sight. Every thing is adapted to its condition. Nothing is unwise in the order of the divine government.” But, when we were at the grave, I saw no mind relieved. “Thomas Paine was an infidel,” said they. “He ridiculed the Bible. He was not moral, even. He was addicted to intemperance. He lived with a strange woman. He would not repent, and be converted; and he died without having experienced religion. He must now atone for his conduct.” I wished to say, but wishes were vain, “My wrongs were not wrongs of injury intentional to others. I had erred; and I would, if I could, have atoned for those errors; but my works were not worse than those arrayed against me. I saw no religion worth possessing in the creeds of men. I was not wise, but I could not find wisdom in the doctrines taught by religionists. My desire was law and justice; but neither were commended to my judgment, in the forms and ceremonies of the church. A change of heart was more mystical to me than the mythology of the pagans. A wise man hath said, ‘wisdom is mine,’ and what he said I was not ashamed to allow: but I was ashamed to allow what I could not explain, so that others could comprehend my meaning. I was not without reverence for good, but what was good gave me some uneasiness to determine. My rules were isolated, and sometimes contradictory. Nevertheless, I would attempt to draw up rules which I thought practicable, and when I saw what was not wise, I was never ashamed to acknowledge it.” During the evening of the day in which my body was interred, I was with my companion and mother, who proposed to visit the house of the parish minister. I wished not to go, for I was well satisfied of his feelings. I was about to say so, when my companion resumed: “We may not refuse crumbs when no more can be had. I see,” said she, “he will not pray without wrath or doubting; but it is all we can expect under his condition of mind. He is now waiting to call the family together for prayers.” “Then we will not stay long,” I replied. “No longer than you wish,” she rejoined. It was a still night. As we neared the house, the work of reading a chapter was commenced by the servant of the house. She read, with hurried words, the chapter which was offered her. “That seems to be an awful lesson of judgment against the unbelieving,” said the minister, with a sigh. “Oh! what would Paine give now, if he had made his peace with God? I fear he is lost forever.” “And why do you think so?” said the servant. “Because he was a very wicked man,” said the minister. “Are not all men wicked,” she faintly uttered? M. Yes: but you know there is a sin unto death, for which even Christians are not permitted to pray. S. Did Paine commit that sin which is unto death? M. I fear such will be found the case. He resisted the Holy Ghost. He resisted prayer. He was opposed to religion. Alas! he is beyond the reach of mercy. So saying, he arose, and said, “we will pray.”