The Catholic World, Vol. 22, October, 1875, to March, 1876 / A Monthly Magazine of General Literature and Science

by Various

BOOKS AND PAMPHLETS RECEIVED.

From Scribner, Armstrong & Co., New York: Personal Reminiscences. By O’Keefe, Kelly, and Taylor. Edited by R. H. Stoddard (Bric-à-Brac Series, No. VIII)

From the Author: An Address on Woman’s Work in the Church before the Presbytery of New Albany. By Geo. C. Heckman, D.D. Paper, 8vo, pp. 28.

From Wm. Dennis, G.W.S.: Journal of Proceedings of the Ninth Annual Session of the Grand Lodge of Nova Scotia. Paper, 8vo, pp. 73.

From the Author: The Battle of Life: An Address. By D. S. Troy, Montgomery, Alabama. Paper, 8vo, pp. 14.

From Ginn Brothers, Boston: Latin Composition: An Elementary Guide to Writing in Latin. Part I.—Constructions. By J. H. Allen and J. B. Greenough. 12mo, pp. vi., 117.

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THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL. XXII., No. 128.—NOVEMBER, 1875.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by Rev. I. T. Hecker, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.

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FREEMASONRY.[14]

The saints have all, whilst yet in the flesh, foretastes of heavenly bliss. But in these the closing days of time all the elect have a presentiment of coming judgment. And that presentiment is strong in proportion to their faith; stronger still in proportion to their charity. Let our readers be assured at the outset. We are not about to imitate the irreverence of the Scotch Presbyterian minister who, some few years ago, pretended that he had discovered in the prophetic visions of S. John the year in which will come to pass that event of stupendous awfulness, of which He, before whom all mankind will then be judged, said: “Of that day or hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but the Father only.”

One fearful catastrophe, however, to befall mankind before the general judgment is insisted on so often and with such solemn emphasis by the Holy Spirit that the love of God seems to be, as it were, trembling for his redeemed creature, and longing to reveal to him more than is consistent with his own designs in the trial of his faith. For it must be remembered that faith is a merit, and the absolutely indispensable condition of our receiving the benefits of the divine atonement. Although the gift of God, it is the part we ourselves, by co-operating with the gift, contribute towards our own salvation. And what we are required to believe is so beautiful and ennobling to the moral sense, and so satisfying to the reason, that, supported as it is by the historical evidence of the divinity of Christ and of his church, no one can refuse to believe but those who deliberately choose darkness rather than light, sin rather than virtue, Satan rather than God.

Yet so formidable was to be that last trial of the faith of Christians, so crucial that conclusive test of their charity, which was to “deceive, if it were possible, even the very elect,”[15] that the Spirit of Love, yearning for the safety of his regenerate ones, and compassionating the weakness of human nature, revealed its marks and signs in the fullest and most circumstantial detail; so that, warned of the danger, and recognizing it when it arrived, they might pass through it unhurt, whilst those who succumbed to it might be without excuse before the divine justice. It is the yearning of the heart of Christ towards his children, whom he foresees will fail by thousands in that decisive trial, which prompts the ejaculation that sounds almost like a lament over his own inability to put any pressure on their free-will: “When the Son of man cometh, will he find faith on the earth?” It is his anxiety, as it were, about the fate of his elect amidst the seductions of that appalling apostasy, which urged him, after he had indicated the signs that would accompany it, to be on the perpetual, sleepless lookout for them. “Be ever on the alert. Lo! I have foretold you all.”[16]

“Be ever on the alert, watch and pray. For you do not know when the time may be.”[17]

“Watch, then, lest when he (the head of the family) shall have come on a sudden, you be found sleeping.”[18]

“Moreover, what I say to you I say to all: Watch!”[19]

Throughout all the ages that have elapsed since those words of solemn import fell from the lips of Jesus Christ it has been the plain duty of all Christians—nay, of all to whose knowledge they were brought—to narrowly scrutinize events, to keep their attention fixed upon them, watching for the signs he foretold, lest they should appear unheeded, and they be seduced from the faith; or be the cause, through their indifference, of others being carried away in the great misleading.

But who now can be insensible to the predicted portents? So notorious are they, and so exactly do they answer to the description of them handed down to us from the beginning, that they rudely arouse us from sleep; that they force our attention, however indifferent to them we may be, however dull our faith or cold our charity. And when we see a vast organization advancing its forces in one united movement throughout the entire globe in an avowed attack, as insidious as it is formidable, upon altars, thrones, social order, Christianity, Christ, and God himself, where is the heart that can be insensible to the touching evidence of loving solicitude which urged Him whom surging multitudes of his false creatures were deliberately to reject in favor of a fouler being than Barabbas, to iterate so often the warning admonition, “Be ever on the watch”?

To study, therefore, the signs of the times, cannot be without profit to all, but especially to us who have but scant respect for the spirit of the age, who are not sufficiently enlightened by it to look upon Christ as nothing more than a remarkable man, the sublime morality he taught and set an example of as a nuisance, and his church as the enemy of mankind, to be extirpated from their midst, because it forbids their enjoying the illumination of the dagger-guarded secrets of the craft of Freemasonry.

To fix the date of the Dies iræ is completely out of our power. It is irreverent, if not blasphemous, to attempt it. It is of the counsels of God that it should come with the swiftness of “lightning” and the unexpectedness of “a thief in the night”; and that expressly that we may be ever on the watch. But the signs of its approach are given to us in order to help those who do not abandon “watching” in indifference, to escape the great delusion—the imposition of Antichrist—which is to immediately precede it. It is these signs we propose to study in the following pages.

The predictions of Christ himself on this subject are far more obscure than those subsequently given to us by his apostles. But this has always been God’s way of revelation to his creature. To Moses alone, in the mount, he revealed the moral law and that wondrous theocratic polity which remained even after the perversity of his people had given it a monarchical form; and Moses communicated it to the people. To the people Christ spoke in parables, “and without a parable spake he not unto them. But when he was alone with them, he explained all to his disciples.”[20] “To you,” he said, “it is given to have known the mystery of the kingdom of God; but to those without everything is a parable.”[21] The apostles themselves, who were to declare the revelation, in order to increase the merit of their faith, were not fully illuminated before the coming down of the Holy Spirit. “You do not know this parable?” he said; “and how are you going to understand all parables?”[22] To their utterances, therefore, it is we shall confine ourselves, as shedding as much light as it has seemed good to the Holy Ghost to disclose to us upon the profounder and more oracular predictions of God himself in the flesh.

Besides SS. Peter, Paul, and John, S. Jude is the only other apostle, we believe, who has bequeathed to the church predictions of the terrible apostasy of Antichrist which is to consummate the trial of the faith of the saints under the very shadow of the coming judgment. We will take them in the order in which they occur. The first is in a letter of S. Paul to the church at Thessalonica, where, exhorting them not to “be terrified as if the day of the Lord were at hand,” he assures them that it will not come “before there shall have first happened an apostasy, and the man of sin shall have been revealed, the son of perdition—he who opposes himself to, and raises himself above, all that is called God, or that is held in honor, so that he may sit in the temple of God, showing himself as if he were God.… And you know what now is hindering his being revealed in his own time. For the mystery of iniquity is already working; only so that he who is now keeping it in check will keep it in check until he be moved out of its way. And then will the lawless one be revealed, whom the Lord Jesus will slay with the breath of his mouth, and destroy with the illumination of his coming; whose coming is after the manner of working of Satan, with all strength and symbols, and lying absurdities, and in every enticement of iniquity in those who perish; for the reason that they did not receive the love of the truth that they might be saved. So God will send them the working of error, that they may believe falsehood; that all may be judged who have not believed the truth, but have consented to iniquity.”[23]

In a letter to Timothy, Bishop of Ephesus, S. Paul writes: “Now, the Spirit says expressly that, in the last times, some shall apostatize from the faith, giving heed to spirits of error and to doctrines of demons, speaking falsehood in hypocrisy, and having their own conscience seared.”[24]

In a second letter to the same bishop he writes: “Know this, moreover: that in the last days there will be a pressure of perilous times; men will be self-lovers, covetous, lifted up, proud, blasphemous, disobedient to parents, ungrateful, malicious, without affection, discontented, calumniators, incontinent, hard, unamiable, traitors, froward, fearful, and lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God, having indeed a form of piety, but denying its power.”[25] S. Peter writes that “there will come in the last days mockers in deception, walking according to their own lusts.”[26]

