were wrought or improved upon by the Catholic clergy, in order to show their superstitious flock how the very heavens and earth were displeased by the conduct of the hated heretics. No miracles-no spectral apparitions on the lake-no strange signs in the sky, foreboding evil, which some affirmed they saw, were necessary! Alas! the sword had entered into the hearts of those who were parents. Their children had no bread! What wonder that they at last began to curse those who had once been their brethren, and to thirst for their blood? A nobler spirit and a more sanctified heart than these poor benighted people possessed is necessary to bear submissively such a trial. It is useless to recapitulate all the numerous events which now brought the closing scene every day nearer. Let us approach Zwingli's last hours; they are fraught with intense misery; but God, his God, did not forsake him then. He knew that he must die; and as he gazed upon the terrible comet which then arose in the sky, he whispered to his friend Bullinger, "It has come to light me to my grave!" But, oh! how much more did the sad condition of his native land weigh upon him, than even the prospect of losing his life! Driven to the utmost verge of hatred and despair, the five inner cantons once more threw down the gauntlet, declaring that they would now fetch the bread which had so long been withheld by their enemies. Once again the fearful scourge of civil war was to break out; once again the plains of Cappel were to behold the contending parties as they drew near each other; this time in frightful earnest! The want of order and energy, which had from the first prevailed amongst the Protestant cantons, now paralysed all their powers. No true preparations for war had been made. The alarm was therefore great when, on the 9th of October, 1513, tidings arrived at Zurich that the five cantons were about to march. about to march. On the following day, news was brought of their approach to the frontiers of Zurich. A very small number of troops, with artillery, was despatched to meet them; and, strange to say, no efficient body of arms could be mustered so soon! It was only on the 11th of October that seven hundred of Zurich's defenders, accompanied by Zwingli, started for the frontier. As Zwingli bade farewell to that lovely wife whose love had poured balm into so many wounds; as he laid his hands upon the heads of those little ones whom he should never see again, his soul was filled with dark forebodings. He felt that it was the last time! Even his charger reared, and drew back, as he attempted to mount. A thrill of terror passed through the crowd. "This is a bad omen!" whispered the people. But Zwingli's heart did not quail; he knew he must drain the cup; but he felt equally sure that it came from his Father's hand! You may well ask, Why-oh, why did he go forth to battle? There is something repulsive to our ideas in the thought of a warrior priest. Many may consider that Zwingli did wrong in this. Alas! it would doubtless have been better had he never laid aside the priestly robe for the coat of mail-never stretched forth his hands save for a blessing. But we must not condemn him for this. In those days, priests, bishops, and cardinals were often compelled to mount the war-horse, and gird on the sword. The fault was that of the times; and when Zwingli bade farewell to his dear ones, and rode forth with his companions, no doubt of the rectitude of the step disturbed his mind. His whole soul was wrapped up in the cause of his Master, and of his country. For this he had lived; for this he was now willing to die! He rode on, "and all the while he prayed." This is the testimony of one who rode at his side, and the prayers of the wife of his heart went with him! The last pang of sorrow was past. Henceforth God might dispose of him as He in his wisdom should see best! He was ready to be offered up. Oh! that battle on the plain of Cappel! what a dark shadow it casts over the history of Switzerland! what fierce passions it reveals! what terrible crimes it records! It did not continue long. The small number of Zurich troops were surrounded by those of the five cantons, who profited by the shelter of the wood to encompass them as in a net. Vain was personal valour and individual bravery; soon the little band was thinned by the hand of death, and the flower of Zurich's statesmen, leaders, and ministers, lay stretched on the fields of Cappel; for every pastor had gone out with his flock, to cheer and comfort it in the hour of need. They fell like grass beneath the scythe of the mower! As yet, Zwingli remained unhurt. His beloved friend, Theobald of Geroldseck, lay there, cold and dead; also his wife's brotherin-law; and that noble youth, Gerold Meyer, whom he had loved as his own son. All were gone! Gerold by their blessings, as Luther died, was Zwingli to breathe out his soul. On the gory battle-field, with his cause lost, his friends dispersed or dead, and the shouts of the foe ringing a deatlı knell in his ears, he lay down to die! And yet, what were his last words, sounding with a victor's voice? "What matters it? They can but kill the body; they cannot kill the soul!" The battle Night approaches. field is deserted by Zwingli's friends. The stars beam with