Freston Tower

CHAPTER XXX.

THE REVELATION.

The marriage day had passed away as the fleeting hours of mortal life do, quickly, and never to return; and so it should be, for if the past be but a prelude to future improvement, few would wish it to return.

Latimer and the Lady Ellen were seated in the large room of the mansion purchased by Lord De Freston, situated in the centre of the town of Ipswich. The present theatre now occupies part of the site of the mansion, which, with its grounds opposite and behind it, took up a large space, now densely populated. One old room in the Tankard public house still retains a portion of its pristine beauty, and was then the handsomest room in that ancient hall. It was here that the bride and bridegroom received their friends, who from all parts of the neighborhood came to pay them respect.

Their extensive garden then occupied the area from the corner of Brook Street down to the great foundation school, in which Wolsey had received the rudiments of his education; and the convent grounds contained the school which was under the superintendence of the Prior of St. Peter, who had the power of fixing the salary of the master.

It was a garden containing walks for the public, and in it was the celebrated chapel of the Virgin, to which Ellen repaired after the fall of Wykes Bishop's Palace. The ancient mansion overlooked that garden, and Ellen and De Freston were seated in the beautifully oak-pannelled room, conversing upon the past. They spoke of Alice De Clinton, of the old palace, of the hermit of Holy Wells: and the reader may be sure they did not forget the memorable night when Latimer reached the stair of Lord De Freston's grounds, close under Freston Tower.

Love likes to reflect on the mercies of God, and souls truly happy do ever remember the past with such spirit of thankfulness, and makes even imminent dangers the subject of congratulation.

'Do you remember, Ellen, that you promised to tell me why you were momentarily cast down on the day of our wedding festivity?'

'I do, William, and I can now freely converse with you upon the subject. You must have observed the young priest's agony when the tear fell upon my hand, which he joined with your own. I then looked up at his face—and can I ever forget the expression? Never! It told me, William, of a truth, which seems to account to me now for the strange alteration of his behaviour to me, my father, his own relatives, and yourself.'

'What was that, Ellen?'

'Simply this, William: that Wolsey had a hope, to which he then bade farewell for ever, that he might have possessed this hand to which you were then entitled.'

'It may be so, Ellen. But why then place a barrier for ever against all hopes of matrimonial alliance by entering into the church? He always appeared to me to be destined for the office he holds; and yet I do remember his occasional depressions at Oxford were only to be alleviated by a reference to Freston Tower.'

'Was it so, Latimer? Then I fear the poor youth had imbibed a preference for my society, which is indeed flattering to me, though so fatal to himself. We were very partial to him. He was always pleasant, though at times impetuous, and dictatorial in his arguments. Can you not now pity him, William, if he did imagine, in the ardor of his literary pursuits, that I should one day be his companion? All things considered, he must have endured what scarcely any other man could have borne. I do now see through the whole of his conduct. I fear he has done violence to his better nature in the steps he has taken to prove to us all the sublimity of his faith.'

'I can now account for all his strange behaviour—yet, if he had succeeded—'

'What, William?'

'I might have been as wretched as himself.'

'May my whole life prove that I estimate the sacrifice you would have made of self upon the altar of friendship, but how will Thomas Wolsey take this blow?'

'That remains to be seen. He is not a man to sink under misfortune. He will devote himself to great objects. His learning will be a passport to greatness, and Oxford will afford him a fine field for the display of his talents. He will be a great man in the church.'

'I wish he may be a good one! His views are seemingly very much exalted by his priesthood, and personal pride has not permitted him to display either that amiability or generosity of opinion, in letters or in religion, which formerly he seemed to possess. It would be strange if his great mind should be narrowed by his assumption of the priesthood.'

'It would indeed be a great misfortune; for a nobler nature than Wolsey's, and a more generous, frank, and liberal disposition scarcely ever inhabited the breast of man when I first introduced him at Oxford. His manners, his knowledge of letters, his talents, were all open, clear, candid, and at the free gift and service of others. He is now a priest of Rome. He cannot forget his learning, but it is doubtful whether he will use it for the good of his countrymen or for his own ambition. Rome, I fear, will scarcely let him think and act for himself, and certainly not for the great objects which now seem to be attracting the eyes of the learned in the spirit of the Reformation. Wolsey might do great things; but will he? Had he but the heart of Wickliffe, what might not England see him produce.'

'We shall see, Latimer. He cannot be ignorant; he may be bigoted and worldly-minded, but he cannot be ignorant of the truth. We are to visit our dear father at Freston hall to-day. How I love to see him enjoying his books and our company! What a pleasure is it, William, to a daughter to promote the happiness of her father!'

'And what a pleasure to a son-in-law to know that parent loves him as if he were his own child. Oh, Ellen! if there be a joy on this earth, it is when we please our parents and honor their grey hairs, and bless them for those providential comforts which, beneath the mercy of God, they are enabled to bestow upon us. We shall visit our old haunt in the tower, ever fresh to me, Ellen; never out of my eyes. I often dream of it, and sometimes see the lamp burning in your favorite room; and then I am riding on the broken timber in the midst of the waves, or struggling against the tide to gain the shore—I awake, and think, and am thankful!'

Noon was the dinner-hour in that day, and the bride and bridegroom, respected as they were, could not pass through that busy town of Ipswich without many a blessing; for, great as they were, and connected with the noblest and wealthiest, they forgot not the poor, and were not themselves forgotten.

With joy did they revisit the scenes of their early attachment, and awaken the spirit of love among a people always ready to acknowledge that which was honest and lovely.

