While Wolsey and his minions were pursuing what they were bold enough to call the “quarrel of God," Tyndale went to the Continent. Without minutely following the detail of his indefatigable labours, let us here take a few notes. In two years he brought out a version of Matthew, one of Mark, and two of the entire New Testament. Interrupted at Cologne by the most wily and disreputable means, he hastened up the Rhine to Worms, A.D. 1525. The result was, that two editions appeared instead of one. These reached our shores early in 1526. The octavo has neither prologue nor glosses. "The Scripture without note or comment," was the ruling idea. "I assure you," said Tyndale, a little later, to His Majesty's Ambassador, “I assure you, if it would stand with the King's most gracious pleasure to grant only a bare text of the Scriptures to be put forth among his people, I shall immediately make faithful promise never to write more." So, afterwards, (namely, 1533,) said Fryth, the admirable friend of Tyndale, on English ground, to the Lord Chancellor More: "But this hath been offered you, is offered, and shall be offered. Grant that the word of God-I mean the text of Scripture-may go abroad in our English tongue; and my brother William Tyndale and I have done, and will promise you to write no more. If you will not grant this condition, then will we be doing while we have breath, and show, in few words, that the Scripture doth in many, and so, at the least, save some." And, once more, Vaughan, the Envoy, says of Tyndale, that water stood in his eyes” as he affirmed the same thing.

66

Now this country began to glare with martyr-fires. That some instances of vacillation occurred, can surprise no one : that there were so few, must awaken joy in every lover of God and man. Many a noble confessor honoured God, when brought before rulers and councils. Many a martyr, at his last gasp, emulated the gentleness of Stephen, praying that the murderers might find the mercy which they had not learned to show. Meanwhile, in 1532, the pursuit of Tyndale was renewed; and his devoted friend Fryth, who had come to England a little after the Midsummer of that year, had the honour of sitting in the stocks at Reading,—an omen of

greater things which he was about to suffer. Apprehended in Essex, this true disciple was very soon committed to the Tower of London. There he wrote himself, "John Fryth, the prisoner of Jesus Christ, at all times abiding His pleasure;" and by many other expressions signified his calm expectation of being called to "resist unto blood." In Tyndale's communications to his beloved disciple, we find such passages as the following :

"I call God to record, against the day we shall appear before our Lord Jesus, to give a reckoning of our doings, that I never altered one syllable of God's word against my conscience," (as Sir T. More had insinuated,) "nor would this day, if all that is in the earth, whether it be pleasure, honour, or riches, might be given me."-"I hope our redemption is nigh."-"Let Bilney be a warning to you....... Let not your body faint. He that endureth to the end shall be saved. the pain be above your strength, remember, 'Whatsoever ye shall ask in My name, I will give it you,' and pray to your Father in that name, and He shall ease your pain, or shorten it. The Lord of peace, of hope, and of faith, be with you. Amen.......Sir, your wife is well content with the will of God, and would not, for her sake, have the glory of God hindered."

If

A little later, Fryth might have escaped; but he could not consent to a questionable device. His crown of martyrdom was untarnished; and henceforth, it appears, "heretics" were taken out of episcopal hands. In the midst of all, the word grew and mightily prevailed. Tyndale, in 1534, sent forth a second impression of Genesis, and a revised edition of the New Testament. In addition to other encouragements, there was a gleam of favour from Queen Anne Boleyn, of which an interesting memento is found in our national Museum,- -a copy, presented to that Queen, of the corrected New Testament, printed on vellum, illuminated, and bound in blue morocco.

At length the translator was apprehended, by guile, in Antwerp. For such a result he had long looked. In his writings we find, among statements concerning the burning of the sacred books, most distinct references to the probable burning of him who had penned them. From the friendly

roof of Mr. Poyntz he was hurried to the castle of Vilvoord. Every effort to procure his release was fruitless. Discussions with the polemical theologues of Louvain, the conversion to Christ of the jailer and his family, and (best of all) the issuing of three editions of the New Testament, chequer and irradiate the tale of his imprisonment. He was bound, but the word was not bound. He meekly suffered, that, the truth

might triumph.

Commotions and troubles on this side the North Sea, both at this and some later dates, tell of retribution. Nemesis, after throwing her fearful light over the pages of Greek tragedy, seems to find a real existence here. This remark we do not follow up, though we might plead a Southey's example. Jeremy Taylor admonishes us that "God's judgments are like the writing on the wall, which was a missive of anger from God upon Belshazzar; it came upon an errand of revenge, and yet was writ in so dark characters, that none could read it but a Prophet." Facts, however, have a significance. The man who had preached the first sermon (!) at the burning of holy books, now accused of treason, was beheaded; and Sir Thomas More soon followed him to the grave by the same ignominious route, implicated in the very charge which he had moved to fix on Tyndale and his guiltless band. This tragedy has doubtless contributed to draw forth our popular eulogies of More; as suffering greatness, like beauty in tears, attracts an unreasoning sympathy.

