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forth fruit in old age; they shall be fat and flourishing." The believer's course is to be a constant progress towards perfection, a growing meetness for the participation of heaven's glory. He is ever to be found in the path of righteousness. A tree planted by the rivers of water, he is continually to be drawing nutriment from the streams of heavenly grace. Seasons as they pass over cannot affect him. He is to be ever fruitful, ever verdant, ever testifying that he is one of those plants which the heavenly Father hath planted here, that, after due culture, he may be transplanted to the paradise of God. "The hoary head," says the wise man, "is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of righteousness." How calm is the evening of that man's life, whose heart has felt the transforming power of the Gospel; whose soul is filled with love to God and his fellow-creatures; whose fading energies are still directed for the promotion of the Divine glory; and who has good ground to believe that the grave shall be to him but the peaceful bed, where the worn-out frame shall rest till the morning of the resurrection; and that when the spirit shall be emancipated from its earthly trammels, it shall join the society of "just men made perfect."

For the believer is reminded, that there is a land of unchanging brightness, where the sweeping blast is never felt; that there is reserved in heaven, as the portion of those who have been living branches in the True Vine, a state of unfading glory; that the trees of the heavenly paradise, the leaves of which are for the healing of the nations, are clothed with unchanging verdure; and that amidst the delights of this glorious inheritance, purchased at a price no less costly than the blood of the crucified Immanuel, the ransomed shall walk in undecaying beauty, for they shall die no more. And this will add to the rapturous delights of the paradise above, the full conviction that these delights shall never cease, that no tear shall ever flow at the remembrance of past joy, that no heart shall feel sad at the consciousness of approaching decay. How much of uncertainty is there in all man's earthly possessions; and how much does the conviction of this, even in his most thoughtless moments, flash across his mind, and damp his spirits. "How sweet," said Augustine, referring to the period of his conversion," how sweet was it in a moment to be free from those delightful vanities, to lose which had been my dread!" But there shall be no dread in heaven of ever forfeiting its glorious enjoyments. They who enter the gates of the new Jerusalem shall go no more out. They shall be free from pain, and sorrow, and trial, and fear; they shall hunger no

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more, neither thirst any more; no scorching heat, no sweeping blast, no winter cold, can affect them. They shall stand forth for ever, in imperishable beauty and unfading bloom, the monuments of His saving mercy, who was, in the highest sense, the Tree of Life, and who supplies out of his fulness that life eternal, which shall be their inheritance who are rooted and grafted in him. Can there be infatuation, then, equal to that of the man who suffers himself not to be animated by the glorious descriptions of the nature of this inheritance with which the Bible abounds; who, living in a world in which the emblems of decay are ever present, thinks not of that world where mortality shall be swallowed up of life; who, marking not the noiseless foot of time, as it is hurrying him to the end of his journey, thinks not of the period when there shall "be time no longer ?" T.


We have been much interested by the perusal of Bishop Doane's sermon commemorative of Bishop White, and its appendix, which last contains a narrative of the last days of Bishop White," and of his "funeral obsequies." In place of any observations a our own, we shall extract, in a somewhat abridge shape, the touching history of his death, which will form an appropriate supplement to the biography of the venerable prelate, inserted in our 18th Number.

He continued thus in the discharge of his accustomed duties. . . preaching . . June 26, the last time," the word of God is quick," &c. and on Saturday, July 2, attending a funeral, and visiting, in a distant part of the city, a member of his congregation. In the evening of that day, however, he was evidently feeble, and retired to rest without disease, but much exhausted. . . . A fall on rising, in the course of the night, alarmed his watchful and devoted son, who found him prostrate on the floor; and from that time confinement, when . . . he gradually sunk . . . until the 15th day of his he slept in Jesus. . . . . It was on Tuesday, July 12, that the administration of the communion of the sick was proposed to him; to which he gave, with great emphasis of manner, the most cordial assent; spontaneously observing, that it was an ordinance significant of all that was most essential in Christianity, and expressing the devout hope that he might have grace to receive it with resignation, and to his spiritual profit. It was accordingly administered by the assistant bishop; there being present, with all the members of the family, the bishop of New Jersey, and the assistant minister of St. Peter's church. It was astonishing, in his great weakness of body, to see with what strength and fervour he engaged in the solemn service, and how perfectly his attention and interest were sustained throughout. His manner was that of deep and sera

