Chapter VI · (continued 4)

The trail became more perilous to eyes and ankles than any we had followed yet. Indeed, it was a constant marvel that we met with no sprain or fracture. Such an accident would have been extremely awkward, remote as we were from the habitations of men, to say nothing of surgical aid. But, of course, we took every care, and the prayers of friends, together with our own, drew Heaven’s protection round us.

At last we came in sight of the gigantic cliff which forms the western side of the pass—very grand, certainly, but not what we had anticipated from the glowing accounts of brother-pilgrims. Then, too, we saw but that one side; being on the other ourselves, and not between the two, as we had supposed we should be. When we reached “Summit Rock,” we stopped for “Quoniam angelis suis mandavit de te, ut custodiant te in omnibus viis tuis. In manibus portabunt te, ne forte offendas ad lapidem pedem tuum” (Ps. xc. 11, 12.[87] )

We camped that afternoon, and for the night, at a spot about “half way”—that is, half way between the Iron-Works and North Elba (a distance of eighteen miles); for the pass proper is of no great length. The camp there is excellent. We reached it in time for the Judge and myself to get a capital bath, while the Colonel caught a string of trout, before supper. We did not cook all the fish for that meal, but kept a supply for the morrow’s breakfast. The trout thus reserved were hung upon a stump about fifteen yards from the camp, at the risk of having them stolen in the night by some animal. And, sure enough, some animal was after them in the night, for the dog got up and growled, and went outside; but this scared the marauder away, for we found the fish untouched in the morning.

Tuesday dawned serenely, and we lost no time after breakfast in Pg 269 getting under way for Blinn’s Farm—our chosen destination in North Elba County. The walk seemed interminably long, but was almost all down-hill, and over ground covered with dried leaves. We lunched, rather than dined, on the march; for we knew a good dinner was to be had at the farm. The last difficult feat to be performed was crossing our old friend the Au Sable, which flows between the hill we had descended and the slope leading up to Blinn’s. We had to take boots and socks off, and make our way over a few large stones, some of which were awkwardly far apart. The others managed it all right. I might as well have kept boots and socks on; for just as I got to the last stone but one, and where a jump was necessary, I slipped and came down on my hands, sousing boots and socks under water. Even this, though, was preferable to slipping ankle-deep into black mud, as I had done again and again on the tramp; and when we gained the house and changed our things, I was as well off as anybody.

Fortunately, they had room for us. Very pleasant people. And they got us up a first-rate dinner, the most delectable feature whereof was (to me, at least) some rashers of English bacon. This and the farm itself, with its look of peace and honest toil, took me back to

And here I must bid you adieu, my dear friend. However poorly I have complied with your request, it has been no small pleasure to me. I hope you will catch a fair glimpse of the Adirondacks, which is all I pretend to give. But I must add that when we three travellers got back to this dear old lake, we were unanimous in declaring that, after all we had seen, there was nothing to surpass Lake George, nor anything that would wear so well. Vale.

Pg 270

SIR THOMAS MORE.

A HISTORICAL ROMANCE.

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.

XV.

As the night wore away the bonfires lighted in the public places were extinguished. Quiet and silence succeeded the tumult, the shouts, dances, and the surging waves of an excited populace rushing wildly through the streets of the capital. The ladies had deposited their borrowed charms upon the ebony and ivory of their solitary and hidden toilets. Themselves wrapped in slumber within the heavy curtains of their luxurious couches, their brocade robes and precious jewels still waited (hanging up or thrown here and there) the care of the active and busy chambermaids. Of all the sensation, triumphs, and irresistible charms there was left nothing but the wreck, disorder, and faded flowers. And thus passes everything appertaining to man. Beauty lives but a day; an hour even may behold it withered and cut down.

The sun had scarcely risen when a number of carts, mounted by vigilant upholsterers, were driven up, in order to remove the scaffolds, the triumphal arches, and strip them of their soiled drapery and withered garlands. The avenues of the palace were deserted, and not a courtier had yet appeared. One man, however, all alone, slowly surveyed the superb apartments of the Tower. He paused successively before each panel of tapestry, examining them in all their details, or he took from their places the large

“Ah! Master Cloth, you are not to be cheated. It is not possible that Signor Ludovico Bonvisi has sold you this velvet at six angels the piece; and six hundred pieces more, do you say? But I will show you I am not so easily duped as you would think by the thieving merchants of my good city. The rascals understand very well how to manage their affairs; but we will also manage to clip some of their wings.”

And Henry VIII. gave a stroke with his penknife through the column he wished to diminish; it was in this way he made his additions.

“The devil! This violet carpet covering the courtyard is enormously dear.

“Mistress Anne, your reception here has ruined me. We must find some means of making all this up. These women are full of whims, and of very dear whims too. A wife is a most ruinous thing; everything is ruinous. They cannot move without spending money. It has been necessary to give enormous sums right and left—to doctors of universities, to Parliament; and all that is an entire loss, for they will clamor none the less loudly. There are men in Parliament who will sell themselves, and yet Pg 271 they will ridicule me just as much as the others, in order to appear independent. Verily, it is terror alone that can be used to advantage; with one hand she replenishes the purse, while with the other she at the same time executes my commands.

“This fringe is only an inch wide; it cannot weigh as much as they say it does here. I counted on the rest of the cardinal’s money; but nothing—he had not a penny, or at any rate he has been able to hide his pieces from me, so that I could not find a trace of them.

“Northumberland has written me there was nothing at Cawood but a box, where he found, carefully tied up in a little sack of red linen, a hair shirt and a discipline, which have doubtless served our friend Wolsey to expiate the sins I have made him commit.” And as these reflections were passing through his mind, the king experienced a very disagreeable sensation at the sight of a man dressed in black, who approached him on tiptoe. Henry VIII. did not at all like being surprised in his paroxysms of suspicion and avarice.

“What does that caterpillar want with me at this early hour?” he said, looking at Cromwell, who was in full dress, frizzled, and in his boots, as though he had not been to bed, and had not had so much to do the day before.

