Chapter XIII: The Search Nearly Over (3)

This assertion will doubtless sound strangely in the ears of those who have allowed themselves to remain in ignorance of the facts which we shall presently adduce. But, in view of them, it will be acknowledged that our statement is the most modest that can be made, and that, if disposed to be boastful, we could increase it many fold without fear of exaggeration. Catholics in this country have, it is true, no great university such as those produced by the efforts and endowments of generations. Besides the lack of time necessary for such a development, two other causes have thus far prevented its origin. The first is the poverty of Catholics here--not simply their lack of means--but the fact that the extent of the country and the comparatively small number of very wealthy families require that educational institutions of the higher class should be plentifully distributed. Secondly, Catholic resources have actually been applied to satisfy this condition of things. We feel quite sanguine that, before the close of the century, in spite of all disadvantages, a Catholic university of the very highest character will be established here; but, without it, there exist at present, in every city of importance throughout the Union, colleges which, for scholarship, will fairly compete with the chartered universities of this country, and which, in certain localities and in special departments, will surpass their older and more pretentious rivals. Although these colleges do not approach the ideal of a university--_i.e._, a great city of learning, which can no more be built in a day than a great commercial metropolis--nevertheless there is no reason to be ashamed of our colleges. Scarcely one of them can be found which does not contain the children of non-Catholics, sent thither by the preference of parents and guardians. Our great academies for young ladies are recognized as possessing advantages which are without a parallel; and, as a class, the convent schools for girls are without even a rival, and contain a very large proportion of Protestant children.

Nor are Catholics lacking in efforts to provide primary education for Catholic children, although their efforts in this direction are sadly out of proportion to their necessities. In higher intellectual culture the wealthy are naturally interested. They must provide suitable education for their children. To do this in every place is a most severe tax upon them. Nevertheless, it has been their duty to accomplish this, and, at the same time, to subscribe liberally toward the education of the children of their poorer brethren.

The poorer classes, also, with less natural impulse to make sacrifices for education, exposed to the temptation of hundreds of proselytizing institutions, forced to pay also for the lavish expenditure of the public schools, have had to bear the burden of procuring the necessary instruction for their children without exposing them to sectarianism and the scorn of their religion too often openly manifested in the “common” schools. How far they have done their duty will presently be shown. Honorable men shall judge whether they have or have not valued education. But if it be suddenly discovered that they have valued it, let it be acknowledged also that they have acted as Catholics and from the deepest religious motives.

The general statistics of the Catholic Church in America are very imperfect. Nevertheless, from the _Catholic Directory_ of 1875 a few figures may be gleaned which will abundantly sustain the statements here advanced. It is to be regretted that the statistics as given in the _Directory_ are not more complete, those of some dioceses being quite minute and exact, those of others very imperfect.

With regard to colleges and academies for higher education, there are, under Catholic direction, in the United States, at least 540, with an attendance of not less than 48,000 pupils. In dioceses of which both the numbers of institutions and their attendance have been given there are 270 institutions, with an attendance of 24,000. A mathematical computation gives for the attendance in the others the amount which we have allowed as a safe estimate--viz., a total attendance of no less than 48,000 souls. How does this appear to those who have listened hitherto to the revilers of Catholics? Are we right in repelling their charge, or are they right, who have nothing but their angry feelings with which to sustain it?

If Catholics are wanting in zeal for education, the spirit of obstruction is not apparent in their higher institutions. But, as we have said, the mass of our people are poor. What provision have they made for themselves, besides paying for the education of others?

The Catholic parochial schools are principally designed to supply the need of Catholic education for the masses. It would be wrong, however, to consider them as merely primary schools. Many of the parochial schools are really high schools, and have a course of studies equal to the best normal schools. Nevertheless, under the head of parish schools are not included any of those already mentioned as colleges or academies. In the Archdiocese of Cincinnati there are 140 parish schools, in which are educated about 35,000 children free of cost to the State. In the Archdiocese of New York there are 93 parish schools, with not less than 37,600 children. In the Diocese of Cleveland there are 100 parish schools and 16,000 children. In some places the attendance of the Catholic schools is fully equal to that of the public schools. So that in these districts Catholics not only pay for the education of their own children, but half the expenses of the public schools, and--supposing both systems to be conducted with equal economy--enough to pay for the education of all the other children as well as their own, _free of cost_ to Protestants, Jews, and infidels. And yet Catholics are charged with being hostile to education!

In the United States we have statistics of 1,400 parochial schools, the given attendance at which amounts to 320,000 pupils. The entire number of parish schools foots up 1,700, and the total figure of attendance may be set down at 400,000 scholars. Add to this the number of 48,000 who are being educated in colleges and academies, and farther increase the sum by the probable number of children in asylums, reformatories, and industrial schools, and there will appear something very like half a million of scholars who are receiving their education at the expense of Catholics.

