PART II.

SONNET--RYDAL WITH WORDSWORTH.

BY THE LATE SIR AUBREY DE VERE.

“What we beheld scarce can I now recall

In one connected picture; images

Hurrying so swiftly their fresh witcheries

O’er the mind’s mirror, that the several

Seems lost, or blended in the mighty all.

Lone lakes; rills gushing through rock-rooted trees;

Peaked mountains shadowing vales of peacefulness;

Glens echoing to the flashing waterfall.

Then that sweet twilight isle! with friends delayed

Beside a ferny bank ’neath oaks and yews;

The moon between two mountain peaks embayed;

Heaven and the waters dyed with sunset hues:

And he, the poet of the age and land,

Discoursing as we wandered hand in hand.”

The above-written sonnet is the record of a delightful day spent by

my father in 1833 with Wordsworth at Rydal, to which he went from the

still more beautiful shores of Ulswater, where he had been sojourning at

Halsteads. He had been one of Wordsworth’s warmest admirers when their

number was small, and in 1842 he dedicated a volume of poems to him.[136]

He taught me when a boy of eighteen years old to admire the great bard.

I had been very enthusiastically praising Lord Byron’s poetry. My father

calmly replied: “Wordsworth is the great poet of modern times.” Much

surprised, I asked: “And what may his special merits be?” The answer was,

“They are very various; as, for instance, depth, largeness, elevation,

and, what is rare in modern poetry, an _entire_ purity. In his noble

‘Laodamia’ they are chiefly majesty and pathos.” A few weeks afterwards

I chanced to take from the library shelves a volume of Wordsworth, and

it opened on “Laodamia.” Some strong, calm hand seemed to have been laid

on my head, and bound me to the spot till I had come to the end. As I

read, a new world, hitherto unimagined, opened itself out, stretching far

away into serene infinitudes. The region was one to me unknown, but the

harmony of the picture attested its reality. Above and around were indeed

“An ampler ether, a diviner air,

And fields invested with purpureal gleams”;

and when I reached the line,

“Calm pleasures there abide--majestic pains,”

I felt that no tenants less stately could walk in so lordly a precinct.

I had been translated into another planet of song--one with larger

movements and a longer year. A wider conception of poetry had become

mine, and the Byronian enthusiasm fell from me like a bond that is

broken by being outgrown. The incident illustrates poetry in one of

its many characters--that of the “deliverer.” The ready sympathies

and inexperienced imagination of youth make it surrender itself easily

despite its better aspirations, or in consequence of them, to a false

greatness; and the true greatness, once revealed, sets it free. As early

as 1824 Walter Savage Landor, in his “Imaginary Conversation” between

Southey and Porson, had pronounced Wordsworth’s “Laodamia” to be “a

composition such as Sophocles might have exulted to own, and a part of

which might have been heard with shouts of rapture in the regions he

describes”--the Elysian Fields.

Wordsworth frequently spoke of death, as if it were the taking of a

new degree in the University of Life. “I should like,” he remarked to

a young lady, “to visit Italy again before I move to another planet.”

He sometimes made a mistake in assuming that others were equally

philosophical. We were once breakfasting at the house of Mr. Rogers, when

Wordsworth, after gazing attentively round the room with a benignant and

complacent expression, turned to our host, and, wishing to compliment

him, said: “Mr. Rogers, I never see this house, so perfect in its taste,

so exquisite in all its arrangements, and decorated with such well-chosen

pictures, without fancying it the very house imaged to himself by the

Roman poet when, in illustration of man’s mortality, he says: ‘Linquenda

est domus.’” “What is that you’re saying?” replied Mr. Rogers, whose

years between eighty and ninety, had not improved his hearing. “I was

remarking that your house,” replied Wordsworth, “always reminds me of

the ode (more properly called an elegy, though doubtless the lyrical

measure not unnaturally causes it to be included among Horace’s odes)

in which the Roman poet writes: ‘Linquenda est domus’; that is, since,

ladies being present, a translation may be deemed desirable, _The house

is_, or _has to be, left_; and again,’et placens uxor’--and the pleasing

wife; though, as we must all regret, that part of the quotation is not

applicable on the present occasion.” The Town Bard, on whom “no angle

smiled” more than the end of St. James’ Place, did not enter into the

views of the Bard of the Mountains. His answer was what children call

“making a great face,” and the ejaculation, “Don’t talk Latin in the

society of ladies.” When I was going away, he remarked, “What a stimulus

the mountain air has on the appetite! I made a sign to Edmund to hand him

the cutlets a second time. I was afraid he would stick his fork into that

beautiful woman who sat next him.” Wordsworth never resented a jest at

his own expense. Once when we had knocked three times in vain at the door

of a London house, I exclaimed, quoting his sonnet written on Westminster

Bridge,

“Dear God, the very houses seem asleep.”

He laughed heartily, then smiled gravely, and lastly recounted the

occasion and described the early morning on which that sonnet was

written. He did not recite more than a part of it, to the accompaniment

of distant cab and carriage; and I thought that the door was opened too

soon.

Wordsworth, despite his dislike to great cities, was attracted

occasionally in his later years

“To the proud margin of the Thames

And Lambeth’s venerable towers,”

where his society was courted by persons of the most different character.

But he complained bitterly of the great city. It was next to impossible,

he remarked, to tell the truth in it. “Yesterday I was at S---- House;

the Duchess of S----, showing me the pictures, observed: ‘This is the

portrait of my brother’ (naming him), ‘and it is considered very like.’

To this I assented, partly perhaps in absence of mind, but partly, I

think, with an impression that her grace’s brother was probably a person

whose face every one knew or was expected to know; so that, as I had

never met him, my answer was in fact a lie! It is too bad that, when more

than seventy years old, I should be drawn from the mountains to London

in order to tell a lie!” He made his complaint wherever he went, laying

the blame, however, not so much on himself or on the duchess as on the

corrupt city; and some of those who learned how the most truthful man

in England had thus quickly been subverted by metropolitan snares came

to the conclusion that within a few years more no virtue would be left

extant in the land. He was likewise maltreated in lesser ways. “This

morning I was compelled by my engagements to eat three breakfasts--one

with an aged and excellent gentleman, who may justly be esteemed an

accomplished man of letters, although I cannot honestly concede to him

the title of a poet; one at a fashionable party; and one with an old

friend whom no pressure would induce me to neglect, although for this,

my first breakfast to-day, I was obliged to name the early hour of seven

o’clock, as he lives in a remote part of London.”

But it was only among his own mountains that Wordsworth could be

understood. He walked among them not so much to admire them as to

converse with them. They exchanged thoughts with him, in sunshine or

flying shadow, giving him their own and accepting his. Day and night,

at all hours, and in all weathers, he would face them. If it rained, he

might fling his plaid over him, but would take no admonition. He must

have his way. On such occasions, dutiful as he was in higher matters, he

remained incurably wayward. In vain one reminded him that a letter needed

an answer or that the storm would soon be over. It was very necessary

for him to do what he liked; and one of his dearest friends said to

me, with a smile of the most affectionate humor: “He wrote his ‘Ode to

Duty,’ and then he had done with that matter.” This very innocent form of

lawlessness, corresponding with the classic expression, “Indulge genio,”

seemed to belong to his genius, not less than the sympathetic reverence

with which he looked up to the higher and universal laws. Sometimes there

was a battle between his reverence for nature and his reverence for other

things. The friend already alluded to was once remarking on his varying

expressions of countenance: “That rough old face is capable of high and

real beauty; I have seen in it an expression quite of heavenly peace and

contemplative delight, as the May breeze came over him from the woods

while he was slowly walking out of church on a Sunday morning, and when

he had half emerged from the shadow.” A flippant person present inquired:

“Did you ever chance, Miss F----, to observe that heavenly expression on

his countenance as he was walking into church on a fine May morning?” A

laugh was the reply. The ways of nature harmonized with his feelings in

age as well as in youth. He could understand no estrangement. Gathering a

wreath of white thorn on one occasion, he murmured, as he slipped it into

the ribbon which bound the golden tresses of his youthful companion,

“And what if I enwreathed my own?

’Twere no offence to reason;

The sober hills thus deck their brows

To meet the wintry season.”

SIR THOMAS MORE.

_A HISTORICAL ROMANCE._

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.

III.

“Ah! well, and so you are going to carry the French birds back!”

exclaimed the old keeper Jack, with a loud, coarse laugh, as he leaned

against one of the century-old trees in Windsor forest. “Well, well, so

be it, my friends; but give us a little drop to drink,” he added in a

jocular but self-important tone. As he said these words, he familiarly

slapped the shoulder of one of the falconers, who was engaged in

fastening the chains again to the feet of the tiercelets, whilst his

comrades cut off the heads of the game taken, and threw them as a reward

to the cruel birds, who devoured them with avidity.

“After a while,” replied the falconer a little impatiently. “Wait till

our work is done, father Jack; you are always in a hurry--to drink. We

will take our glass together now directly. See that troop of birds! They

must first be chained and put with the others.”

“Well, well!” replied Jack, “provided we lose nothing by waiting. These

are beautiful birds, if they do come from France.”

“No, no, you shall lose nothing by waiting,” cried the second falconer.

“Come here; I will let you taste a liquid that these birds have brought

over under their wings, and we will see then if you have ever drunk

anything equal to it since you drew on your boots in the service of his

majesty.”

And he poured out of a canteen that hung from his shoulder-belt a very

acid gin, filling, until it foamed over, a large pewter cup, which he

handed to father Jack.

It was swallowed at one draught.

“Oh! superb, superb!” cried the old keeper, returning the cup and

smacking his lips. “During the five-and-forty years past that I have had

the honor of keeping Windsor, I have drunk nothing better. Let’s go! That

strengthens a man’s courage and warms up his old blood! I believe the

deer will give us a hard drive to-day; I have seen the tracks of fourteen

or fifteen at least.” And saying this, he remounted his old wind-broken

mare.

“Wait, father Jack, wait for us! We will all go together,” exclaimed the

_gens de l’equipage_; for Jack contributed much to their amusement. When

they had mounted their horses, they followed the keeper, getting off a

hundred jokes on the old mare, to which he was much attached.

They very soon passed by two young lords who had halted near the verge of

the forest, and were engaged in conversation.

One of them held in leash four beautiful greyhounds, especial favorites

of the king because of their great sagacity and swiftness in the chase.

Their keeper, however, was obliged to use the lash, in order to stop

their clamorous baying.

“You have seen her, then?” he remarked to his companion.

“Yes, I have seen her down yonder. She crossed the road with all of her

ladies,” replied the latter, who belonged to Wolsey’s household and wore

his livery. “She was dressed in a black velvet cap and green riding-habit

and she is really charming!”

“Well, my poor friend,” replied the other, “but do you know I have

serious fears that your cardinal will soon fall into disfavor? But a

moment ago, as they passed by here, I heard the Duke of Norfolk remark

to a lady that the red cloak was decidedly out of style, and altogether

it was at this time so completely used up that he did not think it could

ever again be mended. The lady smiled maliciously, and said he was

right--she believed the green mantle would eventually end by tearing the

red to pieces! And pointing to the young Anne Boleyn, who was not far

off, she made a sign that left no doubt on my mind it was that lady she

meant to designate as the destroyer.”

“Truly,” replied the young domestic,[137] “what you tell me is anything

but encouraging. And so our dear duke must have _his_ finger in the pie!

I shall be very sorry for all this if it happens, because my own clothes,

are made of scarlet, you see; and when one has succeeded, in the course

of time, in getting a suit well made up, he doesn’t like the trouble of

having to commence again and make it over.”

As he said this a cloud of dust arose, and a troop of horsemen passed at

full gallop and with a terrible hue and cry.

“My dogs! my dogs!” cried the king in the midst of the crowd. “Let

loose my dogs! The deer makes for the ponds. Let them hasten to tell the

ladies, that they may be in at the death.”

