Chapter II: “ay De Mi, Alhama!” (6)

It only remains to deny every other fact which conflicts with the negative theory. It is, therefore, considered necessary to express doubt with regard to every historical fact connected with Christianity. A notable instance of this is before our eyes in Mr. Hare’s _Walks in Rome_, a book quite free from the more offensive forms of Protestant vulgarity. Mr. Hare has spent many years in Rome, and learned from its antiquarians the history of its secular traditions. He knows that the scene of St. Peter’s imprisonment is as well attested as any other which he describes in his work. In the course of his remarks on the Mamertine Prison, he says:

“It was by this staircase that Cicero came forth and announced the execution of the Catiline conspirators to the people in the Forum by the single word _Viverunt_—‘they have ceased to live!’ Close to the exit of these stairs the Emperor Vitellius was murdered.”

He discusses the age of the structure, and cites Ampère to prove it to be the oldest building in Rome. The author further says: “It is described by Livy and by Sallust, who depicts its horrors in his account of the execution of the Catiline conspirators. The spot is shown to which these victims were attached and strangled in turn. In this dungeon, at an earlier period, Appius Claudius and Oppius the decemvirs committed suicide (B.C. 449). Here Jugurtha, king of Mauritania, was starved to death by Marius. Here Julius Cæsar, during his triumph for the conquest of Gaul, caused his gallant enemy Vercingetorix to be put to death. Here Sejanus, the friend and minister of Tiberius, disgraced too late, was executed for the murder of Drusus, son of the emperor, and for an intrigue with his daughter-in-law Livilla. Here, also, Simon Bar Givras, the last defender of Jerusalem, suffered during the triumph of Titus.”

Thus far the writer is dealing with facts of pagan tradition, which has been dead for centuries. Observe the change of tone when he comes to facts of the living Christian tradition—facts which he is evidently inclined to believe, but which must not be spoken of with the confidence appropriate to pagan narrative:

“The spot is more interesting to the Christian world as the prison of SS Peter and Paul, _who are said_ to have been bound for nine months to a pillar, which is shown here.” A little further on: “It is hence that _the Roman Catholic Church believes_ that St. Peter and St. Paul addressed their farewells to the Christian world” (pp. 94-96).

The testimony of the Egyptian hieroglyphs is unquestioned. The most fabulous antiquity is readily admitted for Indian and Chinese history. It is gratuitously assumed that the time of stone implements was not coincident with the use of metals in other nations, though the contrary may be witnessed on our own frontiers. If human remains are found along with those of extinct animals, it is assumed that they died together. No demand upon belief is too great unless it be in connection with Christianity. This tendency is to make men imagine that the era of our Saviour’s advent was purely mythical, and that the events of his time are as obscure as those of the siege of Troy.

We think that we have accounted for the existence of this tendency in the nature of Protestantism, as developed in Strauss and the “more advanced” German speculators. But after having created this artificial cloud in history, the same parties seek to give the impression that Christianity was but a natural development out of the union of Eastern with Western thought. Having endeavored to reduce it to a myth by denying or questioning history, the process is reversed, and history is appealed to in order to prove that Christianity was a purely natural phenomenon which can be readily explained.

It is, according to these rash theorists, a syncretism of the best thoughts of Egypt, India, and Greece, produced principally by the agency of the Alexandrian schools. This explanation is mainly satisfactory to them because it would explain the rise and establishment of Christianity without a miracle.[191] The hypothesis was eagerly embraced for this reason. Just so Strauss leaped for joy at the hypothesis of Darwin, because it professed to account for the existence of men without creation. But just as Darwin, while able to produce both specimens and remains of man and ape, could never find the intermediate animal, or even any trace of him, so this forged account of the origin of Christianity breaks down in the very fact which is necessary to give it even the semblance of value, viz., the warrant of historical facts. In order still further to misrepresent the origin of Christianity, it is necessary to observe the testimony of history as to the moral condition of the pagan world. Tacitus and Suetonius are pagan authors, therefore it will not do to impeach their writings in the same manner as the Gospels and the Christian Fathers. Being heathens, their works are certainly genuine, and they are to be held as truthful men—a presumption to which the Evangelists and Fathers are in no way entitled. But we notice the tendency to overlook the frightful picture presented by these historians, and the attempt, by a judicious comparison of the best specimens of paganism with the worst scandals or most austere characters of church history, to draw conclusions injurious to Christianity.

This whole process of doubting the records, misstating the origin, and denying the real nature of early Christianity, is a fraud which will not bear scrutiny; it is maintained by men who avow their willingness to accept any hypothesis which conflicts with the ancient faith, and to lend the prestige of their talents to any effort against it.

The historical warfare has been vigorously carried on in Germany by both sides. The movement has penetrated into the English universities. Its echoes have been heard in our own midst, in the utterances of certain writers who, being possessed by the spirit of snobbishness, cleave to outlandish modes of thought because of their foreign or novel character.

Mr. Allies’ work is a thoughtful and profound exposition of facts, and brushes away the cobwebs with which hostile criticism has sought to envelop the history of Christianity. The author does not aim at a connected narrative. The chapters of his work are lectures, each one of which is an essay, complete in itself. The reader is presumed to be acquainted with the general outlines of history, and the author directs his efforts to answer such questions as naturally arise with regard to the introduction of Christianity and the foundation of that order which appeared under the title of Christendom in the Middle Age.

