Freston Tower

CHAPTER XXI.

THE FATE OF THE SWIMMER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Shall I run to the castle for help?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Then God be praised for his mercies!'

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

CHAPTER XXII.

WOLSEY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wolsey's Lament.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHANGES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'But dost thou not agree with him therein?'

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

'I hope he will be a great man. I think he will; for I can scarcely imagine the Pope to be more dignified.'

'Hush, Alice; hush! It must be many, many years before Wolsey could have any claim to the Popedom; and there may be many changes before that time. Thou mayst live to see it. I shall not!'

And here the conversation dropped.

Nothing could have hitherto been more disposed to the widest and most liberal scope of ecclesiastical polity than Thomas Wolsey. He had repeatedly conversed with Ellen, Latimer, and Lord De Freston upon the many impositions of the Popedom: so much so, that all Oxford had been alive to the views which Wolsey had so manfully expounded, and treated of so truthfully, that reformers began to think the learned scholar of Ipswich would be a host in himself. But then his views had Ellen De Freston in the foreground; and he found himself anxious to propagate the love of truth above every other consideration. Ellen De Freston had vanished; and the Pope had taken her place. Certainly, a less pleasant object, but the spiritual ambition inspired by his view seemed to soften, or rather harden, the regrets which arose from disappointed love. Wolsey was now a different man. His conversations with Bishop Goldwell confirmed him in his altered prospects. The Pope's supremacy became his favorite theme; and a few weeks before, the man who had no intention of ever becoming a priest, was now ordained by Bishop Goldwell, and soon alter took his departure for Oxford, where he became as celebrated in the defence of the Pope, as he had been conspicuous for a more enlightened polity.

Men's circumstances do sometimes make them change their opinions; but those opinions could never have been based upon the immutable grounds of truth, which could be changed with any change of outward circumstances, that vary as the wind. But the mischief was done. The change had taken place; and Wolsey had left Ipswich before Lord De Freston became acquainted with the fact. Wolsey, after his return to College, pursued his career of tuition with the utmost diligence, and became the tutor of the sons of the Marquis of Dorset. Few who came under his care could fail to improve in the elegancies of literature, as well as in knowledge of the world.

His sudden departure for the seat of learning was attributed to his shock at his father's death by some, yet his total absence from the society of his friends at Freston was considered a remarkable thing; but when men understood that he had entered the priest's office, they concluded that the separation of friendship arose from some dissimilarity of views upon matters of religion. Lord De Freston, after the celebrated discussion at the palace of Wykes', had given an invitation to those two champions of truth, Bale and Bilney, to partake of the hospitality of his mansion. It was here, during the slow progress of Latimer's recovery, that these honest friends took it by turns to read and converse with the learned scholar upon the sick-bed.

Men whose hearts are thankful to God for his signal preservation of them in time of extreme danger, are always ready to exclaim, 'O, what shall I say unto thee, thou Preserver of men!' Latimer's mind and soul were full of thankfulness. He was more learned than his visitors, but not more sincere. Men of strong minds, with a just abhorrence of deceit and superstition, and a fervent desire for greater grace and knowledge of God, could not but be edified when they came to converse of His mercies. The hearts of these friends being given to God, were thankful every hour, for their converse was of that holy, pure, and lovely cast, which was sure to derive fresh vigor from the expanded view of mercy displayed before them.

It was in one of these afternoon visits, that Latimer heard from Daundy of his friend.

'I have observed,' he said, 'ever since his father's death, that Thomas has been shy of all his friends; that he has been moody and melancholy, and very different towards his mother. He used to be of a free and open disposition; was glad of the society of his relatives, and especially of those who dwelt here, to whom he owes so much more than he can repay.'

'I have heard,' said Bale, 'that he is ambitious, very ambitious; and the Church of Rome, and the Papal Hierarchy, afford a magnificent field for the ambition of a man of Wolsey's abilities; but I do not envy him. He must submit to many impositions, must practise many deceits, must wink at many fooleries, and with his mind, can hardly put up with such unmeaning ceremonies as he must daily behold.'

