No. 4.-EARLY, WITNESSES.

(Continued.)

After the death of the emperor Marcus Aurelius, the Christians were allowed a period of comparative rest. Not that even then their position was essentially different from what it had been before: the names of many noble sufferers might be mentioned, to refute such an idea, if we were disposed to indulge it: but the fury of their oppressors, after having exhausted itself in the terrible persecutions of the preceding years, had now for a time abated; and the Christians might meet, and hold communion with each other, and with their Saviour, without being assured that their assemblies would be broken up, and themselves martyred, by a maddened mob or a cruel soldiery.

But it was not for long that even these modified advantages were permitted to these "followers of the Lamb." In the year 202, the emperor Severus issued an edict, which forbade, under severe penalties, conversion to Christianity. The effects of this edict may be learnt from the words of Tertullian, "Daily we are besieged; daily we are betrayed; we are oppressed in our meetings and our assemblies ;" and from the stronger language of Clement of Alexandria, who wrote a year or two earlier, "Many martyrs are daily burned, crucified, or beheaded before our eyes."

The martyrdom of Perpetua and Felicitas may be mentioned, as belonging to this period of christian history. Perpetua was a woman of but two-and-twenty years, a mother, and with an infant still at her breast; and she had consequently to struggle, not only with the natural fear of suffering and death, but with the love which only a mother knows, and the anxieties which only a mother can appreciate. When about to be brought from prison to trial, she was visited by her aged father, who was a pagan. "My daughter," he said, "have pity on my grey hairs. Have pity on thy father, if thou thinkest I deserve to be called thy father; if with these hands 1 have brought thee up to this blooming age, if I have preferred thee to all thy brothers, do not bring shame and disgrace upon me among men." With these words he kissed her hands and threw himself at her feet. How hard must have been the struggle! How terrible the conflict be

tween filial affection and duty to God! But the latter speedily prevailed. "My father's grey hairs," she says, simply but beautifully, "pained me, and I sought to strengthen him." When she was brought with the other prisoners to the trial, her father made a last effort to overcome her. Presenting to her her child-what an argument was that!-he said, "Have pity on thy father: have pity on thy child." The judge supported the father's prayers, and entreated her to sacrifice, but in vain. "I am a Christian," was her reply to all solicitations. Though tortured, she maintained the same confession: and she, with Felicitas, another young mother, was ordered to be thrown to wild beasts at a festival.

After the death of Severus, comparative quiet was restored to the Christians until the accession of Decius Trajan. The declared object of this emperor was entirely to suppress Christianity. In the year 250 he ordered search to be made every where for persons suspected of non-compliance with the national worship, and the Christians were to be required to conform to the religious ceremonies of the Roman state. "In case they refused, threats, and then, if necessary, the torture, were to be employed to compel submission. If they remained firm, it was resolved to inflict, particularly on the bishops, the punishment of death." And this order was soon found to be no mere threat. At first there was a disposition to try the effect of commands and threats alone; but when these were of no avail, more violent measures were speedily resorted to. Fire, torture, hunger, thirst, were all employed to a terrible extent in this persecution. Perhaps in no former persecution had the number been so great, of those who were induced to "forsake their first love." But many there were who "endured" even "to the end." The names of Fabian, who was martyred at Rome; of Alexander, who was put to death at Jerusalem; even of the renowned Origen, who was imprisoned in a dungeon and ironed, and who was tortured and threatened to be burnt; all belong to this period.

We must not omit to mention here the name of the devoted Cyprian. Cyprian, though banished during the reign of Decius, was not martyred until the reign of his successor, Valerian. He was then recalled from his banishment to be put to

am."

death. Calmly and untremblingly, full of Christian Heroism, he came on that last sad journey. When brought before the proconsul, he was asked, " Art thou Cyprian ?" "I "Art thou he whom the Christians call their bishop?" "I am." "Our princes have commanded thee to worship the Gods." "That I will not do." "Thou wouldst judge better to consult thy safety, and not to despise the Gods." "My safety and my strength is Christ the Lord, whom I desire to serve ever." When he was sentenced to death, "God be praised," he said. He was then led into an adjoining plain where he took off his mantle, and fell on his knees, and worshipped. His head was then severed from his body with a sword. "Devout men carried him to his grave, and made great lamentation over him."