Accordingly, after giving his idea of the philosophy of history, Mr. Allies draws a graphic picture of the state of the Roman world. The civil polity of the Augustan age, the majesty of the Pax Romana, appear in their splendid proportions. The reader is brought face to face with all that is known of that epoch. Its ideas of manhood and morality are set forth from the testimony of eye-witnesses. Then follows a sketch of the work to be accomplished by Christianity, entitled the New Creation of Individual Man. This is succeeded by a series of lectures viewing the results which were to be expected from the influence of Christianity upon human character. Here we find also the testimony of eye-witnesses of the growth of the new religion, and an instructive comparison between Cicero and St. Augustine, illustrative of two most important ages of history. The fifth lecture of this first volume is on the New Creation of the Primary Relation between Man and Woman; and the seventh lecture deals with an equally Christian doctrine, viz., the Creation of the Virginal Life.

A recent German writer, laboring under a delusion not uncommon in his country, doubts whether the improved morality which appeared after the introduction of Christianity was really due to that religion or to the German race. This characteristic doubt is left undecided by the writer, but will probably soon be settled adversely to Christianity by some more adventurous Teuton. The public, for whose benefit these speculations are likely to be extended, will do well to read a little history, and will not find Mr. Allies’ chapters amiss.

The second volume, which appeared in 1869, treats of the developments of that spiritual society which sprang into existence with the original ideas of Christianity and from the same source. The peculiar characteristics are traced of that hierarchical order which, after three centuries of bloody persecution, came forth from its hiding-place in perfect organization, to receive at once the homage of Constantine and to become the guide of civilization and the supreme ruler of nations for more than a thousand years.

The position of the church at the time of Constantine was that of complete victory. The portent in the sky which appeared to that emperor was not more miraculous than the spectacle afforded by Christianity. Starting from a distant point in an obscure race, without means, without facilities of communication, it had not only revolutionized the pagan world but it had maintained its own unity as a corporate body in the face of wholesale treason from within, and intense intellectual opposition, accompanied with three centuries of proscription, from without. Three centuries ago another movement started in our modern world. It had all the prestige of the civilization which germinated along with it. It has had the support of the civil power. It has had the best blood and most vigorous races to work for it. No earthly element of success has been refused to it. What is the result? Where is its unity? The very idea is abandoned. Where are its original convictions? Not one remains. What is its present influence? It has none. What is its prospect in the future? Entire destruction.

Nothing is better calculated to give us a correct idea of the difference between Protestantism and Christianity than this sort of a comparison. Such, however, is not Mr. Allies’ design. He aims, in his second volume, to show that Christianity had a definite theory and constructive spirit with regard to society. As he contrasts in his first volume the pagan notion of individual man with the Christian ideal, and shows a creative power in the latter producing results undreamed of in the heathen character, so the author traces, in his second volume, the social ideas brought in by Christianity.

The unity of the church, as taught and described by the fathers, was an idea no less remarkable in its marvellous working than in its utter novelty. This conception was based on the fundamental principle of Christianity, that its divine Founder had authorized a corporate body to teach the world those truths which he came to bring, and that the power of God was pledged to the infallibility of his church. This doctrine is the only constructive idea that has ever been broached with regard to society. Protestantism was a direct assault upon the very nature of Christianity, and is to be held responsible for the absence of this idea in modern civilization.

Mr. Allies develops the history of this Christian idea with great accuracy, filling out his comparison between Christian and pagan thinkers in all departments of thought, and establishing the claims of the new faith to be a creation fresh from the Author of all things, and not a development out of the putrescent civilization of the ancient world.

That Christianity produced a type of character wholly distinct and peculiar, is a fact of which there can be no doubt on the part of those who have the slightest disposition to consult authentic records. That it possessed a vitality and organizing power of which there is no other instance, is equally certain. But we often hear the sayings of Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius, and the later Stoics quoted, as exhibiting a tone of thought almost equal to that of Christianity, and by the enemies of religion vaunted as something far above the morality of the Gospel. No reader of Plutarch can escape the impression of his gentle and refined philosophy. Though full of grievous errors, it has a flavor of truth, a respect for purity, and an appreciation of virtue which are not to be found in the earlier historians.

The great error of those who would make Christianity a development of heathen thought is simply, then, mistaking the cause for the effect. A great change was undoubtedly to be expected from the blending of Greek and Roman speculation with the Jewish and Egyptian religions. This change actually took place. But its product was acted upon by Christianity, and did not become a factor of the new religion. Mr. Allies gives us the summary of ancient philosophy, which he traces down to its contact with Christian truth. We are able to see the vanity of that false reading of history which seeks to represent Christianity as a mendicant receiving crumbs from Plato, Pythagoras, Philo, and the Stoics. We perceive from their writings and the tone of their disciples the barrenness and emptiness of Attic thought, up to the time when it received the few corrections and additions from Christian doctrine which enabled it to appear for a short time as a rival of heavenly truth.

