encumbered by learned reference and far-sought erudition; for these are ornaments which would ill become so trivial a pen as this wherewith I write, though, perchance, the want of them will render my essay unsatisfactory to the scholar and the critic. But I am emboldened thus to skim with a light wing over this poetic lore of the past, by the reflection that the greater part of my readers belong not to that grave and serious class who love the deep wisdom which lies in quoting from a quaint forgotten tome, and are ready on all occasions to say, "Commend me to the owl."

THE BAPTISM OF FIRE.

A LEAF FROM HISTORY.

The more you mow us down, the thicker we rise; the Christian blood you spill is like the seed you sow, it springs from the earth again and fructifies the more.

TERTULLIAN.

AS day was drawing to a close, and the rays of the setting

sun climbed slowly up the dungeon wall, the prisoner sat and read in a tome with silver clasps. He was a man in the vigour of his days, with a pale and noble countenance, that wore less the marks of worldly care than of high and holy thought. His temples were already bald; but a thick and curling beard bespoke the strength of manhood, and his eye, dark, full, and eloquent, beamed with all the enthusiasm of a martyr.

The book before him was a volume of the early Christian Fathers. He was reading the Apologetic of the eloquent Tertullian, the oldest and ablest writer of the Latin Church. At times he paused, and raised his eyes to heaven as if in

prayer, and then read on again in silence. At length a passage seemed to touch his inmost soul. He read aloud :—

"Give us then what names you please: from the instruments of cruelty you torture us by, call us Sarmenticians and Semaxians, because you fasten us to trunks of trees, and stick us about with fagots to set us on fire; yet let me tell you, when we are thus begirt and dressed about with fire we are then in our most illustrious apparel. These are our victorious palms and robes of glory; and mounted on our funeral pile, we look upon ourselves in our triumphal chariot. No wonder, then, such passive heroes please not those they vanquish with such conquering sufferings. And therefore, we pass for men of despair, and violently bent upon our own destruction. However, that which you are pleased to call madness and despair in us are the very actions which, under virtue's standard, lift up your sons of fame and glory, and emblazon them to future ages."

He arose and paced the dungeon to and fro, with folded arms and a firm step. His thoughts held communion with eternity.

"Father which art in Heaven!" he exclaimed, "give me strength to die like those holy men of old, who scorned to purchase life at the expense of truth. That truth has made me free; and though condemned on earth, I know that I am absolved in Heaven!"

He again seated himself at his table, and read in that tome with silver clasps.

This solitary prisoner was Anne Du Bourg: a man who feared not man; once a merciful judge in that august tribunal upon whose voice hung the life and death of those who were persecuted for conscience' sake, he was now himself an accused-a convicted heretic, condemned to the baptism of fire, because he would not unrighteously condemn others. He had dared to plead the cause of suffering humanity before that dread tribunal, and in the presence

of the king himself to declare, that it was an offence to the majesty of God to shed man's blood in his name. Six weary months-from June to December-he had lain a prisoner in that dungeon, from which a death by fire was soon to set him free. Such was the clemency of Henry the Second!

As the prisoner read, his eyes were filled with tears. He still gazed upon the printed page, but it was a blank before his eyes. His thoughts were far away amid the scenes of his childhood, amid the green valleys of Riom and the Golden Mountains of Auvergne. Some simple word had

called up the vision of the past. He was a child again. He was playing with the pebbles of the brook, he was shouting to the echo of the hills,—he was praying at his mother's knee, with his little hands clasped in hers.

This dream of childhood was broken by the grating of bolts and bars as the jailer opened his prison door. A moment afterward, his former colleague De Harley stood at his side.

"Thou here!" exclaimed the prisoner, surprised at the visit. "Thou in the dungeon of a heretic! On what errand hast thou come ?"

"On an errand of mercy,” replied De Harley. "I come to tell thee”

"That the hour of my death draws near?”

"That thou mayst still be saved."

"Yes; if I will bear false witness against my Godbarter Heaven for earth-an eternity for a few brief days of worldly existence. Lost, thou shouldst say-lost, not saved!"

"No, saved!" cried De Harley, with warmth; "saved from a death of shame and an eternity of woe! Renounce this false doctrine-this abominable heresy-and return again to the bosom of the church which thou dost rend with strife and dissension."

"God judge between thee and me, which has embraced the truth."

"His hand already smites thee."

"It has fallen more heavily upon those who so unjustly persecute me. Where is the king ?—he who said that with his own eyes he would behold me perish at the stake?—he to whom the undaunted Du Faur cried, like Elijah to Ahab, It is thou who troublest Israel !'-Where is the king? Called through a sudden and violent death to the judgmentseat of heaven !-Where is Minard, the persecutor of the just? Slain by the hand of an assassin! It was not without reason that I said to him, when standing before my accusers, 'Tremble! believe the word of one who is about to appear before God! thou likewise shall stand there soon;-thou that sheddest the blood of the children of peace.' He has gone to his account before me."

"And that menace has hastened thine own condemnation. Minard was slain by the Huguenots, and it is whispered that thou wert privy to his death."

"This might at least have been spared a dying man!" replied the prisoner, much agitated by so unjust and so unexpected an accusation. "As I hope for mercy hereafter, I am innocent of the blood of this man, and of all knowledge of so foul a crime. But, tell me, hast thou come here only to embitter my last hours with such an accusation as this? If so, I pray thee, leave me. My moments are precious. I would be alone."

"I came to offer thee life, freedom, and happiness."

"Life-freedom-happiness! At the price thou hast set upon them, I scorn them all! Had the apostles and martyrs of the early Christian church listened to such paltry bribes as these, where were now the faith in which we trust? These holy men of old shall answer for me. Hear what Justin Martyr says in his earnest appeal to Antonine the Pious in behalf of the Christians, who in his day were un justly loaded with public odium and oppression."

He opened the volume before him and read :

"I could wish you would take this also into consideration,

that what we say is really for your own good; for it is in our power at any time to escape your torments by denying the faith, when you question us about it: but we scorn to pur chase life at the expense of a lie; for our souls are winged with a desire of a life of eternal duration and purity, of an immediate conversation with God the father and maker of all things. We are in haste to be confessing and finishing our faith; being fully persuaded that we shall arrive at this blessed state, if we approve ourselves to God by our works, and by our obedience express our passion for that divine life which is never interrupted by any clashing evil."

The Catholic and the Huguenot reasoned long and earnestly together, but they reasoned in vain. Each was firm in his belief, and they parted to meet no more on earth.

On the following day Du Bourg was summoned before his judges to receive his final sentence. He heard it unmoved and with a prayer to God that He would pardon those who had condemned him according to their consciences. then addressed his judges in an oration full of power and eloquence. It closed with these words :

"And now, ye judges, if, indeed, you hold the sword of God as ministers of His wrath, to take vengeance upon those who do evil, beware, I charge you, beware how you condemn us. Consider well what evil we have done; and before all things, decide whether it be just that we should listen unto you rather than unto God. Are you so drunken with the wine-cup of the great sorceress that you drink poison for nourishment? Are you not those who make the people sin by turning them away from the service of God? And if you regard more the opinion of men than that of Heaven, in what esteem are you held by other nations, and principalities, and powers, for the martyrdoms you have caused in obedience to this blood-stained Phalaris? God grant, thou cruel tyrant, that by thy miserable death thou mayst put an end to our groans!