THE PATIENT CHURCH.

“With golden stars above.”

But in his “Tale of Acadie” our American Wordsworth touches with sympathetic finger the chords that vibrate with feeling in common hearts. This is the lyre he sweeps with a magic sweetness not excelled by any modern English poet.Evangelineis a poem of the hearth and domestic love. That is to say, though it is true the heroine and her betrothed never come together in one happy home, the feelings described are such as might without shame beat tenderly in any Christian maiden’s breast; such, too, as any husband might wish his wife to feel. How different is this from the fierce passion—a surrender to the lower nature—which burns and writhes and contorts itself in Mr. Swinburne’s heroines! One is Christian Love, the other the pagan brutishness of Juvenal’s Messalina. It may be said indeed with truth that, in portraying a Catholic maiden and a Catholic community, Mr. Longfellow has, with the intuition of genius, reflected in this poem the purity and fidelity blessed by the church in the love it sanctions. His admirers, therefore, cannot but regret that debasing contact with the new school of the XIXth-century realism which, in such an one of his later poems, for example, as that entitled “Love,” draws him to the worship of the “languors” and “kisses” of the Lucretian Venus. The love of Evangeline is that which is affected by refined women in every society—humble though the poet’s heroine be; the other strips the veil from woman’s weakness.

The charm of the poem is that it transports us to a scene Arcadian, idyllic, yet which impresses us with its truthfulness to nature. This is not Acadia only, but Arcadia. The nymphs, and the shepherds and shepherdesses, and the god Pan with his oaten reed, put off the stage costumes worn by them in the pages of Virgil or on the canvas of Watteau, and, lo! here they are in real life in the village of Grand Pré—Evangeline milking the kine, Gabriel Lajeunesse, and Michael the fiddler, and the level Acadian meadows walled in by their dykes from the turmoil of war that shook the world all around them. The picture is truthful; but truthful rather by the effect of the bold touches that befit the artistand poet than in the multitude of details—some more prosaic, some not so charming—which, massed together, make up the more faithful portrait of the historian. The description of scenery in the poem confuses the natural features of two widely-separated and different sections of the country; the Evangeline of Grand Pré is not in all respects the Acadian girl of Charlevoix or Murdock; the history of men and manners on the shores of the Basin of Mines,[231]as depicted by the poet, is sadly at variance with the angry, tumultuous, suspicious, blood-stained annals of those settlements. Strange as it may seem, the poem is truer of the Acadians of to-day, again living in Nova Scotia, than of their expatriated forefathers. Remoteness of time did not mean, in their case, a golden age of peace and plenty. Far from it! It meant ceaseless war on the borders, the threats and intrigues of a deadly national feud, the ever-present, overhanging doom of exile, military tyranny, and constant English espionage. Now absolute peace reigns within the townships still peopled by their descendants, and the Acadian peasant and village maiden cling in silence and undisturbed to the manners their fathers brought from Normandy nearly three centuries ago.

The first few lines give the coloring to the whole poem. They are the setting within which are grouped the characters.

“This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,”

“This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,

Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,”

stand “like Druids of eld,” or “harpers hoar”;

“While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced neighboring oceanSpeaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.”

“While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced neighboring ocean

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.”

This is the refrain running through the poem like theariaof the “Last Rose of Summer” throughMartha. Yet the picture conveyed to the reader’s mind is that of the Atlantic coast of Acadia, or Nova Scotia, not of the Basin of Mines, where Evangeline dwelt with her people. The natural features of the two sections of country are strikingly diverse. On the east coast of Nova Scotia rises a line of granitic and other cliffs, sterile, vast, jagged, opposing their giant shoulders to the roaring surges of the Atlantic. On the hills behind, the pines and hemlocks rustle and murmur in answer to the waves. This is the “forest primeval” and the “loud-voiced neighboring ocean.” But on the west coast is quite another scene. The Basin of Mines is an inland gulf of an inland sea—the Bay of Fundy. Here the granite rocks and murmuring pines give place to red clay-banks and overflowed marshes. And here is Horton, or Grand Pré. It is separated by the whole breadth of the peninsula of Nova Scotia from the ocean. The “mists from the mighty Atlantic,” which