'You know him not, my friend,' replied Latimer. 'Wolsey is a very determined man, firm in his purpose, and if he should rise to power, will do much good. I grieve wo have not seen him. I should like to have held converse with him upon these matters, which we have all so pleasantly discussed. God grant him grace.'

'Amen!' was the response from every heart.

But fears were then entertained, by those who knew nothing personally of the young priest, that he would not do much good to the cause of Christianity, however devoted he might become to the Papal religion. Rome and her errors—her idolatries, her superstitions, her infidelities, absurdities, abuses, and anti-Christian practices—were now freely discussed; and many a deep sigh escaped the souls of those men, when they reflected upon the probability of some dreadful persecution arising, to oppose the love of God, and his commandments, by the malice and inventions of men.

'I know not,' said Bilney, 'if in this land, we shall ever see the Church purified from its corruptions. I cannot bear to see the grace of God changed into unmeaning ceremonies, pompous penances, bead counting, prayer-doling, fines, stripes, penalties, punishment fastings, feastings, pilgrimages, and such a countless variety of ignorant and wicked inventions, as contrary to nature and religion as light is to darkness. I cannot bear to see those priests with their heads shorn, their long rows of black beads hanging down to their feet, their stuff gowns, cowls and cassocks, passing along the streets, and requiring of every man they meet a genuflection, at the sign of the cross they carry in their hands. I saw one yesterday seize a poor, ignorant, half-witted fellow who did not make obeisance to him, with violent anger, more like a demon!—oh! how abhorrent to the idea of a minister of Christ—cast him to the earth, and made him kneel in the mud and kiss the cross he held in his hand. The poor fellow trembled exceedingly, and took the cuffs and kicks of the priest as if he were a dumb ass. I felt as a brother towards the poor man; I lifted him up; and, despite the furious madness of the priest, I told him to his face that he deserved to be punished by the civil power for his violence. He dared not strike me; I believe he knew me, for he said:

'"Heretic! thou shall answer for this interference. The civil power! I defy the civil power! It has no authority over Rome! Thou shalt find that it shall avail thee nothing!" And he shook his garments in his rage. Oh! what passion lurked under that revengeful soul! I walked away with the poor man, and may expect some visitation for this act of common humanity.'

'I have already had the complaint made to the civil authorities, and it is said that thou, Bilney, didst violently assail the priest in the discharge of what he considered his religious duty. He maintained that the man was confessing to him a crime.'

'It was seen by many. Some blessed me for this act—surely they will come forward and speak the truth!'

'Such is the terror of a man's mind at being denounced as a heretic, that I question whether any townsman in the borough dare come forward and say that the priest was in the wrong.'

'This, O, worthy magistrate! this is the state of religion in Ipswich, that oppression is to be exercised in broad day, and the people see the violence, and dare not complain. Oh, dreadful day! when rulers shall no longer be a terror to evil doers, but to the innocent; when the weak shall be without the protection of law, and priests of fury predominate instead of the gospel and God's grace. I pity thee, Mr. Daundy! I pity thee, as a magistrate, in such a town!'

'I fear, Bilney, I shall one day have to pity thee if the priests get thee into their clutches. What wilt thou answer to Bishop Goldwell, against a host of witnesses which they will take care to bring against thee?'

'What? but that I am innocent, and appeal to the laws for protection!'

Daundy shook his head significantly, for he well knew the little chance which any individual had, if accused by the priests of Rome, of any crime contrary to their canons. The civil authorities might exercise their jurisdiction over the people, but ecclesiastics of Rome submitted not to their laws. Bilney was strongly urged to go into Cambridgeshire, to his friend Arthur, lest the cause of the Reformation, then beginning to dawn, should lose his services by his being cast into prison.

Conscious innocence is very bold. It may retire until called forth to suffer; but when its possessor is wanted, he will be found equal to the emergency for which he is required. By innocence in this sense, is not meant entire freedom, from in-dwelling sin; but innocence and uprightness of faith, which hates to see another suffering wrongfully without secretly desiring to defend him against the oppressor.