The author goes with laborious scrutiny through that labyrinth of error which is included under the title of Neo-Platonism. Outside the Catholic Church, few scholars have read even the principal works of St. Thomas Aquinas. Charles Sumner was said to possess them; Disraeli the elder and George Eliot refer to them. But the former never showed that he understood their contents, and the last-named writers show that they have not. Although such a study is absolutely necessary towards acquiring a correct knowledge of the intellectual life of the Middle Age, it is rarely undertaken by non-Catholics. To study the remains of Neo-Platonism is a task of equal subtlety, and yet nothing is more common than to hear shallow speculators on history affirm that Christianity was greatly affected by the Alexandrian school. But the difference is no less marked when we come to find out what the views of the leading Neo-Platonist actually were. This “distracted chaos of hallucinations” was the highest effort of paganism. It was an attempt to reconcile and weld together all the elements of the old world, as a barrier to the new and irresistible power which was everywhere gaining ground. It was the development which was to have been expected. It was the fusion of East and West to which Christianity has been credited. But, instead of acting upon, it was radically affected by, Christianity; and, instead of bringing forth Christianity, it was the deadliest foe of the Gospel. It is from this old armory of Alexandria that modern error draws and refurbishes the clumsy weapons which dropped thirteen centuries ago from the hands of the first opponents of Christianity. It is a good place to go for this sort of bric-à-brac. It contains a sum of all the aberrations of the human intellect. Here, stripped of its modern garb, we find the cosmic sentimentalism of Strauss. Here the absolute being of the German pantheists stares us in the face. Here, from Iamblichus and Porphyry, we hear the same mournful and unhealthy drivel which is printed and sewed up in gilt morocco by enterprising and philanthropic publishers of the present day. On rising from the perusal of Mr. Allies’ third volume, we see clearly the end of that wonderful and brilliant Hellenism which, while ever occupied “either in telling or in hearing something new,” slighted the real truth which had come into the world, and served but as a pit to its own pride.

Too much praise cannot be given to Mr. Allies for the labor bestowed upon his history of the actual development of the philosophy of Greece in the Roman Empire. He has traced each school of thought from year to year, and reproduced a correct summary of its beliefs. The Neo-Stoic philosophy, which is especially vaunted by the enemies of Christianity, is studiously delineated. The points of agreement and difference are clearly noted between its four great chiefs—Seneca, Musonius, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius. The analogies and contrasts between the developed Stoic school and the Christian teachers who were its contemporaries, are also brought into relief.

In order to portray the effect of the Neo-Pythagorean doctrines and the revived Platonism, the author gives a complete analysis of that most singular and interesting character, Philo the Jew—singular, in that he was the only one of the ancient Hebrew race who became a great philosopher; interesting, because he shows us the precise difference between Platonism and Jewish belief, and the immeasurable superiority of the unreasoning Jew, who believed only that which he had received by tradition, over the highest flight of heathen genius unaided by revelation. The lecture on Philo closes with a summary of the interval between his time and Plutarch’s, and the change during that epoch from the old Roman world of Cicero, together with the cause of this change.

Following this, another lecture presents the state of the pagan intellect and the common standing ground of philosophy, from the accession of Nero to that of Severus.

Towards the close of his reign, under the auspices of the Empress Julia and from the labors of Philostratus, came forth the new gospel of paganism in the life of Apollonius of Thyana. This work, upon the strength of which modern infidels have sought to attribute a mythical origin to the Gospels, was a counterfeit of the truth, in which paganism sought to construct an ideal teacher, to oppose to that Master who was now beginning to be known throughout the world. This sketch of Apollonius of Thyana is very complete, and shows a new phase of thought yet more strikingly affected by that hated and persecuted power which was daily growing in the midst of the Roman world. Having completed his study of pagan belief and sentiments as far as the reign of Severus, the author is fully prepared for the difficult and thankless task of reviewing the struggle between Neo-Platonism, as represented by Iamblichus, Porphyry, and Plotinus, and their followers, against divine truth. The third volume closes with a graphic summary of the intellectual results from Claudius to Constantine, and a comparative glance at the relative power of the old order and the new to reconstruct a society in stable and harmonious proportions.

With this lecture, which seems to foreshadow the contents of a fourth volume, Mr. Allies’ work stops for the present. Its publication in parts has placed it at a great disadvantage, inasmuch as ten years have passed since the first volume appeared. It may seem premature to review a work not yet complete, but enough has been published to establish the claim of the author to a most useful and successful contribution to the needs of the time. He has grown into his task, and has accumulated both facts and reflections. There is little reason to fear that the remaining volume will not be equal to the three which have preceded it.

The style is unpretending, and the whole work extremely modest. In this respect, it will not meet the approval of those who prefer rhetoric to exact truthfulness. Historical works must be plentifully illustrated, either by the engraver or the imagination of the author, to make them popular nowadays.

But the intelligent reader who will take pains to examine carefully Mr. Allies’ volumes will be well repaid, and the author himself can rest in the conviction that he has written a solid and useful book, which deserves a place in every library.

[190] _The Formation of Christendom._ By T. W. Allies. Part
Third. London: Longmans, Green, Reader & Dyer. 1875.

[191] It is also necessary on account of its vagueness, and
eminently fits in or rather mixes with the confusion of
mind which is so marked a characteristic in this school of
speculators.

SIR THOMAS MORE.

_A HISTORICAL ROMANCE._ FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.

X.

