CHAPTER VII.

THE END OF THE MATTER.

The truth was not long in becoming known when the daylight called the

villagers abroad. Temple was gone. He had fled from his creditors, and

to escape the vengeance of the land-office for his embezzlement of funds

which had come into his hands in the transaction of its business. His

creditors might make what they could of that which he left behind; but

his mansion, shrubberies, conservatories, and ornamental furniture could

by no method be made to compensate for the property which had flown to

the moon, or somewhere else where it was as little accessible. The

estate, disposed of to the greatest possible advantage, could not be

made worth more than what was spent upon it in its present form; and the

enormous waste which had been perpetrated in wanton caprices could never

be repaired.

Temple had spent more than his income, from the time he set foot in

America, if not before. He was only careless at first, forgetting to

provide for contingencies, and being regularly astonished, as often as

he looked into his affairs, at discovering how much his expenses had

exceeded his expectations. He next found it easier to avoid looking too

closely into his affairs than to control his passion for ostentation:

and from that moment, he trod the downward path of the spendthrift;

raising money by any means that he could devise, and trusting that fate

or something would help him before all was spent. Fate did not come in

as a helper till he could turn nothing more of his own into dollars

without the humiliation of appearing to retrench; and to submit to this

was quite out of the question. So he compelled his lady to darn and dye,

and make her old wardrobe serve; restricted her allowance for

housekeeping in all the departments that he had nothing to do with; and

betook himself to embezzlement. This served his purpose for a short

time; but, on the day of Arthur’s funeral, a stranger was observed to

have arrived in the place, without an introduction to Mr. Temple.

Temple’s unpaid labourers had lately taken the liberty of asking for

their money, and, actuated by some unknown impulse, had this evening

come up with torches through the rain, to call the gentleman to account,

and show him that they would not be trifled with any longer. It was time

to be off; and Temple waited only till the village was quiet, before he

stole to the stables, saddled his horse with his own hands, just called

to tell his wife that he could not at present say whether he should send

for her, or whether she might never see or hear from him more, and

turned his back on Briery Creek for ever. Whether his wife would choose

to go to him was a question which did not seem to occur to his mind.

A passing traveller, looking down upon Briery Creek from the

neighbouring ridge, might perhaps ask the name of the social benefactor

who had ornamented the district with yon splendid mansion, presented the

village with a place of worship, and the shell, at least, of a

parsonage; had reclaimed those green lawns from the wild prairie, and

cleared the woodland in the rear so as to leave, conspicuous in beauty,

clumps of the noblest forest trees. Such a stranger ought not to use the

term “benefactor” till he knew whence came the means by which all this

work was wrought. If from a revenue which could supply these graces

after all needful purposes had been fulfilled, well and good. Such an

expenditure would then have been truly beneficent. It is a benignant act

to embellish God’s earth for the use and delight of man. But if there is

not revenue enough for such objects,—if they are attained by the

sacrifice of those funds on whose reproduction society depends for

subsistence, the act, from being beneficent, becomes criminal. The

mansion is built out of the maintenance of the labourer; and that which

should have been bread to the next generation is turned into barren

stone. Temple was a criminal before he committed fraud. He injured

society by exhausting its material resources, and leaving no adequate

substitute for them. If he had lavished his capital, as Dr. Sneyd laid

out his revenue, in the pursuit of science, it is very possible that,

though such an expenditure might require justification in comparison

with Dr. Sneyd’s, the good he would effect might have so superabounded

above the harm as to have made society his debtor,—(as in many a case

where philosophers have expended all their substance in perfecting a

discovery or invention,)—but Temple had done nothing like this. The

beauty of his estate, however desirable in itself, was no equivalent for

the cost of happiness through which it was produced. He had no claim to

a share of the almost unlimited credit allowed, by the common consent of

society, to its highest class of benefactors,—the explorers of

Providence.

Arthur had done little less than Temple in the way of adorning Briery

Creek; and how differently! His smiling fields, his flocks spreading

over the prairie, his own house, and the dwellings of his labourers,

increasing in number and improving in comfort every year, were as

beautiful in the eye of a right-minded observer as the grander abode of

his brother-in-law. There were indications also of new graces which were

to arise in their proper time. The clearings were made with a view to

the future beauty of the little estate; creepers were already spreading

over the white front of the house, and no little pains had been bestowed

upon the garden. Yet, so far from any suffering by Arthur’s expenditure,

every body had been benefited. A larger fund had remained at the close

of each year for the employment of labour during the next; and if new

labourers were induced to come from a distance and settle here, it was

not that they might be kept busy and overpaid for a time, and afterwards

be left unemployed and defrauded of part of their dues, but that they

and their children after them might prosper with the prosperity of their

employer. Temple had absconded, leaving a name which would be mentioned

with either contempt or abhorrence as long as it would be mentioned at

all. Arthur had departed, surrounded with the blessings of those who

regarded him as a benefactor. He had left a legacy of substantial wealth

to the society in which he had lived, and a name which would be

perpetuated with honour.

It was hoped that the effects of Arthur’s good deeds would long outlast

those of Temple’s evil ones. In all communities that can boast of any

considerable degree of civilization, there are many accumulators to one

spendthrift. The principle of accumulation is so strong, that it has

been perpetually found an overmatch for the extravagance of ostentatious

governments, and for the wholesale waste of war. The capital of every

tolerably governed state has been found to be gradually on the increase,

however much misery might, through mismanagement, be inflicted on

certain portions of the people. It was to be hoped that such would be

the process in Briery Creek; that the little capitals which had been

saved by the humbler residents would be more freely employed in putting

labour into action, than while the great man had been there to buy up

all that was to be had. It might be hoped that the losses of the

defrauded labourers might thus be in time repaired, and new acquisitions

made. Again:—there was now no one to interfere with the exchanges in the

markets, and thus perplex the calculations of producers, causing

deficiencies of some articles and gluts of others;—inequalities which no

foresight could guard against. Every one might now have as much fresh

meat, and as little salt, as he chose; and the general taste would

regulate the supply in the market, to the security of those who sold and

the satisfaction of those who bought. It would be well for certain

nations if those who attempt interference with commerce on a larger

scale could be as easily scared away as Temple; their dictation (in the

form of bounties and prohibitions) expiring as they withdrew. Greater,

in proportion to their greater influence in society, would be the

rejoicing at their departure, than that with which Temple’s

disappearance was hailed, when the first dismay of his poorer creditors

was overcome.

The ease which was thus occasioned was not confined to those who had

merely a business connexion with him. No one liked to tell his notions

upon so delicate a matter; but a significant smile went round, some

months after, when it was remarked how uncommonly well Mrs. Temple was

looking, and how gracious she had become, and what a different kind of

boy Temmy now promised to be from any thing that was expected of him

formerly. The air of the farm was pronounced to be a fine thing for them

both.

Yes; the farm,—Arthur’s farm. The estate was of course left to his

family; and it was the most obvious thing in the world that Mrs. Temple

should establish herself in it, and superintend its management, with

Isaac and his wife to assist her, till Temmy should be old and wise

enough to take it into his own charge. The lady herself proposed this

plan; and it was a fortunate thing that she had always been fond of a

dairy and poultry yard, and of a country life altogether. The pride

which had chilled all who came near her during “the winter of her

discontent,” gradually thawed under the genial influence of freedom and

ease. Her parents once more recognized in her the Louisa Sneyd who had

been so long lost to them, and every body but the Hesseldens thought her

so improved that she could not have been known for the same person;—even

as to beauty,—so much brighter did she look carrying up a present of

eggs and cream-cheese to her mother, in the early morning, than

sauntering through the heat from her carriage, entrenched behind her

parasol, with the liveried servant at her heels, burdened with her

pocket-handkerchief and a pine-apple for the doctor’s eating.

She was never afraid of being too early at her father’s. Dr. Sneyd was

as fond of country occupations as she; and when he had not been in his

observatory for half the night, might be found at sunrise digging or

planting in his garden. His grievous loss had not destroyed his

energies; it had rather stimulated them, by attaching him for the short

remainder of his days to the place of his present abode. He had

gradually relaxed in his desire to see England again, and had now

relinquished the idea entirely,—not through indolence, or because the

circle of his old friends at home was no longer complete, but

because,—free from superstition as he was,—his son being buried there

attached him to the place. Here he, and his wife, and their daughter,

and grandchild, could speak of Arthur more frequently, more easily, more

happily, than they could ever learn to do elsewhere. They could carry

forward his designs, work in his stead, and feel, act, and talk as if he

were still one of them. Not only did they thus happily regard him in the

broad sunshine, when amidst the lively hum of voices from the village

they were apt to fancy that they could distinguish his; but, in the dead

of night, when the doctor was alone in his observatory, or sometimes

assisted by Mrs. Sneyd, (who had taken pains to qualify herself thus

late to aid her husband,) bright thoughts of the departed would

accompany the planets in their courses, and hopes were in attendance

which did not vanish with the morning light, or grow dark in the evening

shade. The large telescope was not, for some time, of the use that was

expected, for want of such an assistant as Arthur. A sigh would

occasionally escape from Dr. Sneyd when he felt how Arthur would have

enjoyed a newly-made discovery,—how he might have suggested the means of

removing a difficulty. Then a smile would succeed at the bare

imagination of how much greater things might be revealed in Arthur’s new

sphere of habitation; and at the conviction that the progress of God’s

truth can never be hurtfully delayed, whether its individual agents are

left to work here, or removed to a different destination elsewhere.

Hopes, different in kind, but precious in their way, rested now on

Temmy,—soon to be called by the less undignified name of Temple. The boy

had brightened, in intellect and in spirits, from the hour that he began

to surmount his agitation at the idea of being some day sole master of

the farm. There was something tangible in farm-learning, which he felt

he could master when there was no one to rebuke and ridicule almost

every thing he attempted; and in this department he had a model before

him on which his attention was for ever fixed. Uncle Arthur was the plea

for every new thing he proposed to attempt; and, by dint of incessant

recourse to it, he attempted many things which he would not otherwise

have dreamed of. Among other visions for the future, he saw himself

holding the pen in the observatory, _sans peur et sans reproche_.