The Path of the Just; a Sermon, in commemoration of the Right Rev. William White, D.D. Senior Bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church, preached in St. Mary's Church, Burlington, New Jersey, July 24, 1836, by G. W. Doane, D.D. Bishop of the Diocese. Burlington, 1836.

phic devotion-following evidently through all the prayers, uniting distinctly in every sentence that was responsive, and most especially in the confession, and in the Gloria in excelsis, sealing every portion of the service with an emphatic Amen ;-and when the consecrated elements were delivered to him, insisting earnestly, until over-persuaded by those about him, that he would rise from the bed, which for several days he had not left, to receive them, as he was used to do, on his knees. From the commencement of the bishop's illness . . . . it had been conceded to the affectionate interest of the clergy, that there should be some of them in the house every night. On Tuesday night that pleasure. . . . was shared by the Bishop of New Jersey, with his brother of Michigan. Though it could not reasonably be doubted that the venerable patient was acquainted with his true condition, and its unquestionable result, it was deemed kind and just-with that respectful tenderness, which was not more strictly dictated by the relation of the parties than by the impulses of filial feeling-to seek assurance that it was so, and to afford the opportunity of any communication which he might desire to make, and which, ere long, increasing weakness might preclude. Accordingly, at a favourable occasion, during the night, it was said to him, "I hope, sir, that you feel no inconvenience from the effort you made in receiving the holy communion this afternoon?" "Not the least," he replied; "not the least; but much comforted." "It was a great pleasure, sir, to be permitted once more to receive that blessed sacrament which we have so often partaken with you." a great pleasure to me to have you." "We feel, sir, that you are sick, very sick indeed." "I can say nothing to the contrary of that." "We thought, sir, that you might have something that you would wish to communicate, some message for the Church, to which God has spared you so long. We should be glad to receive any word of counsel from you, and to bear it to our brethren." "I can only say, that I pray God's protection and blessing, that it may continue to have peace and prosperity after my decease." "We trust, sir, that you rely with entire confidence on the promises of that blessed Gospel which you have preached so many years"—" and," he interrupted, "which has hitherto sustained me." "And you submit yourself, sir, wholly to God's gracious goodness, with a single and entire reliance for salvation on the merits of his Son, through faith in him?" VO, entirely, entirely; I have no other wish, no other hope!" After a pause, the effort of speaking being very great, though he did not allow that he was fatigued by it, and was evidently consoled and animated by the conversation," I should be glad," he said, "to express my feelings to you in some of the psalms and hymns, but I cannot." "Perhaps you would like to hear some of them read?" "I should." "Will you select one, sir?" No, I leave it to you." 46 But have some favourite, sir, which you would you prefer." The 209th hymn was then named by him;


which was

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Thou art the way-to thee alone

From sin and death we flee;

And he who would the Father seek,

Must seek him, Lord, by thee, &c.


entire assent and appropriation of it to himself, he
said, "that beautiful hymn of Addison's has been a
favourite with me all my life." He was asked if he
meant that which begins,

