LITERARY GOSSIP.

“The Household of Sir Thomas More.”

“The Maiden and Married Life of Mary Powell.”^[27]

Two of the most exquisitely finished and delightful works that have come before our eyes in years, have lately been reproduced from the English press by two of our New York publishers, without any hint in regard to authorship, or indeed to the aim and nature of the books, whether fact or fiction. Their names stand above, and the personages to whom they have relation will be recognized as the great and good chancellor of Henry VIII., barbarously and illegally put to death for his refusal to take the oath of supremacy, and for his opposition to the unjust divorce of Katharine and marriage of the king with Anne Boleyn; and as the unhappy wife of that greatest of poets, but sternest and most impracticable of husbands, John Milton. No hint, as I have observed, is given as to authorship, but it is I think impossible that we shall be mistaken in ascribing both to the same pen; for, although the wielder of that pen has chosen to maintain an absolute incognito, his mark—though I am not altogether clear that for his we might not better read her—is not to be confounded with that of any other; nor do we recognize any other in England or America at all comparable to this.

In both works we find the same delicate and delicious freshness, like the perfume from a rich clover-field after a summer shower; the same truthfulness to nature; the same intimate acquaintance with the spirit of the times, the character and circumstances of the supposed writers; the same natural and artless pathos; the same simplicity, and, if I may so speak of writing evidently fictitious, the same authenticity and genuineness of style.

So perfect indeed is the skill and tact of the handling, and so admirably is the whole character of either work kept up, that it cannot be doubted, had they been put forth as genuine ancient memoirs, recovered by any accident you will, their success as forgeries would have been as complete as that very remarkable—but to me very dull—book, “The Amber Witch” of the Pastor Meinhold, or the supposititious letters of Shelley and other notables of the nineteenth century, which have recently created so much wonder and excitement in the literary world.

What is to me, however, even more remarkable than the excellence of these chaste and unpretending little fictions, is the total absence of bruit or loud encomium with which they have issued both from the English and American presses; for in good sooth we have hardly heard them named, while they are in every respect the cleverest and most highly wrought, and in their own line the very best fictitious works that we have seen in years.

Fiction they undoubtedly are, in some sense; but fiction of some such nature—far be it from me to write profanely—as the parables of our ever-blessed Saviour, and in their humbler sphere and lesser degree improvable to the same good end. There is not one line in either from which any mental alchemy could extract one grain of evil counsel or unholy thought; on the contrary, there is not one which prompts not to good works, and faith, and reliance in the mercy and justice of the Most High.

After the Holy Bible itself, we are cognizant of no reading which may be put more fitly into the innocent hands of a beloved daughter on a Sunday afternoon, than either of these beautiful and touching little volumes; and to render the effects more certain, as more salutary, so far is there from being any effort or straining after religionism, moralizing or lay-preaching, so apt to frustrate their own ends, that the whole tenor of each flows so naturally and with so much probability forward, the thinkings, doings and speakings of the actors springing so spontaneously from the causes, that we read on enthralled, engrossed, with a tear often stealing to the eye, hardly able to believe that we are not perusing the real memoirs of real authors; and think nothing of the moral until the book is closed and the paramount interest ended.

It is an evil sign in relation to the influence and tone of the press-criticism of any countries, when we find the vulgar absurdities and exaggerations of Cockton, the trivial and overdone flippancies of Albert Smith, or even the brilliant eccentricities of Thackeray, over-lauded to the skies, while such gems of nature, verisimilitude and poesy, as these little volumes, creep forward, almost unushered, timid and unknown to fame, into the gradual favor of the public.

In one word, I know not nor conjecture to what dead or living author, male or female, of either hemisphere they may be attributed; but I do know there is not one—no! not Sir Walter himself—who would not derive fresh reputation from their authorship; and in order to substantiate this my opinion, I proceed to extract somewhat largely from the former work, which—although I have hitherto spoken of them in general terms, and in common, as cognate compositions, and I doubt not by the same pen—is by many degrees the abler and more perfect, as far as the more agreeable and fascinating volume.