In that portion of the attic of Whitehall Castle looking toward the west they had, according to the king’s orders, erected an altar in order to celebrate Mass. Three persons had assembled there, and were reflecting on the singularity of the hour and the choice of the place where they found themselves called by this religious ceremony.

Lady Berkley, seated upon a high cane chair, had carefully gathered about her feet the long train of her silk dress, to avoid having it sweep over the floor covered with dust, and she observed with great attention the old tapestries, which had been nailed all around the altar in order to conceal as far as possible the unsightly appearance of the rafters of the roof.

Heneage, with his arms crossed, not far from her, waited, having nothing to do, while Dr. Roland Lee, invested with the pontifical vestments, kneeled on the step of the altar, inwardly grieved at this new whim of the king, which he found as inconvenient as disrespectful; but being very pious, he endeavored to pray to God and occupy himself only with the holy sacrifice he was going to offer up.

They had waited very nearly an hour in this position, when Norris entered with a light in his hand.

“The king,” he said in a loud voice.

The assistants immediately arose to their feet, and the king appeared, followed by Lady Boleyn, with Anne Savage carrying her train, gleaming with embroidery.

On entering she cast a glance upon the surroundings of this improvised chapel, and she was far from finding them to her liking. But Henry VIII. gave her no time for reflection; he placed two chairs in front of the altar, and, putting himself in one, he made a sign to her to kneel upon the other; then, having called Sir Roland, he announced to him that he had to proceed with the marriage.

Although he had presaged nothing good from the singular preparations he had seen made in this attic chapel, yet poor Dr. Lee was far from anticipating such an order as he now received; he found himself in a horrible state of perplexity, and stood without making any reply.

“Come!” said the king after a moment’s silence, “commence the prayers.”

But Roland turned toward him, and still continued to stand on the step of the altar; he said with a great deal of dignity:

“No, your majesty cannot marry, the ecclesiastical authorities not having yet decided.…”

“What say you, Roland?” interrupted the king brusquely. “God alone has power to judge the conscience of princes, and mine has decided that I should marry. Go on and do what I command you now.”

“Sire,” replied Roland, who feared that his days were numbered, “your majesty has all power over my poor body, and I am your very unworthy and very devoted subject; but I cannot solemnize your marriage without having proof that you are at liberty to contract it.”

Henry bit his lower lip.

“Roland!” he said.

“Sire,” replied the other, as if he thought the king had called him.

“The imbecile!” exclaimed Henry VIII. to himself; but he saw it would be better to dissimulate.

“Roland,” he replied, with an inflection of voice as different as his new intention, “do you think I would command you to do anything wrong? I have received from Rome the bulls of our Holy Father, who recognizes the nullity of my marriage with Catherine, _the wife of my brother_, and permits me to select for my spouse any other unmarried woman in my kingdom. However, in order to avoid scandal, he bound me to do it secretly.”

“Then I have nothing to say,” replied Roland Lee, relieved of an immense weight; “but your majesty will, of course, first show me the proofs.”

“Obstinacy!” thought the king. “How, Sir Roland,” he cried, assuming an air of extreme mortification, “the word of your king, then, is no longer sufficient? Is it necessary for me to go and bring you a thing which I affirm to have in my possession? Roland,” he added in a severe tone, “until now your conscience alone has spoken, therefore I have not been offended; but take care that, instead of commending your course, I no longer see in you other than an incredulous obstinacy. I pledge you my royal word on the truth of what I have stated.… But add not a word more.”

Roland dared not reply, and, unable to believe the king would dare to prevaricate in that manner before such a number of witnesses, he began, although much disturbed, to say the Mass.… But the quiet solemnity of prayer influences the most obdurate heart: man is so insignificant in the presence of God.

Henry felt more and more troubled. Queen Catherine’s letter, Norris’ description of her departure, the scene of the previous evening, passed one after another before his eyes and continued to torture his memory. The words of the holy daughter of Kent, “The woman you wish to marry will dishonor your couch and perish on the scaffold,” arose unconsciously to his lips, and aroused in his soul a gloomy jealousy. He cast a glance upon Anne Boleyn; their eyes met, and the miserable woman was terror-stricken at the expression of fury that gleamed from his eyes. Then he looked around him. The sun had arisen, and brought into bold relief the old and faded tapestries surrounding the altar.

“Is this place worthy of me?” he thought to himself. “Is it thus I have prayed with Thomas More?—that quiet, peace, order, and respect?… There one is happy; here they are consumed, devoured by remorse! Happiness of the just, I execrate thee, because I have not been able to attain thee!”… Thus all that was good excited his envy; even Catherine, whom he had driven from the door of his palace a wanderer on the earth, seemed to him happier than himself.

But it was still worse when the venerable priest, turning towards him, began the ancient and solemn rites of marriage between the children of God, and came to these words: “You, Henry of Lancaster, do confess, acknowledge, and swear before God, and in presence of his holy church, that you now take for your wife and legitimate spouse Anne Boleyn, here present.”

“Ah!” said the king mentally, “hell would be better than the life that I lead.” He trembled, and answered in a loud voice:

“Yes!”

“You promise to keep to her faithfully in all things, as a faithful husband should his wife, according to the commandment of God?”

“Yes,” he answered again.

