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Becords of Woman.

For the Ladies' Pearl. MARY-QUEEN OF ENGLAND.

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This princess, commonly distinguished by the just but unamiable cognomen of Bloody Queen Mary,' was the daughter of the cruel and fickle Henry the Eighth. She was born in the year 1515, and ascended the throne of her father on the 3d of August, 1553.

Though of royal and direct descent from the great Henry, she did not reach his throne without a struggle. She was a bigoted Catholic. Her brother, Edward, just deceased, was a Protestant; and, influenced by a desire to save his kingdom from the grasp of the tyrants of Rome, he had bequeathed his crown to Lady Jane Grey. Had the Duke of Northumberland, || the father of Lady Jane, acted with promptitude and despatch, Mary would never have filled the throne of Britain; but, supine in action, and unpopular in character, he wasted the propitious moment of success, and Mary, triumphing over his forces, assumed the reins of government.

The first act of Mary's administration, after liberating those of her adherents who were state prisoners, from the Tower, was the execution of the principal opponents of her ascension to the throne. Next, followed the restoration of all the Catholic bishops to their respective sees, from which they had been ejected by the preceding monarchs. With this act was associated the committal of the gentle Cranmer, and the brave Latimer, to the Tower. As the latter passed Smithfield, on his way to prison, he exclaimed, in the true spirit of an expectant martyr

'Smithfield has long groaned for me.' An act, that stainps infamy on Mary's memory, is the consignment to death of the amiable and lovely Jane Grey, and her equally amiable husband, Guildford Dudley. These noble unfortunates were

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the mere instruments of their aspiring parents, and acted their parts in the brief pageant of royalty that preceded the success of Mary, more as dutiful children than as independent actors. There is no reason to suppose, that of themselves they would ever have disturbed the quiet of the throne; and nothing but a cruel and fiendish jealousy can be assigned as the motive for their execution. Mary signed

their death-warrant on the 8th of February, 1554, and their blood flowed on the 12th of the same month.

Guildford perished first. He desired a closing interview with his accomplished wife. This she wisely refused, fearing it might unfit them both for acting a becoming part in the last sad spectacle of death. She saw him pass through the gate of the Tower, on his way to the scaffold, and her eyes fell on his headless body as the cart rolled back with its bloody burden. Fearing that the youth and beauty of Jane would excite the pity of the populace, they beheaded her within the walls of the Tower. On the scaffold, she said,

'My soul is as pure from trespass against Mary as innocence is from injustice. I only consented to the thing I was forced

into.'

On this cruel execution, the philosophical Macintosh observes

The history of tyranny affords no other example of a female of seventeen, by the command of a female, and a relation, put to death for acquiescence in the commands of a father, sanctioned by the concurrence of all that the kingdom could boast of what was illustrious in nobility, grave in law, or venerable in religion. The example is the more affecting, as it is that of a person who exhibited a matchless union of youth and beauty with genius, with learning, with virtue, with piety; whose affections were so warm, while her passions were so perfectly subdued. It was a death sufficient to honor and dishonor an age.'

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By the advice of that wary but over- || Cardinal, the legate of the apostolic see, reaching politician, Charles the Fifth, of for their readmission within the sacred Spain, Mary received proposals of mar- pale of the church, and for an absolution riage from that emperor's son, Don Phil from the consequences of their offences, lip. These proposals were accepted, and on condition of their proving themselves the marriage resolved on. to be true penitents, by the repeal of all the laws against the Catholic religion and the holy see, passed in the days of their

delusion.

'The intercession having been made by Phillip and Mary, the legate then pronounced the absolution of the Parliament, and the whole realm, from all heresy and schism, and from all judgments and pains for that cause incurred.'

Such was the humiliating scene enacted at the Restoration of England to the See of Rome; a scene that shows the arrogancy of that bloated and power

But the torch of Hymen narrowly escaped being drenched in the blood of civil war. The people of England hated Charles and his son, Phillip; and, in that marriage, they foresaw the establishment of the awful inquisition. A conspiracy was formed, but, before it was fully ripe, it was discovered. Arms were resorted to; success at first attended their great leader, Sir Thomas Wyatt, but the good fortune of Mary ultimately prevailed; the conspirators were defeated, Wyatt beheaded, and peace again prevailed. Phillip, of Spain, landed at Southamp-proud anti-christ, and the craven, crouchton on the 19th of July, 1554, attended ing spirit it inspires in its blinded followers. by a train magnificent and formidable, (To be concluded in our next.) composed of Spanish grandees and BurThe Mother. gundian lords, who were followed by four thousand soldiers.' The marriage was solemnized at Westminster on the 25th of the same month, to the no small dissatisfaction of the people.