When all thy mercies, O my God,
My rising soul surveys,

and signifying that it was, the whole of it was read. He followed it throughout with the motion of his lips; and when it was done, in reply to the remark, "how comfortable it must be to you, sir, to realise thus the protecting care of God in life, in death, and beyond the grave," he said, with a warmth of expression not usual with him," O, it is charming, it is charming!" The fear that his feeble strength might be overdrawn here interrupted this delightful conversation, which he was evidently willing to continue. There was no subsequent opportunity afforded; but it suffices abundantly to shew, that, as he lived, so he died, in calm and meek reliance on his Saviour. Early next morning he was asked if he remembered Bishop Ken's beautiful morning hymn, and, at his request, a part of it was read to him, and prayers were said at his bedside, in which, though very weak, he heartily united. He continued gradually failing, his nights restless, and his days wearisome, saying scarcely any thing, yet recognising all his friends, and replying always to their inquiry, that he did not suffer, until Saturday 16th, when it became apparent that a great change had taken place, and that "the solemn crisis of departing life," to use his own most beautiful expression, in the recent pastoral letter to the house of bishops, was near at hand. About two o'clock of that day, when he seemed at the lowest point of physical exhaustion, and his weeping family expected his immediate dissolution, on the approach of the present writer to his bedside, mindful to the last of the courtesy which graced his life, he addressed him with the accustomed inquiry, by name; shortly after which he asked that prayers might be offered. A considerable portion of the order for the visitation of the sick was immediately used, with eminent propriety and feeling, by the assistant minister of St. Peter's church, humbly commending "the soul of this thy servant, our dear father, into thy hands, as into the hands of a faithful Creator and most merciful Saviour." Although, after this service, the saintly sufferer revived a little, and continued, until within an hour or two of his decease, to recognise his brethren and friends who came about him, there was no distinctive act subsequent to this. His last request, as became a Christian believer, was for prayer to God. His last act, as became a Christian bishop, was the commendation of his soul to God in the offices of the Church.

In the time and circumstances of his death, as in the course of a long life, there was a beautiful propriety. His alarming illness was extensively known. All the periodicals of the Church, and many of the secular newspapers, had expressed concern for its issue. The result was, as in the case of another apostle in a condition of imminent peril, " prayer was made without ceasing of the Church unto God for him." Especially was this the case on the second Lord's day after his sickness commenced, the seventh

accordingly read. Having signified his Sunday after Trinity, and 17th day of July; on which

day the various episcopal congregations, through several of the dioceses, "were uniting their voices in the beautiful supplication of their ritual for a sick person." Upon this sacred day, whose solemn services, for nearly seventy years, had seldom failed to engage his voice in the several offices of the Christian ministry, as the hour of noon approached, when the prayers of faithful thousands had but just gone up to heaven in intercession for him, the day itself "so calm, so cool, so bright, the bridal of the earth and sky," in the house which for half a century had been his home, in his own chamber, upon his own bed, with all his loved ones of the first and second generation gathered around him, so quietly that not a murmur caught the quickened sense of love's most practised ear, so gently that the most attentive eye marked not the moment of its transit, his peaceful spirit took its flight from earth-washed, as we humbly trust, from all defilement, "in the blood of that immaculate Lamb which was slain to take away the sins of the world;" to be "presented pure and without spot" before God.*


THE rage for continental education has in many instances led to consequences the most disastrous to the internal peace and happiness of families. Every true Christian parent will of course watch over the religious and moral principles of his child with the most prayerful solicitude; but there are many nominal Protestants, who perceive not the danger of placing their children in the seminaries of Roman Catholics on the continent, trusting to the supposed good sense of the child, that it will not be led astray by the wiles of Popery, and to the vague promise, that no attempt shall be made to tamper with its principles.. Let such thoughtless, worldly-minded parents, however, be assured, that there is the greatest risk that such attempts will be made. Experience has lamentably proved it; and the following interesting but melancholy detail, slightly abridged from Mrs. Sherwood's "Sabbaths on the Continent," is no solitary instance of the wiles employed to entangle the thoughtless and the unwary in the toils of the "man of sin." The occurrence took place at Nice.

We did not enter the town of Cannes (says Mrs. Sherwood), but stopped at an inn without the walls, so near the sea, that whilst we enjoyed our breakfast, we could hear the breaking of the waves upon the sandy beach.

