Chapter IX: And now a new life began for Franceline (10)

“The selfishness of priests and the despotism of the great have for centuries upheld this system (Christianity), since it enabled them to rule mankind with a rod of iron by means _of its rigid code of morality_, and to confirm their power over weak minds by means of certain oracular utterances, in reality the product of their own invention, but palmed off on the world as the words of revelation.”[39]

In a review of Kirchenlehre and Ketzerglaube by Dr. A. Drechsler in vol. iv. of the _Latomia_, we find: “The last efforts made to uphold ecclesiastical Christianity occasioned its complete expulsion from the realm of reason; for they proved but too plainly that all negotiations for peace must result in failure. Human reason became aware of the irreconcilable enmity existing between its own teachings and the dogmas of the church.”

At a congress of Masons held at a villa near Locarno, in the district of Novara, preparatory to a socialistic demonstration to be held in the Colosseum at Rome, in answer to the sapient question, “What new form of worship is to supersede Catholicism?” the equally sapient answer was returned, “Communist principles with a new religious ideal.”

From a document published, the author of _Secret Warfare of Freemasonry_ tells us,[40] by the Orient of Brussels, “to the greater glory of the Supreme Architect of the world, in the year of _true light_ 5838” (1838), we quote the following:

“1. That at the head of every document issued by the brethren, in an individual or corporate capacity, should stand a profession of faith in our lawgiver Jesus, the son of Mary Amram (the Josue of the Old Testament), the invariable formula to be employed being, ‘To the glory of the Great Architect of the Universe,’ … to expose and oppose the errors of pope and priest, who commence everything in the name of their Trinity.

…

“3. That in remembrance of the Last Supper or Christian love-feast of Jesus, the Son of Mary Amram, an account of which is given in the Arabic traditions and in the Koran, a solemn festival should be held, accompanied by a distribution of bread, in commemoration of an ancient custom observed by the slaves of eating bread together, and of their deliverance by means of the liberator (Josue). The distribution is to be accompanied by these memorable words: ‘This is the bread of misery and oppression which our fathers were forced to eat under the Pharaos, the priests of Juda; whosoever hungers, let him come and eat; this is the Paschal sacrifice; come unto us, all you who are oppressed; yet this one year more in Babylon, and the next year shall see us free men!’ This instructive, and at the same time commemorative, supper of the Rosicrucians is the counterpart of the Supper of the Papists.”

Dr. Dupuy, indeed, informs us of the corrupt portion of the Order of Templars, that “Receptores dicebant illis quos recipiebant, Christum non esse verum Deum, et ipsum fuisse falsum, non fuisse passum pro redemptione humani generis, sed pro sceleribus suis”--“They who received said to those whom they received that Christ was not really God; that he was himself false, and did not suffer for the redemption of the human race, but for his own crimes.”

In harmony with all this was the offensively blasphemous utterance of Mr. Frothingham at the Masonic hall in this city some weeks ago, at which the New York _Tablet_ expressed a just indignation--an indignation which must have been shared by all who believe, in any way or form, in Jesus Christ, Redeemer of the world: “Tom Paine has keyed my moral being up to a higher note than the Jesus of Nazareth.”

The argument we have advanced seems to us to be convincing enough as it stands. Could we have taken a historical survey of the μυστήριον τῆς ανομίας in the two hemispheres from the “apostasy” up to the present time, but especially during the last fifteen years, it would have acquired the force of a logical demonstration. The limits to which we are necessarily restrained in a monthly periodical put this completely out of our power. Whoever he may be who has intelligently appreciated the political events of the latter period will be able to supply the deficiency for himself. Merely hinting, therefore, at the impossibility of getting anti-Freemason appreciations of contemporary events before the public--well known to all whose position has invited them to that duty--as an illustration of the plan of action laid down in the second clause of the above summary; at the recent unconcealed advocacy of the “craft” by the New York _Herald_, and the more cautious conversion of the London Times,[41] of that in the third; at the ribaldry of the press under Freemason influence directed against the bishops, clergy, and prominent laymen, as well as against the Pope; the nicknames they are for ever coining, such as “clericals,” “ultramontanes,” “retrogrades,” “reactionists”; their blasphemous travesties of the solemnities of religion in theatres and places of public resort, and so on, of that in the fourth and fifth; at the world-wide effort to induce states to exclude religious influences from the education of youth, of that of the sixth; at Victor Emanuel, the Prince of Wales, etc., of that of the seventh; at the assassination of Count Rossi at the beginning of the present Pope’s reign, the quite recent assassination of the President of Ecuador, the repeated attempts at assassination of Napoleon III., the deposition of so many sovereigns, even of the Pope himself--so far as it was in their power to depose him--of that of the eighth; and at the whole area of Europe strewn with the wreck of revolution, of that of the ninth; we pass on to the last two marks of Antichrist with which we brand the Freemason confraternity--_Qui solvit Jesum_ (Who abolishes Christ) and _Qui adversatur et extollitur supra omne quod dicitur Deus, aut quod colitur, ita ut in templo Dei sedeat ostendens se tanquam sit Deus_ (Who opposes himself to, and raises himself above, all that is called God, or is worshipped, so that he may sit in the temple of God, making himself out to be, as it were, God).