trembling light upon that sad, sad scene! The moans of the wounded and dying mingle with the cries of the victors, as they now discover amongst the dead many of their noblest foes. Zwingli hears it all. The tree above his head, "Zwingli's pear tree," sways in the evening breeze, and its branches bend as though they would fain shelter the dying man under their thick foliage. His eyes are open-they are fastened on that starlit sky; his hands are folded on his heaving breast, as in prayer. Many footsteps now approachtorches flit through the darknessis it friend or foe? Alas! they are his worst foes, the most cruel and barbarous of the enemy, whose horrible task consists in stripping the dead of whatever articles of value they may find upon them. A fierce shout now rends the air: they have discovered Zwingli! At last he is in their power; the man who, as their priests tell them, has occasioned all this evil! Here he lies, helpless and powerless to subdue their minds, as he had often done formerly, with a glance of his stedfast eye. The day of vengeance is come, and they know how to turn it to account. They try to attract his attentionthey hold a rosary to his lips. it," cry they, " or we shall stab you.' The dying man, unable to articulate, shakes his head in solemn refusal. Kiss "Confess your sins, pray to the saints, or Pray to the saints? His soul is in the keeping of a Higher One than they; he needs neither human nor angelic intercession! No answer is returned. The dark solemn eyes, over which the film of death is rapidly gathering, still gaze stedfastly upwards to the starry sky-they see Jesus Himself waiting to receive him with the martyr's crown, and the pale lips move in silent prayer. "Die then, heretic," exclaims the wild Fokinger, the leader of the worst mercenaries of Rome, and he stabs the dying man with his sword. Thus Zwingli died; but his death alone was not enough to satisfy his enemies. Though many voices exclaimed against further cruelty, those of vengeance clamoured louder than the voices of mercy. The body was divided into four parts, and burnt to ashes! The coat of mail and shattered helmet are all that remain to Zurich of her great champion, and even these poor relics were only yielded by Lucerne to the town of Zurich, centuries after the brave man who had worn them pillowed his dying head on that blood-stained field. Yes they could burn the body, but they could not destroy the soul, nor efface the bright footprints which he left behind him! Dark days of strife and warfare were yet in store; many tears were yet to be wrung from the eyes of widows and orphans, before Switzerland could settle down to a quiet enjoyment of the blessings which Zwingli had wrought and purchased with his lifeblood. But the day did come, when Peace spread her healing wings over the land, and when brothers longer fought against each other; and although the victory of light over darkness is even yet but a par tial one-although two-firths of the inhabitants of Switzerland are still Romanists, yet we will not give up the hope that all will be made free in God's good time, and be one fold under one Shepherd. And though Zwingli left no son to bring down his honoured name to posterity, though the last descendant of his brother, the pious clergyman of a small village near Zurich, will soon go down to the grave, a childless man,-yet, so long as a Protestant Church remains in which God is worshipped in spirit and in truth--so long as the rising generations are pointed to the Lamb of God, who alone taketh away the sins of the world,-even so long will Zwingli's memory be ever green. The grain must die, that harvest time may come. The brave reformer lived not to see the triumph of his Master's cause; but how many a ripe shock of corn, gathered into the heavenly garner, will at the last day testify of him whose ashes were scattered, like precious seeds, on the gory plain of Cappel! Zwingli, sleep in peace! When the last trumpet sounds, the power of Jesus will raise thy spiritual body in glory, although no grave contains thy corruptible remains, and thine only monument is a simple rock. Though errors and mistakes veil the full brightness of thy memory, as well as that of every son of Adam, however great-still even these errors were those of an ardent and earnest soul, which, forgetting itself, lived and breathed but for the holiest of ideals, that of spiritual light. We love him, our Swiss reformer; in spite of his faults, we would not exchange him for any of the other devoted men who also strive so nobly for the truth. Every Swiss Protestant bows the head in reverence, every heart breathes a silent blessing when Zwingli is named. God grant that Switzerland may soon be altogether "reformed,"that the dark shadows which still partially hover around her may be dispersed by the beams of the Sun of Righteousness, and that Catholics and Protestants may be united in the bonds of one common faith and hope, looking only for pardon and peace to Him who alone taketh away the sins of the world! God grant that this happy time may soon come, and then, oh! my beloved Fatherland, then thou wilt be free indeed! THE ELOQUENCE OF SILENCE. THE tongue is not omnipotent. Language has its limits. Speech is mighty, but speechlessness is often