The king turned slightly around on his chair, and fixed upon him a

searching glance, as if he sought to read the inmost soul of More.

The countenance of the chancellor was tranquil, respectful, and assured,

such as it had always been. In vain Henry sought to discover the

indications of fear, the impetuous desires and ambitions which he was

accustomed to excite or contradict in the agitated heart of Wolsey, and

by which, in his turn master of his favorite, of his future, and of his

great talents, he made him pay so dearly for the honors at intervals

heaped upon him.

Nothing of all this could he discover! More seated himself when invited

by the king, and entered upon the discussion of a multitude of affairs

to which he had been devoting himself with unremitting attention day and

night.

“Sire,” he would urge, “this measure will be most useful to your

kingdom; sire, justice, it seems to me, requires you to give such a

decision in that case.”

Never were any other considerations brought to bear nor other demands

made; nothing for himself, nothing for his family, but all for the good

of the state, the interests of the people; silence upon all subjects

his conscience did not oblige him to reveal, though the king perceived

only too clearly the inmost depths of the pure and elevated soul of his

chancellor.

By dazzling this man of rare virtues with a fortune to which a simple

gentleman could never aspire, Henry had hoped to allure him to his own

party and induce him to sustain the divorce bill. Thus, by a monstrous

contradiction, in corrupting him by avarice and ambition, he would have

destroyed the very virtues on which he wished to lean. He perceived with

indignation that all his artifices had been unsuccessful in influencing

a will accustomed to yield only to convictions of duty, and he feared

his ability to move him by any of the indirect and abstract arguments

which he felt and acknowledged to himself were weak and insufficient.

Revolving all these reflections in his mind, the king eagerly opened the

conversation with More, but in a quiet tone and with an air of assumed

indifference.

“Well! Sir Thomas,” he said, “have you reflected on what I asked you?

Do you not find now that my marriage with my brother’s wife was in

opposition to all laws human and divine, and that I cannot do otherwise

than have it pronounced null and void, after being thus advised by so

many learned men, and ecclesiastics also?”

“Sire,” replied More, “I have done what your majesty requested me; but

it occurs to my mind that, in an affair of so much importance, it will

not be sufficient to ask simply the advice of those immediately around

you; for it might be feared that, influenced by the affection they bear

for you, they would not decide as impartially as your majesty would

desire. Perhaps, also, some of them might be afraid of offending you. I

have, therefore, concluded that it would be better for your majesty to

consult advisers who are entirely removed from all such suspicions. That

is why I have endeavored to collect together in this manuscript I have

here the various passages of Holy Scripture bearing on this subject. I

have added also the opinions of S. Augustine and several other fathers

of the church, with whose eminent learning and high authority among the

faithful your majesty is familiar.”

“Ah!” said the king, with a slightly-marked movement of impatience, “that

was right. Leave it there; I will read it.”

Sir Thomas deposited the manuscript on the king’s table.

“My lord chancellor,” he continued, “the House of Commons has taken some

steps toward discharging my debts. What do they think of this in the

city?”

“Sire,” replied More, “I must tell you candidly they complain openly and

loudly. They say if the ministers had not taken care to introduce into

the house members who had received their positions from themselves, the

bill would never have passed; for it is altogether unjust and iniquitous

for Parliament to dispose in this manner of private property. They say

still farther that it has been inserted in the preamble of the bill that

the prosperity of the kingdom under the king’s paternal administration

had induced them to testify their gratitude by discharging his debts.

If this pretext is sincere, it reflects the greatest honor on Cardinal

Wolsey; and if, on the contrary, it is false, it covers his successors

with shame.”

“What!” exclaimed the king, “do they dare express themselves in this

manner?”

“Yes,” replied Sir Thomas; “and I will frankly say to the king that it

would have been far better to have imposed a new tax supported equally by

all than thus to despoil individuals of their patrimony.”

“They are never contented!” exclaimed the king impatiently. “I have

sacrificed Wolsey to their hatred, whom there is no person in the kingdom

now able to replace. This Dr. Gardiner torments me with questions which

are far from satisfactory to his dull comprehension. Everything goes

wrong, unless I take the trouble of managing it myself; while with the

cardinal the slightest suggestion was sufficient. I constantly feel

inclined to recall him! Then we will see what they will say! But no!”

he continued, with an expression of gloomy sullenness, “they gave me no

rest until I had banished him from his archbishopric of York. It was,

they said, the sole means of preventing Parliament from pronouncing his

condemnation. By this time he is doubtless already reconciled; he is so

vain a creature that the three or four words I have said in his favor to

my nobles of the north will have been worth more to him than the homage

and adulation of a court, without which he cannot exist. He is pious now,

they say, occupying himself only with good works and in doing penance

for his many sins of the past. In fact, he is entirely reconciled!

He has already forgotten all that I have done for him! I shall devote

myself, then, to those who now serve me!”

“I doubt very much if your majesty has been correctly informed with

regard to the latter fact,” replied More. “Indeed, I know that the order

compelling him to be entirely removed from your majesty’s presence is the

one that caused him the deepest grief.”

“Ah! More,” interrupted the king very suddenly, as if to take him by

surprise, “you are opposed to my divorce. I have known it perfectly well

for a long time; and these extracts from the fathers of the church to

which you refer me are simply the expression of your own opinions, which

you wish to convey to me in this indirect manner.”

“Sire,” replied More, slightly embarrassed, “I had hoped your majesty

would not force me to give my opinion on a subject of such grave

importance, and one, as I have already explained, on which I possess

neither the authority nor the ability to decide.”

“Ah! well, Sir Thomas,” replied the king in a confident manner, wishing

to discover what effect his words would produce on More, “being entirely

convinced of the justice of my cause, and that nothing can prevent me

from availing myself of it, I am determined, if the pope refuses what

I have a right to demand, to withdraw from the tyrannical yoke of his

authority. I will appoint a patriarch in my kingdom, and the bishops

shall no longer submit to his jurisdiction.”

“A schism!” exclaimed More, “a schism! Dismember the church of Jesus

Christ for a woman!”

And he paused, appalled at what Henry had said and astonished at his own

energetic denunciation.

The king felt, as by a violent shock, all the force of that exclamation,

and, dropping his head on his breast, he remained stupefied, like one who

had just been aroused from a painful and terrible dream.

Just at that moment the cabinet door was thrown violently open, and Lady

Anne Boleyn entered precipitately. She was drowned in tears, and carried

in her arms a hunting spaniel that belonged to the king.

She threw it into the centre of the apartment, evidently in a frightful

rage.

“Here,” she cried, looking at the king--“here is your wretched dog, that

has tried to strangle my favorite bird! You never do anything but try

to annoy me, make me miserable, and cause me all kinds of intolerable

vexations. I have told you already that I did not want that horrid animal

in my chamber.”

In the meantime the dog, which she had thrown on the floor, set up a

lamentable howl.

The king felt deeply humiliated by this ridiculous scene, and especially

on account of the angry familiarity exhibited by Anne Boleyn in presence

of Sir Thomas More; for she either forgot herself in her extreme

excitement and indignation, or she believed her empire so securely

established that she did not hesitate to give these proofs of it. She

continued her complaints and reproaches with increasing haughtiness,

until she was interrupted by Dr. Stephen Gardiner, who came to bring some

newly-arrived despatches to the king.

Henry arose immediately, and, motioning Sir Thomas to open the door,

without saying a word, he took Anne Boleyn by the hand, and, leading her

from the room, ordered her to retire to her own apartment.

He then returned, and, seating himself near the chancellor, concealed, as

far as he was able, his excitement and mortification.

Sir Thomas, still more excited, could not avoid, as they went over the

despatches, indignantly reflecting on the manner in which Anne Boleyn

had treated the king, on his deplorable infatuation, and the terrible

consequences to which that infatuation must inevitably lead.

The king, divining the nature of his reflections, experienced a degree of

humiliation that made him inexpressibly miserable.

“What say these despatches?” he asked, endeavoring to assume composure.

“What does More think of me?” he said to himself--“he so grave, so pious,

so dignified! He despises me!… That silly girl!”

“They give an account of the emperor’s reception of the Earl of

Wiltshire,” answered More. “I will read it aloud, if your majesty wishes.”

“No, no,” said the king, whom the name of Wiltshire confused still more;

“give them to me. I am perfectly familiar with the cipher.” He did not

intend that More should yet be apprised of the base intrigues he had

ordered to be practised at Rome to assist the father of his mistress in

obtaining the divorce.

Having taken the letters, he found the emperor had treated his

ambassador with the utmost contempt, remarking to Wiltshire that he was

an interested party, since he was father of the queen’s rival, and he

would have to inform Henry VIII. that the emperor was not a merchant

to sell the honor of his aunt for three hundred thousand crowns, even

if he proposed to abandon her cause, but, on the contrary, he should

defend it to the last extremity; and after saying this, the emperor had

deliberately turned his back on the ambassador and forbidden him to be

again admitted to his presence.

Henry grew red and white alternately.

“I am, then, the laughing-stock of Europe,” he murmured through his

firmly-set teeth.

Numerous other explanations followed, in which the Earl of Wiltshire

gave an exact and circumstantial account of the offer he had made to the

Holy Father of the treatise composed by Cromwell on the subject of the

divorce, saying that he had brought the author with him, who was prepared

to sustain the opinions advanced against all opposition. He ended by

informing the king that, in spite of his utmost efforts, he had not been

able to prevent the pope from according the emperor a brief forbidding

Henry to celebrate another marriage before the queen’s case had been

entirely decided, and enjoining him to treat her in the meantime as his

legitimate wife.

Wiltshire sent with his letter an especial copy of that document,

adding that he feared the information the Holy Father had received of

the violence exercised by the English universities toward those doctors

who had voted against the divorce, together with the money and promises

distributed among those of France, especially the University of Paris, to

obtain favorable decisions, had not contributed toward influencing him.

The king read and re-read several times all these statements, and was

entirely overwhelmed with indignation and disappointment.

“And why,” he angrily exclaimed, dashing the earl’s letter as far as

possible from him--“why have these flatterers surrounding me always

assured me I would succeed in my undertaking? Why could they not

foresee that it would be impossible? and why have I not found a sincere

friend who might have admonished me? More!” he cried after a moment’s

silence--“More, I am most miserable! What could be more unjust? I am

devoted to Lady Anne Boleyn as my future wife; and now they wish to make

me renounce her. The emperor’s intrigues prevail, and against all laws,

human and divine, they condemn me to eternal celibacy!”

“Ah!” replied Sir Thomas in a firm but sadly respectful manner, “yes, it

is indeed distressing to see your majesty thus voluntarily destroy your

own peace, that of your kingdom, the happiness of your subjects, the

regard for your own honor, so many benefits, in fact, and all for the

foolish love of a girl who possesses neither worth nor reputation.”

“More,” exclaimed the king, “do not speak of her in this manner! She is

young and thoughtless, but in her heart she is devoted to me.”

“That is,” replied More, “she is entirely devoted to the crown; she loves

dearly the honors of royalty, and her pride is doubly flattered.”

“More,” said the king, “I forgive you for speaking thus to me; your

severe morals, your austere virtues, have not permitted you to experience

the torments of love, and that is why,” he added gloomily, “you cannot

comprehend its irresistible impulses and true sentiments.”

“Nothing that is known to one man is unknown to another,” replied More.

“Love, in itself, is a sublime sentiment that comes from God; but, alas!

men drag it in the dust, like all else they touch, and too often mistake

the appearance for the reality. To love anyone, O my king!” continued

More, “is it not to prefer them in all things above yourself, to consider

yourself as nothing, and be willing to sacrifice without regret all that

you would wish to possess?”

“Yes,” said Henry VIII.; “and that is the way I love Anne--more than my

life, more than the entire world!”

“No, no, sire!” exclaimed More, “don’t tell me that. No, don’t say you

love her; say you love the pleasure she affords you, the attractions she

possesses, which have charmed your senses--in a word, acknowledge that

you love yourself in her, and consider well that the day when nature

deprives her of her gifts and graces your memory will no longer represent

her to you but as an insipid image, worthy only of a scornful oblivion!

