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Castle, where it was held. The doorkeepers tried to keep out the mass of the people, but many a one slipped in, by giving them a small bribe. On the trial, if any of those who were in the Minster at the time it was burning were called to give their testimony, and stated anything that was not exactly true, Jonathan would interrupt them and say, 'No, no, that wasn't the way at all-let me tell! I'll tell just how I did it. I went to the bell-room, and cut down all the bellropes, and fastened them together, and hung them outside of one of the windows; then I cut out a pane of glass, to make my escape by, and piled up some benches so as to climb out; then, after the Minster bell rang nine, I began to gather my bonfire. I took all the benches, and the robes of the singing men and boys, and I took their singing-books to light my fire with. I did not burn a single good book,-not a Bible or prayer-book, but I burned all their singing-books, and I took the great gold swan, my lord, and put it where it would melt first, and when the pile got all well blazing, I let myself down from the window, and went off.'

"In the presence of the lord judge, with his great curled wig down to his waist, and all the other judges in their wigs, and rows of learned lawyers, and crowds of interested spectators, Jonathan stood up and told his story as easily as if he had been relating it to one single friend. About noon, Jonathan said, 'My lord, I'm hungry,' and he pulled from his pocket a crust of bread, and a piece of cheese, which he had taken with him as a lunch. After eating a while he said, 'My lord, this is dry fare.' 'Fetch Jonathan a mug of beer,' said the lord judge, and after he had drank the beer they went on with the trial. Jonathan was pronounced, upon the testimony of a celebrated physician, and others, to be crazy, which was all that prevented him from being hung, and was sentenced to the Tower (a vast prison in London) for life. It was commonly reported among the people, that a brother of Jonathan's, a very wealthy tobacco merchant, by the payment of a large sum, bribed the physician to give this testimony, and by the same means induced others to swear that they had known of his having been in two mad-houses.

"There was a poor woman of the name of Webster, who kept a confectioner's shop in the city of York, and her son was placed in the same room with Jonathan Martyn, as a guard. One night young Webster woke up, and hearing no sound from Jonathan's bed, went to it and looked, and behold, Jonathan was gone! Webster immediately roused the keepers with the cry, ‘Jonathan has escaped!'

"What have you been doing to let him escape?' asked the head-keeper. 'Your door was fastened, your windows are firmly secured, where is he?'

"Oh, I have only been sleeping in my bed like other folks,' answered Webster; 'how it happened I cannot tell, but Jonathan is out!

Jonathan is out!'

"No, no,' answered a voice from the chimney, 'Jonathan's not out; Jonathan would have been out, but the chimney is grated at the top.' He had been up to the top of the chimney, to endeavor to make his escape that way, but others had been beforehand with him, and the top of the chimney was securely grated.

“The next morning, Nurse Barker stepped over to Mrs. Webster's shop to buy some muffins, and found the poor woman crying as if her heart would break.

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What is the matter, neighbor?' she asked "Oh, to think how near my poor boy has come to losing his life, through Jonathan Martyn,' answered Mrs. Webster. Jonathan attempted to escape last night, and if he had got off, my poor boy would, perhaps, have been hung for it. I never shall have peace or comfort more while he is guarding Jonathan Martyn, for I am afraid he will kill him, if he can get out no other way?'

"At last poor Mrs. Webster set off for London, and she talked with the keepers and with Jonathan, and cried bitterly in her distress. But Jonathan said to her, 'Never trouble yourself, my good woman, on that score, I will not hurt a hair of your boy's head; he is a good boy; he is placed here to watch me, and he does his duty well; no, no, I will not harm your son; but, if I can by any means make my escape from this place, I shall do it.'

"Jonathan Martyn made one more unsuccessful attempt to escape from the Tower, and after six or seven years' imprisonment, died there."

"Well, that is a very interesting story," said Robert, when his mother had finished; " and now, dear mother, will you answer my question, as to whether Jonathan was right in what he said about York Minster?"

"I suppose you want to know, in other words, whether I think it right to have so much show and magnificence in our churches ?"

"Yes, mother; I have thought a great deal about that, and I should like much to hear your ideas on the subject."

"I confess it is a pretty hard matter for me to answer you, my dear boy," replied his mother: "had we anywhere in the Bible exact directions for the architecture and decorations of our churches, such as were given to Noah for build

ing the ark, or to David for the temple his son Solomon was to build, we should be more certain of not erring; but we see such a wide difference of opinion among very good people, that we are puzzled to tell where is the proper medium. Some Christian churches are very magnificentwith richly-colored glass, and lofty arches, and costly, deep-toned organs; while others are in the very extreme of plainness, and the sound of even the flute or violin is an abomination there; and yet I believe that in both may God be worshipped from the heart.