He was some time in learning to attend to two things at once; and all

his merits and demerits might safely be discussed within a yard of his

ear, while he was buried in mathematics or wielding his pencil; which he

always contrived to do at odd moments.

“What is he about now?” was the question that passed between the trio

who were observing him, one evening, when he had been silent some time,

and appeared to be lightly sketching on a scrap of paper which lay

before him.

“Ephraim’s cabin, I dare say,” observed his mother. “We are to have a

frolic in a few days, to raise a cabin for Ephraim, who has worked

wonderfully hard in the prospect of having a dwelling of his own. It is

Temple’s affair altogether; and I know his head has been full of it for

days past. He wishes that Ephraim’s cabin should be second to none on

the estate.”

“Let us see what he will make of it,” said the doctor, putting on his

spectacles, and stepping softly behind Temple. He looked on, over the

youth’s shoulder, for a few minutes, with a quiet smile, and then

beckoned his wife.

This second movement Temple observed. He looked up hastily.

“Very like my dear boy! It is very like. It is something worth living

for, Temple, to be so remembered.”

"So remembered as this, Sir! It is so easy to copy the face, the——”"

“The outward man? It is a great pleasure to us that you find it so; but

it gives us infinitely more to see that you can copy after a better

manner still. We can see a likeness there too, Temple.”

Having illustrated the leading principles which regulate the PRODUCTION,

DISTRIBUTION, and EXCHANGE of Wealth, we proceed to consider the laws of

its CONSUMPTION.

Of these four operations, the three first are means to the attainment of

the last as an end.

Consumption by individuals is the subject before us. Government

consumption will be treated of hereafter.

_Summary of Principles illustrated in this volume._

Consumption is of two kinds, productive and unproductive.

The object of the one is the restoration, with increase, in some new

form, of that which is consumed. The object of the other is the

enjoyment of some good through the sacrifice of that which is consumed.

That which is consumed productively is capital, reappearing for future

use. That which is consumed unproductively ceases to be capital, or any

thing else. It is wholly lost.

Such loss is desirable or the contrary in proportion as the happiness

resulting from the sacrifice exceeds or falls short of the happiness

belonging to the continued possession of the consumable commodity.

The total of what is produced is called the gross produce.

That which remains, after replacing the capital consumed, is called the

net produce.

While a man produces only that which he himself consumes, there is no

demand and supply.

If a man produces more of one thing than he consumes, it is for the sake

of obtaining something which another man produces, over and above what

he consumes.

Each brings the two requisites of a demand; viz., the wish for a supply,

and a commodity wherewith to obtain it.

This commodity, which is the instrument of demand, is, at the same time,

the instrument of supply.

Though the respective commodities of no two producers may be exactly

suitable to their respective wishes, or equivalent in amount, yet, as

every man’s instrument of demand and supply is identical, the aggregate

demand of society must be precisely equal to its supply.

In other words, a general glut is impossible.

A partial glut is an evil which induces its own remedy; and the more

quickly, the greater the evil; since, the aggregate demand and supply

being always equal, a superabundance of one commodity testifies to the

deficiency of another; and, all exchangers being anxious to exchange the

deficient article for that which is superabundant, the production of the

former will be quickened, and that of the latter slackened.

A new creation of capital, employed in the production of the deficient

commodity, may thus remedy a glut.

A new creation of capital is always a benefit to society, by

constituting a new demand.

It follows that an unproductive consumption of capital is an injury to

society, by contracting the demand. In other words, an expenditure which

avoidably exceeds the revenue is a social crime.

All interference which perplexes the calculations of producers, and thus

causes the danger of a glut, is also a social crime.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES,

Stamford Street.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE THREE AGES.

---------------------

FIRST AGE.

One fine summer day, about three hundred and ten years ago, all

Whitehall was astir with the throngs who were hastening to see my Lord

Cardinal set forth from the episcopal palace for the Parliament House.

The attendants of the great man had been collected for some time,—the

bearers of the silver crosses, of the glittering pillars, and of the

gilt mace, those who shouldered the pole-axes, the running footmen, and

the grooms who held the well-clothed mules. The servants of the palace

stood round, and there came among them a troop of gentlemen in foreign

costume, whose country could not be divined from their complexions,

since each wore a mask, rarely painted wherever left uncovered by a

beard made of gold or silver wire. When my Lord Cardinal came forth,

glowing in scarlet damask, and towering above everybody else by the

height of the pillion and black velvet noble which he carried on his

head, these strangers hastened to range themselves round the mule,

(little less disguised than they,) and to offer a homage which savoured

of mockery nearly as strongly as that of casual passengers, who had good

reason for beholding with impatience the ostentatious triumphs of the

“butcher’s dog,” as an angry man had been heard to call my Lord

Cardinal. Wolsey made a sudden halt, and his goodly shoe, blazing with

gems, met the ground less tenderly than was its wont, as its wearer

stopped to cast a keen glance upon the strangers. He removed from

beneath his nose the orange peel filled with confections which might

defy the taint of the common people, and handed it to a page, with a

motion which signified that he perceived how an atmosphere awaited him

which he need not fear to breathe. There was then a general pause.

“Pleaseth it your Grace,” said one of the strangers, “there are certain

in Blackfriars that await your Grace’s passage and arrival, to prosper a

light affair, in which your Grace’s countenance will be comfortable to

them. Will it please you to spare them further perplexity of delay?”

The Cardinal bowed low to the speaker, mounted his mule in all

solemnity, and in a low voice asked for the honour of the stranger’s

latest commands to his obedient parliament.

“Commend us heartily to them, and see that they be readily obedient. We

commend them to your Grace’s tuition and governance. We will be

advertised of their answer at a certain fair house at Chelsea, where we

shall divert ourselves till sunset. Pray heaven your Grace may meet as

good diversion in Blackfriars!”

The strangers renewed their obeisances, and drew back to allow the

Cardinal’s stately retinue to form and proceed. The crowd of gazers

moved on with the procession, and left but few to observe the motions of

the strangers when the last scarlet drapery had fluttered, and the last

gold mace had gleamed on the sight. He who seemed the leader of the

foreigners then turned from the gate of the episcopal palace, followed

by his companions. All mounted mules which awaited them at some

distance, and proceeded in the direction of Chelsea.

They saw many things on the way with which they might make merry. Pale,

half-naked men were employed along the whole length of road in heaping

up wood for bonfires, as the people had been told that it pleased the

King’s Highness that they should rejoice for a mighty success over the

French. There was something very diverting, it was found, in the economy

of one who reserved a clean bit of board to be sawn into dust to eke out

the substance of his children’s bread; and nothing could be more amusing

than the coolness with which another pulled up the fence of his little

field, that the wood might go to the bonfire, and the scanty produce of

the soil to any wandering beggar who chose to take it, the owner having

spent his all in supporting this war, and being now about to become a

wandering beggar himself. He was complimented on his good cheer, when he

said that the king’s asses were welcome to the thistles of his field,

and the king’s pages to adorn themselves with the roses of his garden,

since the king himself had levied as tribute the corn of the one and the

fruits of the other. There was also much jesting with a damsel who

seemed nothing loth to part with her child, when they offered playfully

to steal it to be brought up for the wars. She thought the boy might

thus perchance find his father, since he owed his birth to one who had

promised the woman to get her father released from the prison where he

pined because he was unable to pay his share of the Benevolence by which

the King’s wars were to be carried on. She would give her son in

exchange for her father, in hopes of forgetting her anger and her shame.

The child was cast back into her arms with the assurance that when he

was strong enough to wield his weapon, the King’s Highness would call

for him. The next diverting passage was the meeting with a company of

nuns, on their way from their despoiled convent to find a hiding-place

in London. There was some exercise of wit in divining, while the maidens

kept their veils before their faces, which of them were under four-and-

twenty, and might therefore be toyed with, according to the royal

proclamation, that all below that age were released from their vows.

When the veils were pulled aside, there was loud laughter at the

trembling of some of the women, and the useless rage of others, and at

the solemn gravity of the youngest and prettiest of them all, who was

reproved by her superior for putting on a bold, undismayed face when so

many older and wiser sisters were brought to their wits’ end. Nothing

could be made of her, and she was therefore the first to be forgotten

when new matter of sport appeared. A friar, fatter than he seemed likely

to be in future, was seen toiling along the road under a loaded basket,

which the frolickers were certain must contain something good, from its

being in the custody of a man of God. They got round him, so enclosing

him with their beasts that he could not escape, and requested to be

favoured with the sight and scent of the savoury matters which his

basket doubtless contained, and for which they hungered and thirsted,

since they had seen none but meagre fare in the houses they had

passed:—little better than coarse bread had met their eyes since their

own morning meal. The friar was not unwilling to display his treasures,

(although unsavoury,) in the hope of a parting gift: so the eyes of the

stranger were regaled with the parings of St. Edmund’s toes,—the most

fastidious of saints in respect of his feet, to judge from the quantity

of such parings as one and another of the present company had seen since

there had been a stir among the monasteries. There were two of the coals

which had roasted St. Lawrence—now cool enough to be safely handled. A

head of St. Ursula,—very like a whale,—but undoubtedly a head of St.

Ursula, because it was a perfect preventive of weeds in corn. The friar

was recommended to bestow it upon the poor man who had been seen pulling

up the fence of his barren field; but the leader of the party could not

spare the friar at present. The holy man did not know his own age, for

certain. He must,—all the party would take their oath of it,—be under

four-and-twenty, and his merriment would match admirably with the

gravity of the young nun who had just passed. Two of the revellers were

sent back to catch, and bring her with all speed to Chelsea, where she

should be married to the friar before the day was over; the King’s

Highness being pleased to give her a dower. The friar affected to enjoy

this as a jest, and sent a message to the damsel while inwardly planning

how to escape from the party before they should reach Chelsea.