Ah! if you loved her truly, you would act in a different manner. You

would never have considered aught but her happiness and her interests;

you would blush for her, and you would not be able to endure the thought

of the shame with which you have not hesitated to cover her yourself in

the eyes of all your court!”

“Perhaps,” … replied Henry in a low and altered voice. “But she--she

loves me; I cannot doubt that.”

“She loves the King of England!” replied More excitedly, “but not Henry;

she loves the mighty prince who ignominiously bends his neck beneath the

yoke which she pleases to impose on him. But poor and destitute, her

glance would never have fallen upon you. Proud of her beauty, vain of

her charms, she holds you like a conquered vassal whom she governs by a

gesture or a word. She loves riches, honors and the pleasures with which

you surround her. She is dazzled by the _éclat_ of the high rank you

occupy, and, to attain it, she fears not to purchase it at the price of

your soul and all that you possess. What matters to her the care of your

honor or the love of your subjects? Has she ever said to you: ‘Henry, I

love you, but your duty separates you from me; be great, be virtuous’?

Has she said: ‘Catherine, your wife, is my sovereign, and I recognize no

other’? Do you not hear the voice of your people saying to your children:

‘You shall reign over us’? But what am I saying? No, of course she has

not spoken thus; because she seeks to elevate herself, she thinks of her

own aggrandizement--to see at her feet men whom she would never otherwise

be able to command.”

“What shall I do, then, what shall I do?” cried Henry dolorously.

“Marry Anne Boleyn,” replied Thomas More coolly; “you should do it, since

you have broken off her marriage with the Earl of Northumberland. If not,

send her away from court.”

“I will do it! … No, I will not do it!” he exclaimed, almost in the same

breath. “I shall never be able to do it.”

“That is to say, you never intend to do it,” replied More. “We can always

accomplish what we resolve.”

“No, no,” replied Henry; “we cannot always do what we wish. Everything

conspires against me. Tired of willing, I can make nothing bend to my

will! Of what use is my royal power? To be happy is a thing impossible!”

“Yes, of all things in this life most impossible,” answered More; “and he

who aspires to attain it finds his miseries redoubled at the very moment

he thinks they will terminate. The possession of unlawful pleasures is

poisoned by the remorse that follows in their train; and, frightened by

their insecurity and short duration, we are prevented from enjoying them

in quietness and peace.”

“Then,” cried Henry VIII., stamping his foot violently on the floor, “we

had better be dead.”

“Yes,” replied Thomas More, “and to-morrow perhaps we may be!”

“To-morrow!” repeated the king, as if struck with terror. “No, no, More,

not to-morrow. … I would not be willing now to appear in the presence of

God.”

“Then,” replied More, “how can you expect to live peaceably in a

condition in which you are afraid to die? In a few hours, or at least in

a few years (that is as certain as the light of day which shines this

moment), your life and mine will have to end, leaving nothing more than

regrets for the past and fears for the future.”

“You say truly, More,” replied the king; “but life appears so long to

us, the future so far removed! Is it necessary, then, that we be always

thinking of it and sacrificing our pleasures?… Later--well, we will

change. Will we not have more time then to think of it?”

“Ah!” replied More sadly, “there remains very little time to him who is

always putting off until to-morrow.”

As he heard the last words, the king’s face grew instantly crimson. He

kept More with him, entertaining him with his trials and vexations, and

the night was far advanced before he permitted him to retire.

* * * * *

During four entire days the king remained shut up in his apartment, and

Anne Boleyn vainly attempted to gain admittance.

Meanwhile, a rumor of her downfall spread rapidly through the palace. The

courtiers who were accustomed to attend her _levées_ in greater numbers

and much more scrupulously than those of Queen Catherine, suddenly

discontinued, and on the last occasion scarcely one of them made his

appearance. They also took great care to preserve a frigid reserve and

doubtful politeness, which excited to the last degree her alarm and that

of her ambitious family.

The latter were every moment in dread of the blow that seemed ready to

fall upon them. In this state of gloomy disquiet every circumstance

was anxiously noted and served to excite their apprehensions. They

continually discussed among themselves the arrival of the despatches

from Rome, the nature of which they suspected from the very long time

Sir Thomas More had remained with the king. Then they refreshed their

memories with reflections on the inflexible severity of the lord

chancellor, his old attachment for Queen Catherine--an attachment which

the elevation of More had never interrupted, as they had hoped would be

the case. Finally, the sincerity of his nature and the estimation in

which he was held by the king made them, with great reason, apprehend

the influence of his counsel. Already they found themselves abandoned

by almost all of those upon whose support they had relied. Suffolk,

leagued with them heretofore, in order to secure the downfall of Cardinal

Wolsey, now regarded them in their disgrace as of little consequence to

one so closely related as himself to his majesty by the princess, his

wife. The Duke of Norfolk, justly proud of his birth, his wealth, and his

reputation, could not believe the power with which the influence of his

niece had clothed him in the council by any means bound him to engage

in or compromise himself in her cause. In the meantime they realized

that they would inevitably be compelled to succumb or make a last and

desperate effort, and they resolved with one accord to address themselves

to Cromwell, whose shrewdness and cunning, joined to the motives of

self-interest that could be brought to bear on him, seemed to offer them

a last resort.

Cromwell immediately understood all the benefit he would be likely to

derive from the situation whether he succeeded or failed in the cause

of Anne Boleyn, and determined, according to his own expression, to

“make or unmake.” He wrote to the king, demanding an audience. “He fully

realized,” he wrote, with his characteristic adroitness, “his entire

incapacity for giving advice, but neither his devoted affection nor his

sense of duty would permit him to remain silent when he knew the anxiety

his sovereign was suffering. It might be deemed presumptuous in him

to say it, but he believed all the difficulties embarrassing the king

arose from the timidity of his advisers, who were misled by exterior

appearances or deceived by the opinions of the vulgar.”

The king immediately granted him an audience, although his usual custom

was to remain entirely secluded and alone while laboring under these

violent transports of passion. He hoped that Cromwell might be able to

present his opinions with such ability as would at least be sufficient to

divert him from the wretchedness he experienced.

Cromwell appeared before him with eyes cast down and affecting an air of

sadness and constraint.

“Sire,” he said, as he approached the king, “yesterday, even yesterday,

I was happy--yes, happy in the thought of being permitted to present

myself before your majesty; because it seemed to me I might be able to

offer some consolation for the anxieties you experience by reminding you

that nothing should induce you to pause in your efforts to advance the

interests of the kingdom and the state. But to-day, in appearing before

you, I know not what to say. This morning Lady Boleyn, being informed

that I was to have the happiness of seeing your majesty, sent for me and

charged me with the commission of asking your majesty’s permission for

her to withdraw from court.”

“What!” exclaimed Henry, rising hastily to his feet, “she wishes to leave

me?--she, my only happiness, my only joy? Never!”

“I have found her,” continued Cromwell, seeming not to remark the

painful uneasiness he had aroused in the king’s mind--“I have found her

plunged in a state of indescribable grief. She was almost deprived of

consciousness; her beautiful eyes were weighed down with tears, her long

hair hanging neglected around her shoulders; and her pale, transparent

cheek made her resemble a delicate white rose bowed on its slender stem

before the violence of the tempest. ‘Go, my dear Cromwell,’ she said to

me with a tremulous voice, but sweet as the soft expiring notes of an

æolian lyre--‘go, say to my king, to my lord, I ask his permission to

retire this day to my father’s country-seat. I know that I am surrounded

by enemies, but, while favored by his protection, I have not feared their

malice. But now I feel, and cannot doubt it, I shall become their victim,

since they have succeeded in prejudicing my sovereign against me to such

an extent that he refuses to hear my defence.’”

“What can she be afraid of here?” cried the king. “Who would dare offend

her in my palace?”

“Who will be able to defend her if your majesty abandons her?” replied

Cromwell in a haughty tone, feigning to forget the humble demeanor he had

assumed, and mentally applauding the success of his stratagem. “Has she

not given up all for you? Every day she has wounded by her refusals the

greatest lords of the realm, who have earnestly sued for her heart and

hand; but she has constantly refused to listen to them because of the

love she bears for you--always preferring the uncertain hope of one day

becoming yours to all the brilliant advantages of the wealthiest suitors

she has been urged to accept. But to-day, when her honor is attacked,

when you banish her from your presence, she feels she will not have

the courage to endure near you such wretchedness, and she asks to be

permitted to withdraw from court at once and for ever!”

“For ever?” repeated the king. “Cromwell, has she said that? Have you

heard her right? No, Cromwell, you are mistaken! I know her better than

you.” And he turned on Cromwell a keen, scrutinizing glance.

But nothing could daunt this audacious man.

“She said all I have told you,” replied the hypocrite, with the coolest

assurance, raising his head haughtily. “Would I dare to repeat what I

have not heard? And your majesty can imagine that my devotion has alone

induced me to become the bearer of so painful a message; for I could not

believe, your majesty had ceased to love her.”

“Never!” cried the king. “Never have I for one moment ceased to adore

her! But listen, dear Cromwell, and be convinced of how wretched I am!

Yesterday I received from Rome the most distressing intelligence. I

had written the pope a letter, signed by a great number of lords of my

court and bishops of the kingdom, in which they expressed the fears they

entertained of one day seeing the flames of civil war break out in this

country if I should die without male heirs, as there would be grounds for

contesting the right of my daughter Mary to the throne on the score of

her legitimacy. But nothing can move him.”

* * * * *

Here the king rose, furiously indignant. “He has answered this petition,”

he cried, walking with hurried strides up and down the floor; “and

how?… By my faith, I can scarcely repeat it.… That he pardons the terms

they have used in their letter, attributing them to the affection they

bear for me; that he is under still greater obligations to me than

they have mentioned; that it is not his fault if the affair of the

divorce remains undecided; that he has sent legates to England; that

the queen has refused to recognize them, and appealed from all they

have done; that he has tried vainly in every possible way to terminate

the affair amicably; and, furthermore, ‘You will, perhaps, be ready to

say,’ he writes, ‘that, being under so many obligations to the king as

I am, I should waive all other considerations and accord him absolutely

everything he asks.’ Although that would be sovereignly unjust, yet he

can conclude nothing else from their letter; that they reflect not on

the queen having represented to him, that all Christendom is scandalized

because they would attempt to annul a marriage contracted so many years

ago, at the request of two great kings and under a dispensation from the

pope--a marriage confirmed by the birth of several children! And what

else? Let me see:… That if I rely on the opinion of several doctors and

universities, he refers, on his part, to the law of God upon the sanctity

and unity of marriage, and the highest authorities taken from the Hebrew

and Latin writers; that the decisions of the universities which I bring

forward are supported by no proofs; he cannot decide finally upon that,

and, if he should precipitate his judgment, they would no longer be able

to avert the evils with which it is said England is threatened; that he

desires as much as they that I may have male heirs, but he is not God

to give them to me; he has no greater wish than to please me as far as

lies in his power, without at the same time violating all the laws of

justice and equity; and, finally, he conjures them to cease demanding

of him things that are opposed to his conscience, in order that he may

be spared the pain of refusing! Mark that well, Cromwell--the pain of

refusing! Thus, you see, after having tried everything, spent everything,

and used every possible means, what remains now for me to hope?”

“All that you wish,” replied Cromwell; “everything without exception!

Why permit yourself to be governed by those who ought to be your slaves?

Among all the clergy who surround you, and whom you are able to reduce,

if you choose, to mendicity, can you not find a priest who will marry

you? If I were King of England, I would very soon convince them that

the happiness of _their_ lives depended entirely upon _mine_! Threaten

to withdraw from the authority of Rome, and you will very soon see them

yielding, on their knees, to all your demands.”

“Cromwell,” said Henry VIII., “I admire your spirit and the boldness of

the measures you advocate. From this moment I open to you the door of my

council. Remember the kindness and the signal favor with which I have

honored you. However, your inexperienced zeal carries you too far; you

forget that the day I would determine really to separate myself from the

Church of Rome, I would become schismatic, and the people would refuse to

obey me. Moreover I am a Catholic, and I wish to die one.”

