Chapter VI: Part 6

But if I thus seek for feigned afflictions, I find, in compensation, in this imaginary world, the virtue, the goodness, the disinterestedness which I have been unable to discover together in the real world in which I exist. It is there that I find the wife that I desire, without temper, without lightness, without subterfuge; I say nothing about beauty--you can depend on my imagination for that! Then, closing the book which no longer answers to my ideas, I take her by the hand, and we wander together through a land a thousand times more delicious than that of Eden. What painter can depict the scene of enchantment in which I have placed the divinity of my heart? But when I am tired of love-making I take up some poet, and set out again for another world.

_V.--In Prison Again_

O charming land of imagination which has been given to men to console them for the realities of life, it is time for me to leave thee! This is the day when certain persons pretend to give me back my freedom, as though they had deprived me of it! As though it were in their power to take it away from me for a single instant, and to hinder me from scouring as I please the vast space always open before me! They have prevented me from going out into a single town--Turin, a mere point on the earth--but they have left to me the entire universe; immensity and eternity have been at my service.

To-day, then, I am free, or rather I am going to be put back into irons. The yoke of business is again going to weigh me down; I shall not be able to take a step which is not measured by custom or duty. I shall be fortunate if some capricious goddess does not make me forget one and the other, and if I escape from this new and dangerous captivity.

Oh, why did they not let me complete my journey! Was it really to punish me that they confined me in my room? In this country of delight which contains all the good things, all the riches of the world? They might as well have tried to chastise a mouse by shutting him up in a granary.

Yet never have I perceived more clearly that I have a double nature. All the time that I am regretting my pleasures of the imagination, I feel myself consoled by force. A secret power draws me away. It tells me that I have need of the fresh air and the open sky, and that solitude resembles death. So here am I dressed and ready. My door opens; I am rambling under the spacious porticoes of the street of Po; a thousand charming phantoms dance before my eyes. Yes, this is her mansion, this is the door; I tremble with anticipation.

* * * * *

SIR THOMAS MALORY

Morte d'Arthur

Little is known of Sir Thomas Malory, who, according to
Caxton, "did take out of certain French books a copy of the
noble histories of King Arthur and reduced it to English." We
learn from the text that "this book was finished in the ninth
year of the reign of King Edward the Fourth, by Sir Thomas
Malory, Knight." That would be in the year 1469. Malory is
said to have been a Welshman. The origin of the Arthurian
romance was probably Welsh. Its first literary form was in
Geoffrey of Monmouth's prose, in 1147. Translated into French
verse, and brightened in the process, these legends appear to
have come back to us, and to have received notable additions
from Walter Map (1137-1209), another Welshman. A second time
they were worked on and embellished by the French
romanticists, and from these later versions Malory appears to
have collated the materials for his immortal translation. The
story of Arthur and Launcelot is the thread of interest
followed in this epitome.

_I.--The Coming of Arthur_

It befell in the days of the noble Utherpendragon, when he was King of England, there was a mighty and noble duke in Cornwall, named the Duke of Tintagil, that held long war against him. And the duke's wife was called a right fair lady, and a passing wise, and Igraine was her name. And the duke, issuing out of the castle at a postern to distress the king's host, was slain. Then all the barons, by one assent, prayed the king of accord between the Lady Igraine and himself. And the king gave them leave, for fain would he have accorded with her; and they were married in a morning with great mirth and joy.

When the Queen Igraine grew daily nearer the time when the child Arthur should be born, Merlin, by whose counsel the king had taken her to wife, came to the king and said: "Sir, you must provide for the nourishing of your child. I know a lord of yours that is a passing true man, and faithful, and he shall have the nourishing of your child. His name is Sir Ector, and he is a lord of fair livelihood." "As thou wilt," said the king, "be it." So the child was delivered unto Merlin, and he bare it forth unto Sir Ector, and made a holy man to christen him, and named him Arthur.

But, within two years, King Uther fell sick of a great malady, and therewith yielded up the ghost, and was interred as belonged unto a king; wherefore Igraine the queen made great sorrow, and all the barons.

Then stood the realm in great jeopardy a long while, for many weened to have been king. And Merlin went to the Archbishop of Canterbury, and counselled him to send for all the lords of the realm, and all the gentlemen of arms, to London before Christmas, upon pain of cursing, that Jesus, of His great mercy, should show some miracle who should be rightwise king. So in the greatest church of London there was seen against the high altar a great stone and in the midst thereof there was an anvil of steel, and therein stuck a fair sword, naked by the point, and letters of gold were written about the sword that said, "Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil is rightwise king born of England."

And many essayed, but none might stir the sword.

And on New Year's Day the barons made a joust, and Sir Ector rode to the jousts; and with him rode Sir Kaye, his son, and young Arthur, that was his nourished brother.

And Sir Kaye, who was made knight at Allhallowmas afore, had left his sword at his father's lodging, and so prayed young Arthur to ride for it. Then Arthur said to himself, "I will ride to the churchyard and take the sword that sticketh in the stone for my brother Kaye." And so, lightly and fiercely, he pulled it out of the stone, and took horse and delivered to Sir Kaye the sword. "How got you this sword?" said Sir Ector to Arthur. "Sir, I will tell you," said Arthur; "I pulled it out of the stone without any pain." "Now," said Sir Ector, "I understand you must be king of this land." "Wherefore I?" said Arthur. "And for what cause?" "Sir," said Sir Ector, "for God will have it so." And therewithal Sir Ector kneeled down to the earth, and Sir Kaye also.

