“‘Come on,’ she said, almost breathlessly; ‘come on; that’s the man my

father wants me to marry, but _I’ll die first_!’ We walked fast, but she

took, as I thought, the wrong turning—I told her so, but she looked up

in my face, and smiled. It was a narrow court, and at the far end, a

smith’s forge. I heard the bang of the hammer, and saw the light, all in

a glow, and a thousand sparkles like falling stars! Mary got under the

shadow of the houses—she crept on, the hammer going, the fire glowing,

the sparkles falling all the time, and the shadow as of a giant, forging

the red bar, as if the hammer was a wand. Well, she avoided the door,

but drew me on to a slit in the window, still keeping in the

shadow—‘that’s him,’ she whispered. Aunt, dear, the sweetheart that

mite of a little beauty had set her love on, was—just there and then—a

rale giant! He looked strong enough to fling a thunderbolt, and active

enough to make a play-fellow of the lightning. When he stopped, and

threw back his hair, I thought I had never seen so noble a head, but his

face looked pale in the flashing light. Mary never spoke but the one

word, she never sighed, nor signed to him in any way, yet he wiped his

brow, pulled down his sleeves, and came to the window.

“‘Mary, Mary,’ he whispered, and his voice was as soft as the coo of a

wood-quest.[23] ‘Speak, Mary, I know you are there, it’s no use hiding

from me, I know it as well as if my eyes were looking into yours, and as

if you had told me so.’

“‘I am here, Philip,’ she said. ‘My friend was with me, and as you were

not at the Priest’s, I thought you had something to do particular.’

“‘Yes, Mary,’ he answered; ‘but _that_ did not keep me. Your father came

here to-night; he gave me clearly to understand, and without civility,

he did not wish me to continue to keep your company; he said, your mind,

as well as his own, turned another way.’

“‘And you believed him?’

“Her voice was like the murmur of a young bird in its nest.

“‘I believed my own eyes,’ he answered, folding his great arms over his

chest, his eyes glaring in his dusky face like coals of fire. ‘I went to

the Priest’s door, and saw that clean, done-up youth, with his blue tie

round his throat, and his boyish hands, only fit to finger a yard

measure, scenting the place with his white pocket-handkerchief. O, Mary,

fancy my hands dangling a scented handkerchief!’ and he dashed them

passionately forward. ‘When you did change,’ he added, ‘you might have

chosen a man—not a monkey.’

“‘And you misdoubted me,’ she said, standing firm and straight in her

pride. ‘Well, then, Philip, I’ll just say good-bye at once;’ and then

she struggled and struggled to untwist something from her neck, and

flung it right in through the window. The fire, which had been

flickering and flickering, flamed up, and there, lying on the black

floor, shone a little golden locket, and a broken velvet.

“To my dying day, I shall never forget the look that strong man cast

from the locket to Mary, but I know he could not see _her_ face, it was

in the darkness _to him_, though I saw, plain enough, her quivering lips

and glowing cheeks—he stamped on the locket, and I heard it scrunch

beneath his foot. She flew like a rapid over a rock of the Shannon, and

was away in a minute—I turned to follow her, but the strong grasp of

the smith was on my shoulder.

“‘Why did she come here at all?’ he said, and his voice was deep and

husky. ‘What brought her? why should she come to torture me? it’s all

along of the old man’s love of money, and her mother’s mad love of fine

names. She told me my name, Philip Roche, was vulgar. O, to think of the

love I bore her, slaving by day and night to make her a home, keeping to

my pledge, and working—and well able to do it—on water.’

“Mary, I told him, knew nothing of it, she had no hand in it: I wanted

to tell him how she took me to the door to see _him_, and not finding

him there, drew me to the forge—her innocent heart full of love for

him, and for him alone; the thoughts came fast enough into my head, but

I could not speak them—I was bewildered, the despair written in his

face haunted me—the look he gave, and the iron hand on my shoulder,

stupefied me altogether, and though we walked on fast—fast after her—I

trembled in every limb, and lost all power of speech.

“Words he certainly spoke betimes, and they hissed off his lips, as

water hisses off a smoothing-iron. We tramped faster and faster, past

the houses, and under the light of the lamps, and through the people,

until we came to the court where they lived—_there_ he stopped in sight

of the door, and such a sight it was to him!—for there, on the very

step, waiting to have it opened, stood Mary Considine, and the blue

neck-tie. I cannot tell you, aunt dear, how it was that I felt so

interested for that strange, strong smith, Philip Roche, whom I had

never, to say rightly, seen. No wonder the people stopped and stared

after him, for he was without a hat, and his long hair _tossicated_

about his head: I looked up to him, and maybe it was best that I could

not see his features, I only heard him mutter—‘Do you see, do you see?

Has she _no hand in it now_?’ He staggered forward, but I caught him.

“‘Have patience,’ I said; ‘have patience, it will all come right, she

has no hand in it.’ He threw me off as if I had been a child, and the

last I saw of him was his head above the people that had gathered round

the court. I walked quietly on, and when I entered the house there stood

Mary, white as a sheet, while Mr. and Mrs. Considine were doing all

manner of civilities to the young man, who was acting the gentleman,

smiling and bowing and twisting a seal—set the likes of him up with a

seal—at the end of his watch-chain—a seal which was big enough for the

rapper of a hall-door—and dangling a ring he had on his starved,

crooked, little finger, right in the foolish old man’s eyes. ‘And wont

you sit down, Mr. Henry Highley,’ said one, ‘and wont you stop for

_tay_,’ says the other. And seeing me staring at him, Mrs. Considine

adds—

“‘A young lady-friend of my daughter’s, who stops mostly with a friend

of her own at the West-end.’

“Now, aunt, I didn’t care about her calling me a lady, but I couldn’t

bear being put on a level with my mistress, a rale lady born.

“And I said, ‘my mistress lives at the West-end, sure enough.’ Mrs.

Considine frowned at me, and Mary left the little room.

“‘Come back, Mary,’ called her father; ‘bring her back,’ whispered her

mother.

“It was well I followed her—she had fainted: I laid her on the bed, and

did all I could for her. When she was coming to herself, she put up her

hand—I thought, maybe, to feel for the locket, but that might be my

fancy. It was long before I could make her deaf father understand that

she was too ill to return, but her mother saw it at once, and after we

put her to bed, and she drank a cup of tea, and said she thought to go

to sleep, we left her—I staid a few minutes below, though I saw the old

man wished me gone. And now, aunt, don’t be angry, but I think I could

have found it in my heart to give that _Cub-een_ of a fellow, a glass of

poison: his face was not only vicious, sharp, and thin, and active, like

a rat’s—but he had his eyes every where. I saw him weigh the tea-spoon

on his fore-finger in a balancing sort of fashion, and then look at the

mark to be sure it was silver: he drew the old people on in such a way,

getting more out of Mr. Considine than ever was got out of him before,

as to his property and means—getting him to talk of interest and

bankers, and the like: and the old man cursed the savings banks, and

said money was never so safe as in one’s own house, and that the best of

all banks for him was his leather bag—the more I looked at Mr. Henry

Highley, the more I hated him, and sorry enough was I to know that young

Considine had gone a journey for his employer, and was not to the fore,

when most wanted.

