“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 ye 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 ye 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 ye 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.”