Then Sir Ector told him all how he had betaken him to nourish him; and Arthur made great moan when he understood that Sir Ector was not his father.

And at the Feast of Pentecost all manner of men essayed to pull out the sword, and none might prevail but Arthur, who pulled it out before all the lords and commons. And the commons cried, "We will have Arthur unto our king." And so anon was the coronation made.

And Merlin said to King Arthur, "Fight not with the sword that you had by miracle till you see that you go to the worst, then draw it out and do your best." And the sword, Excalibur, was so bright that it gave light like thirty torches.

_II.--The Marriage of Arthur_

In the beginning of King Arthur, after that he was chosen king by adventure and by grace, for the most part the barons knew not that he was Utherpendragon's son but as Merlin made it openly known. And many kings and lords made great war against him for that cause, but King Arthur full well overcame them all; for the most part of the days of his life he was much ruled by the counsel of Merlin. So it befell on a time that he said unto Merlin, "My barons will let me have no rest, but needs they will have that I take a wife, and I will none take but by thy advice."

"It is well done," said Merlin, "for a man of your bounty and nobleness should not be without a wife. Now, is there any fair lady that ye love better than another?"

"Yea," said Arthur; "I love Guinever, the king's daughter, of the land of Cameliard. This damsel is the gentlest and fairest lady I ever could find."

"Sir," said Merlin, "she is one of the fairest that live, and as a man's heart is set he will be loth to return."

But Merlin warned the king privily that Guinever was not wholesome for him to take to wife, for he warned him that Launcelot should love her, and she him again. And Merlin went forth to King Leodegraunce, of Cameliard, and told him of the desire of the king that he would have to his wife Guinever, his daughter. "That is to me," said King Leodegraunce, "the best tidings that ever I heard; and I shall send him a gift that shall please him, for I shall give him the Table Round, the which Utherpendragon gave me; and when it is full complete there is a place for a hundred and fifty knights; and a hundred good knights I have myself, but I lack fifty, for so many have been slain in my days."

And so King Leodegraunce delivered his daughter, Guinever, to Merlin, and the Table Round, with the hundred knights, and they rode freshly and with great royalty, what by water and what by land.

And when Arthur heard of the coming of Guinever and the hundred knights of the Round Table he made great joy; and in all haste did ordain for the marriage and coronation in the most honourable wise that could be devised. And Merlin found twenty-eight good knights of prowess and worship, but no more could he find. And the Archbishop of Canterbury was sent for, and blessed the seats of the Round Table with great devotion.

Then was the high feast made ready, and the king was wedded at Camelot unto Dame Guinever, in the Church of St. Steven's, with great solemnity.

_III.--Sir Launcelot and the King_

And here I leave off this tale, and overskip great books of Merlin, and Morgan le Fay, and Sir Balin le Savage, and Sir Launcelot du Lake, and Sir Galahad, and the Book of the Holy Grail, and the Book of Elaine, and come to the tale of Sir Launcelot, and the breaking up of the Round Table.

In the merry month of May, when every heart flourisheth and rejoiceth, it happened there befel a great misfortune, the which stinted not till the flower of the chivalry of all the world was destroyed and slain.

And all was along of two unhappy knights named Sir Agravaine and Sir Mordred, that were brethren unto Sir Gawaine. For these two knights had ever privy hate unto the queen, and unto Sir Launcelot. And Sir Agravaine said openly, and not in counsel, "I marvel that we all be not ashamed to see and know how Sir Launcelot cometh daily and nightly to the queen, and it is shameful that we suffer so noble a king to be ashamed." Then spake Sir Gawaine, "I pray you have no such matter any way before me, for I will not be of your counsel." And so said his brothers, Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth. "Then will I," said Sir Mordred. And with these words they came to King Arthur, and told him they could suffer it no longer, but must tell him, and prove to him that Sir Launcelot was a traitor to his person.

"I would be loth to begin such a thing," said King Arthur, "for I tell you Sir Launcelot is the best knight among you all." For Sir Launcelot had done much for him and for his queen many times, and King Arthur loved him passing well.

Then Sir Agravaine advised that the king go hunting, and send word that he should be out all that night, and he and Sir Mordred, with twelve knights of the Round Table should watch the queen. So on the morrow King Arthur rode out hunting.

And Sir Launcelot told Sir Bors that night he would speak with the queen. "You shall not go this night by my counsel," said Sir Bors.

"Fair nephew," said Sir Launcelot, "I marvel me much why ye say this, sithence the queen hath sent for me." And he departed, and when he had passed to the queen's chamber, Sir Agravaine and Sir Mordred, with twelve knights, cried aloud without, "Traitor knight, now art thou taken!"

But Sir Launcelot after he had armed himself, set the chamber door wide open, and mightily and knightly strode among them, and slew Sir Agravaine and twelve of his fellows, and wounded Sir Mordred, who fled with all his might, and came straight to King Arthur, wounded and beaten, and all be-bled.

"Alas!" said the king, "now am I sure the noble fellowship of the Round Table is broken for ever, for with Launcelot will hold many a noble knight."

And the queen was adjudged to death by fire, for there was none other remedy but death for treason in those days. Then was Queen Guinever led forth without Carlisle, and despoiled unto her smock, and her ghostly father was brought to her to shrive her of her misdeeds; and there was weeping and wailing and wringing of hands.