Barruel, who was completely versed in Freemasonry, and who had been himself a Mason, states (p. 222) that “the grade of Kadosch is the soul of Freemasonry, and the final object of its plots is the reintroduction of absolute liberty and equality through the destruction of all royalty and the abrogation of all religious worship.” And he backs this statement by a tragic incident in the history of a friend of his, who, because he was a Rosicrucian, fancied himself to be “in possession of the entire secret of Freemasonry.” It is too long to admit of our quoting it. The reader anxious for information we refer to _The Secret Warfare of Freemasonry_ (pp. 142-144).

_Le Libertaire_, a New York paper, in the interests of Freemasonry, about the year 1858 had the following: “As far as religion is concerned, the _Libertaire_ has none at all; he protests against every creed; he is an atheist and materialist, openly denying the existence of God and of the soul.”

In 1793 belief in God was a crime prohibited in France under pain of death.

Those of our readers who have some acquaintance with modern philosophy we need here only remind of the _natura naturans_ and _natura naturata_ of Spinoza, born a Jew, but expelled from the synagogue for his advocacy of these principles of Freemasonry: “The desire to find truth is a noble impulse, the search after it a sacred avocation; and ample field for this is offered by both the mysterious rites peculiar to the craft and those of the Goddess Isis, adored in our temples as the wisest and fairest of deities.”--_Vienna Freemason’s Journal_ (3d year, No. 4, p. 78 et seq.)

In the _Rappel_, a French organ of Freemasonry, was the following passage a few weeks ago: “God is nothing but a creation of the human mind. In a word, God is the ideal. If I am accused of being an atheist, I should reply I prefer to be an atheist, and have of God an idea worthy of him, to being a spiritualist and make of God a being impossible and absurd.”

In short, the craft is so far advanced in its course of triumph as to have at length succeeded in familiarizing the public ear with the denial of the existence of a God; so that it is now admitted as one amongst the “open questions” of philosophy.

Our illustration of the crowning indications of the satanic mark of Antichrist afforded by the Freemasons--the sitting in the temple of God, so as to make himself out to be, as it were, God--will be short but decisive.

The well-known passage in the last work of the late Dr. Strauss, to the effect that any worship paid to a supposed divine being is an outrage on _the dignity of human nature_, goes far enough, we should have thought, in this direction; but they go beyond even this.

A Dutch Mason, N. J. Mouthan, in a work entitled _Naa een werknur in’t Middenvertrek Losse Bladzijde; Zaarboekje voor Nederlandsche Vrijmetselaren_ (5872, p. 187 et seq.), says: “The spirit which animates us is an eternal spirit; it knows no division of time or individual existence. A sacred unity pervades the wide firmament of heaven; it is our one calling, our one duty, our one God. Yes, we are God! We ourselves are God!”

In the Freemasons’ periodical “for circulation amongst the brethren” (Altenberg, 1823, vol. i., No. 1) is the following: “The idea of religion indirectly includes all men as men; but in order to comprehend this aright, a certain degree of education is necessary, and unfortunately the overweening egoism of the educated classes prevents their taking in so sublime a conception of mankind. For this reason our temples consecrated to the _worship of humanity_ can as yet be opened only to a few.[42] We should, indeed, expose ourselves to a charge of idolatry, were we to attempt to personify the moral idea of humanity in the way in which divinity is usually personified.… On this account, therefore, it is advisable not to reveal the cultus of humanity to the eyes of the uninitiated, until at length the time shall come when, from east to west, this lofty conception of humanity shall find a place in every breast, this worship shall alone prevail, and all mankind shall be gathered into one fold and one family.”

The principles of this united family, “seated in the temple of God,” the Masonic philosopher Helvetius expounds to us; from whom we learn that “whatever is beneficial to all in general may be called virtue; what is prejudicial, vice and sin. Here the voice of interest has alone to speak.… Passions are only the intensified expression of self-interest in the individual; witness the Dutch people, who, when hatred and revenge urged them to action, achieved great triumphs, and made their country a powerful and glorious name. And as sensual love is universally acknowledged to afford happiness, purity must be condemned as pernicious, the marriage bond done away with, and children declared to be the property of the state.”[43] The father of such a “one fold and one family” no one not himself signed with the “mark of the beast” could hesitate to point out. The consummation above anticipated we are bid to expect. Nor is it now far off. They who are not “deceived” have, however, the consoling assurance that _our_ Lord will “slay him with the spirit of his mouth, and destroy him with the illumination of his coming.”

SIR THOMAS MORE.

_A HISTORICAL ROMANCE._

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.

II.

“You understand, M. de Soria,” said Wolsey to one of his secretaries, in whom he placed the greatest confidence. “As soon as you see him, present yourself before him, give the usual password, and then conduct him through the subterranean passage that leads to the banks of the Thames. Bring him here by the secret stairway. He will be dressed in a cloak and suit of brown clothes, wearing a black felt hat tied round with a red ribbon.”

“My lord, you may feel perfectly satisfied,” replied the secretary with a self-sufficient air, “that all your orders will be punctually executed. But he cannot possibly arrive for an hour yet; I will vouch for that, my lord.”

“Go, however, sir,” replied the minister, impatiently; “I fear being taken by surprise. Have less confidence in your own calculations, sir, and be more prompt in your actions.” And saying this he made a sign for him to go at once.

The door had scarcely closed on Soria, when the cardinal, who sat writing in silence, heard in the court of the chancellor’s palace an unusual noise. For some time he continued his work; but the tumult increasing, and hearing loud bursts of laughter, he arose, opened the window and went out on a high balcony, whence he had a view of all that was passing in the principal court.

