Freston Tower

CHAPTER XXV.

THE LETTER.

Wolsey is seated in his college-room over the gateway leading into the principal quadrangle. He has been engaged, during the day, in superintending the schools attached to the college, and has now thrown off his heavy academical dress and broad hat, and in a plain wooden chair without cushions, but with back and arms well polished, is seated at a table inspecting the plans laid before him for the finishing of the celebrated Magdalen Tower.

'Yes,' exclaimed the delighted youth, as he looked upon the plan with eager attention, 'Latimer may surpass me in pleasing Ellen; but I will be remembered when he shall be forgotten. His tower may grace the banks of the Orwell, and please his fair mistress's eye, but this—this!'—again inspecting the plain elevation, and the ornamental plans—'shall astonish even the eyes of the University.'

It seemed, however, that painful recollections arose as he viewed that work which still stands in its lofty grandeur on the borders of the Cherwell, at that day flowing nearer to the tower than it now does.

'Certainly,' he resumed, 'the Cherwell is not like the Orwell; but Oxford shall surpass Ipswich, and my tower shall put Freston Tower in the shade. I will have a grander room in the fifth story than Ellen has in Latimer's tower. But shall I find greater intelligence than I found there? Ah! who knows but that even Ellen De Freston and Latimer may envy me the power I now possess of making the entrance over Cherwell Ford, into this renowned seat of learning, more beautiful than anything of the kind they have ever seen.'

Long did the bursar dwell upon the thought of his tower, and little did any one in that college imagine that Wolsey's taste for building received its first impulse from recollections of admiration Ellen De Freston had expressed when that comparatively insignificant tower, now standing on the banks of the Orwell, was built. It is the remembrances of early praise bestowed by those he loves upon his youthful works, that prompts the spirit of a man in after years to perform works still more worthy of admiration.

Wolsey's taste for building was first displayed in the erection of Magdalen Tower. He could now dwell upon great and ambitious thoughts, but not without connecting them with many pleasant reminiscences. As he had taken holy orders, the future was closed against him for every hope of domestic comfort. He was forbidden, by his vows, to think of woman, as the sharer of his cares or the promoter of his comforts. He had once thought of one whose mental qualifications bade fair to give a zest to his whole life; but William Latimer had supplanted him, and Ellen De Freston was happy. Well, was he to be dissatisfied? was he to pine away his existence? were there to be no joys unconnected with this fancy of his youth? Alas! the very struggle of his proud heart and susceptible nature told him how difficult a thing it was to control the early impressions of that pure attachment to which the God of nature and of grace had made him subject.

At this period of Wolsey's life, there could not have occured a more congenial occupation than this project of the tower. It accorded well with the thoughts of his heart, at that time ready for any enterprize. The peculiar pleasure he found in raising the structure of Magdalen Tower was known only to himself. Ostensibly, it was done for the honor of his college, but more prominently in his mind existed the thought of out-doing the work of his successful rival.

He had various plans presented to him, but the one that pleased him best was that which reserved its ornaments for the highest stories. 'Man,' he used to say, 'is like a building; his life should begin upon a firm, plain, solid foundation, and improve as he advances, until he reaches maturity; then, if worth anything, he may crown his years with the ornaments of existence, and show forth all his beauty and strength; but if he begins with ornaments, he will end in dulness.'

His tower was an inimitable illustration of this doctrine: plain, solid, firm, and unadorned, it ascended from its basement to its superstructure. Its architectural decorations were reserved for the fifth and upward story. Alas! poor Wolsey. Like his celebrated tower, his splendor was reserved for the highest pinnacles which, compared with his basement, were sure to provoke envy. The future Cardinal had then before him the vision of fame, as connected only with Magdalen Tower. He scraped together all the funds which could be collected, he made half the University subscribe to his project, obtained all the fines he could, made the tenants of Magdalen endowments pay a certain bonus for the renewal of their tenures, and for his pains drew a hornet's nest around his head, even among the fellows of his own college, who condemned his extravagance and extortion, even whilst they openly admired his project. Great men have always to contend with little difficulties, which plague them very often much more than obstacles of greater magnitude.

In the midst of the scheme of the tower a sudden and unexpected visitor was announced by the entrance of his long-coated serving-man, who said that a man from Suffolk had arrived at the college gates, and desired to see him instantly.

'Shall I admit him at once, sir? He comes upon a superb horse, and one which must have a good master, for it is as fat as our Magdalen bucks, and sleek as the Vice-Chancellor.'

'What can he want?' said Wolsey to himself, as his old servant, having received his directions, descended the stone steps to the magnificent portal of the college.

'I say, mister!' said the Suffolk man, who had travelled through many a muddy lane, impassable to vehicles, to reach Oxford, 'is this the house Master Thomas Wolsey lives in?'

'Yes it is, and if thou likest to remain in it, we shall make thee welcome; our bursar never lacks hospitality to the stranger!'

'Is it possible that Master Wolsey can be the owner of this palace?'

'Ay, to be sure, part owner, general purveyor, and I'll warrant as good a master as thou hast got.'

'That remaineth to be proved, though. Do you see, I've as good a master as a man wants; and let me tell ye, time was that your master owned my master for his lord, and bowed his head to him, just as I'll warrant you do to Master Wolsey. But before I go along with you, you must along with me, and show me where the stables are; for I should not like to rest on a good bed myself and my poor horse be standing out all night.'

'Thou shall find good accommodation for man and beast. So lead thy horse along. Our stables are as famous as our tables.'

'Ah!' thought Arthur Burch, 'Mistress Ellen should see this house. I did not think Master Thomas lived in such a place. I don't wonder at his liking it.'

The horse was soon stabled, nor would Arthur leave him until he had assisted the far-famed grooms of Magdalen stables to give him a rub down.

Jokes, even in those precise and formal days, one hostler would have with another; and it was no little amusement to the knowing pals of the seat of learning to see the country bumpkin mistake a college for one man's palace.

'Your master's house,' said Arthur, 'is larger than that of mine. Do all these horses belong to him?'

'Well, that's a good one. And to whom dost thou suppose they should belong? How many horses has thy master?'

'Four short of thine.'

'Ha! has thy master twelve?'

