warmed her wan hands at a little stove. A clay lamp lighted this poor abode, and one of the rays thereof died away on an image of the Virgin, hung against the wall.

"And the young maid, raising her eyes, looked for a while in silence on the woman with silvery hair; then she said; Mother, you have not been always thus destitute.

"And there was inexpressible sweetness and tenderness in her voice.

"And the woman with silver hair replied: My child, God is our master; whatsoever he doth is right.

Having said these words, she was silent for a short time, and then continued:

"When I lost your father it was a grief which I thought without solace; true you were left to me, yet then I could think only of one thing.

"Since then I have thought that, had he lived to see us in this distress, his heart would have broken; and I am satisfied that God has dealt kindly with him.

"The maiden answered no, but bent her head, and a few tears, which she strove to hide, fell on the linen she held in her hands.

"The mother added: God has been merciful unto him, and unto us also. What have we wanted while others want all things?

"It is true, we must accustom ourselves to live on little, and that little earned by our la`bour; but doth not that little suffice? and were not all mankind from the beginning doomed to live by toil?

"God in his bounty has given us eech dey our daily bread; and how many have it not! He hath given us a shelter; and how many know not where to lay their heads!

My child, he hath given me thee; of what then should I complain?

"At these words the maid's heart was much moved; she threw herself at the knees of her mother, took her hands, kissed them, and leant weeping on her parent's breast.

And the mother, striving to raise her voice, said: My child, happiness is not in possessing but in hoping and loving much.

"Our hope is not here below nor our love either, or if they be it is but for a time.

Next to God thou art all to me in this world; but this world vanisheth like a dream, and that is why my love raiseth itself with thee unto another world.

"While I carried thee beneath my heart, I prayed one day, with great fervour, to the Virgin Mary; and she appeared to me in my sleep, and methought that, with a heavenly smile, she presented me with a child.

And I took the infant she gave me, and while I held it in my arms the Virgin Mother placed on its head a crown of white roses.

"A few months afterwards thou wert born; and that sweet vision was ever before mine eyes.

"So saying, the woman with silvery hair trembled and pressed her daughter to her heart.

"A little while afterwards, a holy man beheld two forms of light ascend towards heaven; a host of angels accompanied them, and the air resounded with songs of joy."

We live (as in the days of Comwell) in an age of reform; if in his time, more morality and conviction was remarked in the public mind, in ours may be observed more urbanity and gentleness. Puritanical sentiments were very far from that harmony and that peace, which the religious philosophy of M. Ballanche introduces into christianity.

KILLING NO MURDER, LOCKE. HOBBES. DENHAM. HARINGTON. HARVEY. SIEYES. MIRABEAU.

:

BENJAMIN CONSTANT. CARREL.

THE most celebrated pamphlet of this era was Killing no Murder." Its author, the republican Colonel Titus, in an ironical dedication, entreated His Highness, Oliver Cromwell, to die for the happiness and deliverance of the English. After this publication the Protector was never seen to smile he felt himself abandoned by the Revolutionary spirit to which he owed his greatness. The Revolution, which chose him as a guide, would not endure him as a master. The mission of Cromwell was fulfilled. His age and nation had no more need of him. Time pauses not to admire glory, but makes it useful, and passes on.

I have read (perhaps in Gui Patin) one curious fact, which I believe has not been previously remarked. The doctor observes that "Killing no Murder" was originally written in French, by a gentleman of Burgundy.

Here we have Locke as a poet.

VOL. I.

He wrote

2 A

very bad verses in honour of Cromwell. Waller had composed some very good ones.

The crouching flattery which survives the object of its adulation is but the excuse of an infirm conscience, exalting a master who is no more, to justify past admiration and servility. Cromwell betrayed that Liberty from which he sprang. If Success is to be regarded as Innocence, if, misleading even posterity, Success should become the accomplice of whomsoever has triumphed, where would be right and justice? where would sacrifices find their reward? Good and evil being but relative, all morality would be effaced from all human actions.

On the other hand, who would defend sacred independence and the cause of the weak against the strong, if courage, exposed to the vengeance and malice of the Present, were again exposed to the slanders and the baseness of the Future? Misfortune, bereft of voice, would lose even the organ of complaint, and those two great advocates of the oppressed, Probity and Genius.

Hobbes, a royalist, in his hatred of popular opinions, ran into an opposite extreme; he traced all things to force and necessity, reducing justice to one of the functions of power and not representing it as resulting from a moral sense. He did not perceive that democracy had as great a right as unity to set out from that same princi