would be false charity: and no admiration for another's earnestness or zeal should tie up any tongue, or withhold any pen from expressing this condemnation, as need may demand. But it is one special passage, recorded towards the closing scene of the emperor's life, that here we would specially refer to, as pre-eminently proving that state of mind which we have undertaken to portray. It was in the year 1558, while Charles was dwelling in the Convent of Yuste, that Spain had its crisis touching that Reformation, which in the circle of the neighbouring years had, in so many lands, sprung up and taken root; while, in so many others, it had scarcely appeared ere it was torn up. Spanish pens had begun to translate the Scriptures. In schools of divinity questions on the Gospel had been raised,—and even in pulpits, doctrines called new, but, in reality, the doctrines not less old than true, had begun to be heard. But now the Inquisition rose up in its fierce and fatal strength. The Reformation was crushed; nor has it ever risen up since: though God speed the time when it may be so!"* written to the Inquisition to burn them all, for none of them will ever become true Catholics, or be worthy to live" (p. 167). These proceedings, and the known disposition of the emperor, gave fresh vigour to the work of persecution, and many new victims were immured in prison. Again Charles urged those in authority to exert themselves against all suspected persons; and he not only wrote, with this object, to stir up the Princess Regent of Spain, but also to his son Philip, who was at this time in Flanders. The last-mentioned letter ends with this remarkable postscript, added in his own hand to the previous document penned by his secretary : - It is "Son; the black business, which has risen here, has shocked me as much as you can think or suppose. You will see what I have written about it to your sister. essential that you write to her about it yourself, and that you take all the means in your power to cut out the root of the evil with rigour and rude handling. But since you are better disposed, and will assist more warmly than I can say or wish, I will not enlarge farther thereon.-Your good father, Charles." "'* In all this how much of the spirit of the well-known type of persecutors, ere his conversion to that faith which he once destroyed: "And I persecuted this way unto death." (Acts xxii. 4.) "And being exceedingly mad against them, I persecuted them even unto strange cities." xxvii. 11. We must not dwell at length, or in any detail, on the history of these events. They are merely mentioned here, because they so strongly drew out the feelings of Charles, and manifested that spirit which was in him to a remarkable degree. Cazalla, an eminent divine, and once much in the favour of Charles, was seized at Valladolid, and cast into the In May, 1559, fourteen persons, who either prison of the Inquisition. The emperor, al- professed, or were supposed to profess, the though an abdicated sovereign, and without reformed tenets, were publicly burnt at Valany real power, (which he had placed alto- ladolid. It is not for us to decide here with gether in another's hands,) was still much any exactitude how much the bigotry and consulted in public affairs, took a very lively fanaticism of the retired emperor had to do interest in them, and often gave his advice with these extremities. His son Philip was no on their administration. The new efforts to less disposed to them. But we know to a cerpromote Scriptural religion roused all his tainty that no severity was too great to meet horror and indignation. He wrote private the approbation of Charles, and no crime so and public letters to encourage all severity hateful in his sight as any relaxation of inquiagainst any professor or preacher of the re-sitorial zeal against innocent men only charged formed tenets. And, talking with the Prior of Yuste, he thus expressed himself:-"Father, if anything could drag me from this retreat, it would be to aid in chastising these heretics. For such creatures as those now in prison, however, this is not necessary, but I have *The writer of this article, being himself for a short time in Spain, felt more gratification in giving away three Spanish Testaments there, than he would have felt from a tenfold distribution in any other clime. One was to a priest at the very convent built in honour of Ignatius Loyola, who admitted that he never had possessed any portion of the Word of God except in the Latin tongue. with believing and teaching God's holy Word even as we believe it and teach it ourselves. Mr. Stirling says of him: "So keen was his hatred of the very name of heresy that he once reproved Regla for citing, in his presence, in proof of some indifferent topic, a passage in a book of one Juan Fero, because that forgotten writer was then known to have been no Catholic." And again: "In look ing back on the early religious troubles of his reign, it was ever his regret that he had not put Luther to death when he had him in his * The original may be seen in the note, p. 169. power. He had spared him, he said, on account of his pledged word, which, indeed, he would have been bound to respect in any case which concerned his own authority alone; but he now greatly erred in preferring the obligation of a promise to the higher duty of avenging upon that arch-heretic his offences against God" (p. 175). Into the particulars of the monarch's last days we cannot enter here without, in some measure, being led away from the precise subject on which we are engaged. The rehearsal of his own funeral in the chapel of the monastery where he dwelt; his own appearance in deep mourning, with taper in hand, which, while the mass for himself, as one dead, was sung, he "gave into the hands of the officiating priest, in token of his desire to yield his soul into the hands of his Maker;" -his retirement, for contemplation, to the little garden outside his dwelling, where he sat, first gazing on the portrait of his mourned wife, and then on a "picture of our Lord praying in the garden," and, finally, on a sketch of the Last Judgment, by Titian-the chill which he caught, and the retreat to his room, which he never left again;-these things are either already well known to our readers, or may be known from the interesting pages whence this article is drawn. Twenty days afterwards, this mighty warrior, statesman, and king,-this "Cæsar of Castile,"was no more. He had gone the way of all flesh, dying, as he lived, in the heartiest but blindest devotion to the Romish church.