The king endeavored to conceal the memorandum he held in his hand; but who could hide anything from Cromwell? He was delighted to perceive the embarrassment and vexation of his master, because it was one of his principles that he held these great men in his power, when favor began to abate, through the fear they felt of having their faults publicly exposed by those

“What method!” he exclaimed. “What vast intellect! How is your majesty able to accomplish all that you undertake, passing from the grandest projects to the most minute details, and that always with the same facility, the same unerring judgment?”

Henry VIII. regarded Cromwell attentively, as if to be assured that this eulogy was sincere; but he observed an indescribable expression of hypocrisy hovering on the pinched lips of the courtier. He contracted his brow, but resolved to carry on the deception.

“Yes,” he said, “I reproach myself with this extravagance. I should have kept the furniture of my predecessors. There are so many poor to relieve! I am overwhelmed with their demands; the treasury is empty, I cannot afford it, and I have done very wrong in granting myself this indulgence.”

“Come!” replied Cromwell, “think of your majesty reproaching yourself for an outlay absolutely indispensable. Very soon, I suppose, you will not permit yourself to buy a cloak or a doublet of Flanders wool, while you leave in the enjoyment of their property these monks who have never been favorable to your cause. The treasury is empty, you say; give me a fortnight’s time and a commission, and I will replenish it to overflowing.”

The king smiled. “Yes, yes, I know very well; you want me to appoint you inspector of my Pg 272 monks. You would make them disgorge, you say.”

“A set of drones and idlers!”[88] cried Cromwell. “You have only to drive them all out, take possession of their property, and put it in the treasury; it will make an immense sum. They are to be found in every corner. When you have dispossessed them, you will be able to provide for them according to your own good pleasure, your own necessities, and those of the truly poor. Give me the commission!”

Cromwell burned to have this commission, of which he had dreamed as the only practicable means of enriching himself at his leisure, and making some incalcuable depredations; because how could it possibly be known exactly how much he would be able to extort by fear or by force? Having the king to sustain him and for an accomplice, he had nothing to fear. He had already spoken of it to him, but in a jesting manner, apparently; it was his custom to sow thus in the mind of Henry VIII. a long time in advance, and as if by chance, the seeds of evil from which he hoped ultimately to gather the fruits.

At the moment this idea appeared very lucrative to the king; but a sense of interior justice and the usage of government enlightened his mind.

“This,” said he, “is your old habit of declaiming against the monks and convents. As for idleness, methinks the life of the most indolent Pg 273 for men who are good for something? Among those who know not either how to read or write, save in so far as needs to fabricate the most insignificant billet, or who in turn spend a day in endeavoring to decipher it? I would like to see them, these learned gentlemen, holding the office of lord chancellor and the responsibility of the kingdom. They might be capable of signing a treaty of commerce with France to buy their swords, and with Holland to purchase their wines. These coxcombs, these lispers of the “Romance of the Rose,” with their locks frizzled, their waists padded, and their vain foolishness, know naught beyond the drawing of their swords and slashing right and left. Or it would be necessary for me to bring the bourgeois of the city, seat them on their sacks, declaring before the judge that they do not know how to write, and sending to bring the public scribe to announce to their grandfathers the arrival of the newly born. Cromwell, you are very zealous in my service; I commend you for it; but sometimes—and it is all very natural—you manifest the narrow and contracted ideas of the obscure class from whence you sprang, which render you incapable of judging of these things from the height where I, prince and king, am placed.”

Cromwell felt deeply humiliated by the contempt Henry VIII. continually mingled with his favor in recalling incessantly to his recollection the fact of his being a parvenu, sustained in his position only by his gracious favor and all-powerful will, and then only while he was useful or agreeable. He hesitated a moment, not knowing how to reply; but, like a serpent that unfolds

“Your Majesty says truly. I am only what you have deigned to make me; I acknowledge it with joy, and I would rather owe all I am to you than possess it by any natural right. I will be silent, if your majesty bids me; though I would fain present a reflection that your remark has suggested.”

“Speak,” said the king, with a smile of indulgence excited by this adroit admission.

“I will first remark that your majesty still continues to sacrifice yourself to the happiness and prosperity of your people; consequently, it seems to me that they should be willing, in following the grand designs of your majesty, to yield everything. Thus they would only have to unite the small to the greater monasteries, and oblige them to receive the monks whose property had been annexed to the crown. The treasury would in this way be very thoroughly replenished, and no one would have a right to complain or think himself wronged.”

“But,” said the king, “they are of different orders.”

However, he made this objection with less firmness; and it appeared to Cromwell that his mind was becoming familiarized with this luminous idea of possessing himself of a number of very rich and well-cultivated ecclesiastical estates, which, sold at a high price, would produce an enormous sum of money.

Cromwell, observing his success, feared to compromise himself and make the king refuse if he urged the matter too persistently; promising himself to return another time to the subject, he said nothing more, and, adroitly changing the Pg 274 conversation, spoke of all that had occurred the day before, and dwelt strongly on the enthusiasm of the people.

“Oh!” said the king, “that enthusiasm affects me but little! The people are like a flea-bitten horse, which we let go to right or left, according to circumstances; and I place no reliance on these demonstrations excited by the view of a flagon of beer or a fountain of wine flowing at a corner of the street. There are, nevertheless, germs of discord living and deeply rooted in the heart of this nation. Appearances during a festival day are not sufficient, Cromwell. Listen to me. It is essential that all should yield, all obey. I am not a child to be amused with a toy!” And he regarded him with an expression of wrath as sudden as it was singular.

“Think you,” he continued with gleaming eyes, “that I am happy, that I believe I have taken the right direction? It is not that I would retract or retrace my steps; so far from that, the more I feel convinced that it is wrong, the more resolved am I to crush the inspiration that would recall me. No! Henry VIII. neither deceives himself nor turns back; and you, if ever you reveal the secret of my woes, the violence and depth of your fall will make you understand the strength of the arm you will have called down on your head.”

Cromwell felt astounded. How often he paid thus dearly for his vile and rampant ambition! What craft must have been continually engendered in that deformed soul, in order to prevent it from being turned from its goal of riches and domination, always to put a constraint upon himself, to sacrifice in order to obtain, to yield in order

“More,” he said in desperation.

“More!” replied the king. “That name makes me sick! Well, what of him now?”