Mary had been incessant in her efforts to restore the jurisdiction of Rome to Britain—and, after many preparatory steps, it was formally accomplished on the 29th of November, 1554. We give the reader a description of the scene, from an authentic pen:

'The queen and the king being placed in regal state, in the great hall of the palace, (at Whitehall,) the Pope's legate, (Cardinal Sole,) who was a prince of the blood, as well as of the church, took his seat beside them, at some distance. A

humble supplication of the lords spiritual and temporal, and of the House of Commons, in Parliament assembled, in behalf of the whole realm, was then presented to their majesties, beseeching those royal persons, unpollutted themselves by heresy, to make intercession with the Lord

I

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

One morning, (raw it was, and wet,
A foggy day in Winter time,)
A woman on the road I met,

Not old, tho' something past her prime
Majestic in her person, tall and straight;
And like a Roman matron's was her mien
and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead;

Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred
Such strength, a dignity so fair:

She begged an alms, like one in poor

estate;

looked at her again, nor did my pride

abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke.
'What treasure,' said I, 'do you bear,
Beneath the covert of your cloak,
Protected from the cold, damp air?
She answered, soon as she the question
heard,

A simple burthen, sir; a little singing bird,'

And thus continuing, she said, 'I had a son, who many a day Sailed on the seas; but he is dead; In Denmark he was cast away; And I have travelled weary miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain for me.

The bird and cage they both were his, that I have been afflicted;" and "Though 'Twas my son's bird and neat and trim || he slay me, yet will I trust in him.”

He kept it. Many voyages

This singing bird had gone with him;
When last he sailed, he left the bird be-

hind;

From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.

'He to a fellow lodger's care

Had left it, to be watched and fed,
And pipe its song in safety ;-there
I found it when my son was dead;
And now, God help me for my little wit!
I bear it with me, sir, he took so much de-
light in it.'

THE MOURNING MOTHER COM

FORTED.

Bear with me, while I offer you the testimony of one, who has herself drank deep of the bitter cup of sorrow. Said a mother once, "I did not weep when I saw the spirit of my child departing; nor was my soul overwhelmed, even when told it was gone. I had often shuddered at the contemplation of such a scene; and, when witnessing the sorrows of others, have felt that I could not be sustained myself, under similar circumstances. But how did I limit the Holy One of Israel! True, it was a scene of painful and affecting interest, and unassisted nature might indeed have sunk. But there was One su

premely lovely and glorious, whose kindness cheered the sorrows of that trying hour. I could not doubt the presence of the Saviour, as I stood by that sweet infant's dying pillow. I thought attending angels were there, too. And it was so To one I seemed to hear him say-Take the spirit of that suffering, dying child, fold it gently to thy breast, then plume thy wings, bright seraph, and, before the morning dawn, land it safely on that peaceful shore, where tempests never beat, nor billows roar-it is not meet that it should remain here longer, its frame is feeble, its spirit too tender; I can take better care of it than these parents, with all their tenderness and assiduity. They cannot shield it from harm and sorrow. If spared, it will only be to suffer much and long, and to die at last a painful death. It were better to snap the tender cord of life, to take it gently now, and then all sorrow will be for ever past -it will enter at once into peace. These parents will weep and mourn, it is true, but the sadness of their countenances will make their hearts better. In their affliction they will seek my face, and I will comfort them-and what they know not now, they shall know hereafter.' I followed the spirit of my darling in its upward flight. I imagined its cordial welcome at the gate of the eternal city. saw it enter in, and listened to its first sweet hymn of praise. Heaven, during that hour, seemed but a little way off, and the time seemed short, ere the mother would see her child again.