But we were hardly scated, when a handsome English-built barouche stopped before the door of the hotel; and looking out from our balcony, I recognised, with no small astonishment, an acquaintance whom I had not seen for many years; I shall call him Harvey -he is a widower, and a man of fortune and fashion. Our recognition was instantaneous, and it was a matter of course that he should sit down to our table

and partake with us. He accounted for his appearance by saying that his general residence, since he

We take this opportunity of correcting a slight inaccuracy of dates in Bishop White's biography in No. XVIII.

He was born April 4, 1748, ordained deacon by Dr. Young, bishop of Norwich, Dec. 23, 1770, priest by Dr. Terrick, bishop of London, April 25, 1772. He was elected bishop of Pennsylvania, Sept. 14, 1786, and consecrated at Lambeth, Feb. 4, 1787. -ED.

had become a widower, was at Paris, from whence he had made an excursion to see a daughter whom he had placed for education at a convent at Nice. He enumerated his children to us, and informed us that he had two daughters highly married, and a third in the place of education before spoken of; he had parted from this last only the day before; he described her as a very elegant young woman, and highly accomplished, stating his intention to remove her in a few months, in order to introduce her into life. All this information he imparted so rapidly, and with such a spirit of perfect self-approbation, that it was next to an impossibility to insert a word. At length, however, when the waiter had set some snipes delicately roasted before my gentleman, I contrived to make him hear an observation, the tendency of which was, that I thought it a most dangerous experiment to trust a young lady, of a Protestant family, to the tuition of

Roman Catholics.

"And why so, my good friend?" replied Mr. Harvey, whilst he appeared to be more occupied by some sauces which he was mixing on his plate than by any thing which I had said. Because," I replied, “I should fear that such a one could learn nothing worth learning in a situation of that description." He set down his bottle of sauce, looked hard in my face, and exclaimed, "What, do you count the Italian language, the most beautiful and musical language on earth, as nothing to a young woman? Do you not know that the superior of the convent at Nice, and indeed all the family, speak Italian?"

Now it certainly is some self-denial in me not to repeat all the arguments which I used, to prove that no accomplishment, which I could conceive, ought to be put in the balance against the heavy consideration of the possibility of a young person's mind being per verted to a false religion; not because these arguments had any influence with my friend, for Mr. Harvey only laughed at them; but because I thought that they were such as ought to have prevailed—although I might have known, that not even the arguments used in holy writ, much less any which can be brought forward by man, can change the heart, or convince the reason, unless the Holy Spirit applies them; but my poor friend would not hearken to me. On the contrary, he laughed heartily at me; and having asked one of my daughters if she could speak Italian, and the other if she could play the harp, he arose to take leave; but sent his servant back, when he was about fifty yards from the inn, with an English letter, addressed to his daughter at Nice, from her sister in England, requesting that I would see the young lady as soon as possible, and deliver the letter with my own hands. This letter he had received, it seems, at Antibes, where he had passed the night.

In this unsatisfactory manner we parted from Mr. Harvey, and, proceeding on our journey, arrived at Antibes about three in the afternoon. There we were detained for three days, which prevented our reaching Nice till the Saturday night, and rendered it necessary for us, in order that our Sunday might not be broken in upon, to remain all the next day at the hotel.

We ordered breakfast at an early hour; and whilst taking it, I entered into conversation with the waiter, and was informed by him that the English had a chapel at Nice, which would be open at eleven o'clock. This was good news; and I resolved to take apartments the next day in the Croix de Marbre, near to this chapel, and where I was told that I should be in what might be called the quarter of my countrymen. Being satisfied on this important point, I asked the waiter where I might find the Convent of Religieuses; and was told that it was not distant from the hotel; and that if I would go there immediately, I might witness the ceremony des vétures, or taking of the white veil, which was to take place that very morning, Being farther questioned, the waiter dropt the start

ling truth-namely, that this white veil was to be taken by a young English lady, lately become a Roman Catholic. On my eagerly demanding her name, the waiter, however, instantly grew reserved, and there was nothing more to be learnt from him; but I felt that there was no time to be lost. I desired that a guide might instantly be procured to lead us to the convent, and we were the next minute all waiting for this guide in the court of the hotel; but no guide appeared, till first myself, and then my son, had renewed our commands that one should be instantly provided, with more imperiousness than we were commonly accustomed to use. At length the guide appeared; he was a young man, with bright dark eyes, and a sort of smile upon his countenance, which he was evidently endeavouring to hide by compressing his lips.