“Sire,” replied Cromwell vehemently, “you speak of discords and fears for the future; I should be wanting in courage if I withheld the truth from the king. More and Rochester—these are the men who censure and injure you in the estimation of your people. There are proofs against them, but they are moral proofs, and insufficient for rigid justice to act upon. They refuse to take the oath, and it is impossible to include them in the judgment against the Holy Maid of Kent. They would be acquitted unanimously. However, you have heard it from her own lips. You know that she is acquainted with them, has spoken to them; this she has declared in presence of your majesty. They were in the church; she had let them know she was to appear at that hour. Well, it is impossible to prove anything against them; they will be justified, elated, and triumphant. Parliament, reassured, encouraged by this example of tenacity and rebellion, will recover from the first fright with which the terror of your name had inspired them. They will raise their heads; your authority will be despised; they will rise against you; they will resist you on every side, and compel you to recall Queen Catherine back to this palace, adorned by the presence of your young wife. And then what shame, what humiliation for you, and what a triumph for her! And this is why, sire, I have not been able to sleep one moment last night, and why I am the first to enter the palace this morning, where I expected to wait until your majesty Pg 275 awoke. But,” he continued, “zeal for your glory carries me, perhaps, too far. Well then you will punish me, and I shall not murmur.”

“Recall Catherine!” cried the king, who, after this name, had not heard a syllable of Cromwell’s discourse; and he clenched his fists with a contraction of inexpressible fury. “Recall Catherine, after having driven her out in the face of all justice, of all honor! No, I shall have to drink to the dregs this bitter cup I have poured out for myself; and coming ages will for ever resound with the infamy of my name. Though the earth should open, though the heavens should fall and crush me, yet Thomas More shall die! Go, Cromwell,” he cried, his eyes gleaming with fury; “let him swear or let him die! Go, worthy messenger of a horrible crime; get thee from before my eyes. It is you who have launched me upon this ocean, where I can sustain myself only by blood. Cursed be the day when you first crossed my sight, infamous favorite of the most cruel of masters! Go, go! and bring me the head of my friend, of the only man I esteem, whom I still venerate, and let there no longer remain aught but monsters in this place.”

Cromwell recoiled. “Infamous favorite!” he repeated to himself. “May I but be able one day to avenge myself for the humiliations with which you have loaded me, and may I see in my turn remorse tear your heart, and the anger of God punish the crimes I have aided you in committing!” He departed.

Henry VIII. was stifled with rage. He crushed under his foot the upholsterer’s memorandum; he opened a window and walked out on the balcony, from whence the

The immense movement of an entire population began in every direction. There was the market, whither flocked the dealers, the country people, and the diligent and industrious housewives. Farther on was the wharf, where the activity was not less; soldiers of the marine, cabin boys, sailors, ship-builders, captains—all were hurrying thither. Troops of workmen were going to their work on the docks, with tools in hand and their bread under their arms. The windows of the rich alone remained closed to the light of day, to the noise and the busy stir without. There they rolled casks; here they transported rough stones, plaster, and carpenter’s timber. Horses pulled, whips cracked—in a word, the entire city was aroused; every minute the noise increased and the activity redoubled.

“These men are like a swarm of bees in disorder,” said Henry VIII.; “and yet they carry tranquil minds to their work, while their king is suffering the keenest tortures in the midst of them; yet is there not one of them who, in looking at this palace, does not set at the summit of happiness him who reigns and commands here. ‘If I were king!’ say this ignorant crowd when they wish to express the idea of happiness and supreme enjoyment of the will. Do they know what it costs the king to accomplish Pg 276 that will? Why do I not belong to their sphere? I should at least spend my days in the same state of indifference in which they sleep, live, and die. They are miserable, say they; what have they to make them miserable? They are never sure of bread, they reply; but do they know what it is to be satiated with abundance and devoured by insatiable desires? Then death threatens us and ends everything—that terrible judgment when kings will be set apart, to be interrogated and punished more severely. More, the recollection of your words, your counsel, has never ceased to live in my mind. Had I but taken your advice, if I had sent Anne away, to-day I should have been free and thought no more of her; while now, regarded with horror by the universe, I hate the whole world. But let me drown these thoughts. I want wine—drunkenness and oblivion.” And pronouncing these words, he rushed suddenly from the balcony and disappeared.

In the depths of his narrow prison there was another also who had sought to catch a breath of the exhilarating air with which the dawn of a beautiful day had reanimated the universe. It was not upon a balustrade of roses and perfumes that he leaned, but upon a miserable, worm-eaten table, blackened by time, and discolored by the tears with which for centuries it had been watered. It was not a powerful city, a people rich, industrious, and submissive, that his eyes were fixed upon, but the sombre bars of a small, grated window, whose solitary pane he had opened.

He sat with his head bowed upon one of his hands. He seemed tranquil, but plunged in profound melancholy; for God, in the language

“They know ere this,” he said to himself, “that I shall not return. Margaret, my dear Margaret, will have told them all!” And he was not there to console them. What would become of them without him, abandoned to the fury of the king, ready, perhaps, to revenge himself even upon them for the obstinacy with which he reproached their father?

Whilst indulging in these harrowing reflections he heard the keys cautiously turned in the triple locks of his prison; and soon a man appeared, all breathless with fear and haste. It was Kingston, the lieutenant of the Tower. He entered, and, gasping for breath, held the door behind him.

“My dear Sir Thomas,” he cried, “blessed be God! you are acquitted, your innocence is proclaimed. The council has been assembled all night, and they have decided that you could not in any manner be implicated in the prosecution. Oh! how glad I am. But the Holy Maid of Kent has been condemned to be hanged at Tyburn. Judge now if this was not a dangerous business! I have never doubted your innocence; but you have some very furious and very powerful enemies. Pg 277 That Cromwell is a most formidable man. My dear Sir Thomas, how rejoiced I am!”

A gleam of joy lighted the heart of Sir Thomas.

“Can it be?” he cried. “Say it again, Master Kingston. What! I shall see my children again? I shall die in peace among them? No, I cannot believe in so much happiness. But that poor girl—is she really condemned?”

“Yes,” cried Kingston; “but here are you already thinking of this nun. By my faith, I have thought of nobody but you. And the Bishop of Rochester has also been acquitted.”

