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"Tea, verily," 1 stcadfastlie replied.

"Then, how has it beetle overlayd," he lmrriedlie went on, "with men's .inventions! St. Paul speaks of a sacrifice once offered; we holde the host to be a continuall sacrifice. Holy writ telleth us where a tree falls it must lie; we are taughte that our prayers may free souls from purgatoric. The word sayth, 'by faith ye are saved;' the church saytlt we may be saved by our works. It is written 'The idols he shall utterly abolish;' wc worship figures of gold and silver. . ."

"Hold, hold," I sayd, "I dare not listen to this. . . you arc wrong, you know you are wrong."

"How and where," he sayth; "onlie tell me. I long to be put rigltte."

"Our images are but symbols of our saints," I made answer; "tis onlie y* ignorant and unlearned that worship ye mere wood and stone."

*' But why worship saints at alle ?" persisted Will; "wlicre's the warrant for it?"

I sayd, " Heaven has warranted it by sundrie and spcciall miracles at divers times and places. I may say to you, Will, as Socrates to Agathon, 'You may easilic argue agaynst mc, but you cannot argue agaynst the truth.'"

"Oh, put me not off with Plato," lie impalientlic replycd, "refer me but to holie writ."

"How can I," quoth I, "when you have ta'en away my testament ere I had half gone through it? 'Tis this book, I fear me, poor Will, hath unsettled thee. Our church, indeed, sayth the unlearned wrest it to thcire destruction."

"And yet the apostle sayth," rejoyned Will, "that it contayns alle things ncccssarie to our salvation."

"Doubtlcsse it doth, if we knew but where to find them," I replied.

"And how find, unlesse we sceke?" he pursued, "and how know which road to take, when we find the scripture and the church at issue?"

"Get some wiser head to advise us," I rejoyned.

"But an' if the obstacle remains the same?"

"I cannot suppose that," I somewhat impaticntlie returned, " God's word and God's church must agree; 'tis only we that make them at issue."

"Ah, Meg, that is just such an answer as Father Francis mighte give—it solves noe difficulty. If, to alle human reason, they pull opposite ways, by which shall we abide? I know; I am certain. 'Tu, Doaim Jesu, es juslicia mca !'"

He looked soe rapt, with claspt hands and upraysed eyes, as that I coulde not but look on him and hear him with soleninitic. At length I sayd, "If you know and are certayn, you have noe longer anie doubts for me to lay, and with your will, we will holde this discourse noe longer, for however moving and however considerable its subject matter may be, it approaches forbidden ground too ncarlie for mc to feel it safe, and I question whether it savoureth not of heresie. However, Will, I most heartilic pitic you, and will pray for you."

"Do, Meg, do," he reply ed, "and say nought to anie one of this matter."

"Indeede I shall not, for I thiuk 'twoulde bring you if not me into trouble, but, since thou hast soughte my council, Will, receive it now and take it. . . ."

He sayth, "What is it?"

"To read less, pray more, fast, and use such discipline as our church recommends, and I question not this temptation will depart. Make a fayr triall."

And soe, away from him, though he woulde fain have sayd more, and I have kept mine owne worde of praying for him full earnestlie, for it piticth me to see him in such case.

Poor Will, I never see him look grave now, nor hcarc him sighc, without thinking I know the cause of his secret discontentation. He hath, I believe, followed my council to j' letter, for though ye men's quarter of ye house is soe far aparte from ours, it hath come roundc to me through Barbara, who had it from her brother, that Mr. Roper hath of late lien on ye ground, and used a knotted cord. As 'tis one of y* acts of mercy to relieve others, when we can, from satanic doubts and inquietations, I have been at some payns to make an abstraete of such passages from ye fathers, and such narratives of noted and undeniable miracles as cannot, I think, but carry conviction with them, and I hope they may minister to his soul's comfort.