* Nor can we do otherwise than bitterly mourn over that system which could bind and retain such a noble victim as Charles-one to whom David's Psalms were the choice reading for his last days (p. 205); whose fervency of spirit broke forth at the words, "Into thine hand I commit my spirit; thou hast redeemed me, O Lord God of truth" (p. 206); and whose last words were as of one replying to a call: "Ya voy, Senor,"—" Now, Lord, I go" (p. 208). Oh! that truth could have told all this, and yet omitted all the superstition, and all the delusive ceremonies of the "There were two forms of administering this crowning rite (viz., extreme unction); a longer form for churchmen, and a briefer one for the laity. At the request of the prior, the emperor was asked by Quixada which of the two he preferred, and he chose to be treated in the ecclesiastical fashion. This involved the reading of the penitential psalms, a litany, and several other passages of Scripture, through all of which the emperor made the proper responses in an audible voice." Cloister Life, p. 205. royal death-bed! But this could not be. They were all administered, and we can entertain no admissible doubt that they were employed and received in all their error, and anti-scriptural deceit, and with all zeal on the part of the dying man. It only remains that we should apply this solemn history-one of many with a similar complexion, but perhaps not less adapted than any other which could be adduced-to illustrate our present theme. Here is one before us, known in all history as ever " zealously affected" in all which engaged his mind. We have him before us, in his last days, with this zeal especially directed to that form of religion which he professed. We have him before us as one of whose sincerity no question or doubt has ever been entertained-who, having been exalted to the highest post of grandeur and of dignity which the world, at his day, could confer, knew and felt the truth that all this was nothing when brought into comparison with the importance of religion and the soul. We grant him all this in his favour; but, alas! we have him before us, too, as the champion of a system which God's Word utterly condemns, as striving for it with all his energies, as fanning the flame of most cruel persecution, and as opposing the truth of the Gospel, through the persons and lives of its preachers and adherents, with relentless hate. Such was the emperor in that aspect now regarded by us. It is our duty, with intelligent discrimination, to mark, at all events for ourselves-and where proper occasions arise, to expose and condemn-that state of mind which zeal like this, without knowledge, effects; to bless God for clearer light granted to ourselves, if we enjoy it; and to see that our zeal for the pure and full truth of God's Word be ever fervent and sustained. For while zeal without knowledge is a fearful and a fatal thing, zeal with knowledge is one fruitful and glorious indeed. THE BLIND PREACHER. THE following recital is from the pen of the late distinguished American attorneygeneral, William Wirt. It was one Sunday, as I travelled through the county of Orange, that my eye was caught by a cluster of horses tied near a ruinous old wooden-house in the forest, not far from the road-side. Having frequently seen such objects before, in travelling through these States, I had no difficulty in under standing that this was a place of religious forgive them, they know not what they do!" worship. Devotion alone should have stopped me to join in the duties of the congregation, but I must confess that curiosity to hear the preacher of such a wilderness was not the least of my motives. On entering, I was struck with his preternatural appearance. He was a tall and very spare old man; his head was covered with a white linen cap; his shrivelled hands, and his voice, were all shaking under the influence of a palsy, and a few moments proved to me that he was perfectly blind. The first emotions that touched my heart were those of mingled piety and veneration. But soon were all my feelings changed! The lips of Plato were never more worthy of a swarm of bees than were the lips of this holy man. It was a day of the administration of the sacrament; and his subject was, of course, the passion of our Saviour. I had heard the subject handled a thousand times: I had thought it exhausted long ago. Little did I suppose that in the wild woods of America I was to meet with a man whose eloquence would give to this topic a new and more sublime pathos than I had ever before witnessed. As he descended from the pulpit to distribute the mystic symbols, there was a peculiar, a more than human solemnity in his air and manner, which made my blood run cold, and my whole frame shiver. He then drew a picture of the sufferings of our Saviour; his trial before Pilate; his ascent up Calvary; his crucifixion and death. I knew the whole history; but never until then had I heard the circumstances so selected, so arranged, so coloured! It was all new! and I seemed to have heard it for the first time in my life. His enunciation was so deliberate, that his voice trembled on every syllable, and every heart in the assembly trembled in unison. His peculiar phrases had that force of description, that the original scene appeared to