“And you, Anne Boleyn, you also confess, acknowledge, and swear before God, and in presence of his holy church, that you now take for your husband and legitimate spouse Henry of Lancaster, here present.”

“Yes,” stammered Anne Boleyn, who had no relatives, no friends around her—no one except two valets and a _femme de chambre_.

“You promise to keep to him faithfully in all things, as a faithful wife should her husband, according to the commandment of God?”

“Yes,” she answered more distinctly.

Then the priest took the nuptial ring, and, placing it in the hand of the king, made a sign to give it to his wife.

Henry VIII., leaning toward Anne Boleyn, gave it to her, seeming scarcely conscious that he did so. The sight of this ring recalled the one he had given Catherine on a former and similar occasion, the sanctity of the engagements he had contracted with her, the love he then bore her, her youth, her sincerity, her charms, her virtues, the tranquillity of his own conscience; now, he had dissipated all these blessings—dissipated them wilfully and through his own fault; he felt himself despised and despicable. His legitimate wife driven forth and discarded, while he took another by means of a disgraceful falsehood which must be very soon discovered. He no longer had children; he had renounced at the same time all the rights of a man, a father, a husband, in order to recommence, at his age, a new career, already branded with disgraceful recollections and shameful regrets.

“May the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob unite you, and may he shower his benedictions upon you! I now pronounce you man and wife, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost,” said the priest, making the sign of the cross over them.

“Amen!” responded the assistants.

“No benedictions! Don’t talk to me about benedictions, wretches!” replied Henry in a stifled voice.

“It is truly just and reasonable,” continued the priest, ascending the steps of the altar and extending his hands towards heaven, “it is right and salutary, that we return thee thanks at all times and in all places, O Lord, most holy Father, Almighty God eternal, who by thy power hast created the universe out of nothing; who in the beginning of the world, after having made man in thine image, gave him, to be his inseparable companion, the woman whom thou hast formed from thyself, in order to teach him that he is never permitted to put asunder those whom thou hast united in the sacrament thou hast instituted. O God! thou who hast consecrated marriage by so excellent a mystery that the nuptial alliance is the figure of the sacred union of Jesus Christ and his church; O God! by whom the woman is united to the man, and who givest to this intimate union thy blessing, the only one which has not been taken away, neither by the punishment of original sin nor the sentence of the Deluge; O God! thou who alone hast dominion over the hearts of men, and who knowest and governest all things by thy providence, insomuch that no man can put asunder those whom thou hast joined together—”

“When shall I get out of this place?” murmured Henry VIII.

“Nor injure those whom thou hast blessed—unite, we pray thee, the souls of these thy servants, who belong to thee, and pour into their hearts a sincere friendship, to the end that they may become one in thee, as thou art the only true and all-powerful God. Regard with a favorable eye thy servant, who, before being united to her spouse, implores your protection. Grant that her yoke may be a yoke of love and peace; grant that, chaste and faithful, she may follow the example of the holy women of old; that she render herself amiable to her husband, like Rachel; that she may be wise as Rebecca; that she may enjoy a long life, and be faithful like Sara; that the author of prevarication may find nothing in her that proceeds from him; that she may abide firm in thy law and in the observance of thy commandments; that, at last, being attached only to her husband, she defile not the marriage-bed by any illicit connection.”

“Do you understand what the priest advises you?” said Henry VIII., angrily regarding Anne Boleyn, and speaking almost loud enough for her to hear him.

“That, in order to sustain her weakness, she may fortify herself by an exact and well-regulated life; that she may conduct herself with such proper modesty as will ensure respect; that she inform herself of her duties in the heavenly doctrines of Jesus Christ; that she may obtain from thee a happy fecundity; that she may lead a life pure and irreproachable—”

“I will not suffer her to do otherwise,” thought the king.

“That at length she may arrive at the rest of the saints in the kingdom of heaven. Grant, Lord, that they may both live to behold their children’s children until the third and fourth generation, and attain a happy old age, through Jesus Christ our Lord, thy Son, who liveth and reigneth with thee in the unity of the Holy Ghost, world without end.”

“Amen!” responded the assistants.

“It is over at last,” said the king, rising precipitately.

He motioned Anne Boleyn to follow him; but she made no reply, and he saw that she was weeping, and had put her hands over her eyes to conceal her tears.

He then left her, and immediately went out.

XI.

On returning to his apartments, the king found in his cabinet Cromwell and Cranmer, who, pompously invested with the garb of his new episcopal dignity, came with Cromwell to thank the king for having conferred on him this exalted position.

The sight of these two intriguers produced a disagreeable impression on Henry. He was very wearied already by the scene through which he had just passed, and longed to be alone. Instead of that, he found himself face to face with two new instruments of torture.

Cromwell regarded the king attentively, and was astonished at the expression of dissatisfaction visible on every feature of his face.

“What does he want now?” mentally inquired this unprincipled man. “Have we not procured the accomplishment of all his desires? Is he not now the very legitimate spouse of the brilliant Anne Boleyn, Marchioness of Pembroke?” But he thought it advisable under existing circumstances to let the king speak first, and contented himself with a profound salutation.

“What more do you want of me?” asked the king very brusquely.

“He is not very approachable this morning,” thought Cromwell; “but never mind, he will not escape us for all that.”