Bilney and Bale spent many days with Latimer and Lord De Freston, who began at this period, in consequence of the mercy and pity he showed to these men, to be suspected of heresy. They escaped this time from persecution, much through the respect which all men paid to Edmund Daundy, at Ipswich; who, though an enlightened man, was considered to be a good churchman.

A good, benevolent, and charitable man he was, as thousands have found who lived to be partakers of his bounty long after his death; and even at this day, through all the various changes of laws, customs, religious persuasions, and alterations of time, Daundy's charity is dispensed.

That Lord De Freston and his lovely daughter profited greatly by the conversation of those days, their future attentions to these good men plainly proved. They never forgot the days of Latimer's recovery.

They were happy days to Ellen, and not less so to the scholar, who daily grew in every grace which could adorn either his private or public character.

Life is very sweet to men who can feel they are improving it for eternity. It is sweet, because they walk in the ways of pleasantness and peace, notwithstanding the persecutions of those who know not God.

Latimer was a young man, with views then before him of the most brilliant kind on earth. His own father was a man of good property, having an hereditary estate of considerable worth in those days, and he had the prospect of marrying one in every way gifted with grace and qualities of mind, independently of large possessions in the county of Suffolk; so that he might be said to have earthly hopes beyond the common lot of man. Yet Latimer argued very justly, when he said to Ellen one day, as he sat in Freston Tower, and looked upon the waves:

'What would all these things have been to me—nay, dearest Ellen, and what wouldst thou have been to me—had God seen fit to let me sink to the bottom of the waves, on that memorable night, when I was so mercifully preserved?'

'I can only say, Latimer, that we must be ready to part with everything, at every moment; for they are none of them our own,' said Ellen, 'and learn to give ourselves and all we have into his hands.'

'True wisdom, my dear. May I never forget the changes which have been wrought within these few weeks! May I ever remember the Lord's hand, accept all I have as from Him, do all I do as unto Him, and yield all my thoughts, hopes, and wishes to His will!'

'Ah, dear Latimer! in such faith, how delightful it is to wait all our appointed time, until our change comes!'

It would be useless to give the account of Latimer's journey to Padua, his interview with Erasmus, his giving up his Fellowship at All-Souls', Oxford, and his return to Ipswich after these things.

Strange changes quickly followed, which shall be discussed as more in accordance with the narrative.

CHAPTER XXIV.

AFFECTIONS.

Youth has powerful struggles with itself to command its various affections in the order of wisdom. Early education, it is well known, not only from the wisest man's declaration, but from the world's constant experience, will do much in the tuition of self-governance. Men talk of tempers, passions, and affections, as if they were the predominant powers over the soul. These may be all subdued and brought into subjection by the constant exercise of prayer for grace. A man always does well to subdue his natural infirmities of temper, and to pray against their power, to control his passions, and to calm his affections. He cannot do these things without help.

Wolsey's was a wonderfully strong mind in his youth. Yet he had very violent passions, as men of great talents frequently have. He fled to Oxford for occupation; devoted himself with ardor to his classical pursuits, became bursar to his college, built the famous Magdalen Tower, and instructed the Marquis of Dorset's children, in his school and yet was not the happy man he looked to be. Though methodical in all he did, his spirit was not gifted with humility.

He was very proud of his tower, spared ne expense from the college funds, or from his own private purse, and was very angry with the president and fellows for accusing him of extravagance, when he knew that he was doing all he could for the future honor and ornament of his college. He suffered at this time a very great deal of mortification, and, in writing to his mother, confessed that he was almost tired of his college career.