De Freston had made good use of that time, which was now more solitary in one sense, but more engaging in another. He had been reading with more profound attention the records of the olden time—the history of the Fathers, and the progress of that revelation through the instrumentality of the inspired Apostles, and those who lived nearest to them. The more he read, the more he became convinced of the sublime doctrine of the Great Atonement, and the purity and holiness of that religion which the ancient Fathers professed. He was forcibly struck by the simplicity of their canons, and the manner of spirit in which they sought to conduct the affairs of the church. He made himself master of their doctrine, arguments, and lives, and observed how strictly they sought to establish the essentials of vital piety, founded upon the Scriptures, rather than the introduction of novelties and the development of fancies. The more he read, the more earnestly did he pray that his reading might become beneficial to his own soul, and to that of others. His was a great mind, a pious mind, with a solid, rational, and lively faith, which was indeed a rare thing in that day among the nobles of England. There was, indeed, a spirit abroad, as has already been seen, inducing inquiry, questioning the right of the Pope to be above all Scripture and Revelation; and some few were even then beginning to search the Scriptures for themselves, that they might be enabled to give an answer to the important question: What is truth?

Among them stood Lord De Freston, foremost in the neighborhood of Ipswich, one of the first to institute that inquiry among the learned monks of Alneshborne, which led to the conversion of Prior John, and to the enlightenment of his fraternity. It has been stated that he was very intimate with the learned John. That intimacy had increased since the marriage of his daughter, and had been productive of much intercourse between the domains of the priory and those of De Freston.

It was no surprise to Latimer or his wife, when they arrived at the castle, to find John of Alneshborne a guest at the table of their father. It was a surprise to them, indeed, to find this learned monk a convert to the already greatly advanced wisdom of De Freston. For a monk to entertain opinions having the least approximation to the universal spread of Divine truth, was a wonder in that day; but to find one, the head of a learned fraternity, remarkable for retirement, penance, and bodily infliction, become an advocate for the dissemination of the whole Word of God and the Truth, was indeed a marvel.

John of Alneshborne was a rare instance of humility, and though he was respected by all the religious houses with which he was connected, both in England and on the Continent, his views gained him many enemies, much persecution, his final ejection from his priory; but a happy rest in the mansion of his friend and patron, Lord De Freston, who had been instrumental in leading this learned man to a far more liberal view of divinity than the life of solitary nothingness which he spent within the cloistered walls of his establishment.

As he had been conducive to his study of the Scriptures, and of the early usages of the Christian church, contrasted with the presumption of the Popes and their universal subjugation of men's consciences to dogmas, instead of doctrine, and all their outward prostrations, impositions, fooleries, idolatries, and indulgences, in the place of inward purification and love of God and man, so when he was degraded and deprived of his power, this noble lord was the first to open his doors, and say, 'My house is your home.'

These events transpired after the period of which this narrative is now treating. But the way was then preparing even when Ellen and her husband paid their first visit of any length to the hall of their youth.

'Ha! Prior John here!' exclaimed Latimer. 'It gives me great joy to see thee on this side of the water. I thought I should one day see thee here and shake thee by the hand in our father's mansion; and here thou art. Ellen, here is an old friend with a new face.'

The monk started, for even then he felt it strange that his countenance should in the least betray the alteration of his heart and mind.

'How dost thou call my face new, my son? Am I grown more grey; or are the lines of my features become more sharp?'

'No, father, no! but yet there is an alteration in thy very appearance—in the smile with which thou greetest us, and in the expression of thy countenance, which, though the prevailing feature be anxiety, is yet something new for thee to wear.'

'Upon my word, young man, thy perceptions are wonderfully sharpened by matrimony. Thou mayst perceive in me what I cannot discover in myself. Perhaps thou wilt be disposed to attribute this alteration of my features to the kind and hospitable reception of the lord of this mansion.'

'I may do this sincerely, father, and it is always a good sign when the nobles of a land call forth the lively learning and cheerful spirits of those who spend too many of their days in retirement. I rejoice to see thee here.'

'And I to be here, my son; and to see thee and the fair prize thou hast borne away from the banks of the Orwell.'

'Nay, father, I have not yet left the lovely banks of this noble river, though I have become a resident in the town of Ipswich; and I shall be happy to exercise the duties of hospitality towards thee, as well there as in this present place; and I tell thee again, that I believe thine ascetic face will assume even there a more generous character than it does here.'

'Alas! my son, I have spent years of solitude in my priory, and am little accustomed to the intercourse of any but our own fraternity. If long habits of privation, and a complete exclusion from that world in which I was once too great a participator in my youth; if, indeed, the heavy burthen of my sins, and of one great crime can be atoned for by years of penitential devotion to solitude, and prayer, and study, such as I have pursued, I may hope that I have some merit in depriving myself of the society of my fellow creatures, that I may commune with my God.'

'Ha! my father! And dost thou think thou hast atoned by these privations for thine early indulgences in sin? Thou and I see things in a wonderfully different light. To my mind, thou art seeking thine own righteousness and not submitting thyself to the righteousness of God. If thou couldst flagellate thy flesh until thy skin was excoriated from the crown of thine head to the sole of thy foot; if thou couldst count thy beads from sunrise to sunset, and from night until morning every year of thy life; if thou couldst walk barefoot from Rome to Jerusalem, or from one end of the world to the other; shave thy head, wear sack-cloth all thy days, and never smile upon youth or life; thou couldst make no atonement for the very least of thy sins; much less for any crime which weighs heavy on thy conscience?'

'Ha! my son, wouldst thou have had me go on in my career unto perdition?'

'No, father! assuredly not; but I would not have thee go to perdition in another way, by renouncing one sin for a greater.'

'How so, my son?'

'Thou hast renounced society, of which thou might'st have been an ornament, and the opportunity of doing good to thy fellow-creatures, by leading them to see their errors, and helping them to correct their lives, by thine example; and hast taken upon thyself to work out thy salvation by thine own righteousness; or, at least, by calling that a life of faith which is, indeed, a life of presumption. Pardon my boldness, father, but we will converse of these things another time, and let me tell thee it is the consciousness of this truth which makes thee wear a different face.'

'My son, thou art right, but I owe not this conviction to thine argument, but to his whose guest I am.'

'And I am his debtor for kindness which my life cannot repay.'