“Looked on the happy valley, but ne’er from their station descended,”

are in reality the fogs of the Bay of Fundy shut out by the North Mountain. Instead of the long swell of the Atlantic breaking on a rocky coast, we have in the Basin of Mines numerous small rivers running through an alluvial country, with high clay-banks left bare by the receding tide. This last feature of the scene is correctly described by the poet; but it must be borne in mind that it is not united with the natural features of theeast coast. The Acadians never, in fact, affected the Atlantic sea-board. They sailed shuddering past its frowning and wintry walls, and, doubling Cape Sable, beat up the Bay of Fundy to where the sheltered Basins of Port Royal and Mines invited an entrance from the west. For over one hundred years after the founding of Port Royal the Atlantic coast of Acadia remained a waste. A fishing-village at Canseau on the north—a sort of stepping-stone to and from the great fortress of Louisburg—and a few scattered houses and clearings near La Tour’s first settlement alone broke the monotonous silence of the wilderness. The Indian hunter tracking the moose over the frozen surface of the snow, and some half-solitary Irish and New England fishermen in Chebucto Bay, divided the rest of the country between them. It was not until 1749 that Cornwallis landed his colonists at Halifax, and made the first solid footing on the Atlantic coast. But for generations previously, in the rich valley of the River of Port Royal, and along the fertile banks of the streams flowing into the Basin of Mines—the Gaspereau, the Canard, and the Pereau—the thrifty Acadians spread their villages, built their churches, and were married and buried by the good Recollect Fathers.

I was a lad scarce emancipated from college when I first visited those scenes. I remember well my emotion when I drew my eyes away from the landscape, and, turning to my companion, Father K——, asked him if there were any remains of the old village of Grand Pré. To my youthful imagination Evangeline was as real as the people about me. Father K—— was the priest stationed at Kentville, about ten miles distant from Grand Pré and the Gaspereau River, which were included in his mission. He was an old family friend, and I was going to spend the summer vacation with him. We were driving from Windsor through Horton and Wolfville to Kentville, passing on our road through all the scenes described in the poem. I have often visited that part of the country since then, but never has it made such an impression on me. The stage-coach then rolled between Windsor and Kentville, and something of the rural simplicity congenial with the poem was still felt to be around one. Last year I rode by rail over the same ground, and later on another line of railroad to Truro, and thence around the Basin of Mines on the north through Cumberland. But my feelings had changed, or the whistle of the locomotive was a sound alien to the memories of those green meadows and intersecting dykes. Evangeline was no longer a being to be loved, but a beautiful figment of the poet’s brain.

I don’t know to this day whether Father K—— was quizzing me, or was loath to shatter my boyish romance, when he told me that there were some old ruins which were said to be the home of Evangeline. It is probable he was having a quiet joke at my expense, as he was noted for his fund of humor, which I learned better to appreciate in later years. Poor Father K——! He was a splendid type of the old Irish missionary priest—an admirable Latinist; well read in English literature, especially the Queen Anne poets; hearty, jovial, and could tell a story that would set the table in a roar. And, withal, no priest worked harder than he did in his wide and laborious mission, or was a moretender-hearted friend of the poor and afflicted. He is since dead.

During the month or six weeks I spent with Father K——, that part of the country became quite familiar to me by means of his numerous drives on parish duties, when I usually accompanied him. Often, as the shades of the summer evening descended, have I watched the mists across the Basin shrouding the bluff front of Cape Blomidon—“Blow-me-down,” as it is more commonly called by the country-folk. At other times we drove up the North Mountain, where the

“Sea-fogs pitched their tents,”

and, standing there, I have looked down upon the distant glittering waters of the Bay of Fundy.

On one occasion we rode over from Kentville to Wolfville, and then up the Gaspereau, at the mouth of which

“The English ships at their anchors”

swung with the tide on the morning which ushered in the doom of Grand Pré. We rode some distance up the valley to the house of a Catholic farmer, and there put up for the day. It was the day on which the elections took place for the House of Assembly. The contest was fiercely conducted amid great popular excitement. One of those “No-Popery” cries, fomented by an artful politician—which sometimes sweep the colonies as well as the mother country—was raging in the province. Father K—— left Kentville, the county town, on that day to avoid all appearance of interference in the election, and also to get away from the noise and confusion that pervaded the long main street of the village. I can remember the news coming up the Gaspereau in the evening how every one of the four candidates opposed to Father K—— had been returned. But at that time I paid little heed to politics, and during the day I wandered down through the field to the river, and strolled along its willow-fringed banks. Some of those willows were very aged, and might have swung their long, slim wands and narrow-pointed leaves over an Evangeline and a Gabriel a hundred years before. Those willows were not the natural growth of the forest, but were planted there—by whom? No remnant of the people that first tilled the valley was left to say!

