would have been found upon his person. He
had nothing about him but a pocket-knife.

The cathedral being cleared of all worshippers,
except the incendiary who watched the beadle as
he went his rounds, but was not discovered in
his place of retreat, Jonathan wandered about,
and declared that he found a hard piece of stone,
sufficient to strike a light from his penknife, and
that the only thing wanted was some tinder which
might catch the spark he was about to kindle.
In his search he went into the organ-loft, where
he discovered some sheets of old rotten music
which he thought would answer his purpose;
and so they did. Having obtained a spark by
a blow given to the stone by the back of the
knife, he lighted paper, laid on more of the
decayed leaves upon it, blew them into a flame,
and gradually deposited upon it and around it
all the music and other books he found there.
The fire extended to the wooden loft, and when
Jonathan had satisfied himself that the work
was done, he went into the belfry, seized one of
the bell-ropes, and by its aid escaped into the
open country, through a window of the cathedral
which had been left open. He said he
did not look back for some time; but when he
did, he saw the flames bursting through the
roof of the Minster, and then knelt down and
uttered praises to God, in that He had "selected
me and helped me to do a work" which would
redound so much to His glory, and give such a
lesson to the careless and unconverted crowd.

The result is known. The organ-loft was
consumed, and serious damage— afterwards
repaired at an immense cost— was done to the
sacred edifice. As to the identity of the incendiary
there could not be a shadow of a doubt;
the thing was "not done in a corner." The
guilty one had written out his own indictment.
He avowed and triumphed in his guilt.

Great was the indignation of the archiepiscopal
city, laudably proud as it has ever been of
one of the grandest specimens of ecclesiastical
architecture. Clergy and laity agreed that no
punishment could be too severe for a criminal
who had, to the crime of destroying the beautiful
structure, added the insult of justifying and
boasting of his iniquitous deed. Defence there
was none; doubt there was none. Jonathan
was thrown into the castle jail, and "Hang
him! hang him!" was echoed through every
alley, lane, street, square, of York.

I then visited Jonathan in his prison cell. He
was not serene, but triumphant. He was
certain that all would work together for good — for
his own good and for that of his country and of
mankind. He was as vain of his exploits as if
he had redeemed a race from slavery, or won
the most glorious of victories. "I was nobody,
and am now more talked about than anybody.
Who is there in the land who is not occupied
with the name and the deeds of Jonathan Martin?
His name was known to nobody; it is
now known to everybody. The king is now
speaking about me." And he rubbed his hands
with delight, and his eyes sparkled with fire, and
then he talked of his coming trial. "What is
to happen? I may be acquitted. What then?
I shall know that I am preserved for, and
appointed to, some greater work. God has yet
something for me to do, and it will be done.
Or, they may find me guilty. They may be too
blind to perceive the truth. I may he
condemned to be hanged. What then? Sent to
heaven only a little the sooner. That, perhaps,
may be God's purpose." So excited, however,
was the public mind in York, so determined
to punish the miscreant who had fired the
temple, that nothing but capital punishment
appeared likely to satisfy the call which
demanded the utmost rigour of the law. It
was believed that there was too much method
in Jonathan's doings to allow them to be
treated as acts of madness. The population
seemed as frenzied as Jonathan himself
had ever been; but at this time he was perhaps
the man the least impassioned of the whole
population.

Some friends, who felt interest in the poor
demented man, had him properly defended. I
think Henry Brougham was selected, and he
successfully urged the plea of lunacy.
Jonathan was committed to Bedlam, there to be
confined for the term of his natural life. The
verdict was a great disappointment to him. It
denied to him the glory of martyrdom, and
delayed his heavenly reward. He regarded
the attempts of those who sought to save him
from the hands of the executioner as a feeble
and needless effort to obstruct the high purposes
of Heaven. He thought the motives of his
friends might be good, and did not blame them
for having very imperfect and erroneous ideas
of duty in interrupting the course of justice.
If condemned, he should interpret the condemnation
as a proof that his work was done, and
that he was called to his heavenly home to
receive his well-deserved reward. If he were
acquitted, it would be to render yet nobler services
before his mortal race was run. These were
the two strings in his harp of consolation, whose
music seemed divine.

In a moment of confidence Jonathan told me
be would paint for me a picture of the vision
which had induced him to set fire to the Minster
— which he did, and presented it to me. It is
drawn in Indian ink, and, though rude, it is a
"fine imagining." The base is a dark rolling
cloud, pierced through by a fiery sword; on the
sword a sort of circular shield is placed, in whose
centre is the head of God the Father. The
expression is of terrible majesty; the eyes are
fierce, the mouth is open, as if issuing a divine
command. Beneath it is the inscription:

    That's the Sord I am the Hand,
    That's the; Clud that God command;
    This is the Sord I saw in a vishion at nounday,
    This is the Clud I saw on the Minestra.
Jonathan Martin. York, C.G., Aper the 15, 1829,
    his two vishons.

The original has lost much of its distinctness.
In the wreck of the Alma it lay for some days in
the bituminous waters of the Red Sea; but I