“I stole up for another look at Mary. She was, or _pur_tended to be,

asleep; but it was put into my heart to kneel down and pray for her. The

words were not many, but the Lord knew their meaning. I dipped my finger

in the holy-water cup, that hung at the head of her bed, and signed the

blessed sign over her forehead, without touching her. She looked so

helpless, and so lonely there—her young innocent face, still wet with

tears, turned up to the heavens—the moonlight was hindered from shining

on her by the fog that hangs about the London streets by day and night;

and maybe so best, for moonlight lays heavy on a throbbing brow, and is

not over lucky, particularly—as you know—when it’s full moon. So I did

not go into the little room again, but hurried home, for I had overstaid

my time by more than an hour. I was near my own street, when who came to

my side but Mr. Henry Highley: and he said, it was dull walking my

lone,[24] and he’d see me home, and I told him I had the sight of my

eyes, and could see myself and him too. And he said I was very witty,

and I said, I was sorry I could not return the compliment. Then he

thought to fish out about my mistress—she must be a rich lady to keep

the likes of me. And I answered riches had nothing to do with that: I

did not want to sell myself, or buy any one, and that I should be

happier to serve for love than for money; but he stuck to the

question—Had she plate and jewels? So, turning sharp on him, I said

that any one would think he was a house-breaker, and I laughed: this was

at the door; and there was a policeman passing, who stopped. Well, aunt,

Mr. Henry Highley, without another word—with your leave or by your

leave—whisked off.

“‘What do you know of that young man?’ inquired the blue-coat.

“‘Nothing pleasant,’ I said.

“‘Where did you meet him?’

“‘You are neither judge or jury, to be questioning me,’ I answered; for

it isn’t the nature of an Irish girl to put up with a policeman.

“‘I mark you,’ he said very stiff—but they are all that—‘and when the

time comes, young woman, I’ll find a way to make you tell,’ and he

walked off.

“Now, aunt dear, sure I had enough of walking on and off that night! My

mistress was angry; but I did as you told me often enough—instead of

making excuses, and inventions, which come mighty pleasant and natural,

I just told the plain truth—quiet and easy—all except the last, for I

did not wish to make her uneasy, as I was myself, having a cruel bad

opinion of Mr. Henry Highley.

“It’s mighty _quare_ how, in this wonderful city of business and bother,

how your little, peaceful sayings, darling aunt! and the songs you sung

to the wheel of a winter’s evening, with none but the pusheen-cat, and

myself, and a cricket or two to the fore, come into my head, or one of

Watts’ hymns, in the very bustle of the town: I often dust the room to

‘Aileen Mavourneen,’ and brush my lady’s hair to ‘Eveleen’s bower,’

played on the chords of my heart. Sometimes, when I draw back the

curtain, and shade the light of the pale night-lamp, with my hand, for

fear it might wake her—the mistress I mean—for I never lay down until

she is asleep: often, when I watch her features, worn with pain, yet so

still, and gentle-looking, and see her pale, pink lips, half open, and

such a sweet smile on them, I think—the sleeping face differs so from

the waking one—that angels must be whispering the joys that will come.

When the last dull sleep is ended, aunt, I am sure I should go mad if I

thought that dear innocent woman, so tortured in this world, yet so meek

in herself, so thoughtful and generous to the poor, so kind in her

judgments, so fond to take the sorrows of all who have sorrow into her

bosom, and turn them to blessings—I should indeed break my heart, if I

believed that, for reading the one book another way, we should never

meet in the world that’s to come. I can’t believe it, so there’s enough

about it. As I looked at her, the song of ‘The Angels’ Whisper,’ came

for a second time into my head that night, and then I _crooned_ over

that ‘Savourneen delish’ you are so fond of; and that brought poor Tom

and his motherless children before me! Aunt, dear—maybe I didn’t use

Tom well! I couldn’t help it: though you often told me I should not cast

out dirty water until I could get clean—not a grate compliment to Tom

either!—yet to be obliged, after a few words, to be a mother all out to

three sharp children; and if _he_ was cold and weary, and didn’t smile

and talk every day the same, to have the creeping chill steal over me

like the shake,[25] that he was thinking of his first wife, and maybe

comparing us in his own mind—that would drive me as wild as the other

thing I tould you of a while ago; and yet, I own to you, I have thought

more of poor Tom since I left home, than ever I did while I was there.

“The next day, and the next day, and the next passed, and no word from

Mary, and my mistress was ill. Once I ran as far as the turn to the

lane, and looked down at the forge. The fire was burning low, and there

was no sound of the hammer on the anvil. At last, Mrs. Considine herself

called; she was very full of prate: she had the dirty red book, as

usual, half sticking out of her black bag: she said, that indeed Mary

had demeaned herself by taking up with nothing but a smith, a great

friend of her brother’s, and one she would not deny who had done him

more than one good turn, and would be right well to do in the world if

he had a little capital to push him on, which neither her nor her

husband would give to a man of the name of Roche. Roche, indeed! Roches

were as plentiful as black-berries, and as common, where she came from.

Set her Mary before the priest with a Roche? No, no; Mr. Henry Highley

was the man for their money, so nice a gentleman; for every sovereign

her husband laid down as Mary’s fortune, he would lay down another, or

could two! And such _jewelery_ as he had; rings for every finger, and

fine watches, one set with precious stones—which had belonged to his

grandmother—a Talbot itself! There was all about the family printed in

the peerage, and sure it wouldn’t be _there_ if it wasn’t true—but

indeed she couldn’t tell what was come over Mary: she had no pride, no

spirit in her; her husband would weigh the watches in his hand, and look

at the rings all day, and ask what they were worth over and over again,

and take them to bed with him, if he was let, he had such delight in

them. But they might be so much _pinchback_, for any thing Mary cared;

they would have the wedding at once, and when it was over, she’d know

better. Mr. Highley was so fond of her, he wouldn’t hear of delay, not

even until her brother came home! She let on that Mary, when married,

would be too grand company for the likes of me, but that _she_ would not

be proud. I might look in sometimes, she’d be glad to see my mistress

when they got into a new lodging, which Mr. Highley said they must after

the wedding—for _his_ sake, dear, sweet, well-born, well-bred young

gentleman!

“Like her impudence, it was: _My mistress itself!_ MY MISTRESS! visit

with her: och hone! What would the cards on the fine china dish say to

it, if they could but speak? But, aunt dear, what do you think I did,

when she, and her bag, and her book were cleared out of the house? I

told my mistress every word she had said. Now it was a mercy that she

was quite herself that morning, and sure enough she has a head almost as

clear for business as our dear QUEEN’S! God bless it for ever, for a

right, royal, noble head!—the Queen’s, I mean—She did not ponder long,

but laying her spectacles in her Bible, for a mark, she set it besides

the china dish.

“‘Ellen,’ she said, ‘have you ever seen the policeman, who spoke to you,

since that night?’

“And I said I had: that very morning he was on our beat.

“‘Bring him to me, Ellen.’

“My heart was _leping_—leping up into my mouth.

“‘Bring him into the house?’ I repeated.

“‘Yes,’ she said, ‘into the house.’

“‘Have I done any thing wrong, ma’am?’

“So she smiled.

“‘Nothing, but very right: do as I tell you.’

“That ‘Do as I tell you,’ is the same thing as ‘Hold your tongue.’ So,

aunt dear, if you please, you must just fancy me looking for a real,

living policeman; and for a wonder, I found him when he was wanted. He

soon stood like a _statute_ before my mistress.

“She told him word for word what I have told you: he noted it all down

in a bit of a book, and was mighty particular over the number of rings

and the Talbot watch; he then looked at me, and my mistress nodded for

me to leave the room. Now, wasn’t that too bad?