“What of that?” replied Cromwell. “Am I not also a Catholic? Because your

majesty frightens the pope, will he cease to exist? Declare to him that

from this day you no longer recognize his authority; that you forbid the

clergy paying their tithes to, or receiving from him their nominations.

You will see, then, if the next day your present marriage is not

annulled and the one you wish to contract approved and ratified.”

“Do you really believe it?” said the king.

“I am sure of it,” replied Cromwell.

“No,” said the king. “It is a thing utterly impossible; the bishops would

refuse to accede to any such requirements, and they would be right. They

know too well that it is essential for the church to have a head in order

to maintain her unity, and without it nothing would follow but confusion

and disorder.”

“Well! who can prevent your majesty from becoming yourself that head?”

exclaimed Cromwell. “Is England not actually a monster now with two

heads, one of them wanting a thing, and the other not? Follow the example

given you by those German princes who are freeing themselves from the

yoke which has humbled them for so many years before the throne of a

pontiff who is a stranger alike to their affections and their interests!

Then everything anomalous will rectify itself, and your subjects cease

to believe that any other than yourself is entitled to their homage or

submission.”

“You are right, little Cromwell!” cried Henry VIII., this seductive and

perfidious discourse flattering at the same time his guilty passion and

the ambition that divided his soul. “But how would you proceed about

executing this marvellous project, of which a thought had already crossed

my own mind?--for, as I have just told you, the clergy will refuse to

obey me, and I shall then have no means of compelling them.”

“Your consideration and kindness make you forget,” replied Cromwell

adroitly, afraid of wounding the king’s pride, “the statutes of præmunire

offer you means both sure and easy. Is it not by those laws they have

tried Wolsey before the Parliament? In condemning him they have condemned

themselves, and have made themselves amenable to the same penalties. You

have them all in your power. Threaten to punish them in their turn, if

they refuse to take the oath acknowledging you as head of the church; and

do it fearlessly if they dare attempt to resist you.”

“Well, little Cromwell,” said Henry VIII., slapping him familiarly on

the shoulder, “I observe with great satisfaction your coolness and the

variety of resources you have at command. You see everything at a glance

and fear nothing. I have made all these objections only to hear how

you would meet them. Here, take these Roman documents, read them for

yourself, and you will be better able to appreciate their contents; while

I go and beg Anne to forget the wrongs I so cruelly reproach myself with

having inflicted on her.”

Saying this, Henry VIII. went out, and Cromwell followed him with his

eyes as he walked through the long gallery.

An ironical smile hovered over his thin and bloodless lips as he watched

him. “Go, go,” he murmured to himself, “throw yourself at the feet of

your silly mistress, and ask her pardon for wishing her to be queen

of England. They are grand, very grand, these kings, and yet they

find themselves very often held in the hollow of the hand of some low

and crafty flatterer! ‘Despicable creature!’ they will say. Yes, I am

despicable in the eyes of many; and yet they prepare, by my advice,

to overthrow the pillars of the church, in order to enrich me with its

consecrated spoils.”

He laughed a diabolical laugh; then suddenly his face grew dark, and a

fierce, malignant gleam shot from his eyes. “Go,” he continued--“go,

prince as false as you are wicked. I, at least, am your equal in cunning

and duplicity. You were not created for good, and the odious voice of

More will call you in vain to the path of virtue. My tongue--ay, mine--is

to you far sweeter! It carries a poison that you will suck with eager

lips. The son of the poor fuller will make you his partner in crime. He

will recline with you on your velvet throne, and perfidious cruelty will

unite us heart and soul!… Go, seek that fool whom you adore and who will

weary you very soon, and the vile, ambitious father who has begotten

her. But, for me! … destroy your kingdom, profane the sanctuary, light

the funeral pyre, and compel all those to mount it who shall oppose the

laws Cromwell will dictate to you! Two ferocious beasts to-day share the

throne of England! You will surfeit me with gold, and I will make you

drunk with blood! You shall proclaim aloud what I shall have whispered

in your ear! Ha! who of the two will be really king--Henry VIII. or

Cromwell? Why, Cromwell, without doubt; because he was born in the mire.

He has learned how to fly while the other was being fledged beneath the

shadow of the crown! You have been reared within these walls of gold,”

continued Cromwell, surveying the magnificent adornings of the royal

chamber; “these exquisite perfumes, escaping from fountains and flowers,

have always surround you. You have never known, like me, abandonment and

want, suffered from cold and hunger in a thatched cottage, and imbibed

the hatred, fostered in those abodes of wretchedness, against the rich;

but I have cherished that rage in my inmost soul! There it burns like a

consuming fire! I will have a palace. I will have power and be feared.

Servile courtiers shall fawn at my feet, adulation shall surround me. I

would grasp the entire world, and yet the cry of my soul would be, More,

still more!”

Saying this, Cromwell threw himself into the king’s arm-chair, and,

pushing contemptuously from him the papers he had taken to read,

abandoned himself entirely to the furious thirst of avarice and ambition

that devoured him.

* * * * *

The curfew had already sounded many hours, and profound silence reigned

over the city. Not a sound was heard throughout the dark and winding

streets, save the boisterous shouts of some midnight revellers returning

from a party of pleasure, or the dreary and monotonous song of a besotted

inebriate as he staggered toward his home.

In the mansion of the French ambassador, however, no one had retired; and

young De Vaux, impatiently waiting the return of M. du Bellay, paced with

measured tread up and down the large hall where for many hours supper had

been served.

Weary with listening for the sound of footsteps, and hearing only

the mournful sighing of the night-wind, he at length seated himself

before the fire in a great tapestried arm-chair whose back, rising

high above his head, turned over in the form of a canopy, and gave him

the appearance of a saint reposing in the depths of his shrine. For

a long time he watched the sparks as they flew upward from the fire,

then, taking a book from his pocket, he opened it at random; but before

reaching the bottom of the first page his eyes closed, the book fell from

his hands, and he sank into a profound sleep, from which he was aroused

only by the noise made by the ambassador’s servants on the arrival of

their master.

M. de Vaux, being suddenly aroused from sleep, arose hastily to his feet

on seeing the ambassador enter.

“I have waited for you with the greatest impatience,” he exclaimed with a

suppressed yawn.

“Say, rather, you have been sleeping soundly in your chair,” replied M.

du Bellay, smiling. “Here!” he continued, turning toward the valets who

followed him, “take my cloak and hat, and then leave us; you can remove

the table in the morning.”

Obedient to their master’s orders, they lighted several more lamps and

retired, not without regret, however, at losing the opportunity of

catching, during the repast, a word that might have satisfied their

curiosity as to the cause of M. du Bellay having remained at the king’s

palace until so late an hour.

“Well, monsieur! what has been done at last?” eagerly inquired young De

Vaux as soon as they had left.

“In truth, I cannot yet comprehend it myself,” replied Du Bellay. “In

spite of all my efforts, it has been impossible to clearly unravel the

knot of intrigue. This morning, as you know, nothing was talked of but

the downfall of Anne Boleyn. I was delighted; her overthrow would have

dispensed us from all obligations. Now the king is a greater fool about

her than ever, and, unless God himself strikes a blow to sever them, I

believe nothing will cure him of his infatuation. As I entered, his first

word was to demand why I had been so long in presenting myself. ‘Sire,’

I replied, ‘I have come with the utmost haste, I assure you, and am here

ready to execute any orders it may please you to give!’”

“‘Listen,’ he then said to me. ‘I have several things to tell you; but

the first of all is to warn you of my determination to arrest Cardinal

Wolsey. I am aware that you have manifested a great deal of interest in

him; … that you have even gone to see him when he was sick; … but that

is of no consequence. I am far from believing that you are in any manner

concerned in the treason he has meditated against me. Therefore I have

wished to advise you, that you may feel no apprehension on that account.’

I was struck with astonishment. ‘What! sire,’ I at last answered, ‘the

cardinal betray you? Why, he is virtually banished from England, where he

occupies himself, they say, only in doing works of charity and mercy.’

‘I know what I say to you,’ replied the king; ‘his own servants accuse

him of conspiring against the state. But I shall myself examine into the

depths of this accusation. In the meantime he shall be removed to the

Tower, and I will send Sir Walsh with instructions to join the Earl of

Northumberland, in order to arrest Wolsey at Cawood Castle, where he is

now established.’”

“Is it possible?” cried De Vaux, interrupting M. du Bellay. “That

unfortunate cardinal! Who could have brought down this new storm on his

head? M. du Bellay, do you believe him capable of committing this crime,

even if it were in his power?”

“I do not believe a word of it,” replied M. du Bellay, “and I know

not who has excited this new storm of persecution. I have tried every

possible means to ascertain from the king, but he constantly evaded

my questions by answering in a vague and obscure manner. I have been

informed in the palace that he had seen no person during the day, except

Cromwell, Lady Boleyn, and the Duke of Suffolk. Might this not be the

result of a plot concocted between them? This is only a conjecture, and

we may never get at the bottom of the affair. But let us pass on to

matters of more importance. The mistress is in high favor again. The king

is determined to marry her, and has proclaimed in a threatening manner

that he will separate himself from the communion of Rome, and no more

permit the supremacy of the Sovereign Pontiff to be recognized in his

kingdom. He demands that the King of France shall do the same, and rely

on his authority in following his example.”

“What!” cried De Vaux, astounded by this intelligence. “And how have you

answered him, my lord?”

“I said all that I felt authorized or could say,” replied Du Bellay;

“but what means shall we use to persuade a man so far transported and

subjugated by his passions that he seems to be a fool--no longer capable

of reasoning, of comprehending either his duty, the laws, or the future?

I have held up to him the disruption of his kingdom, the horrors that

give birth to a war of religion, the blood that it would cause him to

spill.”

“‘I shall spill as much of it as may be necessary,’ he replied, ‘to make

them yield. They will have their choice. Already the representatives of

the clergy have been ordered to assemble. Well! they shall decide among

themselves which is preferable--death, exile, or obedience to my will.’

“Whilst saying this,” continued M. du Bellay, with a gloomy expression,…

“he played with a bunch of roses, carelessly plucking off the leaves with

his fingers.”

“But what has been able to bring the king, in so short a time, to such an

extremity?” asked De Vaux, whose eyes, full of astonishment and anxiety,

interrogated those of M. du Bellay.

“His base passions, without doubt; and, still more, the vile flattery

coming from some one of those he has taken into favor,” replied Du

Bellay impatiently.… “I tried in vain to discover who the arch-hypocrite

could be, but the king was never for a moment thrown off his guard; he

constantly repeated: ‘_I_ have resolved on this; _I_ will do that!’ … I

shall find out, however, hereafter,” continued Du Bellay; “but at present

I am in ignorance.”

“Has he said anything to you about the grand master?” asked De Vaux.

“No; but it seems he has been very much exercised on account of the

cordial reception Chancellor Duprat gave Campeggio when he passed through

France. ‘That man has behaved very badly toward me,’ he said sharply. ‘I

was so lenient as to let him leave my kingdom unmolested, after having

hesitated a long time whether I should not punish him severely for his

conduct; and, behold, one of your ministers receives and treats him with

the utmost magnificence!’

“I assured him no consequence should be attached to that circumstance,

and pretended that Chancellor Duprat was so fond of good cheer and

grand display he had doubtless been too happy to have an opportunity of

parading his wealth and luxury before the eyes of a stranger.

“He then renewed the attack against Wolsey. ‘If that be the case,’ he

exclaimed, ‘this must be a malady common to all these chancellors; for my

lord cardinal was also preparing to give a royal reception in the capital

of his realm of York; but, unfortunately,’ he added with an ironical

sneer, ‘I happen to be his master, and we have somewhat interfered with

his plans.’ He then attacked the pope, then our king; and finally, while

the hour of midnight was striking, exhausted with anger and excitement,

to my great relief, he permitted me to retire. Now,” added M. du Bellay,

“we will have to spend the rest of the night in writing, and to-morrow

the courier must be despatched.”