Taking into account Catholic numbers, Catholic means, and the time in which Catholics have made these provisions for education, we can safely challenge, not only every denomination singly, but all of them put together, to show any corresponding interest in the matter of education, whether elementary or scientific. This challenge is made, not in the spirit of pride (though certainly without shame), but in the name of truth and of generous rivalry to outstrip all others in the service of humanity and our country. Let it stand as the fittest reply to the disingenuous charge that Catholics are opposed to education.

The candid reader to whom these facts are new will use his own language in characterizing the “flank movement” against Catholics, and will be disposed to credit us with honesty and consistency in our open criticism of the present hastily-adopted system of education. But we are persuaded that he will also be led, if not to make, at least to concur in, farther reflections on the facts which are here adduced. If Catholics are actually providing instruction for so vast a number of the people of the United States, is not this a very considerable saving to the public? We think it is. The average cost of education in New York City is $13 60 per child; in the State of New York, $11; in the United States and Territories, $9 26. The saving represented by such a number in our schools amounts, at the rate of New York City, to $6,800,000; at the rate of the State of New York, to $5,500,000, and at the lowest rate, to $4,630,000 per annum. In addition to this direct saving, we must be credited with the amount of our taxes for the public schools. When Catholics stand before the American people, and state the reasons why they do not consider the present educational system that prevails here to be either wise or just, they are not beggars in any sense. They ask for no favor. They demand an equitable system of disbursing the funds raised for education, so that no class of citizens shall be deprived of that for which they are forced to contribute. They would arrange it so that none could justly complain. As Catholics, we must have religion and morality (which, whatever others may think, are to us inseparable) taught in the schools to which we send our children. No time or place will ever alter our convictions on this point. What we demand for ourselves we gladly concede to others. We are ready to consult with them on a common and just basis of agreement. Nothing is wanting for a harmonious settlement except fairness on the part of our opponents. There is no flaw in our position, no evil design in our heart, nor have we the slightest disposition to drive a close bargain. Let the word be spoken. Let any of the Protestant denominations make a step forward, intimate a desire for settlement on the basis of equal justice to all, and Catholics are with them. But while we thus maintain our demand as strictly just, whether it be received or rejected, we are not debtors but creditors of the state. We not only ask our fellow-citizens, Will you stand by and see us taxed for a system of education of which we cannot conscientiously avail ourselves? but we further ask, Can you, as honest men, disregard what Catholics are doing for education? Do you want them not only to educate their own children, thereby saving you this cost, but to educate yours also?

What kind of a soul has the man or the nation who would deliberately resist such an appeal? The time will come when people will ask--as, indeed, many do ask at present--“Why is not a louder outcry made for the Catholics in the school question?” And the answer is that we feel a certainty, which nothing can shake, that the American people are intelligent enough to understand Catholics after a time; and when they do understand them, they will be fair enough to do them justice.

In the meantime let the Catholic laborer pay not only for the education of his own children at the parish school, and save this expense to his rich neighbor; let him also pay for the same neighbor’s children, not merely in primary schools, but in high schools, where ladies and gentlemen (whom poverty does not drive to labor at the age when the poor man’s children have to be apprenticed) may learn French and German and music, and to declaim on the glorious principles of American liberty and of the Constitution, under which all men are (supposed to be) free and equal. We love to hear their young voices and hearty eloquence. Let these institutions be costly in structure and furnished with every improvement. Let the teachers have high salaries. Let gushing editors issue forth, to manifest to the astonished world the wisdom and deep thought which they have acquired at the expense of their humbler and self-sacrificing neighbor. But let honest and thoughtful men ponder on the meaning of American equality, and judge who are the true friends of education. The wages of the laborers will be spent, if the shallowness and crude imperfection of the present system are learned, and the spirit of equal rights among citizens peacefully preserved; though the credit will belong to those who have kept their calmness of mind and made the greatest sacrifices.

The candid reader to whom we have alluded will readily admit that Catholics are true friends of education, and are doing most for it proportionately to their means; that, instead of suspicion and abuse, they deserve respect, honor, and acknowledgment of their services.

We think, however, that our fellow-citizens will go much farther, and will, in time, endorse our statement when we affirm that Catholics at present, and as a body, are the only true friends of popular education. By this is not meant simply to say that they have not been backward in obtaining, by their intelligence and integrity, the highest positions in the country; that they count as representatives such men as Chief-Justice Taney, Charles O’Conor, a Barry at the head of the navy, a Sheridan and a Rosecrans in the army, and others of the highest national and local reputation; or that, when the Roman purple fell upon the shoulders of the Archbishop of New York, it suffered no loss of dignity in touching a true and patriotic American, well fitted to wear it in any court or academy of Europe. But we do mean that, outside of the Catholic Church and those who sympathize with our views on this subject, there is no body whose representatives are not biassed in their plan for common education by prejudice or hostility toward some other body.

