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trenches which had been dug to receive them. The quicklime that was thrown upon the remains soon finished the work of decomposition, and the dust of three dynasties of French Monarchs now fattens the soil of the mound that was heaped above the trenches. There was not, it seems to me, in all that most wicked of all Revolutions, one act that manifested such pure hate as this. The dead could neither plot nor assassinate. They could not raise or quell the storms that were breaking over France, Why could they not be allowed to sleep in peace? Strange madness! They had committed the crime of being Kings, when it was the will of the nation that they should be such, and before the insane schemes of French republicanism had been dreamed of. Why did they not dig up the bones of all France for making these men Kings? Why did they not tumble their own fathers into the trenches, and curse them for their monarchical opinions?

I sat down in the northern aisle of the choir, with the high altar, the nave, and the great portals before me. The coloured light, soft and subdued, was trembling through the clerestory windows, and falling like dew, with all the hues of the bow of hope, upon the sumptuous monuments of Henry II. and Louis XII. In one of the chapels, or in the sacristy, concealed from my sight by an angle of the building, a school of young girls were receiving the sacrament; and their gentle voices, tuned to the purest harmony, swelled forth the sacramental hymn like an air of heaven; and soon, all dressed in white and veiled, they came forth two by two, and slowly down the dim aisle afar the beautiful procession moved on, still singing in the sweetest tones the melody that had at first greeted my ear. They passed through the portal, and St. Denis was left to me in silence, with a woman kneeling at the altar of a distant chapel, and here and there a Priest, whose footfall for a moment roused me from my reverie only that I might again sink into it more deeply. Look! the forest where the wolf howls is dark on the banks of the Seine, and in the shadow of yonder grove of oaks I see the sacrificing Druid, the human blood dripping from his uplifted knife! It is past! And along the paved way that leads over these open fields I hear the measured tramp of Roman legions, and a Casar goes by on his way to the wars of Britain! Look again, where by the moonlight those few and fearful men stealthily bury three mangled corses in the field, while on yon distant hill the fires of the festival of Mars are reddening in the night air. And now I see a simple tomb rising above those graves,—a chapel,—and, lo! the Gothic portals of a vast abbey open before me, and the great tower rises up to heaven. I hear the cry of battle round the walls, and see the smoke of Norman sack and pillage. And now there comes a long procession, and another, and another,—mailed Knights and noble dames, Princes and courtiers. The banners that float above them are draped in mourning, and the plumes are dark that nod above the brow of strength or beauty. Lo, the dead are with them! A King is borne to the tombs of his fathers, and a Prince in mourning divides his thoughts of the dead with his plans of future glory. Look! the torches are blazing among the tombs at midnight! How fearfully the glare is falling on the grey old sepulchres, and fading away into utter darkness in the distance among the monuments! Hark! the blows of the pickaxe and the crow awake the melancholy echoes of the lonely aisles! And see, a coffin is upheaved and opened, and the horrid light streams in upon the sunken sockets and grey beard of an ancient King! How the demonlaugh of the sans-culottes rings through the vaulted arches of the abbey as they bear away their awful spoils ! A man with thoughtful brow stands

Sole

solitary amidst the ruins that revolutionary violence has made. Monarch of his race, it boots not that he selects his place of sepulture. He shall not be buried here! Another comes-a King-to the tombs where his fathers once slept. The temple changes to new beauty under his hands; the broken monuments are restored; the tombs, though tenantless, resume their ancient places; and the frightened genius of the place returns! The dream passes, and I sit alone in the abbey of St. Denis; and see it, under the tasteful direction of Louis Philippe the restorer, rising into all its ancient splendour. God grant that, for the sake of the arts and humanity and religion, it may never again fall into the hands of revolutionary fury!-New-York Paper.

PROVIDENTIAL DESIGNS AND THEIR MANIFESTATION.

(To the Editor of the Wesleyan-Methodist Magazine.)

THE Prophet Habakkuk has intimated, that the fig-tree may not blossom, that no fruit may be in the vine, that the fields may yield no meat; yet, the Lord God, under such circumstances, he says, "will make my feet like hinds' feet; he will make me to walk upon my high places;" that is, "I shall gain my point, shall tread upon the highest places of the enemy."