There a crowd of servants had assembled, and formed a circle around an old woman who was apparently the object of their ridicule. Her large felt hat, around which was tied a band of red ribbon, had fallen to the ground leaving uncovered, not the head of an old woman, as they had supposed, but one thickly covered with short hair, black and curling.

On seeing this head-dress the crowd redoubled their cries, and one of them advancing suddenly, raised the mask concealing the features. What was their surprise to find under that disguise a great rubicund face, the nose and cheeks of which were reddened with the glow that wine and strong drink alone produce, and giving sufficient evidence of the sex to which it belonged. The man, seeing he was discovered, defended himself with vigor, and, dealing sharp blows with his feet and hands, endeavored to escape from his tormentors; but he was unable to resist their superior numbers. They threw themselves upon him, tearing off his brown cloak, and one of his blue cotton petticoats. The wretched creature cried out vociferously, loudly threatening them with the indignation of the cardinal; but the valets heard nothing, vain were all his efforts to escape them. Nevertheless, being exceedingly robust, he at length succeeded in overthrowing two of his antagonists, and then, dashing across the courtyard, he sprang quickly into the second court, where, finding a ladder placed at the window of a granary, he clambered up with all the dexterity of a frightened cat, and hid himself under a quantity of straw which had been stored there. In the meantime, the cardinal had recognized from his elevated position on the balcony the red ribbon that announced the messenger for whom he awaited with so much anxiety. Greatly enraged at the scene before him, and forgetting his dignity, he hurried from the balcony, rushing through the apartments that led from his own room (in which were seated the numerous secretaries of state, engaged in the work of the government). Without addressing a word to them, he descended the stairs so rapidly that in another instant he stood in the midst of his servants, who were stupefied at finding themselves in the presence of their master, all out of breath, bareheaded, and almost suffocated with indignation. He commanded them in the most emphatic terms to get out of his sight, which they did without waiting for a repetition of the order. From every direction the pages and secretaries had assembled, among them being M. de Soria, who was in great trepidation, fearing some accident had happened to the individual whom he had been instructed to introduce with such great secrecy into the palace. His fears were more than realized on seeing the cardinal, who cast on him a glance of intense anger, and in a loud voice exclaimed: “Go, sir, to the assistance of this unfortunate man who is being subjected to such outrages in my own house. Not a few of those who have attempted to drive him off shall themselves be sent away!” Then the cardinal, giving an authoritative signal, those around him understood that their presence was no longer desired, and immediately ascended the stairs and returned to their work.

Wolsey himself quickly followed them; and M. de Soria, greatly confused, in a short time appeared and ushered into the minister’s cabinet the messenger, who was still suffering from the effects of the contest in which he had been compelled to engage.

“Your letters! your letters!” said Wolsey eagerly, as soon as they were alone. “All is right, Wilson. I am satisfied. I see that you are no coward, and all that you have just now suffered will be turned to your advantage. Nevertheless, it is quite fortunate that I came to your rescue when I did, for I really do not know what those knaves might have done to you.”

“They would have thrown me into the water, I believe, like a dog,” said Wilson, laughing. “Oh! that was nothing though. I have been through worse than that in my life. All I was afraid of was, that they might discover the package of letters and the money.”

As he said this, the courier proceeded to unfasten the buckles of an undervest, made of chamois leather, that he wore closely strapped around his body. After he had taken off the vest he unfastened a number of bands of woollen cloth which were crossed on his breast. In each one of these bands was folded a great number of letters, of different forms and sizes. Then he unstrapped from his waist and laid on the table a belt that contained quite a large sum of money in gold coin, that Francis I. had sent to the minister. The avarice of Wolsey was so well understood by the different princes and sovereigns of Europe that they were accustomed to send him valuable presents, or to confer on him rich annuities, whenever they wished to gain him over to their interests. Wolsey had for a long time been engaged in a correspondence with France. He carried it on with the utmost secrecy, for he well understood if discovered by Henry he would never be pardoned. His apprehensions were still greater, now that he was endeavoring to direct the influence of his political schemes, and that of the paid agents whom he had at the different courts of Europe, towards bringing about a reconciliation between the Emperor Charles V. and the King of France; hoping by such an alliance to prevent the marriage of the king with Anne Boleyn, and thus to destroy the hopes of that ambitious family. He saw with intense satisfaction his intrigues succeeding far beyond his most sanguine expectations.

Francis I. anxiously entreated him to use his influence with the King of England, in order to dispose him favorably toward the treaty of peace which he was determined to make with Charles V. “I assure you,” he wrote, “that I have so great a desire to see my children, held so long now as hostages, that I would without hesitation willingly give the half of my kingdom to ensure that happiness. If you will aid me in removing the obstacles that Henry may interpose to the accomplishment of this purpose, you may count on my gratitude. The place of meeting is already arranged; we have chosen the city of Cambrai; and I have felt great pleasure in the assurance that you prefer, above all other places, that the conference should be held in that city.” Charmed with his success, the cardinal sent immediately in quest of Cromwell, whom he found every day becoming more and more indispensable to him, and to whom he wished to communicate the happiness he experienced in receiving this joyful intelligence; but, at the same time, closely concealing the manner in which he had obtained the information.