There is not a syllable in it which might not have been penned in her libellus by sweet Margaret More, bravest and best of English daughters—not one, which did not probably, in some shape or other, pass through her living brain—not one, to make an end of it, which, as we read, we do not implicitly believe, for the moment, to be of her actual penning.

There is, moreover, a fine, free humor, singularly characteristic of the age and the characters of “The Household of Sir Thomas More,” which is lacking, and which would perhaps have been out of place, in the “Maiden and Married Life of Mary Powell;” but which nevertheless beautifully relieves the soft and tender melancholy of the memoir.

It is, however, in truthfulness, if I may not absolutely say truth, that Margaret’s libellus is most clearly superior; for we are constrained, in justice, to say that the portraiture of John Milton in his domestic relations, however great his public glory, is most overweening flattery, and that the happiness ascribed to the latter portion of “the married life of Mary Powell,” is as pure a fiction as ever emanated from the fancy of the wildest romancer.

But to return to our “A Margarettâ More, libellus, quindecim annos nata, Chelseiæ inceptus;” here we have, in her own words, the incident—not accident—of its inception.

“On asking Mr. Gunnel to what use I s^d put this fair libellus, he did suggest my making it a kinde of family register, wherein to note y^e more important of our domestic passages, whether of joy or griefe—my father’s journies and absences—the visits of learned men, theire notable sayings, etc. ‘You art smart at the pen, Mistress Margaret,’ he was pleased to say; ‘and I would humblie advise your journalling in y^e same fearless manner in the which you framed that letter which soe well pleased the Bishop of Exeter, that he sent you a Portugal piece. ’Twill be well to write it in English, which ’tis expedient for you not altogether to negleckt, even for the more honorable Latin.’

“Methinks I am close upon womanhood. . . . . ‘Humblie advise,’ quotha! to me, that hath so oft humblie sued for his pardon, and sometimes in vain.

“ ’Tis well to make trial of Gonellus his ‘humble’ advice: albeit, our daylie course is so methodicall, that ’twill afford scant subject for y^e pen—Vitam continet una dies.”

Here, again, we are introduced to the younger members of the household in their moments of home-merriment and simple occupations, as usual at that unsophisticated day, before fear or grief fell upon their happy circle—and what was ever writ more naturally and unaffectedly?

“This morn, hinting to Bess that she was lacing herselfe too straightlie, she brisklie replyed, ‘One w^d think ’twere as great meritt to have a thick waiste as to be one of y^e earlie Christians!’

“These humourous retorts are ever at her tongue’s end; and, albeit, as Jacky one day angrilie remarked, when she had beene teazing him, ‘Bess, thy witt is stupidnesse;’ yet, for one who talks soe much at random, no one can be more keene when she chooseth. Father sayd of her, half fondly, half apologeticallie to Erasmus. ‘Her wit has a fine subtletie that eludes you almoste before you have time to recognize it for what it really is.’ To which, Erasmus readilie assented, adding, that it had y^e rare meritt of playing less on persons than things, and never on bodilie defects.

“Hum!—I wonder if they ever sayd as much in favour of me. I knowe, indeede, Erasmus calls me a forward girl! Alas! that may be taken in two senses.”

“Grievous work, overnighte, with y^e churning. Nought w^d persuade Gillian but that y^e creame was bewitched by Gammer Gurney, who was dissatisfyde last Friday with her dole, and hobbled away mumping and cursing. At alle events y^e butter w^d not come; but mother was resolute not to have soe much good creame wasted; soe sent for Bess and me, Daisy and Mercy Giggs, and insisted on our churning in turn till y^e butter came, if we sate up all nighte for’t. ’Twas a hard saying; and mighte have hampered her like as Jephtha his rash vow: howbeit, soe soone as she had left us, we turned it into a frolick, and sang Chevy Chase from end to end, to beguile time; ne’erthelesse, the butter w^d not come; soe then we grew sober, and, at y^e instance of sweete Mercy, chaunted y^e 119th Psalme; and, by the time we had attayned to ‘Lucerna pedibus,’ I heard y^e buttermilk separating and splashing in righte earnest. ’Twas neare midnighte, however; and Daisy had fallen asleep on y^e dresser. Gillian will ne’er be convinced but that our Latin brake the spell.”