TO BE CONTINUED

PRUSSIA AND THE CHURCH.

II.

In February, 1848, Louis Philippe was driven from his throne by the

people of Paris, and the Republic was proclaimed. This revolution rapidly

spread over the whole of Europe. The shock was most violent in Germany,

where everything was in readiness for a general outburst. Most of the

governments were compelled to yield to the popular will and to make

important concessions. New cabinets were formed in Würtemberg, Darmstadt,

Nassau, and Hesse. Lewis of Bavaria was forced to abdicate. Hanover and

Saxony held out until Berlin and Vienna were invaded by the revolutionary

party, when they too succumbed. On the 13th of March the Vienna mob

overthrew the Austrian ministry, and Metternich fled to England.

Italy and Hungary revolted. Berlin was held all summer by an ignorant

revolutionary faction. In September fierce and bloody riots broke out in

Frankfort.

Popular meetings, secret societies, revolutionary clubs, violent

declamations, and inflammatory appeals through the press kept all Germany

in a state of agitation. Occasional outbreaks among the peasantry,

followed by pillage and incendiarism, increased the general confusion.

It was during this time of wild excitement that the elections for the

Imperial Parliament were held. To this assembly many avowed atheists,

pantheists, communists, and Jacobins were chosen--men who fully agreed

with Hecker when he declared that “there were six plagues in Germany--the

princes, the nobles, the bureaucrats, the capitalists, the parsons,

and the soldiers.” The parties in the Parliament took their names from

their positions in the assembly hall, and were called the extreme left,

the left, the left centre, the right centre, the right, and the extreme

right. The first three were composed of red republicans, Jacobins, and

liberals. To the right centre belonged the constitutional liberals; and

on the right and right centre sat the Catholic members, the predecessors

of the party of the _Centrum_ of the present day. The extreme right was

occupied by functionaries and bureaucrats, chiefly from Prussia. The

Parliament of Frankfort, in the _Grundrechte_, or _Fundamental Rights_,

which it proclaimed, decreed universal, suffrage, abolished all the

political rights of the aristocracy, the hereditary chambers in all the

states of Germany, set aside the existing family entails, and, though

nominally it retained the imperial power, degraded the emperor to a

republican president by giving him merely a suspensive veto.

While this Parliament was sitting the Catholic bishops of Germany

assembled in council at Würzburg, and, at the conclusion of their

deliberations, drew up a Memorial as firm in tone as it was clear and

precise in expression, in which they set forth the claims of the church.

“To bring about,” they said, “a separation from the state--that is

to say, from public order, which necessarily reposes on a moral and

religious foundation--is not according to the will of the church. If the

state will perforce separate from the church, so will the church, without

approving, tolerate what it cannot avoid; and when not compelled by the

duty of self-preservation, she will not break the bonds of union made

fast by mutual understanding.

“The church, entrusted with the solemn and holy mission, ‘As my Father

hath sent me, so send I ye,’ requires for the accomplishment of this

mission, whatever the form of government of the state may be, the fullest

freedom and independence. Her holy popes, prelates, and confessors have

in all ages willingly and courageously given up their life and blood for

the preservation of this inalienable freedom.”

In virtue of these principles the bishops, in this Memorial, claimed the

right of directing, without any interference on the part of the state,

theological seminaries, and of founding schools, colleges, and all kinds

of educational establishments; of exerting canonical control, unfettered

by state meddling, over the conduct of their clergy, as well as that of

introducing into their dioceses religious orders, congregations, and

pious confraternities, for which they demanded the same rights which the

new political constitution had granted to secular associations. Finally,

they asserted their right to free and untrammelled communication with the

Holy See; and, as included in this, that of receiving and publishing all

papal bulls, briefs, and other documents without the Royal Placet, which

they declared to be repugnant to the honor and dignity of the ministers

of religion.

The Frankfort Parliament decreed the total separation of church and

state, and was therefore compelled to guarantee the freedom of all

religions. This separation was sanctioned by the Catholic members of the

Assembly, who looked upon it as less dangerous to the cause of religion

and morality than ecclesiastical Josephism. In the present conflict

between the church and the German Empire the Catholic party has again

demanded, and in vain, the separation of church and state. In rejecting

their urgent request, Dr. Falk declared that the leading minds in England

and America are already beginning to regret that their governments have

so little control over the ecclesiastical organizations within their

limits.

Whilst the representatives of the German people at Frankfort were

abolishing the privileges of the nobles, decreeing the separation of

church and state, and forgetting the standing armies, the governments

were quietly gathering their forces. Marshal Radetzky put down the

Italian rebellion, Prince Windischgrätz quelled the democracy of Vienna,

and General Wrangel took possession of Berlin, without a battle. Russia,

at the request of Austria, sent an army into Hungary to destroy the

rebellion in that country, and the disturbances in Bavaria and in the

Palatinate were suppressed by Prussian troops under the present Emperor

of Germany. The representatives of the larger states withdrew from the

Frankfort Parliament, which dwindled, and finally, amidst universal

contempt and neglect, came to an end at Stuttgart, June 18, 1849.

But the liberties of the church were not lost. In Prussia, as we have

seen, a better state of things had begun with the imprisonment of the

heroic Archbishop of Cologne in 1837. In the face of the menacing

attitude of the German democrats and republicans, Frederick William IV.

confirmed the liberties of the Catholic Church by the letters-patent of

1847.

The constitutions of December 5, 1848, and January 31, 1850, were drawn

up in the lurid light of the revolution, which had beaten fiercest upon

the house of Hohenzollern. The king had capitulated to the insurgents,

withdrawn his soldiers from the capital, and abandoned Berlin, and with

it the whole state, for nine months to the tender mercies of the mob. He

was forced to witness the most revolting spectacles. The dead bodies of

the rioters were borne in procession under the windows of his palace,

while the rabble shouted to him: “Fritz, off with your hat.”

It is not surprising, in view of this experience, that we should

find in the constitution of 1850 (articles 15 to 18 inclusive) a

very satisfactory recognition of the rights of the church. Why these

paragraphs granting the church freedom to regulate and administer its

own affairs; to keep possession of its own revenues, endowments, and

establishments, whether devoted to worship, education, or beneficence;

and freely to communicate with the Pope, were inserted in the

constitution, we know from Prince Bismarck himself. In his speech in

the Prussian Upper House, March 10, 1873, he affirmed that “they were

introduced at a time when the state needed, or thought it needed, help,

and believed that it would find this help by leaning on the Catholic

Church. It was probably led to this belief by the fact that in the

National Assembly of 1848 all the electoral districts with a preponderant

Catholic population returned--I will not say royalist representatives,

but certainly men who were the friends of order, which was not the case

in the Protestant districts.”

The provisions of the constitution of 1850 with regard to the church were

honorably and faithfully carried out down to the beginning of the present

conflict. Never since the Reformation had the church in Prussia been

so free, never had she made such rapid progress, whether in completing

her internal organization or in extending her influence. The Prussian

liberals and atheists, who had fully persuaded themselves that without

the wealth and aid of the state the Catholic religion would have no

force, were amazed. The influence of the priests over the people grew

in proportion as they were educated more thoroughly in the spirit and

discipline of the church under the immediate supervision of the bishops,

unfettered by state interference; the number of convents, both of men

and women, rapidly increased; associations of all kinds, scientific,

benevolent, and religious, spread over the land; religious journals and

reviews were founded in which Catholic interests were ably advocated and

defended; and all the forces of the church were unified and guided by the

harmonious action of a most enlightened and zealous episcopate.

This was the more astonishing as the Evangelical Church, whose liberties

had also been guaranteed by the constitution of 1850, had shown itself

unable to profit by the greater freedom of action which it had received.

In fact, the Evangelical Church was lifeless, and it needed only this

test to prove its want of vitality. It was a state creation, and in an

age when the world had ceased to recognize the divine right of kings to

create religions. It was only in 1817 that the Lutheran and Calvinistic

churches of Prussia, together with the very name of Protestant, were

abolished by royal edict, and a new Prussian establishment, under the

title of “evangelical,” was imposed by the civil power upon a Protestant

population of nearly eight millions, whose religious and moral sense

was so dead that they seemed to regard with stolid indifference this

interference of government with all that freemen deem most sacred in

life. Acts of parliament may make “establishments,” but they cannot

inspire religious faith and life; and it was therefore not surprising

that, when the mummy of evangelicalism was put out into the open air of

freedom by the constitution of 1850, it should have been revealed to all

that the thing was dead.

Nevertheless, the Prussian government continued to act toward the

Catholic Church with great justice, and even friendliness, and the war

against Catholic Austria in 1866 wrought no change in its ecclesiastical

policy. Even the opening of the Vatican Council caused no alarm in

Prussia; on the contrary, King William, as it was generally believed at

least, was most civil to the Holy Father; and Prince Bismarck himself at

that time saw no reason for apprehension, though he had been the head

of the ministry already eight years. To what, then, are we to attribute

Prussia’s sudden change of attitude toward the church? Who began the

present conflict, and what was its provocation?

This is a question which has been much discussed in the Prussian House of

Deputies and elsewhere. Prince Bismarck has openly asserted in the House

of Deputies within the past year that the provocation was the definition

of papal infallibility by the Vatican Council on the 18th of June, 1870,

and subsequently the hostile attitude of the party of the _Centrum_

toward the German Empire.

Herr von Kirchmann, a member of the German Parliament and of the Prussian

House of Deputies, a national liberal, and not a Catholic, but in the

main a sympathizer with the spirit of the Falk legislation, has recently

discussed this whole subject with great ability, and--as far as it is

possible for one who believes in the Hegelian doctrine that “the state is

the present god”--also with fairness.[255]

To Prince Bismarck’s first assertion, that the definition of papal

infallibility was the unpardonable offence, which has been so strongly

emphasized by Mr. Gladstone and re-echoed with parrot-like fidelity by

the anti-Catholic press of Europe and America, Herr von Kirchmann makes

the following reply:

“It is difficult to understand how so experienced a statesman

as Prince Bismarck can ascribe to this decree of the

council such great importance for the states of Europe, and

particularly for Prussia and Germany. To a theorizer sitting

behind his books such a decree, it may be allowed, might

appear to be something portentous, since, taken from a purely

theoretical stand-point and according to the letter, the

infallibility of the Pope in all questions of religion and

morals gives him unlimited control over all human action;

and many a Catholic, when called upon to receive this

infallibility as part of his faith, may have found that he

was unable to follow so far; but a statesman ought to know

how to distinguish, especially where there is question of

the Catholic Church, between the literal import of dogmas

and their use in practical life. In the Catholic Church as a

whole, this infallibility, as is well known, has existed from

the earliest times; its organ hitherto has been the Ecumenical

Council in union with the Pope; but already before 1870 it was

disputed whether the Pope might not alone act as the organ of

infallibility. In 1870 the question was decided in favor of

the Pope; but we must consider that the ecumenical councils

have, as history shows, nearly always framed their decrees

in accordance with the views of the court of Rome; and this,

of itself, proves that the change made in 1870 is rather one

of form than of essence. Especially false is it to maintain

that by this decree a complete revolution in the constitution

of the church has been made. To the theorizer we might grant

the abstract possibility that something of this kind might

some day or other happen; but such _possibilities_ of the

abuse of a right are found in all the relations of public

life, in the state and its representatives as well as in the

church. Even in constitutions the most carefully drawn up such

possibilities are found in all directions. What a statesman

has to consider is not mere possibilities, but the question

whether the possessor of such right is not compelled, from the

very nature of things, to make of it only the most moderate and

prudent use. So long, therefore, as the Pope does not alter

the constitution of the church, that constitution remains,

precisely in its ancient form, such as it has been recognized

and tolerated by the state for centuries: and wherever the

relations between particular states and the court of Rome

have been arranged by concordats, these too remain unchanged,

unless the states themselves find it convenient to depart from

them. We see, in fact, that this infallibility of the Pope

has in no country of Europe or America altered one jot or

tittle in the constitution of the Catholic Church; and where

in particular countries such changes have taken place, they

have not been made by the ecclesiastical government, but by

the state and in its interest. In Germany even, and in Prussia

itself, the Pope has, since 1870, made no change in the church

constitution, as determined by the Canon Law; and when, in

some of his encyclicals and other utterances, he has taken up

a hostile attitude towards the German Empire and the Prussian

state, he has done this only in defence against the aggressive

legislation of the civil government. He has never hesitated to

express his disapprobation of the new church laws, but he has

in no instance touched the constitution of the Catholic Church

or the rights of the bishops.”[256]

It seems almost needless to remark that there is no necessary connection

between the doctrine of Papal infallibility and that of the essential

organization of the church; that the jurisdiction of the Pope was as

great, and universally recognized as such by Catholics, before the

Vatican Council as since; and consequently that it is not even possible

that the definition of 1870 should make any change in his authoritative

relation to, or power over, the church. His jurisdiction is wider than

his infallibility, and independent of it; and the duty of obedience to

his commands existed before the dogma was defined precisely as it exists

now; and therefore it is clearly manifest that the Vatican decree cannot

give even a plausible pretext for such legislation as the Falk Laws.