But anon there was spurring and plucking up of horses, for Sir Launcelot and many a noble knight rode up to the fire, and none might withstand him. And a kirtle and gown were cast upon the queen, and Sir Launcelot rode his way with her to Joyous Gard, and kept her as a noble knight should.

Then came King Arthur and Sir Gawaine, whose brothers, Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth, had been slain by Sir Launcelot unawares, and laid a siege to Joyous Gard. And Launcelot had no heart to fight against his lord, King Arthur; and Arthur would have taken his queen again, and would have accorded with Sir Launcelot, but Sir Gawaine would not suffer him. Then the Pope called unto him a noble clerk, the Bishop of Rochester, and gave him bulls, under lead, unto King Arthur, charging him that he take his queen, Dame Guinever, to him again, and accord with Sir Launcelot. And as for the queen, she assented. And the bishop had of the king assurance that Sir Launcelot should come and go safe. So Sir Launcelot delivered the queen to the king, who assented that Sir Launcelot should not abide in the land past fifteen days.

Then Sir Launcelot sighed, and said these words, "Truly me repenteth that ever I came into this realm, that I should be thus shamefully banished, undeserved, and causeless." And unto Queen Guinever he said, "Madam, now I must depart from you and this noble fellowship for ever; and since it is so, I beseech you pray for me, and send me word if ye be noised with any false tongues." And therewith Launcelot kissed the queen, and said openly, "Now let me see what he be that dare say the queen is not true to King Arthur--let who will speak, and he dare!" And he took his leave and departed, and all the people wept.

_IV.--The Passing of Arthur_

Now, to say the truth, Sir Launcelot and his nephews were lords of the realm of France, and King Arthur and Sir Gawaine made a great host ready and shipped at Cardiff, and made great destruction and waste on his lands. And Arthur left the governance of all England to Sir Mordred. And Sir Mordred caused letters to be made that specified that King Arthur was slain in battle with Sir Launcelot; wherefore Sir Mordred made a parliament, and they chose him king, and he was crowned at Canterbury. But Queen Guinever came to London, and stuffed it with victuals, and garnished it with men, and kept it.

Then King Arthur raised the siege on Sir Launcelot, and came homeward with a great host to be avenged on Sir Mordred. And Sir Mordred drew towards Dover to meet him, and most of England held with Sir Mordred, the people were so new-fangled.

Then was there launching of great boats and small, and all were full of noble men of arms, and there was much slaughter of gentle knights; but King Arthur was so courageous none might let him to land; and his knights fiercely followed him, and put back Sir Mordred, and he fled.

But Sir Gawaine was laid low with a blow smitten on an old wound given him by Sir Launcelot. Then Sir Gawaine, after he had been shriven, wrote with his own hand to Sir Launcelot, flower of all noble knights: "I beseech thee, Sir Launcelot, return again to this realm, and see my tomb, and pray some prayer more or less for my soul. Make no tarrying but come with thy noble knights and rescue that noble king that made thee knight, for he is straitly bestood with a false traitor." And so Sir Gawaine betook his soul into the hands of our Lord God.

And many a knight drew unto Sir Mordred and many unto King Arthur, and never was there seen a dolefuller battle in a Christian land. And they fought till it was nigh night, and there were a hundred thousand laid dead upon the down.

"Alas! that ever I should see this doleful day," said King Arthur, "for now I come unto mine end. But would to God that I wist where that traitor Sir Mordred is, which hath caused all this mischief."

Then was King Arthur aware where Sir Mordred leaned upon his sword, and there King Arthur smote Sir Mordred throughout the body more than a fathom, and Sir Mordred smote King Arthur with his sword held in both hands on the side of the head, that the sword pierced the helmet and the brain-pan. And Sir Mordred fell dead; and the noble King Arthur fell in a swoon, and Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere laid him in a little chapel not far from the sea-side.

And when he came to himself again, he said unto Sir Bedivere, "Take thou Excalibur, my good sword, and throw it into that water." And when Sir Bedivere (at the third essay) threw the sword into the water, as far as he might, there came an arm and a hand above the water, and met and caught it, and so shook and brandished it thrice; and then the hand vanished away with the sword in the water.

Then Sir Bedivere bore King Arthur to the water's edge, and fast by the bank hovered a little barge, and there received him three queens with great mourning. And Arthur said, "I will unto the vale of Avillon for to heal me of my grievous wound, and if thou never hear more of me, pray for my soul." And evermore the ladies wept.

And in the morning Sir Bedivere was aware between two hills of a chapel and a hermitage; and he saw there a hermit fast by a tomb newly graven. And the hermit said, "My son, here came ladies which brought this corpse and prayed me to bury him."

"Alas," said Sir Bedivere, "that was my lord, King Arthur."

And when Queen Guinever understood that her lord, King Arthur, was slain, she stole away and went to Almesbury, and made herself a nun, and was abbess and ruler as reason would.

And Sir Launcelot passed over into England, and prayed full heartily at the tomb of Sir Gawaine, and then rode alone to find Queen Guinever. And when Sir Launcelot was brought unto her, she said: "Through this knight and me all the wars were wrought, and through our love is my noble lord slain; therefore, Sir Launcelot, I require thee that thou never look me more in the visage."

And Sir Launcelot said: "The same destiny ye have taken you unto I will take me unto." And he besought the bishop that he might be his brother; then he put a habit on Sir Launcelot, and there he served God day and night, with prayers and fastings.