S. Jude describes them as “mockers, walking in impieties according to their own desires. These are they who separate themselves—animals, not having the Spirit.”[27]

It would seem from the expressions of S. John-who of all the apostles appears to have had most pre-eminently the gift of prophecy—as well as from the manner in which the last days of Jerusalem and the last days of the world appear to be mingled together in the fore-announcement of Christ, that powerful manifestations of Antichrist were to precede both events; although the apostasy was to be far more extensive and destructive before the latter. “Little children,” writes the favorite apostle, “it is the last time; and as you have heard that Antichrist comes, so now many have become Antichrists; whence we know that it is the last time.… He is Antichrist who denies the Father and the Son.”[28]

“Every spirit who abolishes Jesus is not of God. And he is Antichrist about whom we have heard that he is coming, and is even now in the world.”[29]

We believe that these are the only passages wherein the Holy Ghost has vouchsafed to give us distinct and definite information as to the marks and evidences by which we are to know that there is amongst us that Antichrist whose disastrous although short-lived triumph is to precede by only a short space the end of time and the eternal enfranchisement of good from evil.

The prophetic utterances on this subject in the revelations of S. John are veiled in such exceedingly obscure imagery that we do not propose to attempt any investigation of their meaning in this article. It is our object to influence the minds of such Protestants as believe in God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and of Catholics whose faith is so dull and whose charity is so cold that they can listen to the blasphemies of Antichrist without emotion.

We may remark here, however, that if we succeed in supplying solid reasons for believing that Antichrist is already amongst us, and that his dismal career of desolating victory has already begun, the duty of studying those utterances of the Holy Ghost, so darkly veiled that the faith of those who stand firm may have more merit in the trial of that great tribulation, will have assumed a position of importance impossible to be overrated. That they are to be understood, the Holy Ghost himself implies. He intimates that their meaning is accessible to the spiritually minded, and would even seem to make dulness of apprehension of it a reproach, a lack of spiritual discernment. “If any one has the ear, let him hear,”[30] he writes. And again: “This is wisdom. Let him who has understanding reckon the number of the beast.”[31]

It is not necessary to the object we have in view that we should identify “the beast” of the Apocalypse, seven-headed and having ten horns crowned with diadems, with Antichrist. The question we propose to answer is simply, “Are there under our eyes at this moment evidences of a present Antichrist, or of his being close at hand?” In other words, “Is what is called ‘the spirit of the age’ the spirit of Antichrist?”

For us, that we may be on our guard against his wiles, and armed to the teeth to fight against him to the death, it is comparatively unimportant whether we decide him to be actually amongst us or only just about to appear. His marks and characteristics, his badges or decorations—these are all we require.

If the Antichrist of the prophecies is a single, separate impersonation of the demoniac attributes described by the Holy Ghost—if, in short, he is an individual man, then he has not yet been revealed. In that case, our identification of Antichrist will only have exposed that temper and spirit with which “the red dragon”—“the devil”—“Satan”—“the ancient serpent”—has possessed such vast multitudes of the human race throughout the entire globe as to afford ground for calling it “the spirit of the age,” and which is to culminate in some terrible personal embodiment—a typical personage, as men speak. But if the prophecies do not designate an individual man, but only the impersonation of a multitude of individuals organized into a unity and animated with the same spirit, then we think we shall be able to point the finger of horror and loathing at the very Antichrist at present amongst us, and in the midst of victory, as decisively and as clearly as the prophet of penance pointed the finger of adoring love towards the Lamb of God.

We incline, and strongly, to the latter view. We must withhold our reasons, partly because, as we have said, our object is equally subserved by either view; but more because to do so would leave us too little space for treating the main subject. We will content ourselves with stating that those reasons are founded on the internal evidence supplied by the several predictions; and also on our aversion to admit the possibility of a more depraved individual impersonation of evil than that unhappy man whom God in human flesh pronounced a devil!

Whether, however, Antichrist be or not an individual man, one thing is certain: that if we can point out an immense army of men, co-extensive with the globe, highly organized, animated with the same spirit, and acting with as much unity of purpose as if their movements were directed by one head, who exhibit precisely those marks and characteristics described in the predictions of Antichrist, we may expect even on the supposition that they are to have a visible head, an individual leader, who has yet to make his appearance; and that they are his hosts, who have already achieved a great part of his victories.

What is first noticeable is that the stigma which is to be deeply branded on the front of the Antichristian manifestation which is to precede the close of time is “Apostasy”.

The day of the Lord will not come, “nisi venerit discessio primum; Spiritus dicit quia in novissimis temporibus quidam a fide discedunt.”

There can be no need of dwelling on this. It is sufficiently obvious that the great apostasy inaugurated by Luther was the first outbreak of Antichristian victory. The success of that movement assured the spirit of error of a career of victory. He was lurking in the fold, watching for his opportunity, and snatching away stray souls, as S. John tells us, in the time of the apostles. For a millennium and a half has he been preparing his manifestation. He inspired Julian, he inspired the Arians, he inspired all the heresies against which the definitions of the faith were decreed. But when he had seduced men away from the church, whole nations at a time, “dominationem contemnentes” (2 S. Peter ii. 10), and captivated them to the irrational opinion that there is no higher authority for the obligatory dogmas of the Christian Church than the conviction of every individual, solvere Jesum, and then God, was merely a matter of time. What human passion had begun human reason would complete. The life of faith could not be annihilated at a blow. It has taken three centuries for the sap of charity to wither away in the cut-off branches. But sooner or later the green wood could not but become dry; and reason, void of charity, would be forced to acknowledge that if the Bible has no definite meaning other than what appears to be its meaning to every individual, practically it has no definite meaning at all; that God cannot have revealed any truth at all, if we have no means of ascertaining what it is beyond our own private opinions; that a book the text of which admits of as many interpretations as there are sects cannot, without an authoritative living expositor, reveal truths which it is necessary to believe in order to escape eternal punishment. The claim of the Catholic Church to this authority having been pronounced an usurpation, the progress, although slow, was sure and easy towards pronouncing Christianity itself an usurpation. God himself cannot survive Christianity. And we have now literally “progressed” to so triumphant a manifestation of Antichrist that the work of persecution of God’s Church has set in with a vengeance, and men hear on all sides of them the existence of God denied without horror, even without surprise.

The first mark of a present Antichrist we propose to signalize is that distinctly assigned to him by S. Paul—ὁ ἄνομος. This epithet is but feebly rendered by the Latin ille iniquus, or the English “that wicked one.” “The lawless one” better conveys the force of the Greek. For the root νόμος includes in its meaning not only enacted law of all kinds, but whatever has become, as it were, a law by custom; or a law of nature, as it were, by the universal observance of mankind.

The first marked sequel of the apostasy, the first outbreak of success of Antichrist in the political order, was the first French Revolution, during which a harlot was placed for worship upon the altar of Notre Dame.

That fearful outbreak may have sat for its portrait to S. Peter in the following description of the members of the Antichrist of the “last times”: “Who walk after the flesh in the lust of concupiscence, and despise authority; … irrational beasts, following only their own brute impulses, made only to be caught and slain; … having eyes full of adultery and of ceaseless sin; … speaking proud things of vanity, enticing, through the desires of the luxury of the flesh, those who by degrees go away from the truth, who become habituated to error; promising them liberty, whereas they themselves are the slaves of corruption” (2 Pet. ii. 10, 12, 14, 18, 19).

That saturnalia of lawlessness, which Freemason writers have ever since dared to approve, was the work of the “craft” of Freemasonry, to whose organization and plan of action does indeed, in an especial sense, apply S. Paul’s designation of τὸ μυστήριον τῆς ανομίας “the mystery of lawlessness.” Mirabeau, Sieyès, Grégoire, Robespierre, Condorcet, Fauchet, Guillotine, Bonneville, Volney, “Philippe Egalité,” etc., had all been initiated into the higher grades.

