THE RECEPTION.
Alice De Clinton had been made acquainted with the arrival of Lord De
Freston and his daughter, even before they had made their appearance
in the presence of the Bishop. She was engaged in her own private
apartment, working a cross for the altar of the chapel of Goldwell
Hall, when her maid informed her of the arrival of the expected
guests. She scarcely raised her head from the embroidery to receive
the tidings. She ordered her maid to hand her some threads, and
pursued her work. It was neither her custom nor her inclination to
do otherwise. She had actually received the Bishop's message before
she condescended to lay aside her work. None, however, of those she
called her friends were more highly esteemed than Lord De Freston and
Ellen.
She rose in due time, with perfect composure, from the embroidery of
the cross, and leaving the work as if she intended to pursue it again
after a pause, came very slowly, and with great state, into the
presence-chamber of the Bishop.
Alice was handsome. She had a remarkably fine face and figure, but
her beauty was of that nature which the eye can look upon with
wonder, without feeling any degree of affection. She was like some
of the finely-chiselled figures of the ancients, admirable to look
upon, but cold indeed to touch. Nay more, when she approached the
party assembled in the palace hall, so pale, so stately, so
immoveably placid, fixed, settled, cool and composed was the smooth,
white face of the maiden, that, she looked more like beauty in the
winding-sheet of death, than a creature of life, whose veins
contained a circulating fluid, warm from the heart.
She approached to meet her guest; not a smile passed over her
features. Her high and lofty brow, with its wintry air, formed a
strange contrast to the sunny brow of the happy Ellen. The frozen
expression of one face contrasted with the glow on the features of
the other. That eye, too, so large, so glassy, and so stern, was
strangely opposed to the beaming vivacity of Ellen's.
Ellen received the salutation of Alice with that ease which innocence
and virtue ever maintain in the presence of pride. She knew the
dignity of Alice, and left her to bend as she thought fit, whilst she
retained her standing place, leaning on the arm of her noble father.
The haughty maiden broke the silence; but with words that rather
confirmed than altered the position of pride she had assumed.
'Thou art changed, indeed, maiden, since I knew thee in thy childish
years. I can scarcely believe thou art Ellen De Freston, but that I
see the lord of Freston Hall supporting thee. I must forget, I
presume, the day I found thee playful as the young fawn; since, now I
behold thee grown up to woman's estate. Thou art Ellen De Freston,
art thou not?'
'I am the same Ellen, Alice De Clinton, as I was when, in the days of
friendship, you condescended to treat me as your companion. I am
unaltered in heart. I have often thought of your visit to my
father's hall, and have longed to see you there again. I hope we
shall soon know each other better.'
This reply had the effect of somewhat thawing the icy distance
between them, for the haughty Alice gave her hand to Ellen, and led
the way back to her own apartment, leaving the Bishop and Lord De
Freston to converse upon politics or the more eloquent theme of the
day, the growing plant of heresy, as it was called, which then began
to spring up in Ipswich, and in various other parts of the diocese of
Norwich.
'I am much concerned,' said Bishop Goldwell, 'to observe the
increasing propensity to heresy which seems to be spreading far and
wide throughout the kingdom, unsettling the minds of our people, and
inducing them to call in question our authority as agents of the See
of Rome. Thou knowest well, De Freston, that I hold my churchman's
station as far preferable to my worldly state; that the supremacy of
the Holy See over all causes ecclesiastical is part of my
acknowledged creed; that, looking upon the Pope alone, as Christ's
vice-gerent upon earth, is vicar-general, who has the power of St.
Peter's keys, to loose and bind, to curb dissent, and to give
absolute decision in cases of dispute, I refer every difficult case
to his court, and rest contented in my own conscience with his
commands. There are two youths, now inmates of my palace, come on
purpose to plead with me, concerning the state of their consciences,
and to ask my ghostly counsel and advice. One of them is of such
amiable deportment, such gentle manners, and of such godly fear, and
disposition to respect his superiors, that I cannot refuse to admit
him to an audience, and to argue with him upon the state of his mind.
He speaks with ease and fluency; but I discover much strong prejudice
under this quick manner, and I know not how to root it out. Thou art
learned, De Freston, and canst, perchance, afford me some assistance,
for thou art a true churchman.'