Latimer wrote to him repeatedly; but, as may be supposed, this was no particular comfort to his proud but disappointed spirit. To be reminded of Freston Tower, and of the days of his youthful ambition, when he was in his lonely college-room, or walking in the gloomy cloisters, was indeed vexatious to his haughty and unsubdued soul. This, however, was nothing compared with the trial he had afterwards to endure, the very bitterest which the human heart has to suffer. It was occasioned by the following conversation:

'Let us ride to meet our uncle; he is coming to-day, according to his promise, to stay with us for two or three days,' said Lord De Freston, 'and I have no doubt we shall enjoy his conversation. He has seen the purchase of Sir Antony Wingfield's house completed for me, and when the time comes, my dear children, for your marriage, I hope you will find that house in Ipswich convenient for your abode. I cannot part with you for a greater distance, as your society is necessary to my happiness.'

'And why should you, father? Latimer and I ought to count it our peculiar privilege to be able, at any time, to promote the comfort of one who has been so kind a protector and parent to us both. But look, dear father! I can see our uncle riding along the strand, beyond the bounds of the park. There he is, with his faithful wolf-dog by his side.'

'You are right, Ellen, there is no mistaking his long gallop. The horse, dog, and master are alike eminent of their kind. Daundy is a fine specimen of an Englishman, in person and in heart. His horse is of Flanders breed, and quite what a horse should be, in bone, figure, and action. And his dog, though of the largest and roughest Irish breed, is one of the most sagacious I ever beheld. I am not surprised, remembering the attack of the mastiff, that any of his breed should be no favorite with him. He would never go out without him. There must be a patch of rushes laid for him at his master's door. This shall be my care. Come, Ellen, you and Latimer must ride to meet him.'

It was not long before horse and groom appeared at the castle gate; and Ellen and the happy Latimer cantered along that beautiful park, their steeds as happy as themselves to enjoy their pleasant freedom. As the greensward was open before them, they did not follow the stately road from the hall, but bounded along, sometimes passing under the shade of the knotted oak, whence darted the old English red deer, then the graceful tenant of the borders of the Orwell.

It was a lovely scene; youth, health, and cheerful spirits, together with that unison of mind which existed with them, made the sun shine pleasanter, the trees look more green, and the very sod over which they cantered more soft. They descended from the last long sweeping hill to the park-gates on a level with the shore, which were opened by one of the worn-out foresters, whose youthful days had been spent in the service of the grandfather of De Freston, and whose hoary head now bent in the service of the last of the De Frestons. As the old man doffed his green cap to the young people, they drew in the rein to speak to him.

'Allen! how are you to-day?' said Ellen.

'Thank you, kind mistress, all the better for the good things you sent me. My old dame is laid upon her bed, or would be here to make her duty and reverence.'

'I am glad she rests. Do not disturb her. We shall be back again, presently.'

'Blessings on you, I could stand here for your return, could I but see you all the way you go.'

'That you will do better, Allen, from your lodge-window, therefore go in.'

'A happy old man is that,' said Latimer to Ellen as they rode away from the old gothic-carved and massive gates, and turned their horses' heads to the shore. The praises of the poor are not always to be had for money. The master may bestow all his gifts to feed them, and yet not be charitable towards them. To bestow injudiciously, or indiscriminately, however bountiful the gift, will often create desires, and jealousies, which will not admit of thankfulness.'

'I agree with you; on this very ground has my father acted in all his distributions of charity. Long service and fidelity he rewards. Industry, honesty, and cleanliness, he upholds. Laziness he would suffer to starve before he would supply food for its discontent; and I can tell you, moreover, that not one single donation would he bestow upon any of the mendicant order, now travelling the country under the garb of holy vows. No, not though they repeat the "Pater Noster," "Ave Maria," or show their bare feet blistered with their self-devoted journeying.'

'I sigh to see talents prostrated to beggary and superstition as they are in our day. Religion, Ellen, is become a superstitious torment, rather than a holy comfort. Men seem to me to be under a curse rather than a blessing, and to walk trembling from fear of different fraternities, more than in the love of God. Oh! Ellen, when I see, as, alas! I too often do, men and women entering the dark cells of our monastic institutions, and with bare feet walking along the dark aisles and cloisters, and bowing at the tomb of corruption, themselves overcome by the sombre shades of the cold, silent, superstitious places in which they move, I often think how poor must be their conceptions of the God of light, if they can confine their notions of Him to the cloister!'