And when Queen Guinever died Sir Launcelot buried her beside her lord, King Arthur. Then mourned he continually until he was dead, so within six weeks after they found him stark dead, and he lay as he had smiled. Then there was weeping and dolor out of measure. And they buried Sir Launcelot with great devotion.

* * * * *

ANNE MANNING

The Household of Sir Thomas More

Anne Manning, one of the most active women novelists of Queen
Victoria's reign, was born in London on February 17, 1807. Her
first book, "A Sister's Gift: Conversations on Sacred
Subjects," was written in the form of lessons for her brothers
and sisters, and published at her own expense in 1826. It was
followed in 1831 by "Stories from the History of Italy," and
in 1838 her first work of fiction, "Village Belles," made its
appearance. In their day Miss Manning's novels had a great
vogue, only equalled by her amazing output. Altogether some
fifty-one stories appeared under her name, of which the best
remembered is "The Household of Sir Thomas More," an imaginary
diary written by More's daughter, Margaret. After appearing in
"Sharpe's Magazine," it was published in book form in 1860. It
is wonderfully vivid, and is written with due regard to
historical facts. It is interesting to compare it with the
"Life of Sir Thomas More," written by William Roper, Margaret
More's husband, with which it is now frequently reprinted.
Miss Manning died on September 14, 1879.

_I.--Of the Writing of My Libellus_

_Chelsea, June_ 18.

On asking Mr. Gunnel to what use I should put this fayr _Libellus_, he did suggest my making it a kinde of family register, wherein to note the more important of our domestic passages, whether of joy or griefe--my father's journies and absences--the visits of learned men, theire notable sayings, etc. "You are ready at the pen, Mistress Margaret," he was pleased to say, "and I woulde humblie advise your journaling in the same fearless manner in the which you framed that letter which so well pleased the Bishop of Exeter that he sent you a Portugal piece. 'Twill be well to write it in English, which 'tis expedient for you not altogether to negleckt, even for the more honourable Latin."

Methinks I am close upon womanhood. My master Gonellus doth now "humblie advise" her he hath so often chid. 'Tis well to make trial of his "humble" advice.

...As I traced the last word methoughte I heard the well-known tones of Erasmus, his pleasant voyce, and indeede here is the deare little man coming up from the riverside with my father, who, because of the heat, had given his cloak to a tall stripling behind him to bear, I flew upstairs, to advertise mother, and we found 'em alreadie in the hall.

So soon as I had obtayned their blessings, the tall lad stept forth, and who should he be but William Roper, returned from my father's errand overseas! His manners are worsened, for he twice made to kiss me and drew back. I could have boxed his ears, 'speciallie as father, laughing, cried, "The third time's lucky!"

After supper, we took deare Erasmus entirely over the house, in a kind of family procession. In our own deare Academia, with its glimpse of the cleare-shining Thames, Erasmus noted and admired our cut flowers, and glanced, too, at the books on our desks--Bessy's being Livy; Daisy's, Sallust; and mine, St. Augustine, with father's marks where I was to read, and where desist. He tolde Erasmus, laying hand fondlie on my head, "Here is one who knows what is implied in the word 'trust.'" Dear father, well I may! Thence we visitted the chapel, and gallery, and all the dumb kinde. Erasmus doubted whether Duns Scotus and the Venerable Bede had been complimented in being made name-fathers to a couple of owls; but he said Argus and Juno were good cognomens for peacocks.

Anon, we rest and talk in the pavilion. Sayth Erasmus to my father, "I marvel you have never entered into the king's service in some publick capacitie."

Father smiled. "I am better and happier as I am. To put myself forward would be like printing a book at request of friends, that the publick may be charmed with what, in fact, it values at a doit. When the cardinall offered me a pension, as retaining fee to the king, I told him I did not care to be a mathematical point, to have position without magnitude."

"We shall see you at court yet," says Erasmus.

Sayth father, "With a fool's cap and bells!"

_Tuesday_.

This morn I surprised father and Erasmus in the pavillion. Erasmus sayd, the revival of learning seemed appoynted by Heaven for some greate purpose.

In the evening, Will and Rupert, spruce enow with nosegays and ribbons, rowed us up to Putney. We had a brave ramble through Fulham meadows, father discoursing of the virtues of plants, and how many a poor knave's pottage would be improved if he were skilled in the properties of burdock and old man's pepper.

_June 20_.

Grievous work overnighte with the churning. Gillian sayd that Gammer Gurney, dissatisfyde last Friday with her dole, had bewitched the creame. Mother insisted on Bess and me, Daisy and Mercy Giggs, churning until the butter came. We sang "Chevy Chase" from end to end, and then chaunted the 119th Psalme; and by the time we had attained to _Lucerna Pedibus_, I heard the buttermilk separating and splashing in righte earnest. 'Twas neare midnighte, however. Gillian thinketh our Latin brake the spell.

_June 21_.

Erasmus to Richmond with _Polus_ (for soe he Latinises Reginald Pole), and some other of his friends.

I walked with William _juxta fluvium_, and he talked not badlie of his travels. There is really more in him than one would think.

To-day I gave this book to Mr. Gunnel in mistake for my Latin exercise! Was ever anything so downright disagreeable?

_June 24_.

Yesternighte, St. John's Eve, we went into town to see the mustering of the watch. The streets were like unto a continuation of fayr bowers or arbours, which being lit up, looked like an enchanted land. To the sound of trumpets, came marching up Cheapside two thousand of the watch and seven hundred cressett bearers, and the Lord Mayor and sheriffs, with morris dancers, waits, giants, and pageants, very fine. The streets uproarious on our way back to the barge, but the homeward passage under the stars delicious.

