path: root/76999-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76999 ***







[Transcriber's note: Odd, inconsistent, and sometimes incorrect,
spellings have been retained as printed.  A Contents has been added
for reader convenience.]





[Illustration: Cover art]



  FRESTON TOWER:


  A TALE OF THE

  Times of Cardinal Wolsey.


  BY THE

  REV. R. COBBOLD, A.M., R.D.,

  Rector of Wortham,

  AUTHOR OF "MARGARET CATCHPOLE," "MARY ANNE WELLINGTON,"
  "ZENON THE MARTYR," ETC.


  WARD, LOCK AND CO.
  LONDON: WARWICK HOUSE, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C.
  NEW YORK: BOND STREET.




  TO

  THE REVEREND JOHN CONNOP,

  IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT
  OF HIS UNSOUGHT AND UNMERITED KINDNESS
  TO
  THE AUTHOR AND HIS FAMILY,
  THIS HISTORICAL

  Record of Piety connected with the County of Suffolk,

  IS WITH UNFEIGNED PLEASURE,

  Dedicated

  AS A MEMORIAL OF FRIENDSHIP,

  BY
  THE AUTHOR.




  Contents

  Preface
  I. Genius
  II. Rivalship
  III. The Greeting
  IV. The Conversation
  V. The Castle and Company
  VI. The Excursion
  VII. The Visit
  VIII. The Event
  IX. College Career
  X. Ellen and Her Suitors
  XI. The Conversation
  XII. The Palace
  XIII. The Reception
  XIV. The Recluse
  XV. The Judgment
  XVI. Judgment Continued
  XVII. St. Ivan's Warning
  XVIII. The Fall of the Palace of Wykes
  XIX. St. Ivan's Funeral
  XX. A Memorable Night
  XXI. The Pain of the Swimmer
  XXII. Wolsey
  XXIII. Changes
  XXIV. Affections
  XXV. The Letter
  XXVI. The Journey
  XXVII. The Interview
  XXVIII. The Marriage Procession
  XXIX. The Marriage Ceremony
  XXX. The Revelation
  XXXI. The Punishment
  XXXII. The Monasteries
  XXXIII. The Reformers
  XXXIV. The Arrest
  XXXV. The Letter
  XXXVI. The Summons
  XXXVII. The Arrival
  XXXVIII. The Departure
  XXXIX. The Change
  XL. The Interview
  XLI. The Argument
  XLII. Enjoyment
  XLIII. Hospitality
  XLIV. The Fall
  XLV. The Courtier
  XLVI. Goldwell Hall
  XLVII. Pride
  XLVIII. The Plot
  XLIX. The Fool
  L. Christmas Day
  LI. The Incendiary
  LII. The Conflagration
  LIII. The Pursuit
  LIV. The Last Visit to the Tower
  LV. The Last Event




[Illustration: Preface headpiece]

PREFACE.

Upon the banks of the beautiful river Orwell has stood for centuries,
and still stands, Freston Tower.  Every sailor belonging to the port
of Ipswich knows it well; every traveller in the county of Suffolk,
who has any love for the tranquil in nature, must have noticed, if he
has sailed from Ipswich to Harwich, this picturesque object towering
above the trees, and looking upon the widest expanse of water which
the river scene affords.

Thousands of conjectures have been formed as to its origin and use.
After many years of promised hope to unravel the mystery, the present
work will afford an entertaining and instructive record of its origin.

It will be found connected with the history of one of the most
learned youths of his age, even with that of the Boy-Bachelor of
Oxford; with the stirring events of the Reformation; with the pride
and downfall of the proudest Chancellor England ever knew, and will
afford a lesson to readers of both sexes of the punishment of
haughtiness, and the reward of true nobility and patience, even in
their present existence.

In sending forth the present edition, the Author is gratified by the
thought that some benefit may arise therefrom to the Hospital in his
native town.

RECTORY, WORTHAM.


[Illustration: Preface tailpiece]




[Illustration: Chapter I headpiece]


FRESTON TOWER.



CHAPTER I.

GENIUS.

Who is that youth walking upon the soft sands of Frestonstrand,
intently meditating upon the contents of an old parchment-covered
book, with silver clasps, which, from their length, proclaim that the
work is one of some considerable size and depth?  He seems to devour
that work; and, if a stranger might judge from his countenance, to be
enjoying, with great relish, the sentiments it contains--for, every
now and then, he soliloquizes in a foreign tongue, as if repeating
with admiration the lines he has been studying.

That book he holds in his hand is the first edition of the greatest
Grecian poet ever printed.  It is the Iliad, printed by Aldus, who
first cast the Greek alphabet in the year 1476.  The book has been
lent him by Lord De Freston, his distant kinsman, and he is on his
way from the ancient town of Gypesswick (now called Ipswich) to
return it to its rightful owner.

Like a true valuer of his treasure, he seems to store up in his mind
the most beautiful passages it contains.  Every now and then he
pauses, and, with his dark eye averted from the book, he scans the
beauty of the scene around him.  He is walking beside one of the
loveliest rivers in England, and at a spot where hill, dale, wood,
and water, under the influence of the bright beams of the rising sun,
exhibit nature in those splendid colors which an early riser only can
appreciate.

That eye, even in its glance across the waves of the river Orwell, is
a most thoughtful one; for it can view all the tracery of nature, and
find a corresponding beauty in the poetical ideas which crowd in upon
his mind.

He has been reading high-sounding words, heroic actions, and exalted
feelings; and his breast is as naturally inspired with the thoughts
of what he has read as his eye is with the view before him.  But
nature is not able to chain down his soul to any terrestrial object,
nor can the charms of scenery engross his attention; for his spirit
seems on fire with enthusiasm, and his eye swells with a conscious
hopefulness in himself, arising out of the question--For what purpose
am I born?

The cap he wears proclaims him but a youth, and the curling locks,
hanging from its sides and sweeping over his face, bespeak a native
gracefulness, which well accords with his intellectual features.
There is a golden tinge upon his brow, and a ruddy, healthy glow upon
his cheek, which says that his occupation as a student has not been
confined to an unhealthy cloister.

He is but a boy, yet there were many men in his day, who, after years
of application, could not retain the memory of what they read with
half the ease of that extraordinary youth.

The fact was, as was afterwards proved, his genius was as
comprehensive as his energies were active, and a spirit was then
stirring in him, a mind in embryo, which, though not confined to the
drudgery of the scholastic routine of study, comprehended at a glance
the value of education, and made him the greatest schoolmaster of his
age.

As the beautiful stream then flowing before him in a sort of endless
wave upon wave, that youth seemed desirous to command as endless a
reputation; for his immortal mind possessed an unslaked thirst to
discern every species of wisdom which either letters, nature,
observation, or reflection could unfold.

Such was the genius of him who then stood upon the banks of the
Orwell, imbibing wisdom with an ambitious desire of distinction which
no future eminence could satisfy.

It was the youthful Wolsey, who, then unknown to fame, was noted by
many of the best spirits of that age and country, as a boy of most
acute intellect, and of an understanding beyond his years.  He had
left his native town early in a beautiful spring morning, to go by
invitation to the castle of Lord De Freston--a nobleman celebrated
for his great learning as well as his benevolent disposition.

The youth had left many friends in the town of Ipswich, who had
encouraged his love of study, by lending him manuscripts and books,
which he could not otherwise have obtained.  Richard Peyvale, one of
the most learned of the portmen of the town, and the compiler of the
'Ipswich Doomsday Book,' had been the first to discover the latent
superiority of his mind; for, in an examination of boys in the Free
Grammar School, the son of Robert Wooly or Wuly so acquitted himself
in classical knowledge as to carry off the great prize given by Sir
Humphrey Wyngfylde, to be presented by the town-clerk, which was done
by Robert Bray, before the bailiffs, governors, and portmen of that
ancient borough.

This was probably one of the spurs to genius.  But Wolsey--the boy
Wolsey--soon discovered so much dross amidst the confined system of
school studies, that he told his father it was no use his sending him
to school, for old Mr. Capon could teach him nothing more.  Hence,
after his twelfth year, he was under no tutors, but formed his own
reading; and was frequently applied to, by many learned men, to solve
difficulties of construction, which to him were very easily accounted
for.

Every classical work then known to the world, and within the reach of
the wealthy, whether from private families or from public libraries,
was obtained for him upon loan; and at one time he had in his own
garret, in the gable-end of his father's house, then dividing the two
great streets in St. Nicholas, leading from Peter's Priory to the
centre of the town, such a catalogue of eminent books, that had they
been his own, he would have thought himself the wealthiest man in the
land.

The names of Homer, Sophocles, Thucydides, Euripides, Xenophon,
Plato, Horace, Cicero, Plautus, Pliny, Tibullus, together with the
Scriptures, were familiar to him; and he was so great a man in his
boyhood, as far as classical comprehension went, that he scarcely at
any after-period of his life had to study these writings again.

It was not to be wondered at, then, that a boy with such precocity of
intellect--such a handsome youth too as he really was--should be
noticed by the richer and more independent portion of the community.

Lord De Freston had married a niece of the elder Daundy, one of the
wealthiest and most enlightened of the inhabitants of Ipswich, and
had, therefore, become connected with the female branch of Wolsey's
family, for Joan, his mother, was sister to Edmund Daundy.  He was a
very early patron of the young student; and took such interest in his
cousin, as he called him, as laid the foundation of his greatness in
after life, though the youth's pride had well nigh lost him his
friendship.

But there he stood upon the Freston shore, and caught the sound of
the early matin bell, which came pealing from the opposite bank of
the river, from the Priory of Alneshborne.  The sound of the bell,
and the mood in which the youth then stood, accorded well with each
other.  The former called the monks to prayer, and in some measure
roused Wolsey from the reverie, and made him think of time.  He
looked intently along the bright gleaming waves of the Orwell to see
if he could not discover some object which ought to interest his
attention.

De Freston's lofty turrets were in view, peering over the spring
foliage, just breaking forth in yellow tints from the oaks of the
park.  The castle shone conspicuously white, as the rays of the
gloriously rising sun struck upon its walls.  All nature seemed
alive.  The rooks were taking their flights for the distant marshes;
the cuckoo's note saluted the early morn; and so bright and clear was
the sky, that even the lark rose joyfully, carolling with his lively
note, as if going to seek a purer clime than could be found on this
earth.

Had not ambition inflated his breast, Wolsey would have enjoyed to
the full the exquisite scene of that April morn.  But ambition had so
fired his genius that even the lovely river then flowing before him,
the light of the heavens, the birds of the air chaunting their
praises, and the monks at their matin prayers, had no charms for him.
Not even the consciousness of classical knowledge could just then
satisfy his mind; for he had received an indirect promise from Lord
De Freston that he should go to Oxford, and such a vision of future
glory had opened before him, that even his native town, with all the
cordial friends it contained, were completely thrown into the
back-ground.

Ambition is a syren who deprives of rest those who are once charmed
by her voice; and when she prompts to grandeur, and all the
imaginative self-consequences of a great name, fame, and power, there
are no cruelties through which she will not urge her victims, and,
like fabled deities of the heathen, cover them with her mantle or
cloud of invisibility.

Moral reflection founded upon the only motive worthy of exertion, the
good of others, is a very distant object in the aspirations of a vain
man.  Destroy selfishness, and all that is laudable, honorable,
great, and worthy in the human character will then shine forth, and
whether present success shall attend it, or future generations
celebrate its worth, it cannot be destroyed by disappointment, since
the serenity of equanimity is the same, whether the individual be
humbled by the praises of men, or exalted by their persecutions.

Selfish ambition, however plausible or deluding, cannot bear, with an
equal mind, the frowns of adversity.  Success forms the criterion of
its own excellence; and it can no more enjoy the quietude of
retirement, than a famous actor can relish the coldness of his
audience.




CHAPTER II.

RIVALSHIP.

The young student was evidently expecting to see something upon the
waves of the Orwell more attractive than even the book in his hand,
or the scenery before him; for, as the matin bell of the priory came
pealing over the waters from the opposite shore, the warder's horn
from De Freston's castle was heard to blow.  The signal appeared to
be well understood by the youth, who immediately began to close his
thick and heavy tome, and to adjust the silver hooks of the clasps
into their sockets.

His eye was turned towards the bend of the river, round which, close
under the dipping boughs of the old chestnut trees, a boat, impelled
by four stout rowers, was making progress against the wind, but with
the tide in their favor.  The sparkling waters which dashed from the
head of the skiff, as the oars struck the waves, glittered with
scarcely more lustre than did the eye of the youth, whilst he
surveyed the expected comers, and awaited their approach.

He stood upon a ledge, or very ancient hardway, called John of
Wiltshire's Gap, nearly opposite to the great gate of his Wherstead
domain, which domain was forfeited to the crown after the
decapitation of that ill-fated nobleman.

The scholar was as well known to the rowers as they were to him, for
it was often their privilege to meet him by their lord's orders, at
the very spot where he then stood.  No sooner did they see him than
they redoubled their efforts, and soon brought their boat to ground
with the usual salutation of 'Ready, Master! ready!' as they
respectfully rose to make way for him to go astern.

There must have been something remarkably captivating and even
commanding in the manners of the youth at that early age; for, not
only was he noted for his scholastic acquirements by the sober,
grave, learned, and wise, but the sailors of the port, who
occasionally rowed him upon his native stream, whilst he was deeply
engaged in skimming over the pages of his book, would delight to
rouse him from his reverie, on purpose to hear his conversation and
remarks.  He took peculiar delight in boarding the foreign vessels
which came into the port, with cargoes consigned to his uncle Daundy;
and often acted as interpreter whilst he amused himself with trying
the brains of the Flemish, Dutch, French, or Norwegian seamen.

The boat's crew hailed him with pleasure, for they looked upon him
not only as the favored guest of their master, Lord De Freston, but
they knew that he was the peculiar favorite of Ellen De Freston,
their master's graceful daughter.

Thomas Wolsey had received an especial message to breakfast with Lord
De Freston, and to meet his Lordship's cousin, William Latimer, then
a learned student at the University of Oxford.  It had been part of
Lord De Freston's promise that he should return to Oxford with
Latimer, if Wolsey's father, and his fond mother Joan, could part
with him, their only child.  At all events, he was to be introduced
to his future friend; and the nobleman had promised, that both he and
his daughter Ellen should use all their influence with his friends,
that very day, to obtain permission for him to go to the University.

Bright beams of future glory illumined the mind of the youth, as he
took his station in the boat, and became a little more abstracted and
thoughtful, and less communicative with his rough acquaintances than
was his wont.  They dropped their oars in silence, on gaining no
reply from their usually animated scholar, and were all of opinion
that they had never beheld him so little like himself as at that
moment.  At almost any other time, and under any other circumstances,
a thousand questions would have been asked, and as many remarks made
upon their costume, their boat, their lord, their lady, the wind, the
weather, the wave, the tide, the monks of Alneshborne, and their
father confessor.

But Wolsey was now silent.  He watched the waters curling past the
boat, as if he were making a calculation of the tide by the number of
successive waves that passed him.

As he did not give a single word to the men (and no men are more
inquisitive than sailors), they could not endure his silence.

'How now, my master, you heave us no log to-day, though we deserve
your smile perhaps more this morning than any other.  What's the
matter, master?  You seem to have cast anchor upon a dull shore, and
are as mournful as if your vessel had gone to wreck upon the rocks.
A-hoy, master! tip us a stave.'

But deep thought seemed to chain the scholar's mind, as the frost
would bind up the river in the darkest days of winter.  Yet his brow
was smooth and calm as ice without a fall of snow.  There was no
ruffle upon it, but a fixed and settled tone of thought that seemed
to say he was immoveable.  He did not speak, and yet he altered his
position, and cast his eyes wistfully upon the turrets of the castle
as they came in view of the venerated walls.  'Ay, master, 'tis a
fine old building, is it not?  I should like to see your young honor,
or your worship, or your reverence, comfortably hauled up there, high
and dry: 'tis a friendly port, master, and comfortable quarters
thereabouts.'

It was not until they came full in view of the green slanting lawn
which came down to the water's edge, directly in front of the castle,
and the young man's eye caught eight of three figures standing upon
the very edge of the landing-place, that his features lightened up
with expression:

'Who is the third person standing with your master and his daughter?'
he asked.

'He's alive now, Jack, I'll warrant!' archly observed one of the
rowers.

'And so he may well be,' said the other; 'a little rivalry will do
the young scholar good.  He has so long had his own way, that perhaps
he might think no vessel could sail as well as his own.'

'That's my young mistress's cousin,' replied the man, 'and I hear,
master, he's all at sea, like yourself.'

'What do you mean, my man?'

'Mean, sir? why, that he's as clever a chap as you are; that the
broad sea of knowledge is as well explored by him as it is by you,
and that he can talk to our young mistress in as elegant and
entertaining a manner as yourself.'

There are some words which, from their homeliness, may do more to
rouse the spirit within a man than all the classical beauties which
he had studied in his youth; and at that moment these words, from a
common sailor, proved to Wolsey that even men of few words, and no
letters, can form no mean idea of intellectual pleasure.

He was effectually roused, for, till then, he certainly had no
conception of a rival in letters with any living man he had yet met.
He had found none to appreciate his talents so purely, so highly, and
so encouragingly, as Lord De Freston and his daughter; and it might
be truly said, that none could do so better than that learned and
elegant scholar whose life had been devoted to study from his youth.

He had married the niece of the wealthiest Commoner in the land, and
married her not for her property, since he was himself the owner of
vast estates on the banks of the Orwell, as well as in the vale of
Worcester.  He had espoused the niece of Edmund Daundy, M.P. for
Ipswich, and the most extensive merchant in that port.

His lady, with whom, for the first six years of their married state,
he had lived in harmony and happiness, was taken from him at that
most anxious period when she had just given birth to a son and heir.
Infant and mother died, leaving him one bright companion, the image
of her mother, and in qualities of mind and heart superior even in
childhood to most of her sex.

Lord De Freston had thus become very early engrossed by the education
and training of his affectionate daughter, and such was the delight
he took in her, and so well were his parental anxieties repaid by the
capacity, diligence, and sense of duty of his child, that years had
imperceptibly fled away, until he found her growing more and more
upon his affections.

He now made her his companion, not only in his studies, but in all
his worldly affairs.  She was, indeed, the admiration of all who knew
her, and had such a powerful mind, such a cultivated taste for
literature and for all the elegant arts, then in their progressive
rise in this country, that Ellen De Freston was as famed upon the
banks of the Orwell as Madame de Stael, or Madame d'Arblay, in
after-days for their precocious powers.  Hers, however, were of a
different stamp, of a far deeper kind; and mind in that maiden might
be said to have a texture so pure, that it gave unwonted charm to a
face almost as beautiful as her intellect.

Young Wolsey, about her own age, was so attracted by these wonderful
qualities, that it is not to be wondered at, that he should feel an
interest in the only being he ever saw calculated to inspire him with
the hope of excelling for the sake of pleasing her.  Such was the
delight he took in her society, and such her pure pleasure in his,
that distant relatives as they were, Lord De Freston looked upon them
as brother and sister; and neither he nor his daughter had the
slightest idea of their young friend ever imbibing any deeper feeling
than the love of literature, and the joy of sharing its pleasures.

So fondly wedded in mind to this counterpart of his existence had he
imperceptibly become, that half the cherished elegancies of Grecian
and Roman literature had been treasured in his heart on purpose that
he might breathe their euphonious harmonies in the ear of his cousin
Ellen.  She, too, was ambitious of convincing Wolsey that she
appreciated his talents, but she never had a dream of his aspiring to
any nearer intimacy with her than a classical interchange of thought.

It was not to be wondered at, however, that in that early stage of
their acquaintance, the youth at fourteen should be sensible to the
personal as well as intellectual attractions of such a being as the
heiress of De Freston.  No feeling of his youth or of his life was
ever purer than that which he then entertained towards his benefactor
and his friend.  It was like the brightest beam of light gleaming
upon the path of youth, when that refined sentiment of soul burst
upon him.  It was like the morning clouds, tinged with the prospect
of the rising sun, and proclaiming the approach of a lovely day.

He gazed at the stair as the boat approached the spot where Ellen De
Freston, between the tall and portly figure of her father and the
slender frame of William Latimer, stood awaiting his arrival.

There was some sensation of pain which stole over his proud spirit at
that moment, as he looked at the young man's figure, and beheld his
favorite, Ellen, resting her arm upon that of the scholar.

'Shall I,' he asked himself, 'shall I, indeed, meet a rival!  Oh! if
our merits be but weighed in the balance by the weights of future
attainments, either in science, knowledge, industry, or application,
I fear not the issue.'

It was a bold thought--the indication of a noble mind, though a
feeling of rivalship might at the moment create a pang of jealousy.
The man who feels all honor, and endeavors to prove himself worthy of
the favorable regard of any one whom he loves, and to whom he
attaches the idea of being able to reward his exertions, is a worthy
competitor to enter the lists of love.  The noblest souls in
existence must breathe with such hope, and their exertions and
attainments, their talents and their virtues, must form a bright
beacon to guide their onward course.

The only drawback is, that all mortal rewards, be they what they may,
are not enduring, and therefore fall short of satisfaction.

  'As when the eastern sky is tinged
  With clouds transparent, golden fring'd.
          Bespeaks the coming sun:
  So love anticipates a ray,
  Bright as the orb's arising day,
          Before his course is run.'




CHAPTER III.

THE GREETING.

A merry laugh and cheerful greeting saluted the ear of Wolsey as he
stepped from the boat to the stairs, and received the cordial welcome
of De Freston.

'How is our uncle Daundy?  He is a loyal subject to his Majesty, and
as friendly a supporter of the rights of the inhabitants of Ipswich
as any man who lived before him.  How fares your father, and your
good and estimable mother?  Thomas, let me introduce you to my cousin
Latimer.  There is so much wisdom in your young brains, that you must
be akin to each other at Oxford, if not related by blood.'

The scholars bowed, and each could discern in the ease of the other,
that there was more within worth knowing than any external qualities.
They had never met before; but each had, through De Freston, obtained
considerable knowledge of the character of the other.

Latimer was five years older than Wolsey, and already possessed the
advantages of an Oxford school-training, and a university
scholarship; so that, though he had heard much from Ellen and her
father of young Wolsey's attainments, and, though he knew them
capable of forming a good judgment, nevertheless he could not avoid
feeling himself superior to his new friend, which Wolsey, from having
attained a conscious superiority over every one with whom he had yet
conversed upon classical subjects, was not in the least disposed to
allow.  He was desirous to meet Latimer, as much to measure himself
by him, and judge of his chance of future acquirements, as to see one
of whom he had heard so much, and who was a relative of the noble
lord, his patron and friend.

'I am glad to meet you, Master Latimer,' he said, with the ease and
importance of a man of years and station; 'it has unfortunately
happened hitherto that, in your various visits to your relatives in
this country, it has never been my lot to enjoy one hour of
conversation with you.  The Lady Ellen can tell you with what avidity
I have read your letters, and indulged with her in those descriptive
powers which you have so ably used upon the subject of this Tower.  I
hope you have already found that neither your elaborate plan of
architectural beauty, nor your advice concerning the periods of
studious regularity, have been neglected.  Many have been the hours
of improvement which have been permitted me in the society of these,
our mutual friends--varied, indeed, according to your express
instructions, and I can truly add, never tediously employed.'

There was something so manly, so easy, so unaffected, and yet so
convincing in this youth's manner of address, that, in a moment,
young Latimer was convinced that he had no common character to deal
with.  The thought of superiority vanished, and he found himself
compelled, by the unexpected dignity and simplicity of the speech he
had heard, to reply instanter upon terms of equality.

'My loss has equalled yours, but I will hope that, from this day
forward, we may become better acquainted, and have more frequent
opportunities of exchanging our opinions upon those classical
subjects which are at this time beginning to circulate more freely
among the nations of Europe.  I see you have been reading the first
printed edition of Homer, which I had the gratification of forwarding
to Lord De Freston, and I am glad to see it in such hands, for I
understand you can appreciate the beauties of the poet in every
passage.  I long to have some hours' conversation with you.  My fair
cousin has had the privilege of hearing you read the whole of the
"Iliad," and she has greatly excited my curiosity concerning you.
The Tower is complete, and both Lord De Freston and Ellen tell me
that the place I proposed for acquiring knowledge is so good a one,
as to make each day, nay, each hour, so devoted, of incalculable
profit.'

'You must come with us, Thomas, to the Tower, at once,' laid Lord De
Freston's daughter; 'I have ordered breakfast in my favorite room,
and I shall confine you all, the greater portion of this day, for the
indulgence of your conversation.  I have often had each of you as my
companion through the successive gradations of my ascending steps of
knowledge.  To-day you must permit me to be a listener to both.  I
greet you, therefore, as my guests in the library, and if you will
only pursue the thread of your discourse upon ancient minstrelsy, I
will be as unwearied as Penelope, and, I am sure, far more happy.'

'You do me great honor, Ellen.  I can never refuse any of your
requests, and one so agreeable as this it would be a punishment to be
excused.'

'On with you then, young people! on, to the Tower!' exclaimed her
father.  And without more ceremony, whilst De Freston remained behind
to give some charge to his boatmen, the young people bent their way
towards a lofty tower, embosomed in the trees of the park, but
commanding such scenes of the river and its banks, as, even now, in
the nineteenth century, could not fail to create admiration.

The Tower still stands, apparently in the pride of beauty, looking
over the waves of the Orwell; and the author has ascended to its
summit, and indulged, years long gone by, in thoughts which now find
their way into these pages.

Freston Tower was first designed by William Latimer, whence it was,
for many years, called by the name of '_Latimer's Tower_.' It was
built by the Lord De Freston, his kinsman, who was related to the
unfortunate William de la Pole, who took his final leave of his
Suffolk friends at this spot, before he was beheaded upon the broad
sea.

The converse of the party, as they went towards the Tower, touched
upon this point, and, singularly enough, was introduced by Wolsey, as
an example of ill-fated ambition.

'My father tells me that it was from this place that William de la
Pole, the first Duke of Suffolk, took his departure thirty years ago.
What an ambitious family has that been, and how soon do the rewards
of iniquity fall upon the wicked!'

'My grandfather,' replied Ellen, 'was the last friend that met him at
Ipswich, and brought him on his way to our castle.  The vessel which
was to bear him into exile could not get higher up the river than the
channel opposite the priory, and from this spot my father's barge
carried him on board his foreign ship.  Alas! he soon heard of his
destruction!'

'And must wo not own, fair Ellen, that the retributive hand of
justice was here displayed against the murderer of the good Humphrey,
Duke of Gloucester?  No sooner is de la Pole beyond the precincts of
his native power, than he finds he cannot escape.  Oh! that
Gloucester's friends had prevailed to keep the Parliament in the
metropolis, and this blot upon the escutcheon of the Duke of Suffolk
would never have been seen.'

'Say, rather, Latimer, that it would have been well for the merchant
of Ravenspurn to have kept to his northern port, at the mouth of the
Humber, or have come no further south than Hull, than to have
purchased lands, title, and fame, to fall by such a foul and fiendish
crime, and to finish his right of nobility in England!'

'I do not hold with thee, Wolsey, in such a doctrine, that man is
never to aspire to lift himself beyond the mud.  The mouth of the
Humber may give birth to as noble blood as the banks of the Orwell;
and, if I mistake not thy spirit, thou wouldst bid fair to be a
candidate for nobility.'

'It should not be my wealth that should entitle me thereto.  The
king's favour should be purchased with wisdom, not with gold.'

'Yet wisdom brings gold as naturally as that folly wastes it.'

'Ay! but it wastes faster than it is attained.  But here we are at
the Tower.'

'Come, then, in to breakfast; I see Lord de Freston coming; let us
drop the subject of the de la Poles: it always carries with it a pang
to my father's heart.'

The party then stood before the celebrated Tower, the construction of
which arose from an accidental conversation between De Freston and
Latimer, two years previous.  The latter had seen the uncommon genius
and application of Ellen to study, and had remarked to her father
that, if her studies were not diversified, she would lose the
sprightliness and vivacity of youth, and forget quickly what she had
learnt with difficulty.

'The way to retain anything is to let an impression of it remain upon
the brain.  Overstrained toil does but enfeeble the body, as
overstrained application to any mental pursuit will assuredly one day
create disgust.  It will actually impair the powers of perception;
and men who, at one time, have been the most intellectual students,
find themselves overpowered by not being able to diversify their
occupation.  Besides,' added Latimer, 'I have found the body sicken,
the brain turn dizzy, and the whole man enfeebled by too much
application to one subject of thought.  Hands were given us for
manual labor, and our feet for bodily exercise, so that our frame may
be preserved in health.  Therefore, I say, diversify the occupation
of your daughter's time and mind; and body and soul will be
benefited.'

'Ah!' replied De Freston, 'the theory is good, but how is it to be
done?  It is now that I feel myself a widower, when my faithful
child, rising into womanhood, requires the matronly guidance of a
mother.  If you could project a plan likely to be successful in its
operation, you would indeed add a charm to my existence I could not
easily repay.'

'I can fully imagine your anxiety; and, had I a daughter, at your
time of life, and with your means at hand, I would follow the very
plan I now propose.'

'What is it, cousin Latimer?  What is it?'

'Simply this: I would build a tower in the liveliest spot of my
domain.  Every room of that tower should command an extensive view of
the beautiful scenery around me, and I would dedicate each to a
different occupation.  Each should claim a separate hour for the work
to be performed, and the higher story should possess the greatest
charm; so that neither the hands nor the head of my child should be
weary.'

'Well said! young philosopher.  Let me hear your proposition more
minutely laid down.  I can imagine the utility, and see much good in
your proposal.  I will carry it out if you can satisfy my daughter as
well as myself of the probability of its having a beneficial
tendency.'

'To your daughter, then, as well as to yourself, will I unfold my
scheme.'

It was agreed that the young man should write down his plan, and
submit it to De Freston and Ellen on the following day.

This was most gallantly and ably done by young Latimer in the
following poetical lines, which were presented to De Freston after
the evening's meal:


  De Freston's Tower.

  Let not thy daughter's mind be fix'd
  On learning only, but be mix'd
    With arts and studies light:
  And let her progress be to rise,
  Through woman's duties to be wise.
    She will thy care requite.

  Nor let her in a cloistered cell,
  Like monks and friars dully dwell,
    Deprived of Nature's face.
  Let life and liberty be seen,
  With health and energy, to glean
    Whate'er has virtue's grace.

  The mind is useless, if the hand,
  No occupation can command,
    To ease the learning gained;
  The eye grows dim o'er books alone
  And dull and heavy in its tone,
    If once 'tis overstrained.

  Had I a daughter, I would try
  To give of learning such supply
    As other works should crown:
  I'd build a tower six stories there.
  With rooms ascending by the stair,
    Each one with purpose known.

  I'd choose a spot, whence far and wide
  Yon lovely river in its pride
    Glides gracefully along;
  Where every room which higher rose,
  A scene extended should disclose,
    Fit theme for poet's song.

  The basement story on the ground,
  Should be with benches fitted round,
    And wide the porch and door,
  That here my daughter every morn,
  Should know the wants of the lowly born,
    And listen to the poor.

  The story next I'd dedicate
  To works of industry, of late
      Becoming females bland:
  To needlework or tapestry,
  Her active fingers should apply.
      Taught by some Flemish hand.

  The story next--to music's sway
  I should devote, that she might play
      On lute or lyre with skill:
  Her voice accompanied should sound,
  Enchanting through the groves around,
      And make all nature thrill.

  My next to art of painting raised,
  Should be with lightest windows glased.
      A studio bright and clear:
  The tints of nature should be seen,
  Landscapes and figures intervene,
      Alternate studies here.

  My next should be with books supplied,
  And writing instruments beside,
      With learning's aids at hand:
  This study should devoted be,
  To learning's richest treasury
      All other rooms command.

  My last and highest should be given
  To contemplate the stars of heaven,
      And study their design:
  Astronomy should here unfold
  Worlds upon worlds, whose works untold
      No mortal can define.

  And here sometimes at night I'd be,
  To let my daughter clearly see,
      How works of wisdom shine:
  The fires above her soul should charm,
  As fires below our bodies warm,
      That we may not repine.


So gratified was fair Ellen with this poetical device, that she
scarcely closed her eyes that night for thinking of the spot, and of
the kind of ornamental tower which should be raised for such a
purpose.  The next day, the site was fixed upon by Lord De Freston
and his daughter; and Latimer promised to make plans of the
dimensions of the rooms, and drawings of the elevation.  How
beautifully the works were completed even the lapse of so many
centuries has not failed to prove.  Workmen were soon engaged,
Daundy's ships brought the Caen stone for ornamental copings, and the
bricks from Ipswich were soon laid, and a tower, according in every
respect with the plan of the projector, was erected.

It was before this building that the party then stood, and not until
the previous day had Latimer beheld his fair project carried into
execution.  He had, from time to time, visited the work, and had
corresponded with Lord De Freston and his cousin Ellen, concerning
its completion.  This, however, was his first visit since the
graceful tower had been opened, and dedicated to the purpose for
which it had been projected.  Ellen, indeed, had occupied the
different rooms as dedicated to her pursuits.

The lower room, to charity, from 7 to 8 o'clock.

The second, to working tapestry, from 9 to 10.

The third, to music, from 10 to noon.

The fourth, to painting, from 12 to 1.

The fifth, to literature, from 1 to 2.

The sixth, to astronomy, at even.

There was a turret from this last chamber upon which the only
instruments then used in descrying and describing the stars were
often fixed, when the evenings were such as would allow an
observation, from the leads of the building, of the illumined sky.
They arrived at the foot of the Tower, where awaiting their approach
numerous applicants for the bounty of the Lord De Freston were
sitting upon the benches around.  A kind word Ellen had for all, a
gracious greeting she gave them, and after distributing various
donations, and making suitable inquiries, she dismissed them, one by
one, to their respective homes, through the different paths across
the park.

Ellen welcomed her visitors, and followed them up the winding
staircase into the first apartment.  She would not allow them to stop
and admire the handy work she was then engaged in, namely, a piece of
tapestry for Lord De Freston, representing the death of Harold, at
Battle.  Neither would she pause to indulge them that day with the
sound of her harp, though there it stood, and before her some of the
Welsh lays then so celebrated among minstrels.  Neither would she
permit them to waste time upon the beautiful scenery from her
painting-room, though the bay-window from this height gave exquisite
views for the lover of the picturesque.

Breakfast was set out in the room of literature, and thither she
hurried them, determined that she would pass over the usual routine
of her every-day engagements to gratify her mind with the
conversation of her two intellectual friends.

'I have but a short day for your company, as my father has determined
to go to Ipswich upon the business so interesting to you, Thomas
Wolsey, and we must all accompany him this afternoon.  Let us, then,
lose no time in thinking about the progress I have made, but let your
conversation be concerning those things by which you are surrounded.'

Handsome shelves, containing costly manuscripts and volumes of such
works as were then printed, graced the sides of the room, and the
only vacant places were the angular spaces between the windows.

Breakfast was placed upon a small table in the bay-window, and
consisted of such plain fare as milk, eggs and butter, with a few
preserves, which were the supplies for the table in that early day.
It is true that the serving-men in the lord's hall had more
substantial feast, for cold venison and boar's-head with large
quarters of pork, were consumed upon broad wooden plates, and not a
few of those plates were seen upon the long tables in the hall, so
large was this nobleman's domestic establishment.




CHAPTER IV.

THE CONVERSATION.

It would be something strange in these days to find man's tongue,
through fear, prevented from discoursing upon any subject, political,
physical, or religious.  Men are so enlightened, and civil and
religious freedom are so strongly established in this kingdom, that
no one is afraid of investigating any subject.  Truth does not
require any power but that of God to support it, and having his, it
will predominate unto the end, through all discouragements and
persecutions.  The man who loves his kind will stand the least in awe
of death, or of any consequences whatever arising from that position
in which his faith in God may place him.  But the men, in our day,
who do not look deeply into times gone by, can scarcely conceive the
terrors into which men were driven in those days when Freston Tower
was first inhabited.

Throughout the length and breadth of England, in the years 1484 and
1485, awful divisions were created by the dissensions of the houses
of York and Lancaster.  Men scarcely trusted each other with open
declarations of loyalty, or with their equally prevalent hatred of
King Richard III.  Nor were they much less happy in their feelings
concerning their religion.  The absolute power of the Pope had begun
to be called in question.  Wickliffe's Bible was doing its work, and
Caxton's press began to disseminate the light of truth amidst
inquiring minds.

Yet, upon the subject of religion, faith and practice seemed to be at
a most appalling distance from each other; and men did not like to
speak before strangers, even of the God who made them, for fear of
incurring the threatened censures of the Papal Hierarchy.

It was a singular thing that politics and religion should chance to
be the first subjects discoursed upon by the young men, then
partaking of their earliest meal in the library of Ellen De Freston.
This conversation arose from the circumstance of De Freston having
received a curious edition of Æsop's Fables.

'I have a curiosity to show you here, young men,' said De Freston;
and he took down from a shelf over the entrance-door, a volume,
having the royal arms engraved, or rather worked, upon the inside of
the cover.  'You are learned, Master Latimer--can you decypher the
character?'

'Ha; I perceive,' replied the youth, 'this is a book I should have
thought would never have been sold, at least, not until the death of
her to whom it was given.  It is Edward the Fourth's gift to his
mistress, Jane Shore.  How did you come by it?'

'Lord Latimer, your father's friend, purchased it at the new
bookseller's in Ludgate; and knowing my taste for anything new, or
old, in such works, sent it to me as a present and token of his
esteem.'

'I thought, father,' said Ellen, 'that you told me this wretched
woman was no more; that she died two years since, under the severe
penance inflicted upon her by the order of the Protector.'

'Hush!' said Wolsey, 'hush! call not Richard, the Protector! call him
King, or you will be deemed disloyal.  I would, on purpose to share
your accusation, call him murderer, not protector.'

'You would be a traitor, then, according to your own showing,'
replied Ellen: 'but is not Jane Shore dead?'

'It was reported that she was.  That she did penance is certain; that
the king, in the days of his protectorate, did accuse Hastings of
secretly plotting with this woman, whom he called a wicked witch, to
afflict his person with decrepitude, is equally certain.  But I hear
she is still alive, and that Richard, though he persecuted her so
unmercifully, has pardoned her, and given her in marriage to Thomas
Hymore, who compassionated her sufferings and petitioned for this
mercy.'

'Alas! beauty is a dangerous possession,' added Ellen, 'where the
laws of God reign not in the heart.  I am glad to hear she is a
penitent.  May mercy be with her!'

'This is certainly the signature of Edward.

[Illustration: Edward's signature]

R. E. to J. S. Rex Edvardus, ad J. S.  It is valuable, as the first
book having numbered pages, and a great acquisition this will be to
science.  I sigh, my lord, to think how this country is torn asunder
by faction.  When I last left Worcester, I can assure you men were
there ripe for revolt.  Richard is detested, his vices are so
glaring, and his cruelty so great, that he reminds me more of the
tyrant Domitian than of a Christian king.'

'Christian, indeed!' exclaimed the ardent Wolsey.  'Christian?  He
has murdered three relatives, who stood between him and power, and
could Richmond but be reached, his neck would soon be stretched upon
the block.  I hope he will escape! nay, more, I hope to live to see
the day when he may be King of England.'

'Hush! hush! young spirit,' added De Freston.  'Though we be five
stories from the ground, you would soon be five feet under it, could
Richard gain any knowledge of your language.'

'Yet I assure you,' added Latimer, 'these were things are openly
discussed at Oxford, though each man, since the death of Buckingham,
fears a traitor in his servant.'

'That hateful Banister must be the vilest of the vile.  It was not an
open enemy that betrayed poor Buckingham, but the very man who owed
him suit and service, and pretended to be so grateful for his bounty.
Had I been John Milton, high sheriff of Shropshire, I would have
stabbed the traitor to the heart, who could betray such a confiding
and afflicted master as the generous Buckingham.'

'I little thought,' said De Freston, 'that I should try your loyalty,
young men, by introducing Æsop's Fables to your notice.  I perceive,
however, that your sentiments accord with my own, though I may not
choose to speak out upon so slight an occasion.  I can truly say,
however, may the houses of York and Lancaster unite, and the
divisions of our Christian land be settled.'

This last expression, 'Christian land,' gave rise to a sudden
ejaculation upon the part of Wolsey, which rather surprised his
friends and auditors: but at that day the youth's soul was full of
the love of truth, and he hated most heartily the mummeries of a
religion, which at that period were carried to the very verge of
absurdity.

'Christian land!  Oh! when will peace heal the divisions of this
Christian land?  In nothing will this country be more divided than in
its ideas of the profession of Christianity!'

This was a bold declaration from so young a man, and it surprised
Latimer, for though De Freston and himself entertained the
enlightened views of that period, when men began to look into the
Scriptures for truth, and into their souls for worship, Wolsey had
started at once the expression of an opinion which both had
entertained, but neither had declared.  This led to such an animated
conversation upon the errors and absurdities of the times, the almost
absolute dominion of the Pope, and the terrors of the Inquisition,
that had information been given to the authorities of St. Peter's
Priory, all present might have incurred the penalties of heresy and
conspiracy.

But Ellen De Freston was too well known for the strict piety of her
life, her conformity to all the good usages of the times, and the
enlightened benevolence of her disposition, to be affected by the
breath of slander.  It was not that there were no envious persons in
that day, as in this, who were jealous of her superiority.  There
were individuals who were her equals in station, as well as others
who were her inferiors, who could not brook the praises which were so
freely given by those who were fortunate enough to know her.  She
was, however, happily ignorant of these attacks.

There are, in this day, many maidens who infinitely prefer the
companions of mind to all the dignity of titled wealth and
preponderating influence of station.  But, in that day, outward pomp,
external beauty, high rank, and large estates, exercised an influence
over everything.

It was from no love of making herself conspicuous for singularity,
that Ellen devoted herself to intellectual pursuits.  Her father was
a man of mind, a man of virtue, of a superior intellect, and she had
an hereditary taste for these things.  Permitted to think, and to
express her thoughts, she was treated with deference, and gently
argued with in things which her young mind could not fully
understand, and hence her love of truth, and of searching for the
truth, and obeying its dictates when understood.

Though she seldom discoursed much with her preceptors upon the sacred
volume, yet, with her parent, she would hold long and interesting
communications, which rarely failed to increase their mutual
estimation of each other.

When the subject of religion was introduced by Thomas Wolsey, she
maintained that deferential silence which she thought best adapted to
her position.  Latimer was much pleased with Wolsey's views, and, as
some of the stars of the Reformation were then beginning to shine,
both in England and in foreign countries, the young men entered into
the spirit of the Wickliffites and Hussites with a degree of
toleration, surprising indeed at that day, especially in the
neighborhood of a town so celebrated for its papal institutions and
prevailing bigotry as Ipswich was.

A century before, and this town had an episcopal jurisdiction; but it
had now merged into the See of Norwich, and Goldwell then held his
court in the ancient residence called Wyke's Bishop's Palace.  The
Church looked very closely to her rights, her possessions, and
professions, and almost one-half of the wealth of the kingdom was in
the keeping of ecclesiastics.  Lands, houses, castles, monasteries,
priories, livings, together with estates and jurisdictions, giving
them power over the persons and lives of men, prevailed throughout
the land; all in subjection to the Pope; and though at the close of
the reign of Richard III., the bloody wars between the Houses of York
and Lancaster for a time diverted men's attention from the growing
tyranny of the Hierarchy, yet, when these houses became united,
ecclesiastical sway assumed a frightful temporal power in this
country, and met with consequent detestation.

It is singular that, at this period, Wolsey should have been such an
advocate for the dissemination of truth, who was soon afterwards the
strongest supporter of the dogmas of Rome.  What circumstances were
conducive to this change of mind in one so bold, so brave, so
elegant, and so eloquent, and, at that time, so truthful and so
virtuous, will be presently seen.

It is not intended to give, at full length, the detail of the
conversation then going on in that elevated chamber of Freston Tower.
It may suffice, for the reader's information, to say, that books were
taken down from their shelves, their merits freely and easily
discussed, their beauties expatiated upon, and passages from poets,
historians, and orators, read with spirit, and devoured with that
delight which kindred classical minds only could enjoy.  Latimer and
Wolsey proved themselves worthy of the fame they afterwards
acquired--the former as the Greek tutor of the learned Erasmus, the
latter as the great patron of literature throughout the kingdom,
whose works of art remain to this day to prove the elegance of his
mind, and the profuse liberality of his spirit.

Ellen was delighted; she sat with unmixed pleasure to hear the
scholars dilate upon their subjects.  She found the hours stealing
away quicker than she wished them to do: nor was her peculiar taste
for elegance of diction forgotten, and, in certain points of dispute,
she was called upon to decide which was the most chaste and perfect
translation.

It is strange, but too true, that the most learned men are so jealous
of the laborious stores of knowledge they have obtained, that they
will scarcely ever condescend to communicate them to the female sex,
or to express their knowledge before them; as if they were not to be
the companions of man's mind, as well as of his domestic affairs.  It
is true the world has seen such couples as Andrew Dacier and his
beloved wife, Anne, in a past century, and that it does see, in this
day, a young and most learned lord in this land, famous for the style
of purity in which he writes his ancient and modern histories,
appreciating the elegance of his lady's mind, and enjoying its
cultivation; but in those days it was a rare thing indeed for a
female, and she young, beautiful, and wealthy, to be permitted to
join in those studies which were then considered too exclusively
masculine.

In the mind of Wolsey, at that period, there lived the thought that
such happiness he might one day share more intimately with the
beauteous Ellen.  It was a thought that had taken full possession of
his soul, and he trembled as he avowed it to himself.  He had
ventured to indulge in the suggestions of Hope--that bright morning
star that guides the young mind to distinction, and lightens up even
the darkest caverns of despair, when the barriers of wealth and
station stand between the object and the aspirant.

Wolsey's hope seemed to dawn upon him through the vista of future
years of learned fame, like the sun rising over a most extensive
wilderness; or, it seemed to him, like the light of a distant cottage
which the poor traveller descries in the darkest night, upon some
pathless moor, with which he connects the associations of home and
comfort.

He had these feelings in his soul, and if for a moment they were
diverted to the subjects of future ambition, fame, and glory, they
always seemed to return again to the same point.  Never was he more
anxious to distinguish himself in the eyes of Ellen than at that
period; and it is true that he shone with most uncommon splendor, and
made Latimer confess that he was not only a better scholar than
himself, but that he had a more comprehensive genius.  Both De
Freston and his daughter were proud of their young and learned
acquaintance, and much enjoyed their intellectual conversation.  How
long this might have lasted no one could have told, had not De
Freston broke off the discussion by reminding his daughter of her
engagement to go to Ipswich.

'We must not spend much more time here, Ellen.  Our mid-day repast is
ready in the hall, and if we do not get off in time, we shall hardly
be able to visit our friends.  Come, my child, let us proceed to the
castle.'

A shadow of disappointment passed over the brow of Ellen, but it did
not remain there.  She had taken her share in the discourse, and
would have prolonged it, but that she knew well the wisdom of
obedience to her father's suggestions.  She rose, therefore, and, for
a few moments stood admiring the brilliant scene from her lofty room,
in which she was joined by those enthusiastic lovers of nature.  The
very turn of the conversation upon the broad waves of the Orwell, the
distant hills and woods of the opposite shore, and the moving ships
in the distance, then with clumsy and cumbersome hulls, yet
picturesque enough to enliven the landscape, proved that Latimer was
correct in his view, that deep study should be diversified with
pleasant scenery to make both agreeable.

He rejoiced to see the lively glance which that broad view of the
Orwell called forth from Ellen's countenance.  It played like a
sunbeam through the shade of the grove upon her graceful brow,
ornamented as it was with a profusion of tresses, nature's richest
ornament.  At that moment the old hall bell announced the mid-day
dinner, and the whole party descended to the castle.




CHAPTER V.

THE CASTLE AND COMPANY.

To describe a baron's hall, as in the fifteenth century, with all its
cumbrous materials inside and out, would be, no doubt, very engaging
to the antiquarian reader; and Freston Castle, Freston Hall, or De
Freston's Mansion, as it was at various periods designated, if
minutely described, would fill many a page which the general reader
would be glad to be excused.

Not that it would be otherwise than entertaining, for the Lords of
Freston had each added something to the style of his predecessor, and
there was as great a variety of the Gothic from the year 1111 down to
1485, as could be found in any house in the eastern counties of the
kingdom.  It vied with the ancient castle of Caister in its
castellated front and lofty turrets, its old Norman windows,
loop-holes, and bastions, and, standing as it did upon one of the
most picturesque spots throughout East Anglia, it commanded, in that
day, general admiration.

It was one of those castles which were exempt from the fines to
Peter's Priory, on account of the Lord De Freston having granted a
hide of land on the opposite shore to the then learned priors of
Alneshborne; and hence it was considered extra parochial, and the
church and chapel of De Freston as belonging to the immediate
jurisdiction of John De Freston, who appointed his own ecclesiastic
from among the preachers or prebends of Wykes Ufford, and, after
that, from Gypesswich (Ipswich).

It is 'but justice to the memory of the De Frestons to say they were
good Catholics, not good for their gifts of foolish and vain things,
but for their benevolent offerings for the poor.  Their splendid old
hall, gracing the banks of the Orwell, for several centuries was
remarkable for the liberality displayed within it, not only to the
inhabitants of Freston, Arwarton, Holbrook, Wolverstone,
Chelmondiston, Harkstead, Tattingstone, and Bentley, on the western
side of the river, in which parishes the Lords of De Freston held
estates, but in all parts of Suffolk, Norfolk, and Gloucestershire,
where their property was situated, they had their benevolent houses,
in which the dole of charity was meted out to the surrounding poor.

Their great residences were at Freston and Malvern; for, connected
with the Latimers, they held much sway on the borders of the Malvern
Hills.  Their head-quarters were at Freston Hall, a fortified
mansion, exhibiting traces of decay in some parts of the then
elaborate workmanship of the fourteenth century.  A most noble park
lay around the castle, extending along the beautiful banks of the
river, including many a grand chasse, where deer and game of all
descriptions might be found.

Part of the great tenure by which this property was held free from
the interference of the religious houses in Ipswich, as well as
temporal authorities of the borough, whose power then extended to the
waste marshes upon the borders of the park, was the furnishing of
three fat bucks for the 8th of September, to the borough, on the day
of the election of bailiffs; and, on St. Peter's day, two bucks to
the Abbots of Bury, two to the Prior of St. Peter's, and one to the
Black Canons of Dodness; from all other charges whatsoever the Barony
of De Freston was exempt.

But our party, joyful in the society of each other, bent their way
from the lawn which surrounded the Tower to the broad and open space
before the castle.  So level did the grass at a little distance
appear with the foundation walls of the building, that were it not
for the distinct evidence of the huge drawbridge and portcullis, no
one would imagine that a moat ninety-eight feet wide extended round
the walls.  The building was a square with four towers, the
south-eastern front of which, facing the Orwell, was then in its most
perfect state.  It was only at certain periods, when the distant
dependencies of the barony came to pay suit and service to the Lords
of De Freston, that the other wings of the mansion were inhabited.
They were not suffered to decay; but, as they were not constantly
used, they were only visited occasionally by the lord, who left it to
his household steward to see that all things were kept in order.

'It is a beautiful spot,' said Latimer to Ellen, as they approached
the spacious front of the building, 'and I hope it may never again
see the troubles with which it was visited when the Earl of Leicester
and his Flemings came from Walton Castle, and were opposed by John De
Freston and his troops.  This looks not like a place of slaughter,
Ellen; yet many a brave youth did your ancestors' bowmen send to the
bottom of the waves, before the enemy could effect a landing, or
reach this spacious green sward.  How thankful should we feel that we
can walk in peace free from such terrors; but other parts of the
kingdom are, at this moment, in arms, and the Baron De Freston will,
I fear, have to send his quota of men to the wars of the Roses!'

'Let him keep neutral if he can, say I.  He is out of the reach of
the severity of the contest, unless Richmond should choose Suffolk
for his field of action.  I trust my father's hall will be at peace
as long as his honored head shall be erect!'

'Amen!' added Wolsey.  'This place is too peaceful, too blessed in
its inhabitants, to be disturbed by faction.  It has a charm in my
eye which, I trust, no bloodshed will ever destroy!'

'You are a partial friend, Thomas; but I wish all men felt towards it
and its inhabitants as you do.'

'That do not I,' thought Wolsey, 'unless, indeed, I were the foremost
and most favored of all;' but he only replied, 'I have reason to be
partial, Ellen.'

'Perchance, Thomas, the issue of our interest this day may make you
more partial than ever towards my father and myself, though your gain
must be our loss.'

'Wolsey, will not that be some consolation to you, when in Oxford, to
know my fair cousin here will be daily a loser by your absence?'

The youth blushed, feeling conscious that both his hopes and his
fears might be excited during his residence at the University; but
the color soon disappeared, and he joined in the conversation without
any appearance of embarrassment.

'If Ellen can promise herself the same pleasure in my progress,
neither she nor I can be a loser by my residence at the University,
however prolonged it may be.'

'I assure you, Thomas, I shall take a most lively interest in your
success.'

'He will not fail, Ellen, to be well repaid for his labors, should he
win your approbation.'

'Let him go on as he has begun, and his success will be considered to
form part of the honors attached to the house of De Freston.'

Now, though Ellen, in this speech, meant no more than to convey an
idea of a certain degree of patronage which the House of De Freston
had already exercised in the behalf of the young aspirant for future
fame, yet, upon such a temperament as Wolsey's it produced an
impression not easily to be effaced.  The blood circulated warmly
through his frame as he thought of the possibility of his being able
to bring honor to the house of De Freston, and to be deemed worthy of
the hand (for his ambition had conceived the possibility of such an
accomplishment) of the beautiful and enlightened heiress of De
Freston, the chief happiness of his life.  Wolsey could only bow and
promise to do his best, and repeated that it was one of the greatest
pleasures of his existence to have met with a person who had led him
to the foot of the hill on which the temple of Fame was built, and
was ready to welcome him upon his arrival at the summit.

The party arrived at the drawbridge, where the old warder, with his
battle-axe in hand, as if he were then watching for his safety, or
expecting the arrival of a foe, saluted his master.  He was in his
niche in the side of the right-hand turret of the drawbridge, and
presented his lord with a packet of letters, which had arrived since
he went to the Tower.  These were placed in the pouch or pocket of De
Freston, then worn externally, beneath the belt which bound the
leathern jerkin of the noble, and was wrought with ornamental gold
embroidery, and studded with the head of the bear.  This crest of
that ancient family was adopted in consequence of the reputation of
his ancestor, who arrived with William the Conqueror, for great
personal strength, in expressed in the following motto:

  'Who meets De Freston must beware
  The arms and courage of the bear.'


On the summit of the two towers, at either entrance of the arch
forming the outer and inner gateway of the drawbridge, were the
well-carved colossal figures of a rampant bear, facing each other,
forming a barbarous, but, at that time, very common capital to the
huge square pillars of the gateway; and, in the arms over the old
porch, the bear hugging a foe was said to represent the manner in
which the founder of the family, after having broken his sword,
rushed in upon his enemy, and, seizing him, crushed him in his arms.

At that time, when the barons of England were expected to decide
which rose they would wear, it was almost a disgrace not to have
their castles ornamented in every part with the especial rose--red or
white--which they espoused.  It is singular that a flower should be
the symbol of contention throughout the whole kingdom.  The Lord De
Freston lost nothing of his reputation by commanding his adherents to
espouse neither side.

They reached the Baron's entrance-hall, where Ellen's maid stood in
readiness to receive the mantle and hood of her mistress, and to
await her retirement to her room.  The retainers, in their military
habiliments still, as in war-like days, assembled in rank and file in
the ancestral hall: and every day with their burnished arms, their
broad breast-plates, and high peaked helmets, made their appearance
at the mid-day meal, before the baron or his mareschal.

The utmost regularity prevailed in that mansion, and the absence of
any member of the establishment was observable immediately.  All
raised their right hands to their helmets as De Freston and his
daughter entered.  His archers rested on their bows, his spearmen on
their spears, whilst his boatmen, with the Flemish pea-green jackets
and woollen hose, looked, in their sea-faring dresses, the most
independent among his retainers.  Fifty spearmen, as many archers,
twelve boatmen, grooms of the chambers, and grooms of the stable,
together with domestics, in-door and out, were all assembled in that
spacious, lofty hall; and before they filed off into the great
dining-room, or, as it was then called, the steward's refectory, they
had to make this daily assembling a conspicuous part of their duty.
Every man's name was chalked upon the boards of the house the day of
his coming into his lord's service, and his place and position.  It
was part of the steward's office to call over their names, and
signify the cause of absence to De Freston.  In this manner, before
partaking of their master's meat, every man was inspected, and it
added no little to the pride of the lord, as of pleasure to his
vassal, to be recognised daily for punctuality and cleanliness.

'A man is mighty,' thought Wolsey, as he surveyed the band of
warriors and retinue of servants, 'a man is mighty who can depend
upon himself without these adjuncts!  Yet he who is popular with his
own people, who serve him heart and hand, and without many
protestations but with faithful deeds, must feel strengthened in his
castle.  Should I ever be a lord, I will take pleasure in seeing my
retainers marshalled in this way.  It must add to mutual regard, and
make a man appear to himself of some consequence.'

After a word or two with the officer, De Freston dismissed his
servants, who retired to the great feast daily prepared for them, and
which, with forest rangers, watchers, warders, soldiers, and
serving-men, was always a joyful meeting.  It was then that they were
permitted to arrange themselves around the great log fire, and speak
of the adventures by flood and field any of them had heard, or
manifest their regard for their master's honor; and many a boy
imbibed that feudal loyalty which induced him to devote his life to
his superior.  The iron helmet rang upon the broad stone pavement of
the room, as each soldier threw it off, and exposed to view a manly
countenance, then covered with profuse locks and thick beard, and
took his seat among some of the less encumbered domestics.  Wit, fun,
and frolic, had then their hour, and tales of the stables, of the
river, of the park, the town, the village, the country, and often
tales of love circulated rapidly.

Some would talk of the great doings of the former Barons of De
Freston, the feats of his followers, and the perils they had escaped.
Then was discussed, too, that all-important question with all the
retainers, the settlement of their beloved mistress.

'I have no faith in these learned gentry,' exclaimed a sturdy fellow
of the name of Bigmore, whose fathers had served the Lords De Freston
for many generations.  'I have no faith in these learned gentry for
the lord of my young mistress, though, bless her heart, she is worthy
of the most learned man in the land; though old Joe Jordan, with his
usual long face, declares that there will never be another warrior in
the house of De Freston.'

'So say I now, Hugh--so say I now; and if I do say it, may be, I may
not regret the day I see it, should I see your troop disbanded and
peace and liberty reigning without the help of the sword.  You laugh
at me as a mechanic, as my lord's carpenter; now, to my mind,
building peaceful habitations is far pleasanter than building
castles, towers, or fortifications.  I say now, that the tower of
peace which we have just finished on the banks of the Orwell,
unsuited as it is for attack and defence, will stand longer than many
a baron's castle, and, may be, outlast even the habitation of its
builder.'

'Why true, Master Jordan, it is but a slight concern, and might be
easily battered to pieces.'

'And for that very reason men will not think it worth their while to
attack it.  It is built for my lady's tower.  It is merely for her
pleasure, that she may not be weary in het pursuits of science, and
that no one may interfere therewith.  Warriors as you are, you would
none of you fight against a woman, and therefore will this lady's
tower be respected, aye, should all the warriors be set in battle
array against each other, and the bloody rose meet the pale one in De
Freston's park.'

'Ah, well! methinks, Jordan, thou wouldst have thy mistress marry a
priest.'

'And pray why is not a priest as good a man as a lord?'

'Why?  Because he may not marry!'

This created a laugh among some who were always glad to hear old Joe
Jordan's remarks, though they might not be exactly in accordance with
their own.

'That is their misfortune, not their fault.  I would not be a priest,
to take such a vow.'

'I'll tell thy wife of thee, Master Jordan,' exclaimed Abdil Foley,
one of the journeymen, who happened to be then employed in fitting up
some frames belonging to the tapestry-room in De Freston's Tower.

'And she would thank thee for thy pains, and say, Bachelor Foley, do
thou marry, or else turn thou priest and get thee into the cloister.'

'Abdil, thou hast got an able answer.  Go to and get married.'

'I will when it suits my purpose!'

'Well, friends, here's a health to our young mistress; and may she
marry a nobler lord than her father, if he can be found in the land.
What do you say to that, old Joe?

'I say, as an independent man would say, it may be improved upon.'

'How so?'

'Will you all drink it if I give it you improved?'

All vociferated 'Yes.'

'Well, then, I say, Here's a health to our young mistress and may she
marry the man of her mind.'

'Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!'

'But may that man be a lord!'

'May that be as it may be.  Our lord's a deserving lord.  A good
master, kind friend, upright, learned, wise, independent, generous,
and great; and if all the barons of England were like him, their
nobility would be an ornament to them, and they would be ornaments to
the people; but I say it with no disrespect to our master, God bless
him! there are many lords who visit him not half so good looking, nor
half so knightly, nor half so learned, nor half so well behaved, as
either Masters Latimer or Wolsey, now the guests at his table.'

'Well, which would you have for a master?'

'That is not for me to choose--I could serve either; for they have
both held much converse with me while the tower was building, and I
can perceive both are learned, both are gentlemen.'

'I think she likes young Wolsey,' said one, 'but surely she will
never marry a merchant's son, and the owner of the butcher's shambles
at Ipswich.  My uncle there, John Carrington, is one of his tenants,
and told me that old Wolsey is as strict a master as if he had
nothing else to live upon than the rents of the butcher's shambles.'

'Our lord,' said another, 'did not scruple to marry a merchant's
daughter, though he was a rich one, it is true!  Why, then, should
not his daughter smile upon a merchant's son; and that son such a one
as he is?  Hey, Master Bigmore! this is true logic.'

'I don't understand your logic.  I am for supporting the house of my
master, and not letting it fall.'

It was in such manner that the men of De Freston frequently occupied
that hour of their meals; and let education do what it will, it will
no more prevent the current of observation and reflection in the
kitchen than it will prevent many of those who call themselves most
enlightened religious professors talking about their neighbors, and
interfering much more in their families than any servants do in their
master's affairs.  It is as impossible to stop men from thinking
about national subjects as to control the conversations of their
domestics when they see things passing before their eyes, either in
the parlor, or the chapel, or the hall.  Good masters will not always
make good men, nor good domestics cease to serve bad masters; but
evil masters seldom fail of conveying evil consequences to their
dependents.

In those days of feudal grandeur it was of as much or of more
consequence than it is in these enlightened times that a lord should
stand well with his vassals.  Though his power was great over their
lives, yet his own life and state much depended upon their support.
Happily, no such tyranny now exists, unless it may be said to have
sprung up in the nineteenth century, in the horrible tyranny of that
law which now enslaves the poor.  The future consequences to this
country, under this new system, remains to be seen; at present, great
is the misery experienced; and it will be so whilst the liberty of
the subject is so shamefully infringed upon as to make poverty an
excuse for imprisonment, where crime only should be punished.

We may approach the days of high pressure upon liberty, and whilst we
are speculating upon the rapidity of motion, we may be only forging
chains for our confinement.  'We shall see!' is the expression of
many a man who sees more than he chooses to discuss; but may we live
to see more peace and prosperity, industry, simplicity, and
contentment, than we do any of us see or know at the present time.

Dinner was in the banqueting hall, and De Freston, his daughter, and
friends, sat as they did of old, at one long table, all on one side,
while the serving men stood opposite.  The banners of De Freston
waved over the head of the gallery leading to the upper rooms, while
the old carved chimney-piece, representing the battle of the giants,
one party ascending on the right hand column of the fire-place to the
grand contest, whilst the left hand represented them hurled down with
rocks from Jupiter Tonans, who, in the very centre of the cross beam,
was with his fiery eagles sending forth his thunderbolts.

Bowls of polished wood contained the simple meal of the day, and
though silver and gold cups stood upon the table, no forks, but
fingers only, tore asunder the limbs of fowls, the slices of venison,
or whatever else was served up before the Lord De Freston.  It is
true that a huge sword-like scimitar or knife was used by the steward
of the table to sever for my lord the portions from the baron of
beef; but ere the morsels could be reduced to the size fit for the
mouth, they must be torn asunder by the delicate fingers which
conveyed them to the teeth.

But men were not less cleanly or happy in their feasts than they are
now.  The water was poured upon the hands, the napkin more frequently
applied, and conversation was far less formal, and much more general
than at present.  The lord and his daughter performed the duties of
hospitality, conversed with their guests upon the great discoveries
then making in the world; and the wonders of navigation were thought
as much of in those days as the wonders of steam are in these.  The
powers of the compass were then first discussed; and Captain Diaz,
the celebrated Portuguese navigator, had sailed round Cape Stormy,
now called, or soon after then called, the Cape of Good Hope.

Nothing more gratified our party than to speak of the wonders of the
press.  Wolsey declared that the monks should all turn printers, and
that every monastery ought to have a press.

Had such been the case, it is much to be feared that truth would not
have triumphed as she did.

The meal was soon over, and the party prepared to take their
departure, according to previous arrangement, for the Port of Ipswich.




CHAPTER VI.

THE EXCURSION.

The state barge of Lord De Freston was moored against the stairs, or
huge oaken steps which led down directly from the shelving bank of
the park to the waves of the Orwell.  Six men, with broad oars in
hand, prepared to thrust them through the round loop holes in the
gunwale of the boat, for thowles were then unknown, and the barges or
boats of the noblemen who lived on the banks of that far-famed river,
were things of such size, as required able-bodied men and strong
hands to urge them over the waves.

Unlike the little cockle which went bounding over the Orwell in the
morning to meet the anxious Wolsey, this was a magnificent affair,
somewhat after the shape of the Nautilus, and floating apparently as
high out of the water.  The huge bear rose rampant at the prow, and
looked as if he would grapple with anything he met, whilst the seat
at the stern was elevated, and with rude, but elaborately carved
work, afforded room for as many persons as there were rowers in the
boat.  If any attendants went in the state barge, they squatted down
beneath the hind paws of Bruin.  They were not permitted to intercept
the view; but were mostly hidden by the sailors.

'I wonder, messmate, how our moody young scholar liked his reception
at the Tower to-day.  I thought he looked rather gloomy upon the
view.  At all other times he was wont to be as brisk and bright as a
light-hearted sailor-boy.  I'll warrant he has something aboard his
skull which presses heavily on the spirit.'

'Ah!  Jervis, that boy, heavy as he appears to be, has more brains in
his head than all we six put together; and he makes more use of them
now than we shall ever make of ours.  Never mind his being a little
dull this morning; maybe our mistress smiling upon the young Oxonian
may make him a little thoughtful.  Did you not tell me that he was
going to Oxford, or some seat of learning, for a time?'

'It was whispered so among our people, and Mistress Ellen's maid was
heard to say her mistress would be very dull when young Master Thomas
went away.'

'Well, then, art thou surprised that young Master Thomas should be a
little thoughtful at leaving such a lively friend as our young
mistress?  I'll warrant now, Jervis, if our lord were to order thee
to go by sea to the mouth of the Severn, and to wait his pleasure on
that river, thou wouldst think of the maid Fanny, as much as Master
Thomas does of her mistress.  I never knew a youth in love--and I
believe this young scholar is so--that was not moody; sometimes fit
for nothing, sometimes as close and almost as stupid as an oyster.
Young Wolsey was hard enough to open this morning.  But have ye all
got your oars in hand? for yonder they come from the castle, and we
must be prepared.'

'Heave out the plank from the stern, Osborne!' exclaimed the old
steersman, 'and fasten it to the head of the stair.  Heave the barge
round, and point her prow to the Priory!  Gently, boys, gently!
There, lay her stern as near the bank as you can!  Leave off talking
about your betters, and mind your own business!'

Six rowers, and this cockswain, whose long boom for a rudder bespoke
a very primitive kind of steerage for himself.  His seat was a strong
oaken plank, through which this long oar or steering-boom was to be
thrust, and upon which, seated upon its broad beam-end, he was
observed to possess the most elevated position in the boat.  Full
three feet below his exalted post was the deck, if so it might be
called, whereon De Freston and his friends were to take their seats.

Though Wolsey had never breathed a word of his devotion, yet these
men appeared to be fully cognizant of it.  The world will canvass the
actions of a man, let the circumference of his orbit be what it may.
It will talk for us, and at us, and make us drink sometimes the
waters of bitterness, even when we would live in peace and harmony
with all.  There was no kind of evil will, however, in the
conversation of De Freston's boatmen, as they spoke of young Wolsey
and his love affair.  Love sails as freely with seamen as with
landsmen, and its pleasures were in as high estimation amongst those
young fellows, in their green Flemish jerkins, as it could be in the
heart of any of their superiors then coming along the slope to the
Orwell.

The scholar soon appeared, all smiles and animation, as he handed the
lovely Ellen across the plank to her seat, and gave a nod of
recognition to the men, to whom, in the morning, he had scarcely
spoken a word.  They saw his altered mien, and rejoiced in that
vivacity which now gave light to his countenance.

The lady Ellen also was now on board, and when did the heart of a
British sailor ever fail to feel respect for the fair and honored
daughters of England, whenever chance gave them the opportunity of
showing them their esteem?  With cap in hand, they saluted the lady
and their lord.

