f human love--he is there because he wrote the "Prayer
of Holy Willie;" because he fastened upon the cross the Presbyterian
creed, and made a lingering crucifixion. And yet that man added to the
tenderness of human heart. Dickens, who put a shield of pity before the
flesh of childhood God is getting even with him. Our own Ralph Waldo
Emerson, although he had a thousand opportunities to hear Methodist
clergymen, scorned the means of grace, and the Holy Ghost is delighted
that he is in hell tonight.

Longfellow refined hundreds and thousands of homes, but he did not
believe in the miraculous origin of the Savior. No, sir; he doubted
the report of Gabriel. He loved his fellow-men; he did what he could
to free the slaves; he did what he could to make mankind happy; but God
was just waiting for him. He had His constable right there. Thomas
Paine, the author of the "Rights of Man," offering his life in both
hemispheres for the freedom of the human race, and one of the founders
of the Republic--it has often seemed to me that if we could get God's
attention long enough to point Him to the American flag, He would let
him out. Compte, the author of the "Positive Philosophy," who loved his
fellow-men to that degree that he made of humanity a God, who wrote his
great work in poverty, with his face covered with tears--they are
getting their revenge on him now. Voltaire, who abolished torture in
France; who did more for human liberty than any other man, living or
dead; who was the assassin of superstition, and whose dagger still
rusts in the heart of Catholicism--all the priests who have been
translated have their happiness increased by looking at Voltaire.
Glorious country where the principal occupation is watching the
miseries of the lost. Geordani Bruno, Benedict Spinoza, Diderot, the
encyclopedist, who endeavored to get all knowledge in a small compass
so that he could put the peasant on an equality with the prince
intellectually; the man who wished to sow all over the world the seeds
of knowledge; who loved to labor for mankind. While the priests wanted
to burn, he did all he could to put out the fire--he has been lost
long, long ago. His cry for water has, become so common that his voice
is now recognized through all the realms of hell, and they say to one
another, "That is Diderot." David Hume, the philosopher, he is there
with the rest.

Beethoven, the Shakespeare of music, he has been lost, and Wagner, the
master