_June 25_.

Poor Erasmus caughte colde on the water last nighte, and keeps house. He spent the best part of the morning in our Academia, discussing the pronunciation of Latin and Greek with Mr. Gunnel, and speaking of his labours on his Greek and Latin Testament, which he prays may be a blessing to all Christendom. He talked of a possible _Index Bibliorum_, saying 'twas onlie the work of patience and Industrie. Methoughte, if none else would undertake it, why not I?

_June 29_.

Dr. Linacre at dinner. At table discourse flowed soe thicke and faste that I might aim in vain to chronicle it, and why should I, dwelling as I doe at the fountayn head?

In the hay-field alle the evening. Swathed father in a hay-rope. Father reclining on the hay with his head in my lap. Said he was dreaming "of a far-off future day, when thou and I shall looke back on this hour, and this hay-field, and my head on thy lap."

"Nay, but what a stupid dream, Mr. More," says mother. "If I dreamed at all, it shoulde be of being Lord Chancellor at the leaste."

"Well, wife," sayd father, "I forgive thee for not saying at the most."

_July 2_.

Erasmus is gone. His last saying to father was, "They will have you at court yet;" and father's answer, "When Plato's year comes round."

To me he gave a copy--how precious!--of his Greek Testament.

_July 11_.

A forayn mission hath been proposed to father and he did accept. Lengthe of his stay uncertain, which caste a gloom on alle.

_II.--Father Goeth to the Court_

_May 27, 1523_.

'Tis so manie months agone since I made an entry in my _Libellus_, as that my motto, _Nulla dies sine linea_, hath somewhat of sarcasm in it. In father's prolonged absence I have toiled at my _Opus_ (the _Index Bibliorum_), but 'twas not to purpose, and then came that payn in my head. Father discovered my _Opus_, and with alle swete gentlenesse told me firmly that there are some things a woman cannot, and some she had better not do. Yet if I would persist, I shoulde have leisure and quiet and the help of his books.

Hearing Mercy propound the conditions of an hospital for aged and sick folk, father hath devised and given me the conduct of a house of refuge, and oh, what pleasure have I derived from it! "Have I cured the payn in thy head, miss?" said he. Then he gave me the key of the hospital, saying, "'Tis yours now, my joy, by livery and seisin."

_August 6_.

I wish William would give me back my Testament.

_August 7_.

Yesterday, father, taking me unawares, asked, "Come, tell me, Meg, why canst not affect Will Roper?"

I was a good while silent, at length made answer, "He is so unlike alle I have been taught to esteem and admire by you."

"Have at you," he returned laughing, "I wist not I had been sharpening weapons against myself."

Then did he plead Will's cause and bid me take him for what he is.

_August 30_.

Will is in sore doubte and distresse, and I fear it is my Testament that hath unsettled him. I have bidden him fast, pray, and use such discipline as our church recommends.

_September 2_.

I have it from Barbara through her brother, one of the men-servants, that Mr. Roper hath of late lien on the ground and used a knotted cord. I have made him an abstract from the Fathers for his soul's comfort.

_1524, October_.

The king took us by surprise this morning. Mother had scarce time to slip on her scarlet gown and coif ere he was in the house. His grace was mighty pleasant to all, and at going, saluted all round, which Bessy took humourously, Daisy immoveablie, Mercy humblie, I distastefullie, and mother delightedlie. She calls him a fine man; he is indeed big enough, and like to become too big; with long slits of eyes that gaze freelie on all. His eyebrows are supercilious, and his cheeks puffy. A rolling, straddling gait and abrupt speech.

_Tuesday, October 25_.

Will troubleth me noe longer with his lovefitt, nor with his religious disquietations. Hard studdy of the law hath filled his head with other matters, and made him infinitely more rationall and more agreeable. I shall ne'er remind him.

T'other evening, as father and I were strolling down the lane, there accosts us a poor, shabby fellow, who begged to be father's fool. Father said he had a fancy to be prime fooler in his own establishment, but liking the poor knave's wit, civilitie, and good sense, he agreed to halve the businesse, he continuing the fooling, and Patteson--for that is the simple good fellow's name--receiving the salary. Father delighteth in sparring with Patteson far more than in jesting with the king, whom he alwaies looks on as a lion that may, any minute, rend him.

_1525, July 2_.

Soe my fate is settled. Who knoweth at sunrise what will chance before sunsett? No; the Greeks and Romans mighte speak of chance and fate, but we must not. Ruth's hap was to light on the field of Boaz, but what she thought casual, the Lord had contrived.

'Twas no use hanging back for ever and ever, soe now there's an end, and I pray God to give Will and me a quiet life.

_1528, September_.

Father hath had some words with the cardinall touching the draught of some foreign treaty. "By the Mass," exclaimed his grace, nettled, "thou art the verist fool in all the council."

Father, smiling, rejoined, "God be thanked that the king, our master, hath but one fool therein."

The cardinall's rage cannot rob father of the royal favour. Howbeit, father says he has no cause to be proud thereof. "If my head," said he to Will, "could win the king a castle in France, it shoulde not fail to fly off."

...I was senseless enow to undervalue Will. Yes, I am a happy wife, a happy mother. When my little Bill stroaked dear father's face just now, and murmured "Pretty!" he burst out a-laughing, and cried, "You are like the young Cyrus, who exclaimed, 'Oh, mother, how pretty is my grandfather!'"