'Give way, my good men!' he cried, 'and hasten with all speed to the
town!  We must go to Gypesswick and back this afternoon.  Is that the
Prior's boat, Herbert, close under the Donham shore, or is it
Fastolf's barque?'

'It is the Prior's barge, from the port with provisions.  I saw
Fastolf's barge go down the river to the Haugh an hour ago.  We shall
have time and tide enough in the channel for the way, my lord.'

The old sailor gave the signal, the men thrust the oars through the
holes, and soon, in stately grandeur, the lofty barge of De Freston
was seen gliding past the banks of the Orwell.

The channel took almost a direct course from Freston Castle to the
shores of the Priory of Downham, or Doneham, and swept, with a
graceful curve, beneath the then overhanging woods which stood so
prominently upon the projecting cliffs of the Orwell.

Wolsey and Latimer vied with each other in directing Ellen's
attention to the beauty of the scenery, and in recording the
different historical facts relative to the places which had been the
scenes of daring exploit in the different periods of English and
Danish warfare.  Ellen could appreciate the beauties of the scenery,
but her gentle heart shuddered at the idea of bloodshed, as every
Christian female heart must do.

It was with far greater pleasure that she heard Wolsey recount the
worthiness of the brotherhood who then inhabited the walls of
Alneshborne Priory.  He spoke of their learning and devotion to deeds
of charity, and represented them as an exception to any other of the
religious communities, then so prevalent in the kingdom.  There was a
raciness, fluency and force in his descriptive powers, which charmed
even Latimer, who, though comparatively a novice upon the river, was
alive to the spirit of poesy in which his companion indulged.

The tide had turned, but the channel was then both deeper and wider
than it is now, and took a far more grand and oceanic sweep.  The
soil of centuries which has flowed down from the Gipping into the
Orwell, and different streams which have deposited their sand and
slime, have formed that immense track of ouse, which, swelling into
steep, muddy banks, has now conglomerated into vast fields of slimy
clay, upon which green samphire and long weeds have grown, and very
much narrowed the mighty channel, which, in that day swept, as an arm
of the German Ocean, up to the walls of the town of Ipswich.

It was then no uncommon thing, even in summer, to see the wild swan
with his straight neck and yellow beak, sailing up the stream,
followed by the brood of cygnets bred upon the flats of Levington;
and in winter, the wild fowl from distant climes sported in thousands
of flights, until they actually blackened the silvery waters around
them.  Gulls of every class used to whiten the ouse at low water, and
coots used to blacken the waves at full-tide; now nothing of animated
nature can be seen but a long, green track of seaweed, with perhaps a
solitary swan, or a lonely gull.

But the barge is dashing away with the speed of good stout rowers,
amidst the beauties of the wave and the shore, and Ellen's smile
restores much of its wonted happiness to the heart of Wolsey, who
only the more and more strove to make a favorable impression upon her
mind, by bringing forth from the treasure-house of his intellect,
such instances of his classical knowledge as should make her remember
the last day when he went up the river with his patron and patroness.

It was indeed for his sake that she visited the town of Ipswich at
that moment, in company with her parent; to urge upon Robert Wolsey,
his father, the imperious necessity of sending the scholar to Oxford.
Both De Freston and his daughter were carried away by their
enthusiastic feelings in patronising this youth, and anticipated the
day when he would rise to be an ornament to his country, and an honor
to themselves.  The thought of doing an act of kindness to Wolsey
gave a peculiar degree of interest to the journey.  Ellen, in
particular, quite gloried in the thought of being of service to one
who had been to her so congenial a companion.

The magnificent banks of the Orwell, opening their views on each
side, on as lovely a late spring day as it was possible to see, added
a great charm to the excursion; and, as they swept in view of the
ancient town, they could not but admire the grand semicircle which
the wharf and Peter's Priory, and different religious houses in the
distance, then afforded.

But, as they neared the town, and beheld the tower, turret, house and
hall, of the great merchants and burgesses of the borough, the old
pilot called the attention of his lord to the number of boats then
leaving the quays and sides of the river.

'Methinks, your honor, that all Ipswich is turning out to meet on the
wave; their numbers seem to increase, and I certainly never saw such
a float of boats upon the river before!'

'I see something on the wave before the boats,' replied De Freston.
'Now it disappears--now it meets us--now it turns, and the boats seem
gathering round it.  What can it be?'

'I see it now, my lord, I see it; and I think I discern two fish
which the inhabitants of the town in their cockle-shell boats are
pursuing.  Yes, I see them plainly.'

'Come up, my child,' said De Freston, 'or if not able to ascend
hither, if you can stand upon the seat, you will see a lively scene.
Come hither, let the two young men be your supporters.'

The river, as they approached the town, seemed alive with boats, and
it was evident that the people in them were engaged in pursuing two
large fish, which were in vain trying to escape down the channel.
One seemed larger than the other, and the declaration of Herbert at
the helm soon pronounced what they were.

'They are two dolphins, old and young, and I think they have wounded
the young one, and the parent will not leave it.'

And so it literally was.  The pursuers had harpooned the lesser fish,
and with several boats joined together were towing it from its
mother, who, with that extraordinary instinct which this fish has
often been known to display, preferred following its young to death,
to making its own escape.  Many times it was seen to return and run
its nose against the exhausted body of its offspring, as if
endeavoring, with maternal anxiety, to teach it to follow her; for it
would, the moment after, dive down the current of the ebbing tide,
and then seem to wait the approach of the wounded dolphin.  It would
then return with redoubled anxiety, and, unable to induce its young
to follow, would lay itself alongside, and regardless of boats,
blows, and harpoons, keep with it until they drew towards the shore.
Even then it would not return, but as De Freston's barge came along,
the heart of Ellen was grieved to see such maternal solicitude
followed by a train of blood which actually streaked the waves.

'Alas! poor dolphin!' she exclaimed, as she saw it dragged to the
shore opposite the creek, then leading up to Wyke's Bishop Palace in
the hamlet of St. Clement.  'Alas, poor dolphin! thou didst deserve a
better fate!  For thou hast respected the laws of nature more than
cruel man!'

She sat down in the barge and wept.  De Freston had intended to have
landed, and his men would have been equally glad to have seen a
creature so rare in the Orwell.  He urged them to proceed at once,
without delay, to the landing-place beside St. Peter's Priory.

It was a long time before Ellen could rouse herself from the
sorrowful feeling into which the recent incident had thrown her; and
she spoke not a word until the hand of De Freston assisted her to
land, and then it was--

'Father, I shall never forget the dolphin and her offspring.'




CHAPTER VII.

THE VISIT.

The outer wall of St. Peter's Priory then abutted upon the waters of
the Orwell, and formed a long river border, from the Common Quay
nearly to the first lock gates where the Orwell and Gipping meet.  At
the junction of the two rivers, where the salt water and fresh salute
each other at high tide, there was formerly the termination wall of
the Priory, and the southern gate to the town of Ipswich.

At this point was, at low water, the celebrated Stoke Ford, where the
Danes entered the town; and Terkettel, the Danish giant, was slain by
an archer from the wall.  The channel of the river swept along close
under the walls of the Priory; and though the cells of the monks did
not face the waves, yet there were light niches or loop holes in
those walls, through which, if occasion required, any one ascending
by ladder, or frame, might discharge his arrows upon an enemy.

There were small Saxon arches, equidistant along the wall, which gave
a degree of light and elegance to that otherwise dark and dreary
brick fortification.  The Priory was then in its greatest prosperity
and had vast possessions in the town, on the banks of Stoke, and
along the meadows of the winding Gipping.

De Freston's barge had been espied coming up the river, and the
Prior, for many reasons, paid court to the lords of De Freston.
Independently of the many donations he received from the charity of
his ancestors, he had only a few days before received substantial
proof of the liberality of the present lord, who had presented to the
fraternity, for the shrine of St. Peter, two massive candlesticks of
silver, together with twelve ornamental brass ones for the chapel.

There was, therefore, nothing surprising in the fact, that when De
Freston came to St. Peter's, or the Southern Gate, he should be met
by the Prior and six canons, bareheaded, to solicit a visit to their
monastery.

'Prior John.' said the nobleman, 'I am sensible of thy kindness, but
I cannot now accept the offer of thine hospitality.  I am visiting
Ipswich upon business, and must return again by moonlight to my own
castle.  But I would crave thy charity for these my boatmen, if thou
wilt give them rest and refreshment, beneath the roof of the porter
until such time as we come back.'

'Most assuredly, De Freston!  We should have been proud to have
entertained thee, thy daughter, and thy friends; for we are not
unmindful of thy love for our institution, and know well thy devotion
to the ways of thine ancestors.  Our books record thy gifts.'

'Say nothing of them, Father John, say nothing of them, and think of
them less.  If thou wilt receive my men, I will not forget it when I
next pay my vows at St. Peter's shrine.'

'They shall be made welcome.  The boat can be moored to the Priory
steps, and, Antony, conduct the men to the lodge.  We will see that
they shall be taken care of.'

The men were glad enough to be so located for a time, for they knew
well that, however seemingly self-denying and outwardly stern the
Prior and his brotherhood might be in ceremonious matters of
religion, there was no lack of good cheer within their walls, and no
failure in their supply to any whom they made welcome.  Gladly they
followed Antony, after their master had departed with his daughter
and the young men for the interior of the town.

They had not long been seated on the polished oaken benches of the
lofty room, in the interior of Antony's lodge, before they were
visited by some of the fraternity, under pretence of seeing if they
fared well.  There was no doubt of that; but the Friar was curious,
and when did a monk note a stranger of any consequence and not desire
to know more of him?

'Who is the young man with thy master?' asked the inquisitive Simon,
as he placed a huge leathern black jug of Prior's ale upon the table
before Herbert, the pilot.

'That is Master William Latimer, my master's kinsman, from Oxford.'

'Ho! from Oxford! and dost thou know why and wherefore he is come?'

'I know not, your reverence, why or wherefore he is come; but we have
our thoughts, good father.'

'So have all men, Herbert, so have all men; and I dare say now thy
thoughts were as much toward thy mistress as towards the young man?'

'I don't know that, father; I seldom trouble my head about things
that don't concern me; and when I said we had our thoughts, I was not
then thinking of our mistress.'

'Humph!'--and the Friar seemed a little disappointed--'hath he been
long at the castle?'

'But three days, father.  He came to see Freston Tower finished and
adorned, and to bring his presents of learned books to the Lady
Ellen.'

'And did he bring them for her?  I have heard thy mistress is
wonderfully clever for her years.  Our young townsman, who
accompanies them, tells me thus much.  But dost thou know the object
of thy master's visit to Ipswich this afternoon?'

'We have our thoughts, and it is said amongst us that it is to settle
about Master Thomas Wolsey's going back with this young learned
Latimer, to Oxford.'

'Ho! ho! that is it, is it?' and the brother returned from the lodge
to report to his principal what he had made out of the Lord De
Freston's visit.

Now there was nothing uncommon in all this, for the monks of Ipswich
knew everything going on around them.  They had time to talk over the
condition of every nobleman, and to calculate upon what might be got
from them, for the benefit of their community.  Prior John had
noticed the abilities of Wolsey, and, as books were scarce, and more
valuable than land, and he saw his great love for these, he had
indulged the youth with many an hour's study in his own cell, and had
hopes that he would one day be useful to the Priory.

It was the fact that at that very time the party were on their way to
the house of Edmund Daundy, the wealthiest man in Ipswich, who was
related to Wolsey, and connected with De Freston.

He was one of the most benevolent-minded men of his day, whose works
of charity remain to this hour.  Singularly upright, generous, pious,
and devout, he conceived it to be his duty to devote the first fruits
of all he obtained to purposes of benevolence, so that no ship
brought home his merchandise, no speculation answered in which he
engaged, but he set apart a portion of his profits upon every article
to a fund for doing good.  His prosperity became so great, and his
punctuality so conspicuous, and his store laid by for charity so
accumulated, that he seldom refused the prayer of an applicant for
his bounty.  He founded schools for the young, alms-houses for the
aged, a market-cross for traffic, and a chauntry for a priest to pray
for his own soul and those of his relatives.  His munificence was
proverbial:

  'If bricks be sold for Daundy's gold,
  The town of Gypesswick will ne'er be old.'

As much as to say that his wealth could purchase bricks, for which
Ipswich was then celebrated, more than could be made and used for
centuries in renewing the town.

His magnificently old carved and ornamented house stood in the very
centre of the town, in St. Lawrence parish, and nearly fronting the
then gates of St. Lawrence Church.  It was situated between two very
opulent mansions, that of John Fastolf and John Sparrowe, gentlemen,
who, together with the said Edmund Daundy, at different periods,
represented the borough of Ipswich in parliament.  The family of
Fastolf had a residence in Ipswich, and at the Haugh, beyond
Alneshborne Priory; and though they had castles at Caister and at
Woodbridge, they resided the greater part of the year at Ipswich.

Edmund Daundy, though he had so much interest with the monks of
Alneshborne as always to have apartments in that Priory devoted to
him, never deserted his native town, but lived and died in it,
beloved for every amiable virtue, and deeply regretted when he was
taken away.

The object of De Freston's visit was to persuade him to intercede
with Dame Joan Wolsey, or, as it was then termed, Wuley, to part with
her son for a time, that he might go to Oxford.  There was no kind of
difficulty, in a pecuniary view; though, had there been such, it
would have been no disgrace whatever to his after career.  But, as we
have said, Wolsey was related to Edmund Daundy, a man who was ready
to serve him, hand and heart.  With such powerful friends as De
Freston and Daundy, there could be no difficulty, as has been stated
there was by some writers, in his being sent to Oxford.  All the
circumstances of the time tend to corroborate this fact.

His father, likewise, was an independent man, upon the most intimate
terms of friendship with all the leading men and merchants in
Ipswich, and had no mean estates at the very period when some
biographers speak of his poverty.  His will is fortunately in
existence, and is now acknowledged, by all modern historiographers,
to prove that he was a man of considerable possessions.

He leaves his property to his wife--for his son Thomas had, before
his decease, intimated his intention of becoming a priest; and this
may be the reason for the father's 'lands and tenements in St.
Nicholas' parish, and his bond and free lands in the parish of Stoke,
being left to his widow, and only a priest's portion, for prayers,
being appointed for his son in that will.'

The fact was, Thomas Wolsey was an only child, the pride of his
parents, and the particular hope and delight of his attached mother.
She had been alive to his disposition from infancy; she saw his eager
aptitude for learning; she first fed and then encouraged it, and,
being herself a woman of considerable attainments for her day, she
rejoiced in the growing fame of her son.  She had, however, taken a
decided aversion to the priesthood as a profession for her son, and
fearful lest, by going to Oxford, she should lose him, she had set
her face against all the suggestions of his friends, and the
arguments of her relatives.

If prejudice alone had operated upon the mind of this excellent
woman, she would not have been, as she was, so calmly forcible in her
decisions against the measure; but she little thought what a powerful
battery was to open its artillery upon her that day.

The party arrived at the mansion of the wealthy burgess, and was
welcomed by him with that hearty favor which he always bore to De
Freston and his friends.

'Right welcome art thou, most noble lord--right welcome to my house
and home.  I did not expect to see thee, fair maiden, but, as thou
art come, thou must be a coadjutor in our suit; and, if I mistake
not, thou wilt carry more weight with Mistress Joan than all our
united forces.'

The maiden felt a little surprised, and, if truth be told, young
Wolsey felt a no small degree of joy in the interest excited at the
moment.  Ellen could not help saying--

'I cannot conceive, my dear friend, how I can have more weight with
Wolsey's mother than thou hast.  She has been very kind and attentive
to me in a thousand ways; but she is no kind of debtor to me.  I am
rather under obligation to her.  Is it not so, my father?'

'She has always shown herself very partial to thee, Ellen, and, I
must say, has taken a most motherly interest in thy behalf; for, as
soon as I lost thy mother, she was incessant in her kindness towards
thee, and recommended that good old faithful nurse, Dorothea, whom
thou didst lose last year.  Thou art indebted to her likewise for thy
present maid, Fanny; and she has worked with her own hand, and sent
thee by this young scholar many a little comfort for the furnishing
of thy tower.  These certainly are indications, as Master Daundy
says, of strong predilection; and if those who love us are in any way
to be influenced by us, I see here a very proper occasion for the
exercise of that influence which thou mayest possess.'

'And I can tell thee,' added Daundy, 'more than this.  It was but
last evening I was speaking to her upon the very subject which we now
discuss, when she said: "If anything could induce me to let Thomas go
to Oxford, it would be Ellen De Freston expressing a wish that he
should go."'

A blush mantled upon the cheek of Ellen, as she looked innocently
enough at Wolsey, and caught his glance of intercession.  The boy's
whole soul was wrapt up in the interest he then excited.  His own
heart told him at once the cause of his mother's favor towards Ellen,
and though he dare not, even to his heart, breathe the hope that she
would see it--nay, indeed, hoped that she would not--yet he
entertained a sort of indefinite idea, that she might one day
perceive that, for her sake, he would do anything.  The youth's
animated countenance must have quickened her perception, or she was
struck with the possibility of doing him service, for she replied--

'Could I but think I could persuade her, the effort would be nothing
for me to make.  I have strong arguments to back me, have I not,
cousin Latimer?'

'Indeed you have, Ellen!  I will say it before my young friend, that,
in your letters, you only did him justice.  I did not expect to find
your descriptive power of character so just as I have found it in the
talents of this youth.  Thomas Wolsey, you are little aware what an
advocate you have had.'

If ever Wolsey felt abashed, it was at that moment, yet he found
words to reply--.

'I know not,' he said, 'how to speak my gratitude to Ellen De
Freston, or her father.  They have been the brightest fosterers of my
love of literature, and of every virtue which can prompt a young man
to exertion.  Should Ellen succeed in her petition to my mother, for
my father has already acceded to the persuasions of his friends, I
shall for ever feel indebted to her, and in future years, if my
exertions should be crowned with success, the greatest joy I can feel
will arise from the consciousness of the approbation of such a
friend.'

'Come, then,' said Daundy, 'I can see clearly we shall be able to
effect our purpose.  I never saw a mother more against her son's
entering the Church than is Dame Joan.  She trembles, Thomas, lest
thou shouldst become a priest, and, knowing the restrictions which
would be placed upon thee, as the child of Rome that thou must then
become, she fears that thou wouldst be sworn to give away all thine
affections, and that she should lose thy love, thy attention to her,
and thine interest in life.'

'I know my mother's fears.  I have, however, endeavored to combat
them; first, upon the grounds that I never think of becoming a
priest, though I told her then that it would be wrong in me to make a
vow that I would not.  Then I have represented to her the field of
glory open to one who enters the cloister, and would show her what
fame, what present and future joy, there was in the employment which
the Pope now gives to all the sons of the Church.  She thinks every
priest must be lazy, bigotted, and superstitious, and, at times,
almost makes me think she is, or would be, an heretic.  But she
shakes her head at me, tells me I am young, that we think differently
as we grow older, and often take steps too precipitately in our
youth, before our judgments are formed, of which we afterwards
bitterly repent.  Now I wish to go to Oxford that I may obtain an
insight into learning, such as this, my native town, cannot afford
me.  I wish to study logic and the laws of my country, as well as all
the literature of this and foreign lands, and I cannot do it better
than by going to Oxford; can I, Master Latimer?'

'Most assuredly not.  I can be of some service to you, and will, if
your parents consent.  I am very intimate with Grocyn the learned and
newly-elected prebend of Lincoln.  He has more influence with
Magdalen College than any man.  He wishes, most heartily, to
introduce into that society men of first-rate classical ability; and,
as he is Divinity Reader there, he has obtained a promise that those
whom he can recommend for letters, shall be admitted upon that
foundation.  Now I know Grocyn would be glad to hear from me, and if
friends here will find me a messenger, I will forthwith write and
recommend Master Thomas Wolsey; and I greatly deceive myself if he do
not distinguish himself and gratify us all.  This is what I can do!'

'And, doing this!' added De Freston, 'you will lay us all under
obligation.  Come, Thomas, your prospects brighten!  I think, with
all these promises in hand, we cannot fail in obtaining our suit.'

'Then let us no longer delay.  Ellen, as the oldest friend of Dame
Joan's, I shall offer thee my hand.  We will walk to St. Nicholas.  I
have but to leave a message for Master Cady, upon the subject of the
market, and it is not out of our way.  So let us be moving; we shall
be back in time for our evening meal.'

The party were soon ready, and Daundy and Ellen led the way.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE EVENT.

Strange things occur when we least expect them, and often either
further or retard the progress of our views so unaccountably, that
with all our wisdom we could never effect what is often done by
accident.  We call it accident, or chance, but, call it what we may,
there are designs fulfilled by man of which he has no kind of
presentiment; and only after performance are they looked upon as
providential.

The party, as merry as friends intent upon doing mutual good could
be, bent their way round by the market-place, where the butchers'
shambles, a square-built, ancient building, then reared its four
sides.  It has been misrepresented that one of these stalls was kept
by Robert Wolsey, the father of our young scholar; but all the stalls
belonged to hire, which he had received as the security of his wife's
dower from the wealthy family of Daundy.  The whole of the butcher's
shambles, which they were then approaching, were rented by the
different occupiers of Robert Wolsey and just in the same manner as
any of the great property in Grosvenor Street might belong, upon
leases, to the Earl of that name; or the property in Lambeth, held by
lease from the Archbishops of Canterbury, might be said to be the
property of that See.

It would be unjust to any of the great men who own considerable
estates in houses, shops, and tenements, built upon their grounds, to
say, that they were, originally, bakers, butchers, brewers, mercers,
or hardware men.  Yet upon no other ground was Wolsey's father
denominated a butcher.  He was a merchant and a man of property, and
married a lady of one of the highest families, short of nobility, yet
truly noble in deed.  The party were walking from the market-place
towards St. Nicholas, where Wolsey's father resided, in a house which
formed the termination of two thoroughfares now called St. Nicholas
Street and Silent Street.  They were proceeding in front of the area
or open market-place by the shambles, just as two surly mastiff dogs
were growling and quarrelling for a piece of offal which had been
thrown to them.  They were huge, tawny mastiff dogs of great power,
and most formidable appearance.  After eyeing each other with savage
fierceness they flew to the conflict.  Daundy, at any other time,
would have passed by such savage contests among men, boys, or dogs,
but having De Freston's daughter upon his left arm, and the animals
passing a little too near him, bearing each other down, he hurled at
them a small short stick he had in his hand.  Had he boldly struck
them, and kept the weapon in his hand, they might have been cowed,
but as he had inflicted a blow and thrown away the weapon, they
turned furiously upon him and his companion, who, in an instant, were
borne to the ground.

One savage seized the loyal burgess by the throat, and though he was
kicked, and pulled, and beaten by Latimer and De Freston, he
maintained his grasp.  Ellen was seized by the arm, and the beast had
already torn her garments, and the blood was starting from his jaws.
It was then that Wolsey displayed his presence of mind and his
prowess, for not choosing to waste his time upon the animal's sides,
he seized a huge shin-bone of an ox, which lay upon the butcher's
stall, and instantly dealt such a blow upon the mastiff's skull as
dashed his brains upon the pavement.  He then raised the terrified
Ellen, who had fainted away with pain, and whilst a butcher, with a
cleaver, administered the same punishment to the other mastiff, he
had carried the poor girl into Cady's house, and committed her to the
care of its good mistress.

Wolsey still kept the shin-hone in his hand, and when his fellow
townsmen saw him walking to his own house with the weapon, and they
knew what he had done with it, they would have carried him in their
arms in triumph to his father's house.  But he had hastened home to
tell his parents of the accident, and to request his mother to
provide accommodation for Lord De Freston's daughter.

Dame Joan was by no means content with preparations: she ordered her
servants to follow with a litter and went at once to Cady's house.
Ellen was glad to see her, and confided herself to her care.  Daundy
was most severely bitten in the throat.  It was thought best he
should go to his own house, while Ellen was conveyed to Dame Joan
Wolsey's.

This was an arrangement to which De Freston could not do otherwise
than assent; for, as the dogs were in a state of mad rage at the time
when they flew at them, it was impossible to say what the
consequences might be if the patients were neglected.  To Dame
Joan's, then, his daughter was borne, and, as might be expected, was
for some days in a state of feverish excitement concerning her wound.

It was a grand hour for Wolsey, and he was proud of that ox-shin
bone; he called it his friend in need: he had it cleaned, and tipped
with silver.

'I will never part with it,' he said to De Freston, 'and if ever I
should be worthy of a coat-of-arms, it shall serve as my crest.'

'It was a brave and judicious act, Thomas,' added De Freston, 'and
one for which Ellen and I shall ever feel grateful.  Had you not
killed the mastiff, he might have killed my daughter.  The act is
worthy of your energy, Thomas, and I should be glad to see your crest
exalted.  I shall leave Ellen with your mother with as much
confidence as if she were at home; but I will send her maid early in
the morning to assist dame Joan's household.'

De Freston had a melancholy return to his castle; indeed, he would
not have gone at all, had not his daughter requested that he would
attend to some things which she had proposed doing.  On that
beautiful evening, Latimer and De Freston took their seats upon the
stern of the barge, and departed for the castle.  Daundy did well,
and so did Ellen, who did not forget to intercede with Dame Joan in
behalf of Wolsey.

'As thou dost urge it so warmly, fair maiden, and dost seem to take
such interest in the fate of my dear son, Thomas, I will not oppose
it further: but if he should take to the priesthood, I shall never
forgive myself, or--'

'Me--thou wouldst say, my dear friend.  But why take such a hostile
view of the priesthood.  Men of letters, men of wisdom, men of piety,
men of godliness all enter into holy orders, and I see no reason why
you should lament, should your son be so resolved.  I heard him say,
however, that he had no such intention, and methinks you should be
content with that declaration.'

'I am content, but I dread it, because I know that Thomas is not
fitted for that sequestered life which the cloister calls for.  He
is, in his nature, social; in his heart, generous; in his soul,
ambitious; in his habits, domestic; and if he should find a partner
suited to his mind, he would be an ornament to his country.  But
priests must not marry--must not have property--must not love their
parents--must not dress as other people do--walk or talk as other
people; but are tutored in ways which appear to me suppressed,
deceitful, and unfeeling, if not unnatural.  I have but one son, and
I confess I should like to see of that one a line of honorable
descendants; but if Thomas should be a priest, I shall blame myself
for listening to your persuasions.'

'I do but intercede for him as he deserves.  He has gained the love
of every one here, and possessed himself of all the knowledge here to
be obtained.  I admire both him and his talents, and should be glad
to see him a distinguished man.  I am persuaded he will be such; for
the energies he has put forth in my behalf have shown him to be of a
strong frame, and the thirst he has for science, literature, and
languages, proves that these, with proper encouragement, might render
him equal to some of the greatest men in the land.'

This conversation took place when Ellen was recovering.  Her father
became her constant companion under the roof of Wolsey; and Daundy
having been pronounced out of all danger, the parties met somewhat
oftener.  A favorable answer was received from Magdalen, and it was
soon agreed and arranged that Wolsey, under the auspices of William
Latimer, should taka his departure for Oxford.

The very event which afterwards turned to his ill account, among his
enemies, was looked upon at that day as worthy of all honor.  Wolsey
took for his crest the arm holding a shin-bone, and in the second
volume of Edmonton's 'Heraldry,' the arms of Wolsey are emblazoned,
and a naked arm embowed, holding a shin-bone, all proper, is adopted.
In other parts of the kingdom, where his arms are found, there is
also represented the mastiff's head.

It is not likely that Wolsey, so proud a man as he afterwards proved
himself, and so very particular in all things appertaining to
dignity, should have chosen for himself a crest which could cast any
degree of obloquy upon his origin.  Had he been a butcher's son, he
would either have acknowledged it, or have sought to conceal it.  We
do not find that he any where alludes to his origin, nor that he
makes mention of the circumstance which induced him to adopt the
heraldic emblem of this great deed.  He had his arms emblazoned in
the days of his prosperity, and before the cardinal's hat superseded
the shin-bone, in every part of his house the same crest ornamented
his balustrades, his plate, his pictures, and his canopies.  However
much this might have been perverted by his enemies, beyond all doubt
it was chosen by him to denote a brave action.

The following poem is supposed to be written previously to Wolsey's
departure from his native town.  It was breathed in the solitude of
his own study, and addressed to her who then held such sway over his
affections.--


  De Freston's Daughter.

  Hail! beauteous creature of thy race,
  Most glorious in form and grace!
  In every feature purely bright,
  Reflecting innocence as light;
  Calm dignity is on thy brow,
  Intelligence doth round thee glow,
  And thou art lovely, and of gentlest kind,
  My kinsman's daughter, and my kindred mind!

  Fair Ellen, were yon rich domain,
  Yon castle, tower, and portly train
  Of serfs and vassals, in their state,
  Attendant on my nod to wait;
  And riches of all Europe mine,
  And thou couldst say, no wealth was thine
  Then wouldst thou be as much, or more, to me,
  Than now I wish the scholar were to thee.

  Alone, I'm seated in my cell,
  My studies weary me unwell,
  My thoughts distracted, mind no more
  The beauties of the classic lore;
  For all I read, or hear, or see,
  Remind me, Ellen, but of thee
  And if of thee I can alone have thought,
  My heart would fain of thee alone be taught.

  Fair Helen was not half so bright,
  Though heroes for her met in fight,
  Though Paris lov'd, and sons of Troy,
  With aged Priam, lov'd the boy
  Who stole her.  Helen was not fair,
  If virtues thine with hers compare;
  For thou, in grace, in modesty, and mien,
  Transcendent far the far-famed Grecian Queen!

  Thine head is Grecian, brow is high,
  Expansive as the summer sky;
  And crown'd with locks of flowing hair,
  Such as thy mother, Eve, might wear,
  When first to Adam she appeared.
  And Paradise of Eden shared;
  So open, innocent, and calm a brow,
  None but the purest of her daughters show!

  Thine eyes half shaded by thine hair,
  Dark flowing down thy forehead fair,
  Cast forth their beams, inquiring how
  All things created ought to bow
  To Him who made them.  E'en of me
  They ask what worship ought to be;
  And, when I view them, I confess I feel
  As if their radiance would make me kneel.

  To see that eye intent on thought,
  Which learning has in wisdom taught;
  And see its glance to heavenward bend,
  As if thy spirit would ascend
  And bring down answers from the sky
  To all that seems a mystery:
  Its swelling orb, as rolling sphere at night,
  Glitters in aqueous moisture pure and bright.

  Thy form, how graceful! like the fawn
  Bounding along the spacious lawn;
  Or, as the lamb at morning light
  Skips from the fold in sportive flight,
  Enjoying life, so oft I've seen
  Thy form light bounding o'er the green
  To meet me coming.  O! that I could be
  Ellen De Freston, ever near to thee.

  Oh! if to learning's seat I go,
  And Fame's bright wreath should crown my brow
  And honors raise me to the height
  Of all ambition could requite,
  And every tongue and every hand
  Should give me all they could command,
  Fair Ellen, still I'd lay them at thy feet:
  Thou couldst alone my happiness complete.

  Whilst now before me visions spread,
  And seem to crown the aspiring head,
  And call me from my native town,
  And drive away the darkest frown,
  My life has dreaded that alone
  I should be lost and left unknown:
  The visions now so clouded which I see,
  Is lighted up, fair Ellen, but by thee!

  Thou in the distance shining bright
  Appearest like a speck of light,
  And brighter as the present cloud
  The darkened foreground seems to shroud,
  Whilst full on thee the sunny ray
  Descends as beaming as the day,
  When full of glory, I shall see thee shine,
  And hope to call De Freston's daughter mine!


Had this poem but been sent to Ellen before the youth left Ipswich
for Oxford, it would have explained to Lord De Freston the nature of
the feelings of the writer; but it was never sent; it was seen by
Wolsey's mother, and copied, but it was supposed and intended to be
kept secret by the young aspirant for fame.




CHAPTER IX.

COLLEGE CAREER.

The youth departed from Ipswich with the love of many hearts
following him, and with no lack of things requisite to make his
career at Oxford brilliant.  He was introduced by a student who had
already gained University honors, and was looked upon as a man of
sound learning and piety, and one eminently calculated to judge of
Wolsey's capacity.  Wolsey and Latimer were friends under the most
pleasing circumstances which could possibly arise between two young
men: congeniality of mind, pursuit, and honor.  The latter, when he
found Wolsey at Ipswich, covered himself with glory by writing that
letter to Grocyn, dated April 29th, 1485; wherein he says: 'I have
found a youth, inferior in years, superior in knowledge; with far
less opportunity of cultivating the elegancies of literature, yet
with infinitely greater industry than young men generally exercise
who have those opportunities.  He has a genius superior to mine, and
already surpasses me in the acquirement of the Greek language.  I can
only say for him, what he might truly say for himself:

  "Major rerum mihi nascitur ordo."'


Young Wolsey, at Oxford, had a glorious struggle within his soul to
win the distinction he sought.  His letters to his mother frequently
breathed the hope that Ellen De Freston took an interest in his
welfare.  Supposing that this pure motive of distinguishing himself
had for its object the fair lady of Freston Tower, the course he was
pursuing was one far more honorable and arduous than the daring
actions of war or enterprize.  Courage of no common kind, and
application of the most intense nature, were then inseparable from
honor.  The means of acquiring knowledge were more clogged and
difficult than they now are, and the mind of the scholar was far more
burdened with absurdities than it is in this enlightened age.  But
all that patience, industry, perseverance, and high talents could
accomplish, Wolsey performed.  He won every prize nobly, fairly, and
against men of superior years and longer application, but not of
equal ability.

In one year, and that the very first in which he went to Oxford, he
was acknowledged the first man of his day.  So much so, indeed, that
the president, tutors, divinity reader, and fellows of Magdalen,
pronounced him fit to enter the theatre against all opponents before
the termination of that one year's residence at the University.  He
was permitted to go in for his bachelor's degree after one year.  He
did so, and was the first man in all academical pursuits, obtaining
the degree of Bachelor of Arts before his fifteenth year had been
completed.  Wherever he went, he was designated by the title of the
Boy Bachelor for it was never known before, and certainly never
afterwards, that a degree conferred not as honorary, but as actually
attained by competition, was given to so young a lad.

Wolsey was not young in manners, ideas, attainments, or knowledge.
It was, singular in him at that early period, and served him well in
after years, that a certain ease of deportment, of conscious mental
capacity, and quiet expression of countenance, gave him a commanding
influence among men of years, station, and power.  He appeared,
whilst at Oxford, to be a man whose wisdom had the command of all his
passions, and who was never betrayed into any excess of bad taste, in
manners, morals, or general conduct.  He gained the good will of so
many that it was impossible for him or any one not to feel elated in
some measure at his success.  Little did the world know how deeply
moving in his young soul was the thought that Ellen De Freston would
be gratified with his progress.

Nature, love, honor, truth, and grace, shone in his course as he
strove to gain a reputation that should place his name above all
plebeians who moved upon the world's surface.  Virtuous feelings were
at that time so cherished in his soul, they commanded the inmost
movements of his heart.  Though his parents watched his onward
progress, and were delighted to recount to Edmund Daundy, their rich
relation, the great and rising fame of their son--though the meed of
imputation was given him by all his Ipswich friends, yet he anxiously
looked for sympathy and encouragement in the daughter of De Freston.

Is there any period of life more fraught with love and hope than when
the scholar gains his first distinguished prize? when youthful
competition fairly tests his abilities, and honor, like the sun,
rises in golden grandeur before him?  He feels the warmth of the
praises bestowed upon him, and hopes that his dearest kindred may be
gratified.  Perhaps he has a hope that one, whom he is ambitious of
pleasing, may be captivated with his talents, and reward him with a
sweet smile of approbation.  There is no disgrace to any young man in
being so prompted.  His affections being pure, his views will be
exalted.  Thrice happy is he if his whole life's struggle shall be a
steady impulse of this kind, capable of so existing to his latest
hour.  There are few such young aspirants who, in their day of youth,
can see through the transient troubles of their tide.  It seems to
them as if it would flow on, and on, and on, and never turn.  Alas!
the ebb must come, and the stream of life decrease; the channel must
become narrower and narrower, the waters of life diminish, until,
becoming a small calm rivulet, it vanishes into the ocean of futurity.

At times, Wolsey was, in his younger days, subject to depression of
spirit, arising either from too great application to study, or from
that more probable cause, the heart-yearning sickness after the
object of his affection.

Soon after Latimer was made Fellow of All-Souls, and Wolsey elected
Master of Arts, the former entered his friend's apartment in
Magdalen, and found him in this melancholy meditative mood.  It was
no easy thing at such times to rouse him, for though constitutionally
robust, and mentally powerful, having made most surprising progress
in logic and philosophy, he would be sometimes so depressed as to be
unfitted for the duties of his station.

He filled various offices in his college from the year 1488 to 1495,
before he took orders, and was extremely active in superintending,
even before he was elected master, the progress of youth in the
schools belonging to the college; but at times he would confine
himself to his rooms, and endeavor to conceal from his most intimate
friends this depression.

The fact was, that in his letters to his mother he had sought for
some favorable report of Ellen De Freston's interest, and, if
possible, a word of attachment which might inspire him with hope.  At
that period the communication between Ipswich and Oxford was only by
pack-horses and special messengers.  Young men did not often visit
their friends during their academical career; and, if progressing
favorably at the University, they were content to let their relatives
perceive their affection by their devotion to the studies of the
place.  Had any letter from his mother given him encouragement to
come home, Wolsey was not the man to delay.  It was when he was in
one of these abstracted moods, that Latimer came to announce to him
that he was going to Ipswich, and thence to a foreign country, to
Padua, the seat of learning, especially of perfection in the Greek
language.

'I must visit Freston Tower again,' he said; 'can I not convey some
token of your regard for old and early associations?'

'Are you really going to my native town?' he answered, apparently
with deep interest.  'Yes, my friend, I would have you call and see
my parents, and commend me to them.  Tell them I want for nothing
here; that I send my duty, love, and greeting, and hope that they
continue in health.  Commend me also to my old friends Daundy,
Sparrowe, Cady, Smart, and Tooley, and tell them all that I am so
mindful of their early fostering care of me, that I will not forget
their bright example of encouraging learning--that I am devoted to
it, and will do my best endeavors to promote it at Ipswich.'

Here he paused, and Latimer replied--

'And Lord De Freston--and Ellen! no message for them?'

'Yes, yes!  I have a message to the former.  Tell De Freston that I
never forget him; that I am very proud of all his congratulatory
letters; that I think of his castle, of his lovely tower, of the
beautiful banks of the Orwell, of his love of literature.  Yes!
convey this, my first prize, to him, this beautiful edition of the
first New Testament ever printed, which was in the memorable year I
came to Oxford.  Tell him, from me, that I have proud pleasure in
sending by your hand such a token of my regard.'

He took down from his book-shelf a splendid edition of the Novum
Testamentum, Nicolai De Lyra, beautifully bound in vellum, with a
Latin inscription upon the exterior of the cover, to Thomas Wolsey,
scholar of Magdalen.

This work had every capital letter throughout its pages illuminated
with blue and red paint.  The text is superb, and the marginal notes
elaborate, and beautifully printed at Nuremberg, in the year 1485.

'And what for Ellen, Thomas?'

'Ah, Latimer!  What can I send her?  I must confess I would gladly
send my whole library, if you would take it, in token of the happy
days we have spent together in De Freston's Tower.  And you will be
there, Latimer, participating in the joy of such a scene and such a
mind!  Oh! how dull, how dark, how dismal, do these cloisters appear
compared with my walk along my native banks, and Ellen De Freston's
converse and company.  Those were bright days, most bright and
glorious days; I would I could be with you, but it cannot be!  I must
perform the duties I have undertaken.  Speak a kind word for me to
Ellen, and say that the scholar never forgets his instructress.  Tell
her she is as a polar star to my existence, and that the
newly-discovered power of the needle and magnet points not more truly
and constantly to each other than my regards to her.'

'Do you love her, Thomas?  Will you commission me to tell her so?
And shall I mention the matter to Lord De Freston?'

'No! no! no!' replied Wolsey, hastily.  'You must not say so much,
not exactly that; that would not be what I would commission you to
say to that beauteous creature.  I am not in a condition of life yet
to employ an ambassador for such a purpose.  This, however, you may
state--that I shall count it the happiest day of my life when we meet
again.'

'I will repeat it for you, Wolsey, with all my heart.  In the
meantime, despair not.  You have a great deal to do in the
University; let it be done with vigor.  I will speak you fairly to
all your friends, and most fairly to the fairest.'

'You are indeed my friend, Latimer, in this, as all other cases.  I
have had all the honors Grocyn could heap upon me, through your
recommendation, and how shall I repay you for your friendship?'

'Wait until I ask you, Thomas, and when I do, may it be such as you
can perform.  I have now to urge upon your friendship only to
remember that I am constantly your friend.'

'When I forget that, may I forget father, mother, and friends; even
Ellen De Freston herself; and as I can never do that, so can I never
do the other.'

And thus they parted.




CHAPTER X.

ELLEN AND HER SUITORS.

Whilst Wolsey was pursuing his honorable career at Oxford, and paving
his way to future fame, the maid of Freston Tower was not less
honorably distinguishing herself for every amiable virtue.  During
the greater portion of the year, the graceful building was her daily
resort.  Not that she neglected the duties of society; for she became
the ornament of De Freston's Hall, and was celebrated for her beauty,
her learning, her piety, and accomplishments.  There were few who
really knew her but loved her.

She was received, as she had every right to be, among the noblest and
wealthiest of the land, and now that she had arrived at an age when
the last trace of girlishness vanishes in the graces of womanhood,
she commanded much homage.

The fair sex, though not in that day remarkable, generally speaking,
for the cultivation of letters and for the most part precluded from
scientific pursuits, had as great a sway over the persons and manners
of the age, as they have at this day.  Fair ladies were highly prized
in the land, and stately and ceremonious were the attentions paid to
them in public, however much neglected in the castle.

The bloody wars between the houses of York and Lancaster had now
terminated; and in the persons of the reigning sovereigns, Henry VII.
and Elizabeth, the contending families became united, and this
example was beginning to be generally followed.

As soon as these differences were terminated, that is in the
following year, the first rose-plants were cultivated in England.
All the flowers which the friends of the opposing parties wore were
sent over from the continent: there might be some exotics, but not
till the wars of the roses terminated did the banks of the Orwell,
and Ellen's garden, exhibit plants of both the red and white rose,
and hers were some of the earliest planted in England.  Not for
thirty years after did they become generally cultivated throughout
the country.

Ellen grew to womanhood beloved.  She was not only admired, but she
was sought after by many who courted an alliance with the family of
De Freston.  She was an heiress too of no mean possessions, as well
as of high connexion.  Had she been disposed to wed highly and merely
for nobility of blood, the De la Poles were accounted sufficiently
noble to claim equality with any in the land.  Independently of
estates, of good personal carriage, and fine countenance, she
possessed a mind like a diamond of great value, fit to make its
possessor incomparably happy.  Nor was she without suitors, led to
her by the fame of her beauty, her acquirements, and her fortune.

Lord Willoughby, of Farham House, in the county of Suffolk, was one
of the first to endeavor to create a sympathy in the fair maid of
Freston Tower for his own person and establishment.  He was a frank,
independent nobleman, of gallant mien, and ever deemed the foremost,
whether with horse and hound, or helm and spear.  He was lofty in his
carriage, vain of his person, and proud of his feats; and according
to his ideas, whoever he took to be his wife must be considered to
have acquired infinite honor by the alliance, and must observe an
obsequious servility before him: for, an equal in a man he could
scarcely brook; and, as to a woman, though Ellen might be his wife,
she must never expect to be his equal.  She had wisdom to perceive
this, and declined the proffered honor.

Lord Ufford, from Orford Hall, a man of gaunt figure, approaching to
gigantic stature, broad shoulders and expanded chest, with vast
domains in the county of Suffolk, became a rough and formal suitor
for the maiden's hand.  This nobleman was remarkable for having a
most unsightly countenance; but having a fine castle on the banks of
the Aide, and considerable territory on the sea-coast, together with
rich lands, woodlands, highlands, lowlands, and sands, he was a kind
of autocrat whose word was not to be disputed.

Camden relates a curious circumstance of a sea-monster being caught
by some of his villains, while it was basking upon the desolate
shores of the Aide, not a great way from Orford Ness.  Old Ralph de
Gogershall, from whom Camden takes the tale, says, the monster went
directly out of the sea, and through the river, up to the gates of
his castle, and was there captured.  It was most probably a species
of seal--perhaps a stray walrus from the northern regions.  Having
been borne by its captors to the castle, Lord Ufford had a strong
cage made for it by the sea-side, and took great delight in feeding
it with fish, and such watery sea-cale as grew upon the North Vere.*
Hence grew preposterous tales of his attachment to this monster,
which, it was reported, had a head so much like his lordship's, that
the latter must have been a most marine-looking animal.


* A large desolate track of shingle and clay, separating the river
Alde from the sea, upon which the Orford Lights now stand.


He went to pay his court to Ellen, but as may readily be supposed, he
was not successful.  On the day that his suit was refused at Freston
Tower, the sea-monster escaped and was heard of no more.

Richard Fitz-john, of Dunwich Castle, and the noble Rous, of
Dennington Hall, though barons not upon very friendly terms at that
time, were both suitors to the maiden of Freston Tower; but neither
successful, though both were men of high honor and renown.  Felton,
of Playford; Naunton, of Letheringham; Corbett, of Assington; and
brave Sir William Coppinger, whose fame for living like a lord became
proverbial, were numbered among the aspirants.  The first wanted
temper.  The next, though famed for deeds of munificence, had a very
uncultivated mind; and the last Ellen considered would love his table
more than his wife.  So they were all rejected.

Sir Thomas Crofts, of Saxham, a man as proud of his person as of his
estate, did what he could to win the lady to his mind.  He had much
knowledge of letters to aid him, but was so personally vain, he could
scarcely control himself when Ellen, not consenting to admit his
pretensions, told him, she was herself proud, very proud; and,
therefore, must decline his offer.

Fitz-Gilbert, the first Earl of Clare, came to see if he could
persuade the maiden to join her fate to his.  He was skilful in war,
and equally skilled in music: and there were other things in which
few could bear comparison with him.  He was elegant in mind and
person, yet he pleased not Ellen; and he took his rejection so to
heart, that music became distasteful to him; and not until he heard
of Cavendish's unsuccessful suit, did he become reconciled to his own
loss.

One of her greatest suitors was John Mowbray, from Framlingham
Castle; a man so high and mighty, that he thought, with his splendid
establishment, any woman would be glad to accept him.  He cared not
for books, or science, taste, or mind.  He left such things to those
who had any inclination for them.  A rich dower he could offer, and
he did not calculate upon having a refusal; but he was mistaken.

Cove, of Covehithe, a very honest unassuming man, of good property,
noble heart, and generous blood, made an offer of all he possessed;
and Ellen much admired his principles and character, but did not
accept him.  Neither did she accept Sir John Bouville, Sir James
Luckmore, nor Warner, of Wammil Hall.  Tendering, of Tendering Hall,
met with no better success--Lanham of Lavenham equally failed.

Sir Robert Drury, who could break swords as well as words, and use
both dexterously, was not sufficiently persuasive with his words to
obtain the maid of Freston Tower.  Neither Kedington nor Jermyn of
Raesbrooke succeeded.  If valorous conduct could have won her William
Lord Helmingham must have been successful; for none of the warriors
of Suffolk were braver than he.  Sir Richard Broke, of Nacton, was
his equal, but excelled him, neither in the warlike field, nor in the
lady's bower.  Sir Edward Edgar, of Glemham, was one of the last of
the bold but unsuccessful Suffolk suitors.  And now it was that
people began to think she had sworn to live and die a recluse.  But
Ellen De Freston was not a cold and cheerless maiden, who evaded
society and friends, and shunned her fellow creatures like a nun.
She delighted not in the cloister to read books and tell beads, and
to kneel before the Prior in the confessional, and vow allegiance to
the Pope of Rome.  Ellen was possessed of such true nobility that she
was never afraid of losing or compromising her own dignity in
conversing with a gentleman, though he was not so highly bred, but
better read than many a noble.

She was alike benevolent to all who visited her father's mansion, for
life and love were in her soul, and she could behave ill to no one.
She well knew the ignorant phantoms and fallacies of her day; and
though she conformed to the church in most of its observances, she
was by no means an admirer of its tricks and follies.  She read the
Bible in Latin and Greek; and drew therefrom the just laws of God,
and could separate the dross of superstition from the good seed of
religion.

There were few nobles at that time who ventured to think for
themselves concerning matters of religion.  The Church of Rome, or
rather the Papal power and its hierarchy, had obtained such dominion
over the landed gentry, merchants, and squires, that the care of the
soul was left to the priest, and to obey human penances, human
penalties, human obligations, with the sanction of ecclesiastical
authority, was the all-sufficient devotion of the period.

Few read the Word of God to improve their souls.  A superficial
knowledge of the events of Scripture, so that the plays and holy
representations, in the shape of acting or pictures, might be
understood, was considered sufficient for any nobleman.  Letters,
learning, literature, and the love of God, were all mere names, fit
only for the monasteries, abbeys, priories, and religious houses in
the kingdom; and, as long as men paid their offerings at Easter, and
gave alms to the poor, told their beads, said their Ave Marias,
Paternosters, and attended matins, vespers, or saints' days, they
were considered godly men by the priest.  And who else, on that day,
had any right to say whether a man was fit to go to heaven or hell?

Ellen, however, determined that the man who aspired to her hand
should have some knowledge beyond the mere externals of religion.
However brave he might be in the face of the foes of his country,
however expert in single combat in the tournament, she would have
nothing to say to him unless he had learnt to combat internally with
the sinful propensities of his heart.

It was this secret, which she kept in her own breast, that induced
her to dismiss so many suitors for her hand.  She boasted not of her
own knowledge, her own perception, or her own requirements; but she
did manage to try those who came to court her, by that beautiful test
of humility which she had herself, in the midst of a superstitious
age, so piously adopted.

She received all the friends who, according to the custom of the age,
came to pay court and suit.  She accepted their introduction at the
hand of her father, and, during the three days allowed for her
answer, never once appeared to shun the society of the hall, or to
converse with these nobles; but in that period she contrived to
ascertain, beyond all doubt, whether the man who was to be her lord,
had for his Lord the God of truth, love, and charity.

She felt this to be her privilege; to endeavor to use every exertion
before she bound herself for life to any man, to find out his
religious principles, and whether or not God was his acknowledged
head; for she was well assured of that truthful doctrine: 'The head
of the woman is the man, and the head of the man is God'; and if she
could not look up to her earthly lord as one who looked up to his
heavenly Master, she felt she could never expect to be happier than
she was, and resolved, until such was the case, that she would remain
single.

She was neither haughty, cold, proud, nor censorious, but, having
been taught good principles, she was very firm in the maintenance of
good resolutions.  She despised not nobility, ancestry, honorable
distinctions, birth, parentage, valour, goodly person, manners, nor
acquirements; she only preferred good, solid, sound sense, humility,
and a right dependence upon God; not so much in words, but in life,
character, conduct, and actions.  She considered faith best shown by
works such as these; and if she found them not, she did not value the
possessor of any other qualities, as having those qualifications to
render her earthly career comfortable.

There were many who, if they had understood this secret bent of her
youthful mind, might have tried the tricks of hypocrisy to have won
the prize; but, to the honor of that age, such species of hypocrites
were then very few; and though, they may now be discerned more
quickly than they were, yet true love only can possess the power to
perceive the arts of the pretenders to religion.

There were some in that age who were such bigotted adherents to the
mere outward forms of sanctity, such devoted slaves of the papal
domination, that, had they known Ellen's secret, would undoubtedly
have set her down for a heretic, and in revenge for their dismissal
might have given information to the ecclesiastical authorities, who
then interfered with the consciences of men as much as they did with
their temporalities.

This would have seemed to them but a mere species of duty which they
owed to the church; and it was no difficult thing then for men to
drive away every species of natural affection, however innocent or
virtuous, under the idea of doing God service.  Frequently the most
malignant passions were vented in what was thought to be holy ardor.

Even Ellen would have been sacrificed to the demoniac frenzy of a
bigot, had she consented to be the wife of some of those whose
consciences would have allowed her to have been made a just victim to
the fiery stake.  So powerfully operated that hideous principle of
man, trusting his conscience in the hands of fallible man, without
making the Word of God the ground-work of his direction.

It is true that nothing but the superiorly-gifted and
superiorly-educated mind of the maid of Freston Tower could have led
her to adopt the course she did in this selection of a husband.  It
was wisdom, indeed, in her not to divulge the principle she acted
upon to any one but her enlightened father, but, confiding in his
honor, love, and wisdom, she had no fear of exposure.  He was too
true a father, too fond a parent, and naturally too noble a minded
man, ever to demand of his daughter a sacrifice which she could not
willingly, with her full consent, approve.

Lord De Freston too dearly loved, valued, honored, and respected the
child whom he had educated, to bias her affections.  One thing he was
quite sure of, that she would marry a gentleman and a Christian, and
he was content to leave the matter to the direction of His hand who
governs and orders all things for man's felicity.

It was not to be supposed that the Baron of Freston Castle had no
pride of ancestry.  He had as much as his contemporaries.  He was a
man who could uphold the appearance of a noble by as much internal
dignity and self-composure as any of the judges of the land; but he
was a man enlightened enough to perceive that nothing unnatural could
be acceptable to the God of Nature.

He found in the revelation of God everything virtuously natural
upheld, that corruption only had instilled false principles of
superstition, which alike defied the laws of nature and of God.
Though he admired the devotions of piety, he abjured the horrors of
fanaticism; though he honored men of learning, he despised not the
ignorant; and only when he found fools claiming, or rather arrogating
to themselves superior godliness, and showing it in the condemnation
of others, did he venture upon open rebuke and expostulation.  His
zeal was even then tempered with such manly discretion that the
censorious fanatic, confused before the noble, could not but
acknowledge that he might be wrong; yet seldom, though defeated,
would he turn and say, 'I am benefited'; such is the difference
between rebuking a wise man and a fool.

No wonder, then, with such a father, Ellen should feel confidence in
maintaining her own right to judge for herself in that event which,
for good or evil, is certainly, with all who do enter into its bonds,
productive of misery or comfort.




CHAPTER XI.

THE CONVERSATION.

If there is in England a spot where hill, wood, and water, without
being too expanded, can be just sufficiently extensive to be
enchanting, it is the view from Freston Tower over the waves of the
Orwell.  No poet can fail to imbibe the purity of nature's thoughts
when seated in or near that spot.  The very sight of the drawing of
the Tower called forth the feeling of some descriptive stranger,
whose words are thus recorded in the history of Ipswich:

  'Who can o'er thy summer tide,
  Winding Orwell, ever glide,
  Nor with raptured eye confess
  Many scenes of loveliness,
  Spreading fair thy banks along,
  Subjects meet for poet's song?
  But the scene I love the best,
  Here is faithfully express'd
  By the artist's skilful hand,
  Mightier than wizard's wand:
  Yes, old Freston, stern and gray,
  Looking o'er the watery way,
  Hath for me more charms than all
  Wooded park or lordly hall!'


The tower only is now standing, but how long it may continue to grace
the Orwell no one can tell.  In these utilitarian days, almost every
mark of ancient elegance seems to be giving way before the desire of
making money.

Ellen De Freston was seated with her father in the fifth room of
Freston Tower, in the bay-window, looking over the waves.  She had
seen her parent's anxious eyes diverted from his wonted study, and
restlessly wandering over the banks of the river, evidently not
surveying the scene with any interest, but ruminating in his mind
over some thoughts which engaged his soul.

'Father, I perceive you are in deep thought, but not upon the work
you are reading.'

'Nay, my child, it is the work I am reading which makes me
thoughtful--deeply thoughtful; for it astonishes me to see how near
to the language of inspiration a heathen writer conceives to be the
value of the soul.'

'Ah! my father, what are the sentiments which have moved you so
forcibly to meditation?  I see you are reading the ancient treatise
of Longinus, "On the Sublime."'

'I am, my daughter, and will read to you part of the 44th section.
It is so extraordinary a description of the prevailing sin of man's
nature, especially where Mammon reigns supreme, that had Longinus
composed it for the very worst and most abandoned days of the world,
he could not have placed our corruptions in a stronger light!'

'Is not this grand and sublime, my daughter, and fit for any
Christian pastor's discourse?' said Lord De Freston.  'How wonderful
is it, that man, uninstructed by the Gospel, should have so perfect
an insight into the value of our immortal souls!'

'It is, indeed, sublime: and I thank you for reading it; but can you
be surprised, dear father, estimating, as you do, the sublime
qualities of the soul, that I should not marry for money?'

'I did never urge you so to do!'

'No, dear father; but I have seen some anxiety about you lately;
intimating that I should not send every suitor away from the castle;
that I might as well live like an anchorite in this tower.'

'I have been anxious for your happiness.'

'I know it well, dear father; and if ever I find a mind like your
own, you will have no cause for regret that I am married.  You have
made me dainty in this respect.  I cannot wed lord or squire, unless
I find myself capable of acknowledging him to be my head; one who
will regard me, not for my personal estate or appearance, but for my
mind: that as we steer our course through life, we may mutually
respect each other, that I may reverence him for his good qualities,
and he may cherish me as his companion in the ways of wisdom and
virtue.  For if my lord, whoever he may chance to be, can never bend
his ear to hear my words, and I cannot aspire to read his soul, how
can I feel the true control of love?  The hand, if bestowed without
the heart, and without a sufficient respect for the superior
qualities of the soul, can never secure happiness, at least to an
educated mind.'

'It is not for me to say, my dearest child, that your visions are
fanciful; that you are building castles in the air, and looking for
too great a degree of perfection in a sinful man.  I own the truth of
what you have said respecting the power of the mind.  But may not
contentions arise in the dispositions of intellectual people, and
produce much discord?  You will never find the soul so free from the
trammels of earthly things as you desire it to be.  You raise up an
imaginary being, and make him possess impossible qualities.  Good
nature, grace, a manly port, and open countenance, with noble deeds,
and a good name, are surely not to be despised.'

'Nor do I despise them, dear father!  They may win many a maiden, and
are undoubtedly great and noble qualities: but years of culture have
so much refined my mind, that I cannot be content with ordinary
natures.  Cavendish is a nobleman, and more learned than Lord
Willoughby; I own that Lord Helmingham is brave, and so is Kedington.
Drury, of Arwarton, is a wise man in his way, and I greatly honor Sir
Richard Broke.  Mowbray is incomparably grand, but where would be the
delight of being his Sultana?  No, father, your love is infinitely to
be preferred.  I would not change it, for all the honors of a
duchess, if my tongue were never to be permitted that kind of
interchange of expression upon the best things of life, which I now
enjoy in your society.  I am contented; I never murmur; I am as happy
as I wish to be; only let me remain so.'

'I never wish to urge you, my child, into any precipitate marriage.
You have been so affectionate a daughter, and so dear a companion,
that without you I should have been miserable.  Yet I am not so
unreasonable as to desire that you should remain single on my
account.  I know you will lever marry any one who is unworthy of De
Freston's daughter.'

'Father, I will only say, I hope not.  This I promise, that even if I
should see the object like yourself in mind, and he should be a
suitor for my hand, I will never wed him, though he were as rich as
Crœsus, or as poor as Lazarus, without your full consent.'

'Say no more upon the subject, my child.  I know your heart; it burns
pure and spotless in your life.  I do not wish to chain your will, or
to choose for you; nor even to recommend, much less to urge a suit
which you could not approve.  I will still hope, that before my sun
of life has gone down, I may see you settled with the object of such
affection as you can bestow; a joy to yourself, an honor to your
husband, and a comfort to your father.'

'Without such hope I will never marry.--How lovely is the day,' she
added, as if to change the subject: 'and how beautiful, in the full
flood of this summer sky, appears the silvery light upon the waves of
the Orwell.  Dear father, I imagine no moments of this life can be
more pleasant, more truly grateful, than when I contemplate the
features of nature, and find a tranquillity within, that cheers me
with the hope of one day enjoying far brighter scenes.'

'You are young, my dear child, and though learned in many works, and
constantly employed in the cheerful studies of nature and religion,
you know but little of the struggles of life, which thousands have to
make.  You may see something of them among the poor, but you are not
aware of many thousand trials to which men of the highest grades of
society are exposed.  Scarcely one of those books which so delight
us, and expand our intellects, but was produced in poverty and
sorrow.  And even now, at this very time that I am speaking, I fear
that the passions and prejudices of men will not suffer the truth to
prevail without a struggle severe, even unto death.'

'Truth will prevail at last, however.  As it is so powerful, it will
shine more gloriously through the very clouds which would obscure it.'

'You are right, my child; but as yet you know but few hardships.
Your days smile, your nights are bright like the stars, and you view
everything with the eyes of innocence.'

'You seemed inclined to reprove me for my too great sensibility in
the matter of the dead dolphins; but that very weakness proves that I
saw not with the eyes of indifference the cruelties of mankind.'

'That is rather an extreme case, my child.  In the world you will
find persons still more cruel in the persecution of their own
species; and could you bear such scenes?'

'I know not if I may ever see such; I will not anticipate them, but
will trust that, should they come, I may be prepared with strength of
mind to endure them.'

'Spoken as I would have you speak, my daughter, and like yourself.  I
wish for nothing more than such fortification for myself or you.'

At that moment an announcement was given, that a messenger from
Goldwell Hall (or, as it is now known, Coldwell or Cauldwell Hall)
had arrived at the castle.

'I suppose,' said Ellen, 'that Bishop Goldwell has arrived at his
palace of Wykes; and yet the messenger, I hear, is from Goldwell
Hall, the seat of his deceased brother.  We shall have to fulfil our
engagement, father, and visit him in Suffolk.  Alice--the proud and
stately Alice--is to accompany him, and she was very kind to me when
I was but a child.  We have not seen them for a long while.  She will
scarcely know me.  I wonder, my father, we have not heard from our
cousin, Thomas Wolsey, lately.'

'I hear that William Latimer is on his journey hitherward, and will,
beyond all doubt, be the bearer of letters to us from the far-famed
Boy Bachelor, as I hear he is called.  Thomas has plenty of ambition
in his character, and will one day prove himself a remarkable man.'

'He might, I think, have been courteous enough to keep up his
correspondence.'

'In this, perhaps, he was ungracious; but I can imagine a youth like
Wolsey rising by his own brilliant talents, and concluding that even
our attentions to him were solely on their account.  Let us not judge
him unfairly.  We shall hear of him from our cousin Latimer, and I
have no doubt it will be good news.  He cannot forget us, any more
than we can him.'

'But we must prepare to visit the Bishop.  He may, for Alice De
Clinton's sake, visit the old hall of his brother but our invitation
is to the palace, and we shall there find that open house and
hospitality for which Goldwell, the able Secretary of State and
Bishop of Norwich, is so celebrated.  We have much to do, for we must
go in state, else Alice, should she be with her uncle, would scarcely
condescend to own us.  Let us, then, leave the Tower; one farewell
look at the lovely scene, and then for Wyke's Bishop's Palace!'



CHAPTER XII.

THE PALACE.

The palace of the Bishop of Norwich, then commonly called Wyke's
Bishop's Palace, was one of the most splendid buildings in the whole
of East Anglia.  It was built in those early days when the men of God
were also, alas! compelled by ignorance to be men of war; who, though
loving peace, had so many temporal possessions in estates, and fines,
and properties of various kinds, that they were expected to defend
them with armed men, instead of with the sword of the Spirit, or the
Word of Truth.

The building was of very ancient date, and was castellated and well
fortified with bastions at eight different points, surrounded by a
moat of great width, with a huge drawbridge on the western front.  It
was situated in a beautiful valley, surrounded on three sides by
hills of considerable height, even now called the Bishop's Hills, and
in what was then called Ufford's Dale, in which were the celebrated
Holy Wells, where pilgrims came from all parts to visit the font St.
Ivan, said to have the effect of curing every disease.

The castle, as it might be very properly called, had four
watch-towers, in which were windows looking towards the four points,
north, east, south, and west.  In no other part of the structure,
save the warder's room over the great gateway, was there any window;
for this building had withstood many an insurrection, and many an
incursion of the furious Dane, and was not only a Bishop's palace,
but, in the ninth century, one of the strongholds of the townsmen of
Ipswich beyond their walls.

There was a great square in the centre, into which all the apartments
of the palace looked, so that it was not until the visitor had passed
under the great arch that he could conceive the beauty of the
building, or form any idea of the extent of its accommodation.
Externally, its character was sombre, having battlements on all
sides, enlivened only by the watch towers, plain walls, strong and
thick, though in its latter days, in the time of which this history
treats, symptoms of decay began to be visible in various parts, where
landslips from the springs around had caused considerable
inclinations of the buttresses.  Still the inside of the area was
kept up in all the characteristic state of Goldwell, Bishop of
Norwich, the last of the possessors of a palace at Ipswich.

A small creek at that day ran up the valley in which the palace was
built, and approached so near it that a boat could ascend from the
Orwell almost up to the moat.  That creek does not now exist, but in
its place there are magnificent fish-ponds, and the ancient stream is
diverted to a use very foreign to its original purpose.*  But the
palace was not half so grand in its appearance as its stately inmates.


* The Cliff Brewery.


Goldwell Hall, which then belonged to Bishop Goldwell and was so
called in his lifetime, was the marriage portion of one of his
sisters, who married Geoffery De Clinton, of Castle Clinton, near
Linton, in Cambridgeshire.  He was a wealthy noble, as well as proud,
and had but one daughter by this marriage, though he had two sons by
a former wife.  He married Alice Goldwell when he was much advanced
in years, and could scarcely expect to see his young offspring arrive
at womanhood.

In consequence of this, and of the loss of his partner, the Lady
Clinton, he left his daughter to the sole guardianship of Goldwell
(then Secretary of State) her maternal uncle.  He left the income of
certain estates in Norfolk, Suffolk, and Cambridgeshire, to the
Bishop, as long as his child should live and remain single, and then
to be given to her as her dower; and in case of the demise of the
said Bishop and his niece, then to revert to the heir-at-law of the
family of Goldwell.  The Bishop's private chapel then stood on the
opposite side of the hill on which the mansion was built.

Alice De Clinton, the particular care of the Bishop of Norwich, grew
up under his superintendence a most magnificent woman to look at; so
much so, that she was generally called Alice la Grande.  She was very
stately in her person, and always wore a haughty expression of
countenance.  She was quite a drawback upon the hospitality of
Goldwell; yet, strange to say, she possessed a great degree of
influence over the Bishop.  He was liberal beyond what was usual in
his day, and was never but once betrayed into an act of persecution,
and that was in the case of one single heretic, John Bahram, whose
death-warrant he countersigned not many months before his own exit.

Goldwell was not in spirit a persecutor: he had been possessed of
very high influence in affairs of State, and was a learned and
liberal-minded man.  He who was not to be deceived by courtiers,
could be commanded even by his niece, and yet be blind to her power.
He was proud of her, but it was because she was proud of herself, and
would brook no equal.

Her pride was so great as to be proverbial; and most persons were
glad when Alice De Clinton was not at the palace.  She would yield to
none--not even to her uncle, the opinion she had once adopted.  With
neither priest nor squire of inferior degree would she ever exchange
a word, though he might be a visitor in the palace, receiving the
hospitality of the Bishop.  Her hauteur was so great that none but a
lord must speak to her; or if they did dare to do so, her uncommon
expression of disdain was enough to silence any humble-minded man.
Her bounty to the poor was never bestowed from pity.  She gave the
boon, whatever it might chance to be, as a gift after partaking of
high mass; but none could possibly feel that relief of spirit which
acknowledged the blessing was due to the giver, since she would make
every one to understand he was much more blessed in receiving than
she was in bestowing.  Alice De Clinton gave with such haughtiness as
to make the gift painful; so much so, that whenever she visited
Goldwell Hall, in the neighborhood of Ipswich, it was called by the
poor _Cold Hall_, so stiff, so benumbing was the influence of her
miscalled charity.

To the palace of Wykes, in that day, came many of the unfortunate,
who, in the previous wars of the Roses, and in foreign as well as
domestic broils, had been reduced to become objects of bounty.
House, home, board, and lodging, the weary pilgrim and broken-down
stranger would always find at the hospitable palace.  Those were days
at least of generosity in this respect, whatever pride or
superstition might be connected therewith; and, singular as the
custom would now appear, the Bishop never sat down to his meal at
mid-day without the company of every stranger in the palace.

Alice had been an inmate of De Freston's castle with her uncle in the
early days of Ellen's childhood; and such was the meekness of the
daughter of De Freston that even the proud Alice condescended to look
upon her as a friend; but it was certainly as a friend beneath her,
one to whom she might show a kind of patronizing air without any
compromise of her dignity.

Years had elapsed sines the maid of Freston Tower had been summoned
to visit Alice De Clinton.  The messenger, however, had arrived at De
Freston's castle, and the lord and the lady prepared to set forth
upon their journey.  In those days no carriage came sweeping round to
the hall-door with their prancing steeds, and gold-laced coachmen and
footmen; but ladies rode on horse-back, or were borne in covered
litters to their places of entertainment.  Horses 'with flowing tails
and flying manes,' dressed with gorgeous trappings and high saddles,
came from the stables to the mansion.  There was no lack of
attendants, for a noble then counted his state by the number of his
retainers.