He disappeared like a flash of lightning, of which we obtain but a

glimpse ere it is gone. The shrill notes of the hunter’s horn resounded

from afar, awaking countless echoes through the forest.

“Let us go,” exclaimed the two young men simultaneously. “We will then

get rid of these accursed hounds.”

“To the ponds! To the ponds!” they cried. “The ladies, to the ponds! The

ladies, to the ponds!” And they started on, laughing and shouting.

“What is that you are shouting down there?” cried a huntsman from a

distance, whose horse had just made him roll in the dust.

“To the ponds! My lord, to the ponds!” they cried.

The retinue surrounding the Duke of Suffolk put whip to their horses and

followed in a sweeping gallop. From every side of the hills surrounding

these ponds there appeared, at the same moment, troops of eager hunters,

panting and covered with dust. The different roads traversing the forest

in every direction converged and met on the banks of the ponds that slept

in the basin thus formed.

The ladies had already assembled, and nothing could have been more

entertaining than the rapid and eager movements of the remainder of the

hunters as they came galloping up. The king arrived before any of the

others. He excelled in exercises of this kind, and took great delight

in ending the chase in a brilliant manner by shooting the deer himself.

On this occasion he had decided that, contrary to the usual custom, it

should be taken alive; consequently, they hastened to spread in every

direction the nets and fillets.

In this case the skill of the hunters consisted in driving the game into

the snare.

Very soon the deer made his appearance, followed by a multitude of

hounds, who pursued him so furiously, and crowded so closely one against

the other, that, to use a familiar expression of the hunters, they could

have been covered with a table-cloth.

At sight of the nets the beautiful animal paused for an instant. He

shook his horns menacingly, and stamped the ground with his feet; then

suddenly, feeling already the scorching breath of the infuriated pack

of hounds about to seize him, he made a desperate effort, and, leaping

at a single bound the entire height of the fillets, threw himself into

the lake. Instantly a loud and deafening shout arose, while the furious

hounds, arrested in their course by the nets, uttered the most frightful

howlings on seeing their prey escape.

“My cross-bow!” cried the king. “Quick! my cross-bow!” and he drew it so

skilfully that at the first shot he pierced the flank of the poor animal,

who immediately ceased to swim.

Satisfied with his brilliant success, the king, after having heard the

plaudits of the ladies and received the congratulations of the hunters,

proceeded to the pavilion, constructed of evergreens and foliage, as

elegant as it was spacious, which he had had erected in the midst of the

forest, in order to dine under cover.

The Duchess of Suffolk did the honors of the festival, taking the place

of Queen Catherine, who, under the pretext of bad health, declined

appearing at these hunting parties, the noisy sports having become

insupportable to her.

Meanwhile the courtiers were greatly excited by observing a roll of paper

the extremity of which projected from the right pocket of the king’s

hunting-jacket; on one of the leaves, a corner of which was turned down,

two words were visible--the name of “Wolsey” and that of “traitor.” Each

one sought to approach the king or pass behind him in order to assure

himself of the astonishing fact, of which they had the temerity to

whisper mysteriously together.

But in spite of all their efforts, they were unable to discover anything

more; the day and the festival ended with numerous conjectures--the

fears and hopes excited in the minds of that court where for so long the

learned favorite had ruled with as much authority as the king himself.

* * * * *

At daybreak on the morning succeeding the festival the gates were thrown

open, and a carriage, bearing the royal arms and colors, drove from the

great courtyard of Windsor Palace.

While the postilion trotted leisurely along, looking around from time

to time as he wonderingly reflected why the horse on his right grew

constantly lean in spite of the generous addition he had made to his

rations, the two occupants of the carriage engaged in the following

conversation:

“It is cold this morning,” said one of them, wrapping his cloak more

closely about him.

“Yes; and how this fog and the heavy dew covering the earth remind one of

the bivouac!”

“It does indeed,” responded Norfolk to his companion; “but such

souvenirs are always agreeable, and carry us back to the happiest days

of life--years spent amid the tumult and vicissitudes of the camp.

Eighteen! that impulsive, impetuous age, when presumptuous courage rushes

headlong into danger, comprehending nothing of death; when reckless

intrepidity permits not a moment’s reflection or hesitation, transported

by the ardent desire of acquiring glory; the intoxicating happiness of a

first success--such are the thrilling emotions, the brilliant illusions

of youth, which we shall experience no more!” And the old warrior

sorrowfully bowed his head.

“Ah! well, others replace them,” replied Suffolk.

“Yes, to be displaced and disappear in their turn,” answered the duke,

brushing back the white locks the wind had blown over his forehead, on

which appeared a deep scar.

“Well, my lord,” exclaimed the Duke of Suffolk, “do not spoil, by

your philosophic reflections, all the pleasure we ought to enjoy in

the thought that, thanks to the influence and good management of your

charming niece, we are now going to inform Monseigneur Wolsey that the

time has at last arrived for him to abdicate his portion of the crown.”

“Yes, perhaps so,” replied the duke. “And yet I don’t know. Yesterday,

even, I detested this man, and desired most ardently his ruin;

to-day--no, no; an enemy vanquished and prostrate at my feet inspires

only compassion. Now I almost regret the injury my niece has done him and

the blow she has struck.”

“Come, come, my lord, do you not know that an excess of generosity

becomes a fault? We have nothing to regret,” continued Suffolk, with an

exulting laugh. “I only hope he may not be acquitted (and thus be able to

settle the scores with us afterwards); that Parliament will show him no

mercy. Death alone can effectually remove him. The little memorandum you

have there contains enough to hang all the chancellors in the world.”

“It is very certain,” replied the Duke of Norfolk, abstractedly turning

the leaves of the book he held in his hand (the same that had excited

such eager curiosity among the courtiers)--“it is certain this book

contains grave accusations. Nevertheless, I do not think it has entirely

accomplished the end proposed by the author.”

“In truth, no,” answered Suffolk; “for Wiltshire counted very certainly

on replacing Wolsey. He will be astounded when he learns of the choice of

the king.”

“Although Wiltshire is a relative of mine,” replied the duke, “I am

compelled to acknowledge that it would have been impossible for the king

to have made a better selection or avoided a worse one. Wiltshire is both

ignorant and ambitious, while Thomas More has no superior in learning

and merit. I knew him when quite a child, living with the distinguished

Cardinal Morton, who was particularly attached to him. I remember very

often at table Morton speaking of him to us, and always saying: ‘This

young boy will make an extraordinary man. You will see it. I shall not be

living, but you will then recall the prediction of an old man.’”

“Extraordinary!” replied Suffolk in his habitual tone of raillery;

“most extraordinary! We are promised, then, a chancellor of a peculiar

species! I suppose he will not be the least astonished at receiving so

high and singular a favor. But, the devil! he will need to be a wonderful

man. If he sustains himself on the throne ministerial, he will find a

superior degree of wisdom necessary. Between the king, the queen, the

council, Wiltshire, the Parliament, the clergy, and the people, I would

not risk my little finger, brother-in-law of his majesty although I have

the honor to be.”

And he began laughing as he looked at Norfolk, although, out of deference

to him, he had not included in the list of difficulties the most

formidable of all, and the one that carried all others in its train--his

niece, Mlle. Anne.

“In the sense you use the word,” the duke answered coldly, “I believe,

on the contrary, he is by no means an astute man. The intrigues of court

will be altogether foreign to his character; but otherwise, in science

and learning, he has no equal. He is in possession of all that a man

is capable of acquiring in that direction, and no man has made a more

profound study of the common law and the statutes of the kingdom. Morton

placed him at Oxford, then at the Chancellors’ College at Lincoln, and he

achieved the most brilliant success.”

“Admirable!” exclaimed Suffolk, laughing.

“Since that time,” pursued the Duke of Norfolk, “his reputation has

continued to increase. When he lectured in S. Lawrence’s Church, the

celebrated Dr. Grocyn and all of our London _savants_ crowded eagerly to

hear him.”

“Well! well! I knew nothing of these most agreeable particulars,” said

Suffolk; “I only knew that it was he who induced Parliament to refuse

the subsidy demanded for the Queen of Scots. If he continues to repeat

such exploits as that, I venture to predict he will not be chancellor

very long.”

“Oh! as to that,” replied the duke, “he is a man who will never

compromise his conscience. Yes, yes, I recall distinctly the enraged

expression of the present king’s father when Mr. Tyler came to inform him

that the House of Commons had rejected his demand, and a beardless youth

had been the cause of it. I have not forgotten, either, that Henry VII.,

of happy memory, well knew how to avenge himself by having an enormous

fine imposed on Sir Thomas’ father.”

“Well,” replied Suffolk, “but it was not always expedient for the House

of Commons to raise money in that way.”

The conversation was continued in this manner, as the hours glided by,

until at length the glittering spires of the London churches appeared in

the distance, and very soon the carriage had entered the narrow, gloomy

streets of that great city.

* * * * *

Just at this time the soul of Wolsey was replenished with an

inexpressible quietude and contentment. “At last,” he said to himself,

“my enemies have all been confounded. I can no longer entertain a doubt

respecting my power, after the most gracious manner in which the king

has treated me at Grafton. I trust the influence of Anne Boleyn has

diminished in the same proportion that mine has increased. Now she wants

Sir Thomas Cheney recalled; but I shall not consent to that. Campeggio

goes loaded with honorable presents. The influence of the mistress

will soon cease, and that ambitious fool Wiltshire will lose the fruit

of his intrigues.…” As the Cardinal of York consoled himself with these

agreeable reflections, the arrival of the Venetian ambassador was

announced.

“Ah! so he presents himself at last,” Wolsey exclaimed. “He has been a

long time demanding an audience!” And he ordered him to be introduced.

Wolsey received him in the most gracious manner. After the usual

compliments were exchanged, he proposed showing him the honors of the

palace. He had spent his life in embellishing and adorning it with

wonderful treasures of industry and art, of which he was the enlightened

and generous protector, bestowing on them from his own purse the most

liberal encouragement.

Numerous galleries, in which an exquisite taste had evidently directed

even the most trivial ornamentation, were filled with paintings, statues,

and precious antique vases. Superb Flanders tapestries gleamed on all

sides, covered the panels, were disposed around the windows, and fell in

heavy drapery before the openings of the doors to conceal the entrance.

These precious cloths, then of inestimable value, were only found in the

palaces of kings. They usually represented some historical or poetical

subject; and sometimes landscapes and the rarest flowers were wrought and

tinted with reflections of gold. Finally, Wolsey took occasion to point

out, among all these treasures, the presents he had received at different

times from the various princes of Europe who had sought to secure his

influence.

Charmed with the order, taste, and beauty that reigned throughout the

palace, the Italian admired everything, surprised to find in this foreign

clime a condition of luxury that recalled the memory, always pleasing,

yet sometimes sad, of his own country.

“Alas!” he exclaimed at length, “we also were rich and happy, and reposed

in peace and security in our palaces, before this war in which we have

been so unfortunate as to rely on the King of France for assistance. He

has abandoned us; and now, compelled to pay an enormous tribute, the

republic finds itself humiliated in the dust beneath the sceptre of the

haughty emperor!”

“Such is the right of the conqueror,” replied Wolsey. “You are fortunate,

inasmuch as he is forced to use that right with moderation.”

“It seems a heavy burden to us, this moderation!” replied the ambassador.

“He not only exacts immense sums of money, but compels us to surrender

territory we have conquered with our blood. Florence is placed under the

dominion of the Medici, and all of our Italian princes are reduced to a

condition of entire dependence.”

“Which, of course, they will shake off at the first opportunity,”

interrupted Wolsey. “Charles V. is too shrewd not to foresee that. Be

assured he will endeavor to secure your good-will, because your support

is indispensable to enable him to resist the formidable power of the

Sultan Soliman, and the invasions of the barbarians subject to his

authority.”

“In that we have placed our last hope. If our services can be made

available, then from vanquished enemies we may become united allies.