“I never felt more hard set to put up with any thing in my born days;

but I went—and, only my mistress has nerves, wouldn’t I have banged the

door? When the bell rung he was gone: she told me I was to go over in

the evening, and see Mary. When I got there, Mrs. Considine was watching

for the postman, who was coming down the court. She took a letter from

him, which I saw was directed to Mary: she read it hastily, and tossed

it into the fire. ‘My relations,’ she said, with a toss of a different

kind, ‘hearing of the fine match Mary is going to make, write constantly

to get them situations.’ A double story—I was so ashamed for her. Aunt

dear, God bless you for teaching me that there is no such thing as an

‘innocent lie.’ The old miser of a man was in a little inner room they

have, divided by a passage from the one we were in, where they sleep

themselves: the windows open into a lane, dark as dungeon by day or

night. He was fumbling at his leather bag, and came out talking to

himself, muttering such things as these—

“‘At first he said it should be guinea for guinea; but now, it’s two

guineas for one—two guineas for one! Ah! Nelly Nowlan, a fine match!

The smith had nothing but his four bones, and would have wanted my

hard-earned, little savings, and no guinea for guinea, or one to two:’

and his eyes, so dim and glassy, rolled within their seamed lids, and he

rubbed his skinny, bloodless hands together, as if joy and gold were all

one. ‘Money makes the man,’ he continued, ‘all England owns that: they

are a wise people, the English, they never ask _what you are_, but _what

you have_. When my pretty daughter sits on her own car, wont every one

bow to her and I? O, if I was back in my own place, instead of poor ould

Ned Considine, wouldn’t I be Mr. Edward, sir, with a ’squire to it! Ah,

ah, I know the world, but the world does not know me!’

“‘Has there been no letter?’ I heard the low, trembling voice of Mary

inquire, as she entered the house.

“‘The girl’s foolish to be asking after letters. One from Ireland, from

our people, wanting places,’ was her mother’s reply.

“When Mary saw me, she burst into tears, and hung about my neck like a

child. She whispered that she was not long for this world, that Philip

had forgotten her, that she should never be happy more. She would obey

her parents and die—my mistress had warned me to hear all and say

nothing. I comforted poor Mary as well as I could, and was asked to the

wedding the next day—I told my mistress, and again she saw the

policeman. O, aunt, wasn’t it cruel of the mistress not to trust me? I

didn’t care what she had to say, but I did want to be trusted. She said

she did not fear my zeal, only my discretion. Wasn’t it hard?

“I went to the wedding—there was the Priest, a fine, ould, ancient

Clargy, of the right sort: there was the bridegroom, looking pale and

wicked, with as much finery on him as would set up a jeweler’s shop.

There was the father and mother, all excited; there were a couple of

bridesmaids, new-fangled acquaintances, and two or three strangers,

friends of the bridegroom’s, that Mr. and Mrs. Considine made a great

fuss over, and called by the finest of names: there was a dinner,

half-laid out in an upper room, that no one on the banks of the Shannon

ever saw the like of: little puff things, all ornamented out by a real

confectioner, in a white apron, such a sight of folly and nonsense. I

was quite set on one side, and looked on any thing but kindly by the

whole of them, except the old man, who kept on talking about his money.

They seemed all unnatural to me, as if they only wanted the bride as a

part of the ceremony, while all over the world, if a woman is ever as a

queen, it’s from the morning till the evening of her wedding day, what

she is after that depends upon another. The bridesmaids kept going in

and out, and at last, one had the manners to tell me, the bride wanted

me. I knew that long ago.

“She was standing like a spirit, all in white, in the middle of her

little room. She seemed turned into stone, stiff and stark as a corpse

in its shroud: her mother was wringing her hands by her side, her face

like scarlet, and if ever she spoke with a brogue she did then.

“‘Och Mary a lanna machree!—Sure it isn’t disgracing us you’d be, going

back of your word, Mary, my own darlin’ child. Sure, darlin’, I hated

the very ground yer father walked on, even after I had married him a

good while. I was disappointed in him, dear: but when I got over

thinking of love, and all that sort of nonsense, when my heart dried up,

and I was all head, I knew what a fine, savin’ man I had got, who

understood the value, even of a brass farthing: he was _ould_ enough to

be my father—let alone yours; but what does that signify, he helped me

to grow ould before my time: and look at the money he’s able to give

you, and win you, Mary _mavourneen_—what’s come to you, child? sure you

consented all out, and what ails you now?’

“I pressed her cold hands within mine: they felt turned into bone, cold

and hard and dry.

“‘You’re murderin’ your own child, Mrs. Considine,’ I said: ‘you are

killing her as surely as if you put a pistol to her head, or poison to

her lips.’

“The wicked old man called to Mary from the bottom of the stairs to go

down, and added a curse on her delay: the bridesmaids—one in

particular, who was as hard as the rest at first, had kept on

saying—God forgive her—that love one side was like a fire, and would

soon catch the other—now looked terrified, and pity-struck.

“Again the call and the curse were repeated: Mary started, as if from a

dream: she drank off a glass of water from her mother’s hand, who kept

repeating—‘That’s a jewel, there’s a darlin’, _corra machree_ was she,’

and such like nonsense; to which the poor girl made no reply, but

pressed her hands on her temples, and whispered to me—‘Pray to God for

me!’ She walked straight into the room: the bridegroom met her with

‘Sweet Love,’ and a flourish of his pocket-handkerchief, a smile on his

lips—but such oak-sticks between his eyes. She put him on one side with

her little hand, and advancing to the priest, knelt down reverently

before him: there was a hush in the room, nothing heard but the clink of

the gold in the leather bag the old man was shaking out of pride.

“O, it would have melted a heart of stone to look at that young

creature! Tears overflowing her face, so that she could not speak, and

her hands wrung together.

“The bridegroom whispered something to her mother about her being

nervous, but it would soon go off: I could have killed him! He then

handed round the ring for us to look at; aye, while SHE was weeping and

trembling at the priest’s feet. When he held it to me, I struck it down.

Aunt, I could not help it! What a look he gave! It rolled along the

floor; but his attention was drawn to Mary’s words.

“‘Father,’ she sobbed, to the priest, ‘save me—save me from my own

people; save me, a young, helpless girl; save me from marrying him I

hate. Oh, do not let them put the sin of a false oath upon my young

head—I cannot love him. Father, you know I owned to you in holy

confession, but ten days past, that I loved another—that I love him

still. I will never, never speak to him, or write to him, or ask to set

eyes on him again; I will quit the world, and go into a holy house if

you think me fit for it—but oh, save me, save me from perjuring my

soul—save me,’ she repeated wildly, ‘or I shall go mad!’ To see the

holy priest raise her up; to see him place her in his own chair; to see

him put his hands upon her head, and hear his words of comfort! ‘Trust

in me, my dear child; I will never join a willing to an unwilling hand;

be calm, my child; and you,’ he said, turning to the bridegroom, ‘and

you, have _you_ the feelings of a man, to stand by and see this, and

wish to keep her to her promise?’

“‘I never promised him—I never promised him,’ sobbed Mary—‘the most I

ever said, and that was in anger and agony—was—that I would do my

parents’ bidding. Father! Mother!—you cannot be so cruel at the last.’

“Mr. Considine edged up to his reverence—‘Talk to her, holy father,’ he

muttered, ‘talk to her: he’s so rich—rings, and watches and _goolden_

guineas two to one, holy father, think of that? two to one! her mother

married me for my goold, and we’ve been happy—two to one, holy father!’