'He has in all; if I take into the lump old Stumpy, the chesnut punch.'

'What does he do with twelve horses?'

'Why, ride them, to be sure. What does thy master do with his?'

'Keep them for us to ride, to be sure!'

'Well, master does not ride all his horses. There be three for my young mistress, three for journeys, three for work, and three for master. Occasionally, howsome'er, we all mount in procession, and then we look as a lord's retinue should look. Is Master Wolsey's stud as well employed?'

'Master is very good. He lets all gentlemen who visit him in this great mansion take a horse whenever they please. It is for this reason thou seest so many saddles and bridles on now. And, hark! John, thou'rt called. Lead out the brown mare to the block's foot and never mind the blockhead.'

This was said with a knowing wink to John Hibbert, the groom's boy, afterwards Wolsey's state-groom, and was meant to make a jest of Arthur Burch, in whose simplicity, however, there was nothing to be ashamed of.

It was the evening hour in which the fellows of Magdalen indulged in the recreation of a summer's ride, then so frequent along the banks of the Isis, that a man of Magdalen was thought nothing of, except he were an equestrian. Arthur was astounded at the number of friends, serving-men, and gentlemen acquaintances, which Master Thomas Wolsey must have; and he bethought him then, what a famous thing it must be to be a learned man.

Presently, he was soon conducted to the stone staircase leading to the bursar's rooms, and was confronted with the man whom he once looked upon as my lord's hanger on; and now beheld, as he thought, the lord of all that princely building.

Wolsey started, as he recognised Lord De Freston's servant.

'Arthur, what now?' he exclaimed. 'What brings thee out of Suffolk?'

'My master's orders.'

'Dost thou deliver them, verbally?'

'No, sir, by letter.'

Here he delivered one enclosed in a leathern case, which, though couched in quaint terms, may not form an unpleasant diversion to the reader. Its matter was of sufficient moment to induce Wolsey to say:

'Arthur, thou mayst retire; my servant's room is at the foot of the stairs. Tell him thy wants, and they shall be supplied.'

'Thank you, sir; but I shall want little else than an answer to my lord's message. I should like to see this fine house, and something of the city. I hear ye be all very learned people here.'

'Peter will show thee something of the University. Thou mayst retire.'

Arthur retired, filled with the most inconceivable admiration of Master Thomas's greatness; and soliloquised as ha descended the stone steps:

'I always said Master Thomas would be a great man. He always walked like one, spoke like one, and seemed so easy with all great men, and so learned too! No one can be great without learning. It must be a fine thing.'

The letter was written in the following words:

'To Thomas Wulcey, bye th'r hand of Arthur Burch, oure survin-man. This comeyth from Lord De Freston and Ellen his well-beloved daughter.

'We commende ourselves unto thee, Thomas, in pease and love, and are well assuride itt is noo lesse joye to thee to heare fro' us than for us to hear fro' thee. In truithe and honeur thou art much extemyde. Wold it wor our fortune convenientlie to have seen thee when in our nebourhede, when thou didst journeye last from Ox'nforde to Ippyswiche. We heare that thou art a prest, Thomas, devoted to hevyn. We do heare this fro' thy mod'r Johan, and fro' thy friende and uncle Edmunde Dayndye; and that Bushop Gouldwelle dyd ordayne thee. We are informyde that thou art so contentyde in this matter that the bushop's haundes have ben doublee well bistowide. If all succede with thee wee shall rejoyce. Wee wish thee prosesperous in thy determyning; and hope yt is for the best for the Churche sin thy learnin is gret and thy demenor gude; for ther levithe no man more hartilye devotede to God. We wish to tell thee it is in thy pow'r and provinc to serve us, by givin us agen thy companie. And wee think thou canst hardley deny'de us as wee send all way to beseeche thee come.

'If itt soo had fortunyde that wee had sen thee we wou'd have explaynede to thee what wee now do. We hould thee to thy promyse upon the holy ewangelysts to be presente at the ceremonie of marrage whensoewer and whhersoewer suche shall take place tween Ellen De Freston and whomsoweer it may be. Now that thou art a prest, Thomas, we shall looke for thy help which we hope for at St. Lawrence Churche in Ippyswiche the XII day at next moneth.

'Willyam Latymer wrott latelie to thee, as he haythe declayrede, telling thee how muche he suffrid not hearinge from thee: and then informynge thee of his plesure to have thee his friende present at his nuptials. Not doubtyng of thy mynde to promoat the joye of oders wee hope thou wilt come. Our plesur will be gret in thy companie at Frestone Castel; and thy moder Johan will be glad to have thee. So, Thomas, wee shall hope, that on this behalve thou wilt not forsayke us, but unyte William Latymer and Ellen De Frestone in the bonds of matrymonie.

'Wee hope thy answer by the haunde of the sayed Arthur Burch, and are thy loving friends,

'DE FRESTON
'and ELLEN.

'To Thomas Wulsey,
  'Magdalyne College,
    'Oxnforde.
      'JUNE xviii, A.D.MCCCCXXXXXVIII.'

This epistle created a deep impression. It had been enough for him to discover his own blighted hopes, with regard to the first and fondest attachment he had formed in life. But Wolsey then had no thought of the ambitious projects which afterwards swayed him.

The pride of the man never was greater than in the tone of argument he held with himself at that time when his nature said 'Do not go,' and his spirit said 'Go!'

'Yes, I did promise, and I will perform the ceremony, or, at least, I will be present at these espousals. It shall never be said by Alice De Clinton, or her uncle, that I shrank from a duty which required nothing but exertion to discharge. Ellen, Latimer, De Freston, nay, my mother, and all Ipswich shall see, that I care not for friends or relatives, and that the boyish fancies of my former days shall be forgotten in the duties of my office.'

Then he sat leaning on his elbow, with hand upon his forehead, thinking of what he should write. Thinking, indeed, he was, all that night; and not one word could his proud spirit pen to his friend Latimer, or to Ellen, or her father.

His servant came to ask his commands about Lord De Freston's messenger.

'Tell him,' replied the priest, 'I will give him his answer at six o'clock on the morrow.'

