tenderly towards me, and having said, 'Jonathan!
shoot the bishop!' he disappeared. I was a
good deal perplexed and embarrassed. I did
not like the suggestion. I thought I might be
deceived. I did nothing, and I said nothing to
anybody, but I still felt that the angel had been
instructed to point out my duty to me. That
day I went, as usual, to my work. I felt
much disquieted. I did not wish to be
'disobedient to the heavenly vision,' but the
command did not seem very peremptory. I thought
it would be followed by something more decisive,
and so it was; for when I fell asleep at
night, after much restlessness and many tossings
and turnings on my bed, the angel again
appeared, but he did not smile — he looked
melancholy and disappointed. I fancied he had come
to reproach me for my hesitations and doubts.
He shook his head mournfully; he held his bow
in his left hand, took an arrow from his quiver,
and, in a voice that had more in it of sorrow
than of anger, said, 'Jonathan! Jonathan!
Shoot the bishop!' and then quitted my presence.
This second vision added greatly to my distress.
I asked myself whether I should consult my
wife to help me in my uncertainty, but in a case
between God and my conscience I thought
it better to keep what had taken place to
myself. Though I found my purpose
some what strengthened by this second
manifestation of the Divine will, there was still an
unwillingness to do the deed. I took out a pistol which I
had in my room, and loaded it; but I resolved
upon nothing then. I passed another miserable
day. I wanted to do what was right — I was afraid
of doing what was wrong; and another night
came, without my settling what was to be the
result of the struggle between my mortal
weakness and the desire to obey what
appeared more and more clearly a heavenly
command. On the third night, however, the
angel's visitation took quite another character.
There was no smile of satisfaction,
there was no expression of sorrow; but the
angel appeared with terrible frowns on his
countenance, and looked at me with indignant
anger and displeasure. I had never seen anything
so dreadful as the glance he hurled at me.
It was no longer 'Jonathan!' softly uttered;
no longer 'Jonathan! Jonathan!!' with the
confiding, inquiring emphasis of the second greeting;
but 'Jonathan! Jonathan!! Jonathan!!!'
falling on my ears like a voice of thunder.
The angel held the bow in his hand— bent the
string at full tension, and the arrow was placed
as if ready to be launched. 'Jonathan! Shoot the
bishop!' was again repeated, and the angel,
amidst a crash which seemed to shake my bed
and make the whole building totter to its
foundations, vanished out of my sight. This seemed
so manifest and irresistible an announcement
from above, that most of my scruples were
removed, and I then confided to my wife that it
was my purpose to obey the Lord's commands.
I knelt down and prayed earnestly in
something like these words: 'O Lord God, I have
listened to Thy message and am ready to do
Thy will. Yet I would pray Thee for one more,
one final manifestation. When I lay down to
rest, I will place the loaded pistol on the table;
if I have misunderstood Thy orders, remove
the pistol from the table where it shall be placed,
and I then shall know that it is Thy will that
the bishop should be spared, and he shall be
spared; but if on awaking I find the pistol on the
table, I shall be sure that I am doing Thy
behest, and I undoubtedly will shoot the bishop.'

"But, Jonathan," said I, interrupting him
here, "you are familiar with the Scriptures. You
know the commandments. Did you not find
this: 'Thou shalt do no murder '?"

"Yes! I did, and that commandment somewhat
perplexed me. Was it not given by Moses?
But don't you know, and does not everybody
know, that more is to be learnt from men's works
than from their words? And I studied the
history of Moses, attending less to what he
said than to what he did. And did he not slay
the Egyptian? And was not this my warrant
for slaying the bishop?"

Jonathan told his wife in confidence what he
had now determined to do. She went to a
magistrate, who issued a warrant for her
husband's arrest. Jonathan was sent to prison, and
the bishop escaped his intended doom.

He was placed in a cell with a brick floor, which
had been lately scrubbed with pumice-stone, a
fragment of which had been scraped down to a
sharp edge, and was left in one of the corners.
The door was strongly bolted and locked; the
windows had iron frames; even the funnel of the
chimney was protected by bars of iron. Yet
with that small unnoticed piece of
pumice-stone Jonathan managed to cut through the
bars placed across the chimney, and with the
dexterity of a sweep made his way up to the
top, whence he descended to the ground to give
further effect, but in a form altogether new, to
the anathemas he had been pouring out against
the Anglican establishment. He knelt down
outside the jail, thanked God for his deliverance,
confirmed in his conviction that he was a
special instrument in the hands of Providence
to accomplish some great design. He made his
way to York.

He wrote— it was vilely written and strangely
misspelt; for Jonathan wrote like a half-instructed
schoolboy, and spelt as ill as he
wrote— a fierce denunciation against the church
and the clergy, declaring that a day of
vengeance was at hand, and that a terrible display
of the wrath of God would be soon witnessed
in that archiepiscopal city, and on that very
building. This document he signed with his
own hand "Jonathan Martin," and himself
pasted against the principal door of the
Minster. He entered the cathedral with the crowd
of worshippers, took his part in the services,
and, when the congregation dispersed, hid
himself behind one of the monuments and waited for
the closing of the doors. He had with him
neither match nor tinder, nor any seeming
means of incendiarism. Had he been seized
and searched, no evidence of an evil intention