“Not less singular,” continues Herr von Kirchmann, “does it

sound to hear the party of the _Centrum_ in the Reichstag

and Prussian Landtag denounced as the occasion of the new

regulations between church and state. The members of this party

notoriously represent the views and wishes of the majority

of their constituents, and just as faithfully as the members

of the parties who side with the government. The reproach

that they receive their instructions from Rome is not borne

out by the facts; and if there were an understanding with

Rome of the kind which their adversaries affirm, this could

only be the result of a similar understanding on the part of

their constituents. Nothing could more strikingly prove that

the Catholic party faithfully represent the great majority in

their electoral districts than the repeated re-election of the

same representatives or of men of similar views. To this we

must add that the _Centrum_, though strong in numbers, is yet

in a decided minority both in the Reichstag and the Prussian

Landtag, and has always been defeated in its opposition to the

recent ecclesiastical legislation. If in other matters, by

uniting with opposition parties, it has caused the government

inconvenience, we have no right to ascribe this to feelings

of hostility; for on such occasions its orators have given

substantial political reasons for their opposition, and

instances enough might be enumerated in which, precisely

through the aid of the _Centrum_, many illiberal and dangerous

projects of law have fallen through; and for this the party

deserves the thanks of the country.

“The present action of the state against the Catholic Church

would be unjustifiable, if better grounds could not be adduced

in its favor. For the attentive observer, however, valid

reasons are not wanting. They are to be found, to put the

whole matter in a single word, in the great power to which

the Catholic Church in Prussia had attained by the aid of the

constitution and the favor of the government--a power which, if

its growth had been longer tolerated, would have become, not

indeed dangerous to the existence of the state, but a hindrance

to the right fulfilment of the ends of its existence.”[257]

Neither the Vatican Council, then, nor the Catholics of Prussia have

done anything to provoke the present persecution. To find fault with the

German bishops for accepting the dogma of infallibility, after having

strongly opposed its definition by the council, would be as unreasonable

as to blame a member of Congress for admitting the binding force of a

law the passage of which he had done everything in his power to prevent.

Their duty, beyond all question, was to act as they have acted. This

was not the offence: the unpardonable crime was that the church, as

soon as she was unloosed from the fetters of bureaucracy, had grown too

powerful. We doubt whether any more forcible argument in proof of the

indestructible vitality of the church can be found than that which may be

deduced from the universal consent of her enemies, of whatever shade of

belief or unbelief, that the only way in which she can be successfully

opposed is to array against her the strongest of human powers--that of

the state. A complete revolution of thought upon this subject has taken

place within the last half-century. Up to that time it was confidently

held by Protestants as well as infidels that, to undermine and finally

destroy the church, it would be simply necessary to withdraw from her the

support of the state; that to her freedom would necessarily prove fatal.

The experiment, as it was thought, had not been satisfactorily tried.

Ireland, indeed, had held her faith for three hundred years, in spite of

all that fiendish cruelty could invent to destroy it; but persecution

has always been the life of the faith. In the United States the church

had been free since the war of independence, but of us little was known;

and, besides, down to, say, 1830 even the most thoughtful and far-sighted

among us had serious doubts as to the future of the church in this

country.

But with the emancipation of the Catholics in Great Britain, the new

constitution of the kingdom of Belgium, and the completer organization

of the church in the United States, the test as to the action of freedom

upon the progress of Catholic faith began to be applied over a wide and

varied field and under not unfavorable circumstances. What the result

has been we may learn from our enemies. Mr. Gladstone expostulates for

Great Britain, and reaches a hand of sympathy to M. Emile de Laveleye

in Belgium. Dr. Falk, Dr. Friedberg, and even the moderate Herr von

Kirchmann, defend the tyrannical _May Laws_ as necessary to stop

the growth of the church in Germany; and at home the most silent of

Presidents and the most garrulous of bishops, forgetting that the cause

of temperance has prior claims upon their attention, have raised the

cry of alarm to warn their fellow-citizens of the dangerous progress of

popery in this great and free country. Time was when “the Free Church in

the Free State” was thought to be the proper word of command; but now

it is “the Fettered Church in the Enslaved State,” since no state that

meddles with the consciences of its subjects can be free.

If there is anything for which we feel more especially thankful, it is

that henceforth the cause of the church and the cause of freedom are

inseparably united. We have heard to satiety that the Catholic Church is

the greatest conservative force in the world, the most powerful element

of order in society, the noblest school of respect in which mankind have

ever been taught. Praised be God that now, as in the early days, he is

making it impossible that Catholics should not be on the side of liberty,

as the church has always been; so that all men may see that, if we love

order the more, we love not liberty the less!

“I will sing to my God as long at I shall be,” wrote an inspired king;

“put not your trust in princes.” No, nor in governments, nor in states,

but in God who is the Lord, and in the poor whom Jesus loved. From God

out of the people came the church; through God back to the people is she

going. We know there are still many Catholics who trust in kings and

believe in salvation through them; but God will make them wiser. The

Spirit that sits at the roaring Loom of Time will weave for them other

garments. The irresistible charm of the church, humanly speaking, lies in

the fact that she comes closer to the hearts of the people than any other

power that has ever been brought to bear upon mankind.

Having shown that the oppressive ecclesiastical legislation of Germany

was not provoked by the church, and that its only excuse is the

increasing power of the church, Herr von Kirchmann reduces all farther

discussion of this subject to the two following heads: 1st. How far ought

the state to go in setting bounds to this power of the Catholic Church?

and 2d. What means ought it to employ?

In view of the dangers with which every open breach of the peace between

church and state is fraught for the people, it would have been advisable,

he thinks, from political motives, to have tried to settle the difficulty

by a mutual understanding between the two powers; nor would it, in his

opinion, be derogatory to the sovereignty of the state to treat the

church as an equal, since she embraces in her fold all the Catholics of

the world, who have their directing head in the Pope, whose sovereign

ecclesiastical power cannot, therefore, as a matter of fact, be called in

question.

That Prussia did not make any effort to see what could be effected by

this policy of conciliation may, in the opinion of Herr von Kirchmann,

find some justification in the fact that the government did not expect,

and could not in 1871 foresee, the determined opposition of the Catholics

to the May Laws of 1873. At any rate, as he thinks, the high and

majestatic right of the state is supreme, and it alone must determine, in

the ultimate instance, how far and how long it will acknowledge any claim

of the church. Thus even this statesman, who is of the more moderate

school of Prussian politicians, holds that the church has no rights which

the state is bound to respect; that political interests are paramount,

and conscience, in the modern as in the ancient pagan state, has no claim

upon the recognition of the government. English and American Protestants,

where their own interests are concerned, would be as little inclined to

accept this doctrine as Catholics; in fact, this country was born of a

protest against the assumption of state supremacy over conscience; and

yet so blinding and misleading is prejudice that the Falk Laws receive

their heart-felt sympathy.

Though Herr von Kirchmann accepts without reservation the principles

which underlie the recent Prussian anti-Catholic legislation, and

thinks the May Laws have been drawn up with great wisdom and consummate

knowledge of the precise points at which the state should oppose the

growing power of the church, he yet freely admits that there are grave

doubts whether the present policy of Prussia on this subject can be

successfully carried out. That Prince Bismarck and Dr. Falk had but a

very imperfect knowledge of the difficulties which lay in their path,

the numerous supplementary bills which have been repeatedly introduced

in order to give effect to the May Laws plainly show. Where there is

question of principle and of conscience Prince Bismarck is not at home.

He believes in force; like the first Napoleon, holds that Providence is

always on the side of the biggest cannons; sneers about going to Canossa,

as Napoleon mockingly asked the pope whether his excommunication would

make the arms fall from the hands of his veterans. He knows the workings

of courts, and is a master in the devious ways of diplomacy. He can

estimate with great precision the resources of a country; he has a keen

eye for the weak points of an adversary. His tactics, like Napoleon’s,

are to bring to bear upon each given point of attack a force greater

than the enemy’s. He has, in his public life, never known what it is to

respect right or principle. With the army at his back he has trampled

upon the Prussian constitution with the same daring recklessness with

which he now violates the most sacred rights of conscience. Nothing, in

his eyes, is holy but success, and he has been consecrated by it, so

that the Bismarck-cultus has spread far beyond the fatherland to England

and the United States. Carlyle has at last found a living hero, the very

impersonation of the brute force which to him is ideal and admirable; and

at eighty he offers incense and homage to the idol. We freely give Prince

Bismarck credit for his remarkable gifts--indomitable will, reckless

courage, practical knowledge of men, considered as intelligent automata

whose movements are directed by a kind of bureaucratic and military

mechanism; and this is the kind of men with whom, for the most part,

he has had to deal. For your thorough Prussian, though the wildest of

speculators and the boldest of theorizers, is the tamest of animals. No

poor Russian soldier ever crouched more submissively beneath the knout

than do the Prussian pantheists and culturists beneath the lash of a

master. Like Voltaire, they probably prefer the rule of one fine Lion to

that of a hundred rats of their own sort. Prince Bismarck knew his men,

and we give him credit for his sagacity. Not every eye could have pierced

the mist, and froth, and sound, and fury of German professordom, and

beheld the craven heart that was beneath.

Only men who believe in God and the soul are dangerous rebels. Why should

he who has no faith make a martyr of himself? Why, since there is nothing

but law, blind and merciless force, throw yourself beneath the wheels

of the state Juggernaut to be crushed? The religion of culture is the

religion of indulgence, and no godlike rebel against tyranny and brute

force ever sprang from such worship. So long as Prince Bismarck had

to deal with men who were nourished on “philosophy’s sweet milk,” and

who worshipped at the altar of culture, who had science but not faith,

opinions but not convictions, amongst whom, consequently, organic union

was impossible, his policy of making Germany “by blood and iron” was

successful enough. But, like all great conquerors, he longed for more

kingdoms to subdue, and finding right around him a large and powerful

body of German citizens who did not accept the “new faith” that the

state--in other words, Prince Bismarck--is “the present god,” just as

a kind of diversion between victories, he turned to give a lesson to

the _Pfaffen_ and clerical _Dummköpfe_, who burnt no incense in honor

of his divinity. In taking this step it is almost needless to say that

Prince Bismarck sought to pass over a chasm which science itself does

not profess to have bridged--that, namely, which lies between the

worlds of matter and of spirit. Of the new conflict upon which he was

entering he could have only vague and inaccurate notions. Nothing is so

misleading as contempt--a feeling in which the wise never indulge, but

which easily becomes habitual with men spoiled by success. To the man who

had organized the armies and guided the policy which had triumphed at

Sadowa and Sedan what opposition could be made by a few poor priests and

beggar-monks? Would the arms fall from the hands of the proudest soldiers

of Europe because the _Pfaffen_ were displeased? Or why should not the

model culture-state of the world make war upon ignorance and superstition?