A few pages farther, we are let into the secret of the who, and the wherefore, of the aforesaid merry damsels, “Daisy and Bess, and Mercy Giggs, and I,” who are to be our delectable companions through many a mirthful, many a melancholy page.

“As we rose from table, I noted Argus pearcht on y^e window-sill, eagerlie watching for his dinner, which he looketh for as punctualie as if he c^d tell the diall; and to please the good, patient bird, till the scullion broughte him his mess of garden-stuff, I fetched him some pulse, which he took from mine hand, taking good heede not to hurt me with his sharpe beak. While I was feeding him, Erasmus came up, and asked me concerning Mercy Giggs; and I tolde him how that she was a friendlesse orphan, to whom deare father afforded protection and the run of y^e house; and tolde him of her gratitude, her meekness, her patience, her docilitie, her aptitude for alle goode works and alms-deeds; and how, in her little chamber, she improved eache spare moment in y^e way of studdy and prayer. He repeated ‘Friendlesse? she cannot be called friendlesse, who hath More for her protector, and his children for companions;’ and then woulde heare more of her parent’s sad story. Alsoe, would heare somewhat of Rupert Allington, and how father gained his law-suit. Alsoe, of Daisy, whose name he tooke to be y^e true abbreviation for Margaret, but I tolde him how that my step-sister, and Mercy, and I, being all three of a name, and I being alwaies called Meg, we had in sport given one the significative of her characteristic virtue, and the other that of y^e French Marguerite, which may indeed be rendered either pearl or daisy. And Chaucer, speaking of our English daisy, saith

‘Si douce est la Marguerite.’ ”

Next, a little further yet, we have dear Margaret’s thoughts upon herself and her own attractiveness—

“A glance at the anteceding pages of this libellus me-sheweth poor Will Roper at y^e season his love-fitt for me was at its height. He troubleth me with it no longer, nor with his religious disquietations. Hard study of the law hath filled his head with other matters, and made him infinitely more rationall, and by consequents, more agreeable. ’Twas one of those preferences young people sometimes manifest, themselves know neither why nor wherefore, and are shamed, afterwards, to be reminded of. I’m sure I shall ne’er remind him. There was nothing in me to fix a rational or passionate regard. I have neither Bess’s witt nor white teeth, nor Daisy’s dark eyes, nor Mercy’s dimple. A plain-favoured girl, with changefule spiritts—that’s all.”

And within but a brief space we find her much in error, as to its degree, and its effect on William Roper, which she records as thus in the libellus.

“Soe my fate is settled. Who knoweth at sunrise what will chance before sunsett? No; the Greeks and Romans mighte speake of chance and of fate, but we must not. Ruth’s hap was to light on y^e field of Boaz; but what she thought casual, y^e Lord had contrived.

“Firste, he gives me y^e marmot. Then, the marmot dies. Then, I, having kept y^e creature soe long, and being naturalie tender, must cry a little over it. Then Will must come in and find me drying mine eyes. Then he must, most unreasonablie, suppose that I c^d not have loved the poor animal for its own sake soe much as for his; and thereupon, falle a love-making in such down righte earneste, that I, being alreadie somewhat upset, and knowing ’twoulde please father . . . . and hating to be perverse . . . . and thinking much better of Will since he hath studied soe hard, and given soe largelie to y^e poor, and left off broaching his heteroclite opinions. . . . I say, I supposed it must be soe, some time or another, soe ’twas noe use hanging back for ever and ever, soe now there’s an end, and I pray God give us a quiet life.