So the restless spirit tossed him to and fro all night, and when the dawn arose, Wolsey arose with it, and might be seen walking under the magnificent frees of Magdalen Park. When he returned to his rooms, Arthur Burch was in great distress. His horse had been taken ill in the night, and, as the farrier said he would be quite unable to proceed on his journey, he came to petition Wolsey for the loan of one of his numerous stud.

'I have but one, Arthur, and that I shall want myself. Mine is but a poor substitute for thy noble Flanders black. Yet I can hire here better than thou canst. So thou mayst have my nag.'

Arthur's eyes were open, and his tongue soon gave utterance to his astonishment.

'What, a'nt all those horses yours I saw in the stables? and a'nt all this great house yours? and a'nt you master of all these folks? They told me you were a-going to build a great tower, like Master Latimer's at Freston; and yet you say you've got but one horse!'

'All this is true, Arthur, and I have but this room, and that I call my own, and yet it is not my own, for I cannot sell it, or give it to any one. It belongs to the college. I am going to build a tower, but with the college money. Yet one day, Arthur, it will as much surpass Freston Tower as the King's palace does thy master's house. But we will not talk of these things. Go thou and look to thy horse, and if not fit to journey, take thou mine.'

'But the letter, your reverence?'

'Say I wrote none; but that I sent word by thee, that I will be there anon, ready to do what duty may be required of me.'

So Wolsey dismissed Lord De Freston's servant, and prepared himself to follow him to Ipswich.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE JOURNEY.

A journey from Oxford to Ipswich in these days is as the swallow skimming along the air, save that his pinions make less noise than the gliding railway.

Wolsey resolved to journey to his native town. Arthur's horse had recovered, and Arthur himself, taking advantage of a cavalcade to Aylesbury and Bedford, had already started.

In those ages, men travelled in company for security, and a cavalcade was made up of people of all grades, from the highest to the lowest, each feeling some sort of protection in the presence of the other. Now-a-days, men are drawn along by fire and water, feeling no kind of security in each other, and yet, though the greater the speed the greater the danger, they are devoid of fear.

Wolsey was not long in finding a party going to the metropolis, in whose company he could ride with safety, and speak, as every one then did, of the dangers of the road, without any fear of robbers. Travellers even from Oxford to London had then some trepidations about the freebooters of High Wycombe, or of Hampstead Heath; and like prudent men, made their wills before starting, and they have need, as prudent men, to do the same now. They made their wills then, filled their wallets, belted their purses, mounted their steeds, and, well-armed, proceeded on their way, with pistols well primed; nor did they journey without swords or cudgels.

The party which Wolsey had joined was mostly composed of wool-dealers, who at that time were sheep-dealers as well. They were journeying to London, to meet some Spanish merchants, who had begun to purchase the fine flocks of England, to pasture upon the plains of Toledo. This was carried to such an extent just then, that Government had to interfere, and did so at the suggestion of Wolsey, who had become aware of the extensive exportation of flocks from this country.

On his white-faced cob, and not despising his academical or priestly appearance, sat Wolsey, making himself as agreeable as possible to his company.

'You will sell half the flocks of England, Master Cuthbert, if you go on with this species of merchandise much longer. What will become of our own wool-trade, if you thus sell the very sheep's backs upon which it grows?'

'As to that, master, we have nothing to do with it. No matter to us so long as we get a profit, and these Dons give us a good price; and I say, prosperity to the sheep trade!'

'But do you consider that you injure your country in this traffic?'

'How so? We do but buy and sell at the best market; and what's a country to us, if we cannot make something out of it?'

'Our wool-trade is great; but every flock you sell must diminish our means of supplying the demand upon us, and increase it in other countries. Have you no desire to see your country flourish?'

'Yes, and I hope it will, and last our time. The price of sheep is wonderfully got up of late.'

'And not to be wondered at either, when you take off so many. If I were a statesman, I would take care of the trade of my country, and not destroy one of the best staple commodities we have.'

'Why, master, you don't think we poor dealers want to ruin others, do you?'

'No! you may not care much about that; but the sheep are more profitable in our country than they can be out of it, and I have no idea of enriching others by our own poverty.'

'Well, master, now I dare say you'd buy books out of foreign countries if you could.'

'That I would, to enrich my own, and not to impoverish them.'

'Well, master, then why mayn't others do the same by us? What's the difference betwixt traffic in sheep and traffic in books?'

'A wonderful deal of difference. We buy books to increase the knowledge of the world.'

'And we sell sheep to increase the clothing thereof. What's the difference?'

'If you sell the staple commodity of a community, you create a want of general employment, and injure trade for the future, in that country. Our flocks produce the finest wool in the world, and, consequently, our wool-combers and their families thrive; but if you sell the flocks which produce the wool, you immediately take off their families from their accustomed employment, and your own people are destitute. Books are but few now-a-days, and scholars are far less. Printing is but in its infancy, and is a matter of art and ingenuity. If I were a legislator I would protect the flock-growers against you wholesale flock-sellers.'

'Well, master, all that's easy said, but not so easy done; but yonder troops of gipsies look as if they would have no objection to case us, either of our sheep or our money.'

'Ay, and I would control them as well; and see if I could not get rid of an idle set of vagabonds, who do nothing but live in the wastes upon the plenty of others, which they either pilfer, petition for, or purloin, just as they please.'

'You would make a rare statesman, if you could rid the country of such folk: but I think, master, you would be too hard upon us poor flock-dealers.'

It was well the party advancing on the road towards Hampstead were as strong as they were, for there was then at that place a formidable encampment of that artful and imposing people, who had gained such a footing in the midland counties as to make it dangerous to affront them, or to refuse their demands. Woe to the unfortunate traveller who had anything worth losing in his purse, and lost his way in that neighborhood. It was even dangerous for small parties to travel unprotected. The gipsies and the robbers were in league against the liege subjects of the realm. Nothing worthy of being called a surprise occurred to any of the party until they had passed through the metropolis, and those who were journeying towards the eastern counties became less apparently able to defend themselves.

Wolsey changed companies in London, and had now joined a party of Flemish manufacturers, who were going down to his native town, to teach the weavers there the manufacture which afterwards raised Ipswich to such notoriety. These men were a contrast to those with whom he had journeyed to London. These were consumers, and teachers of consumers, of that very article for the preservation of which, to this country, he had been so strong an advocate. He was now more convinced than before of the folly of sending the flocks out of the country when such good workmen came from foreign countries, to teach our men their value.