“He has, then, already been in the Tower?” cried More.

“Just above you—door to the left—No. 3,” replied Kingston briefly, in the manner of his calling.

“What!” cried Sir Thomas, “is it he, then, I have heard walking above my head? I knew not why, but I listened to those slow and measured steps with a secret anxiety. I tried to imagine what might be the age and appearance of this companion in misfortune; and it was my friend, my dearest friend! O my dear Kingston! that I could see him. I beg of you to let me go to him at once!”

“Of what are you thinking?” exclaimed Kingston—“without permission! You do not know that I have come here secretly, and if they hear of it I shall be greatly compromised. The order was to hold you in solitary confinement; it has not been rescinded, and already I transgress it.”

“Ah! I cannot see him,” repeated Sir Thomas. “I am in solitary confinement.” And his joy instantly faded before the reflection which told him that the real crime of which he was accused had not been expiated.

“Nay, nay, you need not be uneasy,” replied Kingston; “they can do nothing more against you. I have listened to everything they have said, and have not lost a single word. You will be set at liberty to-day, after you have taken an oath the formula of which they have drawn up expressly for you, as I have been told by the secretary.”

“Ah! the oath,” cried Sir Thomas, penetrated with a feeling of the keenest apprehension. “I know it well!”

“Fear naught, then, Sir Thomas,” replied Kingston, struck by the alteration he observed in his countenance, a moment before so full of hope and joy. “They have arranged this oath for you; they know your scrupulous delicacy of conscience and your religious sentiments. This is the one they will demand of the ecclesiastics, and you are the only layman of whom they will exact it. You see there is no reason here why you should be uneasy.”

“Oh!” said Sir Thomas, whose heart was pierced by every word of the lieutenant, “you are greatly mistaken, my poor Kingston. It is to condemn and not to save me they have done all this. The oath—yes; it is that oath, like a ferocious beast, which they destine to devour me. Ah! why did the hope of escaping Pg 278 it for a moment come to gladden my heart? My Lord and my God, have mercy on me!”

Sir Thomas paused, overcome by his feelings, and was unable to utter another word.

“My dear Sir Thomas,” said Kingston, amazed, “what means this? Even if you refuse to take this oath they will doubtless set you at liberty. Cromwell has said as much to the secretary. But what should prevent you from taking it, if the priests do not refuse?”

“Dear Kingston,” replied Sir Thomas, “I cannot explain that to you now, as it is one of the things I keep between God and myself. I know right well, also, that these prison walls have ears, that they re-echo all they hear, and that one cannot even sigh here without it being reported.”

“You are dissatisfied, then, with being under my care!” exclaimed Kingston, who was extremely narrow-minded, and whose habit of living, and still more of commanding, in the Tower had brought him to regard it as a habitation by no means devoid of attractions.

“You may very well believe, Sir Thomas,” he continued, “that I have not forgotten the many favors and proofs of friendship I have received from you; that I am entirely devoted to you; and what I most regret is not having it in my power to treat you as I would wish in giving you better fare at my table. Fear of the king’s anger alone prevents me, and I at least would be glad to feel that you were satisfied with the good-will I have shown.”

More smiled kindly: for the delicate sensibility and exquisite tact which in an instant discovered to him how entirely it was wanting in others never permitted from him other expressions than those of a

“In good sooth, my dear lieutenant, I am quite contented with you; you are a good friend, and would most certainly like to treat me well. If, then, I should ever happen to show any dissatisfaction with your table, you must instantly turn me out of your house.” And he smiled at the idea.

“You jest, Sir Thomas,” said Kingston.

“In truth, my dear friend, I have nevertheless but little inclination to jest,” replied More.

“Well, all that I regret is not having it in my power to treat you as I would wish,” continued Kingston in the same tone. “I should have been so happy to have made you entirely comfortable here!”

“Come,” said Sir Thomas, “let us speak no more of that; I am very well convinced of it, and I thank you for the attachment you have shown me to-day. I only regret that I cannot be permitted to see the Bishop of Rochester for a moment.”

“Impossible!” cried Kingston. “If it were discovered, I should lose my place.”

“Then I no longer insist,” said Sir Thomas; “but let me, at least, write him a few words.”

Kingston made no reply and looked very thoughtful. He hesitated.

“Carry the letter yourself,” said Sir Thomas, “and, unless you tell it, no person will know it.”

“You think so?” said Kingston, embarrassed. “But then my Lord Rochester must burn it immediately; for if they should find it in his hands, they would try to find out how he received it; and, Sir Thomas, I know not how it is done, but they know everything.”

Pg 279 “They will never be able to find this out. O Master Kingston!” said More, “let me write him but one word.”

“Well, well, haste, then; for it is time I should go. If they came and asked for me, and found me not, I would be lost.”

Sir Thomas, fearing he might retract, hastened immediately to write the following words on a scrap of paper:

“What feelings were mine, dear friend, on learning that you are imprisoned here so near me, you may imagine. What a consolation it would be to clasp you in my arms! But that is denied me; God so wills it. During the first doleful night I spent in this prison my eyes never once closed in sleep. I heard your footsteps; I listened, I counted them most anxiously. I asked myself who this unfortunate creature could be who, like myself, groaned in this place; if it were long since he had seen the light of heaven, and why he was imprisoned in this den of stone. Alas! and it was you. Now I see you, I follow you everywhere. What anguish is mine to be so near you, yet not be able to see or speak to you! Rap from time to time on the floor in such a manner that I may know you are speaking to me; my heart will understand thine. It seems to me the voice of the stones will communicate your words. I shall listen night and day for your signals, and this will be a great consolation to me.”

“Hasten, Sir Thomas,” said Kingston. “I hear a noise in the yard; they are searching for me.”

“Yes, yes,” replied Sir Thomas.

“My friend, they hurry me. Do you remember all you said to me at Chelsea the night you urged me not to accept the chancellorship? O my friend! how often I have thought of it. And you—you also will be a victim, I fear. They hurry me, and I have so many things to say to you since the time I saw you last! I fear you suffer from cold in your cell. Ask Kingston for covering; for my sake he will give it you. Implore him to bring me your reply. A letter

“Thomas More.”