“‘Begone!’ said the priest sternly, in such grand English, ‘and do not

dare to stain this holy sacrament by the money-loving spirit that

crushes your soul to destruction. If this dear child persists in her

refusal, I myself forbid the marriage.’

“Oh, aunt dear, the lep I gave, and found myself at his holy feet as if

he was the Pope of Rome! and surely no pope could have looked more like

a guardian angel than he did at that minute.

“‘I must speak with you in private,’ said the bridegroom to his intended

father-in-law as meek as a lamb, ‘just one word;’ and he laid his hand

so gently on the old man’s arm: ‘this can be arranged.’ They went out of

the room together, Mrs. Considine exclaiming, while clapping her hands

so vulgarly! ‘_Och-e-yah!_ the poor, dear young man! Ah, then! Och Mary,

my _gra_ girl, how could you have the heart to refuse such a match? and

he, after promising you a car—a cab, I mean, of your own. Och Mary,

darlin’, be friends with him, Mary _Machree_! _Och yah!_ poor

broken-hearted crayther that I am!’

“She kept on that way for some time, until a fall, which shook the

house, and the dull, hoarse scream of murder startled us into silence.

The priest and myself rushed to the door; but the two groomsmen came

between us, exclaiming, ‘It was in the court.’ I saw the whole thing

then, like a flash of lightning, bright and clear. Again the cry. We

cleared the way somehow; the window of their bed-room was open, and the

poor old man, blinded by the blood which gushed from a wound in his

head, was groveling on the floor.

“We lifted him up: his fingers kept on grappling the air, while his

cries of ‘Murder!’ and ‘Help!’ were broken by such words as ‘My money!

my bag! my hard-earned money! catch him! two to one indeed! Oh let me

after him!’

“It was an awful sight—the roars of the old man for his money, the

shrieks of Mrs. Considine, the still more terrible calmness of Mary,

who, while binding up her father’s head, said ‘This is my doing.’

“There was a scuffling at the outward door. ‘Keep a brave heart, Mary

Considine,’ said the priest, ‘he’s not hurt to signify.’

“‘A hundred and fifty in the bag, not a farthing less, the murdering

young villain; oh, I can’t live—I wont live.’

“‘Shame upon you,’ said the silver voice of the fine old priest. ‘Give

God thanks for your deliverance, first from the man, next from your

money.’

“‘They are both here,’ said my policeman, who came upon us unawares; ‘it

would be strange if we were not up to Bill Soames. We caught him on the

bound, but I managed badly this time; I ought to have saved you that tap

on the head, old gentleman; though I must say it serves you right, to

want to give that poor girl to a fellow once tried for bigamy, and a

house-breaker to boot!’

“Aunt, I tore a silk handkerchief to ribands, trying to keep my hands

off the blue tie, who stood as if nothing had happened, between two

other policemen.

“‘It’s but a step to the court, and the magistrate is sitting,’

continued the superintendent; ‘half an hour will send my old

acquaintance to his quarters.’ Of course there was plenty of people

outside; and in the midst of it all the two groomsmen had cleared the

table of every spoon, and Mr. Considine’s own watch, during the time we

were with the old man. Oh, what a deliverance for poor Mary!

“My heart flew into my mouth—I was as light as a lark leaving the

corn-field for the sky in the early morning, and from the same cause,

both thankful for the new light!

“Oh, I was _so_ happy!—‘He’s of a _high family_, ma’am,’ said the

policeman, with a knowing look at Mrs. Considine; ‘all that I heard of,

traveled at the expense of government, while some—you understand me?—’

“He made a sign round his throat, not pleasant to look at, while Mrs.

Considine’s grief took a new turn, and she bemoaned the disgrace to her

family, and the loss of the family plate! It was delightful how brisk

the old man grew when he knew that his money was found—he called the

cut a scratch, and said ‘his head would be all the better for a taste of

the ould times,’ and away they went, the whole party—barring[26] his

reverence, and Mary, Mrs. Considine (who declared nothing should force

her to enter a police-court) and myself—were cleared out of the house,

and I had the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Henry Highley in the grasp of

two policemen; Mary came wonderful to herself, considerin’, and went to

her room. I peeped through a crack, and saw her on her knees before the

image of the blessed Virgin. Mrs. Considine continued sobbing, and

exclaiming all the time she wandered about the house—I was just going

to see how they were getting on in the court, when the priest called me

back.

“‘Nelly,’ he says; I made my courtesy—‘Nelly,’ he says again—‘it is a

beautiful dinner.’

“‘Indeed, your reverence,’ I answered, ‘it would be _that_ certainly

when the solid things come on the table; there was to be a roast turkey,

and a ham, and such a lovely piece of boiled beef—poor Mrs. Considine

was bemoaning it all to me not a minute ago.’

“‘A ham, a roast turkey, and a fine piece of boiled beef,’ repeated his

reverence slowly, ‘besides all the kickshaws—and wine?’

“‘The finest of port, (thick round the bottles with age) and champagne,

that the villain of a bridegroom brought,’ I answered.

“‘Say nothing about who brought it, Nelly, if it’s _there_, and he’s

not,’ said his reverence—he paused awhile, but I knew by the twinkle of

his eyes, he was thinking of something past the common—

“‘It’s a mighty fine dinner, Nelly!’

“‘It is, your reverence.’

“‘Nelly, it’s a sin and a shame to have such a dinner as that in the

house, and no wedding.’

“‘True, for your reverence.’

“‘Nelly, we must have a wedding!’ and he looked me through and through.

“‘Your reverence,’ I said—hardly knowing how to answer, ‘knows best;

but I don’t see how at this present time; it’s my ignorance, your

reverence.’ He shook his head and smiled.

“‘I know the secrets of more hearts than one, and instead of going down

to the court, just step away to Philip Roche, and tell him what happened

and how Mary kept true to her old love, and let him dress himself at

once—we’re not tied to canonical hours like our neighbors—and tell him

from me, to come here, and before the evening’s out, Nelly, we’ll have a

wedding, and a dinner, and a dance!’

“Oh, how I flew! There was Philip in the thick of cold iron, reading a

paper about emigration. I never saw a man so altered: he was but the

ghost of himself, bent and bowed and broken-hearted, he seemed, and his

voice as changed as himself, he knew me at once, and knew that it was

_her_ wedding day.

“‘It’s all over by this time, I know,’ he said, with a ghastly smile;

‘and I suppose you have brought me the bride-cake tied with green

riband.’

“‘Here was the place,’ he continued, going across a little yard, ‘where

I thought she might live quiet and content; a pretty, bright room for

London, and two others inside it—she could sit in that window at her

sewing, and sing; and, if she raised her head, see me at work at the

forge—she never even answered my letters—for I was too hasty that

evening; but it’s over now. She never can be any thing more to me; yet

this day’s post brought me a letter, telling of an uncle’s death in New

York, who has left a good thousand English pounds, to be divided between

my brother and myself; so I’ll just sell off, and go after it. Old

Considine might have kept his money; it was not _that_ I wanted; but

it’s all over!’ Such a wail as there was in the voice of the strong,

broken down man, like the _sough_ of the winter’s wind, I could keep

silent no longer. I believe he thought me wild—mad; I could hardly

begin my tale for joy—joy throbbing in my heart—joy beating in my

throat, and keeping back my words. I got it out at last, all that passed

in one little hour, on which depended so much happiness or misery; oh,

aunt, he is such a great darlint! Not a bit of exultation over Mr. and

Mrs. Considine; only bitter reproaches to himself for not having

understood Mary better; wondering if she could ever forgive him!—and so

glad her father was not badly hurt. Oh, how my heart warmed to him! And

when, at last, I bid him trust all to his reverence, to see how quickly

he dressed! and maybe _he_ didn’t look like an O’Brian, or an

O’Sullivan, or some of the great, grand O’s—so plenty about Killarney

in the ancient times. I didn’t know my own shadow on the wall,

side-beside his; and yet he was so overcome, that at times he stopped

from downright weakness.