'I have listened,' said the Lord De Freston, 'to your conversation; but let us not make hospitality to consist of words. Come, my dearest friends, I am a debtor to you all, and the only way I can repay you is to place my house at your service.'

'And so make us greater debtors still.'

'As long as we owe each other nothing but love, we can give, take, borrow, lend, exchange, and demand compound interest for our loan, and yet be none of us usurers, but friends; so let us to the banquet hall.'

It was in such spirit that these friends met, and, as may be supposed, the interchange of affection was of that kind which, free from bigotry and superstition, promoted good-will and charity, and was honorable in the sight of God and man.

Still this very intimacy between such enlightened beings became a tool for working mischief, in the hands of those whose ignorance was only excelled by their cruelties, and, as we shall see, led to the sorrow of some, but to the joy of a great many.

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE PUNISHMENT.

Wolsey returned to Oxford resolved to think no more of Ipswich, the Orwell, Freston Tower, Ellen, or the scenes of his youth. There was a singular reaction of life in him about this time, for which some of his warmest friends could not account. The learned, laborious, enterprising scholar, became the indefatigable architect, devoting the energies of his great mind to the ornamenting the loftiest stories of his magnificent tower.

The funds of his college, assisted by contributions from noblemen and gentlemen connected with Oxford, and from all whom he could inspire with something of his own spirit were devoted to that building. Both Wolsey's and Latimer's Tower are still standing; one still preserved in all its grandeur as a noble feature of Oxford; the other, lonely and deserted, still looks over the lovely river Orwell, and is the wonder of all who sail down to Harwich.

Wolsey's Tower, splendid as it was, was not without deep mortification to the great man. Men who understood not his design abused it, and reports of his extravagance were set afloat. When mentioned to the bursar, they only excited his contempt; for Wolsey well knew that he honored his college by not robbing her of funds left for the encouragement of learned men, and whilst he expended so much in raising a monument to his own magnificence, he did not misapply one single angel to that work which was legally and justly devoted to other purposes. The fact was, that as the Tower was near its completion, and was seen to be so fair an ornament to the University, he received from other colleges pecuniary assistance, and never burthened his own with the expense.

His mind was greatly diverted by the interest he took in the accomplishment of this undertaking; and if any one was impoverished by it, it was Wolsey himself, who expended his utmost farthing in its completion.

Yet, however diverted, he was not insensible to the carpings of some, and the inadequacy of his private finances. So that when the work was done, the scaffolding taken down, and it stood exposed in all its elegance, like every other great performance of man's hand and mind, it gave not its author the satisfaction he anticipated, but occasioned him much annoyance.

Few men live to see their own works admired, and it is well perhaps they do not, for if their only pleasure in them is the thought of man's admiration, and not the employment of their time and talents from a high sense of duty, which alone gives pleasure, they would be elevated and depressed by critical declamations to an unreasonable extent.

Soon after Wolsey had built his Tower, he left the University to go and reside upon the living of Lymington, which the Marquis of Dorset had bestowed upon him for the care and attention he had paid to the education of his sons. His fame had been by this time pretty well disseminated among all the nobility and gentry who valued literature. The Boy Bachelor had become the great Oxford man; and Magdalen Tower had given him a name for taste and elegance which, in those days of internal disruption between the Houses of York and Lancaster, had been almost forgotten.

When Wolsey left Oxford he seemed to break off from the accustomed restraint of scholastic discipline, which he had acquired during his situation as tutor and schoolmaster. Men were surprised to find the staid and learned priest the free and joyous companion in the country, the life and soul of the great houses throughout the counties of Somerset, Dorset, and Hants.

The Marquis of Dorset had introduced him to the resident gentry around him, and he met at his hospital board Sir John Nafant, who became particularly attached to him. He delighted to hear him discourse, and encouraged him in all his sallies of wit. From Sir John he received repeated invitations to partake of hospitality; and, though their years were dissimilar, their tastes for literature and knowledge were alike.

Wolsey made a great impression upon this worthy knight, who not only conversed with him upon affairs of state, as then existing in England, but corresponded with him on foreign affairs, and was equally astonished at his comprehensive estimate of the resources of the kingdoms of Europe.

Sir John did not forget to make a very handsome tribute offering to Wolsey, in acknowledgment of those talents which he displayed.

To none had Wolsey revealed the early disappointment he had met with, which he neither then nor afterward—though fields of ambition and vain-glory lay in his way—could totally forget.

Neither cloistered walls nor lofty battlements, neither profound learning, nor great estates, can change a man who has once imbibed licentiousness of spirit, and suffered it to usurp the place of love in the human heart. A man who does wrong, and persists in it without shame, let the wrong be the transgression of any moral commandment of God, will find a very poor excuse for his conduct, however much he may be devoted to learning, and to art or science.

No robes, however white, which a man can put on, will cover the licentiousness of a corrupt heart. No crown—not even the triple one which adorns the head of the Pope—can free a man from the troubles of conscience. Better for him to cease to do evil, and learn to do well, than to bestow all his estates upon the priesthood, who may mutter masses for his soul, which can never be released from sin but by the obedience of faith.

Sir Amias Pawlet, a knight whom Wolsey met one day at the table of the Marquis of Dorset, was a man of very different character to Sir John Nafant. He saw with a jealous eye the ambition of this young priest, who seemed to delight in holding him up to the company as an ignorant county magistrate. Wolsey was certainly not gifted just at this time with that amiability of mind and temper which could brook the overbearing arrogance of a man who seemed to think himself superior to all others in the country.

At the table of his patron, Wolsey scarcely refrained from exposing his ignorance. He narrated a very simple and pithy story about a pullet who assumed all the dignity of the dunghill, and looked down with contempt on all other fowls. He exposed the want of judgment and flippant manner of the pullet with such force and pointed wit, that Sir Amias, who perceived it to be levelled at him, was greatly disconcerted, and threatened Wolsey, for being a public slanderer, with the penalty of the law.