Already the emperor foresees it; for he overwhelms Andrew Doria and the

republic of Genoa with favors. He seems to have forgotten the injuries he

suffered from Sforza; he received him most affably at court, and promised

him the Princess of Denmark, his niece, in marriage.”

“I am informed,” said Wolsey, “that he is deeply afflicted by the death

of the Prince of Orange.”

“Very much,” replied the ambassador. “The prince was a valiant captain.

He leaves no children; his titles and landed property will descend to the

children of his sister Rénée, the Countess of Nassau.”

“And they are all German princes who have thrown themselves headlong

into the Lutheran heresy. They will endeavor to cast off the yoke of the

emperor, and become altogether independent.”

“They have no other intention,” replied the ambassador; “and by

separating from the Church of Rome they hope more surely to effect their

purpose. However, the decree laid before the diet against the religious

innovations has passed by a large majority.”

“Yes,” replied Wolsey; “but you see the Elector of Saxony, the Marquis

of Brandenburg, the Landgrave of Hesse, the Dukes of Luneburg, and the

Prince d’Anhalt are all leagued against the church, with the deputies of

fourteen imperial cities, and are designated by no other name than that

of Protestant.”

“I am aware of that,” replied the ambassador. “It will greatly increase

the difficulties in carrying out the emperor’s secret project,” he

continued after a moment’s silence. “Perhaps, however, he may succeed in

making the crown hereditary in his family.”

“That is what we shall have to prevent!” cried Wolsey vehemently, who,

at the words of the ambassador, felt all his old hatred toward Charles V.

revive. “We will never suffer it, neither will France. No, no; I am very

certain France will never permit it.”

“Ah!” replied the ambassador, shaking his head with a doubtful air,

either because he was not convinced, but more probably because he was

well pleased to arouse against the conqueror of Venice the animosity of

England (still, as he considered, entirely governed by the will of the

minister who stood before him).

“I assure you of it most positively,” answered Wolsey; “and I wish you

to bear it in mind.” And he regarded him with an expression of perfect

confidence and authority.

“I hope it may be so,” said the ambassador in an abstracted manner. “We

certainly desire nothing more.”

“Ah! if he had only you to oppose him,” answered Wolsey, resuming his

usual haughtiness, “I should doubt of success. See where you stand,” he

continued, with the secret satisfaction of national pride. “Invaded on

all sides, Italy can oppose but a feeble barrier to the power of two

such bold and daring pirates. Is it not a shame, then, to see these

obscure and cruel robbers, sons of a Lesbian potter--two barbarians, in

fact--reigning sovereigns of the kingdom of Algiers, which they have

seized, and from whence they fearlessly go forth to destroy the Christian

fleets on every sea? When would you be able to conquer these ocean

pirates--you, who have but a gibbet for your couch and a halter for your

vestment? Justice would be kept a long time waiting!”

The Italian reddened and bit his lip. He vainly sought words in which

to reply, and was relieved of his embarrassment when the door opened and

admitted the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk.

They entered without the usual ceremonies or salutations, and Wolsey,

surprised at seeing Suffolk, whom he had not met since the altercation

at Blackfriars, regarded them with astonishment. He arose, however, and

advanced toward them. Suffolk, with a disdainful gesture, referred him to

the Duke of Norfolk.

Astonished at the coldness of the one, the brusque impoliteness of the

other, and embarrassed by the presence of the ambassador, the cardinal

stood motionless, undecided what to think or say.

“My lords,” he at length exclaimed, “what do you desire of me?”

“We want you to deliver up the seal of state,” replied Norfolk, without

changing countenance.

“What do you say, my lord?” cried Wolsey, stupefied with astonishment.

“The king has ordered it,” continued the duke with the same imperturbable

manner.

“The king! Can it be possible?” said Wolsey, dismayed, and in a voice

almost inaudible. “The seal of state! And what have I done? What? Can

this be true? No, my lord, no,” he suddenly exclaimed with an expression

of indescribable terror; “it cannot be true! You have mistaken the king;

I do not deserve any such treatment. I pray you let me see him; let me

speak to him for a moment--one single moment. Alas! alas!”

And he glanced at the ambassador, who, astounded himself at first, and

feeling himself out of place in the presence of this mighty downfall,

had involuntarily withdrawn towards the door.

“It is no longer a question to be submitted to the king,” cried Suffolk

in a threatening and defiant manner; “it is only necessary now to obey

him, and he orders you instantly to deliver up the seal.”

“The order is imperative,” added Norfolk in a cold and serious manner. “I

regret being charged with a commission which to you, my lord, must be so

painful.”

He said no more. But Suffolk, base and jealous in his nature, was not

ashamed to add to the humiliation of the unfortunate cardinal.

“Come, my good friend,” he said in an ironical voice, “why do you beg so

imploringly? One would suppose we had demanded the apple of your eye. You

have been putting the seal so long now on our purses and tongues, you

ought not to be surprised nor annoyed that we feel like using it awhile

ourselves.”

This cowardly insult exasperated Wolsey, but his courage was roused with

his indignation.

“My Lord Suffolk,” he answered with dignity, “I am sorry for you and

for the prompt manner in which you seem to forget in their misfortune

those who in days of prosperity were always found ready to come to your

assistance. I hope you may never experience how painful it is to endure a

similar cruel ingratitude.”

He immediately withdrew, and returned with the richly-adorned casket

containing the great seal of state.

Holding it in his trembling hand, he avoided Suffolk, and, advancing

rapidly toward the Duke of Norfolk, handed it to him.

“My lord,” he said, “here are the seals of the kingdom of England.

Let the king’s will be done. Since I received them from his hand,

fifteen years ago, I am conscious of having done nothing to merit his

displeasure. I trust he will one day deign to render me full justice, for

I have never proved myself unworthy of his favor.”

As he uttered the last words, he was unable to restrain the tears which

involuntarily arose to his eyes.

Although the cardinal was by no means a favorite with the Duke of

Norfolk, he was moved with compassion, and sadly reflected that he had

still more painful intelligence to communicate.

He glanced at his companion, but, fearing the bitter and poignant irony

in which Suffolk never failed to indulge, he hastened to prevent it in

order to spare Wolsey.

“My lord cardinal,” he said, “you ought to reflect that the king is too

just and impartial to withdraw the favor he has so long bestowed on you

without having weighed well the reasons and necessities requiring such

a course. Nevertheless, his goodness has not abandoned you; he permits

you to select such counsel as you may desire to defend you against the

accusations presented against you to Parliament.”

“To Parliament!” murmured Wolsey, terror-stricken; for the duke’s last

words suddenly disclosed the depth of the abyss into which he had fallen.

“To Parliament!” he repeated. The shock he had experienced was so

violent that his pride of character, the sense of personal dignity, the

presence of his enemies, were all forgotten in a moment, and he abandoned

himself to despair. Unable longer to sustain himself, he sank on his

knees. “I am lost!” he cried, weeping and extending his hands toward

his persecutors. “Have pity on me, my Lord Norfolk! I give up all to

the king! Let him do with me what he will! Since he says I am culpable,

although I have never had the intention, yet I will acknowledge that I

am. But, alas! of what do they accuse me?”

“Of having violated the statutes of præmunire,” replied Norfolk.

“And betraying your country,” continued Suffolk, “by carrying on a secret

correspondence with the King of France. You well remember that it was you

who had me recalled at the moment when, having become master of Artois

and Picardy, I had the Parisians trembling within their walls? Will you

dare deny that you were the cause of it, and that it was the _prière

d’argent_ of Mme. Louise[138] induced you to give the order for me to

retire? The king has been already long enough your dupe, and our duty was

to enlighten him. As to the rest, my lord cardinal, you understand the

proceedings; your advocate ought to be here, and you should immediately

confer with him with regard to the other charges herein contained.”

As he said this, he threw on the cardinal’s table the bill of

presentment, which contained no less than forty-four chief accusations.

They then took possession of all the papers they could find, carrying

away the seal of state, and left Wolsey in a condition deserving pity.

As they retired, they proposed sending in the advocate, who was waiting

in an adjoining apartment conversing with Cromwell.

“Ha! ha! you are here, then, Sir Cromwell,” said the Duke of Suffolk,

laughing. “Go in, go in there at once,” he cried, pointing to the door

of Wolsey’s cabinet. “The cardinal needs you; I fear he will be hard to

console.”

Cromwell watched with great anxiety the course of events, and, not

knowing to which side to turn, determined at least to secure for

himself the appearance and merit of fidelity to his benefactor. Without

reflecting on the consequences, he hastily replied that he would not

leave Wolsey, would never abandon him, but follow him to the end.

“You will follow him to the end, eh?” replied Suffolk. “When you know his

intended destination, I doubt very much if you will then ask to follow

him.”

As he said this, he made a gesture giving Cromwell to understand that his

master, besides losing place and power, was also in danger of losing his

head.

“High treason, my dear sir, high treason!” cried Suffolk. “Do you hear

me?”

“High treason?” repeated Cromwell slowly. “Ah! my lord duke, how could he

be guilty?”

He hastened to rejoin Wolsey, whom he found bathed in tears and

endeavoring to decipher the act of presentment.

“Ah! Cromwell,” exclaimed the unhappy cardinal on seeing him, “my dear

friend, you have not then forsaken me! But, alas! I am lost. Read here

for yourself--read it aloud to me; for my sight is failing.”

Cromwell seized the paper and commenced reading the accusation. On

hearing that it was based principally on the violation of the statutes of

præmunire,[139] Wolsey was unable to control his indignation.

“How,” he cried, “can the king be induced to sanction such unparalleled

injustice? It is true that in receiving from the pope the title of

legate, and exercising throughout the kingdom the authority conferred

by that title, I have been brought in opposition to the precautionary

statutes of King Richard; but still I have not violated them, since the

king himself has sanctioned that power and recognized it by appearing

in his own person before the court. Is he not more to blame, then, who

desired and ordered it, than I, who have simply been made a party to it?

I can prove this,” he cried--“yes, I can prove it; for I have still the

letters-patent, signed by his own hand, and which he furnished me to that

effect. Cromwell, look in my secretary; you will find them there.”

Cromwell opened the secretary, but found nothing.

“There is not a single paper here,” he said. “Where could you have placed

them?”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the cardinal. “Then they have all been carried away!

All!” he repeated. “I have no longer any means of defence; I am lost!

They are all arrayed against me; they have resolved upon my death. O

Henry! O my king! is it thus you forget in one moment the services I

have rendered you? Cromwell,” he continued in a low voice and gloomy,

abstracted manner--“Cromwell, I am lost!”

The same evening another messenger came to inform the unhappy cardinal

the king wished to occupy, during the session of Parliament he was about

to convene, his palace of York (the object of his care and pride), and

that in leaving it he could retire to, and have at his disposal, a house

about eight leagues from London, entirely abandoned, and belonging to the

bishopric of Winchester.

* * * * *

The night, already far advanced, found Sir Thomas More still seated in

his cabinet, conversing with the Bishop of Rochester, who had arrived at

Chelsea very late that morning.

A light was burning on a long table encumbered with books and papers;

several high-backed chairs, covered with black morocco, cast their

shadows on the walls; a capacious rug of white sheep-skin was spread

before the hearth, where the remains of a fire still burned in the grate.

Such was the simplicity of the home of Sir Thomas More.

“And why, my dear friend,” asked the Bishop of Rochester, “will you

consent to take upon your shoulders so terrible a responsibility? Once

become chancellor, have you fully considered that you will be surrounded

by enemies, who will watch your every movement and pursue you even to

your death? Have you reflected well that you acknowledge no other laws

than those of your own conscience, and feel no remorse unless for not

having spoken your views with sufficient candor? Is it thus you hope to

resist--thus you hope to escape the snares that will continually surround

you?”