But it is needless to pursue this narrative of Heroes, all so much alike, further. The last persecution under Diocletian soon came. No cause of offence was still found against the Christians, except "concerning the law of the Lord their God." Still, again the prisons were filled with them; and again thousands of them were subjected to tortures, banishments, and death. But the God "whom they served continually," he at length "delivered them." Even when they walked through the fire, "there was one with them like to the Son of Man." Christianity, far from being destroyed by all these violences of its persecutors, "still grew mightily and prevailed." The purity of the churches had not, indeed, been in all cases preserved, and hereafter we shall see the contest taking place, not between Christianity and paganism, but between Christianity-true and false. But the spark of spiritual life was still burning; the truth of God was still active and powerful; and the result of the struggle of three centuries was, what it had always been and always will be in such cases, that "the foolishness of God was wiser than men, and the weakness of God stronger than men."

There have, indeed, been discussions, whether the Heroism of which we have spoken in these two chapters ought not rather to be called fanaticism.

The cry

which has assailed all who have ever lived, who lived and acted more nobly than their fellows, has been uttered loudly about these Early Martyrs and Witnesses of our Faith. No doubt there was fanaticism in

some who suffered and died during these persecutions, just as there have been fanatics in every good cause before or since. But he who sees nothing but fanaticism here, is one who can have no perception of moral character, and no realization of spiritual greatness. Fanaticism, by its very nature, is a fleeting and unsustained thing. There were fanatics, who spoke loudly and boldly enough, but they "fell away." During three centuries the struggle continued. Again and again, after intervals of rest, it was revived. And though merely nominal Christians, who in the times of peace had joined themselves to the brethren, of course forsook them when the hour of trial came; and though many, even of the sincere, were well nigh overcome and beaten in the contest; still CHRISTIANITY went on with the conflict, the Lord strengthening his servants, and making them powerful in his cause. No! fanaticism was not the secret of the early Christian Heroism!" If any man come to me, and hate not his father and mother, and wife and children, and brothers and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple," that was the banner which rolled above them, and that was the solid foundation under their feet! "All honour," as Carlyle says, "to those whom God hath so honoured!"

"They have no place in storied page,

No rest in marble shrine;

They are past and gone with a perished age,
They died, and made no sigu.'

But work that shall find its wages yet,
And deeds that their God did not forget,

Done for the love divine

These were their mourners, and these shall be
The crowns of their immortality.

"Oh, seek them not where sleep the dead,
Ye shall not find their trace;

No graven stone is at their head,

No green grass hides their face;
But sad and unseen is their silent grave,-
It may be the sand or the deep sea wave,
Or a lonely desert place;

For they needed no prayers, and no mourning-bell, They were tombed in the true hearts that knew them well.

"They healed sick hearts till theirs were broken, And dried sad eyes till theirs lost light; We shall know at last by a certain token How they fought and fell in the fight. Salt tears of sorrow unbeheld, Passionate cries unchronicled,

And silent strifes for the right,Angels shall count them, and Earth shall sigh That she left her best children to battle and die!"

THE MOTHER'S CHOICE.

"Thy will be done."

BY THE REV. 8. MANNING, OF FROME. The admiration of tourists down the Rhine is always excited by a little valley which debouches on the river just below Bingen. It lies embosomed among lofty bills, whose rugged, barren sides enhance its beauty by force of contrast. The hamlet, which lies about half-way up the glen, nestles peacefully among vineyards and orchards. A little white church peeps out among the trees; a few houses come straggling down toward the Rhine, as though timidly to peep at the passing to and fro of the great world from which they are shut out. Even now that the Rhine is like a crowded highway, and all the points of interest on the banks vulgarized by hordes of visitors who go because everybody else goes, this valley has not altogether lost its tranquil charm. One cannot help feeling, as one gazes upon it, that the cares and sorrows of life are shut out, that the curse has fallen more lightly here than elsewhere, and that in this "happy valley" the peace and innocence, as well as the beauty of Eden, must linger. Sixty years ago its quiet and tranquillity seemed inviolable. No one could have supposed that a tragedy so deep and real was being enacted there as that which I am about to relate.

Apart from the hamlet, and just behind the church, there stands (or rather stood, for it is in ruins now) a little cottage, which, though small and poor as those of the neighbouring peasantry, yet bore the unmistakeable traces of the hand of taste. Creepers were trained in graceful festoons over the latticed windows, or fell in rich masses on either side of the narrow doorway. The garden had a few plots of fragrant flowers. Within doors, the rooms, though small and poor, contained one or two pieces of costly furniture, which seemed strangely out of keeping with the rest. The single sitting-room was empty. In one of the two bed-rooms were a dying boy and a weeping mother, whose tears dropped fast upon a miniature set with brilliants, which she clasped with convulsive energy. She was the widow of an officer in the Austrian army, who had died in the third year of their marriage, leaving her with an infant