It is certain that Wolsey's proud spirit was not humbled, but that he, with a little more pretension to learning, was not less tyrannical. Sir Amias Pawlet cared nothing for him. He was a man of principle—a plain, straightforward man—grave, austere, and proud. He was not deficient in spirit, and a love of truth and propriety, though he was neither equal to Wolsey, Sir John Nafant, or the Marquis of Dorset, in letters or knowledge of the world. He was one of those strong-minded men, attached to the good laws of the land he lived in, and jealous too for the dignity of the church to which he belonged. He was not, at the time treated of, a convert to the then growing liberation of the souls of men from the corruptions of that superstition which encompassed all Christendom, but he was sensibly alive to the necessity of propriety in the character of the priesthood, and a man who was too earnest and sincere in his profession of religion to admit of any licentiousness.

It was not likely that such a man, coming in contact with the learned and expansive genius of the young Wolsey, should shine before him. He did not, for he bent not to the idol of popular greatness, when he saw in him a regard only for things expedient, and a certain freedom of speech and behaviour, even in the company of the gentry of those counties, which ill became the Oxford divine, the tutor of the Marquis of Dorset's sons, and the great scholar of Magdalen.

'I like not your country squire, most noble peer,' said Wolsey to the Marquis: 'he is ignorant and positive, sturdy and absolute, and would do better for a jailer than for a magistrate of this county.'

'I like not your visitor, my lord,' said Sir Amias to the Marquis. 'He is much too clever and intriguing for my liking. He, no doubt, would be a very convenient father confessor; but I should as soon think of looking for absolution to your lordship's bloodhound as to him.'

Now the Marquis was fully convinced that the priest of Lymington and the knight of the shire were distasteful to each other; but as he respected both, he kept his own counsel, and did not interfere with their respective animosities.

It was no small sin in those days to speak anything disrespectful of the priesthood. Rome had such authority over the nobility, had invented so many intrigues of priest-craft, and had obtained such an ascendancy over the families of the great, that she employed qualified spies in every house to subject the inmates to penances, and works of her own imposition, even for the slightest offences, with which she could have nothing to do, and which could never take away one single fault.

Sir Amias, however, was not to be imposed upon by any requirements on the part of the priesthood to which they did not themselves submit: and in his own family he was strict and conscientious, and expected his priest to be the same.

It was about this time that one of his own servants returned from the neighboring fair in a state of intoxication. The man was brought before his master, who at that very time was conversing with the confessor of his own family.

'How now, knave? this is not the first time thou hast been in bad company; thou didst promise to avoid such men if I forgave thee. Thou shall be put into the stocks, that all the country may know thee for a drunkard as thou art.'

The half-witted man, who was sufficiently sober to comprehend what was said to him, and was sufficiently filled with sack not to be afraid of his master, looked very knowingly at him and the confessor.

'I's been in good company, master, very good; and if the stocks are lifted up for my legs, I hope you'll give me some o' the good company I ha' been in, to keep me in countenance there. There's many more like me, master; and there's one there as good as yoursel—or your reverence,' bowing to the priest. 'You're very even-handed, master, and my good company I've been in might qualify even a better man than me to be a little merry. I's only like my betters.'

The knight looked at the priest; and the priest looked at the man, and both were puzzled at his words—but they did not speak at the moment.

'Why you looks doubtful, both on you. Go and see; I's not so drunk as not to know an owl when I sees one, though it might be the dusk of the evening when he flies. Go you with master: you'll see!'

'Where are we to go, and what are we to see?'

'Go to the Masque and Mummers—and if you don't see one you dare not put in the stocks, then don't put your own servant in; but if you dare to see him, and dare to take him, and dare to trap him too—why then trap me with him, and we'll be very good company for each other. So, master, I'm your man; and when you find a poor fellow imitating his betters, let his betters find the same law is made for him as for one o' the worst like me.'

Sir Amias rose. He was not a man to flinch in the execution of the law intrusted to him as a magistrate; and to his honor be it recorded, he was not an unjust man, who would screen the rich at the expense of the poor. Had it been the Marquis of Dorset himself, he would have treated him exactly as he would a drunken vagabond, who had not a shilling to help himself.

'There is too much truth in this fellow's audacity,' he replied, 'to let this matter pass away unnoticed. It will be thrown in my teeth by every servant I have, after this, if I dismiss this villain and see not the company he has been in. Come, I will claim your companionship. Let us go undisguised and openly, that he, and all men may see what we do in the face of the law and our country.'

Sir Amias desired his servants to take the knave to the village stocks. 'There wait,' said he, 'my company; and if I find a companion in the state of intoxication he is in, let him be the King's son, my loyalty to his father shall make the law take its course, even with this fool.'

So spoke Sir Amias, and his resolution was equal to his words. The knight and the priest set forth, and went as directed to the Masque and Mummers. He had no definite idea as to the issue of his proceeding; but like a brave soldier, strong in the fulfilment of his duty, he marched up to the scene of riot, taking with him such constables as he thought fit for the occasion.

A man of less determination might have been deterred from going to the scene. A man with less sense of honor would not have done as he did; and a man, who feared God and honored the King less, would have been afraid to put the law in execution upon a man who presumed to be of an order above all law, and yet chose to transgress.

Amidst a set of mummers, masks, and profligates, smugglers, and debauchees, who should be holding forth, with spirits inflated with sack, but Wolsey, the priest of Lymington. Sir Amias did not parley with him in the least; though, in a moment, the fiery priest turned upon him all the gibes of the company, and in his drunken revel, held him up to ridicule before them.

It has been said, the knight was uncourteous; but though he knew that man would accuse him of spite, he cared not for any one in the discharge of his duty. The law is never stronger than when it deals equal justice to all. Sir Amias felt that he could not punish his own servant for a fault which the leader of the parish was himself guilty of, without making him an example of the same punishment.

He at once put the law into execution, and with such determined resolution, that the very company who, the moment before, were disposed to laugh at the knight, were the first to join in roars of ridicule at the priest of Lymington in the village stocks. He was, indeed, laid by the heels by the gallant Sir Amias, a spectacle of justice such as did no injury even to the man who endured it, but served him right, not only because he ought to have known better, but because he did know better, and was the worst of the two.