With what utter disregard for the rights of conscience the infidel and atheistic faction coolly avows its purpose to enforce a secular and irreligious education upon all the people--a system known to be no less antagonistic to the spirit of our democratic institutions than hostile to the religious convictions of Catholics as well as Protestants! What loud outcries and stormy denunciations echo from certain popular pulpits when this faction demands the expulsion of the Bible from the public schools! Is any person cool in the midst of this confusion? Is there any class of citizens which looks to the common good and adheres to the principle of equal regard for religious rights and education free for all? There are such persons. There is such a class. Those are they who never shrink from avowing their principles, and whose principles are always right, in spite of temporary unpopularity--the representatives of the Catholic Church of America.

When the excitement of the hour has died away, and the schemes of politicians to gain power by fastening upon the country a system fatal to liberty, and radical in its assault upon the spirit of our government, have met their just fate, then we shall receive the honor due to those who have defended the country from the danger of adopting partisan measures aimed against a certain class of citizens.

We hope to live to see the day when there will not be a child in the whole land capable of instruction who shall not receive a thorough education, fitting him to be a patriotic citizen of our country, and, at the same time, in nowise interfering with his religious duties. The present system signally fails to accomplish this. Those who so strenuously uphold its organization and attempt to make it compulsory upon all are hostile to the genius of our institutions and fanatical in their zeal. That they are not lovers of education is evident from their own ignorance of facts. That they are in earnest when they charge Catholics with hostility to education we can scarcely believe; for we hear from the same lips hints and warnings against Catholic success in education. We hear also that the Catholic Church is growing, and, unless something is done to stop her, she will convert all the Protestants in the country; and, still at other times, that she is an effete and worn-out thing which cannot live through the century in a free republic. At one time Catholics are derided as idiots; at another represented as deep and insidious conspirators. There is scarcely anything which is not affirmed or denied of them, according as it suits the mood of their revilers. If our people were cooler and more dispassionate, we should find all those calumnies answering one another. As it is, we are constrained to pay them more or less attention, though the nature of the testimony against us scarcely allows us to take up more than one point at a time.

If Catholics or Methodists or Episcopalians or Baptists can give a better and a cheaper education, we see no reason why the state should interfere with those who choose to avail themselves of it. Let the state set up any standard it may choose, or make it obligatory; Catholics will cheerfully come up to it, no matter how high it may be, provided equal rights are allowed to all. The government has a right to demand that its voters shall possess knowledge. It has no right to say how or where they shall acquire knowledge. The government is bound by public policy to promote education. This is to be done by stimulating in this department the same activity which has made Americans famous in other branches of social economy, by encouraging spontaneous action, and not by an ill-judged system of “protection” of one kind of education against another, or by creating a state monopoly. Bespeaking candor and due respect on the part of those who may differ from us, we take our stand on what we conceive to be the true American ground, and are willing to abide by the consequences--fair play, universal culture, obligatory knowledge, non-interference of the state in religion, and free trade in education.

SUGGESTED BY A CASCADE AT LAKE GEORGE.

Not idly could I watch this torrent fall
Hour after hour; not vainly day by day
Visit the spot to meditate and pray.
The charm that holds me in its giant thrall
Has too much of the infinite to pall.
For though, like time, the waters pass away,
They fling a freshness, a baptismal spray,
Which breathes of the Eternal Fount of all.
And so, my God, does thy revealed word,
In living dogma or on sacred page,
Flow to us ever new; though read and heard
Immutably the same from age to age.
And thither Nature sends us to assuage
The higher longings by her voices stirred.

SIR THOMAS MORE.

_A HISTORICAL ROMANCE._

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.

V.

Time glides rapidly by, leaving no footprints on the dreary road over which it has passed, as the wild billows, rolling back into the fathomless depths whence the tempest has called them forth, leave no traces behind them. And so passes life--fleeting rapidly, noiselessly away; while man, weary with striving, tortured by cares and unceasing anxieties, is born, suffers, weeps, and in a day has withered, and, like a fragile flower of the field, perishes from the earth.

Wolsey, fallen from the summit of prosperity, continued to experience a succession of reverses. Unceasingly exposed to the malice of his enemies, he struggled in vain against their constantly-increasing influence; and if they failed in bringing about his death, they succeeded, at least, in poisoning every moment of his existence. Thus, at the time even when Henry VIII. had sent him a valuable ring as a token of amity, they forced the king to despoil the wretched man of the valuable possessions which they pretended to wish restored to him. He received one day from his master a new assurance of his royal solicitude; the next, his resources failing, he was obliged, for want of money, to dismiss his old servants and remain alone in his exile.

Cromwell, with an incredible adroitness, had succeeded by degrees in disengaging himself from the obligations he owed the cardinal, and in making the downfall and misfortunes of his master serve to advance his own interests. He had made numerous friends among the throng of courtiers surrounding the king, in obtaining from the unhappy Wolsey his recognition of the distribution which the king had made of his effects, by adding the sanction of his own seal. After repeated refusals on the part of the cardinal, he was at last successful in convincing him of the urgent necessity for making this concession, in order to try, he said with apparent sincerity, to lessen the animosity and remove the prejudices they entertained against him. But, in reality, the intention of Cromwell had been, by that manœuvre, to strip him of his entire possessions; for the courtiers, being well aware their titles were not valid under the law, were every moment afraid they might be called on to surrender the gifts they had received, and consequently desired nothing so much as to have the cardinal confirm them in their unjust possessions.