Louis Blanc, himself a Freemason, writes thus: “It is necessary to conduct the reader to the opening of the subterranean mine laid at that time beneath thrones and altars by revolutionists, differing greatly, both in their theory and their practice, from the Encyclopedists. An association had been formed of men of every land, every religion, and every class, bound together by mysterious signs agreed upon amongst themselves, pledged by a solemn oath to observe inviolable secrecy as to the existence of this hidden bond, and tested by proofs of a terrible description.… Thus we find Freemasonry to have been widely diffused immediately before the outbreak of the Revolution. Spreading over the whole face of Europe, it poisoned the thinking minds of Germany, and secretly stirred up rebellion in France, showing itself everywhere in the light of an association resting upon principles diametrically opposed to those which govern civil society.… The ordinances of Freemasonry did indeed make great outward display of obedience to law, of respect to the outward forms and usages of profane society, and of reverence towards rulers; at their banquets the Masons did indeed drink the health of kings in the days of monarchy, and of presidents in the time of republics, such prudent circumspection being indispensable on the part of an association which threatened the existence of the very governments under whose eyes it was compelled to work, and whose suspicion it had already aroused. This, nevertheless, did not suffice to counteract the radically revolutionary influence continually exercised by the craft, even while it professed nothing but peaceful intentions.”[32]

In the work from which the above and the greater part of our materials in this article are borrowed, we read as follows: “It was precisely these revolutionary designs of the secret society which induced its Provincial Grand Master, the Prussian Minister Count von Haugwitz, to leave it. In the memorial presented by him to the Congress of Monarchs at Verona, in 1830, he bids the rulers of Europe to be on their guard against the hydra. ‘I feel at this moment firmly persuaded,’ writes the ex-grand master, ‘that the French Revolution, which had its first commencement in 1788, and broke out soon after, attended with all the horrors of regicide, existed heaven knows how long before, having been planned, and having had the way prepared for it, by associations and secret oaths.’”[33]

And the following:

“After the events of February, 1848, the ‘craft’ sang songs of triumph at the open success of its secret endeavors. A Belgian brother, Van der Heym, spoke thus: ‘On the day following the revolution of February a whole nation rose as one man, overturned the throne, and wrote over the frontal of the royal palace the words Liberty, Fraternity, Equality, all the citizens having adopted as their own this fundamental principle of Freemasonry. The combatants had not to battle long before the victory over their oppressors was gained—that freedom won which for centuries had formed the theme of Masonic discourses. We, the apostles of fraternity, aid the foundation-stone of the Republic.’”[34]

And another master of the Freemasons, one Peigné, said about the same time: “In our glorious Revolution of 1792 the Lodge of the Nine Sisters gave to the world such men as Garat, Brissot, Bailly, Camille Desmoulins, Condorcet, Champfort, Petion; the Lodge of the Iron Mouth gave to it Fauchet, Goupil de Prefeln, Sieyès; the Lodge of Candor, Custine, the two Lameths, and Lafayette.”

The horrors of that Revolution occasioned a temporary reaction and checked the triumphs of the Freemasons. But well they know how to repair their broken fortunes, bide their time, and reappear with renewed force.

Barruel, who was an eye-witness of the events of the period, and also himself intimately acquainted with many Freemasons in Paris, relates that the brethren, considering that the time had come when they were free to publish the secret they had sworn to keep, shouted aloud: “At last our goal is reached; from this day France will be one vast lodge, and all Frenchmen Freemasons.”

A strong reaction of disgust and terror at the satanic orgies of Freemasonry in the ascendant, moderated for a while this shout of triumph. But in the disasters inflicted on France by the conquering Germans, the “craft” thought to find a recurring opportunity. If the Communist attempt at Paris in 1871 was not originally planned by the Freemasons, they openly and officially joined it. “A procession composed of at least five thousand persons, in which members of all the grades took part, wearing their insignia, and in which one hundred and fifty lodges of France were represented, wended its way to the town hall of Paris. Maillet, bearing the red flag as a token of universal peace, headed the band, and openly proclaimed, in a speech which met with the approval of all present, that the new Commune was the antitype of Solomon’s temple and the corner-stone of the social fabric about to be raised by the efforts of the craft. The negotiations carried on with the government of Versailles on behalf of the socialists, and the way in which they planted the banners of the craft on the walls of the capital, accompanying this action with a threat of instantly joining the ranks of the combatants if a single shot were fired at one of those banners (of which a graphic account appeared in the Figaro at the time), was all of a piece with the sentiments they expressed” (The Secret Warfare of Freemasonry, p. 172).

Figaro closed its account of these strange events with the following reflections: “But when posterity shall be informed that in the middle of the XIXth century, in the midst of an unbelieving generation, which openly denied God and his Christ, under the very guns of an enemy in possession of all the French fortresses, hostilities were all at once suspended, and the course of a portentous and calamitous civil war interrupted because, forsooth, Brother Thirifoque, accompanied by two Knights Kadosch, went to offer to M. Thiers’ acceptance the golden mallet of supreme command (in the craft)—when, I say, this story is told to those who come after us, it will sound in their ears as a nursery tale, utterly unworthy of credence.”[35]

In Révélations d’un Franc-maçon au lit de mort, pièce authentique, publicé, par M. de Hallet (Courtrai, 1826, p. 10), we find the following: “We must restore man to his primeval rights, no longer recognizing rank and dignity—two things the mere sight of which offends the eye of man and wounds his self-love. Obedience is a mere chimera, and has no place in the wise plans of Providence.”

In the Astræa, Taschenbuch für Freimaurer, von Bruder Sydow (1845), an orator thus speaks: “That which is destined to destruction must in the course of things be destroyed; and if human powers resist this law, at the behest of fate, a stronger power will appear upon the scene to carry out the eternal decrees of Providence. The Reformation of the church, as well as the French Revolution, proves the existence of this law.… Revolution is a crisis necessary to development.”

The Révélations says: “The poison must be neutralized by means of its antidote, revolution must succeed to obedience, vengeance follow upon effeminacy, power must grapple with power, and the reign of superstition yield before that of the one true natural religion.”

Barruel, who had been a master Mason, states that the oath administered to him was: “My brother, are you prepared to execute every command you may receive from the Grand Master, even should contrary orders be laid on you by king or emperor, or any other ruler whatever?”

“The grade of Kadosch”—the thirtieth grade—writes Barruel (p. 222), “is the soul of Freemasonry, and the final object of its plots is the reintroduction of absolute liberty and equality through the destruction of all royalty and the abrogation of all religious worship.”

“Socialism, Freemasonry, and communism have, after all, a common origin” (The Latomia—an organ of the craft—vol. xii. p. 237).

Le Libertaire, a Masonic journal published in this city, had the following in 1858: “The Libertaire knows no country but that which is common to all. He is a sworn foe to restraints of every kind. He hates the boundaries of countries; he hates the boundaries of fields, houses, workshops; he hates the boundaries of family.”

Is it within the power of the human mind to conceive of any possible individual or spiritual incarnation more deeply, vividly, and distinctly branded with the note-mark or sign of Antichrist, given to us by the Holy Spirit some two thousand years ago, by which we might recognize him when he appeared—“the lawless one,” “spurning authority”—ὁ ἄνομος, qui contemnunt dominationem?

And when we add to this, the one special and most wicked and lawless characteristic of the “craft”—its portentous mystery—to our thinking, they must willingly, and of set purpose, close their eyes who fail to detect in it the very Antichrist whom the apostle declares shall be manifested in the last days, after the apostasy, and whom he designates by the epithet τὸ μυστήριον τῆς ἀνομίας—“the mystery of lawlessness”—which he tells us had even then, at the very cradle of the church, begun to put in movement its long conspiracy against the salvation of mankind: τὸ γὰρ μυστηριον ἢδη ενεργεῖται τῆς ἀνομίας—“for the mystery of lawlessness is even now already working.”

No sooner was Christ born than his infant life was sought; no sooner did he begin to teach than “the ancient serpent” sought his ruin; just before the triumph of his resurrection the enemy of mankind seemed to have finally and completely triumphed in his crucifixion; no sooner had his church, brought to life by his resurrection, begun her work of saving mankind than the devil was at work with his “mystery of lawlessness” for her destruction. All along it is Antichrist dogging the steps of Christ; before the second coming of Christ there is to be the second coming of Antichrist; before the final triumph over evil and revelation of the sons of God, Antichrist is to have that his last open and avowed manifestation—ἀποκάλυψις—and success, which the craft of Freemasonry is already so far on the road to compassing.

