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were constantly fixed. They recognized no title to superiority but His favor; and, confident of that favor, they despised all the accomplishments and all the dignities of the world. If they were unacquainted with the works of philosophers and poets, they were deeply read in the oracles of God; if their names were not found in the registers of heralds, they felt assured that they were recorded in the Book of Life; if their steps were not accompanied by a splendid train of menials, legions of ministering angels had charge over them. Their palaces were houses not made with hands; their diadems, crowns of glory which should never fade away. On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and priests, they looked down with contempt; for they esteemed themselves rich in a more precious treasure, and eloquent in a more sublime language,-nobles by the right of an earlier creation, and priests by the imposition of a mightier hand. The very meanest of them

was a being to whose fate a mysterious and terrible importance belonged,-on whose slightest actions the spirits of light and darkness looked with anxious interest,-who had been destined, before heaven and earth were created, to enjoy a felicity which should continue when heaven and earth should have passed away. Events which shortsighted politicians ascribed to earthly causes had been ordained on his account. For his sake empires had risen and flourished and decayed; for his sake the Almighty had proclaimed his will by the pen of the evangelist and the harp of the prophet. He had been rescued by no common deliverer from the grasp of no common foe; he had been ransomed by the sweat of no vulgar agony, by the blood of no earthly sacrifice. It was for him that the sun had been darkened, that the rocks had been rent, that the dead had arisen, that all nature had shuddered at the sufferings of her expiring God!

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HE characteristic peculiarity of the "Pil- | pervades the whole of the "Faerie Queen." We grim's Progress" is, that it is the only become sick of Cardinal Virtues and Deadly work of its kind which possesses a strong Sins, and long for the society of plain men and human interest. Other allegories only amuse the women. Of the persons who read the first canto, fancy. The allegory of Bunyan has been read by not one in ten reaches the end of the first book, many thousands with tears. There are some good and not one in a hundred perseveres to the end of allegories in Johnson's works, and some of still the poem. Very few and very weary are those higher merit by Addison. In these performances who are in at the death of the Blatant Beast. If there is, perhaps, as much wit and ingenuity as the last six books, which are said to have been in the "Pilgrim's Progress." But the pleasure destroyed in Ireland, had been preserved, we which is produced by the Vision of Mirza, or doubt whether any heart less stout than that of a the Vision of Theodore, the genealogy of Wit, commentator would have held out to the end. or the contest between Rest and Labor, is exactly similar to the pleasure which we derive from one of Cowley's odes, or from a canto of "Hudibras." It is a pleasure which belongs wholly to the understanding, and in which the feelings have no part whatever. Nay, even Spenser himself, though assuredly one of the greatest poets that ever lived, could not succeed in the attempt to make allegory interesting. It was in vain that he lavished the riches of his mind on the House of Pride and the House of Temperance. One unpardonable fault-the fault of tediousness

It is not so with the "Pilgrim's Progress." That wonderful book, while it obtains admiration from the most fastidious critics, is loved by those who are too simple to admire it. Doctor Johnson

all whose studies were desultory, and who hated, as he said, to read books through-made an exception in favor of the "Pilgrim's Progress." That work, he said, was one of the two or three works which he wished longer. It was by no common merit that the illiterate sectary extracted praise like this from the most pedantic of critics and the most bigoted of tories. In the wildest parts of

Scotland the "Pilgrim's Progress" is the delight of the peasantry. In every nursery the "Pilgrim's Progress" is a greater favorite than " 'Jack the Giant Killer." Every reader knows the straight and narrow path as well as he knows a road in which he has gone backward and forward a hundred times. This is the highest miracle of genius, -that things which are not should be as though they were; that the imaginations of one mind should become the personal recollections of another. And this miracle the tinker has wrought. There is no ascent, no declivity, no resting-place, no turnstile, with which we are not perfectly acquainted. The wicket-gate and the desolate swamp which separates it from the City of Destruction; the long line of road, as straight as a rule can make it; the Interpreter's house and all its fair shows; the prisoner in the iron cage; the palace, at the doors of which armed men kept guard, and on the battlements of which walked persons clothed all in gold; the cross and the sepulcher; the steep hill and the pleasant arbor; the stately front of the House Beautiful by the wayside; the low green Valley of Humiliation, rich with grass and covered with flocks,-are all as well known to us as the sights of our own street. Then we come to the narrow place where Apollyon strode right across the whole breadth of the way, to stop the journey of Christian, and where, afterward, the pillar was set up to testify how bravely the pilgrim had fought the good fight. As we advance, the valley becomes deeper and deeper. The shade of the precipices on both sides falls blacker and blacker. The clouds gather overhead. Doleful voices, the clanking of chains, and the rushing of many feet to and fro, are heard through the darkness. The way, hardly discernible in gloom, runs close by the mouth of the burning pit, which sends forth its flames, its noisome smoke, and its hideous shapes, to terrify the adventurer. Thence he goes on, amidst the

snares and pitfalls, with the mangled bodies of those who have perished lying in the ditch by his side. At the end of the long dark valley, he passes the dens in which the old giants dwelt, amidst the bones and ashes of those whom they had slain..