He found these foreigners intelligent and industrious, acting under the guidance of a leader, who undertook to give them wages from the time of their starting from their own country. With them he entered freely into conversation, speaking to them in their own language, and astonishing their minds with the knowledge he seemed to possess of their country and people as well as of the town to which he was bound.

It was upon this journey, too, that Wolsey had an opportunity of discovering that he had made friends with a worthy, honest class of men, as stout-hearted as they were strong-armed; and that they were ready to look upon him with respect as their superior, though by no means better mounted or provided with cash.

Not far from Ingatstone they were met by a very formidable body of the idlers who infested that neighborhood, half gipsies, half robbers—men and women, travelling in company, tinkers, shoeing-smiths, and braziers, yet of such a wild character, that they never failed to tax all they met who happened to be too weak to resist.

They were headed by a tall, swarthy man, commonly called the Ingatstone Bear, or Wild Man of Brentwood. He was known as King of the Gipsies far and near.

He had come over from Spain, having escaped the violent persecution at Toulon, which those unfortunate people had aroused, in consequence of their having had a deadly encounter with some Turkish traders, whom they had murdered to a man.

Stanton, as he was called among his own people, was a sinewy and bony man, who never did any work, but led his people about the country, occasionally haranguing them in a circle, and appointing the different men their specific duties. The King of the Gipsies understood the handicraft of all his people. He also had a very quick apprehension of character, such as he found among the gentry and commonalty of England, though he pretended to understand nothing of their language.

The party of Flemings then journeying to Ipswich in company had hired a guide who undertook to see them safe through the country. Whether this man was in league with the gipsies or not, it was never strictly ascertained, though this was much suspected.

About eight o'clock in the evening, three miles of the Chelmsford side of Ingatstone, near Hide Green, a large party of these idle fellows, headed by the Wild Man of Brentwood, chose to stop them, and to demand, in terms not to be misunderstood, whatever they could spare. Wolsey, desirous of peace, undertook to state the nature of the journey the Flemings were pursuing, and the consequent poverty they were all in at present. As to himself, he told them he was a scholar, and that what little money he had was at their service: but he stipulated that the poor Flemings should be permitted to proceed on their journey without molestation, on his surrendering his own purse.

The Flemings were ignorant of Wolsey's generosity until they saw him give up his money. They then saw that he had purchased their liberation. They were not the men, however, tamely to submit to imposition, or to suffer an other to be imposed upon in their company. One fine young fellow, who seemed to be well backed by the rest, came forward to the King of the Gipsies, and demanded the purse back again. To his own surprise, the gipsy gave it him; and he immediately delivered it to Wolsey, who with a quick eye, and as quick a command, told them at once to be prepared for an attack: for once having made a compromise with the King of the Gipsies, the demanding again the surety given was a certain declaration of war, and they must expect it.

The warning of Wolsey was taken in earnest. The Flemings had been hitherto in their loose jackets, seeming to have nothing but their working tools. In one moment each man had a formidable weapon, scarcely known in England, but used with great dexterity by the Flemish, and which gave them, as will be seen, a perfect ascendancy over their antagonists. This weapon was a ball and thong. A ball of lead or iron, which they could cast out of their hands, End draw back again with well-trained facility, called a 'Battledoer.'

They had scarcely collected themselves in a band round Wolsey and three others, before a shrill whistle from the King of the Gipsies announced the commencement of hostilities. The women and children ran screaming up the green to their encampment, whence several men might be seen hastening to the scene of dispute. The heavy Flemings, on their long-tailed shaggy horses, were not accustomed to move very quickly along the road; but were as little accustomed to be stayed in their steady progress.

The King of the Gipsies presented a bold front; for, coming forward from his numerous subjects, ha insisted upon the whole party going back the way they came, or paying the toll which they had once paid and taken away.

The Flemings were not disposed to turn their backs; their tactics were of a very simple kind. If the attack was made in front, four from each side drew up in a moment, to support their leaders. If in the rear, three on each side drew up for the defence; and if on either side, there were seven on each side perfectly prepared. This little oblong square was formed with dexterity and resolution, and evidently discomposed the gipsies at the very first step; for when the leaders moved on, the King of the Gipsies receded instinctively. In another moment, however, his word of command was given, and his men came on, with bludgeons, stones, and iron hooks, to the attack. One or two gipsies only appeared to have fire-arms, and of these they made so much parade that it was strongly suspected that they were unloaded, or that they dare not fire them off. A volley or stones, however, soon came rattling among the Flemings, who from that moment moved on with a front rank of ten horsemen and a flank of eight, undismayed by the numbers of their antagonists.

The very first volley of their leaden missiles had all the effect of a discharge of musketry. The balls were thrown with such precision that men fell as if they were shot; and the immediate recoiling of them, so as to send another shower, as quickly as a man could pick up a stone, was what these fellows did not wait for. They fled immediately, the King of Brentwood Forest among them, whilst the brave Flemings, passing over the bodies of their stunned foes, moved on without further molestation to Chelmsford.

The only man injured in their party was their guide, who, being knocked from his horse by a blow on the forehead from a stone thrown by the gipsies, was carried into the town of Chelmsford, and there left with the Abbot of the monastery.

Wolsey now became the conductor of the party, and, greatly pleased with their conduct, he felt a pride and pleasure in introducing such men into his native town. Messrs. Hall and Baldry were the parties to whom they were engaged, and our young scholar did not fail to speak of them by letter to his uncle, Edmund Daundy, in terms of such commendation as they deserved.

They arrived without any other molestation, and Dame Joan received her son, for the last time, into her house, and found him grown a greater man than she had ever known him, but at that time far from happy or cheerful. She never knew him to smile upon her after that day.

'Mother,' said Wolsey on his arrival, 'I am come to perform a promise extracted from me, in your own presence, on the memorable evening of my gallantry, when the ox shin-bone did execution upon the head of the mastiff.'

'What was that, my son?'

'To be present at the marriage of Ellen De Freston—ay, and more, not only to see her given in marriage, but to unite her with my friend Latimer.'

