mured very faintly, but with smiling love upon his lips, these words: Gertrude, this is fidelity till death!' and expired. On my knees I thanked God for the grace which He had given me to remain faithful to the end." "Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith, She had one meed,—one smile in death, While ev'n as o'er a martyr's grave She knelt on that sad spot, And weeping, bless'd the God who gave Margaret Roper. What weight of duty Lay on a child from such a parent sprung, What virtuous toil to shine with his renown, Has been my thought by day, my dream by night." MALLET. Margaret Roper. BORN 1508. DIED 1544. A FAIR family picture-the fairer in grouping for the deep shadows which form its background-bas been drawn for us by a gifted authoress of recent times, in the "Household of Sir Thomas More." In it there is no imaginary excellence, the artist flatters not himself in perfectioning his subjects: eminently pleasing and graceful as the portraiture is, it possesses a still higher advantage, that of accuracy, for it has been taken from life. Upon the canvas we see, sharp and angular in the sunlight, the large quaint mansion of the Chancellor. It is situated at Chelsea, hard by the river; indeed, the large and beautiful gardens stretch down to the very water's edge. There, looking across the terrace, perched upon the balustrades of which, Juno and Argus, the two favourite peacocks, unfold their burnished glories, is the pavilion, where Erasmus used to sit conversing with his learned and illustrious friend. Those are the windows of the "Academia," shaded by their cool green curtains; glancing within, we find three or four fair maidens bending over their desks, some writing, some reading; all with an air of pleasant earnestness. Then comes the chapel; and there, far above, one may see the observatory, whither royalty itself ofttimes ascends to watch the stars, and discourse upon their nature, and the laws which limit their bright courses, with the sire of that gentle sisterhood, the master of that happy household. Without the limit of the domain, rises, from the embowering shade of majestic trees, many a neighbouring mansion, enriched by every charm wealth and power-perhaps taste also can impart. Further on is the almshouse, guerdon of Sir Thomas More's benevolence; and there the church, in which, upon fasts, festivals, and Sundays, he may be seen, clothed in a white surplice, himself assisting in the celebration of that ritual whose dogmas, however erroneous, the lustre of his conscientious sincerity irradiates, as does the sun's early beam the prismatic colours of the gossamer steeped in dew. Like a series of dissolving views, rises before us scene after scene of that "eventful history." We behold, yonder, upon the bosom of the "cleare shining Thames," barges pass and repass, filled with glittering company. Anon, heralded by a flock of swans, which come breasting the water with their |