“I fear nothing,” replied More; “for I believe in God! And you

yourself--would you not blame such weakness? In refusing the king I

refuse the queen. Would not Catherine then declare that the trusted

servant, even he who had been called her friend, had sacrificed her

interests to his love of ease? He had declared his life should be devoted

to her cause, and now had abandoned and deprived her of the only hope of

relief Providence seemed to have left her! No, Fisher, friendship has

rights too sacred for me not to respect them.”

“Then,” cried the bishop, “if you respect the rights of friendship,

listen to my appeal! I ask you to decline a dignity that will prove

destructive to you. In the name of all that you hold most dear, in the

name of all that is good and beautiful in nature, in the entire universe,

I conjure you to refuse this fatal honor! It is more than probable the

very seal they wish now to place in your hands will be very soon affixed

to your death-warrant! Believe me, my friend, all will unite against you.

A deep conviction has taken possession of my soul, and I see, I feel, the

wrath of this prince, as violent as he is cruel, ready to fall upon your

devoted head. You will be crushed in this struggle, too unequal to admit

for an instant the hope of escape.”

“Ah! well,” replied More laughingly, “instead, then, of simply inscribing

on my tombstone ‘Here lies Thomas More,’ there will appear in pompous

style the inscription, ‘Here lies the Lord High Chancellor of England.’

Assuredly, I think that would sound much better, and I shall take care to

bequeath my first quarter’s salary to defray the expense of so elegant an

inscription.”

“More!” cried the Bishop of Rochester with impatience, “I cannot suffer

you to jest on a subject of such grave importance. Do you, then, desire

to die? Would you ruin yourself? Trust to my experience. I know the heart

of Henry thoroughly; your attempt to save the queen will be vain, and

you will inevitably be involved in her ruin. I conjure you, then, accept

not this office. I will myself carry your refusal to the king.”

“No, no!” exclaimed More. “I have decided--decided irrevocably.”

“Irrevocably?” repeated Rochester, whom the thought reduced almost to

despair. “More, I see it. You have become ambitious; the vainglory of

the world, the fatal infatuation of its honors, have taken possession

even of the soul of Thomas More! Your heart no longer responds to mine;

your ear remains deaf to all my solicitations! Ah! well, since the desire

of being honored among men, and to have them grovel at your feet, has

made even you despise my counsel and advice, then listen, listen well,

and God grant that I may be able to destroy in your heart the poison

that pride has poured into it! You are willing to sacrifice to your

vanity all the happiness, all the quiet and peace, of your future; know,

then, what recompense will be meted out to you. Yesterday Wolsey was in

a manner driven from his palace, and descended the Thames in a common

boat, Cromwell alone accompanying him; for all have deserted him except

his enemies, who, in order to enjoy his calamities, crowded the river in

boats and followed after him. They hoped to see him arrested and carried

to the Tower, the report having been circulated that he would be taken

there. Wolsey--he whom you have so often seen make his appearance in

Parliament, surrounded by an almost royal pomp and splendor--is now a

fugitive, alone, abandoned, without defence, of the clamorous insults

and bitter scorn of a populace always eager to feast their eyes on

the ruins of fallen greatness. The air around him resounded with their

maledictions. ‘Here is the man who fattened on the blood of the poor,’

they cried. ‘The taxes will be reduced now,’ exclaimed others, ‘since

he will have no farther use for palaces and gardens’; and all, in their

ignorance, abused him as the cause of the wrongs and oppressions which

it was probably not in his power to have averted. At length, overwhelmed

with insults and outrages, he was landed at Pultney, and, in order to

escape the mob, was hurriedly conducted to his house at Asher, where he

has been banished. Such is the reward you will receive in the service of

an avaricious prince and a blind infatuated multitude!”

He paused, overcome by anxiety and excitement.

“My dear Fisher,” responded More, deeply moved, “our hearts and thoughts

are always in unison; you have only represented to me a second time the

picture I had already painted myself.”

“Indeed!” cried Rochester; “and do you still hesitate?”

“What!” replied More, resolutely, “and does it require so much hesitation

to sacrifice one’s self? I would not wish to live dishonored; and I

should consider myself guilty if I forgot my duty toward my sovereign and

the honor of England!”

“So you are resolved! Ah! well, let your sacrifice be accomplished,” said

the saintly bishop; “but then may God, whose goodness is infinite, hear

my vows and grant my prayer: may the same dangers unite us; side by side

with you may my last sigh be breathed out with yours; and if the life of

the aged man is not extinguished before that of the man in his prime,

then may the stroke of death cut us down at the same moment!”

“My dear friend,” cried More, “the many years that have passed over your

head and blanched your locks have not yet ripened your judgment, since

you can believe it possible that the king’s anger, although it may one

day fall on me, could ever be permitted to overtake you, the counsellor

of his youth, whom he has so often called his father! No, I can conceive

of no such fearful possibility; the wise, the virtuous Bishop of

Rochester can never be involved in the misfortune that would crush Thomas

More.”

“Ah!” replied Fisher, “but I shall understand how to call down on my head

the vengeance with which he may hesitate to strike me. Believe me, More,

a man scarcely reaches the prime of life before he feels himself, as it

were, daily beginning to fail. Just as in the autumn days the sun’s light

rapidly diminishes, so the passing years despoil his body of physical

strength and beauty; but it has no effect upon his soul. The heart--no,

the heart never grows old! It loves, it suffers, as in the early morning

of life; and when at last it has reached the age when wisdom and

experience have destroyed the illusions of the passions, friendship,

strengthened by so many blessed memories, reigns there alone and entire,

like a magnificent flower that has been sheltered and preserved from the

destroying worm.

“Having almost arrived at the end of his career, he often takes a survey

of the road he has passed over. He loves to recall his joys and his

sorrows, and to weep again for the friends he has lost. I know that

presumptuous youth imagines that the prudence he refuses to obey is the

only good that remains after the labors of life have been terminated by

time.

“Your feelings are not in unison with those of an old man. It is because

you do not understand them. He lives in memory, and you in hope. You

pursue a phantom, a chimera, the nothingness of which he has already

experienced; you accuse him, he complains of you, and often you do not

deign to regard the last bitter tear that is drawn from him at the sight

of the tomb into which he must soon descend.”

“Oh!” exclaimed More, “you whom I venerate as a father and love as a

friend--can you doubt for one moment the truth of a heart entirely

devoted to you? Confirmed by your example, guided and sustained by

your counsels, what have I to fear? Banish from your mind these sad

presentiments. Why should this dread of the future, that perhaps after

all is only chimerical, destroy the extreme happiness I enjoy in seeing

you?”

For a long time they continued to converse, until the light of early

morning at length succeeded the uncertain glimmer of the candle, now

flickering in its socket.

“My friend, I must leave you,” said Rochester. “The day already dawns.

God grant the sun may not this morning arise on the beginning of your

misfortunes!”

“Oh! no,” replied More, “this is my _fête_ to-day. S. Thomas will pray

for and protect us.”

The good bishop then descended to the courtyard and mounted his mule; but

More, unwilling to give him up, walked on by his side as far as the road

followed the course of the river. When they reached the cross-road where

the bishop turned off, More shook his hand and bade him farewell.

A great wooden cross stood near the roadside, on which was suspended a

wreath of withered leaves; and More, seating himself on one of the stone

steps upon which the cross was elevated, followed the good bishop with

his eyes until he had disappeared in the distance.

He then rested his head sadly on his hands, and recalled to mind all this

venerable friend had said to him.

“He is right!” he mentally exclaimed. “How clear-sighted his friendship

renders him! Into what a sea of agitation, malignity, and hatred I shall

be plunged! And all for what? In order that I may be lord chancellor

of the kingdom through which this road passes. Behold, then, beside

the highway,” he added, looking around him, “my lord the great high

chancellor, shivering in the cold morning air just as any other man would

do who had gone out at this hour without putting on his cloak!… Yes, I

can understand how social distinctions might cause us to scorn other

men, if they exempted us from the inconveniences of life. We might then

perhaps believe that we had different natures. But let us change our

garments, and we fall at once, and are immediately confounded with the

common herd.”

While making these sad reflections upon the follies of human nature, More

arose and returned to the house, where his wife and children and his aged

father--simple and peaceable old man, happy in the favor of the king and

the virtues of his son--were all wrapped in profound slumber.

In a spacious apartment, of which the dark and worm-eaten ceiling,

ragged tapestry, and dilapidated windows presented the appearance of a

desolate and abandoned edifice, a fragment of broken furniture still

remained, upon which was placed a small piece of bread. Numberless crumbs

strewed the dusty floor and were eagerly devoured by a little mouse, but

recently the only inhabitant of the place. To-day, however, he had the

company of a man whose extraordinary mind had conceived vast projects and

executed great and useful enterprises--the Archbishop of York, Cardinal

Wolsey. Seated upon the edge of a wooden stool which he had placed in the

embrasure of a window, he held his hands crossed one upon the other, and

bitterly reflected upon his unhappy destiny. Regrets, of which he felt

all the impotency, pressed upon his agitated soul. It seemed to him that

he still heard the cries and menaces of the furious populace that exulted

in his distress, and to which perhaps, alas! he would again be subjected.

At one time filled with courage and resolution, at another humble and

cast down, the anxieties of his mind seemed wholly without measure. His

eyes, wearied with straying listlessly over the plain which extended

before him, beheld only a single laborer ploughing the field. “Man is

small,” said he, “in presence of immensity; the point which he forms

in space is imperceptible. Entire generations have passed away, have

gathered the fruits of the earth, and now sleep in their native dust.

My name has been unknown to them. Millions of creatures suffer, where

I exist free from pain. Coming up from the lowest ranks of society, I

have endeavored to elevate myself above them. And what has my existence

signified to them? Has not each one considered himself the common centre

around which all the others must revolve?”

Here Wolsey, impelled by extreme hunger, approached the little worm-eaten

table, and took up the morsel of dry bread left from his repast the

evening before.

Just as he was raising it to his mouth a man entered, dressed in the most

scrupulous manner, and enveloped in an ample cloak of the finest material.

Wolsey was startled, and gazed at him in astonishment.

“What! Arundel,” he exclaimed at last, “what could have brought you to

this place?”

“Yourself,” replied Arundel, in a frank, abrupt manner. “You have lost

everything, and have never informed me by a word! Do you think, then, I

have forgotten all you have done for me?”

“The favors I have conferred on you were so slight,” replied Wolsey,

“that it would have been natural you should have no longer remembered

them, especially since many who owe their wealth, and perhaps their

lives, to me have so completely forgotten it.”

“I have never learned how to flatter nor to wear velvet gloves,” replied

Arundel; “but I am still more ignorant of the art of forgetting past

favors. No, it has never been my custom to act thus; and you have

offended me more than you imagine by proving you believed me capable of

such baseness.”

As he said this, Arundel took from his bosom an immense purse of red

satin, filled with gold, and laid it on the dilapidated table beside a

package of clothing which he had thoughtfully added to his gift.

“There are no acknowledgments to be made,” he remarked; “it is essential

first of all that you be made comfortable. You can return this when it

suits your convenience. Now let us say no more about it.”

“Alas!” cried Wolsey, “are you not aware, then, that I may never be able

to return it? They will divide my ecclesiastical benefices among them.

The Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Wiltshire have already been put in

possession of the revenue from my bishopric of Winchester. This is the

only food I have had since I came here,” he added, showing him the bread

he still held in his hand.

“Indeed! It is not very delicate,” replied Arundel; “but it is your own

fault. When one has friends, he should not neglect them, and that is just

what you have done.”

“Misfortune often renders us unjust,” answered the cardinal, deeply

moved by the generous frankness and brusque proceedings of Arundel, whom

he had always, until now, regarded as being haughty and ungrateful,

because he had never observed him among his crowd of fawning courtiers.

“I must confess that I could not endure the thought of being repulsed

by those for whom I have done everything. I do not believe that among

the immense number of those who daily wearied me with protestations of

their ostentatious regard there is to-day one who has condescended to

think of me in my misfortunes. You only have thought to succor me in my

distress--you, who, without my being aware of it, have doubtless been all

the while the most sincere among them all.”