The two drunkards were a contrast, even in their cups. The servant boasted of his company; and the priest railed against the law, the knight, the stocks, and the people, and threatened them all with the anathemas of Rome. Neither he nor his companion were released till they were sober. One lost his situation as the servant of Sir Amias, and the other found himself so uncomfortable in the company either of nobles or commoners, after this affront to his dignity, that he resigned his living into the hands of his patron; and accepted the office of secretary to Sir John Nafant, who was then governor of Calais.

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE MONASTERIES.

The space alloted to this work will not be wide enough to embrace the gradual progress of Wolsey to that greatness which he attained. The object in view was to show that he was anything but a mean man in his birth, though had that been to, it would have been no disgrace, and that he was brought up in his youth with an early love of everything that was generous and praiseworthy. It was not until his youthful disappointment had left him nothing but the pursuit of his own gratification in the fields of ambition and vain-glory, that Wolsey's character changed from a lover of truth, virtue, and humility, to become an aspiring, time-serving politician.

It is strange that a man who had assumed the priesthood, at that time the vehicle of letters in some few, but of enormous bigotry and superstition in the mass, should bury his love of truth in the vast vortex of worldly ambition. He left truth to shine in his native place, whilst he pursued the phantom of idolatry through all the labyrinths of expedient invention. His love of literature he could not abandon. It was part and parcel of his life, which remained with him through all his progress, and has served to extend his fame through ages of darkness, even to the present time. His erudition was, beyond all doubt, genuine and powerful.

He took no particular delight in encouraging individual instances of mental superiority, though the learned Erasmus speaks so flatteringly of his sumptuous entertainments to the stars of genius, as to make a seat at his table one of the things most desired in England. From the great men of letters in his day, he never called forth a sentiment of gratitude for any encouragement he had given them. With the exception of Sir Thomas More, scarcely any literary character received any support from him; and in him he supported a successor.

His views comprehended the revival of the whole people from ignorance by the means of scholastic discipline; and his ideas of the diffusion of learning were connected with schools, seminaries, and colleges, the very architecture of which should speak the taste of their projector.

Wolsey had, in early life, imbibed a species of contempt for the monastic impositions, which retained the people in ignorance, but he could not become indifferent to the lustre of the Papacy, to which his soul aspired; no, not even for the sake of truth. It was hence that the patronage of the literature he so much admired as the production of the universities and schools became confined to men who upheld the Papal dominion.

He obtained power as legate to subdue the monasteries, only because he conceived that their wealth would be converted into a channel more conducive to the dignity and grandeur of Rome; and as the popedom was, in his ambitious eye, the very kingdom of all kingdoms of the earth, and he was the man to sit upon that throne, he thought that by entitling himself to the respect of England for his encouragement of learning, he should one day receive the distinction he coveted.

He was made to do much for letters, but little for the truth. His persecution of the reformers will sufficiently prove this. But whilst Wolsey journeyed to power, the friends of his youth journeyed to heaven through a straight and narrow path which was not suited to his ambition.

Lord De Freston, Latimer, and Ellen, and a few more independent and eminent spirits in the neighborhood of Ipswich, became candidates for the crown of glory through the medium of persecution.

Love, truth, fidelity, wisdom, knowledge, peace, and joy, together with some warm friendship from kindred spirits of intelligence, made the years roll on, not without a glowing interest, hope, and persuasion, that ultimately the doctrines of the dawning reformation would prevail.

As Wolsey's power increased, there was a certain increase of learning which added much to the desired improvement of morals among the Romish clergy, who, at that time, were notorious for licentiousness, because of the ease with which they could both obtain and grant pardons. The monasteries, though the seats of hospitality, were also the seats of imposition and secret vice, which became at last so glaring as to awaken strong minds to a sense of their shameless prostitution.

Wolsey, who had risen to the dignity of Cardinal, took advantage of the cry then rising, to sweep off the lesser houses, and to impose certain fines upon others for the benefit of his foundations of learning. He occasioned, as would naturally be expected, great grief in some districts, where the monks were far less vicious than in others; but it was a strange infatuation in him, that whist he was pulling down with one hand the monasteries and monks, he should be with the other encouraging the nunneries, which were then attaining such wealth as to make them desired by the great.

News reached Ipswich, that the great man himself, though so austere and severe towards the inferior clergy, was anything but a pattern of virtue.

'I have here,' said Latimer to the Lord De Freston, 'a singular production of Dan Lydgate's, and if our friend in power should catch sight of it, it might so happen that even Lydgate would lose his priesthood:

Alice De Clinton,
Prioress of Winton,
    Summer's for thee no more;
The Cardinal's favor
Has in it such savor,
    Thou shalt not long deplore.

Winter were summer known,
Melting for such a crown,
    Alice De Clinton's call:
The proud one can change
From her haughtiest range,
    O'er the turrets of Goldwell Hall.

The Abbess De Winter,
No matter the splinter,
    Is fit for the priory found;
And the Winter nuns,
Whom nobody shuns,
    Shall in Winter fires abound.

O, who would not bend,
To the Cardinal's friend,
    Be she what she may chance to be;
For 'tis better for her
Such a place to prefer,
    So becoming her dignity.'

'Singular, indeed, it is. I hear that Warham has complained to the King of his favorite's proceedings, and that Wolsey is likely to be in disgrace.'

'I heard as much through Wentworth, only yesterday, who was telling me, also, that the Cardinal had made his peace with the King, by protesting that the appointment of the Abbess of Winton was only under the hope, or at least, with the proviso, that the King approved it.'

'Did you hear the King's commands to the Cardinal? "See to it, Wolsey, this appointment displeases us. We are not used to exalt proud ladies, who can be humble only as it may suit my Lord Cardinal. Thou mayst protect thine own favorites, but not at the cost of the church, my lord. Therefore, for shame's sake, let us not have this monstrous fair one made the Abbess of Winton."'

