THE REVELATION.
The marriage day had passed away as the fleeting hours of mortal life
do, quickly, and never to return; and so it should be, for if the
past be but a prelude to future improvement, few would wish it to
return.
Latimer and the Lady Ellen were seated in the large room of the
mansion purchased by Lord De Freston, situated in the centre of the
town of Ipswich. The present theatre now occupies part of the site
of the mansion, which, with its grounds opposite and behind it, took
up a large space, now densely populated. One old room in the Tankard
public house still retains a portion of its pristine beauty, and was
then the handsomest room in that ancient hall. It was here that the
bride and bridegroom received their friends, who from all parts of
the neighborhood came to pay them respect.
Their extensive garden then occupied the area from the corner of
Brook Street down to the great foundation school, in which Wolsey had
received the rudiments of his education; and the convent grounds
contained the school which was under the superintendence of the Prior
of St. Peter, who had the power of fixing the salary of the master.
It was a garden containing walks for the public, and in it was the
celebrated chapel of the Virgin, to which Ellen repaired after the
fall of Wykes Bishop's Palace. The ancient mansion overlooked that
garden, and Ellen and De Freston were seated in the beautifully
oak-pannelled room, conversing upon the past. They spoke of Alice De
Clinton, of the old palace, of the hermit of Holy Wells: and the
reader may be sure they did not forget the memorable night when
Latimer reached the stair of Lord De Freston's grounds, close under
Freston Tower.
Love likes to reflect on the mercies of God, and souls truly happy do
ever remember the past with such spirit of thankfulness, and makes
even imminent dangers the subject of congratulation.
'Do you remember, Ellen, that you promised to tell me why you were
momentarily cast down on the day of our wedding festivity?'
'I do, William, and I can now freely converse with you upon the
subject. You must have observed the young priest's agony when the
tear fell upon my hand, which he joined with your own. I then looked
up at his face--and can I ever forget the expression? Never! It
told me, William, of a truth, which seems to account to me now for
the strange alteration of his behaviour to me, my father, his own
relatives, and yourself.'
'What was that, Ellen?'
'Simply this, William: that Wolsey had a hope, to which he then bade
farewell for ever, that he might have possessed this hand to which
you were then entitled.'
'It may be so, Ellen. But why then place a barrier for ever against
all hopes of matrimonial alliance by entering into the church? He
always appeared to me to be destined for the office he holds; and yet
I do remember his occasional depressions at Oxford were only to be
alleviated by a reference to Freston Tower.'
'Was it so, Latimer? Then I fear the poor youth had imbibed a
preference for my society, which is indeed flattering to me, though
so fatal to himself. We were very partial to him. He was always
pleasant, though at times impetuous, and dictatorial in his
arguments. Can you not now pity him, William, if he did imagine, in
the ardor of his literary pursuits, that I should one day be his
companion? All things considered, he must have endured what scarcely
any other man could have borne. I do now see through the whole of
his conduct. I fear he has done violence to his better nature in the
steps he has taken to prove to us all the sublimity of his faith.'
'I can now account for all his strange behaviour--yet, if he had
succeeded--'
'What, William?'
'I might have been as wretched as himself.'
'May my whole life prove that I estimate the sacrifice you would have
made of self upon the altar of friendship, but how will Thomas Wolsey
take this blow?'
'That remains to be seen. He is not a man to sink under misfortune.
He will devote himself to great objects. His learning will be a
passport to greatness, and Oxford will afford him a fine field for
the display of his talents. He will be a great man in the church.'
'I wish he may be a good one! His views are seemingly very much
exalted by his priesthood, and personal pride has not permitted him
to display either that amiability or generosity of opinion, in
letters or in religion, which formerly he seemed to possess. It
would be strange if his great mind should be narrowed by his
assumption of the priesthood.'
'It would indeed be a great misfortune; for a nobler nature than
Wolsey's, and a more generous, frank, and liberal disposition
scarcely ever inhabited the breast of man when I first introduced him
at Oxford. His manners, his knowledge of letters, his talents, were
all open, clear, candid, and at the free gift and service of others.
He is now a priest of Rome. He cannot forget his learning, but it is
doubtful whether he will use it for the good of his countrymen or for
his own ambition. Rome, I fear, will scarcely let him think and act
for himself, and certainly not for the great objects which now seem
to be attracting the eyes of the learned in the spirit of the
Reformation. Wolsey might do great things; but will he? Had he but
the heart of Wickliffe, what might not England see him produce.'
