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tinction, but was a place of refuge to the poorest people. The sudden motions of the armies and the disorders that attended them, obliged sometimes whole villages to seek that safety in the town, which was not to be found in the open country. As many as could be conveniently were lodged in his house : and neither the painful sight of the condition of some, 'nor the infectious disor. ders attending others, could abate his zeal. He walked up and down among them, like a good father, shewing, by his sighs, how much his heart was moved with compassion. His presence and words tended to alleviate their distress.

The veneration in which he was held, was not confined to the French army alone. He was no less respected by the enemy. The Duke of Marlborough, Prince Eugene, and the Duke of Ormond, shewed him all sorts of civilities. They sent detachments to guard his meadows, and corn ; and caused his grain to be conveyed to Cambray, lest it should be carried off by their own foragers.

Such a commanding power has true virtue over all hearts. As he was thus loved and respected by strangers, so he received them with great cordiality, of whatever religion they happened to be. How. ever, he made no other use of the esteem men expressed for him, but to do them good. His soul was raised too high above the objects of human ambition to be dazzled with them.

ness.

It is worthy of notice with what facility he suffered himself to be interrupted in any business he was about, that he might com. municate himself to all, and give himself up to the discharge of those duties, which daily, and even hourly, occurred, as it were for the exercise of his patience and meek

It was thus that one day being obstructed, in a work he had a mind to finish, by one of his friends, who was leaving Cambray, and his friend endeavouring to excuse the interruption, he replied, “Be in no concern; you do me more good by interrupting me, than I should have gained by pursuing what I was about.”

However agreeable his conversation was in public, it was more so in private with his friends. Divine love was in him a source of the purest and most generous friendship: the sentiments of his heart are pretty fully described in a letter he wrote to his pupil, the Duke of Burgundy; an extract of which is as follows:

“Divine love,” he says, “is not always accompanied with a sensible fondness; but it is hearty, faithful, constant, and effectual." Love will make us bear every thing, suffer everything, hope every thing for our friend: it will surmount all uneasinesses : it will melt with compassion for the misfortunes of others : it will weep with those that weep, and rejoice with those that rejoice. It will do this, not by a constrained outside appearance, and a ceremonious complaisance, but from the abundance of the heart; in which divine love will be a living source to furnish it with all the sentiments, and dispositions of the most affectionate and substantial kindness."

He used much caution in his conduct, and way of behaviour, towards his friends. He saw their faults, and bore with them with great mildness, and sweetness of temper : waiting for the proper time of speaking, and laid hold of it when it came. He also knew how to season his advice, in such a manner as that the most unpleasing truths

. says, makes great allowances for the weaknesses of others; bears with them; and treats them with gentleness and condescension : it is never over hasty in its proceeding: it may be necessary to wait long for a favourable opportunity to give one single piece of wholesome advice: imperfect virtue is captious, censorious, severe, and implacable; but perfect virtue is uniform, meek, affable, and compassionate. “It takes every burthen upon itself, and aims chiefly at doing good. It is this principle of disinterestedness, with regard to ourselves, and of compassion for others, which is the true bond of society."

This sweet and mild disposition in the Archbishop, did not, however, hinder him from speaking the truth to his friends, when he thought it necessary; he also was desirous they should use the same freedom towards him, as appears by the manner of his writing, as follows:

I request you, more than ever, not to spare me in telling me my faults, though you should think you discover a fault in me, which perhaps I have not, the harm will not be great. If your intimation and advice offend me, I shall thereby see that you have reached the quick; and thus you will still do me a great benefit, by inuring me to reproof, and to a Christian lowliness of spirit. The higher I an raiştd, by my character, the more I ought to be humbled,

And I hope, that far from weakening our union, it will be a means to strengthen it.”

Neither, absence, nor distance, could les. sen his affection towards his friends, though he had not seen them of a long time. In one of his letters, he says, “Let us all dwell in our only centre, where we may continually meet, and be but one! We are very near, though we see not each other; whereas people, who are in the same house, and chamber, may live at a great distance, as to a true fellowship: God unites and brings to. gether the most remote points of distance, with regard to those hearts that are united in him !!)

Though he was resigned to the divine will, yet nobody was more sensibly touched with the loss of his friends : true virtue regulates the passions without extinguishing them, and can reconcile the sentiments of humanity with those of religion, so that the one shall not destroy the other. He used to weep for the death of his friends, without hiding his tears. Yet, in the midst of his grief, he still preserved his tranquillity, and comforted those who mourned like himself, for the loss sustained.

In the beginning of the year 1715, he fell ill of an inflammation of his lungs, attended with a fever, which lasted about six days, with sharp pains: during this time he gave all the tokens of a truly Christian patience, meekness, and constancy;

in his last moments, the only words he uttered, were, Not my will, but thine, be done.

It appeared, after his death, that he had not made it his care to accumulate riches, but died poor ; as he had lived, in a great measure, without money, and free from debts.

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