"For my own part, I like to see our churches. handsome and comfortable, though I think, in many of them, there is a vast outlay of money that might have been expended much more profitably. While there are so many dark corners of the earth yet to be enlightened by the beams of the Sun of Righteousness, I cannot think we are right in expending such vast sums in mere ornament and show in our places of worship. But then, on the other hand, I could not bear to live in a handsome and commodious house myself, and attend a church, like some I have seen, more like a barn with seats in it, than anything else."

"You feel as David did, mother," said Anna, "when he said, 'Lo, I dwell in an house of cedars, but the ark of the covenant of the Lord remaineth under curtains.""

it

"I believe some of our strict forefathers thought wrong to have their places of worship comfortable," said Mr. Waring." I have heard my father say that he well remembered the suffering of riding some miles to church on a bitter winter's day, and sitting the whole day on hard, bare seats, without a particle of fire, for there were no stoves in the church, and it was too far to go home at

noon."

"One thing is certain, they had not the temptation which old Deacon More has, and yields to every Sunday, of curling up in the corner of a pew and going to sleep," said Anna.

"But to show you that we have no right to say that any particular mode of worship is exclu

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sively acceptable to God, I wish you would read first the account of the splendor of Solomon's Temple, in 2d Chronicles," said Mrs. Waring, "that Temple which was to be 'exceeding magnifical,' and of the show and pomp of the worship, which was surely approved by God, for we are told that fire came down from Heaven and consumed the burnt-offerings, and moreover, God promised to Solomon, that if, when his people were in any trouble or distress, they would come to the Temple and pray, he would hear from heaven, his dwelling-place, and answer; but it was first necessary that they should 'humble themselves, and pray, and seek his face, and turn from their wicked ways.' But the splendor of the Temple, and its service, have long since passed away.

“Now, look in contrast at the place of worship of our Saviour and his disciples. By the still lake, on the hill-side, their seats the 'green grass,' and their temple dome the blue canopy of heaven, Jesus of Nazareth taught his disciples, and prayed with them. Or, in an upper room, furnished,' they held their simple service; no swelling organ pealed, no sound of instrumental music was heard, but when they had sung an hymn they went out.'

"One thing is certain, that in the most splendid of earth's temples, some humble heart-worshippers may be found, while a proud heart and wandering thoughts may exist in a little plain church with bare walls and pine benches. But there is a most delightful thought to me, which is, that whether in the great city church, or the country school-house; whether in the heart of the wisest philosopher, or the simplest, untaught child of God, true religion is ever and always the same, a simple, trusting faith in Christ; and all who possess this, will at last reach that happy place, where the pious, rich, and poor of this world shall meet together, and walk those golden courts in that upper temple not made with hands,' before whose glories the splendor of York Minster, or even of Solomon's Temple, shall become dim."

A. HAWLEY.

"CAN we cross?" said I to the ferryman, as we reached the river.

"I reckon not," was the prompt and characteristic reply.

"But I must go, if possible."

'Wall, I can row ye to the ice on t'other side, and may be ye can get ashore.”

"Is the ice on the other side strong enough to bear us when we reach it ?"

"I don't know. It's purty soft, and tha win' too; but I reckon if ye get on to it, it'll hold ye; may be, if ye are careful. But I don't like to go.'

I found, on inquiry, that others had crossed the same day, partly in the boat and partly on the ice, as the ferryman had proposed to me, and I attributed his reluctance to go with me to his indolence, with which conclusion his whole appearance corresponded, and to the ugly weather. I did not sufficiently consider the danger, which was increasing every hour, from the thawing and the consequent brittleness of the ice, and turning to my companion, said, "He will go with me, and I'll risk it."

"Very well," said he, and turning with the horses, he rode home.

There I stood on the bank of the mighty Mississippi, a mile and a half from the opposite shore, which I was extremely anxious to reach that night, as the reader may have anticipated, although it was now past three o'clock.

The ferryman could not run his ferry-boat, because the river was closed with ice, too thick and too strong to be broken, with the exception of about one fourth of a mile, in which the ice was running fast in the strong and impetuous current; and although the weather was cold, and the snow covered the ground, yet it was not quite cold enough to arrest the melting of the ice, which was becoming more tender every hour.