'Ah, my Lord De Freston, this is no news then unto thee; but I can perchance tell thee something which, as yet, thou knowest not; for only as I left Ipswich did the messenger arrive. The imperious Allen and his executioners have arrived to suppress the monasteries of Suffolk, and confiscate all the revenues to the crown. A court will be held to-morrow at the priory of St. Peter's; and Alneshborne, as being one of the smaller fraternities, will be one of the first to suffer. Our friend John must be apprised of his coming.'

'He will not be surprised. Already has he received tidings of the suppression of the religious houses in Essex and Cambridgeshire, and though a vague thought had dwelt with him that from Wolsey's knowledge of the regularity and piety of his order he might be spared, more especially as the great man, when a little man, was a welcome student within the walls of his priory, yet we shall find him prepared to obey the Pope's legate in temporalities, and that is all he supposes that will be required of him. We will visit him ourselves, my son.'

It did not take long for De Freston's boatmen to speed over the waves of the Orwell to Alneshborne Priory. Short, however, as was the time, they found the whole fraternity assembled in the hall to hear the summons already issued by authority of the legate. So quickly did the Cardinal's emissaries proceed to the work appointed them.

They arrived in time to hear the Pope's Bull read, authorizing the dissolution of the monasteries of Romboro, Felixtow, Bromehil, Bliborow, and Montjoye, and upon the site of the ancient foundation of St. Peter's, at Ipswich, the building a new seat of learning. And for the better effecting of which great and godly purpose, all the revenues belonging to the said monasteries were to be forthwith entirely at the disposal of the Cardinal, and to be used by him in furtherance of his proposed object, to the glory of God and the honor of the church of Rome, etc.

Signed,
    CLEMENS, PAPA SEPTIMUS.

The most singular extension of authority was that which ran thus:

'In pursuance of the powers vested in us, we the Cardinal, as the Pope's legate, do hereby grant unto the united brethren of Alneshborne, full powers of absolution from their monastic vows; and to be exempt from all suit or service to the Priories of Woodbridge, or St. Peter's, Ipswich. That from the date hereof, and the delivery of a schedule of all the property belonging unto the said community, that society is henceforth dissolved, and the members are at liberty to seek their livelihood in whatever manner they may be able, and wheresoever they may be pleased to go, either within or beyond the Pope's dominions.'

How kind and considerate it was of the Pope to take away all their property, and give it to one man, and that man one whom the dispossessed remembered as a boy, frequently indulging in friendly conversation with them! How very kind it was of him, when he had deprived them of everything, to permit them to go about their business! John of Alneshborne, a fine old man, stood with his placid face beaming kindness upon his brethren, as Allen—Wolsey's commissioner—read, line by line, in a language they understood too well, the orders of his master.

The orbs of the fine old patriarch were dim with tears, which, before the last concluding 'Vale et Vade,' literally ran down his venerable cheeks.

However small had been the real utility of their order, there was a quiet, inobtrusive seclusion in their position on the banks of the Orwell, which every member of that community had for years enjoyed undisturbed. The venerable fraternity had spoken together upon the probability of their dissolution; yet they evidently did not expect the day to be so near. When it came, it found them very unwilling to part, and gave them great surprise and sorrow.

Lord De Freston and William Latimer looked with compassion. Each resolved to offer them present help, until they could find some locality or employment suited to their habits. Men long accustomed to the solitude of monastic life, where everything is conducted in regular order of time and occupation, do not find themselves about to be separated without emotion. They could see each other depart this life in their cells, with less tenderness and more resignation, than in the midst of life, or rather in its decline, to see each other take leave of home, for poverty, wretchedness, and uncertainty. The aged Prior was the first to break the silence, and did so with words which proved him to be possessed of those fraternal qualities of heart, which had felt the command, 'Love as brethren, be pitiful, be courteous.'

'Brethren,' he said, 'our Society is this day dissolved, for I have no power to resist the Papal Bull; neither can I think of retaining the keys of the monastery a day longer than the time allotted us, forty-eight hours. Yet I cannot give up the society of those whom I have now, for forty-four years, presided over, without one single word of discord amongst us, without deep sorrow. I came myself from Britany, and, as you all know, whatever property I possessed was given to this monastery. We have lived here together in harmony, and I had hoped we should here have ended our years. I mourn to think how soon we must be scattered, and have our interest in each other dissolved; but ye have all heard the mandate. Farewell, ye happy hours of solitude and devotion! farewell, sharers of our common fortune, we must be parted! but whither shall we go? You, Robert Wolfren, where will you journey? You, Francis Wealey, where will you find abode? You, Thomas Wegg, might have found an asylum in Essex, but the Monastery of Walton is dissolved. Alan Aleto, farewell! Michael Milner, it will avail you nothing to go to Dodnesh; Lionel Foster, we were brothers before we came here, would we could so live together until we die! But where shall we all go? The world is wide enough, but it is, to our long habits of confinement, a desolation. If we must part, let us at least spend our last two days in devotion, that we may know how to commit ourselves to the waves of the world. Come, brethren, let us all to the chapel.'

It was then that Lord De Freston spoke:

'I have known you all long years gone by. I forget not your kindness to the outcast hermit of Holy Wells, nor to your reception of his bones among you. Ye showed charity to me, also, on that pitiless night of my superstitious vow and vigil; but, though I see my errors in those things, the kindness of your fraternity shall not pass unacknowledged. It is but a short journey over the water to my walls. In them I have room for you all: and neither shall any want, though he may be deprived of everything, as long as the Manor of Freston can support you. Grieve not then, my aged friends, at the present diversion of your property. Ye shall enjoy the privilege of each other's society, even though I am not an advocate for monastic seclusion. Every man should learn to live alone, that he may know how best to enjoy the society of his fellow-creatures. I will go with you to your chapel, and consult further with you upon your future plans.'

The fraternity were as much overcome by this generosity as they had been by the cruelties of their sudden ejection.

