different arts in which he had been accustomed to be employed. And, notwithstanding his weakness and pain, he did all this with so much patience and collectedness, that he seemed to have lost all remembrance of his sufferings. The Father Abbé, knowing the grace which God had given to him, and the degree in which God had detached him from the world, thought it his duty to follow up what he believed to be the designs of Providence with regard to him. This led him, in the various ordinances of religion, to maintain all the rigour which charity and prudence would permit; though in all private communications with him he treated him with the tenderness of a father. One day, when so overcome with pain that he could take nothing, he described his state to the Father Abbé, accompanying his description with certain expressions of countenance which it is almost impossible to restrain in such circumstances. The Father Abbé, however, said with severity (as though he had no compassion for those sufferings in which he sympathized so truly), that "he spoke like a man of this world, and that a monk ought to manifest, under the worst circumstances, the constancy of his soul." Benedict in an instant assumed that air of serenity that never afterwards quitted him. The fear lest the great exertions which he made by day and by night, combined with his extreme debility, might suddenly remove him, led them to give him the holy sacrament and extreme unction. He received both with every demonstration of piety. Such, however, was his weakness, that he immediately fainted away. The Father Abbé having asked, before they brought him the extreme unction, if he desired that the whole community should be present at the ceremony, he answered, that " terior ceremonies were not of vital importance; that his brethren would derive little edification from

ex

him; and that he had more want of their prayers than of their presence." All his conversation during his malady was on the necessity of separation from worldly things, of the joy which he anticipated in death, and of the mercy which God had shewn him in suffering him to finish his days in the society of the Father Abbé.

Some days before his death, the Father Abbé inquired minutely into the state of his mind: he answered in these very words :-" I consider the day of my death as a festival; I have no desire for any thing here; and I cannot better express my total separation from things below than by comparing myself to a leaf which the wind has lifted from the earth. All that I have read in the sacred Scriptures comes home to me, and fills me with joy. Nevertheless, I can in no action of my life see any thing which can sustain the judgment of God, and which is not worthy of punishment; but the confidence which I have in his goodness gives me consolation and hope." He added-" How can it be, that God should shew such compassion to a man who has so miserably served him? I desire death alone: what can man be thinking of, not always to desire it? What joy, my Father, when I remember that I am about to refresh myself in the waters of life!"

His ordinary reading, for many years of his life, had been the sacred Scriptures, which were so familiar to him, that he spoke of little else. He mentioned to the Father Abbé so many passages, and repeated them in a manner so touching, so animated, and so devotional, that his hearers were at once edified and astonished. Those passages which were uppermost in his mind respected chiefly the majesty of God; but as he had a most humble opinion of his own life, which had, however, been, in the main, faithful and pure, he always reverted to the subject of

the Divine compassion. It was in that he found peace and repose.

On the day of the "assumption," he felt himself so weak, that he was unable to leave the infirmary. The Father Abbé carried him our Lord, whom he received upon his knees, leaning on two of his brethren. Two days afterwards he fell into strong convulsions, and imagined that the hour of his deliverance was come. The Father Abbé asked- "Is it with joy that you depart?" "Yes;" said he, "from my very heart." He then added, "Into thy bands I commend my spirit."

The customary prayers were then offered up for the dying; but the convulsions having left him, the Father Abbé said that the hour of God was not arrived; and having given orders to remove him from the ashes to his bed, he turned to the Father Abbé with a serene countenance, and said, "The will of God be done." He lived three days, waiting with anxiety the time when God would have mercy upon him. And such was his desire of death, that the Father Abbé was obliged more than once to say to him that it was not for him to anticipate the designs of Providence. His pangs lasted till within an hour of his death; but he endured them with his accustomed patience and serenity. He said, three days before his death, that the most dangerous moments were the last, and that he did not doubt the great enemy of man would be employed to disquiet him; and therefore requested the prayers of the community. The Father Abbé having asked, after some other general discourse, if he "knew the guilt of sin;" he answered, sighing, and, as it were, looking into the recesses of his own soul, and in language expressive of the intensity of his feelings-"Alas! once I knew it not; but now I see in the Scripture that God claims, as one of his chief attributes, the power of pardoning sin:-'I am he

who blotteth out your iniquities.' I am, therefore, convinced that sin is a tremendous offence. Far am I, indeed, from being like those who are always overwhelmed with a consciousness of their offences; but yet I believe upon the testimony of faith and Scripture, that sin is an immeasurable gulf of ruin." These words were accompanied with a manner so extraordinary, that they touched the very hearts of those who surrounded him.