“Noe one w^d suppose me reckoning on a quiet life if they knew how I’ve cried alle this forenoon, ever since I got quit of Will, by father’s carrying him off to Westminster. He’ll tell father, I know, as they goe along in the barge, or else coming back, which will be soon enow, though I’ve ta’en no heed of the hour. I wish ’twere cold weather, and that I had a sore throat or stiff neck, or somewhat that might reasonablie send me a-bed, and keep me there till to-morrow morning. But I’m quite well, and ’tis the dog-days, and cook is thumping the rolling-pin on the dresser, and dinner is being served, and here comes father.”

But with this extract the happy days of the household are ended; doubts, darkness, dangers and the shadows of the valley of death henceforth begin to close around and above them; and if, as the old Greeks and Romans deemed, a good man struggling nobly in the toils of necessity were a spectacle for the eyes of gods, then were the sufferings of Sir Thomas and his household of the grandest and most glorious.

Now, he has thwarted the uxorious, cruel tyrant, offended unto death the ambitious Anne Boleyn, and brought his head into jeopardy by denying the supremacy of a layman in affairs ecclesiastical.

And lo! how gently, and with how exquisite a harmony of circumstances, he breaks to his favorite child his own distinct anticipation of his coming doom.

“Ever since father’s speech to us in y^e pavillion, we have been of one heart and one soul; neither have any of us said that aught of the things we possessed were our own, but we have had all things in common. And we have eaten our meat with gladness and singleness of heart.

“This afternoon, expressing to father my gratefull sense of our present happiness. . . . . ‘Yes, Meg,’ returns he, ‘I too am deeply thankful for this breathing space.’

“ ‘Do you look on it as no more, then?’ I sayd.

“ ‘As no more, Meg: we shall have a thunder-clap by-and-by. Look out on the Thames. See how unwontedlie clear it is, and how low the swallows fly. . . . . . . How distinctlie we see the green sedges on Battersea bank, and their reflected images in the water. We can almost discern the features of those poor knaves digging in the cabbage gardens, and hear ’em talk, so still is y^e air. Have you ne’er before noted these signs?’

“ ‘A storm is brewing,’ I sayd.

“ ‘Aye, we shall have a lightening-flash anon. So still, Meg, is also our atmosphere just now. God is giving us a breathing space, as he did to the Egyptians before the plague of hail, that they might gather their live stock within doors. Let us take for example them that believed and obeyed him; and improve this holy pause.’

“Just at this moment, a few heavy drops fell agaynst the window pane, and were seen by both. Our eyes met; and I felt a silent pang.

“ ‘Five days before the Passover,’ resumed father, ‘all seemed as still and quiet as we are now; but Jesus knew his hour was at hand. E’en while he yet spake familiarly among the people, there came a sound from heaven, and they that stood by said it thundered; but he knew it for the voice of his dear Father. Let us, in like manner, when the clap cometh, recognize in it the voice of God, and not be afraid with any amazement.’ ”

Again she visits him in the tower, by especial favor, after the blow has descended, and his fate, all but the doom, is fixed, and so, “ye who have tears prepare to shed them now.”

“. . . I minded to put y^e haircloth and cord under my farthingale, and one or two of y^e smaller books in my pouch, as alsoe some sweets and suckets such as he was used to love. Will and Bonvisi were awaiting for me, and deare Bess, putting forthe her head from her chamber door, cries pitiously, ‘Tell him, dear Meg, tell him . . . ’twas never soe sad to me to be sick . . . and that I hope . . . I pray . . . the time may come . . .’ then falls back swooning into Dancey’s arms, whom I leave crying heartilie over her, and hasten below to receive the confused medley of messages sent by every other member of y^e house. For mine owne part, I was in such a tremulous succussion as to be scarce fitt to stand or goe, but time and the tide will noe man bide, and, once having taken boat, the cool river air allayed my fevered spiritts; onlie I coulde not for awhile get rid of y^e impression of poor Dancey crying over Bess in her deliquium.