The style of Bunyan is delightful to every reader, and invaluable as a study to every person who wishes to obtain a wide command over the English language. The vocabulary is the vocabulary of the common people. There is not an expression, if we except a few technical terms of theology, which would puzzle the rudest peasant. We have observed several pages which do not contain a single word of more than two syllables. Yet no writer has said more exactly what he meant to say. For magnificence, for pathos, for vehement exhortation, for subtle disquisition, for every purpose of the poet, the orator, and the divine, this homely dialect, the dialect of plain workingmen, was perfectly sufficient. There is no book in our literature on which we could so readily stake the fame of the old unpolluted English language; no book which shows so well how rich that language is in its own proper wealth, and how little it has been improved by all that it has borrowed.

Cowper said, forty or fifty years ago, that he dared not name John Bunyan in his verse, for fear of moving a sneer. To our refined forefathers, we suppose Lord Roscommon's "Essay on Translated Verse," and the Duke of Buckinghamshire's "Essay on Poetry," appeared to be compositions infinitely superior to the allegory of the preaching tinker. We live in better times; and we are not afraid to say that, though there were many clever men in England during the latter half of the seventeenth century, there were only two great creative minds. One of those minds produced the "Paradise Lost"; the other, the "Pilgrim's Progress."




R. FROUDE is perhaps the most popular of the modern school of English historians which bases its work upon the careful study of original historical documents, and endeavors thus to frame an accurate conception of the scenes and personages which form its subject-matter.

Mr. Froude was the son of a clergyman and, after graduating at Oxford, was ordained a deacon. His earliest publications, however, showed that he had lost his hold upon the commonly received orthodoxy, and, although he did not for some years lay down his office of deacon, this change of view lost him his fellowship at Exeter and also an appointment he had received as teacher in Tasmania. He now settled himself to literature as a profession, and in the interval between 1856 and 1870 appeared his greatest work-"The History of England from the Fall of Wolsey to the Defeat of the Spanish Armada.' Some of his other principal works are "The English in Ireland in the Eighteenth Century"; "The Life of Carlyle"; "Short Studies of Great Subjects"; "The Divorce of Catharine of Aragon"; "English Seamen of the Sixteenth Century"; "The Life and Letters of Erasmus," and "The Council of Trent." He wrote several novels, but in them the essayist so predominated over the story-teller that they have not achieved any great success. He died in 1894.

The most striking characteristic of his works is their elegance of diction, together with their historical accuracy and vividness in portraying men and events. There has been great controversy between Mr. Froude and other historians as to his faithfulness to historic truths, but it seems to be the conclusion that the omissions. with which he has been charged are not made for the suppression of facts, but ⚫ because Froude believed that by means of broader characteristics and without going further into details he had conveyed the truth. He has also been frequently criticized for the publication of "Carlyle's Letters" with a fullness which included many expressions of the great philosopher which wounded living persons and really gave an exaggerated idea of the bitterness of Carlyle's judgment of man. There can be no question, however, as to Froude's power as an historian, and it may be said that his final vindication was his appointment as Professor of History at Oxford to succeed Freeman, who had been one of his severest critics.

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RIEFLY, solemnly, and sternly, the Com- | of Paulet's gentlemen, the sheriff walking before missioners delivered their awful message. her, she passed to the chamber of presence in They informed her that they had received which she had been tried, where Shrewsbury, a commission under the great seal to see her exe- Kent, Paulet, Drury, and others were waiting to cuted, and she was told that she must prepare to receive her. Andrew Melville, Sir Robert's suffer on the following morning. She was dread- brother, who had been master of her household, fully agitated. For a moment she refused to be- was kneeling in tears. "Melville," she said, lieve them. Then, as the truth forced itself upon "you should rather rejoice than weep that the her, tossing her head in disdain, and struggling to end of my troubles is come. Tell my friends I control herself, she called her physician, and ie a true Catholic. Commend me to my son. began to speak to him of money that was owed Tell him I have done nothing to prejudice his to her in France. At last it seems that she broke kingdom of Scotland, and so, good Melville, down altogether, and they left her with a fear farewell." She kissed him, and turning, asked either that she would destroy herself in the night, for her chaplain Du Preau. He was not present. or that she would refuse to come to the scaffold, There had been a fear of some religious meloand that it might be necessary to draw her there drama which it was thought well to avoid. Her by violence. ladies, who had attempted to follow her, had been kept back also. She could not afford to leave the account of her death to be reported by enemies and Puritans, and she required assistance for the scene which she meditated. Missing them, she asked the reason of their absence, and said she wished them to see her die. Kent said he feared they might scream or faint, or attempt perhaps to dip their handkerchiefs in her blood. She undertook that they should be quiet and obedient. "The queen," she said, "would never deny her so slight a request"; and when Kent still hesitated, she added, with tears, "You know I am cousin to your Queen, of the blood of Henry the Seventh, a married Queen of France, and anointed Queen of Scotland.”