“We come,” replied Cromwell, “to congratulate your majesty on the clemency and magnanimity you displayed yesterday evening towards that daughter of Kent; and Dr. Cranmer has come to lay at your feet the assurance of his gratitude and his entire devotion.”

“Yes,” replied the king, happy to attribute his anger to something he could confess; “you are clever men, and richly deserve to be driven from my presence for having risked compromising me with that fool to whom you have made me listen! I am beginning to get tired of your fooleries; Sir Cromwell, understand that well!” And he emphasized the last words with a marked intention and an expression of anger and scorn.

“The marriage has not improved matters much, it would seem,” said Cromwell to himself; but he considered it proper to display a little dignity. “I understand,” he replied immediately, “that your majesty may have at first taken some offence at the insolent audacity of that woman of Kent; but I am astonished that you should be so unjust as to think ill of your servants on account of it, and especially since nothing could have been more fortunate in putting us on the track of the infamous intrigues of the queen and her partisans.”

“Infamous intrigues! infamous intrigues!” cried the king. “That is a word which may be very readily applied, and often it is not to those who most deserve it.”

An angry flush mounted to Cromwell’s pale visage; he felt that it was time to calm the storm about to burst upon him.

“I implore your majesty to believe,” he replied in an extremely mortified tone, “that I advance nothing without proof; and I ask now what he will say when he shall know that the queen, Thomas More, and the Bishop of Rochester, concealed in the church, assisted with us at the examination of the holy daughter of Kent, in order to assure themselves that their instrument resounded loudly in the ears of your majesty.”

“What do you say, Cromwell? The queen was in the Abbey last night? And how did she gain admittance there? What! she has heard all? She has enjoyed my humiliation? Why have I not known it? I would have punished her audacity and wickedness on the spot; but I will surely have my revenge.”

“Sire,” replied Cromwell, “the queen is but a woman, and you should pardon her. The real culprits are the Bishop of Rochester and More, whose ingratitude toward your majesty exceeds all conception. The queen’s partisans laud More above the clouds, and publish it abroad that he has retired from your majesty’s service because his conscience would no longer permit him to remain there. It is time to put an end to such excesses, and the honor of your majesty requires that they shall no longer go unpunished.”

Cromwell intended by this discourse to excite the king’s wrath and at the same time strike at his ruling passions—pride, and the fear of losing his authority. Thus he held him in his hands, and changed him from one to the other, like a piece of soft wax melted before a hot fire.

“Yes,” cried the king, “yes, I swear it, I will chastise them! The whole world shall learn what it is to try to resist me!” He was nearly stifled with rage, which entirely transported him and rendered him incapable of reflection.

“You will assist me, Cromwell,” he cried, “you will assist me! I shall have need of you to help me tame this insolent clergy, who will raise a loud howl when they hear I have banished Catherine and married Anne Boleyn without their participation.”

“He is caught,” thought Cromwell. “Poor fish! you have too many vices to hope to escape my nets! I am very happy to see,” he replied with a satisfied air, “that your majesty has not been cast down or discouraged by the trifling difficulties you have until the present encountered. It is time your courage got the better of your generosity, and that you should throw off the yoke which has been so long imposed on you.”

“Yes, that is just what I want!” cried the king; “but it is a very difficult question to deal with.”

“Not the least in the world,” replied Cromwell; “let your majesty continue as you have begun, and you will very soon see every obstacle fall before you. Not long since they declared your marriage was impossible; to-day it is accomplished.… The clergy will not recognize it!… Make Parliament proclaim it; then demand of them the oath of fidelity to the new queen, to her children, and to the supreme head of the church; because we must not lose sight,” continued Cromwell, “of the fact that there is no longer any necessity for discretion now; after the injury done to the Sovereign Pontiff of the church, there remains no other way to proceed than to cast off his authority at once and substitute another in his place.”

“Softly, softly,” said the king; “unless the necessity be forced upon me, I do not wish to go to such an extremity.”

“This is not an extremity,” replied Cromwell, who had the plan already perfectly arranged, and enjoyed in advance all the ecclesiastical benefits he counted on appropriating to himself; “it is a decisive victory, simple and easy to carry out. Is it not, Cranmer?”

“I think so,” said Cranmer, who had taken the habit of a bishop only that he might be better able to serve his ambition and avidity.

“Softly,” continued the king, with an air of importance; “it is very evident that neither of you are statesmen, and that you are not experienced in such matters, nor acquainted with their difficulties.”

“I think, however, I know very well how to manage my own,” said Cromwell under his breath.

“We know quite as much about it as some others,” thought Cranmer.

“It will first be necessary,” continued Henry, “to see if there will be no means of arranging it otherwise. It is possible that Catherine may submit, that she may ask to become a _religieuse_, that they may decide at Rome that it is not necessary to enforce the law so urgently in my case. At any rate, I wish to try them,” he added in a determined voice, “by demanding, as is customary, Cranmer’s bulls of the pope. Afterward—ah! well, we will see.”

“Then, sire,” replied Cromwell, “consider well that, by this act of submission, you destroy all the terror you have inspired, and that if Cranmer holds his rank and powers as Archbishop-Primate of England from any other than yourself, he will be obliged to publicly acknowledge the supremacy of the Bishop of Rome, and to take from him, as usual, the oath of fidelity.”