His planning was in vain. He was ordered to ride behind one of the

revellers, and his precious burden of relics was committed to the charge

of another, and some of the mocking eyes of the party were for ever

fixed on the holy man, insomuch that he did not dare to slip down and

attempt to escape; and far too soon for him appeared the low, rambling

house, its expanse of roof alive with pert pigeons, its garden alleys

stretching down to the Thames, and its porch and gates guarded with

rare, grim-looking stuffed quadrupeds placed in attitudes,—very unlike

the living animals which might be seen moving at their pleasure in the

meadow beyond.

On the approach of the party, one female face after another appeared at

the porch, vanished and reappeared, till an elderly lady came forth,

laden with fruit, from a close alley, and served as a centre, round

which rallied three or four comely young women, a middle-aged gentleman

who was the husband of one of them, and not a few children. The elder

dame smoothed a brow which was evidently too apt to be ruffled, put into

her manner such little courtesy as she could attain, and having seen

that servants enough were in attendance to relieve her guests of their

mules, offered the King’s Majesty the choice of the garden or the cooler

house, while a humble repast was in course of preparation.

The attendant gentlemen liked the look of the garden, and the thought of

straying through its green walks, or sitting by the water’s edge in

company with the graceful and lively daughters of Sir Thomas More; but

Henry chose to rest in the house, and it was necessary for some of his

followers to remain beside him. While some, therefore, made their

escape, and amused themselves with finding similitudes for one young

lady in the swan which floated in a square pond, and in sprinkling

another with drops from the fountain which rained coolness over the

circular grass-plat, others were called upon to follow the King from the

vestibule, which looked like the antechamber to Noah’s ark, and the

gallery where the promising young artist, Holbein, had hung two or three

portraits, to the study,—the large and airy study,—strewed with fresh

rushes and ornamented with books, manuscripts, maps, viols, virginals,

and other musical instruments, and sundry specimens of ladies’ works.

“Marry,” said the King, looking round him, “there are no needs here of

the lackery of my Lord Cardinal’s and other palaces. These maps and

perspectives are as goodly as any cloth of gold at Hampton, or any cloth

of bodkin at York House. Right fair ladies, this holy friar shall

discourse to us, if you are so minded, of the things here figured

forth.”

The ladies had been accustomed to hear a holy man (though not a friar)

discourse of things which were not dreamed of in every one’s philosophy;

but they respectfully waited for further light from the friar, who now

stepped forward to explain how no map could be made complete, because

the end of the land and sea, where there was a precipice at its edge,

overhanging hell, was shrouded with a dark mist. He found, with

astonishing readiness, the country of the infidels, and, the very place

of the sepulchre, and the land where recent travellers had met with the

breed of asses derived from the beast which carried Christ into

Jerusalem. These were known from the common ass from having, not only

Christ’s common mark,—the cross,—but the marks of his stripes; and from

the race suffering no one to ride them but a stray saint whom they might

meet wayfaring. Many more such treasures of natural science did he lay

open to his hearers with much fluency, as long as uninterrupted; but

when the young ladies, as was their wont when discoursing on matters of

science with their father or their tutor, made their inquiries in the

Latin tongue, the friar lost his eloquence, and speedily substituted

topics of theology; the only matter of which he could treat in Latin.

This was not much to Henry’s taste. He could at any time hear all the

theology he chose treated of by the first masters in his kingdom; but it

was not every day that graceful young creatures, as witty as they were

wise, were at hand to amuse his leisure with true tales,—not “of men

whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders,” but of things quite as

unknown to his experience, and far more beautiful to his fancy. It was a

pity that Mr. Roper, the husband of the eldest of these young ladies,

was present, as it prevented the guests putting all the perplexing

questions which might otherwise have occurred to them.

By the time the house had resounded with music, and the King had found

his way up to the roof of the house,—where he had more than once amused

himself with star-gazing, in the company of his trusty and well-beloved,

the honourable Speaker, his host,—dinner was announced.

The dame had bustled about to so much purpose, that the service of

pewter made a grand display, the board was amply spread, and the King’s

Highness was not called upon to content himself with the homely fare of

a farm-house, as he had been assured he must. There was a pudding which

marvellously pleased the royal palate; and Henry would know whose

ingenuity had devised the rare mixture of ingredients.

“If it like your Grace,” replied the lady, "the honour must be parted

between me and Margaret, now sitting at your Grace’s right hand. The

matter was put in a good train by me, in every material point; but as

touching the more cunning and delicate—"

“Mine own good mistress Margaret,” interrupted Henry, “we are minded to

distinguish the great pain and discretion that you have towardly

exercised on this matter; and for a recompense, we appoint you the

monies of the next monastery that we shall require to surrender. The

only grace we ask is that we may appoint the marriage of the monks who

shall owe their liberty to us. Please it you, holy father, to advertise

us of a sumptuous monastery that may be most easily discharged?”

“I beseech your Grace to remember that what the regal power may

overthrow, the papal power will rectify. Any damageable proceedings may

bring on the head of your Highness’s servants a grievous punishment.”

“From Servus Servorum?” said the King, laughing. “Let him come to the

succour of the monks of Beggam, when they ring their abbey bell, and

carry away the sums in their treasury from the hands of Mistress

Margaret, to whom we appoint them. Nay, Mistress Margaret, I desire you

as lovingly to take this largesse as I do mean it; and ensure yourself

that that was ill-gotten which is now well-bestowed.”

The friar probably wished to be dismissed from the King’s presence

before his destined bride should arrive; for he muttered that dogs and

base poisoners, who have their chiefest hope in this world, were ever

ready to speak unfitting and slanderous words against those whom the

holy Trinity held fast in his preservation. The naughty friar received,

not an order to go about his business for supposing that Henry was

deceived, but a box on the ear from the dignified hands of the monarch,

and a promise that he should try the Little Ease in the Tower, if he did

not constrain his contumacious tongue in the King’s presence. A dead

silence followed this rebuff,—partly caused by dismay at the King’s

levity about popish matters, and partly by sorrow that he should

wantonly increase the enmity which was known to be borne to him by the

monks and friars in his dominions. The only way of restoring the

banished mirth was to call in one who stood without,—the facetious

natural who was wont to season Henry’s repasts with his jests.

As the jester entered, a royal messenger was seen standing outside, as

if anxious to deliver the letter he had in charge; and, unfitting as

seemed the time, it was presently in the hands of Henry. Its contents

seemed to leave him in no humour for feast or jest; and he had given no

further signal for mirth when his entirely beloved counsellor, the

Cardinal, and his trusty and honourable Speaker arrived,—the one to glow

and glitter in his costly apparel, and feast off “plump fesaunts,” and

the other to resume the homely guise he loved best, and refresh himself

with fruits and water.

“Marry, my Lords,” cried the King, when they were seated, one on each

side of him, “if the Lower House be not mindful of our needs, our sister

of Scotland may satisfy herself for her jewels as she may. She is

ashamed therewith; and would God there had never been word of the

legacy, as the jewels are worth less to her than our estimation.”

“Says the Queen of Scotland so much?” inquired the Cardinal.

“Satisfy yourself how much more,” replied the King, handing to Wolsey

the angry letter in which Margaret of Scotland expressed her contempt

for the withholding of her father’s legacy of jewels.

“Please your Highness, there are matters of other necessity than a

perplexed woman’s letter,” observed the Cardinal, with a freedom of

speech which was not now displeasing to his master.

“Another wager lost by the Princess’s governante in her Highness’ name?

Let us divert ourself with the inventory, my Lord Cardinal, while you

refresh yourself in a more hearty wise than our trusty host.”

Wolsey was impatient to consult upon the measures necessary to be taken

to follow up the extorted resolution of the House to furnish supplies to

the King’s needs: but Henry was in a mood for trifling, and he would

examine for himself the list of requests from the steward of the

Princess’s household; a list regularly addressed to the Cardinal, who

chose to superintend the details of all the management that he could get

into his own hands. Passing his arm round More’s neck, the King jested

upon the items in the letter,—the ship of silver for the alms-dish, the

spice plates, the disguisings for an interlude at a banquet, the

trumpets for the minstrels, and a bow and quiver for his lady’s Grace.

There was an earnest beseeching for a Lord of Misrule for the honourable

household, and for a rebeck to be added to the band. A fair steel glass

from Venice was desired, and a pair of hose wrought in silk and gold

from Flanders. There was an account of a little money paid for “Mr. John

poticary” coming to see my lady sick, and a great deal for a pound and a

half of gold for embroidering a night-gown. Something was paid for a

frontlet lost in a wager with my little lady Jane; and something more

for the shaving of her Grace’s fool’s head; and, again, for binding

prentice the son of a servant, and for Christopher, the surgeon, letting

her lady’s Grace blood; and again for a wrought carnation satin for the

favoured lady’s maid.

“I marvel, my Lord Cardinal,” said the King, “that your Grace can take

advice of the ordering of the Princess’s spice plates, and leave your

master to be sorely perplexed with the grooms and the yeomen and pages,

and those that bring complaints from the buttery, and the wardrobe of

beds, and the chaundery, and the stables, till my very life is worn with

tales of the mighty wants and debts of the household.”

“If it like your Grace, my most curious inquisition hath of late been

into the particulars of the royal household; and my latest enemies are

divers grooms, yeomen, and pages, whom I have compelled to perform their

bounden service to your Majesty, or to surrender it.”

The Speaker conceived that the charge of his own household would be

enough for the Cardinal, if he were made as other men; but as the King’s

was added, that of the Princess might reasonably devolve upon some less

occupied——

“Upon yourself?” inquired the King. “Marry, if you were to appoint your

spare diet of fruit for the Princess, Mistress Margaret should add to it

such a pudding as I have to-day tasted. What say you, Mistress

Margaret?” he continued, calling back the ladies who were modestly

retiring, on finding the conversation turning upon matters of state.