This was not the reasoning of the good Patriarch Jacob, when under afflicting circumstances; yet he might have so reasoned. It was evidently God's design to provide for Jacob, and for his family, during the seven years' famine which was ere long to afflict the land of Canaan. That provision He did make for them in due time. How mysterious the divine plan of accomplishing the divine purpose! Joseph was sold into Egypt by his envious brethren: they took steps to impress upon the mind of their father, that some wild beast of the field had destroyed him; and, cruel as the design was, it succeeded. Other circumstances also occurred to afflict the mind of Jacob; but, after a time, the cloud began to disperse, the shadows flew away, the light of day dawned, the mystery of Providence became unfolded, and Jacob, who had most vehemently and passionately exclaimed," All these things are against me," now said, "It is enough; Joseph my son is yet alive." Thus,

"The clouds we so much dread

Are big with mercy, and shall break

In blessings on our head."

Martha and Mary had no conception of the design of Jesus, the Saviour, to raise their brother Lazarus from the dead; yet such was his design. Lazarus grew worse and worse: he died. Many were the anxious looks of these pious sisters for the coming of Jesus Christ to heal their brother. Not until Lazarus was laid in the grave did the Saviour arrive in Bethany. Lazarus was raised. And " many of the Jews, which had seen the things now done, believed on Him :"-the very design of Jesus in the delay.

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These and similar reflections brought to the recollection of the humble writer of this article, an occurrence which took place in the early part of the year 1788, the first and earliest year of his ministry. It was as follows :— An ardent desire was felt to introduce Methodism into the town of MarketRaisen, in Lincolnshire, not a single Methodist then residing in the place. A few friends were prevailed upon to hire, for a year, a neat and commodious cottage, in which the attempt might be made. We began our mission in the fear of God: persons of respectability, male and female, and others of lower grade, formed our congregation. We anticipated much spiritual good, when, to our annoyance, some sons or daughters of Belial blasted our hopes. Their first onset was, during the time of prayer, to pin to others the broad and expensive lace which was then worn by respectable females upon their cloaks, whereby, on separating, the lace became torn, and the wearers thereby offended. Their next and most successful effort was, to employ a strong chemical preparation, and sprinkle it upon the clothes of both male and female: the colours became thereby discharged, and the texture of the garments destroyed. From this time the doors of the cottage were closed, and the word of the Lord became bound.

The merciful design of God, however, to the people of that town soon made itself manifest in another way. In sixteen or eighteen months from the time of closing the cottage doors, he, in his providence, sent a pious family to reside in the town: they instantly opened their house for the entertainment of the Methodist Preachers, and for the ministry of God's most holy word: that word multiplied and grew, sinners were saved by its instrumentality, through the grace which is in Christ Jesus. An individual, also, a farmer and grazier by profession, and of more mind and information than were generally found amongst his class in that day, was induced, near the same time, to go into the Methodist chapel in the town of Bawtry, in Yorkshire, he often spending a part of the Christian Sabbath there, and, to his utter surprise, astonishment, and delight, heard words whereby he was saved. Being a man of some opulence, and estimating the value of the Gospel of Jesus to others, according to the benefit he had derived from it himself, he, at his own expense, built a small chapel and dwelling-house in the town of Market-Raisen, which cost him one thousand pounds. He presented it to the Wesleyan Conference in the usual way, and on the usual terms in which all our chapels are conveyed. That chapel has since become too small, and some years ago a more enlarged one was erected.

It is scarce supposable, that any individual in that town or its neighbourhood will be alive now to bear witness to these facts; yet, such has been the mercy of God toward the town of Market-Raisen.

"Our conquering Lord Hath prosper'd his word,

Hath made it prevail;

And mightily shaken the kingdom of hell.

"His arm he hath bared, And a people prepared,
His glory to show ;

And witness the power of his passion below."

December, 1846.

J. KERSHAW.

THOMAS PAINE.

BY THE REV. J. KENNADAY, D.D.

THERE are but few persons living who remember to have seen this talented but morally reckless man. The writer is one of that limited number. Though Paine died while I was young, still his personal appearance is perfectly remembered; and as his character was at that time a subject largely engaging the public attention, he was among those objects which make a strong impression on the young mind.

In stature he was a little over the ordinary size, having a strongly marked face, of which a large nose was the most prominent feature. His dress was indifferent, and mostly remarkable for a large drab surtout-coat, worn as a common frock-coat. It was, by one third, too large for him, reaching almost to his ankles.

