased, there was silence for a few minutes.

"Just raise my head," said the dying girl, "and let me look out of my little window once more." Then turning to her minister, she said with feeling: "Notwithstanding our troubles, there are many delights in our world. There is my poor flower-garden --it will soon be grown over with weeds; there is the river-it will continue to run and murmur as if I were here. I hoped I should have seen the sun once more before he set; but he is already behind the mountain. Then, there are my two poor pet lambs, that I have fed so long-poor things, they will not have any one to love them, and take care of them as I have done. Oh! it is hard to leave all these; but hardest of all, to leave my poor father! Oh! what will he do when I am gone? who will take care of him when he is sick, and love him as I can? Oh! my dear father, I hoped that I should do all this, and repay some of the many, many kindnesses I have received from you!-but the will of God be done!" "I pray that it may be," said the old man, "though I am stripped of all my earthly comforts. But compose yourself, my dear child; God will provide for me while I stay -it will not be long before I follow you-I am almost ready to be taken. I thought that I could never meet this hour; but God gives me strength according to my day."

"Your father shall never suffer," said the minister, "and God will deal kindly towards him. You are exhausted, and had better be quiet a while."

"But, father, I had forgotten one thing-it is my poor brother Henry. He may not be alive now; and if he is, he is not thinking of us. I cannot remember much about him; but I have often prayed that he might return to you in your old age-that we might both live to see him; but more have I prayed that God would make this wanderer his child. Should he ever return, I wish you to give him my Bible and hymn-book-there they are they both have his sister's name in them. Tell him that it was my dying request that he would read those places where the leaves are turned down; and tell him that he was made for eternity-to repent, and prepare to follow me. Oh, that we might all meet in heaven! Now, Mr S., I wish you would pray with me; for I am almost gone. Pray for my poor brother - for my father that my brother, who is far away, might return to him. Oh, pray that Christ would receive my soul, for I have done with earth!"

The clergyman opened the Bible, and read that consoling portion of Scripture which is recorded in the 14th chapter of John. We then knelt by the bedside, and he fervently addressed the throne of

mercy.

While we were engaged in this sacred duty, the door softly turned upon its hinges, and a fine, welldressed young man came in. He looked wild at first; but by the time the prayer was finished, the whole scene before him was fully explained. We arose from our knees, and no one spoke. The stranger was standing and gazing in a kind of stupid surprise: he looked at the old man, and then at the daughter, and his eyes filled with tears.

"It is my Henry !" said the old man, stretching out his aged arms, and unable to rise. My father! do you live, and do you yet remember me?"-and in a moment he was in his father's arms. The sister gave a hectic sob, and fainted away; but when she revived her hand was within that of her brother's. "My dear Charlotte, I did not expect to find you so sick; but we will nurse you up, and you will be well again in a few days." "You deceive yourself, my dear Henry; I have but a short time to live; but I am glad to see your face once more. Oh! I feel that I have now a new tie to bind me to earth; but it must be broken. Oh, Henry! it would be a dreadful thing to die, but for the hope that I am a Chris

tian, and the Christian can never die. How long is it since you left us, Henry?" "It is six years this spring; you was then a little girl; and I hoped when I kissed you and my poor mother, when we parted, that we should all meet again; but one is gone, and my sister is just going, and I must still be a stranger below-and friendless." "Not friendless, Henry; if you put your trust in God, he will be your friend; and we shall all meet again in heaven." "It is all the hope I have left, my sister!" "It is!-then you are a Christian, Henry ?" "I am a great sinner, and a poor Christian." "You are? Oh, Henry, how happy shall I die! But I wish you to promise me one thing; promise that you will stay at home and take care of our poor father, after I am gone." "I will.” "Now," said the fainting sister, "am I happy; but, Mr S.," said she, turning to the minister, “will friends in heaven know each other? It seems as if I shall want to know my brother more." "We shall all be happy, and be as the angels in heaven," said the minister.

"Tell me, brother, where and how you became a Christian; for I greatly desire to know."

We all drew our chairs near the bed as the young man related the various situations in which he had been placed since he left his father's dwelling-how he had been a very wicked wanderer from one part of the world to another, alike regardless of home and his Maker-how, at length, he met with a missionary in the East, who had taken great pains to instruct him, and by whose means he had been brought to reflect on his ways and prospects. This missionary had given him a Bible, which had been his constant companion ever since. After his hopeful conversion, he had made several profitable voyages, and had brought home his wages to his poor parents, to comfort them in their age. He had not heard anything from them since he left the little cot on the mountain; but often, as he sat at the top of the mast or clung to the yards, had he prayed earnestly for his friends at home. He concluded his interesting narrative with many tears; partly out of joy that he had been so distinguished by the mercy of God, and partly out of sorrow that he had found none to comfort but his aged father. We were greatly affected at his narration; but still more so as we turned to the dying Charlotte. A smile of joy and hope was still playing over her features, but her heart had ceased its throbbings, and was cold in death. She had listened to her brother's voice, till the blood ceased to flow in her veins, and so peacefully did her spirit leave its tenement, that we knew not the moment of its departure. We saw the body calm and placid, as if laid in slumbers, while the soul had gone to its everlasting rest.—Todd's Simple Sketches.

LIFE.

LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,

Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood-
Even such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out; the bubble dies;
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies;
The dew dries up; the star is shot;
The flight is past-and man forgot!

KING.

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THE SUPERIORITY OF A FREE GRACE TO A SELF-RIGHTEOUS SALVATION, PROVED BY RECENT FACTS.

NO. II.

BY THE REV. J. G. LORIMER, GLASGOW.

THE MISERY OF ATTEMPTING TO PURCHASE ONE'S OWN

PARDON.

THE tract to which I lately invited the reader's attention, containing the testimony of four priests who have lately renounced the communion of the Church of Rome, is valuable, not only as establishing important facts against Rome in regard to the Scriptures and polluting class-books, but also for its more general references. It is useful as proclaiming the misery of a self-righteous salvation, contrasted with the happiness of salvation by free grace. This is a truth which is of high interest and importance to many besides the adherents of the Romish commanion. Multitudes bearing the name of Protestant are involved in all the darkness and woe of a selfrighteous justification. It is well, not merely by statements of Scripture or of reason, but by facts, to expose the folly, and absurdity, and suffering of such a method of acceptance with God. In the Church of Rome, the doctrine is carried out to its extreme limit. This, in one sense, is an advantage, as, with God's blessing, it may enable many to see more clearly the malignity of that disease under which they secretly languish, and lead them to use the appropriate means of deliverance.

The strong self-righteousness of the Church of Rome is apparent in every stage of her dealings with the PRIESTHOOD. She may hold out the prospect of peace and happiness in the years devoted to preparatory study, and array her theological seminaries in various attractions; but facts amply show that her first care is to break down the spirit of the youth, if it be not already sufficiently submissive, and that the smallest spark of independence is trodden out as a crime. Witness the case of Ronge. This springs from self-righteousness. Pride, in regard to one's position before God, renders the soul bitter and over-bearing to others. Doubt and unhappiness respecting one's spiritual prospects operate in a similar way. A soul rejoicing in God's free love, and anxious that other souls should rejoice in the same, and so be the means of extensive usefulness, could have no sympathy with the despotic and cruel, in the treatment of young men preparing for the ministry; yet this is notoriously the spirit of Rome. The misery of the years of self-righteous training is alluded to by more than one of the priests, whose narrative is before us.

M. Rouaze, who was evidently devout and in earnest, tells us that the time passed at the seminary only dwells on his memory "as a season of painful

suffering."

"Even in the days of my youth," says he, "I had felt the emptiness of the world; my heart had never found a moment's satisfaction in its pleasures. At length, even in opposition to the wishes of my parents, I obtained entrance into a seminary, to prepare my

self for the vocation of the Church. I then regarded seminaries and convents as happy places, where, in solitude and tranquillity, one might enjoy all the blessedness of divine love. But in solitude is man less man? and in flying from the world, had I placed myself in a better state for living in union with God? Ah! no; I was only preparing for my self greater depths of trouble, from which the hand of the Lord could alone deliver me.

"Who can unfold the misery brought upon the soul by the dreadful doctrine of Rome, which, rejecting the grace of the Lord, and taking no account of the fallen state of man, yet holds up to him the allperfect law of God-that law so spiritual, so unchangeable, so inflexible, which makes allowance for no weakness, and which Jesus alone could fulfil-and says to him: Do this, and live? It was in presence of this forlorn doctrine that I found myself in the seminary. I was to save myself without a Saviour— to sanctify myself without the righteousness of Jesus

Christ!"

M. Stilmant, speaking of the six years which he spent at a preliminary seminary, says: "My first years at Floresse were very painful;" and then, referring to a young man with whom he was associated, adds:

"Alas! how shall I attempt to describe the miserable life that we endured for several years? Instead of seeing in God a tender father, who, in commanding what is right and good for his children, regards them with compassionate favour, which increases their joy and happiness, and desire to please him, we could only discover in him a hard and severe master, such as was Pharaoh to the Israelites, when he required of them the tale of bricks without the allowance of straw to make them. We received the commandments of God without love, or a willing mind; we were bowed down with a yoke under which we could not stand upright. Sadness, and melancholy, and languor, took entire possession of our lives."

Who can suppose that this was the sort of training by which the great Head of the Church would have his ministers prepared for usefulness? It may suit a religion of self-righteousness. Surely it is altogether alien to one of free salvation. Christ would not have his youthful servants to be the victims of misery.

Don Pablo Sanchez, the Spaniard, describing the same period of his history, says :

"Persuaded and convinced that there was no other way of being saved than that taught by our Church, I came to the resolution, at the age of seventeen, to shut myself up in a convent, and give myself up to the most austere mortifications and penances.

"Arrived at the Franciscan Convent of San Diego de Alcala de Henares, the 1st of August, 1826, I began at once to wear coarse sackcloth and a hair shirt, and to flagellate myself three times a-week, and to sleep on the hardest straw mattress, which would never allow to be stirred, for fear it should become softer. I readily gave myself to the most humiliating offices, with the view of acquiring merit before God, and I carried my abstinence from food to the extent of injuring my health; so that, contrary to my wishes, I was obliged in some measure to abate these austerities. I, however, pursued this miserable course as rigidly as I could, till at length, wearied out with my sufferings, I began to think: Is it possible that God can require of us so painful a life in order to gain heaven? Is it possible that he can exact what is beyond the power of man?"