"Joseph," said the waiter, "you will take this party by the shortest way to the Convent of St. Clair."" "Tell him to be quick," said my son; "our business is urgent."

The waiter repeated the order in French, adding something in the peculiar patois of the country, a sort of jargon, composed of the old Provençal, of Latin, and of Italian; and away we went, Signor Joseph walking before us, with his hat curiously set on one side of his head.

He had presently brought us out of the more modern and spacious streets into that part of the ancient city which was built on the foot of the mountains; and these narrow, and, I may add, filthy ways, were so perplexed and intertangled, alike the one to the other, so dark, so labyrinth-like, that to have retraced our steps, had we been suddenly left, would have been utterly impossible; and it very soon became a matter of inquiry to me, whether master Joseph was not actually spinning out the time, by making us thread every dirty alley in the quarter.

The bare idea made me very angry; and shaking my head, "Mr. Joseph," I said, "is there not a more direct way to the convent than the one you have


Joseph did not choose to understand me, pleading that he was a miserable French scholar.

We raised our voices-we became emphatic, and we lost more time instead of advancing our point; for Joseph stood still to listen, and during that period we were not going on; so we judged it best to submit ; and our guide having resumed his former brisk walk, we had nothing else to do but to follow. At length, however, the young man, making a short turn, brought us in front of the chapel of St. Clair.

"Nous voilà," he said, turning round and bowing, and asking, "if we would please to enter the church, or proceed to the door of the house, which formed an angle with the church." It seemed that he had already recovered his French.

The sound of the organ, and that of the voices of many women and priests, proceeding through the open folding-doors of the chapel, informed us that the service was commenced, if not nearly concluded; and I therefore thought it best to send my family into the church, as they were anxious to see the ceremony, whilst I went on to the door of the house.

There I knocked more than once, standing at the top of a flight of steps; and at length the door was opened to me by a young man in an ecclesiastical


"Could I see Mademoiselle Harvey, sir?" I asked. “Mademoiselle Harvey,” he repeated; 66 enter, and I will call the portress."

He directed me to stand in a wide passage, which ran off to the right; and having disappeared in some other direction, I was left, it might be two minutes or more, for the time seemed long, to enjoy my own reflections: there were several small square barred apertures opening into this passage, each of which

was shaded within the bars by a black drapery. Suddenly a part of one of these draperies was removed, and a very old face, or rather a nose and chin, were protruded through one corner of the curtain, and the question put to me in a shrill voice, respecting my business there. "I come from Mr. Harvey," I said; "I wish to see his daughter."

"You are Anglois," answered the person from behind the curtain.

"I am a friend of Mr. Harvey," I answered. "I bring a letter to Miss Harvey, and I am sent by her father."

"Give me the letter," she replied; "I will give it to the young lady."

"I am obliged to you," I said; "but I am desired to deliver it myself."

She did not answer for an instant, but was evidently listening, probably for some token from the chapel, indicating the near conclusion of the service; for, where we stood we could hear the voices of the priests very distinctly. At length she spoke, and said, “La sposa will be presently disengaged, and then I can ask madame, if you may be permitted to deliver the letter into her hand."