“The priest opened the door with his own blessed hands: they had

returned from the police-court, and his reverence had both the old

people crying. I don’t think Mr. Considine heard all he said; but,

indeed, his heart was softened; he was ashamed of having been imposed on

by a well-known London thief; and who can say that he was not grateful

for his deliverance? for, next to his money, he loved his child.

“‘Come in, Philip Roche,’ said the priest; ‘there has been a bit of a

misunderstanding here, which we are sorry for; but it’s well to forget

and forgive. Mrs. Considine says she never believed Mary thought so much

about you, or she would not have put between you: if you can make

friends with the little girl up-stairs, we’ll have the wedding!—and the

dinner!—and now, Nelly Nowlan, I trust to you to bring Mary Considine

down, without telling her why. Leave that to me.’

“Oh, then, isn’t that priest a rale minister? The delight he took in his

little innocent plot, and all to make those young people happy! He hid

away Philip in the back-room, and Mary came with me, easy enough, when I

told her her father and mother were crying.

“‘Now, Mary, my child,’ says the priest, ‘you’ll obey me, wont

you?—that’s right. I must give you a penance, Mary: I saved you from

one husband, my darling—I have found you another!’

“The life that had come slowly back to the poor girl seemed leaving her

altogether, but Philip could not bear it—he rushed forward, and caught

her in his arms.

“I can’t tell you what he said, aunt, or what any one said; but in less

than five minutes the priest had opened his book.

“‘What will be done for a ring?’ sobbed Mrs. Considine.

“I had picked up the one I struck from the hand of that wicked man, and

said so.

“‘Use _his_ ring!’ exclaimed Philip; and he flung it into the fire.

“‘Oh, the sinful waste!’ screamed old Considine; ‘it was pure gold.’

“He would have raked the fire out to find it, but the priest commanded

him to be still. Oh, but he’s a fine man; only terrible in anger. Aunt,

I’ll tell you the truth; if I had a very heavy sin, it’s not to him I’d

go.

“‘The key of the door will do as well,’ he said; ‘it’s the _sign_ of the

Eternal Union we want, nothing more.’ No one gainsaid him, and in

another five minutes they were bound together in the sight of God and

man.

“‘And now for her fortune, Mr. Considine,’ said the good priest, so

considerate.

“The young smith stood straighter than ever on the floor; straight and

firm. With one arm he drew his little bride to his heart, the other he

held out.

“‘It would all feel to me like a dream,’ he said, ‘but for this.’ He

pressed her more closely to him, bent down and kissed her.

“‘Keep your money, Mr. Considine; cross or coin of yours, sir, I’ll

never touch. Mary was all I ever cared for, and only this blessed

morning did I learn that it has pleased God to give me what you think so

much of. Mary, your husband has five hundred good pounds of his own:

keep your money, Mr. Considine, I never cared for it; but I must say—’

“‘_No more_,’ interrupted the priest. ‘Let us have in some of our good

friends and neighbors; and, Nelly Nowlan, sure it’s a comfort that the

beautiful dinner wont be wasted.’

“And so, aunt darling, there’s an end of Mary Considine; for in all the

books I read my mistress, there seems an end of a woman when she

marries—a wife and a mother go for nothing! And maybe, I haven’t

something to tell you about _that_, for sure enough, the women (some of

them) want to change places; now who do you think with, aunt? I am sure

your simple head would never find out. Shall I tell you next time?”

-----

[21] Plenty.

[22] Neager, _i. e._ miser.

[23] Wood-Pigeon.

[24] “My lone,” alone.

[25] “Shake,” ague.

[26] Except, putting aside.

* * * * *

TO ADHEMAR.

E. A. L.

Thy voice flows o’er my list’ning heart, like sound

From fairy fount, or lute in land of dreams,

And full thy loveliness upon me teems,

With thy bright presence lighting all around,

Until my pulses leap like rills unbound.

I see again thine eyes’ effulgent beams—

I walk with thee along the laughing streams—

Thro’ whispering groves—o’er flower-bespangled ground,

And feel thy glowing touch my heart-strings thrill,

As I upon thy doating arm recline,

Listing thee speak, from out thy spirit’s shrine.

Love-freighted words, whose heavenly music still

Steals softly o’er my weary, thirsting soul,

Exerting o’er it aye a calm and sweet control.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Course of the History of Modern Philosophy. By M. Victor

Cousin. Translated by O. W. Wight. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 2

vols. 8vo._

The thinking portion of the reading public are under great obligations

to Mr. Wight for his vigorous and accurate version of Cousin’s master

work, and to the Messrs. Appletons for the beautiful dress in which it

fitly appears. It belongs, indeed, to that rare class of works which

illustrate the intellectual history of the age in which they are

produced; and it deserves the attention of all readers who desire to

take the first step in acquiring a taste for metaphysics. It is composed

of two courses of lectures, originally delivered in Paris to large and

enthusiastic audiences, whose admiration of the splendid eloquence of

the lecturer soon compelled them to love the subject likewise; and when

published, their influence was felt in every country into which the

French language and literature penetrates, and caused a revival in

philosophy, which somewhat amazed its hard and dry cultivators from its

peculiarity and its extent. These lectures, indeed, made metaphysical

science popular everywhere. Men and women read Victor Cousin as they

read Scott and Byron. His bold and dazzling generalizations, expressed

in a style of singular clearness, energy and vehemence, stimulated the

most jaded minds; and the dictatorial confidence with which he settled

all the problems of history, philosophy and religion, and the ease with

which his solutions were comprehended, made him the universal favorite.

There was something captivating, too, in the theory by which he

reconciled all the various systems in his eclectic and electric method.

There are four systems, sensualism, idealism, skepticism, and mysticism,

each having its root in consciousness, each containing an element of

truth, and each wrong as an exclusive system. Select from these what is

true, place the four partial truths in their relations, and the result

is the eclectic philosophy. This is a loose, short-hand statement, in

unphilosophic language, of Cousin’s scheme.

It must be admitted that Cousin’s system did not long hold its ground.