Ellen and her maid, on palfreys of beautiful jet black, were soon
ready for the journey to Wyke's Bishop's Palace.  Lord De Freston, on
a milk-white horse of uncommon strength, one he had received as a
gift from Lord Willoughby, from Hanover, accompanied his daughter,
whilst a train of servants preceding as well as following, all
mounted on black steeds, made him and his Snow-Ball, as he was
called, so much the more conspicuous.

His horse had eyes so full of fire, and nostrils so expanded, that he
looked well adapted for the battle-field.  But he was now upon a
visit of peace, and to a peaceful man: and his cavalcade left the
castle accompanied by men bearing all the usual luggage which such
state visits required.

De Freston, indeed, infinitely preferred the journey by water; for he
was too sensible a man to delight in the mere pageantry of
appearance, yet he was not insensible to the customs of his age.  He
had, however, a daughter in whom he delighted, and the thought that
Alice De Clinton, who loved the forms of etiquette, and would blush
to see any one she called _her_ friend lowering herself by
condescension, would be affronted were he to forget the dignity of
his barony, induced him to take the journey with all his retinue.

They descended the Freston Hill, which was then the boundary of the
park, and swept along the strand, toward the Bourne Ford, where,
following the guide who knew the passage, they dashed through the
briny flood, and paced along the levels of Stoke, the tide of the
Orwell actually washing their horses' hoofs, as if they were riding
along the sea-shore.  So beautiful and so clear were the waves of the
river which then washed the banks of its course, that the receding
tide left a sand almost as clean as that which borders the German
Ocean.

So high were the waves at that time at the Prior's Ford, between St.
Peter's Gate and Stoke, that the party had to sweep round beside the
narrower stream of the Gipping, and pass over the Friar's Bridge
before they could enter Ipswich.

The town was at that time celebrated for its religious houses, Grey
Friars, Black Canons, White Monks, Benedictines, Carmelites, and all
manner of brotherhoods and botherhoods of papal Rome.  Mendicants of
all descriptions accosted the industrious with a boldness such as no
beggars dare in these days assume, for fear of the treadmill.  But
the terrors of Rome were much greater upon the priest-ridden yet
industrious Britons than ever the treadmill could be to the vicious.
Those who were sanctioned by the Pope to beg, carried along with them
a mandate which few dared refuse to obey.  The anathemas of the
church were then bestowed with such a plentiful outpouring of bile
upon such trivial subjects, too, as would have made Longinus laugh at
the sublimity of their pompousness.  But men trembled then with
scarcely any conscience, for absolution had its pecuniary price, and
could be purchased for sins, past, present, and to come.

The holy brethren at the Friar's Gate bent lowly to De Freston as he
gave them his salutation, and passed on through St. Nicholas Street,
past Robert Wolsey's house, down to St. Peter's Priory, along the
warder's way, over the Bailiff's Customs Quay, through the parish of
St. Clement, into the hamlet of Wyke's Ufford.  The cavalcade then
proceeded on what was termed the procession-way, leading to the
shrine of St. Ivan, from which they digressed on the broad Palace
Road to the Bishop's Gate.

The whole party soon passed over the drawbridge, then under the
warder's arch into the area of the palace, where the verger, with the
silver and golden ornaments of office, stood prepared with a number
of serving-men to receive the noble.

'Here, my men,' said De Freston, after he had assisted Ellen to
alight, 'ye will refresh yourselves and horses, and then set forth
upon your return by the way ye came, and see that ye keep well
together, and enter into no broils with any one.  Ye will be in
readiness for your summons for our return whensoever ye receive
command.  Pass on!'

De Freston and his daughter passed into the presence of Bishop
Goldwell, who was seated in a chair of state at the upper end of a
long and vaulted chamber prepared for their coming.

He rose, his step was proud and stately, and his large and noble eye
glanced a penetrating look upon the noble.  Goldwell would maintain
in private the same dignity which he was accustomed to show in
public.  He was gracious though grand; his manner mild, bland, yet
becomingly distant.  Though a man of state, he was also a man of
ease, and showed what was due to his own person, and what he expected
even if he did not deserve it--which he did as much as any other man
could.

He received the Lord De Freston and his daughter with such a
courteous manner, as only to seem himself to be proud before his
household.  With the most paternal air he accosted Ellen, receiving
her hand at her father's request, and led her to a seat, and, with
great politeness, welcomed De Freston to his palace.

'Fair daughter!' he said to Ellen, 'this visit to my niece affords us
both infinite pleasure: we have sought it many a day; but I scarcely
think that Alice will be able to recognise thee; for thou art grown
up from childhood to such form and feature that I should not, but for
the likeness to thy father present, have discovered thee to be his
daughter.'

Then, turning to the father, he added--

'I am proud to see thee, De Freston, maintaining thy years with
becoming verdure.  Time has laid his hand upon me, and the cares of
state have borne me down.'

'I hope the years of peace yet reserved for your reverence may make
amends for all your state anxieties.'

'I thank thee, De Freston, but let me send for Alice at once.'

The Bishop rang a small bell; a female made her appearance, and was
ordered to inform her mistress that Lord De Freston and his daughter
had arrived.




CHAPTER XIII.

THE RECEPTION.

Alice De Clinton had been made acquainted with the arrival of Lord De
Freston and his daughter, even before they had made their appearance
in the presence of the Bishop.  She was engaged in her own private
apartment, working a cross for the altar of the chapel of Goldwell
Hall, when her maid informed her of the arrival of the expected
guests.  She scarcely raised her head from the embroidery to receive
the tidings.  She ordered her maid to hand her some threads, and
pursued her work.  It was neither her custom nor her inclination to
do otherwise.  She had actually received the Bishop's message before
she condescended to lay aside her work.  None, however, of those she
called her friends were more highly esteemed than Lord De Freston and
Ellen.

She rose in due time, with perfect composure, from the embroidery of
the cross, and leaving the work as if she intended to pursue it again
after a pause, came very slowly, and with great state, into the
presence-chamber of the Bishop.

Alice was handsome.  She had a remarkably fine face and figure, but
her beauty was of that nature which the eye can look upon with
wonder, without feeling any degree of affection.  She was like some
of the finely-chiselled figures of the ancients, admirable to look
upon, but cold indeed to touch.  Nay more, when she approached the
party assembled in the palace hall, so pale, so stately, so
immoveably placid, fixed, settled, cool and composed was the smooth,
white face of the maiden, that, she looked more like beauty in the
winding-sheet of death, than a creature of life, whose veins
contained a circulating fluid, warm from the heart.

She approached to meet her guest; not a smile passed over her
features.  Her high and lofty brow, with its wintry air, formed a
strange contrast to the sunny brow of the happy Ellen.  The frozen
expression of one face contrasted with the glow on the features of
the other.  That eye, too, so large, so glassy, and so stern, was
strangely opposed to the beaming vivacity of Ellen's.

Ellen received the salutation of Alice with that ease which innocence
and virtue ever maintain in the presence of pride.  She knew the
dignity of Alice, and left her to bend as she thought fit, whilst she
retained her standing place, leaning on the arm of her noble father.
The haughty maiden broke the silence; but with words that rather
confirmed than altered the position of pride she had assumed.

'Thou art changed, indeed, maiden, since I knew thee in thy childish
years.  I can scarcely believe thou art Ellen De Freston, but that I
see the lord of Freston Hall supporting thee.  I must forget, I
presume, the day I found thee playful as the young fawn; since, now I
behold thee grown up to woman's estate.  Thou art Ellen De Freston,
art thou not?'

'I am the same Ellen, Alice De Clinton, as I was when, in the days of
friendship, you condescended to treat me as your companion.  I am
unaltered in heart.  I have often thought of your visit to my
father's hall, and have longed to see you there again.  I hope we
shall soon know each other better.'

This reply had the effect of somewhat thawing the icy distance
between them, for the haughty Alice gave her hand to Ellen, and led
the way back to her own apartment, leaving the Bishop and Lord De
Freston to converse upon politics or the more eloquent theme of the
day, the growing plant of heresy, as it was called, which then began
to spring up in Ipswich, and in various other parts of the diocese of
Norwich.

'I am much concerned,' said Bishop Goldwell, 'to observe the
increasing propensity to heresy which seems to be spreading far and
wide throughout the kingdom, unsettling the minds of our people, and
inducing them to call in question our authority as agents of the See
of Rome.  Thou knowest well, De Freston, that I hold my churchman's
station as far preferable to my worldly state; that the supremacy of
the Holy See over all causes ecclesiastical is part of my
acknowledged creed; that, looking upon the Pope alone, as Christ's
vice-gerent upon earth, is vicar-general, who has the power of St.
Peter's keys, to loose and bind, to curb dissent, and to give
absolute decision in cases of dispute, I refer every difficult case
to his court, and rest contented in my own conscience with his
commands.  There are two youths, now inmates of my palace, come on
purpose to plead with me, concerning the state of their consciences,
and to ask my ghostly counsel and advice.  One of them is of such
amiable deportment, such gentle manners, and of such godly fear, and
disposition to respect his superiors, that I cannot refuse to admit
him to an audience, and to argue with him upon the state of his mind.
He speaks with ease and fluency; but I discover much strong prejudice
under this quick manner, and I know not how to root it out.  Thou art
learned, De Freston, and canst, perchance, afford me some assistance,
for thou art a true churchman.'

'I hope I am, my lord, without being a blind one.  I know the
liberality of your mind, and that you have seen more of men of wisdom
and letters than most men now living; and I think that you act as a
Bishop ought in giving audience to a conscientious man.  There are
many innovations crept into the church by means of the supineness of
the clergy, and the love of money in the higher powers, which you
know, as well as I do, ought not to have been admitted.  So many
fraternities joined to the Papal power, and receiving therefrom a
sanction for their superstitions, may, perhaps, have created a
jealousy in the minds of some, which may require much soothing to
correct.  I heartily wish, churchman as I am, that many of the
miscalled relics of the priories, and the absurd fallacies of
miscalled pious customs, were done away with.  What is the name of
this disputant who has sought you, and whence does he spring?'

'The youth I speak of is John Bale, of Cove.  He is a Carmelite of
the strictest order of mendicants, claiming his descent from the
prophet Elisha; rigid and austere in his deportment, and yet so
humble, and enlightened in letters, I heartily wish his conscience
was not so tender.  It burns him, he says, so sore, that he cannot
help complaining to his Bishop, and seeking, at my mouth, some
consolation.  When I argue with him, he hesitates not to tell me how
far he admits my authority, and how far he disputes it: prays my
patience towards himself, and towards my own self when he states
where he thinks I am wrong.  He says he prays for me, that I may see
the error of my ways, and may come to the full truth.  They cannot
conceive in Rome to what state things are coming in England.  I fear
that these two men, John Bale and Thomas Bilney, are incorrigible
heretics.  As they claim the privilege of asking my advice, I can but
be courteous towards them.  I only wish they would attend to my
suggestions, and be obedient to my mandates.  Thomas Bilney, the
other disputant, is a man of warm temper though of very clear head.
I have asked some of my clergy in this town to meet them at the hour
of noon; and as thou dost know that I admit all kinds of addresses
without fear of persecution, loving, as I do, discussion, thou wilt
probably take part therein, and I am sure with discretion.'

'If, in the least degree, I ventured to give my opinion, it would, I
trust, be on the side of that which I consider truth.  If these
scholars be not too profound for me, I shall take some interest in
the discussion, having thought very deeply upon the prevailing
notions of the times.'

A servant came at that moment to announce a stranger to the Bishop,
and to deliver a note to Lord De Freston.

'Ah!' exclaimed the noble, 'I have notice of a visitor to your
lordship's palace, who, though unexpected here, was not totally
unexpected by me at my home.  He will be quite an acquisition to the
interest of the discussion, as he is a learned theologian from
Oxford, alike eminent for his modesty as well as his superior
attainments.'

'Who is the stranger?'

'It is William Latimer, the friend of the celebrated Grocyn, and of
the Ipswich scholar, now so distinguished at the University.'

'Latimer I have heard of, and I know Grocyn well.  I presume thou
dost refer to the Boy Bachelor, whom I have heard of--Thomas Wolsey,
the son of one of the best tenants I have for the Priory Farm at
Alneshbourne.'

'The same, father, the same, and will you permit me to welcome to
your hospitable palace, this friend of mine?'

'Any friend of thine, De Freston, shall find a welcome here, even
were he not the learned man thou hast represented him to be.  Pray
bid him welcome.'

The lord followed the servant to the corridor, and there he found
Latimer waiting.

The greeting was of that kindly nature which had ever subsisted
between the family of the Latimers and the De Frestons.  De Freston
was, indeed, attached to Latimer, as a superior in experience and
wisdom would be to a young friend whom he patronized.  Yet De Freston
felt a degree of attachment to him, peculiarly interesting for his
daughter's sake; for, to this young man's perception, plan, and
proposition, was owing the health, happiness, and comfort of his
child, through the daily course of intellectual employment to which
she had become an assiduous and habitual devotee.

'I am glad to see you, Latimer, but sorry it is not in my own hall;
but you can go on thitherward before our return, for we must stay our
appointed time here.'

'I heard, in my route, that you were a guest of Bishop Goldwell.
Knowing his hospitality, I did not hesitate to wait upon you here, as
I should have found even the beauty of your castle and the lovely
Freston Tower insipid without their cheerful tenants.'

'The Bishop gives you welcome, and, to say truth, I am doubly glad
you are come, for I want your aid.  Come with me into my private
room: I have some minutes of discussion which I would share with you
before we enter the hall of reception.'

The domestic in waiting soon showed the friends the apartments
prepared for De Freston; and there, for a few minutes, did Latimer
converse with his relative upon the all-important matters of the day.'

'First tell me of Wolsey!  He seems to have forgotten us.  How is the
youth, and does he not send us his greeting?'

'I am the bearer to you of his first prize at Oxford.  So that you
see he renders to his early patron the first fruits of his success.
He has sent by me a very valuable Testament, the earliest which has
issued from the press.'

'I said he would not desert us.  He has been very silent of late, and
Ellen and myself were fearful lest he was ill.'

'Wolsey is well!  I have delivered letters to his parents and friends
in Ipswich.  This one is for you; and I can assure you and Ellen that
you both live in his heart and memory.  He has great cares just at
the present time, having undertaken to superintend the schools of his
college.  He is extremely anxious in mind, and though with no bodily
ailment, yet, at times, I fear the intense application which he
bestows upon study should affect his spirits.  He is sometimes
depressed by this over-anxiety, beyond what is usual in youth.  It is
then I talk to him of home, Ipswich, and yourselves; this rouses him
and he revives.'

'You should have persuaded him to have come with you, the change
would have done him good.  We always remember your mutual visit to
the Tower.'

'I did endeavor to persuade him, but he has a high notion of duty.
He spoke with enthusiasm of the Tower: told me he never had such
delightful days as those which he spent there, and dwelt upon them
with so many sighs, that I am sure the Isis, which passes close by
his college window, is, in his eyes, insignificant compared with the
Orwell: still he says Oxford is his theatre of action, and he will
not leave it until he has seen certain works he has undertaken
completed.'

'Ellen will be glad to hear you speak of him, for she has certainly
accused him of being proud, negligent, and almost ungrateful.'

'He is not the latter, though I will own there is too much of the
former in his composition.  She would not think him either had she
heard him deliver to me the message of remembrance which he gave.'

'Of these things you must convince her.  We must prepare for the
public banquet hour; and, but that I know your readiness, I should
tell you that you will be rather put to it for wisdom, since, at the
Bishop's table this day, you will meet, I suspect, some stormy
disputants.  One thing in Bishop Goldwell I greatly admire--his
hospitality to strangers.  Whilst, at the same time, such is his
courtesy and kindness towards his inferior clergy, that I believe he
would support the poorest at the expense of his mitre sooner than see
him wronged.  He rules them not with a rod of iron, but maintains his
own dignity, whilst his sons in the church look up to him with the
assurance of protection.'

'I have heard this spoken of him; but I have heard also that he is
swayed greatly by the influence of his niece, who is not the
counterpart of his reverence in suavity.'

'You have heard right, but you must judge for yourself.  Come and
see, for the hour of meeting him approaches.'

The friends were soon in readiness, and descended together to the
grand banquet-hall of the Bishop's palace.  It was a spacious
chamber, more than one hundred feet in length, with six windows of
Gothic architecture and stained glass, representing six different
periods of the world.  The first, the Temptation in the Garden of
Eden; the second, the Flood; the third, the Sacrifice of Abraham; the
fourth, the Delivery of the Law; the fifth, the Building of the
Temple of Solomon; and the sixth, the Crucifixion.

The designs were much more splendid in colors than in conception, for
singular contradictions of unity existed in all the windows.  A
lady's lap-dog, with a bright gilt collar round his neck, was found
in the garden of Eden; Abraham had philacteries on his forehead and
robes; in the Flood, some monks with crosses were seen descending
down a rushing cataract; in the Delivery of the Law, Moses had a
mitre on his head; at the building of the Temple, there stood several
orders of the Roman Brotherhood celebrating high mass, and so many
impossibilities of fancy crowded into the ornamental portions of the
sides of the windows, that it was difficult to say what they were.
Still the light gleaming through the different colored glasses had a
brilliant effect at noonday.

Thirty guests were expected.  The Bishop's chair was at the centre of
that long table, and his own family of friends were to be seated on
his right and left hand, whilst, on the opposite side, were ranged
the seats of strangers, travellers, pilgrims, or any who might chance
to claim the hospitality of the palace.  These all waited in a
spacious receiving-ward, where there was water to wash their feet,
and clean apparel, if required.  A peep into that room would have put
to flight all the ideas of modern luxury and modern notions of
hospitality, even in a bishop's palace.

Various monks from distant parts were there--with various priests of
various parishes, who came to pay their court to their diocesan.
Those who came without express invitation were all received into this
apartment, and prepared for the table of the Bishop.  They had to
wait with the rest, be they who they might, and were never seen or
heard until the hour of public entertainment.

In the common room were waiting, amidst friars, pilgrims, monks, and
mendicants, Thomas Bilney and John Bale, men who, at that day, took
advantage of the opportunity offered them to speak without reserve to
Goldwell, who was generally looked upon as friendly at least to
intellectual discussion.

The noon-bell sounded long and sonorous, so that, in all parts of the
town, strangers knew that it was the hour of hospitality, and,
whoever was so disposed, might pass the drawbridge and partake of the
benediction of the Bishop, sure to find a seat at his board, an
attentive ear to his history, and, if he had any cause of complaint,
promise, if he lived within the jurisdiction of the diocese of
Norwich, that his suit should be attended to.




CHAPTER XIV.

THE RECLUSE.

In the days of Bishop Goldwell, and towards the end of the existence
of the palace of Wyke's Bishop, there lived a man who came from a far
country, and took up his solitary abode at the head of the little
stream which rose from the side of the hill, in the valley of Utford.
He had existed twenty years in that secluded spot, and was never
known to shave his head or trim his beard in the course of that
period.

In an age when superstition reigned supreme, and the poor dejected
sinner knew not how to worship God in spirit and in truth, without
flying from the face of men, and seeking something in solitude; in an
age when the ministers of Rome taught that penance was meritorious,
the self-immolating sacrifice of solitude became the surest way to
obtain the crown of the saint; and many were the conscience-smitten
convicts who were urged to depart from every tie of life, and give
themselves up to the sternest impositions of devotion.  They would
retire from the world, live in a cave, kneel a certain number of
hours on a hard stone before a cross in the wall of their cells, eat
just enough coarse bread to keep life from departing, and drink of
the water from some fountain sacred to their fancy.

Amongst the ignorant, these men were looked upon with the most
profound veneration, were esteemed paragons of excellence; the most
virtuous, the most pious saints upon earth.  Their names were handed
down to posterity, their deeds mentioned with respect, whilst they
themselves deceived their own hearts with the ideas of their own
fancies for divinity.

At the period of this narrative there existed a devotee of this kind,
who went by the title of St. Ivan.  He boasted his descent from
Hurder the Dane; and, because his father, grandfather, or
great-grandfather had been stolen, when a child in his mother's arms,
and carried away by the chieftain, Hurder, during a Danish incursion,
he called himself of Danish extraction.  There was an Ivan de Linton,
who originally built the chapel of Wyke's Bishop, and appointed
priests to chaunt a requiem therein, for his father's soul, who was
saved in the battle with the Danes upon Rushmere Heath, and died in a
cottage or cave where an old man lived, at the Ufford Dell.  A wild
descendant of this Ivan came from Cambridgeshire, and became the St.
Ivan celebrated for his solitary eccentricity.  He was a physician in
the latter part of the reign of Henry V.; so that he must have been
an old man when he retired from the world.

For twenty years he administered advice to all who came to him, and,
as he recommended abstinence for a certain number of hours previously
to his consideration of plethoric diseases, he obtained wonderful
celebrity for the cure of the Holy Waters from St. Ivan's Spring.
Thus the spot was called, and, to this day, bears the name on the
Holy Wells.

This old man used to perambulate the Bishop's palace every day.  He
never entered its walls, because he used to say that, when he did so,
they would fall down, because the palace had been built upon the site
of the chapel of his forefathers.  He was greatly respected by the
inhabitants of Ipswich, as pilgrims from all parts came to be healed
at the well of St. Ivan.

From time to time, as the old man went his rounds, perambulating the
moat of the castle, he observed, as many others might have done, had
they as regularly frequented the spot, indications of danger in the
walls of the building; for the banks of the moat on the castle side
began to press more and more into the waters, evidently showing that
a settlement was taking place which must one day be destructive to
the edifice.

From year to year he had observed these signs, and no doubt expected
to behold the demolition of a palace which he considered an
innovation of his rights.  For the twenty years he lived there, this
was the theme of his prognostication, whenever any friend or stranger
visited his cell.  His ominous declarations had rather increased with
his latter years, as the slips into the deep moat became larger.

Lord De Freston had often visited this eccentric man, and finding
something more in him than the delusions of ignorance, he made great
allowance for his vagaries.  He found him communicative and
well-informed upon all historical subjects, though pretending to be
wrapt up in abstruse fallacies.  He humored his fancies, and received
from him far more honest disclosures than such men are apt to make.
But upon the subject of the fall of Wyke's Bishop's Palace, he found
an uniformity of opinion that made him doubtful of the man's sanity.
Little, however, did that nobleman know of the daily calculations of
St. Ivan, and perhaps, had he been aware of them, he would have
equally doubted their accuracy.

A friendship certainly subsisted between them, which was nurtured by
the kind heart of De Freston; for, unknown to the recluse, he
employed poor people, from whom alone the hermit would take anything,
to supply him with gifts of bread and viands whenever he could
understand they would be received.  Kind acts are always, one day or
other, rewarded, let them be done by whom they will; whilst unkind
ones will as assuredly meet with bitter reflections, if ever
retribution visit the offender.

Noon, as was stated at the end of the last chapter, was the hour of
hospitality at that day, when men were less hasty to be made rich,
and could afford the most wakeful hour of the day for public
entertainments.  Now, indeed friends visit each other at hours when
their ancestors were about to retire for the night.  But the hour of
noon that day was a busy hour in the palace of Wyke's Bishop.  It was
alive with people passing and repassing, as the dinner-bell in the
lofty turret kept up its peal.  A joyful sound, indeed, to many a
poor priest, who was melancholy only, on the prescribed day of
fasting, when he was bound to keep in his own cell.

Many of the wealthiest townsmen were expected.  The mayor, burgess,
and portmen, together with their wives and daughters, were to be
partakers of the hospitality of the Bishop.  Understanding, as they
soon did, that Ellen De Freston, the amiable daughter and heiress of
the Lord of Freston Tower, was to be there, they assembled with far
lighter hearts and livelier countenances than if they had no one to
meet but her contrast, Alice De Clinton.

There came also, at the invitation of Bishop Goldwell, the priests of
St. Peter and St. Lawrence, the priests of St. Mary at the Tower, St.
Mary near the Elms, St. Saviour, St. John, St. Margaret and Trinity,
then held as one, and of St. Michael, which stood upon the borders of
the town wall.  These were all assembled in the great hall, or
banquetting-room of the palace, and took their seats previously to
the entrance of Bishop Goldwell.  The table was so arranged, in the
shape of a section of a roof, that the Bishop was seen, as it were,
from every part of the board, and could himself see every one of his
visitors.  He could thus be addressed by any one without
inconvenience, and every speech could be distinctly heard.

As the Bishop entered, the numerous company rose.  His reverence
came, accompanied by the bailiffs of the ancient borough and their
friends, together with all such as were acquainted with Lord De
Freston.  There was Edmund Daundy, Thomas Smart, Robert Tooley, John
Sparrowe, and several others, twelve in number, who entered from the
palace reception-chamber into the hall.  The Bishop led the way in
state, followed by Alice and Lord De Freston, Daundy and Ellen,
Latimer and the bailiff's wife, and other couples, who were escorted
to their seats with all-appointed etiquette.

Lord De Freston sat on the right hand side of the chair, or throne,
and next to him sat Alice De Clinton, at whom no one could look
without being struck with her cold and haughty dignity.  Next to her,
to his discomfort, sat William Latimer, who was in every respect a
gentleman, at perfect ease with himself and others, though far from
obtrusive.  A daughter of the house of Sparrowe, a very ancient
family in Ipswich, sat on his right, and then several of the
burgesses of the town, the priests, and travellers, mendicants, and
strangers, to the end of the table.

On the left of the Bishop sat Edmund Daundy, and next to him Ellen De
Freston, and next to her John Sparrowe and others invited as friends,
and then Thomas Bilney, John Bale, and several of their friends who
had come with them, to hear what advice the Bishop would give in
those troublesome times.

The 'benedicite' was chaunted by the priests, and the company
arranged for the feast partook of the celebrated hospitality of that
princely bishop, than whom Norwich never, in those Popish days,
before or after, had a more truly liberal prelate.  He was a man with
a great degree of knowledge of men and manners.

He professed not a liberality he did not practise.  He was consistent
in his conduct, and did not condemn the ignorant.  He courted not
popularity at the expense of public principle, nor made friends of
the private enemies of the church in preference to the encouragement
of his own clergy.  He regarded the conscientious scruples of others,
permitted free discussion before him, and gave his opinions and
advice with judgment and discretion.  He was superior to the times he
lived in, and was much beloved, both in private and public.

Whilst the Bishop was entertaining his company, St. Ivan, whose hour
for perambulating the walls of the palace had arrived just as the
bell had ceased, descended from his cave.  He bound his loose vest
round his loins, and, taking his staff in his hands, began his walk
down the stone steps from his dwelling.  The old man always knew
everything going on in the palace.  The poor who visited him could
tell him the characters of its inmates, and frequently they described
the haughty maid in her true character.  He had that day heard of the
arrival of Lord De Freston and his daughter, and was observed to be
more than usually stirred in his mind at the circumstance.  He paused
as the palace came in his view, and shook his long white locks from
his forehead as he surveyed the walls.

''Was it for this,' he exclaimed, 'that my venerated sire built on
yonder site the Chapel of Ufford, that wassail and waste might come,
and the pomp, pride, and state of a Bishop's See might be gathered
therein, to greet the nobles of the land, and the inhabitants of this
town?  Did he, for the space of a whole year, kneel day by day on the
cold stone with which he laid the very foundation of his chapel?  Did
he dedicate the same to the saints, and vow to heaven one half of his
wealth to build a holy temple, where priests should pray day and
night, and the holy fire should be kept burning upon the altar?  Was
it for this, that, over his bones which lie there, a Bishop should
hold his court, and invite all the world to partake of his
hospitality, whilst I, the descendant of the founder, should be
doomed to live in the sandstone cave of the Holy Wells, and to see
the inheritance of my fathers thus polluted?  But it will not be for
long.  Those walls will fall.  They have not long to stand, perhaps
not a day.  I must look to it again.'

It was in this strain that the recluse indulged in his own peculiar
view of things, and entertained a morbid hope that he should live to
see the fall of Goldwell's palace walls.  He indulged in a propensity
for the superstitious, and, like an ancient sage, spoke in an
oracular manner, as if positive of nis own inspiration.  He was,
however, much more hopeful from his earthly view of the state of the
building and its adjacent ground, than from any second sight that he
possessed, and this he hastened that very day to indulge.

St. Ivan, reverenced as he was by all the ignorant, and even
respected by the learned, was not much regarded by the monks of St.
Peter's Priory, or the abbots of Bury, on account of his utter
detestation of their absurd relics, and silly pretensions to things
they called sacred, which were of no estimation in his eyes--such as
the shirt of St. Edmund, one of his sinews, his sword, the parings of
his toe-nails, and other things to which they attributed great
sanctity; drops of Stephen's blood, a piece of the real cross, the
coals which broiled St. Lawrence, pieces of the flesh of saints and
virgins, St. Botolph's bones, St. Thomas-à-Becket's boots, penknife,
etc., skulls, candles, crosses, and such a variety of holy things,
one and all of which St. Ivan, like a wise man, laughed at.

Though the monks were jealous of him, and some termed him heretic,
others entertained a superstitious dread of him, which he well knew
how to manage.  The learned fraternity of Alneshborne alone paid him
any respect, and he used to tell Lord De Freston that these
Augustines were the only monks he ever knew good for anything.

The old man was kind to all.  The austerity of his manners was
softened by any case of humanity in distress; and it is supposed that
a disappointment in his life, either in ambition, love, or
professional celebrity, led him to the lonely cell of Ufford's dale.
In that day, religion was so clouded with oral traditions, vain
external ceremonies, and exclusive dogmatical pretensions to superior
gifts of healing, miracles, and works, that real faith and godliness
were things almost driven from the earth.  No wonder, then, that a
man who had perception enough to see so much dishonesty should be
driven into himself for notions of duty and worship.

There was deep anxiety in his countenance as he glanced into the
rippling stream from the Holy Wells, and took his way down its
pebbly, shingly, and craggy sides towards Wyke's Bishop's palace.
His foot was firm, his eye bright, and except the trembling of the
hand as he placed his staff upon the ground, but little could be
discerned of infirmity.

His path lay on the outside of the moat, and was so worn by twenty
years' perambulations, as to have created a path, known as St. Ivan's
path; few would walk in it, and hence the old man's observations upon
the sinking of the walls, and the encroachings of the turfy bank,
though strictly marked with willow twigs, were unnoticed by others.

That day, all his landmarks were bent prostrate with the waters, and
with consternation, increased by previous anticipation, he observed a
certain tremulous motion of the waters, ebbing from beneath the
castle side of the bank.  For a moment he stood aghast.  He knew well
what was going on in the palace, the number of souls therein, and the
imminent danger which awaited every one then feasting at the Bishop's
board.  Recovering himself from his surprise, humanity prevailed over
every other consideration, and the thought of so many perishing
induced him to hasten his steps round the moat.

As he went on, his keen perception became more alarmed, for he
perceived that the fall of the palace must quickly come.  His
agitation increased to such a degree, that he could not move quick
enough, and men were surprised to see St. Ivan, hitherto always slow,
calm, and gentle, with his hoary hairs and well-composed walk, now
stepping short and quick with extreme trepidation.

His heart seemed swollen within him; his agitated spirit, now that he
saw the near accomplishment of what he had been looking for so long,
was dreadfully disturbed.  He knew it would be in vain to tell the
warder, the gardener, or the serving men.  He knew they all
understood that he would not pass the draw-bridge lest it should fall
upon him, as he himself had issued a sort of oracular declaration
that when he entered the palace it would fall down.  He, therefore,
hastened his steps, determined to terrify every one out of the palace
before the crash came.




CHAPTER XV.

THE JUDGMENT.

The guests were all seated in the ancient palace-hall, and before
them were placed the profuse hospitality of one whose board was as
regularly supplied by mayor, portmen, burgesses, commonalty, and
gentry in the country, as if they were all tenants of the See, and
bound to furnish the Bishop's board.  There was, in those days, no
niggard bounty, no measured dole to the comer; but such as could
feast on ample fare, without intoxicating potions, were welcome to
the palace.  Latimer had been introduced to Alice as the friend of
Lord De Freston.  Alice took her seat in the assembly, as if every
creature before her was her slave.  Her stern, majestic, pale, oval
face, with the conical headdress of the period, gave her such a lofty
look, that it was the theme of observation amongst most of the guests.

How haughty is the Bishop's queen! was the speech of more than one of
the guests, as she surveyed the assemblage before her, and scarcely
condescended to give a glance of recognition, much less a word, to
any one.

Ellen De Freston, who had known the failing of Alice, was pained to
see how deeply it had grown upon her since she had last seen her; but
she was doubly pained to observe in her a contempt for every one
there present, but more especially for her cousin, William Latimer.

In vain did he endeavor to elicit one word from his haughty
companion.  To see the man in whose society men so delighted, whose
converse was the purest and most gentle, and, at the same time, so
wise and elegant, set at naught, by one whose pride alone gave her
any pretension to dignity, was something so revolting to her nature,
and so foreign to her ideas of respect, that she could not fail to
feel for Latimer at every attempt he made to address the haughty
Alice.

The proud Alice would condescend to speak to the Lord De Freston, but
a supercilious stare was the sole result of every attempt on the part
of Latimer to draw a word from her.

'He is the friend of my father,' thought Ellen.  'Surely, he cannot
be aware of the indignity she puts upon that friend by her behaviour.
He would never encourage such hauteur by engaging in conversation
with her, if he could see the gentle and manly Latimer treated as he
in by Alice.  But he sees it not.'

It was evidently observed by Daundy, who was seated near to Ellen.

'Do you see, my fair Ellen, how that haughty maid flaunts at the
young scholar's address to her?  Latimer must feel himself very
uncomfortable.  I rejoice that I am not near her; I might be apt to
forget even the courtesy of the Bishop, and tell her she had better
keep to her own closet than pretend to come into society, and not
know how to behave in it.'

'I perceive it,' replied Ellen, 'and I am almost indignant enough to
wish that you had the opportunity of giving a deserved rebuke to the
spirit of pride which, delights in paining the humble.  I am sure
Latimer feels deeply wounded by such treatment.'

If the conduct of Alice wounded the gentle and generous Latimer, he
was more than repaid by the sign of interest which Ellen evinced for
him.  It was then, for the first moment of his life, that the thought
of love came down upon his soul, and dispelled the gloom of sorrow
which had brooded over his mind at the pride of the fair one near
him.  It was a similar thought that aroused in Ellen the blush of
consciousness, as she felt the first throb of the warm blood rush
from her heart, in sympathy with the architect of Freston Tower.

It was perhaps well, just at this moment, that Latimer and Ellen were
called upon to listen to the language of orators upon the most vital
and important subject which could come under human contemplation.

John Bale, who had waited patiently till grace had been chaunted, and
was expected to speak publicly before the Bishop upon matters
touching some scruples he entertained, rose.  Silence being enjoined,
he addressed the Bishop in these words:

'I rise, my Lord Bishop, though with many misgivings, on account of
the time and place for such occasion, to put a very serious question
for your judgment.  Nothing where you preside can be said, I trust,
in an unbecoming spirit, and nothing, certainly, should be spoken
without charity.  I humbly, pray, then, for the full protection of
your presence upon this occasion, that if we speak with respect, we
may not be insulted with ribaldry.

'We maintain that the Scriptures are given by God, to be a chastening
warning and correction to the sinner's soul, a comfort to the
righteous, and God's great boon to all the world.  That without these
Scriptures, commonly called the Bible, salvation cannot be properly
known and understood.  That they alone contain the truth which we
ought to preach and teach, and the observances which we ought to
hold.  That the pious should receive such truth, and the learned
preach it.  That no man can know anything of God's will or his
decrees but from the Sacred Scriptures.  That all our learning of
languages is but to keep these Scriptures pure, and to teach the
unlearned and ignorant therefrom the sure and certain meaning of the
Word ones spoken to man.

'We advocate the cause of the Scriptures being placed in the hands of
the people, and maintain that, so far from this derogating from our
authority, such a step would tend to increase the respect paid us,
since all men can then see that the doctrines we preach and teach are
the solid truth.  That if the Scriptures be withheld, no man's
judgment can be sound upon what we teach; for without them, it is
impossible they should acknowledge the truth of our preaching.

'I request your voice and judgment hereupon, to say whether we hold
or not, in these matters, anything contrary to true discipline and
the right directions of mankind.  I know your mind to be replete with
learning, and that you do not despise others, nor would destroy
research, in the bosom of the church.  I, therefore, the more
confidently commit what I say to your consideration, and await your
answer.'

There was a pause among the auditors before the Bishop; though the
priest of St. Peter looked as if he would tear his crimson vest in
pieces.  The priest also of St. Saviour's was so much stirred that he
felt as if the sin of schism was in the very palace.  He rose up from
his seat like a rampant and roaring lion, and for very rage could
scarcely keep his hands off the humble man who had resumed his seat.
He did not, as it was, fail to give him a curse in no very gentle
terms.

'Heretic!' he exclaimed, 'thou art doomed to the fiercest and
deadliest death.  Down to the darkest doom beneath, where the devil
and death prevail.

'Canst thou hear him, my Lord Bishop, defame the very church of which
thou art thyself a prelate?  Does he dare to mention in thy presence
his deeds of shame?  Hear him, Bishop Goldwell!  Like Wickliffe, he
wishes that all could read that he might sell his Bible, and get paid
for his pains.  He would raise up the people like wild hyenas to come
and feast upon the priesthood.  Observe how insidiously he turns the
whole tenor of his argument upon placing the Bible in the hands of
the common people.  He does not say he would subvert the hierarchy;
he does not say he would do away with the priesthood; but he speaks
as if we were all dishonest, and he would not have the people believe
one word we speak.

'He will not abide by the decision of the Papal power, though he now
seems to acknowledge thy right of jurisdiction over him.  This is but
an insidious covering for treachery; for whilst he pays thee court,
and owns thy supremacy in ecclesiastical affairs, he denies the very
power by which thou, O Goldwell! holdest thine authority.  His words
are as smooth as oil, yet he will not own that the church has the
right of sole interpretation of those Scriptures which he is such an
advocate for placing in the hands of the people.

'He will not admit that the Pope has the keys of St. Peter; that he
is the head of the Christian church, and the only infallible source
from which decision can be given.  He would have the people taught no
longer to depend upon our teaching, but would have them dispute our
authority and deny to us the powers of absolution.  So, my lord, he
would have the people believe they are quite as good judges of
scriptural things as we are; and shortly they will think they have
quite as much right to this palace and the revenues thereof as thou
hast.

'But shall this heretic teach them never to believe in our commission
to stand betwixt their souls and heaven, to give them their meat in
proper season, and explain the Word, as we ourselves receive it?  I
flatter thee not with enticing words, knowing that the judgment of
the church is with thee, and that thou wilt not fear to pronounce
that heresy which militates against the teaching of the church.  I
beseech thee not to cherish and encourage heretics within the
precincts of thy palace.  I have done.  I await thy judgment with
confidence.'

He had no sooner taken his seat than the youthful Bilney rose, his
heart full of sorrow, woe, and trouble, yet throbbing alone for the
truth.  He had seen, with an eagle's eyes, the sins of the papal
hierarchy, and sighed to be free from the pestilential darkness which
covered, as with a veil, the light of the Scriptures.  He addressed
himself to the Bishop in the following terms:

'Thou knowest, Bishop Goldwell, that I came not here this day, to
intrude upon thy privacy, or to boast in defiance of thine authority;
but that thou thyself didst desire that I should speak out candidly
before others that which I had more privately and conscientiously
divulged to thee.  I know that thine intention was good in this: that
thou didst it to elicit the truth, and never intended that we should
be in thy presence and in thine own palace insulted and have epithets
of opprobrium cast upon us; nay, that we should be condemned without
benefit of clergy to the nethermost shades of hell.

'It is the rule of thy board that every man should have full liberty
to speak, provided he confine his arguments within the prescribed
limits of decency and order.  I cannot enter upon the all-important
matters which I conceive it my duty to lay before thee, if I am to
meet with the same frantic and uncourteous treatment which my friend
has just received at the hands of the priest of St. Saviour's.  There
can no charity dwell where rancor burns within.

'Owning thy full authority here, I shall not attempt to speak until I
hear thee lay down the law of thy palace, and command that we be at
least so far respected before thee, that we may not be afraid to give
utterance to whatever we may advance.'

Bilney sat down, and the priests of Ipswich looked a little confused
at the clear and manly tone of speech with which this young man then
addressed the Bishop before the company.  There was wisdom enough in
it to call forth these words from Goldwell.

'Thou art invited freely to speak, and not summoned hither to answer
to any accusation of crime or heresy, and to deliver thy sentiments
without any personal fear.  I like thy temper, and must insist upon
my clergy's observance of such forms of decorum as the courtesy of my
palace demands.  Thou must not be surprised, indeed, if thy doctrines
and those of thy friend Bale should create a little rheum in the
spirits of those so unaccustomed to have any of their decisions
disputed.

'Thou mayest go on, and should thine opponents, friends as they are
to me, and subordinate to my authority, conduct themselves in an
unbecoming manner, thou mayest depend upon the soundness of my
judgment to give them a merited rebuke.  Hoping I shall hear nothing
more of acrimony, I invite thee to proceed.'




CHAPTER XVI.

JUDGMENT CONTINUED.

All paid respect to the person and speech of Goldwell; all
acknowledged his influence; and, had he rose to retire, not an
individual would have remained to dispute one moment longer any
matter whatsoever.  All knew this well; so that, when the Bishop had
once declared his decision, not the most furious zealot dared to
utter a word.  Bilney rose amidst the most profound silence.

'I can perceive,' he said, 'most worthy prelate, how very quickly
these priests of Ipswich judge our motives, how little credit they
give us for sincerity, and how soon they would gag our mouths, could
they prevent our speech before thee.  I am glad to find, however,
that they pay thee the respect which not only thine office, but
thyself dost deserve, inasmuch as they retain silence at thy command.
I am silent, Bishop Goldwell, if thou dost command me; but, as thou
hast given me liberty to speak, I will confine my observations to the
one point which my friend has taken up upon this occasion--namely,
the giving the Word of God into the hands of the people.

'Now, if I, or any other person having authority so to do, preaches
the gospel, is the source whence we derive all our knowledge to be
concealed?  I would ask, supposing a messenger came to thee to order
thee to go to such a place, wouldst thou not ask whence he derived
his authority, what credentials he had to show for thine undertaking
such a journey?

'No man would attend the bidding of another unless the bidding came
from a source he could not dispute, and he was convinced it was his
duty to obey.  So I maintain before thee and all this assembly, that
when we preach and teach the glad tidings of salvation, the people
should have the law and the testimony, the Old and New Testaments,
before them, that they may judge of the truth of the message,
invitation, or threatenings which we hold forth.

'How is it possible for the people to believe any truth of Scripture
without the assurance of the Scriptures themselves?  I might as well
preach the heathen mythology if they are merely to believe what we
tell them, without our laying before them the grounds of our belief.

'I would never believe there were such persons as Adam, Abel, Seth,
or Noah, or such an event as the Deluge, or such a person as Abraham,
or the promise given to him as is recorded, without I had read or
heard the Scriptures read, from whence the knowledge of such things
and persons is derived.  And how can we expect that the things we
would not believe ourselves without such evidences, others should
take upon a man's mere ipse dixit?

'It is here that men are subject both to credulity and incredulity;
but give them the whole Word of God, let them see the wisdom which it
conveys, let them think for themselves, and I am persuaded that we
need never be afraid of the spread of divine knowledge.

'We cannot pretend to be inspired prophets of God, deriving from him
a direct communication independent of that which he has once shed
upon his ancient prophets and apostles.  However secluded and
separated we may be from the rest of the world--I ask thee, Bishop
Goldwell--can we derive a direct communication from Heaven beyond the
written Word of God?  I do maintain then, that we should teach
nothing for doctrine, but what the Revelation of God has unfolded.

'I would not, therefore, have the Word of God a sealed book amongst
us, but spread far and wide among all people, that honest hearts may
see the salvation of God, and glorify the Father of Light from whom
it proceeded.

'Such appearing, to my mind, to be the wisdom required in the present
day to drive from men's minds the clouds of darkness, I ask thee,
Bishop Goldwell, wherein I speak what can, with justice, be called
heretical?  I should be glad to hear thy decision upon this point.'

The priest of St. Peter rose quickly from his seat, and stood erect
before the company.  He had his hair shorn with the utmost precision,
his scalp bald, save the curling edges of grey hair which were
allowed to cover his ears.  He had a dark, black, piercing eye, which
told of anything but calmness, every now and then flashing at Bilney
and at the Bishop, as if it would strike a spark out of theirs to
consume them.  His spirit was evidently perturbed within him, and he
could scarcely compose his nerves sufficiently to let his words come
forth without passion.

He shook his vest with anger, as if he would not be contaminated with
the touch of such men as spake that day.

'Shall the church,' he exclaimed vehemently, 'hold no more
traditions?  Shall we teach no kind of observances?  Is the advice of
our prelates and preachers to be no longer listened to, except it
accord with the crude notions of this man?  Are the people to run
wild here and there after such preachers as John Bale and Thomas
Bilney?  We may as well at once give up our holy vows, and yield our
right to the power of this wild abuse--that the people are to have
private judgment, and cavil at our interpretation of the Bible.  They
hear our anthems, they join our prayers, they attend our altars,
receive our absolution, and what would they have more?  They want not
to trouble their heads about the Scriptures.  It is surely much
better for them to accept what we tell them than to seek to be wise
above learned men.

'But if their minds become disturbed by such men as these, there is
no telling what may be the consequence.  The real fact, Bishop
Goldwell, is, these men have become bitter enemies to the Church of
Rome, and, under the pretence of introducing the Scriptures to the
notice of the people, they take every opportunity of inveighing
against our authority.  They know themselves deserving of censure
from the church, they subject themselves to punishment, and I should
think it no more than a duty I owed to the church, if I were in thy
place, to commit them at once to the custody of some keeper.

'I conjure thee, venerable Prelate, not to listen to their complaint;
"the poison of asps is under their lips, and they do but flatter with
their tongues."  I conjure thee, by the vows thou hast taken to
support the church, to summon at once to thy court at Norwich these
refractory sons of the church, that they may be made to answer before
thy dean and chapter for the evil they have done; that if they do not
cease publishing their absurd notions of religious freedom, their
mouths may be stopped by thine authority, which, if thou dost fail to
use, I tell thee before this company that I shall at once make a
complaint to the Pope.

'It is all very well for thee to make this show of popularity in this
ancient palace, and at thine own board, but a bishop who is so
discourteous to his own clergy, and so very partial to these
recusants, is not, I conceive, faithful to his trust.  I am
discontented and dissatisfied with the treatment which we true sons
of the Roman Catholic Church have met with this day, and I conceive
that a just cause of complaint is given to the hierarchy in Ipswich;
and, unless a direct distinction be forthwith made in our behalf, I
shall call upon all my brethren to join me in a petition to the
higher authorities, that we may be justified in the sight of our
fellow-townsmen.'

A dead silence pervaded that assembly, and even the Bishop waited to
see if any other speaker would venture to utter a word.  All eyes
were turned towards the place where he sat; yet the only person seen
to move was Alice De Clinton, who, leaning towards the Bishop, begged
an exchange of place with Lord De Freston, that she might the more
easily communicate what she had to say in the Bishop's ear.  From her
well-known character, her stern dignity, and cold-blooded, chilly
disposition, it was well considered that nothing amiable could
proceed.  It was with some degree of shame that the Lord De Freston
saw this female influence exercised, as unbecoming modesty as it was
the real interest of her sex.

Ellen read in her father's face his dissatisfaction, little thinking
that the sight of her intelligent countenance would awaken the
eloquence of her friend Latimer; but De Freston had been speaking to
him and urging him to say a word upon the occasion.  Alice, however,
having taken her seat with immoveable frigidity of feature, and
silence still prevailing, Latimer rose.

'As a stranger to thee, Bishop Goldwell, and to the greater part of
this company, I should not have risen to give utterance to the words
of my heart had I not been urged thereto by my learned and truly
liberal friend Lord De Freston.  He assures me that, so far from
being affronted with my boldness, thou wilt be the rather pleased
that I venture to trespass upon the attention of thine assembly.  At
Oxford we are, as it is well-known, infected, if I may so call it,
with orthodoxy, overgrown to such a state of particularity as to make
things in themselves of no moment appear of the utmost consequence,
and things of the most vital interest of but minor consideration.  We
are, moreover, intent upon learning, and never doubt for a moment
that wisdom will ultimately prevail.

'If a youth who departed from this town a few years ago, and who has
since become so distinguished for his learning and wisdom were here
this day, I should keep silence before him and thee, well convinced
that he would be much better able to speak those truths which I
conceive ought this moment to be spoken.  His relatives and friends I
see before me, and some of them may not be sorry to hear me reëcho
his sentiments, though they may regret his absence.  Speaking in our
theatre, some days ago, upon the same subject this day discussed, I
heard him declare, in a long and animated speech, the duties of
students with regard to scriptural learning, and the study of the
original languages in which the Scriptures were written; but as all
could not be learned enough to understand many things difficult
therein, the duty of the ministry is to explain those things, and to
afford living examples of that faith which they teach and preach.  He
hoped to see the time when the Scriptures might be unlocked and
distributed in abundance to feed the people.  His arguments were
based upon the grounds of truth, that the Word of God can never be
too widely circulated.

'The clergy, he declared, were but a very small portion of the
visible church, and would lose nothing of their influence with the
people by liberating their minds from ignorance of the Word of the
living God.  In speaking of heresy, he maintained before the whole
university that it was nothing heretical to disseminate the
Scriptures.

'I mention Wolsey as my authority for this assertion, not only
because I know that in this his native place his fame is justly
celebrated, his learning esteemed, and he himself, though young, is
so highly respected, but because, Bishop Goldwell, his sentiments
accord with my own.  I would ask any man here present, who desires to
know anything of his Redeemer, how he is to do so without the
Scriptures?  Our Saviour said, "Search the Scriptures, for in them ye
think ye have eternal life, and these be they which testify of me."
Now if we can have the Scriptures to search, it is our duty to look
into them, that we may discover the truth as it is in Him.

'I see before me all the principal priests of the various parishes in
this town, who all are attached to the ancient See of Rome.  I value
the preservation of the records of truth there as highly as any of
them; but I say now, that heresy consists in the introduction of
impositions, not required by the Word of God.  The impositions I call
_heresies_, are those of teaching for doctrine the commandment of men.

'I was at Bury lately, and saw what numbers of devout penitents were
sent from all parts of the kingdom to pay their devotion to a piece
of St. Edmund's shirt: Is not this heresy?  There I saw what was
termed the sinew of St. Edmund, his sword, the parings of his toes;
and are such things to be held sacred?

'The monks showed me certain drops of what they termed St. Stephen's
blood.  Even if it had been the blood of Stephen, was it an object to
be worshipped? is not this heresy?  They showed me the coals on which
St. Lawrence was broiled, Thomas à Becket's boots and his penknife,
and numerous other things, to all of which they attributed such a
degree of sanctity, that I was convinced of their ignorance; and
however much history, revelation, and faith, might induce me to thank
God for the examples of such men, I could not but think it _heresy_
to pay any kind of adoration to relics of such things.

'But the spread of God's Word cannot be heresy, nor are those who
preach it heretics.  God grant that our country may be the foremost
to spread the light of truth over this benighted world.  Nothing can
be productive of so much happiness, either to the priest or the
people, as this enlightenment.  But I have done, Bishop Goldwell, and
I have only to apologise for the length of time I have occupied the
attention of this assembly.'

Latimer took his seat, not without a smile of thanks from Ellen,
which not even the stern expression of Alice could in the least
chill.  Yet Alice frowned at Ellen as if she despised her for that
look; and nothing but the rising of Bishop Goldwell to speak to his
guests prevented her precipitate and indignant retirement.




CHAPTER XVII.

ST. IVAN'S WARNING.

Silence prevailed amongst the guests as the venerable prelate rose to
reply.  Looks, yes, fiery looks, shot to the head of that board
against the learned Latimer; and even Lord De Freston, with all his
well-known bounty, liberality, orthodoxy, and piety, did not escape
the furious glances of St. Peter's priests; nor of the violent
advocates for the Pope's supremacy.  They gnashed upon him with their
teeth; and could have wept for very vexation.  So serious did the
matter seem, that there were many peaceful townsmen who wished most
heartily that they were at home with their wives and children,
instead of being witnesses of this unbecoming hospitality.

The Bishop, with great knowledge of the world--a truly liberal heart,
yet not without deep prejudices, which in that day were not so easily
subdued as in this, replied:

'I have ever considered it one of the best privileges of my palace of
Wykes, that here the stranger may speak unmolested, that we may all
reap the benefit of each other's experience in learning, science,
travel, or the wonders of nature, art, or industry.  On this account
has the hospitality of this roof been devoted to the purposes of an
open free court; wherein as long as men behave themselves with
courtesy, so long shall they and their communications be respected.

'It has been my lot, frequently, to hear interesting discussions upon
science, upon the ancient interpretation of words.  Frequently, both
naval and military works have been propounded, the uses of the
rudder, and very lately, that new and wonderful invention, the
compass.  The discoveries of distant shores have been spoken of; the
manners, arts, customs, and peculiarities of people scarcely heard of
before are made familiar to us; and we have all participated in the
interesting information.

'The very openness of my table has afforded the power to suppress
mere hearsay reports of things, and to bring forward those that are
trustworthy.  But nothing has so much puzzled the brains of many
leading liberal men, as the now rising discussions upon the subject
of religion.

'Each speaker claims for himself sincerity, and we are bound to
respect what he says as coming from a heart devoted to a holy cause.
Yet how opposite do I find the tendencies of both.  On one side it is
maintained that the Scriptures should be freely given to the people,
and be expanded as the waters of the broad sea over the earth.
Another maintains that it is unprofitable so to do; that the
Scriptures should be confined to the contemplation of the learned; so
that the priesthood alone should be the readers, preachers, and
expounders thereof, and that the people should he hearers and doers.

'Now there is much truth in both these positions.  We well know that
if one nation goes to war with another, that which has the best
disciplined army will generally prevail.  If soldiers were to fight
just as they pleased, and be under no orders from their superior
officers, they would soon be but a rabble route, and be easily
defeated by steady and well-conducted troops.  If battles are to be
fought, it is evident there must be command and a commander;
obedience and men to observe it.  Mutual confidence is necessary to
ultimate success.  Even officers have to obey their superiors, and
though each must rely on the aid of Heaven for success, yet each must
obey some superior on earth.

'So do I maintain that obedience is necessary in every department of
the church, and that if the spread of the Scriptures among the people
shall tend to disaffection instead of obedience, we do wisely to keep
the records of religion confined to the knowledge of the priesthood.

'My opinion, therefore, is given freely upon this subject.  It is our
duty to obey the Pope as our chief commanding officer, who holds his
head-quarters at Rome.  Your officers receive their commissions from
him, and are responsible for their obedience to him.  And, as one of
his marshals, I command you to keep holy your sacred vow of
obedience, and to fight the fight of faith under his banners.

'I do not see that Wolsey should have any weight whatever in the
councils of the church.  He is, no doubt, a good and clever young
man; and is held in very proper estimation among his friends in this,
his native place; but others in the church are as good and wise as
he, and their judgment is not to be despised.  Older heads opine that
it is not at all necessary to salvation that a man should read the
Scriptures; and I, for one, think if the people are thereby to be
stirred up to rebellion, they had better never read them at all.

'We do not intend to cite you, Bale and Bilney, to our court, at
Norwich, to answer for the dissemination of doctrines which we deem
calculated to stir up strife and contention in the church.  Nor thee,
Latimer, for thy harsh declarations against the Prior and monks of
St. Edmund's Bury, albeit we do seriously admonish thee not to let
words of indiscretion escape thy lips.  To all we freely extend the
customary privileges of the Palace of Wykes, and declare that you are
irresponsible for your expressions here this day, but I warn you to
beware how you take advantage of this custom only to lie here
observed, and venture to express these vague opinions in the world.

'We command you, by virtue of our ecclesiastical authority, to spread
no more those doctrines which we do consider tending to mutiny in our
camp, and exhort you as good soldiers to keep your ranks free from
disaffection.

'Though we freely pardon the errors of all this day, and shall
dismiss you in peace to your respective homes; yet we are assured,
that if these contentions should continue beyond these walls, some
delegate from Rome will receive ample powers to punish all refractory
children who may provoke the displeasure of the Holy See.  We spare
you now, and bid you all obey, and all farewell.'

At the very instant in which the Bishop rose to depart, a voice from
without exclaimed--'Make way for the Hermit St. Ivan!' and, with
breathless agitation, the venerable old man strode up to that part of
the hall directly opposite the Bishop.  It was evident to every one
that he was fatigued with over exertion.  He leaned against a pillar,
as if to recover himself--refused to be seated, though he kept every
one standing around him.  He twice essayed to speak--lifted his arms
to heaven, and demanded, by his actions, that they would pause a
moment to hear him.

The sight of the man was enough to interest any one.  His head
uncovered, his staff in his hand, his eye beaming with philanthropy,
though evidently excited by his intended communication.  He had,
indeed, hurried into the hall, he had seen the vibrations of the
waters, and knew that the walls of Wykes' Bishop's Palace could not
stand long.  He knew, likewise, that unless he could deliver himself
in an authoritative and alarming manner, that many souls must perish.
He had no desire they should, and therefore he assumed a sort of
prophetical manner of address which the imminence of the danger alone
warranted.

His warning is given in such quaint, old poetry, and is yet so
forcible, that to narrate it in a set speech would destroy its
effect; and to give it in its old style would be tedious to the
reader.  He must pardon, therefore, its transposition into language
more in accordance with modern phraseology, though, perhaps, not so
genuinely characteristic of the hermit.


  St. Ivan's Warning.

  'The time is come, proud Goldwell, hear?
  I speak to thee no more with fear!
  Though round thee shining lords attend
  And priests with burgesses may blend;
  And haughty in thy palace fair,
  Alice De Clinton has her share,
  And mocks to scorn whoe'er she will,
  And bids the hermit's voice be still.
  I bid her listen to my lay,
  I call her from this scene away;
  And tell both thee and her and all,
  They must obey the hermit's call.

  'The time is come! the warning lake
  Already doth the palace shake.
  There stands by thee the haughty maid
  Whose pride and cruelty are said
  To govern thee and urge thee on
  To deeds no bishop yet hath done.
  The poor despise her though they bow
  In fear of frowns from such a brow.
  I, too, have felt within my cell
  Her hate can burn as demon's spell;
  For none who humbly live to love,
  To her can acceptable prove;
  And were not here a better found,
  These walls would tremble to the ground.
  But her I warn to haste away,
  Nor longer in this palace stay,
  Lest she and thee, and hers and thine,
  Be buried by St. Agnes' shrine.

  'The time is come--the doom is spoken,
  Spells of life and charms are broken;
  And thou mayst live as yet thy day,
  But here thy bones thou shalt not lay!
  No more on thee, Wykes' Bishop's Hill,
  With verdure green find pleasant rill,
  Shall smile upon thy turrets' dome,
  Nor more to thee thy people come
  To meet thee in this place of peace;
  Its pleasant days must quickly cease;
  And men from yonder hill shall say,
  "How soon does grandeur pass away!
  There stood in state Wykes' Bishop's Hall,
  How sudden was its rise and fall."

  'The time is come; I look around
  On those who now within are found;
  De Freston, hasten thou away,
  Nor let thy maiden longer stay.
  Lest thou shouldst rue the hapless hour
  Thou didst forsake thy lofty tower,
  And seek to minister thine aid
  Of friendship to a haughty maid.
  Go! haste away.  Oh, couldst thou tell
  How deeply in my lowly cell
  I oft have prayed for thee and thine,
  Thou wouldst respect the hermit's shrine.

  The time is come! fair maid of peace,
  Ellen De Freston, thy release
  From danger here will only prove
  A greater danger in thy love.
  But haste away! thou dost not know
  The anger of thy deadly foe.

  The time is come! Good townsmen flee.
  These walls are tottering, and must be
  Known as a place of midnight feast,
  Where owls and bats by day will rest.
  But never more will matin bell,
  Or vespers' sound, be heard to tell
  Wykes' Bishop's priests the anthem raise,
  A duty to the saints they praise;
  But bell and belfry both shall fall
  Before another matin's call.

  'The time is come, thou haughty maid,
  Whose eye now shining on the dead,
  With stain of pride and cruel scorn,
  Falls not on one who feels forlorn.
  Thou'lt feel the loftiness of pride
  When raised, unknown, unseen, denied.
  Thou think'st thyself to be a queen,
  And com'st to nothing in thy spleen!
  He comes to raise, and take thee home:
  Proud maid he comes--the time--'


The old man's voice here totally failed him.  A pallid hue was seen
to spread itself over his countenance, which underwent a complete
change.  His head fell gently back against the stone pillar, and the
hermit St. Ivan stood a corpse in the hall of Wykes' Bishop's Palace.
At the same moment, the glass of those beautiful windows cracked from
the very top of the arch to the bottom, and fell inwards--a tumbling;
noise was heard--the outer walls fell down; and bishop, lord, lady,
priest, burgess, townsman, visitor, monk, traveller, friar, and
mendicant, together with porter, warder, serving-men, and slaves, all
fled in terror over the drawbridge, leaving St. Ivan standing against
the pillar, the only one who was unconscious of fear, inasmuch as he
was dead.




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE FALL OF THE PALACE OF WYKES

Terror was depicted in every countenance as the drawbridge, that mass
of stone, iron, wood, and brick-work was seen to give way, and divide
with a crash, falling into the waters of the deep moat which
surrounded the palace.  Every inmate of that place who could move
escaped before this catastrophe took place; and a motley group of
terrified faces stood looking upon the troubled waters, the yawning
land, the falling walls, as one after another of those massive pieces
of stone fell inwards upon the beautiful tesselated pavements of the
courts, and refectory, and cells, which had been so kept by the
Bishop's serving men.

It was as if an earthquake had suddenly shaken the building to its
foundation; but it was nothing more than a sudden landslip, arising
from the springs which let in the banks of the moat, so as to lessen
its once formidable barrier into the appearance of a ditch.  This was
not apparent at this moment, for the waters were so raised by the
sudden ingress of the earth, that for a time a flood spread itself
over both sides of these banks.  It was only when the excess of water
had escaped down the stream of the Holy Wells, into the Orwell, that
the barrier became less formidable.

The Bishop and his niece were not long spectators of that terrible
catastrophe.  He was apparently excited to consternation, and showed
it by his hasty departure, with Alice De Clinton, for Goldwell Hall.

Philanthropy moved in the heart of De Freston, who, after confiding
his daughter to the care of Latimer, desired him to go at once to the
mansion, of his relative and friend, Antony Wingfield, then in treaty
with De Freston for the sale of those very premises which afterwards
became his property.  The young Antony had then consigned his mansion
in Brook Street, and his chapel of St. Mary's, to the Lord De
Freston.  This chapel was called the Lady Grey's chapel; and was the
spot in which De Freston requested his daughter, and such as liked to
accompany her, to go and return thanks for their deliverance.
Meantime, a messenger was sent to Freston Castle, for horses and men,
to convey his daughter and her attendants home.

Alice De Clinton did not wait even to invite Ellen to accompany her
to Goldwell Hall.  She would have died before she would have
condescended to show any affection towards one whom she considered as
a favorer of heretics.  Hence her haughty departure with her less
haughty uncle, and such retainers as at such a time were not too
terrified to attend upon them.

De Freston, having disposed of his daughter Ellen, turned his
attention to the state of those unhappy domestics of the palace, who
were then without house and home; and by his interest with the monks
of St. Peter's Priory, and other religious houses, together with his
more private interest with numerous rich householders in the borough,
he got them all treated in such a way as to suppress their cries of
lamentation at the fall of Wyke's Bishop's Palace.

Thousands of spectators soon collected round the spot, upon the green
hills in the vicinity, to look upon the prostrate ruins.  The central
pillars alone of that proud building stood erect; and every now and
then an alarm was given that they were seen to totter.  The expanse
of waters did not subside that night, so that the flood had reached
to the very foot of the hills, in consequence of the main-buttress of
the drawbridge having fallen, and choked up the passage of the
stream, where the waters usually escaped to the Orwell.

Had any one been disposed to go over to the ruins, they could not
have done so without a boat, and the only one belonging to the
gardener had been sunk by the pressure of the falling boat-house.
There was no fear, however, of any such intrusion.  Men who looked
upon the sacred edifice were too cautious to think of venturing over
the waters, lest they should be buried under its walls.

Conversation, however, was alive, and superstition not less active
among the people, for many said they had seen the Hermit St. Ivan
hastening over the drawbridge into the castle, and many had heard him
say that when he did so the walls would fall down.  Some had dreamed
one thing, some another.  Some prognosticated the fall of Bishop
Goldwell and his proud niece.  Some had seen a strange thing fly up
the chimney the night before--and one had seen St. Ivan riding upon a
black cloud over the hills to the river, and was sure some
catastrophe would befal him.  Innumerable ingenious speculations were
started, and as is very often the case in calamities of any kind, it
was attributed to all sorts of causes.

'I will not believe,' said butcher Stannard, 'that St. Ivan is dead,
until I know his ceil is deserted; so, who will go with me to the
Holy Wells?  What, none willing to go?  What a set of cowards you all
are!'

'I saw him go across the drawbridge, and I have heard him say, he
should never return alive!'

'And so have I,' replied the butcher, 'and I have heard that he is
now beneath those ruins, and yet I have my doubts, and if no one will
go to the cave with me, I will go alone.'

The sturdy butcher started off for the deep dell of the Holy Wells,
followed at a respectable distance by two or three of the townsmen,
whose curiosity had been excited: but who gave him plenty of space to
show his bravery by himself, not willing to interrupt him, or
interfere with his ascent to the hermit's cell.  A party stood at the
foot of the stone steps by which Stannard ascended to the cave.  He
had indeed called aloud to the old man before he ventured to
ascend--but of course received no answer.

He entered the cave--he found a rustic table with a Latin Bible
thereupon, a lamp suspended from the ceiling, two loaves of brown
bread in a recess, and a jug of water.

The cave was dry, and strewed with rushes; his bed was formed of the
same material, placed upon a ledge of sandstone rock; a few boxes of
salves, and bottles of medicine were ready to be given to the poor:
but this strange habitation possessed no pretensions to comforts.
Yet here Ivan had been for many years, the celebrated hermit of the
Holy Wells.

Butcher Stannard soon returned, convinced, and convincing others that
the old man was only to be found under the ruins of the Bishop's
Palace.

Gorgeous tapestry might be seen floating in the wind from the various
broken down compartments.  The walls had mostly fallen inwards, and
the waters had rushed into the court, and escaped through the broken
and other confined masses on the other side.  A more complete
specimen of ruin could not be seen: valuable pieces of furniture,
panels, and legs of tables, were floated out of the ruins upon the
moat, and these were strictly preserved, as relics, and carried to
the various religious houses, as mementoes of the once flourishing
palace of the Bishops of Norwich, the first and the last in the
ancient town of Ipswich.  What a wretched sight did that palace now
afford: but how much more calamitous might it have been, had the
festive hour not been so suddenly interrupted by the entrance of St.
Ivan.  It was better that the palace should fall down than that souls
should perish therein.

The site of the palace--the spot of the Hermit's cell--the stream of
the Holy Wells, are still to be seen, though now the square plot of
ground is an orchard belonging to the owner of Holy Wells, and the
stream which then flowed in a direct line to the river is now
diverted, and forms magnificent fish ponds.

Tradition still preserves the name of the Hermit: and the monks of
St. Peter, after his decease, though they had been jealous of his
sanctity, raised a cross to his memory, at the Holy Wells, which went
by the name of St. Ivan's Cross, and became a place of pilgrimage for
saints and sinners, for two hundred years afterwards.

Throughout the records of that day, nothing is discoverable but the
jarring complaints of the Prior of St. Peter's and his brethren, at
the influence of the hermit of the Holy Wells, who would not submit
to observe any of the rites and ceremonies of the Church of Rome,
without a restitution of his lands, hereditaments, and rights in
Wykes Ufford and Whitton, which belonged to his ancestors, and
descended from them to himself.  It is recorded that he sued the
Bishops of Norwich in the ecclesiastical court of Canterbury, for
their usurpation of one moiety of that property which belonged to him
and his heirs, the whole of which had been seized by the church.  Law
was the most expensive thing to be had in England in that day, as it
is in this.  A flaw is to be picked in almost every man's title to
his estate, through which lawyers gain an entrance to the
property--and there they fed and fatten.  Formerly Judges were
elected from ecclesiastical bodies, and their amanuenses, generally
clergymen, called clerks--they retain the name to this day: but
better for them and all men, they are not the judges of the land.

No doubt Goldwell knew the claim which had been urged by Ivan De
Linton's descendants to recover the one moiety of the estates in
Wykes Ufford and Whitton, as the Bishop of Norwich was left executor,
after the various gifts to the church, to see the rightful heir
instituted.  It might be that this Ivan, who was Dr. Ivan, of St.
Mildred's, A.D. 1425, was not considered the rightful heir.  Be that
as it may, he considered himself such, and spent a fortune in
endeavoring to obtain his property.  From that day, the gradual
decline of the Bishops of Norwich, as far as regarded temporal
possessions in Ipswich, began, and there is scarcely now a single
acre of land, or a single house in the neighborhood, which belongs to
that See.

Every record of that period will produce testimony of their
possessions in Wykes Ufford.  The Bishop's Hill still forms one of
the loftiest features over the town.  The deep glens of Holy Wells,
at the bottom of that hill, with the stream, the moat, the site of
the palace, nay, within the memory of man, the beams of the cross
which stood at the head of the stream which gushed from beneath the
sandstone rocks, were found crossing each other, and were dug out of
the earth during the life of the late owner of the property.  Many an
hour has the writer of these pages spent in that glen at that spot,
and many a book has he perused within the precincts of the Hermit's
cave, now closely planted with alders, firs, and brush-wood.

