To draw the line with accuracy, between bigotry and indifference, is perhaps one of the most difficult tasks that can be presented to the human mind. At the present moment apparently, the people of England are peculiarly exposed to seductions on both sides. A large party, assuming to itself the delusive title of "liberal," openly declares with Lord Brougham, that " a man is no more accountable for his creed, than for the colour of his skin; and resent, as unjust or intolerant, all allusions to the religious opinions of candidates for any post, whether of emolument, honor, or power. Even a leading dissenting minister has been heard openly to propound it as part of the duties of an upright prince, that "the Jew, the Mahommedan, the Pagan, the most unhappy infidel, should have no power to say, that he suffers the smallest wrong." And a second writer of the same class propounds it as an axiom, that "all preference is persecution."

It is, however, sufficiently obvious, that the whole tenor of Scripture is opposed to this theory. The Royal Psalmist's rule is, "Mine eyes shall be upon the faithful of the land, that they may dwell with me: he that walketh in a perfect way, he shall serve me. He that worketh deceit shall not dwell within my house he that JULY, 1840.

telleth lies shall not tarry in my sight." (Ps. ci. 6, 7.)

On the other hand, there is a double peril on the contrary side. Among those who believe the Bible to be a divine Revelation, and therefore obligatory on all to whom it comes, there are two ways in which the weakness of our fallen nature leads us into error. One very popular one, at the present moment, is that which adds to the Bible a further standard of authority in "the voice of the church," and casts out of the Christian pale all who refuse to admit the decision of Antiquity.' This, however, is not a Protestant error, but merely a figment of Popery, re-introduced under a new name. Its description is its condemnation. Our present business, however, is rather with the remaining class of human fallibility, that which inclines to run to the excess of consigning to perdition all who belong to the Church of Rome.

We entertain not the slightest doubt, for our own part, that Rome, the church of Rome, is the Babylon of the Apocalypse; and consequently, destined to a mighty overthrow, and to final destruction. We find no difficulty in identifying in that church the features of that wicked one," described by St. Paul, "whom the Lord shall consume with the spirit

of his mouth, and destroy with the brightness of his coming." With the Church of Rome, then, in the mass, we can have no fellowship; branded as we believe her to be, with the mark which seals her for the day of vengeance.

error.

But here comes in the peril of Our human reasonings, unapt to discriminate with nicety and tenderness, are too ready to tinge every poor fellow creature whom we find within the precincts of Babylon, with the same blood-red stain which distinguishes that harlot church herself. Popery, and the papal church, is represented in the word of God as hateful and abominable. Hence it happens, that with the zeal of the apostles, (Luke ix. 44.) do men begin to hate their fellow-men, whom they ought to love, because they belong to, and are found with that foredoomed enemy of God and man,-“ Babylon the mother of harlots, and abominations of the earth?"

It is a truth which requires to be often repeated, and which our readers will do well to strive to get imprinted in their hearts and memories, that there ever have been, in this same Romish church, which we hold, and are sure, to be Babylon,-some few hidden ones of God, who have given indubitable proofs of their adoption and fellowship with Chsist-who have, even in most cases, suffered much from that church, and who yet have not received light to view her in her true character, and to forsake her. Such were Bradwardin, John Wesselus, Fenelon, Pascal, and many others of former ages,

and such were Martin Boos and Sailer, in our own days. By the few whose histories were recorded, we may estimate the larger number, who must have passed through life unnoticed. We doubt not that myriads have died in conventual prisons, and been harassed into exile and premature death, by the apostate church, who yet clung to her, in their insufficient light, as the true church of Christ, even while she persecuted them as heathens and unbelievers.

We can never think without the greatest delight, of that beautiful description of an English parishpriest which is found in Chaucer's Canterbury Pilgrims. This great poet lived a century prior to the Reformation, in the days of Henry IV. He satirized the monks and friars of those days with the utmost severity, and his pages afford abundant evidence of their demoralized condition, and of the mischiefs they perpetrated throughout the land. But when he comes to describe the parochial clergyman, it is thus that he depicts him,—and we cannot suppose that he either drew an wholly imaginary portrait, or sketched the resemblance of a single remarkable individual, unlike all the rest of his class.