“Oh!” hurriedly interrupted Cranmer, who feared that this remark of Cromwell would make the king hesitate, and retard his installation, “this oath is only a simple formality, … an ancient usage.… Nothing could prevent me later from taking another to the king in the form and tenor adopted.”

“Ah! well; yes, still—” said Cromwell, whose talent above all consisted in never finding, nor letting the king find, any difficulty in following his advice.

“These honest individuals!” thought the king; “an oath weighs no more on their conscience than a gnat on the back of a swallow.”

With this remark his patience was exhausted with them.

“Well, it is all right,” he said; “we will return to this subject after the council. Go now; I need rest; but keep an eye on Thomas More and the Bishop of Rochester,” he added, turning toward Cromwell.

They then had to retire, and leave the king by himself, a prey to his own reflections.

“They are gone at last!” cried Henry, throwing himself into a _fauteuil_. “I am rid of them! These are, then, the agents of hell with whom hereafter I must manage the affairs of my kingdom.”

And he angrily pushed from under his feet a footstool, which was hurled against a chair they called the “queen’s chair,” because she had shown a preference for it.

Henry recollected it; he arose abruptly, and changed his position in order to avoid seeing the vacant chair, that annoyed him.

“Always Catherine,” he cried; “nothing but Catherine! I cannot take a step without being reminded of her! So much trouble, and only to make myself so wretched!… That doll-baby, Anne Boleyn, was weeping!… A weak creature, and with no energy!… She is not equal to the position to which I have elevated her. To weep the day that I married her, when for her I have torn myself from the arms of the clergy, the people, the pope, and the emperor!… I shall not be happy with this woman;… she wearies me already!… It will be necessary to make all this known before the coronation; … otherwise there will be no time to recede.… To acknowledge that I have done wrong … it is impossible.… More, could you, then, have been right? Shall I always be more unhappy in following my own will than in conquering it?… That wretch! always calm, always contented.… I see him now, down in his obscurity, seated quietly in his cabinet, working, loving God, not fearing death, … smiling at poverty and all the circumstances of life, which, as he says, have no power to annoy him.… And I—I roll here on these velvet cushions, with remorse in my heart, despair in my soul; and why, when I have obtained the object I wanted?… Hell has already begun for me!… If it is so, I should not, at least, be ashamed to acknowledge it!… March on!”

The king, rising then precipitately, left his cabinet, and ordered preparations for a grand hunting party, and for the assembling of the ladies for a ball and supper in the evening.

XII.

Whilst they were dancing at court, and sought, in dissipation of mind, to drown remorse of heart, a few leagues distant one of the victims of Henry VIII. lay on his death-bed, rapidly approaching his end.

The night before some travellers had knocked at the gate of Leicester Abbey. It was opened, and the Archbishop of York had alighted from his mule, on which he was no longer able to sustain himself. He was carried by the good monks to a chamber, and laid in bed, where he still remained confined and nigh unto death.

All was gloom around this bed; two wax lights only burned on a table at the extremity of the room, whilst several monks were on their knees praying for the dying. Not a sound disturbed the silence around them save the slight noise made by the rosary as they turned it in their hands, and the labored respiration of the sick man.

“Monsieur Kingston,” he suddenly cried in a broken voice, “I conjure you, say to the king that I have never betrayed him, that my enemies have misrepresented me, that I have always been faithful to him!… Tell him this, I conjure you!—ah! tell him this.”

But Sir William Kingston, lieutenant of the Tower, had left the room and returned to the lower hall among his guards, with whom he had been sent, by order of the king, to seek his prisoner at the castle of the Count of Shrewsbury, and bring him to the Tower.

Fatigued by the journey, some of them were stretched on the floor, while others slept on their arms, leaning against the wall, as if death still required them to guard their prey.

Wolsey receiving no reply, turned himself over with a groan, and saw the shadow of a man standing near his bed.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“It is I,” replied Cavendish, still remaining behind the curtain, and who endeavored in silence to conceal his tears.

“How are you now?” said Wolsey.

“Well, my dear lord, if your grace was well also,” responded the faithful servant.

“Ah! my dear friend,” replied the cardinal, “as for me, I am very sick. I am rapidly approaching my end; but what most distresses me is to have nothing to leave you, and not to be able to assure you of a subsistence.”

“Do not trouble yourself about that,” said this devoted servant, who approached and took the trembling hand of the dying man; “in a few days you will be better, and we shall not lose you.”

“What time is it?” said Wolsey.

“Midnight.”

“Midnight!” replied the archbishop. “How short the time is! Before eight o’clock I shall have to leave this world. God calls me to himself, and I can remain no longer with you. Monsieur Vincent,” he continued after a moment’s silence—“Monsieur Vincent, say to the king that it was my intention to have left him all my property; but he has himself deprived me of that pleasure, since they have seized, by his orders, everything that I possessed.”

On hearing his name called, Monsieur Vincent hurried to the bedside; but at these last words he shook his head in token of incredulity and impatience. He was an employé of the king’s treasury, and his heart was as hard as the coin he had charge of.

Having learned that Wolsey was very sick when he left the castle of the Count of Shrewsbury, and fearing he might die on the road, the king had despatched this man in all haste to secure the money and valuables he supposed Wolsey might have concealed among his friends.