“My Margaret has no frontlets to lose in betting,” observed Sir Thomas

More. “But your Grace knows that there are many who have more leisure

for ordering the Princess’s household than your poor councillor. There

are divers in your good city of London who can tell whether the silver

ship for the alms-dish will not carry away the alms; and we have passed

some by the wayside to-day who would see somewhat miraculous in these

Venetian mirrors, not knowing their own faces therein.”

“These are not mirrors whose quality it is to make faces seem long, or,

certes, we ourself would use one,” said the King.

“Long faces might sometimes be seen without glasses,” Sir Thomas More

quietly replied.

“As for shaven fools’ heads,” observed the King, looking at the friar,

“there is no need to go to the Princess’s household to divert ourselves

with that spectacle. We will beseech our released monks, who must needs

lack occupation, to watch over their brethren of our household in this

particular.”

Sir Thomas More requested the friar to pronounce the thanksgiving over

the board, (as the Cardinal had at length finished his meal,) and to

instruct the women in certain holy matters, while the King’s Highness

should receive account of the passages of the morning.

Henry looked from the one to the other to know what had been their

success in raising money from his faithful Commons. The Cardinal opened

to him his plans for securing assent to the levy of an enormous

benevolence. Wolsey himself had never been more apt, more subtle, more

busy, than in his devices on this occasion. He had found errands in

remote parts for most whose obstinacy was to be feared. He had ordered

down to the House all the King’s servants who had a vote there: had

discharged easily of their sins many who were wavering in the matter of

the subsidy; and had made as imposing an appearance as possible on going

to Blackfriars to “reason” with the members who believed that the people

could not pay the money. And what was the result?

“Please it your Grace to understand that there hath been the greatest

and sorest hold in the House that ever was seen, I think, in any

Parliament. There was such a hold that the House was like to be

dissevered, but that the Speaker did mediate graciously between your

Highness and the greedy Jews that bearded me.”

“Mediate, I trow! And why not command, as beseems the Speaker?” cried

the King, glancing angrily on More.

“In his bearing the Speaker is meek,” observed Wolsey, with some malice

in his tone. “His words were dutiful, and the lowness of his obeisance

an ensample to the whole Parliament.”

“And what were his acts?”

“He informed me that the Commons are not wont to be reasoned with by

strangers, and that the splendour of my poor countenance must needs

bewilder their deliberations.”

“So be it. We have deliberated too long and too deeply for our royal

satisfaction on the matter of filling our coffers. We expect our Commons

to fill them without deliberation. Wherefore this repining and delay?”

asked Henry of More.

"Because your Grace’s true servants would that this vast sum should be

well and peaceably levied, without grudge——"

“We trouble not ourself about the grudge, if it be surely paid,”

interrupted Henry.

“We would that your Grace should not lose the true hearts of your

subjects, which we reckon a greater treasure than gold and silver,”

replied the Speaker.

“And why lose their hearts? Do they think that no man is to fare well,

and be well clothed but themselves?”

“That is the question they have this morning asked of the Lord

Cardinal,” replied More, “when my Lord discoursed to them of the wealth

of the nation, as if it were a reason why they should make such a grant

as your Majesty’s ancestors never heard of. One said that my lord had

seen something of the wealth of the nation, in the form of a beautiful

welcoming of your Majesty; but of the nation’s poverty, it is like the

Lord Cardinal has seen less than he may see, if the benevolence is

finally extorted.”

“And who is this one that beards my Lord Cardinal?”

“The one who spoke of the nation’s poverty is one who hath but too much

cause to do so from what his own eyes have seen within his own

household. He is one Richard Read, an honourable alderman of London,

once wealthy, but now, as I said, entitled, through his service to your

Majesty, to discourse of poverty.”

“Marry, I would that he would discourse of our poverty as soothly as of

his own. Has he been bearded by France? Is he looking for an invasion

from Scotland? Has he relations with his Holiness, and enterprizes of

war to conduct?”

“Such were the questions of my Lord Cardinal. He seems to be fully

possessed of your Grace’s mind.”

“And what was the answer?”

“That neither had the late King left to him in legacy nearly two

millions of pounds. Neither had he levied a benevolence last year, nor

borrowed twenty thousand pounds of the city of London. If he had, there

might not now perhaps have been occasion for alleging such high

necessity on the King’s part, nor for such high poverty expressed, not

only by the commoners, citizens, and burgesses, but by knights,

esquires, and gentlemen of every quarter.”

“And the Lord Cardinal did not allow such argument of poverty. How did

he rebuke the traitor for his foul sayings?”

“If it like your Grace, this Richard Read was once this day ordered to

be committed to prison, but he is still abroad. He regards himself and

his family as despoiled by never having rest from payments; and he cares

not greatly what he does. This is also the condition of so many that it

would not be safe to offer vengeance till the cuckoo time and hot

weather (at which time mad brains are most wont to be busy) shall be

overpassed.”

The King rose in great disturbance, and demanded of Wolsey why he had

not sent to a distance all who were likely to dispute the subsidy he

desired. Wolsey coolly assured him that this was an easier thing to

speak of than to do, as there were but too large a number who desired

that no more conquests should be sought in France, urging that the

winning thereof would be more chargeful than profitable, and the keeping

more chargeful than the winning. Audacious dogs were these, the Cardinal

declared; but it must be wary whipping till some could be prevented from

flying at the throat, while another was under the lash. But the day

should come when those who ought to think themselves only too much

honoured in being allowed to supply the King’s needs, should leave off

impertinently speculating on the infinite sums which they said had been

already expended in the invading of France, out of which nothing had

prevailed in comparison with the costs. If his Majesty would but turn

over his vengeance to his poor councillor, the pernicious knaves should

be made to repent.

“Of the salt tears they have shed, only for doubt how to find money to

content the King’s Highness?” inquired More.

“Their tears shall hiss hot upon their cheeks in the fire of my

vengeance,” cried the King. “Send this traitor Read to prison, that he

may answer for his words. If he keeps his head, he shall come out with

such a hole in his tongue as shall make him for ever glad to keep it

within his teeth.”

The Cardinal endeavoured to divert the King’s rage. He was as willing as

his royal master that this honest alderman Read should suffer for his

opposition to the exactions of the Government; but he knew that to send

one murmurer to prison at this crisis would be to urge on to rebellion

thousands of the higher orders, to head the insurrections which were

already beginning in the eastern counties. He now hastened to assure

Henry that there had not been wanting some few men besides himself to

rebuke the stupidity of those who complained of the impoverishment of

the nation, and to explain that that which was given to the King for his

needs was returned by the King in the very supplying of those needs.

“After there had been much discourse,” said he, “of what straits the

nation would be in if every man had to pay away his money, and how the

whole frame and intercourse of things would be altered if tenants paid

their landlords in corn and cattle, so that the landlords would have but

little coin left for traffic, so that the nation itself, for want of

money, must grow in a sort barbarous and ignoble, it was answered that

the money was only transferred into the hands of others of the same

nation, as in a vast market where, though the coin never lies still, all

are accommodated.”

“I will use despatch,” observed More, “to write this comforting news to

a cousin-german of mine, who is in sore distress because some rogues

have despoiled him of a store of angels that he had kept for his

daughter’s dower. I will assure him that there can be no impoverishment

in his case.”

Wolsey had not finished his speech. He had something still to say about

how much more precious was the wealth which descended from the throne in

streams of royal bounty and custom than when it went up from the rude

hands of his unworthy subjects. His Majesty only accepted for a time, in

order to return what he had received, embalmed with his grace, and

rendered meet to be handled with reverential ecstacy.

“Further good tidings for my cousin-german,” observed More. "If the

money which has been taken from him be spent in purchasing his corn and

cattle, he has nothing to complain of. His injury is repaired, and his

daughters are dowered. O rare reparation,—when the gentleman is no

worse, and the rogues are the better by the corn and cattle!"

“At this rate, O rare philosopher!” said Henry, “the way to make men

rich is to rob them; and to tax a people is to give them wealth. We have

wit, friend, to spy out jest from earnest. But who reports of these salt

tears?”

“Does not every report from the eastern counties savour of them?”

inquired More. “And in the west a like pernicious rheum distils in the

cold wind of poverty. And so it is in the north and south, though this

be the cuckoo time, and the season of hot weather.”

“It is the Parliament, your Grace may be assured,” interrupted the

Cardinal,—“it is your right trusty Lower House that devises sad tales of

salt tears to move such pitiful hearts as that of the Honourable

Speaker. If your Grace had seen how enviously they looked upon my poor

train, as we entered Blackfriars, and how they stood peevishly mute in

the House, each one like your Highness’s natural under disfavour, your

Grace would marvel that the tales are not of tears of blood.”

“Patience!” said More. “The next east wind will bring such rumours as

you speak of. They are already abroad.”

“The Parliament shall not puff them in our face,” cried Henry. “On our

conscience, we have borne with our faithless Commons too long. They

shall have another seven years to spy out the poverty that is above

them, while we will not listen to their impertinent tales of that which

is below. My Lord Cardinal, let them be dispersed for seven years.”

“And then,” observed More, "they will have time to learn what your

Majesty’s wisdom already discerns,—how much more fatal is poverty in

high places than in low. The contemptible handicraftsman can, while

consuming his scanty food of to-day, produce the scanty food of to-

morrow; while the gallants of your Grace’s court,—right noble gentlemen

as they are,—must beg of the low artizan to repair to-morrow that which

they magnificently consume to-day."

“My nobles are not beggars,” cried the King. “They pay for their pomp.”

"Most true. And their gold is right carefully cleansed from the rust of

salt tears, which else might blister their delicate fingers. But were it

not better for them to take their largess from the people in corn and

meat and wine at once,—since the coin which they handle hath been

already touched by the owner of land who has taken it as rent, or, worse

still, by the merchant as his gains, or, worst of all, by the labourer

as his hire?"