Who can describe a mother's agony, as she gazes on the countenance of her dying child? To her, though changed, it seems still beautiful. She beholds its gently beaming eyes upraised and fixed, and closing fast in death. Upon its little mouth half open-with soft lip quivering, she gently lays her cheek but no warm breath is felt; she receives no answering kiss. She takes its little hand in her's-but it is cold and damp with the dews of death. She gazes on still, in silence almost breathless. She beholds it at length expire. Its little life goes out like an expiring lamp, or fades away like the evening twilight. There may, indeed, have been no pang in its death-not a sigh even may have disturbed the silence of the scene; but it has gone!-it will return no more!—and that fond maternal heart is relieved. Oh! these are scenes which try the souls of mothers, which shake them to their centre; and the recollections thereof cling around the heart, long after the beloved objects themselves have mouldered into dust. And yet there are consolations even for such an hour. That mother cannot be miserable, who, in the midst of her grief, can look up with confidence to One above, and feel that a Father's hand had smitten; who can look upon her departing child, and feeling that the "Lord hath need of it," can resign it cheerfully to his care; nay, more-sheI may be happy. Bereaved mother, it is your privilege to repose your wounded heart on the bosom of Jesus; to find relief from your sorrows in the fulness of his love. The God of all consolation knows how to administer comfort in the darkest hour of grief. He can touch the secret springs of sorrow. He can cause the bereaved to say-"It is good for me

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During the sad scene which followed, I was still enabled to feel that, beneath me and around me, His strong right arm was thrown; I could not sink with such a prop. I saw, indeed, the dear body

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of my child laid away in the grave, and felt too truly that it would return no more -but the sweet consciousness that angels watch even the sleeping dust, chcered my heart; and I felt, too, that it would rise again. I returned from the funeral solemnitics. No laughing voice was heard, nor light footsteps on the floor, as I entered the deserted nursery. All there was loneliness and sadness. The vacant chair, the untouched toy, the empty crib, were all before me. But I remembered the Saviour had been there. Methought he was there still-I felt that he could sustain. I leaned on his Almighty arm, and was not disappointed.

"Months have passed away since my sweet babe became a peaceful sleeper in the, grave. Time has not healed my wounded heart, nor blunted the keenness of my sorrow. More deeply than ever do I feel that my child is not. But the Gospel is. The Saviour is, and he is the same; a sure refuge in the day of trouble. Here, and only here, and firmly and for ever here, may the bereaved heart repose."

'Earth hath no sorrows which heaven cannot heal.'

The Young Lady.

From the Boston Weekly Magazine.
PROCRASTINATION:
[Concluded from our last.]

BY MRS. J. THAYER.

the same fond affection, as if he had returned laden with riches. A supper, prepared by her hands, was ever ready for him; how, or where procured, he knew not. For a time he imagined, that some kind friend took compassion upon their hapless condition :-but he soon relinquished that idea. He knew the world well enough, to feel assured that few friendships stand the test of poverty, and few charities continue for any length of time. To his questions upon the subject, Harriet would smile and bid him 'take the goods the gods provide.'

'Only look happy, dear Alfred,' she would say, 'as you used to before your foolish Harriet became a burden to you, and trust in Providence, it will not forsake us.'

One evening, returning earlier than usual, he entered their little parlor unperceived by Harriet, whom he found busily at work with her needle, her child playing at her feet, She continued her employment for some time, then rising and talking to her little girl, she said, 'Now, my pet, mother's work is done, and another dollar ensured to us for to-morrow. I must go and prepare father's supper, and baby shall have a kiss from him to make her sleep soundly?'.

Now was the mystery explained; Alfred was now conscious that his daily food for many weeks had been procured by his wife's daily toil. Bitter was the thought, that he, in the full glow of health, possessing talents which, had he not idly wasted them, might have restored his wife to the rank and station which she had sacrificed to ally herself with him and want. Oh! bitter, bitter were his reflections! But of what avail were they?— None! they served but the more to unfit

Scarcely a year had elapsed from the birth of her child, when Harriet found want and sorrow (ever inseparable) fast establishing themselves beneath their dwelling. Money they had none; their credit was becoming low, and Alfred had so long indulged in the habit of procras-him for the path which he had marked tination, that he now found it required more energy than he possessed to apply himself to any occupation, sufficiently to supply the means of supporting his family. He endeavored to write, but his mind, now harrassed by anxiety and vain regret, was not in a state to produce any thing that would warrant a publisher's risking to offer it to the public.