Of the real nature and strength of the forces which would be marshalled

in this great battle of souls a man of blood and iron could form no just

estimate. “To those who believe,” said Christ, “all things are possible”;

but what meaning have these words for Prince Bismarck? The soul, firm in

its faith, appealing from tyrant kings and states to God, is invincible.

Lifting itself to the Infinite, it draws thence a divine power. Like

liberty, it is brightest in dungeons, in fetters freest, and conquers

with its martyrdom. Needle-guns cannot reach it, and above the deadly

roar of cannon it rises godlike and supreme.

“For though the giant Ages heave the hill

And break the shore, and evermore

Make and break and work their will;

Though world on world in myriad myriads roll

Round us, each with different powers

And other farms of life than ours,

What know we greater than the soul?

On God and godlike men we build our trust.”

Men who have unwrapt themselves of the garb and vesture of thought and

sentiment with which the world had dressed them out, who have been born

again into the higher life, who have been clothed in the charity and

meekness of Christ, who for his dear sake have put all things beneath

their feet, who love not the world, who venerate more the rags of the

beggar than the purple of Cæsar, who fear as they love God alone, for

whom life is no blessing and death infinite gain, form the invincible

army of Christ foredoomed to conquer. “This is the victory which

overcometh the world--our Faith.”

Who has ever forgotten those lines of Tacitus, inserted as an altogether

trifling circumstance in the reign of Nero?--“So for the quieting of

this rumor [of his having set fire to Rome] Nero judicially charged with

the crime, and punished with most studied severities, that class, hated

for their general wickedness, whom the vulgar call _Christians_. The

originator of that name was one _Christ_, who in the reign of Tiberius

suffered death by sentence of the procurator, Pontius Pilate. The baneful

superstition, thereby repressed for the time, again broke out, not only

over Judea, the native soil of the mischief, but in the City also,

where from every side all atrocious and abominable things collect and

flourish.”[258]

“Tacitus,” says Carlyle, referring to this passage, “was the wisest, most

penetrating man of his generation; and to such depth, and no deeper, has

he seen into this transaction, the most important that has occurred or

can occur in the annals of mankind.”

We doubt whether Prince Bismarck to-day has any truer knowledge of the

real worth and power of the living Catholic faith on which he is making

war than had Tacitus eighteen hundred years ago, when writing of the rude

German barbarians who were hovering on the confines of the Roman Empire,

and who were to have a history in the world only through the action

of that “baneful superstition” which he considered as one of the most

abominable products of the frightful corruptions of his age.

That the Prussian government was altogether unprepared for the determined

though passive opposition to the May Laws which the Catholics have made,

Herr von Kirchmann freely confesses. It was not expected that there

would be such perfect union between the clergy and the people; on the

contrary, it was generally supposed that, with the aid of the Draconian

penalties threatened for the violation of the Falk Laws, the resistance

of the priests themselves would be easily overcome. These men love their

own comfort too much, said the culturists, to be willing to go to prison

and live on beans and water for the sake of technicalities; and so they

chuckled over their pipes and lager-beer at the thought of their easy

victory over the _Pfaffen_. They were mistaken, and Herr von Kirchmann

admits that the courage of the bishops and priests has not been broken

but strengthened by their sufferings for the faith.

“So long as we were permitted to hope,” he says, “that we

should have only the priests to deal with, there was less

reason for doubt as to the policy of executing the laws in

all their rigor; but the situation was wholly altered when it

became manifest that the congregations held the same views as

the bishops and priests.… It is easy to see that all violent,

even though legal, proceedings of the government against these

convictions of the Catholic people can only weaken those

proper, and in the last instance alone effective, measures

through which the May Laws can successfully put bounds to

the growing power of the church. These measures--viz., a

better education of the people and a higher culture of the

priests--can, from the nature of things, exert their influence

only by degrees. Not till the next generation can we hope to

gather the fruit of this seed; and not then, indeed, if the

reckless execution of the May Laws calls forth an opposition

in the Catholic populations which will shake confidence in

the just intentions of the government, and beget in the

congregations feelings of hatred for everything connected

with this legislation. Such feelings will unavoidably be

communicated to the children, and the teacher will in

consequence be deprived of that authority without which his

instructions must lack the persuasive force that is inherent

in truth. In such a state of warfare even the higher culture

of the clergy must be useless. Those who stand on the side of

the government will, precisely on that account, fail to win the

confidence of their people; and the stronger the aged pastors

emphasize the Canon Law of the church, the more energetically

they extend the realms of faith even to the hierarchical

constitution of the church, the more readily and faithfully

will their congregations follow them.

“It cannot be dissembled that the government, through the

rigorous execution of the May Laws, is raging against its own

flesh and blood, and is thereby robbing itself of the only

means by which it can have any hope of finally coming forth

victorious from the present conflict. It may be objected that

the resistance which is now so widespread cannot be much longer

maintained, and that all that is needed to crush it and bring

about peace with the church is to increase the pressure of the

law. Assertions of this kind are made with great confidence

by the liberals of both Houses of the Landtag whenever the

government presents a new bill; and the liberal newspapers,

which never grow tired of this theme, declare that the result

is certain and even near at hand.

“Now, even though we should attach no importance to the

contrary assertions of the Catholic party, it is yet evident,

from the declarations of the government itself, that it is not

all confident of reaching this result with the aid of the means

which it has hitherto employed or of those in preparation,

but that it is making ready for a prolonged resistance of the

clergy, who are upheld and supported by the great generosity

of the Catholic people. The ovations which the priests receive

from their congregations when they come forth from prison are

not falling off, but are increasing; and this is equally true

of the pecuniary aid given to them. It is possible that much

of this may have been gotten up by the priests themselves

as demonstration; but the displeasure of the still powerful

government officials which the participants incur, and the

greatness of the money-offerings, are evidence of earnest

convictions.

“Nothing, however, so strongly witnesses to the existence of a

perfect understanding between the congregations and the priests

as the fact that, though the law of May, 1874, gave to those

congregations whose pastors had been removed or had not been

legally appointed by the bishops the right to elect a pastor,

yet not even one congregation has up to the present moment

made any use of this privilege. When we consider that the

number of parishes where there is no pastor must be at least

a hundred; that in itself such right of choice corresponds

with the wishes of the congregations; farther, that the law

requires for the validity of the election merely a majority

of the members who put in an appearance; that a proposition

made to the _Landrath_ by ten parishioners justifies him in

ordering an election; and that, on the part of the influential

officials and their organs, nothing has been left undone to

induce the congregations to demand elections, not easily could

a more convincing proof of the perfect agreement of the people

with their priests be found than the fact that to this day in

only two or three congregations has it been possible to hunt

up ten men who were willing to make such a proposal, and that

not even in a single congregation has an election of this kind

taken place.”[259]

This is indeed admirable; and it may, we think, be fairly doubted

whether, in the whole history of the church, so large a Catholic

population has ever, under similar trials, shown greater strength

or constancy. Of the peculiar nature of these trials we shall speak

hereafter; the present article we will bring to a close with a few

remarks upon what we conceive to have been one of the most important

agencies in bringing about the perfect unanimity and harmony of action

between priests and people to which the Catholics of Prussia must in

great measure ascribe their immovable firmness in the presence of a most

terrible foe. We refer to those Catholic associations in which cardinals,

bishops, priests, and people have been brought into immediate contact,

uniting their wisdom and strength for the attainment of definite ends.

Such unions have nowhere been more numerous or more thoroughly organized

than in Germany, though their formation is of recent date. It was during

the revolution of 1848, of which we have already spoken, that the German

Catholics were roused to a more comprehensive knowledge of the situation,

and resolved to combine for the defence of their rights and the

protection of their religion. Popular unions under the name and patronage

of Pius IX. (Pius-Vereine) were formed throughout the fatherland, with

the primary object of bringing together once a week large numbers of

Catholic men of every condition in life. At these weekly meetings the

questions of the day, in so far as they touched upon Catholic interests,

were freely discussed, and thus an intelligent and enlightened Catholic

public opinion was created throughout the length and breadth of the land.

In refuting calumnies against the church the speakers never failed to

demand the fullest liberty for all Catholic institutions.

On the occasion of beginning the restoration and completion of the

Cathedral of Cologne, the most religious of churches, the proposition

that an annual General Assembly of all the unions should be held was

made and received with boundless enthusiasm. The first General Assembly

took place at Mayence in October, 1848; and thither came delegates from

Austria, Prussia, Bavaria, Saxony, Hanover, and all the other states of

Germany, whose confidence and earnestness were increased by the presence

of the Catholic members of the Parliament of Frankfort. For the first

time since Luther’s apostasy the Catholics of Germany breathed the air of

liberty. The bishops assembled at Würzburg, gave their solemn approbation

to the great work, and Pius IX. sent his apostolic benediction. Since

that time General Assemblies have been held at Breslau, May, 1849;

Ratisbon, October, 1849; Linz, 1850; Mayence, 1851; Münster, 1852;

Vienna, 1853; Linz, 1856; Salzburg, 1857; Cologne, 1858; Freyburg, 1859;

Prague, 1860; Munich, 1861; Aix-la-Chapelle, 1862; Frankfort, 1863, and

in other cities, down to the recent persecutions.

These assemblies represented a complete system of organization, in which

no Catholic interest was forgotten. Every village and hamlet in the land

was there, if not immediately, through some central union. We have

had the honor of being present at more than one of these assemblies,

and the impressions which we then received are abiding. Side by side

with cardinals, bishops, princes, noblemen, and the most learned of

professors sat mechanics, carpenters, shoemakers, and blacksmiths--not

as in the act of worship, in which the presence of the Most High

God dwarfs our universal human littlenesses to the dead-level of an

equal insignificance, but in active thought and co-operation for the

furtherance of definite religious and social ends. The brotherhood of the

race was there, an accomplished fact, and one felt the breathing as of a

divine Spirit compared with whose irresistible force great statesmen and

mighty armies are weak as the puppets of a child’s show.

We have not the space to describe more minutely the ends, aims, and

workings of the numberless Catholic associations of Germany; but we must

express our deep conviction that no study could be more replete with

lessons of practical wisdom for the Catholics of the United States.

Organization is precisely what we most lack. Our priests are laborious,

our people are devoted, but we have not even an organized Catholic

public opinion--nay, no organ to serve as its channel, and make itself

heard of the whole country. Many seem to think that the very question

of the necessity of Catholic education is still an open one for us; and

this is not surprising, since we have no system of Catholic education.

Catholic schools, indeed, in considerable number, there are, but there

is no organization. The great need of the church in this country is

the organization of priests and people for the promotion of Catholic

interests. Through this we will learn to know one another; our views

will be enlarged, our sympathies deepened, and the truth will dawn upon

us that, if we wish to be true to the great mission which God has given

us, the time has come when American Catholics must take up works which

do not specially concern any one diocese more than another, but whose

significance will be as wide as the nation’s life.

A STORY WITH TWO VERSIONS.

Yes, sir, this is Brentwood. And you are of the race, you say, though not

of the name. Clarkson, sir? Surely, surely. I remember well. Miss Jane

Brent--the first Miss Brent I can recall--married a Clarkson. So you are

her grandson, sir? Then you are right welcome to me and mine. Come in,

come in. Or, if you will do me the honor, sit here in the porch, sir, and

my Kate will bring you of her best, and right glad will we be to wait

again on one with the Brent blood in him.

None of the name left? Ah! Mr. Clarkson, have you never heard, then? But

you must have heard of James Brent. Surely, surely. He lives still, God

pity him! What’s that? You want to hear the story out? Well, sir, no man

living can tell you better than I, unless it be Mr. James’ self. Settle

yourself comfortably, Mr. Clarkson, and I’ll tell you all.

Yes, this is Brentwood. ’Twas your great-great-grandsire founded it, two

hundred years back, he and his brother--James and William. They began the

work which was to grow and grow into foundries and factories, and the

bank that was to ruin all. But I’m telling the end afore the beginning.

The next two brothers built the church you see there, sir, down the road;

and the next two after them added the tower and founded the almshouses;

and then came the fourth James and William Brent, and one of them was an

idiot, and the other was and is the last of the name.