“I cannot believe,” replied Arundel, without appearing to notice the

acknowledgments with which Wolsey continued to overwhelm him, “that they

would all thus have abandoned you had they known the extreme severity

with which you have been treated; it would be too foul a blot upon the

name of humanity. Notwithstanding they laugh at our misfortunes, I think

it appears worse to us than it really is. No, be assured you will find

some faithful friends who will defend you. For instance, Sir Thomas More,

your successor, whose fortune you have made, cannot fail to use his

influence in your favor.”

“More owes me nothing,” replied the cardinal. “I have not made his

fortune; when I proposed him to the king as Treasurer of the Exchequer,

he had for a long time been acquainted with his rare merits. Knowing that

the appointment would prove both useful and agreeable to the king, I

recommended him to make it; but really it was more for the king’s benefit

than More’s. Besides, I am aware that More is one of the most zealous

partisans of Catherine. Thus, you see, there exists no reason why he

should feel inclined to assist me. I am only surprised that a man of his

exalted integrity should accept a position where he will necessarily be

compelled to act in opposition to his convictions.”

“It is with the eager desire of ultimately being able to convert all

the world and to correct all consciences,” replied Arundel with a smile

of derision; for he never lost an occasion of ridiculing the importance

which many attach to political intrigues, and, as they say, to the

public good, in whose management they pretend to take a hand, in order

to win admiration at any cost for their talents. “And verily, he will

find it difficult to sustain his position, unless he becomes the very

humble servant of my Lady Anne, regent of the kingdom; for nothing is

done but what she ordains, and her uncle, whom she has appointed chief

of the council, executes the orders which the king claims the honor

of communicating to him. Oh!” continued Arundel in the same ironical

tone, and without perceiving the painful effect his words produced on

the unhappy cardinal, “truly it is a very great advantage, and above

all highly honorable for England, to see her king put in tutelage to

the caprices of a woman as weak and vain as she is arrogant. If he was

absolutely determined to go into leading-strings, why did he not beseech

the good Queen Catherine to take charge of him? She, at least, would

have been careful to hold the reins equally on both sides, so that the

swaddling could have been made to walk straight.”

“A swaddling,” repeated Wolsey, “… who devoured his nurse!”

“Hold, my dear lord,” continued Arundel; “it cannot be denied that

you have made a great mistake in encouraging the king in his divorce

project--yes, a great mistake, which they now begin to discover. But I do

wrong, perhaps, to reproach you, since you are the first to be punished

for your manner of seeing things. But listen to me; as for myself, if, in

order to avoid dying of starvation, or being compelled to subsist on just

such bread as you have there, I had been obliged to accept the place of

lord chancellor, on the day when I found myself relieved of so burdensome

and exacting an office I should have cried aloud: ‘Thank heaven that I am

again seated by my own fireside, where in peace and quiet I can get up

at my leisure and contemplate passing events.’ For myself, these are my

principles: to have nothing to do is the first essential to happiness;

nothing to lose, the second; nothing to disturb or annoy, the third;

and upon these rest all the others. Such is my system--the best of all

systems, the only.…”

Arundel would have still continued explaining the numerous theories he

had originated for securing happiness for an indefinite length of time,

perhaps, but he suddenly perceived that Wolsey no longer heard him, but,

with his head sunk on his breast, seemed absorbed in thought.

“Well, my lord,” said Arundel, “you are not listening to me, it seems?

Really, it is not worth while to explain to you the true method of being

happy.”

“Ah! my dear Arundel,” replied Wolsey, aroused by the exclamation of his

visitor, “how could you expect me to think of profiting by your lessons,

or to make an application of your theories of happiness, when at this

very moment, perhaps, I have been condemned to death by Parliament?”

“There is no proof of that,” replied Arundel. “Sufficient unto the day

is the evil--gloomy apprehensions profit us nothing; they do not delay

the progress of events; on the contrary, they send them on us in advance,

and only serve to aggravate the consequences. Moreover, I must not forget

to suggest that if it would be more agreeable for you to be with your

friends, there are many who will be happy to receive you, and offer you

a mansion as commodious, although less sumptuously furnished, than your

palace of York or that of Hampton Court, the latter of which I have never

liked since you added the gallery.”

“What is that gallery to me now? I surrender it up to you,” said the

cardinal.

The endless arguments of Arundel began to weary him exceedingly. In spite

of the extreme gratitude he felt for his sincere and generous offers,

Wolsey could not divest himself of the conviction that Arundel belonged

to that class who, while in other respects full of good impulses and

laudable intentions, are so entirely wanting in tact and delicacy, and

contend so urgently for their own opinions, that the consolations they

would force you to adopt, far from alleviating your sufferings, only

augment them and render their sympathy irksome and oppressive. This

feeling was experienced by Wolsey, uncertain as he was what fate was

reserved for him, trembling even for his life, while Arundel endeavored

to paint for him a minute picture of the happiness and tranquillity

enjoyed by a man living in peace and quiet, with nothing to disturb him

in the enjoyment of his possessions.

“Alas!” he exclaimed at length impatiently, “why has not kind Providence

blessed me with a nature like yours? I should be less unhappy, nor every

instant see yawning before me the terrible depths of the precipice on

which I now stand. I could catch, at least, at the branches of absurdity,

until the moment when I should be dashed to pieces! But no, I cannot;

I am too well acquainted with men and things to expect the slightest

assistance. They are always ready to strike those who are falling,

but never attempt to raise them up. Yesterday, only yesterday, the

commissioners of Parliament demanded of me the letters-patent I had

received from the king in order to exercise my authority as legate,

although every one knew that, as he had given them to me, it was his

right alone to take them away again. Ah! well, they have persisted in

their demand, and have refused to believe me on oath! No, I will indulge

in no more illusions; my enemies have sworn my death, and they will

obtain it! And the king, the king my master, after fifteen years of the

most faithful service, he delivers me up, helpless and defenceless, to

all the cruelties their hatred may inspire; and yet you, Arundel, think

that I should still indulge in hope?”

“But all this will be arranged, I tell you,” replied Arundel with an

imperturbable coolness. “You should not trouble yourself in advance,

because, if the worst _should_ happen, it will change nothing; and if it

does _not_, your present suffering will have been needless.”

As Arundel finished this wise reasoning, Cromwell appeared.

He came from London, where he had been, he said, to defend Wolsey before

the Parliament.

On seeing him enter the cardinal was seized with an uncontrollable alarm,

thinking his fate had been decided.

“Cromwell!” he cried, and could say no more.

“Ah!” replied Cromwell, “you should not thus give way to your

apprehensions, although.…” He paused on seeing the cardinal grow deadly

pale. “You need have no uneasiness, because the king has sent Norris to

bid me assure you he would take you under his protection.”

“I have been condemned, then!” cried the unhappy Wolsey. “Speak,

Cromwell, speak; conceal nothing from me. I am not a child,” he added

with firmness.

“You have been condemned by the Star Chamber, but the king says he will

have the bill rejected in the House of Commons,” replied Cromwell.

“He will not do it!” cried Wolsey, the tears coursing rapidly down his

cheeks. “He will sacrifice me, Cromwell, I know it; he has no longer any

use for me, and my past services have left no impression on his mind. But

how far has their rage carried them? To what have they condemned me?”

“You have been placed beyond the protection of the king, and all your

property confiscated.”

“The king’s protection is already recovered,” gently interrupted Arundel,

who had listened until this time in silence. “As for the confiscation,

that will be more difficult, inasmuch as they are generally more ready

to take than to give. However, my dear cardinal, you should despair of

nothing; then let us try and console you. They cannot confiscate me, who

have never had anything to do with the gentlemen of the council. I have a

good house, an excellent cook; you will come home with me, and, my word

for it, you shall want for nothing.”

“Arundel,” interrupted the cardinal, “I am deeply grateful for your kind

offer; but believe me, they will not leave me the choice of profiting by

it.”

“Why not? why not?” exclaimed Arundel. “The devil! Why, these gentlemen

of the council are not wild beasts! A little avaricious, a little

ambitious, a little envious, and slightly selfish, but they are at least

as accommodating as the devil!”

“No!” replied Wolsey.

“I assure you, before receiving the king’s message,” said Cromwell, “I

was in despair, for they spoke of having you arrested and immediately

urging the accusation of high treason; but since the king has declared

you under his protection, I do not believe that all is entirely lost.

Norris has repeated to me twenty times: ‘Say positively to the cardinal

that the king advises him not to be troubled, and to remember that he can

give him, any moment he pleases, far more than they can take away.’”

“I hope I may be mistaken, dear Cromwell,” replied the cardinal with

a sombre air; “but I fear a momentary compassion only has excited the

king to say what you tell me, and it will not be long before that wicked

night-bird[140] will again have possession of his ear. She will not

fail to use her influence in defaming me and blackening anew all my

actions, until the king will cease to oppose the wicked designs they have

conceived against me.”

Saying this, he buried his face in his hands and sank into a state of

despondency impossible to describe.

Cromwell made no reply, and Arundel silently took his leave, inwardly

congratulating himself, as he returned home, upon the tranquil and happy

life he knew so well how to lead, and censuring those who would not

imitate his example; without once reflecting that few were in a position

so agreeable or independent as his, and consequently were not able to

enjoy themselves equally nor after his own deliberate fashion.

TO BE CONTINUED.

SINE LABE CONCEPTA

Predestined second Eve. For this conceiv’d

Immaculate--not lower than the first.

Chosen beginner in the loss reversed,

And mediatress in the gain achieved,

When, the new angel, as the old, believed,

Thy hearkening should bless whom Eve’s had curst.

And therefore we, whose bondage thou hast burst,

Grateful for our inheritance retrieved,

Must deem this jewel in thy diadem

The brightest--hailing thee alone “all fair,”

Nor ever soil’d with the original stain:

Alone, save Him whose heart-blood bought the gem

With peerless grace preventive none might share--

Redemption’s perfect end, all else tho’ vain.

VILLAGE LIFE IN NEW HAMPSHIRE.

“I think I shall start for New Hampshire to-morrow,” I said. “Do you know

anything about L----, in Cheshire County?”

Jones, who had been meditatively examining the coloring of a

richly-tinted meerschaum, sat up erect at this question, with a sudden

access of vigor.

“L----?” he said. “By George! there’s where Agnes Cortland lives now in

the summer.”

It was the middle week of July. Aspirations for one whiff of the breeze

among the hills had become irresistible. We were sitting together, Jones

and I, in my room up-town after luncheon. Jones was a young New York

artist in his first season after his return from Italy the previous

autumn. He, too, was about to start on a sketching tour through Vermont,

in which State his people lived. He was late leaving town, but money

was not easy with him--a handsome young fellow of that golden age

between twenty-three and twenty-four, when one is apt to think he needs

only a very short-handled lever to move the world. He was of medium

height, but squarely and powerfully built; with a face good-natured,

but very resolute, in expression. A stranger would not be likely to

take a liberty with him. I had a strong notion that Jones would make a

better soldier than artist, if there were any question of blows being

struck for the country, which happily there is not. But hitherto I had

shrewdly kept that opinion to myself. Considerably older than he was,

and engaged in another occupation, circumstances had thrown us a good

deal together. Intimacy had brought confidence, and confidence, at

his age, meant--nothing more nor less than it always does under such

circumstances--the unbosoming of his love affairs. How few there are

who have not found themselves in the same position, either as actors or

sympathetic chorus, or in time as both! What countless dramas of passion

are continually being put upon the private stage before this limited

audience!

Now, it is not the purpose of this paper to pursue the history of

Jones’ captivity at the hands of the tender goddess through all the

infinitesimal and transcendental chapters a first romance runs into. More

placid emotions and observations, befitting the serenity of approaching

middle age, are in store for the reader. And in fact the history of

Jones’ passion is still incomplete. But so much of it may be given as

fell within the purview of our New Hampshire observations.