It was by means of this monstrous ingratitude that Cromwell purchased the favor of the court, began to elevate himself near the king in receiving new dignities and honors, and at length found himself saved from the fate he had so greatly apprehended at the moment of his benefactor’s downfall. Of what consequence was Wolsey to him now? Banished from his archbishopric of York, he was but a broken footstool which Cromwell no longer cared to remember. He scarcely deigned to employ his new friends in having Wolsey (reduced to the condition of an invalid) removed from the miserable abode at Asher to the better situated castle of Richmond; and later, when the heads of the council, always apprehensive and uneasy because of his existence, obtained his peremptory exile, he considered this departure as completely liberating him from every obligation to his old benefactor.

Events were thus following each other in rapid succession, when, toward the middle of the day, the door of the king’s cabinet opened, and Sir Thomas More, in the grand costume of lord chancellor, entered as had been his custom.

The king turned slightly around on his chair, and fixed upon him a searching glance, as if he sought to read the inmost soul of More.

The countenance of the chancellor was tranquil, respectful, and assured, such as it had always been. In vain Henry sought to discover the indications of fear, the impetuous desires and ambitions which he was accustomed to excite or contradict in the agitated heart of Wolsey, and by which, in his turn master of his favorite, of his future, and of his great talents, he made him pay so dearly for the honors at intervals heaped upon him.

Nothing of all this could he discover! More seated himself when invited by the king, and entered upon the discussion of a multitude of affairs to which he had been devoting himself with unremitting attention day and night.

“Sire,” he would urge, “this measure will be most useful to your kingdom; sire, justice, it seems to me, requires you to give such a decision in that case.”

Never were any other considerations brought to bear nor other demands made; nothing for himself, nothing for his family, but all for the good of the state, the interests of the people; silence upon all subjects his conscience did not oblige him to reveal, though the king perceived only too clearly the inmost depths of the pure and elevated soul of his chancellor.

By dazzling this man of rare virtues with a fortune to which a simple gentleman could never aspire, Henry had hoped to allure him to his own party and induce him to sustain the divorce bill. Thus, by a monstrous contradiction, in corrupting him by avarice and ambition, he would have destroyed the very virtues on which he wished to lean. He perceived with indignation that all his artifices had been unsuccessful in influencing a will accustomed to yield only to convictions of duty, and he feared his ability to move him by any of the indirect and abstract arguments which he felt and acknowledged to himself were weak and insufficient. Revolving all these reflections in his mind, the king eagerly opened the conversation with More, but in a quiet tone and with an air of assumed indifference.

“Well! Sir Thomas,” he said, “have you reflected on what I asked you? Do you not find now that my marriage with my brother’s wife was in opposition to all laws human and divine, and that I cannot do otherwise than have it pronounced null and void, after being thus advised by so many learned men, and ecclesiastics also?”

“Sire,” replied More, “I have done what your majesty requested me; but it occurs to my mind that, in an affair of so much importance, it will not be sufficient to ask simply the advice of those immediately around you; for it might be feared that, influenced by the affection they bear for you, they would not decide as impartially as your majesty would desire. Perhaps, also, some of them might be afraid of offending you. I have, therefore, concluded that it would be better for your majesty to consult advisers who are entirely removed from all such suspicions. That is why I have endeavored to collect together in this manuscript I have here the various passages of Holy Scripture bearing on this subject. I have added also the opinions of S. Augustine and several other fathers of the church, with whose eminent learning and high authority among the faithful your majesty is familiar.”

“Ah!” said the king, with a slightly-marked movement of impatience, “that was right. Leave it there; I will read it.”

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

“My lord chancellor,” he continued, “the House of Commons has taken some steps toward discharging my debts. What do they think of this in the city?”

“Sire,” replied More, “I must tell you candidly they complain openly and loudly. They say if the ministers had not taken care to introduce into the house members who had received their positions from themselves, the bill would never have passed; for it is altogether unjust and iniquitous for Parliament to dispose in this manner of private property. They say still farther that it has been inserted in the preamble of the bill that the prosperity of the kingdom under the king’s paternal administration had induced them to testify their gratitude by discharging his debts. If this pretext is sincere, it reflects the greatest honor on Cardinal Wolsey; and if, on the contrary, it is false, it covers his successors with shame.”

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

“Yes,” replied Sir Thomas; “and I will frankly say to the king that it would have been far better to have imposed a new tax supported equally by all than thus to despoil individuals of their patrimony.”