Wolsey assured the Speaker that his suggestion would soon be acted upon.

The people were so shy of making payments from their rent, their

profits, and their wages, that it would be necessary to take for the

King’s service the field of the landowner, the stock of the merchant,

and——

“And what next? For then there will be left no hire for the labourer.”

The Cardinal grew suddenly oracular about the vicissitudes of human

affairs, and the presumption of looking into futurity. The Speaker bowed

low under the holy man’s discourse, and the King was reassured.

“I marvel that your wit does not devise some pastimes that may disperse

the ill-blood of the people,” said Henry. “Dull homes cloud men’s minds

with vapours; and your Grace is full strict with them in respect of

shows and outward apparel. My gallants have not ceased their jests on

the aged man from whom your Grace’s own hands stripped the crimson

jacket decked with gauds. And there is talk of many pillories being

wanted for men who have worn shirts of a finer texture than suits your

Grace’s pleasure.”

“Is there not amusement enough for the people,” asked More, "in gazing

at the Lord Cardinal’s train? For my part, I know not elsewhere of so

fine a pageant. If they must have more, the legate is coming, and who

has measured the scarlet cloth which is sent over to Calais to clothe

Campeggio’s train? This will set the people agape for many days,—if they

can so spy out my Lord Cardinal’s will about their apparel as to dare to

come forth into the highway."

The King thought the pleasure of beholding a pageant did not last long

enough effectually to quiet the popular discontents. He wished that

fields could be opened for the sports of the young men, and that

companies of strolling mummers could be supported at the royal expense.

His miraculous bounty and benignity were extolled so that it was a pity

the people themselves were not by to say Amen; but it was feared the

said people must take the will for the deed, as, in the present

condition of the exchequer, it was impossible to afford the

appropriation of the ground, the outlay upon it to render it fit for the

proposed objects, or the annual expense of keeping it up. The people

must remain subject to blue devils, and liable to rebellion, till the

Scots were beaten off, and the French vanquished; till the Pope had done

with Henry, and the court had been gratified with a rare new masque, for

which an extraordinary quantity of cloth of gold, and cloth of silver,

and cloth of taffety, and cloth of bodkin, would be necessary; to say

nothing of the forty-four varieties of jewelled copes of the richest

materials which had been ordered for the chaplains and cunning singing-

men of the royal chapel. The king’s dignity must be maintained;—a truth

in which More fully agreed. What kingly dignity is, he was wont to

settle while pacing one of the pleached alleys of his garden as the sun

was going down in state, presenting daily a gorgeous spectacle which

neither Wolsey nor Campeggio could rival, and which would have been

better worth the admiration of the populace if their eyes had not been

dimmed by hunger, and their spirits jarred by tyranny into a dissonance

with nature. More was wont to ridicule himself as a puppet when decked

out with his official trappings; and he was apt to fancy that such holy

men as the future Defender of the Faith and the anointed Cardinal must

have somewhat of the same notions of dignity as himself.—There were also

seasons when he remembered that there were other purposes of public

expenditure besides the maintenance of the outward state of the

sovereign. His daughters and he had strengthened one another in the

notion that the public money ought to be laid out in the purchase of

some public benefit; and that it would not be unpardonable in the nation

to look even beyond the DEFENCE of their territory, and ask for an ample

administration of JUSTICE, a liberal provision for PUBLIC WORKS, and

perhaps, in some wiser age, an extensive apparatus of NATIONAL

EDUCATION. He was wont to look cheerfully to the good Providence of God

in matters where he could do nothing; but he was far from satisfied that

the enormous sums squandered in damaging the French availed anything for

the defence of the English; or that those who most needed justice were

the most likely to obtain it, as long as it must be sought with a

present in the hand which was not likely to be out-bid; or that the

itinerant justice-mongers of his day were of much advantage to the

people, as long as their profits and their credit in high quarters

depended on the amount they delivered in as amercements of the guilty.

He was not at all sure that the peasant who had done his best to satisfy

the tax-gatherer was the more secure against the loss of what remained

of his property, whenever a strong oppressor should choose to wrest it

from him. He could see nothing done in the way of public works by which

the bulk of the tax-payers might be benefited. Indeed, public

possessions of this kind were deteriorating even faster, if possible,

than private property; and the few rich commoners, here and there, who

dreaded competition in their sales of produce, might lay aside their

fears for the present. Competition was effectually checked, not only by

the diminution of capital, but by the decay of roads and bridges which

there were no funds to repair. As for education, the only chance was

that the people might gain somewhat by the insults offered to the

Church. The unroofed monks might carry some slight scent of the odour of

learning from the dismantled shrines; but otherwise it seemed designed

that the people’s acquaintance with polite learning should be confined

to two points which were indeed very strenuously taught,—the King’s

supremacy and the Cardinal’s infallibility.

More was not much given to reverie. While others were discoursing, his

ready wit seldom failed to interpose to illustrate and vivify what was

said. His low, distinct utterance made itself heard amidst the laughter

or the angry voices which would have drowned the words of almost any one

else; and the aptness of his speech made him as eagerly sought in the

royal circle as sighed for by his own family, when he was not at hand to

direct and enlighten their studies in their modest book-chamber. He was

much given to thought in his little journeys to and from town, and in

his leisure hours of river-gazing, and star-exploring; but he seldom

indulged his meditations in company. Now, however, while Henry and

Wolsey laid their scheme for swearing every man of the King’s subjects

to his property, and taxing him accordingly,—not only without the

assistance of Parliament, but while the Commons were dispersed for seven

years,—More was speculating within himself on the subject of kingly

dignity.

“One sort of dignity,” thought he, "consists with the purposes of him

who regards his people as his servants, and another with the wishes of

him who regards himself as the servant of his people. As for the

monarchs who live in times when the struggle is which party shall be a

slave, God’s mercy be on them and their people! Their throne moves, like

an idol’s car, over the bones of those who have worshipped or defied

their state; and they have fiends to act as mummers in their pageants,

and defiled armour for their masques, and much dolorous howling in the

place of a band of minstrels. In such days the people pay no tax,

because the monarch has only to stretch forth his hand and take. It is a

better age when the mummers are really merry, and minstrels make music

that gladdens the heart like wine; and gaudy shows make man’s face to

shine like the oil of the Hebrews: but it would be better if this

gladdening of some made no heart heavy; and this partial heaviness must

needs be where childish sports take place; and the gawds of a court like

ours are but baby sports after all. When my little ones made a pageant

in the meadow, there were ever some sulking, sooner or later, under the

hedge or within the arbour, while there was unreasonable mirth among

their fellows in the open sunshine,—however all might be of one accord

in the study and at the board. And so is it ever with those who follow

childish plays, be they august kings, or be they silly infants. But it

is no April grief that clouds the faces of the people while their King

is playing the master in order afterwards to enact the buffoon. They

have spent more upon him than the handful of meadow-flowers that

children fling into the lap to help the show; and they would do worse in

their moods than pull these gay flowers to pieces, after the manner of a

freakish babe. Remembering that it is the wont of honest masters to pay

their servants, they are ill content to pay the very roofs from off

their houses, and the seed from out of their furrows, to be lorded over,

and for the greatest favour, laid at the gate to see Dives pass in and

out in his purple and fine linen. It is ill sport for Dives to whistle

up his dogs to lick the poor man’s sores when so black a gulf is opening

yonder to swallow up his pomp. May be, his brethren that shall come

after him shall be wiser; as all are apt to become as time rolls on. The

matin hour decks itself gorgeously with long bright trains, and flaunts

before men’s winking eyes, as if all this grandeur were not made of

tears caught up for a little space into a bright region, but in their

very nature made to dissolve and fall in gloom. But then there is an end

of the folly, and out of the gloom step forth other hours, growing

clearer, and more apt to man’s steady uses; so that when noon is come,

there is no more pranking and shifting of purple and crimson clouds, but

the sun is content to light men perfectly to their business, without

being worshipped as he was when gayer but less glorious. Perhaps a true

sun-like king may come some day, when men have grown eagle-eyed to hail

such an one; and he will not be for calling people from their business

to be dazzled with him; nor for sucking up all that the earth will

yield, so that there may be drought around and gloom overhead. Rather

will he call out bubbling springs from the warm hill-side, and cast a

glister over every useful stream, to draw men’s eyes to it; and would

rather thirst himself than that they should. Such an one will be content

to leave it to God’s hand to fill him with glory, and would rather kiss

the sweat from off the poor man’s brow, than that the labourer should

waste the precious time in falling on his knees to him to mock him with

idolatry. Though he be high enough above the husbandman’s head, he is

not the lord of the husbandman, but in some sort his servant; though it

be a service of more glory than any domination.—If he should chance

vainly to forget that there sitteth One above the firmament, he may find

that the same Maker who once stayed the sun for the sake of one

oppressed people may, at the prayer of another, wheel the golden throne

hurriedly from its place, and call out constellations of lesser lights,

under whose rule men may go to and fro, and refresh themselves in peace.

The state of a king that domineers is one thing; and the dignity of a

king that serves and blesses is another; and this last is so noble, that

if any shall arise who shall not be content with the office’s

simplicity, but must needs deck it with trappings and beguile it with

toys, let him be assured that he is as much less than man as he is more

than ape; and it were wiser in him to rummage out a big nut to crack,

and set himself to switch his own tail, than seek to handle the orb and

stretch out the sceptre of kings."

It was a day of disappointments to Henry. Not only were his Commons

anything but benevolently disposed towards furnishing the benevolence

required, but the young nun would not come to be married to the friar.