Lord De Freston and his daughter Ellen might be found in the Lady
Grey's Chapel of St. Mary's returning thanks for their deliverance.
Lord De Freston lived in an age when the support of the Papacy was
accounted such an undoubted act of piety, that any nobleman
attempting to dispute its sway was to be looked upon as an enemy to
his God and his country.  Lord De Freston, though he never exercised
his authority with the hierarchy, to argue with them upon useless and
fanciful customs, which they constantly introduced, was highly
pleased with the manner in which William Latimer had conducted
himself that day, and fully agreed with him in his animadversion upon
the fooleries of the monastic establishments, the wisdom of unfolding
the Scripture, and the necessity of learning in those who were to be
the public expounders of the truth.

After returning thanks in the chapel, he accompanied Edmund Daundy to
his mansion, where the conversation was renewed concerning the steps
to be taken for the inspection of the ruins, and the disposal of the
body of St. Ivan.

'I do not think the priests of St. Peter's will grant him a place of
sepulture within the precincts of their monastery,' said Daundy;
'neither will Bishop Goldwell be disposed to allow that he may be
buried within the grounds, inside the walls of Ipswich.  For the most
part, the priests looked upon him as one excluded from the kingdom of
heaven, frequently crossed themselves whenever his name was
mentioned, and none of them, I am quite sure, would perform his
funeral ceremony.'

'Yet the old man had some virtues, which would be no disgrace to any
one!  He was conversant with the Scriptures, he was kind to the poor,
meek and peaceable in his demeanor, spent many hours of the day in
meditation and in the exercise of benevolence, and but for his
abhorrence of the superstitious deceptions of those customs which the
worst days of Rome have sanctioned, might have been deemed a good
Catholic.  Abstemious to the utmost, his fasting was an every day
temperance.  Devout in the extreme--all his hours were spent in
devotion; generous to the last farthing, he gave away all that was
given him, and lived upon the loaves of charity.  I took care that he
should not want bread whilst he lived, though he always thought it
came from poor people, whom his medicinal cures had restored to
health.  I will not ask any of the religious houses in Ipswich to
give him a place of burial.'

'Where then do you propose to bury him?'

'In the chapel of the Priory of Alneshborne.  I will see this
fraternity to-morrow morn, and ask their permission that the bones of
St. Ivan may rest in my own family vault, beneath the altar in their
chapel: for the Lords of Freston, though not all buried there, have a
right of sepulture reserved to themselves, beneath the high altar of
their chapel.  This was one of the conditions upon which the
extra-parochial lands, belonging to their monastery, were granted to
them.  I think I shall have no difficulty in this.  The only
difficulty I expect to meet with will be the finding a place of rest
for the body in some sacred place, until all the preparations for his
interment shall be completed.  I will bring my men up to the town on
the morrow.  In the meantime, do you interest yourself in the good
graces of the bishop, and the monks of St. Peter's, first that I may
search the ruins of the palace for his body, then, that it may be
decently kept within the walls of St. Peter's Priory until such time
as I am prepared for the burial.  I intend to watch the body myself
on the night of its burial, as a mark of my respect for the deceased.'

'I will do my best endeavors.  I can go to Goldwell Hall, suggest the
propriety of searching the ruins, under the authority of the Mayor of
the town, both to preserve whatever valuables can be thence
recovered--end then ask, for you, the body of St. Ivan.'

This the good Daundy faithfully performed.  And that very evening
Ellen De Freston and Latimer, together with Lord De Freston, were
seated in their favorite room of Freston Tower.




CHAPTER XIX.

ST. IVAN'S FUNERAL.

An interesting conversation was held in Freston Tower that evening
between the three persons who wanted nothing to cement their
affections, since love reigned in their hearts.  Extraordinary
circumstances had unexpectedly given birth to the warmest feelings
for each other.  Interested in the deepest sense had each become.
Perhaps that of Ellen De Freston was the greatest, because she felt
so much both for her father and Latimer.  Again they rejoiced in
being seated in their happy retreat, with their souls full of
thought, as they surveyed the waves of that river which appeared by
the setting sun more beautiful than ever.

'I must go with the sound of the matin bell, and ask John of
Alneshborne to grant me leave to bury the body of Ivan De Linton
within the precincts of the chapel,' said De Freston.  'I shall have
a mournful duty, but I hope a satisfactory one, in committing to the
ground the body of a man, who, with all his eccentricities, was a
pure philanthropist.  Our priesthood will grant no place of burial to
an heretic; and from all I hear, St. Ivan was looked upon by them as
something worse than a heretic, and only worthy of the burial of a
dog.  I must propitiate the priests of St. Peter on the morrow, and
get through the preparations as well as I can.  In the meantime,
Latimer, I request your stay at my castle: at least until this
funeral be over.'

Latimer had left Oxford with the full intention of being in Padua as
soon as wind and weather would permit.  Little did he think, when
asking his friend Wolsey to give him permission to convey some love
token to Ellen De Freston, on his account, that he should be made to
feel that he himself had inspired an interest which he could not fail
to appreciate.  He had no compunctions in regard to Wolsey, for he
had received no commission to declare his sentiments, and had no idea
of their engagement to the lovely Ellen, for whom now, he could not
fail to feel the most animating and grateful interest.  In a few
days, Latimer found more occasion to concentrate his affections upon
the fair object that had excited them.

That evening passed away with many reflections of thankfulness, and
on the morrow Lord De Freston ordered his barge, and visited the
fraternity at Alneshborne Priory.  All that he requested was
immediately granted by that truly learned body.  The night was fixed
upon for the solemn funeral to take place, and De Freston made a vow,
more in accordance with the superstition of his age than with true
wisdom, to keep watch in the chapel of the priory, and to speak to no
one, to answer no one, and to be moved by none, until the priory bell
should give the sound of morning prayer.

His next care was to visit the monks of St. Peter's, and obtain their
permission to let the body of St. Ivan lay in state within their
walls.  He had some difficulty in this, and it was only by promising
to pay a handsome sum for watching the body, and for prayers against
sorcerers, that he could prevail upon that bigotted body to grant him
his request.  The next thing was to look for the hermit.  Bishop
Goldwell had sanctioned the Mayor's search for various articles of
value, and had given permission to remove the body of St. Ivan.

Lord De Freston and his men were the first to pass over the moat in
boats to search the ruins, whilst hundreds collected on the banks to
see the removal of the body, which was found erect, against the very
pillar upon which he had leaned when he died.  A cross-beam had
fallen against the top of the pillar so as to form a shield over him.
A mass of rubbish, of brick-work, broken tiles, glass, and furniture
had to be removed before the corpse could be taken out There was a
placid serenity, even in death, upon the face his form was stiff, and
the silvery locks fluttered over his features as they moved him
through the ruins.

His bearers were awe-struck with the downfall of that princely
palace; and, not quite satisfied in their own minds that some of the
standing portions of the building might not fall upon their heads,
they made what haste they could to Lord De Freston's boat.

Curiosity excited some to pass over the broken walls; and a desire to
possess relics of Wykes' Bishop's Palace instigated others.  The
occasional slip of some congregated mass terrified the pilferers and
made them hasten from danger.

When the corpse of St. Ivan was removed to the boat, the Mayor gave
orders that none but authorised workmen should be permitted to pass
the bounds of the moat, and that a clerk should give an exact account
of the articles found for the use of the Town Clerk and the Bishop's
Secretary.

De Freston's care was now to convey the body to St. Peter's Priory,
there to have it lay in state until all things should be ordered for
the funeral.

It was not without great bribes that it was admitted within the
precincts of the Priory, but the monks were not insensible to the
costly gifts of De Freston, and of Edmund Daundy; nor insensible to
the use that might be made among the common people of the fame of St.
Ivan.  He was, therefore, admitted, embalmed with all due ceremony,
and candles were dedicated to the altar for St. Ivan.  Priests had to
pray for his soul's release from purgatory.  A solemn requiem was
sung in the chapel, and during the six days' rest in the Priory
costly dedications were made to the shrine of St. Peter, at the
expense of the nobleman and his friends, who were only anxious that
decent respect should be paid to his memory.

How different are the customs of different periods relative to the
burial of the dead; how different, likewise, in different countries!
That decency should be observed, every Christian will freely
acknowledge and where society is formed upon true principles of
piety, all these things will be done with propriety; but it is better
to have the prayers of the poor destitute than to build the most
splendid mausoleum in the world.  The heart of one good man is of
more real value than the whole fabric of St. Peter's at Rome.

Lord De Freston was not ashamed to show to the world that he
considered the old man worthy of the customary Christian burial
which, at that time, was bestowed upon the nobles of the land.  Hence
his preparations were made upon a corresponding scale.

The seventh evening was appointed for the funeral.  It was agreed
that he should be buried by torchlight at the Priory of Augustine
Monks, beneath the shrine of St. Peter, at the altar of Alneshborne
Chapel.  Lord Ivan De Wykes, as the family were originally called
when the estates were conveyed to the See of Norwich, had great
possessions in Dorsetshire and Cambridgeshire, as well as in Essex
and Suffolk; but retaining only certain estates at Linton and
Ipswich, the name of Wykes was dropped and Ivan De Linton
substituted.  These things were known to De Freston when the old man
first spoke to him concerning his titles and family.  It might be on
this account as well that he chose to pay him every mark of outward
respect.  He had learnt something of Ivan's private history in
conversation with him, and found that much of his eccentricity arose
from a disappointment of the heart in early life.

The long procession of boats with torches was collected at the quay
of St. Peter's Priory.  There were twelve belonging to the Mayor and
burgesses; four to the Prior of St. Peter's; Daundy's, Sparrow's, and
Wolsey's barge, and others among the common people who chose to
accompany the procession with muffled oars, five miles down the
river, to the vale of Alneshborne.  At midnight, the procession,
headed by De Freston's boat, with himself and his friend Latimer,
started at the sound of the solemn bells, which, from the various
religious houses, gave forth their mournful note.  They were all
muffled.  Torches were seen in the towers; and along the river side
the glare of one hundred and sixty torches upon the waters showed a
long array of mourning pomp.  The body lay exalted on a large
flat-bottomed boat, and was towed by the sailors, who were appointed
to bear the coffin from its deck.  They were seated in another boat,
belonging to the Priory.  Four portmen, ten burgesses, and a numerous
company of priests and choristers brought up the procession.  Their
lengthened notes came swelling over the waters as they chanted the
requiem of the departed.

It was a dark night, the waters were gloomy, the banks of the river
seemed in mourning, the clouds looked as if they were gathering to
weep, and save the wild note of the curlew as the torch-light
disturbed her upon the ooze, one mile down the river, all was
profoundly mournful.

De Freston's men were well acquainted with the river, and as the
lights from the town began to grow dim, and the sound of the tolling
bells distant, and their oars were muffled, a solemn stillness made a
feeling of awe creep over their frames, as they thought of the hermit
whom they were escorting to his last cave.  As they passed the long
hanging wood which bent to the waters, then termed Long Island, since
corrupted into Hog Island, the startled cormorants rose in succession
from their roosting-places, and filled the air with their hoarse
chaunt.  Darker and darker grew the banks, and still darker spread
the clouds above, as the train swept slowly along.  The distant
turrets of Alneshborne Priory became visible, and soon after torches
were seen to glare upon the waters' edge; and the fraternity of monks
were visible awaiting the arrival of the funeral.

As the boats approached the sandy strand against the creek of
Alneshborne, the whole brotherhood assembled to receive the monks of
St. Peter's and Lord De Freston; and along the shore a solemn chaunt
arose from the choristers as the men eased down the coffin of St.
Ivan from the deck of the barge.


  Chaunt.

  Holy brethren, we are come
  Here to bring St. Ivan home;
  Take him, take him, holy men,
  As St. Peter's denizen.
        Alma Mater!
        Sancte Pater!
  En et ecce!  Ecce en!

  Holy brethren! now we mourn,
  Hear us, monks of Alneshborne!
  Take St. Ivan, take him then,
  For St. Peter's denizen.
        Alma Mater!
        Sancte Pater!
  En et ecce!  Ecce en!

  Holy brethren! pity take,
  For the Great St. Peter's sake;
  Lay St. Ivan in your glen,
  As St. Peter's denizen.
        Alma Mater!
        Sancte Pater!
  En et ecce!  Ecce en!


The venerable brethren received Lord De Freston and the mourners with
due solemnity, and made the following response to the chaunt of St.
Peter's priests.


  The Response.

  Welcome, welcome, to our shrine,
  Here St. Ivan may recline;
  Bring him onward, on his way,
  Holy friars of orders gray.
        Ora! ora!
        Sine Morâ!
  For St. Ivan, brothers, pray.

  Here the saint shall taste repose,
  Here the tomb shall o'er him close.
  Whilst we sing his resting lay,
  Holy friar of orders gray!
        Ora! ora!
        Sine Morâ!
  For St. Ivan we will pray.

  Welcome he who comes in peace,
  Here his honours shall not cease;
  We will chaunt them night and day,
  Bear him, brothers, on his way.
        Ora! ora!
        Sine Morâ!
  Thus we chaunt St. Ivan's lay.


The procession was then formed, headed by the monks of the place, and
by the whole body of the fraternity of St. Peter's.  Then came the
bier, on each side of which walked six burgesses, Lord De Freston
following as chief mourner.  Then Latimer, and the various friends,
townsmen, and acquaintances, who, as much out of respect for the
living Lord De Freston as for the dead St. Ivan, attended the costly
funeral.  There was Robert Wulsey, as it was then written.  He was an
old man, and certainly would have been much better at rest in his own
house in St. Nicholas, than braving the midnight air to gratify his
friend, De Freston.  So grateful did he feel to him for the interest
he had taken in his son Thomas, that as soon as Daundy mentioned the
subject to him, and told him that it would be a compliment which De
Freston would feel, he actually resolved, let the cost be what it
might, to attend the funeral of St. Ivan.  The cost, as the sequel
will prove, was as much an any man could pay.

The corpse was borne to the chapel, which then stood beyond the walls
of the Priory, in a small secluded glen, near the bright stream which
flowed into the moat, and thence down to the waves of the Orwell.
The torches illumined the glen, and when they all entered the little
chapel, a person outside might have supposed that the building was on
fire, so glaring was the accumulated light of so many torches.  In
front of the altar was the family vault of De Freston.  Amidst the
chaunts of the assembled priests, the body was lowered into the
vault, the ceremony was concluded, and De Freston alone, with only
the candles burning upon the altar, was left to watch, according to
his vow, till the morning matin-bell should permit him to open the
chapel door.

It may seem singular that a person like Lord De Freston should submit
to such unnecessary devotion, but he had made a vow to do it himself,
and he was not a man to turn aside from any purpose he had once
resolved to put in practice.  It was in vain that the elder brother
of the monastery offered himself to exonerate him from his vow, and
to supply his place.  He was determined: consequently the whole body
of attendants had to leave him in the chapel.  He charged Latimer to
return to the castle, and not to think of coming over the waters
again until the morning-bell should be heard from the Tower of
Alneshborne Priory.  The mourners, therefore, retraced their way, the
burgesses and townsmen up the waves of the Orwell, and the last to
leave his friend was William Latimer, who promised to return at the
time appointed.  Taking leave of the friendly Augustines, he ordered
his rowers to unmuffle their oars and make the best of their way
across the tide.  A light was to burn all night in the fifth story of
Freston Tower.  The mourners separated, and their torches were seen
quickly ascending the waves of the Orwell, and Lord De Freston was
alone in the chapel of Alneshborne.




CHAPTER XX.

A MEMORABLE NIGHT.

Never, under such circumstances, did a noble undergo a severer trial
than did Lord De Freston on that memorable night.  The parties had
separated upon the wave, the monks had returned to their cells, one
holy brother alone keeping watch in the belfry tower to denote the
hour of matin worship.  The Lord of Freston Tower knelt by that lone
altar, beneath which the hermit St. Ivan now rested, and he was
performing the last form of devotion, which, according to his vow, he
could then pay to departed worth.  The tomb could not be closed up
until that vow had been strictly observed.  Superstitious and
uncalled for, as according to our far wiser notions of acceptable
duty this would be considered, it was deemed a high mark of personal
devotion in that day.

He had vowed that nothing on earth should entice him from the chapel.
The proof of sanctity attending upon this vow was to be the
strictness with which it should be kept.  He was to answer no voice
whatever--to admit no one into the chapel when once he had locked
himself in--to be terrified at nothing internal or external--that
come whatever might, no word should escape his lips: but in silent
meditation he should kneel at the altar and watch until the morning.
In a word, he should remain there and keep his vow in spite of every
temptation to make him break it.

If men would only keep watch within themselves to guard against the
entrance of evil thoughts into their souls, and prevent the devil
from urging them thereby to wicked words and actions, they would not
want to shut themselves up in gloomy chapels, to appear before men in
sanctimonious garb.  There would be no need of costly sacrifices to
the fancied glory of the true God, which alas! do but tend to blow
out the swollen pride of man because of false notions of doing him
honor.  Keep the heart sound, encourage there every virtue, and let
the grace of God cleanse it from apostacy and superstition, for
otherwise man will soon be unfit to dwell with holiness, and make his
heart unfit for spiritual consolation or comfort.

De Freston's self-devotion was the theme of praise among the deluded
though learned monks of Alneshborne Priory, as well as amongst the
priests of St. Peter, or the mayor and burgesses of the town of
Ipswich--and perchance the cold-blooded Alice De Clinton, in the
private chapel of Bishop Goldwell, might have deemed this act worthy
of her praise.  But she knew it not, or else she would not have
supposed him to be a heretic.  It is impossible for a good heart to
be always silent in its devotions.  It will, it must speak to the
glory of God.  It has so done in every age, and will so do to the
last day; but its internal struggles to conquer its external and
internal foes will be observed alone by God, and be known only to him.

Whilst De Freston kept his silent watch, the grumbling clouds gave
intimation of a coming storm.  It had been a murkey night, and
sweeping folds of darkness had spread themselves over the sky: but
now the thunder began to roll, and the lightning to illuminate the
waters of the Orwell, and for successive moments to darken even the
torches of the boats.  Ellen De Freston and her maid were in the
tower, watching for the expected return of Lord De Freston's boat.
On such a night, though her father had not charged her to remain
there, but to let a light be burning in her usual lofty apartment,
she had chosen to keep watch for her friend's return.

The light was seen in the Tower, and the boatmen were guided by it
and by the light in the belfry of the Monastery as certain beacons
for their safety.  But every now and then the murky darkness of the
clouds, and the vivid flashes of the lightning, would alike obscure
these beacons from their sight.  They could see the windows of the
little chapel they had left faintly illuminated by the wax tapers
within.  Latimer felt a degree of sorrow for his lord, that on such a
night he should be exposing himself to a long and dreary watch,
instead of being calmly at rest upon his pillow in his own castle.
It is true, that his anxieties were somewhat roused by the roar of
the elements, but he had six stout rowers, who knew the channel well,
and though they declared that their boat had never been so tossed
about before upon the river, yet they had no doubt of soon reaching
the landing place beneath the shades of Freston.

The wind was dead ahead against them, and the short successive gusts
which blew directly down upon them, seemed to chop the waves into
spray as they dashed along.  The torches of twisted rope and pitch
held by two men astern required the greatest dexterity in holding
them lest they should be jerked into the waters.  Nothing but
complete immersion could extinguish them: for even if the wind blew
them out, it soon blew them in again, and the first billow found the
flame again aspiring.  But every now and then the boat struck against
a piece of timber, either the arm of some tree, or the mast of some
vessel, or a piece of wreckage, which rather alarmed the most
experienced boatmen of the party.  One flambeau was sent forward, and
the man held it as high as he could, to give notice of any coming
danger.

'If our friends going home have not better luck than we have,' said
one of the men, 'we shall hear of their being capsized or driven
ashore.  Thy have, however, wind and tide in their favor and will
scud homewards pretty quickly.  Pull away, my hearties!'

This was the language of young Harry Benns, whose ancestors had for
years been servants of the Lord De Freston, and the same youth was
attached and engaged to the serving maid of Ellen De Freston.

'The light burns brightly in the Tower, Master Latimer, and I fancy
every now and then I see something flitting past it.  I suspect we
have friends watching us there.'

'I wish both your lord's watch and theirs were over,' replied
Latimer.  'I like not this dark, stormy struggle.'

'Oh, never fear, Master!  We have a good pilot to take charge of us!
Give way, my lads! that's it! a strong arm, and good courage, my
boys!'

Two very good things in their way, but both may be put to the test
when other things come in their way.

Just at that moment a flash of lightning opened upon them, and showed
them such a sight as made the stoutest heart among them tremble.  A
vessel without light aboard, or sail, or man to steer her, seemed as
if she had broken from her moorings, and was driving before the wind
in the very direction of the boat.  She looked like a floating
mountain as she came along, seen for the instant, and then involved
in impenetrable darkness.

'There she comes,' exclaimed the man ahead; 'bout ship, my lads, or
we are all overboard!'

Down she came--the work of an instant--she swept directly over them,
turning De Freston's boat keel upwards.  Happily she did not strike
them midships, but caught them astern, twisted them round first--and
was gone.

The shrieks of those unhappy men were borne upon the wind, and
plainly heard by the Lord De Freston in the chapel of Alneshborne.
The neighboring monks were roused from their slumbers by the alarm
given by the brother in the watch-tower: they listened, and could
plainly hear the cries of distress.

The boatmen, who had all been capsized, extricated themselves as well
as they could, and clung to the boat, which, having been so suddenly
upset, contained a great quantity of air, which added to its buoyancy.

'Are you there, Benns?'

'Is that you, Atkins?  Hold on, my boys!'

'I say, where is my young master?'

Latimer alone was not there.  Having been seated directly in the
stern of the boat, the violence of the blow had thrown him into the
eddy of the driving vessel, and in a moment he was drawn, as it were,
in a vortex far away from his companions.  The vessel, however, drove
faster than he did upon the waters, and, being an expert swimmer, he
had struck out boldly against the sweeping and curling waves.  When a
man has to struggle for life, and knows, too, that it must be a hard
struggle, he had better not waste his strength in his first efforts.
Presence of mind is certainly the greatest requisite in sudden
emergencies; and Latimer's first exclamation was not a shriek of
terror, but a prayer, short, earnest, and expressive.

'Lord help me!  I am in danger.  Support me through this trial, with
the help of thy right hand and holy arm.'

He had scarcely uttered the words, and lifted himself up to strike
out as a brave swimmer, when a huge plank, from the beams of a wreck,
came floating by him.  He caught hold of it, lifted himself upon it,
and, in another moment, sat across it, in humble thankfulness to God
for so much mercy.  He could hear his companions calling aloud for
help, apparently a long way from him, drifting before the howling
winds.

It should be understood by the reader, that to reach Lord De
Freston's stair whilst the tide was flowing, the men had to row at
least three quarters of a mile out of the direct line, that they
might the more easily fetch the point at which they were to land.
They were at the very utmost distance when the accident occurred.
The boat then was driven back almost to the Downham shore, and
consequently, as the men mounted the keel, the wind had a greater
power upon the drifting mass, and took them swiftly onward; but
Latimer, struggling against the chops of the waves, and at last
finding a friendly plank to ride upon, was swept more along the
channel.

The beacon still burnt in Freston Tower, and the anxious watchers
therein were suddenly alarmed by the extinction of the light upon the
waves.

'I cannot see the lights of the boat upon the waters,' said Ellen De
Freston, to her maid.  'I can see a light beaming from the chapel; I
can still see lights floating towards the town, and dancing
reflections upon the distant waters; I can even see the Tower light
from the Priory, but I see not those from my father's boat.'

'O! fear not, my lady--fear not.  I dare say the wind and rain have
extinguished the torches; but depend upon it they will reach the
shore in safety.  Do not be afraid.'

'I saw the boats part upon the waters, and my father's boat bending
its course to come across the river.  They seemed to be coming nearer
and nearer every minute, and the torches to burn brighter; but all of
a sudden I miss them.  I see no lights, all is darkness except the
lightning's flash, and that shows me nothing.'

'O! do not fear, my lady.  They can see our light, though their
torches are extinguished; and I have heard my Henry say he could
always find his way across, even if there were no lights burning in
the Tower.  It is a bad night, but do not let the thunder and
lightning terrify you; they will soon be ashore.'

'I fear not so soon as you seem to expect.  You appear to be very
bold, Maria, but I fear Him only who holds the thunder and the
lightning in his hands.  He is very terrible!'

'It is in His help I trust, my lady.  He is merciful and kind, and my
Harry is a good man, and I hope God will take care of him.'

'I hope the same for others,' sighed Ellen: and again she looked
anxiously upon the troubled waters.  She could see nothing but the
dashing waves, illumined by the sudden flashes of lightning.  She
could hear nothing but the roar of the artillery of Heaven, which was
indeed enough to shake the stout nerves even of the brave Lord De
Freston, but not enough to prevent his or his daughter's watch.

The brethren of Alneshborne, whose monastery lay directly in the
course of the wind, had heard the mournful cries repeated upon the
waters, and, with all speed, had quickly followed their watchman to
the shore.  There, shoving off their own boat, and guided by the
occasional call of distress, they plied their accustomed oars upon
the wave.  At times they lifted up their generous voices, and fancied
they were heard.  The thunders roared above, the pelting rain fell in
torrents, and they had nothing but hope to guide them.  They could
hear voices calling for help, but so dark was the night, and so heavy
the shower, that they could scarcely tell from which point of the
channel the cries came.

In the midst of a peal of thunder came a flash of lightning so vivid
and clear that the parties actually saw each other as distinctly as
if it were day; and such a shout of joy arose, as deliverers and the
delivered could alone utter.  A few more strokes of the oar from the
monks, and they are alongside the capsized boat, picking off the men,
binding the rudder to their own boat's stern, and receiving the
blessings and embraces of the sailors of De Freston.  Nothing could
exceed the gratitude of the poor fellows thus mercifully delivered
from a watery grave.

But Lord De Freston's friend.  He was not there; and the sailors
looked sad and sorrowful in each others' faces.

'Alas! he is gone to the bottom,' said Benns, 'I saw the great trader
strike him a heavy blow, and send him along the wave dragging him
with her.  He is gone! holy men! and we must acquaint our master with
his loss.'

'Leave that to me,' said the Superior, 'I will go alone to the
chapel; meanwhile, you must come to the monastery and partake of such
accommodation as our means can render.'

'We shall be well pleased to land, your reverence, for some of us
have shipped more water than we can carry, and should be glad to have
it pumped out of us.'

The monks took the boat in tow, and landed at their own chore, to the
great satisfaction of the poor sailors.

A fire was soon lighted in that ancient hall; and old cloaks, and
hoods, and dry garments exchanged for their heavy soaken woollen
clothes.  Nor were the friendly monks less careful for their internal
comfort, having placed before them such spirituous liquors, as might
best qualify or remedy the chill of the salt water in their stomachs.

The Prior himself went to the chancel-door of the little chapel,
leaving the poor fellows talking about their lord and his lost
friend, and wondering in their own minds whether the vow would or
would not be broken.  Old John of Alneshborne went himself to the
chapel.  The Lord De Freston heard the noise upon the waters.  The
sounding of the alarm-bell from the monastery, the thunders roaring,
and saw the lightnings flashing; but he firmly kept his vow, for he
had resolved that nothing should tempt him to break it.

A gentle but hasty knock was heard at the door, and a voice
exclaiming:

'I am John of Alneshborne, I come to absolve thee from thy vow.  Thy
boat is upset, thy friend is lost; oh! leave off thy watch and come
and help us.'

But no answer from within gave any indications of slackened duty or
of wavering vow.

'Open the door! watch no longer, thy men are exhausted, They are in
the Priory! they want thy help!  O, noble lord, let me entreat thee
to come and advise us what we are to do.  The light still burns in
Freston Tower; shall we pass over to the castle?  What shall we do?'

Not a single word came in reply, though the noble heard the news with
a deep pang, only to be imagined by those who felt for him.  Yet he
put up a silent prayer for support, and even that the morning's light
might bring him better tidings.  He felt as if he should hear better
news, if he kept his vow; and, if he did not, that some fresh horror
would approach with the matin-bell.  Never was father, friend, or
noble, more deeply tried; yet he kept his watch, and the Prior
returned from his ineffectual attempt to move him.  That night was,
indeed, a night of horrors.

Some of the monks attributed all these accidents to the admission of
the hermit's body into their chapel; and took upon themselves to
lecture their elders for ready acquiescence in the will of Lord De
Freston.  Others thought it a judgment upon Latimer, as he was the
only one lost.  They all made vows to be more strict in the
performance of their duties, and some of the sailors confessed to
them their sins.

'It was a bad night when we started,' said Harry Benns.  'I could
tell by the clouds we should have a storm, and perhaps the judgment
you speak of may have fallen heavily upon the priests of St. Peter's.
A storm is but a storm, good monks, and there is a God above to rule
that, as well as ourselves.  He has delivered us out of peril, and we
have reason to rejoice and be thankful.'

'Young man,' replied the Superior, 'dost thou know the means by which
thou wast saved?  St. Peter was our help.'

'I know that you and your brethren of this Priory were the
instruments in the hands of God to save our lives; and I give God
thanks first, and thee next; but I do not see how St. Peter helped
us, any more than the dead St. Ivan.'

The monks looked at each other, as much as to express astonishment at
the youth's impiety, and one said to the other, 'I wonder this fellow
was not lost!'

'Let us hope the best,' replied the Superior, 'his ignorance is the
best excuse which can be made for him.  He will soon know better.  I
will take care and inform his lord; so that he shall do penance for
this slur upon St. Peter.'

The conversation then turned upon the lost Latimer; the monks all
agreeing that he was not an ignorant man; but one who had certainly
entertained notions contrary to the ordained decrees of the Pope; one
who had ventured not only to think for himself, but to argue with
others, and even with the learned fraternity of Alneshborne.  He was,
doubtless, punished as a heretic, and his fate would be a warning to
many how they dared to open their lips against St. Peter, They
thought that good would come of this, even to the Lord De Freston,
whose pious watch they did not fail to laud; and to praise him highly
for having kept his vow through such unexampled difficulties.




CHAPTER XXI.

THE FATE OF THE SWIMMER.

Latimer was drifting on the tide, his long straight piece of timber,
very unsteady in its progress, at one time going at an angle as if it
would drive to the shore of Freston Tower, at another steering with a
wide course towards the Priory.  Its progress was slow only when it
came among those long winding weeds, fine as the smallest ribbons,
and ten or twenty feet long, which would occasionally twist
themselves over the board.

This he felt to be his worst position, for whenever his plank was
delayed, he found the greatest difficulty to keep his place upon it.
The incessant spray, too, was such as to blind him, and scarcely
permitted him to see the light of the tower on the Freston side, or
upon that of Downham Reach.  Still Latimer was thankful that he had
found this friendly help in the hour of need.

He looked at the light glimmering from that happy spot in which he
had spent the most enlightened moments of his life, he looked and
longed for that friendly shore: nor did he forget to pray both for
her whom he loved, and for her father, whose superstition, even at
that moment, he conceived to be the cause of the catastrophe.  He
could not help thinking that if that watching had not been, he should
not then have been a solitary sufferer upon the waves of the Orwell.
Again, he thought it might have happened, even if De Freston had been
on board the boat, and a thrill of joy ran through his cold frame at
the thought that he was safe.

It was evident that his plank neared the Freston shore; for, as the
lightning flashed, he beheld the castle, and the tower, and the
trees, and even imagined that he distinguished the very stair in a
line with the light of the tower.  Just at that time, too, his limbs
seemed to be released from the clinging sea-weed and his floating
spar to rush into deep water.  It darted forward as if released from
confinement; its course seeming to be towards the shore.  It was
evidently in the deep channel, and Latimer thought it was the very
channel which he knew swept up to the Freston shore.  The light of
the tower was now behind him, and again the weeds stopt his plank.
It was then he thought of making his greatest effort.

'I am leaving the shore,' he said to himself; 'and my plank will soon
be drawn down by the weight of the weeds, and I shall go with it.  I
must now try my strength, and with God's help, I may reach the land.'

He cast off his coat, he tore off his shoes, stript himself as much
as he could, and with prayer heavenward, and his eyes upon the
beacon, he cast himself upon the waters.  In a moment, he felt those
long winding weeds twisting themselves around his limbs.  His
presence of mind did not forsake him.  He had often swam the waters
of the Severn and had been well tutored against weeds.  To struggle
against them he knew to be vain.  The old fisherman on his native
waters, had often told him that the only way to escape them was to
lay himself out as fleet as he could, and never to strike until they
untwisted themselves, which they would be sure to do if he would not
resist them.  He did this directly, and though it delayed him, yet
delay in this instance was avoiding danger.  He struck out as fleetly
as he could until he escaped these treacherous weeds, and to his
great joy he came into deep water.

His eye now rested upon the beacon, his arms expanded, his chest
breasted the waves, and hope, that sweet companion, hope in the mercy
of God, did not forsake him.  It was a hard struggle, however, to
buffet the opposing waves, with both wind and tide against him.  He
had youth, health, strength, hope, and love in his favor; and all
that a young man with a good heart could do, he did to reach the
wished-for shore.

There is, however, a limit to human exertion, beyond which no man's
strength can avail.  He was ignorant of the distance he had to swim.
A light looks sometimes nearer than it really is, and the poor
smuggler's heart was greatly tried, as, with all his efforts, he did
not seem to near the shore.  Yet the light seemed to burn higher up
in the sky; and as the lightning illumined the waters, he thought
that the dark woods were nearer.

Did the classical scholar think of the Hellespont as he breasted the
waves, or remember the fate of the far-famed Leander?  The night was
such as to create despondency, without referring to the classical
allusion.  But the Christian Latimer knew what Leander did not--that
God was his help.  He had not presumptuously braved the waves for a
secret amour, and, much as he admired the true love of Leander, he
felt himself in a very different position, though Freston Tower was
then his aim, and he hoped that Ellen De Freston might be expecting
his return.

Great were his repeated exertions, but he felt his strength beginning
to fail him!  He looked up at the light, and he thought it less
distinct.  He felt a strange dimness overshadow his brain, a nervous
prostration of strength, and a weakness, which made him anxious only
to exert himself the more.

The light from the tower suddenly disappeared.  Oh! how his soul
seemed to sink; and not only his soul, for a dimness, like a film,
seemed to spread itself over his eyes, and his hands and his feet to
sink lower, and to strike feebler beneath the waves.

Strange mists are beginning to fill those longing eyes, and
sparkling, star-like lights to flit across his vision.  'And is it
thy will, O Lord!' was the last exclamation from his fainting lips,
as he lifted his head in the darkness, and his feet sank motionless
downwards.  That very motion in one moment convinced him of God's
mercy; that it was His will he should be saved.  He felt the ground;
his feet touched the shore.  With a bound of joy, such as angels may
be supposed to feel at the returning steps of the repentant, he
sprang forward--the tide had previously turned--the wave helped
him--and the flash of the now friendly lightning showed him the stair
of De Freston just before him!

One effort more--aloud cry of joy, and for help--he seized the step
of the stair--vain his effort to ascend; too weak, too feeble, too
exhausted, he fell, still grasping the lowest step of De Freston's
landing-place.  All consciousness was gone; instinctively he grasped
the step, and every wave became less powerful, until it only washed
against his feet.

Ellen De Freston had cautioned her maid to take the lamp out of the
way of the window whilst she opened the casement looking down upon
the waves.  Hers was rather a dangerous position, in a lofty tower
surrounded by trees, in the very midst of thunder and lightning.
Many minds would quail before such terrors; but love is very strong,
and when aided by education, and divested of all superstition, it in
a power of dependence upon God stronger than a castle.

She felt that her father and her friend were absent; that they were
returning from sacred duties, difficult to fulfil, and requiring the
assistance of her loving aid.  Who can watch so well as they who wish
for our safety?  And who can do this better than an affectionate
child?

Ellen De Freston opened her casement, anxious to hear some sound of
the plashing oars, or some voices upon the Orwell.  She thought she
heard, through the lull of the storm, a faint moan.  She listened
again--she did hear it.

'Hark, Maria! leave the lamp; come to the window.  Hark! dost thou
not hear a moan?'

'I do, my lady--I do!  It is some poor wretch upon the shore!'

'Haste thee below, maiden.  Come, let us haste!  But hold!  we must
not take away the beacon.'

'Shall I run to the castle for help?'

'No, quickly descend, and ascend again with the torch that hangs upon
the porch door.  Quick! quick!  Maria.  Fly!  I can still hear the
moan of distress.  We must be above our sex in the moment of danger.'

The torch was soon lit.  Neither felt the coldness of the wind, nor
the fury of the storm.  Some poor sufferer must be cast upon the
shore; and when is a woman's heart so deeply alive, and so warmly
engaged, as when conveying help to the disconsolate.  The man that
cannot appreciate female philanthropy knows not what true pity is.
It glows so vividly, it comes so blessedly, it shines so graciously,
that the most warlike men have, in all ages, been subdued by it.

With rapid steps did Ellen De Freston and her maid hasten, by the
burning torchlight, to the shore.  Their first care was to hasten to
the stair, by which they could descend to the level of the waves.
They reached it.

Holding down the torch, they see a form below--they descend--the
light shows them at once the features of Latimer, and their tender
hearts are struck with horror.  A wild shriek reaches the castle of
De Freston, and arouses the inmates, who were awaiting their lord's
return.  The ancient dame of the castle, with servants and men, came
running down the green sward towards the light which they saw burning
by the stairs.

They soon perceive their young mistress leaning over the apparently
lifeless body of a young man.  They soon recognized the features, and
lent their aid to remove him to the castle.

Glad, indeed, was Ellen of their help, and quickly did she follow
them into that place of hospitality whence a sufferer never was
excluded, or failed to receive the kindest attention.

But such a sufferer as then entered the walls, and under such
circumstances, commanded all the interest of affection and pity.

He was quickly conveyed to a warm bed.  Oh! what deep anxiety dwelt
in the mind of the maiden, as her unconscious friend was placed at
least out of further danger, and she received the assurance of her
old nurse that he was alive.  She dropped upon her knees, put up her
prayers for help, and every returning minute confirmed the report of
his revival.  Exhaustion was so great that the sufferer had no voice;
his eye only could speak his thankfulness, and this seemed eloquent
to heaven.  Yet it beamed too with gratitude upon that dear friend
who had first relieved him from his cold, dark fate on the shore of
the Orwell.

It was long indeed--for hours are long to the suspended hopes and
fears of any--before the faintest whisper could narrate the miseries
of that dismal light.  In faint, very faint, whispers did the
sufferer unfold to his kind attendants the catastrophe which had
occurred.

Ellen knew her father's intention to keep watch in the chapel; but
she thought of his anxieties, what they must be if any report should
reach him of the fate of his crew and the loss of Latimer.  Happy,
very happy, was she in being the blessed instrument of his recovery,
though even that might be a longer work than she expected.  She was
thankful that a whisper could be heard, that a consciousness of her
care had come to the sufferer.

This, indeed, had come long before he could express it.  When he
could, it was exquisite pleasure so to do.  Oh! how grateful do we
all feel to the kind hands which minister to our wants in sickness!
When are we more virtuous?  When are we more thankful?  When is our
love more lively than when, unable to do anything for ourselves, we
find a helping hand to lift up our weary head, and to place it upon
our softened pillow?  Religion comes never sweeter in her influences
than when she approaches our sick bed, and tells us how grateful we
ought to be to our God.

How sweet is the first sleep after struggling nature, restored from
exhaustion, relieved from exertion, is lulled into repose, by the
rest of tenderness.  'Blessed, indeed, are all they who provide any
comfort for the sick and needy; they shall find relief when they are
themselves in need of help.'

In prayer for Ellen, came Latimer's first repose; and the maid of the
castle then gave orders for a boat to be prepared for the first sound
of the Priory matin-bell.

De Freston was the first to hear that sound and to rise from his
watch, to open the chapel-door, and, with a calm composure, to
receive the congratulations of the brotherhood.  Well did he know
that he could afford no assistance to Latimer, if he were drowned in
the Orwell; and well he knew that the monks could best administer to
the wants of his men.  He walked forth, therefore, from his devotions
with no surprise; nor was he astonished to find his boat ready, the
water baled out, all his men equipped in dry clothes, and quite
anxious to pass over to Freston Tower.

He thanked the learned fraternity for their kindness, paid all the
customary fees, and promised what he knew he could well perform for
their attention to his people.  He walked to the shore, thinking of
his daughter; and before he could embark--though the tempest had
passed away, yet the waters were greatly troubled--he beheld that
daughter approaching from her Tower to convey tidings which every
soul upon that beach was glad to hear.

'Alas! my child,' exclaimed De Freston, as his beauteous Ellen rushed
to his arms, 'where is Latimer?'

'Safe, my dear father, in your own castle.'

'Then God be praised for his mercies!'

'Amen! amen! amen!' was the response from all; and soon were they
all, beneath happier auspices, passing over those now less formidable
waves, to the welcome precincts of Freston Tower.




CHAPTER XXII.

WOLSEY.

How fared the friends of De Freston, Daundy, Wolsey, the aged
Sparrow, Samson, Felawe, Fastolf, Gooding, Cady, and such as were
connected with the ancient borough of Ipswich, who were anxious to
show respect more to the living lord than the dead St. Ivan?  That
night was death to the venerable Wolsey, the father of the scholar.
The boat he was in got aground on Long Island, and the waters, at
that period, were so full, as to fill all the flats of the Greenside,
now called Greenwich Farm; so that the whole of that night was spent
upon the shore, by this aged man, who was exposed to the rain and
wind, and he never recovered from the ill effects of it.  Robert
Wolsey had been in his own boat, manned with his own six men, who
were accustomed to convey his stores from his wharf and lands at
Stoke; for Robert Wolsey was a man of some substance in those days--a
large agriculturist and dealer in ships' stores, and especially in
the victualling of all his Majesty's ships in the ports of Ipswich
and Harwich.

The old man returned home the next day, having been taken off Long
Island by his rich relatives' men, who came in quest of him the
morning after the storm.  Dame Joan was full of anxiety at the night,
and at the delay, and dreaded the worst; but the worst was yet to
come, for Robert Wolsey returned alive, took to his bed, and though,
nursed with care, and supposed to be almost convalescent soon after
making his last will and testament in the presence of Mr. Richard
Farrington, suddenly declined and died, to the great grief of all his
friends and connexions.

Wolsey was summoned from his college to attend upon the funeral of
his father, and to administer to his last will and testament.  His
grief was heavy at the loss of a kind hand; but he started when he
heard of the interest his friend Latimer had excited in the heart of
Ellen De Freston.  Never did his hopes receive so severe a blow as
when he learnt, from his mother's lips, that Lord De Freston had
consented to acknowledge Latimer as the future guardian of his lovely
daughter.  His mourning had a double weight--a burthen insurmountable
to many, and even in his strong mind, not without a degree of
weakness which changed the current of his years, and made him what
the never would have been, the highest and most exalted subject in
the realm, and afterwards the one most prostrate.

Few men were more wise for their years than Thomas Wolsey, when
Fellow of Magdalen College, Oxford: few, if any, ever attained
greater celebrity for his extraordinary progress in logic and
philosophy: so that at twenty-four years of age, it might be said of
him that he was, take him for all things, the wisest man in the
University.  Melancholy indeed were his reflections when he attended
the funeral of his father, and heard the news of Ellen De Freston's
engagement to Latimer.  Up to this period of his existence, the
secret bad been kept within his own soul, unless a slight breath
thereof reached his mother's ear.  It never would have been known
beyond that ear, had not a very old poem, called 'Wolsey's Lament,'
revealed it; and accounted for very much that was alike strange in
his early years and upon no other grounds to be accounted for.

Wolsey's grief at the loss of his father was given out as the reason
why he visited no one, would be seen by no one--excluded himself from
all his former associates, and even deserted the mansion of his noble
Lord De Freston.  Ellen sent him an invitation--Latimer, unable to
move to Ipswich, hoped he would come to him.  He wanted to talk over
College affairs; but Wolsey's heart sickened at these things.  Dame
Joan had the task of making excuses for him, which she did, assigning
his utter inability to enjoy anything.  A certain time he must remain
at Ipswich to settle his father's affairs, prove his will, and
administer to his effects.  He felt that the sooner that time was
over, the better it would be for him.  Vain were all the kind
letters, messages, and even personal attentions which the Lord of
Freston Tower and his daughter paid to him.  He could neither receive
nor answer them: but wandered over the hills of Stoke, where he
poured out his melancholy spirit.

There was a spot upon his father's estate which commanded from its
summit an extensive view both of the Orwell and the Gipping.  His
parents used frequently to visit it on a summer's evening; and the
old man had built a sort of summer house, and made a plantation round
it.  It was a lovely place, and rose abruptly, almost like a crag,
from the green hills sloping around it.  The landscape was at once
grand, wide, and sweeping, commanding a direct view of the whole town
beneath it, and the waters circling along the walls of St. Peter, and
the ancient quay far away to the right of the spectator.  Thence
might be seen all the churches and religious houses in the vicinity,
the shipping upon the Orwell, the boats ascending the Gipping, which
at that time, instead of horses and waggons, conveyed the hay from
the meadows, or the straw from the lands to the port of Ipswich.  To
this pleasant spot, did the now melancholy youth repair.  His brow
was careworn, and his heart ill at ease and sick with disappointment.
He needed prayer to rouse him from his torpid state, or the cheerful
voice of some confidential companion to take off the load of his
distress; but he was too proud a spirit to own what he felt, or to
open his lips to any one upon the subject.  Yet would he sit hours
together in that summer-house, away from every human being, and bend
his glance upon the scene, and think of all that was gone by, not
only in his own life, but for ages past.

Latimer had occasionally known him in his melancholy hours.  He heard
of his conduct, and could not conceal from himself, or others, the
wish he had to go to him; but the weakness, arising from his
dangerous illness, was of such an extent as to prevent the
possibility of his seeking him, and ministering to him in friendship.
Had the attempt been made, it would have been rejected; for Wolsey
never would have said to him: 'Thou art thyself the cause of my
distress.'  His lament, however, which was written at that period,
speaks the tone of the man's mind better than any words which can be
said for him.


  Wolsey's Lament.

  Ye skies above me shining fair,
  And clouds transparent floating there,
  How bright ye seem! how swift ye fly!
  Ye seem to be in extacy,
  Why do ye shine so purely bright,
  On soul as gloomy as the night?
  Ye mock my sorrows as ye lightly roll,
  And seem to say, 'The scholar has no soul!'

  I have a soul--I see ye shine;
  Would that my light were such as thine!
  Ye ride triumphantly along,
  Delighted as with cheerful song;
  But, oh! what mockery to see
  That you can thus be glad and free,
  Whilst I am chained with heavy loaded grief,
  Nor sky, nor clouds, nor sun can give relief.

  O, glorious sun! thou shinest there
  The beacon of this hemisphere,
  Calling to life the seeds of earth
  And myriads to happy birth.
  They dance on silv'ry wing with glee,
  Made merry through the warmth of thee,
  Whilst I alone, 'neath thine All-warming ray,
  Feel not thine influence--so dark my day.

  O, hide thee! hide thee in a storm,
  Or take the darkest, blackest form;
  Perchance my glominess were shock'd,
  And from mine heart, my grief unlocked,
  Might fly to thee, and happ'ly say,
  'Sun, I am brighter than thy day;'
  But shine not now so brightly o'er my woes
  Thou mock'st the heart that darkness doth compose.

  Ye trees so green, so freshly green!
  What vigour in your stems is seen;
  Why, robed in mantles of delight.
  Do ye thus mock my aching sight?
  Ye look so lovely in your smile;
  Have ye no pity in your guile?
  Why look so rich, enchanting to the eye,
  Of him who, like a severed leaf, must die?

  Your leaves must wither, fall away;
  Another spring you'll look as gay;
  Your roots receive the vernal shower,
  Your buds put forth their leafy power;
  And grateful shades to love ye give,
  And bid the songsters happy live;
  But, oh! no love for me is found to dwell
  Within your shade, your love-enchanting spell.

  Ye swallows passing on the wing,
  Catching at every tiny thing;
  Gliding so swiftly o'er the plain,
  And then returning back again;
  Ye summer friends with happy hearts,
  What pleasure life to you imparts!
  Ye know no winter! grief doth bring no care,
  To such as you, ye children of the air!

  Oh! do not mock me!  I would fly,
  Ay, lightly too, as happily,
  Could I but feel I had a wing
  Of love, could lighten such a thing
  As I am--heavy-hearted man--
  In this, my short and dreary span.
  Go, fly away! depart to distant land;
  Mock not my spirit with your flirtings bland.

  Ye hills around me, why so gay?
  Vanish! oh, vanish ye away!
  Why stand ye there in fertile pride,
  My heart and senses to deride?
  Ye looked so lovely; but of late,
  I could have contemplating sat
  Where now I sit, and long had wished to stay
  But flee ye! flee ye from my sight away!

  How oft in shadowy forms ye rose!
  Not then exulting o'er my woes;
  But courted as Parnassus height.
  From wing of love to give me flight.
  My native hills, I weep, I groan,
  I feel, ay, wretchedly alone!
  Will ye be green to mock my broken heart?
  O! hills of Gypeswich, depart! depart!

  Ye walls monastic, here and there,
  With turrets rising in the air;
  Sure not in England can be found
  Town with more consecrated ground.
  The streets are lost, they seem so small,
  Before the space ye claim for wall!
  Are monks and friars in their cells so free,
  They do but laugh at such a wretch as me?

  So let them laugh with sidelong glance,
  I do detest their ignorance!
  Oh! if my soul could gain its hope,
  I'd give my native town some scope
  For learning, far above the trash
  Of superstitious, tasteless hash!
  But woe is me! I know not where to go
  To soothe the torment of this deadly blow.

  Thou stream majestic!  Orwell's tide,
  Why dost thou here so gently glide?
  And wash, with waves as soft as down,
  The borders of my native town?
  Have I thy bosom breasted well,
  With gently undulating swell.
  And shall I never more thy waters press?
  Oh, Orwell! rob me of this deep distress!

  I'd kiss thy waves!  I'd bow my knee,
  Could'st thou relieve mine agony;
  But now thy smile ungracious is,
  And speaks to me of others' bliss;
  Whilst I, who loved thy waters green,
  Am desolate and lonely seen.
  O! ye loved waters of my youthful day!
  Robbed of my love, how can ye love display?

  Thou winding Gipping, where I strayed
  In boyhood on thy slopes I played,
  And loved to angle from thy banks,
  And sportive in my childish pranks,
  To gather wild flowers from thy side,
  How canst thou now my woes deride?
  Stream of mine infant steps, my tears would flow
  Were I beside thy gay banks walking now.

  Yet thou dost move to meet the tide
  Of Orwell's waters, like a bride
  In garments white, and pure, and chaste.
  Oh! why so cheerful in thy haste?
  Ah! there ye give the mutual kiss,
  As that of matrimonial bliss,
  And never parted, never know ye pain,
  But flow united onward to the main.

  Ye friends within my native town,
  Me, kindly, ye are proud to own;
  A father's form was lately there,
  With placid brow, and hoary hair,
  He's gone where I shall shortly go,
  And there but terminate my woe.
  O, friends of youth!  I cannot now reveal
  The bitter anguish of my word, farewell!

  Mother, ay, mother! in thine heart
  I found my own dear counterpart;
  For thou, in youth, wert all to me,
  Until this eye had turn'd from thee
  To give admiring thoughts to one,
  Who ne'er reflects them on thy son.
  O! mother, mother, never shall I know
  The heart's revival from this fatal blow.

  Hills, woods, and valleys, is't a dream?
  Ye beauties of the Orwell's stream!
  Castles, and churches, monasteries,
  And all your rich varieties,
  Hereafter be ye dull to me,
  No more your beauties let me see,
  In aught that can another scholar move,
  To taste the sweetness of this scene of love.

  Ye smile so sweetly--not for me--
  I groan within to look on ye;
  Ye look so lovely, not to shine
  On anything I welcome mine;
  Ye breathe so softly on mine ear,
  Death seems to kill the atmosphere;
  Why do I not this moment here decay,
  And, sighing, breathe my very soul away?

  O, agony! I turn mine eye
  To dwell on distant turret high,
  Where oft in joy extatic past,
  I've hoped my happiness would last,
  Where life with hope and love began.
  Ambition roused the rising man.
  O, darkest woe!  O, weary, dismal hour!
  I loved--and lost--the maid of Freston Tower.

  Weep, eyelids, weep your fountain dry,
  Ye ne'er can soothe mine agony;
  Lips, never ope again to speak,
  Save when the bursting heart will break;
  Tongue, cleave thou to thy parched roof,
  And never give one lisping proof
  That she I loved hath ne'er that love returned;
  My loss is greater than my love hath earn'd.

  I cannot bear yon sails to see,
  So smoothly gliding merrily;
  Time was, they gave me joy to view
  Their contrast to the water's hue;
  And I was happy! happy then!
  To know both boats, and sails, and men.
  Now know I none! and none can welcome give
  To him who soon this busy scene must leave.

  Oh! whisper not, ye zephyrs mild,
  Oh! whisper not to man or child,
  Nor tell it in my lady's bower--
  To Ellen of De Freston's Tower!
  To friend, or father, that I sigh
  For her with deepest agony;
  Let not the noble or his daughter know.
  That Wolsey suffers from a rival's blow.

  I'll far away for ever flee
  From this unknown catastrophe!
  I'll seek in science my relief!
  Science will only swell my grief;
  I'll court the cloister, try the priest,
  All will believe I loved it best!
  That my celibacy, for conscience' sake,
  Is for the holy orders I would take.

  I'll rule my will, I'll curb my love,
  I'll bow submissive as the dove;
  O, Ellen! yes, for thee I bow,
  And never, never shalt thou know,
  Till in another world we meet,
  How sat the heart thou could'st not great!
  Deep in my soul thy virtues I can feel,
  But, that I love thee, tongue shall never tell!

  Farewell, my friend! thou shalt not know
  How thy success has caused me woe;
  Though, like Prometheus, I am chained,
  I'll kindle fire which none have gained,
  For all shall see, and all partake
  The sacrifice I then shall make;
  O, Latimer! my friendship thou wilt prove,
  May'st thou ne'er feel the agony of love!

  My native town, my native wave,
  My native hills, my parent's grave.
  My friends of youth, my days of joy,
  My hopes of fame, my life's alloy,
  My woes, my cares, my fears, my sighs,
  My sorrows, and my agonies,
  Must bend to fate, and future years must tell
  How my soul loved ye, when I said farewell!


This poem is extracted from one many hundred lines long, which when a
poetical age shall come, may, perhaps, many years hence, be thought a
great curiosity.  It is in the possession of a gentleman who will
doubtless preserve it, if he does not publish it.

This portion seems to be written upon Wolsey's property upon Stoke
Hill, at the very spot where the high windmill, called Savage's Mill,
afterwards stood--perhaps may now stand; and where the miller, if at
all like Constable, the miller's son, one of our favorite British
landscape painters, could not have failed often to have witnessed the
beauty of the scene as described in 'Wolsey's Lament.'

It was soon after one of his longest reveries in this spot, that he
received a message from Bishop Goldwell to go to him at Goldwell
Hall, and Dame Joan informed him, that the Bishop was accompanied in
his call that day by a very fine young woman, his niece, Alice De
Clinton.  There is a mood in a man, most strangely wayward, which
prompts him to take a sudden thing into his head which he had for a
long while rejected.  The cup of woe, which men are made to drink,
often for their good, is very bitter; and if the soul seeks not God
for aid, it will be led only into further misery which it sees not,
until, like an Alpine avalanche, it becomes overwhelming in its fall.
In the humor Wolsey was in, he instantly determined to go, and stay
at Goldwell Hall.

What a sudden change!  The Bishop was a personal stranger to him.
His vanity was perhaps touched by the attention as a compliment to
his abilities.  He thought not one moment of his refusal to visit
Freston Tower: but to the astonishment of Dame Joan he immediately
consented, and became that very day a guest, and indeed an honored
guest, at the Bishop's Palace.




CHAPTER XXIII.

CHANGES.

Bishop Goldwell, who had been Secretary of State, and was as good a
judge of character as any man, pronounced Wolsey to be a man of a
thousand: for he said, to his cousin Nicholas Goldwell, whom he made
his arch-deacon:

'He is a man equal to any emergency.  He has a genius adapted for
enterprise; a spirit equal to the highest actions--and a perfect
knowledge of men, and a good address.  Nicholas, thou wilt do well to
cultivate that man's acquaintance!'

When Wolsey attended at the private mansion of Bishop Goldwell, he
was received with all courtesy.

Wolsey's character began to show itself powerfully at that period.
He assumed a courteous manner, which he ever after maintained,
winning affection from those who became attached to him.  He had
ease, a commanding voice, and very dexterous address.  He was refined
in the choice of his words, which he pronounced with the most
persuasive accent.  His knowledge was vast, and his powers active.
In a word, he won the Bishop's heart, and he was himself won also.

It was a singular circumstance, that the lofty demeanor he thought
proper to observe to the pale Alice De Clinton, made that haughty
lady bow before him.  There was a self-possession about this handsome
young man, that made Alice think she had never before seen such a
personification of dignity.  In one moment she was made to perceive
that she was in the presence of a man whose pride of heart was
greater than her own.

'Never,' said the Lady Alice to her uncle, 'did I behold such a
compound of style and majesty in any man!'

'Nor I either, Alice: and I can tell thee, moreover, that this
outward appearance, doth not, as in sycophants, form a covering for
ignorance, for Wolsey is internally the man he appears.  He has
knowledge, intellect, and perception, such as I never met with in all
my diplomatic acquaintance, and I have seen a little of the world,
Mistress Alice!'

'Thou hast shown me a little of men and manners, but none that have
interested me as Wolsey has.'

'Alice, take care!  I have already designed this youth for Rome.  He
must go thither; he must be seen of learned men!  I find he loves the
church, and is disposed to be a priest.  I have pointed out to his
ambitious soul the dignities, honors, and emoluments, which the Pope
of Rome has to bestow.  His breast seems fired with a holy flame, and
thou must not interfere with it.'

'Oh, fear not, my Lord Bishop and worthy uncle, fear not my influence
over such a man.  I have too much regard for our Holy Mother Church,
ever to think of disqualifying him for taking the vows of service to
the Pope.  He is far too high to be ever tempted to his fall from
such a post; and I should be the last to offer him such temptation.'

'Well said, my niece! thou hast a good sound heart!'

'I am astonished, uncle, that Latimer should have ventured to quote
such a man, as entertaining any heretical opinions concerning church
views.  It appears to me, that Wolsey would in one moment have
annihilated the arguments of that clique, who were so bold for
innovations.'

'I am certainly agreeably surprised to find this youth so firm.  I
had fears indeed as to his being of that wavering disposition which
is beginning to be prevalent.  But in all my conversations with him
upon affairs of state, books, men, and things, I find him a perfectly
congenial spirit; and nothing in the least heretical in his views.
He is like Latimer in one respect, in his contempt of the monkish
follies of the overgrown superstition of the Abbots of Bury.'

'But dost thou not agree with him therein?'

'I do, for the most part; but not in all things.  He is a young man,
Alice, and will think differently as he grows older.'

'I hope he will be a great man.  I think he will; for I can scarcely
imagine the Pope to be more dignified.'

'Hush, Alice; hush!  It must be many, many years before Wolsey could
have any claim to the Popedom; and there may be many changes before
that time.  Thou mayst live to see it.  I shall not!'

And here the conversation dropped.

Nothing could have hitherto been more disposed to the widest and most
liberal scope of ecclesiastical polity than Thomas Wolsey.  He had
repeatedly conversed with Ellen, Latimer, and Lord De Freston upon
the many impositions of the Popedom: so much so, that all Oxford had
been alive to the views which Wolsey had so manfully expounded, and
treated of so truthfully, that reformers began to think the learned
scholar of Ipswich would be a host in himself.  But then his views
had Ellen De Freston in the foreground; and he found himself anxious
to propagate the love of truth above every other consideration.
Ellen De Freston had vanished; and the Pope had taken her place.
Certainly, a less pleasant object, but the spiritual ambition
inspired by his view seemed to soften, or rather harden, the regrets
which arose from disappointed love.  Wolsey was now a different man.
His conversations with Bishop Goldwell confirmed him in his altered
prospects.  The Pope's supremacy became his favorite theme; and a few
weeks before, the man who had no intention of ever becoming a priest,
was now ordained by Bishop Goldwell, and soon alter took his
departure for Oxford, where he became as celebrated in the defence of
the Pope, as he had been conspicuous for a more enlightened polity.

Men's circumstances do sometimes make them change their opinions; but
those opinions could never have been based upon the immutable grounds
of truth, which could be changed with any change of outward
circumstances, that vary as the wind.  But the mischief was done.
The change had taken place; and Wolsey had left Ipswich before Lord
De Freston became acquainted with the fact.  Wolsey, after his return
to College, pursued his career of tuition with the utmost diligence,
and became the tutor of the sons of the Marquis of Dorset.  Few who
came under his care could fail to improve in the elegancies of
literature, as well as in knowledge of the world.

His sudden departure for the seat of learning was attributed to his
shock at his father's death by some, yet his total absence from the
society of his friends at Freston was considered a remarkable thing;
but when men understood that he had entered the priest's office, they
concluded that the separation of friendship arose from some
dissimilarity of views upon matters of religion.  Lord De Freston,
after the celebrated discussion at the palace of Wykes', had given an
invitation to those two champions of truth, Bale and Bilney, to
partake of the hospitality of his mansion.  It was here, during the
slow progress of Latimer's recovery, that these honest friends took
it by turns to read and converse with the learned scholar upon the
sick-bed.

Men whose hearts are thankful to God for his signal preservation of
them in time of extreme danger, are always ready to exclaim, 'O, what
shall I say unto thee, thou Preserver of men!'  Latimer's mind and
soul were full of thankfulness.  He was more learned than his
visitors, but not more sincere.  Men of strong minds, with a just
abhorrence of deceit and superstition, and a fervent desire for
greater grace and knowledge of God, could not but be edified when
they came to converse of His mercies.  The hearts of these friends
being given to God, were thankful every hour, for their converse was
of that holy, pure, and lovely cast, which was sure to derive fresh
vigor from the expanded view of mercy displayed before them.

It was in one of these afternoon visits, that Latimer heard from
Daundy of his friend.

'I have observed,' he said, 'ever since his father's death, that
Thomas has been shy of all his friends; that he has been moody and
melancholy, and very different towards his mother.  He used to be of
a free and open disposition; was glad of the society of his
relatives, and especially of those who dwelt here, to whom he owes so
much more than he can repay.'

'I have heard,' said Bale, 'that he is ambitious, very ambitious; and
the Church of Rome, and the Papal Hierarchy, afford a magnificent
field for the ambition of a man of Wolsey's abilities; but I do not
envy him.  He must submit to many impositions, must practise many
deceits, must wink at many fooleries, and with his mind, can hardly
put up with such unmeaning ceremonies as he must daily behold.'

'You know him not, my friend,' replied Latimer.  'Wolsey is a very
determined man, firm in his purpose, and if he should rise to power,
will do much good.  I grieve wo have not seen him.  I should like to
have held converse with him upon these matters, which we have all so
pleasantly discussed.  God grant him grace.'

'Amen!' was the response from every heart.

But fears were then entertained, by those who knew nothing personally
of the young priest, that he would not do much good to the cause of
Christianity, however devoted he might become to the Papal religion.
Rome and her errors--her idolatries, her superstitions, her
infidelities, absurdities, abuses, and anti-Christian practices--were
now freely discussed; and many a deep sigh escaped the souls of those
men, when they reflected upon the probability of some dreadful
persecution arising, to oppose the love of God, and his commandments,
by the malice and inventions of men.

'I know not,' said Bilney, 'if in this land, we shall ever see the
Church purified from its corruptions.  I cannot bear to see the grace
of God changed into unmeaning ceremonies, pompous penances, bead
counting, prayer-doling, fines, stripes, penalties, punishment
fastings, feastings, pilgrimages, and such a countless variety of
ignorant and wicked inventions, as contrary to nature and religion as
light is to darkness.  I cannot bear to see those priests with their
heads shorn, their long rows of black beads hanging down to their
feet, their stuff gowns, cowls and cassocks, passing along the
streets, and requiring of every man they meet a genuflection, at the
sign of the cross they carry in their hands.  I saw one yesterday
seize a poor, ignorant, half-witted fellow who did not make obeisance
to him, with violent anger, more like a demon!--oh! how abhorrent to
the idea of a minister of Christ--cast him to the earth, and made him
kneel in the mud and kiss the cross he held in his hand.  The poor
fellow trembled exceedingly, and took the cuffs and kicks of the
priest as if he were a dumb ass.  I felt as a brother towards the
poor man; I lifted him up; and, despite the furious madness of the
priest, I told him to his face that he deserved to be punished by the
civil power for his violence.  He dared not strike me; I believe he
knew me, for he said:

'"Heretic! thou shall answer for this interference.  The civil power!
I defy the civil power!  It has no authority over Rome!  Thou shalt
find that it shall avail thee nothing!"  And he shook his garments in
his rage.  Oh! what passion lurked under that revengeful soul!  I
walked away with the poor man, and may expect some visitation for
this act of common humanity.'

'I have already had the complaint made to the civil authorities, and
it is said that thou, Bilney, didst violently assail the priest in
the discharge of what he considered his religious duty.  He
maintained that the man was confessing to him a crime.'

'It was seen by many.  Some blessed me for this act--surely they will
come forward and speak the truth!'

'Such is the terror of a man's mind at being denounced as a heretic,
that I question whether any townsman in the borough dare come forward
and say that the priest was in the wrong.'

'This, O, worthy magistrate! this is the state of religion in
Ipswich, that oppression is to be exercised in broad day, and the
people see the violence, and dare not complain.  Oh, dreadful day!
when rulers shall no longer be a terror to evil doers, but to the
innocent; when the weak shall be without the protection of law, and
priests of fury predominate instead of the gospel and God's grace.  I
pity thee, Mr. Daundy!  I pity thee, as a magistrate, in such a town!'

'I fear, Bilney, I shall one day have to pity thee if the priests get
thee into their clutches.  What wilt thou answer to Bishop Goldwell,
against a host of witnesses which they will take care to bring
against thee?'

'What? but that I am innocent, and appeal to the laws for protection!'

Daundy shook his head significantly, for he well knew the little
chance which any individual had, if accused by the priests of Rome,
of any crime contrary to their canons.  The civil authorities might
exercise their jurisdiction over the people, but ecclesiastics of
Rome submitted not to their laws.  Bilney was strongly urged to go
into Cambridgeshire, to his friend Arthur, lest the cause of the
Reformation, then beginning to dawn, should lose his services by his
being cast into prison.

Conscious innocence is very bold.  It may retire until called forth
to suffer; but when its possessor is wanted, he will be found equal
to the emergency for which he is required.  By innocence in this
sense, is not meant entire freedom, from in-dwelling sin; but
innocence and uprightness of faith, which hates to see another
suffering wrongfully without secretly desiring to defend him against
the oppressor.

Bilney and Bale spent many days with Latimer and Lord De Freston, who
began at this period, in consequence of the mercy and pity he showed
to these men, to be suspected of heresy.  They escaped this time from
persecution, much through the respect which all men paid to Edmund
Daundy, at Ipswich; who, though an enlightened man, was considered to
be a good churchman.

A good, benevolent, and charitable man he was, as thousands have
found who lived to be partakers of his bounty long after his death;
and even at this day, through all the various changes of laws,
customs, religious persuasions, and alterations of time, Daundy's
charity is dispensed.

That Lord De Freston and his lovely daughter profited greatly by the
conversation of those days, their future attentions to these good men
plainly proved.  They never forgot the days of Latimer's recovery.

They were happy days to Ellen, and not less so to the scholar, who
daily grew in every grace which could adorn either his private or
public character.

Life is very sweet to men who can feel they are improving it for
eternity.  It is sweet, because they walk in the ways of pleasantness
and peace, notwithstanding the persecutions of those who know not God.

Latimer was a young man, with views then before him of the most
brilliant kind on earth.  His own father was a man of good property,
having an hereditary estate of considerable worth in those days, and
he had the prospect of marrying one in every way gifted with grace
and qualities of mind, independently of large possessions in the
county of Suffolk; so that he might be said to have earthly hopes
beyond the common lot of man.  Yet Latimer argued very justly, when
he said to Ellen one day, as he sat in Freston Tower, and looked upon
the waves:

'What would all these things have been to me--nay, dearest Ellen, and
what wouldst thou have been to me--had God seen fit to let me sink to
the bottom of the waves, on that memorable night, when I was so
mercifully preserved?'

'I can only say, Latimer, that we must be ready to part with
everything, at every moment; for they are none of them our own,' said
Ellen, 'and learn to give ourselves and all we have into his hands.'

'True wisdom, my dear.  May I never forget the changes which have
been wrought within these few weeks!  May I ever remember the Lord's
hand, accept all I have as from Him, do all I do as unto Him, and
yield all my thoughts, hopes, and wishes to His will!'

'Ah, dear Latimer! in such faith, how delightful it is to wait all
our appointed time, until our change comes!'

