Chapter XXII: Section VI (4)

“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.

COMPOSED BY ALEXANDER LEE.

Presented by LEE & WALKER, 188 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.

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]