'I hope I am, my lord, without being a blind one. I know the
liberality of your mind, and that you have seen more of men of wisdom
and letters than most men now living; and I think that you act as a
Bishop ought in giving audience to a conscientious man. There are
many innovations crept into the church by means of the supineness of
the clergy, and the love of money in the higher powers, which you
know, as well as I do, ought not to have been admitted. So many
fraternities joined to the Papal power, and receiving therefrom a
sanction for their superstitions, may, perhaps, have created a
jealousy in the minds of some, which may require much soothing to
correct. I heartily wish, churchman as I am, that many of the
miscalled relics of the priories, and the absurd fallacies of
miscalled pious customs, were done away with. What is the name of
this disputant who has sought you, and whence does he spring?'
'The youth I speak of is John Bale, of Cove. He is a Carmelite of
the strictest order of mendicants, claiming his descent from the
prophet Elisha; rigid and austere in his deportment, and yet so
humble, and enlightened in letters, I heartily wish his conscience
was not so tender. It burns him, he says, so sore, that he cannot
help complaining to his Bishop, and seeking, at my mouth, some
consolation. When I argue with him, he hesitates not to tell me how
far he admits my authority, and how far he disputes it: prays my
patience towards himself, and towards my own self when he states
where he thinks I am wrong. He says he prays for me, that I may see
the error of my ways, and may come to the full truth. They cannot
conceive in Rome to what state things are coming in England. I fear
that these two men, John Bale and Thomas Bilney, are incorrigible
heretics. As they claim the privilege of asking my advice, I can but
be courteous towards them. I only wish they would attend to my
suggestions, and be obedient to my mandates. Thomas Bilney, the
other disputant, is a man of warm temper though of very clear head.
I have asked some of my clergy in this town to meet them at the hour
of noon; and as thou dost know that I admit all kinds of addresses
without fear of persecution, loving, as I do, discussion, thou wilt
probably take part therein, and I am sure with discretion.'
'If, in the least degree, I ventured to give my opinion, it would, I
trust, be on the side of that which I consider truth. If these
scholars be not too profound for me, I shall take some interest in
the discussion, having thought very deeply upon the prevailing
notions of the times.'
A servant came at that moment to announce a stranger to the Bishop,
and to deliver a note to Lord De Freston.
'Ah!' exclaimed the noble, 'I have notice of a visitor to your
lordship's palace, who, though unexpected here, was not totally
unexpected by me at my home. He will be quite an acquisition to the
interest of the discussion, as he is a learned theologian from
Oxford, alike eminent for his modesty as well as his superior
attainments.'
'Who is the stranger?'
'It is William Latimer, the friend of the celebrated Grocyn, and of
the Ipswich scholar, now so distinguished at the University.'
'Latimer I have heard of, and I know Grocyn well. I presume thou
dost refer to the Boy Bachelor, whom I have heard of--Thomas Wolsey,
the son of one of the best tenants I have for the Priory Farm at
Alneshbourne.'
'The same, father, the same, and will you permit me to welcome to
your hospitable palace, this friend of mine?'
'Any friend of thine, De Freston, shall find a welcome here, even
were he not the learned man thou hast represented him to be. Pray
bid him welcome.'
The lord followed the servant to the corridor, and there he found
Latimer waiting.
The greeting was of that kindly nature which had ever subsisted
between the family of the Latimers and the De Frestons. De Freston
was, indeed, attached to Latimer, as a superior in experience and
wisdom would be to a young friend whom he patronized. Yet De Freston
felt a degree of attachment to him, peculiarly interesting for his
daughter's sake; for, to this young man's perception, plan, and
proposition, was owing the health, happiness, and comfort of his
child, through the daily course of intellectual employment to which
she had become an assiduous and habitual devotee.
'I am glad to see you, Latimer, but sorry it is not in my own hall;
but you can go on thitherward before our return, for we must stay our
appointed time here.'
'I heard, in my route, that you were a guest of Bishop Goldwell.
Knowing his hospitality, I did not hesitate to wait upon you here, as
I should have found even the beauty of your castle and the lovely
Freston Tower insipid without their cheerful tenants.'
'The Bishop gives you welcome, and, to say truth, I am doubly glad
you are come, for I want your aid. Come with me into my private
room: I have some minutes of discussion which I would share with you
before we enter the hall of reception.'
The domestic in waiting soon showed the friends the apartments
prepared for De Freston; and there, for a few minutes, did Latimer
converse with his relative upon the all-important matters of the day.'
'First tell me of Wolsey! He seems to have forgotten us. How is the
youth, and does he not send us his greeting?'
'I am the bearer to you of his first prize at Oxford. So that you
see he renders to his early patron the first fruits of his success.
He has sent by me a very valuable Testament, the earliest which has
issued from the press.'
'I said he would not desert us. He has been very silent of late, and
Ellen and myself were fearful lest he was ill.'