Supped with my Lord Sands. Mother played mumchance with my lady, but father, who saith he woulde rather feast a hundred poor men than eat at one rich man's table, came not in till late, on plea of businesse. My lord tolde him the king had visitted him not long agone, and was soe well content with his manor as to wish it were his owne, for the singular fine ayr and pleasant growth of wood. In fine, wound up ye evening with musick. My lady hath a pair of fine toned clavichords, and a mandoline that stands five feet high; the largest in England, except that of the Lady Mary Dudley. The sound, indeed, is powcrfull, but methinketh the instrument, ungaynlic for a woman. Lord Sands sang us anew ballad, "The King's Hunt's up," which father affected hugelie. I lacked spiritt to sue my lord for ye words, he being soe free-spoken as alwaics to dash me; howbeit, I mind they ran somewhat thus. . . .

"The hunt is up, the hunt is up,
And it is well-nigh daye,
Harry our King has gone hunting
To bring his decre to bayc.
The east is bright with morning lightc,
And darkness it is fled,
And the merrie horn wakes up ye morn
z To leave his idle bed.

Bcholde y° skies with golden dyes, Aro . . . —The rest hath escaped me, albeit I know there was some burden of hcy-tantara, where my lord did stamp and snap his fingers. He is a merry heart.

Now'that Gunnel is gone, I take to heart that I profited not more by his teaching. Saying to Mercy, overnight, that methought she missed not our good master, she made answer, "Oh yes, I doe; how can 1 choose but miss him, who taught me to be, to doe, and to suffer?" And this with a light laugh, yet she lookt not mcrrie.

. . . Writing y« above, I was interrupted by shrill cries cither of woman or boy, as of one in acute payn, and ran forthe of my chamber to learne ye cause. I met Bess coming hastilie out of ye garden, looking somewhat pale, and cried, "What is it?" She made answer, "Father is having Dick Halliwcll beaten for some evill communication with Jack. "lis seldom or never he procccdcth to such extremities, soe the offence must needs have beeue something pernicious; and, e'en as 'tis, father is standing by to see he is not smitten overmuch; ne'crthclcsse, Giles lays the stripes on with a will."

It turned me sick. I have somewhat of my mother in me, who was a tender and delicate woman, that woulde weepe to see a bird killed by a cat. I hate corporall punishments, and yet they've Scripture warrant. Father seldom hath recourse to 'cm; and yet wc fcare as well as love him more than we doc mother, who, when she firste came among us, afore father had softened her down a little, used to hit righte and left. I mind me of her saying one day to her own daughter Daisy, "Your tucker is too low," and giving her a slap, mighte have beene hcarde in Chelsea Reach. And there was the stamp of a greatc red hand on Daisy's white shoulder all y" forenoon, but the worst of it was, that Daisy tookc it with perfect immoveabilitie, nor lookt in the leaste ashamed, which Scripture sayth a daughter shouldc doe, if her parent, but spit in her face, i.e. sett on her some publick mark of contumely. Soe far from 'this, I even noted a silent look of scorn, which payned me, for of all the denunciations in Holy Writ, there is none more awfull to my mind than that which sayth, "The eye that mocketh at father or mother," not alone the tongue, but e'en the eye,—" the young ravens of the valley shall pick it out."

Sayth Lord Rutland to my father, in his acute sneering way, "Ah, ah, Sir Thomas, Ilonores mutant Mores."

"Not so, in faith, my lord," returns father, "but have a care lest we translate the proverb, and say honours change Manners."

It served him right, and the jest is worth preserving, because 'twas not premeditate, as my lord's very likely was, but retorted at once and in self-defence. I don't believe honours have changed the Mores. As father told mother, there's the same face under the hood. 'Tis comique, too, the fulfilment of Erasmus his prophecy. Plato's year has not come roundc, but they have got father to court, and the king seems minded never to let him goc. For us, we have the same untamed spiritts and uneoustrayned course of life as ever, neither lett nor hindered in our daylie