His bones having pierced his skin, and his shirt of serge sticking to his wounds, he begged them to move him a little; but at the end of the day, when the person who had the care of him wished again to ease his body, he said, "My brother, you give me too much ease." The Father Abbé having ordered some milk to be brought him, which was the only nourishment he took, he said, "You wish then, my Father, to prolong my life, and are unwilling I should die on the day of St. Bernard." The Father Abbé having quitted him, he begged, perceiving that his death approached, that he might be called back. As soon as he saw him he said, "My Father, my eyes fail me-it is finished." The Father having asked him in what state he found himself, and if he was about to approach Christ-" Yes, my Father,' said he, "by the grace of God, I am. I am not, indeed, sensible of any extraordi nary elevation of my mind to God; but, through his mercy, I am in perfect peace. God be thanked!” This he repeated three times. The Father Abbé having asked him if he wished to die upon the cross, and upon the ashes; "Yes," said he, "from my heart." With these words he lost his speech; or, at all events, it was impossible to hear any thing intelligible from him, except the name of Jesus, which he pronounced repeatedly. They carried him to the straw spread out in his chamber. He was nearly

four hours in a dying state; and preserved his recollection during the whole time. His eyes indicating a wandering state of mind, the Father arose, took some holy water, and, having scattered it around him, repeated these words, "Let God arise, and let his enemies be scattered." His face at this moment collected itself. He kissed the cross several times; and wanting strength to lay hold of it, they observed that he advanced his head to adore it every time that it was presented to him. At length, all his disquietudes ceased: they beheld him calm, peaceful, and serene; and he breathed his last sigh with so much tranquillity, that those who watched him scarcely perceived his death.

[The account goes on to tell us, with a credulity ill-becoming so grave a history, that, by some Divine interference, the body of St. Benedict retained, after death, all the pliability of life.]

I cannot persuade myself to conclude this article without adding a few comments upon it.

In the first place, your readers cannot fail to be struck with the doctrinal incorrectness of several parts of this paper; and especially with the breadth and explicitness of the phrase in which the capital error of transubstantiation is expressed. I notice this, not, by any means, to depreciate the value of this interesting memoir, nor the piety of the individual whom it concerns-but to observe that, if such was the language of Popery among men of refinement and education, how coarse a form was that doctrine likely to take among the vulgar. Indeed it is almost incredible that men of sense should not at once be revolted by an expression such as that of "bringing the Lord," and by the doctrine conveyed by it. And their submission to it can be solved only on the principle that they deemed an admission of impossibilities an evi

dence of faith. When once the doctrine is adopted that reason is not to be exercised in matters of religion, it becomes almost a point of duty to be as unreasonable as possible.

Another circumstance which can scarcely fail to strike your readers is, the degree in which real and sincere religious feeling, in practice at least, and under the Divine blessing, neutralizes the defects of a theological creed. There can be no question that the theory of Popery strongly inculcates the merit of works; and that this is the point on which the Reformers especially took their stand in pleading for a separation from the Church of Rome. But who would have suspected this error to have been predominant in the creed of "St. Benedict," when listening to his dying language? The fact is, that the Spirit of God, by which, it is impossible to doubt, this dying man had been taught, teaches but one doctrine, or rather infuses but one disposition-and that is, a disposition to acknowledge our own guilt, and to rest exclusively for salvation upon the mercy of God and the merits of a Redeemer. This concurrence of the dying servants of God in one doctrine-this ultimate adherence to one truththis practical departure from various theological creeds to embrace one article of faith at a moment when the strength and worth of religion are chiefly triedare to me decisive proofs of the truth of the doctrine itself. Error may possess sufficient power to sustain the mind under ordinary trials. It may even partially sustain a few persons, in whom the delusion is more than usually strong, under the last great trial. But it is only truth which can sustain all men under this trial; and therefore it is in truth they take refuge. The centurion who watched around the cross possibly joined in the insults offered to our Lord by the mob; perhaps thrust the spear into his

side, or drove the nails into his feet. Yet, when a sudden darkness veiled the heavens and the earth, and the rocks were rent, and the dead arose, and each man apprehended the hour of his dissolution to be come-he exclaimed, "Truly this was the Son of God." Thus the dying servants of God, though betrayed for a time by their education, or deluded by the speciousness of error, yet, in the moment of trial, exclaim, "God forbid that I should glory save in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ."

