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the details of any more, though they should come thick and fast as the plagues of Egypt. I detest the whole system, and only wish that every species of moral wrong wore in my eyes an equally repulsive and abhorred aspect. I wonder our universal restorationist, instead of transporting a spirit at once from a place of utter pollution to one of immaculate purity, never thought of putting him in quarantine, not only as a farther punishment, but as a salutary precaution on the part of heaven. It would have a greater check on me, than any thing which now enters into their purgatorial fiction. And I must say, of all fictions that ever yet insulted the common sense of mankind, in the shape of a religious creed, I consider this the most unqualifiedly absurd. As if the companionship of devils, and a communion with the damned, could fit a man for the fellowship of angels, and of the spirits of just men made perfect! As if the blasphemies of hell could attune his spirit to the seraphic harmonies of heaven! Let him gather to himself all the sanctity, virtue, and meekness, that ever did, or ever can, without a contradiction of terms, enter that region of cursing, hate, and agony, it cannot fit him for heaven, nor, by any conceivable possibility, render him happy, if admitted there. He would be a stranger among strangers ; abashed at his own conscious unfitness for the place, he would fain hide himself from the pure presence of those around. Heaven might shake with the swelling anthem of the redeemed, but not a chord in his breast would vibrate. He would stand amid the transcendant glories of that upper world, lone and desolate, as a tree scathed and riven by lightning, amid the living verdures of an earthly landscape.

I leave this topic, though it has that within it which might justify a volume; yet honestly, it has nothing to do with my neglected narrative. I have generally refrained from topies of a religious nature, not, I trust, from a want of interest in them, but for reasons which I shall assign, if need be, in another place. I do not seek an exemption, on this or any other subject, from a reasonable responsibility; or conceive that because I am four thousand miles from home, I am any the less accountable to the religious and moral sense of the country where I was born, and where I hope to die. Nor will I, as some of the antagonists of religion have done, charge a masked battery, and engage another to fire it off, when I am under the shelter of the grave. Infidelity has often been driven to this miserable shift; thus developing two of those qualities which most witheringly disgrace human nature - a deep, disingenuous malignity, and a skulking cowardice.

We were now on shore in Toulon, casting about to see what it might contain worthy of the pains we had taken. The arsenal has in effective operation all the intentions of its gigantic plan; and exhibits a mass of waiting force, worthy of the interests which look to it for protection, and worthy, too, of its connexion with the spot where Bonaparte first impressed the terrors of his genius on the power of England. The French excel in the model of their ships, in every thing which belongs to naval architecture ; and if they could only fight a ship, as well as they can build her, their flag would now be flying over many a deck that has passed to the hands of the stran

ger. Their failure lies not in a want of courage, but in the absence of that thorough, rigid, dove-tailed discipline, which nearly divests the moral mechanism of a ship of individual volition. This surrender of private will and judgment is not so indispensable to success in an engagement on land; for there, a man hacks away more for himself; he has more scope for that shouting, cutting and slashing enthusiasm, which in such a situation perhaps more than compensates for the absence of consentaneous, constrained, action; but which on board a man-of-war, by the derangements it would introduce into the consecutive means by which each gun is to be discharged, and each evolution of the ship effected, would, perhaps more than any thing else, contribute to her capture. This is the reason why the French, who can conquer on the land, are defeated at sea. The spirit which covers them with laurels in their military, plunders them of their flag in their naval engagements. Divest an army composed of Frenchmen, of that personal, private, reckless enthusiasm, which blindly mingles its own impulses with the national honor; which would rush with as little hesitancy over the breast of a fallen friend, as the body of a foe, and which cuts its own way to preferment and plunder, and you would deprive it of all its efficiency; you would take from it the sinews of its strength; you would reduce it to an inert, impotent mass.

The harbor of Toulon affords a quiet and safe anchorage ; while the sweeping lines of its shore swell into lofty and picturesque elevations. The town itself has a forbidding, heavy appearance, given it by the dull character of its architecture, and the massive military works which render it impregnable.