The gallants who had been sent for her now appeared before the King with

fear and trembling, bearing sad tidings of the sturdiness of female

self-will. They had traced the maiden to the house of her father, one

Richard Read, and had endeavoured to force her away with them,

notwithstanding her own resistance, and her mother’s and sister’s

prayers and tears. In the midst of the dispute, her father had returned

from Blackfriars, surrounded by the friends who had joined him in

declining the tribute which they were really unable to pay. Heated by

the insolent words which had been thrown at them by the Cardinal, and

now exasperated by the treatment his daughter had met with, Read had

dropped a few words,—wonderfully fierce to be uttered in the presence of

courtiers in those days,—which were now repeated in the form of a

message to the King:—Read had given his daughter to be the spouse of

Christ, and had dowered her accordingly; and it did not now suit his

paternal ambition that she should be made the spouse of a houseless

friar for the bribe of a dowry from the King; this dowry being actually

taken from her father under the name of a benevolence to aid the King’s

necessities. He would neither sell his daughter nor buy the King’s

favour.

Henry was of course enraged, and ordered the arrest of the entire

household of Richard Read; a proceeding which the Cardinal and the

Speaker agreed in disliking as impolitic in the present crisis. Wolsey

represented to the King that there could be no failure of the subsidy if

every recusant were reasoned with apart, instead of being placed in a

position where his malicious frowardness would pervert all the rest of

the waverers. If good words and amiable behaviour did not avail to

induce men to contribute, the obstinate might be brought before the

privy council; or, better still, be favoured with a taste of military

service. Henry seized upon the suggestion, knowing that such service as

that of the Border war was not the pleasantest occupation in the world

for a London alderman, at the very time when his impoverished and

helpless family especially needed his protection. He lost sight, for the

time, as Wolsey intended that he should, of the daughter, while planning

fresh tyranny towards her father. The church would be spared the scandal

of such a jesting marriage as had been proposed, if, as the Cardinal

hoped, the damsel should so withdraw herself as not to be found in the

morning. The religious More had aspirations to the same effect.

“It is a turning of nature from its course,” said he, “to make night-

birds of these tender young swallows; but they are answerable who scared

them from beneath their broad eaves when they were nestled and looked

for no storm. Pray the Lord of Hosts that he may open a corner in some

one of his altars for this ruffled fledgeling!”

Little did the gentle daughters of More suspect for what message they

were summoned to produce writing materials, and desired to command the

attendance of a king’s messenger. Their father was not required to be

aiding and abetting in this exercise of royal tyranny. Perceiving that

his presence was not wished for, he stepped into his orchard, to refresh

himself with speculations on his harvest of pippins, and to hear what

his family had to say on his position with respect to the mighty

personages within.

“I marvel,” said his wife to him, “that you should be so wedded to your

own small fancies as to do more things that may mislike his Grace than

prove your own honest breeding. What with your undue haste to stretch

your limbs in your bedesman’s apparel, and your simple desire to mere

fruit and well-water, his Highness may right easily content himself that

his bounty can add nothing to your state.”

“And so shall he best content me, dame. Worldly honour is the thing of

which I have resigned the desire; and as for worldly profit, I trust

experience proveth, and shall daily prove, that I never was very greedy

therein.”

Mr. Roper saw no reason for the lady’s rebuke or apprehensions. When did

the King’s Highness ever more lovingly pass his arm round any subject’s

neck than this day, when he caressed the honourable Speaker of his

faithful Commons?

“There is full narrow space, Mr. Roper, between my shoulders and my head

to serve as a long resting-place for a king’s caress. Trust me, if he

had been a Samson, and if it had suited the pleasure of his Grace, he

would at that moment have plucked my head from my shoulders before you

all. It may be well for plain men that a king’s finger and thumb are not

stronger than those of any other man.”

Henry and his poor councillor now appeared from beneath the porch, the

one not the less gay, the other not the less complacent, for their

having together made provision for the utter ruin of a family whose only

fault was their poverty. A letter had been written to the general

commanding on the Scotch border, to desire that Richard Read, now sent

down to serve as a soldier at his own charge, should be made as

miserable as possible, should be sent out on the most perilous duty in

the field, and subjected to the most severe privations in garrison, and

used in all things according to the sharp military discipline of the

northern wars, in retribution for his refusing to pay money which he did

not possess. The snare being thus fixed, the train of events laid by

which the unhappy wife and daughters were to be compelled first to

surrender their only guardian, then to give their all for his ransom

from the enemy, and, lastly, to mourn him slain in the field,—this

hellish work being carefully set on foot, the devisers thereof came

forth boldly into God’s daylight, to amuse themselves with innocence and

flatter the ear of beauty till the sun went down, and then to mock the

oppressed citizens of London with the tumult of their pomp and revelry.

Perhaps some who turned from the false glare to look up into the pure

sky might ask why the heavens were clear,—where slept the thunderbolt?

---------------------

SECOND AGE.

It was not Sunday morning, yet the bells of every steeple in London had

been tolling since sunrise; the shops were all shut; and there was such

an entire absence of singers and jugglers, of dancing bears and

frolicking monkeys in the streets, that it might seem as if the late

Protector had risen from his grave, and stalked abroad to frown over the

kingdom once more. Nothing this morning betokened the reign of a merry

monarch. No savour of meats issued from any house; no echo of music was

heard; the streets were as yet empty, the hour of meeting for worship

not having arrived, and there being no other cause for coming abroad.

There was more than a sabbath purity in the summer sky, unstained by

smoke as it could never be but on the day of a general fast in summer.

The few boats on the river which brought worshippers from a distance to

observe the solemn ordinance in the city, glided along without noise or

display. There was no exhibition of flags; no shouting to rival barks;

no matching against time. The shipping itself seemed to have a mournful

and penitential air, crowded together in silence and stillness. The

present had been an untoward season, as regarded the nation’s

prosperity, in many respects; and when the court and the people were

heartily tired of the festivities which had followed the King’s

marriage, they bethought themselves of taking the advice of many of

their divines, and deprecating the wrath of Heaven in a solemn day of

entreaty for rain, and for vengeance on their enemies.

The deepest gloom was not where, perhaps, it would have been looked for

by the light-minded who regarded such observances as very wholesome for

the common people, but extremely tiresome for themselves. Dr. Reede, a

young Presbyterian clergyman, the beloved pastor of a large congregation

in London, came forth from his study an hour before the time of service,

with a countenance anything but gloomy, though its mild seriousness

befitted the occasion. Having fully prepared himself for the pulpit, he

sought his wife. He found her with her two little children, the elder of

whom was standing at a chair, turning over the gilt leaves of a new

book; while the younger, a tender infant, nestled on its mother’s bosom

as she walked, in a rather hurried manner, from end to end of the

apartment.

“What hath fallen out, Esther? Is the babe ill-disposed?” asked the

husband, stooping to look into the tiny face that peeped over Esther’s

shoulder.

“The child is well, my love; and the greater is my sin in being

disturbed. I will be so no more,” she continued, returning to the seat

where the child was playing with the book; “I will fret myself no more

on account of evildoers, as the word of God gives commandment.”

“Is it this which hath troubled you?” asked her husband, taking up the

volume,—the new Book of Common Prayer,—of which every clergyman must

shortly swear that he believed the whole, or lose his living. “We knew,

Esther, what must be in this book. We knew that it must contain that

which would make it to us as the false gospel of the infidels; and, thus

knowing, there is no danger in the book.”

And he took it up, and turned over its pages, presently observing, with

a smile,—

“Truly, it is a small instrument wherewith to be turned out of so large

a living. I could lay my finger over the parts which make a gulf between

my church and me which I may not pass. The leaven is but little; but

since there it must lie, it leavens the whole lump.”

“Do you think?” inquired Esther, hesitatingly; "is it supposed that many

will——that your brethren regard the matter as you do?"

“It will be seen in God’s own time how many make a conscience of the

oaths they take in his presence. For me it is enough that I believe not

all that is in this book. If it had been a question whether the King

would or would not compel the oath, I could have humbled myself under

his feet to beseech him to spare the consciences which no King can bind;

but as it is now too late for this, we must cheerfully descend to a low

estate among men, that we may look up before God.”

“Without doubt; I mean nought else; but when, and where shall we go?”

"In a few days, unless it should please God to touch the hearts that he

hath hardened,—in a few days we must gird ourselves to go forth."

“With these little ones! And where?”

“Where there may be some unseen to bid us God speed! Whether the path

shall open to the right hand or to the left, what matters it?”

"True: if a path be indeed opened. But these little ones——"

“God hath sent food into the heart of wildernesses whence there was no

path; and the Scripture hath a word of the young ravens which cry.”

"It hath. I will never again, by God’s grace, look back to the estate

which my father lost for this very King. But, without reckoning up that

score with him, it moves the irreligious themselves to see how he guides

himself in these awful times,—toying in his palace-walks this very

morning, while he himself puts sackcloth on the whole nation. Edmund is

just come in from seeing the King standing on the green walk in the

palace-garden, and jesting with the Jezebel who ever contrives to be at

that high, back window as he passes by. I would the people knew of it,

that they might avoid the scandal of interceding for a jester whom they

suppose to be worshipping with them, while he is thinking of nothing so

little all the time as worshipping any but his own wantons."

“If Edmund can thus testify, it is time that I were enlarging my prayer

for the King. If for the godly we intercede seven times, should it not

for the ungodly be seventy-times seven?”

Mrs. Reede’s brother Edmund could confirm the account. In virtue of an

office which he held, he had liberty to pass through the palace-garden.

The sound of mirth, contrasting strangely with the distant toll of

bells, had drawn him into the shade; and he had seen Charles throwing

pebbles up to a window above, where a lady was leaning out, and pelting

him with sweetmeats in return. It was hoped that the queen, newly

married, and a stranger in the country, was in some far-distant corner

of the palace, and that she did not yet understand the tongue in which

Charles’s excesses were wont to be openly spoken of. The Corporations of

London had not yet done feasting and congratulating this most unhappy

lady; but all supposed matter of congratulation was already over. The

clergy of the kingdom prayed for her as much from compassion as duty;

and her fate served them as an unspoken text for their discourses on the

vanity of worldly greatness. The mothers of England dropped tears at the

thought of the lonely and insulted stranger; and their daughters sighed

their pity for the neglected bride.