Meanwhile, Rumor, on her airy wing, in her indefatigable and rapid course, had very soon circulated throughout the country reports of Henry’s enormities. The great multitudes of people who prostrated themselves before the cross, carried it with reverence in their hands, and elevated it proudly above their heads, were astonished and indignant at these recitals of crime. Princes trembled on their thrones, and those who surrounded them lived in constant dread.

Thomas More, the model among men, the Bishop of Rochester, that among the angels—these men cast into a gloomy prison, separated from all that was most dear to them, scarcely clothed, and fed on the coarse fare of criminals—such outrages men discussed among themselves, and reported to the compassionate and generous hearts of their mothers and sisters.

Will, then, no voice be raised in their defence? Will no one endeavor to snatch them from the tortures to which they are about to be delivered up? Are the English people dead and their intellects stultified? Do relatives, friends, law, and honor no longer exist Pg 280 among this people? Have they become but a race of bloodthirsty executioners, a crowd of brutal slaves, who live on the grain the earth produces, and drink from the rivers that water it? Such were the thoughts which occupied them, circulating from mouth to mouth among the tumultuous children of men.

But if this mass of human beings, always so indifferent and so perfectly selfish, felt thus deeply moved, what must have been the anguish of heart experienced by the faithful and sincere friend, what terror must have seized him, when, seated by his own quiet fireside, enjoying the retreat it afforded him, the voice of public indignation came to announce that he was thus stricken in all his affections! For he also, a native of a distant country, loved More. He had met him, and immediately his heart went out toward him. Who will explain this sublime mystery, this secret of God, this admirable and singular sympathy, which reveals one soul to another, and requires neither words nor sounds, neither language nor gestures, in order to make it intelligible? “I had no sooner seen Pierre Gilles,” said More, “than I loved him as devotedly as though I had always known and loved him. Then I was at Antwerp, sent by the king to negotiate with the prince of Spain; I waited from day to day the end of the negotiations, and during the four months I was separated from my wife and children, anxious as I was to return and embrace them, I could never be reconciled to the thought of leaving him. His conversation, fluent and interesting, beguiled most agreeably my hours of leisure; hours and days spent near him seemed to me like moments, they passed so rapidly.

In this manner he spoke before his children, and related to Margaret how painful he found the separation from his friend. Often during the long winter nights, when the wind whistled without and heavy snow-flakes filled the air, he would press his hand upon his forehead, and his thoughts would speed across the sea. In imagination he would be transported to Antwerp, would behold her immense harbor covered with richly-laden vessels, her tall roofs and her long streets, and the beautiful church of Notre Dame, with the court in front, where he so often walked with his friend. Then he entered the mansion of Pierre Gilles; he traversed the court, mounted the steps; he found him at home in the midst of his family; it seemed to him that he heard him speak, and he prepared to give himself up to the charms of his conversation.

The cry of a child, the movement of a chair, came suddenly to blot out this picture, dispel this sweet illusion, and recall him to the reality of the distance which separated them. An expression of pain and sorrow would pass over his features; Pg 281 and Margaret, from whom none of her father’s thoughts escaped, would take his hand and say: “Father, you are thinking about Pierre Gilles!”

A close correspondence had for a long time sweetened their mutual exile; but since the divorce was set in motion the king had become so suspicious that he had all letters intercepted, and one no longer dared to write or communicate with any stranger. Thus they found themselves deprived of this consolation.

Eager to obtain the slightest intelligence, questioning indiscriminately all whom he met—merchants, strangers, travellers—Pierre Gilles endeavored by all possible means to obtain some intelligence of his friend Thomas More. Whenever a sail appeared upon the horizon and a ship entered the port, this illustrious citizen was seen immediately hastening to the pier, and patiently remaining there until he had ascertained whether or not the vessel hailed from England; or else he waited, mingling with a crowd of the most degraded class, until the vessel landed. Alas! for several months all that he could learn only increased his apprehensions, and he vainly endeavored to quiet them. He had already announced to his family his intention of making the voyage to England to see his friend, when the fatal intelligence of More’s imprisonment was received.

Then he no longer listened to anything, but, taking all the gold his coffers contained, he hastened to the port and took passage on the first vessel he found.

“O my friend!” he cried, “if I shall only be able to tear you from their hands. This gold, perhaps, will open your prison. Let them give you to me, let my home become yours, and let my friends be

Such were his reflections, and for two days the vessel that bore him sailed rapidly toward England; the wind was favorable, and a light breeze seemed to make her fly over the surface of the waves. The sails were unfurled, and the sailors were singing, delighted at the prospect of a happy voyage, while Pierre Gilles, seated on the deck, his back leaning against the mast, kept his eyes fixed on the north, incessantly deceived by the illusion of the changing horizon and the fantastic form of the blue clouds, which seemed to plunge into the sea. He was continually calling out: “Captain, here is land!” But the old pilot smiled as he guided the helm, and leaning over, like a man accustomed to know what he said, slightly shrugged one shoulder and replied: “Not yet, Sir Passenger.”

And soon, in fact, Pierre Gilles would see change their form or disappear those fantastic rocks and sharp points which represented an unattainable shore. Then it seemed to him that he would never arrive, the island retreated constantly before him, and his feet would never be permitted to rest upon the shores of England.

“Alas!” he would every moment say to himself, “they are trying him now, perhaps. If I were there, I would run, I would beg, I would implore his pardon. And his youthful daughter, whom they say is so fair, so good—into what an agony she must be plunged! All this family and those young children to be deprived of such a father!”

Pierre was unable to control himself for a moment; he arose, walked forward on the vessel; he saw Pg 282 the foaming track formed by her rapid passage through the water wiped out in an instant, effaced by the winds, and yet it seemed to him that the vessel thus cutting the waves remained motionless, and that he was not advancing a furlong. “An hour’s delay,” he mentally repeated, “and perhaps it will be too late. Let them banish him; I shall at least be able to find him!”

Already the night wind was blowing a gale and the sea grew turbulent; a flock of birds flew around the masts, uttering the most mournful cries, and seeming, as they braved the whirlwind which had arisen, to be terrified.