'Oh, why, my son, why perform the ceremony? I know you have loved Ellen, but—'

'But, hush, mother! hush! breathe not a word of this. Let it die. I am a priest, mother. I must not marry—I cannot. I must deny, denounce, and destroy any such idea in my soul! Your prayers, mother, in silence; but tell it not to De Freston—tell it not to my uncle—breathe it not to the world—that thy son, Thomas Wolsey, ever had such a weakness.'

'How, my dear son, wilt thou ever sustain the shock? I cannot bear to think of it.'

'Thou must assist me, mother, with all thy courage and thy kindness to smile upon the bride and the bridegroom. Doubt not my strength. I can do what I will with myself, but do not thou betray me or my weakness. I would retire to prepare for the morrow's interview at Freston Hall. Once more I will see the Tower, the Orwell—the scenes of my youth and of my early love—and then, farewell for ever.'

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE INTERVIEW.

The morning sun rose as clear and lovely on the day that Wolsey left Ipswich for his last visit to Freston Tower as it did upon the day of his first visit. But how different were the sensations of the man in the few short years which had intervened between the hour of buoyant love, and that of painful compliance with a request which any other man would have studiously avoided!

It was quite true that he felt himself independent; but was he really so? It is true that he was not dependent upon the smile of De Freston, or the generosity of his relative, Edmund Daundy, or upon any friend in Ipswich.

He rode out of his native town, along that beautiful strand, in the morning sun, with a gloomy heart—a heart which nature, or rather the God of nature, had gifted with a sensitiveness and grace which now the spirit within him had resisted, but had not quite banished. Whoever sins against philanthropy cannot be happy in spirit, let his knowledge embrace an insight into every book that ever was written or printed in the world. Nothing but the love of our fellow-creatures can make any work of any mind pleasant to the soul of the Christian. Men may be selfish in gaining knowledge, but what is the use of finding a treasure, if it is only to be selfishly enjoyed? for intelligence, except it can be used to enlighten others, would make its possessor only the more miserable.

Wolsey used to journey in the days of his poverty with pure love in his heart—love for De Freston and his daughter—love for his father, his mother, his uncle, hu friends. He loved none of these now, and this made the Orwell so dull and gloomy in his sight.

He was on his way to that hospitable hall, where all was mirth and harmony within at the prospect of the marriage which was to take place on the morrow. The banks of the river were as green as in former days, the swallows were as lively, boys were bathing, ships were sailing, boats were moving, birds were singing, nature smiling; the difference was in Wolsey, and not in the things around him. The monastery of St. Peter's frowned upon him as he crossed the ford of Stoke, monks were chanting matins, country folk bringing in their produce from the farm-yard, and smiling health animating some lively lass who was paying her first visit to the great provincial town of Suffolk.

Stern were Wolsey's features, as deep thought sat upon his brow. He saw not the bows which foot passengers gave him. His eye seemed fixed upon some mental object. He was absorbed in his own reflections, thinking of those who were his friends, and of the manner in which he should receive their welcome.

De Freston had been his patron in days past; but De Freston could be of no service to him now. He was now a priest, and a priest must not feel as other men do. He must be more dignified, more reserved, more distant, more exalted. He was a priest of Rome; he must forget that he was ever a poor scholar at Ipswich, fostered and cherished by many friends, and sent to Oxford by their kindness and patronage. He was a priest of Rome! Rome must be now his patron; Rome must claim every secret impulse of his heart, and all his kindred must be forgotten. Something of offence arose out of De Freston's preference in bestowing the hand of his daughter upon Latimer. Something of offence suggested itself in Ellen's preference of his friend, and towards Latimer a sort of aversion sprang up on account of his successful rivalry. But human nature must be subdued. The decree of Rome forbade any such ideas to be entertained; not on account of any exigency of the times, but because the priests could not, without this decided law of privation, be trained in the way of implicit obedience. If Wolsey really loved Ellen, he would have been glad to hear of her happiness, even though she had preferred his friend Latimer.

In self-sacrifices for the promotion of another's happiness, there is ever a noble and graceful love, which carries with it unspeakable admiration. But this passion of Wolsey's had given way to a misanthropic philosophy, which ever after induced him to look with disregard upon the ties of mutual affection.

At the time he was moving along the strand, he was as sharp an ascetic as any monk whose monastery he afterwards caused to be destroyed. At last, Freston Tower broke upon his view, glittering as it did in the morning sun of a lovely June day, without any exclamation of pleasure. No longer did his heart bound at the sight, as if he was about to see those who loved him, and those whom he had loved. Time was that he would have wished for a horse to have borne him to that lovely Tower, and few would have gone fast enough to have answered the quick and lively energy of the young aspirant for everything laudable, honorable, and good. Now he was moving in solemn state, without any apparent emotion of joy or sorrow.

By Bishop Goldwell he was much admired, and had received wonderful encouragement from him to devote himself to the good of the Church. Alice, too, the proud Alice, had promised to work him a piece of altar tapestry whenever he should be presented with preferment. Did he then contrast this unfeeling woman, superstitious and cold as she was, with the mild, amiable, and lovely Ellen?

He was espied from the Tower by the fair one, who waved her hand from the sunny chamber, where they had so often met.

'Here he comes, Latimer. Here he comes! but how slowly he moves. Perhaps he is thinking of the days of his youth, and weighing in his learned mind the thought whether he is happier now than he was then; for he takes no notice of our salutation, though his face seems lifted to the Tower.'

'He is perhaps conning over some passage of the poets, or thinking of some deep logical question of the schools. He is very often lost in thought.'

'But this is not a time, William, for Thomas Wolsey to forget us. He must surely be thinking of us. He cannot fail to discern us. Or does he think it beneath the dignity of his office to come on merrily to the marriage feast?'

'I know not, Ellen, but that you may find Wolsey a little changed in this respect. At no time of my acquaintance with him did he fail in self-esteem or self-deportment: and we have not often seen him on horseback. Had we not better receive him in the hall?'

'Is it so, indeed, William? and are we to forget that in this very room we have spent so many joyful hours of literary pleasure? I shall be almost sorry that I wrote to him to come, if thus it should seem by his progress that he was performing a penance rather than promoting love! Let us, however, receive him with respect in the hall, as he has become so great a man as not to recognise us in the Tower.'

