Jesus Christ’s sake,” and so I took my departure, with my heart full, and with tears in my eyes. Going, quite alone, to St. John’s College, I indulged myself in delightful meditations as I lounged in its gardens, and watched the young gownsmen shooting arrows at a target, or enjoying themselves about the walks. I went into the quadrangle, that munificent monument of Laud’s affection for his beloved college. I passed on to the chapel. The door was not locked, and I entered it alone. Beneath the altar lies the Archbishop’s mutilated corpse; and there, too, lies the stainless Juxon, whom he loved so well, and who served the last moments of Charles the First with the holy offices of the Church. I gave myself up to the powerful impressions of the spot, and spent a few minutes in very solemn meditations. In the library of the college I afterwards saw the pastoral crook of the martyred Primate; the little staff which supported his tottering steps on the scaffold, and the cap which covered his venerable head only a few minutes before it fell from the block. In the street, before Balliol College, the martyrs Latimer and Ridley were burned. Perhaps the precise spot is not known; but among the paving-stones, there is fixed in the earth a little cross, sunk to a level with the street, and simply designating the supposed site of the stake. It was one of my pleasures, during this visit to Oxford, to meet with Bishop Otey, then just arrived from America; and I had the pleasure of conducting that excellent missionary prelate to this sacred spot of suffering for Christ. I shall never forget the enthusiasm with which he uncovered his head, as he stood there, and blessed God for the testimony of His Martyrs; and I am sure he will forgive this allusion to the scene, for it greatly impressed me at the time, and even now seems very striking. “We shall this day light such a candle, by God’s grace, as shall never be put out”—said old Latimer to Ridley, in 1555, and in spite of fire and faggot, and Armada, and Gunpowder plot, and Father Petrie, and Father Newman, there stood in 1851, the Bishop of Tennessee, blessing God for the light of that candle in the wilds of America! A superb memorial of the three Oxford Martyrs stands not far from the place where they suffered—and should have stood just here, where it would have been more conspicuous and appropriate—but I felt that such an incident far more powerfully attested the prophecy. How strange it seemed, in St. Mary’s, on the preceding Sunday, to reflect that from those very aisles, not longer since than three such lives as Dr. Routh’s might measure, the venerable Primate of all England had been ruthlessly dragged forth, by the hands of brethren in the priesthood, and by the same hands burnt to death, hard by, with the mockery of thanksgiving to God, and in the name of zeal for His glory! Truly, Rome may thank herself for the abhorrence with which the universal Anglo-Saxon race