“Comrades, furl the sails!” cried the steersman; “a waterspout threatens us! Be quick,” he cried, “or we are lost.”

In the twinkling of an eye the sailors seized the ropes and climbed into the rigging. Vain haste, useless dexterity; their efforts were all too late.

A furious gust of wind groaned, roared, rent the mainmast in twain, tore away the ropes, bent and broke the masts; a horrible crash was heard throughout the ship.

“Cut away! Pull! Haul down! Hold there! Hoist away! Let go!” cried the captain, who had rushed up from his cabin. “Bravo! Courage, there! Stand firm!”

“Ay, ay!” cried the sailors. A loud clamor arose in the midst of the horrible roaring of the winds. The sailor on watch had fallen into the sea.

“Throw out the buoy! throw out the buoy!” cried the captain. “Knaves, do you hear me?”

Impossible; the rope fluttered in the wind like a string, and the tempest drove it against the sides of the vessel. They saw the unfortunate

“All is over! He is lost!” cried the sailors. But the howling winds stifled and drowned their lamentations.

In the meantime Pierre Gilles bound himself tightly as he could to a mast; for the shaking of the vessel was so great that it seemed to him an irresistible power was trying to tear him away and cast him whirling into the yawning depths of the furious element.

“The mizzen-mast is breaking!” cried the sailors; and by a common impulse they rushed toward the stern to avoid being dragged down and crushed by its fall.

The gigantic beam fell with a fearful crash, catching in the ropes and rigging.

“Cut away! Let her go!” cried the captain.

He himself was the first to rush forward, armed with a hatchet, and they tried to cut aloose the mast and let it fall into the water.

But they were unable to succeed; the mast hung over the side of the ship, which it struck with every wave, and threatened to capsize her. Every moment the position of the crew became more dangerous. The shocks were so violent that the men were no longer able to resist them; they clung to everything they could lay hold of; they twined their legs and arms in the hanging ropes. All efforts to control the vessel had become useless, and, seeing no longer any hope of being saved, the sailors began to utter cries of despair.

Pierre Gilles had fastened himself to the mainmast. “If this also breaks,” he thought, “well, I shall die by the same stroke—die without Pg 283 seeing him!” he cried, still entirely occupied with More. “He will not know that I have tried to reach him, and will, perhaps, believe that I have deserted him in the day of adversity. Oh! how death is embittered by that thought. He will say that, happy in the bosom of my family, I have left him alone in his prison, and he will strive to forget even the recollection of my friendship. O More, More! my friend, this tempest ought to carry to you my regrets.”

Looking around him, Pierre saw the miserable men tossing their arms in despair; for the night was advancing, their strength nearly exhausted, while the vessel, borne along on the crest of the waves, suddenly pitched with a frightful plunge, and the water rushed in on every side.

The captain had stationed himself near Pierre Gilles; he contemplated the destruction of his ship with a mournful gaze.

“Here is this fine vessel lost—all my fortune, the labor of an entire life of toil and care. My children now will be reduced to beggary! Here is the fruit of thirty years of work,” he cried. “Sir,” he said to Pierre Gilles, “I began life at twelve years; I have passed successively up from cabin-boy, mariner, boatswain, lieutenant, captain finally, and now—the sea. I shall have to begin anew!”

“Begin anew, sir?” said Pierre Gilles. “But is not death awaiting us very speedily?”

“That remains to be seen,” answered the captain, folding his arms. “I have been three times shipwrecked, and I am here still, sir. It is true there is an end to everything; but the ocean and myself understand each other. We shall come out of it, if we gain time. After the

“Hold fast, my boys!” he cried; “another sea is coming.”

He had scarcely uttered the words when a frightful wave advanced like a threatening mountain, and, raising the vessel violently, swept entirely over her; but the ship still remained afloat. Other waves succeeded, and the unfortunate sailors remained tossing about in that condition until the next morning. However, as the day dawned, hope revived in their hearts; the horizon seemed brightening; the wind allayed by degrees. Pierre Gilles and his companions shook their limbs, stiffened and benumbed by the cold and the water which had drenched them, and thought they could at last perceive the land. They succeeded in relieving the vessel a little by throwing the mast into the sea. Every one took courage, and soon the coast appeared in sight. There was no more doubt: it was the coast of England. There were the pointed rocks, the whitened reefs. They were in their route; the tempest had not diverted the ship from its course. On the fourth day they entered the mouth of the Thames.

The poor vessel, five days before so elegant, so swift, so light, was dragged with difficulty into that large and beautiful river. Badly crippled, she moved slowly, and was an entire day in reaching London. Pierre Gilles suffered cruelly on account of this delay, and would have made them put him ashore, but that was impossible. Besides, he wished to arrive more speedily at London, and that would not hasten his journey. From a Pg 284 distance he perceived the English standard floating above the Tower, and his heart swelled with sorrow. “Alas! More is there,” he cried. “How shall I contrive to see him? how tear him from that den?” Absorbed in these reflections, he reached at length the landing-place. He knew not where to go nor whom to address in that great city, where he had never before been, and where he was entirely unacquainted. He looked at the faces of those who came and went on the wharf, without feeling inclined to accost any of them.

Suddenly, however, he caught the terrible words, “His trial has commenced”; and, uncertain whether it was the effect of his troubled imagination or a real sound, he turned around and saw a group of women carrying fish in wicker baskets, and talking together.

“At Lambeth Palace, I tell you. He is there; I have seen him.”

“Who?” said Pierre in good English, advancing in his Flemish costume, which excited the curiosity and attention of all the women.

“Thomas More, the Lord Chancellor,” answered the first speaker.

“Thomas More!” cried Pierre Gilles, with a gesture of despair and terror which nothing could express. “Who is trying him? Speak, good woman, speak! Say who is trying him? Where are they trying him? Conduct me to the place, and all my fortune is yours!”

The women looked at each other. “A foreigner!” they exclaimed.

“Yes,” he replied, “a stranger, but a friend, a friend. Leave your fish—I will pay you for them—and show me where the trial of Sir Thomas is going on.”