Wolsey had recognised his former friends; he even saw their hands waving from the fifth story; but the man had no answering delight to say, 'My heart is glad,' or, 'God be praised that you are well!' All feeling was dormant, even the salutation of the poor old lodge gate-keeper elicited no recognition.

'Dame, I say,' said the old man, as he addressed his aged partner, 'pride is come home from a distance, and I have opened the park gates to the visitor.'

'What art thou talking of? what dost thou mean?' she replied.

'I mean to say, that I have opened the gate to Master Wolsey, and he is gone up the park; and if he meets my lord and lady as he has done me, he'll turn all our merrymaking into misery.'

'What, the lively Master Thomas grown proud! Well a'day, well a'day! Men's fortunes will sometimes change their faces, and Arthur Burch told me Master Thomas was grown a great man!'

De Freston was made aware of Wolsey's coming; he waited not for his formal announcement; but came from the hall across the drawbridge in company with Ellen and Latimer to welcome their friend.

Oh, that word friend! How dreadfully is it abused! How often made a mere conventional term, and used in the world just as interest may prompt, or anything be got by it. One true one is better than a host of pretenders, and a man without that one is miserable. To look for many, is not to know the world; to value one when you have found him is to possess wisdom. Ice, in summer; hail, in harvest time; and a swallow in winter, are as congenial, as a cold and heartless friend meeting you in the day of your rejoicing. Fond hearts met Wolsey at the entrance to Freston Hall. Fond hearts beaming with love, rejoicing in his arrival, and bounding to make him welcome. But they could not fail to remark how stately he had grown! how very dignified! how distant, grand, and great.

'Ha! Thomas, my friend! Welcome to De Freston's Hall!'

'I thank thee, thy daughter, and her friend!' with a most courteous bow of seemingly profound respect, which at once killed all the natural joy of the interview, and told the nobleman that an ambassador from Rome had arrived, in the place of that cheerful friend who was once the delight of his hall.

Wolsey was stately, not uncourteous. He had schooled himself most admirably, and acted his part with all the precision of an accomplished performer.

So gentlemanly in his external deportment, but resolved to show no intimacy; so very easy in his manner, that no one could be affronted; and yet so little heart, that Ellen could have burst into tears at the strange alteration of the man who once was her liveliest companion.

The very domestics, anticipating from Arthur's account the arrival of a great man, and who had so associated Thomas Wolsey with all that was cheerful and gay, becoming, and pleasant, were petrified at the stately gaze with which he seemed to contemplate the architecture of the hall, and the little notice he took of any one in it.

'We have friends to meet thee, Master Wolsey,' said De Freston, evidently convinced that some more distant form was now necessary. 'Some of thy oldest friends will be with us at the hour of noon. They will be delighted to greet thee, after so long an absence.'

Wolsey's reply shot like a shaft—ay, and a well-aimed one it was—to the hearts of Latimer and Ellen.

'I suppose thy friend, Bishop Goldwell, and Alice, his niece, have consented to be here.'

'Indeed they have not; nor have we invited them, for, since the day of Ivan's death, we have never exchanged a word.'

'I can only regret it,' replied Wolsey. 'He is a man whose acquaintance I should have courted, and his niece a fit companion for thy daughter. I thought they had been intimate.'

'Their characters are very dissimilar.'

'That should be no bar to friendship.'

'But I know that Bishop Goldwell does not admire thy friend Latimer, and that he is the aversion of Alice.'

'On such an occasion as this, distances should be abridged, and differences of opinion softened, wounds healed, and friends united.'

'I agree with thee, Wolsey; thy doctrine is herein sound, but somewhat opposed to thy practice.'

'Ah! how so?'

'Thou thyself art not thyself as formerly. Thy bearing is widely different; thy manner, speech, and conduct, have undergone a great change.'

'I am a priest; yet I am here to-day by thine invitation. Why not Bishop Goldwell and his niece?'

'They are not our kin.'

'And I now have no kin, no connexions, no property, no friends, but the church, to which I am henceforth devoted.'

'Does that destroy thy former friendships?'

'It cancels every one: I have given them up!—forsaken them all!—and I shall follow the Church of Rome, of which I am her devoted servant.'

'And so,' said Ellen, 'I may address thee no longer as my learned and dear friend—my choice companion—my tutor—my relative and associate, but simply as "Your Reverence?"'

'I am come to perform a duty, Mistress Ellen, and if thou wouldst have me discharge it gracefully, I pray thee mar not the dignity of mine office by any allusions to the past.'

'I cannot forget what thou wast, Thomas Wolsey, both to me and to thy friend Latimer, once our loving companion.'

'And now,' said Wolsey, with a bow of studied courtesy, 'the humble servant of both!'

'No, Thomas Wolsey,' replied the maiden, 'thou art not humble at all! Thy priesthood, Thomas, sits mournfully on thy years; and the wisdom which used to ornament thy brow seems lost in outward stateliness. I like thee not in thy change.'

'May be, Mistress Ellen, thou may'st one day think differently, and then praise that reserve which now thou dost misinterpret.'

'It may be so, Thomas Wolsey! but my heart must be contracted instead of being enlarged; my soul must bend to form and ceremony, and not to love; and I must admire Alice De Clinton, and imitate her bearing, and forget the friends who taught me truth, that I may be admitted to the favor of a priest!'

Even the self-possessed Wolsey was abashed at this charge. His well-schooled reserve was about to give way to generous impulses, and thoughts of joy and thankfulness to God for such kind friends and benefactors were beginning to rise in the heart; but over them all, rose his vow of devotion to the church; and, denying himself where self-denial was uncalled for, he rejected the spirit of love, and feigned a momentary sickness.

He retired to his room to get the command of himself, leaving the friends of his youth to talk over his estrangement. He nevertheless attended the banquet, sat on the right hand of the betrothed, was attentive and most punctilious in his devotions, spoke when addressed, and yet offered no opinion of his own, nor put himself forward to lead the converse; heard all, and reflected upon all, surprised all, and pleased none; yet did he conduct himself with such dignified exterior, that no man could say he transgressed the strictest rules of decorum, or thought not of others as much as of himself. It was difficult to decide upon such a point.

