tion to marry the bigot, ain, to overthrow all Protand plans, to restore the hip, to put the Bible unand to punish all opposers and the Latin ritual. One an was often shouting, he Queen," the loudest of . He was John Edwards, r, whose wife was the sisEdmunds.

die all who wish that the ive long enough to repent iful," said the Protestant nself. He also thought, ws no relationships. Now hall betray the brother to th the gospel." He took his neighbors. Were the Was there danger? said Abel Ellis, who had the latest tidings; "and hear worse. In London the bold preachers, 'You 1, but we have the sword.' -that is the choice left us. f, I could die bravely, if I the world; but when the e's heart are tied to those ." The voice of the altered.

en, one must do something t still and weep over it,' munds. "Die and show ay some, but I've a mind ow mine. For doth it not to go forth, not knowing nd how can we flee, when o leave the country is re

rey entered. It was good nk face, but it seemed ill e man who was following tranger was a priest, well rically dressed. He might nformer, a traitor. "Fear d Harvey; "he is a good ecret reader of the Bible. s Jones, of Wales."

es explained himself. He ected of being a Protestald travel where he chose. ad a little band to some ty. He would like to be

Hear my plan," said Harvey. "I learn that Ireland is not much suspected of heresy, as the queen calls it. Many are running thither, just now, and they are not yet tribulated, for the hunters care not to search where they think there is no game. It wearies the hounds, all for nothing."

"How to get there-that requires faith," said John Edmunds.

The affair was wisely managed, and no lies told. Priest Jones simply took over a few friends with him to Dublin, and the sea-port officials pressed them with no hard questions. Not even was there a rummage of their goods to find the Bibles hidden deep in their packs.

And now we read in "Ware's Annals of Ireland:"

"1554. This year, several of the Protestants of England fled over into Ireland, by reason that Queen Mary began to persecute them for their religion, viz.: John Harvey, Abel Ellis, John Edmunds, and Henry Haugh, all Cheshire men; who, bringing over their goods and chattels, lived in Dublin and became citizens thereof, it not being known wherefore they came hither until Queen Mary's death. These families having one Thomas Jones, a Welshman, a Protestant priest, privately amongst them, who read service and the Scripture to them upon Sundays, and other days, secretly: all this not being discovered until Queen Mary's death."

There were men in Ireland, Archbishop George Brown at their head, who did not take such care to keep secret their plans of reform. They struck openly and hard at the evils of Romanism. Perhaps they did not read their Bibles enough in private, nor depend enough upon God and the power of his

written word. They tried the force of law against the papal errors and practices. By an act of Parliament, the authority of the Pope had been renounced, his supporters were declared to be traitors, convents had been dissolved, and the King of England had been declared the visible head of the Church. Famous images had been destroyed; the statue of the Virgin Mary had been burned, and "St. Patrick's Staff" had been cast into the fire.

Better still, English Bibles were placed in every parish church, and King Edward's liturgy was introduced. A few zealous preachers were making known the gospel. Some altars were removed, and the communion-table set in their place, so that the mass ceased, and the Lord's Supper was celebrated. "If you insist upon the English liturgy," said Dowdal, the primate, "then shall every illiterate fellow read service."

"No," replied the lord-deputy, Saint Leger, "your grace is mistaken; for we have too many illiterate priests among us already, who can neither pronounce the Latin, nor know what it means, any more than the common people that hear them. But when the people hear the litany in English, they and the priest will then understand what they pray for."

"Beware of the clergy's curse," said the angry primate.

"I fear no strange curse," answered Saint Leger, "so long as I have the blessing of that Church which I believe to be the true one."

This liturgy is said to have been the first book printed in Ireland. Its date was 1551, and one mistake was not to print it and the Bible in the Irish language. Truth and worship are of little avail, unless rendered in the common tongue of the people.

The acts of these reformers were discovered before Queen Mary's death. She might have overturned them, had not a card raised a laugh, when a commission was intended to terrify.

PART II.

HOW THE CARD WENT TO IRELAND.

Queen Mary was troubled about the Irish affairs. Heresy had crept into "the isle of the saints." The reform. ers, in her eyes, were deforming the Church. To pray in English was a great sin! To burn images, renounce the Pope, read the Bible, set aside the mass and the altars, and make Protestant laws, were evils that must not be endured. She would send over a special commissioner, to restore the old order of things.