Jones was poor--prosaic fact, which robs life of so many compensations as

we grow old. But at twenty-three we spurn the mastery of the glittering

dross--that is, if Congress gives us any to spurn! Let us say rather

of the flimsy paper. At that age of our flowing life we coin money at

our own mint; or, more truly, draw limitless drafts on the Bank of

the Future. Happy the man who meets them when they fall due! Jones,

at least, had no doubts as to his future solvency. But his plans were

vague--very!

Agnes Cortland was the daughter of a railroad director--or two or

three directors rolled into one--and had the world, or at least the

New York world, to choose from. Poor Jones! his story might almost be

predicted from the start. Yet this inheritor of the (latent) genius

of any half-dozen masters, ancient or modern, you choose to name,

believed, perhaps with some reason, that this daughter of Dives liked

him; and as for himself, he vowed with hyperbole that he adored her.

They had frequently met--their families then being neighbors in the

country--before he went to Italy, where he had spent two years studying

and wandering about. No avowal of affection had been made between them,

but he had gone away with the consciousness many little signs and tokens

give that he was not disliked. Since his return a year ago some meetings

had taken place--at rarer intervals--in society. At an evening party

some months before she had given him, he said, a slight but unmistakable

opportunity of declaring himself, if he had wished to do so.

“But I did not take it,” said Jones, who, spite of his being in love, was

as manly a young fellow as one could meet. “She knows I am poor; and I

don’t want to be thought a fortune-hunter.”

I laughed at this quixotic declaration.

“My dear fellow,” I said, “you fly at high game. But I should not let

the _auri sacra fames_ interfere, one way or the other, with my tender

emotions. If I did so at all, Plutus would have his due weight in the

scale, believe me!”

“What would you do?” said Jones. This was in one of those “tobacco

parliaments” in early spring--if so they might be called, where one,

only, smoked, and the other looked on with sympathy; for I had abandoned

the “weed” some years before--hardly of such profundity, nor yet so

silent, as those Mr. Carlyle speaks of. Jones had recurred to his usual

topic of hopes and perplexities.

“Do?” I answered, looking at him retrospectively, as it were, as if

contemplating my own departed youth, as he sat there in his favorite

attitude after dinner, gracefully balancing one leg over the arm of

my chintz-covered easy-chair, while I was stretched out on the sofa.

“Ah! that is an easy question to propound, but not so easy to answer.

At your age I should not think you would need much prompting. But if

you ask me, I would say, leave it alone! Love is a luxury for the rich

or the evenly-mated poor. But you are not likely to take that advice.

A good deal would depend on the reinforcements she might bring to the

struggle. A woman is not always a passive instrument in those affairs,

but sometimes has a will of her own. I have never seen your fair one,

and know nothing about her. But if she be a girl of some strength of

character, and her love do not prove a mere school-girl’s fancy, she

might possibly gain her father’s consent. But it is not a promising

adventure, at the best; and I would not recommend you to embark your

hopes in it. Keep clear of serious entanglements until you see your way

before you. Above all, avoid anything like a clandestine engagement. It

will not add to your happiness or hers. I don’t suppose you will think

this a very encouraging opinion. But there may be circumstances in your

favor I know nothing of. Marry her, if you can, and can get the father’s

consent; and go into “railroading” with him in his office. You will make

more money at that than you are ever likely to do sticking little dabs of

color on a piece of canvas.”

I saw Jones wince at this mercenary view of his art. But he bore it

like a man, and continued silent. The suggestion of such a change of

vocation did not appear to surprise him, though it was plain no active

intention of throwing up his art had yet entered his mind. The fact is,

Jones is one of those young men--not inconsiderable in numbers in the

profession--who “have a studio,” but are not likely ever to send many

master-pieces out of it. Developing some precocious talent for drawing

when they are boys, and seizing with boyish eagerness upon the suggestion

of being “an artist,” they are offered by fond but undiscerning parents

upon the altar of art. But they never advance beyond a mechanical

dexterity in putting conventional scenes upon canvas. They haven’t

a spark of that genius that is often observed where other pursuits

have prevented a devotion to the profession. Eventually they abandon

altogether the study or practice of their art, or sink into drudges for

the picture or chromo dealers, or grind out a living as drawing-masters,

or--Heaven knows how. I will not say that Jones was altogether deficient

in talent, but the talent that makes an agreeable accomplishment for

the rich amateur is a different thing from that which will pay the

piper or win eminence in the art. Jones painted his pictures for the

autumn and spring exhibitions, and had one or two on view in one of

the up-town windows. But at Du Vernet’s big sale I know that a clever

little bit of coloring on which he had spent some time was knocked down

to a chromo-dealer for sixteen dollars! How was he going to live on such

prices? And as for marrying Agnes Cortland--it was simply preposterous

to think of it. Nor is this redundancy of young native artists on whom

neither genius nor fashion smiles confined to New York alone. In Boston,

which is the only other city boasting of a native school of art, the same

low prices prevail. It is disheartening; but a more disheartening thing

still is that those prices often represented the actual value of the

picture.

Jones was imperfectly educated, though his continental travel had made

him a fair linguist. He certainly drew very little inspiration from the

antique, for he knew next to nothing about it; nor had he much of that

sympathy with the undercurrent of life, and its relations with nature,

which gives significance to common things. He had a fondness for pleasure

which, of course, did not contribute to his success. Yet he was one of

those young fellows whom it is impossible to meet without liking. He was

frank, honorable, and spirited, and had a robust shrewdness about him in

dealing with men and things that made him a pleasant companion. That he

would eventually choose a more active kind of life--and probably succeed

in it--I was half-convinced, and my advice about “railroading,” though

spoken partly in jest, was inwardly meant in good faith.

On this particular July evening on which our paper opens Jones followed

up the announcement of my proposed trip to L---- by expressing a wish

that he were going there too, so that he might come to a definite

understanding with Agnes Cortland; and the wish was soon followed by the

determination to act on it.

“How long do you intend to stay there?” he asked.

“Till the first week in September,” I said.

“Then I will come back that way, and join you for a few days about the

first of September. The Cortlands don’t leave there till October. We can

come back to New York together.”

It would have been ungracious on my part to have objected to this

proposal, though I had a good many doubts about its wisdom. So it

happened that my little excursion to L----, which I had innocently

designed to be a season of simple lotus-eating such as Mr. Tennyson

ascribes to his Olympian deities, “reclined upon the hills together,

careless of mankind,” was complicated by a subordinate interest in a

comedy from real life which had that quiet village for a stage.

The next day I started, taking Boston _en route_. That staid, quiet,

cleanly city seems always to be, compared with New York, like a good

school-boy by the side of a big, blustering brother fonder of a street

row than his books. Then to Fitchburg, where I stopped over night, as

some stage travelling was to be done from our “jumping-off” place, and

riding over the country roads in the morning was more promising than on

a dark and cloudy night. In the morning the Fitchburg Railroad again,

and one of its branches to L----. The unwonted coolness of the morning

breeze, as the train entered the New Hampshire hills, already began to

refresh mind and body alike. The pines and hemlocks extending back into

deep, dim recesses carpeted with moss and ferns; the cattle moving slowly

over the pastures in the distance; the pastures themselves stretching

up the sides of the highest hills, still of the freshest green, without

a hint of the yellow undertone that I watched gradually overspread them

as the summer ripened into autumn; a lake in the foreground, silent,

unvisited, its clear waters unpolluted by the dregs of commerce or the

drainage of a vast metropolis; even the caw! caw! of the ravens flying

off from the tops of the pine stumps, send a novel and delicious feeling

of freedom through the breast of the city traveller who has put care and

work behind him for a season. Nor is this feeling altogether evanescent.

Even now, as winter approaches and the north winds from the same hills

come sweeping down over the great city, sending us chattering and

freezing to our cosey firesides, the glory of the July foliage moves our

memory like a far-off dream of youth. Yet, after all, it may be doubted

whether the charm of country scenes is not due in great part to their

novelty and the feeling that we are not bound to them longer than we

please. Of all that has been written in praise of country life, how much

is the work of the city resident; how little, comparatively speaking,

springs from the country itself! There drudgery too often takes the

place of sentiment. It is the Epicurean poet, Horace, satiated with the

noise of the Forum and the gossip of the baths, who sings sweetest of

rural contentment, of the “lowing herds,” the “mellow fruits of autumn,”

and the “brooks murmuring over stony beds.” But when he gives play to

his satiric vein, none pictures more truthfully than the Venusian the

grumbling of the husbandman, who “turns the heavy clay with the hard

plough.” Embowered in some shady arbor on the windings of the Digentia

through his Sabine farm, or doing a little amateur farming, to the

amusement, as he confesses, of his blunt country neighbors, who laughed

at the dandy poet with a hoe in his hand, it was easy for Horace to

chant the smooth and sunny side of country life. But the eight laborers

on his estate, chained literally to the soil, as many a New England

farmer morally is by the burden of debt or family, no doubt saw things

differently. And the bailiff of his woodlands we know to have despised

those “desert and inhospitable wilds,” and to have longed for the streets

and shows of Rome. It is amazing upon what inattentive ears the music of

our wild birds falls in a secluded farm-house. Often it seems absolutely

unheard; while the clatter of the long street of the country town that

the farmer visits once a month is for ever in his mind.

But we delay too long at the way station at L----. Let us onwards.

The carrier of the United States mail, who is at the same time the Jehu

of the passenger stage, slings our _impedimenta_ up behind with an energy

to be envied by a veteran “baggage-smasher” at some of our big depots,

straps it down, and jumps upon the box. We mount more slowly beside him,

disdaining to be shut up in the close interior, and intent upon looking

at the country we pass through this lovely morning. The two stout grays

breast the hill leading to L---- Centre, eight miles distant.

The surface of the country is hilly and broken; as we approach L----,

mountainous. Mounting the crest of the first steep hill, a beautiful

natural panorama spreads out before us: long, narrow, intersecting lines

of timber, like giant hedges, dividing the hill farms from each other.

A rolling country spreads toward the east, bounded on the horizon by a

low range of mountains wooded to the summit, and with a white steeple

flashing out here and there among the trees at their base. The effects of

light and shade, caused by the clouds on a brilliant day, on one of those

white steeples, standing out solitarily against the side of a mountain

eight or ten miles distant, are peculiar. Sometimes it becomes invisible,

as the circle of the shadow is projected upon that area of the mountain

which includes it. Then, as the dark veil moves slowly, with a sliding

motion, up the side and over the crest of the mountain, the white spire

flashes out from the obscure background of the forest with a sudden

brilliancy. On this side patches of blue water among the trees in the

hollows revealed the presence of numerous ponds, as the small lakes, and

some of the large ones, are universally called in New England.

To the northwest what seemed to be a level plain from the height over

which we rode, but which was in reality broken and undulating ground,

stretched beneath us for ten or twelve miles to the base of Mt.

Monadnock. The mountain, grand, massive, and still veiled by a thin mist,

rose boldly from the low country at its foot to a height of nearly four

thousand feet.

A ride of an hour and a half brought us to the top of the hill on the

side of which stands L----. A dozen scattered houses flank the broad

village green, and a Congregational meeting-house, with white belfry

tower and green blinds, stands half-way down the incline.

The post-office and country store combined is at the cross-roads as you

drive down the hill, and some ancient elms on the green seem to nod at

the stranger with a friendly air as he enters the village. “Here,” said I

to myself, “is rural quiet and simplicity. Farewell for many slumberous

weeks the busy haunts of men.” L---- is quite out of the beaten track of

summer travel, and had been recommended me by a friend who had spent some

seasons there, on the ground of economy, charming scenery, good fishing,

and repose. Nor did I find any reason to regret having listened to him.

A country tavern offers entertainment to man and beast, and is resorted

to by the drummers and sample men who invade L----, as elsewhere, with

their goods. But I was not forced to be dependent on it, as a letter from

my friend opened to me the hospitable doors of the comfortable farm-house

where he had boarded two years before.