I often sitt for an hour or more, watching Hans Holbein at his brush. He hath a rare gift of limning; but in our likeness, which he hath painted for deare Erasmus, I think he has made us very ugly.

_III.--The Great Seal is Resigned_

_June, 1530_.

Events have followed too quick and thick for me to note 'em. Father's embassade to Cambray, and then his summons to Woodstock. Then the fire in the men's quarter, the outhouses and barns. Then, more unlookt for, the fall of my lord cardinall and father's elevation to the chancellorship.

On the day succeeding his being sworn in, Patteson marched hither and thither, in mourning and paper weepers, bearing a huge placard, inscribed, "Partnership dissolved," and crying, "My brother is dead; for now they've made him Lord Chancellor, we shall ne'er see Sir Thomas more."

Father's dispatch of business is such that one day before the end of term he was told there was no cause or petition to be sett before him, a thing unparalleled, which he desired might be formally recorded.

_July 28_.

Here's father at issue with half the learned heads in Christendom concerning the king's marriage. And yet for alle that, I think father is in the right.

He taketh matters soe to heart that e'en his appetite fails.

_August_.

He hath resigned the Great Seal! And none of us knew it until after morning prayer to-day, when, instead of one of his gentlemen stepping up to my mother in her pew, with the words, "Madam, my lord is gone," he cometh up to her himself, smiling, and with these selfsame words. She takes it at first for one of his manie jests whereof she misses the point.

Our was but a short sorrow, for we have got father to ourselves again. Patteson skipped across the garden, crying, "Let a fatted calf be killed, for this my brother who was dead is alive again!"

How shall we contract the charges of Sir Thomas More? Certain servants must go; poor Patteson, alas! can be easier spared than some.

_September 22_.

A tearfull morning. Poor Patteson has gone, but father had obtained him good quarters with my Lord Mayor, and he is even to retain his office with the Lord Mayor, for the time being.

_1533, April 1_.

The poor fool to see me, saying it is his holiday, and having told the Lord Mayor overnight that if he lookt for a fool this morning, he must look in the glass.

Patteson brought news of the coronation of Lady Anne this coming Easter, and he begs father to take a fool's advice and eat humble pie; for, says he, this proud madam is as vindictive as Herodias, and will have father's head on a charger.

_April 4_.

Father bidden to the coronation by three bishops. He hath, with curtesie, declined to be present. I have misgivings of the issue.

_April 15_.

Father summoned forth to the Council to take the oathe of supremacie. Having declared his inabilitie to take the oathe as it stoode, they bade him take a turn in the garden to reconsider. When called in agayn, he was as firm as ever, and was given in ward to the Abbot of Westminster until the king's grace was informed of the matter. And now the fool's wise saying of vindictive Herodians came true, for 'twas the king's mind to have mercy on his old servant, and tender him a qualified oathe, but Queen Anne, by her importunate clamours, did overrule his proper will, and at four days' end father was committed to the Tower. Oh, wicked woman, how could you!... Sure you never loved a father.

_May 22_.

Mother hath at length obtaynd access to dear father. He is stedfaste and cheerfulle as ever. He hath writ us a few lines with a coal, ending with "_Sursum corda_, dear children! Up with your hearts."

_August 16_.

The Lord begins to cut us short. We are now on very meagre commons, dear mother being obliged to pay fifteen shillings a week for the board, meagre as it is, of father and his servant. She hath parted with her velvet gown.

_August 20_.

I have seen him, and heard his precious words. He hath kist me for us alle.

_November. Midnight_.

Dear little Bill hath ta'en a feverish attack. Early in the night his mind wandered, and he says fearfullie, "Mother, why hangs yon hatchet in the air with its sharp edge turned towards us?"

I rise, to move the lamp, and say, "Do you see it now?"

He sayth, "No, not now," and closes his eyes.

_November 17_.

He's gone, my pretty! ... Slipt through my fingers like a bird upfled to his native skies. My Billy-bird! His mother's own heart! They are alle wondrous kind to me....

_March, 1535_.

Spring comes, that brings rejuvenescence to the land and joy to the heart, but none to me, for where hope dieth joy dieth. But patience, soul; God's yet in the aumry!

_IV.--The Worst is Done_

_May 7_.

Father arraigned.

_July 1_.

By reason of Willie minding to be present at the triall, which, for the concourse of spectators, demanded his earlie attendance, he committed the care of me, with Bess, to Dancey, Bess's husband, who got us places to see father on his way from the Tower to Westminster Hall. We coulde not come at him for the crowd, but clambered on a bench to gaze our very hearts away after him as he went by, sallow, thin, grey-haired, yet in mien not a whit cast down. His face was calm but grave, but just as he passed he caught the eye of some one in the crowd, and smiled in his old frank way; then glanced up towards the windows with the bright look he hath so oft caste up to me at my casement, but saw us not; perchance soe 'twas best.

...Will telleth me the indictment was the longest ever heard: on four counts. First, his opinion concerning the king's marriage. Second, his writing sundrie letters to the Bishop of Rochester, counselling him to hold out. Third, refusing to acknowledge his grace's supremacy. Fourth, his positive deniall of it, and thereby willing to deprive the king of his dignity and title.

They could not make good their accusation. 'Twas onlie on the last count he could be made out a traitor, and proof of't had they none. He shoulde have been acquitted out of hand, but his bitter enemy, my Lord Chancellor, called on him for his defence, whereat a general murmur ran through the court.