Whether or no he is to receive a serious check before that terrific triumph over all but the few remaining elect we know not. But so unmistakable is his present manifestation that it is woe to those who blink their eyes and follow in his wake! Woe to those whose judicial blindness causes them to “believe a lie”! Woe to those who are caught napping!

The next of the indications given us by the Holy Spirit of the Antichrist is his modus operandi—his method—the way in which he will effect his purposes, “whose coming is according to the way of working of Satan”—cujus est adventus secundum operationem Satanæ.

The beast with seven heads and ten horns crowned with diadems described in the Apocalypse is, we are there told, fully commissioned with his own power by the red dragon, whom we are distinctly informed is the old serpent, who is called the devil (διάβολος, or slanderer), “Satan, who deceives the whole world.”

Now, Satan is designated as “the prince of darkness” in opposition to Christ, “who is the true light, enlightening every one that cometh into the world”; he is the father of those who “hate the light because their deeds are evil.” When he would destroy Christ, “night was his hour and the power of darkness.” But in taking a survey of the craft of Freemasonry, what first seizes our attention? Is it not the profound darkness in which all its operations are veiled? Those terrible oaths of secrecy, made under the assured menace of assassination, attended with all that sanguinary gibberish, the lie involved in which is not known until the “seared conscience” is already in the chains of hell—surely, if anything is, these are “secundum operationem Satanæ.”

In the Vienna Freemason’s Journal, MSS. for circulation in the craft, second year of issue, No. 1, p. 66, is the following: “We wander amidst our adversaries, shrouded in threefold darkness. Their passions serve as wires, whereby, unknown to themselves, we set them in motion and compel them unwittingly to work in union with us.”

In a work written in High-German, the authorship of which is ascribed to a Prof. Hoffman of Vienna, the contents of which are supported by documentary evidence, and of which a Dutch translation was published in Amsterdam in 1792, which was reprinted at the Hague in 1826, the method of working of this “mystery of lawlessness” is thus summed up:

“2. To effect this, a literary association must be formed to promote the circulation of our writings, and suppress, as far as possible, those of our opponents.

“3. For this end we must contrive to have in our pay the publishers of the leading literary journals of the day, in order that they may turn into ridicule and heap contempt on everything written in a contrary interest to our own.

“4. ‘He that is not with us is against us.’ Therefore we may persecute, calumniate, and tread down such an one without scruple; individuals like this are noxious insects which one shakes from the blossoming tree and crushes beneath one’s foot.

“5. Very few can bear to be made to look ridiculous; let ridicule, therefore, be the weapon employed against persons who, though by no means devoid of sense, show themselves hostile to our schemes.

“6. In order the more quickly to attain our end, the middle classes of society must be thoroughly imbued with our principles; the lower orders and the mass of the population are of little importance, as they may easily be moulded to our will. The middle classes are the principal supporters of the government; to gain them we must work on their passions, and, above all, bring up the rising generation in our ideas, as in a few years they will be in their turn masters of the situation.

“7. License in morals will be the best means of enabling us to provide ourselves with patrons at court—persons who are nevertheless totally ignorant of the importance of our cause. It will suffice for our purpose if we make them absolutely indifferent to the Christian religion. They are for the most part careless enough without us.

“8. If our aims are to be pursued with vigor, it is of absolute necessity to regard as enemies of enlightenment and of philosophy all those who cling in any way to religious or civil prejudices, and exhibit this attachment in their writings. They must be viewed as beings whose influence is highly prejudicial to the human race, and a great obstacle to its well-being and progress. On this account it becomes the duty of each one of us to impede their action in all matters of consequence, and to seize the first suitable opportunity which may present itself of putting them entirely hors du combat.

“9. We must ever be on the watch to make all changes in the state serve our own ends; political parties, cabals, brotherhoods, and unions—in short, everything that affords an opportunity of creating disturbances must be an instrument in our hands. For it is only on the ruins of society as it exists at present that we can hope to erect a solid structure on the natural system, and ensure to the worshippers of nature the free exercise of their rights.”

If this method of working, operatio, is not secundum adventum Satanæ, we should be glad to know what is. Herein we find every feature of Antichrist and his hosts which the Holy Ghost has drawn for our warning. They are heaped together in such hideous combination throughout this summary as scarcely to need particularizing. Our readers may not, however, be unwilling that we should single them out one by one as they appear more or less prominently in the several paragraphs; premising that throughout one characteristic reigns and prevails, and, indeed, lends its color to all the rest, that special attribute of “the father of lies”—falsehood!

We will take the paragraphs in order, and photograph their most prominent Antichristian features.

The first.—Spurning authority. Giving ear to spirits of error and doctrines of demons.

Speaking lies in hypocrisy, having a conscience seared.

Blasphemers.

Mockers, walking according to their own desires; animals, not having the Spirit.

Mockers in deception, walking according to their own lusts.

The second and third.—Lovers of themselves, lawless, proud, malicious, traitors, froward, discourteous, fearful, mockers in deception.

The fourth.—Calumniators, cruel, traitors.

The fifth.—Mockers in deception.

The sixth.—Traitors, without affection, without peace.

The seventh.—Traitors, walking in impieties, walking according to their own lusts, incontinent.

The eighth.—Having their conscience seared, without peace, cruel.

The ninth.—Spurning authority, traitors, lawless, without peace.

It must be borne in mind, moreover, that these are not merely repulsive infirmities of individuals, but the essential and inevitable characteristics deliberately adopted by the craft of Freemasons, and which it cannot be without, if they are the brand which the finger of God has marked upon the loathsome brow of the Antichrist of “the last time.”[36]

In illustration of the former of these we quote the words of Brother Gotthold Salomon, D.Ph., preacher at the new Synagogue at Hamburg, member of the lodge entitled “The Dawn in the East,” in Frankfort-on-Main, who thus writes in his Stimmen aus Osten, MSS. for the brethren: “Why is there not a trace of anything appertaining to the Christian Church to be found in the whole ritual of Freemasonry? Why is not the name of Jesus once mentioned, either in the oath administered, or in the prayers on the opening of the lodges, or at the Masonic banquets? Why do Masons reckon time, not from the birth of Christ, but from the creation of the world, as do the Jews? Why does not Freemasonry make use of a single Christian symbol? Why have we the compasses, the triangle, the hydrometer, instead of the cross and other emblems of the Passion? Why have wisdom, beauty, and strength superseded the Christian triad of faith, hope, and charity?”[37]

Brother Jochmus Müller, president of the late German-Catholic Church at Berlin, says in his Kirchenreform (vol. iii. p. 228): “We have more in common with a free-thinking, honest paganism than with a narrow-minded Christianity.”[38]

In the Waarscherwing (vol. xi. Nos. 2 and 8) we find the following:

“The laws of the Mosaic and Christian religions are the contemptible inventions of petty minds bent on deceiving others; they are the most extravagant aberrations of the human intellect.

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

SIR THOMAS MORE.
A HISTORICAL ROMANCE.

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.

II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But your majesty may no longer indulge in this illusion,” replied Cromwell, who stood before the king in an attitude the most humble and servile possible to assume. “You are furnished with incontrovertible proof; Campeggio, in order to escape your imperious commands, urges the Pope to evoke the trial to his own tribunal. Of this there is no doubt, for this copy of his letter I received from the hand of his confidential secretary.”

“You are very adroit, sir,” replied the king, haughtily. “Later, I will consider the manner of rewarding you. But I declare to you your patron is on the brink of ruin. I shall never pardon him for permitting that protest and appeal of the queen to reach Rome.”

“That was truly an unfortunate affair,” replied Cromwell; “but it was perhaps not the fault of my lord, Cardinal Wolsey.”

“Whose fault was it then?” demanded Henry in the imperious tone he used to disconcert this spy whenever his reports displeased him.

“The queen has friends,” replied Cromwell, whilst on his thin, colorless lips hovered a false and treacherous smile, worthy of the wicked instinct that prompted and directed all his suspicions, and made him foresee the surest plan of injuring those whom he envied or destroying those whose reputation he intended to attack.