The streets are narrow and foul, but their darkness and dirt are relieved by a broad, brilliant quay, two or three comfortable hotels, the complaisant demeanor of the inhabitants, and above all, the sweet refreshing retreats which the adjacent country presents. Among the latter, Hieres takes the precedence. It has no antiquities to stir your imagination, although it was the spot from which pilgrims to the Holy Land took their departure ; but it is filled with ambrosial shade, and it contains among other habitations, that in which Massillon was born; he who stood like a warning angel in the voluptuous court of Louis the Fourteenth. Here, also, among more recent fabrics, stands the beautiful chateau of Baron Shultz, one of the very few who ever earned a title of nobility, by the dexterity and industry of the needle. Some affect to sneer at his ribands; but I do not see why a tailor has not as good a right to cut out a baronetcy with his shears, as a trooper with his sword; for of the two, it is vastly the more feasible mode of getting a title ; it does infinitely less injury to society; and after all, displays more skill; for it is much easier to put a sword through a man's body, than to fit nicely a coat to his back. None of this partiality, therefore! Let every man become a baron, a marquis, or a duke, in his own way. No longer confine these brilliant honors to the successful sabre of a cutthroat, or the lineality of one incapable, perhaps, of comprehending their import.

We now returned on board ship, and with much less annoyance than some of us experienced in getting on shore ; for the agents of

the custom-house here are extremely rigorous in the discharge of their inquisitorial trust. If man has not an epaulette on his shoulder, or a cockade on his hat, even his pockets will hardly escape the dishonor of a search. Nor is the inspection always confined to the living; it sometimes extends to the dead! We had occasion to bury one of our crew here; and as we came on shore to pay him this last sad office of respect, his coffin was unceremoniously opened, to ascertain that it contained no contraband goods ! I always knew the French to be an extremely shrewd and inquisitive people, but I did not suppose they would ever carry their researches into the secrets of the grave. O Death! I have heard thee accused by some of being an inexorable tyrant; by others of being an indiscriminate leveller; but never before, ‘by saint, by savage or by sage,' have I heard thee accused of being a smuggler ! And even if thou wert such, what couldst thou want of aught that our poor ship contained ? Wast thou in quest of pea-jackets and tarpaulins ? But thy sailors never go on watch ; each in his hammock still slumbers as he laid himself down. Or wast thou in need of charts or quadrants? But thy ships never leave their moorings; each rots down piecemeal in its own berth. Or was it thy desire to obtain Bibles and hymn-books ? But there is no worshipping assembly in thy dominions, and the preacher's voice is never heard there. O Death! thou art falsely suspected, and basely dishonored, by the Frenchman! — by him, too, who should ever regard thee with the most indulgent sentiments ; for he has crowded millions of putrid corses upon thy domains. From the chilling snows of Russia, to the burning sands of Egypt, he has sunk his victims into thy pale realm, thick as the devoted quails that fell for food around the famishing tents of wandering Israel !

I had intended to sketch a few of the most easily-detected features in the domestic habits of the people of Toulon ; but this affair of the coffin, which will be discredited by many, but which can be established by the oath of fifty witnesses, has so disaffected me with the place, I leave it without farther comment. I only hope it may not be my mournful lot to die here, to be insulted in my shroud. The most deeply-wounding and irreparable wrong, is that which falsely suspects the dying; and the most mean and dishonorable distrust, is that which looks for selfish, sinister concealments, beneath the simple obsequies of the dead.

BENEVOLENCE.

As on the parching bosom of the plain
Descend the genial showers of kindly rain ;
As the blue tint of heaven, with fragrant breeze,
Dispels the pallid spectre of disease ;
So ihrough the wounded mind and thrilling sense,
Flows the sweet balm of blest Benevolence :
To the lost wretch, by daily tortures torn,
Who wakes to weep, and only lives to mourn,
Can, with electric touch, new powers impart,
And warm to infant life the palsied heart;
Bid the raised eye unwonted language speak,
And drops of transport bathe the faded cheek :
With

looks that bless, the saving hand regard, And give to feeling worth a rich

reward.

SCENES

DURING

THE CONFLAGRATION IN NEW-YORK, DECEMBER 16TH, 1835.

There was a marriage, and the fair young bride
Stood in her white robes, ready for that vow
Which only Love can sanctity, and Death
Alone may loose. Amid her glossy hair,
There was one simple lily of the vale,
Sweet emblem of her innocence and truth.
- The fire-bells strike - the frantic shouts resound
The tumult swells !

'Proceed, thou holy man!
Heed not a false alarm.'