“I think none o’ the three opened our lips before we reached Lambeth, save in y^e Reach, Will cried to y^e steersman, ‘Look you run us not a ground,’ in a sharper voyce than I e’er heard from him. After passing y^e Archbishop’s palace, whereon I gazed full ruefullie, good Bonvisi beganne to mention some rhymes he had founde writ with a diamond on one of his window-panes at Crosby House, and would know were they father’s! and was’t y^e chamber father had used to sleep in? I tolde him it was, but knew nought of y^e distich, though ’twas like enow to be his. And thence he went on to this and that, how that father’s cheerfulle, funny humour never forsook him, nor his brave heart quelled, instancing his fearless passage through the Traitor’s Gate, asking his neighbours whether his gait was that of a traditor; and, on being sued by the porter for his upper garment, giving him his cap, which he sayd was uppermost. And other such quips and passages, which I scarce noted nor smiled at, soe sorry was I of cheer.

“At length we stayed rowing: Will lifted me out, kissed me, heartened me up, and, indeede, I was in better heart then, having been quietlie in prayer a good while. After some few forms, we were led through sundrie turns and passages, and, or ever I was aware, I found myselfe quit of my companions, and in father’s arms.

“We both cried a little at first; I wonder I wept noe more, but strength was given me in that hour. As soone as I coulde, I lookt him in the face, and he lookt at me, and I was beginning to note his hollow cheeks, when he sayd, ‘Why, Meg, you are getting freckled:’ soe that made us both laugh. He sayd, ‘You should get some freckle-water of the lady that sent me here; depend on it, she hath washes and tinctures in plenty; and after all, Meg, she’ll come to the same end at last, and be as the lady all bone and skin, whoso ghastlie legends used to scare thee soe when thou wert a child. Don’t tell that story to thy children; ’twill hamper ’em with unsavory images of death. Tell them of heavenlie hosts awaiting to carry off good men’s souls in fire-bright chariots, with horses of the sun, to a land where they shall never more be surbated and weary, but walk on cool, springy turf and among myrtle trees, and eat fruits that shall heal while they delight them, and drink the coldest of cold water, fresh from y^e river of life, and have space to stretch themselves, and bathe, and leap, and run, and whichever way they look, meet Christ’s eyes smiling on them. Lord, Meg, who would live that could die? One mighte as lief be an angel shut up in a nutshell as bide here. Fancy how gladsome the sweet spirit would be to have the shell cracked! no matter by whom; the king, or king’s mistress. . . Let her dainty foot but set him free, he’d say, ‘For this release, much thanks. . . . And how goes the court, Meg?’

“ ‘In faith, father, never better. . . . There is nothing else there, I hear, but dancing and disporting.’

“ ‘Never better, child, sayst thou? Alas, Meg, it pitieth me to consider what misery, poor soul, she will shortlie come to. These dances of hers will prove such dances that she will spurn our heads off like footballs; but ’twill not be long ere her head will dance the like dance. Mark you, Meg, a man that restraineth not his passions, hath always something cruel in his nature, and if there be a woman toward, she is sure to suffer heaviest for it, first or last. . . . Seek Scripture precedent for’t . . . you’ll find it as I say. Stony as death, cruel as the grave. Those Pharisees that there, to a man, convicted of sin, yet haled a sinning woman before the Lord, and woulde fain have seen the dogs lick up her blood. When they lick up mine, deare Meg, let not your heart be troubled, even though they shoulde hale thee to London Bridge to see my head stuck on a pole. Think, most dear’st, I shall then have more reason to weep for thee than thou for me. But there’s noe weeping in heaven, and bear in mind, Meg, distinctlie, that if they send me thither, ’twill be for obeying the law of God rather than of men. And after alle, we live not in the bloody, barbarous old times of crucifyings and flayings, and immerseings in cauldrons of boiling oil. One stroke, and the affair’s done. A clumsy chirurgeon would be longer extracting a tooth. We have oft agreed that the little birds struck down by the kite and hawk suffer less than if they were reserved to a naturall death. There is one sensible difference, indeed, between us. In our cases, preparation is a-wanting.’