* * * * *

On a terrace of Windsor Castle a tent had been erected of heavy Persian cloth interwoven with silk and gold. Voluminous curtains of royal purple, artistically looped on each side with heavy silk cords, descended in innumerable folds of most graceful drapery. Rare flowers embalmed the air in every direction with exquisite perfumes, which penetrated into an apartment of the royal palace, through the open windows of which were seen the richness and elegance of the interior.

In this apartment were seated three persons apparently engaged in an animated conversation.

“So there is yet another difficulty!” cried a young girl, a charming and beautiful blonde, who seemed at this moment in an extremely impatient and excited mood. “But what say you?” she added presently, addressing herself with vivacity to a gentleman seated immediately in front of her; “speak now, Sir Cromwell; say, what would you do in this desperate situation? Is there no way in which we can prevent this treaty from being concluded?”

“Well truly, madam,” he replied, “it will be useless to attempt it. The Duchess of Angoulême has at this moment, perhaps, already arrived at Cambrai, for the purpose of signing the treaty; and we cannot reasonably hope that the Archduchess Margaret, who accompanies her, will not agree with her on every point, since the preliminaries have already been secretly concluded between the Emperor and the King of France.”

“Well, my dear Cromwell,” she replied, in a familiar and angry tone, “what shall we do then?”

“If I have any counsel to give you, madam,” answered Cromwell, with an air of importance, “it is to begin by preventing the king from consenting to the departure of Cardinal Wolsey; because his greatest desire now is to be sent as envoy to the congress at Cambrai, and you may be well assured, if he wishes to go there, it is certainly not with the intention of being useful to you, but, on the contrary, to injure you.”

“Do you think so?” replied Lady Anne. “Then I shall most certainly endeavor to prevent him from making his appearance there. But has he told you nothing about the letter I wrote him the other day?”

“Excuse me, madam,” replied Cromwell, “he has shown me the letter; in fact, he conceals nothing from me.”

“Well! and did it not give him pleasure? It seemed to me it ought to please him, for I made protestations of friendship sufficient to reassure him, and remove all apprehensions he may have felt that I would injure him in the estimation of the king.”

“He has said nothing to me on the subject,” replied Cromwell, “but I remarked that he read the letter over several times, and when he handed it to me it was with a very ominous shake of the head. Understanding so well his every gesture and thought, I comprehended perfectly he was but little convinced of what you had written, and that he has no confidence in it. Moreover, madam, it is necessary that you should know that Wolsey has been most active in his endeavors to forward the divorce so long as he believed the king would espouse a princess of the house of France; but since he knows it is _you_ he has chosen, his mind is entirely changed, and he tries in every possible manner to retard the decision and render success impossible.”

“It is clear as day, my dear sister!” exclaimed Lord Rochford, earnestly interrupting Cromwell. “You know nothing about the affairs you are trying to manage; therefore you will never be able to rid yourself of this imperious minister. I have already told you that all your efforts to flatter or appease him will be in vain. He believes you fear him, and he likes you no better on that account. What Cromwell says is but too true, and is verified by the fact that nothing advances in this affair. Every day some new formalities are introduced, or advantages claimed, or they wait for new instructions and powers. They tell us constantly that Campeggio is inflexible; that nothing will induce him to deviate from his instructions and the usages of the court of Rome. But whom has he chosen--with whom has he conferred? Is it not Wolsey? And he has certainly prevented us from obtaining anything but what he himself designed to accomplish.”

“You are right, brother!” cried Anne Boleyn, with a sudden gesture of displeasure. “It is necessary to have this haughty and jealous minister removed. Henceforth all my efforts shall be directed to this end. It may, perhaps, be less difficult than we suppose. The king has been violently opposed to this treaty, which Wolsey has so earnestly labored to bring about--or at least the king suspects him of it--and he told me yesterday that it was vain for the king of France to address him as ‘his good brother and perpetual ally,’ for he regarded as enemies all who presumed to oppose his will. ‘Because,’ he added, ‘I understand very well, beforehand, what their terms will be. Once become the ally of Charles V., Francis will use all his efforts to prevent the repudiation of his aunt; but nothing under heaven shall divert me from my purpose. I will resist all the counsels he may give me!’”

“He is much disappointed,” said Lord Rochford, “that the Pope should have been raised, as it were, from the dead. His death would have greatly lessened these difficulties; for he holds firmly to his opinions. I am much deceived, or the commission of legates will pass all their time, and a very long time too, without coming to any decision.”

As Lord Rochford made this remark, his wife, the sister-in-law of Anne Boleyn, entered the apartment, accompanied by the young wife of Lord Dacre. Now, as Lady Rochford belonged entirely to the queen’s adherents, and Lady Anne was very much in fear of her, the tone of conversation was immediately changed, becoming at once general and indifferent.

“The Bishop of Rochester has returned to London,” carelessly remarked Anne Boleyn, as she stooped to pick up a little embroidered glove.

“Yes, madam,” replied Cromwell. “I have seen him, and I find him looking quite old and feeble.”

“Ah! I am truly sorry to hear it,” replied Lady Anne; “the king is very much attached to him. I have often heard him say he regarded him as the most learned and remarkable man in England, and that he congratulated himself on possessing in his kingdom a prelate so wise, virtuous, and accomplished.”

“What would you wish, madam?” replied Cromwell, who never could suffer any one to be eulogized in his presence; “all these old men should give place to us--it is but just; they have had their time.”

