had all that human potency could give them. But they relied too much upon this human potency-they abjured their God, and, as a natural consequence, they murdered their king-they culled their polluted deities from the brothel, and the fall of the idol extinguished the flame of the altar.--They crowded the scaffold with all their country held of genius or of virtue, and when the peerage and the prelacy were exhausted, the mob-executioner of to-day became the mob-victim of to-morrow. No sex was spared no age respected-no suffering pitied: and all this they did in the sacred name of liberty, though in the deluge of human blood, they left not a mountain top for the ark of liberty to rest on. But Providence was neither "dead nor sleeping." It mattered not that for a moment their impiety seemed to prosperthat victory panted after their ensanguined banners-that as their insatiate eagle soared against the sun, he seemed but to replume his wing and to renew his vision-it was only for a moment; and you see at last that in the very banquet of their triumph, the Almighty's vengeance blazed upon the wall, and their diadem fell from the brow of the idolater.

My Lord, I will not abjure the altar, the throne, and the constitution for the bloody tinsel of this revolutionary pantomine. I prefer my God, to the impious democracy of their pantheon.I will not desert my king for the political equality of their pandemonium. I must see some better authority than the Fleetstreet temple, before I forego the principles which I imbibed in my youth, and to which I look forward as the consolation of my age; those all-protecting principles which at once guard, and consecrate, and sweeten the social intercourse-which give life, happiness; and death, hope; which constitute man's purity his best protection, placing the infant's cradle and the female's couch beneath the sacred shelter of the national morality. Neither Mr. Paine or Mr. Palmer, nor all the venom-breathing brood, shall swindle from me the book where I have learned these precepts.—In despite of all their scoff, and scorn, and menacing, I say, of the sacred volume they would obliterate, it is a book of facts, as well authenticated as any heathen history—a book of miracles, incontestibly avouched--a book of prophecy, confirmed by past as well as present fulfilment-a book of poetry, pure and natural, and elevated even to inspiration-a book of morals, such as human wisdom never framed for the perfection of human

happiness. My Lord, I will abide by the precepts, admire the beauty, revere the mysteries, and, as far as in me lies, practise the mandates of this sacred volume; and should the ridicule of earth, and the blasphemy of hell assail me, I shall console myself by the contemplation of those blessed spirits, who, in the same holy cause have toiled, and shone, and suffered. In the "goodly fellowship of the saints"—in the "noble army of the martyrs❞—in the society of the great, and good, and wise of every nation; if my sinfulness be not cleansed, and my darkness illuminated, at least my pretentionless submission may be excused. If I err with the luminaries I have chosen for my guides, I confess myself captivated by the loveliness of their aberrations. If they err, it is in a heavenly region-if they wander, it is in fields of light-if they aspire, it is at all events a glorious daring; and rather than sink with infidelity into the dust, I am content to cheat myself with their vision of eternity. It may indeed be nothing but delusion, but then I err with the disciples of philosophy and of virtue-with men who have drank deep at the fountain of human knowledge, but who dissolved not the pearl of their salvation in the draught. I err with Bacon, the great Bacon the great confidant of nature, fraught with all the learning of the past, and almost prescient of the future; yet too wise not to know his weakness, and too philosophic not to feel his ignorance. I err with Milton, rising on an angel's wing to heaven, and like the bird of morn, soaring out of light, amid the music of his grateful piety. I err with Locke, whose pure philosophy only taught him to adore its source, whose warm love of genuine liberty was never chilled into rebellion with its author. I err with Newton, whose star-like spirit shot athwart the darkness of the sphere, too soon to re-ascend to the home of his nativity. With men like these, my Lord, I shall remain in error, nor shall I desert those errors even for the drunken death-bed of a Paine, or the delirious war-whoop of the surviving fiends, who would erect his altar on the ruins of society. In my opinion it is difficult to say, whether their tenets are more ludicrous, or more detestable. They will not obey the King, or the Prince, or the Parliament, or the Constitution, but they will obey Anarchy. They will not believe in the Prophets― in Moses-in the Apostles-in Christ-but they believe Tom Paine! With no government but confusion, and no creed but

scepticism, I believe, in my soul, they would abjure the one if it became legitimate, and rebel against the other if it was once established.—Holding, my Lord, opinions such as these, I could consider myself culpable, if, at such a crisis, I did not declare them. A lover of my country, 1 yet draw a line between patriotism and rebellion. A warm friend to liberty of conscience, I will not confound toleration with infidelity. With all its ambiguity, I shall die in the doctrines of the Christian faith and with all its errors, I am contented to live under the glorious safeguards of the British Constitution.