son. Too proud to remain dependent upon the reluctant charity of distant relatives, the poor widow had retired to this secluded valley, where the small income which she still retained would suffice for their maintenance, and where she could devote herself without interruption to the education of her son. Who can tell the unutterable love which welled up in her heart as she smoothed the curly hair of her Rudolf, gazed into his deep loving eyes, or stooped to kiss his fair open brow? She found pleasure in practising self-denial for his sake. By exercising the most rigid ecomony she had been able to lay by a small sum every year towards his support when he should be of age to go to the University. The villagers, ignorant of the motives of her parsimony, ascribed it to avarice; and as her previous life unfitted her to mingle in their rude mirth, they thought her both proud and mean. She was thus not only excluded from the intercourse of the world, but solitary and companionless in the vil lage. She did not feel her solitude, however, for Rudolf was her world; she cared for no society save his and that of her own sad thoughts.

As Rudolf approached the period of youth, and the fond mother was beginning to dread the time of separation, symptoms of the disease which had carried off his father began to appear. At length they became so decided that she could blind herself to them no longer. In an agony of grief and fear she despatched a messenger to the distant town to summon thence the best medical aid it could afford, though to do so she had to encroach upon the sacred hoard. To touch it for any other purpose than its intended one seemed like sacrilege, but it was unavoidable. On the arrival of the physician her worst fears were confirmed. The disease had made alarming progress. Generous diet and costly medicines were ordered. To procure these she had to encroach more and more upon the savings of former years. Still he sank. His cheek grew pallid, his skin seemed transparent, bis eye beamed with an unnatural bright. ness. He seemed to grow more beautiful and more dear every day. She could not abandon hope, though to every eye save hers the case was evidently hopeless. She

mistook the hectic flush for the glow of health, and as she did so, "the widow's heart leaped for joy." But with the bleak winds of Autumn he began to sink rapidly, and the truth in all its stern, terrible reality burst upon her that her child was about to die.

She had risen from her seat by his bedside, and taken from a secret drawer a miniature of her husband, his gift on their wedding day. Through years of widowhood she had found daily solace in tracing the growing resemblance between its lineaments and those of her boy. Who can wonder that, as she now gazed upon it, tears should chase one another down her pale, withered cheeks at the remembrance of "joys departed, never to return"? In an agony of grief she fell on her knees, and almost upbraided God with cruelty in thus breaking away the last link which bound her to life. Whilst kneeling at the bedside she became unconscious, being probably overpowered by fatigue from her long watching; though the villagers, among whom the legend still lingers, maintain that it was a trance, and that what follows was not a dream, but a reality. Which of these was the truth she could never tell, but of this she was always sure, that in either case the Merciful One had adopted this mode of binding up her broken heart. After an interval of unconsciousness, the length of which she had no means of judging, she heard behind her a voice, saying, in tones solemn, yet of indescribable sweetness, Woman, thy prayers are heard by the Father of the fatherless, and the Husband of the widow."

She looked up, and met the earnest, pitying, yet somewhat reproachful, gaze of the angelic speaker. All that she could remember of his appearance was, that he was arrayed in an azure robe gemmed with stars, that a soft light invested his whole person, and that his countenance, like his voice, seemed to express gentleness, majesty, and pity. She gazed upon him in breathless awe, when he again broke the silence, saying, "Thy prayers shall be answered." She was about to spring from her knees in an ecstasy of delight, but he checked her, adding, "Choose not rashly."

As he did so, dim shapes began to pass before her eyes, which melted and changed into one another like those we see in dreams. One group, however, remained

long enough to enable her to see it distinctly. Rudolf,-her own Rudolf,-grown into a lusty youth, with several companions of his own age, all wearing the student's dress, and giving free vent to the blasphemous and licentious sentiments then almost universal in the German universities. She remonstrated with him, and he with his companions turned scoffingly away.

Other scenes crowded on too rapidly to admit of their being distinctly seen. At the next pause she saw the cottage stripped of almost every article of furniture, the garden was overrun with weeds, the creepers straggled over the windows, or fell neglected on the ground. All gave proof of extreme poverty. She sat alone weeping over the cherished miniature, when Rudolf rushed in and cried in a harsh voice, "Give me money." She replied by pointing to the bare walls, from which every available article had been sold to buy food. His eye fell on the miniature with its setting of brilliants. "Sell that," he cried, and sprang forward to seize it. She fell fainting upon the floor. When she recovered from the swoon, she was alone, and the miniature was gone.