A good man there was of religion, That was a poor PARSONE of a town; But rich he was in holy thought and work,

He was also a learned man, a clerk, That Christ's gospel truely would preach.

His parishens devoutly would he teach, Benigne he was, and wondrous diligent, And in adversity full patient :

And such he was yproved often times; Full loth were he to cursen for his tithes,

But rather would he given, out of doubt,

Unto his poor parishioners about,
Of his offering, and eke of his sub-

In sickness and in mischief to visit The farthest in his parish, much and oft,

Upon his feet, and in his hand a staff. This noble ensample to his sheep he gave,

That first he wrought, and afterward he taught,

Out of the gospel he the words caught, And this figure he added yet thereto, That if gold rust, what should iron do? And if a priest be foul, on whom we trust,

No wonder if a common man do rust; Well ought a priest ensample for to give,

By his cleanness, how his sheep should live.

He set not his benefice to hire, Or left his sheep bewildered in the mire,

Andran unto London, unto Saint Paul's,

To seeken him a chanterie for souls, Or with a brotherhood to be withold: But dwelt at home, and kept well his fold,

So that the wolf ne made it not miscarry.

He was a shepherd and no mercenarie, And though he holy were, and virtuous, He was to sinful men not despiteous, Nor of his speech dangerous nor high, But in his teaching discrete and benigne.

To draw his folk to heaven, with fairness,

By good ensample, was his business : But if were any person obstinate, Whether he were of high, or low estate,

Him would he reprove sharply for the nones,

A better priest I trow that nowhere is. He waited after neither pomp ne

been ever in a measure accessible. Hence there is nothing so very wonderful in the fact, which every now and then breaks through the gloom of church history,-of a priest of the Romish church becoming so far enlightened by the use of Holy Scripture, as to give the clearest evidence of saving faith and its appropriate fruits.

Fenelon was one such instance. And it should ever be borne in mind, that Fenelon lived in the close vicinity of a flood of gospel light. He lived in France at a time when France possessed probably two millions of Protestant Christians. There were about him on every side, a number of faithful preachers of God's truth. True, they were not so far blessed as to be the means of his entire enlightenment: but an unseen and imperceptible effect they must have had, in greatly ameliorating and purifying the current doctrines of the time.

It is sufficiently clear that Fenelon was taught of God, though left like Martin Boos, for some inscrutable reason, to live and die within the pale of the apostate church. And such was the humility and submissiveness of his spirit, that even when "persecuted for righteousness' sake" by that unrelenting step-mother, never does he appear to swerve, even for a moment, from his entire obedience to her sway.

Fenelon was born at the castle of his family, Aug 6, 1601. His childhood and youth were distinguished by the opening signs of that piety and sweetness of disposition which so eminently marked his whole life. His earlier years in the ministry present nothing particularly remarkable: it is with his appointment to the care of the education of the royal dukes, of Burgundy and Anjou, in his 38th year, that the real splendour of his character began to be apparent.

A letter addressed to him on the

occasion of this elevation, by one who had been his preceptor, (Mr. Tronson,) is too excellent to be omitted.

You will, perhaps, Sir, be surprised, at not finding me among the crowd of those who have felicitated you upon the recent mark of royal favour, which has been bestowed upon you. But I entreat you, very humbly, not to condemn me for this little delay. I thought that on an occasion which so greatly interested me, I could not do better than to commence, by adoring the designs of God towards you, and to implore for you, the continuance of his mercies. I have endeavoured to do both according to the best of my ability and I can assure you that I felt, afterwards, a sincere joy in reflecting that you had been chosen. The king has given, in this choice, a proof of his piety, and a striking testimony of his discernment; and these are surely very consolatory truths. The education which his Majesty has thought fit to confide to your care, has such an important connection with the welfare of the state and the good of the church, that every sincere lover of his country must unfeignedly rejoice, that it is committed into such hands; but I very candidly confess to you, that my joy is considerably mingled with uneasiness, when I consider the perils to which you are exposed; for it cannot be denied, that in the ordinary course of events, our elevation only renders our salvation more difficult. It opens the door to the dignities of the earth; but we should tremble, lest it shut us out from the eternal greatness of heaven. It is true, you may perform much good in your present situation; but you may also become guilty of great crimes. There can be no medium in such a post; the good or the bad success has, almost always, unceasing results. You are in a