He was born in Thetford, England, in 1737, and was bred a staymaker, early evincing great want of those moral traits which are so necessary to a maturity of virtue. He entered into the cause of the American Revolution as a writer, and contributed much towards moving the minds of the mass by a pamphlet entitled "Common Sense." Perhaps no one work had so powerful an effect as this, justly acquiring for its author a reputation which nothing but his subsequent moral delinquency and hardihood in infidelity could have destroyed. In 1790 he returned to England, and published the "Rights of Man," in answer to Burke. Being in danger of prosecution, he fled to France, and became a participant in her bloody and fearful revolution. He was elected a Member of the House of Deputies, and was imprisoned by the atrocious Robespierre. His career in France was remarkable for two events. While imprisoned he appealed to General Washington, then President of the United States, to demand that the authorities of France should deliver him up as an American citizen, that his life might be preserved. Washington declined all interference, alleging that Paine had ceased to be a citizen of the United States, in his election and oath of office as a Member of the House of Deputies. After his return to this country, he endeavoured to awaken sympathy for himself, and to excite indignation against Washington. But the American people sustained the uncompromising fidelity of Washington; and the ill-directed assaults of Paine recoiled to his own detriment. The other incident was his remarkable escape from death. During the "Reign of Terror," when the anarchy was rampant which he had aided to create; when the faction triumphant to-day gorged the guillotine with the blood of the faction demolished the day before; and when the dominant party worked the work of death with a zeal indicating its anxiety to do its utmost in the brief hour of its vengeance; it was decreed that Paine should die. In the work of death it was arranged that certain individuals, to a given number, should die upon each day. A person charged with the matter entered the Bastile, passed among its cells, and chalked a cross upon the cell-door of the prisoner doomed to die. Each day the executioner entered the halls, and, guided by the cross upon the door, took the inmate from prison to the guillotine. Owing to some cause, generally supposed to be accidental, as neither the prison-keeper nor prisoner knew aught of the arrangements existing among the executioners by which the doors of the doomed were marked, Paine was removed from his cell, by which he and

another prisoner, a tailor, exchanged cells. The very night upon which this change occurred, Paine was sentenced to die, his cell marked, and the poor French tailor executed, while the human cormorants were exulting in the supposed death of Paine. After his release, he evinced much kindness to the widow and children of the man executed in his stead, bringing them, at his own expense, to this country. His motives, however, have been variously stated.

Three causes tended fatally to the destruction of Paine's reputation. One was his extreme dissipation. I name it not to exult in the faults of a fellow-being, however fallen, but as an historical fact. It has been denied, and the imputation has been, by a few, supposed to result from prejudice. I know, however, that it was an undeniable fact. His friend Carver survived him several years: his house was for many years Paine's chief home. I knew Carver well, and he knew Paine better than any other man. He and all Paine's personal friends admitted it; and indeed it was too notorious to be denied by any one who knew him at all. His intemperance was gross.

Another cause was his licentiousness. Marriage with him had no bonds; and so little did he regard the restraints by which men are governed who have any respect for common opinion, that he was discarded from all society save the very lowest. His personal habits, however bad, were necessarily restricted in their influence to a narrow sphere. His name and writings were issued broadcast over the nation. His name, despite his personal faults, would have survived in something of respect, had it not been for the vileness of his assaults upon the Christian religion. The odium of his other faults, with this accumulation, left to his name nothing but a stern reproach.

Some of the earlier writings of Paine were marked by much vigour and perspicuity. True, he was extensively charged with plagiarism, not of language, but of sentiment. Perhaps not justly. His political writings possess much strength. They were written before dissipation had crushed the energies of his mind, and when he was not soured by the disappointments of his later and more wretched years. Some of the poetry written during his better days was of a superior character. His monody on the death of General Wolfe is a very fine production, comparing, in a good measure, with the much-admired Burial of Sir John Moore.

Paine was at no time an atheist. Some of his political writings have occasional passages indicating his belief in the existence of a God. In a Being, spiritual, and of infinite perfections, he positively professed to believe. But for such a man to write upon the subject of religion, was more incongruous than for a Gothic fool to tread upon a Roman necklace ; or, to speak more apposite to Scripture, for swine to walk among pearls.

The truth is, Paine's spirit was like a storm-bird, unsuited to clearness and light. He spread his wing to the storm of the American revolution, and strength and glory marked his career. Peace attained, like the petrel, he felt the loss of the storm. He returned to England, presuming that he could upheave elements that could shake the deep-fixed bedding of her throne. Foiled there, he saw the storm-cloud overshadowing France; and on that fearful tempest, whose clouds were surcharged with wrath bursting over a sea of blood, he spread a wing, never strong only in the hour of tumult, when

"Destruction rushes dreadful to the field,

And bathes itself in blood. Havoc let loose,

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