Riding home next day, a laughable incident, but doubtless somewhat annoying to Father K——, occurred. Just as we were about to turn a narrow bend of the road, suddenly we were confronted by a long procession in carriages and all sorts of country vehicles, with banners flying, men shouting, and everything to indicate a triumphal parade. It was, in fact, a procession escorting two of the “No-Popery” members elected the day before. The position was truly rueful, but Father K—— had to grin and bear it. There was no escape for us; we had to draw up at the side of the road, and sit quietly in our single wagon until the procession passed us. It was a very orderly and good-humored crowd, but there were a good many broad grins, as they rode by, at having caught the portly and generally popular priest in such a trap. Nothing would persuade them, of course, but that he had been working might and main for the other side during the election. Finally, as the tail of the procession passed us, some one in the rear, more in humor than in malice, sang out: “To h—ll with the Pope.” Therewas a roar of laughter at this, during which Father K—— gathered up his reins, and, saying something under his breath which I will not vouch for as strictly a blessing, applied the whip to old Dobbin with an energy that that respectable quadruped must have thought demanded explanation.

Changed indeed was such a scene from those daily witnessed when Father Felician,

“Priest and pedagogue both in the village,”

ruled over his peaceful congregation at the mouth of the Gaspereau.

It has been said in the beginning of this article that Evangeline, the heroine and central figure of the poem, is not altogether true to history as typical of the Acadian girl of that period, as seen in the annals of Port Royal; and doubtless this assertion can be borne out by the records. But, on second thoughts, it does appear, as it were, a profanation to subject such a bright creation of the poet’s mind to the analysis of history. As profitably might we set about converting the diamond into its original carbon. The magical chemistry of genius, as of nature, has in either case fused the dull and common atoms into the sparkling and priceless jewel.

The stoutest champion of her sex will not, upon consideration, contend that so absolutely perfect a creature as Evangeline is likely to be found in any possible phase of society. Is not a spice of coquetry inseparable from all women? Evangeline has none of it. She is, too, too unconscious that her lover

“Watches for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow”

under the trees in the orchard. She is the heroine of an idyl—not, indeed, of unreal Arthurian romance, but of that exalted and passionless love which the virgin heart seeks, but afterwards consoles itself for not finding. That ideal star does not shine upon this world; but its divine rays fall softly upon many an unknown heart in the cloister.

But it is incontestable that the Acadian maidens of Port Royal and Mines shared in some of the agreeable frivolities which still, it is said, sometimes distinguish their sisters in the world. They had an eye for a military uniform and clanking spurs even in those “primeval” days. It is a frequent complaint of the French governors to the home authorities at Paris that their young officers were being continually led into marriage with girls of the country “without birth,” and, worse still, often “without money.” In the old parish register of Annapolis can be seen more than one entry of the union of a gallant ensign or captain to a village belle from the inland settlements whose visit to the Acadian metropolis had subjugated the Gallic son of Mars. Nor was the goddess of fashion altogether without a shrine in close contiguity to the “murmuring pines and the hemlocks.” Some of the naval and military officers sent for their wives from Paris or Quebec, and these fine ladies brought their maids with them. This is not a supposition, but a fact which can be verified by reference to the letters of M. des Goutins and others in the correspondence of the time. Imagine a Parisian soubrette of the XVIIIth century in the village of Grand Pré! It is a shock to those who derive their knowledge of Acadie from Mr. Longfellow’s poem; but those who are familiar with thevoluminous records of the day, preserved in the provincial archives, are aware of a good many stranger things than that related in them. SinceEvangelinewas published the Canadian and Nova Scotian governments have done much to collect and edit their records, and they are now accessible to the student. Rightly understood, there is no reason why the flood of light thus thrown upon the lives of the Acadians should detract anything from our admiration for that simple and kindly race. They were not faultless; but the very fact that they shared in the common interests, and even foibles, of the rest of the world gives that tone of reality to their history which makes us sympathize with them more justly in the cruel fate that overtook them. Yet, in depicting the young Acadian girl of that period as he has done, the poet has but idealized the truth. The march of the history of her people aids him in making the portrait a faithful one. Had he placed the time a little earlier—that is to say, under the French-Acadianrégime—and his heroine at Annapolis, his poem could not have borne the criticism of later research. But in selecting the most dramatic incident of Acadian history as the central point of interest, he has necessarily shifted the scene to one of the Neutral French settlements. Here, too, he is aided in maintaining the truthfulness of his portraiture by the fact that the English conquest, in depriving the Acadians of the right of political action, and cutting them off as much as possible from intercourse with Canada and France, had thrown them back upon rural occupations alone, and developed their simple virtues. Mines and Chignecto had been noted for their rustic independence and their manners uncorrupted by contact with the world, even under the oldrégime. One of the military governors of Port Royal complains of them as “semi-republicans” in a letter to the Minister of Marine and Colonies at Paris. After the conquest of 1710, intercourse with Annapolis and its English Government House and foreign garrison became even more restricted. No oath of allegiance being taken to the new government, thecuréwas recognized both by the inhabitants and the Annapolis government as their virtual ruler. Under the mild sway of Fathers Felix, Godalie, and Miniac—in turncurésof Mines—the Acadians sought to forget in the cultivation of their fields the stern military surveillance of Annapolis, and, later, Fort Edwards and Fort Lawrence. Father Miniac comes latest in time, and shared the misfortunes of his flock in their expulsion. But in Father Godalie, the accomplished scholar and long-loved friend of the people of Grand Pré, we seem best to recognize the “Father Felician” of Mr. Longfellow’s poem. He was a guide well fitted to form the lovely character of Evangeline; nor do the authentic records of the time bear less ample testimony to the virtue of his people than the glowing imagination of the poet.