I was twenty years older than Mr. James, and, before ever he came into

business, had served with his father. I watched him grow up, and I loved

him well. But from the first I knew he was different from the rest of his

race. He was his mother all over again--a true Mortimer, come of nobles,

not of townsfolk; all fire and sweetness and great plans for people’s

good and happiness, but with little of the far-sighted Brent prudence.

He was just as tender of Mr. William as if he had had all the wits of

himself, and used to spend part of every day with him, and amuse him part

of many a night when the poor gentleman could not sleep.

Their father died just when they came of age. They were twins, the last

Brent Brothers, sir; and ’twas a great fortune and responsibility to fall

full and with no restraint into such young hands. Mr. James seemed like

one heart-broken for nigh a year after, and carried on everything just as

his father had done, till we all wondered at it; then he saw Miss Rose

Maurice, and loved her--as well indeed he might--and after that things

changed. She was as simple in all her ways as she was beautiful, and

would have thought my cottage good enough, so long as he was in it with

her. But he!--well, sir, I know he has kissed the very ground she trod

on, and he didn’t think a queen’s palace too fine for her. As soon as

ever he saw her he loved her and set his soul to win her; and the very

next day he began a new home in Brentwood. Where is it? Alack! alack!

sir. Wait till ye _must_ hear. Let’s think, for a bit, of only the glad

days now.

You could not call it extravagance exactly. It set the whole town alive.

So far as he could, he would have none but Brentwood folk to work upon

the place where his bride was to dwell. And he said it was time that so

old a family should have a home that would last as long as they. Ah! me,

as long as they!

Of course there was a city architect and a grand landscape gardener; but,

oh! the thoughtfulness of him whom we were proud to call our master.

There, in the very flush of his youth and love and hope, he took care of

the widows and the little children; contrived to make work for them; was

here and there and everywhere; and there was not a beggar nor an idler in

Brentwood--not one. The house rose stately and tall; he had chosen a fair

spot for it, where great trees grew and brooks were running, all ready

to his hand; and that city man--why, sir, ’twas marvellous how he seemed

to understand just how to make use of it all, and to prune a little

here and add a little there, with vines and arbors and glades and a

wilderness, till you didn’t know what God had done and what he had given

his creatures wit to do. And in the sunniest corner of the house--Brent

Hall, as they called it--Mr. James chose rooms for Mr. William, who was

pleased as a child with it all, and used to sit day by day and watch the

work go on.

All the time, too, the Brent iron-foundries were being added to and

renovated, till there was none like them round about; and the town

streets were made like city streets, and the town itself set into such

order as never before; and when all was ready--’twas the work of but

three years, sir--when the house was hung with pictures and decked with

the best; in the spring, when the grass and the trees were green, and

the flowers were blooming fair, then he brought her home. And when I saw

her--well, sir, first I thought of the angels; but next (if I may say it;

and I wot it is not wrong)--next I thought of our Blessed Lady. There was

a great painting in the Hall oratory--by some Spanish painter, they said.

Murillo? Yes, sir, that is the name. It looked like Mrs. James Brent,

sir. Not an angel, but a woman that could suffer and weep and struggle

sore; and, pure and stainless, would still remember she was of us poor

humans, and so pity and pray for us.

We had been used to have Mr. Brent come into our houses, and to see him

in the poorest cottages and the almshouses, with smiles and cheery words

and money; but Mrs. James gave more than that, for she gave herself.

I’ve seen those soft hands bind wounds I shrank from; and that delicate

creature--I’ve seen her kneeling by beds of dying sinners, while her face

grew white at what she saw and heard, and yet she praying over ’em, and,

what’s more, _loving_ ’em, till she made the way for the priest to come.

And she laid out dead whom few of us would have touched for hire, and

she listened to the stories of the sad and tiresome, and her smile was

sunshine, and the very sight of her passing by lifted up our minds to

God. Her husband thwarted her in nothing. What was there to thwart her

in? He loved her, and she should do what she would in this work which was

her heart’s joy.

Then we had been used to see Mr. James in church regular, weekday Mass

and Sunday Mass; but Mrs. James was there any time, early mornings and

noons and nights. I fancy she loved it better than the stately Hall.

After she came, her husband added the great south transept window from

Germany, and the organ that people came miles to hear; and he said it was

her gift, not his. The window picture is a great Crucifixion and Our Lady

standing by. You’ll understand better, Mr. Clarkson, ere I finish, what

it says to Brentwood folk now.

The first year there was a daughter only; but the next there came a son.

After that, for six long years there were no more children, but then

another son saw the light. What rejoicings, what bonfires, what clanging

of bells, there was! But ere night the clanging changed to tolling and

the shouts to tears; for the child died. And when Mrs. James came among

us again, very white and changed and feeble, we all knew that with Mr.

James and Mr. William, we were seeing the last Brent Brothers, whatever

our grandchildren might see.

However, _she_ was spared, and Mr. James took heart of such grace as

that, and said it would be Brent and Son, which sounded quite as well

when one was used to it. And to make himself used to it--or to stifle the

disappointment, as I really think--he began the Brent Bank. There had

been a Brent Bank here for years past, and to it all Brentwood and half

the country round trusted their earnings. Only a few really rich people

had much to do with it, but men in moderate circumstances, young doctors

and lawyers with growing families, widows, orphans, seamstresses, the

factory people, laborers, thought there was no bank like that. Mr. James’

kind spirit showed itself there as elsewhere, and nobody felt himself too

insignificant to come there, if only with a penny.

Often and often I sit here and wonder, Mr. Clarkson, why it all was--why

God ever let it be--the shame and the sorrow and the suffering that came.

I know Mr. James was lavish, but, if he spent much on himself, he spent

much on others too; and he made God’s house as beautiful as his own. For

a time it looked as if God’s blessing was on him; for he prospered year

by year, and, except for his child’s dying and his wife’s frail health,

his cup of joy seemed running over.

By and by came a year--you may just remember it, sir--a year of very hard

times for the whole country. Banks broke, and old houses went by the

board, and men were thrown out of work, and there was a cry of distress

through all the land. But Brentwood folk hadn’t a thought of fear. Still,

in that year, from the very first of it, something troubled me. Master

was moody now and then; went up to the city oftener; had letters which

he did not show to me, who had seen all his business correspondence

and his father’s for thirty years and more. Sometimes he missed Mass,

and presently I noted with a pang that he did not receive the Blessed

Sacrament regular as he used. And Mrs. James was pale, and her eyes, that

once were as bright and clear as sunshine, grew heavy and dark, and she

looked more and more like the picture in her oratory; but it made one

very sad somehow to see the likeness.

The hard times began at midsummer. The Lent after there was a mission of

Dominican friars here. I was special busy that week, and kept at work

till after midnight. One evening, about eight, Mr. James came hurriedly

into the office and asked for the letters. He turned them over, looked

blank, then said the half-past eleven mail would surely bring the one

he wanted, and he should wait till then and go for it himself. For five

minutes or so he tried to cast up some accounts; then, too nervous-like

to be quiet longer, he said: “I’ll go and hear the sermon, Serle. It will

serve to fill up the time.” And off he went.

The clock struck the hour and the half-hour, and the hour and the

half-hour, and I heard the half-past eleven mail come in, and, soon

after, Mr. James’ step again, but slow now, like one in deep thought. In

he came, and I caught a glimpse of his face, pale and stern, with the

lips hard set. He shut himself into his private room, and I heard him

pacing up and down; then there came a pause, and he strode out again. He

seemed very odd to me, but he tried to laugh, as he put down two slips

for telegrams on my desk. “Which would you send?” said he.

One was, “Go on. I consent to all your terms.” The other was, “Stop. I

will have nothing more to do with it, no matter what happens.”

Something told me in my heart that, though he was trying to pass this off

in his old way like a joke, my master--my dear master--was in a great

strait. I looked up and answered what he had not said at all to get an

answer, with words which rose to my lips in spite of myself. Says I:

“Send what Mrs. James would want you to send, sir.” And then his ruddy,

kind face bleached gray like ashes, and he gave a groan, and the next

minute he was gone.

Though my work was done for that night, I would not leave the bank; for

I thought he might come back. And back he did come, a full hour after,

steady and grave and not like my master. For, Mr. Clarkson, the bright

boy-look I had loved so, which, with the boy-nature too, had never seemed

to leave him, was all gone out of his face, and I knew surely I never

should see it there again. He wrote something quickly, then handed it to

me, bidding me send telegrams to the bank trustees as there ordered. The

slip which bore my direction bore also the words, with just a pencil-line

erasure through them, “Go on. I consent to all your terms.” So, for good

or for ill, whichever it might be, the other was the one he must have

sent.

These telegrams notified the trustees of a most important meeting to

which they were summoned, and at that meeting I had, as usual, to be

present. Perhaps his colleagues saw no change in him; but I, who had

served him long, saw much. O Mr. Clarkson, Mr. Clarkson! whatever you may

be--and you are young still--_be honest_. For, sir, there’s one thing of

many terrible to bear, and it’s got to be borne here or hereafter by them

as err from uprightness; and that thing is shame. I’d seen him kneel at

the altar that morning, and she beside him, bless her! That’s where he

got strength to endure the penance he had brought upon himself; else I

don’t know how he ever could have borne it or have done it.

They sat there about him where they had often sat before, those fifteen

country gentlemen, some of whom had been his father’s and his uncle’s

friends, and some his own schoolmates and companions. And he stood up,

and first he looked them calm and fearless full in their faces, and then

his voice faltered and stopped, and then they all felt that it was indeed

something beyond ordinary that was coming.

Don’t ask me to tell my master’s shame as he told it, without a gloss or

an excuse, plain and bald and to the point. I knew and they knew that

there was excuse for his loving and lavish nature, but he made none for

himself.

Well, there’s no hiding what all the world knows now. He had let himself

be led away into speculation and--God pity and forgive him!--into fraud,

till only ruin or added and greater sin stared him in the face; then,

brought face to face with that alternative, he had chosen--just ruin, sir.

There was dead silence for a space, till Sir Jasper Meredith, the oldest

man there, and the justest business man I ever met, said gravely: “Do you

realize, Mr. Brent, that this implies ruin to others than to you?”

He was not thinking of himself, though this trouble would straiten him

sorely; he was thinking, and so was my master, and so was I, of poor men,

and lone women, and children and babies, made penniless at a blow; of the

works stopped; of hunger and sickness and cold. Mr. James bowed his head;

he could not speak.

Then I had to bring out the books, and we went carefully over them

page by page. It was like the Day of Judgment itself to turn over those

accounts, and to read letters that had to be read, and to find out, step

by step, and in the very presence of the man we had honored and trusted,

that he had really fallen from his high place. He quivered under it, body

and soul, but answered steadily every question Sir Jasper put to him;

spoke in such a way that I was sure he as well as I thought of the last

great day, and was answering to One mightier than man. And presently,

when they had reached the root of it--well, Mr. Clarkson, it was sin

and it was shame, and I dare not call it less before God; yet it was

sin which many another man does unblushingly, and had he persisted in

it--had he only the night previous sent that message, “Go on”--it was

possible and probable that he could have saved himself. Yet, if I could

have had my choice then or now, I would rather have seen him stand there,

disgraced and ruined by his own act and will, than have had him live for

another day a hypocrite.

But Sir Jasper said never a word of praise or blame till the whole

investigation was ended; listened silently while Mr. James told his plan

to sell all he owned in Brentwood, pay what debts he could, and then

begin life over again abroad, and work hard and steadily to retrieve his

fortunes, that he might pay all and stand with a clear conscience before

he died. Then Sir Jasper rose and came to him, put his two hands on Mr.

James’ shoulders, and looked him straight in the eyes. “James Brent,”

he said, “I knew your father before you, and your father’s father, but

I never honored them more, and I never honored you more, than on this

day when you confess to having disgraced your name and theirs, but have

had the honesty and manliness to confess it. Disgrace is disgrace; but

confession is the beginning of amendment.”