'We shall see, Latimer. He cannot be ignorant; he may be bigoted and
worldly-minded, but he cannot be ignorant of the truth. We are to
visit our dear father at Freston hall to-day. How I love to see him
enjoying his books and our company! What a pleasure is it, William,
to a daughter to promote the happiness of her father!'
'And what a pleasure to a son-in-law to know that parent loves him as
if he were his own child. Oh, Ellen! if there be a joy on this
earth, it is when we please our parents and honor their grey hairs,
and bless them for those providential comforts which, beneath the
mercy of God, they are enabled to bestow upon us. We shall visit our
old haunt in the tower, ever fresh to me, Ellen; never out of my
eyes. I often dream of it, and sometimes see the lamp burning in
your favorite room; and then I am riding on the broken timber in the
midst of the waves, or struggling against the tide to gain the
shore--I awake, and think, and am thankful!'
Noon was the dinner-hour in that day, and the bride and bridegroom,
respected as they were, could not pass through that busy town of
Ipswich without many a blessing; for, great as they were, and
connected with the noblest and wealthiest, they forgot not the poor,
and were not themselves forgotten.
With joy did they revisit the scenes of their early attachment, and
awaken the spirit of love among a people always ready to acknowledge
that which was honest and lovely.
De Freston had made good use of that time, which was now more
solitary in one sense, but more engaging in another. He had been
reading with more profound attention the records of the olden
time--the history of the Fathers, and the progress of that revelation
through the instrumentality of the inspired Apostles, and those who
lived nearest to them. The more he read, the more he became
convinced of the sublime doctrine of the Great Atonement, and the
purity and holiness of that religion which the ancient Fathers
professed. He was forcibly struck by the simplicity of their canons,
and the manner of spirit in which they sought to conduct the affairs
of the church. He made himself master of their doctrine, arguments,
and lives, and observed how strictly they sought to establish the
essentials of vital piety, founded upon the Scriptures, rather than
the introduction of novelties and the development of fancies. The
more he read, the more earnestly did he pray that his reading might
become beneficial to his own soul, and to that of others. His was a
great mind, a pious mind, with a solid, rational, and lively faith,
which was indeed a rare thing in that day among the nobles of
England. There was, indeed, a spirit abroad, as has already been
seen, inducing inquiry, questioning the right of the Pope to be above
all Scripture and Revelation; and some few were even then beginning
to search the Scriptures for themselves, that they might be enabled
to give an answer to the important question: What is truth?
Among them stood Lord De Freston, foremost in the neighborhood of
Ipswich, one of the first to institute that inquiry among the learned
monks of Alneshborne, which led to the conversion of Prior John, and
to the enlightenment of his fraternity. It has been stated that he
was very intimate with the learned John. That intimacy had increased
since the marriage of his daughter, and had been productive of much
intercourse between the domains of the priory and those of De Freston.
It was no surprise to Latimer or his wife, when they arrived at the
castle, to find John of Alneshborne a guest at the table of their
father. It was a surprise to them, indeed, to find this learned monk
a convert to the already greatly advanced wisdom of De Freston. For
a monk to entertain opinions having the least approximation to the
universal spread of Divine truth, was a wonder in that day; but to
find one, the head of a learned fraternity, remarkable for
retirement, penance, and bodily infliction, become an advocate for
the dissemination of the whole Word of God and the Truth, was indeed
a marvel.
John of Alneshborne was a rare instance of humility, and though he
was respected by all the religious houses with which he was
connected, both in England and on the Continent, his views gained him
many enemies, much persecution, his final ejection from his priory;
but a happy rest in the mansion of his friend and patron, Lord De
Freston, who had been instrumental in leading this learned man to a
far more liberal view of divinity than the life of solitary
nothingness which he spent within the cloistered walls of his
establishment.
As he had been conducive to his study of the Scriptures, and of the
early usages of the Christian church, contrasted with the presumption
of the Popes and their universal subjugation of men's consciences to
dogmas, instead of doctrine, and all their outward prostrations,
impositions, fooleries, idolatries, and indulgences, in the place of
inward purification and love of God and man, so when he was degraded
and deprived of his power, this noble lord was the first to open his
doors, and say, 'My house is your home.'
These events transpired after the period of which this narrative is
now treating. But the way was then preparing even when Ellen and her
husband paid their first visit of any length to the hall of their
youth.