It is less in the delineation of individual character than in its description of the undisturbed peace reigning at Grand Pré that the poem departs most from the truth of history. The expulsion of 1755 was not a thunderbolt in a clear sky descending upon a garden of Eden. It was a doom known to be hanging over them for fortyyears. Its shadow, more or less threatening for two generations, was present in every Acadian household, disabling industry and driving the young men into service or correspondence with their French compatriots. Space would not permit, in so short a paper, to enter into the history of that desperate struggle for supremacy on this continent ending on the heights of Abraham, isolated chapters of which have been narrated with a graphic pen by Mr. Francis Parkman. Acadie was one of its chosen battlegrounds. So far from the Acadians living in rural peace and content, it may be said broadly yet accurately that from the date of their first settlement to their final expulsion from the country, during a period extending over one hundred and fifty years, five years had never passed consecutively without hostilities, open or threatened. The province changed masters, or was wholly or partially conquered, seven times in a little over one hundred years, and the final English conquest, so far from establishing peace, left the Acadians in a worse position than before. They refused to take the oath of allegiance to the English government; the French government was not able to protect them, though it used them to harass the English.

They acquired, therefore, by a sort of tacit understanding, the title and position of the “Neutral French,” the English government simply waiting from year to year until it felt itself strong enough to remove themen massefrom the province, and the Acadians yearly expecting succor from Quebec or Louisburg. Each party regarded the other as aliens and enemies. Hence it is that no French-Acadian would ever have used the words “his majesty’s mandate”—applied to George II.—as spoken by Basil the blacksmith in the poem. That single expression conveys a radically false impression of the feelings of the people at the time. The church at Mines, or Grand Pré, from the belfry of which

“Softly the Angelus sounded,”

had been burned down twice by the English and its altar vessels stolen by Col. Church in the old wars. Nor had permanent conquest, as we have said, brought any change for the better. Thecuréswere frequently imprisoned on pretext of exciting attacks on the English garrisons, and sometimes, as in the case of Father Felix and Father Charlemagne, were exiled from the province. In 1714 the intention was first announced of transporting all the Acadians from their homes. It was proposed to remove them to Cape Breton, still held by the French. The pathetic remonstrance of Father Felix Palm, thecuréof Grand Pré, in a letter and petition to the governor, averted this great calamity from his people at that time. But the project was again revived by the English Board of Trade, 1720-30. In pursuance of its orders, Gov. Philipps issued a proclamation commanding the people of Mines to come in and take the oath of allegiance by a certain day, or to depart forthwith out of the province, permitting, at the same time—a stretch of generosity which will hardly be appreciated at this day—each family to carry away with it “two sheep,” but all the rest of their property to be confiscated. This storm also blew over. But the result of this continual harassment and threatening was to drive the Acadians into closer correspondence with the French atLouisburg, and to cause their young men to enlist in the French-Canadian forces on the frontier. In view of this aid and comfort given to the enemy, and their persistent refusal to take the oath of allegiance, later English writers have not hesitated to declare the removal of the Acadians from the province a political and military necessity. But the otherwise unanimous voice of humanity has unequivocally denounced their wholesale deportation as one of the most cruel and tyrannical acts in the colonial history of England. We are not to suppose, however, that the Acadians folded their hands while utter ruin was thus threatening them. In 1747 they joined in the attack on Col. Noble’s force at Mines, in which one hundred of the English were killed and wounded, and the rest of his command made prisoners. They were accused, not without some show of reason, of supporting the Indians in their attack on the new settlement at Halifax. It is admitted that three hundred of them, including many of the young men from Grand Pré, were among the prisoners taken at Fort Beau Sejour on the border a few months before their expulsion. It is not our purpose to enter into any defence or condemnation of those hostilities. But it is plain that Mr. Longfellow’s beautiful lines describing the columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense, ascending

“From a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment,”

“free from fear, that reigns with the tyrant, or envy, the vice of republics,” were not applicable to the condition of affairs at Grand Pré in 1755, nor at any time.