studdies, though we dress somewhat braver, and see more companie. Mother's head was a little turned, at first, by the change and eulargment of the householdc . . . the acquisition of clerk of the kitchen, surveyor of the dresser, yeoman of the pastrie, etc. but, as father laughinglie tolde her, the increase of her cares soon steddied her witts, for she found she had twenty unthrifts to look after insteadc of half-adozen. And the same with himself. His responsibilities arc so increast, that he grutches at cverie hour the court steals from his family, and vows, now and then, he will leave off joking, that the king may the sooner wearie of him. But this is oulic in jest, for he feels it is a. power given him over lighter minds, which he may exert to usefull and high purpose. Onlie it kecpeth him from needing Damocles his sword; he trusts not in the favour of priuccs nor in the voyee of the people, and keeps his soul as a weaned child. 'Tis much for us now to get an hour's leisure with him, and makes us feel what our olde privilleges were when we knew 'em not. Still, I'm pleased without being over elated, at his having risen to his proper level.

The king I ooke us by surprise this morning: mother had scarce time to slip on her Scarlett gown and coif, ere he was in y* house. His grace was mighty pleasant to all, and, at going, saluted all round, which Bessy took humourously, Daisy immoveable, Mercy humblie, I distastcfullic, and mother delightedlic. She calls him a fine man; he is indeede big enough, and like to become too big; with long slits of eyes that gaze freelie on all, as who shoulde say, "Who dare let or hinder us?" His brow betokens sense and frauknesse, his eyebrows are supercilious, and his checks puffy. A rolling, straddling gait, aud abrupt speech.

'Tother evening, a3 father aud I were, uilwontedly, strolling together down the lane, there accosts us a shabby poor fellow, with something unsettled in his eye. ...

"Master, sir knight, aud may it please your judgeship, my name is Pattcson."

"Very likely," says father, "and my name is More, but what is that to the purpose?"

"And that is more to the purpose, you mighte have said," returned the other.

"Why, soe I mighte," says father, '* but how shoulde I have proved it?"

"You who are a lawyer shouldc know best about that," rejoyned the poor knave; "'tis too hard for poor Pattcson."

"Well, but who arc you ?" says father, "and what do you waut of me?"

"Don't you mind me?" says Pattcson; "I played Hold-your-tonguc, last Christmasse revel was five years, and they called me a smart chap then, but last Martinmasse I fell from ye church steeple, and shook my brain-pan, I think, for its contents have seemed addled ever since; soe what I want now is to be made a fool."

"Then you arc not one now?" says father.

"If I were," says Pattcson, "I shouldc not have come to you."

"Why, like cleaves to like, you know tliey say," says father.

"Aye," says 'tothcr, "but I've reason and feeling enow, too, to know you are no fool, though I thoughte you might want one. Great people like 'cm at their tables, I've hearde say, though I am sure I can't guesse why, for it makes nic sad to see fools laughed at; ne'crthelcsse, as I get laughed at alrcadic, methinketh I may as well get paid for the job if I can, being unable, now, to doe a stroke of work in hot weather. And I'm the onlie son of my mother, and she is a widow. But perhaps I'm not bad enough."

"I know not that, poor knave," says father, touched with quick pity, "and, for those that laugh at fools, my opinion, Patteson, is that they are the greater fools who laugh. To tell you the truth, I had had noe mind to take a fool into mine establishment, having always had a fancy to be prime fooler in it mysclfe; however, you incline me to change my purpose, for, as I said anon, like cleaves to like, soe I'll tell you what we will doe—divide the btisincsse and goe halves—I continuing the fooling, and thou receiving the salary; that is, if I find, on inquiry, thou art given to noe vice, including that of scurrillitie."

"May it like your goodness,"- says poor Pattcson, "Fve been the subject, oft, of scurrillitie, and affectit too little to offend that way myself. I ever keep a civil tongue in my head, 'specially among young ladies."

"That minds me," says father, "of a butler who sayd he always was sober, especially when he had cold water to drink. Can you read and write?"