“I have told you the truth,” replied the archbishop, who remarked his movement. “I have nothing left in London, and but for the assistance of Monsieur Arundel I should have died of starvation at Asher. I implore you, then, that the king may have compassion on my poor servants, and allow them the wages now due them.”

“We will see, my lord,” said the dissatisfied scribe, who was waiting for an avowal which he had continued to solicit, without any consideration, ever since his arrival; “we will see. But the treasury is so very much impoverished at this time!… However, we will do what we can. We will ask the king, if it is convenient.”

“Monsieur Vincent, I implore you!” replied the cardinal.

“Master Vincent,” said Cavendish, “I beg you to leave the room; your presence annoys and excites him. Have mercy, then, and leave him in peace.”

The scribe hesitated, but he did not go; he returned to the corner of the chamber and began to write as before.

Cavendish followed him with a look of indignation. It seemed very hard that his master could not even be permitted to die without this avaricious surveillance.

“Cavendish,” asked the archbishop immediately, “do you think she will come?”

“They expect her every moment, my dear lord,” he replied; “she will remain three days here.”

“O Cavendish!”

“My dear master!”

And he fell on his knees by the bed. He bathed with tears the hand of the archbishop, which he held in his own.

“She will not see me, my son! She will not forgive me!”

“Ah! my dear, my beloved lord.” He could say no more, being entirely overcome by grief.

“Remember, my son, remember,” continued Wolsey, “that it was my infernal policy that persuaded the king of the possibility of his divorce! Is that she? I hear a noise. My God! I am dying. Spare me, that I may ask her forgiveness; yes, her forgiveness, even as God has forgiven me. O my God!” he cried suddenly, fixing his eyes on a crucifix he had made them hang on the wall in front of him,” had I only served thee as faithfully as I have served this prince in whom I have placed all my hopes and centred all my affections! Weak mortal like myself, what had he to offer me that I should attach myself to him? Vain splendor of an ephemeral power, where have you led me? O man, crowned with a diadem! cast a glance upon the bed of a dying man, and reflect. Why have I not despised your favors and the gifts you have offered me? How fatal they have proved to me! To-day, solitary and alone, I must appear before my God, with hands empty and void of all those virtues and merits which you have prevented me from acquiring. Why have I not come here in my youth, among these humble monks, and learned to extinguish the pride that has governed my entire life? Listen, all you who are here present! Come and behold my emaciated limbs; see the flesh that covered them already destroyed by the breath of death, that has struck them! And my tongue that now speaks to you, and which was thought capable of dictating the decrees of conquerors, will soon be silenced for ever.”

But exhausted by so violent an effort, he sank into a state of insensibility.

Seized with terror, the monks gathered around his bed, recalling the power and _éclat_ with which the name of Wolsey was surrounded, and which had so many times resounded even through the most remote walls of their solitude.…

Yes, it was she—it was indeed Queen Catherine. She had reached this monastery, where she intended remaining several days before deciding on the place of her retreat. Henry VIII., in order to entirely prove that she had become to him an object of perfect indifference, had not even offered her an asylum.

“She is free,” he said; “let her do what she pleases. That is the widow of my brother, the Princess Dowager of Wales. Hereafter she must bear no other name.”

However, they had opened all the gates, and the father abbot, preceded by the cross and followed by all his _religieux_ carrying lighted torches, went before the queen and conducted her into the chapter-hall, which had been prepared for her reception.

There she found carpets, cushions, an arm-chair covered with velvet, and everything the good monks could imagine would be agreeable and testify their devotion.

Catherine felt touched to the heart by these testimonials of respect and affection.

She seated herself a moment in order to thank them; then, rising with that calm and majestic dignity which so eminently characterized her, she said:

“Good fathers, it is no more your queen whom you receive in your midst; it is a fugitive woman, an outraged mother, separated from all that she holds most dear in the world. Do not treat me, then, with so much honor. I have more need of your tears and prayers than of your respect and homage.”

“Alas! madam,” replied the father abbot, “life is very short, and the judgments of God are inscrutable. You come beneath the shadow of this sanctuary to seek an asylum, while the first author of all your woes, a man of whom you have had great cause to complain, has sought here a refuge to die.”

“What!” said the queen. “Venerable father, explain yourself!”

“Yesterday, madam,” replied the abbot, “the Archbishop of York arrived here in a dying condition. He was accompanied by Cavendish, his servant, and the lieutenant of the Tower, who is conducting him to London, there to be tried on the charge of high treason.”

“He here!” cried the queen, overwhelmed with astonishment. And Catherine, a Spaniard and a mother, felt the hatred she had borne Wolsey revive in her soul with extreme violence. The feeling she had vainly sought to extinguish rekindled with renewed strength every time she received a new outrage, or when the name and conduct of the minister who had sacrificed her to his political views and interests was brought to her recollection.

A sudden tremor seized her.

“Wolsey here!” she repeated. “No matter where I go, this man follows me!… Here!” she said again.

“Yes, madam,” replied the father abbot, “here, dying, but more worthy of pity than hatred; he weeps, he bemoans his past life, he implores God’s mercy. It is sufficient to see him to be touched with compassion. For two days we have watched him by turns; he has not ceased to pray God, and I know that to see you will be a great consolation to him.”