He began, but a moment's weakness of the body overcame him and he was accorded a seat. He then proceeded to avow his having always opposed the king's marriage to his grace himself, deeming it rather treachery to have withholden his opinion when solicited. Touching the supremacy he held there could be no treachery in holding his peace, God only being cognizant of our thoughts.

"Nay," interposeth the attorney generall, "your silence was the token of a malicious mind."

"I had always understood," answers father, "that silence stoode for consent," which made sundrie smile.

The issue of the black day was aforehand fixed. The jury retired and presentlie returned with a verdict of guilty; for they knew what the king's grace would have 'em doe in that case....

And then came the frightful sentence....

They brought him back by water ... The first thing I saw was the axe, _turned with its edge towards him._

Some one laid a cold hand on mine arm; 'twas poor Patteson. He sayth, "Bide your time, Mistress Meg; when he comes past, I'll make a passage for ye." ...

O, brother, brother, what ailed thee to refuse the oath? I've taken it! ... "Now, Mistress, now!" and flinging his arms right and left, made a breach, through which I darted, fearless of bills and halberds, and did cast mine arms about father's neck. He cries, "My Meg!" and hugs me to him as though our very souls shoulde grow together. He sayth, "Bless thee, bless thee! Kiss them alle for me thus and thus." ... Soe gave me back into Dancey's arms, the guards about him alle weeping.

I did make a second rush, and agayn they had pitie on me and made pause while I hung upon his neck. He whispered, "Meg, for Christ's sake don't unman me. God's blessing be with you," he sayth with a last kiss, then adding, with a passionate upward regard, "The chariot of Israel and the horsemen thereof!"

I look up, almost expecting a beautific vision, and when I turn about, he's gone.

_July 5,6_.

Alle's over now.... They've done theire worst, and yet I live. Dr. Clement sayth he went up as blythe as a bridegroom, to be clothed upon with immortality.

_July 19_.

They have let us bury his poor mangled trunk; but as sure as there's a sun in heaven, I'll have his head!--before another sun has risen, too. If wise men won't speed me, I'll e'en content me with a fool.

_July 20_.

Quoth Patteson: "Fool and fayr lady will cheat 'em yet."

At the stairs lay a wherry with a couple of boatmen. We went down the river quietlie enow--nor lookt I up till aneath the bridge gate, when, casting up one fearsome look, I beheld the dark outline of the ghastly yet precious relic; and falling into a tremour, did wring my hands and exclaim, "Alas, alas! That head hath lain full manie a time in my lap, woulde God it lay there now!" When o' suddain, I saw the pole tremble and sway towardes me; and stretching forth my apron I did, in an extasy of gladness, pity, and horror, catch its burthen as it fell.

Patteson, shuddering, yet grinning, cries under his breath, "Managed I not well, mistress? Let's speed away with our theft, but I think not they'll follow hard after us, for there are well-wishers on the bridge. I'll put ye into the boat and then say, 'God sped ye, lady, with your burthen.'"

_July 23_.

I've heard Bonvisi tell of a poor Italian girl who buried her murdered lover's heart in a pot of basil, which she watered day and night with her tears, just as I do my coffer. Will hath promised it shall be buried with me; layd upon my heart, and since then I've been easier.

He thinks he shall write father's life, when we are settled in a new home. We are to be cleared out o' this in alle haste; for the king grutches at our lingering over father's footsteps, and yet when the news of the bloody deed was taken to him, he scowled at Queen Anne, saying, "Thou art the cause of this man's death!"

Flow on, bright shining Thames. A good, brave man hath walked aforetime on your margent, himself as bright, and usefull, and delightsome as you, sweet river. There's a river whose streams make glad the city of our God. He now rests beside it. Good Christian folks, as they hereafter pass this spot, will, maybe, point this way and say, "There dwelt Sir Thomas More," but whether they doe or not, _Vox Populi_ is no very considerable matter. Theire favourite of to-day may, for what they care, goe hang himself to-morrow in his surcingle. Thus it must be while the world lasts; and the very racks and scrues wherewith they aim to overcome the nobler spiritt onlie lift and reveal its power of exaltation above the heaviest gloom of circumstance.

_Interfecistis, interfecistis hominem omnium anglorum optimum._

* * * * *

ALESSANDRO MANZONI

The Betrothed

Poet, dramatist, and novelist, Alessandro Francesco Tommaso
Manzoni was born at Milan on March 7, 1785. In early manhood
he became an ardent disciple of Voltairianism, but after
marriage embraced the faith of the Church of Rome; and it was
in reparation of his early lapse that he composed his first
important literary work, which took the form of a treatise on
Catholic morality, and a number of sacred lyrics. Although
Manzoni was perhaps surpassed as a poet by several of his own
countrymen, his supreme position as novelist of the romantic
school in Italy is indisputable. His famous work, "The
Betrothed" ("I Promessi Sposi"), completed in 1822 and
published at the rate of a volume a year during 1825-27, was
declared by Scott to be the finest novel ever written. Manzoni
died on May 22, 1873.

_I.--The Schemes of Don Rodrigo_

Don Abbondio, curé of a little town near Como, was no hero. It was, therefore, the less difficult for two armed bravos whom he encountered one evening in the year 1628 to convince him that the wedding of Renzo Tramaglino and Lucia Mondella must not take place, as it did not suit the designs of their master, Don Rodrigo. Renzo, however, was by no means disposed to take this view of the matter, and was like to have taken some desperate steps to express his disapproval. From this course he was dissuaded by Fra Cristoforo, a Capuchin, renowned for his wisdom and sanctity, who undertook to attempt to soften the heart of Don Rodrigo.