The poem follows with fidelity the outlines of the scenes of the expulsion. Heart-rending indeed is the scene, as described even by those who were agents in its execution. The poet gives almostverbatimthe address of Col. John Winslow in the chapel. Nevertheless one important clause is omitted. Barbarous as were the orders of Gov. Lawrence, he was not absolutely devoid of humanity. Some attempt was made to lessen the pangs of separation from their country by the issuing of orders to the military commanders that “whole families should go together on the same transport.” These orders were communicated with the others to the inhabitants by Col. Winslow, and it appears, they were faithfully executed as far as the haste of embarkation would permit. But as the young men marched separately to the ships, and some of them escaped for a time into the woods, there was nothing to prevent such an incident occurring as the separation of Evangeline and Gabriel.

About seven thousand (7,000) Acadians, according to Gov. Lawrence’s letter to Col. Winslow, were transported from their homes. The total number of these unfortunate people in the province at that time has been estimated at eighteen thousand. The destruction was more complete at Grand Pré than elsewhere, that being the oldest settlement, with the exception of Annapolis, and the most prosperous and thickly settled. A few years later another attempt was made to transfer the remainder of the Acadian population to New England; but the transports were not permitted to land them at Boston, as they were completely destitute, and the New England commonwealths petitioned against being made responsible for their support. The Acadian exiles were scattered overPennsylvania, Virginia, and Georgia. About four hundred and fifty were landed at Philadelphia.

“In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware’s waters,Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn, the apostle,Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded.…There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile,Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country.”

“In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware’s waters,

Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn, the apostle,

Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded.

…

There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile,

Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country.”

A few months ago I visited the Quaker City. There, where Evangeline ended her long pilgrimage, I took up the thread of that story the early scenes of which had been so familiar to me. How different those around me! Gone were the balsamic odors of the pines and the salt spray of the ocean. One can conceive how the hearts of the poor Acadian exiles must have trembled. I sought out the old “Swedish church at Wicaco,” whence the “sounds of psalms

“Across the meadows were wafted”

on the Sabbath morning when Evangeline went on her way to the hospital, and there found her lover dying unknown. The quaint little church—not larger than a country school-house—built of red and black bricks brought from Sweden, is now almost lost in a corner near the river’s edge, in the midst of huge warehouses and intersecting railroad tracks. In the wall near the minister’s desk is a tablet in memory of the first pastor and his wife buried beneath. Fastened to the gallery of the choir—not much higher than one’s head—is the old Swedish Bible first used in the church, and over it two gilded wooden cherubs—also brought from Sweden—that make one smile at their comical features. In the churchyard, under the blue and faded gray tombstones, repose the men and women of the congregation of 1755 and years before. But no vestiges of the Acadian wanderers remain in the Catholic burying-ground.

“Side by side in their nameless graves the lovers are sleeping.Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard,In the heart of the city, they lie unknown and unnoticed.”

“Side by side in their nameless graves the lovers are sleeping.

Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard,

In the heart of the city, they lie unknown and unnoticed.”

Many of the Acadians succeeded in wandering back to their country. Others escaped into what is now called New Brunswick, which was then a part of Acadia, and either returned to Nova Scotia in after-years when the whole of Canada was finally ceded to the English, or founded settlements, existing to this day in New Brunswick, and returning their own members to the Provincial Parliaments. The descendants of the Acadians, still speaking the French language and retaining the manners of their forefathers, are more numerous than is generally supposed in Nova Scotia. They number thirty-two thousand out of a total population of three hundred and eighty-seven thousand (387,000), according to the census of 1871. The poet says:

“Only along the shore of the mournful and misty AtlanticLinger a few Acadian peasants.…Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun,And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline’s story.”

“Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic

Linger a few Acadian peasants.…

Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun,

And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline’s story.”

This refers, no doubt, to the settlement at Chezzetcook, which, from its closeness to Halifax, is best known. On Saturday mornings, in the market at Halifax, the Acadian women can be seen standing with their baskets of eggs and woollen mitts and socks for sale. They are at once recognized by their short blue woollen outer petticoats or kirtles, and their little caps, with their black hair drawn tightly up fromthe forehead under them. The young girls are often very pretty. They have delicate features, an oval face, a clear olive complexion, and eyes dark and shy, like a fawn’s. They soon fade, and get a weather-beaten and hard expression from exposure to the climate on their long journeys on foot and from severe toil.