It would be useless to give the account of Latimer's journey to
Padua, his interview with Erasmus, his giving up his Fellowship at
All-Souls', Oxford, and his return to Ipswich after these things.

Strange changes quickly followed, which shall be discussed as more in
accordance with the narrative.




CHAPTER XXIV.

AFFECTIONS.

Youth has powerful struggles with itself to command its various
affections in the order of wisdom.  Early education, it is well
known, not only from the wisest man's declaration, but from the
world's constant experience, will do much in the tuition of
self-governance.  Men talk of tempers, passions, and affections, as
if they were the predominant powers over the soul.  These may be all
subdued and brought into subjection by the constant exercise of
prayer for grace.  A man always does well to subdue his natural
infirmities of temper, and to pray against their power, to control
his passions, and to calm his affections.  He cannot do these things
without help.

Wolsey's was a wonderfully strong mind in his youth.  Yet he had very
violent passions, as men of great talents frequently have.  He fled
to Oxford for occupation; devoted himself with ardor to his classical
pursuits, became bursar to his college, built the famous Magdalen
Tower, and instructed the Marquis of Dorset's children, in his school
and yet was not the happy man he looked to be.  Though methodical in
all he did, his spirit was not gifted with humility.

He was very proud of his tower, spared ne expense from the college
funds, or from his own private purse, and was very angry with the
president and fellows for accusing him of extravagance, when he knew
that he was doing all he could for the future honor and ornament of
his college.  He suffered at this time a very great deal of
mortification, and, in writing to his mother, confessed that he was
almost tired of his college career.

Latimer wrote to him repeatedly; but, as may be supposed, this was no
particular comfort to his proud but disappointed spirit.  To be
reminded of Freston Tower, and of the days of his youthful ambition,
when he was in his lonely college-room, or walking in the gloomy
cloisters, was indeed vexatious to his haughty and unsubdued soul.
This, however, was nothing compared with the trial he had afterwards
to endure, the very bitterest which the human heart has to suffer.
It was occasioned by the following conversation:

'Let us ride to meet our uncle; he is coming to-day, according to his
promise, to stay with us for two or three days,' said Lord De
Freston, 'and I have no doubt we shall enjoy his conversation.  He
has seen the purchase of Sir Antony Wingfield's house completed for
me, and when the time comes, my dear children, for your marriage, I
hope you will find that house in Ipswich convenient for your abode.
I cannot part with you for a greater distance, as your society is
necessary to my happiness.'

'And why should you, father?  Latimer and I ought to count it our
peculiar privilege to be able, at any time, to promote the comfort of
one who has been so kind a protector and parent to us both.  But
look, dear father!  I can see our uncle riding along the strand,
beyond the bounds of the park.  There he is, with his faithful
wolf-dog by his side.'

'You are right, Ellen, there is no mistaking his long gallop.  The
horse, dog, and master are alike eminent of their kind.  Daundy is a
fine specimen of an Englishman, in person and in heart.  His horse is
of Flanders breed, and quite what a horse should be, in bone, figure,
and action.  And his dog, though of the largest and roughest Irish
breed, is one of the most sagacious I ever beheld.  I am not
surprised, remembering the attack of the mastiff, that any of his
breed should be no favorite with him.  He would never go out without
him.  There must be a patch of rushes laid for him at his master's
door.  This shall be my care.  Come, Ellen, you and Latimer must ride
to meet him.'

It was not long before horse and groom appeared at the castle gate;
and Ellen and the happy Latimer cantered along that beautiful park,
their steeds as happy as themselves to enjoy their pleasant freedom.
As the greensward was open before them, they did not follow the
stately road from the hall, but bounded along, sometimes passing
under the shade of the knotted oak, whence darted the old English red
deer, then the graceful tenant of the borders of the Orwell.

It was a lovely scene; youth, health, and cheerful spirits, together
with that unison of mind which existed with them, made the sun shine
pleasanter, the trees look more green, and the very sod over which
they cantered more soft.  They descended from the last long sweeping
hill to the park-gates on a level with the shore, which were opened
by one of the worn-out foresters, whose youthful days had been spent
in the service of the grandfather of De Freston, and whose hoary head
now bent in the service of the last of the De Frestons.  As the old
man doffed his green cap to the young people, they drew in the rein
to speak to him.

'Allen! how are you to-day?' said Ellen.

'Thank you, kind mistress, all the better for the good things you
sent me.  My old dame is laid upon her bed, or would be here to make
her duty and reverence.'

'I am glad she rests.  Do not disturb her.  We shall be back again,
presently.'

'Blessings on you, I could stand here for your return, could I but
see you all the way you go.'

'That you will do better, Allen, from your lodge-window, therefore go
in.'

'A happy old man is that,' said Latimer to Ellen as they rode away
from the old gothic-carved and massive gates, and turned their
horses' heads to the shore.  The praises of the poor are not always
to be had for money.  The master may bestow all his gifts to feed
them, and yet not be charitable towards them.  To bestow
injudiciously, or indiscriminately, however bountiful the gift, will
often create desires, and jealousies, which will not admit of
thankfulness.'

'I agree with you; on this very ground has my father acted in all his
distributions of charity.  Long service and fidelity he rewards.
Industry, honesty, and cleanliness, he upholds.  Laziness he would
suffer to starve before he would supply food for its discontent; and
I can tell you, moreover, that not one single donation would he
bestow upon any of the mendicant order, now travelling the country
under the garb of holy vows.  No, not though they repeat the "Pater
Noster," "Ave Maria," or show their bare feet blistered with their
self-devoted journeying.'

'I sigh to see talents prostrated to beggary and superstition as they
are in our day.  Religion, Ellen, is become a superstitious torment,
rather than a holy comfort.  Men seem to me to be under a curse
rather than a blessing, and to walk trembling from fear of different
fraternities, more than in the love of God.  Oh! Ellen, when I see,
as, alas! I too often do, men and women entering the dark cells of
our monastic institutions, and with bare feet walking along the dark
aisles and cloisters, and bowing at the tomb of corruption,
themselves overcome by the sombre shades of the cold, silent,
superstitious places in which they move, I often think how poor must
be their conceptions of the God of light, if they can confine their
notions of Him to the cloister!'

'But God is love, Ellen, and this love is manifested in his Son, whom
He gave to death for the salvation of our souls.  If men did but love
one another for this great salvation, O, Ellen, we should see but
little of those terrors and abuses which now threaten the world.'

Along that strand, and a very few paces from the waves of the Orwell,
was seen the well-known figure of the venerable but active Edmund
Daundy, a man whose name will long live in the town of Ipswich, as
connected with its welfare, with the early education of the learned
Wolsey, and with every charity in the town.  He had an only son, who
was then in Holland, perfecting the trade of the port of Ipswich,
with the rich burghers of Amsterdam, and as he was amassing wealth in
that country, and had formed a domestic connexion there, the father
only held him to his promise, that he would not forget the place of
his nativity, but would, in any case of dispute between the nations,
return, and dwell at Ipswich.  And he did so in after years; when the
fine old man, now galloping his black horse along the strand, was
gathered to his fathers.

Galloping, or rather cantering with long strides, came the long maned
charger, with the grey and shaggy wolf-dog keeping pace beside him.
That was a dog but seldom seen in these days, except upon the heights
of Snowden, or the wild districts of the Highlands of Scotland.  The
old Irish elk hound is the most like him, though this has become
almost extinct.  Power, activity, energy, and sagacity, were the
characteristics of the old English wolf-dog.  Even the mastiff and
the blood-hound were no match for him.  He was a picture of terrific
ferocity, when once he stood erect, the color and mane of the hyena
upon his back, with head and tail, uplift, like the lion.  His bushy
rudder, however, was more like that of the Newfoundland, his head was
shaped like the grey-hound, and his limbs calculated for an enduring
chase.

Cæsar looked up at the comers, and for a moment paused, and stretched
himself upon the sand, as the friends reined in their steeds for the
cheerful greeting.

Hands and hearts were united in welcome, and Ellen remarked, 'Even
Cæsar looks complaisant.'

'He loves a run, my young friends, as well as you or I, the ride.
Cæsar'--and at the sound of his master's voice Cæsar's shaggy feet
were on his master's stirrup, and his long head beneath his
glove--'Cæsar, these are my friends.  Fall back! fall back!' and the
faithful dog took his place at his master's heels, as with slow paces
the party proceeded towards Freston Tower.

'I am coming to the castle to-day upon very particular business, in
which I suspect that you, my young friends, are both concerned.  I
have completed the purchase of Brook Street House, and have forwarded
the title deeds by my servant, with my baggage.  I hope you will both
live long and happily as my neighbours.'

Let those who have ever been in similar situations, and have found a
friend to take a lively interest in their happiness, suggest the
reply.  It would not be very studied; but rather the expressions of
mutual gratitude, than which no man can hear anything more pleasant.

'I am beyond measure distressed, Latimer,' said Daundy, 'at the
abrupt departure of Thomas Wolsey.  Never found I such a
transformation of character in any man as in him.  Dame Joan tells
me, life and animation were completely gone, as far as regarded his
spirit; that he was more like a being entranced than the lively boy
of former days.  Was he ever subject to depression?'

'I have known it occasionally so at Oxford: but I attributed it to
over-anxiety in his studies, and the deep interest he took in
University proceedings, more than any constitutional affection.  I
have ever found at such times, that my friendly chat of Ipswich, and
his friends, had the effect of raising his spirit.'

'These things seem now to have lost their charm, replied Ellen.  'I
fear we shall have but little influence over him, as he has rejected
us all for Goldwell, and the cloister.'

'Had I not known that he had taken orders, I might have suspected
that some other attraction induced him to pay such deference to the
Bishop's Court.  I hear that Alice De Clinton has been subdued by
him.'

'Is it possible?  What in Wolsey could have made Alice bend?'

'I know not, Mistress Ellen.  All ladies bend to those they admire;
and this dignified and cold statue may see a charm in Wolsey of the
same kind as that you have seen in Latimer.'

'Oh! would it might be so; but how can that be, my dear friend, when
Wolsey has received at the hands of her uncle that only barrier
between their affections--ordination--and its consequent celibacy?'

'That is to me the mystery!  I hear that Alice never was so enlivened
by any man's society as by his.  Her cousin, Archdeacon Goldwell,
told me that Thomas had most wonderfully improved her disposition,
and by the simple means of not appearing to know she was ever
present.  All courtesy he paid to the Bishop.  All attention to his
visitors.  He shone in conversation, erudition, policy, and Church
government, and bitterly noticed the innovations of the day.  But he
took no notice of Alice, and might be said to be as contemptuous
towards all who approached her.  Wolsey was quite her master, and I
hear the proud damsel is sick at heart!'

Astonishment seemed the prevailing expression in the face of Ellen;
who probably marvelled at Wolsey's coldness towards one who was his
superior in fortune and rank.

De Freston came to meet his aged friend, and then the young people
were able to converse by themselves.  They came to the conclusion
that Alice De Clinton had persuaded herself that Wolsey would be a
bishop, perhaps a Pope: and that she might live to bask in the
splendor of his greatness.

The Tower rose in grandeur amidst the trees as the party approached
the park, when Lord De Freston, leaving the side of his friend,
hinted to Latimer that he wished for a private word with Ellen.

The young man rode forward, and Lord De Freston took his position by
his daughter's side.

'Ellen, my child, thou alone hast the power to bring this young man
to his friends.  I find, through the activity of your uncle, that
Brook Street House is ready for your reception, and I, my child, am
anxious to see thee happy.  Write thou to Wolsey, tell him how glad
thou wilt be to see him, and say, that as he is so dear a friend to
thee and Latimer, it is my prayer to him, that he will unite you at
St. Lawrence Church in the month following.  I will add my petition,
and my faithful servant, Arthur, shall convey to Oxford our united
communication.'

The letter was written, and all parties united in the request that
Lord De Freston had suggested.




CHAPTER XXV.

THE LETTER.

Wolsey is seated in his college-room over the gateway leading into
the principal quadrangle.  He has been engaged, during the day, in
superintending the schools attached to the college, and has now
thrown off his heavy academical dress and broad hat, and in a plain
wooden chair without cushions, but with back and arms well polished,
is seated at a table inspecting the plans laid before him for the
finishing of the celebrated Magdalen Tower.

'Yes,' exclaimed the delighted youth, as he looked upon the plan with
eager attention, 'Latimer may surpass me in pleasing Ellen; but I
will be remembered when he shall be forgotten.  His tower may grace
the banks of the Orwell, and please his fair mistress's eye, but
this--this!'--again inspecting the plain elevation, and the
ornamental plans--'shall astonish even the eyes of the University.'

It seemed, however, that painful recollections arose as he viewed
that work which still stands in its lofty grandeur on the borders of
the Cherwell, at that day flowing nearer to the tower than it now
does.

'Certainly,' he resumed, 'the Cherwell is not like the Orwell; but
Oxford shall surpass Ipswich, and my tower shall put Freston Tower in
the shade.  I will have a grander room in the fifth story than Ellen
has in Latimer's tower.  But shall I find greater intelligence than I
found there?  Ah! who knows but that even Ellen De Freston and
Latimer may envy me the power I now possess of making the entrance
over Cherwell Ford, into this renowned seat of learning, more
beautiful than anything of the kind they have ever seen.'

Long did the bursar dwell upon the thought of his tower, and little
did any one in that college imagine that Wolsey's taste for building
received its first impulse from recollections of admiration Ellen De
Freston had expressed when that comparatively insignificant tower,
now standing on the banks of the Orwell, was built.  It is the
remembrances of early praise bestowed by those he loves upon his
youthful works, that prompts the spirit of a man in after years to
perform works still more worthy of admiration.

Wolsey's taste for building was first displayed in the erection of
Magdalen Tower.  He could now dwell upon great and ambitious
thoughts, but not without connecting them with many pleasant
reminiscences.  As he had taken holy orders, the future was closed
against him for every hope of domestic comfort.  He was forbidden, by
his vows, to think of woman, as the sharer of his cares or the
promoter of his comforts.  He had once thought of one whose mental
qualifications bade fair to give a zest to his whole life; but
William Latimer had supplanted him, and Ellen De Freston was happy.
Well, was he to be dissatisfied? was he to pine away his existence?
were there to be no joys unconnected with this fancy of his youth?
Alas! the very struggle of his proud heart and susceptible nature
told him how difficult a thing it was to control the early
impressions of that pure attachment to which the God of nature and of
grace had made him subject.

At this period of Wolsey's life, there could not have occured a more
congenial occupation than this project of the tower.  It accorded
well with the thoughts of his heart, at that time ready for any
enterprize.  The peculiar pleasure he found in raising the structure
of Magdalen Tower was known only to himself.  Ostensibly, it was done
for the honor of his college, but more prominently in his mind
existed the thought of out-doing the work of his successful rival.

He had various plans presented to him, but the one that pleased him
best was that which reserved its ornaments for the highest stories.
'Man,' he used to say, 'is like a building; his life should begin
upon a firm, plain, solid foundation, and improve as he advances,
until he reaches maturity; then, if worth anything, he may crown his
years with the ornaments of existence, and show forth all his beauty
and strength; but if he begins with ornaments, he will end in
dulness.'

His tower was an inimitable illustration of this doctrine: plain,
solid, firm, and unadorned, it ascended from its basement to its
superstructure.  Its architectural decorations were reserved for the
fifth and upward story.  Alas! poor Wolsey.  Like his celebrated
tower, his splendor was reserved for the highest pinnacles which,
compared with his basement, were sure to provoke envy.  The future
Cardinal had then before him the vision of fame, as connected only
with Magdalen Tower.  He scraped together all the funds which could
be collected, he made half the University subscribe to his project,
obtained all the fines he could, made the tenants of Magdalen
endowments pay a certain bonus for the renewal of their tenures, and
for his pains drew a hornet's nest around his head, even among the
fellows of his own college, who condemned his extravagance and
extortion, even whilst they openly admired his project.  Great men
have always to contend with little difficulties, which plague them
very often much more than obstacles of greater magnitude.

In the midst of the scheme of the tower a sudden and unexpected
visitor was announced by the entrance of his long-coated serving-man,
who said that a man from Suffolk had arrived at the college gates,
and desired to see him instantly.

'Shall I admit him at once, sir?  He comes upon a superb horse, and
one which must have a good master, for it is as fat as our Magdalen
bucks, and sleek as the Vice-Chancellor.'

'What can he want?' said Wolsey to himself, as his old servant,
having received his directions, descended the stone steps to the
magnificent portal of the college.

'I say, mister!' said the Suffolk man, who had travelled through many
a muddy lane, impassable to vehicles, to reach Oxford, 'is this the
house Master Thomas Wolsey lives in?'

'Yes it is, and if thou likest to remain in it, we shall make thee
welcome; our bursar never lacks hospitality to the stranger!'

'Is it possible that Master Wolsey can be the owner of this palace?'

'Ay, to be sure, part owner, general purveyor, and I'll warrant as
good a master as thou hast got.'

'That remaineth to be proved, though.  Do you see, I've as good a
master as a man wants; and let me tell ye, time was that your master
owned my master for his lord, and bowed his head to him, just as I'll
warrant you do to Master Wolsey.  But before I go along with you, you
must along with me, and show me where the stables are; for I should
not like to rest on a good bed myself and my poor horse be standing
out all night.'

'Thou shall find good accommodation for man and beast.  So lead thy
horse along.  Our stables are as famous as our tables.'

'Ah!' thought Arthur Burch, 'Mistress Ellen should see this house.  I
did not think Master Thomas lived in such a place.  I don't wonder at
his liking it.'

The horse was soon stabled, nor would Arthur leave him until he had
assisted the far-famed grooms of Magdalen stables to give him a rub
down.

Jokes, even in those precise and formal days, one hostler would have
with another; and it was no little amusement to the knowing pals of
the seat of learning to see the country bumpkin mistake a college for
one man's palace.

'Your master's house,' said Arthur, 'is larger than that of mine.  Do
all these horses belong to him?'

'Well, that's a good one.  And to whom dost thou suppose they should
belong?  How many horses has thy master?'

'Four short of thine.'

'Ha! has thy master twelve?'

'He has in all; if I take into the lump old Stumpy, the chesnut
punch.'

'What does he do with twelve horses?'

'Why, ride them, to be sure.  What does thy master do with his?'

'Keep them for us to ride, to be sure!'

'Well, master does not ride all his horses.  There be three for my
young mistress, three for journeys, three for work, and three for
master.  Occasionally, howsome'er, we all mount in procession, and
then we look as a lord's retinue should look.  Is Master Wolsey's
stud as well employed?'

'Master is very good.  He lets all gentlemen who visit him in this
great mansion take a horse whenever they please.  It is for this
reason thou seest so many saddles and bridles on now.  And, hark!
John, thou'rt called.  Lead out the brown mare to the block's foot
and never mind the blockhead.'

This was said with a knowing wink to John Hibbert, the groom's boy,
afterwards Wolsey's state-groom, and was meant to make a jest of
Arthur Burch, in whose simplicity, however, there was nothing to be
ashamed of.

It was the evening hour in which the fellows of Magdalen indulged in
the recreation of a summer's ride, then so frequent along the banks
of the Isis, that a man of Magdalen was thought nothing of, except he
were an equestrian.  Arthur was astounded at the number of friends,
serving-men, and gentlemen acquaintances, which Master Thomas Wolsey
must have; and he bethought him then, what a famous thing it must be
to be a learned man.

Presently, he was soon conducted to the stone staircase leading to
the bursar's rooms, and was confronted with the man whom he once
looked upon as my lord's hanger on; and now beheld, as he thought,
the lord of all that princely building.

Wolsey started, as he recognised Lord De Freston's servant.

'Arthur, what now?' he exclaimed.  'What brings thee out of Suffolk?'

'My master's orders.'

'Dost thou deliver them, verbally?'

'No, sir, by letter.'

Here he delivered one enclosed in a leathern case, which, though
couched in quaint terms, may not form an unpleasant diversion to the
reader.  Its matter was of sufficient moment to induce Wolsey to say:

'Arthur, thou mayst retire; my servant's room is at the foot of the
stairs.  Tell him thy wants, and they shall be supplied.'

'Thank you, sir; but I shall want little else than an answer to my
lord's message.  I should like to see this fine house, and something
of the city.  I hear ye be all very learned people here.'

'Peter will show thee something of the University.  Thou mayst
retire.'

Arthur retired, filled with the most inconceivable admiration of
Master Thomas's greatness; and soliloquised as ha descended the stone
steps:

'I always said Master Thomas would be a great man.  He always walked
like one, spoke like one, and seemed so easy with all great men, and
so learned too!  No one can be great without learning.  It must be a
fine thing.'

The letter was written in the following words:


'_To Thomas Wulcey, bye th'r hand of Arthur Burch, oure survin-man.
This comeyth from Lord De Freston and Ellen his well-beloved
daughter._


'We commende ourselves unto thee, Thomas, in pease and love, and are
well assuride itt is noo lesse joye to thee to heare fro' us than for
us to hear fro' thee.  In truithe and honeur thou art much extemyde.
Wold it wor our fortune convenientlie to have seen thee when in our
nebourhede, when thou didst journeye last from Ox'nforde to
Ippyswiche.  We heare that thou art a prest, Thomas, devoted to
hevyn.  We do heare this fro' thy mod'r Johan, and fro' thy friende
and uncle Edmunde Dayndye; and that Bushop Gouldwelle dyd ordayne
thee.  We are informyde that thou art so contentyde in this matter
that the bushop's haundes have ben doublee well bistowide.  If all
succede with thee wee shall rejoyce.  Wee wish thee prosesperous in
thy determyning; and hope yt is for the best for the Churche sin thy
learnin is gret and thy demenor gude; for ther levithe no man more
hartilye devotede to God.  We wish to tell thee it is in thy pow'r
and provinc to serve us, by givin us agen thy companie.  And wee
think thou canst hardley deny'de us as wee send all way to beseeche
thee come.

'If itt soo had fortunyde that wee had sen thee we wou'd have
explaynede to thee what wee now do.  We hould thee to thy promyse
upon the holy ewangelysts to be presente at the ceremonie of marrage
whensoewer and whhersoewer suche shall take place tween Ellen De
Freston and whomsoweer it may be.  Now that thou art a prest, Thomas,
we shall looke for thy help which we hope for at St. Lawrence Churche
in Ippyswiche the XII day at next moneth.

'Willyam Latymer wrott latelie to thee, as he haythe declayrede,
telling thee how muche he suffrid not hearinge from thee: and then
informynge thee of his plesure to have thee his friende present at
his nuptials.  Not doubtyng of thy mynde to promoat the joye of oders
wee hope thou wilt come.  Our plesur will be gret in thy companie at
Frestone Castel; and thy moder Johan will be glad to have thee.  So,
Thomas, wee shall hope, that on this behalve thou wilt not forsayke
us, but unyte William Latymer and Ellen De Frestone in the bonds of
matrymonie.

'Wee hope thy answer by the haunde of the sayed Arthur Burch, and are
thy loving friends,

  'DE FRESTON
  'and ELLEN.

  'To Thomas Wulsey,
    'Magdalyne College,
      'Oxnforde.
        'JUNE xviii, A.D.MCCCCXXXXXVIII.'


This epistle created a deep impression.  It had been enough for him
to discover his own blighted hopes, with regard to the first and
fondest attachment he had formed in life.  But Wolsey then had no
thought of the ambitious projects which afterwards swayed him.

The pride of the man never was greater than in the tone of argument
he held with himself at that time when his nature said 'Do not go,'
and his spirit said 'Go!'

'Yes, I did promise, and I will perform the ceremony, or, at least, I
will be present at these espousals.  It shall never be said by Alice
De Clinton, or her uncle, that I shrank from a duty which required
nothing but exertion to discharge.  Ellen, Latimer, De Freston, nay,
my mother, and all Ipswich shall see, that I care not for friends or
relatives, and that the boyish fancies of my former days shall be
forgotten in the duties of my office.'

Then he sat leaning on his elbow, with hand upon his forehead,
thinking of what he should write.  Thinking, indeed, he was, all that
night; and not one word could his proud spirit pen to his friend
Latimer, or to Ellen, or her father.

His servant came to ask his commands about Lord De Freston's
messenger.

'Tell him,' replied the priest, 'I will give him his answer at six
o'clock on the morrow.'

So the restless spirit tossed him to and fro all night, and when the
dawn arose, Wolsey arose with it, and might be seen walking under the
magnificent frees of Magdalen Park.  When he returned to his rooms,
Arthur Burch was in great distress.  His horse had been taken ill in
the night, and, as the farrier said he would be quite unable to
proceed on his journey, he came to petition Wolsey for the loan of
one of his numerous stud.

'I have but one, Arthur, and that I shall want myself.  Mine is but a
poor substitute for thy noble Flanders black.  Yet I can hire here
better than thou canst.  So thou mayst have my nag.'

Arthur's eyes were open, and his tongue soon gave utterance to his
astonishment.

'What, a'nt all those horses yours I saw in the stables? and a'nt all
this great house yours? and a'nt you master of all these folks?  They
told me you were a-going to build a great tower, like Master
Latimer's at Freston; and yet you say you've got but one horse!'

'All this is true, Arthur, and I have but this room, and that I call
my own, and yet it is not my own, for I cannot sell it, or give it to
any one.  It belongs to the college.  I am going to build a tower,
but with the college money.  Yet one day, Arthur, it will as much
surpass Freston Tower as the King's palace does thy master's house.
But we will not talk of these things.  Go thou and look to thy horse,
and if not fit to journey, take thou mine.'

'But the letter, your reverence?'

'Say I wrote none; but that I sent word by thee, that I will be there
anon, ready to do what duty may be required of me.'

So Wolsey dismissed Lord De Freston's servant, and prepared himself
to follow him to Ipswich.




CHAPTER XXVI.

THE JOURNEY.

A journey from Oxford to Ipswich in these days is as the swallow
skimming along the air, save that his pinions make less noise than
the gliding railway.

Wolsey resolved to journey to his native town.  Arthur's horse had
recovered, and Arthur himself, taking advantage of a cavalcade to
Aylesbury and Bedford, had already started.

In those ages, men travelled in company for security, and a cavalcade
was made up of people of all grades, from the highest to the lowest,
each feeling some sort of protection in the presence of the other.
Now-a-days, men are drawn along by fire and water, feeling no kind of
security in each other, and yet, though the greater the speed the
greater the danger, they are devoid of fear.

Wolsey was not long in finding a party going to the metropolis, in
whose company he could ride with safety, and speak, as every one then
did, of the dangers of the road, without any fear of robbers.
Travellers even from Oxford to London had then some trepidations
about the freebooters of High Wycombe, or of Hampstead Heath; and
like prudent men, made their wills before starting, and they have
need, as prudent men, to do the same now.  They made their wills
then, filled their wallets, belted their purses, mounted their
steeds, and, well-armed, proceeded on their way, with pistols well
primed; nor did they journey without swords or cudgels.

The party which Wolsey had joined was mostly composed of
wool-dealers, who at that time were sheep-dealers as well.  They were
journeying to London, to meet some Spanish merchants, who had begun
to purchase the fine flocks of England, to pasture upon the plains of
Toledo.  This was carried to such an extent just then, that
Government had to interfere, and did so at the suggestion of Wolsey,
who had become aware of the extensive exportation of flocks from this
country.

On his white-faced cob, and not despising his academical or priestly
appearance, sat Wolsey, making himself as agreeable as possible to
his company.

'You will sell half the flocks of England, Master Cuthbert, if you go
on with this species of merchandise much longer.  What will become of
our own wool-trade, if you thus sell the very sheep's backs upon
which it grows?'

'As to that, master, we have nothing to do with it.  No matter to us
so long as we get a profit, and these Dons give us a good price; and
I say, prosperity to the sheep trade!'

'But do you consider that you injure your country in this traffic?'

'How so?  We do but buy and sell at the best market; and what's a
country to us, if we cannot make something out of it?'

'Our wool-trade is great; but every flock you sell must diminish our
means of supplying the demand upon us, and increase it in other
countries.  Have you no desire to see your country flourish?'

'Yes, and I hope it will, and last our time.  The price of sheep is
wonderfully got up of late.'

'And not to be wondered at either, when you take off so many.  If I
were a statesman, I would take care of the trade of my country, and
not destroy one of the best staple commodities we have.'

'Why, master, you don't think we poor dealers want to ruin others, do
you?'

'No! you may not care much about that; but the sheep are more
profitable in our country than they can be out of it, and I have no
idea of enriching others by our own poverty.'

'Well, master, now I dare say you'd buy books out of foreign
countries if you could.'

'That I would, to enrich my own, and not to impoverish them.'

'Well, master, then why mayn't others do the same by us?  What's the
difference betwixt traffic in sheep and traffic in books?'

'A wonderful deal of difference.  We buy books to increase the
knowledge of the world.'

'And we sell sheep to increase the clothing thereof.  What's the
difference?'

'If you sell the staple commodity of a community, you create a want
of general employment, and injure trade for the future, in that
country.  Our flocks produce the finest wool in the world, and,
consequently, our wool-combers and their families thrive; but if you
sell the flocks which produce the wool, you immediately take off
their families from their accustomed employment, and your own people
are destitute.  Books are but few now-a-days, and scholars are far
less.  Printing is but in its infancy, and is a matter of art and
ingenuity.  If I were a legislator I would protect the flock-growers
against you wholesale flock-sellers.'

'Well, master, all that's easy said, but not so easy done; but yonder
troops of gipsies look as if they would have no objection to case us,
either of our sheep or our money.'

'Ay, and I would control them as well; and see if I could not get rid
of an idle set of vagabonds, who do nothing but live in the wastes
upon the plenty of others, which they either pilfer, petition for, or
purloin, just as they please.'

'You would make a rare statesman, if you could rid the country of
such folk: but I think, master, you would be too hard upon us poor
flock-dealers.'

It was well the party advancing on the road towards Hampstead were as
strong as they were, for there was then at that place a formidable
encampment of that artful and imposing people, who had gained such a
footing in the midland counties as to make it dangerous to affront
them, or to refuse their demands.  Woe to the unfortunate traveller
who had anything worth losing in his purse, and lost his way in that
neighborhood.  It was even dangerous for small parties to travel
unprotected.  The gipsies and the robbers were in league against the
liege subjects of the realm.  Nothing worthy of being called a
surprise occurred to any of the party until they had passed through
the metropolis, and those who were journeying towards the eastern
counties became less apparently able to defend themselves.

Wolsey changed companies in London, and had now joined a party of
Flemish manufacturers, who were going down to his native town, to
teach the weavers there the manufacture which afterwards raised
Ipswich to such notoriety.  These men were a contrast to those with
whom he had journeyed to London.  These were consumers, and teachers
of consumers, of that very article for the preservation of which, to
this country, he had been so strong an advocate.  He was now more
convinced than before of the folly of sending the flocks out of the
country when such good workmen came from foreign countries, to teach
our men their value.

He found these foreigners intelligent and industrious, acting under
the guidance of a leader, who undertook to give them wages from the
time of their starting from their own country.  With them he entered
freely into conversation, speaking to them in their own language, and
astonishing their minds with the knowledge he seemed to possess of
their country and people as well as of the town to which he was bound.

It was upon this journey, too, that Wolsey had an opportunity of
discovering that he had made friends with a worthy, honest class of
men, as stout-hearted as they were strong-armed; and that they were
ready to look upon him with respect as their superior, though by no
means better mounted or provided with cash.

Not far from Ingatstone they were met by a very formidable body of
the idlers who infested that neighborhood, half gipsies, half
robbers--men and women, travelling in company, tinkers,
shoeing-smiths, and braziers, yet of such a wild character, that they
never failed to tax all they met who happened to be too weak to
resist.

They were headed by a tall, swarthy man, commonly called the
Ingatstone Bear, or Wild Man of Brentwood.  He was known as King of
the Gipsies far and near.

He had come over from Spain, having escaped the violent persecution
at Toulon, which those unfortunate people had aroused, in consequence
of their having had a deadly encounter with some Turkish traders,
whom they had murdered to a man.

Stanton, as he was called among his own people, was a sinewy and bony
man, who never did any work, but led his people about the country,
occasionally haranguing them in a circle, and appointing the
different men their specific duties.  The King of the Gipsies
understood the handicraft of all his people.  He also had a very
quick apprehension of character, such as he found among the gentry
and commonalty of England, though he pretended to understand nothing
of their language.

The party of Flemings then journeying to Ipswich in company had hired
a guide who undertook to see them safe through the country.  Whether
this man was in league with the gipsies or not, it was never strictly
ascertained, though this was much suspected.

About eight o'clock in the evening, three miles of the Chelmsford
side of Ingatstone, near Hide Green, a large party of these idle
fellows, headed by the Wild Man of Brentwood, chose to stop them, and
to demand, in terms not to be misunderstood, whatever they could
spare.  Wolsey, desirous of peace, undertook to state the nature of
the journey the Flemings were pursuing, and the consequent poverty
they were all in at present.  As to himself, he told them he was a
scholar, and that what little money he had was at their service: but
he stipulated that the poor Flemings should be permitted to proceed
on their journey without molestation, on his surrendering his own
purse.

The Flemings were ignorant of Wolsey's generosity until they saw him
give up his money.  They then saw that he had purchased their
liberation.  They were not the men, however, tamely to submit to
imposition, or to suffer an other to be imposed upon in their
company.  One fine young fellow, who seemed to be well backed by the
rest, came forward to the King of the Gipsies, and demanded the purse
back again.  To his own surprise, the gipsy gave it him; and he
immediately delivered it to Wolsey, who with a quick eye, and as
quick a command, told them at once to be prepared for an attack: for
once having made a compromise with the King of the Gipsies, the
demanding again the surety given was a certain declaration of war,
and they must expect it.

The warning of Wolsey was taken in earnest.  The Flemings had been
hitherto in their loose jackets, seeming to have nothing but their
working tools.  In one moment each man had a formidable weapon,
scarcely known in England, but used with great dexterity by the
Flemish, and which gave them, as will be seen, a perfect ascendancy
over their antagonists.  This weapon was a ball and thong.  A ball of
lead or iron, which they could cast out of their hands, End draw back
again with well-trained facility, called a 'Battledoer.'

They had scarcely collected themselves in a band round Wolsey and
three others, before a shrill whistle from the King of the Gipsies
announced the commencement of hostilities.  The women and children
ran screaming up the green to their encampment, whence several men
might be seen hastening to the scene of dispute.  The heavy Flemings,
on their long-tailed shaggy horses, were not accustomed to move very
quickly along the road; but were as little accustomed to be stayed in
their steady progress.

The King of the Gipsies presented a bold front; for, coming forward
from his numerous subjects, ha insisted upon the whole party going
back the way they came, or paying the toll which they had once paid
and taken away.

The Flemings were not disposed to turn their backs; their tactics
were of a very simple kind.  If the attack was made in front, four
from each side drew up in a moment, to support their leaders.  If in
the rear, three on each side drew up for the defence; and if on
either side, there were seven on each side perfectly prepared.  This
little oblong square was formed with dexterity and resolution, and
evidently discomposed the gipsies at the very first step; for when
the leaders moved on, the King of the Gipsies receded instinctively.
In another moment, however, his word of command was given, and his
men came on, with bludgeons, stones, and iron hooks, to the attack.
One or two gipsies only appeared to have fire-arms, and of these they
made so much parade that it was strongly suspected that they were
unloaded, or that they dare not fire them off.  A volley or stones,
however, soon came rattling among the Flemings, who from that moment
moved on with a front rank of ten horsemen and a flank of eight,
undismayed by the numbers of their antagonists.

The very first volley of their leaden missiles had all the effect of
a discharge of musketry.  The balls were thrown with such precision
that men fell as if they were shot; and the immediate recoiling of
them, so as to send another shower, as quickly as a man could pick up
a stone, was what these fellows did not wait for.  They fled
immediately, the King of Brentwood Forest among them, whilst the
brave Flemings, passing over the bodies of their stunned foes, moved
on without further molestation to Chelmsford.

The only man injured in their party was their guide, who, being
knocked from his horse by a blow on the forehead from a stone thrown
by the gipsies, was carried into the town of Chelmsford, and there
left with the Abbot of the monastery.

Wolsey now became the conductor of the party, and, greatly pleased
with their conduct, he felt a pride and pleasure in introducing such
men into his native town.  Messrs. Hall and Baldry were the parties
to whom they were engaged, and our young scholar did not fail to
speak of them by letter to his uncle, Edmund Daundy, in terms of such
commendation as they deserved.

They arrived without any other molestation, and Dame Joan received
her son, for the last time, into her house, and found him grown a
greater man than she had ever known him, but at that time far from
happy or cheerful.  She never knew him to smile upon her after that
day.

'Mother,' said Wolsey on his arrival, 'I am come to perform a promise
extracted from me, in your own presence, on the memorable evening of
my gallantry, when the ox shin-bone did execution upon the head of
the mastiff.'

'What was that, my son?'

'To be present at the marriage of Ellen De Freston--ay, and more, not
only to see her given in marriage, but to unite her with my friend
Latimer.'

'Oh, why, my son, why perform the ceremony?  I know you have loved
Ellen, but--'

'But, hush, mother! hush! breathe not a word of this.  Let it die.  I
am a priest, mother.  I must not marry--I cannot.  I must deny,
denounce, and destroy any such idea in my soul!  Your prayers,
mother, in silence; but tell it not to De Freston--tell it not to my
uncle--breathe it not to the world--that thy son, Thomas Wolsey, ever
had such a weakness.'

'How, my dear son, wilt thou ever sustain the shock?  I cannot bear
to think of it.'

'Thou must assist me, mother, with all thy courage and thy kindness
to smile upon the bride and the bridegroom.  Doubt not my strength.
I can do what I will with myself, but do not thou betray me or my
weakness.  I would retire to prepare for the morrow's interview at
Freston Hall.  Once more I will see the Tower, the Orwell--the scenes
of my youth and of my early love--and then, farewell for ever.'




CHAPTER XXVII.

THE INTERVIEW.

The morning sun rose as clear and lovely on the day that Wolsey left
Ipswich for his last visit to Freston Tower as it did upon the day of
his first visit.  But how different were the sensations of the man in
the few short years which had intervened between the hour of buoyant
love, and that of painful compliance with a request which any other
man would have studiously avoided!

It was quite true that he felt himself independent; but was he really
so?  It is true that he was not dependent upon the smile of De
Freston, or the generosity of his relative, Edmund Daundy, or upon
any friend in Ipswich.

He rode out of his native town, along that beautiful strand, in the
morning sun, with a gloomy heart--a heart which nature, or rather the
God of nature, had gifted with a sensitiveness and grace which now
the spirit within him had resisted, but had not quite banished.
Whoever sins against philanthropy cannot be happy in spirit, let his
knowledge embrace an insight into every book that ever was written or
printed in the world.  Nothing but the love of our fellow-creatures
can make any work of any mind pleasant to the soul of the Christian.
Men may be selfish in gaining knowledge, but what is the use of
finding a treasure, if it is only to be selfishly enjoyed? for
intelligence, except it can be used to enlighten others, would make
its possessor only the more miserable.

Wolsey used to journey in the days of his poverty with pure love in
his heart--love for De Freston and his daughter--love for his father,
his mother, his uncle, hu friends.  He loved none of these now, and
this made the Orwell so dull and gloomy in his sight.

He was on his way to that hospitable hall, where all was mirth and
harmony within at the prospect of the marriage which was to take
place on the morrow.  The banks of the river were as green as in
former days, the swallows were as lively, boys were bathing, ships
were sailing, boats were moving, birds were singing, nature smiling;
the difference was in Wolsey, and not in the things around him.  The
monastery of St. Peter's frowned upon him as he crossed the ford of
Stoke, monks were chanting matins, country folk bringing in their
produce from the farm-yard, and smiling health animating some lively
lass who was paying her first visit to the great provincial town of
Suffolk.

Stern were Wolsey's features, as deep thought sat upon his brow.  He
saw not the bows which foot passengers gave him.  His eye seemed
fixed upon some mental object.  He was absorbed in his own
reflections, thinking of those who were his friends, and of the
manner in which he should receive their welcome.

De Freston had been his patron in days past; but De Freston could be
of no service to him now.  He was now a priest, and a priest must not
feel as other men do.  He must be more dignified, more reserved, more
distant, more exalted.  He was a priest of Rome; he must forget that
he was ever a poor scholar at Ipswich, fostered and cherished by many
friends, and sent to Oxford by their kindness and patronage.  He was
a priest of Rome!  Rome must be now his patron; Rome must claim every
secret impulse of his heart, and all his kindred must be forgotten.
Something of offence arose out of De Freston's preference in
bestowing the hand of his daughter upon Latimer.  Something of
offence suggested itself in Ellen's preference of his friend, and
towards Latimer a sort of aversion sprang up on account of his
successful rivalry.  But human nature must be subdued.  The decree of
Rome forbade any such ideas to be entertained; not on account of any
exigency of the times, but because the priests could not, without
this decided law of privation, be trained in the way of implicit
obedience.  If Wolsey really loved Ellen, he would have been glad to
hear of her happiness, even though she had preferred his friend
Latimer.

In self-sacrifices for the promotion of another's happiness, there is
ever a noble and graceful love, which carries with it unspeakable
admiration.  But this passion of Wolsey's had given way to a
misanthropic philosophy, which ever after induced him to look with
disregard upon the ties of mutual affection.

At the time he was moving along the strand, he was as sharp an
ascetic as any monk whose monastery he afterwards caused to be
destroyed.  At last, Freston Tower broke upon his view, glittering as
it did in the morning sun of a lovely June day, without any
exclamation of pleasure.  No longer did his heart bound at the sight,
as if he was about to see those who loved him, and those whom he had
loved.  Time was that he would have wished for a horse to have borne
him to that lovely Tower, and few would have gone fast enough to have
answered the quick and lively energy of the young aspirant for
everything laudable, honorable, and good.  Now he was moving in
solemn state, without any apparent emotion of joy or sorrow.

By Bishop Goldwell he was much admired, and had received wonderful
encouragement from him to devote himself to the good of the Church.
Alice, too, the proud Alice, had promised to work him a piece of
altar tapestry whenever he should be presented with preferment.  Did
he then contrast this unfeeling woman, superstitious and cold as she
was, with the mild, amiable, and lovely Ellen?

He was espied from the Tower by the fair one, who waved her hand from
the sunny chamber, where they had so often met.

'Here he comes, Latimer.  Here he comes! but how slowly he moves.
Perhaps he is thinking of the days of his youth, and weighing in his
learned mind the thought whether he is happier now than he was then;
for he takes no notice of our salutation, though his face seems
lifted to the Tower.'

'He is perhaps conning over some passage of the poets, or thinking of
some deep logical question of the schools.  He is very often lost in
thought.'

'But this is not a time, William, for Thomas Wolsey to forget us.  He
must surely be thinking of us.  He cannot fail to discern us.  Or
does he think it beneath the dignity of his office to come on merrily
to the marriage feast?'

'I know not, Ellen, but that you may find Wolsey a little changed in
this respect.  At no time of my acquaintance with him did he fail in
self-esteem or self-deportment: and we have not often seen him on
horseback.  Had we not better receive him in the hall?'

'Is it so, indeed, William? and are we to forget that in this very
room we have spent so many joyful hours of literary pleasure?  I
shall be almost sorry that I wrote to him to come, if thus it should
seem by his progress that he was performing a penance rather than
promoting love!  Let us, however, receive him with respect in the
hall, as he has become so great a man as not to recognise us in the
Tower.'

Wolsey had recognised his former friends; he even saw their hands
waving from the fifth story; but the man had no answering delight to
say, 'My heart is glad,' or, 'God be praised that you are well!'  All
feeling was dormant, even the salutation of the poor old lodge
gate-keeper elicited no recognition.

'Dame, I say,' said the old man, as he addressed his aged partner,
'pride is come home from a distance, and I have opened the park gates
to the visitor.'

'What art thou talking of? what dost thou mean?' she replied.

'I mean to say, that I have opened the gate to Master Wolsey, and he
is gone up the park; and if he meets my lord and lady as he has done
me, he'll turn all our merrymaking into misery.'

'What, the lively Master Thomas grown proud!  Well a'day, well a'day!
Men's fortunes will sometimes change their faces, and Arthur Burch
told me Master Thomas was grown a great man!'

De Freston was made aware of Wolsey's coming; he waited not for his
formal announcement; but came from the hall across the drawbridge in
company with Ellen and Latimer to welcome their friend.

Oh, that word _friend_!  How dreadfully is it abused!  How often made
a mere conventional term, and used in the world just as interest may
prompt, or anything be got by it.  One true one is better than a host
of pretenders, and a man without that one is miserable.  To look for
many, is not to know the world; to value one when you have found him
is to possess wisdom.  Ice, in summer; hail, in harvest time; and a
swallow in winter, are as congenial, as a cold and heartless friend
meeting you in the day of your rejoicing.  Fond hearts met Wolsey at
the entrance to Freston Hall.  Fond hearts beaming with love,
rejoicing in his arrival, and bounding to make him welcome.  But they
could not fail to remark how stately he had grown! how very
dignified! how distant, grand, and great.

'Ha! Thomas, my friend!  Welcome to De Freston's Hall!'

'I thank thee, thy daughter, and her friend!' with a most courteous
bow of seemingly profound respect, which at once killed all the
natural joy of the interview, and told the nobleman that an
ambassador from Rome had arrived, in the place of that cheerful
friend who was once the delight of his hall.

Wolsey was stately, not uncourteous.  He had schooled himself most
admirably, and acted his part with all the precision of an
accomplished performer.

So gentlemanly in his external deportment, but resolved to show no
intimacy; so very easy in his manner, that no one could be affronted;
and yet so little heart, that Ellen could have burst into tears at
the strange alteration of the man who once was her liveliest
companion.

The very domestics, anticipating from Arthur's account the arrival of
a great man, and who had so associated Thomas Wolsey with all that
was cheerful and gay, becoming, and pleasant, were petrified at the
stately gaze with which he seemed to contemplate the architecture of
the hall, and the little notice he took of any one in it.

'We have friends to meet thee, Master Wolsey,' said De Freston,
evidently convinced that some more distant form was now necessary.
'Some of thy oldest friends will be with us at the hour of noon.
They will be delighted to greet thee, after so long an absence.'

Wolsey's reply shot like a shaft--ay, and a well-aimed one it was--to
the hearts of Latimer and Ellen.

'I suppose thy friend, Bishop Goldwell, and Alice, his niece, have
consented to be here.'

'Indeed they have not; nor have we invited them, for, since the day
of Ivan's death, we have never exchanged a word.'

'I can only regret it,' replied Wolsey.  'He is a man whose
acquaintance I should have courted, and his niece a fit companion for
thy daughter.  I thought they had been intimate.'

'Their characters are very dissimilar.'

'That should be no bar to friendship.'

'But I know that Bishop Goldwell does not admire thy friend Latimer,
and that he is the aversion of Alice.'

'On such an occasion as this, distances should be abridged, and
differences of opinion softened, wounds healed, and friends united.'

'I agree with thee, Wolsey; thy doctrine is herein sound, but
somewhat opposed to thy practice.'

'Ah! how so?'

'Thou thyself art not thyself as formerly.  Thy bearing is widely
different; thy manner, speech, and conduct, have undergone a great
change.'

'I am a priest; yet I am here to-day by thine invitation.  Why not
Bishop Goldwell and his niece?'

'They are not our kin.'

'And I now have no kin, no connexions, no property, no friends, but
the church, to which I am henceforth devoted.'

'Does that destroy thy former friendships?'

'It cancels every one: I have given them up!--forsaken them all!--and
I shall follow the Church of Rome, of which I am her devoted servant.'

'And so,' said Ellen, 'I may address thee no longer as my learned and
dear friend--my choice companion--my tutor--my relative and
associate, but simply as "Your Reverence?"'

'I am come to perform a duty, Mistress Ellen, and if thou wouldst
have me discharge it gracefully, I pray thee mar not the dignity of
mine office by any allusions to the past.'

'I cannot forget what thou wast, Thomas Wolsey, both to me and to thy
friend Latimer, once our loving companion.'

'And now,' said Wolsey, with a bow of studied courtesy, 'the humble
servant of both!'

'No, Thomas Wolsey,' replied the maiden, 'thou art not humble at all!
Thy priesthood, Thomas, sits mournfully on thy years; and the wisdom
which used to ornament thy brow seems lost in outward stateliness.  I
like thee not in thy change.'

'May be, Mistress Ellen, thou may'st one day think differently, and
then praise that reserve which now thou dost misinterpret.'

'It may be so, Thomas Wolsey! but my heart must be contracted instead
of being enlarged; my soul must bend to form and ceremony, and not to
love; and I must admire Alice De Clinton, and imitate her bearing,
and forget the friends who taught me truth, that I may be admitted to
the favor of a priest!'

Even the self-possessed Wolsey was abashed at this charge.  His
well-schooled reserve was about to give way to generous impulses, and
thoughts of joy and thankfulness to God for such kind friends and
benefactors were beginning to rise in the heart; but over them all,
rose his vow of devotion to the church; and, denying himself where
self-denial was uncalled for, he rejected the spirit of love, and
feigned a momentary sickness.

He retired to his room to get the command of himself, leaving the
friends of his youth to talk over his estrangement.  He nevertheless
attended the banquet, sat on the right hand of the betrothed, was
attentive and most punctilious in his devotions, spoke when
addressed, and yet offered no opinion of his own, nor put himself
forward to lead the converse; heard all, and reflected upon all,
surprised all, and pleased none; yet did he conduct himself with such
dignified exterior, that no man could say he transgressed the
strictest rules of decorum, or thought not of others as much as of
himself.  It was difficult to decide upon such a point.

To his uncle, to his friends, to the assembled company at that
festive meeting, to De Freston and his daughter, to Latimer and his
father, who had through his son received such a favorable account of
him, he was the same dignified unaccountable being.  Sir William
Latimer was never more astonished at seeing such a character as
Wolsey then appeared.  His son had assured him that he had been the
means of his introduction to the University, and that he was his
bosom friend: nevertheless, nothing could be more distant than
Wolsey's manner and conversation with him.

He retired early to his room, to prepare himself for the last
ceremony he ever performed in his native town, and the last time he
saw his friends at Ipswich, though he never forgot the early steps of
education which he had there received.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE MARRIAGE PROCESSION.

A marriage in the year 1498, and in a nobleman's family, was almost
like an affair of state.  In the metropolis, such an event might not
have been uncommon; but, in the country, it was in that day so joyous
an event, that he was considered but a niggard nobleman who had not
the whole country to participate in his festivity.

Such a maid as Ellen, too--so universally beloved in her own
neighborhood, and so celebrated for every female virtue of her
time--was sure to command the generous and gentle affections of all
who had any regard for their betters.  There might be some morose
dispositions, who staid at home, brooding over melancholy
forebodings, and caring nothing for a marriage, for bride,
bridegroom, bridal attire, bridal friends, men, maids, banquets, or
any kind of festivity; but there was then no lack of well-wishers,
who really loved Ellen De Freston, and wished her happy.

Alice De Clinton, had she been at all of Ellen's disposition, would
have been her companion upon this occasion, but she lacked not
friends of the noblest class to fill her place.  The fair daughters
of Fastolf, and De Broke, from the Haugh, were at Freston Castle,
together with four other maidens of quality, to accompany her to the
wedding.

The morning broke most lovely!  The merry bells could be heard from
the town of Ipswich, ringing cheerily; for Lord De Freston and Edmund
Daundy were as universally loved for their amiable qualities, as they
were known to be rich and generous.  Everything indicated a happy
morning: birds were singing blithely, and men and women's voices
mingled therewith.  The hills around Ipswich echoed the joyful notes,
whilst people looked upon that day as one of the brightest festival
in which love reigned omnipotent.  In short, every face exhibited
something of the anticipated pleasure of the bridal.

Maidens might be seen tripping along the meadows of the meandering
Gipping, with little baskets of flowers, on purpose to strew the
bridal path from St. Peter's Gate to the porch of St. Lawrence.  It
was no loss of time to them to be seen to participate in the
happiness of a lady whom some one or other of them had known, for her
kindness to some poor relative, or for her gentleness and amiable
bearing.

Fame, when not courted but deserved, will come with a reward which is
as pleasant as it is unexpected.  Actions done upon the Christian
principle of brotherly love are sure to be successful in the end;
they carry with them their own reward, being done from faith, and a
sense of duty.

Such were those of the whole life of Lord De Freston and his
daughter.  Such were the motives which influenced him in his
patronage of Wolsey; such were his daughter's motives in the interest
she felt in his rising fame.  But whilst hundreds around them were
grateful, and rejoiced to show the interest they felt in Ellen's
happiness, that one, the scholar and the friend, felt nothing of
gratitude, little of affection: he felt only the deepest, the most
heartfelt mortification.

Early on the morning of the 8th of July, 1498, did Thomas Wolsey,
Priest of Magdalen College, rise.  Whether he slept or not, those who
saw him could only give a surmise, and from the swollen appearance of
his eyes, and the excessive pallor of his countenance, it was thought
that his reverence had passed a very restless night.

He was not stirring earlier than William Latimer, who, when Wolsey
descended from the internal balcony of the hall, was, with Edmund
Daundy, preparing to depart for Ipswich, that both might be in
readiness to receive the _cortège_ of the bride at the house of the
latter in St. Lawrence.  As they stood in the hall, Thomas Wolsey
descended.  He bowed haughtily in return to the generous salute of
his uncle and his young friend.

'I am ready to depart for Ipswich, gentlemen, and to solicit of the
officiating priest of St. Lawrence permission to perform the
_marriage ceremony_.'

These last words created a kind of adhesive firmness of his tongue to
the roof of his mouth; for, when his uncle replied that he had
already secured that permission, there was but a bow of acquiescence,
and a dignified move towards the massive hall-door.  The party went
forward.  Three of Lord De Freston's horses stood caparisoned for
them at the porch; but a delay was created by the proud priest saying
to the groom in waiting--

'My own horse!'

'My lord thought your own would be fatigued, and requests that you
will use his,' said the man.

'My own horse, sirrah!' was the uncourteous reply.  The gentlemen
were equally as astonished as the groom; but seeing that Wolsey
quietly retreated into the hall, they could but desire the groom to
be as expeditious as possible in bringing the said nag round to the
door.

It was evident that Wolsey would have his own way, and not put a foot
into the stirrup until he had.

The horse was brought round.  The bridegroom, bridesman, and priest,
departed with a retinue of horsemen for the town.  It was a stately
ride.  Nothing seemed to please Wolsey.  He received all that was
said to him with silent indications of assent, as if they were only
such commonplace sayings as he might expect to receive from the
attendants upon his greatness.  So passed they to his native town,
where, at this day, nothing remains in any way connected with him but
a postern gate of brick, leading to the school-master's lodge within
the area of the schools, and not, as some have called it, the
principal entrance to the President's Court.

They arrived at the mansion of Edmund Daundy at seven o'clock on the
morning of the eighth of July.

Dame Joan, Wolsey's mother, was there before them, with many of the
friends, wives, and daughters of the best families of the town and
neighborhood, who came to participate in the joyous doings.

'I give thee this, young man,' said Wolsey to the groom on taking his
horse, 'that thou mayest learn that a reward is worth having when it
is deserved.  At ten o'clock do thou be at the portal leading to the
chancel door of St. Lawrence Church.  Thou knowest the priest's
entrance, his private entrance, from the lane.  There be thou with
this horse, caparisoned exactly as he now is--his trappings on,
exactly as thou seest them now.  Let nothing be taken out of thy
possession.  There is an angel for thee.  Another angel doth await
thee.'

Wolsey gave the man a golden angel, of the value of six and
eightpence, a gift which commanded much more attention than many such
pieces would do now-a-days.

He not only promised obedience, but kept it punctually.

'Thou wilt accept once more, Thomas Wolsey, thine aged uncle's
hospitality.  Come in.'

'I have a vow at the altar of St. Lawrence, which I must pay this
morning.  I can enter no house until that is paid.'

'How long wilt thou be?'

'Until this marriage is over.'

'We shall hope to see thee then?'

'Thou mayest then hope.'  And Wolsey departed for the church.

Whilst he bent at the altar of St. Lawrence Church, glad to escape
from anything like cheerfulness, he was steeling his heart for a
trial to which the pages of romance could scarcely afford a parallel.
Never once did he reproach himself for the cruelty of his behaviour
towards those who really loved him, and had given him the greatest
possible proofs of attachment.  Never once did he reflect that his
then state of deportment towards Ellen was barbarous or unjust; his
whole soul was enveloped in the cloak of his own selfishness.  His
heart was full of gall and bitterness, grief and agony.  And as he
knelt before that altar to which he had devoted himself soul and
body, did he pray for that high, that holy, inward peace, which the
man who sacrifices every selfish feeling for the good of another
would so earnestly desire?  His heart could have burst at the very
position he had then placed himself in, but for that indomitable
pride which prayed for future aggrandizement, that the poor scholar
of Ipswich might rival, or rather out-rival, the Lord De Freston and
his friends.

His vow was but an excuse for the feeding of his own solitary
disappointment, but for the opportunity of brooding over the
melancholy superstition to which his nature and his enlightened mind
were adverse, but to which his seemingly injured affections had fled
for solace.

Whilst Wolsey was thus mournfully fasting and praying, and the gay
world was shut out from the gloom of his devotion, parties of maidens
formed in rank, a long and pleasing file, went with their baskets of
flowers from Daundy's mansion gate towards St. Peter's Ford, by which
the bride was expected to enter the town, and as they went, their
leaders lifted up their voices and sung one stanza, at the conclusion
of the last two lines of which the whole company joined:

  Come all ye merry lasses!
    Come bring your flowers gay;
  Come all in smiling masses,
    And strew the bridal way.

  Leave sorrow far behind you,
    And be not you forlorn,
  For Love alone should bind you
    To greet the bridal morn.

  CHORUS.

  Then haste! oh, haste, this happy hour!
  To meet the Maid of Freston Tower.


It was a lovely morning, indeed; and Ellen, the Maid of Freston
Tower, with her dear and anxious father, and her whole train of fair
damsels and rustic maidens, and tenants' daughters and servants, were
seen descending Freston Hill, from the park side to the strand.  It
was a long and sweeping _cortége_; the bridesmaids and the bride
attired in travelling costume, attended by noble gentlemen, the
friends of the various parties, swept along that happy strand amidst
the blessings and praises of those poor people, who left their
morning toil by permission of their masters.

It was a sight in those feudal days worthy of being recorded in a
better ballad than the old one extant in the archives of the borough
of Ipswich, written by old Dan Lydgate, monk of the Benedictine Abbey
of St. Edmund's Bury; though he was a genuine poet of his day, and
few could vie with him in allegory, or in narrative, or in words; and
yet old Dan wanted that sense of feeling that meditates in love upon
things passing around him.  He described them with flowery colours,
and now and then with a daring liberty almost approaching to
licentiousness.  He was seldom pathetic or reflective--yet he is a
good old poet, and describes his times quite as well as Byron does
his, with far less morbid selfishness.

From far and near, Ipswich was like a vast fair; but there was no
gambling, hooting, hallooing, cheating, drinking, bargaining, and
brawling.  Instead of these, there was a cheerful wedding, upon which
every face smiled with delight.

Beautiful indeed was the attachment between two such souls as those
of the son of Sir William Latimer and the daughter of Lord De
Freston, enhanced by similarity of taste, a love of truth,
literature, and talent, and by every virtue which adorns or ennobles
human nature.  An abhorrence of anything unjust and oppressive
pervaded De Freston and Sir William Latimer, and was instilled into
their children.

The country was alive with joyful faces, and not only the hamlets of
Ipswich, but from every village down the Orwell, as far as Felixtow
Beach on the one side, and Shotley Point on the other, boats ascended
the tide to the gaily festive scene.  Songs were got up by the
village singers.  One ballad, or song, or chaunt, or whatever else it
may be called, is preserved, which affords not only a lively
description of the feeling then felt towards the daughter of Lord De
Freston, but it is not devoid of elegance or metrical beauty, though
it may not be exactly accurate in rhyme:--


  The Boatmen's Bridal Song.

  Come, row the boat, row! from Levington Creek;
  The boat full of roses as e'er it can stick.
        Row the boat, row!
        Yoho! yoho!
  For the pride of the castle, fair Ellen, we go!

  Come, row the boat, row! 'tis the bridal day;
  And woe to the maiden who stays away.
        Row the boat, row!
        Yoho! yoho!
  For the pride of the castle, fair Ellen, we go.

  Come, row the boat, row! o'er the Orwell's wave,
  If the youth or the maiden would happiness have.
        Row the boat, row!
        Yoho! yoho!
  For the pride of the castle, fair Ellen, we go.

  Come, row the boat, row! from the Haugh's green side,
  'Neath the Wolferstone shade let our oars quick glide.
        Row the boat, row!
        Yoho! yoho!
  For the pride of the castle, fair Ellen, we go.

  Come, row the boat, row! with all your power.
  For the maiden is gone from De Freston's Tower.
        Row the boat, row!
        Yoho! yoho!
  For the pride of the castle, fair Ellen, we go.

  Come, row the boat, row! for the fairest maid.
  The roses we'll strew ere the dew-drop fade.
        Come, row the boat, row!
        Yoho! yoho!
  For the pride of the castle, fair Ellen, we go.

  Then row the boat, row! ye Levington boys.
  For who would not welcome the true lovers' joys?
        Row the boat, row!
        Yoho! yoho!
  To the bridal of Ellen, fair Ellen, we go!


The very metre of the old song gives an idea of the boat pulled by
stout rowers in the vigor of youth, bent upon a scene of festive
rejoicing.

Levington was the first village on the Orwell, celebrated for the
cultivation of the rose, which the Lord of the Manor of Levington
Hall, Hugh de Fastolf, encouraged, and gave permission on the day of
the celebration of Ellen's marriage for the villagers to gather from
the hall garden as many as they could place in their boat for the
occasion; so that the village maidens who went up the Orwell in the
Levington boat, were literally in the midst of roses.

They arrived at St. Peter's Ford, to the no small delight of hundreds
who sought for a bunch of flowers to scatter on the maiden's path.

  And ill the luck that maiden's lot,
  Who had her flowrets then forgot,
  Lest sorrow should her marriage mar,
  Or fill the bridal day with care.




CHAPTER XXIX.

THE MARRIAGE CEREMONY.

Children clad in white for the occasion--children, whose parents, as
well as themselves, had been partakers of the bounty of Edmund
Daundy--were, with their cheerful happy faces formed into two long
rows from the mansion as far almost as Wolsey's house.  Each had a
significant flower in her hand, that she might join her partner, who
held a corresponding flower on the opposite side of the street when
the signal was given that the bride was coming.

In this manner, the two nearest of the coming procession moved
immediately forward, exclaiming, or chanting the short couplet--

  'Tis the bridal day,
  Prepare the way,
      Lead on! lead on! lead on!
  Come join our throng,
  Come sing our song,
      Be merry every one.


None began to sing until they joined flowers, and each couple,
following the leader, added their voices to those which went before,
until the whole street burst forth into singing.

The graceful Ellen, amidst her honorable maidens, walked through the
respectful throng, and was met by a party of matrons, friends, and
relations, who conducted her to the house of Daundy, where Latimer
and a great company of friends were ready to proceed to the church of
St. Lawrence.

All was done that could add to the gaiety and joyful publicity of the
marriage, and according to the custom of the times, the poor were not
forgotten, but were allowed to participate in the scene.  The noble
parents, arm-in-arm, followed the bride, whilst Latimer and his young
men, invited by Edmund Daundy, were in readiness to receive them at
the steps of his house.  It took but a few minutes to exchange the
riding costume for the flowing veils and simple white vestments of
the beautiful bride and her maids, and then the happy pair, with
their attendants, proceeded to the church, whither Wolsey had gone
before.  The organ Daundy had presented to St. Lawrence had been
purchased in France, and was for its day a wonderful instrument.
Plaintive notes had been for some time issuing from its tubes,
adapted to the stillness of the solitary occupant then kneeling at
the altar, as if he were performing the most abstracted and spiritual
devotion.

The heart of that man was not to be envied.  It had tormented itself
with such determined endurance, that nature was completely quelled.
But it was not in him to let even Ellen know that he was suffering
from the sting of disappointment.  Nothing would have been easier
than for Wolsey to have found an excuse for not performing the
ceremony.  There was decided cruelty in the thing, knowing, as he
certainly did, the state of his own heart and sentiments towards
Ellen; but the pride of the man was predominant; and in a church and
age when to mortify the body with rigorous privation was a sign of
the highest faith, it was not remarkable that an ambitious man like
Wolsey should act as he did.

That Wolsey was a man who could command himself, by a resolute
effort, was manifested in this early indication of control; but that
he did it with a bad grace, these pages will prove.

Self-denial is a great virtue; but morose and conceited
self-immolation is no part of pure religion.  It is of the same
nature as the delusion that influences the devotees of the East, who,
with hooks in their flesh, swing themselves in a circle till they
lose strength, reason, and life.  The Suttee might be as great as the
learned Wolsey, and perform even a greater act of devotion than he
did, for she willingly and cheerfully gives up her body to be burnt;
but this proud man, against his reason, against his judgment, and in
spite of himself, married the woman that he loved to another man, and
neither wished nor prayed for her happiness.  Had his act been one of
faith instead of superstition, it would have been attended with
consequences far more productive of comfort and happiness to himself
and others than it was.  Faith can surmount difficulties, and glory
in so doing: but faith never places stumbling blocks of iniquity in
the way of the soul, that it may leap over them and appear glorious
in the sight of men.  Learning in that day was then confined in a
great measure to ecclesiastical establishments, and though ignorance
greatly prevailed among the monks and monasteries, yet men of letters
were occasionally found among them, who were bright stars of their
day.  If a noble was a man of letters, he was indeed accounted a
wonder.  It was something then to write, but to write with any degree
of purity was a singular accomplishment.

On this account Lord De Freston and his daughter were highly
esteemed.  Wolsey had been alive indeed to the interest and influence
she had exercised in his favour: but she had not been the least aware
of having caused him any deeper feeling than that of gratitude for
her exertions.  His conduct had become changed--very different from
that of former days, and certainly in her eyes it was not improved;
but she attributed this to the position to which he had even then
been elevated.  So altered were his words and manners, that although
he had come so far to marry her, and to comply with her request, she
almost regretted that she had disturbed his learned pursuits at
Magdalene.  There he was, however, to perform the ceremony; and as
the organ gradually increased its swelling tones, as the bride and
bridegroom walked along the nave of the church, the murmur of the
multitude and the steps of approaching feet, warned Wolsey that he
must prepare himself for the duty he had undertaken.

He rose from his knees with the studied gesture of a man about to
confer a great obligation, and summoning all the energy of his robust
frame, and the pride of his whole heart--he appeared as immoveable
and as firm as a commander of Roman cohorts going into battle.  Every
person in that church, saving the bride, looked upon him with wonder;
but she with downcast eyes had not ventured to look up, even to
behold the countenance of the man who had been so much her friend and
companion from her infancy.

Lord De Freston thought him ill, and was upon the point of asking the
curate of St. Lawrence to take the duty, when the firm, strong,
clear, and singularly sweet voice of Wolsey, gave evidence that he
was not so ill as to require any assistance, though his face was
white as marble, and his lips livid as death.

Just as the parent delivered up his child for ever into the hands of
her future husband, and Wolsey received that fair hand to unite it
with that of his friend, he was observed to shed a tear, which fell
upon the hand he was then holding.  The maiden lifted her eye to meet
that of the priest's.  There was agony depicted in it--intense agony,
that struck deeply into the tender heart of Ellen, and so completely
overpowered her, as to make her lean upon the arm of Lord De Freston
for support.  She looked not again at Wolsey--she heard his voice,
now softer and more subdued; and whilst she was united to Latimer in
the bonds of matrimony, she became for the first moment of her life
conscious that Thomas Wolsey might have loved her.  She felt a pang,
not for herself, but in the thought that Wolsey might be suffering
from disappointment.

He did not give way: he performed the ceremony, pronounced the
blessing, ended the service, and returned to the altar, and simply
told the verger he had a vow to complete, so that the whole party
returned without him to the festive scene at the house of the opulent
merchant of Ipswich.

It was observed by Latimer, De Freston, and Daundy, that Ellen's
usual flow of spirit, and happy expression of countenance were
disturbed, and when the anxious bridegroom sought by a plain question
the cause of depression, all she could say was--

'I will tell you another time, only be assured that no friends here
have in anything made me sorrowful, and that it will only be a short
temporary depression, and even now I feel revived.'

How truly good and tender are the feelings of a Christian heart.
This wise, virtuous, and affectionate daughter felt at the moment,
that she, her father, and friends might have been too pointedly
interested in young Wolsey's career; and have unintentionally
suffered him to hope for an alliance which had never till that
morning had a thought in her brain.  Her quick and sensitive spirit
soon saw through the change of conduct which Wolsey had assumed, and
she shuddered to think of the possibility of the sacred office of
holy orders being taken up in the moment of disappointment.

She was relieved in some measure by the announcement which arrived,
that Thomas Wolsey had left town; for with her perceptions at such a
moment, it would have been a source of suffering to her to have seen
him at the grand feast which was then given in honor of her nuptials.

Wolsey had cast off his vestments, and repaired to the priest's gate,
at the entrance from the back lane adjoining the churchyard.  There
stood his own steed, with his travelling cloak and rough skinned
trappings in which he carried his change of linen.  He was soon in
his saddle--gave the promised angel, and taking the circuit of the
town walls, proceeded immediately on his way to London.  He turned
his back upon his native town, on the very day of its most worthy
rejoicing; for, celebrated as Ipswich always has been for political
animosities, its people in that day, as well as in this, were glad of
any common event in which all parties might unite without contention.
And such was the moment of their universally respected
fellow-townsman's popularity, when Lord De Freston, his daughter, and
the bridegroom partook of the good man's hospitality.