"Well, and what if I cannot?" returns Pattcson, "there ne'er was but one, I ever heard of, that knew letters, never having learnt, and well he might, for he made them that made them."

"Meg, there is sense in this poor fellow," says father, "we will have him home and be kind to him."

And, sure enow, we have done so and been so ever since.

K glance at the anteccding pages of this libellus mc slicweth poor Will Roper at y* season his love-fitt for mc was at its height. He troubleth me witli it noe longer, nor with his religious disquietations. Hard studdy of the law hath filled his head with other matters, and made him infinitely more rational], and hy 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 changcfuUe spiritts,—that's alle.

Patteson's latest jest was taking precedence of father yesterday, with the saying, "Give place, brother; you are but jester to King" Harry, and I'm

jrs'cr to Sir Thomas More; I'll leave you to decide which is yc greater man of the two."

"Why, gossip," cries father, "his grace woulde make two of me."

"Not a bit of it," returns Pattcson, "he's big enow for two such as you are, 1 grant ye, but the king cau't make two of you. No! lords and commons may make a king, but a king can't make a Sir Thomas More."

"Yes, he can," rejoyns father, "ho can make mc Lord CI:auccl!or, and then he will make me more than I am already; ergo, he will make Sir Thomas more."

"But what I mean is," persists the fool, "that the king can't make sucli another as you are, any more than all the king's horses and all the king's men can put Humpty-dumpty together again, which is an ancient riddle, and full of marrow. And soe he'll find, if ever he lifts thy head off from thy shoulders, which God forbid."

Father delightcth in sparring with Patleson far more than in jesting with y" king, whom he alwaies looks on as a lion that may, any minute, fall on him and rend him. Whereas, with 'tother, he ungirds his mind. Their banter commonly exceeds not pleasantrie, but Patteson is ne'er without an answer, and although, maybe, each amuses hiinsclfe now and then with thinking, "I'll put him up with such a question," yet, once begun, the skein runs off the reel without a knot, aud shews the excellent nature of both, soe free are they alike from malice and over-license. Sometimes thcire cuts are neater than common listeners apprehend. I've scene Rupert and Will, in fencing, make thcire swords flash in the sun at every parry and thrust; agayn, owing to some change in mine owne position, or the decline of y* sun, the scintillations have escaped mc, though I've knowu their rays must have been emitted in some quarter alle the same.

Patteson, with one of Argus's cast feathers in his hand, is at this moment beneath my lattice, astride on a stone balustrade, while Bessy, whom he much affects, is sitting on the steps, feeding her peacocks. Sayth Patteson, "Canst tell mc, mistress, why peacocks have soe manic eyes in thcire tails, and yet can onlic see with two in theire heads?"

"Because those two make them soe vain nlreadie, fool," says Bess, "that were they always beholding theire owne glory, they woulde be intolerable."

"And besides that," says Pattcson, "the less wc sec or hearc, either, of what passes behind our backs, the better for us, since knaves will make mouths at us then, for as glorious as wc may be. Canst tell mc, mistress, why the peacock was the last bird that went into the ark?"

"First tell me, fool," returns Bess, "how thou knowest that it was soe?"

"Nay, a fool may ask a question wd puzzle a wiseard to answer," rejoyns Pattcson; "I mighte ask you, for example, where they got theire fresh kitchen-stuff in the ark, or whether the birds ate otlier than grains, or the wild beasts other than flesh. It needs must hare been a granary."

"We ne'er shew ourselves such fools," says Bess, "as in seeking to know more than is written. They had enough, if none to spare, and we scarce can tell how little is enough for bare sustenance in a state of perfect inaction. If the creatures were kept low, they were all y" less fierce."

"Well answered, mistress," says Pat teson, "but tell me, why do you wear two crosses?"

"Nay, fool," returns Bess, "I wear but one."