“They are never contented!” exclaimed the king impatiently. “I have sacrificed Wolsey to their hatred, whom there is no person in the kingdom now able to replace. This Dr. Gardiner torments me with questions which are far from satisfactory to his dull comprehension. Everything goes wrong, unless I take the trouble of managing it myself; while with the cardinal the slightest suggestion was sufficient. I constantly feel inclined to recall him! Then we will see what they will say! But no!” he continued, with an expression of gloomy sullenness, “they gave me no rest until I had banished him from his archbishopric of York. It was, they said, the sole means of preventing Parliament from pronouncing his condemnation. By this time he is doubtless already reconciled; he is so vain a creature that the three or four words I have said in his favor to my nobles of the north will have been worth more to him than the homage and adulation of a court, without which he cannot exist. He is pious now, they say, occupying himself only with good works and in doing penance for his many sins of the past. In fact, he is entirely reconciled! He has already forgotten all that I have done for him! I shall devote myself, then, to those who now serve me!”

“I doubt very much if your majesty has been correctly informed with regard to the latter fact,” replied More. “Indeed, I know that the order compelling him to be entirely removed from your majesty’s presence is the one that caused him the deepest grief.”

“Ah! More,” interrupted the king very suddenly, as if to take him by surprise, “you are opposed to my divorce. I have known it perfectly well for a long time; and these extracts from the fathers of the church to which you refer me are simply the expression of your own opinions, which you wish to convey to me in this indirect manner.”

“Sire,” replied More, slightly embarrassed, “I had hoped your majesty would not force me to give my opinion on a subject of such grave importance, and one, as I have already explained, on which I possess neither the authority nor the ability to decide.”

“Ah! well, Sir Thomas,” replied the king in a confident manner, wishing to discover what effect his words would produce on More, “being entirely convinced of the justice of my cause, and that nothing can prevent me from availing myself of it, I am determined, if the pope refuses what I have a right to demand, to withdraw from the tyrannical yoke of his authority. I will appoint a patriarch in my kingdom, and the bishops shall no longer submit to his jurisdiction.”

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

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

The king felt, as by a violent shock, all the force of that exclamation, and, dropping his head on his breast, he remained stupefied, like one who had just been aroused from a painful and terrible dream.

Just at that moment the cabinet door was thrown violently open, and Lady Anne Boleyn entered precipitately. She was drowned in tears, and carried in her arms a hunting spaniel that belonged to the king.

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

“Here,” she cried, looking at the king--“here is your wretched dog, that has tried to strangle my favorite bird! You never do anything but try to annoy me, make me miserable, and cause me all kinds of intolerable vexations. I have told you already that I did not want that horrid animal in my chamber.”

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

The king felt deeply humiliated by this ridiculous scene, and especially on account of the angry familiarity exhibited by Anne Boleyn in presence of Sir Thomas More; for she either forgot herself in her extreme excitement and indignation, or she believed her empire so securely established that she did not hesitate to give these proofs of it. She continued her complaints and reproaches with increasing haughtiness, until she was interrupted by Dr. Stephen Gardiner, who came to bring some newly-arrived despatches to the king.

Henry arose immediately, and, motioning Sir Thomas to open the door, without saying a word, he took Anne Boleyn by the hand, and, leading her from the room, ordered her to retire to her own apartment.

He then returned, and, seating himself near the chancellor, concealed, as far as he was able, his excitement and mortification.

Sir Thomas, still more excited, could not avoid, as they went over the despatches, indignantly reflecting on the manner in which Anne Boleyn had treated the king, on his deplorable infatuation, and the terrible consequences to which that infatuation must inevitably lead.

The king, divining the nature of his reflections, experienced a degree of humiliation that made him inexpressibly miserable.

“What say these despatches?” he asked, endeavoring to assume composure. “What does More think of me?” he said to himself--“he so grave, so pious, so dignified! He despises me!… That silly girl!”

“They give an account of the emperor’s reception of the Earl of Wiltshire,” answered More. “I will read it aloud, if your majesty wishes.”

“No, no,” said the king, whom the name of Wiltshire confused still more; “give them to me. I am perfectly familiar with the cipher.” He did not intend that More should yet be apprised of the base intrigues he had ordered to be practised at Rome to assist the father of his mistress in obtaining the divorce.

Having taken the letters, he found the emperor had treated his ambassador with the utmost contempt, remarking to Wiltshire that he was an interested party, since he was father of the queen’s rival, and he would have to inform Henry VIII. that the emperor was not a merchant to sell the honor of his aunt for three hundred thousand crowns, even if he proposed to abandon her cause, but, on the contrary, he should defend it to the last extremity; and after saying this, the emperor had deliberately turned his back on the ambassador and forbidden him to be again admitted to his presence.

Henry grew red and white alternately.

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

Numerous other explanations followed, in which the Earl of Wiltshire gave an exact and circumstantial account of the offer he had made to the Holy Father of the treatise composed by Cromwell on the subject of the divorce, saying that he had brought the author with him, who was prepared to sustain the opinions advanced against all opposition. He ended by informing the king that, in spite of his utmost efforts, he had not been able to prevent the pope from according the emperor a brief forbidding Henry to celebrate another marriage before the queen’s case had been entirely decided, and enjoining him to treat her in the meantime as his legitimate wife.