“And who are they?” demanded the king, his ill-humor increasing with the reflection. “Why do you not name them, sir?”

“Well, for instance, Sir Thomas More, whom your Majesty loads with favors and distinctions, the Bishop of Rochester, the Duke of Norfolk, and the.…”

“You will soon accuse my entire court, and each one of my servants in particular,” cried the king; “and in order still more to exasperate and astound me, you have taken particular pains to select and name those whom I most esteem, and who have always given me the sincerest proofs of their devoted affection. Go!” he suddenly cried in a furious tone; and he fell into one of those wild transports of rage that frequently attacked him when his will clashed against obstacles which he foresaw he could neither surmount nor destroy. He often passed entire days absorbed in these moods of violence, shut up in his own apartments, suffering none to speak to or approach him nor on any account to attempt to divert him.

Abashed and alarmed, Cromwell hastily withdrew, stammering the most humble apologies, none of which, however, reached the ear of Henry VIII., who, on returning to his chamber, raving in a demoniacal manner, exclaimed:

“Vile slaves! you shall be taught to know and to respect my power. I will make you sorely repent the hour you have dared to oppose me!”

Just as he had uttered this threatening exclamation, Cardinal Wolsey appeared. He could not have chosen a more inauspicious moment. The instant he beheld him, the king, glaring on him with flashing eyes, cried out:

“Traitor! what has brought you here? Do you know the ambassadors of Charles and Ferdinand, fortified by the queen’s appeal and protest, have overthrown all I had accomplished at Rome with so much precaution and difficulty? Why have you not foreseen these contingencies, and known that the Pope would prove inflexible? Why have you not advised me against undertaking an almost impossible thing, which will sully the honor of my name and obscure for all time the glory of my reign.”

“Stop, sire,” replied Wolsey; “I do not deserve these cruel reproaches. You can readily recall how earnestly I endeavored to dissuade you from your purpose, but all my efforts were vain.”

“It is false!” cried the king, giving vent to his rage in the most shocking and violent expressions he could command, to inflict upon his minister. “And now,” he continued, “remember well, if you fail to extort from your legate such a decision as I require, you shall speedily be taught what it is to deride my commands.”

The sun had scarcely risen above the horizon when already Cardinal Campeggio (whose age and infirmities had not changed the long habits of an austere and laborious life) was silently kneeling in the midst of the choir of the palace chapel.

The velvet cushions of his prie-dieu protected him from the cold marble of the sacred pavement, while the rays of the rising sun, descending in luminous jets through the arches of the antique windows, fell on the head of the venerable old man, giving him the appearance of being surrounded by a halo of celestial light. His eyes were cast down, and he seemed to be entirely absorbed in pious and profound meditation.

Other thoughts, however, intruded on his agitated mind, and filled him with anxious apprehension. “The hour rapidly approaches,” he mentally exclaimed—“the hour when it will be essential to come to a decision. I have still hoped to receive a reply—it has not yet arrived. I alone am made responsible, and doubtless the wrath of the king will burst upon my head. His vengeance will be terrible. More than once already he has taken occasion to manifest it. What cruel incertitude! What dreadful suspense! Yet what shall be done? Speak! O my conscience!” he exclaimed, “let me listen, and be guided by thy voice alone!”

“Despise the power of the king who demands of thee an injustice,” immediately replied that faithful monitor whose stern and inflexible voice will be summoned to testify against us at the last judgment. “Sayest thou, thou art afraid? Then thou hast forgotten that the last even of those gray hairs still remaining to thee cannot fall without the permission of him who created the universe. Know that the anger of man is but as a vain report—a sound that vanishes in space; and that God permits thee not to hesitate for one instant, O judge! when the cause of the feeble and the innocent claims all the strength of thy protection.”

Irrevocably decided, Campeggio continued his prayer, and waited without further apprehension the decisive moment, so rapidly approaching.

In the meantime, another cardinal, Wolsey, in great anguish of mind, contemplated with terror the approaching day when he would be compelled to decide the fate of the queen. Weary after passing a sleepless night, spent in reflecting on the punishment threatening him if the will of the king was not accomplished, he had scarcely closed his eyes when a troop of valets entered the chamber to assist at his toilet. They brought his richest vestments, with all the insignia of his elevated rank. Wolsey regarded them with a feeling of terror. And when they presented him the ivory rod which the high-chancellor is alone empowered to carry, he seized it with convulsive eagerness, grasping it in his hand, as though he feared they would tear it from him; and with that fear the reflection overshadowed his soul that yesterday he had made a last effort to ascertain and influence the decision of the legate, without being able to succeed!

Followed by his pages and gentlemen, and still harassed by these misgivings, he arrived at Blackfriars, where the court awaited him. The assembly of cardinals arose deferentially as he entered, though all remarked with astonishment the pallor of his countenance and his extreme embarrassment of manner, so invariably composed and assured. A portion of this visible restraint was communicated to the assembly, on learning that the king himself had arrived, and was resolved to sit in the adjoining apartment, where he could see and hear the entire proceedings.

Dr. Bell, his advocate, after a long preamble, began a discourse, and during its delivery hurried exclamations and hasty comments were constantly indulged in by the excited assembly, so different in their hopes, desires, and opinions.

“O Rochester,” cried More, invested with the grand official robes of the king’s exchequer, “do you think this man will succeed with his arguments in carrying the crown by storm?”

“No, no,” replied Rochester, “and especially as he wishes to place it upon such a head.”

“But listen, listen!” exclaimed More, “he declares the brief of dispensation to have been a fraud.”

“Ah! what notorious bad faith!” murmured the bishop.

“What answer can they make to that?” said Viscount Rochford, in another part of the hall, addressing the lords belonging to Anne Boleyn’s party. “It is certainly encouraging; we cannot doubt of our success now.”

But at length the arguments, principally dictated by Henry himself, were closed; his advocate demanding, in the most haughty and authoritative manner, that a decision should at once be rendered, and that it should be as favorable as it was prompt. The king during this time, in a state of great excitement, paced to and fro before the entrance of the hall, the door being left open by every one in passing, as if he were afraid to close it behind him. He surveyed from time to time, with a glance of stern, penetrating scrutiny, the assembly before him, each member of which tried to conceal his true sentiments—some because they were secretly attached to the queen, others through fear that the cause of Anne Boleyn might ultimately triumph. When the advocate had finished his discourse, each one sat in breathless suspense anxiously waiting the queen’s reply; but not recognizing the authority or legality of the tribunal, she had refused to accept counsel, and no one consequently appeared to defend her. Profound silence reigned throughout the assembly, and all eyes were turned toward Campeggio, who arose and stood ready to speak. The venerable old man, calm and dignified, in a mild but firm and decided tone began:

“You ask, or rather you demand,” he said, “that we pronounce a decision which it would be impossible for us in justice to render.” Here, on seeing the king turn abruptly around and confront him, he paused, looking steadily at him. “Knowing that the defendant hath challenged this court, and refused to recognize in our persons loyal and disinterested judges, I have considered it my duty, in order to avoid error, to submit every part of the proceedings of this council to the tribunal of the Sovereign Pontiff; and we shall be compelled to await his decision before rendering judgment or proceeding further. For myself individually, I will furthermore affirm, that I am here to render justice—strict, entire, and impartial justice, and no earthly power can induce me to deviate from the course I have adopted or the resolutions I have taken; and I boldly declare that I am too old, too feeble, and too ill to desire the favor or fear the resentment of any living being.” Here he sat down, visibly agitated.