“Ah! Sir Cromwell,” replied Lady Boleyn, smiling, “you have no desire, I am sure, to be made bishop; therefore, the place he will leave vacant will not be the one for you.”

“You have decided that question very hastily, madam. Who knows? I may one day, perhaps, be a curate. It has been predicted of me.”

“Oh! that would indeed be a very strange sight,” she replied, laughing aloud. “You certainly have neither the turn nor the taste for the office. How would you ever manage to leave off the habit of frequenting our drawing-rooms? Truly we could not afford to lose you, and would certainly get up a general revolt, opposing your ordination, rather than be deprived of your invaluable society.”

“You are very kind, madam,” said Cromwell; “but I should perhaps not be so ridiculous as you imagine. I should wear a grave and severe countenance and an air of the greatest austerity.”

“Oh! I understand you now,” she replied; “you would not be converted; you would only become a hypocrite!”

“I have a horror of hypocrites!” said Cromwell scornfully.

“I wonder what you are, then?” thought Lady Rochford.

“And I also,” replied Lady Anne. “I have a perfect detestation of hypocrites; it is better to be bad out and out!”

“Is it true there has been a riot in the city?” asked Lady Rochford.

“Yes, madam,” replied Cromwell; “but it was suppressed on the spot. It was only a hundred wool-spinners, carders, and drapers, who declared they were no longer able to live since the market of the Netherlands has been closed, and that they would soon starve if their old communications were not re-established. The most mutinous were arrested, the others were frightened and quickly dispersed.”

“Oh!” said Lord Rochford, “there is nothing to fear from such a rabble as that; they are too much afraid of their necks. Let them clamor, and let us give ourselves no uneasiness on the subject. I met Sir Thomas More this morning going to the king with a petition which they had addressed to him yesterday.”

“Why was he charged with the commission?” asked young Lady Dacre.

“In virtue of his office as sheriff of the city,” replied Cromwell.

“He constitutes, then, part of our city council?” she replied. “He is a man I have the greatest desire to know; they say such marvellous things of him, and I find his poetry full of charming and noble thoughts.”

“I see,” replied Cromwell, “you have not read the spirited satire just written by Germain de Brie? It points out the perfectly prodigious faults of More’s productions. It is certainly an _anti-Morus_!”

“I am inclined to think your opinion is prompted by a spirit of jealousy, Sir Cromwell,” answered Lady Rochford, sharply. “Read, madam,” she continued, addressing young Lady Sophia Dacre, “his _History of Richard III._; I suppose Sir Cromwell will, at least, accord some merit to that work?”

“Entirely too light, and superficial indeed, madam,” said Cromwell; “the author has confined himself wholly to a recital of the crimes which conducted the prince to the throne. The style of that history is very negligent, but, at the same time, very far above that of his other works, and particularly of his _Utopia_, which is a work so extravagant, a political system so impracticable, that I regard the book simply as a wonderful fable, agreeable enough to listen to, but at which one is obliged to laugh afterwards when thinking of the absurdities it contains.”

“Your judgment is as invidious as it is false!” exclaimed Lady Rochford, who always expressed her opinions bluntly, and without dissimulation. “If it is true,” she continued, “that this philosophical dream can never be realized, yet it is nevertheless impossible not to admire the wise and virtuous maxims it contains. Above all others there is one I have found so just, and so beautifully conceived, I could wish every young girl capable of teaching it to her future husband. ‘How can it be supposed,’ says the author, ‘that any man of honor and refinement could resolve to abandon a virtuous woman, who had been the companion of his bosom, and in whose society he had passed so many days of happiness; only because time, at whose touch all things fade, had laid his destroying hand upon the lovely features of that gentle wife, once so cherished and adored? Because age, which has been the first and most incurable of all the infirmities she has been compelled to drag after her, had forcibly despoiled her of the charming freshness of her youth? Has that husband not enjoyed the flower of her beauty and garnered in the most beautiful days of her life, and will he forsake his wife now because she has become feeble, delicate, and suffering? Shall he become inconstant and perjured at the very moment when her sad condition demands of him a thousand sacrifices, and claims a return to the faithful devotion and vows of his early youth? Ah! into such a depth of unworthiness and degradation we will not presume it possible for any man to descend! It was thus the people of the Utopian Isle reasoned, declaring it would be the height of injustice and barbarity to abandon one whom we had loved and cherished, and who had been so devoted to us, at the moment when suffering and affliction demanded of us renewed sympathy and a generous increase of our tenderest care and consolations!’[44] And now, my dear sister,” she added, fixing her eyes steadfastly on Lady Boleyn, “what do you think of that passage? Are you not forcibly struck by the truth and justice of the sentiment? Let me advise you when you marry to be well satisfied beforehand that your husband entertains the same opinions.”

As she heard these last words the beautiful face of Anne Boleyn became suddenly suffused with a deep crimson, and for some moments not a word was uttered by any one around her. They understood perfectly well that Lady Rochford’s remarks were intended to condemn in the most pointed manner the king’s conduct towards the queen, whose failing health was entirely attributable to the mortification and suffering she endured on account of her husband’s ingratitude and ill-treatment.

In the meantime, the silence becoming every moment more and more embarrassing, Anne Boleyn, forcibly assuming an air of gayety, declared her sister was disposed to look very far into the future; “but,” she added, “happily, my dear sister, neither you nor I are in a condition to demand all those tender cares due to age and infirmity.”

