her child a parent, under such circumstances, only could feel, she was kept from five to six hours waiting to pay the two shillings and ten-pence. When she returned all was over--my sister was dead. Gentlemen, will you wonder if, after this, I doubted a little the utility of church establishments?* and if, after the circumstances I have related, I did not think so highly of church 'as by law established' as before, can you be surprised? Can you punish me for it? [At this point many ladies wept, and the Court manifested considerable attention.] * I have since learned that Mr. W. J. Fox read this passage in a Sunday morning lecture on the events of the month, delivered at South-place in the September following my trial; and I take this opportunity of acknowledging that Mr. Fox was the only occupant of a pulpit from whom I received a friendly line during my entire imprisonment. I have been told to look around the world for evidences of the truth of the Christian religion; to look upon the world and draw different conclusions. It is well for those who enjoy the smiles of fortune to say so. For them all shines brightly--for them all is fair. But I can see cause of complaint, and I am not alone in the feeling. Mr. Capel Lofft had said, 'the sours of life less offend my taste than its sweets delight it.' On this Kirke White wrote:-- Go to the raging sea, and say 'Be still!' Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will; Preach to the storm, and reason with despair-- But tell not misery's son _that life is fair_. Thou, who in plenty's lavish lap hast roll'd, And every year with new delight hast told--Thou, who, recumbent on the lacquer'd barge, Hast dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant marge, Thou may'st extol life's calm, untroubled sea--The storms of misery ne'er burst on thee. Go to the mat where squalid want reclines; Go to the shade obscure where merit pines; Abide with him whom Penury's charms control, And bind the rising yearnings of his soul--Survey his sleepless couch, and, standing there, Tell the poor pallid wretch _that life is fair_! Lo! o'er his manly form, decay'd and wan, The shades of death with gradual steps steal on; And the pale mother, pining to decay, Weeps, for her boy, her wretched life away. Go, child of fortune! to his early grave, Where o'er his head obscure the rank weeda wave; Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her head On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed. Go, child of fortune, take thy lesson there, And tell us then that life is _wondrous fair_.