Here let it be said at the outset that whatever the other drawbacks of

village life in New Hampshire, there is among the farming class a natural

courtesy, and, among the women, even an inherited refinement of manner,

especially in their treatment of strangers, which speaks well for the

native stock. Prejudices there are among both men and women--deep-rooted,

as we shall see--and narrow-minded opinions in plenty; but even these

are concealed where to manifest them might give offence. The family

in which I was domiciled consisted of Mr. Allen and his wife, their

married daughter--who, together with her husband, resided with them--an

unmarried daughter, and a pretty little girl, the grandchild. Mr. Allen

kept a country store--for L---- boasted of two--and traded also in cattle

with Canada, making a journey sometimes as far as Montreal in the spring

to buy stock, which he fattened on his pastures through the summer and

autumn, and sold in the early part of the winter. These various ventures,

which were on the whole successful--as the command of a little ready

money enabled him to take his time and buy and sell to advantage--had

made him more “forehanded” than most of his neighbors. He was one of

the selectmen of L----. His dwelling-house, a large, white, well-kept

two-story edifice, with a garden-plot facing the village street, a piazza

on the sunny side, and two beautiful maples dividing the carriage yard

from the road, was one of the handsomest in L----. Mrs. Allen was one of

those energetic housewives whose sound sense and domestic capacity had

evidently contributed not a little to her husband’s present prosperity.

They were a sturdy couple, intelligent, honest, and knowing what was due

to themselves and others; now going down the hill together with mutual

dependence and confidence in each other. I consider them a good example

of the best type of the New Hampshire farming class.

The married daughter did not compare favorably with the mother. One could

not say of her in any sense:

“O matre pulchra filia pulchrior!”

for, as to the question of female beauty, I will not say, as far as my

observations extend, that the New Hampshire, or indeed the New England

women generally, outside the radius of Boston and some of the large

towns, are very generously endowed by nature with that gracious but

dangerous gift. The lines of the face are too strongly marked; they are

sallow, the form angular; or, where the figure is fuller, it is apt to be

as redundant as the old Flemish painters make the women at a village fair.

But this absence of feminine beauty is not universal. I have seen a

young mother with her babe in her lap--a visitor sitting in Mrs. Allen’s

parlor--who made a picture of beautiful maternity as dignified and

simple as Murillo ever painted. As for that more lasting moral beauty

which, where it is feminine, puts on its most delightful and engaging

charm, Mrs. Harley, the married daughter, was too much engaged with

her own little cares and gossip--poor woman!--to think much of so

intangible a possession. Brought up, probably, in habits of more leisure

and pleasure-seeking than her mother, who still took all the household

work upon herself, she was a victim of _ennui_ and of that blight of

too many American homes--only one child to care for. Her health was

delicate and uncertain, and she bade fair to sink eventually into that

class of invalid wives which forms such an unhappily large percentage

of American women. How often have I heard her complain of the dreadful

dulness of the day! “But,” I asked, “what will you do in the winter, if

you find the summer so unbearable?” Her answer was that they generally

enjoyed themselves enough in the summer-time to be able to get through

the winter. I don’t know whether this was a covert thrust at my lack of

entertaining power; but I laughed at the stroke of satire at my expense,

innocent or intended. That long dreary, snow-shrouded New Hampshire

winter--it demanded indeed a stout heart to face it in one of those

isolated villages. Mrs. Harley had given up her music when she married;

the piano stood idle in the best room. She read nothing--unless looking

at the fashion-plates in a ladies’ magazine be considered reading. A

Sunday-school picnic, a day’s shopping in the nearest country town, were

white days in her calendar. Is such a picture of life cheerless? Yet too

many women are forced to endure it elsewhere. Happy they if the abounding

resources of the faith and its literature come to their aid! Mrs. Harley

was a kind woman withal, if her attention were drawn for a moment from

herself; and an affectionate and anxious wife. This and her love for

her child--fretful and over-indulgent as the latter sentiment was apt

to be--were her redeeming qualities. Placed in a large city, with means

equal in proportion to those within her reach in L----, she would have

made a more agreeable woman, and would have been tenfold happier herself.

The influence of semi-solitary life--where a religious vocation does not

exalt and sanctify it--is more unfavorable in its effects upon women than

upon men. The latter commonly have work to do which keeps their faculties

from rusting. Woman’s nature is essentially social.

Mr. Harley assisted his father-in-law in the store--a tall, handsome

young man with a city air, who, at that season, sat in the store the

whole afternoon with perhaps one customer. Such a life for youth, with

its superabundant energies ready to pour like a torrent into any

channel, is stagnation. The highest of man’s natural powers rust and

decay. But natural forces have their sway in the great majority of such

cases, and force an outlet for themselves. The youth of these villages

leave their homes for the great cities, or take Horace Greeley’s advice

and “go West.” Life is hard, and it is monotonous, which adds a new

slavery to hardship. The exodus is constant. L---- has less population

and fewer inhabited houses now than it had forty years ago. The same is

true of other villages--a striking fact in a comparatively new country.

One rambles along some by-road overgrown with grass, and presently comes

upon a deserted and ruined house and barn, the rafters only standing, or

perhaps nothing more than a heap of bricks in the cellar. He asks about

the people, and is told that they have “gone away.” The answer is vague

and uncertain as their fate. I spoke to an old man of eighty-seven,

seated in the shade on the long bench before the country store, where he

could hear the news in the morning. He remembered with distinctness the

events of the war of 1812. He spoke with regret of the flourishing times

of his youth in L---- and its dulness to-day. This roving disposition

of the American youth is the result of immense elbow-room, and has

been providential in building up new States and subduing the virgin

wilderness. The manufacturing cities of New Hampshire also gain yearly at

the expense of the small villages. The township--or town, as it is most

commonly called--embraces three or four of such villages, and is subject

to the same reciprocal movement. Comparatively few new farms have been

broken in during the last twenty or thirty years; and too rarely it

happens on the old farms that fresh ground is taken in from the pasture

for cultivation. The son tills what his father or grandfather cleared.

The first few days in L---- I spent rambling about the pastures--some

of them literally red with the raspberry, which, though it has not the

delicacy or fragrance of the wild strawberry, is not to be disdained

by the city palate--or climbing to the tops of the highest neighboring

hills. What a sense of elastic joy and freedom to me, who had not spent

a summer in the country for three years, to lie stretched at full length

on the top of a new-mown hill, and let the eye wander over the valley

beneath, with its intervening woods and ponds, till it rested upon the

distant mountains, the cloud-shadows chasing each other over their sides

and summits! If this were not in truth an Arcadia to those who lived and

died there, and were buried in the white-stoned churchyard among the

elms--if to them life brought its cares, its jealousies, and sorrows--to

the stranger who sought nothing more than to enjoy its natural beauties

it renewed all the associations of rural happiness and simplicity. Not

that one might hope to see a Corydon and Phillis issue from the New

Hampshire woods--for there is a sternness among those northern scenes,

even in the brightest bloom of summer, foreign to the poetry of the

South--but that in its dark pine groves and on its windy hills fancy

might picture an eclogue or a romance not less sweet and tender because

more real.

L---- is on the height of land between the valleys of the Connecticut and

Merrimac, between twenty and thirty miles distant from each. It is from

one thousand to one thousand three hundred feet above the sea level. It

is said of the rain that falls on the roof of the village church that

part of it eventually runs into the Connecticut, part into the Merrimac,

so evenly does its roof-tree divide the water-shed of those rivers.

But as the same story is told of other churches in the central belt of

Cheshire County, it may be regarded rather in the light of a rhetorical

illustration than as a fact of physical geography. The scenery is not

of the grand or sublime order to be seen further north among the White

Mountains, except where Mt. Monadnock raises its dark and solemn front

above the surrounding landscape; but it is beautiful and picturesque.

Its greatest charm is its variety. In the morning, when the sun was well

towards the zenith--for the fresh air of those hills made the day at

all hours delightful--I would stroll out over the pastures to a hill a

quarter of a mile distant from the farm-house. There would I seat myself,

protected from the sun’s ardent rays, under a young maple bush, the

elastic branches of which, with the sloping ground thick with ferns, made

a natural easy-chair. The valley is below me, the farms stretch along

the nearer hills, and in the further distance the blue-veiled mountains

define the skyline. I bend down a branch of the maple, and before me is

the upper half of Mt. Monadnock, a thin gray mist still enveloping it.

The base of the mountain is hidden by an intervening hill. Leaving this

pasture, and walking a few hundred rods further on, I enter a field where

the hay has just been cut, and which is now as smooth as a croquet lawn,

but not so level; for it is the crest of one of the highest hills. Here a

new scene awaits me. To the north and west the hill has the shape almost

of a perfect dome. Stretched on the top, I cannot see the declivities

of the sides, but only the tops of the trees at some distance. One has

the sensation of being on the roof of a high building with a deep drop

between him and the surrounding country. The view is superb. The whole

mass of Mt. Monadnock, from its base to the highest elevation, rises

from the valley ten miles distant. At its foot is the village of West

Jaffrey, a fashionable watering place. The white spire of the church

is conspicuous among the trees. Further south is Gap Mountain and

Attleborough Mountain; and sweeping round to the east, the view stretches

along the New Ipswich Mountains to Watatick Hill. The circuit extends

about twenty or thirty miles, making a picture of great natural beauty.

The English hay, as the timothy and red clover are generally called, was

still standing in many of the fields, but here and there the whirr of

the mowing-machine could be heard, and the eye, following the direction

of the sound, could discern the mower in his shirt-sleeves driving his

pair of horses in the distant field. The meadow-grass of the lowlands was

still in most places untouched. On the sides of the hills the scattered

fields of wheat, barley, and oats, still green, made darker patches of

verdure on the yellowish ground-color.

But the view I most preferred was from a hill a little to the south of

the village near some deserted buildings. Here the scene was wilder

and more extensive. To the west Mt. Monadnock could be seen through

a gorge between two hills; to the east was a wild and broken country;

while to the south the woods seemed to extend as far as the eye could

reach, and over the furthest range of hills the great dome of Mt.

Wachusett in Massachusetts, nearly thirty miles distant, was plainly

seen, gray and massive, with the naked eye. It was only when one turned

to Mt. Monadnock, ten miles distant, and observed how plainly he could

distinguish the different colors of the mountain--the dark woods, the

brown, bare surfaces, and the slate-colored rocks--that, looking at Mt.

Wachusett, and noting its uniform pale gray outline, he was able to

estimate the real distance of the latter, so comparatively close at hand

did it appear.

Seated at ease on the smooth turf on the summit of this “heaven-kissing”

hill, and looking at this wide and beautiful prospect, one might repeat

to himself Mr. Longfellow’s lines:

“Pleasant it was, when woods were green

And winds were soft and low,

To lie amid some sylvan scene,

Where, the long, drooping boughs between,

Shadows dark and sunlight sheen

Alternate come and go;”

substituting only for “drooping boughs” the irregular ranges of hills.

But descriptions of natural scenery, if long continued, are wearisome.

Even a Ruskin is read best in snatches. The mind otherwise becomes

clogged with images. Let us return, therefore, to animated life.

As Sunday approached, I made inquiries about the nearest Catholic church.

I found it was at W----, eight or nine miles distant. I had no means

of getting there the first Sunday. I retired to my room and read some

chapters of that sublime and affecting work, the _Imitation of Christ_,

the gift of a good and beloved mother.