They repaired to their chapel, spent an hour in devotion, and returned to talk over their miseries, and what they should do.

Allen became as punctual in taking possession as he had been precise in his declaration of the law, and two days afterwards the monks of Alneshborne were located in the mansion of Lord De Freston. Theirs was, however, a merciful lot compared with the fate of hundreds who, at this time, became deprived of house, home, property, and comforts, which some had certainly greatly abused in every way, but which others had conscientiously preserved.

No men were more sensitively alive to the beauties of scenery than these retired Augustines. It was curious to see them assembled in the fifth story of Freston Tower, watching the progress of vessels bringing Caen stone purchased with the property of their own monastery, to build the College of St. Peters'.

One thing, and a good one, attended the change. The charity of Lord De Freston did not stop with receiving them into his hall, but he endeavored, and with some success, to cultivate their minds, and to bring them to the indulgence of some higher privileges than their cloistered seclusion had allowed.

He acted the part of a good Samaritan, by pouring into their wounded minds an oil of such efficacy, that it led to the conversion of more than the Prior; and their banishment, as they first called it, became their freedom.

They remained there until, by degrees, they found employment. One became a teacher in Wolsey's new school; another found a situation with the Abbots of Bury; a third went to Marseilles, another to Spain, another to Rome, until they gradually separated. But one, Prior John, died at Freston. He perfectly recovered from the infatuation of his early superstition, and for some time became the enlightened companion of the truly noble lord, who was his friend in the hour of need.

So perfectly cured was he of his monastic seclusion, that he entirely dispensed with the external trumpery of his order, and appeared in Ipswich and its vicinity, under the title of the Reformed Monk. He was a frequent visitor to Latimer and his wife, in their mansion in Brook Street: and here he was staying when Bilney preached at St. George's Chapel. Such an impression did that Reformer make upon this monk's mind, that Lord Wentworth, who had authority to quell the growing love of spiritual liberty then conspicuous in Suffolk, had marked John of Alneshborne, late of the fraternity of Augustines, as a seditious heretic.

It is probable that, had he lived but a few years longer, he would have been a sharer in the martyr's trials. He was already a sharer with his friends, Latimer and De Freston, in the onus then attached to those who professed to abhor the corruptions of Rome, and desired to see the Christian people of England emancipated from the slavery of ignorance. He was often heard to say, that he rejoiced even in the dissolution of his priory, since it had been instrumental in his own conversion.

He died one day, as he sat reading the prophet Isaiah, in Freston Tower. The old man had not complained, though the lord of the castle had said to him:

'John, you do not look well.'

His reply was singular: 'My soul is too big for my body.'

'How so?' inquired De Freston.

'It is grown so large since I left Alneshborne; and as I sit reading in this lofty turret, I seem to myself to grow out of myself, and to expand in love to all men.'

The old man had scarcely said the words before his head fell gently on the side of his high wooden chair, and thus the Monk of Alneshborne sighed away his spirit.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE REFORMERS.

They who do not study deeply the spirit of those days, can form no idea of the nature of the Papal superstition, which could subjugate kings, princes, rulers, men of letters, men of judgment, men of talent, men of thought, and men of such comprehensive minds as those of the great Cardinal Wolsey.

People should read his letters concerning the views that he entertained of the Popedom. In spite of an accusation of prolixity, and of being a little too learned for the general reader, it will be as well to insert here the Cardinal's own letter to Gardiner concerning the Popedom, because it will show, even to the cursory reader, the nature of that supreme temporal, instead of spiritual authority, which such a man aimed at.

It shows that he viewed the Popedom as the father of princes, instead of kings and queens being the nursing fathers and mothers of the church; but let this letter speak for itself.

THE CARDINAL'S LETTER TO GARDINER ABOUT THE POPEDOM,

'Coll. No. 99, b. B. III. c. II.
    'C. C. C. Camb.

'MR. STEVINS,

'Albeit ye shall be sufficiently with your Collegys, by such instructions as be given to Monk Vincent, informed of the King's minde and mine, concerning my advancement unto the dignity papelle,

'Not dowtting but that for the singular devotion which ye bere towards the Kinge and his affaires, both generall and particular, and perfyte love which ye have towards me, ye will omitt nothing that may be excogitat to serve and to conduce to that purpose,

'Yet I thought convenient, for the more fervent expression of mine in that behalf, to wryte to you, as to the person whom I most entirely do trust. And by whome this thing shall be most Rightly set forth these few wordys followyng of mine own hande.

'I dowt not but ye do profoundely consider as well the state wherein the Church and all C'tendome doth stand now presently, as also the state of the Realme, and of the King's secret Matter, which if it shoulde be brought to passe, by any other Meanyes than by the Authority of the Church, I accounte this Prince and realme utterly undone.

'Wherefor that is expedient to have such one to be Pope and Commyn Father to all Princes, as may, can, and wold geve remedy to the premises.

'And albeit I accompt myself much ounabill, and that shall be now incommodious in mine old age to be the said Commyn Father yet when all things be well ponderyd, and the qualitys of all the Cardinalls well considered, absit verbum jactantiœ, ther shall be none found that can and will sett remedy in the forsaid things, but only the Cardinall Ebor; whos good will and holi ys not to you of all men unknowne.

'And were it not for the re-integration of the state of the Churche and See Apostolique, to the prestine dygnite, and for the conducinge of peace amongst C'tian princes, and especially to relieve this prince and realme from the calamities that the same be now in, all the riches or honor of the world should not cause me—nedum aspirare sed ne consentire—to accept the seid dignite, and altho' the same with all Commodytes were offeryed unto me.

'Neverthelesse, conforming myself to the necessity of the time and the will and pleasure of these two princes, I am content to appone all my witt and study, and to set forth all meanys and ways, et bene faciam rebus C'tianitatis, for the atteyning of the said dignite.