That was all. There was no offer of money help; all Sir Jasper could

offer would have been but a drop in the ocean of such utter ruin. There

was no advice to spare himself before he spared his neighbor; Sir Jasper

was too just for that. But after those words I saw my master’s eyes grow

moist and bright, and a gleam of hope come into his face. My poor master!

my poor master! Thank God we cannot see the whole of suffering at the

beginning!

The intention was not to let the news get abroad that night. Mr. James

went home to tell his wife and children--how terrible that seemed to

me!--and I sat busy in the office. It was the spring of the year. Fifteen

years ago the coming month he had brought his bride home in the sunshine

and the flowers. This afternoon darkened into clouds, and rain came and

the east wind. I lighted the lamps early and went to my work again.

Presently I heard a sound such as I never heard before--a low growl, or

roar, or shout, that wasn’t thunder or wind or rain. It grew louder; it

was like the tramp of many feet, hurrying fast, and in the direction of

the bank. Then cries--a name, short, distinct, repeated again and again:

“Brent! Brent! James Brent!”

I went to the window. There they were, half Brentwood and more, clamoring

for the sight of the man they trusted above all men. I flung the window

up and they saw me.

“Halloo, there, Joseph Serle!” cried the leader, a choleric Scot who had

not been many years among us. “Where’s our master?”

“Not here,” says I, with a sinking at my heart.

“He knows,” piped a woman’s shrill voice; “make him tell us true.”

And then the Scot cries again: “Halloo, Joseph Serle, there! Speak us

true, mon, or ye’ll hang for’t. Is our money safe?”

What could I say? Face after face I saw by the glare of torches--faces of

neighbors and friends and kin--and not one but was a loser, and few that

were not well-nigh ruined. And while I hesitated how to speak again that

woman spoke: “Where’s James Brent? Has he run, the coward?”

That was too much. “He’s home,” cried I, “where you and all decent folk

should be.”

“Home! home!” They caught the word and shouted it. “We’ll go home too.

We’ll find James Brent.” And the tide turned towards the Hall.

I flew down the back-stairs to the stable, mounted the fleetest horse,

and galloped him bareback to Brent Hall; but, fast as I rode, the east

wind bore an angry shout behind me, and, if I turned my head, I saw

torches flaring, and the ground seemed to tremble with the hurrying tramp

of feet.

I don’t know how they bore it or how I told ’em. I know I found them

together, him and her, and she was as if she had not shed a tear, and her

eyes were glowing like stars, bright, and tender, and sad, and glad all

at once. I had hardly time to tell the news, when the sound I had dreaded

for ’em broke upon us like the rush and the roar of an awful storm. On

they came, trampling over the garden-beds, waving their torchlights,

calling one name hoarse and constant--“Brent! Brent! James Brent!”

“My love,” he said, bending down to her, “stay while I go to them.”

And then she looked at him with a look that was more heavenly than any

smile, and said only: “James, my place is by your side, and I will keep

it.”

He put his hand quick over his eyes like one in great awe, smiled with a

smile more sad than tears, then opened the hall door and stood out before

the crowd--there where many a man and woman of them had seen him bring

his young bride home. And the sudden silence which fell upon them his own

voice broke. “My friends,” he said, “what would you have of me?”

Straight and keen as a barbed arrow, not from one voice, but from many,

the question rose, “Is our money safe?” And after that some one called:

“We’ll trust your word, master, ’gainst all odds.”

I had thought that scene in the bank was like the Judgment Day; but what

was this? He tried to speak, but his lips clave together. Then I saw her

draw a little nearer--not to touch him or to speak to him; she did not

even look at him, neither at the people, but out into the darkness, and

up and far away; and her very body, it seemed to me, was praying.

“Is our money safe?” It was like a yell now, and James Brent made answer:

“My friends, I am a ruined man.”

“Is our money safe?” Little children’s voices joined in the cry. My God,

let Brentwood never hear the like again!

My master held out his hands like any beggar; then he fell down upon his

knees. “I confess to you and to God,” he said, “there is not one penny

left.”

Mr. Clarkson, I am Brentwood born and bred. I love my master, but I love

my place and people too. We are a simple folk and a loving folk. It is

an awful thing to shake the trust of such. They had deemed their honor

and their property for ever safe with this one man, and in an hour and at

a word their trust was broken, their scanty all was gone, their earthly

hopes were shattered. Mr. Clarkson, sir, it drove them wild.

That day had set on Brent Hall fair and stately; the morrow dawned on

blackened ruins. The grounds lay waste; the fountains were dry; pictures

which nobles had envied had fed the flames; fabrics which would have

graced a queen stopped the babbling of the brooks; and in front of Brent

Bank hung effigies of the last Brent Brothers, with a halter about the

neck of each.

He had planned--my master, my poor master!--to retrieve all. Why could it

not be? God knows best, but it is a mystery which I cannot fathom. That

night’s horror and exposure brought him to the very gates of death; and

when he rose up at last, it was as a mere wreck of himself, never to work

again. His wife’s dowry went to the people whom he had ruined and who had

ruined him. They lived until her death, as he lives still, on charity.

And that is all? No, Mr. Clarkson, not quite all. He was brave enough,

since he could not win back his honor otherwise, to stay among us and

gain a place again in the hearts he had wounded sore. Sometimes I think

he teaches us a better lesson, old, and alone, and poor, than if he had

come to build his fallen home once more. I think, sir, we have learned to

pity and forgive as we never should have done otherwise, since we have

seen him suffering like any one of us; as low down as any one of us.

JAMES BRENT’S VERSION.

He has told you the story, then, my boy, has he? And you are the last of

us, and you have my name--James Brent Clarkson. The last? Then I will

tell you more than he could tell you. Do not shrink or fancy it will pain

me. I would like to let you know all, my boy--not for my sake; but you

say you are only half a Catholic, and I would have you learn something of

the deep reality of the true faith.

The night I waited for the half-past eleven train I had been stopped on

my way to the bank by a crowd at the church door, and I heard one man say

to another: “They’re dark times, neighbor--as dark as our land’s seen

these hundred years.” And his mate answered him: “Maybe so, Collins;

maybe so. But Brentwood don’t feel ’em much. I believe, and so does

most folks, that if all other houses fell, and e’en the Bank of England

broke, Brent Brothers would stand. It’s been honest and true for four

generations back, and so ’twull be to the end on’t.” Then the crowd

parted, the men went into the church, and I passed down the street.

“Honest and true for four generations back, and so ’twull be to the end

on’t.” The words haunted me. At last, in desperation, to rid myself of

the thought, I went to church also. Going in by a side door, I found

myself in a corner by a confessional, quite sheltered from view, but

with the pulpit in plain sight. There, raised high above the heads of

the people, the preacher stood, a man of middle age, who looked as if

he had been at some time of his life in and of the world; his face that

of one who has found it almost a death-struggle to subdue self to the

obedience and the folly of the cross. He seemed meant for a ruler among

his fellows. I wondered idly what he was doing there in the preacher’s

frock, speaking to the crowd.

He was telling, simply and plainly, of our Lord’s agony in the garden.

But simple and plain as were his words, there was something in the face

and voice which drew one into sympathetic union with this man, who spoke

as if he were literally beholding the load of our sin lying upon the

Lord’s heart till his sweat of blood started. And when he had painted

the scene to us, he paused as hearing the awful cry echo through the

stillness that reigned in the crowded church, then bent forward as if his

eyes would scan our very hearts, and spoke once more.

I cannot tell you what he said, but before he ended I knew this: my sin

cost our Lord’s agony; added sin of mine would be added anguish of his.

The choice lay before me. When I showed Serle those two despatches, the

one “Stop,” the other “Go on,” I held there what would be my ruin for

time or for eternity.

There is a world unseen, and mighty; its powers were round me that

night like an army. Hitherto I had been deceiving myself with the plea

of necessity of others’ interests to be considered, of my honor to be

sustained. That night another motive rose before me, but it was of an

honor put to dishonor--the Lord of glory bowed down to the earth by shame.

The letter must be answered before morning, so pressing was my need.

I decided to go to the telegraph office, and by the time I reached it

my mind must be made up. But, in the street, I came face to face with

the preacher I had heard that night. The moon was near the full. We two

looked straight at each other, passed, then turned as by one impulse,

and faced again. They who fight a fight to its end, and conquer, but

only with wounds whose scars they must bear to their graves, sometimes

gain a great power of reading the souls of those who are fighting a like

contest, and know not yet if it will end in victory or defeat. Some fight

like mine I felt sure that priest had fought. “What would you have, my

brother?” he asked.

“Answers to two questions, father,” I replied. “If a man has done wrong

to others, and can only repair it by added wrong, shall he disgrace

his own good name for ever by avowal, or shall he sin? And if his fall

involves the suffering of his innocent wife and children, may he not save

himself from shame for their sake? It is a matter which may not wait now

for confession even. Answer as best you may, for the love of God.”

I fancied that the stern face before me softened and grew pale, and in

the momentary stillness I understood that the Dominican was praying. Then

he answered, few words and firm, as one who _knew_:

“To choose disgrace is to choose the path our divine Lord chose. To

involve our dearest in suffering is to know his anguish whose blessed

Mother stood beneath his cross.”

Then, after one more slight, intense silence, “My brother,” he said

earnestly, “I do not know your life, but I know my own. To drink the

Lord’s cup of shame to its dregs--_with him_--is a blessed thing to do,

if he gives a sinner grace to do it.”

Tell me a thousand times that you have no faith yourself; that to love

God passionately is a dream, a delusion, unworthy of our manly nature;

that to choose shame is folly, to choose suffering is a mad mistake--what

shame could atone for my sins or give back to the poor the means of which

my folly had robbed them? What can your words count with those who have

once tasted the bitter sweetness of the Lord’s own chalice? Suddenly,

standing there, I knew what it means to love God more than houses or

lands, wife or children; to have him more real to the soul than they to

the heart; to be willing and glad to forsake all for him; to know I had

one more chance left to do his will, not Satan’s; and to make my choice.

Having brought his agony on him, there was nothing more I _could_ do but

bear it with him.

My boy, though you came on my invitation, you chose the twilight in

which to come to me, that I might hide my shame at meeting you. Such

shame _died dead_ in two awful nights and days: First, confession before

the priest of God; then to colleagues and friends; then to my wife and

to my son--oh! that stings yet; then to an angry throng, whose trust I

had betrayed, whose hopes I had blasted, whose love and reverence I had

turned to hate and scorn. I have seen my home in ruins, my effigy hung

up and hooted at in the public square, my name become a byword, my

race blotted out. I am an old man now, and still they tell my story in

Brentwood; each child learns it; strangers hear of it. Yet, if the power

were mine to alter these twenty years of humiliation, I would not lose

one hour of suffering or shame.

You ask me why? Thirty-five years ago I stood here, the centre and the

favorite of this town, and I set myself to work my own will, to gain

glory for me and mine. My wife, my name, my home, were my idols. It

seemed an innocent ambition, but it was not for God, and it led me into

evil work. You told me that since you came of age you have been but once

to confession. It is by the light of that sacrament that what seems to

you the mystery of my life is read. For a Catholic--whether striving

after perfection, or struggling up from sin to lasting penitence--has

for pattern the life of Jesus, the doing all in union with him, after

his example. What is the sacrament of penance but the bearing of shame,

though in the presence of a compassionate priest, with him who, when

he could have rescued us at the price of one drop of his most precious

blood, chose to die in ignominy, bearing before the world the entire

world’s disgrace? My boy, if in any way, by the love of our common name,

I can influence you, _go back to confession_. It is the very sacrament

for men who would be upright, and loyal, and strong, and true; or who,

having fallen, would humbly and bravely bear for Christ’s sake the

disclosure and the penalty.

My penance--given by God, mark you--was heavy, men think. Was it heavier

than my sin? They do not know everything. All my life I had been helped,

guarded, upheld; and for such to fall is a deadlier sin than for others.

The infinite love of God bore with me and saved me. And as, day by day,

like the unremitted lashes of a scourge, suffering fell to my portion,

I tell you that a strange, an awful sweetness mingled with the anguish.

I knew it was the hand of God that smote me, and that he smote here to

spare hereafter.