Yet, all was overruled. An unseen Hand was guiding Cranmer, Cromwell, yea, and Henry too : for there is ONE who can control the inclinations of Princes, as certainly as the eastern husbandman draws the streamlets of water over the thirsty land, "withersoever he will." It is no concern of ours, most certainly, to qualify that terrible sentence of Sir James Mackintosh, that "Henry, perhaps, approached as nearly to the ideal standard of perfect wickedness, as the infirmities of human nature would allow." But we can smile at the vulgar artifice of attaching to the Reformation the dishonours of such a name; as if the battles of the Papacy had been always waged by immaculate hands! We must hasten to say, that Coverdale's translation was completed in 1535; that

Latimer, before the Convocation of 1536, referred to Tyndale, though without naming him; and that other hopeful signs attended the cause for which the earlier translator was now "set forth," and "appointed to death," "a spectacle unto the world, and to angels, and to men."

The Government of Flanders, and our English authorities, seemed heedless of this prisoner's rescue; and neither party can be considered innocent of his blood. But his work was done, and he fell unspotted; yet, falling, "overcame by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of" his "testimony." On the 6th day of October, 1536, Tyndale was led forth. Having reached the fatal place, he was fastened to the stake. Then, after crying aloud, "LORD, OPEN THE EYES OF THE KING OF ENGLAND!" he was strangled, and his body was consumed to ashes.

"The noble army of martyrs praise Thee." So the church on earth has sung for more than fourteen hundred years; and the strain we repeat with solemn joy. It is our privilege, meantime, to unite with those, the most venerable of the dead, in blessing Him who gave them the victory. Those witnesses for God still live to adore Him. The voices that once ascended in praise from the forum, the dungeon, the solitudes of exile, the rack, the scaffold, or the stake, are now enriched with heavenly accents. But, while "the noble army of martyrs" laud and magnify the ever-blessed Name, they speak to us in appeals no less monitory than inspiriting. If we be recreant to the cause of Jesus, and of evangelical Protestantism, their sainted ghosts will remonstrate, "Ye have not yet resisted unto blood, striving against sin.”

TIME AND ETERNITY.

TIME is a mere parenthesis in the vast history of eternity, and cannot, therefore, teach its mysteries. Eternity must tell its own tale; and time, too, must be its own historian. But what is time, or to what shall we resemble it? An aged man, sweeping through the regions of the nether sky, with a scythe in one hand, and an hour-glass in the other; his head besprinkled with life's last snowfall; and, at the same time,

equipped with the youthful caduceus and talaria of an obsolete Mercury? "Yes," should be the universal answer. "But why not," would the sceptic perhaps inquire, "paint a blooming youth, whom wings would better suit, and who might better bear the keenness of the poles and the heats of the equator?" We dare not place such an one upon the canvas, or the child of yesterday would ask the moment of that being's birth, and the pedigree from whence he gained the universal tyranny which lays all prostrate in the dust. Nor could we paint a veteran tottering on the grave; for men would laugh at our presumption, since time yet pursues an undiminished and untarnished warfare. No: we must think time aged; for he throws antiquity on all things. Impatient of death's approach, he puts his hand into his wallet, and sprinkles the snowy seed upon the head not yet consigned to its mother dust. We must think him young; for his flight is as swift as ever, and such as alone the energy of youth could favour. We must place the scythe in his right hand; for with that he conquers all things, and cuts them down as the grass of the field. The hour-glass, too, must be about him; for the great characteristic of the moments is, that they pass away. Then, what is time? A tyrant, whose existence was never doubted, and whom death has never overtaken. In him are youth and age combined; and, when stripped of his equipments, we see personified before us the youthfulness of an undying age. This may seem a paradox: but what can we find in time that should subject him to his own laws; or what can we see in nature that should symbolise him without a contradiction? Time is ever-dying, and yet never dead ; ever flowing, still, like the sand in the horologe, unceasingly refilled. Such is the parenthesis in eternity; and in what respects does it resemble it?

But, list! the midnight-bell is tolling! Will this aid us in the mystery? Fresh moments speak upon its iron tongue, and, as each beat thrills upon the listening ear, its predecessor drops into oblivion. As the eye glides upon the lines of some illuminated parchment, fresh letters, in ever-varied form, present themselves, so the moments pass; and yet each, with all its variety, or all the beauty of its incident, forms but part