But in Yarmouth County, and on the other side of the peninsula in the township of Clare, Digby County, there are much larger and more prosperous settlements. Clare is almost exclusively French-Acadian. The people generally send their own member to the provincial House of Assembly. He speaks French more fluently than English. The priest preaches in French. Here at this day is to be found the counterpart of the manners of Grand Pré. Virtue, peace, and happiness reign in more than “a hundred homes” under the old customs. Maidens as pure and sweet as Evangeline can be seen as of old walking down the road to the church on a Sunday morning with their “chaplet of beads and their missal.” But the modern dressmaker and milliner has made more headway than among the poor Chezzetcook people. Grand Pré itself, and most of the old Acadian settlements, are inhabited by a purely British race—descendants of the North of Ireland and New England settlers who received grants of the confiscated lands. By a singular turn of fortune’s wheel the descendants of another expatriated race—the American loyalists—now people a large part of the province once held by the exiled Acadians.

Bide thou thy time!Watch with meek eyes the race of pride and crime,Sit in the gate, and be the heathen’s jest,Smiling and self-possest.O thou, to whom is pledged a victor’s sway,Bide thou the victor’s day!Think on the sinThat reap’d the unripe seed, and toil’d to winFoul history-marks at Bethel and at Dan—No blessing, but a ban;Whilst the wise Shepherd hid his heaven-told fate,Nor reck’d a tyrant’s hate.Such loss is gain;Wait the bright Advent that shall loose thy chain!E’en now the shadows break, and gleams divineEdge the dim, distant line.When thrones are trembling, and earth’s fat ones quail,True seed! thou shalt prevail.—Newman.

Bide thou thy time!

Watch with meek eyes the race of pride and crime,

Sit in the gate, and be the heathen’s jest,

Smiling and self-possest.

O thou, to whom is pledged a victor’s sway,

Bide thou the victor’s day!

Think on the sinThat reap’d the unripe seed, and toil’d to winFoul history-marks at Bethel and at Dan—No blessing, but a ban;Whilst the wise Shepherd hid his heaven-told fate,Nor reck’d a tyrant’s hate.

Think on the sin

That reap’d the unripe seed, and toil’d to win

Foul history-marks at Bethel and at Dan—

No blessing, but a ban;

Whilst the wise Shepherd hid his heaven-told fate,

Nor reck’d a tyrant’s hate.

Such loss is gain;Wait the bright Advent that shall loose thy chain!E’en now the shadows break, and gleams divineEdge the dim, distant line.When thrones are trembling, and earth’s fat ones quail,True seed! thou shalt prevail.

Such loss is gain;

Wait the bright Advent that shall loose thy chain!

E’en now the shadows break, and gleams divine

Edge the dim, distant line.

When thrones are trembling, and earth’s fat ones quail,

True seed! thou shalt prevail.

—Newman.

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.

William du Bellay having remained in France, M. de Vaux had been sent to replace him in England. The latter, having but recently returned from Rome, where he was attached to the embassy of M. de Grammont, French ambassador to that court, was not yet initiated into the state of affairs as they existed at the court of Henry VIII.

Du Bellay was not satisfied with the change; and the old diplomate, finding his new assistant inclined to be somewhat dull, undertook to enlighten him—leading him on step by step into the intricacies of diplomacy, like a mother, or rather a governess, a little brusque, who is impatient at the slow progress the child makes in learning to walk.

“Come!” he exclaimed, “I see you understand nothing of this; so I shall have to be patient and begin it all over again. It is incredible,” he added, by way of digression, addressing himself to the public (who was absent), “what absurd reports are circulated outside with regard to what we say and do in our secret negotiations! It extends even to all these harebrains of the court; but you who have a foot in diplomacy I cannot excuse. Come, let us see—we say:

“When my brother left, he went to demand on the part of Henry VIII., of the universities of France, and above all that of Paris (preponderating over all the others)—remark well: to demand, I say—that they should give decisions favorable to the divorce. Now, this point appeared at first quite insignificant; but it is just here we have shown our ability (I would say I, but I do not wish to vauntmyselfover a young man just starting out in the world like yourself). Then our king has replied to the King of England that he would ask nothing better than to use his influence with the universities to induce them to give satisfaction on this subject; but that (notice this especially) the Emperor Charles V. had made precisely the same demand in an opposite direction, in favor of Queen Catherine, his aunt; that if he refused the emperor, he would be extremely displeased, and that he was compelled to reflect a second time, because the princes, his children, were held as hostages in the hands of the emperor, and in spite of all his efforts he had not yet been able to pay the price of their ransom stipulated at the treaty of Cambrai.

