converted his jailor and his whole family. After a year and a half's imprisonment, he underwent, in 1536, a kind of trial, at which he defended himself, refusing the aid of counsel. He was found guilty of heresy, and condemned to death, on the 6th day of October; his jailor, overcome with grief, led him out to the front of the castle; and here Tyndale took an affectionate leave of him, and his wife and daughter. Amid their tears and sobs, he turned and looked once more at the fortress calmly, as if to take a last farewell of all his earthly trials.

His

His step was firm; his bearing gentle. enemies might destroy his body by an ignominious death; but they were powerless over William Tyndale's undaunted soul.

In that dread moment, his whole life seemed to pass before him. He had attained his fiftieth year; so that his days had been longer on earth than that of the heroic Fryth. Like Fryth, he forgave, in dying, all his enemies. And his last words pronounced, in a loud tone of voice, were, "Lord, open the eyes of the King of England!' He then knelt down, and after a few moments' prayer, was strangled; and his body then consumed to ashes. His memory lives among us yet; and if no outward monument of our obligations to him has ever been erected, it matters but little; for few-hearing and reading those Scriptures, which he made plain even for the lowly ploughboy, whom, three centuries ago, he predicted might one day read God's word for himself-can ever forget England's obligations to William Tyndale, the translator of our first English Bible.

JOHN FLAXMAN;

OR

THE LIFE OF A GREAT SCULPTOR.

A

CLERGYMAN passing one day through New Street, Covent Garden, remarked in a shop window a number of plaster casts; and one of them taking his fancy, he entered and purchased it.

He was leaving the shop, and drawing on his gloves, after paying for the little figure, when his attention was attracted, by a sharp cough proceeding from behind the counter, to a sickly-looking boy, who, propped up by cushions, was reading a book; though at the moment that Mr. Mathews noticed him, his large eyes were fixed attentively on the stranger.

Struck with the intelligent expression of his childish little face, the clergyman's voice insensibly took a gentler tone, which softened into real kindness, while, when asking him what book he was reading, Mr. Mathews' eyes fell on a small pair of crutches, which lay on a chair beside the invalid.

Colouring with pleasure, the boy answered eagerly, A Latin book, Sir; and I am trying to learn it.'

'Aye, indeed!' said Mr. Mathews; 'but this is

L

not a proper one for you to read. Shall I bring you another to-morrow?'

Little Flaxman (the boy's name), thanking him, he took his leave, promising to come back the next day. Being as good as his word, he returned, bringing with him an English translation of Homer,' 'Don Quixote,' and Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress.'

The grateful manner in which the child received the present, as well as his crippled state, interested and attracted the divine; nor did it end there. A few weeks later, he revisited the elder Flaxman's shop, and from that time continued to befriend the whole family; though he did not know how great a genius he was encouraging, when taking notice of his little sickly friend.

From his cradle, had little Johnny ever loved books, and looking at their pictures, better than any other kind of plaything. Sickly and delicate, he had ever also claimed the especial love of his family, and those little indulgences, so dear to childhood, when God has seen fit to withhold the blessings of health to the tiny form of a weakly child.

Brought up in the heart of London, his ideas of nature were bounded by the limits of the great market close to his home, in Covent Garden; and green fields, rivers, or blue sky, were as much a dream to the lame boy, as the heroic deeds or warlike actions he read of in Homer, or the wild exploits of Don Quixote. His imagination was all the more vivid because it dwelt in so narrow an outward world, and, thrown back upon itself, found vent in fanciful pictures of the worthies he read of, which he drew roughly in a little sketch-book, that, together with a

piece of common black chalk, his father had given Johnny. A mere child, when George III. was crowned, he was too delicate to accompany his father and mother to see the procession, and was left in a neighbour's care during their absence.

When his father asked him what he would have as a compensation for not going, he said

'Bring me one of the medals that you say will be thrown to the crowd, father,' which the elder Flaxman, kissing him fondly, promised to do. The density of the crowd prevented him, however, from picking one up when they were scattered to the mob; yet, anxious not to disappoint his fragile child, his father persuaded a servant in livery to give him a plated button, on which there was a device of a horse and a jockey.

'What an odd device!' said the young virtuoso; yet, not discovering the innocent deception, which, to prevent his being disappointed, had substituted the button for one of the medals struck to commemorate the coronation, he put it carefully away.

The precocious child had, also, a fancy for collecting seals; and to please him many of his father's customers would lend him theirs, and allow him to take impressions from them in soft wax. Some one,

years afterwards, reminded Flaxman of this childish habit, on which he said, 'Sir, we are never too young to learn what is useful, nor too old to grow wise and good.' One day, Mr. Mathews told his wife of how he had met with so precocious a child. Don't lose sight of him,' said she; I should not wonder if he turned out a genius.' Her words came true, and little Flaxman did turn out a genius; though, for a long time, he was an unappreciated one.

At length, he showed a decided taste for sketching, which, of course, in an artist's child, was hereditary, but that he should soon afterwards take to moulding figures in wax and clay, in a boy of his age, was extraordinary. Mr. Mathews did not forget him, and frequently called in to see him and his father in New Street, as well as when the latter removed to a larger house in the Strand.

A year or two later, Johnny's state suddenly improved, and changed into health and strength. His crutches were thrown aside; and, as he gradually improved in robustness, his eyes were delighted, for the first time, with a sight of the fresh country; for, when he was no longer obliged to consider himself an invalid, he could go with an elder brother and sister long excursions to Hampstead, Highgate, and the environs of the metropolis.

Who can describe the delight of seeing green fields and trees to a little boy, who, till then, had never known the happiness of 'feeling' well! His family all loved him, were proud of his talents for drawing and modelling, and fondly hoped great things from so much early promise.

A father's partiality, it is not unlikely, may have received such sketches too favourably; and the elder Flaxman had the weakness to boast of their talent, and to show them to Roubilliac, the sculptor, begging for an opinion of their merits. The boy was present when the question was asked, and the satirical look and contemptuous way in which the sculptor turned from them, with a simple 'pshaw,' long dwelt in his memory.

Genius may be chilled, but is never daunted, by