She chose Dr. Henry Cole, dean of St. Paul's, for the business. A very fit man, for he had taken an active part in the burning of Cranmer, and he knew how to apply fire to heretics so as to make it effective. By this time (it was the year 1558) he was able to show a long list of persons who had been punished with death for their heresy, and threaten to make another as long among the Irish, if they did not come meekly back into the Roman fold. Doom was coming with Dr. Cole.

His commission was given to him. He put it nicely into a leathern box, and departed. On his way he rested at Chester, greatly to the delight of the mayor of that city, who called to see him at the inn.

"I'll teach the Irish how to handle our religion," said Dr. Cole, freely and pompously; "St. Patrick did not make cleaner sweep of the serpents of that country, than I shall do of the disturbers. They burned his staff; they shall now find my commission more terrible." Then, taking the tremendous document out of his box, he said: "Here is a commission that shall lash the heretics of Ireland."

The mayor enjoyed the ardent speech, and a sight of the queen's pa per. But the hostess, Elizabeth Edwards, sister of John Edmunds, was not of his temper. Such bigotry and boasting were more than distasteful. She listened in silence, and waited her

he doctor was thus so polite tor, the hostess, Elizabeth, box, took out his commisn its place put in a sheet of h a pack of cards wrapt very knavish card being upLet him beat the Irish with f he likes," she said to heren studied how to entertain so as to keep him from his commission. The next e to the water-side, and the eather serving him, he sailed where he was housed in the in October.

an important message from was the word sent to Lord the governor.

business," thought this , and he at once summoned and required the doctor to re that wise body, and pre

e.

nptness was pleasing to the power was to shine forth athern box. He appeared council, and spoke on this r Majesty, our gracious g solicitous for the happier subjects, especially those g-blessed isle, and devoted e of that holy religion of gracious father, the Pope, lian on earth, hath sent me, orthy servant, to proclaim and ordain such measures, re to restore to Ireland that igion, which hath been by heretics and sectaries, s which are let loose to evour the flock." ear! Long live the queen!"

was the response of certain councilors. "A hearty welcome to the queen's commissioner!"

"These fanatics, deceivers, wicked and abominable men, robbing Ireland of her glory, and fattening on the spoils of the churches-these imagebreakers and haters of the holy mass are rebels and traitors, and I come to repress them, by good laws, if they will receive them, but by just punishments if they resist."

"Ireland wants no persecutors," said one of the bolder men in the council. "If these Protestants are in error, invite them to meet you; and then, if you are able, convince them by argument."

"Argument?" exclaimed the excitable doctor; "here is my argumentthe queen's order and commission. And be sure that I shall use the full extent of the power granted therein to me."

"Let the commission be read," said Lord Fitzwalter, receiving the box from the doctor, and handing it to his secretary.

The box was opened, when nothing appeared, save a pack of cards, with the knave of clubs uppermost!

"What! how is that?" was the general utterance, amid the astonishment and confusion. The governor began to smile. The faces of those who had so heartily welcomed the speech-maker were fiery.

"Well, I know that I had a commission when I left the royal court," said Dr. Cole; "but what has become of it?" That was the perplexing question.

"Let us have another commission," replied the governor; "and, meanwhile, we will shuffle the cards."

Back to London went Dr. Cole, venting his wrath upon the way.

PART III.

WHAT THE CARD DID FOR IRELAND.

On the English coast, in mid-November, was a man waiting for the

storms to lull, and a favorable wind to carry him over to Dublin. We know him by his leathern box, which he guards as if it were full of gold. If he has anything to do with cards, it is only to amuse himself while the waves are growling against him.

Suddenly he hears tidings which disturb him. Queen Mary is dead. The commission, which cost him so much pains to renew, is worthless. He turns back, leaving the sea to its storms, and Ireland to the heretics. His life-work is about done; the new queen will have little use for such a man.

We cross over to Dublin. In the house of John Edmunds is a company of secret Protestants, who scarcely dare to thank God with their lips for His removal of the queen, but they feel it in their hearts. They, too, have laughed over the joke upon Dr. Cole, although Mrs. Ellis has said of the affair, "This is the finger of God." Had they been as superstitious as some of the papists of Dublin, they would have said that

the cards had, by a miracle, crowded out the terrible commission.

