forth into the streets without work or wages: then, of course, famine begins; men cannot live without wages; all the bakers' and victuallers' houses are plundered; but provisions soon fail, and the country people will not bring in supplies to the market, where they will probably be robbed. The famished town's-people go out in bands to collect provisions in the country, and are either cut off by the yeomanry and soldiers, or else plunder every farm and countryhouse they come to, and murder all who oppose them. Then comes the horrible state of things which exists when law is disregarded, and might is right. The glare of midnight fires—the distant shot-the sound of horse-hoofs breaking the hours of silence— soldiers and armed bands hurrying to and fro—such are the dreadful accompaniments of a state of revolution. What a picture is described by the poet— "Heap wood upon the fire: Draw in your stools, and pass the goblet round, A form, that midmost in the circle sits Half visible; his face deformed with scars Oh what a heavy sorrowful thing to live in continual danger! When the peaceful fireside is rendered gloomy by fear, when the merry game of the children is hushed, the silent tears chase each other down the mother's cheek, the stern resolve sits on the father's brow, the arms are burnished and loaded, the doors bolted and barred, the barking of the house-dog, or the sighing of the wind, seems to tell of a band of ruthless assassins prowling around like beasts of prey. There is another dreadful visitant in troublous times closely allied with the former, and this is treachery. You are not confident even of the members of your own household; you are not sure whether the man who eats your daily bread, and kneels with you in daily prayer, may not be your secret enemy, registering your words and deeds, that he may betray you to destruction. All these bitter things come with revolutions and civil wars. But there are worse even than these: there is the fearful struggle in your own breast between conflicting duties-between public principle and private ties. Honour, duty, inclination, bid you join the loyal band of those who still fight for the laws. Your spirit stirs within you, and urges you to mount your horse, with pistols in your holster, and sword girded on your thigh. You would at once willingly sacrifice your own life in the cause of honour and patriotism; but you leave behind you a beloved wife and children a certain prey to miscreants, to whom your departure would be a signal for assault and vengeance. Nor is even this the worst. The violence of man can but kill the body; and if you sacrifice your life in the performance of your duty, and in the faith of Christ, you need not fear. But times of violence bring with them fearful trials of the spirit. There is the temptation to cowardice and dereliction to duty. There is the inducement to join in the cry of vengeance and violence; you are tempted to go all lengths with the party you espouse, or in danger of being esteemed a false friend. You are driven on to horrible crimes of fierce revenge and retaliation, of which, if you had been accused before, you would have said with Hazael, "is thy servant a dog, that he should do these things?" Such is the picture of revolution-such it was in France and in Ireland—such it is now in Spain, and, if God had not spared them, in Canada; and such, if God in his great mercy preserve us not, -such it be here. may I have read and heard much, and have seen something of revolution and popular rebellion. I was myself on a visit to Ireland in the year '98, when the great rebellion broke out. The house in which I was staying was attacked at midnight; providentially we had been informed of the intention of the rebels, and by the aid of a few soldiers who were quartered in the house, we drove them off. Another family, a very few miles distant, were not so well prepared. The rebels set fire to the house, and every inmate, old as well as young (and there was a large family of children), were either burnt alive, or shot as they attempted to escape. I remember talking once with an old soldier who had helped to put down that rebellion with the bayonet and halter. He told me that the soldiers were ordered to hang the rebels, or croppies, as they termed them, by scores. "Was it not a horrible task," said I, "to be the executioner of so many helpless creatures ?" I shall never forget the old soldier's look; he was an honest and humane man, and shuddered at the recollection; 66 Sir," said he, we did not hang them ourselves; we made the croppies hang each other." 66 Mr. Walton paused, but his friend made no answer. He was too much awe-struck by the description given; and he felt that if a revolution took place in England, he and others like him, who had pandered to the evil passions of the people, would have a fearful load of guilt to answer for. CHAPTER XVI. FURTHER REMARKS ON THE NATURE OF REVOLUTION, AND ON THE MEANS, THROUGH GOD'S MERCY, OF PREVENTING IT. Wild thoughts within, bad men without, All evil spirits round about, Are blended in unblest device To spoil Love's earthly paradise. KEBLE. In England, at the present time (continued Mr. Walton), Satan is evidently doing his worst to bring about a revolution; and many conspiring causes are tending to the same result. God alone, in whose hands are the issues of life and death, can save us from this tremendous calamity. It is as much an ordinance and decree of Divine Providence that the millions should be ruled by the few, as that a herd of oxen should submit to be driven by a child; they have the power, at any time, to turn and rend us, but God places an invisible restraint upon them. He controls the wills and affections of sinful men, until the measure of a people's guilt is full; then he withdraws his hand, and suffers the flood of human passion to take its turbulent course of ruin and devastation. Popular revolution is the bursting forth of the brute force of a nation-the powers of hell gaining the mastery over divine and human law. A rebellious people are always in the wrong; they disobey the commands of God, frustrate their own object, and bring on themselves numberless evils. I do not mean to say that, in most instances of revolution, rulers have not generally been to blame, as well as their subjects. Still, the wrongfulness of rulers does not excuse the people's sin, nor save them from its dreadful consequences. Supposing, for instance, that Charles I. entertained a mistaken notion of his right, and stretched his prerogative too far; still, looking calmly back, as we now may, at the history of those times, can we not at once discern that the rebellion which ensued was entirely sinful and gratuitous. Had the popular leaders of the day, instead of urging the nation to rebellion, contented themselves with calm protests and legal remonstrances; and, still more, had the Parliament, and those who took their side, prayed earnestly to God to direct and govern the heart of their king, as well as their own hearts; had they acted with religious calmness instead of yielding to ungodly passions, the nation would have been spared the horrors of a civil war, the tyranny of Cromwell, the overthrow of the Church, and would have advanced in the same period to a far better condition than it had attained at the time of the Restoration. So might France, but for her crimes and her revolutions, have arrived by this time at a degree of civilisation and enlightenment, which at present she has no prospect of attaining. She seems by her very impatience to have morally disabled herself from the enjoyment of true and rational freedom. And so with regard to England at the present time. If she would remain obedient to her laws, and curb her factious spirit, she may advance prosperously onward, continually adapting her institutions to the exigencies which may arise; always conservative of what is good, yet always reforming what needs amendment. But if violent men gain the ascendant, |