THE HYACINTH. 187 



saying, ' more haste than good speed.' My morn- 

 ing's reading, too, has been of a character that re 

 quires digestion : that paragon of memorialists, 

 John Foxe, has spread its mighty folio to my gaze ; 

 and in the fire that burns before me, I can fancy 

 the forms of heroic sufferers, chained to the stake, 

 and mouldering away amid devouring flames. I 

 loved John Foxe dearly, before I could well sup- 

 port one of his ponderous volumes : and many a 

 time my little heart has throbbed almost to burst- 

 ing, when, having deposited the book in a chair, 

 and opened its venerable leaves, I leant upon the 

 page, to pore over the narrative of some godly 

 martyr. Especially did I love to read of Latimer 

 and Ridley — those twins, born into the kingdom of 

 glory together. At the age of seven years I made 

 acquaintance with the beloved martyrologist ; and 

 great cause have I to be thankful for the impres- 

 sions then left upon my infant mind. Facts are 

 stubborn things ; and I have found the record of 

 those facts a valuable safeguard against attempts 

 that were made to undermine my protestantism, 

 before I was sufficiently grounded in the faith of 

 the gospel to oppose them with the invincible 

 shield. 



' But why dwell on such themes now ? The 

 days of martyrdom have long since passed away 

 In England, at least, we know nothing of the 

 kind.' ' 