“Hereon, I minded me to slip off y^e haircloth and rope, and give the same to him, along with the books and suckets, all which he hid away privatelie, making merry at the last.

“ ‘ ’Twoulde tell well before the council,’ quoth he, ‘that on searching the prison-cell of Sir Thomas More, there was founde, flagitiouslie and mysteriouslie laid up . . . a piece of barley-sugar!’

“Then we talked over sundry home matters; and anon, having now both of us attayned unto an equable and chastened serenite of mind, which needed not any false shows of mirth to hide y^e naturall complexion of, he sayth, ‘I believe, Meg, they that have put me here ween they have done me a high displeasure; but I assure thee on my faith, mine own good daughter, that if it had not beene for my wife, and you, my dear good children, I would faine have been closed up, long ere this, in as straight a room, and straighter too.’ ”

While he is yet in prison, and his sentence yet unpassed, although certain, Margaret—for she has now been for some time the wife of good William Roper—loses her baby; for when do sorrows ever fall singly—can any thing than this be more beautiful, more true?

“Midnight.

“The wild wind is abroad, and, methinketh, nothing else. Sure, how it rages through our empty courts! In such a season, men, beasts, and fowls cower beneath y^e shelter of their rocking walls, yet almost fear to trust them. Lord, I know that thou canst give the tempest double force, but do not, I beseech thee! Oh! have mercy on the frail dwelling and the ship at sea.

“Dear little Bill hath ta’en a feverish attack. I watch beside him while his nurse sleeps. Earlie in the night his mind wandered, and he told me of a pretty ring-streaked poney noe bigger than a bee that had golden housings and barley-sugar eyes; then dozed, but ever and anon kept starting up, crying ‘Mammy, dear!’ and softlie murmured, ‘Oh,’ when he saw I was by. At length I gave him my fore-finger to hold, which kept him ware of my presence without speaking, but presentlie he stares hard toward y^e foot of the bed, and says fearfullie, ‘Mother, why hangs yon hatchet in the air, with its sharp edge turned towards us!’ I rise, move the lamp, and say, ‘Do you see it now?’ He sayth, ‘No? not now,’ and closes his eyes. After a good space, during the which I hoped he slept, he says in quite an altered tone, most like unto soft, sweet music, ‘There’s a pretty little cherub there now, alle head and noe body, with two little wings aneath his chin; but, for alle he’s soe pretty, he is just like dear Gaffer, and seems to know me . . . . . and he’ll have a body agayn, too, I believe, by-and-by . . . . . . . Mother, mother, tell Hobbinol there’s such a gentle lamb in heaven!’ And soe, slept.

“He’s gone, my pretty . . . . . ! slipt through my fingers like a bird! upfled to his own native skies, and yet whenas I think on him, I can not choose but weepe . . . . . Such a guileless little lamb! . . . My Billy-bird! his mother’s owne heart. They are alle wondrous kind to me . . . .

“How strange that a little child shoulde be permitted to suffer soe much payn, when of such is the kingdom of heaven! But ’tis onlie transient, whereas a mother makes it permanent, by thinking it over and over agayn. One lesson it taughte us betimes, that a natural death is not, necessarilie the most easie. We must alle die. . . . . . As poor Patteson was used to say, ‘The greatest king that ever was made, must bed at last with shovel and spade.’ . . . . . and I’d sooner have my Billy’s baby deathbed than King Harry’s, or Nan Boleyn’s either, however manie years they may yet carry matters with a high hand. Oh, you ministers of evill, whoever you be, visible or invisible, you shall not build a wall between my God and me . . . . . . I’ve something within me, grows stronger and stronger, as times grow more and more evill; some woulde call it resolution, but methinketh ’tis faith.”

And then comes the terrible catastrophe, the glorious devotion, the patient martyrdom, the heroic womanhood. Throughout the whole of this exquisite little volume, the interest, the tone, the vigor, the pathos, the poetry, the sublimity, is ever on the ascendant; and in this splendid passage it reaches its climax. Almost as we read, we see what passeth; altogether we feel it to our own heart’s core; scarcely can we refrain to accept it as fact not fiction. What writer of any day has effected much more than this?