“Come, ladies, let us go,” said Cromwell in a jesting tone, hoping to render himself agreeable to Lady Anne by relieving the embarrassment the conversation had caused her. “I am unable to express my admiration for Lady Rochford. She understands too well the practice of the Utopian laws not to wish for the position of Dean of the Doctors of the University of Oxford.”

“You are very complimentary and jocose, sir,” replied Lady Rochford; “and if you wish it, I will introduce you to one who will be personally necessary if you should ever aspire to fill a position in that kingdom. You must know, however, that their wise law-giver, Utopia, while he accorded to each one liberty of conscience, confined that liberty within legitimate and righteous bounds, in order to prevent the promulgation of the pernicious doctrines of pretended philosophers, who endeavor to debase the dignity of our exalted human nature; he also severely condemned every opinion tending to degenerate into pure materialism, or, what is more deplorable still, veritable atheism. The Utopians were taught to believe in the reality of a future state, and in future rewards and punishments. They detested and denounced all who presumed to deny these truths, and, far from admitting them to the rank of citizens, they refused even to class among men those who debased themselves to the abject condition of vile animals. ‘What,’ they asked, ‘can be done with a creature devoid of principle and without faith, whose only restraint is fear of punishment, who without that fear would violate every law and trample under foot those wise rules and regulations which alone constitute the bulwark of social order and happiness? What confidence can be reposed in an individual purely sensual, living without morals and without hope, recognizing no obligation but to himself alone; who limits his happiness to the present moment; whose God is his body; whose law, his own pleasures and passions, in the gratification of which he is at all times ready to proceed to the extremity of crime, provided he can find means of escaping the vigilant eye of justice, and be a villain with impunity? Such infamous characters are of course excluded from all participation in municipal affairs, and all positions of honor and public trust; they are veritable automatons, abandoned to the “error of their ways,” wretched, wandering “cumberers of the earth” on which they live!’ You perceive, Sir Cromwell,” continued Lady Rochford ironically, “that my profound knowledge and retentive memory may prove very useful to you, should you ever arrive at the Utopian Isle, for you must be convinced that your own opinions would meet with very little favor in that country.”

Cromwell, humiliated to the last degree, vainly endeavored to reply with his usual audacity and spirit. Finding all efforts to recover his self-possession impossible, he stammered forth a few incoherent words, and hastily took his leave.

The desire of winning the approbation of Anne Boleyn at the expense of her sister-in-law had caused him to commit a great blunder, and he received nothing in return to remove the caustic arrows from his humiliated and deeply wounded spirit. Extremely brilliant and animated in conversation, Lady Rochford was accustomed to “having the laugh entirely on her own side,” which, knowing so very well, Anne had pretended not to understand the conversation, although the remarks had been so very piquant.

As soon as he had retired Cromwell became the subject of conversation, and Anne timidly, and with no little hesitation, ventured to remonstrate with her sister-in-law, expressing her regret that the conversation should have been made so personal, as she liked Cromwell very much.

“And that is just what you are wrong in doing,” replied Lady Rochford; “for he is a deceitful and dangerous man! He pretends to be extremely devoted to you, but it is only because he believes he can make you useful to himself; and he is full of avarice and ambition. This you will discover when it is perhaps too late, and I advise you to reflect seriously on the subject. It is so cruel to be mistaken in the choice of a friend that, truly, the surer and better way would seem to be, to form no friendships at all! There are so few, so very few, whose affections are pure and disinterested, that they scarcely ever withstand the ordeal of misfortune, or the loss of those extraneous advantages with which they found us surrounded.”

“You speak like a book, my dear sister,” cried Lady Boleyn, laughing aloud; “just like a book that has been sent me from France, with such beautiful silver clasps.”

Saying this, she ran to fetch the book, which she had opened that evening in the middle, not having sufficient curiosity to examine the title or inquire the name of the author of the volume. She opened it naturally at the same place, and read what follows, which was, as far as could be discovered, the fragment of a letter:

“You ask me for the definition of a friend! In reply, I am compelled to declare that the term has become so vague and so obscure, it has been used in so many senses, and applied to so many persons, I shall first be obliged to give you a description of what is called a friend in the world--a title equivalent, in my estimation, to the most complete indifference, intermingled at the same time with no insignificant degree of envy and jealousy. For instance, I hear M. de Clèves speaking of his friend M. Joyeuse, and he remarks simply: ‘I know more about him than anybody else; I have been his most intimate friend for a great many years; he is meanly avaricious--I have reproached him for it a hundred times.’ A little further on, and I hear the great Prof. de Chaumont exclaim, ‘Valentino d’Alsinois is a most charming woman; everybody is devoted to her. But this popularity cannot last long--she is full of vanity; intolerably conceited and silly; it really amuses me!’ I go on still further, and meet a friend who takes me enthusiastically by both hands: ‘Oh! I expected a visit from you yesterday, and was quite in despair that you did not come! You know how delighted I always am to see you, and how highly I appreciate your visits!’ But I happen to have very keen eyes, and an ear extremely acute and delicate; and I distinctly heard her whisper to her friend as I approached them, ‘How fortunate I have been to escape this visit!’ What a change! I did not think it could last long. Well, with friends like these you will find the world crowded; they will obstruct, so to speak, every hour of your life; but it is rare indeed to encounter one who is true and loyal, a friend of the heart! A man truly virtuous: and sincerely religious is alone capable of comprehending and loving with pure and exalted friendship. A man of the world, on the contrary, accustomed to refer everything to himself, and consulting his own desires, becomes his own idol, and on the altar of _self_ offers up the only sincere worship of which his sordid soul is capable. And you will find he will always end by sacrificing to his own interests and passions the dearest interests of the being who confided in his friendship.