'Ha! Prior John here!' exclaimed Latimer. 'It gives me great joy to
see thee on this side of the water. I thought I should one day see
thee here and shake thee by the hand in our father's mansion; and
here thou art. Ellen, here is an old friend with a new face.'
The monk started, for even then he felt it strange that his
countenance should in the least betray the alteration of his heart
and mind.
'How dost thou call my face new, my son? Am I grown more grey; or
are the lines of my features become more sharp?'
'No, father, no! but yet there is an alteration in thy very
appearance--in the smile with which thou greetest us, and in the
expression of thy countenance, which, though the prevailing feature
be anxiety, is yet something new for thee to wear.'
'Upon my word, young man, thy perceptions are wonderfully sharpened
by matrimony. Thou mayst perceive in me what I cannot discover in
myself. Perhaps thou wilt be disposed to attribute this alteration
of my features to the kind and hospitable reception of the lord of
this mansion.'
'I may do this sincerely, father, and it is always a good sign when
the nobles of a land call forth the lively learning and cheerful
spirits of those who spend too many of their days in retirement. I
rejoice to see thee here.'
'And I to be here, my son; and to see thee and the fair prize thou
hast borne away from the banks of the Orwell.'
'Nay, father, I have not yet left the lovely banks of this noble
river, though I have become a resident in the town of Ipswich; and I
shall be happy to exercise the duties of hospitality towards thee, as
well there as in this present place; and I tell thee again, that I
believe thine ascetic face will assume even there a more generous
character than it does here.'
'Alas! my son, I have spent years of solitude in my priory, and am
little accustomed to the intercourse of any but our own fraternity.
If long habits of privation, and a complete exclusion from that world
in which I was once too great a participator in my youth; if, indeed,
the heavy burthen of my sins, and of one great crime can be atoned
for by years of penitential devotion to solitude, and prayer, and
study, such as I have pursued, I may hope that I have some merit in
depriving myself of the society of my fellow creatures, that I may
commune with my God.'
'Ha! my father! And dost thou think thou hast atoned by these
privations for thine early indulgences in sin? Thou and I see things
in a wonderfully different light. To my mind, thou art seeking thine
own righteousness and not submitting thyself to the righteousness of
God. If thou couldst flagellate thy flesh until thy skin was
excoriated from the crown of thine head to the sole of thy foot; if
thou couldst count thy beads from sunrise to sunset, and from night
until morning every year of thy life; if thou couldst walk barefoot
from Rome to Jerusalem, or from one end of the world to the other;
shave thy head, wear sack-cloth all thy days, and never smile upon
youth or life; thou couldst make no atonement for the very least of
thy sins; much less for any crime which weighs heavy on thy
conscience?'
'Ha! my son, wouldst thou have had me go on in my career unto
perdition?'
'No, father! assuredly not; but I would not have thee go to perdition
in another way, by renouncing one sin for a greater.'
'How so, my son?'
'Thou hast renounced society, of which thou might'st have been an
ornament, and the opportunity of doing good to thy fellow-creatures,
by leading them to see their errors, and helping them to correct
their lives, by thine example; and hast taken upon thyself to work
out thy salvation by thine own righteousness; or, at least, by
calling that a life of faith which is, indeed, a life of presumption.
Pardon my boldness, father, but we will converse of these things
another time, and let me tell thee it is the consciousness of this
truth which makes thee wear a different face.'
'My son, thou art right, but I owe not this conviction to thine
argument, but to his whose guest I am.'
'And I am his debtor for kindness which my life cannot repay.'
'I have listened,' said the Lord De Freston, 'to your conversation;
but let us not make hospitality to consist of words. Come, my
dearest friends, I am a debtor to you all, and the only way I can
repay you is to place my house at your service.'
'And so make us greater debtors still.'
'As long as we owe each other nothing but love, we can give, take,
borrow, lend, exchange, and demand compound interest for our loan,
and yet be none of us usurers, but friends; so let us to the banquet
hall.'
It was in such spirit that these friends met, and, as may be
supposed, the interchange of affection was of that kind which, free
from bigotry and superstition, promoted good-will and charity, and
was honorable in the sight of God and man.
Still this very intimacy between such enlightened beings became a
tool for working mischief, in the hands of those whose ignorance was
only excelled by their cruelties, and, as we shall see, led to the
sorrow of some, but to the joy of a great many.