Wolsey, however, had left the town, and at that time felt himself cut
off from it for ever.  He had not so much as taken leave of his
mother, nor acquainted any one with his intention.  He wore a face of
lamentation as if he were going into exile, or to perform penance for
his sins.  So severe had been this blow, and the effort he had made
to bear it, that he would willingly have forgotten every event of his
childhood--his mother, his kindred, and his connexions.

He pursued his way, a lonely and disconsolate man, leaving cheerful
faces behind him, a sight he could ill have borne to see, whilst the
merry bells sent out their liveliest tones, as if to mock the heart
of a man who could not enjoy the happiness of another.  Merry days do
not last for ever, and marriage days are not, among the wealthy, of
long enjoyment.

As Wolsey traversed the long narrow lane, with his pack-horse slowly
pacing up the hill, the last peal of the Ipswich bells fell on his
proud heart, and he wept.  Man could no longer see him.  He had no
longer to act a part before those who knew him.  He was overcome by
the associations of his youth.

  'No flowers for him were strewn that day;
  No maidens graced his bridal day;
  He trode the roses in the street.
  And crushed them with indignant feet.
  Another's bliss to him was woe,
  And he sustained the deepest blow.'

But merrily, merrily still rang the Ipswich bells, and the proud
priest's heart was touched.

Never was friendship more pure than that shown by Lord De Freston and
his friends to Wolsey; but never was there less response to those
kindly affections in the heart of man than in Wolsey at that moment.
All he felt, he felt for himself; all he had done, had been done to
gratify himself; all he looked forward to was for himself.  His
mother was nothing to him; his friends and townsmen nothing; Lord De
Freston nothing; Latimer nothing; and if for Ellen he once felt
_everything_, she now was nothing.

The great man sighed--he groaned; but in another moment he said,
'Wolsey, be a man!  Spurn the past.  Fulfil thy destiny, and forget
that ever thou didst love.'




CHAPTER XXX.

THE REVELATION.

The marriage day had passed away as the fleeting hours of mortal life
do, quickly, and never to return; and so it should be, for if the
past be but a prelude to future improvement, few would wish it to
return.

Latimer and the Lady Ellen were seated in the large room of the
mansion purchased by Lord De Freston, situated in the centre of the
town of Ipswich.  The present theatre now occupies part of the site
of the mansion, which, with its grounds opposite and behind it, took
up a large space, now densely populated.  One old room in the Tankard
public house still retains a portion of its pristine beauty, and was
then the handsomest room in that ancient hall.  It was here that the
bride and bridegroom received their friends, who from all parts of
the neighborhood came to pay them respect.

Their extensive garden then occupied the area from the corner of
Brook Street down to the great foundation school, in which Wolsey had
received the rudiments of his education; and the convent grounds
contained the school which was under the superintendence of the Prior
of St. Peter, who had the power of fixing the salary of the master.

It was a garden containing walks for the public, and in it was the
celebrated chapel of the Virgin, to which Ellen repaired after the
fall of Wykes Bishop's Palace.  The ancient mansion overlooked that
garden, and Ellen and De Freston were seated in the beautifully
oak-pannelled room, conversing upon the past.  They spoke of Alice De
Clinton, of the old palace, of the hermit of Holy Wells: and the
reader may be sure they did not forget the memorable night when
Latimer reached the stair of Lord De Freston's grounds, close under
Freston Tower.

Love likes to reflect on the mercies of God, and souls truly happy do
ever remember the past with such spirit of thankfulness, and makes
even imminent dangers the subject of congratulation.

'Do you remember, Ellen, that you promised to tell me why you were
momentarily cast down on the day of our wedding festivity?'

'I do, William, and I can now freely converse with you upon the
subject.  You must have observed the young priest's agony when the
tear fell upon my hand, which he joined with your own.  I then looked
up at his face--and can I ever forget the expression?  Never!  It
told me, William, of a truth, which seems to account to me now for
the strange alteration of his behaviour to me, my father, his own
relatives, and yourself.'

'What was that, Ellen?'

'Simply this, William: that Wolsey had a hope, to which he then bade
farewell for ever, that he might have possessed this hand to which
you were then entitled.'

'It may be so, Ellen.  But why then place a barrier for ever against
all hopes of matrimonial alliance by entering into the church?  He
always appeared to me to be destined for the office he holds; and yet
I do remember his occasional depressions at Oxford were only to be
alleviated by a reference to Freston Tower.'

'Was it so, Latimer?  Then I fear the poor youth had imbibed a
preference for my society, which is indeed flattering to me, though
so fatal to himself.  We were very partial to him.  He was always
pleasant, though at times impetuous, and dictatorial in his
arguments.  Can you not now pity him, William, if he did imagine, in
the ardor of his literary pursuits, that I should one day be his
companion?  All things considered, he must have endured what scarcely
any other man could have borne.  I do now see through the whole of
his conduct.  I fear he has done violence to his better nature in the
steps he has taken to prove to us all the sublimity of his faith.'

'I can now account for all his strange behaviour--yet, if he had
succeeded--'

'What, William?'

'I might have been as wretched as himself.'

'May my whole life prove that I estimate the sacrifice you would have
made of self upon the altar of friendship, but how will Thomas Wolsey
take this blow?'

'That remains to be seen.  He is not a man to sink under misfortune.
He will devote himself to great objects.  His learning will be a
passport to greatness, and Oxford will afford him a fine field for
the display of his talents.  He will be a great man in the church.'

'I wish he may be a good one!  His views are seemingly very much
exalted by his priesthood, and personal pride has not permitted him
to display either that amiability or generosity of opinion, in
letters or in religion, which formerly he seemed to possess.  It
would be strange if his great mind should be narrowed by his
assumption of the priesthood.'

'It would indeed be a great misfortune; for a nobler nature than
Wolsey's, and a more generous, frank, and liberal disposition
scarcely ever inhabited the breast of man when I first introduced him
at Oxford.  His manners, his knowledge of letters, his talents, were
all open, clear, candid, and at the free gift and service of others.
He is now a priest of Rome.  He cannot forget his learning, but it is
doubtful whether he will use it for the good of his countrymen or for
his own ambition.  Rome, I fear, will scarcely let him think and act
for himself, and certainly not for the great objects which now seem
to be attracting the eyes of the learned in the spirit of the
Reformation.  Wolsey might do great things; but will he?  Had he but
the heart of Wickliffe, what might not England see him produce.'

'We shall see, Latimer.  He cannot be ignorant; he may be bigoted and
worldly-minded, but he cannot be ignorant of the truth.  We are to
visit our dear father at Freston hall to-day.  How I love to see him
enjoying his books and our company!  What a pleasure is it, William,
to a daughter to promote the happiness of her father!'

'And what a pleasure to a son-in-law to know that parent loves him as
if he were his own child.  Oh, Ellen! if there be a joy on this
earth, it is when we please our parents and honor their grey hairs,
and bless them for those providential comforts which, beneath the
mercy of God, they are enabled to bestow upon us.  We shall visit our
old haunt in the tower, ever fresh to me, Ellen; never out of my
eyes.  I often dream of it, and sometimes see the lamp burning in
your favorite room; and then I am riding on the broken timber in the
midst of the waves, or struggling against the tide to gain the
shore--I awake, and think, and am thankful!'

Noon was the dinner-hour in that day, and the bride and bridegroom,
respected as they were, could not pass through that busy town of
Ipswich without many a blessing; for, great as they were, and
connected with the noblest and wealthiest, they forgot not the poor,
and were not themselves forgotten.

With joy did they revisit the scenes of their early attachment, and
awaken the spirit of love among a people always ready to acknowledge
that which was honest and lovely.

De Freston had made good use of that time, which was now more
solitary in one sense, but more engaging in another.  He had been
reading with more profound attention the records of the olden
time--the history of the Fathers, and the progress of that revelation
through the instrumentality of the inspired Apostles, and those who
lived nearest to them.  The more he read, the more he became
convinced of the sublime doctrine of the Great Atonement, and the
purity and holiness of that religion which the ancient Fathers
professed.  He was forcibly struck by the simplicity of their canons,
and the manner of spirit in which they sought to conduct the affairs
of the church.  He made himself master of their doctrine, arguments,
and lives, and observed how strictly they sought to establish the
essentials of vital piety, founded upon the Scriptures, rather than
the introduction of novelties and the development of fancies.  The
more he read, the more earnestly did he pray that his reading might
become beneficial to his own soul, and to that of others.  His was a
great mind, a pious mind, with a solid, rational, and lively faith,
which was indeed a rare thing in that day among the nobles of
England.  There was, indeed, a spirit abroad, as has already been
seen, inducing inquiry, questioning the right of the Pope to be above
all Scripture and Revelation; and some few were even then beginning
to search the Scriptures for themselves, that they might be enabled
to give an answer to the important question: What is truth?

Among them stood Lord De Freston, foremost in the neighborhood of
Ipswich, one of the first to institute that inquiry among the learned
monks of Alneshborne, which led to the conversion of Prior John, and
to the enlightenment of his fraternity.  It has been stated that he
was very intimate with the learned John.  That intimacy had increased
since the marriage of his daughter, and had been productive of much
intercourse between the domains of the priory and those of De Freston.

It was no surprise to Latimer or his wife, when they arrived at the
castle, to find John of Alneshborne a guest at the table of their
father.  It was a surprise to them, indeed, to find this learned monk
a convert to the already greatly advanced wisdom of De Freston.  For
a monk to entertain opinions having the least approximation to the
universal spread of Divine truth, was a wonder in that day; but to
find one, the head of a learned fraternity, remarkable for
retirement, penance, and bodily infliction, become an advocate for
the dissemination of the whole Word of God and the Truth, was indeed
a marvel.

John of Alneshborne was a rare instance of humility, and though he
was respected by all the religious houses with which he was
connected, both in England and on the Continent, his views gained him
many enemies, much persecution, his final ejection from his priory;
but a happy rest in the mansion of his friend and patron, Lord De
Freston, who had been instrumental in leading this learned man to a
far more liberal view of divinity than the life of solitary
nothingness which he spent within the cloistered walls of his
establishment.

As he had been conducive to his study of the Scriptures, and of the
early usages of the Christian church, contrasted with the presumption
of the Popes and their universal subjugation of men's consciences to
dogmas, instead of doctrine, and all their outward prostrations,
impositions, fooleries, idolatries, and indulgences, in the place of
inward purification and love of God and man, so when he was degraded
and deprived of his power, this noble lord was the first to open his
doors, and say, 'My house is your home.'

These events transpired after the period of which this narrative is
now treating.  But the way was then preparing even when Ellen and her
husband paid their first visit of any length to the hall of their
youth.

'Ha!  Prior John here!' exclaimed Latimer.  'It gives me great joy to
see thee on this side of the water.  I thought I should one day see
thee here and shake thee by the hand in our father's mansion; and
here thou art.  Ellen, here is an old friend with a new face.'

The monk started, for even then he felt it strange that his
countenance should in the least betray the alteration of his heart
and mind.

'How dost thou call my face new, my son?  Am I grown more grey; or
are the lines of my features become more sharp?'

'No, father, no! but yet there is an alteration in thy very
appearance--in the smile with which thou greetest us, and in the
expression of thy countenance, which, though the prevailing feature
be anxiety, is yet something new for thee to wear.'

'Upon my word, young man, thy perceptions are wonderfully sharpened
by matrimony.  Thou mayst perceive in me what I cannot discover in
myself.  Perhaps thou wilt be disposed to attribute this alteration
of my features to the kind and hospitable reception of the lord of
this mansion.'

'I may do this sincerely, father, and it is always a good sign when
the nobles of a land call forth the lively learning and cheerful
spirits of those who spend too many of their days in retirement.  I
rejoice to see thee here.'

'And I to be here, my son; and to see thee and the fair prize thou
hast borne away from the banks of the Orwell.'

'Nay, father, I have not yet left the lovely banks of this noble
river, though I have become a resident in the town of Ipswich; and I
shall be happy to exercise the duties of hospitality towards thee, as
well there as in this present place; and I tell thee again, that I
believe thine ascetic face will assume even there a more generous
character than it does here.'

'Alas! my son, I have spent years of solitude in my priory, and am
little accustomed to the intercourse of any but our own fraternity.
If long habits of privation, and a complete exclusion from that world
in which I was once too great a participator in my youth; if, indeed,
the heavy burthen of my sins, and of one great crime can be atoned
for by years of penitential devotion to solitude, and prayer, and
study, such as I have pursued, I may hope that I have some merit in
depriving myself of the society of my fellow creatures, that I may
commune with my God.'

'Ha! my father!  And dost thou think thou hast atoned by these
privations for thine early indulgences in sin?  Thou and I see things
in a wonderfully different light.  To my mind, thou art seeking thine
own righteousness and not submitting thyself to the righteousness of
God.  If thou couldst flagellate thy flesh until thy skin was
excoriated from the crown of thine head to the sole of thy foot; if
thou couldst count thy beads from sunrise to sunset, and from night
until morning every year of thy life; if thou couldst walk barefoot
from Rome to Jerusalem, or from one end of the world to the other;
shave thy head, wear sack-cloth all thy days, and never smile upon
youth or life; thou couldst make no atonement for the very least of
thy sins; much less for any crime which weighs heavy on thy
conscience?'

'Ha! my son, wouldst thou have had me go on in my career unto
perdition?'

'No, father! assuredly not; but I would not have thee go to perdition
in another way, by renouncing one sin for a greater.'

'How so, my son?'

'Thou hast renounced society, of which thou might'st have been an
ornament, and the opportunity of doing good to thy fellow-creatures,
by leading them to see their errors, and helping them to correct
their lives, by thine example; and hast taken upon thyself to work
out thy salvation by thine own righteousness; or, at least, by
calling that a life of faith which is, indeed, a life of presumption.
Pardon my boldness, father, but we will converse of these things
another time, and let me tell thee it is the consciousness of this
truth which makes thee wear a different face.'

'My son, thou art right, but I owe not this conviction to thine
argument, but to his whose guest I am.'

'And I am his debtor for kindness which my life cannot repay.'

'I have listened,' said the Lord De Freston, 'to your conversation;
but let us not make hospitality to consist of words.  Come, my
dearest friends, I am a debtor to you all, and the only way I can
repay you is to place my house at your service.'

'And so make us greater debtors still.'

'As long as we owe each other nothing but love, we can give, take,
borrow, lend, exchange, and demand compound interest for our loan,
and yet be none of us usurers, but friends; so let us to the banquet
hall.'

It was in such spirit that these friends met, and, as may be
supposed, the interchange of affection was of that kind which, free
from bigotry and superstition, promoted good-will and charity, and
was honorable in the sight of God and man.

Still this very intimacy between such enlightened beings became a
tool for working mischief, in the hands of those whose ignorance was
only excelled by their cruelties, and, as we shall see, led to the
sorrow of some, but to the joy of a great many.




CHAPTER XXXI.

THE PUNISHMENT.

Wolsey returned to Oxford resolved to think no more of Ipswich, the
Orwell, Freston Tower, Ellen, or the scenes of his youth.  There was
a singular reaction of life in him about this time, for which some of
his warmest friends could not account.  The learned, laborious,
enterprising scholar, became the indefatigable architect, devoting
the energies of his great mind to the ornamenting the loftiest
stories of his magnificent tower.

The funds of his college, assisted by contributions from noblemen and
gentlemen connected with Oxford, and from all whom he could inspire
with something of his own spirit were devoted to that building.  Both
Wolsey's and Latimer's Tower are still standing; one still preserved
in all its grandeur as a noble feature of Oxford; the other, lonely
and deserted, still looks over the lovely river Orwell, and is the
wonder of all who sail down to Harwich.

Wolsey's Tower, splendid as it was, was not without deep
mortification to the great man.  Men who understood not his design
abused it, and reports of his extravagance were set afloat.  When
mentioned to the bursar, they only excited his contempt; for Wolsey
well knew that he honored his college by not robbing her of funds
left for the encouragement of learned men, and whilst he expended so
much in raising a monument to his own magnificence, he did not
misapply one single angel to that work which was legally and justly
devoted to other purposes.  The fact was, that as the Tower was near
its completion, and was seen to be so fair an ornament to the
University, he received from other colleges pecuniary assistance, and
never burthened his own with the expense.

His mind was greatly diverted by the interest he took in the
accomplishment of this undertaking; and if any one was impoverished
by it, it was Wolsey himself, who expended his utmost farthing in its
completion.

Yet, however diverted, he was not insensible to the carpings of some,
and the inadequacy of his private finances.  So that when the work
was done, the scaffolding taken down, and it stood exposed in all its
elegance, like every other great performance of man's hand and mind,
it gave not its author the satisfaction he anticipated, but
occasioned him much annoyance.

Few men live to see their own works admired, and it is well perhaps
they do not, for if their only pleasure in them is the thought of
man's admiration, and not the employment of their time and talents
from a high sense of duty, which alone gives pleasure, they would be
elevated and depressed by critical declamations to an unreasonable
extent.

Soon after Wolsey had built his Tower, he left the University to go
and reside upon the living of Lymington, which the Marquis of Dorset
had bestowed upon him for the care and attention he had paid to the
education of his sons.  His fame had been by this time pretty well
disseminated among all the nobility and gentry who valued literature.
The Boy Bachelor had become the great Oxford man; and Magdalen Tower
had given him a name for taste and elegance which, in those days of
internal disruption between the Houses of York and Lancaster, had
been almost forgotten.

When Wolsey left Oxford he seemed to break off from the accustomed
restraint of scholastic discipline, which he had acquired during his
situation as tutor and schoolmaster.  Men were surprised to find the
staid and learned priest the free and joyous companion in the
country, the life and soul of the great houses throughout the
counties of Somerset, Dorset, and Hants.

The Marquis of Dorset had introduced him to the resident gentry
around him, and he met at his hospital board Sir John Nafant, who
became particularly attached to him.  He delighted to hear him
discourse, and encouraged him in all his sallies of wit.  From Sir
John he received repeated invitations to partake of hospitality; and,
though their years were dissimilar, their tastes for literature and
knowledge were alike.

Wolsey made a great impression upon this worthy knight, who not only
conversed with him upon affairs of state, as then existing in
England, but corresponded with him on foreign affairs, and was
equally astonished at his comprehensive estimate of the resources of
the kingdoms of Europe.

Sir John did not forget to make a very handsome tribute offering to
Wolsey, in acknowledgment of those talents which he displayed.

To none had Wolsey revealed the early disappointment he had met with,
which he neither then nor afterward--though fields of ambition and
vain-glory lay in his way--could totally forget.

Neither cloistered walls nor lofty battlements, neither profound
learning, nor great estates, can change a man who has once imbibed
licentiousness of spirit, and suffered it to usurp the place of love
in the human heart.  A man who does wrong, and persists in it without
shame, let the wrong be the transgression of any moral commandment of
God, will find a very poor excuse for his conduct, however much he
may be devoted to learning, and to art or science.

No robes, however white, which a man can put on, will cover the
licentiousness of a corrupt heart.  No crown--not even the triple one
which adorns the head of the Pope--can free a man from the troubles
of conscience.  Better for him to cease to do evil, and learn to do
well, than to bestow all his estates upon the priesthood, who may
mutter masses for his soul, which can never be released from sin but
by the obedience of faith.

Sir Amias Pawlet, a knight whom Wolsey met one day at the table of
the Marquis of Dorset, was a man of very different character to Sir
John Nafant.  He saw with a jealous eye the ambition of this young
priest, who seemed to delight in holding him up to the company as an
ignorant county magistrate.  Wolsey was certainly not gifted just at
this time with that amiability of mind and temper which could brook
the overbearing arrogance of a man who seemed to think himself
superior to all others in the country.

At the table of his patron, Wolsey scarcely refrained from exposing
his ignorance.  He narrated a very simple and pithy story about a
pullet who assumed all the dignity of the dunghill, and looked down
with contempt on all other fowls.  He exposed the want of judgment
and flippant manner of the pullet with such force and pointed wit,
that Sir Amias, who perceived it to be levelled at him, was greatly
disconcerted, and threatened Wolsey, for being a public slanderer,
with the penalty of the law.

It is certain that Wolsey's proud spirit was not humbled, but that
he, with a little more pretension to learning, was not less
tyrannical.  Sir Amias Pawlet cared nothing for him.  He was a man of
principle--a plain, straightforward man--grave, austere, and proud.
He was not deficient in spirit, and a love of truth and propriety,
though he was neither equal to Wolsey, Sir John Nafant, or the
Marquis of Dorset, in letters or knowledge of the world.  He was one
of those strong-minded men, attached to the good laws of the land he
lived in, and jealous too for the dignity of the church to which he
belonged.  He was not, at the time treated of, a convert to the then
growing liberation of the souls of men from the corruptions of that
superstition which encompassed all Christendom, but he was sensibly
alive to the necessity of propriety in the character of the
priesthood, and a man who was too earnest and sincere in his
profession of religion to admit of any licentiousness.

It was not likely that such a man, coming in contact with the learned
and expansive genius of the young Wolsey, should shine before him.
He did not, for he bent not to the idol of popular greatness, when he
saw in him a regard only for things expedient, and a certain freedom
of speech and behaviour, even in the company of the gentry of those
counties, which ill became the Oxford divine, the tutor of the
Marquis of Dorset's sons, and the great scholar of Magdalen.

'I like not your country squire, most noble peer,' said Wolsey to the
Marquis: 'he is ignorant and positive, sturdy and absolute, and would
do better for a jailer than for a magistrate of this county.'

'I like not your visitor, my lord,' said Sir Amias to the Marquis.
'He is much too clever and intriguing for my liking.  He, no doubt,
would be a very convenient father confessor; but I should as soon
think of looking for absolution to your lordship's bloodhound as to
him.'

Now the Marquis was fully convinced that the priest of Lymington and
the knight of the shire were distasteful to each other; but as he
respected both, he kept his own counsel, and did not interfere with
their respective animosities.

It was no small sin in those days to speak anything disrespectful of
the priesthood.  Rome had such authority over the nobility, had
invented so many intrigues of priest-craft, and had obtained such an
ascendancy over the families of the great, that she employed
qualified spies in every house to subject the inmates to penances,
and works of her own imposition, even for the slightest offences,
with which she could have nothing to do, and which could never take
away one single fault.

Sir Amias, however, was not to be imposed upon by any requirements on
the part of the priesthood to which they did not themselves submit:
and in his own family he was strict and conscientious, and expected
his priest to be the same.

It was about this time that one of his own servants returned from the
neighboring fair in a state of intoxication.  The man was brought
before his master, who at that very time was conversing with the
confessor of his own family.

'How now, knave? this is not the first time thou hast been in bad
company; thou didst promise to avoid such men if I forgave thee.
Thou shall be put into the stocks, that all the country may know thee
for a drunkard as thou art.'

The half-witted man, who was sufficiently sober to comprehend what
was said to him, and was sufficiently filled with sack not to be
afraid of his master, looked very knowingly at him and the confessor.

'I's been in good company, master, very good; and if the stocks are
lifted up for my legs, I hope you'll give me some o' the good company
I ha' been in, to keep me in countenance there.  There's many more
like me, master; and there's one there as good as yoursel--or your
reverence,' bowing to the priest.  'You're very even-handed, master,
and my good company I've been in might qualify even a better man than
me to be a little merry.  I's only like my betters.'

The knight looked at the priest; and the priest looked at the man,
and both were puzzled at his words--but they did not speak at the
moment.

'Why you looks doubtful, both on you.  Go and see; I's not so drunk
as not to know an owl when I sees one, though it might be the dusk of
the evening when he flies.  Go you with master: you'll see!'

'Where are we to go, and what are we to see?'

'Go to the Masque and Mummers--and if you don't see one you dare not
put in the stocks, then don't put your own servant in; but if you
dare to see him, and dare to take him, and dare to trap him too--why
then trap me with him, and we'll be very good company for each other.
So, master, I'm your man; and when you find a poor fellow imitating
his betters, let his betters find the same law is made for him as for
one o' the worst like me.'

Sir Amias rose.  He was not a man to flinch in the execution of the
law intrusted to him as a magistrate; and to his honor be it
recorded, he was not an unjust man, who would screen the rich at the
expense of the poor.  Had it been the Marquis of Dorset himself, he
would have treated him exactly as he would a drunken vagabond, who
had not a shilling to help himself.

'There is too much truth in this fellow's audacity,' he replied, 'to
let this matter pass away unnoticed.  It will be thrown in my teeth
by every servant I have, after this, if I dismiss this villain and
see not the company he has been in.  Come, I will claim your
companionship.  Let us go undisguised and openly, that he, and all
men may see what we do in the face of the law and our country.'

Sir Amias desired his servants to take the knave to the village
stocks.  'There wait,' said he, 'my company; and if I find a
companion in the state of intoxication he is in, let him be the
King's son, my loyalty to his father shall make the law take its
course, even with this fool.'

So spoke Sir Amias, and his resolution was equal to his words.  The
knight and the priest set forth, and went as directed to the Masque
and Mummers.  He had no definite idea as to the issue of his
proceeding; but like a brave soldier, strong in the fulfilment of his
duty, he marched up to the scene of riot, taking with him such
constables as he thought fit for the occasion.

A man of less determination might have been deterred from going to
the scene.  A man with less sense of honor would not have done as he
did; and a man, who feared God and honored the King less, would have
been afraid to put the law in execution upon a man who presumed to be
of an order above all law, and yet chose to transgress.

Amidst a set of mummers, masks, and profligates, smugglers, and
debauchees, who should be holding forth, with spirits inflated with
sack, but Wolsey, the priest of Lymington.  Sir Amias did not parley
with him in the least; though, in a moment, the fiery priest turned
upon him all the gibes of the company, and in his drunken revel, held
him up to ridicule before them.

It has been said, the knight was uncourteous; but though he knew that
man would accuse him of spite, he cared not for any one in the
discharge of his duty.  The law is never stronger than when it deals
equal justice to all.  Sir Amias felt that he could not punish his
own servant for a fault which the leader of the parish was himself
guilty of, without making him an example of the same punishment.

He at once put the law into execution, and with such determined
resolution, that the very company who, the moment before, were
disposed to laugh at the knight, were the first to join in roars of
ridicule at the priest of Lymington in the village stocks.  He was,
indeed, laid by the heels by the gallant Sir Amias, a spectacle of
justice such as did no injury even to the man who endured it, but
served him right, not only because he ought to have known better, but
because he did know better, and was the worst of the two.

The two drunkards were a contrast, even in their cups.  The servant
boasted of his company; and the priest railed against the law, the
knight, the stocks, and the people, and threatened them all with the
anathemas of Rome.  Neither he nor his companion were released till
they were sober.  One lost his situation as the servant of Sir Amias,
and the other found himself so uncomfortable in the company either of
nobles or commoners, after this affront to his dignity, that he
resigned his living into the hands of his patron; and accepted the
office of secretary to Sir John Nafant, who was then governor of
Calais.




CHAPTER XXXII.

THE MONASTERIES.

The space alloted to this work will not be wide enough to embrace the
gradual progress of Wolsey to that greatness which he attained.  The
object in view was to show that he was anything but a mean man in his
birth, though had that been to, it would have been no disgrace, and
that he was brought up in his youth with an early love of everything
that was generous and praiseworthy.  It was not until his youthful
disappointment had left him nothing but the pursuit of his own
gratification in the fields of ambition and vain-glory, that Wolsey's
character changed from a lover of truth, virtue, and humility, to
become an aspiring, time-serving politician.

It is strange that a man who had assumed the priesthood, at that time
the vehicle of letters in some few, but of enormous bigotry and
superstition in the mass, should bury his love of truth in the vast
vortex of worldly ambition.  He left truth to shine in his native
place, whilst he pursued the phantom of idolatry through all the
labyrinths of expedient invention.  His love of literature he could
not abandon.  It was part and parcel of his life, which remained with
him through all his progress, and has served to extend his fame
through ages of darkness, even to the present time.  His erudition
was, beyond all doubt, genuine and powerful.

He took no particular delight in encouraging individual instances of
mental superiority, though the learned Erasmus speaks so flatteringly
of his sumptuous entertainments to the stars of genius, as to make a
seat at his table one of the things most desired in England.  From
the great men of letters in his day, he never called forth a
sentiment of gratitude for any encouragement he had given them.  With
the exception of Sir Thomas More, scarcely any literary character
received any support from him; and in him he supported a successor.

His views comprehended the revival of the whole people from ignorance
by the means of scholastic discipline; and his ideas of the diffusion
of learning were connected with schools, seminaries, and colleges,
the very architecture of which should speak the taste of their
projector.

Wolsey had, in early life, imbibed a species of contempt for the
monastic impositions, which retained the people in ignorance, but he
could not become indifferent to the lustre of the Papacy, to which
his soul aspired; no, not even for the sake of truth.  It was hence
that the patronage of the literature he so much admired as the
production of the universities and schools became confined to men who
upheld the Papal dominion.

He obtained power as legate to subdue the monasteries, only because
he conceived that their wealth would be converted into a channel more
conducive to the dignity and grandeur of Rome; and as the popedom
was, in his ambitious eye, the very kingdom of all kingdoms of the
earth, and he was the man to sit upon that throne, he thought that by
entitling himself to the respect of England for his encouragement of
learning, he should one day receive the distinction he coveted.

He was made to do much for letters, but little for the truth.  His
persecution of the reformers will sufficiently prove this.  But
whilst Wolsey journeyed to power, the friends of his youth journeyed
to heaven through a straight and narrow path which was not suited to
his ambition.

Lord De Freston, Latimer, and Ellen, and a few more independent and
eminent spirits in the neighborhood of Ipswich, became candidates for
the crown of glory through the medium of persecution.

Love, truth, fidelity, wisdom, knowledge, peace, and joy, together
with some warm friendship from kindred spirits of intelligence, made
the years roll on, not without a glowing interest, hope, and
persuasion, that ultimately the doctrines of the dawning reformation
would prevail.

As Wolsey's power increased, there was a certain increase of learning
which added much to the desired improvement of morals among the
Romish clergy, who, at that time, were notorious for licentiousness,
because of the ease with which they could both obtain and grant
pardons.  The monasteries, though the seats of hospitality, were also
the seats of imposition and secret vice, which became at last so
glaring as to awaken strong minds to a sense of their shameless
prostitution.

Wolsey, who had risen to the dignity of Cardinal, took advantage of
the cry then rising, to sweep off the lesser houses, and to impose
certain fines upon others for the benefit of his foundations of
learning.  He occasioned, as would naturally be expected, great grief
in some districts, where the monks were far less vicious than in
others; but it was a strange infatuation in him, that whist he was
pulling down with one hand the monasteries and monks, he should be
with the other encouraging the nunneries, which were then attaining
such wealth as to make them desired by the great.

News reached Ipswich, that the great man himself, though so austere
and severe towards the inferior clergy, was anything but a pattern of
virtue.

'I have here,' said Latimer to the Lord De Freston, 'a singular
production of Dan Lydgate's, and if our friend in power should catch
sight of it, it might so happen that even Lydgate would lose his
priesthood:

  Alice De Clinton,
  Prioress of Winton,
    Summer's for thee no more;
  The Cardinal's favor
  Has in it such savor,
    Thou shalt not long deplore.

  Winter were summer known,
  Melting for such a crown,
    Alice De Clinton's call:
  The proud one can change
  From her haughtiest range,
    O'er the turrets of Goldwell Hall.

  The Abbess De Winter,
  No matter the splinter,
    Is fit for the priory found;
  And the Winter nuns,
  Whom nobody shuns,
    Shall in Winter fires abound.

  O, who would not bend,
  To the Cardinal's friend,
    Be she what she may chance to be;
  For 'tis better for her
  Such a place to prefer,
    So becoming her dignity.'


'Singular, indeed, it is.  I hear that Warham has complained to the
King of his favorite's proceedings, and that Wolsey is likely to be
in disgrace.'

'I heard as much through Wentworth, only yesterday, who was telling
me, also, that the Cardinal had made his peace with the King, by
protesting that the appointment of the Abbess of Winton was only
under the hope, or at least, with the proviso, that the King approved
it.'

'Did you hear the King's commands to the Cardinal?  "See to it,
Wolsey, this appointment displeases us.  We are not used to exalt
proud ladies, who can be humble only as it may suit my Lord Cardinal.
Thou mayst protect thine own favorites, but not at the cost of the
church, my lord.  Therefore, for shame's sake, let us not have this
monstrous fair one made the Abbess of Winton."'

'Ah, my Lord De Freston, this is no news then unto thee; but I can
perchance tell thee something which, as yet, thou knowest not; for
only as I left Ipswich did the messenger arrive.  The imperious Allen
and his executioners have arrived to suppress the monasteries of
Suffolk, and confiscate all the revenues to the crown.  A court will
be held to-morrow at the priory of St. Peter's; and Alneshborne, as
being one of the smaller fraternities, will be one of the first to
suffer.  Our friend John must be apprised of his coming.'

'He will not be surprised.  Already has he received tidings of the
suppression of the religious houses in Essex and Cambridgeshire, and
though a vague thought had dwelt with him that from Wolsey's
knowledge of the regularity and piety of his order he might be
spared, more especially as the great man, when a little man, was a
welcome student within the walls of his priory, yet we shall find him
prepared to obey the Pope's legate in temporalities, and that is all
he supposes that will be required of him.  We will visit him
ourselves, my son.'

It did not take long for De Freston's boatmen to speed over the waves
of the Orwell to Alneshborne Priory.  Short, however, as was the
time, they found the whole fraternity assembled in the hall to hear
the summons already issued by authority of the legate.  So quickly
did the Cardinal's emissaries proceed to the work appointed them.

They arrived in time to hear the Pope's Bull read, authorizing the
dissolution of the monasteries of Romboro, Felixtow, Bromehil,
Bliborow, and Montjoye, and upon the site of the ancient foundation
of St. Peter's, at Ipswich, the building a new seat of learning.  And
for the better effecting of which great and godly purpose, all the
revenues belonging to the said monasteries were to be forthwith
entirely at the disposal of the Cardinal, and to be used by him in
furtherance of his proposed object, to the glory of God and the honor
of the church of Rome, etc.

  Signed,
    CLEMENS, PAPA SEPTIMUS.


The most singular extension of authority was that which ran thus:


'In pursuance of the powers vested in us, we the Cardinal, as the
Pope's legate, do hereby grant unto the united brethren of
Alneshborne, full powers of absolution from their monastic vows; and
to be exempt from all suit or service to the Priories of Woodbridge,
or St. Peter's, Ipswich.  That from the date hereof, and the delivery
of a schedule of all the property belonging unto the said community,
that society is henceforth dissolved, and the members are at liberty
to seek their livelihood in whatever manner they may be able, and
wheresoever they may be pleased to go, either within or beyond the
Pope's dominions.'


How kind and considerate it was of the Pope to take away all their
property, and give it to one man, and that man one whom the
dispossessed remembered as a boy, frequently indulging in friendly
conversation with them!  How very kind it was of him, when he had
deprived them of everything, to permit them to go about their
business!  John of Alneshborne, a fine old man, stood with his placid
face beaming kindness upon his brethren, as Allen--Wolsey's
commissioner--read, line by line, in a language they understood too
well, the orders of his master.

The orbs of the fine old patriarch were dim with tears, which, before
the last concluding 'Vale et Vade,' literally ran down his venerable
cheeks.

However small had been the real utility of their order, there was a
quiet, inobtrusive seclusion in their position on the banks of the
Orwell, which every member of that community had for years enjoyed
undisturbed.  The venerable fraternity had spoken together upon the
probability of their dissolution; yet they evidently did not expect
the day to be so near.  When it came, it found them very unwilling to
part, and gave them great surprise and sorrow.

Lord De Freston and William Latimer looked with compassion.  Each
resolved to offer them present help, until they could find some
locality or employment suited to their habits.  Men long accustomed
to the solitude of monastic life, where everything is conducted in
regular order of time and occupation, do not find themselves about to
be separated without emotion.  They could see each other depart this
life in their cells, with less tenderness and more resignation, than
in the midst of life, or rather in its decline, to see each other
take leave of home, for poverty, wretchedness, and uncertainty.  The
aged Prior was the first to break the silence, and did so with words
which proved him to be possessed of those fraternal qualities of
heart, which had felt the command, 'Love as brethren, be pitiful, be
courteous.'

'Brethren,' he said, 'our Society is this day dissolved, for I have
no power to resist the Papal Bull; neither can I think of retaining
the keys of the monastery a day longer than the time allotted us,
forty-eight hours.  Yet I cannot give up the society of those whom I
have now, for forty-four years, presided over, without one single
word of discord amongst us, without deep sorrow.  I came myself from
Britany, and, as you all know, whatever property I possessed was
given to this monastery.  We have lived here together in harmony, and
I had hoped we should here have ended our years.  I mourn to think
how soon we must be scattered, and have our interest in each other
dissolved; but ye have all heard the mandate.  Farewell, ye happy
hours of solitude and devotion! farewell, sharers of our common
fortune, we must be parted! but whither shall we go?  You, Robert
Wolfren, where will you journey?  You, Francis Wealey, where will you
find abode?  You, Thomas Wegg, might have found an asylum in Essex,
but the Monastery of Walton is dissolved.  Alan Aleto, farewell!
Michael Milner, it will avail you nothing to go to Dodnesh; Lionel
Foster, we were brothers before we came here, would we could so live
together until we die!  But where shall we all go?  The world is wide
enough, but it is, to our long habits of confinement, a desolation.
If we must part, let us at least spend our last two days in devotion,
that we may know how to commit ourselves to the waves of the world.
Come, brethren, let us all to the chapel.'

It was then that Lord De Freston spoke:

'I have known you all long years gone by.  I forget not your kindness
to the outcast hermit of Holy Wells, nor to your reception of his
bones among you.  Ye showed charity to me, also, on that pitiless
night of my superstitious vow and vigil; but, though I see my errors
in those things, the kindness of your fraternity shall not pass
unacknowledged.  It is but a short journey over the water to my
walls.  In them I have room for you all: and neither shall any want,
though he may be deprived of everything, as long as the Manor of
Freston can support you.  Grieve not then, my aged friends, at the
present diversion of your property.  Ye shall enjoy the privilege of
each other's society, even though I am not an advocate for monastic
seclusion.  Every man should learn to live alone, that he may know
how best to enjoy the society of his fellow-creatures.  I will go
with you to your chapel, and consult further with you upon your
future plans.'

The fraternity were as much overcome by this generosity as they had
been by the cruelties of their sudden ejection.

They repaired to their chapel, spent an hour in devotion, and
returned to talk over their miseries, and what they should do.

Allen became as punctual in taking possession as he had been precise
in his declaration of the law, and two days afterwards the monks of
Alneshborne were located in the mansion of Lord De Freston.  Theirs
was, however, a merciful lot compared with the fate of hundreds who,
at this time, became deprived of house, home, property, and comforts,
which some had certainly greatly abused in every way, but which
others had conscientiously preserved.

No men were more sensitively alive to the beauties of scenery than
these retired Augustines.  It was curious to see them assembled in
the fifth story of Freston Tower, watching the progress of vessels
bringing Caen stone purchased with the property of their own
monastery, to build the College of St. Peters'.

One thing, and a good one, attended the change.  The charity of Lord
De Freston did not stop with receiving them into his hall, but he
endeavored, and with some success, to cultivate their minds, and to
bring them to the indulgence of some higher privileges than their
cloistered seclusion had allowed.

He acted the part of a good Samaritan, by pouring into their wounded
minds an oil of such efficacy, that it led to the conversion of more
than the Prior; and their banishment, as they first called it, became
their freedom.

They remained there until, by degrees, they found employment.  One
became a teacher in Wolsey's new school; another found a situation
with the Abbots of Bury; a third went to Marseilles, another to
Spain, another to Rome, until they gradually separated.  But one,
Prior John, died at Freston.  He perfectly recovered from the
infatuation of his early superstition, and for some time became the
enlightened companion of the truly noble lord, who was his friend in
the hour of need.

So perfectly cured was he of his monastic seclusion, that he entirely
dispensed with the external trumpery of his order, and appeared in
Ipswich and its vicinity, under the title of the Reformed Monk.  He
was a frequent visitor to Latimer and his wife, in their mansion in
Brook Street: and here he was staying when Bilney preached at St.
George's Chapel.  Such an impression did that Reformer make upon this
monk's mind, that Lord Wentworth, who had authority to quell the
growing love of spiritual liberty then conspicuous in Suffolk, had
marked John of Alneshborne, late of the fraternity of Augustines, as
a seditious heretic.

It is probable that, had he lived but a few years longer, he would
have been a sharer in the martyr's trials.  He was already a sharer
with his friends, Latimer and De Freston, in the onus then attached
to those who professed to abhor the corruptions of Rome, and desired
to see the Christian people of England emancipated from the slavery
of ignorance.  He was often heard to say, that he rejoiced even in
the dissolution of his priory, since it had been instrumental in his
own conversion.

He died one day, as he sat reading the prophet Isaiah, in Freston
Tower.  The old man had not complained, though the lord of the castle
had said to him:

'John, you do not look well.'

His reply was singular: 'My soul is too big for my body.'

'How so?' inquired De Freston.

'It is grown so large since I left Alneshborne; and as I sit reading
in this lofty turret, I seem to myself to grow out of myself, and to
expand in love to _all_ men.'

The old man had scarcely said the words before his head fell gently
on the side of his high wooden chair, and thus the Monk of
Alneshborne sighed away his spirit.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE REFORMERS.

They who do not study deeply the spirit of those days, can form no
idea of the nature of the Papal superstition, which could subjugate
kings, princes, rulers, men of letters, men of judgment, men of
talent, men of thought, and men of such comprehensive minds as those
of the great Cardinal Wolsey.

People should read his letters concerning the views that he
entertained of the Popedom.  In spite of an accusation of prolixity,
and of being a little too learned for the general reader, it will be
as well to insert here the Cardinal's own letter to Gardiner
concerning the Popedom, because it will show, even to the cursory
reader, the nature of that supreme temporal, instead of spiritual
authority, which such a man aimed at.

It shows that he viewed the Popedom as the father of princes, instead
of kings and queens being the nursing fathers and mothers of the
church; but let this letter speak for itself.


THE CARDINAL'S LETTER TO GARDINER ABOUT THE POPEDOM,

  'Coll. No. 99, b. B. III. c. II.
      'C. C. C. Camb.

'MR. STEVINS,

'Albeit ye shall be sufficiently with your Collegys, by such
instructions as be given to Monk Vincent, informed of the King's
minde and mine, concerning my advancement unto the dignity papelle,

'Not dowtting but that for the singular devotion which ye bere
towards the Kinge and his affaires, both generall and particular, and
perfyte love which ye have towards me, ye will omitt nothing that may
be _excogitat_ to serve and to conduce to that purpose,

'Yet I thought convenient, for the more fervent expression of mine in
that behalf, to wryte to you, as to the person whom I most entirely
do trust.  And by whome this thing shall be most Rightly set forth
these few wordys followyng of mine own hande.

'I dowt not but ye do profoundely consider as well the state wherein
the Church and all _C'tendome_ doth stand now presently, as also the
state of the Realme, and of the King's secret Matter, which if it
shoulde be brought to passe, by any other Meanyes than by the
Authority of the Church, I accounte this Prince and realme utterly
undone.

'Wherefor that is expedient to have such one to be _Pope and Commyn
Father to all Princes_, as may, can, and wold geve remedy to the
premises.

'And albeit I accompt myself much ounabill, and that shall be now
incommodious in mine old age to be the said Commyn Father yet when
all things be well ponderyd, and the qualitys of all the Cardinalls
well considered, _absit verbum jactantiœ_, ther shall be none
found that can and will sett remedy in the forsaid things, but only
the Cardinall Ebor; whos good will and holi ys not to you of all men
unknowne.

'And were it not for the re-integration of the state of the Churche
and See Apostolique, to the prestine dygnite, and for the conducinge
of peace amongst C'tian princes, and especially to relieve this
prince and realme from the calamities that the same be now in, all
the riches or honor of the world should not cause me--_nedum aspirare
sed ne consentire_--to accept the seid dignite, and altho' the same
with all Commodytes were offeryed unto me.

'Neverthelesse, conforming myself to the necessity of the time and
the will and pleasure of these two princes, I am content to appone
all my witt and study, and to set forth all meanys and ways, _et bene
faciam rebus C'tianitatis_, for the atteyning of the said dignite.

'For the atcheving and atteyning whereof for as muche as thereupon
dependeth the health and wealth, not only of these two princes and
their realms, _but all C'tendome_, nothing is to be omitted that may
conduce to the said end and purpose.

'Wherfore, Mr. Stevins, since now ye be so plainly advertised of my
mind and intent, I shall pray you to extend, Omnes nervos ingenij
tui, ut ista res, ad effectum perduci possit, nullis parcendo
sumptibus, pollicitationibus sive laboribus, ita ut horum viris in
genia, et affectiones sive ad privata sive ad publica ita accomodes
actiones tuas.

'Non deest tibi, et Collegis tuis amplissima potestas nullis terminis
aut conditionibus limitata sive restricta, et quicquid feceris, scito
omuia apud hunc Regem et me esse grata et rata.  Nam omnia, ut paucis
absolvam, in tuo ingenio, et fide reposuimus.

'Nihil superest aliud scribendum, nisi quod supplex orem ut ones
actiones tuas secundet Deus optimus Maximusq; et ex corde vale.

'Ex œdibus meis West Monast. vij., Februarij.

'Tuæ salutis et amplitudinis cupidissimus.

'T. Car, lis Ebor, propria Manu.'*


* _Stevin_ (_i.e._) Stephen Gardiner, then at Rome, called Dr.
Stevens.


This letter will sufficiently show that confidence which the Cardinal
had then in himself, when he said, that upon his being made Pope
depended not only the health and wealth of princes and their realms,
but all Christendom.  The man who could have such conceit of himself,
might well be unable to endure the growing boldness of the
Reformation.

Though his learning was so vast, and his influence at home and abroad
so great, never did a subject rise to higher splendor, and never did
a great man fall more suddenly.

How ephemeral is the favor of princes!  Few historical records give
any but mortifying pictures of the misfortunes and discomfitures of
great men.  Few, either warriors or statesmen, but well know the
reverses of public favor, and few poets, authors, artists, and
skilful men in science, or in law, physic, or divinity, but have to
contend with poverty and persecution, even in their eminence.

What a happy man is he who trusts in God, and takes all things as he
has them, coming from Him who '_lifteth up and putteth down_.'

In the very year of the Cardinal's utmost ambition and presumption,
when he sought to raise himself above all princes--in the very year
of his greatest splendor and wealth, the same man is made to exclaim,
according to his faithful historian and apologist, Cavendish:

'Now it is come to pass that it hath pleased the King to take all
that I have into his hands, so that I have now nothing to give you,
for I have nothing left me but the bare clothes on my
back.'--(Fiddes, p. 47, 5 fol. ed.)

One instance, however, of the softening of the heart of this great
man remains to be told, which does him honor; but, to be rightly
understood, the reader must be referred to those stirring times when
the Papal power, having reached the summit of its presumption, began
to be looked at with the eyes of truth, and the unnatural and impious
monstrosity of its proceedings began to be questioned openly by the
Reformers.

Poor Bilney was at this time preaching at Ipswich.  He, though
conscious that he should meet with as little pity as his former
friends, Thomas Ayers, who was burnt at Eccles, in Norfolk, and
Thomas Bingay, who was four score and six years of age when he was
burnt at Norwich, yet boldly attacked the blasphemous doctrines of
the Church of Rome.

He exposed the folly of pilgrimages, the absurdity of miracles said
to be done at Walsingham, Canterbury, and even in Ipswich, and
hesitated not to call them the inventions of the devil to delude the
souls of men.

The lights set up before images, he designated as meteors of
deception, which would lead men into darkness.  He had been well
acquainted with De Freston and Latimer, Notcote and Bailee, and many
more in the town previous to his appearing among them as an advocate
for their religious liberties.

He was grown a bold man, strong in confidence of the rectitude of the
cause he was advocating.

Intimate as he was with Hugh Latimer, the after celebrated martyr,
cousin to William Latimer, of Ipswich, it was at the house of the
latter, which Daundy and De Freston had obtained from Antony
Wingfield, that Bilney, Arthur, John of Alneshborne, and John Bale,
so often held learned, sound, and judicious disquisitions concerning
the errors then so prevalent in matters of faith and duty.

Of far too high a character for anything that was seditious,
inflammatory, or even despiteful of dignities, these truly gifted men
looked only at the truth, as laid down in the Revelation of God, and
applying their hearts to God in prayer, that their understandings
might be opened, they beheld, with light as clear as the sun in broad
day, all the fooleries then practised to deceive; the pomposities of
the processions to the shrines of saints, and all the tinsel flummery
of an external parade of devotion which imposed upon the senses, and
filled the minds of the people with fancies.

Thomas, Arthur, and Bilney were cited to appear before the Cardinal,
at the Chapter House in Westminster.

Nothing could equal the rage of the friars at Ipswich against Bilney.
He had assembled before him a multitude of hearers to whom he exposed
in clear and concise language the distinction between the duties of
obedience to God and obedience to man.

He cut them to the heart when he told them that in the various
protestations they made to the images, and the offerings they made to
them, they were serving senseless devils and not God: that though in
all legal matters submission even unto death was a duty, yet nothing
ought to hinder them from protesting against idolatry, in matters of
faith and good works; and that obedience to man, when in direct
opposition to God's commands was, however urgent that command, not to
be complied with.

He instanced Daniel, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, over all of
whom God had power, so that they suffered no injury.

But if they had, if they had as the sufferers for Christianity been
burnt to death, or been devoured by lions, their duty was to adhere
to the truth, and yet not rebel against the lawfully constituted
authorities of the realm.

He proved that the sins of idolatry in the palmy days of Babylon,
were as nothing compared with those existing in his day.  A
Nebuchadnezzar in Babylon could exclaim: 'I thought it good to show
the signs and wonders that the high God hath wrought toward me.  How
great are his signs! how mighty are his wonders, his kingdom is an
everlasting kingdom, and his dominion is from generation to
generation.'

But in his day, people were to confess that the Pope hath the supreme
authority, and that his mandates are above the commands of God; and
that the Virgin Mary is an object of worship even in heaven; and,
therefore, must be so upon earth.

Men marvelled, indeed, at the plain, strong, and conclusive arguments
which this enlightened man brought forward to prove the wickedness of
that spiritual Babylon in which he who called himself the father of
princes sat enthroned.

He told them that they would even in that chapel see the rage of the
Popish priests presently displayed: and had enough to do to restrain
the people from rebellion, when the Bailiff, Prior Brown, and the
Dominican Friars, entered the congregation, seized him, and conveyed
him to prison.

His affectionate appeal to them to possess their souls in patience,
and to submit even as he did, was more touching than even his strong
and forcible doctrine against the superstitions of his country.

He was taken to London, and there, like Peter, he showed at first the
weakness of his flesh, and, as is well known, through many terrors,
was induced to recant; but his after sufferings were infinitely
greater; his conscientious soul was troubled to the very depths of
chaotic darkness, until, as the heavenly-minded Cranmer afterwards
did, he again stepped forth from his hades of death, to shine
conspicuous in faith and martyrdom.

It is not the object of these pages to show the sufferings of
martyrs, though here and there to introduce a word of admiration of
their constancy will not be found irrelevant to the subject of
Freston Tower.

It is said by some, that the great Cardinal was not so severe a bigot
as Sir Thomas More, Cuthbert Tonstall, Nix, Bishop of Norwich,
Gardiner, and others.  Severity, however, he did use, and issued his
mandates to his inquisitors to search out all suspected Lutherans and
summon them to London.

His early disciplinarian was by his order confined, though not for
the faith, by the space of four years.  Sir Amias Pawlet felt the
weight of his revenge, but by bending to the great man's vanity, he
obtained his release.  The Cardinal, however, was much more severe
than Sir Amias was to him.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE ARREST.

Amongst those who were considered disaffected to the church,
complaints were made to Nix, Bishop of Norwich, that Lord De Freston
of Freston was a notorious heretic; that he fostered Bilney, Arthur,
Bale, Latimer, and half the seditiously disposed, and spoke
disrespectfully of the Cardinal as Legate, and accused him of
depravity.

It is one thing to be accused of a crime, and another to be guilty of
it.  Fear under an accusation lest the world should think there might
be some truth or foundation for the report, has made many an innocent
person shrink from defending himself.

But De Freston, conscious of his loyalty, integrity, faith, and good
intentions, received the news of his impeachment without any fear of
consequences.

Wentworth's orders were taken by the bailiffs and constables to seize
the body of De Freston of Freston, and convey him without any further
let or hindrance into my lord's court at Westminster.

All Ipswich was in a commotion at the intelligence.  The reformers
rose and formed a formidable body to go to Freston.

Some talked of pulling down Bourne Bridge, by which the officers of
attachment were to proceed, and a riot would have taken place but for
the interference of the junior Mr. Daundy, who was then as
influential as his father had previously been, and who, in this
instance, displayed the courage and wisdom of a good man.  As it was,
he could scarcely prevent the mob from impeding the progress of
Wentworth to Freston Tower.

Bourne Bridge, which until the year previous, had been but a narrow
horse-bridge, had been enlarged for heavy carriages, and was then a
stout brick and stone structure.  The beginning of riot was only
required to have it soon levelled with the Orwell.

Good sense, however, prevailed, and the multitude, though
accompanying the Bailiff and messengers to arrest De Freston, were
overruled and persuaded to keep order and submit.

It was not until they were told that any rioting on their parts would
probably prove fatal to the cause of De Freston, that they subsided
into a settled determination to show their respect to that good man,
by not giving way to the vengeance of popular excitement.

De Freston and his friends were seated in the tower, conversing about
the early days of the Cardinal, and calling to mind his youthful
vivacity, his liberality of opinion, his love, his philanthropy, his
erudition, his distinguished talents, and his wonderful advance to
power, when Ellen espied the people coming in a mass along the shore,
and with astonishment exclaimed:

'All Ipswich is coming to the tower!'

The friends looked out of the bay window, and a sudden paleness
spread over the face of the father, as he said to his daughter:

'Depend upon it, Ellen, they are coming for me.'

'For what, father?'

'To take me to prison.  I can see the scarlet robe of authority which
the Lord Wentworth wears, and I have known too well his marked
displeasure against me, not to perceive that such a multitude would
not be at his heels, if he did not come upon some obnoxious matter
concerning the reformers.

'He is active and generous by nature; but of such an absolute and
fiery disposition, that whereinsoever he conceives an offence, he is
sure to put the law in execution without mercy.  Hark!  I can hear
their murmurs! open the window!'

It was done, and distinctly the sound of voices, raised is short and
gibing tones could be distinguished, and as they drew near,

'Shame! shame to the Cardinal!'

'Long live his noble patron!'

'Success to the Reformers!  Hail to the truth!'

And 'Down with persecutors!' came sweeping upon the wind to the ears
of the terrified Ellen.

'Oh, my dear father! will you not fly whilst there is time?  Cross
the waters to Fastolf's Halls.  Take ship, and avoid a
dungeon--perhaps the stake, oh! my father!'

'Hush! my child, calm thyself.  Fear not, put thy trust in God.  Have
faith in Him.  It is too late to flee, and too late in life for me to
be afraid of death.  Hush! hush!'

'But a dungeon! a dungeon! four years' imprisonment like that of Sir
Amias Pawlet!  Oh! my father, I cannot bear the thought of it.'

'I suffer, my child, nothing for myself, but only for the thought of
thee.  But let us not judge too prematurely.  Come, let us descend to
the castle, and if they do take me, let them take me prepared.  Come,
child, your arm.  William, is it not best to be resigned?'

Latimer's spirit was too full of agitation to reply as he could wish.
He felt a sudden fearfulness which made him think it was no easy
thing to be a martyr.  He suppressed the bitterness of his feelings,
and followed his dear friends to the castle.

It was not long before acclamations reached their ears, and coming
from the very vicinity of the walls; and the commissioner, with his
authority, soon entered the court.

De Freston received them courteously; he looked at their credentials.
The seal of authority was upon them and he submitted.

'As thou art thyself obedient to our authority, canst thou not warn
thy people of disobedience?' said Wentworth.

'I will do what I can,' and what he said and did, proved sufficient;
for the multitude became as patient as a child, and submitted to the
guidance of him whom they respected.

Lord De Freston had a severe struggle with his daughter in which she
proved successful.  She determined to accompany her father, together
with her husband, to London.

She did so, of which the next chapter will give more ample detail.

  'She was a daughter and a wife,
  Loving her father, and beloved through life.




CHAPTER XXXV.

THE LETTER.

Nothing but the calm wisdom of De Freston could prevent an outbreak.
The people of Ipswich and its vicinity were so attached to him, that,
had not Daundy been there to exercise his influence and control over
his fellow-townsmen, the Cardinal's mandate would not have been
carried into execution without violence.

But De Freston had discreet friends who offered to be bound with and
for him, but he would hear of none so committing themselves.  He was
content when Wentworth consented that his son-in-law and his lovely
daughter should accompany him.

She also accounted it an honor to be able to share her father's
afflictions.  Her principles were of that pure and holy kind, they
would not shrink in the hour of trial from filial affection.  She
regarded the fifth commandment of God, by the grace which she
received so to do, and was fully determined to suffer with her
father, let the penalty be what it might.

Father and daughter were indeed Christians.  They knew how to suffer
for the truth's sake, as will appear by their conversation on the
evening of their arrival and detention at Westminster, by order of
Tonstal, Bishop of London.

Lodged in a mean apartment, ill-becoming their respectability in the
eyes of men, it was for that daughter, by the power of that quiet,
commanding interest which her virtuous carriage and external
appearance claimed, to secure for her father better treatment than he
would otherwise have received.

For herself, she would have written nothing to the great man: but
when did a daughter's piety fail in behalf of a father, when
innocence and a righteous cause demanded her exertion?

Where a son might have failed she succeeded, as the sequel will show,
to Wolsey's honor and the development of the best feelings of his
heart.

She insisted upon writing a letter to the Cardinal.

'Tell the keeper of this prison,' she said, 'that I insist upon
seeing him.'

One of the creatures of Tonstal made his appearance.

'Is your master, the Bishop, to be seen?'

'My lord may be seen at proper hours, but not at this time.'

'Can you convey a letter to the Cardinal?'

'From whom?'

'From me, sir.'

'I cannot have any communication conveyed to the Cardinal from you
father without the Bishop's previous knowledge.  But for you, lady,
as you are not in custody, I can send a messenger.'

'Can you furnish me with pen and paper?'

'They shall be at your command; but will you retire into my private
apartments for such a purpose?'

'I thank you for the offer; but I will write here.'

'I fear, if you do, I shall have to send it first to the Bishop of
London for his inspection, as it will be issued direct from the
prisoner's presence.'

'Then will I accompany you for such a period as may be sufficient for
my purpose.  I will be soon with you again, dearest father.'

'For what purpose, my daughter,' added De Freston, upon whom years
had begun to make their accustomed ravages, 'will you write to the
great man?  Let me be content without your making any humiliating
concessions for me.  I am old, and in a common course of nature must
soon depart this life.  Degrade me not, my daughter, by any
compromise of your own dignity, for the ephemeral phantom of this
man's dominion.  We have had proof enough that he thinks nothing
about us, or he would not have forgotten, for so many years, his old
friends and companions in Freston Tower.  Write to him not, but let
all things proceed as if we were strangers to him.'

'You may safely trust your honor, my dear father, to my keeping.
Fear not, for one moment, that I should write anything derogatory to
the nicest sense of Christian delicacy, nor that I should court even
the Cardinal's smiles at the expense of integrity.  I will not
compromise faith, truth, or righteousness.  But human greatness,
dearest father, is sometimes misrepresented, and we may have wronged
him--even the friend we knew when he was young--and may have
attributed false motives to those actions which regard ourselves.
Wolsey may not really be insensible to the truth as we ourselves
profess it, and may be ignorant of our being brought to London.  I
cannot think the Cardinal can so far forget us as to neglect us in
our necessity.'

'Ah, my daughter, power and greatness are dangerous possessions,
where the heart is hardened beyond the calls of nature, grace, or
gratitude.  He who could revenge an insult, after years of daily
prayer himself to be forgiven, is not a likely man to liberate even
an old friend if he finds him an opponent.  Wolsey knows our
sentiments.  Did he spare Sir Amias Pawlet?  No.  How then can we
hope for anything but justice, one-sided justice, from the Cardinal?
Severity and injustice will be shown to us as heretics, and we shall
be rejected, and--'

'Hold, hold, dear father; I am ready to suffer with you, upon any
matter of faith and duty; but let us not condemn his greatness merely
because we may appear to have been neglected by him.  He must have
had his great mind so fully occupied even with the King's business,
that we may have been overlooked.  I have still some returning regard
for the friend of my youth; and, though Latimer may not forgive him,
I am sure he will forgive me for saying I forgive him.  Trust me,
dear father, trust me!  Farewell for an hour.  Latimer is gone to
seek a lodging, as he is not permitted to remain here.  I may,
however, by the indulgence of the gaoler, on account of the
increasing infirmities of your years, wait upon you.  I will write to
the Cardinal.  There can be no hurt in it.'

'Go, my child, thou art confident of the innocence of thine
intentions, and of the perfect justice of thy cause.  I will add no
more.  Go!'

She retired into the gaoler's private apartments, and wrote her
letter in simple dignity of style, according to the method of the day.


'MY LORD CARDINAL,

'This comeyth unto thee by suffrance of the gaoler in Cannon Street
prison, unto which place, committed by thine order through Lord
Wentworth, the commissioner for the suppression of heresies and
heretics, my venerable father, thy former patron, is now thy prisoner.

'I say thy prisoner, but presume it to be but nominally thine, and
really the prisoner of the Bishop of London.  I cannot think that
thou wouldst permit an old man, and a steadfast friend of thy youth,
to sleep in a dungeon, whilst thou dost occupy a palace.

'Thou knowest well the free mynde of my father, and canst best judge
of his state who did ever open unto thee the store-house of his
intellect, and did keep nothing from thee, which his readyne and his
studye could attain.

'I pray thee, my Lord Cardinal, remember that thy greatness can never
better become thee than when thou dost shield from disdain and
dyscomfort those who can no longer defend themselves.  The aged man,
now growing infirm, but only in bodye, doth well remember thy younger
days; and I, his daughter, whom thou dydst once call thy friend, am
unwilling to thynke thou canst forget us.

'Tears do alter moste men, but Christian men never lose the goodness
of their hearts, but the rather, as their years do increase, they
themselves do grow better-hearted.

'The Lord De Freston, though grey and thyn, ys not thyn within, for
he ys stout-hearted and as warm in spirit as he ever was.

'He would cheerfullie endure even the cold of a prison, not would
have me wryte to thee now in any tone of complaynte; but nathlesse I
do, for I do see an aged parent suffrynge for the want of better fare
and lodgment; and I do not think so bad of thee as to beleeve that
thou art so steeled against all righteousnesse, as to permit an ould
friend to be so discomfytted.

'By thy authority, we myght procure better lodgment, if thou wouldst
gyve an orderre for our permission to seek them; gyving, as we would
cheerfully do, our honourable word to appear at any hour before thee,
my Lord Cardinal, or thy high Commissioner touching any inquiries as
to our accusation.

'My Lord will readily forgive a daughter's anxiety for one who has
ever been all in all to her from her infancy, and attribute thys
appeel to filial affection, as well as to a certayne sense she has of
Cardinal Wolsey's greatness, that he will not deny her thys very
symple requeste, to be permyttede to convey her father to some better
lodgment.

'This favour granted, will give comfort to your humble servant,

  'ELLEN DE FRESTON, now
  'ELLEN LATYMER.'


This letter was handed to the Cardinal the last day he ever presided
in Westminster Hall as Lord Chancellor.

It was the first day of Michaelmas Term, 1529, when he had put forth
all his accustomed pomp to go from York Place to Westminster.  It was
on that very day Ellen De Freston's letter was handed to him in Court.

The Cardinal was observed to turn deadly pale, and some thought he
had received a letter from Mistress Anne, conveying some more direct
intimation of his downfall.

What were the depths of his real thoughts no one could tell.  He
wrote on a scrap of paper--'Summon Cavendish.'

To him he gave commission to go and bring to his house forthwith Lord
De Freston and all his retinue; and 'let one and all,' said he, 'be
well entreated.'

It was observed that Wolsey gave that day such evidences of
abstraction of mind as bordered upon aberration.  Men prognosticated
his speedy decline, and plenty there were among the nobles who were
glad to give him a kick, to let him see how truly they despised the
man whom they once had feared.

When Ellen returned to her parent's prison she narrated, as nearly as
she could, the words she had made use of; but the old man, Lord De
Freston, shook his head, and said--

'Men forget their benefactors when ambition has brought them to the
pinnacle of fame.  Pride likes not to remember it had a patron.  Good
men only take pleasure in looking upon the past, and calling to mind
the ministering kindnesses of any, rich or poor, whoever they might
be, that gave them even a cup of cold water in the day of their
necessity.  The Cardinal has too much pride.'

'Wait, dear father, the return of the messenger.  We can but then
moralize upon the hardness of the human heart.  Let us pray that God
will not desert him, though he be so great a man.  Something whispers
to my heart that we have wronged him.'

O! when did female pity fail to hope the best of one for whom it has
felt even the slightest regard?

Ellen had a wise heart, a kind spirit--the very soul of purity and
love--which would not think evil until proof should be given of a
hardened heart; and she was not deceived.




CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE SUMMONS.

Whilst they were yet talking of the impenetrable nature of pride, and
of all they had heard of Wolsey's magnificence, Cavendish arrived to
conduct them all to the Cardinal's palace of York Place.

Ellen did but look one moment's triumph before she checked herself
for the impiety.  She said to herself, 'My father knows not what I
do; and it is impious to triumph over a parent's weakness.'

The thought of speech, which might injudiciously have come forth as
it might have done from thousands--'There, father, who is right?' was
but a momentary impression on her soul.  Christian delicacy rose
superior to all feelings of triumphant boasting, and she suppressed
the proud words which died away in her, even with the thought, before
the pure spirit of charity.

Oh, that all daughters were like her!  Where trained in holiest love
they will ever be so.

De Freston felt the delicacy of his dear child, who spake not one
word of reproach to him, but looked all readiness to accompany him,
either to the dungeons of an inquisition, or to the palace of a
cardinal.

Circumstances reprove sometimes the best of men, or rather make them
reprove themselves for things which they had too hastily decided
upon.  So was it with Lord De Freston.  He felt he might be wrong,
though he was most marvellously astonished at the change which he
considered must have come over the Cardinal.

He received those gentle and generous attentions from Cavendish which
none but he could so feelingly exercise.  He knew how to behave
wisely in prosperous or adverse circumstances, and how to qualify the
duties of an exalted position with all the devotion of a servant.

There was such sincerity in Cavendish and his proceedings, both for
and with his master, as laid the foundation of his family greatness
for ages.  In nothing was he greater than in speaking his master
fair, when his fortunes had deserted him.  The servant who does his
duty faithfully, is quite free from the sins of his master.

'My lord desired me expressly,' said Cavendish, 'to inquire in what
way he could serve you.  He insists upon your being his guest, and
will hear of no denial.  I am a stranger to you, and you equally the
same to me, as I have never chanced to hear my master mention you.'

De Freston smiled as he replied--

'In that last sentence we are not surprised.  Your master has been
known to us from his youth; and when he was small in reputation, he
esteemed me for my support.  I only marvel that, now he is a great
man, he should remember us at all.'

'My master and greatness have been long familiar.  He is a prince in
all things but a crown; yet his Cardinal's hat is more exalted than
the King's crown, and goes before him to his duties.  I am quite sure
he remembers you pleasantly, or I should not have received such
special orders to conduct your lordship, with all ceremony, to his
palace.  You, and all your retainers, and whomsoever you may choose
to accompany you, are to be received at York Place.  Will you order
all your retinue to be in readiness?'

'Alas, young man, you know not how few they be.  This, my daughter,
is my only mistress, the wife of William Latimer.  Her husband is
with her.  He was an old college companion of thy master's.  Dost
thou think he will receive him?'

'Even as a king would!  You will yourselves be the witness, for my
master is, of all men, the most courteous.  Towards every one he is
gentle and dignified, and has the singular gift of forgetting manners
to no one.  I will answer for Master Latimer's most grateful
reception.'

'He comes, my son, to speak for himself.'

Latimer bowed to the stranger, and proceeded to explain to his wife
that he had obtained lodgings close at hand, and should be able to be
in constant attendance; when she explained that they were all to go
to York Place; that the gentleman then before him was Wolsey's
secretary, and sent on purpose to conduct them.

He looked inexpressible things at Ellen, who assured him it was the
fact, and that she had made up her mind to go, and should be glad of
his company.

'"Will wonders ever cease?" my dear, has been the exclamation from
the foundation of Babylon, and will be an exclamation when old
England shall cease to have a Cardinal, and Rome a Pope; but that
Thomas Wolsey should at length condescend to notice us after so many
years!--surely he and his fortunes must be about to change together.'

'And if they are, Master Latimer, let me advertise thee that they may
change for the better, even in the opinion of you all.'

It was then that surprise overcame them all, and the question arose:
'Will Wolsey become a Reformer?'