'Wolsey is well! I have delivered letters to his parents and friends
in Ipswich. This one is for you; and I can assure you and Ellen that
you both live in his heart and memory. He has great cares just at
the present time, having undertaken to superintend the schools of his
college. He is extremely anxious in mind, and though with no bodily
ailment, yet, at times, I fear the intense application which he
bestows upon study should affect his spirits. He is sometimes
depressed by this over-anxiety, beyond what is usual in youth. It is
then I talk to him of home, Ipswich, and yourselves; this rouses him
and he revives.'
'You should have persuaded him to have come with you, the change
would have done him good. We always remember your mutual visit to
the Tower.'
'I did endeavor to persuade him, but he has a high notion of duty.
He spoke with enthusiasm of the Tower: told me he never had such
delightful days as those which he spent there, and dwelt upon them
with so many sighs, that I am sure the Isis, which passes close by
his college window, is, in his eyes, insignificant compared with the
Orwell: still he says Oxford is his theatre of action, and he will
not leave it until he has seen certain works he has undertaken
completed.'
'Ellen will be glad to hear you speak of him, for she has certainly
accused him of being proud, negligent, and almost ungrateful.'
'He is not the latter, though I will own there is too much of the
former in his composition. She would not think him either had she
heard him deliver to me the message of remembrance which he gave.'
'Of these things you must convince her. We must prepare for the
public banquet hour; and, but that I know your readiness, I should
tell you that you will be rather put to it for wisdom, since, at the
Bishop's table this day, you will meet, I suspect, some stormy
disputants. One thing in Bishop Goldwell I greatly admire--his
hospitality to strangers. Whilst, at the same time, such is his
courtesy and kindness towards his inferior clergy, that I believe he
would support the poorest at the expense of his mitre sooner than see
him wronged. He rules them not with a rod of iron, but maintains his
own dignity, whilst his sons in the church look up to him with the
assurance of protection.'
'I have heard this spoken of him; but I have heard also that he is
swayed greatly by the influence of his niece, who is not the
counterpart of his reverence in suavity.'
'You have heard right, but you must judge for yourself. Come and
see, for the hour of meeting him approaches.'
The friends were soon in readiness, and descended together to the
grand banquet-hall of the Bishop's palace. It was a spacious
chamber, more than one hundred feet in length, with six windows of
Gothic architecture and stained glass, representing six different
periods of the world. The first, the Temptation in the Garden of
Eden; the second, the Flood; the third, the Sacrifice of Abraham; the
fourth, the Delivery of the Law; the fifth, the Building of the
Temple of Solomon; and the sixth, the Crucifixion.
The designs were much more splendid in colors than in conception, for
singular contradictions of unity existed in all the windows. A
lady's lap-dog, with a bright gilt collar round his neck, was found
in the garden of Eden; Abraham had philacteries on his forehead and
robes; in the Flood, some monks with crosses were seen descending
down a rushing cataract; in the Delivery of the Law, Moses had a
mitre on his head; at the building of the Temple, there stood several
orders of the Roman Brotherhood celebrating high mass, and so many
impossibilities of fancy crowded into the ornamental portions of the
sides of the windows, that it was difficult to say what they were.
Still the light gleaming through the different colored glasses had a
brilliant effect at noonday.
Thirty guests were expected. The Bishop's chair was at the centre of
that long table, and his own family of friends were to be seated on
his right and left hand, whilst, on the opposite side, were ranged
the seats of strangers, travellers, pilgrims, or any who might chance
to claim the hospitality of the palace. These all waited in a
spacious receiving-ward, where there was water to wash their feet,
and clean apparel, if required. A peep into that room would have put
to flight all the ideas of modern luxury and modern notions of
hospitality, even in a bishop's palace.
Various monks from distant parts were there--with various priests of
various parishes, who came to pay their court to their diocesan.
Those who came without express invitation were all received into this
apartment, and prepared for the table of the Bishop. They had to
wait with the rest, be they who they might, and were never seen or
heard until the hour of public entertainment.
In the common room were waiting, amidst friars, pilgrims, monks, and
mendicants, Thomas Bilney and John Bale, men who, at that day, took
advantage of the opportunity offered them to speak without reserve to
Goldwell, who was generally looked upon as friendly at least to
intellectual discussion.
The noon-bell sounded long and sonorous, so that, in all parts of the
town, strangers knew that it was the hour of hospitality, and,
whoever was so disposed, might pass the drawbridge and partake of the
benediction of the Bishop, sure to find a seat at his board, an
attentive ear to his history, and, if he had any cause of complaint,
promise, if he lived within the jurisdiction of the diocese of
Norwich, that his suit should be attended to.