In my grandmother's room, at the bottom of the cupboard where she kept “The History of the Bible,” with the terrible pictures illustrating¹ the visions of Revelation, she had also several other precious relics². In particular there was an old silver-clasped psalm³ book. It was extremely tiny, like a toy-book, and in its day it must have been a marvel⁴ of the printer's skill. It had been made in miniature thus they told me, so that it could be easily hidden; at the time of the persecutions our ancestors had often carried it about with them, concealed⁵ in their clothing. There was also, in a paste-board box, a bundle of letters written on parchment and marked Leyden or Amsterdam. Those written between the years 1702 and 1710 were secured by a large wax seal stamped with a count's coronet.  
They were letters of our Huguenot ancestors, who, at the revocation⁶ of the Edict of Nantes, had quitted their country, their home and their dear ones, rather than abjure⁷ their faith. The letters had been written to an old grandfather, a man too aged⁸ to go the way of the exile, who was able, for some inexplicable⁹ reason, to remain unmolested in his retreat upon the Island of Oleron. The letters testified to the fact that the exiles had been submissive and respectful towards him to a degree unknown in our day; the wanderers wrote asking his advice or his consent before undertaking¹⁰ anything,—they even asked whether they might wear a certain wig¹¹ which was fashionable in Amsterdam at that time. They spoke¹² of their troubles, but without murmuring over them, with a truly Christian¹³ resignation; their goods had been confiscated¹⁴; they were obliged to follow uncongenial trades in order to maintain themselves; and they hoped, they said, with the aid of God always to make enough to keep their children from starving.
 
Together with the respect that these letters inspired, they had also the charm of age; it was a novel experience to enter into the life of a bygone time, to know the inmost thoughts of those who had lived a century and a half before me. And as I read them I was filled with indignation against the Roman Church and Papal Rome, sovereign during the many past centuries.—Surely it was she who was designated, in my opinion at any rate, in that wonderful prophecy contained in Revelation: “And the beast is a City, and its seven heads are Seven Hills on which the woman sitteth.”
 
My grandmother, always so austere¹⁵ and upright looking in her black clothes, a type of a Huguenot woman, had been fearful for her own safety during the Restoration, and although she never spoke of it, we felt that she must have very depressing memories of that time.
 
And upon the Island, in the shade of a bit of woodland that was encircled by a wall, I had seen the place where slept those of my ancestors who had been excluded from the cemeteries¹⁶ because they had died in the Protestant faith.
 
How could I be anything but faithful with such a past? And it is certain that had the Inquisition been revived in my childhood, I would have suffered martyrdom joyfully¹⁷, like one filled to overflowing¹⁸ with the spirit of God.
 
My faith was a faith that kept watch upon the theological errors of the time, and I did not know the resignation felt by my ancestors; in spite of my distaste for reading I often plunged¹⁹ into books of religious controversy²⁰; I knew by heart the many passages from the Fathers and the decisions of the first councils; I could have discussed the dogmas of the church like a doctor of divinity, and I considered my arguments against the papacy very shre............