mightier. What power, for example, is there in death. It calls forth feelings which we never experienced before; it arouses thoughts which otherwise had never been born. As we stand by the couch on which the motionless body lies, our whole being is hallowed by the dread presence. The closed eyes, the cold brow, the helpless hands, the lifeless lips; oh, what sanctity there is in all The finer susceptibilities of our nature are touched, and we cannot but be reverent. Let the man of coarse mind and hard heart go alone into the dim chamber which contains, for a little longer, the remains of a friend or relative, and if this does not subdue his callous soul, what will? Yet death, the great monitor and tranquillizer, is silent; "there is no speech nor language." The most intense emotions seldom express themselves verbally. Words are too weak for them. Rapt devotion, deep joy, and profound grief are still. The loftiest mountainheights of religion are quiet. When the spirit is fullest of thankfulness, it is dumb. Aspiration courts si lence. "Praise is silent before thee, O God, in Zion." "There was silence in heaven for the space of half an hour," perhaps because the inhabitants of the New Jerusalem felt too much to speak. * * "The debt of gratitude Than ever cloistered walls responded to. Shall keep an eloquence all, all her own, The eloquence of silence! Perhaps there never was a time when we had more need to remind ourselves of this. Ours is an age of talk. The troublesome member is a hardworked member. Speech is the popular faculty. The advice given to children, about being "seen and not heard," might with propriety sometimes be offered to children of larger growth. We are not quiet enough. Be quiet," "Hush," "Hold your tongue," are admonitions needed now. As a well-known essayist says, "The demand is vocables, still vocables." This being the case, it may be well to indicate some of the seasons and circumstances which render silence appropriate, and therefore salutary. First, we remark that in visiting the afflicted and the poor, silence is often exceedingly useful. Some people appear to imagine that philanthropy is a synonym for garrulity. Their theory is that you cannot do good without a certain, often a considerable, amount of talk. They would think it futile to go to a miserable cottage on an errand of relief, if they did not "offer consolation," as they call it, by entering upon a long conversation. It is a great blunder. We feel sure that anyone who has been observant will admit this. A few intelligent and sympathetic utterances may, of course, be very serviceable, albeit the main service you can do is to hold your peace. Let your protégé talk: you may rely upon it that he wants to do so. You cannot gratify an invalid more than by sitting and listening to him. If you have but patience enough to attend as he details his manifold aches and pains, his innumerable symptoms and nostrums; if you will only be sufficiently forbearing to keep from shuffling about in your chair (as if you had heard enough) while he recapitulates the divers doctors he has consulted, the limited diet to which he is doomed, and the shockingly bad nights he endures, you will be a welcome visitor. The knowledge of this fact may be a dreadful slight upon our powers of eloquence; but fact it is, in nine cases out of ten. Men, not less than steam-engines, must have safety-valves, or the propriety of society would assuredly be scandalized by divers mental and social explosions. The poor old fellow that lies in his meagre, miserable garret, day after day, has hardly anyone to whom he can speak. The family is downstairs, or at the mill, or in the field at work. Well, he thinks and thinks, he feels and feels, until he can hardly bear himself. He wants some one to whom he can tell it all. You go with your little basket of provisions, or small gift of money, and then he has the opportunity for which he has been longing. He can unbosom himself now. That is exactly what he wanted. It is a veritable godsend to him. We dare pledge our word that he will have a good night after it. Therefore people who excuse themselves from benevolent visitation on the ground that they are "poor talkers," as they phrase it, are quite beside the mark. The shuffling apology is a wonderful and unfortunate blunder. "No talker," are you? All the better. That is one of the cardinal qualifications of usefulness. You are the very person for visiting the afflicted. You are, indeed. If you are no talker you can at least be talked to, and that is a prime requisite for the form of philanthropy in question. Off with you, then, to the sick man or the bedridden woman. Your silence will do almost as much good as your money. Surely nothing is more grateful to the bereaved than silence, and nothing less so than much attempt at consolation. When the dreadful blow has been struck, it leaves us, for a time, stunned. We cannot bear, neither understand, the comfort which wellmeaning but indiscreet persons often offer. Let there be no repetition of truisms. Do not tax our forbearance by dealing out stale bits of advice which are as old as sorrow is. While the shadow of the solemn, mysterious destroyer broods over the dwelling, it is best to be mute. A friend of yours, we will suppose |