Though conscious that the visions were still passing before her, she could not summon courage to look up for some minutes. When she did so she saw a wretched apartment, and had a vague sense of having followed her abandoned son to Baden, where he was a regular attendant at the gaming tables. She heard a confused noise on the stairs, as of the trampling of many feet and the whispering of many voices. With a presentiment of the terrible truth she sprang forward, and met, at the door of her garret, men bearing the body of Rudolf. He had quarrelled with one of his companions in crime, fought, and fallen, mortally wounded. With his dying breath he gasped out a prayer for forgiveness, and died on her breast.

"Woman," said the angel in tones from which all reproach had vanished and which now only expressed the tenderest pity, "Woman, ask what thou wilt, and it shall be done unto thee of our Father who is in heaven."

"Not as I will, oh, my Father, but as thou wilt. Thy will be done. I am foolish and ignorant, thou art kind and wise. Choose thou for me."

With a look of ineffable love the angel faded from her sight. Could it indeed be

80, or did the widow deceive herself, when in the departing angel she caught the lineaments of "the husband of her youth "? She was aroused from her trance by a sharp cry. The sun had set, the twilight had deepened into night, the moon had risen, and its cold, slanting rays fell on the bed. "Kiss me, mother," said the dying boy; "I must leave you; but not for long; you will soon follow me, where I shall feel no more weakness, and you no more sorrow."

His voice failed, a smile of joy and wonder passed over his pallid features, as though he caught a glimpse of "the more excellent glory," and then all was over; the widow was childless and alone upon earth, yet was she "not alone, because the Father was with her."

She watched and prayed through the night. With the dawn she addressed herself to the task of preparing to bury her boy. She was sorrowful and sad, yet calm. She now knew that it was better that he should be taken to his Father's house. The neighbours, rude but not unkind, were touched with her sorrows, and came to render sympathy and aid. Her heart expanded towards them. She felt grateful for their unaffected grief, and instead of keeping aloof from them as she had been wont to do she now sought their friendship. Having no longer any motive to parsimony, she endeavoured to relieve the wants of her poorer neighbours as far as her scanty means would allow. Thoroughly humbled by her terrible sorrow, she entered the meanest hovels, and her visits were like those of a ministering angel. But the employment which seemed most congenial to her own feelings was that of consoling the bereaved. She could very seldom speak of the vision she had seen, but she would urge the lesson which she herself had learned from it, that our ignorance of the future should teach a cheerful acquiescence in the present, and that whenever man's will opposes God's will, it is not only right but expedient that ours should give way to his.

Though always calm, and sometimes cheerful, yet it was evident that secret grief preyed upon her spirit. How could it be otherwise? The same Scripture which exhorts us not to faint under chastisement, commands us not to despise it. Though stoicism be a heathen virtue, it is not a christian grace. If there be no deep

feeling, there can be no real resignation. The only perfect example of entire submission to his Father's will wept and groaned at the grave of his friend. It was with a bleeding heart that the lonely widow bowed to the will of God. All could see that she had not long to live. She grew happier as the time of her departure drew nearer. As she spoke of the approaching reunion and recognition at the right hand of God, her eye would beam and her voice tremble with emotion. She only survived her son about two years. A few minutes before her death, the bystanders noticed the same smile of wonder and joy on her countenance which she had seen on his. She clasped her hands as in prayer, and went home to the place prepared for her in her Father's house.

MATCHES!

"Blacking! blacking! matches!" cried a dirt-begrimed boy, popping his head in, as he opened the door of the reading-room of the Universe Hotel. A chorus of voices in wonderful unison exclaimed, "No, we don't want any." And Mr. Jerome Green, an easy, good-natured gentleman, in town for the holidays, who was resting in an armchair, making use, however, of only its two hinder legs, sung out with the rest, "No, I don't want any." The little fellow, who had an intelligent but melancholy face, was just going to withdraw himself from the gorgeously decorated room, when Mr. Green, happening to turn his face to the door, caught sight of a muddy little foot, quite blue with the pinching cold-that is to say, that part of it which was not black with incrustations-and recollecting that he had actually been annoyed during the past week by the want of a match in his bed-room, cried, "Halloo! I do want some matches, though, little shaver; how do you sell them ?"

"Eighteen-pence a dozen," was the ready reply; "and they don't smell."

"Don't they?" said Mr. Green, and thought to himself, "that is more than I can say of you, my young friend;" but he kept the thought to himself.

All this time Mr. Green had held the bundle of boxes pensively in his hand, as if he thought to get at their intrinsic value by weighing them. "Eighteen-pence a dozen, and they don't smell," repeated the boy, blowing his chilled hands. Still Mr. Green did not speak, for his mind was far