Had a thunderbolt fallen in the midst of the assembly, the tumult and astonishment could not have been greater. Anger, joy, fear, hope—all hearts were agitated by the most contradictory emotions; while nothing was heard but the deep murmur of voices, the noise of unintelligible words, as they crossed and clashed in an endless diversity of tones. The Duke of Suffolk, brother-in-law of the king, cried out, beating his fists violently on the table before him, with the gross impetuosity of an upstart soldier, that the old adage had again been verified; “Never did a cardinal do any good in England.” And with flashing eyes and furious gestures he pointed to Cardinal Wolsey. The cardinal at once comprehended his danger, but found it impossible not to resent the insult. He arose, pale with anger, and with forced calmness replied that the duke, of all living men, had the least cause to depreciate cardinals. For, notwithstanding he had himself been a very insignificant cardinal, yet, if he had not held the office, the Duke of Suffolk would not this day actually carry his head on big shoulders. “And you would not now,” he added, “be here to exhibit the ostentatious disdain you have manifested toward those who have never given you cause of offence. If you were, my lord, an ambassador of the king to some foreign power, you would surely not venture to decide important questions without first consulting your sovereign. We also are commissioners, and we have no power to pronounce judgment, without first consulting those from whom we derive our authority; we can do neither more nor less than our commissions permit. Calm yourself, then, my lord, and no more address, in this insulting manner, your best friend. You very well know all I have done for you, and you must also acknowledge that on no occasion have I ever referred to your obligations before.”

But the Duke of Suffolk heard nothing of the last words uttered by Wolsey. Exasperated beyond measure, he abruptly turned his back on the cardinal and went to join the king in the next apartment. He found the latter in the act of retiring, being no longer able to restrain his wrath within bounds; and as his courtiers entered and stood regarding him with a look of hesitation he went out, commanding them in a fierce tone and with an imperious gesture to follow him immediately.

Meanwhile, in the council chamber the utmost confusion prevailed. “God be praised!” cried Sir Thomas More, who in the simplicity of his heart and the excess of his joy was incapable of dissimulation or concealment. “God be praised! Our queen is still queen; and may she ever triumph thus over all her enemies!”

Ensconced in the deep embrasure of a window stood Cromwell, a silent observer of the scene; not permitting a word to escape him, but gathering up every sentence with keen avidity, and cherishing it in his envious and malicious memory. He found himself, nevertheless, in a precarious and embarrassing situation. Foreseeing the downfall and disgrace of Wolsey, he had sought to make friends by betraying his benefactor. But the king treated him with indignant scorn, Viscount Rochford with supreme contempt, and he strongly suspected he had prejudiced his sister, Anne Boleyn, also against him.

Anxious and alarmed, he at once determined to begin weaving a new web of intrigue, and instantly cast about him to discover what hope remained, or what results the future might possibly bring forth from the discord and difficulties reigning in the present.

When selfish, corrupt creatures like Cromwell find themselves surrounded by great and important events, they at once assume to become identified with the dearest interests of the community in which they live, without however in reality being in the slightest degree affected, unless through their own interests—seeking always themselves, and themselves alone. Thus this heartless man, this shameful leprosy of the social body that had nurtured him, regarding the whole world entirely with reference to his own selfish designs, coolly speculated upon his premeditated crimes, revolving in his mind a thousand projects of aggrandizement, which he ultimately succeeded in bringing to a culpable but thoroughly successful termination.

The night had already come, yet all were in a state of commotion in the household of the French ambassador, in consequence of William du Bellay, his brother, having at a late hour received a few hasty lines from the bishop, written in the midst of the assembly at Blackfriars, commanding him to hold himself in readiness to depart.

The young envoy, at once obeying orders, assumed his travelling costume, and had scarcely more than attended to the last instructions of his brother when the latter made his appearance.

“Well, brother,” he exclaimed on entering the chamber, “all is over. Are you ready to set out?” he continued, hurriedly surveying his brother’s travelling attire. “The king is furiously enraged—first against the legate, then against Wolsey. But Campeggio has displayed an extraordinary degree of firmness and courage. After he had refused to pronounce the decision, and just as the king was retiring, the expected courier arrived with instructions from Rome. The queen’s protestation has been received, and the Pope, dissolving the council, revokes the commissioners’ authority, and requires the case to be brought before his own tribunal. The adherents of Catherine, as you may suppose, are wild with delight—the people throng the streets, shouting ‘Long live the queen!’ Our gracious king, Francis I., will be in despair.”

“Well,” replied William, “I am satisfied, for I am in favor of the queen. And now, between ourselves, my dear brother, laying all diplomacy aside—for we are alone, and these walls have no ears—I know as well as you that it matters not to our king whether the wife of Henry VIII. be named Anne or Catherine.

“And yet, after all, it may be the name of this new Helen will become the signal for war,” replied the bishop. “You forget that in marrying Anne Boleyn Henry will be compelled to seek an alliance with France, in order to resist the opposition of the Emperor Charles V.; and as for ourselves, we have use for the five thousand crowns he has promised to assist us in paying the ransom of the children of France. This family quarrel can be arranged so entirely to our advantage that it would really be a misfortune should it come to a sudden termination. I hope, however, such may not be the result.”

“You are right, brother,” said Du Bellay, laughing. “I see I have too much heart to make a skilful diplomatist. I have already let myself become ensnared, you perceive, and drawn over to the cause of this Queen Catherine. But it is nevertheless a veritable fact, while families are engaged in disputing among themselves, they generally leave their neighbors in peace. It would seem, however, the king must have become a madman or a fool, thus to ignore kindred, allies, fortune, and kingdom—all for this Lady Anne.”

“Yes, much more than a madman,” replied his brother, phlegmatically; “after he has married her, he will be cured of his insanity. But come, now, let us leave Lady Anne and her affairs. You must know that immediately after the adjournment of the cardinals, the king sent for me. I found him terribly excited, walking rapidly up and down the great hall formerly used as a chapter-room by the monks. Wolsey alone was with him, standing near the abbot’s great arm-chair, and wearing an air of consternation. The instant he saw me approaching, he cried out, ‘Come, come, my lord, the king wishes to have your advice on the subject we are now discussing.’ And I at once perceived my presence was a great relief to him.

“The king spoke immediately, while his eyes flashed fire. ‘M. du Bellay,’ he exclaimed, ‘Campeggio shall be punished!—yes, punished! Parliament shall bring him to trial! I will never submit to defeat in this matter. I will show the Pope that he has underrated both my will and my power.’

“‘Sire,’ I answered, ‘after mature reflection, it seems to me it would be a mistaken policy in your majesty to resort to such violent measures. Nothing has yet been decided, and the case is by no means hopeless; the wisest course would therefore be to restrain all manifestation of displeasure toward Campeggio. What advantage could you possibly gain by insulting or ill-treating an old man whom you have invited into your kingdom, or how could you then expect to obtain a favorable decision from the Holy See?’

“Delighted to hear me express such opinions, Wolsey eagerly caught at my words, declaring he agreed with me entirely. He also advised that the doctors of the French and German universities should be consulted, opinions favorable to the divorce obtained from them, and afterwards this high authority brought to bear upon the decision of the court of Rome.

“‘What do you think of that?’ demanded the king of me. ‘As for His Eminence Monseigneur Wolsey,’ he added, in a tone of cruel contempt, his counsels have already led me into so many difficulties, or proved so worthless, I shall not trouble him for any further advice.’ And he abruptly turned his back on the cardinal.

“A tear rolled slowly down Wolsey’s hollow cheek, but he made no reply. I at once assured the king that I thought, on the contrary, the cardinal’s advice was most excellent, and doubted not our king, and his honored mother, Madame Louise, might be induced to use their influence in order to secure him the suffrages of the University of Paris. Whereupon he appeared very much pleased with me, and bowed me out in the most gracious manner imaginable.

“Report all these things faithfully to your master; tell him I fear the downfall of Wolsey is inevitable; he is equally disliked by the queen’s adherents and those of Anne Boleyn, and I have every reason for believing he will never again be reinstated in the king’s favor. You will also say to him he need not be astonished that I so often send him despatches by express, as Cardinal Wolsey informs me confidentially that the Duke of Suffolk has his emissaries bribed to open all packages of letters sent by post, and that one addressed to me has been miscarried; which circumstance troubles me very much.”

“I will also inform my master,” replied William, “that the Picardy routes are so badly managed, the gentlemen and couriers he sends are constantly detained and kept a considerable time on the journey. I have complained recently to the authorities themselves, who assure me that their salaries are not paid, and consequently they are unable to keep the routes in better condition.”