Wiltshire sent with his letter an especial copy of that document, adding that he feared the information the Holy Father had received of the violence exercised by the English universities toward those doctors who had voted against the divorce, together with the money and promises distributed among those of France, especially the University of Paris, to obtain favorable decisions, had not contributed toward influencing him.

The king read and re-read several times all these statements, and was entirely overwhelmed with indignation and disappointment.

“And why,” he angrily exclaimed, dashing the earl’s letter as far as possible from him--“why have these flatterers surrounding me always assured me I would succeed in my undertaking? Why could they not foresee that it would be impossible? and why have I not found a sincere friend who might have admonished me? More!” he cried after a moment’s silence--“More, I am most miserable! What could be more unjust? I am devoted to Lady Anne Boleyn as my future wife; and now they wish to make me renounce her. The emperor’s intrigues prevail, and against all laws, human and divine, they condemn me to eternal celibacy!”

“Ah!” replied Sir Thomas in a firm but sadly respectful manner, “yes, it is indeed distressing to see your majesty thus voluntarily destroy your own peace, that of your kingdom, the happiness of your subjects, the regard for your own honor, so many benefits, in fact, and all for the foolish love of a girl who possesses neither worth nor reputation.”

“More,” exclaimed the king, “do not speak of her in this manner! She is young and thoughtless, but in her heart she is devoted to me.”

“That is,” replied More, “she is entirely devoted to the crown; she loves dearly the honors of royalty, and her pride is doubly flattered.”

“More,” said the king, “I forgive you for speaking thus to me; your severe morals, your austere virtues, have not permitted you to experience the torments of love, and that is why,” he added gloomily, “you cannot comprehend its irresistible impulses and true sentiments.”

“Nothing that is known to one man is unknown to another,” replied More. “Love, in itself, is a sublime sentiment that comes from God; but, alas! men drag it in the dust, like all else they touch, and too often mistake the appearance for the reality. To love anyone, O my king!” continued More, “is it not to prefer them in all things above yourself, to consider yourself as nothing, and be willing to sacrifice without regret all that you would wish to possess?”

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

“No, no, sire!” exclaimed More, “don’t tell me that. No, don’t say you love her; say you love the pleasure she affords you, the attractions she possesses, which have charmed your senses--in a word, acknowledge that you love yourself in her, and consider well that the day when nature deprives her of her gifts and graces your memory will no longer represent her to you but as an insipid image, worthy only of a scornful oblivion! Ah! if you loved her truly, you would act in a different manner. You would never have considered aught but her happiness and her interests; you would blush for her, and you would not be able to endure the thought of the shame with which you have not hesitated to cover her yourself in the eyes of all your court!”

“Perhaps,” … replied Henry in a low and altered voice. “But she--she loves me; I cannot doubt that.”

“She loves the King of England!” replied More excitedly, “but not Henry; she loves the mighty prince who ignominiously bends his neck beneath the yoke which she pleases to impose on him. But poor and destitute, her glance would never have fallen upon you. Proud of her beauty, vain of her charms, she holds you like a conquered vassal whom she governs by a gesture or a word. She loves riches, honors and the pleasures with which you surround her. She is dazzled by the _éclat_ of the high rank you occupy, and, to attain it, she fears not to purchase it at the price of your soul and all that you possess. What matters to her the care of your honor or the love of your subjects? Has she ever said to you: ‘Henry, I love you, but your duty separates you from me; be great, be virtuous’? Has she said: ‘Catherine, your wife, is my sovereign, and I recognize no other’? Do you not hear the voice of your people saying to your children: ‘You shall reign over us’? But what am I saying? No, of course she has not spoken thus; because she seeks to elevate herself, she thinks of her own aggrandizement--to see at her feet men whom she would never otherwise be able to command.”

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

“Marry Anne Boleyn,” replied Thomas More coolly; “you should do it, since you have broken off her marriage with the Earl of Northumberland. If not, send her away from court.”

“I will do it! … No, I will not do it!” he exclaimed, almost in the same breath. “I shall never be able to do it.”

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

“No, no,” replied Henry; “we cannot always do what we wish. Everything conspires against me. Tired of willing, I can make nothing bend to my will! Of what use is my royal power? To be happy is a thing impossible!”

“Yes, of all things in this life most impossible,” answered More; “and he who aspires to attain it finds his miseries redoubled at the very moment he thinks they will terminate. The possession of unlawful pleasures is poisoned by the remorse that follows in their train; and, frightened by their insecurity and short duration, we are prevented from enjoying them in quietness and peace.”

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

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

“To-morrow!” repeated the king, as if struck with terror. “No, no, More, not to-morrow. … I would not be willing now to appear in the presence of God.”

“Then,” replied More, “how can you expect to live peaceably in a condition in which you are afraid to die? In a few hours, or at least in a few years (that is as certain as the light of day which shines this moment), your life and mine will have to end, leaving nothing more than regrets for the past and fears for the future.”