After the first surprise was over, the metaphysicians _par eminence_

began to attack him with great fury, and gave him some blows from which

he has never recovered; and the public, who had been carried away by his

eloquence, forgot him as soon as another novelty appeared. The result

has been, that of late he has not been estimated according to his real

merits. He most certainly has not done what he pretended to do. He has

not reconciled the philosophers or the philosophies; he has hardly

formed a school; his disciples have expired, recanted, or left the

inclusive for some more satisfactory exclusive system. But he is still a

metaphysician of uncommon power, acuteness, insight, genius; his works

are full of important truths and principles, which stimulate the mind to

independent thought; his information is immense; and he is the most

brilliant, comprehensible and readable of all the historians of

philosophy. He is to metaphysical history what Macaulay is to civil

history; and we do not see why the present work is not as capable of

holding the pleased and breathless attention of the intelligent reader

as the “History of the Revolution of 1688.” There is in both writers the

same confident manner of settling controversies about which centuries of

disputants have wrangled; and, on the first blush, it seems impossible

to resist the statements of either of them, as both drive directly at

the common sense of men; are clear and brilliant, while their opponents

are obscure and dull; and never leave the impression of an undefined

something outside of the limits of their respective systems, to puzzle

and torture their readers with a latent doubt. “I wish,” said Lord

Melbourne, “that I knew any thing as well as Tom Macaulay knows every

thing.” This “I know,” and “I am sure,” this absence of self-distrust,

is as characteristic of Cousin as Macaulay; and the mischief is that

after reading either, we are apt to be as satisfied as they are

themselves, and think we have thoroughly mastered the matter.

It would be impossible in our limited space to convey an idea of the

contents of these volumes. Beginning with the proposition that

philosophy is a special want and necessary product of the human mind,

and the last development of thought, Cousin proceeds to show that it has

existed in every epoch of humanity, is a real element of universal

history, and contains the explanation of its various parts. He thus

explains Indian Civilization by the Bhagavad-Gita, the age of Pericles

by the philosophy of Socrates, the sixteenth century by the philosophy

of Descartes, the eighteenth century by the philosophy of Condillac and

Helvetius. He then states the psychological method in history, a method

which is neither empirical or speculative, but combines the two, seeking

in history the development of the human reason. After stating the

fundamental ideas of history, which are the fundamental ideas of the

human reason, namely, the Infinite, the finite, and the relation between

the two, he treats the great epochs of history as answering to the

successive development of these ideas. The influence of geography, of

nations, and of great men, in history, is then stated with great

eloquence, force, and subtle complication of truth and paradox. Some

vigorous sketches of the historians of humanity and philosophy, in which

their merits are luminously exhibited and their defects acutely

analyzed, are followed by a view of the philosophy of the 19th century.

The eclectic tendency of European society and philosophy is noted, and

the necessity is shown of a new general history of philosophy to explain

the new movement of thought. Next follows a picture of the eighteenth

century, with the character and method of its philosophy. Its different

systems are not peculiar to that century; and the origin, natural

development, relative utility, and intrinsic merit of Sensualism,

Idealism, Skepticism, and Mysticism, the four classes into which all

ideas fall, are vigorously and clearly stated. The history of these is

then given, in a splendid review of the Hindoo, Greek, Scholastic, and

modern philosophies; and the sensualism of the eighteenth century is

traced to all its sources. A criticism of Locke, running through ten

lectures, and generally considered to be the ablest of Cousin’s

productions, concludes the work.

It will be seen, even from this bold outline, that all the questions

which have puzzled human reason, and to which it has at different

periods given different answers, are stated and discussed in Cousin’s

work. The splendor and the beauty, the unwearied energy and the rapid

movement of his style, carry the reader on to the end with hardly a

pause of distrust or fatigue; and we hope that a translation, executed

with such a lavish expenditure of intelligence and industry as Mr.

Wight’s, will meet with its due reward in an extensive circulation.

Certainly nothing which can by courtesy be called a library can afford

to be without it.

* * * * *

_The Works of Daniel Webster. Boston: Little & Brown, 6 vols.

8vo._

This beautiful edition of the works of one of the greatest statesmen

that the country has produced, contains all the speeches and legal

arguments in the former editions of Mr. Webster’s writings, together

with the numerous orations and addresses he has made since the year

1841, and the masterly state papers which he produced while Secretary of

State in the administration of General Harrison. To these are added the

celebrated letter to Chevalier Hulseman, written while in his present

station. The collection is edited with much care and ability by the Hon.

Edward Everett. The biography of Mr. Webster by the editor, is a clear,

candid, elaborate, and somewhat frigid view of his whole life as a

statesman and lawyer, giving an accurate statement of the various

circumstances under which the great efforts of his mind were produced,

and placing the reader in a position to appreciate their importance. The

tone of the biography is cautiously moderate, indulging in none of the

fervors of eulogy or exaggerations of friendship, and, on the whole, not

coming up to the enthusiastic praise with which Mr. Webster’s powers are

commonly mentioned by those who have had most occasion to dread or decry

their exercise. Mr. Everett seems to have felt too acutely the delicacy

of his position, as the biographer of a living friend; and, shrinking

from the responsibility of pouring out in glowing words his own

admiration of his subject, is content to import all such perilous matter

from the dashing and vivid pages of Mr. March.

It seems to us, also, that Mr. Everett gives little evidence in his

biography of a sustained and vigorous conception of Mr. Webster’s mind

and character. We do not mean that his epithets are not appropriate,

that his judgments are not accurate, that his generalities are not

abstractly just; but he evinces no power of diffusing the results of

analysis through the veins of narration, of making the reader feel

constantly that he is following the life of a man as peculiar and

individual as he is great. The Websterian quality of the subject never

flashes once out from Mr. Everett’s elegant sentences. Take any page

from the biography and compare it with any paragraph in the speeches,

and the defect we have noticed will be apparent to the most

unapprehensive reader. There is no mental and moral agreement between

them. It would seem to be one duty of the biographer to translate into

intelligible form the vague impression which the works of the subject of

the biography leaves on the most superficial mind; to detect, to fix, to

embody the subtle spirit which, emanating from character, gives unity

and individuality equally to the events of a man’s life and the

productions of a man’s mind. A man of the large dimensions and massive

force of Mr. Webster, whose personality stamps itself so readily upon

the imagination, and groups fit words round its own image by a kind of

magnetism, offers few obstacles to a right psychological treatment; and

we are somewhat astonished that a man of Mr. Everett’s various talents

and accomplishments should have failed in this important part of the

biographer’s duty.

We trust that this collection of Mr. Webster’s writings will have an

extensive circulation, were it only for the good influence it is

calculated to exert on the literature of the country. To one party in

the United States they are invaluable as containing the best exposition

they possess of their political principles—to all parties they must be

attractive for the many electric passages of purely patriotic eloquence

with which they teem; but to the author they are especially valuable as

models of style. We use the word models not in its usual sense, for we

certainly would not give any one the ridiculous advice to imitate the

diction even of Mr. Webster; but we would advise every one to follow Mr.

Webster’s own method of composition, which is simply the method of

common sense and common honesty. The great literary sin of the day is

pretension; and it is refreshing to read a man who, comprehensive and

powerful as he is, modestly accepts the limitations of his genius, never

borrows a thought or an emotion, and rarely uses a word which he has not

a right to use. If we compare him for a moment with men who gain

popularity by debauching in language, we feel at once the force of that

expression which austerely limits itself within the bounds of character,

and stamps on every sentence the authority of personal experience.

* * * * *

_A Journey through Tartary, Thibet and China. By M. Huc. New

York: D. Appleton & Co. 2 vols. 12mo._

These quaint and interesting volumes are the record of the travels of a

Catholic Missionary in countries of which the reading world knows little

or nothing. The sketches of scenery, manners, customs, religion, and

character, are very graphic, and the style of composition is so direct

and simple that the words form pictures in the mind without any effort

on the part of the reader. The views of the religion of Thibet are very

clear, and add to our knowledge of its philosophic basis. The mind of M.