The fisherwoman, having observed the gold chain he wore around his neck, his velvet robe, and his

Meanwhile, Pierre Gilles and his conductress, having followed the quay and walked the length of the Thames, crossed Westminster Bridge, and he found himself at last in front of Lambeth Palace.

A considerable crowd of people, artisans, workmen, merchants, idlers, began to scatter and disperse. Some stopped to talk, others left; they saw that something had come to an end, that the spectacle was closed, the excited curiosity was satisfied. The juggler’s carpet was gathered up, the lottery drawn, the quarrel ended, the prince or the criminal had passed; there was nothing more to see, and every one was anxious to depart—careless crowd, restless and ignorant, which the barking of a dog will arrest, and a great misfortune cannot detain!

“Here it is, sir,” said the woman, stopping; “this is Lambeth Palace just in front of you, but I don’t believe you can get in.” And she pointed to a large enclosure and a great door, before which was walking up and down a yeoman armed with an arquebuse.

Standing close to one of the sections of the door was seen a beautiful young girl, dressed in black, and wearing on her head a low velvet hat worn by the women of that period. A gold chain formed of round beads, from which was suspended a little gold medal ornamented with a pearl pendant, hung around her neck, and passed under her chemisette of plaited muslin bordered with narrow lace. She Pg 285 stood with her hands clasped, her beautiful countenance pale as death, and her arms stretched at full length before her, expressive of the deepest sorrow. Near her was seated a handsome young man, who from time to time addressed her.

Pierre Gilles approached these two persons.

“Margaret,” said Roper, “come.”

“No,” said the young girl, “I will not go; I shall remain here until night. I will see him as he goes out; I will see him once more; I will see that ignoble woollen covering they have given him for a cloak; I will see his pale and weary face. He will say: ‘Margaret is standing there!’ He will see me.”

“That will only give him pain,” replied Roper.

“Perhaps,” said the young girl. “Indeed, it is very probable!” And a bitter smile played around her lips.

“If you love him,” replied Roper, “you should spare him this grief.”

“I love him, Roper; you have said well! I love him! What would you wish? This is my father!”

Pierre Gilles, who had advanced, seeking some means of entering, paused to look at the young girl, and was struck by the resemblance he found between her features and those of her father, his friend, who was still young when he knew him at Antwerp.

“Can this be Margaret?” murmured the stranger.

“Who has pronounced my name?” asked the young girl, turning haughtily around.

Pierre Gilles stood in perfect amazement. “How much she resembles him! Pardon me, damsel,” he said; “I have been trying to get into this place to see my friend, Sir Thomas More.”

any one when he is in irons, when the scaffold is erected, the axe sharpened, and the executioner getting ready to do his work?”

“What do you say?” cried the stranger, turning pale. “Is he, then, already condemned?”

“He is going to be!”

“No, no, he shall not be! Pierre Gilles will demand, will beseech; they will give him to him; he will pay for him with his gold, with his life-blood, if necessary.”

“Pierre Gilles!” cried Margaret; and she threw herself on the neck of the stranger, and clasped him in her arms.

“Pierre Gilles! Pierre Gilles! it is you who love my father. Ah! listen to me. He is up there; this is the second time they have made him appear before them. Alas! doubtless to-day will be the last; for they are tired—tired of falsehoods, artifices, and base, vile manœuvres; they are tired of offering him gold and silver—he who wants only heaven and God; they are weary of urging, of tormenting this saintly bishop and this upright man, in order to extort from them an oath which no Christian can or ought to take. Then it will be necessary for these iniquitous and purchased judges to wash out their shame in blood. They must crush these witnesses to the truth, these Pg 286 defenders of the faith! My father, child of the martyrs, will walk in their footsteps, and die as they died; Rochester, successor of the apostles, will give his life like them; but Margaret, poor Margaret, she will be left! And it is I, yes, it is I, who am his daughter, and who is named Margaret!” As she said these words, she clasped her hands with an expression of anguish that nothing can describe.

TO BE CONTINUED.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Sermons on the Sacraments. By Thomas Watson, Master of St. John’s College, Cambridge, Dean of Durham, and the last Catholic Bishop of Lincoln. First printed in 1558, and now reprinted in modern spelling. With a Preface and Biographical Notice of the Author by the Rev. T. E. Bridgett, of the Congregation of the Most Holy Redeemer. London: Burns & Oates. 1876. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society.)

After Father Bridgett’s beautiful work, Our Lady’s Dowry, we may be sure that whatever he puts forth, whether original or edited, will repay perusal. He has a penchant for forgotten treasures of England’s Catholic past, and spares himself no pains to give us the benefit of his researches. Not content with editing the present volume, he has gone to the trouble of a biographical notice, and quite a long one, of his author. We cannot do better than let him speak for himself in the opening lines of his preface:

“Here is a volume of sermons, printed more than three centuries ago in black-letter type and uncouth spelling, and the existence of which is only known to a few antiquarians. Why, it will be asked, have I reprinted it in modern guise and sought to rescue it from oblivion? I have done so for its own sake and for the sake of its author. It is a book that deserves not to perish, and which would not have been forgotten, as it is, but for the misfortune of the time at which it appeared. It was printed in the last year of Queen Mary, and the change of religion under Elizabeth made it almost impossible to be procured, and perilous to be preserved. The number of English Catholic books is not so great that we can afford to lose one so excellent as this.

Father Bridgett further explains that these sermons belong to the class which “are written that they may be preached by others.” Their author undertook to write them as a “Manual of Catholic Doctrine on the Sacraments,” and in compliance with the order of a council under Cardinal Pole in December, 1555.

“Being intended for general preaching—or rather, public reading—these sermons are, of course, impassioned and colorless. We cannot judge from them of Bishop Watson’s own style of preaching. We cannot gather from them, as from the sermons of Latimer and Leaver, pictures of the manners and passions of the times. They scarcely ever reflect Watson’s personal character, except by the very absence of invective and the simple dignity which distinguishes them. As specimens of old English before the great Elizabethan era, they will be interesting to students of our language, especially as being the work of one of the best classical scholars of the day” (Preface, p. xii.).