'For the atcheving and atteyning whereof for as muche as thereupon dependeth the health and wealth, not only of these two princes and their realms, but all C'tendome, nothing is to be omitted that may conduce to the said end and purpose.

'Wherfore, Mr. Stevins, since now ye be so plainly advertised of my mind and intent, I shall pray you to extend, Omnes nervos ingenij tui, ut ista res, ad effectum perduci possit, nullis parcendo sumptibus, pollicitationibus sive laboribus, ita ut horum viris in genia, et affectiones sive ad privata sive ad publica ita accomodes actiones tuas.

'Non deest tibi, et Collegis tuis amplissima potestas nullis terminis aut conditionibus limitata sive restricta, et quicquid feceris, scito omuia apud hunc Regem et me esse grata et rata. Nam omnia, ut paucis absolvam, in tuo ingenio, et fide reposuimus.

'Nihil superest aliud scribendum, nisi quod supplex orem ut ones actiones tuas secundet Deus optimus Maximusq; et ex corde vale.

'Ex œdibus meis West Monast. vij., Februarij.

'Tuæ salutis et amplitudinis cupidissimus.

'T. Car, lis Ebor, propria Manu.'*

* Stevin (i.e.) Stephen Gardiner, then at Rome, called Dr. Stevens.

This letter will sufficiently show that confidence which the Cardinal had then in himself, when he said, that upon his being made Pope depended not only the health and wealth of princes and their realms, but all Christendom. The man who could have such conceit of himself, might well be unable to endure the growing boldness of the Reformation.

Though his learning was so vast, and his influence at home and abroad so great, never did a subject rise to higher splendor, and never did a great man fall more suddenly.

How ephemeral is the favor of princes! Few historical records give any but mortifying pictures of the misfortunes and discomfitures of great men. Few, either warriors or statesmen, but well know the reverses of public favor, and few poets, authors, artists, and skilful men in science, or in law, physic, or divinity, but have to contend with poverty and persecution, even in their eminence.

What a happy man is he who trusts in God, and takes all things as he has them, coming from Him who 'lifteth up and putteth down.'

In the very year of the Cardinal's utmost ambition and presumption, when he sought to raise himself above all princes—in the very year of his greatest splendor and wealth, the same man is made to exclaim, according to his faithful historian and apologist, Cavendish:

'Now it is come to pass that it hath pleased the King to take all that I have into his hands, so that I have now nothing to give you, for I have nothing left me but the bare clothes on my back.'—(Fiddes, p. 47, 5 fol. ed.)

One instance, however, of the softening of the heart of this great man remains to be told, which does him honor; but, to be rightly understood, the reader must be referred to those stirring times when the Papal power, having reached the summit of its presumption, began to be looked at with the eyes of truth, and the unnatural and impious monstrosity of its proceedings began to be questioned openly by the Reformers.

Poor Bilney was at this time preaching at Ipswich. He, though conscious that he should meet with as little pity as his former friends, Thomas Ayers, who was burnt at Eccles, in Norfolk, and Thomas Bingay, who was four score and six years of age when he was burnt at Norwich, yet boldly attacked the blasphemous doctrines of the Church of Rome.

He exposed the folly of pilgrimages, the absurdity of miracles said to be done at Walsingham, Canterbury, and even in Ipswich, and hesitated not to call them the inventions of the devil to delude the souls of men.

The lights set up before images, he designated as meteors of deception, which would lead men into darkness. He had been well acquainted with De Freston and Latimer, Notcote and Bailee, and many more in the town previous to his appearing among them as an advocate for their religious liberties.

He was grown a bold man, strong in confidence of the rectitude of the cause he was advocating.

Intimate as he was with Hugh Latimer, the after celebrated martyr, cousin to William Latimer, of Ipswich, it was at the house of the latter, which Daundy and De Freston had obtained from Antony Wingfield, that Bilney, Arthur, John of Alneshborne, and John Bale, so often held learned, sound, and judicious disquisitions concerning the errors then so prevalent in matters of faith and duty.

Of far too high a character for anything that was seditious, inflammatory, or even despiteful of dignities, these truly gifted men looked only at the truth, as laid down in the Revelation of God, and applying their hearts to God in prayer, that their understandings might be opened, they beheld, with light as clear as the sun in broad day, all the fooleries then practised to deceive; the pomposities of the processions to the shrines of saints, and all the tinsel flummery of an external parade of devotion which imposed upon the senses, and filled the minds of the people with fancies.

Thomas, Arthur, and Bilney were cited to appear before the Cardinal, at the Chapter House in Westminster.

Nothing could equal the rage of the friars at Ipswich against Bilney. He had assembled before him a multitude of hearers to whom he exposed in clear and concise language the distinction between the duties of obedience to God and obedience to man.

He cut them to the heart when he told them that in the various protestations they made to the images, and the offerings they made to them, they were serving senseless devils and not God: that though in all legal matters submission even unto death was a duty, yet nothing ought to hinder them from protesting against idolatry, in matters of faith and good works; and that obedience to man, when in direct opposition to God's commands was, however urgent that command, not to be complied with.

He instanced Daniel, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, over all of whom God had power, so that they suffered no injury.

But if they had, if they had as the sufferers for Christianity been burnt to death, or been devoured by lions, their duty was to adhere to the truth, and yet not rebel against the lawfully constituted authorities of the realm.

He proved that the sins of idolatry in the palmy days of Babylon, were as nothing compared with those existing in his day. A Nebuchadnezzar in Babylon could exclaim: 'I thought it good to show the signs and wonders that the high God hath wrought toward me. How great are his signs! how mighty are his wonders, his kingdom is an everlasting kingdom, and his dominion is from generation to generation.'

But in his day, people were to confess that the Pope hath the supreme authority, and that his mandates are above the commands of God; and that the Virgin Mary is an object of worship even in heaven; and, therefore, must be so upon earth.

Men marvelled, indeed, at the plain, strong, and conclusive arguments which this enlightened man brought forward to prove the wickedness of that spiritual Babylon in which he who called himself the father of princes sat enthroned.