the place; nor must they be omitted here. The sphere in which it is my
dearest privilege to labor, is the cause of Protestantism; and sometimes
when God has blessed my poor efforts to the deliverance of some captive
out of the chains of Popish delusion, I have recalled the fact of being
born just opposite the dark old gateway of that strong building where
the noble martyrs of Mary's day were imprisoned. I have recollected that
the house wherein I drew my first breath was visible through the grated
window of their prison, and a conspicuous object when its gates unfolded
to deliver them to unjust judgment and a cruel death. Are any of the
prayers of those glorified saints fulfilled in the poor child who was
brought into the world on that particular spot, though at the distance
of some ages? The query could not be answered, but the thought has
frequently cheered me on. The stern-looking gateway opening on St.
Martin's plain, was probably one of the very first objects traced on the
retina of my infant eye, when it ranged beyond the inner walls of the
nursery; and often, with tottering step, I passed beneath that arch into
the splendid garden of our noble episcopal palace; and certainly, if my
Protestantism may not be traced to that locality, my taste may; for from
all the elaborate display of modern architecture, all the profuse
luxuriance and endless variety of modern horticulture, I now turn away,
to feast in thought on the recollection of that venerable scene. The
palace itself is a fine specimen of the chaste old English style; but
the most conspicuous, the most unfading feature, was the cathedral
itself, which formed the boundary of one-half of the garden; a mass of
sober magnificence, rising in calm repose against the sky, which, to my
awe-struck gaze and childish imagination, seemed to rest upon its
exquisitely formed spire. Seated on the grass, busying my fingers with
the daisies that were permitted to spring around, I have been lost in
such imaginings as I suppose not many little children indulge in, while
permitting my eyes to rove over the seemingly interminable mass of old