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.