be at that time acting before our eyes. We saw the very faces of the Jews; the staring, frightful distortions of malice and rage. We saw the buffet: my soul kindled with a flame of indignation, and my hands were involuntarily and convulsively clenched. But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiving meekness of our Saviour; when he drew, to the life, his blessed eyes streaming in tears to heaven; his voice breathing to God a soft and gentle prayer of pardon on his enemies, "Father, the voice of the preacher, which had all along faltered, grew fainter and fainter, until his utterance being entirely obstructed by the force of his feelings, he raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loud and irrepressible flood of grief. The effect was inconceivable. The whole house resounded with the mingled groans and shrieks of the congregation. It was some time before the tumult had subsided so far as to permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual but fallacious standard of my own weakness, I began to be very uneasy for the situation of the preacher; for I could not conceive how he would be able to let his audience down from the height to which he had bound them, without impairing the solemnity and dignity of his subject, or perhaps shocking them by the abruptness of his fall. But, no; the descent was as beautiful and sublime as the elevation had been rapid and enthusiastic. The first sentence with which he broke the awful silence was a quotation from Rousseau: "Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a God!” I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by this short sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the whole manner of the man, as well as the peculiar crisis in the discourse. Never before did I completely understand what Demosthenes meant by laying such a stress on delivery. You are to bring before you the venerable figure of the preacher; his blindness constantly recalling to your recollection old Homer, Ossian, and Milton, and associating with his performance the melancholy grandeur of their genius; you are to imagine that you hear his slow, solemn, well-accented enunciation, and his voice of affecting, trembling melody; you are to remember the pitch of passion and enthusiasm to which the congregation were raised; and then the few moments of portentous, death-like silence which reigned throughout the house; the preacher removing his white handkerchief from his aged face, (even yet wet from the recent torrent of his tears,) and slowly stretching forth the palsied hand which holds it, begin the sentence, "Socrates died like a philosopher,"then pausing, raising his other hand, pressing them both, clasped together, with warmth and energy to his breast-lifting his "sightless holes" to heaven, and pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice- "but Jesus Christ-like a God!" If he had been indeed and in truth an angel of light, the effect could clergyman, who heard the sermon; to which scarcely have been more divine. Whatever she added: "When you hear any folly or vice I had been able to conceive of the sublimity exhibited from the pulpit, before you look of Massillon, or the force of Bourdaloue, had out for a Mother Symington, look within fallen far short of the power which I felt yourself, and see if Captain Clark is not from the delivery of this simple sentence. there." Her advice had some effect, and may have again.-BELCHER'S Clergy of America. If this description gives you the impression that this incomparable minister had anything of shallow, theatrical trick in his manner, it does him great injustice. I have never seen in any other orator such a union of simplicity and majesty. He has not a gesture, an attitude, or an accent, to which he does not seem forced by the sentiment he is expressing. His mind is too serious, too earnest, too solicitous, and at the same time too dignified to stoop to artifice. Although as far removed from ostentation as a man can be, yet it is clear from the train, the style, and substance of his thoughts, that he is not only a very polite scholar, but a man of extensive and profound erudition. I was forcibly struck with a short, yet beautiful character which he drew of the Hon. Robert Boyle; he spoke of him as if "his noble mind had, even before death, divested herself of all influence from his frail tabernacle of flesh;" and called him in his peculiarly emphatic and impressive manner, a pure intelligence; the link between men and angels.” MOTHER SYMINGTON. ABOUT one hundred years ago a clergyman in Massachusetts had a respectable neighbour belonging to his parish, who was notoriously addicted to lying: not from any malicious or pecuniary motive, but from perverse habit. The minister was every day grieved by the evil example of his neighbour. This person was Captain Clark, a friend of the clergyman in all temporal matters, and a man useful in the parish. But his example was a source of much inquietude to the divine. He was determined to preach a sermon for the occasion. Accordingly he took for his text, "Lie not one to another." He expatiated on the folly, the wickedness, and evil example of lying, in such a pointed manner, that nearly every person present thought that the clergyman was aiming at the captain. The service being ended, some one said to the captain, "What do you think of the sermon?" "Excellent! excellent!" he replied; "but I could not for my life keep my eyes off old Mother Symington, thinking how she must feel, for he certainly meant her." This story was told by a daughter of the COUNSEL TO PARENTS. BE very vigilant over thy child in the April of his understanding, lest the frost of May nip his blossoms. While he is a tender twig strengthen him; whilst he is a new vessel season him: such as thou makest him, such commonly thou shalt find him. Let his first lesson be obedience, and the second shall be what thou wilt. Give him