'He is a reformer of many things; and if the King's favor and the
King's disfavor be both silent, my master will be a greater man than
ever.'

'Thou art a wise young man, Mr. Cavendish, and canst see the ticklish
nature of these times; but those two "ifs" are like the base pillars,
I fear, upon which the Colossus of Rhodes stood, which the earthquake
precipitated into the sea.  They cannot bear the weight of Wolsey.
Favor falling, disfavor will remain, but the Cardinal cannot stand on
one leg, and that a bad one.  A subject's head in these days, once in
disrepute, will soon roll off his shoulders.  But come, my child, let
us away.  Time flies, and our new acquaintance must be glad to
dispose of us according to his instructions.  I rejoice always.'

'We are at your command, sir.'

  'So then again strange trials will increase.
  And wonders, ever new, will never cease.'




CHAPTER XXXVII

THE ARRIVAL.

It was in the evening of that memorable day when Wolsey had sat long
in state at Westminster, and had been detained by causes which he was
anxious, whilst he had the seals, to see concluded, that Cavendish
conducted the prisoner, as De Freston really was, to York Place.

He had sent one of his master's servants to apprise Wolsey's
chamberlain, and master of ceremonies, and household servants, of the
expected arrival of guests of distinction; but who they were to be,
and how many, he had not revealed.  He was ignorant himself; but,
from his taking twelve of his master's men, with mules and sumpter
mules, it, was evident he expected rather a cavalcade and procession,
than merely to have to conduct an old man, his daughter, and her
husband.

All Wolsey's household had been upon the '_qui vive_,' and were, no
doubt, as great men's servants frequently are, disappointed at no
great state arrivals, when they saw so small a party approaching.

They were ushered, with quiet gentleness, into the great
reception-hall, where one of the strangest adventures--as unexpected
as unwished-for--presented itself to view.  There stood, full in her
sight, as Ellen entered the Alice De Clinton, together with two
female attendants near her.

What a picture did these females then present to view.  Had not the
description been given from ocular demonstration, imagination could
not have depicted the surprise.

Neither Alice nor Ellen had seen each other, and heard but little of
one another, for years.  They had been friends in their early days.
One, at least, had been a warm-hearted one.  Both had been intimate;
but there stood Alice to receive Ellen in the Cardinal's house at
York Place; and there entered Ellen, Lord De Freston, and Latimer
into the presence of one who had left upon their memories a chilling
impression of hauteur, which formerly disgusted them, and did not, at
that moment, allow of any softening sensation for better impression.

Of all conjunctions, of all positions in which persons are
unexpectedly placed, the memory of rivalship, in which personal
dislike more than any honest contention or provocation had been the
cause of disunion, is the most difficult feeling to disperse.

Surprise was for the moment the expression of every face.  Even
Ellen's confessed it, and there was nothing pleasurable in the
meeting.  As to Alice, if an apparition had risen out of the earth,
she could not have been more petrified with astonishment.  Her cold,
dark eye, wide open, and fixed upon Ellen, told, by its intensely
rivetted stare, that it saw too much--more than it could bear; and
yet it dwelt with hard, cruel, inquisitive firmness on the party
before it.

Is it possible to meet a person who hates you--literally hates you
even unto death, and makes you know it by the very contempt of the
eye--and not to feel a shudder at the enormity of hatred?

Here stood, confronted in the forms of female self-possession, the
dignity of the highest worldly pride, and the dignity of true
humility.  The one conscious of being introduced to the other by the
very power to which alone that other had been known to bend.

Here was Alice De Clinton, the proudest spirit that ever daughter of
Eve possessed, and Ellen Latimer, at once the meekest and humblest,
but, at the same time, the most faithful spirit, conscious of duty
and love, met to confront each other by the order of the Cardinal,
who, at the time he gave the invitation, was so engrossed with the
affairs of his declining grandeur, that he forgot the opposing powers
meeting in his mansion.

'Coming events cast their shadows before them.'  The downfall of the
favorite was precipitate enough; but the downfall of a portion of his
domestic arrangements preceded it.  The Cardinal had no motive in his
heart but that which softened pride is apt to feel when it sees
greatness fallen before it.  Wolsey saw only Lord De Freston in
distress, and his lovely daughter, the early companion of his
youthful day, appealing to him for help.

Through the vista of years gone by, he had never forgotten, though
ambition had diverted his mind, the learned Ellen and Freston Tower;
and though those years had, as an early dream, visited him with
pleasure and with pain, yet they recurred to him now, in his decline,
with a degree of softness and tenderness which positively subdued the
grand and lofty-minded man from ambition to affection.

That can scarcely be called a subduing.  It ought to be named an
exaltation; but the world, which judged then, as now, that human
weakness displayed in a great man is worthy of condemnation, did not
spare the declaration that the mighty Cardinal had lost his mind.

He was, indeed, greatly affected by the arrival of these early
friends at such a time, and the abstruse decisions of the law were
then most irksome.  He determined, however, to see all cases somehow
or other decided which could be brought before him, and he remained a
longer time than usual upon his judgment seat.

Time enough, indeed, to let the ladies see each other, and become
acquainted before he should return.

The haughty Alice De Clinton had grown more proud, more portly, more
stately, since she had consented to abide with the Cardinal, than she
was while under the roof of the Bishop of Norwich.  Report had stated
that the Cardinal, in seeking to get her made Abbess of Winton
Priory, had private motives of self-gratification therein, and the
ear of royalty had been so whispered into, as well as advertised
thereof loudly, that Henry's letter to the Cardinal upon that subject
still exists, and certainly was the occasion of her not being
appointed to that situation which no one was better fitted to fill
than such a cold, heartless, stern, unnatural, and superstitious
woman as Alice De Clinton.

De Freston and his daughter had been infected with the report before
they stood confronted with the lady herself; so that it did not add
to their comfort when they saw her in the position of domestic
hostess in York Place.

They were relieved, however, from her presence by one of those
haughty departures, which, in her early years, she had shown to the
guests of Goldwell.  She could not fail to recognise De Freston,
Latimer, and Ellen; but her mind was made up in a moment, namely,
that York Place should not hold her and her rival at the same time.

Turning to Cavendish, she promptly asked--

'Did your master know who they were he had ordered you to conduct
hither?'

'He did, lady, but I did not.'

'How long will it be before the Cardinal returns?'

'I cannot tell, my lady.'

'Then be pleased, sir, to tell me when he does return.  Dames, show
that lady to the apartments prepared for her, and then wait upon me.
Cavendish, remember your duty.'

The haughty lady glided from the hall without one word of charity, or
look of kindness, or even an intimation of respect for any one of the
party.

Her pride, however, could injure no one but herself.  She retired, a
specimen of fallen Lucifer's dignity, whilst Ellen retired humbled to
the dust by the exhibition of such an unwarrantable indignity.

A few minutes' prayer restored the disturbed mind of the latter, and
as she was fatigued and overcome by the circumstances which then
crowded upon her, she requested the femme-de-chambre to let the
Cardinal know that she was not equal to the ceremony of introduction
to him till the morrow.  She wished to be conducted to her father's
apartment before she retired.

It need not be stated what a sweet hour of communion those dear souls
had, even in that place.  Oh! how calm is true piety: and what a
disturbed, restless being is man without it.  The dear friends who
talked of their then singular position, spake but little of the
haughty Alice.  The little they did speak was spoken in charity, and
without any bitterness, saving only of regret for her sake.  They
parted, praying for blessings upon each other.

What a position was it for all parties!  It was the very climax of
circumstances, and of what it was to be productive none could divine.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE DEPARTURE.

Cavendish attended upon his master as the long retinue of state
arrived on the very last day they ever formed a cavalcade for him as
the Chancellor.

'Have all things been attended to, my faithful servant?' said Wolsey,
as, dismissing his retainers, Cavendish alone conducted his master to
his private room.  There was a more than common suavity in the
Cardinal's manner, a greater unbending than he had before witnessed
in him; a more than usual sweetness, even approaching to tenderness.

'All is done as my lord desired; but Mistress Alice requested me to
acquaint her with my lord's return.'

'Ha! ha!  I forgot; yes, Cavendish, I forgot.  Well, it is well.  How
could I forget?  Go! yes, go! the sooner the better.  I am as anxious
to see Mistress Alice, as she can be to see me.  I am at leisure.
Quick, Cavendish.  I am in my own house.  Perhaps so! may be not--or
may be so.  Go, good Cavendish! summon the Lady Alice.'

It was evident that Wolsey had, in his own remembrance of his
friends, forgotten that Alice was their enemy.  Had he thought of
their early feud he would probably have devised some other plan of
accommodation for his friend.  It is a painful one to any man to
entertain guests when the mistress of his house is set against them.

These things came as things unwelcome to a great man's mind; but the
greatest minds are frequently found to have to bend before female
caprice.  A good man is as jealous of hospitality being shown to his
friends, as he is fond of domestic happiness; and she is a poor
partner who receives not her lord's friends with complacency.

A truly wise wife never compromises her husband's dignity or her own,
by behaving with incivility towards her husband's visitors.  But when
a servant assumes the position of a wife, and treats her master's
visitors with contempt, it is time for her to be discharged.

Alice De Clinton occupied a superior station in the Cardinal's
family, and did the honors of his house, where female interference
was required, with the nicest propriety.  She was, however, accounted
a very cold, unbending person, though to the Cardinal himself all
obsequiousness.

Her very manner to others gave occasion to the invention of evil
reports concerning her; and when a female is haughty, and knows not
how to conduct herself with gentleness, the world is glad to hear
unfavorable reports of her, and as readily believes them.  Even
frailties are pitied where humility is not lost.

Alice entered the room where the Cardinal was reposing after the
fatigues and anxieties of business, relaxed both in mind and body.
He could not fail, however, to be struck with the singular appearance
of the lady.

She came in her riding costume.  The Cardinal marvelled, and well he
might; but he was soon enlightened.

'You look astonished, my lord, to see me prepared for travel; but I
am come to speak my mind, and to bid you farewell for ever.  I little
thought that I should ever be called upon to receive pestilent
heretics in the house of Cardinal Wolsey; heretics, too, at this very
moment under the ban of Tonstall, Bishop of London, summoned to
appear before my Lord Cardinal; and to be treated forthwith as if
they were the very best Catholics in the land.  And who are these, my
lord's guests?  Have not I often told my lord that they were the
greatest enemies he had?  Have I not, years gone by, proclaimed them
to be what they are now brought under my lord's hands for; and are
they to come here and to expect favor from him who is appointed by
the head of the church to suppress and punish them?

'I ever thought that my lord made advances to my friendship through
the desire to refute and put down the enemies of the church.  I ever
thought that the wisdom, talents, learning, and power with which the
favored of the Pope was gifted, were to be exercised for the honor of
the chief Pontiff, and for the welfare of all good Catholics in this
land.

'How is it, then, that one who has been bound by ties of friendship,
based upon such principle, should now be called upon to act upon the
contrary side?  Is the memory of private regard to be weighed in the
balance with the public good?  And am I, who was expecting to be an
Abbess of my lord's appointment, to be his panderer to a taste for
heresy?

'Forbid it!  O, shade of Goldwell!  O, deceased Bishop! thou didst
confide me to the guardianship of one whom thou didst deem a friend
to the church, and lo! that one turns upon his charge, and commands
her to receive, as her friends, these heretics against Rome.

'But my lord must be obtuse--my lord must be changed--my lord must be
about to lose all his dignity, and to become a driveller, a poor,
weak, mean-spirited man, and no longer the great Cardinal; the Lord
Chancellor--the most learned Bishop, the future candidate for the
Popedom, the great friend of Christendom.

'At all events, my lord cannot expect me to remain in his house under
existing circumstances.  No, my lord, no; perish York House, before I
sleep in it whilst heretics lie under the same roof.  Heretics, too,
who once dared to insult my guardian, and now affront me in this
house.

'Oh, my Lord Cardinal, this is a blow I did not expect from you.
Farewell, my lord's greatness; farewell, my hopes of preferment in
your grace's mansion.  When the days of heresy come, it will be
remembered that the Cardinal of York fostered them in his own palace;
but let it be remembered, also, that she who dwelt with him as his
friend for twenty years, on that day took her departure.

'I shall return to Goldwell Hall, near the seat of my lord's birth,
and in that very house where I first knew him, shall I learn to
forget him, My Lord Cardinal--Farewell!'

'Alice De Clinton, hear me.  One word.  Nay--I insist upon giving you
an explanation.  Care and I have of late been close companions.
Greatness and sorrow have been closeted in my soul for these many
days.  Dignity and distress have been accompanying my lot wheresoever
I have gone; and now, Mistress Alice, that I return home, I find that
hospitality and heresy are to be the cause of separating Cardinal
Wolsey and Alice De Clinton for ever.

'This is what I call a domestic consummation of my calamitous career.
I did not think of heresy.  I did not think of animosity.  I forgot
your distaste, and I thought only of my former acquaintance with
these friends when I was poor and they were rich; and should I desert
them in distress, when the only opportunity I have, or ever may have,
in life, to repay them for their early kindness to me, is to befriend
them in the day of adversity.

'Shall I forget, Alice, that I am a man, because I am a Cardinal?  Is
every feeling of gratitude to be totally extinct towards those who
have watched over my early years, and helped me in my studies, and
befriended me?

'Oh!  Alice, if we forget those who have been kind to us in our
youth, God will forget us when we grow old.  Read that letter from
Ellen, and let your heart feel its simplicity and truth, and then say
whether I ought or ought not to have exercised the duties of
hospitality.'

Alice read it.  Yes, she read it.  The tears started in her eyes, but
they were tears of bitterness, not of love; for love had no share in
her proud heart.  It was ready to burst with vexation; but without
pity.  She read it--she returned it; and she looked as if she felt a
sovereign contempt for the Cardinal's weakness; but she replied--

'My lord, it is not usual for a judge to entertain his prisoner
before he is honorably acquitted; and very seldom then.  Judges
seldom have innocent persons tried before them.  They know well that
they are set on high for the punishment of evil men, and not for the
encouragement of them.

'My Lord Cardinal is now the judge of this heretic De Freston.  Can
there be any doubt of his acquittal when he can receive him before
trial, and treat him as his most intimate friend?

'My lord has grown wonderfully tender all at once; and merely from
this letter.  I see nothing in it but the language of a beggar and an
impostor--who is now, through my lord's weakness, enjoying the
beggar's joy, the glorious reward of imposition; lodging, food, and
comfort.

'They smile at your humility, they laugh at your divinity, and they
applaud with vociferous exclamations your charity.  But how will my
lord acquit himself before the Propaganda?  All the house of
Cardinals will cry out "Wolsey is a heretic."  You will acquit De
Freston; you must do it for Ellen's sake.  Sweet letter, that can
make even a Cardinal merciful.

'I leave, my lord.  I have a friend's house to go to.  I shall at
once to Tonstall, and when he hears that his prisoners are your
guests, he will at least rejoice that one of your Grace's free
servants has sought his protection.  Farewell, my Lord Cardinal.'

There are moments in a man's life, even when he is beaten down by his
enemies, when his bold spirit is prompt to speak righteousness;
witness Wolsey's speech to Suffolk, in reply to his reproach about
Cardinals in England.  'If I poor Cardinal had not been, you would
not at this present have had a head on your shoulders;' so witness
the Cardinal's cool but gentle reply to Mistress Alice De Clinton.

I would rather exercise hospitality to the distressed than punish
heretics.  The former has pleasure here, and the promise of reward
hereafter; the latter was nothing but pain, and great doubt of any
satisfaction hereafter.  If, therefore, Mistress Alice, the price of
thy remaining be the forfeit of the duties of hospitality, I would
rather thy departure than thy residence.  Farewell.'

A haughty woman cut to the quick by calm wisdom is such a mortified
spectacle of discomfort, that it is well she should be hidden in
darkness as soon as possible.  Her retirement, the more solitary the
more congenial.  She may brood over her possessions, her hardships,
her mortifications, her injuries, her disappointments; but she can
never attain any happiness without a change of heart.  If that should
come, she will be a joyful wonder to herself; if not, she will be a
miserable wretch, and live and die unhappy.

Alice De Clinton departed, leaving York Place and its inmates to a
day of rest.

The Cardinal summoned Cavendish after the lady's departure; and to
him he most graciously unburdened his mind.

'I shall not go out at all to-morrow, but remain entirely within my
own walls; but summon the Bishop of London by authority of mine hand,
to wait upon me at ten o'clock to-morrow.  Remember, Cavendish, that
I do not wish it to be known, the cause why I remain at home
to-morrow.  I have old friends, dear friends, whom I have deserted
for many years now sleeping beneath my roof.  Let the utmost respect
be paid them; for if it were the last day of my grandeur, I could not
devote it to a better purpose than the revival of friendship.

'Alas, Master Cavendish, I fear my fortunes will not long stand.  How
happy I ought to feel that they have stood thus long, so as to permit
me to gratify the friends of my youth.  Mistress Alice is gone; and I
know not how it is, I feel as if a load of care was gone along with
her.

'Thou shall sup with me this night.  My aged friend did well to
retire.  I shall have much to talk to thee about; meantime prepare.'

The Cardinal never was so happy, or so truly great, as he was that
evening in speaking of all the days of his youth, and relating
anecdotes which came, as they always do come, with great grace from
great men.

  'When great men speak, the falling pin is heard,
  But when the poor--his case must be deferred.'




CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE CHANGE.

What a wonderful softening thing is adversity.  It may come in the
shape of poverty; it may come in the severity of calamity; it may
come in the loss of a friend; or it may come suddenly by seeming
accident.  But when it does really come, when the poor mortal, great
and powerful, is made to feel it--oh! how heartily does he desire the
return of his mother's tenderness, or his father's generosity.

A great man like Wolsey, a companion to one of England's proudest,
though not her best nor her worst monarch, one of superior ability,
as well as most absolute authority, was likely to feel the neglect of
such a prince; and, falling from the favor of ambition, his great
mind was softened to think of the friends of his youth.

Ambition is a bold horse; he mounts his fences well; he leaps over
walls, gates, ditches, and hedges, and goes at a slashing pace over
the country.  He requires to be well kept in hand, and not to be
pushed too hard at first.  He must be well trained, well directed,
and curbed in at first.

He is apt to be like Grey Hermit, the royal huntsman's old favorite,
so well depicted in Grant's picture of the 'Queen's Stag Hounds.'
Davis had enough to do to keep him in order for the first burst of
the hunt; for he was '_wild as the wild deer_' and threw himself over
his fences like a mad horse; but by dint of a master manager, he
would sober down into a steady pace, and 'shine at the last when all
others were in shade.'

So, affliction coming upon the ambitious man, sobers him down to the
steady realities of his work.

The Cardinal had one day's respite from the cares of pomp and state.
He had been expecting to be called upon to give up the great seal,
and well knew that when his enemies once got the advantage of him,
they would not long rest without injuring him.

He had lost his master's favor; he had loved that master.  Yes, with
all his pomp and greatness, Wolsey never was otherwise, or felt
otherwise, than a servant.  Had he obtained the summit of his
ambition, and been made Pope, he might have then assumed a very
different tone with Henry.  He would have been removed from outward
subjection; and his was master-mind enough to rule princes absolutely
under the tiara of the papal glory.

It was not to be.  The subject whom the King had exalted as his
favorite was to be an example to all England, as Napoleon was to all
the world, that power, when too much self-exalted, is to be humbled
very low before it departs, or before a man departs from it.

Wolsey perhaps never was greater than in his humiliation, when he
lost the favor of the King; and Napoleon never was greater than when
on the Rock of St. Helena.  Ambition was destroyed in them both.
Happy they whose only ambition in this life is to subdue themselves.

Experience will soon teach the proudest they are unhappy, though they
subdue kingdoms; and experience will soon prove that the humbler a
man is, so much the more he makes others happy, and promotes his own
comfort.

The Cardinal rose at his usual hour, read his despatches, answered
the messengers from various quarters, and inquired after his guests.
He sent to say that he would be happy to receive them in his own room
at nine o'clock.  In the meantime they had been supplied with all the
bountiful care of hospitality, and were themselves softened, all of
them, towards the Cardinal.

At nine o'clock the interview was to take place between him and those
early friends, whom he had been instrumental in uniting by a bond
which he would have been glad to have called his own.

There is a strange sensation in hearts long estranged coming together
again.  Even in the common intercourse of life, when accident causes
two friends to meet, between whom, in early years, the pure
friendship of social good-will had existed, how does the heart expand
with the remembrance of incidents, events, accidents, or words
wherein was no guile, but the simple fervor of youthful respect!

That heart which cannot so feel in love, will know no pleasure in the
prospect of meeting its generation when it rises from the dust.  Oh!
that ever a word or a deed should make the human heart unkind!  Men
ought to learn to love one another here, that they may be happy
hereafter.

When years have parted friends between whom love was as a precious
pearl, the very bond of the soul's peace, and a day brings them
together, it is indeed a foretaste of joy which immortal spirits only
can fully appreciate.  It is something like to a glorious,
everlasting sunshine, when clouds, and tempests, and dangers, and
deaths, and darkness, and night have passed away, and one eternal day
smiles upon the soul in bliss.

Wolsey's heart was softened by his coming fall.  It had commenced; it
was about to be severed from greatness; and no wonder that its early
impressions of love, the desire of shining in the eyes of one whom it
then accounted a marvel of acquirement to be admired by an
enlightened mind, should return with vivacity into the soul divested
of the glitter of the world.

Cardinal Wolsey had transferred his first love for Ellen to ambition.
He had now had twenty years' experience of the tortuous paths of
human greatness, and had found that the smiles of men could never
rest long upon one object; that to serve even a king, a man must
never be exalted by him, but be always ready to give up all into the
hands of the Giver.  What such a man, with such a partner for life as
Ellen, might have been, is another question--it can but be a surmise.

Ellen, however, was in his house, she whom he once had loved with a
devotion even beyond the wisdom of Solomon to comprehend; and though
another had loved her with an ardor perhaps more truly
humble--certainly not more noble--yet even at that moment Wolsey felt
that between them, though years had passed away, there was, there
must be, an honorable estimation.  He had not felt this in the day of
his pride; it was only when he was humbled that this returned to him.

It returned to him too in the sweetest way it could possibly
come--that of being a benefactor to his former benefactors.  His
hospitality, the last opportunity he ever had of showing it at York
Place, was the most gratifying to his spirit; and that day of
calmness intervening between his last presiding as Chancellor, and
his resigning the office, was spent in the happiest society he had
ever enjoyed.

The hour came for the interview.  Ellen felt it--Ellen knew the
secret of Wolsey's heart--Latimer, his friend, knew it also, though
Wolsey had believed them ignorant of what he schooled himself to
think was his weakness.  De Freston never did suppose Wolsey to have
been attached to his daughter.

It was well they had all rested a night under the same roof
previously to their interview.  It was well, also, that proud Alice
De Clinton had departed; it was well, likewise, that the Cardinal's
state affairs permitted him a day's calm, that he might be
disencumbered of his consequence.  All things favored the interview,
and the parties met with mutual respect, the sure forerunner to a
happy conversation.




CHAPTER XL.

THE INTERVIEW.

De Freston entered first, and was most graciously welcomed; Ellen
entered next, and the Cardinal's heart beat with a pulsation which
would require quicker counting than any physician could enumerate.

Yet the very man who had denied himself the slightest natural
movement of affection, so many years before, when he gave her hand to
his rival, could now seize both, and unite them with cordiality, in
which his own soul liberally rejoiced.

His first words gave indication of a good heart.

'I rejoice to see you both.  I am glad that years have not separated
you, and that I have greater felicity, as a Cardinal, in joining your
hands with my own, after the long lapse of years, than I had as a
priest, when standing at the altar of St. Lawrence.  Come, my dear
friends, be seated, and, if ye can imagine yourselves in Freston
Tower, do so.'

This was the honest, simple, undisguised language of a great heart,
and could not be heard without emotion.  Ellen and Latimer felt it,
and each thought, though they did not say it, 'Wolsey is a great man.'

De Freston thanked Wolsey for his kindness, and for the reception he
had given them.

'I have done you no kindness, but I have pleased myself; and now, to
be very candid with you, I must tell you at once that I must inquire
into the cause of your being a prisoner in London.'

'That is soon told.  You know well, Wolsey, my sentiments upon
religious matters.  I need hardly tell you that I am a Reformer--a
friend to the true church--hating, abjuring, and detesting those
dreadful doctrines of the Papacy, against which I conceive every
lover of truth should struggle with uncompromising and unconquerable
determination.

'You cannot be a stranger to my love of truth.  You know me well, and
that I have entertained Bilney, Bale, and others, whom I account
worthy of honor; men of learned and enlightened minds, instruments of
spreading the truth.

'For these things I became distasteful to some nobles, and was
accounted a disaffected member of the church, and even accused of
being a heretic.  Lord Wentworth, acting under the orders of the
Bishops of London and Norwich, and by your mandate, has seized my
person and brought me hither; but I have not offended my conscience,
and, therefore, hope to be acquitted.'

I have seen and known many abuses in the church,' replied Wolsey,
'from very early days; and had I been elected Pope of Rome, I should
have endeavored to restore the Church of Rome to her ancient purity,
and have raised her to what she truly is--the successor of St. Peter;
but that cannot be.  I have now no hopes thereof, but I am still
desirous of reforming many corruptions prevalent in that portion of
the Romish Church which abides in England.  I have punished many
priests, I have issued my mandates against all irregularities, and
will yet hope to see a great improvement in the church.

'But, at the same time, I shall not conceal from thee that I do not
approve of those heretical tenets which upstart preachers are now
everywhere disseminating.  I love the truth, and am glad to find that
yesterday thy friend Bilney recanted his bold heresies, and has
returned to the body of the church a penitent.'

'_Bilney recanted!_' was the involuntary exclamation of all.  'Bilney
recanted!

'Yes, I am informed he did penance, and stood at Paul's Cross
weeping.'

'Weep he will do,' replied De Freston, 'weep he will do, bitterly.
That man has an honest heart.  He loves truth purely for truth's
sake, and in a moment's fear he has forsaken the truth.  I am sure he
will repent of this step more than of any he ever took in his whole
life.'

Ellen wept.  She wept to see her father's earnest emotion, and she
felt as if something of life and happiness had left her.

'Let not the Lady Ellen weep,' said the Cardinal.  'I shall not
condemn thy father because he speaks boldly.  Thou needest not be
afraid; I am thy friend and his.  I pray thee, weep not.'

Tender words from great men are apt to make tears flow the faster.
Ellen's mortification was extreme; for she had hoped the firmness of
faith in this good man would not have been shaken by any terrors.
She sighed, but spake not.

It was not in Wolsey to triumph over the sufferings of any one, and
much less over those of a woman, and that woman one whom he loved in
his youth, and for whom he then felt such a sincere respect that he
would rather spare it a pang than create it one.

He was sincere in his hope that, as Bilney had been so intimate with
Lord De Freston, and had been so much admired by him, that, in
mentioning his recantation, he should prevail upon him likewise to
recant privately before Tonstall, without any further exposure.

He had not succeeded, but had rather created in that venerable
nobleman's mind an additional argument for his own firmness.

De Freston sighed and said--

'Great minds are overcome by terrors, where little minds are often
supported.  Bilney has been a leader, a master-spirit, one to whom
men have looked for example as well as precept.  I do, therefore,
grieve the more at his defalcation, and take it as a warning to
myself, lest, in the hour of adversity, I should fall away.

'O, my Lord Cardinal!  I loved that man as I used to do thyself.  I
had great hopes of him.  I had formed the highest expectations of
him, and even now I will not despair of him.'

'Nor I either; I think he will become an ornament to the church.'

'And so do I; but not to the Church of Rome.'

'To what church then?'

'To the church of Christ.'

'Is not the Church of Rome the church of Christ?'

'Not whilst she holds the doctrines of presumption instead of those
of faith; not whilst she propagates falsehood for truth; not "whilst
she loveth and maketh a lie;" not whilst she debases her communicants
by giving them half a sacrament for the whole, and even makes that
half idolatrous by her false persuasions.'

'She is one of those evils under the sun which King Solomon
saw--viz., "_a servant when he reigneth_," for she ought to be the
servant of God; but she pretends to reign with a king's dominion, and
cannot therefore be a true servant.  Thou hast sought this at my
tongue, Cardinal, and I am not ashamed thereof, neither do I ask
pardon for giving thee a plain answer.'

'I can pardon thee without thine asking; but here comes Tonstall, and
if thou wouldst return in peace to thine own dear Freston Tower, let
me advise thee to speak more cautiously before him than before one
who feels some gratitude for the past.'

'I can but speak to thee, my lord, as I would before my judge.  I
will not compromise the truth for any Bishop of London.'




CHAPTER XLI.

THE ARGUMENT.

Cuthbert Tonstall was ushered into the presence of the Cardinal, and
it was curious to see how soon the dignitary of Rome assumed that
position of manner and behaviour which even then, though declined in
royal favor, Wolsey could not forget.

They bowed reverentially to each other.  Both were eminently learned
men, and each had a great respect for letters.

'Has Bilney submitted to the orders of the church, good father?'

'He has, my lord, and is committed unto safe custody in prison to
wait thy fiat of detention or release.  He has conformed, and I have
here his written recantation, delivered by the heretic himself into
our hands.'

It was agony indeed to De Freston to recognise the handwriting of his
friend, and the tears rolled down his face as he read, line by line,
that document which told so sad a tale.  But the old man's prayer
ascended even then for such a friend.  Tonstall exchanged looks of
curiosity with the Cardinal, as to what this strong feeling could
mean.  He said--

'Thou oughtest rather to rejoice than weep at a heretic's arising
from the depths of the deluge to the safe footing of the ark of the
church.'

'I weep to think,' replied De Freston, 'that he has fallen away from
grace.

It would have been a marvel to Tonstall to find such a man in such
company--a heretic in the Cardinal's palace!  But he had been
forewarned thereof by Alice De Clinton, and yet could he scarcely
believe his ears and eyes.

'These are friends of Bilney,' replied the Cardinal, 'and they are my
friends too, to whom I am indebted for many things.  I would
therefore intercede with thee, father, for thy mercy.  Spare my aged
friend for his grey hairs; and this, his daughter, for the love I
bear her; and this, her husband, for the friendship's sake of early
college days.'

'But will they promise to abjure the tenets of Bilney, and be
obedient to the discipline of the church?'

'I will promise for them.'

'What?' asked De Freston.

'That they shall do nothing contrary to the authority of the church.'

'If the church command me to worship the Virgin Mary, the angels, and
the host of heaven, I will not do it.  If she says I ought to pay
respect to pictures at altars, candles and candlesticks, saints and
their statues, I will call her idolatrous.  If she tells me that the
blood of any of her martyrs, male or female, will wash away my sins,
I will tell her she lies.

'In a word, my Lord Cardinal, and my Lord Bishop, if you think I
would recant the doctrines which Bilney has preached at Ipswich, or
elsewhere, you are mistaken.  I desire to be tried even by the
learned Tonstall, and before thyself; I will answer any question thou
dost put.'

It is not the intention of these pages to record that long but
interesting discussion, which then took place between four as learned
men as could be well found in the realm at that day.  Pain and grief
did it give all parties to see that no mutual bond of union could
settle the dispute between them.

Tonstall was convinced of the very superior antagonist he had met
with in De Freston; and he was made to feel his lash when they talked
of the destruction of those who professed to believe in Christ, and
strove not to act up to that belief.

'How can the Pope make laws,' said De Freston, 'to burn, or put to
the rack, or torture, or destroy any soul professing Christ's
religion?

'Come, I will dispute the authority of the Church of Rome in this
respect.  I will maintain her to be an engine of Satan if she dares
to shed any blood whatsoever, especially the blood of believers.

'Show me any authority for her putting any one to death.  Did even
the Apostles put Ananias and Sapphira to death?  They saw that God
would visit the wicked, and they told the wicked that it would be so;
but they left the visitation for the Almighty's hand, in whose power
alone is the life of every living thing.'

'Wouldst thou, then,' replied Tonstall, 'have the murderer live?'

'No: an apostle says, "If I have done anything worthy of death, I
refuse not to die."  The sword of justice is borne by the civil, not
the ecclesiastical power; and if an offender against human and divine
laws will not hear the voice of the preacher calling him to
repentance, if neither private nor public rebuke will convince him of
his danger, all the authority of the church cannot go beyond his
rejection from their companionship or fellowship.

'They must then leave him to the mercies of the civil law, or
criminal jurisprudence of the country he lives in, and God will do
with him as he sees best.  I deny the power of Rome justly to punish
any man whatsoever with death, where his life is one of faith, though
that faith may be exercised to overthrow all the superstitions of
Rome.'

'Then the church errs in punishing heretics?'

'With persecution unto death she does; and she will have to answer
for all the murders she has thus unrighteously, violently,
passionately, and horribly committed.  If she were to condemn me, I
would protest against her power to the last, and though I might
rejoice in suffering, I should sorrow for thee, Bishop Tonstall, to
be my executioner.'

It was in this strain, with the purest Protestant feeling, and yet
with such pious consideration for those bigoted followers of the
Pope, that De Freston combatted the arguments of Tonstall, and made
him shudder at his own position.  Whether it was that the Cardinal
interceded, countermanded, over-ruled, or prevailed with the Bishop,
perhaps all these things, or whether Cuthbert Tonstall was himself
confounded at the boldness and soundness of the head and heart of De
Freston, it is certain that he proceeded no further with the
prosecution of De Freston, as a heretic, but left York Place with a
heart stricken at the very thought of the cruelties which he had in
some measure been accessory to, in the supposed defence of his church.

'We will leave off our polemical divinity,' said Wolsey, 'and if you
will spend one day of quiet hospitality with me, we will talk over
Ipswich and early associations, and leave these heart-burnings for
other thoughts.'

Well said was this by the Cardinal.  It was like a spark of glory
striking light into his soul.  Oh, would that every member of his
high and mighty, pompous church could have seen the joy which then
diffused itself over the Cardinal's features.

  ''Twas for a day, a day of such pure bliss
  As friendship nurtures in a world like this:
  Few such are found midst sorrows to prevail;
  If one such visit thee, O! give it hail.'




CHAPTER XLII.

ENJOYMENT.

Unalloyed enjoyment is a thing unknown in this world; even for one
whole day.  Perhaps the sorrows which all experience for half, if not
the whole, of that period, may make the few minutes of happiness the
sweeter.

Happiness is not, it cannot be, found in any sensual pleasure, in any
one pursuit in which the laws of humanity, nature, and of God are
violated.

Perfect enjoyment must be divested of all fear; there must be no pang
before or after it--that is, the pang, if any, must have passed away,
and that which the heart is about to participate in, must not be
productive of one single regret.

Wolsey, De Freston, Ellen, and Latimer, had all endured the severity
of sorrow in finding themselves placed in that species of opposition
upon vital questions, upon dangerous topics, upon then growing
dissensions which were stirring in the land.

Wolsey was lord of the house in which his guests were, not trembling,
but bold before him.  They also, on the other hand, were conscious
that he was to be the judge of De Freston; and in the judgment of him
was involved the happiness of the others.

These parties had suffered much pain.  Honest they all might be; but
the man of power and authority had at least this superiority, that he
was at once the arbiter and the host.  He was in the position of
friendship, cordiality, hospitality, generosity, and of judgment; and
they, though his guests, were at the same time his prisoners.  But
who were they, and at what time were they there?

Wolsey was about to be shorn of his fancied nobility, and to lose the
eye of favor.  He was too much of a politician not to know what he
had to expect; and he was really and truly a man of too great a mind
to murmur at the fickleness of the King's favor.

Lift up a beggar from the dunghill, set him among princes, and if he
is not gifted with that wisdom which knows who exalts and who puts
down, he will neither know how to bear elevation or degradation.  He
is like an actor, who, having enjoyed years of successful flattery,
is astonished at his own decline, and knows not how to bear the
coolness of disappointment.

Happy the man whom nothing but the world to come can exalt; who
preserves humility under all circumstances, and doing his duty nobly,
retires into nothingness, conscious that he is nobody.

A great man this, indeed.  He is like that great philosopher, who,
after a life of calculations, such as laid bare to the world the
right movements of the heavenly bodies, declared that to himself he
appeared no more than a child playing with a cup and ball, or blowing
soap-bubbles with a tobacco pipe.

This is a species of intellectual innocency which very few men
attain.  Half the world, knowing little, are apt to grow proud of the
knowledge of that little, and have such conceit thereof as to imagine
the world must think them wonders; but the really wise man is
wonderful only to himself in his knowledge of his own marvellous
ignorance.

Wolsey was a great man, as all the world proclaimed; but very few who
saw him knew anything of the real greatness of his private character.
Men in after-ages made him the theme of fallen pride, and descanted
upon his origin as if he rose from the butcher's shambles by
impudence.

There are some impudent men who do succeed in thrusting themselves
into places for which they have no pretensions in the shape of mental
qualification whatsoever; and these men are generally the greatest
boasters and vaunters of their own selves; but they usually die
unnoticed, or are looked upon with contempt by men of their own
calibre.  What must men of superior intellect think of them?

Wolsey was no such mortal.  He gave that day convincing proof of his
being not only bred a gentleman, but of his having preserved the
spirit of one through all the plenitude of his power, even to the
moment of its decay.

Wolsey was the first to propose such terms of peace to his visitors,
as nothing but a heartless bigot could refuse.  It was no compromise
of principle, it was no admission of infidelity, it was no sop, to
induce a departure from that which De Freston held dear as his life,
neither was it any Jesuitical casuistry or show of lenity to discover
the weakness of an adversary that he might attack him when he was
asleep.

No.  It was Wolsey's greatness, certainly induced by his
circumstances, which made him cast down the glove of philanthropy, or
the olive branch of peace, instead of that of defiance.

It is said that the honesty of love must conquer even the proudest
heart.  It will conquer everything but the heart devoured by the love
of money; and that heart death alone, and then only by violent
constraint, can subdue.

'Let us have one day's friendship,' said Wolsey.  'I give up all
points of dispute.  Let us have no divisions; let us be friends.
To-morrow, ye shall go free; free to return whence ye came, to the
banks of the Orwell, to my native place; and if I could but step back
thirty years, and forget all the interval, I would kiss again the
waters of my childhood, and dive into the waves.

'But come, my dear companions of my youth.  Pomp and I must, for a
few hours, part company.  Forget me as a Cardinal; look not on me as
a judge.  See me as I am, plain Thomas Wolsey, son of your old
friend, nephew to your relative, and cousin to yourselves; but more
than all this, your truly humble servant, Archbishop of York.

'If you will not receive me in this light, tell me, only tell me, how
you will accept me, and I am yours.'

Had it been bigotry, prejudice, or fanaticism that dwelt in De
Freston's soul, he would have looked upon this language as merely a
temptation to allure him into a snare, and have at once set his face
as a flint, against the offer of hospitality.  He would have looked
upon it as a contamination.  He would have felt all the prejudices of
pride against it, and have steeled his soul with rudeness to cut
short the proposition of love.

De Freston was no bigot, but a true Christian.  He acknowledged the
claim which Wolsey had upon his friendship, and at once graciously
accepted his offer.

'I came here to be judged, expecting to be condemned by the very man
whom I once knew as my friend.  But I am neither judged nor
condemned.  I am neither put upon my trial nor acquitted, but am as
though I had come into the house of an acquaintance; and why should I
be so inhuman as to think of an enemy?

'I accept your proffered hospitality for us all; and as far as in me
lies, I will endeavor to enjoy it with that thankfulness which I am
persuaded I ought to feel.  Ellen, my daughter, what say you to this
turn of the wind in our favor?'

'Say, my dear father! say?--that I am proud of my early friend!'

Never in life, before or after, did Wolsey feel his soul expand as it
did at that moment.

It was a moment of love in the soul of a man whose whole career had
been devoted to ambition.  The big tear started in his full eye, and
actually rolled down his cheek and fell upon his scarlet vest.

Oh! that the tear of love could fall upon the scarlet vests of all
Cardinals, and that they could see themselves as they are, but men of
the same flesh, the same blood, the same bone, the same dust as the
poorest Protestant in these realms!  Till then, the lust of the eye,
the lust of the flesh, and the pride of life will prevail in the
dominion of the Papacy.

'Latimer, give me your hand,' said Wolsey.  'I have not behaved to
you as I ought, and years of neglect cannot be atoned for in a
moment.  Your hand, William, reminds me of my youth.  I cannot forget
my university.  Proud days we enjoyed together.  Days of anticipated
triumph.  Ah!  Latimer, yours was an unexpected triumph; mine a
long-anticipated hope, extinguished by yourself, but now blessed in
seeing you happy.'

Great man!  Greater infinitely than the world knew!  Could Cavendish
have revealed this, the world would truly have sympathised with a man
who, though raised to an eminence higher than that which any subject
ever yet stood upon, was hurled down therefrom at the moment when his
whole soul was full of pity and philanthropy.

Ellen could not see the emotion of her early friend at such a time
without a look of compassion, in which the generous and honest
Latimer most fully shared.

'It is best for us all to retire awhile,' she said, 'that we may be
each composed for the harmony of a happy hour.'

'It is well said, my friends: after our unusual excitement, it will
do us all good.  My chamberlain will conduct you.'




CHAPTER XLIII.

HOSPITALITY.

The Cardinal alone--left alone to himself--bethought him of his
coming fall.  He sent for Cavendish, and ordered every preparation
for quiet hospitality.

'I want no state to-day.  Let all my serving-men take holiday, let as
many as please visit their friends in the city; and hark ye,
Cavendish! let my state-visitors, who come to pry into my decline,
and to partake of what good fare a Cardinal's table may afford them,
be told that I am indisposed to-day.

'I am indisposed, indeed, to receive any strangers, or any ministers
of state this day.  My few early friends it is worth your while, my
good secretary, to cultivate, for they have hearts of hospitality;
and when greatness and I are separated, you may find them no mean
substitute for your master.  I would have you, therefore, at my
table, none other; and as this is a day with which the world, the
political or public world in which I am concerned, can have nothing
to do, so let it be unrecorded among the transactions of my career,
which you have undertaken to set down.'

Cavendish himself started at this; for, though his master knew that
he kept account of all the events of his life, and employed himself
in making memoranda of what happened in the course of his
secretaryship, he rather desired to record that day, above all
others, as one in which his master shone with the most conspicuous
splendor.

'What would my lord have me say of this day?'

'Simply that I kept at home all the day.  I have little stomach for
the company of princes, Cavendish, but I shall be glad of thine.

'Ah!  Mr. Secretary, the King has taken what he gave me, and he is
welcome to it, for it is his own; and in my hands it has suffered no
injury.  My gold and silver is kept clean, and is fit for a king's
table.  But I have many things for thee to do, my worthy secretary,
before we meet at our mid-day meal.  You have made out a true
inventory of all in my house?'

'Of everything, my master.'

'Good, then, make a true copy thereof.  I give thee the things thou
didst ask for, the handsome gold box in which the seals of my office
are preserved; enter it not into the inventory.

'I give thee, also, Henry the Seventh's purse, which he gave to his
poor almoner; and if all he gave with it had not long been handed
over to his son, thou, Cavendish, shouldst have had it with its
store.  Note it not, but let it be a bauble preserved for the Royal
Giver's sake.  Henry VIII. will not leave me any memorial of himself
but the remembrance of my long service.

'But tell me, Cavendish, didst thou ever see easier, gentler, or more
graceful dignity in woman, than in the person of that lady now a
guest in our house?'

'I never did, my lord: I thought so when I saw her, long before your
arrival, nay, when she supported her father in Canon Street Prison.
She is a gem of inestimable value.  A princess in right of herself,
at the same time that she is a servant to her husband.'

'On my word, Mr. Secretary, if the ladies knew what a discerner thou
wert of true feminine dignity, they would perhaps strive to comport
themselves with great carefulness before so nice a critic.'

'They would, therefore, assuredly fail, my lord; for when females try
so much, or make so great an effort to appear what they ought to be
in our eyes, it is a sign that they attempt to be what they really
are not.  The Lady Latimer has no such finesse about her.  She is all
she seems to be, and tries not for a moment to assume to be thought
anything of.  Her carriage is simplicity, the bearing of innocency;
and in my eye she is handsomer, far handsomer, than Anne Boleyn.'

'Hush! this is treason as well as flattery in my house, and if
reported, might disgrace thee.  Thou art not yet sufficiently noble
game for royal arrows to be shot at.  Time, however, may come, when
aim may be taken at thyself.  A nobler quarry is at present in view.

'But I am glad, still, that this dear lady has attractions even for
thy younger eye.  Thou shall hear her converse, Cavendish; I heard it
when I was your age, when it resembled the notes of a golden-strung
lyre, and my young heart could respond to its song.  Alas! alas!  I
am now like a broken harp, without one chord of love and harmony!'

'Say not so, my lord; I have ever found you sweetness and gentleness
personified.'

'Go, Cavendish, prepare thyself.  We meet at noon.'

At noon they all met.

The banquet-hall was spread with taste.  No lords, no squires, no
gentlemen-ushers, no display of courtly greatness.

Wolsey received his friends without any attempt to overwhelm them
with magnificence.  His condescension alone was overwhelming, for
even De Freston could not be insensible to the delicacy shown upon
this occasion, when the man at whose table nobles were accustomed to
learn politeness, was himself so polite as to dispense with all
display of nobility, that De Freston might be duly honored.

Cavendish alone participated in the unaffected pleasure of these
friends.  It was a banquet of love, a revival of days gone by.  The
Cardinal, his master, shone in a new light as the conqueror of
himself.

The subject of conversation turned upon chivalry, the deeds and
exploits of the tournament, the banners of the nobility, the arms,
quarters, crests of the distinguished of the past and the existing
day; and Wolsey said--

'I was once a gallant knight, Ellen De Freston was my mistress, and a
savage mastiff my opponent; I had an ox shin-bone for my weapon, and
a good courage, steady hand, and a righteous cause of action.  Did I,
or did I not, acquit myself valiantly?'

'No knight could ever do better execution.  Did not the lady bestow
her guerdon?'

'He was too proud to claim it, father,' replied Ellen.

'Then he will claim it now, fair lady; and in the presence of thy
husband, too; and he himself shall not deny thee the honor of the
grant.'

All looked astonishment; Ellen alone smiled, for she knew the
courteous propriety of that delicate hospitality which could not ask
a thing it would be unbecoming a lady's love to grant.

'I grant it thee, Wolsey, and with gratitude, for I can never forget
the gallantry of that day, nor do I fail to acknowledge the
compliment in this.  Name it, and I will assuredly grant it.'

'Thou seest my coat-of-arms: my crest is now a Cardinal's hat; but,
with thy permission, a naked arm, (for I was never a mail-clad
warrior) a naked arm, bearing a shin-bone, shall surmount that hat in
commemoration of our mention of the event in thy presence in York
Place.'

'I cannot fail to grant it; but promise me this, that over the portal
of my favorite tower, I may place thine arms so surmounted, in the
hope that thou wilt honor yet again our Freston Tower.'

The Cardinal sighed.  His nature could not but be grateful, nor his
spirit otherwise than courteous.  He felt the compliment and replied--

'I fear the latter cannot be; I must go where the King orders me, for
I am his servant; but believe me, Lady, once to see the Tower again,
and to feel as I now do, would be a happiness, I fear, too great for
Cardinal Wolsey.

'Ipswich is in my heart: I received the rudiments of education there,
and its refinements in the company of thee and of thy father.

'My friend Latimer knows well that the strong shin-bone was in my
view all the days of his residence at Oxford, and only when I
returned from the ceremony of thy marriage, did I drop it into the
river from Magdalen Bridge.

'The memory, however, of thy kindness shall not be lost; I will send
thee a nobly-sculptured coat-of-arms to be placed over the gateway of
Freston Castle.  Nay, lady, I have one nearly completed for my
college at St. Peter's.  It shall even precede thee on thy way
homeward, and I will soon forward the additional appendage to
surmount the Cardinal's hat.'

These things led to all the local points of memory--in which the
Cardinal showed a gratitude of heart to which, for years, he had been
thought to be a stranger--his inquiries after friends, his naming
many who had been kind to him, the very boys whom he remembered at
school.

This led to a long discussion about his college, the suppression of
the monasteries, the death of John of Alneshborne, and last, not
least, his hours at Freston Tower.

Upon this theme he seemed to dwell with all the fervor of imagination
which he possessed in his youth; and, would time have permitted, he
would have talked of Latimer's Tower and Magdalen until morning.

But his old friend, Latimer, observed that the spirit of sorrow
seemed to steal over his brow; and, from excessive vivacity, a sober
but delicate mournfulness came upon him.  His voice, though always
soft, became gradually painful, and one of those early visitations,
to which his great mind was subject, oppressed him.

Nothing can be more infectious than melancholy, especially when
exhibited in a great man; and though Wolsey endeavored to shake it
off, it so completely subdued him, that he became silent, thoughtful,
and abstracted.

Latimer and Cavendish knew his mood; but De Freston and Ellen, whose
hearts were touched to pity, felt the change.

'My dear friends,' said the Cardinal,' I have enjoyed your society,
but I must say farewell.  I feel an oppression--a swimming of the
brain--a dizziness to which I am subject, and I must retire.'

'O, Wolsey!' said De Freston, 'let me thank you for this hospitality.
I am not insensible to your kindness.  Proud should I be to see you
again in Suffolk.  Let me hope you will visit your college and me.'

I thank you, good nobleman.  My college there, unless the royal Henry
shall regard it, will, I fear, be neglected.  Your proffered
hospitality I do not think I shall tax; but my friend Cavendish, if
ever you should have the opportunity of paying him any attention, I
shall greet it as in memory of myself.

'I will forward you on your way to-morrow; and when, a few months
hence, you hear of the Cardinal and his altered fortunes, bespeak him
kindly for old friendship's sake.

'I can see a host of enemies arising, backed by the King, like his
huntsman and hounds in pursuit of a poor stricken hart.  Cavendish,
do the duties of hospitality for me.

'Dear friends, farewell!'

With dignity and gentleness combined, the great Wolsey pressed
respectfully the hand of Ellen, and cordially those of De Freston and
Latimer, and left them to think of him, and to mourn over his fate.

  'Twas the last day of meeting, and they part--
  Reader, thou hast some gentleness of heart--
  Forgive poor Ellen if she wept alone,
  To see his altered mien, his altered tone,
  We love our early days, our friends of youth,
  When all seems loveliness and joy of truth.
  So let us love, in sorrow and in shade,
  For love is lasting and will never fade.'




CHAPTER XLIV.

THE FALL

When great men fall, the world is sure to talk of it for a long time.
Ages after ages remember the prostrate and over-grown tree, whilst
hundreds and thousands of minor bulk may lie upon the earth, and no
one think anything more about them.  The sapling may be snapt in the
gale, but the oak--the majestic oak--is not thrown down without a
tempest.

Nor was the great Cardinal overthrown without a revolution in the
conduct and affairs of that prince and kingdom which he had so
faithfully served.  Even the clergy of the realm felt their portion
of degradation in the loss of that representative, who,
notwithstanding his extravagance, had certainly their temporal
interest at heart.

Could Wolsey have returned with De Freston, an independent man, or
dependent upon that early friendship which had no political or
selfish interest in his career, he might have enjoyed the spirit of
his youth upon the banks of the Orwell; and, had the enlightened
Ellen been as she was in his early ambitious days of distinction, the
incentive would have outweighed all the terrors of a king's frown,
and he would have become a great man in his retirement.

But he went to York.  There he shone as the friend of his clergy in a
more subdued, but far more pleasant light.  He was treated everywhere
with courtesy, and had not jealously, animosity, and inveterate
hatred been exercised to turn the King's mind against him, he would
have become a far greater man than he had ever before been; for he
might have learnt contentment.

But Ellen returns to her mansion in Brook Street; and De Freston is
restored to his ancient castle.  Friends from far came to meet them,
as they returned, and to congratulate them upon the successful issue
of that fiery trial.

Few escaped the inquisitorial court, which then sat upon heretics, as
the reformers were called; and if they escaped without any falling
away, or retraction of the position of truth which they held, their
escape was attended with a triumph among the people, almost as great
as if they had suffered martyrdom.

Bilney was never happy when he escaped from the first trial of his
faith, until the spirit, the conscientious spirit of truth returned
to him again, and told him it was better to suffer for the truth's
sake, than to live in the favor and indulgences of sinful Rome.

Lord De Freston was happy, because he had compromised nothing,
consented to no abjuration of his vows, and came home as he went up,
a faithful Protestant.

There was great rejoicing at Ipswich, where, at that time, his trial
was looked upon as a persecution; and every one who had imbibed
anything of the growing love for truth, felt that his return was a
species of victory obtained in righteousness.  It had the desired
effect of strengthening De Freston in his views of the truth, and
afforded a forcible lesson to some then wavering in their minds,
concerning the fearful consequences of embracing the truth.

The very return of De Freston caused Bilney's sorrow to be the
greater, and this noble friend was one who deeply lamented with him
his departure from the convictions of his soul for the mere sorrows
of the world.

Better, far better, is it to stand firm, or die in a righteous cause,
boldly confronting the king of terrors, with faith, than to deny, for
the fancied sake of peace, the real convictions of truth.

De Freston had the strength and privilege to condole with Bilney upon
his lapse, and grace to fortify his mind with the love of that Word,
in which he afterwards sealed his triumph by martyrdom.

It was not to be expected that the return of De Freston, and his now
public profession of the doctrines of the reformers, should be the
entrance upon a life of worldly tranquillity.  He was a marked man, a
man against whom bigoted tongues wagged loud and long; and, as he was
a learned man, and a fearless one as well, as far as regarded any
temporal punishment for his faith, he hesitated not to set all the
priests of Rome at defiance, and to dispute with any one of them
concerning the doctrines of the reformation.  His son-in-law,
Latimer, was equally zealous in the defence of the truth, and exposed
himself to all the fury of the times in which he lived.

'We must not shrink, Ellen,' he exclaimed, 'in our high position; we
must still do our endeavors to shelter those poor clergymen in this
town who stand up for the truth, and as long as my house can be the
shelter for the persecuted, I feel happy, and I trust my dear Ellen
does the same.'

'That she does, William, notwithstanding all the accusations she
receives of deserting the Romish Church in which she was first
brought up.  You need not be afraid, my husband, after such an
example as our dear father afforded us, when summoned to the
conference in London, that I should shrink.

'I saw then, and loved his dignified and truthful demeanor, in the
presence of those whom weaker minds would have feared.  But I like
not his living alone at Freston Castle.  He grows old, and though his
dear grey locks are a crown of glory to him, and his eye is not yet
dim, nor his intellect abated in its wonted energies, bodily
infirmities bend his gentle head, and he requires, I think, our
constant residence with him.

'I cannot bear the idea of such a father being without our company.
We may be useful here in promoting every good cause, but nature in
the aged requires attention, and to whom can he look for love, piety,
and respect, if not to his children?  I propose, Latimer, that we
leave our present residence, and if our father is willing, that we go
to Freston.'

It was so agreed, and the faithful couple returned to dwell with Lord
De Freston, who, though he had never asked it, was delighted at the
mutual proposition of his children, to make abode with him in his old
days.  For a short time did the joys of their former years dwell with
them, and a peaceful state marked the latter life of this excellent
man, Lord De Freston.

Again the dear tower, the haunt of their youth, and Latimer's own
project, became the place of their reading and converse; and hence
issued many of those awakening epistles of the times which led to the
enlightenment of not a few of the strenuous reformers of Ipswich and
Bury.

The press of Master Antony Skolloker, and that of Master John Owen,
showed up the monks of Bury, all the fooleries of the priests of
Rome, and all the mal-practices and arbitrary doings of the diocese
of Norwich.  John Bale, the friend of Latimer, here wrote his
'Catalogus, Scriptorum Illustrium Britaniæ,' which he afterwards
published at Ipswich.

It was in the month of December, 1530, when the log was burning on
the old hall-fire, and the venerable De Freston was seated between
his lovely daughter and Latimer, that a conversation arose concerning
their friend the Cardinal.  They were speaking of his greatness; of
his altered condition, his residence and usefulness at York; when the
warder's bell rang, and a young man was announced as desirous to see
Lord De Freston.

He was welcomed into the hall, accoutred according to the times, in
immense riding boots, long spurs, and stout leathern jerkin.  The
stranger bowed respectfully to the party, and looked up, as if he
thought they would have recognised his features and guessed his
communication; for he was, in the fashion of that day, dressed with a
mourning scarf; and if these did not speak for him, the sober, grave,
and mournful manner of his speech awoke in Ellen the first suspicion
of his message, and then a recognition of his face, for she
exclaimed--

'Thou art the bearer of ill-tidings of thy master.'

'Alas, lady!  I am, indeed--my master is no more.'

'Is Wolsey dead, good Master Cavendish?

'He is dead, good Lord De Freston, and he often said to me, that I
should find in thee a good man and true; a friend with whom I might
awhile assuage that grief which now afflicts me.'

'And so thou shall; but take thy jerkin off.  Good Latimer, attend
for me on Master Cavendish, and bring him presently unto us again.'

Cavendish and Latimer retired, and when Lord De Freston looked at
Ellen, she was weeping.  The old man was touched, and spake most
gently of him.

'We must not weep, my daughter, for the dead.  Let us rather rejoice
that all the agonies of his life are over.'

'In that I may, perhaps I do, rejoice, but we must heal more of his
latter days to make me feel as hopeful for his future happiness as I
could wish.  He was a youth of promise, father; a wise, a discerning
youth.  I cannot forget the early devotion of his life to our
society, when he appeared to possess a freedom which was then bidding
fair to be untrammelled by superstition.  I think of him then, dear
father, and I wonder if this spirit of his youth revived in him
during his last days.'

'We shall hear more of this anon.  I loved his youth; I loved his
learning too, my child.  I admire many of his arts; but I fear he was
unmerciful towards those who differed with him.  But let us hear what
Master Cavendish says.  We must all depart.  You must lose your
father, too.'

This changed the current of Ellen's thoughts, and she wept no more,
but spoke cheerfully to her parent--making a generous effort to
divert any gloominess from his mind.




CHAPTER XLV.

THE COURTIER.

'But here comes the faithful Cavendish; he will tell us more of the
real state of our dear friend's mind, and how he took the king's
displeasure.'

That faithful servant, who admired and loved his master and attended
him diligently, and did his business as his secretary so faithfully
that Wolsey would gladly have preferred him before a better master,
entered the hall with Latimer.

He had changed his riding costume for one adapted to the age when the
luxurious warmth of sofas, cushions, and couches was unknown, and, in
general, a high-backed, elaborately-carved chair, with good, firm,
oaken seat, was the ornamental place of the guest before the cheerful
blaze of the English fire.

One of Daundy's bloodhounds lay at De Freston's feet, smooth with
velvet ears, long and shining, not so pendent as those of the old
slot hound; but equally tinged with that black rim so indicative of
the true breed.

He was a dog of most grave countenance, and except when put upon the
scent, or at play with Ellen's young staghound, exhibited about as
much animation as Van Amburg's lions when their master was not near
them.

He opened his huge eyes as Cavendish seated himself and looked at him
as if a courtier was a strange animal in De Freston's hall.

'Be seated, my young friend; a cup of posset after your ride will do
you good.'

It was brought, and as exercise in that day in the shape of a journey
was a much more difficult and stirring thing than it is now, when a
man can breakfast in London from Ipswich and dine again at the same
place he started from without using his legs or his horse's legs for
a hundred yards, it was so much the more relished, and gave the
generous Cavendish comfort.

'I have been five days journeying from the court.  I have been many,
many more journeying from the North, and glad am I, after some weeks
of anxiety, to find myself a tenant of this hospitable hall.  My
gracious master used frequently to tell me I should enjoy the
beauties of your pleasant scenery.'

'Not exactly at this time of the year, Master Cavendish, unless you
are particularly partial to wild fowl shooting; but you shall want
for nothing which we can give you to make you welcome.  How fared
your master in his latter end?'

'Alas! not so well as I could have wished.  His latter hours were
greatly disturbed by the king's suspicions of his fraudulent dealing
with regard to fifteen hundred pounds! which sum my master had
borrowed of divers persons to pay us, his poor servants.

'How did that disturb him?'

'He took it deeply to heart, that, having given up all he possessed,
whatsoever had come to him from his position in the realm, that the
King should show so little favor to him as to demand of him that
which he had borrowed from private individuals.'

'Alas, poor Wolsey!' exclaimed De Freston, 'what is the favor of a
prince worth?  He gives thee honors and wealth, and takes them from
thee, and robs thee in thy poverty.'

'Hush! my Lord De Freston.  I am now the King's servant!'

'I am no traitor to the king, nor do I wish to speak treasonable, but
truthful words to thee, Master Cavendish.  Thy royal master seems to
have been much too hard upon thy spiritual master.  Deny it if thou
canst.'

'I deny it not; for I heard that honest man say to Sir William
Kingston: "Oh, good Lord! how much doth it grieve me, that the king
should think in me any such deceit wherein I should deceive him of
any one penny that I have.  Rather than I would, Master Kingston,
embezzle, or deceive him of one penny, I would it were moulten and
put in my mouth.  This money that you demand of me, I assure you that
it is none of mine, for I borrowed it of divers of my friends to bury
me, and to bestow among my servants, who have taken great pains about
me like true and faithful servants."'

'I cannot help thinking that thy royal master showed more avarice
than love in this matter.'

'Alas!  I think so too, in honest truth, my lord; for though, when I
told the king how earnestly my master blessed him, yet did he seem
more anxious about his money than his blessing.  But kings must not
be judged like other men.'

'Not in their generation, Master Cavendish; but posterity will not
spare a bad man, though he be a king.  Your poor master found but
little reward for his services to his Majesty, or to his country.  He
had better not have been ambitious of vain glory.'

'Alas!  my master's memorable words will sound on many ears as
proverbial of every minister of temporal power, who thinks he may
exalt himself by infidelity to God, if he be but eminent for his
loyalty.  I am sure my master was a most loyal subject--a most
obedient subject.  He hated rebellion in any shape.'

'But hold!' said Latimer, 'his ambition destroyed his principles, and
he became a mere time-serving minister of the State, when he ought to
have been, with his holy vows, the free servant of the living God.'

'It is true, Master Latimer, it is too true, and hence his dying
conviction--common to all ambitious servants who seek to reign by
their master's favor--for my master exclaimed to Sir William
Kingston: "If I had served God as diligently as I have done the King,
he would not have given me over in my grey hairs.  But this is the
just reward that I must receive for my diligent pains and study that
I have had to do him service, not regarding my service to God, but
only to satisfy his pleasure."'

'It is a lesson to us all,' said Ellen, 'and thou, Master Cavendish,
wilt remember it, and I trust wilt save thy conscience in this
respect, not putting too high a value on thy new station.'

'I thank thee, lady.  It is good for me to come into this country
that I may be admonished by such a kind lecturer against the
precipice down which my master fell so rapidly.  I thank thee, lady,
honestly.'

'Nay, thou art welcome, Mr. Courtier, and I trust we shall see thee
better rooted in thy faith than courtiers generally are, who
accommodate their opinions so nicely to their master's will, that
they have no conscience but for their master's pleasures.'

'Good again! indeed thou art good in thy advice; but thou must not
expect to make me an heretic!'

This was tender ground to touch upon, at such a moment, and in a
first visit too.  Ellen had lain too long under the ban of being
called and cursed as a heretic, to mind what kings or courtiers might
say or do.

Her faith was fixed, pure, simple-minded, solid, and steady, and no
man could make her waver any more in her faith than they could in her
principles of life.

They conversed long on their favorite topic--the Cardinal and his
fortunes, his boyhood and his youth--and Cavendish was then
enlightened upon many points which he might most fairly have
revealed, and would have done, but for fear of his royal master.

  'Tempora mutanta, et nos mutamur in illis.'


We are not, in the nineteenth century, afraid to speak truth upon any
subject, and equally scorn the imputation of rebellion in so doing,
as we do the idea of vapid popularity, merely for the sake of bread.
We do not now-a-days worship great men for the sake of what we can
get out of them; for there is little to be had, even by the humblest,
since patronage, and learning, and talent, and literature, are all
brought now to Mammon's hammer.

He is a bold man who speaks the truth, and he is but a coward, be he
whom he will, who is afraid to do so.  The man who loves another, is
afraid of no man, for he can do injury to no one, and is ready to lay
down his life for his brother.

Such was Lord De Freston, such was William Latimer, and such was
Ellen, as the sequel will show, in the end of this tale of Freston
Tower.


'Alice De Clinton,' said Cavendish, 'lives somewhere in this part of
Suffolk.  Have you seen her?'

'Is it likely, Master Cavendish, after our interview at York Place?
She does live at her ancestral residence, Goldwell Hall; but she
looks down with utter contempt upon us heretics, and I verily believe
would burn us all, house, home, and Bible, provided only she could
immortalise her pride.'

'Oh, Mistress Latimer! surely thou art uncharitable in thy judgment.'

'If thou art not perverted in thine own, thou wilt thyself soon
perceive it.  We will direct thee to her dwelling, and leave thee to
the candor of thine own mind.  If thou dost pronounce her more
humbled in her present dwelling than when she abode in thy master's
palace, then say that we are bigots, and Alice De Clinton is liberal.'

The visit was projected for the morrow.  Meanwhile, with hearts of
pity, Latimer and Ellen sincerely mourned over the death of Cardinal
Wolsey.

  They mourn'd to think a man should die
  In sorrow for his loyalty;
  But more they mourned the fall of friend,
  Deserted in his latter end;
  They felt correction 'neath the rod,
  And thus were true to man and God.'




CHAPTER XLVI.

GOLDWELL HALL.

Goldwell Hall, Caldwell Hall, or, as it was afterwards designated on
account of the frigidity of its stern and haughty bigot, Mistress
Alice De Clinton, Cold Hall, was a spacious building, and stood upon
an imposing eminence at the eastern boundary of Ipswich, being held
by the Bishop of Norwich, as guardian of his niece, and afterwards
appropriated to religious purposes by its proud possessor.

It was there that, in the times of the persecution of the Protestants
in Suffolk, many of those furious zealots who sat in conclave upon
the Reformers used to meet and deliberate upon the best method of
putting an end to the growing errors of enlightenment.

Alice De Clinton had, like many haughty favorites, learned to hate
the unfortunate Wolsey, when she found herself no longer supported in
the dignity of her imperial influence in his house.

Alice retired from the splendor of Wolsey's court, carried with her
the keenest hatred of the Reformers, on the very account of Ellen's
reception at York Place; but when she came to Goldwell Hall--when she
found that Latimer, Ellen, and Lord De Freston, were the most popular
friends of the heretics, and lived in Ipswich, beloved by
thousands--it was said that even her cold, stern, and immoveable
nature was roused to rage, and she exclaimed--

'The fire shall burn them or me!'

Strange language for a high-born dame; but in those days, as in
these, unsubdued tempers, fed by superstition, will be guilty of any
cruelties, and yet call them virtues.

Alice was a compound of hatred, such a character as can scarcely be
seen now-a-days; she would have pricked the dead tongue of Ellen with
a savage joy, could she have had it plucked out and laid before her
whilst she had a bodkin in her hand.

She fed hatred in her own bosom very willingly, and the insidious
priests of Rome found her hall so cold to anything like love, that
they could induce her to believe and almost to do anything they bade
her.

Rome was an idol in her heart, because it suited the pride of her
nature.  The religion of Rome, which was corrupted so as to exalt the
Virgin Mary into being styled the Queen of Heaven, was easily adapted
to make a proud woman believe she was a sort of queen upon earth.

The elevation it gave to female influence in the affairs of the
church--the pretended excellence which it attributed to female
devotion, when carried to external self-denials, instead of inward
humility--all tended to puff up the owner of Goldwell Hall, and make
her conceive that she had more influence in the church than the
bishop, and much more dignity than if she had gone to Winton.

She was closeted with Father Mortimer Duncan and Thomas Pountenay,
priests of St. John the Baptist, in which chapelry stood the domain
of Goldwell, and talking to them about the then unsettled state of
affairs in the church; and something may be gathered very instructive
from their conversation, as showing the kind of intrigue then going
on under the garb of devotion.

'Can nothing be done, father, against these pestilent heretics?  Has
the church lost all her power, because these infatuated people have
returned from their impeachment without conviction, through the
leniency of your proud townsman, Wolsey?

'Why, though belonging to Ipswich, and associated with his youth,
should he have been so weak as to spare the strong arm of Rome, when
he could have crushed this monster in the person of De Freston?  He
has verily done more to root disaffection in his native town, by this
poor weakness of his heart, than if he had boldly delivered that
heretic to the flames.  But can nothing be done?'

'We have been praying in our chapel, lady, beside those ever-burning
candles, which thou hast so graciously presented to our Lady, and, as
we looked upon the seven flames, we saw them divide; yes, lady, the
burning flames of thy candles all appeared to be divided; and all on
a sudden one half was, by an unseen hand, extinguished.  We communed
deeply upon this subject; we wondered what it could import, the more
especially as we both perceived in the seven flames two illuminated
letters, A. and E., just as brother Pountenay has here depicted them;
what can it import?'

'Which was extinguished--which half--which letter, father?' exclaimed
the proud lady, with a degree of agitation which rendered her whole
frame tremulous.

'It was the letter E.'

'Now our lady be praised for that!' exclaimed the marble Alice.  'I
can perceive its importance!  It is sufficient confirmation for me!
It will do, good father--it will do!  It is a sign--yes it is a sign
to me from heaven!  It shall come to pass!  I have long thought upon
it.  It has been upon my mind; and this wonder, which you both have
witnessed in my candles, shall assuredly be before long revealed.
Was it in both the candles?'