Edmund now came into the room, and his appearance cost Dr. Reede more

sighs than his own impending anxieties. Though Edmund held a place of

honour and trust at the Admiralty, he had been in possession of it too

short a time to justify such a display as he had of late appeared

disposed to make. On this day of solemn fast, he seemed to have no

thought of sackcloth, but showed himself in a summer black bombazin

suit, trimmed very nobly with scarlet ribbon; a camlet cloak, lined with

scarlet; a prodigious periwig, and a new beaver.

“What news do you bring from the navy-yards?” inquired Dr. Reede. “Is

there hope of the ill spirit being allayed, and the defence of the

country cared for?”

“In truth, but little,” replied Edmund, "unless it become the custom to

pay people their dues. What with the quickness of the enemy, and the

slowness of the people to work without their wages, and the chief men

running after the shows and pastimes of the court, and others keeping

their hands by their sides through want of the most necessary materials,

and the waste that comes of wanton idleness,—it is said by certain wise

persons that it will be no wonder if our enemies come to our very shores

to defy us, and burn our shipping in our own river."

°How is it that you obtain your dues, Edmund? This neat suit would be

hardly paid for out of your private fortune."

“It is time for me to go like myself,” said Edmund, conceitedly, “liable

as I am to stand before the King or the Duke. I might complain, like the

rest, that but little money is to be seen; but, with such as I have, I

must do honour to the King’s Majesty, whom I am like to see to-day.”

Mrs. Reede had so strong an apprehension that Edmund would soon be

compelled, like others, to forego his salary, that she saw little that

was safe and honourable in spending his money on dress as fast as it

came in. But that the servants of government were infected with the

vanities of the government, they would prepare for the evil days which

were evidently coming on, instead of letting their luxury and their

poverty grow together.

“So is it ever, whether the vices of government be austere or pleasant,”

observed Dr. Reede. “The people must needs look and speak sourly when

Oliver grew grave; and now, they have suddenly turned, as it were, into

a vast troop of masqueraders, because the court is merry. But there is a

difference in the two examples which it behoves discerning men to

perceive. In respect of religious gravity, all men stand on the same

ground; it is a matter between themselves and their God. But the

government has another responsibility, in regard to its extravagance: it

is answerable to men; for government does not earn the wealth it spends;

and each act of waste is an injury to those who have furnished the

means, and an insult to every man who toils hard for scanty bread.”

Government could not be expected to look too closely into these matters,

Edmund thought. All governments were more or less extravagant; and he

supposed they always would be.

“Because they live by the toil of others? If so, there is a remedy in

making the government itself toil.”

“I would fain see it,” cried Mrs. Reede. “I would fain see the King

unravelling his perplexed accounts; and the Duke bestirring himself

among the ships and in the army, instead of taking the credit of what

better men do; and the court ladies ordering their houses discreetly,

while their husbands made ready to show what service they had done the

nation. Then, my dear, you would preach to a modest, and sober, and

thankful people, who, with one heart, would be ready to listen.”

“It is but too far otherwise now,” replied Dr. Reede. "Of my hearers,

some harden their hearts in unchristian contempt of all that is not as

sad as their own spirits; and others look to see that the cloak hangs

from the shoulder in a comely fashion as they stand. At the same time,

there is more need of the word the more men’s minds are divided. This is

the age when virtue is oppressed, and the selfish make mirth. Of those

that pray for the King’s Majesty, how many have given him their

children’s bread, and mourn and pine, while the gay whom they feed have

no thought for their misery! Edmund himself allows that the shipwrights

go home without their wages, while he who works scarce at all disports

himself with his bombazin suit and scarlet ribbons. Can I preach to them

as effectually as if they were content, and he——"

“What?” inquired Edmund.

"In truth, Edmund, I could less find in my heart to admonish these

defrauded men for stealing bread from the navy-stores for their hungry

children, than you for drawing their envious eyes upon you. The large

money that pays your small service, whose is it but theirs,—earned

hardly, paid willingly to the King, to be spent in periwigs and silk

hose? Shall men who thus injure and feel injury in their worldly labour,

listen with one heart and mind to the Sabbath word? Too well I know

that, from end to end of this kingdom, there is one tumult of bad

passions which set the Scriptures at nought. The lion devours the lamb;

the innocent know too well the sting of the asp; and as often as a

fleece appears, men spy for the wolf beneath it. What chance hath the

word when it falls upon ground so encumbered?"

Edmund pleaded that, though he had done little yet to merit his public

salary, he meant to do a great deal. This very day, the King had

appointed some confidential person to confer with him on an affair in

which his exertions would be required. Things had come to such a pass

now in the management of the army and navy, that something must be done

to satisfy the people; and Edmund hoped, that if he put on the

appearance of a rising young man, he might soon prove to be so, and gain

honour in proportion to the profit he was already taking by

anticipation.

It must be something very pressing that was wanted of Edmund, if no day

would serve but that of this solemn fast. It did not occur to the Reedes

that it must be a day of ennui to Charles and his court, at any rate,

and that there would be an economy of mirth in transacting at such a

time business which must be done.

There was a something in Edmund’s countenance and gait as he went to

worship this morning which made his sister fear that, during the

service, he must be thinking more of the expected interview at the

palace than of her husband’s eloquent exposition of how the sins of the

government were the sins of the nation, and how both merited the

chastisement which it was the object of this day’s penitence to avert.

The sermon was a bold one; but the nation was growing bold under a sense

of injury, and of the inconsistency of the government. The time was past

when plain speakers could be sent off to the wars, for the purpose of

being impoverished, made captive, or slain. Dr. Reede knew, and bore in

mind, the fate of a certain ancestor of his, and returned thanks in his

heart for such an advance in the recognition of social rights as allowed

him to be as honest as his forefathers, with greater impunity. He

resolved now to do a bolder thing than he had ever yet meditated,—to

take advantage of Edmund’s going to the palace to endeavour to obtain an

interview with the King, and intercede for the Presbyterian clergy, who

must, in a few days, vacate their livings, or violate their consciences,

unless Charles should be pleased to remember, before it was too late,

that he had passed his royal word in their favour. Charles was not

difficult of access, particularly on a fast-day; the experiment was

worth trying.

The streets were dull and empty as the brothers proceeded to the river-

side to take boat for the palace. There was a little more bustle by the

stairs whence they meant to embark, the watermen having had abundance of

time this day to drink and quarrel. The contention for the present God-

send of passengers would have run high, if Edmund had not known how to

put on the manner of a personage of great importance; a manner which he

sincerely thought himself entitled to assume, it being a mighty

pleasure, as he declared to his companion, to feel himself a greater man

in the world than he could once have expected for himself, or any of his

friends for him. He felt as if he was lord of the Thames, while, with

his arms folded in his cloak, and his beaver nicely poised, he looked

abroad, and saw not another vessel in motion on the surface of the broad

river.

This solitude did not last very long. Dr. Reede had not finished

contemplating the distant church of St. Paul’s, which Wren, the artist,

had been engaged to repair. He was speculating on the probable effect of

a cupola (a strange form described, but not yet witnessed, in England);

he was wondering what induced Oliver to take the choir for horse-

barracks, when so many other buildings in the neighbourhood might have

served the purpose better; he was inwardly congratulating his

accomplished young friend on his noble task of restoring,—not only to

beauty, that which was dilapidated,—but to sanctity that which was

desecrated. Dr. Reede was thinking of these things, rather than

listening to the watermen’s account of a singular new vessel, called a

yacht, which the Dutch East India Company had presented to the King,

when a barge was perceived to be coming up the river with so much haste

as to excite Edmund’s attention and stop the boatman’s description.

"It is Palmer, bringing news, I am sure,—what mighty haste!" observed

Edmund, turning to order the boatmen to make for the barge. "News from

sea,—mighty good or bad, I am certain. We will catch them on their way."

“Palmer, the King’s messenger! He will not tell his news to us, Edmund.”

“He will, knowing me, and finding where I am going.”

Palmer did tell his news. His Majesty had sustained a signal defeat

abroad. The doubt was where to find the King or the Duke, there being a

rumour that they were somewhere on the river. Palmer had witnessed a

sailing-match between two royal boats, some way below Greenwich, but he

could not make out that any royal personages were on board.

“Here they are, if they be on the river!” exclaimed Edmund, inquiring of

the watermen if the extraordinary vessel just coming in sight was not

the yacht they had described. It was, and the King must be on board, as

no one else would dream of taking pleasure on the river this day.

Edmund managed so well to put himself in the way of being observed while

Palmer made his inquiries, that both were summoned on board the yacht.

The clergyman looked so unlike anybody that the lords and gentlemen

within had commonly to do with, that he was not allowed to remain

behind. They seemed to have some curiosity to see whether a presbyterian

parson could eat like other men, for they pressed him to sit down to

table with them,—a table steaming with the good meats which had been

furnished from the kitchen-boat which always followed in the rear of the

yacht. Dr. Reede simply observed that it was a fast day; and could not

be made to perceive that being on the water and in high company absolved

him from the observances of the day. Every body else seemed of a

different opinion; for, not content with the usual regale of fine music

which attended the royal excursions, the lords and gentlemen present had

made the fiddlers drunk, and set them in that state to sing all the foul

songs with which their professional memories could furnish them.

Abundance of punch was preparing, and there was some Canary of

incomparable goodness which had been carried to and from the Indies. Two

of the company were too deeply interested in what they were about to

care for either music or Canary at the moment. Charles and the Duke of

Ormond were rattling the dice-box, having staked 1000_l._ on the cast.

It was of some consequence to the King to win it, as he had, since

morning, lost 23,000_l._ in bets with the Duke of York and others about

the sailing match which they had carried on while the rest of the nation

were at church, deprecating God’s judgments.

