Freston Tower

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

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.