Finally, it is almost impossible, I think, not to be disposed, by the reading of memoirs such as these, to mitigate something of our severity to Papists, and not to enter upon a stricter examination of ourselves. I am no apologist for monastic institutions. I place it among the evils of Popery, that it nourished a system so unfavourable to industry, to domestic religion, to that amalgamation of the religious with the mixed orders of society, by which the clergy become less bigoted and the laity more devout. But I cannot help feeling both astonished and hunbled, when I read of men who, with what I should deem a severe and gloomy view of the character of God, yet maintained a frame of mind so devout and tender to their heavenly Father. They seem in theory to know the Divine Being less as the "God" who " is love," than Protestants; and yet they render to Him a homage, and they speak of Him in a language, which would be more natural on our lips than theirs. And here, perhaps, I may be permitted to observe that one of the palpable defects of the religion of the day appears to me to be-the want of a devotional spirit. There is much zeal, much correctness, much benevolence; but, I fear, comparatively little devotion-little of that secret communion with God, of those quiet exercises of religion which, after all, are, perhaps, the least suspicious evidences of a mind

right with God, and fitted for heaven.

The intention of the Divine Being doubtless is, that, as in the case of our Lord, activity and devotion should go hand in hand → that he who spends the day in doing good, should rise before day to hold devout communion with God. But the danger is, lest, instead of combining these duties, we should separate them, and make the discharge of one a compensation for the neglect of another; lest we should propose to ourselves so many practical duties as to leave no leisure for devotional employments; lest we should so exhaust the mind in action as to leave no strength for

prayer; lest we should fancy that we may select our favourite line of duty, and, so that our hours are carefully filled up, conclude we may fill them up as we will. But God will be served, if I may so express it, in his own manner. We must not allow ourselves in what may be called a substitution of duties-in the discharging a few more of one kind, that we may discharge a few less of another.-I venture to own that I rarely attend the public meetings in the metropolis for religious objects without having these observations riveted on my own mind. I sometimes ask myself" Will these thousands return home to secret devotion-will their humility survive the plaudits for religious zeal-will the spirit of prayer live in this heated and perturbed atmosphere?" I confidently believe that, in many instances, all these questions might be answered in the affirmative. And I put them rather in the way of caution than of reprehension; rather from what I anticipate, than from what I see. I put them because, having narrowly watched the workings of at least one mind, I discover reasons for watchfulness and suspicion there; and knowing the universality and resemblance of our moral diseases and infirmities, I venture to conclude that what is dangerous

To the Editor of the Christian Observer. IF the following letter from Archbishop Usher, on the death of Christ, and his satisfaction on the cross, appear as valuable to you as to myself, you will be glad to insert it in the Christian Observer. G. S.

"The all-sufficient satisfaction of Christ was made for the sins of the whole world. The true intent and extent is lubricus locus to be handled, and bath, and doth now much trouble the Church: this question hath been moved sub iisdem terminis quibus nunc, and hath received contrary resolutions; the reason is, that in the two extremities of opinion held in this matter, there is somewhat true, and somewhat false; the one extremity extends the benefits of Christ's satisfaction too far, as if hereby God, for his part, were actually reconciled to all mankind, and did really discharge every man from all his sins, and that the reason why all men do not reap the fruit of this benefit, is the want of that faith, whereby they ought to have believed, that God in this sort did love them: whence it would follow, that God should forgive a man his sins, and justify him, before he believed; whereas the elect themselves, before their effectual vocation, are said to be without Christ, and to be without hope, and to be utter strangers from the covenants of promise.-Ephes. ii. 2.

"Both extremities then drawing with them unavoidable absurdities, the Word of God (by hearing whereof faith is begotten, Ephes. i. 13.) must be sought unto, by a middle course, to avoid these extremities.

"For finding out this middle course, we must, in the matter of our redemption, carefully put a distinction betwixt the satisfaction of Christ absolutely considered, and the application thereof to every one in particular; the former was once done for all; the other is still in doing: the former brings with it sufficiency abundant to discharge the whole debt; the other adds to its efficacy. The satisfaction of Christ only makes the sins of mankind fit for pardon, which without it could not well be; the injury done to God's majesty being so great, that it could not stand with his honour to put it up without amends made. The particular application makes the sins of those to whom that mercy is vouchsafed to be actually pardoned. For as all sins are mortal in regard to the stipend due thereunto by the Law, but all do not actually bring forth death, because the gracious promise of the Gospel stayeth the execution; even so all the sins of mankind are become venial, in respect of the price paid by Christ to his Father (so far, that in shewing mercy upon all, if so it were his pleasure, his justice should be no loser); but all do not obtain actual remission, because most offenders do not take out, nor plead their pardon as they