“And then came ye frightfulle sentence.

“Yes, yes, my soul, I know; there were saints of old sawn asunder. Men of whom the world was not worthy.

“. . . . . . Then he spake unto ’em his mind, how that after lifelong studdy, he could never find that a layman mighte be head of the church. And bade his judges and accusers farewell; hoping that like as St. Paul was present and consenting unto St. Stephen’s death and yet both were now holy saints in heaven, soe he and they might speedilie meet there, joint heirs of e’erlasting salvation.

“Meantime poor Bess and Cecilie, spent with grief and long waiting, were for once carried home by Heron, or ever father returned to his prison. Was’t less feeling, or more strength of body, enabled me to bide at the Tower wharf with Dancey? God knoweth. They brought him back by water; my poor sisters must have passed him. . . . The first thing I saw was the ax, turned with its edge toward him—my first note of his sentence. I forct my way through the crowd . . . . . some one laid a cold hand on my arm; ’twas poor Patteson, soe changed I scarce knew him, with a rosary of gooseberries he kept running through his fingers. He sayth, ‘Bide your time, Mistress Meg; when he comes past, I’ll make a passage for ye’ . . . . . ‘Oh, brother, brother! what ailed thee to refuse the oath? I’ve taken it!’ In another moment. ‘Now, mistress, now!’ and flinging his arms right and left, made a breach through which I darted, fearlesse of bills and halberds, and did fling mine arms about father’s neck. He cries, ‘My Meg!’ and hugs me to him as though our very souls shoulde grow together. He sayth, ‘Bless thee, bless thee! Enough, enough, my child; what mean ye, to weep and break mine heart? Remember, though I die innocent, ’tis not without the will of God, who could send ’s angels to rescue me if ’twere best; therefore possess your soul in patience. Kiss them all for me, thus and thus’ . . . . . . soe gave me back into Dancey’s arms, the guards about him alle weeping; but I coulde not thus lose sight of him forever; soe, after a minute’s pause did make a second rush, brake away from Dancey, clave to father agayn, and agayn they had pitie on me, and made pause while I hung upon his neck. This time there were large drops standing on his dear brow; and the big tears were swelling into his eyes. He whispered, ‘Meg, for Christ’s sake don’t unman me; thou’lt not deny my last request?’ I sayd, ‘Oh! no;’ and at once loosened mine arms. ‘God’s blessing be with you,’ he sayth with a last kiss. I could not help crying, ‘My father! my father!’ ‘The chariot of Israel, and the horsemen thereof!’ he vehementlie whispers, pointing upward with soe passionate a regard, that I look up, almost expecting a beatific vision; and when I turn about agayn, he’s gone, and I have no more sense, nor life till I find myself agayn in mine own chamber, my sisters chafing my hands.

“Alle’s over now . . . . . they’ve done theire worst, and yet I live. There were women coulde stand aneath y^e cross. The Maccabees’ mother—. . . . . yes, my soul, yes; I know—naught but unpardoned sin . . . . . The chariot of Israel.

“Dr. Clement hath beene with us. Sayth he went up as blythe as a bridegroom to be clothed upon with mortality.

“Rupert stoode it alle out. Perfect love casteth out feare. Soe did his.

. . . . . . . “My most precious treasure is this deare billet, writ with a coal; the last thing he sett his hand to, wherein he sayth, ‘I never liked your manner toward me better than when you kissed me last.’

“They have let us bury his poor mangled trunk; but, as sure as there’s a sun in heaven, I’ll have his head!—before another sun hath risen, too. If wise men wont speed me, I’ll e’en content me with a fool.

“I doe think men, for ye most part, be cowards in theire hearts . . . . moral cowards. Here and there, we find one like father, and like Socrates, and like . . . . . . this and that one, I mind not theire names just now; but in y^e main, me thinketh they lack the moral courage of woman. Maybe, I’m unjust to ’em just now, being crost.