LETTER OF MR. PHILLIPS

TO THE KING.

SIRE,-When I presume to address you on the subject which afflicts and agitates the country, I do so with the most profound sentiments of respect and loyalty. But I am no flatterer. I wish well to your illustrious house, and therefore address you in the tone of simple truth—the interests of the King and Queen are identified, and her majesty's advocate must be yours. The degradation of any branch of your family, must, in some degree, compromise the dignity of all, and be assured there is as much danger as discredit in familiarizing the public eye to such a spectacle. I have no doubt that the present exhibition is not your royal wish; I have no doubt it is the work of wily sycophants and slanderers, who have persuaded you of what they know to be false, in the base hope that it may turn out to be profitable. With the view, then, of warning you against interested hypocrisy, and of giving to your heart its natural humane and noble inclination, I invoke your attention to the situation of your persecuted consort! I implore of you to consider whether it would not be for the safety of the state, for the tranquillity of the country, for the honour of your house, and for the interests alike of royalty and humanity, that an helpless female should be permitted to pass in peace the few remaining years which unmerited misery has spared to her.

It is now, Sire, about five and twenty years since her majesty landed on the shores of England-a princess by birth—a queen by marriage-the relative of kings-and the daughter and the sister of a hero. She was then young-direct from the indulgence of a paternal court-the blessing of her aged parents, of whom she was the hope and stay-and happiness shone brightly o'er her; her life had been all sunshine-time for her had only trod on flowers; and if the visions which endear, and decorate, and hallow home, were vanished for ever, still did she resign

them for the sacred name of wife, and sworn affection of a royal husband, and the allegiance of a glorious and gallant people. She was no more to see her noble father's hand unhelm the warrior's brow to fondle over his child-no more for her a mother's tongue delighted as it taught: that ear which never heard a strain, that eye which never opened on a scene, but those of careless, crimeless, cloudless infancy, was now about to change its dulcet tones and fairy visions for the accent and the country of the stranger. But she had heard the character of Britonsshe knew that chivalry and courage co-existed-she knew that where the brave man and the freeman dwelt, the very name of woman bore a charmed sway; and where the voice of England echoed your royal pledge, to "love and worship, and cleave to her alone," she but looked upon your Sire's example, and your nation's annals, and was satisfied.-Pause and contemplate her enviable station at the hour of these unhappy nuptials! The created world could scarcely exhibit a more interesting spectacle. There was no earthly bliss of which she was not either in the possession or the expectancy. Royal alike by birth and alliance— honoured as the choice of England's heir, reputed the most accomplished gentleman in Europe-her reputation spotless as the unfallen snow-her approach heralded by a people's prayer, and her footsteps obliterated by an obsequious nobility—her youth, like the lovely season which it typified, one crowded garland of rich and fragrant blossoms, refreshing every eye with present beauty, and filling every heart with promised benefits!-No wonder that she feared no famine in that spring-tide of her happiness-no wonder that her speech was rapture, and her step was buoyancy! She was the darling of parents' hearts; a kingdom was her dower-her very glance, like the sun of heaven, diffused light, and warmth, and luxury around it: in her public hour, fortune concentrated all its rays upon her; and when she shrunk from its too radiant noon, it was within the shelter of a husband's love, which God and nature, and duty and morality, assured her unreluctant faith should be eternal. Such was she then-all joy and hope, and generous credulity; the credulity that springs from honour and from innocence. And who could blame it? You had a world to choose from, and she was your selection--your ages were compatible-your births were equal-you had drawn her from the house where she was honourable and happy-you had