country where the gospel of Jesus Christ is hardly known; and where they who do not know it, use it only as a means of recommendation among men. You live now among persons whose language is Pagan; and whose example leads too often towards things that are perilous. You will behold yourself surrounded by a variety of objects which flatter the senses, and which are only calculated for awakening the most dormant passions. A more than ordinary degree of grace, and an uncommon portion of faith, must be necessary to enable you to resist such violent and such seducing temptations. The dark mists which cloud the moral atmosphere of a court, are capable of obscuring the plainest and most evident truths. It is not necessary to remain there long, before we learn to consider as unnatural and excessive, those very truths which had been so often felt, and so often acknowledged, when they have been meditated at the foot of the cross. The most established duties of life become gradually, either doubtful or impracticable. A thousand occasions will present themselves, in which you will consider yourself as bound by prudence, and even by benevolence, to concede something to the world; and yet, what a strange state it is for a Christian to be in, and still more for a priest, to behold himself obliged to enter into a compact with the enemy of his salvation! Truly, Sir, your post is a dangerous one: confess with sincerity, that it will be a difficult task to remain unweakened, and that it will require a most consummate virtue to resist

temptation. If ever the study and meditation of the sacred writings have been needful to you, they are now so in an especial manner. Hitherto, you have needed only to cultivate virtuous thoughts, and to nourish the love of truth; but henceforth you will have to shield

yourself from evil impressions, and to avoid falsehood. It is certainly of the greatest consequence to you, that you forget not the hour of your death; that hour when all the glory of the world will disappear as a dream, and when every creature in it, who may have been your support, will sink from beneath you. Your friends, no doubt, will console you, because you have not sought your employment; and this is indeed a source of just consolation, and a great mercy of God towards you; but you must not rest too much upon it. We have often more to do with our own 'elevation than we are aware of. It is seldom that we see the very path that conducts to it, and that we fly from it with sincerity. Few persons have arrived at this degree of self-denial. We do not, indeed always seek for our promotion with our usual eagerness; but, at the same time, we seldom fail to remove the obstacles which are in

our way. We do not, perhaps, solicit very urgently those persons who might be able to serve us; but we are not sorry when we

exhibit ourselves to them under the most favourable aspect; and it is precisely to those minute discoveries of human qualities, that we may attribute the commencement of our preferment; and thus no person can be quite certain that he has not influenced his own promotion. This way of evincing the talents we possess, is often done without much reflection; yet it should be avoided, and it is always useful to obviate its effects by contrition and humility. Perhaps you will consider this letter as being somewhat too true, and a little too long or you may regard it as a sermon, injudiciously made, instead of a judicious compliment. I should certainly have been more laconic and more reserved, if I had been less anxious about your salvation. Read it as the language of my heart, which cannot be

otherwise than tenderly interested about your real welfare. I entreat you to believe, that I shall unceas ingly implore God to fill you with an inviolable love of him, in order that no temptation may change nor weaken the pious sentiments with which he will inspire you. Such is the prayer made by the church to obtain the love of God for his children.

I am, with respect, &c.' Fenelon's pupil, the Duke of Burgundy, was naturally irritable, unfeeling, and violent; impatient of all control; and sometimes so furious, says M. de St. Simon, that it was feared the very veins of his body would burst.' He was the slave of sensual pleasure, tyrannical towards others, and inordinately proud. He looked upon men as atoms, with whom he had no similarity whatever.' Yet were his powers of mind of the first order; brilliant, acute, profound.

Such were the fearful materials upon which Beauvilliers and Fenelon were to exercise their perseverance. Let us hear how they proceeded, and with what success. When the prince was in the worst paroxysms of passion,

6

The governor, the preceptor, the sub-preceptor, the gentlemen in waiting, and all the servants in the house, concerted together, to preserve towards him the most profound silence. They avoided. answering any of his questions; they waited upon him with averted looks; or if they directed their eyes towards him, it was with an expression of fear, as if they dreaded to be in the company of a being degraded by bursts of rage incompatible with reason. They appeared to attend him only from that kind of humiliating compassion shewn towards persons insane. They merely performed those offices about him which seemed to be simply necessary to the preservation of his miserable existence. They took from him all the books,