"La sposa !" I said, "what do you mean ?" affianced-the espour 1," she replied. "You know undoubtedly that the young lady for whom you inquire has obeyed the divine vocation of our holy lady, and has taken the veil to-day." "No, impossible!" I exclaimed; "it cannot be that art and treachery can have gone so far. I shall make a complaint to government-this shall not pass." I know not what more I said I was excessively angry; but the portress had dropped the curtain, and the nose and chin had disappeared. The next moment the passage in which I stood was crowded with persons coming in by invitation, according to custom, to partake of a collation given by the lady who had taken the veil; and the same young man who had admitted me, came forward to tell me that I could not see the sister that day, nor even be admitted to speak with the superior, begging me at the same time to withdraw.

My present object is to give an account of my first Sunday at Nice; and therefore, as I heard no more of Miss Harvey that day, I shall enter no farther into her history, than to say that nothing could be done for her, as she possessed a fortune entirely independent of her father was a prize worthy a struggle, inasmuch as she not only paid the usual fee to the convent, on her own account, but further endowed six other young women. She was just of age when she took this awful step.

I rejoined my family on the terrace before the chapel. My son looked flushed and exceedingly angry, and the female part of my family had been weeping they had learnt, whilst in the chapel, that the poor deluded young woman who had thus solemnly professed her devotion to a blasphemous and idolatrous delusion-for such is the whole system of Popery -was that very Miss Harvey in whom they were so much interested; and whilst looking upon her, as she knelt behind the grate within the altar, in her new attire, with her coronet of thorns and roses on her head, and flaming taper in her hand, they had not been able to restrain their tears, or to conceal the anguish excited by the sense of her situation. But it was an hour of triumph to the false Church and the powers of darkness, and no doubt the tears of my family added to that triumph.

Our passage back to the hotel was vastly more short than that from the hotel to the convent had been, which Joseph accounted for from the circumstance of one being up hill and the other down: but it was too late for the morning service in the English chapel when we reached our apartments; and we had nothing for it but our usual resource-namely, a private service amongst ourselves.

With such facts before him, can any sound Protestant for one moment hesitate as to the plan to be pursued in the education of his children? Assuredly no supposed external accomplishments can for one moment be allowed to be brought into comparison with the fearful danger that must result from placing the young, and the thoughtless, and the simple-minded, amid scenes of temptation, where they will meet with every inducement to go astray, and to relinquish the pure and apostolical religion of their forefathers, for the corruptions and idolatry of the see of Rome.



THE style of preaching too universally adopted during the last century, both within and without the pale of the Established Church, was lamentably defective. There were many champions, indeed, to be found to defend the outworks of Christianity, to refute the assertions of the gainsayer, and confound the reasonings of the sceptic; but, gener....y speaking, the great fundamental doctrines of the Gospel were not prominently brought forward in the ministrations of the pulpit. Morality was substituted for vital godliness. The condescending mercy of the Saviour in opening a way of access to the Father was rarely alluded to. The all-important doctrines of man's corrupt state by nature, of justification by faith alone, and of sanctification by the power of the Eternal Spirit, were among those truths, which, if not discarded, were certainly not prominently advanced. For this assertion, at which some perchance may be offended, we are fully borne out by the authoritative declarations of some of the most eminent prelates of the Church; and Secker, Horsley, and Horne, must have been uncharitable in their censures, and unwarrantable in the language employed in their charges, or these remarks hold true. Nor was the defect confined to the Established Church. It had extended itself to the various denominations of nonconformists; and we have before us at this moment more than one volume of sermons by eminent Dissenters of the period referred to, where the lack of spiritual instruction is indeed deplorable. As far as our own Church is concerned, an unquestionable improvement has taken place; and to this, under the Divine blessing, we mainly look for her stability. Legal enactments for that stability are absolutely necessary. Every encroachment upon her rights and property should be viewed with a jealous eye: but it is the faithful preaching of an "unclouded Gospel," it is the dissemination far and wide of the doctrines of the Reformation,-it is the bold, uncompromising avowal of Scripture truth, which must, after all, prove the bulwark of our Zion, and render her a praise upon earth.