“It then remained to say that we could do nothing for him—on the contrary, must oppose him so long as the children were held prisoners, or while there was even a chance that they would be restored to us on condition that we should throw our influence on the side of Queen Catherine. All of which is as clear as day—is it not? Nowyou are going to see if I have understood how to take advantage of these considerations with Henry VIII.”

Saying this, with a slightly derisive smile, Du Bellay took from a drawer a casket of green sharkskin, which he handed to De Vaux, who opened it eagerly.

“Oh! how beautiful,” he exclaimed, taking from the case and holding up in the sunlight a magnificentfleur de liscomposed entirely of diamonds. “Oh! this is most superb.”

“Yes, it is beautiful!” replied Du Bellay with a satisfied air, “and worth one hundred and fifty thousand crowns. Philip, the emperor’s father, pledged it to the King of England for that sum. We are obliged by the treaty to redeem it; but as we have not the money to pay, it has been made a present to us. And here is what is better still,” he added, displaying a quittance—“a receipt in full for five hundred thousand crowns which the emperor owed Henry VIII.; and he now makes a present of it to Francis I., to enable him to pay immediately the two millions required for the ransom of the princes.”

“That is admirable!” cried De Vaux. “It must be admitted, my lord, that we shall be under great obligations to Mlle. Anne.”

“All disorders cost dear, my child,” replied Du Bellay; “and if this continues, they will ruin England. Think of what will have to be paid yet to the University of Paris!…”

“And do you suppose they will consent to this demand?” interrupted De Vaux.

“No, truly, I do not believe it,” replied Du Bellay. “Except Master Gervais, who is always found ready to do anything asked of him, I know not how they will decide; but, between ourselves, I tell you I believe they will be against it. But, observe, we have not promised a favorable decision—we have only left it to be hoped for; which is quite a different thing.”

“That is very adroit,” replied De Vaux, “assuredly; but it seems to me not very honest.”

“How! not honest?” murmured Du Bellay, contracting his little gray eyebrows, and fixing his greenish eyes on the fair face of the youth. “Not honest!” he again exclaimed in a stentorian voice. “Where do you come from, then, young man? Know that among these people honesty is a thing unheard of. Others less candid than myself may tell you the contrary, knowing very well that such is not the truth. They arrange projects with the intention of defeating them; they sign treaties with the studied purpose of violating them; they swear to keep the peace in order to prepare for war; and a state sells her authority and puts her influence in the balance of the world in favor of the highest bidder. Let the price be earth or metal, it is of no consequence; I make no distinction. When Henry devastated our territories and took possession of our provinces, was it just? No! ‘Might makes right’; that is the veritable law of nations—the only one they are willing to acknowledge or adopt. In default of strength, there remains stratagem; and I must use it!”

“Under existing circumstances you are right,” replied De Vaux, replacing in its case the superbfleur de lis, and again waving it in the sunlight. “It is a pity,” he added, “that they may be obliged to return this; it would set off wonderfullywell the wedding dress of the future Duchess of Orleans.”

“What! are they speaking already of the marriage of the young Duke of Orleans?” asked Du Bellay in surprise.

“Ah! that is a great secret,” replied De Vaux confidentially. “You know our king has not abandoned the idea of subjugating the Milanese, and, to ensure the pope’s friendship, he offers to marry his second son to his niece, the young Catherine de’ Medici.”

“No!” cried M. du Bellay. “No, it is impossible! How can they forget that but a short time since the Medici family was composed of only the simple merchants of Florence?”

“It has all been arranged, notwithstanding,” replied De Vaux. “In spite of all our precautions, the emperor has been apprised of it. At first he refused to credit it, and would not believe the King of France could really think of allying his noble blood with that of the Medici. In the meantime he has been so much frightened, lest the hope of this alliance would not sufficiently dazzle Clement VIII., that he has made a proposal to break off the marriage of his niece, the Princess of Denmark, with the Duke of Milan, and substitute the young Catherine in her place. We have, as you may well suppose, promptly advised M. de Montmorency of all these things, who returned us, on the spot, full power to sign the articles. M. de Grammont immediately carried them to the pope; and he was greatly delighted, as Austria, it seems, had already got ahead of us, and persuaded him that we had no other intention than to deceive him and gain time. Now everything is harmoniously arranged. They promise for the marriage portion of Catherine Reggio, Pisa, Leghorn, Modena, Ribera, the Duchy of Urbino; and Francis I. cedes to his son his claims to the Duchy of Milan.”