"Oh, but I say you wear two," says Patteson, "one at your girdle, and one that nobody sees. We allc wear the unseen one, you know. Some have theirs of gold, alle carven and sbaped, soe as you hardlie tell it for a cross. . . like my lord cardinall, for instance. . . but it is one, for alle that. And others, of iron, that cateth into their hearts. . . mcthinketh Master Roper's must be one of 'cm. For me, I'm content with one of wood, like that our deare Lord bore; what was goode enow for him is goode enow for me, and I've noe temptation to shew it, as it isn't fine, nor yet to chafe at it for being rougher than my neighbour's, nor yet to make myself a second because it is not hard enow. Doc you take me, mistress?"

"I take you for what you are," says Bess, " a poor fool."

"Nay, niece," says Patteson, "my brother your father hath made me rich."

"I mean," says Bess, "yon have more wisdom than witt, and a real fool has neither, therefore you are only a make-believe fool."

"Well, there arc many make-believe sages," says Patteson; "for mine owne part, I never aim to be thoughte a Hiccius Doecius."

"A hie est doctus, fool, you mean," interrupts Bess.

"Perhaps I do," rejoins Patteson, "since other folks soe oft know better what we mean than we know ourselves. Alle I woulde say is, I ne'er set up for a conjuror. One can see as far into a millstone as other people without being that. For example, when a man is overta'en with qualms of conscience for having married his brother's widow, when she is noe longer soe young and fair as she was a score of years ago, we know what that's a sign of. And when an Ipswich butcher's son takes on him the state of my lord pope, we know what that's a sign of. Nay, if a young gentlewoman become dainty at her sizes, and sluttish in her apparel, We ... as I live, here comes John Heron with a fish in 's mouth."

Poor Bess involuntarilie turned her head quicklie towards y* Watergate, on which Patteson, laughing as he lay on his back, points upward with his peacock's feather, and cries, "Overhead, mistress! sec, there he goes. Sure, you lookt not to see Master Heron making towards us between ye posts and flower-pots, eating a dried ling?" laughing as wildly as though he were verily a natural.

Bess, without a word, shook the crumbs from

her lap, and was turning into the house, when lie witholds her a minute in a perfectly altered fashion, saying, " There be some works, mistress, our confessors tell us be works of supererogation ... is not that y* word? I learn a long one now and then. . . such as be setting food before a full man, or singing to a deaf one, or buying for one's pigs a silver trough, or, for the matter of that, casting pearls before a dunghill cock, or fishing for a heron, which is well able to fish for itself, and is an ill-natured bird after all, that pecks the hand of his mistress, and, for all her kindness to him, will not think of Bessy More."

How apt alle are to abuse unlimited license! Yet 'twas good counsel.

(To he continued.)

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Tins is a wild and singular spot in the vicinity of the Upper Lake of Killarney, at the extremity of the Gap of Dunloe. Its name is highly expressive of its dark and gloomy appearance—partly occasioned by the formation of the valley, and partly by the darkcoloured bog and heather with which its back and sides are blackened and embrowned. It is a scene more than ordinarily characteristic of the peculiar scenery of the west of Ireland, and well displays the talents of the accomplished painter, Creswick.



There is no human quality so well calculated to inspire us with feelings of reverence and affection as that graceful simplicity of character which distinguishes the humble-minded scholar. How much do we find to admire and love in that, rare union of unaffected piety and unfeigned humility, of innocency of life and guilclessness of heart, with profound learning and enlarged experience, of which the world has now and then afforded us a bright example! Better for us still, if the blameless life has been worthily written by one who was fully capable of appreciating its holiness and excellence. A good biography of a good great man is an invaluable treasure; and all honour to the best of biographers, the worthy and excellent Izaak Walton, for that beautiful life of the venerable Richard Hooker, of which the poet might well say, that the feather whence the pen was shaped that traced it "dropped from an angel's wing."'

It was in the *' frosty, but kindly" winter of his days that honest Izaak indited his "plain relation " of the life of this humble and accomplished man, whose

(1) "The feather whence the pen

Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men.
Dropp'd from an angel's wing." , „

Wordsworth,—" Sonnet on Walton'i Lfttt. I

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