For weeks and months did Alfred in vain endeavor to dispose of the productions of his fevered brain. Each night he returned, care worn and dejected, to his once pleasant home; and each night was welcomed by his devoted wife with

out for himself. One thing he determined, that his wife should no longer labor for his support. He resolved to mortgage their place, and thereby procure subsistence till he should be enabled to find em

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ployment. He broached the subject to Harriet, from whom he met with more opposition than he had expected.

'Mortgage our place!' she exclaimed, our beautiful home, where we have been so happy! where our child was born!Oh! Alfred, do not think of it. Believe me, we are not reduced to such extremities; let that be our last resource. Trust to me, I will supply our table; when I

fail, it will be time enough to think of || be redeemed, and that immediately. mortgaging our place.'

You will supply our table!-yes, Harriet, by the labour of your hands. Think you, it is a very cheering thought, that the wife whom I took from a station of affluence, should toil to supply me with food? I cannot, will not, bear that you should receive hireling's pay to support

me.'

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Why, Alfred, I never heard you talk so foolishly! What difference does it make whether you or I earn the money for our support? Let me do it, till some way offers for you to take the business off my hands; when I will sit in my parlor, and be as much of a fine lady as you please. Do not think of disposing of our dear little cottage.'

Such were his resolves and plans; and, lize them. But his day had passed--his to do him justice, he did his best to reasun of prosperity had set. When its rays availed himself not of its light-he dalwere bright, and illumined his horizon, he lied away the day, which was given him, in useless pursuits, or vain resolves for the future. Now other suns had arisen

other and more persevering aspirants for fame had come forth, and his name was forgotten, or remembered only as one smiles, had he taken the 'tide at its flood.' who might have basked in fortune's Still, he continued his endeavours, with an industry and perseverance that, a short time before, when every tongue was eloquent in the praise of the author of would have ensured his success; now, night after night, he returned home disappointed and despairing. This state of things could not long continue with one constituted like Alfred. One way or another, it must speedily be brought to an issue. The repeated disappointments and mortifications, added to his own self-reproaches, were fast goading him on to madness-he became gloomy and abstracted, and, as if to add the last drop to the cup of anguish he was preparing for his wife, he sought forgetfulness in the wine-cup. Oh, who could tell that devoted wife's feelings, when, rushing forth, as usual, to meet him on his return after a day's absence, her words of welcome were silenced by a coarse jest, learned in the haunts of vice, which, for the first time in his life, he that day had visited. When she looked upon her husband, and knew that he had taken the enemy to his bosom, and placed the seal of Satan on his soul-hope fled from her heart. It had been her consolation in every disap

Poor woman! she plead long and earnestly that their happy home might be spared; but all in vain. Alfred had decided in his own mind to procure money upon the place, which would support them till he should obtain some permanent employment, when, he thought, he could easily redeem it. He had made up his mind to it; and, when once a man has made up his mind to any thing, he generally contrives to conquer his wife's repugnance to the measure, be it ever so great. Alfred was always kind, always affectionate his wife had never received a harsh word from him; still, some how or other, he always managed to have his own way. On the occasion in question, though Harriet was not convinced, she yielded to his persuasions, and signed the deed, which, if not cancelled within a given time, would leave them houseless, homeless. She could not conquer the sad feeling at her heart, when she thought of her child, thus deprived of what, she could not but think, might have been saved. Many, many were the tears it cost her.pointment-when poverty stared them in Alfred, on the contrary, elated by the pos- the face, and anxiety chased the song and session of so much ready money, soon the laugh from her husband's lip, it was became reconciled to the thought, that he her consolation that no stain rested upon had beggared the loved beings dependant his character; that, if fate was against upon him, or dismissed it altogether from them, and misfortune their doom, his soul his mind, by dwelling upon his prospects and intentions for the future. The dread world. This thought had been her comwas pure from the polluting vices of the of want thus taken away, he would, he fort and her stay-now it was gone. Harthought, be able to give himself up to pre-riet was young, she had seen but little of paring an article for the press, which would at once revive his nearly lost literary fame, and open the way to fame, or at least a competence. Yes, Harriet should see that he was not unmindful of her happiness--the cottage should

the world, but she had read much, and thought more; and, even her little experience furnished her with examples of men, who had bartered the fairest prospects, the world's respect, even the sunny smiles of love, for the momentary pleasure

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