The sun descended toward the horizon. Sir Thomas More, seated on a terrace of his mansion at Chelsea, sought temporary quiet and repose from the oppressive burdens of a life every hour of which was devoted to the service of his king and country. His young children formed a joyous group around him, their flaxen heads crowned with blades of wheat and wild flowers they had gathered in the fields, for it was the golden time of harvest. Margaret, assisted by William Roper, directed their games, and was now trying to teach them a Scotch dance, marking the wild, fantastical rhythm with the notes of her sweet, melodious voice. Sir Thomas himself had joined in their play, when suddenly the king made his appearance. He had many times already honored them with such visits since Sir Thomas became a member of the council, having apparently conceived a great affection for him, and every day seeming to become more and more pleased with his conversation.

“I know not why it is,” he would often say, “but when I have been for any length of time in conversation with More I experience a singular tranquillity of soul, and indeed feel almost happy. His presence has the magical effect of lulling my cares to sleep and calming my anxieties.”

On seeing the king, More immediately advanced with great deference to receive him, while the children at once left off their sports.

“Why, what is this?” he exclaimed; “I did not come to interrupt your amusements, but on the contrary to enjoy them with you.” But the wild mirth and abandon of the children had fled at the approach of royalty, and, in spite of these kind assurances, they withdrew in rapid succession, too glad to recover their liberty, and their father was thus left alone with the king.

“Who is the young man I see here?” inquired the sovereign.

“He is the affianced husband of my daughter, sire; his name is William Roper,” answered More.

“What! is she affianced already?” said the king.

“Yes, sire; the family of Roper has for many years been united to ours by the sincerest ties of friendship, and, strengthening these by ties of blood, we hope greatly to increase our mutual happiness.”

“That is so,” replied the king. “And they will doubtless be happy. In your families you preserve liberty of choice, while we princes, born to thrones, sacrifice our interior happiness to those political combinations demanded by the interests of our subjects.”

“But,” replied Sir Thomas—who understood at once the king’s intention was to introduce the subject of his divorce, a topic he especially wished to avoid—“I believe that happiness depends on ourselves, on our dispositions, and the manner in which we conduct our affairs, a great deal more than on circumstances, or the social position in which we chance to be born. There are some who, possessing every advantage in life, are still unable to enjoy it. We would suppose them to be perfectly happy, and they really should be so; but true happiness consists alone in tranquillity of soul, which is attained by always doing good to others, and suffering with patient submission the trials and afflictions with which life is inevitably beset. Such, it seems to me, is the circumscribed circle in which man is confined; it is well with him so long as he accommodates himself to its legitimate limits, but all is lost the moment he endeavors to venture beyond it.”

“I am every day more entirely convinced that this figure of the circle is a painful reality,” replied the king, with ill-concealed impatience. “I have always hoped to find happiness in the pursuit of pleasure—in the gratification of every desire—and believed it might thus be attained, but never yet have I been able to grasp it.”

“Which means, your majesty expected to pass through the world without trials—a thing utterly impossible,” added More, smiling.

“It is that which makes me despair, my dear Thomas. Reflecting on the bitter disappointments I have experienced, I am often almost transported with rage. No, More, you can never understand me. You are always equally calm and joyous. Your desires are so happily directed that you can feel well assured of a peaceful, quiet future awaiting you.”

“Your majesty is entirely mistaken,” replied More, “if you believe I have never entertained other desires than those I have been able to accomplish. The only secret I possess, in that respect, is, I compel my inclinations to obey me, instead of making my will subservient to them. Nevertheless, they oftentimes rebel and contend bitterly for supremacy, but then, it is only necessary to command silence, and not be disturbed by their cries and lamentations. Ultimately, they become like refractory children, who, constantly punished and severely beaten, at last are made to tremble at the very thought of the chastisement, and no longer dare to revolt.”

“This explanation of your system of self-government is very ingenious,” replied the king; “and hearing you speak in this quiet manner one would be induced to believe it were the easiest thing imaginable to accomplish, rather than the most difficult. Ah!” he continued with a deep sigh, “I understand but too well how difficult.”

“It is true,” replied More with earnest simplicity, “and I would not deny that, far from being agreeable, it is often, on the contrary, exceedingly painful and difficult for a man to impose these violent restraints upon his inclinations. But if he who hesitates on all occasions in the practice of virtue to do this necessary violence to himself and remain faithful to the requirements of duty, would reflect but for a single instant, he will find that although at first he may escape suffering and privation by voluntarily abandoning himself to his passions, yet, later, he will inevitably be made to endure a far more bitter humiliation in the torturing reproaches of conscience; the shame he will suffer in the loss of self-respect and the respect of others; and, in the inevitable course of events, he will at last discover that his passions have carried him far beyond the power of self-control or reformation!”

“Let us banish these reflections, my dear More,” exclaimed the king in a petulant tone, passing his hand across his forehead; “they distress me, and I prefer a change of subject.” Saying this he arose, and, putting his arm around Sir Thomas’ neck, they walked on together toward the extremity of the garden, which terminated in an extensive and beautiful terrace, at the foot of which flowed the waters of the Thames.

The view was an extended one, and the king amused himself watching the rapid movements of the little boats, filled with fishermen, rowing in every direction, drawing in the nets, which had been spread to dry on the reeds covering the banks of the river. Quantities of water-lilies, blue flowers, floating on their large brilliant green leaves, intermingled with the dark bending heads of the reeds, presenting to the distant observer the appearance of a beautiful variegated carpet of flowers. “What a charming scene!” said the king, gazing at the prospect, and pointing to a boat just approaching the opposite side of the river to land a troop of young villagers, who with their bright steel sickles in hand were returning from the harvest fields.

“And the graceful spire of your Chelsea belfry, gleaming in the distance through the light silvery clouds, completes this charming landscape,” he added.

“Would it were possible to transport this view to the end of one of my drives in St. James’ Park,” continued the king.

“Will it be very soon completed?” asked Sir Thomas, at a loss what to say to his royal visitor.

“I hope so,” replied Henry languidly, “but these architects are so very slow. Before going to Grafton, I gave them numerous orders on the subject.”

“Your majesty has been quite pleased with your journey, I believe,” replied Sir Thomas, instantly reflecting what he should say next.

“I should have been extremely well pleased,” he answered, with a sudden impatience of manner, “had Wolsey not persisted so obstinately in following me. I have been much too indulgent,” he continued sharply, “infinitely too indulgent towards him, and am now well convinced of the mistake I have made in retaining the slightest affection for a man who has so miserably deceived me. What would you think, More,” he continued, his manner suddenly changing, “if I appointed you in his place as lord chancellor?” And, turning towards Sir Thomas, he gazed fixedly in his eyes, as if to read the inmost emotions of his soul.

“What would I think?” answered More, calmly—then adding with a careless smile, “I should think your majesty had done a very wrong thing, and made a very bad choice.”

“Well, I believe I could not possibly make a better,” said the king, emphasizing the last words. “But I have not come here to discuss business matters; rather, on the contrary, to get rid of them. Come, then, entertain me with something more agreeable.” But the words designedly (though with seeming unconcern) uttered by the king cast a sudden gloom over the spirit of Sir Thomas he vainly endeavored to dispel.

“Sire, your majesty is greatly mistaken in entertaining such an idea,” he said, stammering and confused; for, with his sincere and truthful nature, More under all circumstances resolutely looked to the end of everything in which he suspected the least dissimulation.

The king whirled round on his heel, pretending not to hear him. “This is a beautiful rose,” he said, stooping down, “a very beautiful variety—come from the seed, no doubt? Are you a gardener? I am very fond of flowers. Oh! my garden will be superb.”

“Sire,” said More, still pursuing his subject.

“I must have a cutting of that rose—do you hear me, More?” As he ran on in this manner, to prevent Sir Thomas from speaking, the silvery notes of a bell were heard, filling the air with a sweet and prolonged vibrating sound.

“What bell is that?” asked the king.

“The bell of our chapel, sire,” replied More, “summoning us to evening prayers, which we usually prefer saying all together. But to-day, your majesty having honored us with a visit, there will be no obligation to answer the call.”

“By all means,” replied Henry. “Let me interfere with nothing. It is almost night: come. We will return, and I will join in your devotions.”