“But with the sincere and earnest friend, love and gratitude are necessities of his nature; they constitute the unbroken chain which links all pure and reasonable friendship. He will assist his friend in all emergencies, for he has assumed in a manner even his responsibilities. He will never flatter; his counsel and advice, on the contrary, may be severely administered, because it is impossible to be happy without being virtuous, and the happiness of his friend is as dear to him as his own. He is ready to sacrifice his own interests to those of his friend, and none would dare attack his friend’s reputation in his presence; for they know he will defend and sustain him under all circumstances, sympathizing in his misfortunes, mingling tears with his tears--in a word, that it is another self whom they would presume to attack.

“Death itself cannot dissolve the ties of such an affection--the soul, nearer to God, will continue to implore unceasingly for him the divine benediction. Oh! what joy, what happiness, to participate in a friendship so pure and exalted! He who can claim one such friend possesses a source of unbounded joy, and an inexhaustible consolation of which cruel adversity can never deprive him. If prosperity dazzles him with its dangerous splendor, if sorrow pierce him with her dart, if melancholy annihilate the life of his soul, then ever near him abides this friend, like a precious gift which God alone had power to bestow!”

* * * * *

Queen Catherine was walking in that portion of the vast grounds of Greenwich called the Queen’s Garden, which in happier days had often been her favorite retreat. Jets of limpid water (conveyed by means of pipes through the grounds) burst in every direction, and then fell in silvery showers among the lovely parterres of flowers, and covered the green velvet turf with a glittering veil of diamond-like spray. On the bosom of the murmuring waters floated myriads of leaves and flowers, flung with gentle hand by the wooing breeze, while thousands of gold fishes sported amid their crystal depths. The eye of the stranger was at once arrested and ravished by these marvels of nature and art, admiring the power and riches thus united; but the queen, with slow and painful steps, only sought this solitude for liberty there to indulge her tears in silence and oblivion.

At no great distance Mary, full of joy, engaged in the sportive plays of the ladies of the queen. A golden insect or a brilliant butterfly was the only conquest to which she aspired. Gaily flitting from place to place, with step so light that her little feet scarcely impressed the delicate white sand covering the walks, her shouts of expectation and happiness were still powerless to rejoice the maternal heart.

Catherine hastily withdrew from the scene. Fatigued and worn with suffering, she regarded with painful indifference all that surrounded her.

In the meantime one of the gardeners advanced towards her and presented a bouquet.

“Give it,” said she, “to one of my ladies.” And she turned away; but the gardener would not withdraw. “The queen does not recognize me,” he said at length in a low voice.

“Ah! More,” exclaimed Catherine, greatly agitated. “Friend always faithful! But why expose yourself thus to serve me? Go on. I will follow!” And Catherine continued her walk until she reached a wide and extended avenue planted with venerable old lindens.

“More,” she exclaimed, trembling with fear, yet still indulging a slight hope, “what have you to tell me? Speak, oh! speak quickly! I fear we may be observed; every step of mine is watched.”

“Madam,” cried More, “a general peace has been concluded. The emperor’s difficulty with the Holy See is ended; he consents to surrender all the conquered territory originally belonging to the Ecclesiastical States. He binds himself to re-establish the dominion of the Medici in Florence; he abandons Sforza, leaving the Pope absolute master of the destiny of that prince and the sovereignty of the Milanese. Urged on by these concessions, the two princesses cut short their negotiations, and the treaty between France and Austria was concluded immediately. Your appeal and protestation have been despatched, and conveyed safely out of the kingdom. The messenger to whom they were entrusted was most rigorously searched, but the papers were so securely and adroitly concealed they were not discovered. They were carried to Antwerp by Peter Gilles, the ‘friend of my heart,’ and from thence he despatched them to Rome. Hope, therefore hope; let us all hope!”

“Ah! More,” replied the queen, who had listened with deep anxiety, “would that I were able to acknowledge your services as I appreciate them. Your friendship has been my only consolation. But I know not why it is, hope every day grows more and more faint in my heart. And so utterly insensible to joy have I become that it seems now I am incapable of aught but suffering, and that for me I fear greater sorrow is to be added.”

“What do you say, madam?” replied More. “How sadly discouraging and painful to your servants to hear such reflections from you at the very moment when everything becomes favorable to your cause. The emperor will use his influence at the court of Rome, and Francis, between the two allies, will at least be forced to remain neutral.”

“What were the conditions of the Treaty of Cambrai?” asked the queen.

“They were very hard and exacting,” replied More. “The king of France entirely renounces his pretensions to Burgundy and Italy; thus nine years of war, the battle of Pavia, and a humiliating captivity, become of no avail. He sacrifices all, even his allies. Fearing to add to these harsh conditions the reconciliation of their interests, he abandoned to the mercy of the emperor, without the slightest stipulation, the Venetians, the Florentines, the Duke of Ferrara, and the Neapolitan barons who were attached to his arms.”

