ing, how many a heart mourned! Oh yes! even whilst the arch of triumph was erected, and bright illuminations gleamed through the land, thousands of mourners sought a darkened chamber to weep in, where the mocking shout should not reach their ears, and where they could shut their eyes to the hateful light. I knew a lady, indeed she still lives, for

'Life will long endure,

Ere sorrow break its chain.'

who received an account of the death of two sons at one time, in one bloody field. She had heard the shout of victory, and she drove tremblingly to the Post Office to ask for letters: letters were given to her, but written in unknown hands-both her brave boys were slain! It was not the fate of either to record the death, or weep over the grave of the other. They could not tell the mournful news of a brother's loss in gentle soothing terms, or say to their widowed mother,

All is not lost,

Behold, I am left you still.'

You have never yet known a single sorrow, dear child, and long may the strange, fearful reality of grief be unknown to you; but when it does come, and to all who feel the penalty of Adam it will come, you will feel it sad and heavy enough to bear the single grief, without having the sorrow doubled. I know not how long the poor mother I speak of bowed beneath the stroke, but there are those who yet remember the wild shriek of agony that issued from the carriage, as it bore her through the crowded streets to her bereaved home. This anecdote does not rightly belong to the Field of

Waterloo;' the brothers fell in a previous engagement, and we need not load that bloody plain with victims that do not belong to it. We had bright warm weather, so bright and warm, that we were delighted to find that our road lay through a wood, whose thick foliage shut out the dazzling glare, admitting only, here and there, a few dancing rays. Lord Byron, in his poem of Childe Harold, calls this forest of Loignées, the forest of Ardennes; and here, therefore, Shakespeare has placed the retreat of his banished Duke in 'As you like it.' Could it always remain so softly warm, so verdantly green, as it did when we passed through, I think he would not want attendants, and might have as brilliant a court as 'Le roi Postillon;' as the Belgians call King Leopold, on account of his love of locomotion. I did not see the stream over which the melancholy Jacques hung and so beautifully moralized, where he found 'books in the running brook, sermons in stones, and good in everything.' Alas! what a melancholy lecture would that have been, could he have pondered over the soil of Waterloo ! but we needed nothing but the reality for matter enough of sad contemplation. There was no mark of war or carnage on the wide fertile field now waving with rich crops. No sign of death, but the increased luxuriance of the undulating corn. We climbed the monument, and whilst resting on it, our guide related to us some anecdotes of this field of blood. He was a lad at the time, and was employed in carrying provisions to the army. Two of his brothers were conscripts amongst the French troops, but he never knew their fate. The hottest time of the battle, he said, was not half so dreadful as the sight afterwards, when hundreds perished on the ground of thirst. 'Water, water,' was all their cry, but water could not be pro

cured to quench their burning thirst: they roared,' he said, 'like bulls in fevered agony ;'-but I will be more merciful to you than he was to us, for when we wandered over the flowery turf, or forgot in the little shady dells, that we were even out of green England, he always drew us back to the recollection of where we were, by some fresh story of carnage and devastation. Many lads and women came to offer us relics, and, I believe, we bought some buttons that had the merit of coming freshly from Birmingham, and a bullet that had been buried and dug up again within the last few days. I wished we had stopped to pluck you a flower from the graves of the little churchyard; but perhaps you may think that my bouquet is already sombre enough, without a sprig of cypress, and you will not echo the request of the melancholy minstrel,

'Oh lady, pluck no wreath for me,

Or twine it of the Cypress tree.'

Brussels, June 15, 1842.

J. L. W.

OXLEE'S LETTERS.

OUR attention has been called by some friends to a pamphlet entitled, "Three more letters to the Archbishop of Canterbury, by the Rev. John Oxlee, Rector of Molesworth ;" and which is said to be obtaining a wide circulation among the Jews, under the supposition that it exposes the sentiments of a section of the Christian Church on points in controversy between them and us. We believe and hope that the views held by the author of that pamphlet are peculiar to himself; that no other clergyman of the established church, nor lay-member of it, nor any individual of any denomination professing to hold any creed in accordance with the Holy Scriptures, is tainted with heresies so fanciful as those which, alas for the state of ecclesiastical discipline among us!-a beneficed minister of the established church has not feared to proclaim in a document addressed to the Primate of that church.

We are not about to review this production; we merely wish to inform our readers that one of its leading objects is to deny, and, if man could but succeed in making God a liar, to disprove the personal existence of Satan. Thus speaks the misguided author: after describing him who is, he says, 'called by St. Paul the prince of the power of the air, and the god of this world; by the author of the Apocalypse, the Great Dragon, the Destroyer, the Angel of the bottomless pit; by the Jewish contemporaries of our blessed Lord and

his apostles, Beelzebub, the prince of the devils; by the orthodox fathers, the Heresiarch, the prince of the evil angels,' &c. &c. he goes on to assert the notion of such a monster, I say, was totally unknown by name to Moses and the old prophets of God; who never polluted their speech, nor defiled their minds, with any such horrid, damnable, and blasphemous superstition.'

Thus is the charge of horrid, damnable, and blasphemous superstition' directly brought against Paul, John, AND by unavoidable implication against HIM whose name we dare not pen in connexion with such fearful impiety. The author, indeed, strives to evade this awful consequence, but he cannot for, in endeavouring to get rid of that incontestible evidence, the temptation of the Lord Jesus in the wilderness, after jeering in a strain of most profane levity at the particulars therein recorded, he says that Jesus took advantage of having been absent during that period to invent the story, as a sort of allegory, or parable, for the edification of his disciples! If the Jews can be satisfied with the manner in which this author flatly contradicts Moses, in the inspired history of the creation, and makes profane nonsense of the book of Job, we can only lament such unfaithfulness to the oracles of God, which they have hitherto so religiously and effectively guarded; if the Archbishop of Canterbury, and other ecclesiastical authorities can leave a parish full of immortal souls to be poisoned by such heresies as abound in these letters, to the Lord they must answer it; but we, at least, will openly spurn from us, with horror, indignation, and shuddering pity for its grey-headed author, the tissue of worse than Socinian infidelity contained in this pamphlet.

When departing from the word of the living God,