“You say truly, More,” replied the king; “but life appears so long to us, the future so far removed! Is it necessary, then, that we be always thinking of it and sacrificing our pleasures?… Later--well, we will change. Will we not have more time then to think of it?”

“Ah!” replied More sadly, “there remains very little time to him who is always putting off until to-morrow.”

As he heard the last words, the king’s face grew instantly crimson. He kept More with him, entertaining him with his trials and vexations, and the night was far advanced before he permitted him to retire.

* * * * *

During four entire days the king remained shut up in his apartment, and Anne Boleyn vainly attempted to gain admittance.

Meanwhile, a rumor of her downfall spread rapidly through the palace. The courtiers who were accustomed to attend her _levées_ in greater numbers and much more scrupulously than those of Queen Catherine, suddenly discontinued, and on the last occasion scarcely one of them made his appearance. They also took great care to preserve a frigid reserve and doubtful politeness, which excited to the last degree her alarm and that of her ambitious family.

The latter were every moment in dread of the blow that seemed ready to fall upon them. In this state of gloomy disquiet every circumstance was anxiously noted and served to excite their apprehensions. They continually discussed among themselves the arrival of the despatches from Rome, the nature of which they suspected from the very long time Sir Thomas More had remained with the king. Then they refreshed their memories with reflections on the inflexible severity of the lord chancellor, his old attachment for Queen Catherine--an attachment which the elevation of More had never interrupted, as they had hoped would be the case. Finally, the sincerity of his nature and the estimation in which he was held by the king made them, with great reason, apprehend the influence of his counsel. Already they found themselves abandoned by almost all of those upon whose support they had relied. Suffolk, leagued with them heretofore, in order to secure the downfall of Cardinal Wolsey, now regarded them in their disgrace as of little consequence to one so closely related as himself to his majesty by the princess, his wife. The Duke of Norfolk, justly proud of his birth, his wealth, and his reputation, could not believe the power with which the influence of his niece had clothed him in the council by any means bound him to engage in or compromise himself in her cause. In the meantime they realized that they would inevitably be compelled to succumb or make a last and desperate effort, and they resolved with one accord to address themselves to Cromwell, whose shrewdness and cunning, joined to the motives of self-interest that could be brought to bear on him, seemed to offer them a last resort.

Cromwell immediately understood all the benefit he would be likely to derive from the situation whether he succeeded or failed in the cause of Anne Boleyn, and determined, according to his own expression, to “make or unmake.” He wrote to the king, demanding an audience. “He fully realized,” he wrote, with his characteristic adroitness, “his entire incapacity for giving advice, but neither his devoted affection nor his sense of duty would permit him to remain silent when he knew the anxiety his sovereign was suffering. It might be deemed presumptuous in him to say it, but he believed all the difficulties embarrassing the king arose from the timidity of his advisers, who were misled by exterior appearances or deceived by the opinions of the vulgar.”

The king immediately granted him an audience, although his usual custom was to remain entirely secluded and alone while laboring under these violent transports of passion. He hoped that Cromwell might be able to present his opinions with such ability as would at least be sufficient to divert him from the wretchedness he experienced.

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

“Sire,” he said, as he approached the king, “yesterday, even yesterday, I was happy--yes, happy in the thought of being permitted to present myself before your majesty; because it seemed to me I might be able to offer some consolation for the anxieties you experience by reminding you that nothing should induce you to pause in your efforts to advance the interests of the kingdom and the state. But to-day, in appearing before you, I know not what to say. This morning Lady Boleyn, being informed that I was to have the happiness of seeing your majesty, sent for me and charged me with the commission of asking your majesty’s permission for her to withdraw from court.”

“What!” exclaimed Henry, rising hastily to his feet, “she wishes to leave me?--she, my only happiness, my only joy? Never!”

“I have found her,” continued Cromwell, seeming not to remark the painful uneasiness he had aroused in the king’s mind--“I have found her plunged in a state of indescribable grief. She was almost deprived of consciousness; her beautiful eyes were weighed down with tears, her long hair hanging neglected around her shoulders; and her pale, transparent cheek made her resemble a delicate white rose bowed on its slender stem before the violence of the tempest. ‘Go, my dear Cromwell,’ she said to me with a tremulous voice, but sweet as the soft expiring notes of an æolian lyre--‘go, say to my king, to my lord, I ask his permission to retire this day to my father’s country-seat. I know that I am surrounded by enemies, but, while favored by his protection, I have not feared their malice. But now I feel, and cannot doubt it, I shall become their victim, since they have succeeded in prejudicing my sovereign against me to such an extent that he refuses to hear my defence.’”

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

“Who will be able to defend her if your majesty abandons her?” replied Cromwell in a haughty tone, feigning to forget the humble demeanor he had assumed, and mentally applauding the success of his stratagem. “Has she not given up all for you? Every day she has wounded by her refusals the greatest lords of the realm, who have earnestly sued for her heart and hand; but she has constantly refused to listen to them because of the love she bears for you--always preferring the uncertain hope of one day becoming yours to all the brilliant advantages of the wealthiest suitors she has been urged to accept. But to-day, when her honor is attacked, when you banish her from your presence, she feels she will not have the courage to endure near you such wretchedness, and she asks to be permitted to withdraw from court at once and for ever!”