The friar was held in affectionate esteem by all, even by Rodrigo's bravos, and on his arrival at the castle he was at once shown into the presence of its master.

"I come," said he, "to propose to you an act of justice. Some men of bad character have made use of the name of your illustrious lordship to alarm a poor curé, and dissuade him from performing his duty, and to oppress two innocent persons--"

"In short, father," said Rodrigo, "I suppose there is some young girl you are concerned about. Since you seem to think that I am so powerful, advise her to come and put herself under my protection; she shall be well looked after. Cowled rascal!" he shouted. "Vile upstart! Thank the cassock that covers your cowardly shoulders for saving them from the caresses that such scoundrels should receive. Depart, or--"

In the meantime, plans were being discussed in Lucia's cottage.

"Listen, my children," said Agnese, her mother; "if you were married, that would be the great difficulty out of the way."

"Is there any doubt," said Renzo; "_if_ we were married--At Bergamo, not far from here, a silk-weaver would be received with open arms. You know my cousin Bartolo has wanted me to go there and make my fortune, as he has done. Once married, we could all go thither together, and live in blessed peace, out of this villain's reach."

"Listen, then," said Agnese. "There must be two witnesses; all four must go to the priest and take him by surprise, that he mayn't have time to escape. The man says, 'Signor Curé, this is my wife'; the woman says, 'Signor Curé, this is my husband.' It is necessary that the curé and the witnesses hear it, and the marriage is then as valid and sacred as if the Pope himself had blessed it."

"But why, then," said Lucia, "didn't this plan come into Fra Cristoforo's mind?"

"Do you think it didn't?" replied she. "But--if you must know--the friars disapprove of that sort of thing."

"If it isn't right, we ought not to do it."

"What! Would I give you advice contrary to the fear of God; if it were against the will of your parents? But when I am satisfied, and he who makes all this disturbance is a villain----Once it is done, what do you think the father will say? 'Ah! daughter; it was a sad error, but it is done.' In his heart he will be very well satisfied."

On the following night Don Abbondio was disturbed at a late hour by a certain Tonio, who came with his cousin Gervase to pay a small debt. While he was giving him a receipt for it, Renzo and Lucia slipped in unperceived. The curé was startled on suddenly hearing the words, "Signor Curé, in the presence of these witnesses, this is my wife." Instantly grasping the situation, and before Lucia's lips could form a reply, Don Abbondio seized the tablecloth, and at a bound wrapped her head in it, so that she could not complete the formula. "Perpetua!" he shouted to his housekeeper. "Help!"

Dashing to an inner room, he locked himself in, flung open the window, and shouted for help. Hearing the uproar, the sexton, who lived next door, shouted out, "What is it?"

"Help!" repeated the curé. Not being over desirous of thrusting himself blindly in upon unknown dangers, the sexton hastened to the belfry and vigorously rang the great bell. This ringing the bell had more far-reaching consequences than he anticipated. Enraged by the friar's visit, Rodrigo had determined to abduct Lucia, and sent his bravos to effect his purpose that very night. At the very moment that the bell began to ring they had just broken into Agnese's house, and were searching for the occupants. Convinced that their action was the cause of commotion, they beat a hasty retreat.

The discomfited betrothed--still only betrothed--hastily rejoined Agnese, who was waiting for them in the street. As they hurriedly turned their steps homeward a child threw himself into their way.

"Back! Back!" he breathlessly exclaimed. "This way to the monastery!"

"What is it?" asked Renzo.

"There are devils in your house," said the boy, panting. "I saw them; Fra Cristoforo said so; he sent me to warn you. He had news from someone at the castle; you must go to him at the monastery at once."

"My children," said Fra Cristoforo on their arrival, "the village is no longer safe for you; for a time, at least, you must take refuge elsewhere. I will arrange for you, Lucia, to be taken care of in a convent at Monza. You, Renzo, must put yourself in safety from the anger of others, and your own. Carry this letter to Father Bonaventura, in our monastery at Milan. He will find you work."

_II.--The Riot of the Hungry_

Fra Bonaventura was out when Renzo arrived to present his letter.

"Go and wait in the church, where you may employ yourself profitably," was the porter's advice, which Renzo was about to follow, when a tumultuous crowd came in sight. Here, apparently, was matter of greater interest, so he turned aside to see the cause of the uproar.

The cause, though Renzo did not at the time discover it, was the shortage of the bread supply. Owing to the ravages of war and the disturbed state of the country, much land lay uncultivated and deserted; insupportable taxes were levied; and no sooner had the deficient harvest been gathered in than the provisions for the army, and the waste which always accompanies them, made a fearful void in it. What had attracted Renzo's attention was but the sudden exacerbation of a chronic disease.

Mingling with the hurrying mob, Renzo soon discovered that they had been engaged in sacking a bakery, and were filled with fury to find large quantities of flour, the existence of which the authorities had denied. "The superintendent! The tyrant! We'll have him, dead or alive!"

Renzo found himself borne along in the thickest of the throng to the house of the superintendent, where a tremendous crowd was endeavouring to break in the doors. The tumult being allayed by the arrival of Ferrer, the chancellor, a popular favourite, Renzo became involved in conversation with some of the rioters. He asked to be directed to an inn where he could pass the night.