education in good letters, to the utmost of thy ability, and his capacity. Season his youth with the love of his Creator, and make the fear of his God the beginning of his knowledge. If he have an active spirit, rather rectify than curb it; but reckon idleness among his chiefest faults. Above all things, keep him from vain, lascivious, and amorous pamphlets, as the forerunners of all vice. As his judgment ripens, observe his inclinations, and tender him a calling, that shall not cross it: forced marriages and callings seldom prosper. Show him both the mow and the plough; and prepare him as well for the danger of the skirmish as for the honour of the prize. If he choose the profession of a scholar, advise him to study the most profitable arts. Poetry and mathematics take up too great a latitude of the soul, and moderately used are good recreations, but bad callings, being nothing but their own reward. If he choose the profession of a soldier, let him know withal, honour must be his greatest wages, and his enemies his surest paymaster. Prepare him against the danger of a war, and advise him of the greater mischief of a garrison. him avoid debauchery and duels to the utmost of his power, and remember he is not his own man, and (being his country's servant) hath no estate in his own life. If he choose a trade, teach him to forget his father's house and his mother's wing: advise him to be conscionable, careful, and constant. This done, thou hast done thy part, leave the rest to Providence; and thou hast done it well.QUARLES,* Let *It may be well to note that this writer was well qualified, from his own experience, to give counsel to parents, being himself the father of eighteen children. CHILDREN'S CORNER. GOD IS A SPIRIT. Susan. "Aunt Mary, you said you would tell me more about God this evening. You have told me how he can be with us, and can do a great many things, and yet we can't see him. But I should like to know how he can hear us and see us. I don't think the wind can see and hear." Aunt M. "No, my child, it cannot. At another time you may be better informed about the wind. I have only time now to tell you a little more respecting God.-But I should like to know why you were sitting so quietly by yourself just before tea. I did not see that you had anything to amuse you." Susan. "Why Aunt, I was thinking of what you had been telling me." Aunt M. "Thinking! What part of your body do you think with? You walk with your feet; and you talk and eat with your | tongue and your mouth: and you dress your doll, and you learn to sew with your hands; but what part do you think with?” Susan. "Why I don't think with any part of my body-I don't move when I think-I just think, that is all." Aunt M. "How did you feel when you were told you might visit me to-day, and while you were coming here?” Susan. “O, I was very happy. I have been wishing to come here ever since you were at my father's." Aunt M. "And did you feel happy last winter, when your little brother died, and you could see him no more?" Susan. "Dear Aunt, how can you think so? O, I was so very sad; and I feel very sad now, when I think of him.” Aunt M. "Well, my dear, answer me another question. Were you glad and sorry with any part of your body? Did you use your arms or your head to be sorry or to be glad?" Susan. " No, Aunt. But when I was so grieved because little Henry was dead, I cried and I cried with my face." Aunt M. “And I suppose when you found you were to make me a visit you laughed too?" T Susan. "Indeed, I did. But I don't always cry when I feel sad; and grown people don't, I'm sure. And sometimes I am very happy when I don't laugh at all." Aunt M. "Then you can feel glad and feel sorry just as you can think, with something that is not your body, can you not?” Susan. "Yes, Aunt, I can. What is it that thinks? Nobody can see it." Aunt M. "That is just what I wanted you to learn; -that there is something within you that thinks and feels, which is not your body, and cannot be seen. This is called your mind, or spirit, or soul. We will call it spirit now. You recollect how your little brother looked when he was dead, and that he could not move at all?” Susan. "I do, Aunt. He could not hear, nor speak, nor eat." Aunt M. "That was because his spirit had left the body. God had called the spirit away, that his body might perish, and return to dust. I do not expect that you will exactly understand me, Susan; but you can in part. The spirit, you will remember, though you cannot see it, thinks, and loves, and is happy, and is sad;-so it is something, though you cannot understand what it is. The spirit never dies; but the body dies and decays, and after a long time it cannot be found in the ground where it was buried. But God takes care of the spirit; and the time will come when he will restore the body too, and then allow them to live together as they do now." it." Susan. "O, Aunt, do tell me all about Aunt M. "Not now, child, for I have not time. But I hope to have the opportunity. I have said all this to you that I might be able to give you some idea of God. I told you when we were conversing before, that God is a Spirit—not like the wind, for that cannot see nor hear, and only moves as God causes it to move; but I mentioned the wind, to convince you that there are things which we cannot see, even when they are near us. Now I have told you about your own spirit, that you might better still understand what God is. He is like your spirit, only far greater; that is, he is much wiser, and more powerful, and can be in all places at once. Do you think the spirit of a grown person is greater than yours?" Susan. "I should think it must be; because grown people think with their spirit as I do; and they know a great many things that I don't know; and so they must think a great deal more." Aunt M. "But God is greater, he knows more, and can do more than all the people in the world together. And, what is better |