It was impossible to refuse. She was allowed to take six of her own people with her, and select them herself. She chose her physician Burgoyne, Andrew Melville, the apothecary Gorion, and her surgeon, with two ladies, Elizabeth Kennedy and Curle's young wife, Barbara Mowbray, whose child she had baptized. "Allons donc," she then said, "let us go"; and passing out attended by the earls, and leaning on the arm of an officer of the guard, she descended the great staircase to the hall. The news had spread far through the country. Thousands of people were collected outside the walls. About three hundred knights and gen

The end had come. She had long professed to expect it, but the clearest expectation is not certainty. The scene for which she had affected to prepare she was to encounter in its dread reality, and all her busy schemes, her dreams of vengeance, her visions of a revolution, with herself ascending out of the convulsion and seating herself on her rival's throne-all were gone. She had played deep, and the dice had gone against her.

At eight in the morning the provost-marshall knocked at the outer door which communicated with her suite of apartments. It was locked, and no one answered, and he went back in some trepidation lest the fears might prove true which had been entertained the preceding evening. On his return with the sheriff, however, a few minutes later, the door was open, and they were confronted with the tall, majestic figure of Mary Stuart standing before them in splendor. The plain gray dress had been exchanged for a robe of black satin; her jacket was of black satin also, looped and slashed and trimmed with velvet. Her false hair was arranged studiously with a coif, and over her head and falling down over her back was a white veil of delicate lawn. A crucifix of gold hung from her neck. In her hand she held a crucifix of ivory, and a number of jewelled paternosters was attached to her girdle. Led by two

tlemen of the country had been admitted to witness the execution. The tables and forms had been removed, and a great wood fire was blazing in the chimney. At the upper end of the hall, above the fireplace, but near it, stood the scaffold, twelve feet square, and two feet and a half high. It was covered with black cloth; a low rail ran round it covered with black cloth also, and the sheriff's guard of halberdiers were ranged on the floor below on the four sides, to keep off the crowd. On the scaffold was the block, black like the rest; a square black cushion was placed behind it, and behind the cushion a black chair; on the right were two other chairs for the earls. The axe leant against the rail, and two masked figures stood like mutes on either side at the back. The Queen of Scots, as she swept in, seemed as if coming to take a part in some solemn pageant. Not a muscle of her face could be seen to quiver; she ascended the scaffold with absolute composure, looked round her smiling, and sat down. Shrewsbury and Kent followed, and took their places, the sheriff stood at her left hand, and Beale then mounted a platform, and read the warrant aloud.

vous." Struggling bravely, they crossed their breasts again and again, she crossing them in turn,


and bidding them pray for her. Then she knelt on the cushion. Barbara Mowbray bound her eyes with her handkerchief. "Adieu," she said, smiling for the last time, and waving her hand to them; "adieu, au revoir." They stepped back from off the scaffold, and left her alone. On her knees she repeated the psalm, "In te, Domine, confido," "In thee, O Lord, have I put my trust.” Her shoulders being exposed, two scars became visible, one on either side, and the earls being now a little behind her, Kent pointed to them with his white wand, and looked inquiringly at his companion. Shrewsbury whispered that they were the remains of two abscesses from which she had suffered while living with him at Sheffield.

When the psalm was finished she felt for the block, and laying down her head, muttered: "In manus, Domine, tuas, commendo animam meam." The hard wood seemed to hurt her, for she placed her hands under her neck. The executioners gently removed them, lest they should deaden the blow, and then one of them holding her slightly, the other raised the axe and struck. The scene had been too trying even for the practised headsman of the tower. His aim wandered. The blow fell on the knot of the handkerchief, and scarcely broke the skin. She neither spoke nor moved. He struck again, this time effectively. The head hung by a shred of skin, which he divided without withdrawing the axe; and at once a metamorphosis was witnessed, strange as was ever wrought by wand of fabled enchanter. The coif fell off and the false plaits. The labored illusion vanished. The lady who had knelt before the block was in the maturity of grace and loveliness. The executioner, when he raised the head, as usual, to show to the crowd, exposed the withered features of a grizzled, wrinkled old woman.

"So perish all enemies of the Queen," said the Dean of Peterborough. A loud amen rose over the hall. "Such end," said the Earl of Kent, rising and standing over the body, "to the Queen's and the Gospel's 'enemies."

She laid her crucifix on her chair. The chief executioner took it as a perquisite, but was ordered instantly to lay it down. The lawn veil was lifted carefully off, not to disturb the hair, and was hung upon the rail. The black robe was next removed. Below it was a petticoat of crimson velvet. The black jacket followed, and under the jacket was a body of crimson satin. One of her ladies handed her a pair of crimson sleeves, with which she hastily covered her arms: and thus she stood on the black scaffold with the black figures all around her, blood-red from head to foot. Her reasons for adopting so extraordinary a costume must be left to conjecture. It is only certain that it must have been carefully studied, and that the pictorial effect must have been appalling.

The women, whose firmness had hitherto borne the trial, began now to give way; spasmodic sobs bursting from them which they could not check. "Ne criez vous," she said, "j'ay promis pour

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