A Catholic is still almost a being from another moral world in some

of the isolated New Hampshire villages. Nowhere are the traditions of

Puritanism more zealously or rigidly maintained. These good folk seem

hardly yet to have emerged from a fog of wild amazement that “popish”

priests and their followers should be tolerated by the selectmen. Not

that any overt or offensive change of manner follows the announcement

that one is a Catholic--as I have elsewhere said, there is a natural or

inherited vein of good manners among the people that forbids it--but a

momentary silence reveals to the speaker that he has stated something

strange and unlooked for. There is an unmistakable tone of intolerance

manifest, however, in any allusion to the poorer class of Irish and

French that congregate in the larger towns, and are sometimes found in

the villages in a wooden-ware factory, or cutting wood or hemlock-bark,

or doing an odd job of haymaking. They are looked upon with dislike

and distrust, mixed with a feeling of contempt. Curious it is that the

native-born New Englander, with his mind saturated with hereditary

theories of personal liberty, equality, and fraternity, should yet

evince a more unconquerable aversion to the foreign element, which has

contributed so largely to the greatness of the country, than is shown in

European countries to men of a different race, unless war has temporarily

embittered national feeling. Yet the explanation is not hard to find.

This descendant of the Puritan, chained to the rocky and ungrateful

soil his forefathers won from the Indians and the wilderness, sees with

sullen indignation and jealousy the same rights and privileges which

he enjoys under our free institutions extended so largely to those of

a different nationality and religion. In revenge he draws himself more

jealously into his shell. Nor is this feeling confined to the rich and

refined; it penetrates the mass of the native-born New England population.

To speak of lighter things. Society in L---- is eminently aristocratic.

Better, perhaps, it would be to say that the lines of society are very

strongly marked, and that the aristocratic element is essentially

conservative.

Mrs. Cortland, the wife of the New York capitalist, who resides there

three months in the summer, a stout, refined, tight-gloved, graciously

condescending lady, gives a metropolitan tone to L---- society. Mr.

Cortland, an easy-going, easy-tempered man in private life, but reported

to be hard as flint in business matters, seldom finds time to leave New

York, and his visits to L---- are uncertain. His country house, a large,

handsome mansion with well-kept grounds, croquet-lawn, coach-house, and

stables, is on the highest ground in the village; and Mrs. Cortland

occupies without dispute the highest ground socially. It is an imperial

elevation, after the manner of the saying attributed to Cæsar. A call

on Mrs. Cortland is the event of a week, and a return call from her

is a matter not to be lightly treated. How have I seen this good Mrs.

Allen, my landlady, prepare her best room for the grand occasion, and

Mrs. Harley speculate about it with well-assumed indifference a whole

afternoon. One or two other magnates from Boston, scattered through L----

and adjacent townships, save Mrs. Cortland from complete exhaustion by

contact with the village people during the summer.

Then there is the local aristocracy, consisting of the wife of the

Congregational pastor _ex-officio_, and Mrs. Parsons, the wife of

“Squire” Parsons, who owns a small bucket-factory near L----. These two

ladies maintain a strict alliance, offensive and defensive, with Mrs.

Cortland during the summer. Then come the middle classes, comprising Mrs.

Allen and Mrs. Harley, the young doctor’s wife--a stranger and somewhat

snubbed by the autochthonous _élite_--and the well-to-do farmers’ wives.

Finally, we have the _profanum vulgus_, the tail of L---- society, or,

to speak more correctly, those whom society does not recognize--some

farmers’ wives whose husbands were too much in debt to allow them to keep

up appearances; one or two hapless women who sold milk in a wagon to

the neighboring towns, and drove the wagon themselves; and the village

washerwoman, who went around doing “chores.” I think I have exhausted the

classification of the social strata of L----. I observed that the men

eschewed as much as possible the aristocratic distinctions made by their

wives, and were apt to resent by silence or the assumption of an unwonted

bluntness the empty airs and loud voice with which some vulgar rich man

from a neighboring large town would sometimes stride through the village.

Wanderers and waifs, destined apparently to be at some time drawn into

the great caldron of city life--perhaps to their own destruction--were

not wanting in L----. I have said that the women were not remarkable

for beauty. But there was one exception. A girl belonging to one of

the most destitute families in the village, by one of those whims of

nature which are not uncommon, was gifted with a face and figure to

attract even an unobservant eye, and which seemed out of place in that

quiet and homely neighborhood. The mother, a poor, struggling woman with

a growing-up family of all ages, managed to live somehow by the days’

work and occasional assistance given her by the well-to-do families.

The father was living, but spent most of his time in the county jail

for drunkenness. The daughter of whom I speak was about nineteen or

twenty years of age; tall, of fair complexion, with a naturally elegant

carriage and a proud and almost defiant air, as if she resented the

caprice of fortune which had placed her in that lowly station. She had

the art of dressing well with limited means, which some women possess

to the envy of others. On Sundays and at picnics she outshone the more

expensively-dressed daughters of the farmers. She had been, and perhaps

still is, the maid at the village inn. It may be imagined that gossip was

not idle about this poor girl, thus singularly placed and dangerously

gifted. Dreadful quarrels had taken place between the father and mother

about the girl’s staying at the hotel; the drunken father, with a true

sense of what was becoming, insisting that she should leave, the mother

as strenuously maintaining that she should remain. The beauty of the

girl herself was not of that domestic type I have elsewhere noticed

in the mother and her babe I saw in Mrs. Allen’s parlor, but of that

showy, restless, naturally haughty stamp which presaged storm, perhaps

disaster. It is this class misfortune follows and the great cities sweep

into their net. Poverty often makes vice of that which, under happier

fortunes, might have been attractive virtue. _Absit omen_. May this

rustic beauty find a happier, if more homely, destiny as the wife of some

honest farmer in L----!

The summer passed, week after week. I fished, I walked, I rode, I read,

I loitered. The barley ripened on the hill behind the farm-house, and

a golden tint began to spread over the distant fields. The apples grew

large and ruddy on one side where the sun struck the laden branch in

the orchard. The tassels of the corn showed purple. August blazed. The

doves flew thirstily to the large blue pump, and perched on the edges

of the horse-trough after the farmer watered his horse at mid-day. The

bees hummed three at a time in the big yellow cups of the squash-vines.

Have you ever observed of that homely vegetable how ingeniously and

dexterously it fastens its daring and aggressive vines to the ground as

it shoots out over the close-cut grass? Stoop down among the after-math,

or rowen, as it is called in New Hampshire, and you will see that at the

inosculation of each successive joint of the vine, where it throws out

its tendrils and blossoms, it also thrusts forth slender, white, curling

ligaments that twist, each of them, tightly around a tiny tuft of the

short grass. Thus it moors itself, as if by so many delicate living

cables, to the bosom of the life-giving earth.

I might, if space allowed, tell of my fishing ventures, and how one

glorious morning we rode out of L---- in a big yellow wagon with

three horses--a party of seven of us, ladies and gentlemen, from the

village--to make the ascent of Mt. Monadnock. This is the lion of all the

country round. Parties are made up every week to climb its rugged summit.

Over the hills and rolling ground we gaily rattled. Through the sandy

country roads, where the branches of the trees met overhead and made dim

aisles of verdure, we smoothly sped. And then what panting, laughing,

climbing, shrill screaming, as we toiled up the winding path from the

half-way house to the top of the mountain! What a magnificent, boundless

view repaid us! The day was clear. To the north, Mt. Kearsarge and

rolling ranges of mountains; to the southeast, a diversified surface of

country spreading onwards far as the eye could reach towards the unseen

ocean; to the south, Mt. Wachusett; below us woods, valleys, and lakes. A

feeling of awe creeps over one in these mountain solitudes.

As to the fishing, I will confess that to me, who had thrown a fly over

more than one Canadian river, and had killed my twenty-pound salmon

on the Nipisiquit, loafing with a pole in a boat over a lily-covered

pond for a half-pound pickerel was not tremendously exciting sport. But

what mattered it? The mornings were soft and wooing; the woods were

full of mysterious shadows; the water was limpid as if Diana and her

nymphs bathed there in the spectral moonlight. Life passed smoothly and

agreeably. I sought no more.

The blackberries began to ripen, first one by one and then in sable

clusters, in the pastures. The days were growing shorter. The twilight

sank more quickly into night. September approached, and I began to

look for the appearance of my friend Jones. I had seen Miss Cortland

two or three times coming from or going to the meeting-house on Sunday

mornings, when all the beauty and fashion of L---- for miles around rode

up in buggies, carryalls, or open wagons; but I had never met her to be

introduced to her--a little imperial beauty, with a fresh and rosy color,

and a mouth shaped like Cupid’s bow, that needed only to smile to conquer.

On a bright September morning, when the surrounding atmosphere was clear

as a bell, but a thin haze still clung about Mt. Monadnock and the

far-off mountains, Jones rode over on the stage-coach from the railroad

station and joined me at L----. He asked eagerly about Miss Cortland.

Was she in the village?

Yes.

Had I met her?

No; but I had seen her two or three times.

What did I think of her?

Well, I thought her pretty enough to excuse a little wildness of

imagination on his part. He would be a lucky fellow if he got her and

some of her father’s money or a position in his business!

Did I think he would give up his Art so easily?

“My dear Jones,” I replied, “I don’t want to appear cold-blooded,

or to dash your enthusiasm for your art in the least; but, to speak

candidly, I should not be surprised if you did some day under sufficient

temptation--the prospect of marrying Miss Cortland, for example.”

Jones declared his intention of calling on Miss Cortland that very day.

He had a sketch-book full of studies, spirited, but many of them mere

hints. He came back before dinner, full of life, and proposing a score

of schemes for to-morrow. He made a sort of small whirlwind in my quiet

life. Mrs. Cortland had received him civilly, but he thought a little

coolly. But he had seen Agnes, and had spoken a few words to her that

might mean much or little as they were taken, and he was happy--rather

boisterously happy, perhaps, as a young fellow will be at such

times--full of jokes, and refusing to see a cloud on his horizon.

Jones fell easily into our farm-house ways, though he was apt to steal

off in the mornings to play croquet on the Cortlands’ lawn with Miss

Cortland and Miss Parsons, and any other friend they could get to join

them.

One afternoon, when the sun was getting low and a southerly wind blowing,

we started to try for some fish at a pond about half an hour’s walk from

the house. As we turned off the highway into a by-road covered with grass

that led to the pond, I saw Miss Cortland standing on the rising ground

some distance before us. She was looking from us towards the sinking sun,

now veiled in quick-drifting clouds. Her dog, a large, powerful animal, a

cross between a Newfoundland and Mount St. Bernard, was crouched at her

feet. Some vague thoughts about Una and her lion flitted through my mind.

But I was more struck by the way the light touched her figure, standing

out motionless against the gray sky. It reminded me very much of the

general effect of a painting by a foreign artist--Kammerer, I think it

was--that I saw at the exhibition of the Boston Art Club last year. It

was the picture of a girl standing on a pier on the French coast, looking

out to sea. Her golden hair was slightly stirred by the breeze, her lips

a little parted, and there was a far-away look in her eyes, as if she may

have expected a lover to be coming over the sea in one of the yachts that

lined the horizon. The dress of the girl and the stone-work of the pier

were both white. It was a good example of the striking effects produced

by the free use of a great deal of almost staring white, which is a

favorite device of the latest school of French art.

As we advanced, the dog growled and rose, but, recognizing Jones, wagged

his tail inoffensively as we drew nearer. Miss Cortland turned towards us.

“Shall I introduce you?” said Jones.

“No,” I said. “I’ll go on to the pond. I’ll see you to-night.”

Jones advanced, hat in hand. “What happy fortune,” he said, addressing

her, “has led me to meet the goddess of these woods?” Then, altering his

tone, he added in a bantering way: “I see you have been poaching on our

preserves, Miss Cortland. But I do wonder at your taste, fishing for

eels!” pointing to a small basket on her arm from which hung some of the

long stems of the pond-lily. This he said to vex her, knowing her horror

of those creatures. “Eels?” she exclaimed indignantly, with a tone and

gesture of aversion at the thought. “They are pond-lilies.”

“Oh! that is very well to say,” replied Jones, “when you have the lid of

the basket down to hide them; but I insist upon their being eels unless

you show them to me.”

By this time I was out of hearing. I left them together, and kept on down

the road to the pond.