'It was.'

'Were both halves extinguished at each side of the altar at the same
time?'

'At the same moment, lady.'

'Good! it is as I conjectured!  O, Father Duncan, how wonderful are
the manifestations given to the faithful!  I can see its import.  I
know it well!  It is a good omen for the Church of Rome, and it is
well I understand it.'

'Thou art a wonderful prophetess, lady, we are but instruments; but
if thou art enlightened from the burning of thine own sacred candles,
we hope it imports only good to thee.'

'Good to me! yes, yes! good to me!  It is always good to me to be
employed in the service of Rome.  Hark! the warder's bell announces a
stranger.  Go! fathers and friends Duncan and Pountenay; go! ye must
require refreshment after your long matin devotion.  Go into the
refectory and partake of what thou wilt.  My stranger's bell has
answered to the porter's, so that I expect not a known
friend--therefore retire.'


'It will answer, brother Duncan, it will answer!  She will do it!
The end justifies the means, and if it be but for the good of our
fraternity, no matter though a foolish woman doth it.'

'But had we not better prompt her somehow, to let it be on a stormy
night?'

'Leave that to me.  I can introduce it.  True, a night of thunder and
lightning would be a very plausible suggestion; and it would be a
good subject for us to descant upon the vengeance of Heaven against
the heretics--leave it to me!'




CHAPTER XLVII.

PRIDE.

Alice, full of A. and E., received the humble Master Cavendish in
even a more cold and distant manner than he had ever seen her put on
before.

'Thy master is dead?  I know it!  Dost thou come to claim ought of
me?'

'No, lady, I want nothing; I did but think, knowing thy former
interest in my poor lord, and my close attachment to his person, that
some little information of his latter end might be acceptable to the
Lady Alice, from her humble servant.'

'Another time it might have been.  I have only one question to ask of
thee: was he shriven by a priest before he died?'

'He was, by Doctor Palmes.'

'Then I ask no more.  He died a Catholic.'

'He did, lady; and recommended his royal master to look well after
these heretics and heresies so prevalent.'

'Then why did he not order Lord De Freston to be burnt!'

Even Cavendish, with all his knowledge of her character, little
expected this; but when he afterwards heard her speak of those
hospitable friends, and all connected with them, as if she would joy
to see them tortured upon the rack, flayed alive, or burnt at the
stake, his blood chilled within him, and he truly thought within
himself: 'This is Cold Hall indeed!'

'I ask no questions,' she added, 'of thy master's fortunes.  The
great Cardinal died before he departed for York.  He died as soon as
I left him.  His was but a pitiful struggle afterwards.  Had he been
as firm to Rome as I would have had him, he might now have been his
master's lord.  But vengeance yet awaits the enemies of Rome, and
weak instruments may be used for their overthrow.  Are you a staunch
friend to the Pope?'

This was a leading question to Cavendish, who, at that time, neither
wished to be thought a heretic by denying the Supremacy of the Pope,
nor to be disloyal to his new master by denying his supremacy in the
visible church in matters purely temporal.  But he knew well that the
Papacy must have the jurisdiction of temporalities as well as
spiritualities in the church, and that Alice held the foreign pontiff
to be her supreme idol.

He had a difficult question to answer, but one which his tact alone
could elude, so as not to create bitter animadversion against him.
He therefore replied--

'The Pope, lady, has so many staunch advocates like thyself, that the
friendship of such insignificant beings as I am could redound but
little to his greatness.  Thou, lady, art, I am sure, his warm
friend, and thine influence in this neighborhood must be paramount.
Has the Pope lost any power hereabouts?'

'If he has it shall be restored to him.  The great patron of the
divine arts, the illustrious advocate of public singers, the glorious
supporter of divine architecture, the magnificent exhibitor of all
that is great, noble, praiseworthy, and splendid in the worship of
the Virgin, the angels, and the saints, shall not want a friend in
me, though hereabouts there may want an example of fire and faggot to
exterminate his enemies.  Where is thine abode in these parts, Master
Cavendish?'

'I am but a traveller, a visitor, a mere bearer of a message to my
lord's friend.'

'And what was it, Master Secretary, what was it?  Ha! did the little
man want anything from Alice De Clinton?'

Cavendish marvelled indeed at the hauteur of this quondam subservient
mistress of the Cardinal, his master; and within his soul, faithful
as it was to a kind-hearted individual who was ever gracious to him,
it revolted at the contumacy with which she, the exalted lady of
Wolsey's notice, now dared to treat his memory.  His memory of his
master rose triumphant, and his remembrance, too, of the estimation
in which Ellen was held by him came with lively impression to his
mind, and he could not help punishing the haughty Alice with a
declaration which he little expected she would so quickly resent.

With gratitude in his heart, a far more active agent at that moment
than political prudence or cautious wisdom, he replied--

'I am upon a visit to Lord De Freston, the Lady Ellen, and Latimer.'

The haughty lady looked as if she would annihilate him with one
fierce glance of her serpent eye.  She rose without forgetting for a
moment that she was treating a stranger, or a former friend, in her
own house.  She rose stately, coolly, slowly, erected her head just
as a serpent of the most stupendous kind might do previous to her all
determined rush upon her victim, and something more than a hiss from
her forked tongue issued from her throat:

'Then how darest thou to tread the threshold of Goldwell Hall?
Knowest thou not that between the daughters of Rome and those of the
Devil there can be no alliance? and darest thou to contaminate with
thy polluted feet the hall of the faithful, after having been an
inmate of the tomb of an heretic?

'Perish, traitor, perish!--back, go back to Freston Tower!  Look
thence upon the birth-place of thy master; but know thou that ere
another year shall sweep over the heads of those whom now thou dost
call thine host, hostess, and friend, their power shall perish if
they be not themselves departed.'

The very words, gesture, and cold-blooded determination of the
impenetrable marble then before him, had an effect of creating a
chill upon his whole frame; and he felt how truly his friends on the
opposite bank of the Orwell had described the being who then stood
before him.

He was so astonished at her whole bearing, that he made no attempt to
retire; and had not Alice, with inconceivable scorn, pointed to the
door, and without any kind of respect bade a servant show him the way
out, he would have remained even longer spell-bound by the very
extravagant and extraordinary manner of the speech of Alice De
Clinton.  He departed, however, with much less pleasant sensations
than those with which he had entered; and as he looked back upon that
solitary mansion, he exclaimed in a distich, which afterwards, years
afterwards, changed the name of the place,

  'Goldwell is cold, and colder far than all
  This living corpse, a tenant of Cold Hall.'


He returned to his cheerful friends at Freston, to narrate the
adventure of his reception.  They were not surprised at his
declaration,

'That never in the face of woman did he see so cold-blooded a feature
as that of Alice De Clinton.'

Little did any of them at that time suspect the plot hatching against
their peace.

It was determined that the usual festivities of Christmas should be
observed by De Freston as his ancestors had done before him; and
Cavendish was invited to see the tenantry of the hospitable lord do
justice to the long beloved and venerated old man.

Latimer had declined living in the mansion of Humphrey Wingfield in
Brook Street, Ipswich; and was looked upon as the future owner of
Freston Castle and all its wide spread domain.  He richly merited
respect, and was as happy in the acknowledgment of every friend of De
Freston and his daughter, as Albert, Prince of Great Britain, is at
this moment in the hearts of Victoria's loyal subjects.  But none are
without enemies.

Alice had managed to hire Wingfield House as her town residence, and
strange did people think the difference between the lively possessor
who left it, and the stern occupier who occasionally, with rigid cold
pomp, occupied the state apartments.

It was said, however, that she intended to move into the town at
Christmas, and to leave _Cold Hall_ (as it is called to this day);
and consequently she had wood conveyed from her own groves to the
yards of the mansion, and made every preparation to have at least the
rooms well warmed.

But Alice had a burning within which few knew anything of, except her
father confessor, Duncan, and those priests of Rome who worked upon
her fanatic disposition.  This was inflamed against all heretics,
even to detest their abodes, and she had secretly resolved that the
flame of Ellen--the E. of her consecrated candles--should be put out.

How this was done may be better narrated in another chapter.  This is
sufficient to show how weak minds may be acted upon to do deeds,
under the imagination of devotion, which are abhorrent to all truth,
and such as pure religion would revolt at.

  'Oh who can tell what prejudice may call
  Devotion, when the devil doth enthral?'




CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE PLOT.

Father Duncan sat in the eastern window of Goldwell Hall, on the eve
of Christmas, in earnest conversation with the Lady Alice.

'It would be a pious offering to the shrine of the Virgin, if, lady,
these heretics could but receive a shock on the day of the nativity.
It would carry along with it such a conviction of vengeance from on
high, that all the pious in Ipswich would be moved to prayer, and all
the heretics affrighted might see and know that the Papal hierarchy
are supported by miraculous interference.

'What thou dost imagine, relative to that extinction of the flame of
E. in thy votive candles, must be given thee; for the application is
so apposite, that nothing but supernatural suggestion could possibly
have presented it to thy mind.

'Thy devotions, Lady Alice are so intense, thy supplications to the
Virgin Mary so earnest, that she compels the powers of the heavens to
listen to her voice, and to grant thee thy request.  The enemies of
Rome must be extinguished.  It is impossible that two flames should
shine together with such opposite lights as heresy and faith; and
that which we saw extinguished is, as thou dost premise, a sure
presage of the establishment and extinction of those very powers
which, in the persons of Alice and Ellen, represent the A. and E. in
the flames, or Apostolic and Erroneous, a sure presage I say, most
noble lady, of the extinction of Error, and establishment of the
Apostolic See.

'Ellen Latimer, the daughter of Lord De Freston, is the most subtle
enemy of the Church of Rome.  Her power must be extinguished in
Ipswich; and what so effectual as the destruction of her mansion, and
that of her ignoble and heretical father on the same night?'

'It is well conceived, Lady Alice, and thou hast been quick, indeed,
in the application of thy means.  Those means are put into thine
hand, thou needest not to be afraid, they will assuredly succeed; and
we shall see a blaze both far and near which cannot fail to be
convincing.'

'Oh, may they convince the impious enemies of Rome that they cannot
prosper!  I have well assured Abdil Foley of his reward.  He has
engaged to fire the wainscot in those unfrequented apartments of the
castle of De Freston, which, ever since the death of Lady De Freston,
have been closed, and are only occasionally visited by the lord
himself.'

'Abdil gains access thereto from the servant's apartments, and as he
has been engaged in some repairs in that part of the building, he has
conveyed thereto a quantity of shavings, and inserted them behind the
panels, so that the slightest influence of fire will spread beyond
the possibility of its being extinguished.'

'Abdil will be among the merry-makers at the hall, and will seize his
opportunity, just as he is about to leave for his own house, to go up
into his son's room for his cloak.  It will be at twelve o'clock.  He
will escape, and we must provide for him should he be suspected.
None have any suspicions at the present time.'

'Abdil is now in my hall, and only awaits thy promised absolution to
convince you that he is a good Catholic, ready to do the bidding of
any of the priests of Rome.  Shall I send him unto thee, Father
Duncan?'

'Do, my daughter.'

Abdil Foley was one of those weak men, but strong, resolute devotees,
who pinned his faith entirely to the word of the priest, so as to
take everything he told him to do as a message from heaven.  He had
been taught to think Lord De Freston and his daughter had changed
their profession of true religion for the false one.

He had been one among others who, though a tenant of the lord of
Freston, had not been disturbed from his occupation, although the
minds of many around him had changed through the very wise and able
exposition of the learned noble who often instructed his tenantry.
He had not been dispossessed because he retained his attachment to
Rome.

Having occasion frequently to visit Ipswich as a carpenter of
considerable skill, he had been noticed by the priesthood for his
bending his will to their suggestions, and the infatuated man had, as
many before and after have done, allowed himself to be made the tool
of the hierarchy to do things diametrically opposed to the Word of
God.

He had found himself completely under the hand of the lady of Cold
Hall, and had been so piously inspired with her spirit, that he had
promised, as a religious act of faith, to set fire to his master's
premises.

Father Duncan understood the character of the man the moment he saw
him, and adapted his mode of address accordingly, as the profound
fool entered the apartment, bowing to the very earth, as if he was
entering into the presence of the Pope himself.

'Abdil, my son, thou art welcome to our presence.  Come hither, that
I may lay my hands upon thee, and give thee absolution.  Thy
resolution to serve the church of thy fathers is nobly taken, and the
destruction of heretics is a duty which every true son of Rome must
feel to be a privilege, as he is therein made an instrument of
vengeance upon the ungodly.

'The pious lady of this mansion has informed me, that thou dost
desire to have absolution from all sin in the act thou art about to
perform against that pestilent heretic, Lord De Freston.  We give it
thee freely and absolutely, and do not only assure thee of perfect
pardon for all thy past sins, but for this act thou shall have free
grace and exculpation for all sins thou mayest commit for twelve
months to come.

'Therefore, my son, kneel down, that we may bless thee and strengthen
thy hands by the taking of them between our own, as an assurance of
their being clean from all iniquity.'

Abdil Foley knelt with the most profound submission, closed the palms
of his hands as if they were two boards glued together, and inserted
them with reverence between the opening palms of Father Duncan.

No wonder that he should be elevated by the imposition.  The terms
were such as the greatest villain who had any faith in Rome might
conscientiously accept, and proceed, as Abdil did, to put in practice
the most diabolical act under the pretence of doing God's service.

He returned to Freston seven times more infatuated and diabolical
than he had ever before been.  The poor fellow was of a naturally
kind-hearted, easy temper, but was weak, ignorant, and easily imposed
upon; just such as the priests of that day sought for to do the work
they dared not themselves perform.

Everything was arranged, but too successfully, for the destruction of
Lord De Freston's castle, and the late residence of Ellen, his
daughter, in the centre of Ipswich, so long belonging to the
Wingfields.  Abdil had been made instrumental in the latter as well
as the former, under the pretence of being employed about some
repairs; so that he was in the plot, and sworn to secrecy.

We shall see, however, that if vengeance inflicted by man is suffered
to prevail for a moment, it recoils upon the head of the perpetrator,
even when he is seeking the ruin of the innocent.  How awful were the
intrigues of those days!  Truth requires no intrigue, certainly no
violence, to defend it.  It is so calm and exalted above passion,
that it scorns alike to put in force absolute cruelty, as it does
absolute condemnation or acquittal.




CHAPTER XLIX.

THE FOOL.

Christmas Day of that memorable year in which Cardinal Wolsey died,
came with its usual festivities; which in every house were exercised
in a greater or less degree, according to their means.

In De Freston's domain, it had ever been a day of the gathering of
his tenantry into the great hall, when the bringing in the great log,
the boar's head, and the largest buck which could be shot, as
hereditary customs, were observed.

Upon the present occasion, it was, if possible, a more than common
festivity, particularly on account of the great age of the
proprietor, whose birthday was on Christmas Day, and he had now
attained the great age of eighty-eight years.

The old Baron was as fine a specimen of an Englishman as ever walked
into his hall.  He retained the fire of his eye on that very day with
the vigor of a man whose intellect was less impaired than his body.

It was a memorable Christmas Day for every one connected with the
house of Freston--memorable, as will be seen, for its festive
character; memorable for its local events, and for the destruction of
the two most stately mansions which at that period graced the banks
of the Orwell.  But though it was a day of rejoicing to many, it was,
as it ever will be, a day of woe to some.

All were happy in and around the hospitable mansion.  Cavendish saw
such a body of happy Suffolk yeomen meeting at the foot of Freston
Tower, that he declared, if ever his fortunes enabled him to do so,
he would become a Suffolk man.

From far and near all were assembled, and Ellen, more than usually
happy and active, was here, there, and everywhere among her parent's
tenants, interchanging, exchanging, and changing hands, words, and
deeds, as became a lady of her distinction and qualities of head and
heart.

What a pity that ever a cloud should have arisen to change the sunny
smiles and cheerful welcomes of that happy Christmas Day.

It often happens in terrestrial things that at the very moment of our
utmost felicity, when the cup of social enjoyment is at its highest
point, touching the very lips of him who is ready to taste the
draught, then an unforeseen blow prostrates, in a moment, all the
excitement, pleasure, and enjoyment of that mortal delight in which
we had been engaged.

This may be very beneficial to us all; but it is at the time
confessedly severe, and it is only calm reflection, gradual wisdom,
and gently sustained grace that lifts the broken-hearted to the
calmer wisdom of acquiescence in the wisdom of the wise Disposer of
all things.

Stoicism may harden a man's heart to such a degree, that his
philosophical mind may become indifferent to almost everything; and a
species of fatalism may usurp all tenderness, nature, affection, and
every quality of enjoyment with which God has gifted our souls and
bodies.

But stoicism, thank God, is not the Christian's creed, who looks to
the law and the testimony, and the love of God for all his creatures,
but most of all for man, for whom God has himself made a sacrifice,
such as angels who are not partakers thereof can scarcely describe;
such as souls, lost and found, can, indeed, only appreciate.

Oh, let me be the poorest fly of the sunbeam, thankful for the warmth
of heavenly rays which expand my wings, rather than the chilly tenant
of the gloomy, tomb-like monastery, which can only be made warm by
artificial means, and then gives neither confidence nor comfort to
the heart.  One ray of love is worth twenty thousand torches, though
they might cast a glare of light upon a murky night.  One ray of
love, of the daylight from on high, shall put into darkness all the
candles of the altars of superstition, though they may burn with
national devotion through the largest empires of the world.

So the heaviness of a sudden blow coming unexpectedly upon a
Christian may cast him down for a night, but not for ever.  God feels
for him who can feel for others, and will lift him up from his fall,
and restore him to the light.

These may be comforting words to some and foreboding ones to others,
and they who read this narrative may be trembling on the breath of
suspense, knowing what is coming in the course of the description,
and may imagine this work is to end in the dismal sorrow of some
dreadful catastrophe.

An unhappy, a designedly mischievous, and wicked act did transpire;
but he whom it was meant to injure never knew the enemy that caused
it; and, as we shall presently see, she whom it was hoped might be
consumed, or overwhelmed with the terror of the conflagration, was so
engrossed with a nobler, deeper, and more heartfelt grief, that even
the destruction of all her houses would have been a cypher compared
with it.  The blow which divine wisdom gives carries along with it
its own cure, it is to be healed by the word of wisdom; but the blow
which enemies give us, wound only themselves.

The Christmas festivities of the park of De Freston were observed out
of doors and in with all the usual demonstrations of temporal
rejoicing.  The landlord's presents were made on this day to his
tenants.

New stuff gowns to good wives, new suits of liveries to all
retainers, new swords to the defenders of the castle, new books to
the learned, new hats, shoes, coats, jerkins, stockings, caps,
woollens, and all the variety of household comforts, to the cottagers
and peasantry of the domain.

All were invited to the baronial mansion, where the yule log burnt
upon the open hearth, and such a blaze ascended, as lighted up every
portion of the great hall without the aid of lamps.

Lord De Freston, with his faithful bloodhounds at his heels, and his
loving daughter by his side, stood again, though for the last time,
in the hall of his ancestors, a cheerful spectator of his tenantry
and people.

The old man most devoutly blessed the fare which a bountiful
Providence had supplied, and heartily wished all he saw to be good
and happy.

It was not the fashion in that day to have riotous cheering in the
company of the ladies, but vivid respect was not the less visible on
every countenance as the party walked around the well-spread board,
attentive to the wants of individuals as if they felt they were their
own children.

'Abdil Foley,' said the Lady Ellen, as she happened to look him in
the face, 'you do not seem happy to-day; has any misfortune come upon
you or your family?  I have observed you eating nothing, and you wear
dejection in your countenance.  Come Abdil, if you have any grief at
heart, let your mistress share it with you.'

Abdil could give no answer; he was not a man of strong mind, or
insensible to natural kindness, nor was he able to conceal the
uncomfortable state of his heart, in the midst of the enjoyment, the
festive mirth, he saw around him.  He was a weak man, and a wicked
one as well, as far as perpetrating a deed in prospective intention
could make him wicked.

His position, at that moment, was by no means an enviable one.
Conscious of the action he was fully determined to perform, and sworn
to the most inviolate secrecy upon the occasion, nothing but the
terrors of imposition could keep him silent, or resolute in his
undertaking.

He had hoped to have managed to conceal, in the bustle of the
festivities, his wicked designs, even from the torment of his own
heart; but the excited spirit could not do otherwise than think of
his absorbing action, which he was to perpetrate; and, until he had
done it, the very hours, the very faces, the very dishes, the very
exercises, all appeared to him insipid.

He could not rest; others laughed at the various oddities of the
accomplished Reuben Styles, the buffoon of the day: but he, if he
smiled, was so insensible to anything like merriment, that he looked
as if he condemned whilst he permitted the frolic of the jester.

He answered not the Lady Ellen, but hung down his head in dogged
silence, until she called Reuben Styles to her, and, with an air of
pleasantry, said--

'Reuben, look at Abdil Foley, and tell me what is the matter with
him.'

With vast pomposity and affected knowledge, Reuben sprang forward,
seized the hand and beard of the patient, and at once exclaimed:
'Verily, lady, he hath a devil to contend with.  He is a black one
too--a fiery one also--and I would not be in the same house with him
to-night for all the world!'

In another moment the fool fell prostrate on the floor, and struck
his head, in falling, so forcibly against the column of the balcony
which surrounded the hall, that he was stunned to stupefaction and
sick, and was forced to be carried out of the merry company into the
air.

Lord De Freston was angry, and justly accused Abdil of great cruelty
to the tolerated and flattered buffoon, whose lot it was seldom to
meet with such treatment, as all men took what he said with
good-nature.

'Thou hast been severe, Abdil: my daughter will not readily forgive
thee for this!'

'I don't care if she don't,' was the uncourteous reply.

'Why didst thou do it?'

'Because the fellow took me by the beard, and told me I had a devil.'

'Of which thou hast given abundant proof in thy devilish deed, in
nearly knocking out his brains.'

'Then his brains should be in their proper place.'

There was a general dissatisfaction at the conduct of Abdil Foley,
both towards the courteous Lady Ellen and her father, and many were
the rebuffs which this unhappy man received upon that merry Christmas
Day.

He took all these things as many infatuated people do--as sufferings
for conscience' sake--a strange species of self-deception which a
deluded creature, in every age, has called a conscientious suffering.

Nothing else, however, than the impious persuasion, and the false
oath he had taken to destroy De Freston's mansion, could have worked
upon his temper and disposition, so as literally to make him an
object of disaffection in the hall of his master.

That good man, though he did not approve the behaviour of the
mechanic, had he been indeed of a despotic disposition, would have
banished him from his associates on that festive occasion, and not
have borne with his surliness, and certainly not have begged of
others to do the same.

He and his daughter left the hall to see after their poor man of wit,
who was carried into the air, and was reviving from the blow he had
received.  There was a wonderful elasticity of character about Reuben
Styles.  He was not a privileged mischief-maker, and, though full of
fun, he very seldom said anything to wound the feelings of any one.

Yet he was attached to Lord De Freston and Ellen, and he felt that
Abdil's surliness, sullenness, and downcast manner at such a time,
must result from ill-humor of mind or body.  He looked at him
therefore earnestly, to see if some bodily ailment might not afflict
him; but, discovering no symptom for the skill of the leech, he
easily concluded the man must have some ill-will rancoring in his
heart, which prevented his enjoying the Christmas Day as others did.

When Lord De Freston inquired good-humoredly after him, saying:
'Reuben, Reuben! you have had a hard hit to-day.'

The man replied, 'And so will you, good lord, before night.'

'How so, Reuben?'

'Because when a man strikes master's fool, I'm sure it is not
anything but hatred of his master which makes him hit so hard.'

'He can have no cause to hate me, Reuben; I never injured him.'

'So much the worse fellow he.  He did not hate me.  A few days ago I
could say anything to him; but I suspect I spoke truth to him, good
master, and the devil hates truth; he hath therefore a devil within
him which knocked me down, and I wish that may be the worst mischief
in him to-day.  I feel better, good master, ready to return.  I must
join the sports within the hall.'

So the poor fellow came in again; but was observed to be very much
shaken, and not so lively as he had been.

  'Yet there rejoiced he many eyes,--
  To see the fool still looking wise;
  And well it was that he could see
  With such a stunn'd capacity;
  And yet he saw, with open eyes,--
  Enough to give them all surprise.'




CHAPTER L.

CHRISTMAS DAY.

In the midst of the festivities of Christmas, when the various
out-door rustic frolics, such as breaking the stoutest stick, sliding
the farthest on a piece of ice, snowballing, tracking the hider, and
building up the snow man to be shot at, had passed away, and the song
and the dance within the mansion were beginning to soften all hearts,
a beggar was announced by the porter, as desirous of partaking of the
crumbs of the lord's table.

'Make way for the traveller!' was the immediate order of De Freston;
'let the weary-footed man walk in.  Go, several of you, and assist
him hither.  We shall enjoy ourselves the more, the more free the
hospitality we offer.'

An old man, with grey, straight, silken locks, came in, supported by
others, almost perished from cold; and with shivering limbs and
weeping eyes, he was placed near the crackling fire.  He sat down, or
was rather assisted to be seated, when, opening his eyes, the first
thing he fixed them upon was the now animated face of De Freston's
bloodhound.

That animal had become on a sudden wide awake, and his full,
piercing, lion-like eye, was no longer dull, heavy, and torpid.  The
dog's whole frame became animated, and he growled with a most
discontented grumble at the attention shown to the beggar.

The man was, as most well-initiated beggars are, well versed in
words, both of complaint, entreaty, thankfulness, and murmuring, and
knew how to adapt his speech to the company he was in.  The very
instant, however, that he spoke in such a plaintive interceding way,
Saracen, the bloodhound, gave such a deep-toned, dissatisfied bark,
that, had a lion roared in the hall, the people could not have been
more effectually startled.

It had the effect of turning all eyes upon the beggar, who assuredly
was more disturbed at the confronting stare of the bloodhound, than
at the scrutiny of any of the company before him.  His was no
dissembled terror at the dog, for he evidently betrayed such a fear
of him, both in word and deed, that the Lord De Freston was compelled
either to remove the beggar from the dog, or the dog from the beggar.

The latter appeared the most hospitable step, and the one most
satisfactory to the beggar, who smiled when he saw his dreaded enemy
led off to his kennel.  That enemy, however, could not be taken away
without giving such an indication of his displeasure as, but for the
interference of De Freston, would probably have been of the most
serious consequence; for, as the two keepers came to lead him away,
before they had fairly secured them, he flew at the beggar, and
rolled him off his seat in a moment, and then looked at his master as
if for instructions to destroy him.

De Freston struck the dog, who gave such a piteous howl, as pierced
the very extreme recesses of the castle, and so touched the heart of
Ellen that she flew to soothe her favorite, and succeeded.  She, in
fact, led him away from the victim of his rage.

There were many in that hall who looked upon the circumstance as
ominous of calamity, though the Lord De Freston, despising all such
old wives' fables, was above any superstitions of the kind.

The fool, however, though not superstitious, saw something abhorrent
in the beggar, and resolved to keep his eye upon him; for he said to
himself: 'There are many strangers here to-night; why did not the
bloodhound tackle them?'

But the festivities went on; the drum, and flute, and bagpipe did
their parts, and groups of merry dancers whirled their partners
through the strange hop of the age, much resembling the dance of
sailors on board a man-of-war.  The more stately set dance of the
nobility was not imitated by the people, and in these Christmas
frolics no mask was allowed.

As the dance went on, the old beggar revived from his warmth, and
fixed his eyes upon Abdil Foley, and somehow contrived to let him see
that he claimed his attention.  He thought he was unobserved, but the
watchful fool had kept him in his eye, and now felt convinced that
there was more than one demon in the room.  Abdil contrived gradually
to draw up to the fire-place, and the beggar dropped his staff.

'Pick it up, young man,' said he; and as he gave it him he said--

'Father Duncan is here.'

The guilty Abdil looked at the beggar narrowly, and saw in a moment,
beneath the disguise, the ever watchful priest of St. John the
Baptist, Father Confessor to Alice De Clinton, and the craftiest
Jesuit who ever set foot into the diocese of Norwich.

'Go and join in the dance, Abdil; shake off thy melancholy; I will
set thee free.'

Abdil went; he suddenly shook off his melancholy--for he was bid to
do so, and by a priest--so that he became, if not in reality, yet
apparently, an altered man.

The fool observed it, and kept his watch the more closely upon him,
as his altered behaviour seemed to him entirely owing to the beggar's
speech.

Lord De Freston, in his attentions to his people, had for a time
forgotten the attack upon the beggar by his bloodhound, and now,
seeing the old man interested in the dance, he walked towards his
seat, and entered into conversation with him.

'I hope thou hast recovered from the terror which my savage hound
occasioned.'

'Thanks to thee, I feel myself better.  He is a faithful dog.'

'He is, indeed; and singular in him, he never attempts to attack any
one who is not a stranger--quite a stranger to this country.  He has
never smelt thy foot before.'

'I am a stranger from Lancashire, and poor enough; but I have a vow
upon me to visit Latimer's Tower on the Christmas Day after Cardinal
Wolsey's death.'

'Ha! how knewest thou that the Tower was ever Latimer's Tower.'

'That is easily explained.  Though I am a beggar, a pilgrim, a
wanderer from a far country, yet I was a monk at York, who had to do
penance for my sin, and the penance laid upon me was that, from the
moment that the death of Cardinal Wolsey, Archbishop of York, should
take place, be it whensoever it might, or I be wheresoever I might
be, I should start barefoot for the birth-place of Wolsey, and there
remain until Christmas Day next succeeding, and that upon that day I
should visit a certain tower, designated, by the Cardinal himself,
Latimer's Tower, and affix in the window of the fifth story this
illuminated cross.

'That I was to ask permission of thyself so to do the one hour before
midnight.  I have scarcely had time to walk the distance, as you see
me, noble lord; but humbly crave it, as the completion of my vow, to
perform the task.'

'Folly though I think all such vows to be, both in those who exact
and those who perform them, I cannot forget that the time was when I
myself, like thee, thought it part of a good Catholic's devotion to
impose such vain works of penance upon myself.

'I pity thee sincerely, stranger, but will aid thee effectually in
thy task, though I wish most heartily that thou mayest be enlightened
to see thine error.'  The pilgrim crossed himself devoutly.




CHAPTER LI.

THE INCENDIARY.

The dance continued merrily and cheerily, and every one enjoyed the
Christmas cheer; till at last the castle horn blew, and friends who
lived near parted with good humor from those who were to remain the
night.

'Friends,' said De Freston, 'farewell!  Our love go with you.'

Little did any who departed think they were the last words they
should ever hear from the lips of that generous nobleman.  The bustle
of departure had scarcely been over before Ellen and Latimer,
Cavendish and other friends, were surprised to hear Lord De Freston
give an order such as they never had heard upon such an occasion
before:

'Torches for the Tower!'

'Torches for the Tower, father!' exclaimed Ellen; 'what! on this
night?'

'Yes, my daughter, it is but fitting that we should have due regard
to the prejudices of strangers:

'Torches for the Tower!

'And, Ellen, wrap thyself well up in thy wintry woollen mantle, and
accompany me thereto.  This stranger has a vow upon him which we must
see performed.  It is one enjoined by thine early friend, Thomas
Wolsey.'

This was sufficient for Ellen, but Cavendish, his gentleman usher,
house secretary, and most humble servant, said--

'Who is the stranger? what is the vow?'

'You may inquire of him anything you will.'

'Old man,' said Cavendish, 'what is thy name?'

'My name is Duncan.'

'Monk of York, who, on a celebrated Palm Sunday, on which we all went
in procession to our Lady's Chapel, didst conduct thyself disorderly,
licentiously, and insultingly to my Lord Cardinal, and wast ordered
to be confined for the lifetime of my master?'

'I am he--the same--and was then to perform the vow which thy master
named, and which, now he is dead, I am come to fulfil.'

'I do not remember that part of thy sentence.'

'This was imposed upon me at the suggestion of our Superior, the
venerable D'Annerat.'

'It is well--it is well--my poor master is dead, and the Superior
might have obtained this penance from my master without my knowledge,
and it is not unlike him.  Hast thou no proof thereof?'

'This,' said the cunning Duncan, 'this,' and he showed him a glass
cross, with the arms of the Cardinal in the centre, and the whole
capable of illumination by a phosphoric matter, with which it had
been washed inside.

Cavendish asked him so many questions of York, of its monastery,
cathedral, neighborhood, palace, castle, and people, that he became
convinced he was at York during the time of his master's presence
therein.  He gave, therefore, implicit credence to the man's words,
and intimated to Lord De Freston that he could vouch for the truth of
the man's statement.

Torches were brought, two men appointed to attend the aged devotee,
and to assist his steps, whilst Lord De Freston, Ellen, and Latimer,
with Cavendish, prepared to walk through the snow, which had then
fallen deep, to the porch of Freston Tower.

Old Saracen howled most piteously as the torches passed over the
drawbridge, and neither the orders for silence, nor the cheerful call
of De Freston, could make him cease his piteous moan, as if he were
baying the torches which were accompanying his master to his tomb,
instead of the light, airy, lofty, cheerful abode of his hours of
meditation, recreation, and study.

It was a very unusual thing for his master to proceed by torchlight
without his favorite bloodhound, and it might be the being left
chained at the castle door at such a time that created Saracen's
discomfiture.  But his anger at the beggar was sufficient cause for
De Freston to decline his services that night.

The attendants were ordered to accompany their lord, but the fool
would not go.  He had other game in view, for, having seen
significant but secret glances pass between Abdil Foley and the
beggar, he resolved to watch the former, whom he heard say--

'I must hasten to my son's room for my cloak.'

His young son was one of the undergrooms, who slept in the furthest
attic, adjoining the unfrequented apartments of the castle.  Reuben
Styles was suspicious.  The moment he heard his speech he bolted off,
and took the nearest passage to the back staircase, leaving Abdil to
pursue his way through the crowd; one detaining him to congratulate
him upon his recovery; another joking him about the fool; another
about his possession of a demon, until Reuben had fairly secreted
himself beneath one of the groom's beds, before the wretched Abdil
came with his lantern into the room.

He came, and alone; but breathing hard, and yet listening.  His cloak
lay upon the bed, and its folds were hanging down even before the
face of Reuben Styles; so that he was in some trepidation lest his
old foe should catch him alone, and give him an additional punishment
for his curiosity.  He was surprised the cloak did not move,
especially as he knew that Abdil would not like to go across the park
alone at night, and friends were fast departing from the hospitable
roof.

At last he heard him sigh, and speak--

'Come, I must be quick!  Away, ye fiends of darkness; torment me not!
Now, then, for the Faith.  I am glad, however, my lord and lady are
not in the house.  No matter, if I am revenged upon the fool.  I
should like to see him burning upon one of the turrets.  Now, Father
Duncan, thou wilt say I did it well.  I must not forget my cloak upon
my return.  Ha! ha! ye heretics! ye will soon see a blaze!'

Those were fearful words for the fool to hear, who began to think
that he was found out, and that he was to be taken wrapped up in the
woollen covering of the bed, and to be burnt on the top of the
turret, which was only a few winding steps from the place where he
then lay.

He was relieved, however, by hearing the bolts of the door leading to
the unfrequented apartments undone, and then the lock turn from its
hold, and its old rusty hinges grate upon the pivots, and Abdil Foley
depart, closing the door again.

'Whatever is the villain at!' thought Reuben.  'Whatever it is, he
shall have it all to himself, for I will take good care he shall keep
in those apartments all night.  He crept from his hiding-place,
bolted the door, and finding that the great key was in the lock, he
turned that also, and fled down stairs again to the hall, determined
to give an alarm to all the house, by saying there was a ghost in the
unfrequented part of the house.

He did so, for he went into the very midst of the domestics, and told
them all to go and listen, what a strange noise there was.

And, indeed, there was soon heard a strange noise: such a thundering
row at the doors, and such a crackling of wood, that the poor
creatures shivered with terror, and the fool himself became horrified.

  'There is a demon in the house,
    There is a ghost I'm sure;
  What strange, unearthly, hideous rows!
    Who can these woes endure?'




CHAPTER LII.

THE CONFLAGRATION.

Poor old Saracen continued his lamentable howl, nor could the warder
silence him.  De Freston himself, as he entered the porch of the
Tower, said to his daughter--

'I lament leaving Saracen behind us, but we must guard this stranger.'

'Dear father, why do you brave the chill air to-night?  I do not like
your coming.  We could surely have shown the stranger to the spot,
and have seen him perform his devotions without your running the risk
of cold.  Pray, dear father, keep your cloak close around you.  The
chill air blows keenly across the Orwell, and this is a night only
for the young, whose blood can be kept in circulation by exercise.'

'Thanks, my dearest child.  I shall take no hurt.  I have a twofold
duty in this visit to the Tower.  I shall see the arms of Wolsey in
your favorite window, and that will be a pleasing memento of a
once-learned but too ambitious man.

'The poor disguised monk, old and infirm, will also see that we have
a very scientific room, and I intend to speak a few words of truth to
him appropriate to this occasion.  Moreover, after all our
festivities to-night, I cannot tell you why, but I have feeling, a
desire, a sort of indescribable wish, to look upon the tranquil seat
of my fathers, from the turret, though it be only by our torches and
the stars.  There is tranquillity in the thought after the agitations
of the hall.'

'I will say no more, dear father, but I am sorry that the night is so
cold.'

'Your heart is warm, dear child; proceed with the torches.'

They entered the Tower.  The deceitful monk knelt down upon the stone
floor, crossed himself devoutly, and followed the torch-bearers
through the various rooms to the fifth story.  He came to the window.
Again he knelt down, took from his bosom the cross, which in another
moment, after kissing repeatedly, he affixed to the centre of the
window.

Then taking his flask, which hung from his side, he pretended to take
the first draught of wine which he had been allowed to touch since
the moment of his making the vow until its completion.  He laid the
carved horn upon the table, and again seemed lost in prayer.

Deceitful villain, at that moment he was making a double signal for
the destruction of two of the most magnificent houses in town and
country which the banks of the river Orwell owned.  But they were the
seats of heretics, men adverse to the malignities, views,
corruptions, lies, and impositions of the Papal power, and though
very learned, very charitable, very wise, opulent, and humble, yet
hostile to the hierarchy of Rome, and therefore to be tormented,
persecuted, and driven from the land.  The illuminated cross shone
conspicuous enough to lighten the room.

'Let us leave the pious pilgrim to his own meditations and ascend to
the turret, my child, for a few minutes.'

They ascended; they leaned upon the summit; but in a moment De
Freston felt a chill come over him, and he said--

'Ellen, I feel dizzy, my child; support me, Latimer.'----

He fell into the arms of his son-in-law and Cavendish, who placed him
upon the stone steps of the turret.

'Ellen, fetch the monk's flask of wine!'

She descended.  There knelt the dissembling devotee.

'Father, I must take thy flask.  My parent is suddenly taken ill.'

She waited not for his reply, nor did she see his smile.  But ran
hastily up again with the flask, concluding that the man would follow.

He had done his work.  He descended slowly, passed through the yet
ignorant torch-bearers, made his genuflections and crosses, and gave
his blessing solemnly to the men, and desired them to kneel and pray
in silence until he walked three times round the outside of the Tower.

The villain was soon gone, soon struck into the shades of Freston,
sought the shore, and, with sturdy steps, bade defiance to pursuit.
A cry, a lamentable cry, was soon heard, and all rushed from the
lowest room into the air.  The whole castle was on fire.

Shrieks issued from the distance, and above their heads the
lamentations of one voice was heard from the lofty tower.  The men
were in agony, between the hastening to the castle and the call from
above.  Six ran toward the mansion; two, with fearful agony, ascended
the Tower.

Ellen was so completely engrossed with her parent's state, that she
cast not her glance over the battlements, but upon the leads, where
her father's serene face was looking up as if his eyes would pierce
the skies.  She put the flask to his lips; she poured the wine into
his mouth--he drank.  For a moment he seemed to revive; he felt for
his daughter's hands, he placed them in Latimer's, he kissed them; he
was speechless; he looked up, and with a gentle smile upon his lips,
he breathed his last.

It was at that moment the cry from the castle reached their ears; but
had it been a volcanic eruption it would not have attracted the
rivetted, deep rivetted devotion of the affectionate beings who then
knelt at the dead De Freston's feet.

Cavendish alone, in an agony of horror, exclaimed--

'The castle is on fire!'

Nor had these words, nor the sudden spectacle, power to turn the
souls of the true mourners from a greater object of their sorrow.
The castle was on fire, and more, Cavendish beheld over the waters in
the far distance, a blaze of light illumining the sky, and heard the
distant bells of the town of Ipswich sounding their alarm to arouse
the country.

It was a spectacle so appalling, that what with the woe around and
near him, even he, who had seen more sorrows than his years could
have been supposed to have known, was completely unnerved.

Latimer, recovering, bore his Ellen into the room beneath, where
servants came screaming in wild dismay to her increased but solemn
sorrowing.  Latimer ordered De Freston's servants to remove their
master's body into the astronomical room, and torches to be there
lighted immediately.

There was no occasion for ordering furniture, for the assembling
people had been some time bringing across to the Tower whatever goods
and chattels could be saved from the conflagration.

Reuben Styles alone seemed to retain wisdom for ordering anything.
He knew Abdil was the perpetrator, and he kept his eye upon that wing
of the house, and soon saw the desperate fellow in wild and mad
despair climbing over the roof, and descending by the spouts from one
parapet to another.  He had cut his leg severely with some broken
glass, and even in the fire, the villain might be seen with bloody
clothes trying to escape, and he did descend.  So much broken up with
the woe were the people, that those who saw him pitied him, and
called to him to show him how to escape, none knowing, save the poor
fool, that he was the cause of the catastrophe.

Hundreds were employed in breaking the ice and throwing water.
Numbers kept arriving, but all--all in vain.  Reuben Styles seemed to
assume a sudden command--men obeyed him.  It was he who let the
bloodhound loose.  It was he who, when the ruin was complete, which
it was by two o'clock that dreadful night--it was he who exclaimed,
when he heard that his master was dead, and the rest of his family
safe--it was he who exclaimed to the people--

'Let us pursue the incendiary.  I know who he is.  Dead or alive let
us bring him to Freston Tower.  Follow me the stoutest of you all.
Follow me as many as dare.  Bring Saracen along with you!'

The blood-hound was not long before he was on the scent for the blood
of Abdil Foley had dropped upon the snow across the moat, and when
Reuben took up a portion with the snow, and rubbed it on the nose of
Saracen, and tracked him on the slot, the brave dog, with one lift of
his head, and a solemn, deep-toned note of recognition, pursued the
villain, who, conscience-smitten, fled from the terror of his deeds.




CHAPTER LIII.

THE PURSUIT.

But when did the wicked escape?  So will a man's sins follow him, and
find him out at last, be they what they may.  And whoever has sinned
against love, whoever has injured a neighbor, whoever has been
vindictive, cruel, unfeeling, or revengeful, the bloodhound of his
own conscience will pursue him, and superstition, under the garb of
religion, can never more shield him beneath her altars.

Abdil fled to his home.  His wife, his sons, his neighbors were all
gone to lend a hand, if possible, to quench his fiery work.  He had
been seen.  He must be known.  He must be taken.  He could not stay
there.  What must he do?  The very solitude of his cottage, and the
distant noise of the people, all conspired against him, and the
wretched man exclaimed--

'O Father Duncan!  O Lady Alice! now--now--now give me absolution.  I
must fly to you.  You must hide me in the sanctuary of your church.
You must console me, or my fiery brain will burn more furiously than
De Freston's Hall.'

The wretched man rested not a moment, save to drink one bitter
draught of liquor which he had in his house, and then fled for
Goldwell, or Cold Hall.

He had a long start--an hour's start and more of his pursuers.  Ten
young men, with undaunted courage, firm hands and feet, led on by
Reuben Styles, and the noble bloodhound of De Freston, followed on
the track.  So still was the night, that Saracen's deep note could be
heard for a long while by the mournful listeners at the castle.

The brave dog arrived at the door of the infatuated carpenter.

'He is right,' exclaimed Reuben, 'he is right, my bold companions,
Abdil Foley is the man.  He is the wretch.  Find him, good Saracen,
find him, boy!'

In vain they searched the house.  They had well nigh been left in the
lurch, for Saracen had again tracked that now well-known foot from
the house, and was making his way towards the lodge.

Thither they followed with fresh excitement, as the bold dog gave but
little further tongue, but seemed to settle down into a certain
steady pace of pursuit.  It was a longer and a stronger chase than
they expected, but the spirit of Reuben was above fatigue, and he
exclaimed at the lodge:

'Now, boys, go no further, you who cannot endure a long run; for my
belief is, the town' (then four miles off) 'is our destination.'

Never huntsman had a braver field to follow him.  Never hound less
came to check.  As they entered upon the strand they found the snow
was less, and the scent more new and powerful, and consequently the
fierce delight of Saracen was more lively.  His head was higher up,
as if he expected to see his victim, or else the scent of the man
more recently impregnated the very air with his demoniacal stench.

A bloodhound is not swift, but he is very sure, very untired, always
persevering; and though his gallop is slow, comparatively speaking,
it is inexpressibly grand.  So is vengeance in following the guilty.

On! on! on!  Forward! forward! forward! and forward went the party,
and at every step they took they could see the heavens brighter and
brighter, until the light from behind, where De Freston's castle was
blazing, and the lights before them illumining the whole town, might
fairly be said to act almost like sunshine.

They approached the town, but Saracen halted not.  Though foot-marks
crossed, commingled, and became a regular path; on, on, on he kept,
nor paused, nor spake, but every now and then dashed his rudder-like
tail from side to side to steer him safely to the wind.  But now came
the proof of his sagacity.

Abdil had been ferried over the ford.  In dashed the dog, and, as
soon as could be, followed the hunt.  Up St. Peter's Street, past the
Cardinal's College, through Silence Street, Wolsey's house in St.
Nicholas, past Wolsey's Shambles in the market.

On, over the Butcher's Hill, through St. Lawrence, past the Magdalene
Hospital, the Pest House, St. Margaret's, St. Helen's: and now the
bloodhound opes his mouth; and keeps his jaws working as if he was
actually eating the scent.  Hundreds joined the cry.  'Pursue the
incendiary!  Pursue the incendiary!' were the exclamations: and half
the town appeared on fire, from the mighty glare of the noble house
in Brook Street.

At the gates of Goldwell Hall, Saracen came to a check.  He actually
seized the handle of the porter's bell, and bit it as if it were the
hand of the incendiary.  That hand had been but a few minutes on and
off the handle; and the rage of the bloodhound might now be seen in
contrast with his previous steadiness.  He gnawed at the threshold.
His deep-toned voice must have echoed in the hearts of the guilty
souls within; but no one answered the multitude.

That multitude, in pursuit of a then exciting and righteous cause,
tried all they could to obtain a peaceable entry.  They were sternly
denied, though they heard voices in the Lodge.

Force was resorted to, and at last an entrance gained; but here all
track was lost, for the fugitives had been drawn up into a lofty
room, and thence conveyed into a secret cavern which led to the
little chapel of St. John the Baptist; but the Lady Alice, with an
hauteur and cold dignity, confronted and confounded the pursuers, by
her calm denial, coolness, and composure.

They could search no further; for that day Abdil and Father Duncan
had both escaped, and Saracen returned with his brave huntsmen and
field to Freston Tower.

The castle was gone--it was a ruin.  The Tower alone remained, and
its sorrowful inmates were, for a season, inconsolable.

Friends came from Ipswich, the lodges and cottages were full of the
Hall dependants, and the death of De Freston on Christmas Day, on the
summit of Freston Tower, was the conversation of thousands until the
very name became extinct.

William Latimer and the Lady Ellen lived two years in Ipswich, in the
house of Edmund Daundy; Freston Tower became a noted place; Alice de
Clinton, soon forgotten.  The united couple, who loved each other
through all their trials, retired into Worcestershire.  William
Latimer became a firm Protestant, the estates of De Freston were
disposed of and the faithful Saracen went with his mistress to their
Midland Counties home.

Cold Hall is now but a farm-house, as many of the old baronial
mansions of past ages have become.




CHAPTER LIV.

THE LAST VISIT TO THE TOWER.

Latimer and Ellen visited the scene of their early attachment but
once after their long and happy sojourn in Gloucestershire; and,
singular enough, that once was to convey to a distant relative, of
the name of Goodynge, the estate of Freston, for which he had, with
earnest solicitation and very liberal offers, made repeated
application.

Ralphe Goodynge, or Gooding, one of the oldest inhabitants of
Ipswich, distantly connected with the family of De Freston on the
female side, soon after the purchase of Freston, represented the
borough of Ipswich, in conjunction with John Sparrowe.  It was owing
to his liberality that the Tower itself remained one of the
pleasantest features of the Orwell, and the place of happy resort for
many a wedding party.

In his day it became a sort of privilege for the townsmen of Ipswich
to take a marriage trip to Freston Tower.  Its pleasant distance from
the town, the lovely park in which it then stood, and the still
memorable record of the Lady Ellen, and her faithful Latimer, made
'Latimer's Tower,' a bye-word for conjugal felicity.  The wonder is,
that it should ever have lost this celebrity.

Whether it was that, in the lapse of years, the park became arable
land, and lost the traces of hereditary grandeur, or that other
possessors succeeded, who did not encourage this right of the free
burgesses, and their espousals, the old distich was forgotten which
said:

  'No burgess on his wedding-day,
  Which falls in whitethorn merry May,
  Shall happy be in house or bower,
  Who does not visit Freston Tower.'


For many years, a venerable old couple of the name of Sage, who had
been attached to the family of the Latimers, resided in the lower
compartment of the Tower, and with the assistance of their two
daughters kept the rooms in such order, that it was said:

  'The Sages differ in their ages,
    But all our hearts with love engage;
  We pay the Sages marriage wages,
    That we in age may be like Sage.


It was to the house of this old couple, that Latimer and Ellen went
after they had conveyed the estate to Mr. Ralphe Goodynge, and paid
their last visit to the tower of love.  Memory, fresh, clear, and
hallowed, can never forget the spot where the enjoyment of that sweet
thought, the making another happy, was first imbibed.  Whatever cares
may arise, whatever troubles may have come upon us, and however much
the realities of this dull world, and its daily ploddings, may have
made us creatures of circumstances, we still remember, with a
holiness never to be effaced, the spot of our first love.

Let stoics say what they will, or mortals without natural affection
break every trace of love, every honest man, who had a heart of
natural affection in his youth, cannot fail to recal, with
satisfaction, the remembrance of that spot where he first became
betrothed.

The soldier may have to visit foreign countries; the ambassador,
foreign courts; the lawyer, courts of law; the trader, foreign ports;
even the Missionary, foreign stations; the Bishop, distant sees; no
man, let him be called to whatever employment he may, and be
compelled therein to forsake the scenes of his early youth, can fail
sometimes to remember the associations of that day, when he first
ventured even to think of that partner, with whom he may have
afterwards passed the meridian of life.

Everything tends to sanctify the spot.  The very duties of life, in
which his daily occupations may have engrossed his time, are often
broken in upon by the remembrance thereof.  The more mental those
duties may have been, either in law, physic, or divinity, the keener
or clearer will be the reflection or vision of the past.  None but
those whose hearts are completely given up to the idolatry of money,
can forget the place of friendship,

  'Where bold and brave, and modest, pure, and bland,
  He sought love's friendship both with heart and hand.'


Let his calling be ever so high and sacred, there is no sin in
looking back upon that spot and those thoughts of days gone by,
though he may well know that he can never enjoy them again.  He may
even feel thankful that he never can.  He may never even desire so to
do, and yet never undervalue the heavenly permission which then
sanctioned his betrothment, and witnessed his espousals.

If the dear place be gone from him; if others possess it; if fathers,
mothers, brothers, and friends, who smiled upon our days of love, and
shared their freedom with us, be all departed--can we forget them?
No! memory is vivid in love.  But are there no sorrows commingled
therewith? no remembrances of mortal heart-burnings, affronts,
failings, differences, wants of temper, accusations, or disputations?
Smooth must have flowed the channel of life, if nothing of this kind
can be remembered.  But if they can, and the God of mercy has
softened the heart with tears of repentance for those past, unruly,
or discordant intruders, let not the honest lover repine or despair,
that he cannot alter the past.  His love is true, though the very
earth may banish him from the spot.

But what sensations crept over Latimer and the Lady Ellen as they
stood at the foot of the Tower, for the last time!

'Philosophers maintain, dearest husband, that we ought not to
encourage any of those sensations which touch upon the melancholy
moments of the past.  They would have us shake off the memory of
anything in which we have once delighted; but they appear to me to
think there is no pleasure at all in reflection.  Now, though sorrow
may sadden the present moment, there is a species of unalloyed
pleasure in the remembrance of those days, and in revisiting those
scenes where we once imbibed the happiness of conversation with those
we loved.  What say you, dearest husband?'

'Say, my love, that no hours can be sweeter than those so employed,
saving, shall I say, those of which we speak; but would not that be
ungrateful?  We cannot go back again except in thought; we cannot
retread the steps we have trodden years ago with the same objects we
then had in view; but that is no reason why we should encourage
bitterness in our souls, unless we have some bitter accusations of
conscience to afflict us.  I do not remember even the building of
this Tower with any regret.  Here it stands; the object of its
erection was one of regard, dearest Ellen, for thyself; but if thou
art not more esteemed by me than the Tower, or the domain around it,
then should I deeply regret, perhaps, the surrender of our right and
title to the estate.'

'I thank thee, dearest--I thank thee; and yet thou canst not quite
feel as I may do the vivid recollections of a father's love.  I think
of him who loved me with a tenderness which seemed to be the deeper
because of my mother's early loss.  Ah!  Latimer, he was as a father
and a mother unto me!'

'But he can be no longer such, dearest Ellen, and neither art thou so
situated as to require it.  The wind was tempered to the shorn lamb.'

'And so is it now; and I do not complain.  I do but think; and, as we
learn to part with childish trifles without regret as we grow in
years, so, dearest husband, must we learn to part with things to
which our affections become more attached, inasmuch as they are more
powerful objects of attraction.'

'Yes, Ellen, and the more submissively to the Divine will we school
our hearts in the course of our journey, the less those pangs of
parting afflict us, and the sweeter are our hopes of rest.  The
mansion itself, which held its lord, is gone; the Tower alone
remains.  It has lasted until thy father's generation and name are
gone, and, in the lapse of a few years more, even the memory of
ourselves, and of all we have seen and known here, must pass away.'

'But thou hast not forgotten the stipulation that, as long as the
Tower can stand, it shall be preserved.'

'No, our friend Ralphe Goodynge has guaranteed that thou shalt have
full right and title, as long as he holds the estate, to a resident,
rent-free therein, whomsoever thou mayst appoint, and that he will
pay a certain monthly dole unto any person or persons inhabiting the
spot, to keep the rooms and furniture in cleanly order for thyself or
for thy friends, during the term of thy natural life.

'He binds himself, moreover, to keep the said Tower an repair during
his possession of the estate, and that as long as the name of Latimer
can be remembered in Ipswich, it shall be designated "_Latimer's
Tower_."  So you see, dearest, we shall still have a name and a
possession on the banks of the Orwell.'

'Why this should be such a pleasure to me, thou msyest easily guess.
Not that we shall often revisit this spot, yet when we speak thereof,
the thought of having friends to whom our early days were known, and
the father and mother of our faithful servant still resident herein,
will be pleasant to us, though we may be away from them.  Does Ralphe
Goodynge bind his successors?'

'No, not beyond the possession of his right and title to the estate;
and this I think but fair.  He has no objection, as a relative, to
make this spot a pleasant place of remembrance both for friendship
and affection's sake; but he will not undertake to bind upon others
that which he conceives only to concern himself.  I do not think this
unreasonable.  It is not, Ellen, as if it were a place of public
resort, or a place dedicated to any special purpose, either to
religion or to the administration of justice, or even to public
entertainment.  It was built for thee, and unless in future
generations it could be devoted to similar purposes, and that is not
likely, for it is not his intention to rebuild the mansion, I see no
reason why he should be expected to preserve it.  There will not be
another Ellen De Freston to inhabit it.'

Whether this was gratifying or not to Ellen, she did not reply, but,
with a sigh, she leaned upon her husband's arm, as they entered the
Tower.  There are feelings, sensations, ideas, thoughts, and
reflections, which cannot be spoken, and perhaps are never less able
to be uttered than when we feel perfectly conscious that we have,
even near to us as life, a being who can fully appreciate all we
might express.  A sigh, if it could be defined, would speak perhaps
an eloquence as yet unknown.

  There is a spirit speaking in a sigh
  Which words convey not unto human ears.
  That which it is not, mortal tongues may speak:
  That which it is, no words were ever found
  To give its meaning to the list'ning world.
  The world!--oh no! the world would never hear
  The sigh of pure affection in the soul,
  Contrition's sigh, or aspiration's sound,
  The wish for things unseen, though not unfelt
  The thought of being perfect, or of hope
  Of gaining that perfection which delights
  In joyful innocence, of bliss untold--
  I speak not of the sigh of deep regret
  For sins innumerable--groans, indeed!
  Unutterable groans those sighs become.
  And well become the guilty hearts of men;
  And if sincere, the Comforter will come
  With holy calmness to the troubled soul,
  And give it peace.  There is a sigh for bliss--
  Yes, seraph's blissfulness--to speak with those
  With whom we held communion on earth,
  On things of Heaven--can that sigh be told?
  No, 'tis the thought of immaterial light,
  Brighter than sun's most fervid-glowing ray,
  In clearest atmosphere of brilliant day.


We may suppose such a sigh to have escaped the heart at Ellen, as she
entered the Tower, where she had spent so many happy hours with her
affectionate father.  It was Latimer's care to improve even those
moments of meditation with the language of truth, and his masculine
mind then showed itself well worthy of the admiration Ellen had given
it.  Never perhaps did she feel or own him to be her lord and master
so powerfully as during the short converse they had in the favorite
room of their favorite Tower.

To strengthen the human mind with words of pious resignation; to
point to the wisdom displayed for human reformation and human
happiness, was then the duty, and the pleasure, and the comfort of a
humble, honest-hearted husband.  Perhaps some would sigh to hear that
conversation; perhaps it might instruct and improve many a human
heart.  Let only the effects be told.

Latimer and Ellen descended the steps of the Tower even happier than
they ascended; for whilst, like many a faithful couple in this world,
descending into the vale of years, conscious of ten thousand
blessings which they received, for which they can only be thankful,
even whilst they own themselves unworthy thereof, so their calm
spirits ascend higher as their years descend.  So did Latimer and
Ellen proceed on their way to the cottage.  At that cottage they
learnt a lesson such as they never forgot, which made even this visit
to the Tower memorable to their last days.




CHAPTER LV.

THE LAST EVENT.

The last event generally finishes a long series of virtues,
blessings, providences, crosses, afflictions, or crimes; and if the
last event which can happen to poor mortality be the best, the life
must have been one of such tribulation that the event which is to
terminate it can only be a submissive and a happy one.

The last chapter of many a hook may afford us pleasure or pain
according to the spirit of the foregone narrative.  Some think an
entertaining book terminates well with a marriage; and most novels,
which feed the passions or entertain the fancy, do so terminate.  In
such case, they begin with the anticipation of the event, and the
only novelty is, the varied way in which the thing is wrought up, so
as to bring about the sure termination.

There is a taste for style of composition--for variety of
incidents--for the parts of speech, and for the sentimentality of a
work, which may be very gratifying, but the impressions upon the
whole are evanescent.  The acme of writing is to improve the heart
with such solid good sense as shall make the things written of not
easily forgotten.  Hence, things true to nature are awakening and
striking: whilst things, however marvellous, which are unnatural,
being worked up too highly, clog the appetite, and vitiate, if they
do not totally destroy, the palate.

Plain matter-of-fact things are, therefore, more startling a great
deal than the representations of the most vivid fancy or imagination.

There stand the venerable old Tower by the Orwell's side in the midst
of the trees, grown old, and grey, and useless.  There it stands as
it stood centuries ago; but it may not stand many more.  It may stand
a long time after the hand which writes the record of these events
may be unable to pen a line--but it will not stand a hundred
thousandth nor a million of a million parts of the time, compared
with the endurance of the spirit which dictates these pages, be they
for good or for evil.

When the old Tower shall have fallen, these pages will serve to show
that it once existed: but it does exist at this time, and any man may
see it who will, and trace its aptitude to the scenes, and the events
herein described.

The happy couple who had left their horses in the care of one of the
old tenants of the Hall farm, now walked towards the village church,
which at that time stood on the verge of the western side of the park
palings.  Indeed, the knoll upon which the building had been raised,
was given by the Lord De Freston, as his offering to the memory of
St. Peter, and was subject to the Priory of that name in Ipswich,
which had to furnish a priest to discharge the duties thereof.

Their faithful domestic, who lived with them at the time they
married, and who was with Ellen in the Tower on the memorable night
of St. Ivan's funeral, had married and settled with her sailor
husband at the Bourne Ford, at that time the Pilot's Home, close by
Bourne Bridge.  She had lost her husband in the second year of her
marriage, and through the kindness of the Lady Latimer, had been
received into her house in Gloucestershire.  She had also journeyed
with them into Suffolk, and was upon a visit to her parents, Joseph
and Ann Sage, who had at that time a cottage near the church.

It was Joseph's occupation to fell timber for repairs, and to see
that the boundaries of the estate were well fenced in, and,
especially the park and church palings, in good repair.  The old man
was full of grief at the news brought him by his daughter, that the
Lady Ellen was about to convey the estates of her father into the
hands of the Goodynge family, not from any distaste to the
purchasers, but because the names of De Freston and Latimer were so
pleasant to the daily associations of the good old man, that he had
flattered himself he should live to serve one of their name and
descent.

He was agreeably surprised when informed, by Ellen, of the
reservation of the Tower for his residence, and of the monthly sum to
be paid, whensoever he should choose to give up the labors of his
life to his son, and retire with his two daughters to the Tower.

It was whilst Latimer and Ellen were seated in the old man's neat
kitchen, parlor, hall, or keeping-room, and had just made his heart
beat for joy at these tidings, that a miserable object of human
beggary tapped at the door, and asked if old Joseph Sage lived there.

Joseph himself went out to see him, and not wishing his noble
visitors to be disturbed by such a person, he closed the door after
him, and stood erect before the beggar.

A pale, thin, haggard, miserable-looking creature, without shoes, or
woollen hose, with tattered rags, and torn skin, with a countenance,
the lines of agony, more than of age, seemed to have shrivelled into
deformity, stood before him.

'What want you with me?' asked the old woodman.

'Pity!' replied the beggar.

'In what shape: in money, food, or raiment?'

'In neither.'

'In what, then?'

'In a coffin.'

Old Sage started, for in verity there appeared more truth in the
man's application for this thing, than in the hundreds of petitions
which beggars usually made.  It made the old man feel conscious,
likewise, that there was something more earnest in this beggar's
petition, than if he had sought alms at his hand.

It is not often that a man asks for his own coffin, even if he be too
poor to purchase one.  The very novelty of the thing made the hearer
say, and that without any unfeeling intention, 'You must come into
the shop, to my son,' and he walked with him.

Scarcely could the beggar totter to the little out-house where the
son, who was soon to be the successor of Joseph Sage, was at work.

'I have a singular customer here, my son; a beggar applying to me for
his coffin.'

'Send him away, father, he is only an impostor,' replied the son.

'I am no impostor, young man,' replied the beggar.  'Only just let me
rest on your bench, and I will soon convince you thereof.'

The beggar entered, but, unable to lift himself to sit upon the
bench, he staggered, and fell upon a heap of shavings and chips which
lay under the casement of the shop.

It seemed, indeed, that he would want a coffin, for exhausted nature
had well nigh extinguished the lamp of life, as the wretched man
uttered a groan of distress which no impostor could have imitated.

It was not a loud one; it was not a plaintive, whining, acquired,
dissembling one.  It was a real faint utterance of the spirit of the
wretched actually in the distress of death.

'Run, my son, and ask thy mother for a little of her help; and bring
hither my cloak and a good woollen blanket; then to thy neighbor
Benns, whose skill as a leech may be of service.  The man shakes with
cold; but hush, my son, disturb not the Lady Latimer.  Be quick.'

His son was off in an instant, and the good old mother, with her
bottle of cordial and blanket, soon obeyed the dictates of charity.

The beggar was grateful.  He revived.  He looked at old Sage, and
said--

'Do you not know me?'

'No!'

'I know you both.  Ah! father!--ah! mother!--ah! my friends!--ah! my
village!  'Tis here! here--here--I was born, and here I die.'

'And who are you?'

'Who?  Do you not really know me?  I am glad you do not.  I am glad
you do not.  If you did, you would set these shavings on fire, and
burn me to death; but I should not be dead.  No, I should not be
dead; but burn, burn, burn, for ever!'

'Poor man, he is mad.'

'No, mother, I am not mad--I wish I was mad!  I wish I could be mad!
I wish that my madness could quench my grief, mother.  If I were mad,
I should not have come here.  No, I am not mad!'

'Who art thou, my son?  And what is the matter with thee?'

'Hush! mother.  I will tell thee who I am, but do not whisper it in
the village.  Let me die first.  Oh! when shall I die? when? when?
when?'

'But who are you?  Shall I send for our priest to shrive you?'

'Mother, I have been shriven many times.  I have been absolved over
and over--over and over--for my sins.  I have had hours of penance,
fasting, and prayer, from morning to night.  I have been shut up in
the shrine of St. Peter for a month.  Priests have prayed with me,
talked to me, even extolled me, mother, and told me all my sins were
pardoned but if they were, they would not surely burn me as they now
do.  Oh! how they scorch--how they glare upon me now, more fiercely
than ever!  Oh! mother, give me a little water.  Throw some on my
face, my hands, my feet.'

'There, there, my poor soul! do not despair! do not despair!  Come,
come, be pacified.  But who art thou?'

The poor man looked wildly round, and, just at that; moment, Latimer
and Ellen, who had heard something of the event, came to see if they
could not, like ministering angels, give comfort to the sick.

The instant the beggar saw them, he rose half up from his bed of
shavings, lifted up his hands, and gave such a wild, piercing,
agonising shriek, as made every heart quail before him.  After the
shriek succeeded a long stare--a wild, yet fixed eye was rivetted
upon the face of Ellen, and then, as they all stood motionless with
astonishment, then succeeded that which never, till that very moment,
gave the wretched soul of the man relief.  It was a tear.  It was
soon followed by another, another, and another; a stream succeeded,
and, as it flowed on, the head fell back, and the dying man was
exhausted.

The scene did not destroy the courage or disturb the spirit of
Latimer.  He knelt down; he beckoned them all to do the same.  His
Ellen knelt with him, and his quiet prayer was uttered with such
truly humble, placid, and composed voice, that the pacified spirit of
the dying man seemed lightened up with comfort.

He turned his eyes up toward them, and, with an imploring look, such
as showed the depth of the earnestness of his repentance, he said--

'Forgive poor Abdil Foley!'

In one moment all the mystery was solved.  Here lay the wretched,
dying man, who, worked upon by superstition, bigotry, and
malevolence, had destroyed the noble mansion of De Freston, fled to
the remorseless Alice De Clinton, and her dark and treacherous
flatterers, who had sent him from monastery to monastery throughout
the kingdom, with every species of invention and applause, bribe and
threat, intimidation and imposition; but who could never obliterate
the memory of his guilt, nor satisfy his soul for the injury he had
done to his best friends and supporters.

How true is it, that no severities of outward discipline can wash out
the stains of guilt within.  He who wickedly designs the injury of
his benefactor, be he prompted by whom he will, or under whatever
promises, or workings of flattery, or delusion, he may either imagine
to be lawful, or be taught that it is so, will find that his wicked
spirit can have no rest.  Repentance must bring him to the confession
which no sophistry whatsoever can lull.

It was Latimer's and Ellen's duty now to teach him that forgiveness
belonged not to them; though they, as far as they could, forgave him
freely for the cruelty he had shown towards them.  Nor did they lose
the opportunity of pointing out to him the depth of that sin of which
he had been guilty, nor the folly of seeking to make his own
atonement.  They acted the part of the good Samaritan towards him,
and though the time of his existence was short, they had the
satisfaction of finding that the miserable man received consolation.

He died shortly after their interview, and was buried in Freston
churchyard, where the record of the incendiary, his flight, remorse,
repentance, and death, formed the subject of many a conversation with
old Joseph Sage and his friends in Freston Tower.

Latimer and Ellen returned into Gloucestershire, where they lived
beloved, courted, and caressed by many friends, who valued their
literary attainments.  With the modesty of true greatness, they
sought retirement, and were happy in the even tenor of their latter
days.

They had endured afflictions, they had seen greatness, and
popularity, and ambition, and vain-glory, brought down to sorrow and
death.  They lived to see pride overthrown in high places, and many
in the midst of the fatness of plenty rendered unhappy.  They had
suffered their portion of persecution, and had borne themselves with
uncommon wisdom through the trial.  They were not called upon to
suffer more.

Freston Tower passed from the hands of the Goodynges to the Wrights,
then to the Thurstons, Tarvers, Formereaws, and others.  It is now in
the possession of Archdeacon Berners, of Wolverstone Park, on the
banks of the Orwell.


[Illustration: Chapter LV tailpiece]


BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.









*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76999 ***