Sir Thomas conducted him through the shrubbery towards the chapel, a venerable structure in the Anglo-Saxon style of architecture. A thick undergrowth of briers, brambles, and wild shrubbery was matted and interlaced around the foundation of the building; running vines clambered over the heavy arches of the antique windows, and fell back in waving garlands upon the climbing branches from which they had sprung. The walls, of rough unhewn stone, were thickly covered with moss and ivy, giving the little structure an appearance of such antiquity that the most scrupulous antiquarian would have unhesitatingly referred its foundation to the time of King Athelstan or his brother Edmund. The interior was adorned with extreme care and taste. A bronze lamp, suspended before the altar, illuminated a statue of the Holy Virgin placed above it. The children of Sir Thomas, with the servants of his household, were ranged in respectful silence behind the arm-chair of his aged father. Margaret knelt beside him with her prayer-book, waiting to begin the devotions.

The touching voice of this young girl as she slowly repeated the sublime words—“Our Father who art in heaven”—those words which men may so joyfully pronounce, which teach us the exalted dignity of our being, the grandeur of our origin and destiny—those sublime words penetrated the soul of the king with a profound and singular emotion.

“What a happy family!” he exclaimed, mentally. “Nothing disturbs their harmony; day after day passes without leaving a regret behind it. Why can I not join in this sweet prayer—why, O my soul, hast thou banished and forgotten it?” He turned from the contemplation of these youthful heads bowed before the Mother of God, and a wave of bitter remorse swept once again over his hardened, hypocritical soul.

After the king had returned to his royal palace and the evening repast was ended, William Roper approached Sir Thomas and said:

“You must consider yourself most fortunate, my dear father, in enjoying so intimately the favor of his majesty—why, even Cardinal Wolsey cannot boast of being honored with such a degree of friendship and familiarity.”

With a sad smile More, taking the young man’s hand, replied:

“Know, my son, I can never be elated by it. If this head, around which he passed his royal arm so affectionately this evening, could in falling pay the price of but one single inch of French territory, he would, without a moment’s hesitation, deliver it up to the executioner.”

“What acknowledgments do I not owe you, madam,” said Sir Thomas Cheney to Lady Anne Boleyn, “for the services you have rendered me. But dare I hope for a full pardon from the king?”

“Feel perfectly secure on that point,” replied Lady Anne. “He is convinced that Wolsey had you banished from court because of your disagreement with Cardinal Campeggio, and he considers you now one of his most faithful adherents.”

“And I hope, madam, to have the happiness of proving to you that I am none the less faithfully your servant,” replied Sir Thomas Cheney.

“You must admit now,” said Lady Anne, addressing her father and brother, the Earl of Wiltshire and the Viscount Rochford, who were both present, “that I succeed in doing what I undertake.”

“You succeed in what you undertake,” replied her father humorously, “but you are a long time in deciding what to do. For instance, Cardinal Wolsey finds himself to-day occupying a position in which he has no right to be.”

“Ah! well, he will not remain in it very long,” replied Anne Boleyn, petulantly. “This morning the king told me the ladies would attend the chase to see the new falcons the king of France has sent him by Monsieur de Sansac. I will talk to him, and insist on his having nothing more to do with this horrid cardinal, or I shall at once quit the court. But,” she added, pausing suddenly with an expression of extreme embarrassment, “how should I answer were he to demand what his eminence Monseigneur Wolsey had ever done to me?”

“Here, sister, here is your answer,” replied Viscount Rochford, taking a large manuscript book from his father’s portfolio. “Take it and read for yourself; you will find here all you would need for a reply.”

“That great book!” cried Anne, strongly opposed to this new commission, and pouting like a spoilt child. Taking the book, she read—skipping a great deal, however—a minutely detailed statement, formally accusing Wolsey of having engaged in a secret correspondence with France, and with the most adroit malice misrepresenting every act of his administration as well as of his private life.

“What! can all this be true?” cried Anne Boleyn, closing the book.

“Certainly true,” replied Rochford. “And furthermore, you should know, the cardinal, in order to reward Campeggio for the good services he has rendered you, has persuaded the king to send him home loaded with rich presents, to conciliate the Pope, he says, by his filial submission and pious dispositions, and incline him to a favorable decision. That is the way he manages,” continued Rochford, shrugging his shoulders, “and keeps you in the most humiliating position ever occupied by a woman.”

Hearing her brother speak thus, the beautiful face of Anne Boleyn became instantly suffused with a deep crimson.

“Oh! that odious man,” she cried passionately. “I shall no longer submit to it. It is to insult me he makes such gracious acknowledgments to that old cardinal. I will complain to the king. Oh! how annoying all this is, though,” and she turned the book over and over in her white hands.

“But see, it is time to start,” she added, pointing to a great clock standing in one corner of the apartment. “Good-by; I must go!” And Anne, attired in an elegant riding-habit, abruptly turning to a mirror, proceeded to adjust her black velvet riding-cap, when, observing a small plume in her hat that was not arranged to her taste, she exclaimed, violently stamping her little foot:

“How many contradictions shall I meet this day? I cannot endure it! All those horrid affairs to think of, to talk about and explain; all your recommendations to follow in the midst of a delightful hunting party; and then, after all, this hat which so provokes me! No; I can never fix it.” And she hurried away to find a woman skilled in the arts of the toilet. But after making her sew and rip out again, bend the plume and straighten it, place it forward and then back, she did not succeed in fixing it to suit the fancy of Anne Boleyn, who, seeing the time flying rapidly, ended by cutting off the plume with the scissors, throwing it angrily on the floor and stamping it, putting the offending cap on her head without a plume; then mounting her horse she rode off, accompanied by Sir Thomas Cheney, who escorted her, knowing she was to join the king on the road.

“How impulsive and thoughtless your sister is,” said Earl Wiltshire to his son, after Anne had left them, looking gloomily at the plume, still lying on the floor where she had thrown it. “She wants to be queen! Do you understand how much is comprised in that word? Well, she would accept a crown and fix it on her head with the same eager interest that she would order a new bonnet from her milliner. Yet I firmly believe, before accepting it, she would have to be well assured by her mirror that it was becoming to her style of beauty.”

“I cannot comprehend her,” responded Rochford. “Her good sense and judgment sometimes astonish me; then suddenly a ball, a dress, a new fashion has sufficed to make her forget the most important matter that might be under discussion. I am oftentimes led to wonder whence comes this singular mixture of frivolity and good sense in women. Is it a peculiarity of their nature or the result of education?”

“It is entirely the fault of education, my son, and not of their weakness. From infancy they are taught to look upon ribbons, laces, frivolities, and fashions as the most precious and desirable things. In fact, they attach to these miserable trifles the same value that young men place on a brilliant armor or the success of a glorious action.”

“It may be so,” replied Rochford, “but I think they are generally found as incompetent for business as incapable of managing affairs of state.”

“While very young, perhaps not,” answered Wiltshire; “proud and impulsive, they are neither capable of nor inclined to dissimulation; but later in life they develop a subtle ingenuity and an extreme degree of penetration, that enable them to succeed most admirably.”

“Ah! well, if the truth might be frankly expressed, I greatly fear that all this will turn out badly. Should we not succeed in espousing my sister to the king, she will be irretrievably compromised; and then you will deeply regret having broken off her marriage with Lord Percy.”

“You talk like an idiot,” replied the Earl of Wiltshire. “Your sister shall reign, or I perish. Why should my house not give a queen to the throne of England? Would it not be far better if our kings should select wives from the nobility of their country instead of marrying foreign princesses—strangers alike to the manners and customs as well as to the interests of the people over whom they are destined to reign?”

“You would probably be right,” replied Viscount Rochford, “if the king were not already married; but the clergy will always oppose this second marriage. They do not dare to express themselves openly because they fear the king, but in the end they will certainly preserve the nation in this sentiment. I fear that Anne will yet be very unhappy, and I am truly sorry now she cannot be made Countess of Northumberland.”

“Hold your tongue, my son,” cried Wiltshire, frantic with rage; “will you repeat these things to your sister, and renew her imaginary regrets also? As to these churchmen over whom you make so great an ado,” he continued with a menacing gesture, “I hope soon we shall be able to relieve them of the fortunes with which they are encumbered, and compel them to disgorge in our favor. You say that women are weak and fickle! If so, you certainly resemble them in both respects—the least difficulty frightens you into changing your opinions, and you hesitate in the midst of an undertaking that has been planned with the greatest ability, and which, without you, I confidently believe I shall be able to accomplish.”

TO BE CONTINUED.

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