. . . . . . “I lay down, but my heart was waking. Soon after the first cock crew, I hearde a pebble cast agaynst my lattice, knew ye signall, rose, dressed, stole softlie down and let myself out. I knew the touch of y^e poor fool’s fingers; his teeth were chattering, ’twixt cold and fear, yet he laught aneath his breath as he caught my arm and dragged me after him, whispering, ‘Fool and fayr lady will cheat ’em yet.’ At the stairs lay a wherry with a couple of boatmen, and one of ’em stepping up to me, cries, ‘Alas for ruth, Mistress Meg, what is’t ye do? Art mad to go on this errand?’ I sayed, ‘I shall be mad if I go not, and succeed too—put me in, and push off.’

“We went down the river quietlie enow—at length reach London Bridge stairs. Patteson, starting up, says, ‘Bide ye all as ye are,’ and springs aland and runneth up to the bridge. Anon returns, and sayth, ‘Now, mistress, alle’s readie . . . . . readier than ye wist . . . . . come up quickly, for the coast’s clear.’ Hobson (for ’twas he) helps me forth, saying, ‘God speed ye, mistress . . . . . Gin I dared, I woulde goe with ye.’ . . . . Thought I, there be others in that case.

Nor lookt I up, till aneath the bridge-gate, when casting upward a fearsome look, I beheld y^e dark outline of the ghastly yet precious relic; and, falling into a tremor, did wring my hands and exclaim, ‘Alas, alas, that head hath lain full manie a time in my lap, woulde God, woulde God it lay there now!’ When, o’ suddain, I saw the pole tremble and sway toward me; and stretching forth my apron, I did in an extasy of gladness, pity, and horror, catch its burthen as it fell. Patteson, shuddering, yet grinning, cries under his breath, ‘Managed I not well, mistress? Let’s speed away with our theft, for fools and their treasures are soon parted; but I think not they’ll follow hard after us, neither, for there are well-wishers to us on the bridge. I’ll put ye into the boat, and then say, God speed ye, lady, with your burthen.’

If I have quoted very largely, it is from the assurance that the best criticism of the author is to let him be heard for himself; and that his own words must needs be far more interesting, as more touching, than any criticism, how eloquent or analytical soever; much more, than a mere string of laudatory comments—for in this instance criticism is limited to pure laudation—intended to illustrate, and link together in something of connection, the choicest passages of this choice volume.

With the last page of the book this article shall close, and the writer rests right confident that he has proved his position and won his case, by the evidence; that the Libellus, a Margarettâ More, is the book of the season, and one that must endure for all seasons, so long as the English tongue, and the fame of one of its brightest ornaments, endureth.

At another time, Mary Powell may furnish us with a theme for more varied disquisition, if more limited quotation.

“Flow on, bright shining Thames. A good brave man hath walked aforetime on your margent, himself as bright, and useful, and delightsome as be you, sweet river. And like you, he never murmured; like you, he upbore the weary, and gave drink to the thirsty, and reflected heaven in his face. I’ll not swell your full current with any more fruitless tears. There’s a river whose streams make glad the city of our God. He now rests beside it. Good Christian folks, as they hereafter pass this spot, upborne on thy gentle tide, will, maybe, point this way, and say—‘There dwelt Sir Thomas More;’ but whether they doe or not, vox populi is a very inconsiderable matter, for the majority are evil, and ‘the people sayd, Let him be crucified!’ Who would live on theire breath? They hailed St. Paul as Jupiter, and then stoned him and cast him out of the city, supposing him to be dead. Theire favourite of to-day may, for what they care, goe hang himself to-morrow in his surcingle. Thus it must be while the world lasts; and the very racks and scrues wherewith they aim to overcome the nobler spiritt, onlie test and reveal its power of exaltation above the heaviest gloom of circumstance.

“Interfecistis, interfecistis hominem omnium Anglorum optimum.”