Having lost his 1000_l._, he turned gaily to the strangers, as if

expecting some new amusement from them. He made a sign to Edmund (whom

he knew in virtue of his office), that he would hold discourse with him

presently in private, and then asked Dr. Reede what the clergy had

discovered of the reasons for the heavy judgment with which the kingdom

was afflicted.

Dr. Reede believed the clergy were more anxious to obtain God’s mercy

than to account for his judgments.

“You are deceived, friend. Our reverend dean of Windsor has been

preaching that it is our supineness in leaving the heads of the

regicides on their shoulders that has brought these visitations on our

people. He discoursed largely of the matter of the Gibeonites, and

exhorted us to quick vengeance.”

Dr. Reede could not remember any text which taught that wreaking

vengeance on man was the way to propitiate God. He could not suppose

that this disastrous defeat abroad would have been averted by butchering

the regicides in celebration of the King’s marriage, as had been

proposed.

The King had not yet had time to comprehend the news of this defeat. On

hearing of it, he seemed in a transient state of consternation;

marvelled, as his subjects were wont to do, what was to become of the

kingdom at this rate; and signified his wish to be left with the

messenger, the Duke of York alone remaining to help him to collect all

the particulars. The company accordingly withdrew to curse the enemy,

wonder who was killed and who wounded, and straightway amuse themselves,

the ladies with the dice-box, the gentlemen with betting on their play,

and all with the feats of a juggler of rare accomplishments, who was at

present under the patronage of one of the King’s favourites.

When Palmer had told his story and was dismissed, Edmund was called in,

and, at his own request, was attended by his brother-in-law,—the

discreet gentleman of excellent learning, who might aid the project to

be now discoursed of. The King did, at length, look grave. He supposed

Edmund knew the purpose for which his presence was required.

“To receive his Highness the Duke’s pleasure respecting the navy

accounts that are to be laid before Parliament.”

“That is my brother’s affair,” replied the King. "I desire from

you,—your parts having been well commended to me,—some discreet

composure which shall bring our government into less disfavour with our

people than it hath been of late."

Edmund did not doubt that this could easily be done.

"It must be done; for in our present straits we cannot altogether so do

without the people as for our ease we could desire. But as for the

ease,—there is but little of it where the people are so changeable. They

have forgot the flatteries with which they hailed us, some short while

since, and give us only murmurs instead. It is much to be wished that

they should be satisfied in respect of their duty to us, without which

we cannot satisfy them in the carrying on of the war."

The Duke of York thought that his Majesty troubled himself needlessly

about the way in which supplies were to be obtained from the people.

Money must be had, and speedily, or defeat would follow defeat; for

never were the army and navy in a more wretched condition than now. But

if his Majesty would only exert his prerogative, and levy supplies for

his occasions as his ancestors had done, all might yet be retrieved

without the trouble of propitiating the nation. The King persisted

however in his design of making his government popular by means of a

pamphlet which should flatter the people with the notion that they kept

their affairs in their own hands. It was the shortest way to begin by

satisfying the people’s minds.

And how was this to be done? Dr. Reede presumed to inquire. Charles,

thoroughly discomposed by the news he had just heard, in addition to a

variety of private perplexities, declared that nothing could be easier

than to set forth a true account of the royal poverty. No poor gentleman

of all the train to whom he was in debt could be more completely at his

wit’s end for money than he. His wardrobeman had this morning lamented

that the King had no handkerchiefs, and only three bands to his neck;

and how to take up a yard of linen for his Majesty’s service was more

than any one knew.

Edmund glanced at his own periwig in the opposite mirror, and observed

that it would be very easy to urge this plea, if such was his Majesty’s

pleasure.

“Od’s fish! man, you would not tell this beggarly tale in all its

particulars! You would not set the loyal housewives in London to offer

me their patronage of shirts and neckbands!”

“Besides,” said the Duke, “though it might be very easy to tell the tale

of our poverty, it might not be so easy to make men believe it.”

Dr. Reede here giving an involuntary sign of assent, the King would know

what was in his mind. Dr. Reede, as usual, spoke his thoughts. The

people, being aware what sums had within a few months fallen into the

royal treasury, would be slow to suppose that their king was in want of

necessary clothing.

“What! the present to the Queen from the Lord Mayor and Aldermen? That

was but a paltry thousand pounds.”

Dr. Reede could not let it be supposed that any one expected the King to

benefit by gifts to his Queen.

Charles looked up hastily to see if this was intended as a reproach, for

he had indeed appropriated every thing that he could lay his hands on of

what his dutiful subjects had offered to his Queen, as a compliment on

her marriage. The clergyman looked innocent, and the King went on,—

"And as for her portion,—twenty such portions would not furnish forth

one war, as the people ought to know. And there is my sister’s portion

to the Prince of Orleans soon to be paid. If the people did but take the

view we would have them take of our affairs at home and abroad, we

should not have to borrow of France, and want courage to tell our

faithful subjects that we had done so."

Edmund would do his best to give them the desired opinions. Dr. Reede

thought it a pity they could not be by the King’s side,—aye, now on

board this very boat, to understand and share the King’s views, and thus

justify the government. As a burst of admiration at some of the

juggler’s tricks made itself heard in the cabin at the very moment this

was said, the King again looked up to see whether satire was intended.

Edmund supposed that one object of his projected pamphlet was to

communicate gently the fact of a secret loan of 200,000 crowns from

France, designed for the support of the war in Portugal, but so

immediately swallowed up at home that it appeared to have answered no

more purpose than a loan of so many pebbles, while it had subjected the

nation to a degradation which the people would not have voluntarily

incurred. This communication was indeed to be a part of Edmund’s task;

but there was a more important one still to be made. It could not now

long remain a secret that Dunkirk was in the hands of the French——

“Dunkirk taken by the French!” exclaimed Dr. Reede, not crediting what

he heard. “We are lost indeed, if the French make aggressions like

this.”

“Patience, brother!” whispered Edmund. “There is no aggression in the

case. The matter is arranged by mutual agreement.”

Dr. Reede looked perplexed, till the Duke carelessly told him that

Dunkirk had been sold to the French King. It was a pity the nation must

know the fact. They would not like it.

“Like it! Dunkirk sold! Whose property was Dunkirk?” asked Dr. Reede,

reverting to the time when Oliver’s acquisition of Dunkirk was

celebrated as a national triumph.

“We must conduct the bargains of the nation, you know,” replied the

Duke. “In old times, the people desired no better managers of their

affairs than their kings.”

“’Tis a marvel then that they troubled themselves to have Parliaments.

Pray God the people may be content with what they shall receive for a

conquest which they prized! Some other goodly town, I trust, is secured

to us; or some profitable fishing coast; or some fastness which shall

give us advantage over the enemy, and spare the blood of our soldiers.”

“It were as well to have retained Dunkirk as taken any of these in

exchange,” said the King;—a proposition which Dr. Reede was far from

disputing. “Our necessities required another fashion of payment.”

"In money!—and then the taxes will be somewhat lightened. This will be a

welcome relief to the people, although their leave was not asked. There

is at least the good of a lifting up of a little portion of their

burdens."

“Not so. We cannot at present spare our subjects. This 400,000_l._ come

from Dunkirk is all too little for the occasions of our dignity. Our

house at Hampton Court is not yet suitably arranged. The tapestries are

such that the world can show nothing nobler, yet the ceilings, however

finely fretted, are not yet gilt. The canal is not perfected, and the

Banqueting House in the Paradise is yet bare.”

“The extraordinary wild fowl in St. James’s Park did not fly over

without cost,” observed the Duke.

"Some did. The melancholy water-fowl from Astracan was bestowed by the

Russian Ambassador; and certain merchants who came for justice brought

us the cranes and the milk-white raven. But the animals that it was

needful to put in to make the place answerable to its design,—the

antelopes, and the Guinea goats, and the Arabian sheep, and others,—cost

nearly their weight of gold. Kings cannot make fair bargains."

“For aught but necessaries,” interposed the divine.

"Or for necessaries. Windsor is exceedingly ragged and ruinous. It will

occupy the cost of Dunkirk to restore it——"

“According to the taste of the ladies of the court,” interrupted the

Duke. “They will have the gallery of horns furnished with beams of the

rarest elks and antelopes that there be in the world. Then the hall and

stairs must be bright with furniture of arms, in festoons, trophy-like:

while the chambers have curious and effeminate pictures, giving a

contrast of softness to that which presented only war and horror.”

“Then there is the demolishing of the palace at Greenwich, in order to

build a new one. Besides the cost of rearing, we are advised so to make

a cut as to let in the Thames like a square bay, which will be

chargeable.”

“And this is to be ordered by Parliament? or are the people to be told

that a foreign possession of theirs is gone to pay for water-fowl and

effeminate pictures?”

“Then there is the army,” continued the King. “I have daily news of a

lack of hospitals, so that our maimed soldiers die of the injuries of

the air. And this very defeat, with which the city will presently be

ringing, was caused by the failure of ammunition. And not unknowingly;

for this young clerk had the audacity to forewarn us.”

“Better have sold the troops and their general alive into the hands of

the enemy, than send them into the field without a sufficiency of

defence,” cried Dr. Reede.

“So his Majesty thinks,” observed the Duke; “and has therefore done

wisely in taking a goodly sum from the Dutch to delay the sailing of the

fleet for the east till the season is too far gone for action. Nay! is

it not a benefit for the King to have the money he so much needs, and

for the lives to be saved which must be otherwise lost for want of the

due ammunition?”

Dr. Reede was too much affected at this gross bartering away of the

national honour to trust himself to speak; Edmund observed that he

should insist, in his pamphlet, on the exceeding expensiveness of war in

these days, in comparison of the times when men went out, each with his

bow and arrow, or his battle-axe, and his provision of food furnished at

his own charge. Since gunpowder had been used, and engines of curious

workmanship,—since war had become a science, it had grown mightily

expensive, and the people must pay accordingly, as he should speedily

set forth.

“Setting forth also how the people should therefore be the more

consulted, before a strife is entered upon,” said the clergyman.