It was at the period to which we have alluded, that the founders of Methodism began to excite attention by a style of preaching very different from that usually adopted, and by a holiness of life, which failed not to excite the derision of the ungodly. The departure of these devoted men from the strict rules of canonical obedience was much to be deplored. They had a straightforward course to pursue; and they needed not to have struck out into devious paths. We need not comment on their mode of procedure. We would only look back with gratitude to those worthies who felt the need of a more spiritual mode of instruction as well as they, but who saw no necessity of themselves withdrawing from the pale of the Establishment. Such was the subject of the present memoir. For though at one period he did not feel it to be entirely his duty to withhold preaching in unconsecrated places of wor

ship, he yet afterwards deeply lamented having done so; and solemnly warned others from following an example, which he felt had conduced to many evil results. As he advanced in life, the more important did he feel it to be, that the ministers of the Established Church should be scrupulously cautious in no respect to transgress the rules of canonical obedience; which transgression, when it does occur, is too often the index of a mind not willing to submit to lawful authority, and is utterly at variance with the solemn vows undertaken on entering holy orders.

HENRY VENN was born at Barnes, in the county of Surrey, on the 2nd of March, 1724. His ancestors were clergymen of the Church of England in an uninterrupted line from the Reformation. His father was Richard Venn, rector of St. Antholin's, Watling Street, London. His mother was the daughter of Richard Ashton, Esq., paymaster of the pensions to King Charles II. and privy purse to James II.

Henry from his earliest years gave decisive proof that his talents were of no ordinary kind; and, after having been placed at several schools, one of which was that of Mr. Catcott, of Bristol, author of a treatise on the Deluge, &c. &c., he was at the age of seventeen admitted a member of St. John's College, Cambridge; but having obtained a Rustat scholarship in Jesus College, he speedily removed to that society. Whilst a resident member of the University he gained many friends by his generosity of feeling, amiability of character, and what is usually termed goodness of heart. He took the degree of B.A. in 1745. In 1747, he was appointed one of the University scholars. He was ordained deacon the same year by Bishop Gibson, of London. He was soon after elected a fellow of Queen's College, took his degree of M.A.; and his fellowship he retained until his marriage, in 1757.

Up to this period it does not appear that Mr. Venn had serious views on the subject of religion, although he was sincerely attached to the Church. Amiable he was; and, as far as can be learned, strictly moral in his conduct. But amiability and outward absti nence from vice do not constitute vital religion. These may be testified, and have frequently been testified, by persons who have been utterly ignorant of" the truth as it is in Jesus;" nay, who have been vehemently opposed to the reception of that truth. Like the young man in the Gospel, whose candid, open, ingenuous conduct so far won upon our Lord, that it is recorded, that Jesus loved him; yet, like him, they may lack one thing: it is the one thing needful the desire to make an unreserved surrender of the heart, and all other possessions, to the service of Jehovah. Mr. Venn's sense, too, of clerical decorum was very conspicuous. He had been extremely fond of cricket, at which he was esteemed quite an adept; he fully resolved, however, that, after his ordination, he would no more engage in that game; nor could he be induced to do so by the most earnest solicitations of his friends. Still, however, that holy principle of action, which afterwards led him labour in his Master's service, was wanting; for there may be an external attention to propriety of conduct, and a sincere desire to give "no offence in any thing," even when the soul is not wholly subject to the law of God.


The period arrived, however, when a great change was to be wrought in the religious principles of Mr. Venn. The first considerable religious impression made upon his mind, says his biographer, arose from an expression in the form of prayer that he had been daily accustomed to use, "that I may live to the glory of thy name!" The thought powerfully struck his

For many of the most important particulars recorded in this memoir, we are indebted to the very interesting Life, &c. of Mr. Venn, by his son, the Rev. John Venn, and edited by the Rev. Henry Venn, B.D., perpetual Curate of St. John's, Holloway. Hatchards.

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