In due time the mystery is cleared up by a letter from the sister of John Edmunds, who replies to her: "You saved Ireland from an awful scourge of persecution."

Protestant affairs move on again, in that country, with moderate success. The hidden worshipers of God may come into the light of open day. Thomas Jones may preach the gospel with public boldness. Wiser men follow those who had started the movement for reform.

One day, in later years, if we may credit the tradition, Elizabeth Edwards is surprised by a strange commission from her queen. She is to have her reward. For Lord Fitzwalter has often told the joke of the cards, and found out by whose strategy it had come to pass. He has informed the queen, Elizabeth, and she grants to the good woman of Chester, during her life, a pension of forty pounds a year.

THE Westminster Review for October, contains an article on American literature that will take rank as one of the most amusing criticisms of the English press. It is fortunately constructed like some old blunderbuss, and kicks harder than it shoots. Though aimed across the Atlantic, it recoils most disastrously on British literature. But we refer to it here, only because it gives us the text upon which we would speak. The time has, perhaps, come when the wicked world of literary prejudice and favoritism will hear some words about the man whose name heads this article, which shall be neither apotheosis nor malediction. The pendulum of literary judgment is usually carried as far past the truth, on one side, as the impetus it could get from its variation from the

truth

her side would cover it

oscillations does it rest at last in that

temperate verdict which all history can approve. Twelve years ago the Edinburgh Review said, "Edgar A. Poe was incontestably one of the most worthless persons of whom we have any knowledge in the Republic of letters."

But the Westminster, in its last issue says, "Next to Longfellow, the American poet, most popular in this country, is the erratic and ill-fated Virginian, Edgar A. Poe." Whether it be complimentary to English taste to say that the "most worthless man in the Republic of letters," is the second most popular American poet in England, is a question the decision of which we leave to the Reviews. We quote these sentences only to show the two opposite elevations of the pendulum, and what a

ལམ་ད

bes described

worthless name in the Reetters, and, in fact, he ought the second most popular name in England. His name sounded through the whole nut, from sheer diabolism to y of genius. But it is time e to a somewhat better underhis place in letters, than is ither in the coarse defamaEdinburgh, or the equally anegyric of the Westminster The half-playful couplet of sell Lowell comes nearer the either of the reviewers at

es Poe with his raven, like by Rudge,

of him genius and two-fifths fudge.

llen Poe was born in Baltinuary, 1811. His father, jr., was in the earlier part r a student of the law, but ne an actor, and married an s Elizabeth Arnold. After n the theaters of the prinor six or seven years, they a few weeks of each other, d, leaving their three chil7, Edgar, and Rosalie, in tion. A wealthy merchant, llen, adopted Edgar. In companied Mr. and Mrs. eat Britain, and spent four in a school near London. to this country in 1822, first an academy in Richfterward the university at e. Though always in the scholarship, his habits of grew upon him so rapidly expelled from the unipressed that the Greeks ssistance, he sailed for the urns up at St. Petersburg ss condition, gets money merican minister, and so s own country. He now military academy, but his turned, and in ten months atriculation he was cash

His literary career now commenced, and during the remainder of his life he derived a variable support from his pen.

The sad story of his life, the eclipse into which its promise so swiftly passed, the alienation of friends, the solitude in the heart and madness in the brain, and the closing scene of the dark tragedy in a hospital in Baltimore, arc sufficiently familiar.

One of our best critics calls the stupid biographies, with which common mortals follow the poet to posterity, the "bivoluminous revenge with which dullness at last overtakes genius." Poe has been singularly unfortunate in this regard. In his case, malice seems to join with dullness in having a double revenge upon genius.

It was the

poet's desire that Rufus W. Griswold should be his biographer. His intimate acquaintance with Mr. Poe, his knowledge of the good and bad, the struggles and defeats in his life, fitted Mr. Griswold very eminently to write down such record of that brief and brilliant and sad career, as would, by its justice and generosity, command the assent and respect of the world. But it is little more than disjointed gossip, sensitively alive to every fault, and unappreciative of every higher excellence. The biographer's memory of every time the poet borrowed a few dollars from him is keen and accurate. To the fine impulses of a soul, whose worth is to be measured not by its successes but by its struggles, he is blind as a bat. The date of the poet's intoxications, Mr. Griswold has

"Set in a note-book, learned and conned by

rote."