TO ADHEMAR.

[21]Plenty.

[21]

Plenty.

[22]Neager,i. e.miser.

[22]

Neager,i. e.miser.

[23]Wood-Pigeon.

[23]

Wood-Pigeon.

[24]“My lone,” alone.

[24]

“My lone,” alone.

[25]“Shake,” ague.

[25]

“Shake,” ague.

[26]Except, putting aside.

[26]

Except, putting aside.

TO ADHEMAR.

———

E. A. L.

———

Thy voice flows o’er my list’ning heart, like soundFrom 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 stillSteals softly o’er my weary, thirsting soul,Exerting o’er it aye a calm and sweet control.

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 metaphysicianspar eminencebegan 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 CarolineChesebro’. 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 forhiswe might not better readher—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 herlibellusby 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 sdput this fairlibellus, he did suggest my making it a kinde of family register, wherein to note yemore 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 yesame 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 yepen—Vitam continet una dies.”

“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 yepen—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 wdthink ’twere as great meritt to have a thick waiste as to be one of yeearlie 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 yerare 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 yechurning. Nought wdpersuade Gillian but that yecreame was bewitched by Gammer Gurney, who was dissatisfyde last Friday with her dole, and hobbled away mumping and cursing. At alle events yebutter wdnot 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 yebutter 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 wdnot come; soe then we grew sober, and, at yeinstance of sweete Mercy, chaunted ye119th Psalme; and, by the time we had attayned to ‘Lucerna pedibus,’ I heard yebuttermilk separating and splashing in righte earnest. ’Twas neare midnighte, however; and Daisy had fallen asleep on yedresser. Gillian will ne’er be convinced but that our Latin brake the spell.”

“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 yerare 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 yechurning. Nought wdpersuade Gillian but that yecreame was bewitched by Gammer Gurney, who was dissatisfyde last Friday with her dole, and hobbled away mumping and cursing. At alle events yebutter wdnot 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 yebutter 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 wdnot come; soe then we grew sober, and, at yeinstance of sweete Mercy, chaunted ye119th Psalme; and, by the time we had attayned to ‘Lucerna pedibus,’ I heard yebuttermilk separating and splashing in righte earnest. ’Twas neare midnighte, however; and Daisy had fallen asleep on yedresser. 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 yewindow-sill, eagerlie watching for his dinner, which he looketh for as punctualie as if he cdtell 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 yehouse; 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 yeway 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 yetrue 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 yeFrench Marguerite, which may indeed be rendered either pearl or daisy. And Chaucer, speaking of our English daisy, saith‘Si douce est la Marguerite.’ ”

‘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 yeseason 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’shapwas to light on yefield of Boaz; but what she thought casual, yeLord had contrived.“Firste, he gives me yemarmot. Then, the marmot dies. Then, I, having kept yecreature 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 cdnot 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 yepoor, 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 wdsuppose 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.”

“Firste, he gives me yemarmot. Then, the marmot dies. Then, I, having kept yecreature 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 cdnot 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 yepoor, 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 wdsuppose 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 yepavillion, 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 yeair. 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; butheknew 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.’ ”

“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 yeair. 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; butheknew 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 yehaircloth and cord under my farthingale, and one or two of yesmaller 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 yehouse. 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 yeimpression of poor Dancey crying over Bess in her deliquium.“I think none o’ the three opened our lips before we reached Lambeth, save in yeReach, Will cried to yesteersman, ‘Look you run us not a ground,’ in a sharper voyce than I e’er heard from him. After passing yeArchbishop’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 yechamber father had used to sleep in? I tolde him it was, but knew nought of yedistich, 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 whetherhisgait was that of a traditor; and, on being sued by the porter for his upper garment, giving him hiscap, 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 yeriver 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 yehaircloth 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 yenaturall 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.’ ”

“I think none o’ the three opened our lips before we reached Lambeth, save in yeReach, Will cried to yesteersman, ‘Look you run us not a ground,’ in a sharper voyce than I e’er heard from him. After passing yeArchbishop’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 yechamber father had used to sleep in? I tolde him it was, but knew nought of yedistich, 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 whetherhisgait was that of a traditor; and, on being sued by the porter for his upper garment, giving him hiscap, 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 yeriver 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 yehaircloth 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 yenaturall 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?

Back to Index Next