“For ever?” repeated the king. “Cromwell, has she said that? Have you heard her right? No, Cromwell, you are mistaken! I know her better than you.” And he turned on Cromwell a keen, scrutinizing glance.

But nothing could daunt this audacious man.

“She said all I have told you,” replied the hypocrite, with the coolest assurance, raising his head haughtily. “Would I dare to repeat what I have not heard? And your majesty can imagine that my devotion has alone induced me to become the bearer of so painful a message; for I could not believe, your majesty had ceased to love her.”

“Never!” cried the king. “Never have I for one moment ceased to adore her! But listen, dear Cromwell, and be convinced of how wretched I am! Yesterday I received from Rome the most distressing intelligence. I had written the pope a letter, signed by a great number of lords of my court and bishops of the kingdom, in which they expressed the fears they entertained of one day seeing the flames of civil war break out in this country if I should die without male heirs, as there would be grounds for contesting the right of my daughter Mary to the throne on the score of her legitimacy. But nothing can move him.”

* * * * *

Here the king rose, furiously indignant. “He has answered this petition,” he cried, walking with hurried strides up and down the floor; “and how?… By my faith, I can scarcely repeat it.… That he pardons the terms they have used in their letter, attributing them to the affection they bear for me; that he is under still greater obligations to me than they have mentioned; that it is not his fault if the affair of the divorce remains undecided; that he has sent legates to England; that the queen has refused to recognize them, and appealed from all they have done; that he has tried vainly in every possible way to terminate the affair amicably; and, furthermore, ‘You will, perhaps, be ready to say,’ he writes, ‘that, being under so many obligations to the king as I am, I should waive all other considerations and accord him absolutely everything he asks.’ Although that would be sovereignly unjust, yet he can conclude nothing else from their letter; that they reflect not on the queen having represented to him, that all Christendom is scandalized because they would attempt to annul a marriage contracted so many years ago, at the request of two great kings and under a dispensation from the pope--a marriage confirmed by the birth of several children! And what else? Let me see:… That if I rely on the opinion of several doctors and universities, he refers, on his part, to the law of God upon the sanctity and unity of marriage, and the highest authorities taken from the Hebrew and Latin writers; that the decisions of the universities which I bring forward are supported by no proofs; he cannot decide finally upon that, and, if he should precipitate his judgment, they would no longer be able to avert the evils with which it is said England is threatened; that he desires as much as they that I may have male heirs, but he is not God to give them to me; he has no greater wish than to please me as far as lies in his power, without at the same time violating all the laws of justice and equity; and, finally, he conjures them to cease demanding of him things that are opposed to his conscience, in order that he may be spared the pain of refusing! Mark that well, Cromwell--the pain of refusing! Thus, you see, after having tried everything, spent everything, and used every possible means, what remains now for me to hope?”

“All that you wish,” replied Cromwell; “everything without exception! Why permit yourself to be governed by those who ought to be your slaves? Among all the clergy who surround you, and whom you are able to reduce, if you choose, to mendicity, can you not find a priest who will marry you? If I were King of England, I would very soon convince them that the happiness of _their_ lives depended entirely upon _mine_! Threaten to withdraw from the authority of Rome, and you will very soon see them yielding, on their knees, to all your demands.”

“Cromwell,” said Henry VIII., “I admire your spirit and the boldness of the measures you advocate. From this moment I open to you the door of my council. Remember the kindness and the signal favor with which I have honored you. However, your inexperienced zeal carries you too far; you forget that the day I would determine really to separate myself from the Church of Rome, I would become schismatic, and the people would refuse to obey me. Moreover I am a Catholic, and I wish to die one.”

“What of that?” replied Cromwell. “Am I not also a Catholic? Because your majesty frightens the pope, will he cease to exist? Declare to him that from this day you no longer recognize his authority; that you forbid the clergy paying their tithes to, or receiving from him their nominations. You will see, then, if the next day your present marriage is not annulled and the one you wish to contract approved and ratified.”

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

“I am sure of it,” replied Cromwell.

“No,” said the king. “It is a thing utterly impossible; the bishops would refuse to accede to any such requirements, and they would be right. They know too well that it is essential for the church to have a head in order to maintain her unity, and without it nothing would follow but confusion and disorder.”

“Well! who can prevent your majesty from becoming yourself that head?” exclaimed Cromwell. “Is England not actually a monster now with two heads, one of them wanting a thing, and the other not? Follow the example given you by those German princes who are freeing themselves from the yoke which has humbled them for so many years before the throne of a pontiff who is a stranger alike to their affections and their interests! Then everything anomalous will rectify itself, and your subjects cease to believe that any other than yourself is entitled to their homage or submission.”