To his uncle, to his friends, to the assembled company at that festive meeting, to De Freston and his daughter, to Latimer and his father, who had through his son received such a favorable account of him, he was the same dignified unaccountable being. Sir William Latimer was never more astonished at seeing such a character as Wolsey then appeared. His son had assured him that he had been the means of his introduction to the University, and that he was his bosom friend: nevertheless, nothing could be more distant than Wolsey's manner and conversation with him.

He retired early to his room, to prepare himself for the last ceremony he ever performed in his native town, and the last time he saw his friends at Ipswich, though he never forgot the early steps of education which he had there received.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE MARRIAGE PROCESSION.

A marriage in the year 1498, and in a nobleman's family, was almost like an affair of state. In the metropolis, such an event might not have been uncommon; but, in the country, it was in that day so joyous an event, that he was considered but a niggard nobleman who had not the whole country to participate in his festivity.

Such a maid as Ellen, too—so universally beloved in her own neighborhood, and so celebrated for every female virtue of her time—was sure to command the generous and gentle affections of all who had any regard for their betters. There might be some morose dispositions, who staid at home, brooding over melancholy forebodings, and caring nothing for a marriage, for bride, bridegroom, bridal attire, bridal friends, men, maids, banquets, or any kind of festivity; but there was then no lack of well-wishers, who really loved Ellen De Freston, and wished her happy.

Alice De Clinton, had she been at all of Ellen's disposition, would have been her companion upon this occasion, but she lacked not friends of the noblest class to fill her place. The fair daughters of Fastolf, and De Broke, from the Haugh, were at Freston Castle, together with four other maidens of quality, to accompany her to the wedding.

The morning broke most lovely! The merry bells could be heard from the town of Ipswich, ringing cheerily; for Lord De Freston and Edmund Daundy were as universally loved for their amiable qualities, as they were known to be rich and generous. Everything indicated a happy morning: birds were singing blithely, and men and women's voices mingled therewith. The hills around Ipswich echoed the joyful notes, whilst people looked upon that day as one of the brightest festival in which love reigned omnipotent. In short, every face exhibited something of the anticipated pleasure of the bridal.

Maidens might be seen tripping along the meadows of the meandering Gipping, with little baskets of flowers, on purpose to strew the bridal path from St. Peter's Gate to the porch of St. Lawrence. It was no loss of time to them to be seen to participate in the happiness of a lady whom some one or other of them had known, for her kindness to some poor relative, or for her gentleness and amiable bearing.

Fame, when not courted but deserved, will come with a reward which is as pleasant as it is unexpected. Actions done upon the Christian principle of brotherly love are sure to be successful in the end; they carry with them their own reward, being done from faith, and a sense of duty.

Such were those of the whole life of Lord De Freston and his daughter. Such were the motives which influenced him in his patronage of Wolsey; such were his daughter's motives in the interest she felt in his rising fame. But whilst hundreds around them were grateful, and rejoiced to show the interest they felt in Ellen's happiness, that one, the scholar and the friend, felt nothing of gratitude, little of affection: he felt only the deepest, the most heartfelt mortification.

Early on the morning of the 8th of July, 1498, did Thomas Wolsey, Priest of Magdalen College, rise. Whether he slept or not, those who saw him could only give a surmise, and from the swollen appearance of his eyes, and the excessive pallor of his countenance, it was thought that his reverence had passed a very restless night.

He was not stirring earlier than William Latimer, who, when Wolsey descended from the internal balcony of the hall, was, with Edmund Daundy, preparing to depart for Ipswich, that both might be in readiness to receive the cortège of the bride at the house of the latter in St. Lawrence. As they stood in the hall, Thomas Wolsey descended. He bowed haughtily in return to the generous salute of his uncle and his young friend.

'I am ready to depart for Ipswich, gentlemen, and to solicit of the officiating priest of St. Lawrence permission to perform the marriage ceremony.'

These last words created a kind of adhesive firmness of his tongue to the roof of his mouth; for, when his uncle replied that he had already secured that permission, there was but a bow of acquiescence, and a dignified move towards the massive hall-door. The party went forward. Three of Lord De Freston's horses stood caparisoned for them at the porch; but a delay was created by the proud priest saying to the groom in waiting—

'My own horse!'

'My lord thought your own would be fatigued, and requests that you will use his,' said the man.

'My own horse, sirrah!' was the uncourteous reply. The gentlemen were equally as astonished as the groom; but seeing that Wolsey quietly retreated into the hall, they could but desire the groom to be as expeditious as possible in bringing the said nag round to the door.

It was evident that Wolsey would have his own way, and not put a foot into the stirrup until he had.

The horse was brought round. The bridegroom, bridesman, and priest, departed with a retinue of horsemen for the town. It was a stately ride. Nothing seemed to please Wolsey. He received all that was said to him with silent indications of assent, as if they were only such commonplace sayings as he might expect to receive from the attendants upon his greatness. So passed they to his native town, where, at this day, nothing remains in any way connected with him but a postern gate of brick, leading to the school-master's lodge within the area of the schools, and not, as some have called it, the principal entrance to the President's Court.

They arrived at the mansion of Edmund Daundy at seven o'clock on the morning of the eighth of July.

Dame Joan, Wolsey's mother, was there before them, with many of the friends, wives, and daughters of the best families of the town and neighborhood, who came to participate in the joyous doings.

'I give thee this, young man,' said Wolsey to the groom on taking his horse, 'that thou mayest learn that a reward is worth having when it is deserved. At ten o'clock do thou be at the portal leading to the chancel door of St. Lawrence Church. Thou knowest the priest's entrance, his private entrance, from the lane. There be thou with this horse, caparisoned exactly as he now is—his trappings on, exactly as thou seest them now. Let nothing be taken out of thy possession. There is an angel for thee. Another angel doth await thee.'

Wolsey gave the man a golden angel, of the value of six and eightpence, a gift which commanded much more attention than many such pieces would do now-a-days.

He not only promised obedience, but kept it punctually.

'Thou wilt accept once more, Thomas Wolsey, thine aged uncle's hospitality. Come in.'

'I have a vow at the altar of St. Lawrence, which I must pay this morning. I can enter no house until that is paid.'

'How long wilt thou be?'