Huc almost realizes the ideal of the observing faculty. He sees

distinctly, and gives us exactly what he sees, without modifying it by

his own opinions or sentiments. To read his book, is next to walking or

riding by his side, and seeing the strange objects he describes with our

own eyes. His illustrations of Tartar life are especially graphic and

amusing. Here is a specimen. “When not on horseback, a Tartar is

generally quite idle, and passes a great part of the day crouched in his

tent, drinking tea, and sometimes he lounges about like a Parisian

dandy, though not quite in the same way. When he has a mind to see what

is passing in the world, he mounts his horse, and goes galloping away

into the desert, without heeding in what direction, and whenever he sees

the smoke of a tent rising, he makes a call, and has a gossip.” His

description also of the Jonathan Wilds and Dick Turpins of Tartary is

quite edifying. “The robbers,” he says, “are in general remarkable for

the politeness with which they flavor their address. They do not put a

pistol to your head, and cry roughly, ‘Your money or your life,’ but

they say in the most courteous tone, ‘My eldest brother, I am weary of

walking on foot. Be so good as to lend me your horse!’ or, ‘It is very

cold to-day—be kind enough to lend me your coat!’ If the eldest brother

be charitable enough to comply, he receives thanks; if not the request

is enforced by two or three blows of the cudgel, or, if that is not

sufficient, recourse is had to the sabre.” It is the custom of these

polite gentlemen, however, to rob none the less thoroughly because they

use the amenities of genteel life. The poor traveler who falls into

their hands is not only deprived of horse, camel, money and goods, but

he is stripped of every rag of clothes, and left, with an elegant bow

and smooth farewell, to die of cold and hunger. This is the very method

of genteel society everywhere.

The shrewd and remorseless avarice of the Chinese is illustrated in

these volumes to perfection. From the emperor to the trader, all prey on

the poor Tartars. Thus M. Huc meets a member of a great commercial house

in Pekin, at Blue Town, and enters into a conversation with him. The

merchant claims the missionary at once as one of his own trade, which,

with Spartan brevity, he describes to consist in eating Tartars. “Eaters

of Tartars!” exclaims good M. Huc, “what is the meaning of that?” to

which the other answers, “Our trade—yours and mine—is to eat the

Mongols—we by traffic, you by prayers.” On the missionary’s assuring

him that he paid for every thing as he went along, and that his mission

was purely disinterested, the merchant almost choked himself with

laughing at the folly of a man who should venture into such a country

for any other purpose than to prey upon its inhabitants; and then

proceeds to describe the mysteries and moralities of the Wall street of

China. We commend his system to our glorious army of shavers and

capitalists. You see, he says, these Tartars “are simple as children

when they come into our towns. They want to have every thing they

see—they seldom have any money, but we come to their help. We give them

goods on credit, and then, of course, they must pay rather high. When

people take away goods without leaving the money, of course, there must

be a little interest of thirty or forty per cent. Then, by degrees, the

interest mounts up, and you come to compound interest; but that’s only

with the Tartars. In China the laws forbid it; but we, who are obliged

to run about the Land of Grass—we may well ask for a little extra

profit. Isn’t that fair? A Tartar debit is never paid—it goes on from

generation to generation; every year goes to get the interest, and it’s

paid in sheep, oxen, camels, horses—all that is a great deal better

than money. We get the beasts at a very low price, and we sell them at a

very good price in the market. Oh! it’s a capital thing—a Tartar debt!

It’s a mine of gold.” This is but one specimen of a Chinese “eater of

Tartars.”

M. Huc’s volumes are full of equally piquant sketches, and we know of

few tourists who seize with such inevitable tact on incidents and

peculiarities which illustrate the morals and the habits of whole

classes of people. The work is one of the most original and novel yet

published in “Appleton’s Popular Library of the Best Authors”—a

collection of which no lover of readable books should be without.

* * * * *

_The Maiden and Married Life of Mary Powell, afterward Mistress

Milton. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 18mo._

It appears to us that this volume is fully as felicitous as “Lady

Willoughby’s Diary.” Like that it is in the form of a journal, written

in the orthography and style of the seventeenth century. The simplicity

with which the whole is conceived and wrought out is exquisite. The idea

of the book is taken from the well-known incident of Milton’s first

courtship and marriage; and its charm consists in accounting for the

disagreement between the couple on grounds of nature which do not appear

in the bold statement of the fact. It is a delicious volume, full of the

essential spirit of poetry, and pure, tender, simple and refined

throughout.

* * * * *

_The Yellowplush Papers. By William M. Thackeray. New York: D.

Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 18mo._

This is one of the earliest and best of Thackeray’s delightful works. It

is a sort of autobiography of a London footman, Charles Yellowplush,

comprising very vigorous sketches of his various masters, and written in

a style which inimitably combines shrewdness with vulgarity. The

spelling alone is a work of genius. The portion relating to Mr. Deuceace

has passages of great power and pathos as well as humor, and exhibits

the utter lack of sentiment and principle, the hard demoniacal

selfishness of a true London blood, with extraordinary closeness to the

fact. “Mr. Yellowplush’s Ajew” and “Epistles to the Literati,” are also

riotous with mirth. Bulwer Lytton’s coxcombry is caricatured in these

last very ludicrously.

* * * * *

_Putnam’s Semi-Monthly Library for Travelers and the Fireside.

New York: George P. Putnam. 6 vols. 12mo._

This is one of the cheapest and best edited literary enterprises ever

started in the United States. It is published in semi-monthly volumes,

each of which is printed in large type on fine white paper, contains

some two hundred and fifty pages, and is placed at the low price of

twenty-five cents a volume. Two volumes are given to prose and poetical

comicalities, carefully selected, humorous cuts and all, from “Hood’s

Own;” three volumes consist of capital selections from Dickens’

Household Words, entitled “Home and Social Philosophy,” “The World Here

and There,” and “Home Narratives;” and the last is an original

production, written by Mr. Olmstead, and called, very aptly, “Walks and

Talks of an American Farmer in England”—an exceedingly interesting

book, in which the author gives, in a homely but expressive style, his

experiences among the farming population of England. We trust that Mr.

Putnam’s admirable plan will be fully carried out, and that his success

will be as complete as his enterprise is commendable. The price is

hardly one-third of the usual cost of American reprints of equal

elegance of execution.

* * * * *

_Lyra and Other Poems. By Alice Carey. New York: Redfield. 1

vol. 12mo._

We wish that we had sufficient space this month to do justice to the

qualities of mind and character impressed on this beautiful volume; but

we shall be compelled to defer an elaborate view of its merits. The

first glance at its pages will reveal to the reader the extreme

sensitiveness of the writer’s mind to all that is beautiful, and tender,

and sublime, and the swift felicity with which she embodies the most

evanescent shades of emotion, and the most subtle meanings of natural

objects. We regret that so large a portion of the poems should be so sad

in their tone, as Alice Carey’s genius is by no means bounded by the

serious side of things, but can sing cheerily as well as mournfully. The

present volume, however, has more “hearse-like airs than carols.”

* * * * *

_Isa; A Pilgrimage. By Caroline Chesebro’. New York: Redfield. 1

vol. 12mo._

This powerful story has a peculiar interest from its bearing on the

fashionable ethics of certain novelists, who inculcate libertinism under

the guise of liberality of thought and nobility of sentiment. The

authoress shows the depraving influence of this philosophy on the

noblest natures. Her insight into the workings of passion is remarkably

bright and clear; and the vigorous movement of her narrative fastens the

reader’s interest to the end. The chief fault of the book is its

unrelieved intensity.