It seemed necessary for me to go forward, if possible; so, offering a sufficient remuneration to the boatman to land me beyond the open current, on the ice that stretched away to the other bank, I dismissed my friend and the horses, courageous enough to dare the danger, and rather confident of success. We warmed our feet by the fire of the ferryman's cabin, and started on the expe

dition, but half aware of the perils we must encounter. We pressed on up the stream, through the soft snow, now crossing a bayou on the ice, then following up an island nearly a mile, we came to the skiff, and put out into the swift current of the Father of Waters, now battling sturdily with the stream, and now avoiding the huge and dangerous cakes of ice that might easily have crushed our little boat, had we encountered them as they struck together, driven by the force of the current or repelled by various obstacles, until we shoved our bark upon the vast ice-plain, attached to the other shore.

"Now if the ice bears us, we can go to Missouri," said the ferryman.

"And if it don't?" inquired I.

"We can go to the bottom," said he. We found the ice too tender to bear us where we first struck it, but with the help of a board (which had been brought in the boat) laid on the ice, thus gathering support from all the ice which it could cover, we succeeded in reaching the thicker and stronger ice; then trying our foundation with our boat poles at every step, we proceeded slowly and cautiously a little way. The ferryman, aroused by the exigency, now seemed to me as careful and shrewd as he did stupid and indolent before. He advised that I should take a long pole, as he did, so that if the treacherous ice should let us through, the pole might reach across the break and sustain us till we could escape. Suddenly my guide paused; for his pole, with which he tried the ice at every step, went through. He assayed it in all directions, and found the same brittleness and frailty. It was a fact that we stood over the rushing Mississippi, supported only by a most insecure foundation. The cold water, as it gurgled on, seemed to laugh at our temerity, as if expecting each moment to embrace us.

"Now, what shall we do?"

"I dare not go forward," said the ferryman. "We are not safe a moment; the ice is soft and brittle, and if we go through, we are lost. If we go in, we go under the ice; and if we go under we don't come out till spring. I won't go any farther."

This he said with a coolness and an emphasis that startled me; while he carefully surveyed our perilous position, I saw that any attempt at farther progress was extremely hazardous, for surely a stranger ought not to venture where the courageous guide drew back. But can we now regain our boat? It is some rods distant, and a single step on either side of our proper course, upon that treacherous ice, may lay us in a watery grave.

With extreme caution we retraced our steps, and now right glad were we of a seat, even in that frail ark. Back now to the ferryman's cabin we go, satisfied that we had hazarded too much, and glad of any place of rest, in which to warm and dry ourselves. It being now ascertained that I could not cross the river that night, the question, "What shall I do?" recurred with some force. The horses were gone; my friend was by that time at home. The ferryman could not keep me in his little log cabin, which contained but one small room. No conveyance could be obtained, and to go back on foot, over the eight miles which I had travelled since noon, was a large task. The storm without had increased; the wind howled through the forest, and the snow, driven by the tempest, filled the air. Nothing could have tempted me to brave these furious elements; but necessity applied a prevailing motive, and now I am wearily plodding on through the soft and mingled mud and snow, for a mile and a half, to the tavern at "the Mills." "Ha! old log house," thought I; "this furnishes a better prospect than that of a berth in the snow. Here are, no doubt, the best accommodations possible." They were certainly the best possible to me, for no others could be found. But what confusion, and profanity, and drunkenness within! and the house was as empty of comforts as it was full of every evil work. Yet necessity shut me up there to spend the night, cold, hungry, and suffering. Such another night I have never endured in all my journeyings and sojournings in the West.

In the morning imagine me thus debating in the present tense. "It is very important for me to go forward; I must cross the river if possible. It is scarcely possible that the ice should bear me now, but I hear that the river is open, and the steam ferry-boat running at Quincy, eight miles above, and here is a chance to ride up there. I'll go."

The decision was no sooner reached, than the execution of it was begun; and presently we were gliding over the snow-path to the town. The storm had cleared away, and the intense cold which followed it had thrown out a field of

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ice from the other shore, that impeded the crossing. The boat would not come over, and here again I was balked. But I was now convinced of the possibility of crossing at the ferry below, which I had just left without examining. Not quite disheartened, I determined on one more effort to reach Missouri.

In the endeavor to reach the Marion city ferry, my feet became thoroughly wet, for I was obliged to go there on foot, as no conveyance offered; for though the weather was very cold, yet my path, lying just under the bluff and exposed directly to the sun, was well moistened by the melting

snow.

I reached the river again about three o'clock P. M., and found the ice stretching across it, when but twenty-four hours before I had seen it running in the stream. Although the ice was still thin in many places, which made it necessary to use extreme care lest I should find my bed and my grave that night, in the cold bed of the river, I began to cross.