'Until this marriage is over.'

'We shall hope to see thee then?'

'Thou mayest then hope.' And Wolsey departed for the church.

Whilst he bent at the altar of St. Lawrence Church, glad to escape from anything like cheerfulness, he was steeling his heart for a trial to which the pages of romance could scarcely afford a parallel. Never once did he reproach himself for the cruelty of his behaviour towards those who really loved him, and had given him the greatest possible proofs of attachment. Never once did he reflect that his then state of deportment towards Ellen was barbarous or unjust; his whole soul was enveloped in the cloak of his own selfishness. His heart was full of gall and bitterness, grief and agony. And as he knelt before that altar to which he had devoted himself soul and body, did he pray for that high, that holy, inward peace, which the man who sacrifices every selfish feeling for the good of another would so earnestly desire? His heart could have burst at the very position he had then placed himself in, but for that indomitable pride which prayed for future aggrandizement, that the poor scholar of Ipswich might rival, or rather out-rival, the Lord De Freston and his friends.

His vow was but an excuse for the feeding of his own solitary disappointment, but for the opportunity of brooding over the melancholy superstition to which his nature and his enlightened mind were adverse, but to which his seemingly injured affections had fled for solace.

Whilst Wolsey was thus mournfully fasting and praying, and the gay world was shut out from the gloom of his devotion, parties of maidens formed in rank, a long and pleasing file, went with their baskets of flowers from Daundy's mansion gate towards St. Peter's Ford, by which the bride was expected to enter the town, and as they went, their leaders lifted up their voices and sung one stanza, at the conclusion of the last two lines of which the whole company joined:

Come all ye merry lasses!
    Come bring your flowers gay;
Come all in smiling masses,
    And strew the bridal way.

Leave sorrow far behind you,
    And be not you forlorn,
For Love alone should bind you
    To greet the bridal morn.

CHORUS.

Then haste! oh, haste, this happy hour!
To meet the Maid of Freston Tower.

It was a lovely morning, indeed; and Ellen, the Maid of Freston Tower, with her dear and anxious father, and her whole train of fair damsels and rustic maidens, and tenants' daughters and servants, were seen descending Freston Hill, from the park side to the strand. It was a long and sweeping cortége; the bridesmaids and the bride attired in travelling costume, attended by noble gentlemen, the friends of the various parties, swept along that happy strand amidst the blessings and praises of those poor people, who left their morning toil by permission of their masters.

It was a sight in those feudal days worthy of being recorded in a better ballad than the old one extant in the archives of the borough of Ipswich, written by old Dan Lydgate, monk of the Benedictine Abbey of St. Edmund's Bury; though he was a genuine poet of his day, and few could vie with him in allegory, or in narrative, or in words; and yet old Dan wanted that sense of feeling that meditates in love upon things passing around him. He described them with flowery colours, and now and then with a daring liberty almost approaching to licentiousness. He was seldom pathetic or reflective—yet he is a good old poet, and describes his times quite as well as Byron does his, with far less morbid selfishness.

From far and near, Ipswich was like a vast fair; but there was no gambling, hooting, hallooing, cheating, drinking, bargaining, and brawling. Instead of these, there was a cheerful wedding, upon which every face smiled with delight.

Beautiful indeed was the attachment between two such souls as those of the son of Sir William Latimer and the daughter of Lord De Freston, enhanced by similarity of taste, a love of truth, literature, and talent, and by every virtue which adorns or ennobles human nature. An abhorrence of anything unjust and oppressive pervaded De Freston and Sir William Latimer, and was instilled into their children.

The country was alive with joyful faces, and not only the hamlets of Ipswich, but from every village down the Orwell, as far as Felixtow Beach on the one side, and Shotley Point on the other, boats ascended the tide to the gaily festive scene. Songs were got up by the village singers. One ballad, or song, or chaunt, or whatever else it may be called, is preserved, which affords not only a lively description of the feeling then felt towards the daughter of Lord De Freston, but it is not devoid of elegance or metrical beauty, though it may not be exactly accurate in rhyme:—

The Boatmen's Bridal Song.

Come, row the boat, row! from Levington Creek;
The boat full of roses as e'er it can stick.
            Row the boat, row!
            Yoho! yoho!
For the pride of the castle, fair Ellen, we go!

Come, row the boat, row! 'tis the bridal day;
And woe to the maiden who stays away.
            Row the boat, row!
            Yoho! yoho!
For the pride of the castle, fair Ellen, we go.

Come, row the boat, row! o'er the Orwell's wave,
If the youth or the maiden would happiness have.
            Row the boat, row!
            Yoho! yoho!
For the pride of the castle, fair Ellen, we go.

Come, row the boat, row! from the Haugh's green side,
'Neath the Wolferstone shade let our oars quick glide.
            Row the boat, row!
            Yoho! yoho!
For the pride of the castle, fair Ellen, we go.

Come, row the boat, row! with all your power.
For the maiden is gone from De Freston's Tower.
            Row the boat, row!
            Yoho! yoho!
For the pride of the castle, fair Ellen, we go.

Come, row the boat, row! for the fairest maid.
The roses we'll strew ere the dew-drop fade.
            Come, row the boat, row!
            Yoho! yoho!
For the pride of the castle, fair Ellen, we go.

Then row the boat, row! ye Levington boys.
For who would not welcome the true lovers' joys?
            Row the boat, row!
            Yoho! yoho!
To the bridal of Ellen, fair Ellen, we go!

The very metre of the old song gives an idea of the boat pulled by stout rowers in the vigor of youth, bent upon a scene of festive rejoicing.

Levington was the first village on the Orwell, celebrated for the cultivation of the rose, which the Lord of the Manor of Levington Hall, Hugh de Fastolf, encouraged, and gave permission on the day of the celebration of Ellen's marriage for the villagers to gather from the hall garden as many as they could place in their boat for the occasion; so that the village maidens who went up the Orwell in the Levington boat, were literally in the midst of roses.

They arrived at St. Peter's Ford, to the no small delight of hundreds who sought for a bunch of flowers to scatter on the maiden's path.

And ill the luck that maiden's lot,
Who had her flowrets then forgot,
Lest sorrow should her marriage mar,
Or fill the bridal day with care.