* * * * *

_Tales and Traditions of Hungary. By Theresa Pulszky. New York:

Redfield. 1 vol. 12mo._

To those who are interested in the recent struggles of the brave and

unfortunate Hungarian people for national independence, this volume will

be heartily welcome. It gives us glimpses into the manners of the

people, and exhibits the strong foundations on which the national

character rests. The work has been popular in England, and its

authoress, now a resident in the United States, has republished it with

additions. We hope it will meet with a large share of popular favor.

* * * * *

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._”

-----

[27] Published respectively by Charles Scribner and Appleton Bros. New

York: 1852.

* * * * *

GRAHAM’S SMALL-TALK.

Held in his idle moments, with his Readers, Correspondents and Exchanges.

Our New Suit.—It is not our purpose to show off—to take airs, to be

proud, to refuse to speak to anybody, simply because our new suit has

come home, and we are giving it its first holyday airing—but our new

type, our new coat which covers it, and the very superior quality of our

whole rig is rather stared at, we know—or we should not mention the

fact. Excessive modesty has been our weakness—it is the besetting

frailty of most Magazine publishers, as is fully evinced in their

prospectuses. Humility is tenderly nursed and taken out riding, until it

has a consumptive look, and is pronounced “too good for this world.” Yet

it is the fashion. Nobody—least of all Godey—or Sartain or

Harper—presumes to say a word in self-praise—then why should Graham

set himself up and play Captain Grand, even if he is a little stouter

and haler, and has a greater extent of territory over which he can gaze

like Selkirk,

“Monarch of all he surveys;”

and like Alexander, sigh for “more worlds to conquer.” Why should _he_

be proud? That question rather startles us; but the answer is at

hand—because he has the greatest Magazine in the world—and the

prettiest girls, and the _most of ’em—to read it_! It is estimated that

60,000 beautiful women are in love with _Graham_—the Magazine, of

course—and Graham is as proud as Lucifer about it; and Graham prides

himself, too, that his subscribers _read_ his book, and are not

satisfied with the picture books, which in younger days had so many

charms for innocent eyes; when the whale in the spelling-book spouted

hugely, even to the top of the page, and the camel had a hump that was a

wonder—when stale love-stories and most sickly verse, with fragments

disjointed of the veriest cold meats of literature were a marvel—when

homilies upon graces, made up of whalebones—the last agony of fashion

which it is agony to look at—were food for dreams.

We hold you by the button, reader, merely to mention the various

excellencies which crown the feast; that our _new type_ and finer paper,

are worthy of special mention. Whether anybody ever had such type—or

paper—or ever will have, is not the question; for in these days of

special self-sacrifice, it will not do to be too modest, but—Our book

is Grand for June.

* * * * *

The Fast Press.—No allusion is made in the title of this article to the

extremely fast press which prints Graham—nor to the press which is fast

upon the International Magazine—nor ironically to the slow teams which

drive some of our cotemporaries with their small editions dismally

along; nor yet to the American Press—which is rather progressive—but

to _Hoe’s_ immortal invention—the which, in compliment to the Press of

the Union, we illustrate in our present and next issues in our usual

happy manner. The entire establishment of Col. Hoe is to be set forth in

pictured beauty before the readers of Graham in the June and July

numbers.

We have paid the artists $400 for the drawings and engravings, and

merely mention the fact that those who suppose _first rate wood

engravings_ are cheap, may take breath and reform their calculations. No

indifferent old block, is ever put off upon our readers as a choice and

rare engraving—nor do we submit to any imposition from engravers. Our

work _must_ be of the first order—or it is not ours. Some that we have

rejected, we see elsewhere, and the publishers appear to be proud of

their bargains—and cry, excelsior!

* * * * *

“Graham for May, with twelve engravings and 112 pages of reading, is

already on our table—the gem of the season. Long live Graham. Why don’t

such a clever fellow get married? That’s what we want to know—and so do

the ladies. Then, friend Graham, you would not be troubled so much with

your _batch_ of ‘love letters.’”—_Gazette, Hallowell, Me._

The fact is, we have been thinking of it, for—the last thirteen

years—but every month we have to get up a very beautiful woman for the

Magazine, and we are always head over ears in love with a new feature.

Some of these times we shall settle down quietly and be “a love of a

husband”—see if we don’t!

* * * * *

“We think that Godey will have to acknowledge himself beaten this month

by Graham; but we wish to ask Graham two questions, and hope he will

answer truthfully. The first is, if he is a married man: the second, who

engraved the ‘Jolly Good Fellows?’”—_Southern Argus, Houston, Miss._

Godey says his “Book” is a “_peculiar_ Magazine in all

respects—containing matter that does not appear in other magazines, and

all other matters that do.” So you see, friend Argus, that he dodges the

question, which is what we never did. Devereux engraved the “Jolly Good

Fellows.” As to being married—that is another question!

* * * * *

Our friend Duval, of “The Phœnix,” Camden, Ala., throws up his cap and

hurras for Graham, and says we are “ahead of all cotemporaries, and

understand our business.” It is very evident from the following from the

Phœnix, that the _merchants_ of that place do _not_. “Persons at a

distance, looking over the columns of our Camden papers might very

reasonably come to the conclusion that we have no merchants or business

men in Camden. Well, that is pretty near the truth—we have none who

_fully_ understand their _business_, or they would more frequently make

use of the columns of their village papers, to inform the country people

that they _want_ their patronage. Our merchants seem to think that all

their customers are in town, and _see_ the arrival of their new goods,

never thinking, perhaps, that their country customers wait to hear the

news.”

How any man, who has a desire to do business, can overlook the manifest

advantage of letting people _know_ he has goods to sell, is a

marvel—and that large wholesale dealers in our Atlantic cities should

overlook the advantage of advertising in the distant papers of business

towns, is to be set down as a piece of stupidity only equaled by the

tortoise, which shuts its shell that it may not be seen. _Wherever your

customers are likely to come from—there should be your advertising

cards._

* * * * *

HOUR OF FOND DELIGHT.

[Illustration: Hour of Fond Delight.]

COMPOSED BY ALEXANDER LEE.

Presented by LEE & WALKER, 188 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.

[Illustration: musical score]

[Illustration: musical score]

What an hour is this,

Joy and love o’erflowing,

Ev’ry sense of bliss,

O’er our feelings throwing;

Thy sweet image, love,

Round my heart is twining,

Brightly from above,

The silver moon is shining:

Moonlight! Moonlight!

Hour of ev’ry fond delight!

Moonlight! Moonlight!—

Hour of ev’ry fond delight!

SECOND VERSE.

All is silent now,

Philomel thou hearest,

From yon cypress bough,

Sounds to lovers dearest;

Daylight be for those

Who for wealth aspiring,

Give me sweet repose,

While the moon is shining.

Moonlight! &c.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic

spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting and

punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have

been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may

be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for

preparation of the eBook.

In the first article _NEW YORK PRINTING MACHINE, PRESS, AND SAW WORKS._,

the footnote was added to clarify the meaning of a sentence which may be

confusing to some modern day readers.

page 592, believed to the real.” ==> believed to be real.”

page 600, The butcher’s looked: a ==> The butchers looked: a

page 609, in livery where already ==> in livery were already

page 656, in them, and yet its all ==> in them, and yet it’s all

page 659, queen, its from the ==> queen, it’s from the

page 665, By Caroline Chesboro’. ==> By Caroline Chesebro’.

[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 6, June 1852]