Father Bridgett characterizes these sermons as “eminently patristic.” “I have counted,” he says, “more than four hundred marginal references to the fathers and ecclesiastical writers; and I may say that they are in great measure woven out of the Scriptures and the fathers.” Pg 287 Then, after remarking that, “with regard to their doctrine, it must be remembered that they were published before the conclusion of the Council of Trent,” he tells us: “I have added a few short theological notes only; for the doctrine throughout these sermons is both clearly stated and perfectly Catholic. As they certainly embody the traditional teaching of the English Church before the Council of Trent, they are an additional proof that Catholics of the present day are faithful to the inheritance of their forefathers.”

From what we have had time to read of these pages, we have been struck with at once the fulness and simplicity of the instructions they contain. The style, too, in our eyes, has both unction and charm. We thank Father Bridgett that he has “exactly reproduced the original, with the exception of the spelling.” “No educated reader,” he says, “will find much difficulty in the old idiom. The sentences, indeed, are rather long, like those of a legal document; yet they are simple in construction, and, when read aloud, they can be broken up by a skilful reader without the addition of a word.” We will only add that, perhaps, not the least attractive feature of these sermons (to the modern reader) is their brevity.

The Constitutional and Political History of the United States. By Dr. H. von Holst, Professor at the University of Freiburg. Translated from the German by John J. Lalor and Alfred B. Mason. 1750-1833. State Sovereignty and Slavery. Chicago: Callaghan & Co. 1876.

The efforts of Europeans to study and write upon the American Constitution and the political life of our people, though partial and somewhat prejudiced, have always been interesting and instructive. De Tocqueville, in his Democracy in America, studied rather to teach us than to learn from our theory of government and its practice, and this from his transient observations as a tourist. Professor von Holst resided in this country from 1867 to 1872, and thus may be supposed to have studied more profoundly our system, and to have seen more thoroughly our practice. No one, however, could rightly judge of our political history or the system of our government who had not seen and known us both before and after our civil war. De Tocqueville saw animus and style of the work might be inferred from the title of the second chapter: “The Worship of the Constitution, and its real Character.” We have often been accused of making the Constitution our political bible, and Washington our political patron saint. Such seems to be the impression of Professor von Holst. But it must be said that his able and interesting work is well calculated to promote the study of the American republican form of government; for we are certainly a terra incognita to most Europeans. Having ably studied his subject, he has ably and learnedly communicated his researches to his countrymen and to the world. His work will appear in a series of volumes, of which we have now only the first, and the English translation will hereafter appear in this country simultaneously with the original German publications. The work seems to deal exclusively with political questions, and handles them ably. We commend its perusal to our readers.

Alice Leighton. A Tale of the Seventeenth Century. London: Burns & Oates. 1876. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.

This story of the wars between Roundhead and Cavalier will prove an agreeable disappointment to the reader who contrives to wade through its first few pages, which are rather silly. We tremble for the fate of a story which in the very first page tells us of its youthful hero: “His brow was, however, clouded, Pg 288 either with emotion or with sorrow, perchance with both; and a careful observer might have marked a tear in his soft dark eyes as he turned his gaze upon the fair view before him.” In the second page the hero tells us, or rather nobody in particular, that eighteen summers have at last passed over him, whereupon he proceeds to deliver a page of an address to his “own dear home,” in the course of which he remarks that “the accents of a dethroned monarch are calling for assistance,” but “the long-listened-to maxims” of his childhood hold him back from joining the king. In the third page he encounters a mild sort of witch, who is gifted with that very uncertain second sight that has been the peculiar property of witches from time immemorial, and who prophesies to him, in Scotch dialect, in the usual fashion of such prophets.

Nothing could be more inauspicious than such a beginning; and yet as one reads on all this clap-trap disappears, and a very interesting story, though by no means of the highest order, unfolds itself. There is abundance of incident, battle, hair-breadth escape, varying fortunes, misery, ending with the final happiness of those in whom we are chiefly interested. Some of the characters are very well drawn, and the author shows a competent knowledge of the scenes, events, and period in which the story is laid. It affords a healthy and agreeable contrast to the psychological puzzles generally given us nowadays as novels. It looks to us as though the writer were a new hand. If so, Alice Leighton affords every promise of very much better work in a too weak department of letters—Catholic fiction. If the writer will only banish for ever that antiquated deus or dea ex machinâ, the witch, especially if she speak with a Scotch accent, give much more care than is shown in the present volume to English, not force fun for fun’s sake, we shall hope soon to welcome a new volume from a lively, pleasant, and powerful pen.

“My Own Child.” A Novel. By Florence Marryat. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1876.

Florence Marryat has become, and deservedly, quite a popular novelist. She has, we understand, become something in our opinion very much better—a Catholic. My Own Child is neither her best story nor her worst. It is a very sweet and pathetic one, simple in construction and plot, yet full of sad interest throughout, lightened here and there by bits of lively description or pictures of quaint character. It is easy to recognize a practised hand in it. The chief characters of the story are Catholics. We have only one fault to find, but that a very serious one. It is too bad to make a young lady, and so charming a young lady as May Power is represented to be, talk slang. Where in the world did she learn it, this bright, beaming, Irish, Catholic girl? Certainly not from her mother, for she never indulges in it, and surely not from the good Sisters in Brussels by whom she was educated. Yet she bounds out of the convent perfect in—slang! For instance: “‘I’ll get some nice, jolly fellow to look after it [her property] for us, mother.’ ‘You’ll never get another Hugh!’ I exclaimed indignantly. ‘Well, then, we’ll take the next best fellow we can find,’ replied my darling.” The first “best fellow,” the Hugh alluded to, happened to be the “darling’s” dead father. The same darling, only just out of convent, is anxious to make her first appearance “with a splash and a dash.” It is only natural that she should discover her mother looking “rather peaky” when that lady is threatened with an illness that endangers her life.

This is to be regretted. Young ladies are much more acceptable as young ladies than when indulging in language supposed to be relegated to “fast” young women. Slang is bad enough in men’s mouths, whether in or out of books; but, spoken by a woman, it at once places her without the pale of all that is sweet and pure and calculated to inspire that admiration and reverence in men which are the crown and pride of a Christian woman’s life. Miss Marryat is clever enough to dispense with such poor material. Meanwhile, what becomes of this slangy young lady the reader will discover for himself.

Pg 289

THE