Never since the beginning of the world, has true religion received so complete an acknowledgment of her excellence, as has been extorted from the fanatics who have attempted to destroy her. Religion stood in their way, and the wretch Marat, as well as the steady villain Weishaupt, saw that they could not proceed till they had eradicated all sentiments of the moral government of the universe. Human nature, improved as it has been by religion, shrunk from the talks that were imposed, and it must therefore be brutalized--The grand confederation was solemnly sworn to by millions in every corner of France--but, as Mirabeau said of the declaration of the Rights of Man, it must be made only the "Almanack of the bygone year"--Therefore Lequinio must write a book, declaring oaths to be nonsense, unworthy of San Culottes, and all religion to be a farce. Not long after, they found that they had some use for a God--but he was gone--and they could not find another. Their constitution was gone--and they have not yet found another. What is now left them on which they can depend for awing a man into a respect for truth in his judicial declarations? what but the honour of a Citizen of France, who laughs at all engagements, which he has broken again and again? Religion has taken off with her every sense of human duty. What can we expect but villainy from an Archbishop of Paris and his chapter, who made a public profession that they had been playing the villains for many years, teaching what they thought to be a bundle of lies? What but the very thing which they have done, cutting each other's throats?--Have not the enlightened citizens of France applauded the execution of their fathers? Have not the furies of Paris denounced their own children? But turn your eyes from the horrifying spectacle, and think on your own noble descent and alliance. You are not the accidental productions of a fatal chaos, but the work of a Great Artist, creatures that are cared for, born to noble prospects, and conducted to them by the plainest and most simple precepts, "to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly before God," not bewildered by the false and fluttering glare of French Philosophy, but conduced by this clear, single light, perceivable by all, "Do to others what you should reasonably expect them to do to you." Think not the Muse whose sober voice you hear, Contracts with bigot frown her fallen brow, Casts round Religion's orb the mists of Fear, Or shades with horror what with smiles should glow. No--she would warn you with seraphic fire, Heirs as ye are of Heaven's eternal day, Would bid you boldly to that Heaven aspire, Not sink and slumber in your cells of clay. Is this the bigot's rant? Away, ye vain, Your doubts, your fears, in gloomy dulness steep; Go--soothe your souls in sickness, death, or pain, With the sad solace of eternal sleep.