On the island I selected a stout stick, with which to try the strength of the ice at every step. Much of my way lay over huge cakes of ice, frozen together; these were, of course, thicker and stronger than the new ice, which had had but a few hours in which to congeal, and which would scarcely bear a man's weight. These were easily distinguishable by the color. Avoiding, therefore, the dark portions of the ice, which were new and weak, and testing my frail bridge as I trusted myself to it, I made my way slowly to the middle of the river. There, where the current had driven the floating ice firmly against the portion attached to the island, was a long ridge of cakes of ice, thrust up above that on either side, extending either way as far as I could see. The concussion had shivered a vast quantity of ice into fine fragments, and the mass was very slightly congealed on either side of the ridge. As I struck it with my stick, it passed instantly through into the river below. It would not bear, but the ridge of ice was perfectly solid and accessible. I stepped upon it, and struck again upon another crumbling mass beyond it, that could not be trusted for an instant; and there I stood for a moment, in the middle of the river, upon a ridge of ice not more than two feet wide, while that which connected the ridge to either portion was too frail to be trusted for a moment. The manifest danger startled me. There was but a step between me and death; but a moment's consideration sufficed to show that the ice was strong beyond me, and that it was as dangerous to go back as to go forward. I tried its strength with my trusty stick, and carefully stepped over the dangerous chasm

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and was safe. Onward I now hastened, learning caution by experience, though fearing that night might overtake me while on the river, yet beginning to rejoice that my dangers and troubles in that journey were drawing to a close, as I approached the shore, when in fact I had seen but "the beginning of the end."

It was near sunset as I neared the west bank of the river, when, to my amazement, I found that the recent fall of the river had broken the ice from the shore, and separated it about eight feet from the land, leaving a frightful chasm between me and safety, which it was impossible for me to stride over. In either direction the barrier seemed no narrower. I could easily leap over the space of eight feet on the land, but to do it over that chasm, through which the cold current was rushing, and when, if I fail, I must be sucked under the ice, to rise no more till the resurrection morn-this was quite another thing. The difficulty and danger of my task appeared, not only from my uncertain foothold on the ice— the more uncertain on account of the danger beneath and in sight-but also from the fact that I was not to alight on the solid ground, but on a shelf of ice about a foot above the water, the strength of which I was not quite sure of, and from which I might slip back into the water, and this was certain destruction. But what could I do? Daylight was going fast; it would not avail me if I should attempt to return, and I knew it was impossible for me to recross the river at night, avoiding the perils which I had encountered, and which I had thankfully escaped, during the day.

There seemed no other way of escape but that doubtful one before me. Return was hopeless; to stay where I was, was to die of cold. My boots, which had been penetrated by the moisture, were now freezing, and the cold was becoming more and more intense, and soon my feet would be encircled with ice. To leap for the shore in those perilous circumstances, was the only chance for life. I thought of my dear wife and my babe, a thousand miles away. Perhaps in an hour they might be the widow and the fatherless. I saw that they soon must be unless I should dare a speedy death, and this was the bitterest thought in that cup of trial. A Christian could not take that decisive step without first commending himself to God in prayer; but

after this, and with cautious preparation for the effort, every energy was summoned for that leap on which life was suspended.

I will not say that this was not an anxious moment that would have been brutish; yet there was no lack of self-possession, and I reasoned of the probabilities of my escape as coolly as I now record the facts.

Having prepared for the effort that was to decide the question of life and death, with a prayer on my lips, springing with all my might for the shore, I slipped and fell sprawling at full length upon the icy shelf that projected from the shore. Had I slipped at the critical moment, or failed, perhaps only by a foot or two, of the distance which I reached, the fatal misstep would have plunged me into the swift, strong current beneath. Beside that perpendicular bank my devout thanksgivings went up to God for my preservation thus far.

But I was not yet safe. I had more than seven miles yet to walk before I reached my friends, and very soon the ice was formed around my feet, and soon the frost attacked the feet themselves, impeding the circulation, and augmenting immensely the labor of living and of travelling. Still I pressed on, though every mile seemed like a day's labor, until within a quarter of a mile of my goal, when I sat down upon a stone to rest for a moment, almost exhausted. It seemed as if I could not go another mile, though life depended on it. In a moment a feeling of overpowering drowsiness admonished me that if life was dear, or if I would ever see my beloved family again, I must instantly arouse and exert myself to the utmost. A few minutes more, which then seemed like hours, sufficed to place me in a kind family, who ministered to all my

wants.

The application of proper remedies restored to my feet their usual sensibility, as I soon became most painfully conscious, but a fortnight elapsed before I was fit to travel again.

Missionaries are often called to endure suffering, as well as self-denial and toil.

With my present views, I should not think it right to expose myself again to such perils, except in the plainest case of duty, involving very great interests; yet, whoever shrinks from enduring hardness, cannot be a good soldier of Jesus Christ.