So spake the youth
Whose fondest hopes through many a sleepless night
Had vision'd forth that hour, while fear and doubt,
The company of love, with their cold breath
Did ofitimes wbisper that it ne'er would come.

- And so the priest, with solemn voice inquir'd
Who to this man the blooming maiden gave,
In nuptial rite. And when the father rose
To place within another's grasp the hand
Which ever in its childish pastime lov'd
To hide itself among his clustering locks,
Making him glad, methought to his proud eye,
Though her lip trembled like a breeze-swept rose,
His darling ne'er had look'd so beautiful.
What was the din without ? They heard it not.
Their world was in the heart, and all beside
Was a forgotten echo.

Lo, the tide
Of fire rolls on! Even from the parting lip
The plighted faith is snatch'd. Hoarse through the door
Rusli a wild crowd, and scarce the bridegroom's brow
Hath space to kindle with a moment's ire,
Ere the dense smoke pours in, and the fierce flames,
Already climbing toward the pillar'd roof,
Warn them to 'scape for life.

Ah! who can tell
The unmeasur'd miseries of that fearful night?
A sick babe lay within its mother's arms -
The half-loos'd soul hung quivering on its lips,
Longing for freedom. The small veins stood forth
In purple tenseness round the tiny neck,
And where the temples met the golden hair,
While each fair feature sharp and rigid grew,
So strong did Nature struggle for her hold
In that frail tenement.

Still hope was there;
Such desperate hope, as roots in deathless love-
Hope that a mother nurtures, though her son
Plunge headlong through the darkest depths of guilt.
Even so this lone one trusted that her God
Would not bereave her utterly, and sate
Nursing a fond belief that sleep's soft balm
Would heal the anguish of her restless child.
She was a widow, and her only wealth
Was garner'd up in that pale piece of clay.
The chamber of her watching, long so dim
With one faint taper's waning ray, grew bright
With the red flashes of approaching flame.
She mark'd it not. Her brooding sorrow dwelt
With its drear watch-light in her inmost soul,

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And noon and midnight were to her the same.
Sighs rent the bosom of the failing babe,
And its thin hands, with faint, convulsive clasp,
Sought for some prop.

Hark! 'tis the mother's cry,
So shrill, imploring His high help who met
A sad procession at the gates of Nain,
And from the bier gave back the quicken'd dead,
A widow's only son. But stranger feet
Break up her privacy, and hurried tones
Give warning in her ear-Away!- away!'
The flames are o'er her threshold.

Torpid Grief
Still shakes its leaden sceptre o'er her soul,
As in her bosom gathering up her dead,

She passed out homeless, on that bitter night.
Hartford, (Conn.,) Dec. 1837.

L. H. s.

STANZAS.

'Long, long the theme of every past delight,
And still to last, my vision of the night!

' A thing of beauty is a joy for ever!'

I had a dream - a dream, but that is o'er,
Thy charms can move, thy beauty blind no more;
Thy spell is broke, thy fascination past,
And I can see thee as thou art, at last;
Unshackled once again, and proud, my soul
Now spurns, as once it courted, thy control.
No longer Beauty wears alone thy form,
No longer 't is alone thy smile can warm;
Almost Í dare to think that there may be
Another, lovely as I pictured thee,
When, fondly bending at thy feet in prayer,
I deemed that more than woman's soul was there;
Oh wert thou still as then my fancy thought,
The world beside to me, the world were nought!

I own the light, the glory of thy brow;
It dazzles, but it cannot warm me now!
No longer now it bids me bend the knee,
And think religion is -- to worship thee;
Condemned thyself a suppliant to bow,
My knee denies to do thee homage now;
And as thy spirit to its idol turns,
With shame of thee, my cheek indignant burns;
But yesterday so peerless!- and to-day
Oh what thou art, my lips refuse to say !

Farewell! – and though the thought of thee may gleam
Perchance athwart my fancy's wayward dream,
When, present things forgot, my soul shall dwell
On one'it loved, not wisely, but too well;'.
Though sometimes in my secret breast shall rise
The memory of thy subduing eyes,
The magic music of thy voice, and all
That held the pulses of my heart in thrall,
Yet shall not these suffice again to move
The steadfast purpose of my soul to love.

L. L. D. P.

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