“What a cruel error!” exclaimed the queen. “The prince has surely forgotten that even in political and state affairs, he who once sacrifices his friends cannot hope to recall them ever again to his support. It is very evident that he has not more prudent nor wise counsellors in his cabinet than skilful and accomplished generals in the field. Who now among them all can be compared with Pescaire, Anthony de Lêve, or the Prince of Orange?”

“He might have had them, madam, if his own negligence and the wickedness of his courtiers had not alienated and driven them away. The Constable of Bourbon, Moran, and Doria would have powerfully counterbalanced the talents and influence of the chiefs you have just named, had the king of France engaged them in his own cause, instead of having to encounter them in the ranks of his enemies. His undaunted courage and personal valor, however, have alone caused the unequal and hopeless contest to be so long continued.”

“And what does your king say of these affairs?” asked the queen, anxiously.

“Alas! madam, he seems but little satisfied,” responded More, hesitating.

“That is just as I suspected,” replied the queen. “Yes, it is because he foresees new obstacles to the unjust divorce he is prosecuting with so much ardor. O More!” she continued, bursting into tears, “what have I done to merit such cruel treatment? When I look back on the happy years of my youth, the years when he loved me so tenderly; when I recall the devoted and affectionate demonstrations of those days, and compare them with the actual rudeness and severity of the present, my bleeding heart is crushed by this sorrow! What have I done, More, to lose thus so suddenly and entirely my husband’s affection? It is true, the freshness of my early youth has faded, but was it to such ephemeral advantages alone I owed his devotion? Can a marriage be contracted by a man with the intention of dissolving it as soon as the personal attractions, the youthful charms, of his wife have faded? Oh! it seems to me it should be just the contrary, and that the hour of affliction should only call forth deeper proofs of affection. No, More, no! neither you nor any other of my friends will be able to accomplish anything for me. I feel that my life is rapidly ebbing away; that my spirit is crushed and broken for ever. For admitting, even, that Henry will not be successful in his attempt to sever the sacred bonds of our union, what happiness could I ever hope to enjoy near one to whom I had become an object of aversion--who would behold in me only an invincible obstacle to his will and the gratification of his criminal and disorderly passions?”

“Alas! madam,” replied More, “we are all grieved at the contemplation of the great affliction by which you are overwhelmed, and how much do we wish the expression of our sympathy and devotion had power to relieve you. But remember the Princess of Wales--you will surely never cease to defend her rights.”

“Never, never!” exclaimed the queen passionately. “That is the sole inducement I have once more to arouse myself--it sustains my courage and animates my resolution, when health and spirits both fail. O More! could you but know all that passes in the depths of my soul; could you but realize, for one moment, the anguish and agony, the deep interior humiliation, into which I am plunged! Oh! fatal and for ever unfortunate day when I left my country and the royal house of my father! Why was I not born in obscurity? Would not my life then have passed quietly and without regret? Far from the tumult of the world and the éclat of thrones, I should have been extremely happy. Now I am dying broken-hearted and unknown.”

“Is it really yourself, madam,” answered More, “who thus gives way to such weakness? Truly, it is unworthy of your rank, and still more of your virtues. When adversity overtakes us, we should summon all our courage and resolution. You are our queen, and you should remember your daughter is born sovereign of this realm, beneath whose soil our buried forefathers sleep. No, no! Heaven will never permit the blood of such a race to be sullied by that of an ambitious and degraded woman. That noble race will triumph, be assured of it; and in that triumph the honor of our country will shine forth with renewed glory and splendor. I swear it by my head, and hope it in my heart!” As he said these words, footsteps were heard, and Catherine perceived the king coming towards them. She turned instantly pale, but, remaining calm in the dangerous crisis, made a sign for More to withdraw. The king immediately approached her, and, observing with heartless indifference the traces of recent tears on her cheek, exclaimed:

“Always in tears!” Then, assuming a playful manner, he continued: “Come, Kate, you must confess that you are always singularly sad and depressed, and the walls of a convent would suit you much better than this beautiful garden. You have in your hand a fine bouquet; I see at least you still love flowers.”

“I do indeed,” replied the queen, with a deep sigh.

“Well,” said Henry, “I do not mean to reproach you, but it would be advisable not to hold those roses so close to your cheek; the contrast might be unfavorable--is it not so, my old Kate? Have you seen the falcons just sent me from Scotland? They are of a very rare species, and trained to perfection. I am going out now to try them.”

“I wish your majesty a pleasant morning,” answered the queen.

“Adieu, Kate,” he continued, proceeding on his way, and giving in the exuberance of his spirits a flourish with his trumpet. Very soon the notes of the hunting-horns announced his arrival in the outer courtyard. He found there assembled a crowd of lords and pages, followed by falconers, carrying the new birds on their wrists. These birds were fettered, and wore on their heads little leathern hoods, which were to be removed at the moment they mounted in the air in search of their accustomed prey.

In a very short time the party rode off, and Catherine thoughtfully entered the palace, thinking it was a long time since the king had shown himself so indulgent and gracious towards her.

* * * * *

“Are you well assured of the truth of these statements?” said the king, returning Cromwell a letter he had just read. “No! I will not believe it,” he cried, stamping his foot violently on the richly-tessellated floor of his cabinet. “I certainly hoped to have gained the legate over.”