“Sad compensation for a bad marriage!” replied M. du Bellay angrily: “new complications which will only result in bringing about interminable disputes! Princes can never learn to be contented with the territory already belonging to them. Although they may not possess sufficient ability to govern eventhatwell, still they are always trying to extend it. War must waste and ruin a happy and flourishing country, in order to put them in possession of a few feet of desolated earth, all sprinkled with gold and watered with blood.”

“Ah! yes,” interrupted De Vaux earnestly, “we have learned this cruelly and to our cost. And relentless history will record without regret the account of our reverses, and the captivity of a king so valiant and dauntless—a king who has sacrificed everything save his honor.”

“Reflect, my dear, on all this. The honor of a king consists not in sacrificing the happiness of his people. A soldier should be brave—the head of a nation should be wise and prudent,” replied Du Bellay, as he turned over a great file of papers in search of something, “Valor without prudence is worthless. The intrigues of the cabinet are more certain; they are of more value than the best generals. They, at least, are never entirely defeated; the disaster of the evening inspires renewed strength for the morrow. Cold, hunger, and sickness are not able to destroy them.… They can only waste a few words or lose a sum of money. A dozen well-chosen spies spread their toils inevery direction; we hold them like bundles of straw in our hands; they glide in the dark, slip through your fingers—an army that cannot be captured, which exists not and yet never dies; which drags to the tribunal of those who pay them, without pity as without discrimination, without violence as without hesitation, the hearts of all mankind.

“Gold, my child, but never blood! With bread we can move the world; with blood we destroy it. Your heart, young man, leaps within you at the sound of the shrill trumpet, when glittering banners wave and the noise of battle inebriates your soul. But look behind you, child, look behind you: the squadron has passed. Hear the shrieks and groans of the dying. Behold those men dragging themselves over the trampled field; their heads gashed and bleeding, their bones dislocated, their limbs torn; streams of blood flow from their wounds; they die in an ocean furnished from their own lacerated veins. Go there to the field of carnage and death; pause beside that man with pallid face and agonized expression; think of the tender care and painful anxiety of the mother who reared him from his cradle. How often she has pressed her lips upon the golden curls of her boy, the hope of her old age, which must now end in despair! Reflect there, upon the field of carnage and death, on the tender caresses of wives, sisters, and friends. Imagine the brother’s grief, the deep anguish of the father. Alas! all these recollections pass in an instant before the half-open eyes of the dying. Farewell! dream of glory, hateful vision now for ever vanished. Life is almost extinct, yet with the latest breath he thinks but of them! ‘They will see me no more! I must die far away, without being able to bid them a last adieu.’ Such are the bitter thoughts murmured by his dying lips as the last sigh is breathed forth. Tell me, young man, have you never reflected when, on the field glittering in the bright summer sunshine, you have seen the heavy, well-drilled battalions advance; when the prince rode in the midst of them, and they saluted him with shouts of enthusiasm and love; when that prince, a weak man like themselves, elated with pride, said to them: ‘March on to death; it is for me that you go!’ For you! And who are you? Their executioner, who throws their ashes to the wind of your ambition, to satisfy the thirst of your covetousness, the insolent pride of your name, which the century will see buried in oblivion! Ah! my son,” continued the old diplomate, deeply affected, with his hands crossed on the packet of papers, that he had entirely forgotten, “if you knew how much I have seen in my life of these horrible calamities, of these monstrous follies, which devastate the world! If you but knew how my heart has groaned within me, concealed beneath my gloomy visage, my exterior as impassible as my garments, you would understand how I hate them, these mighty conquerors, these vile plagues of the earth, and how I count as nothing the sack of gold which lies at the bottom of the precipice over which they push us, the adroit fraud that turns them aside from their course! But shall I weep like an old woman?” he suddenly exclaimed, vexed at being betrayed into the expression of so much emotion.

Hastily brushing the tear from his cheek, he began examining thepackage of papers, and, instantly recovering his usual composure, became M. du Bellay, the diplomate.

Young De Vaux, greatly surprised at the excess of feeling into which the ambassador had suddenly been betrayed, so much at variance with his previous manner, as well as his rule of conduct and the rather brusque reception he had given him, still remembered it when all thought of the occurrence had passed from the mind of his superior.

“Here, sir, read that,” he exclaimed, throwing the young man a small scrap of paper.

“I will read it, my lord.”

“Read aloud, sir.”

“‘Cardinal Wolsey, overcome by grief and alarm, has fallen dangerously ill. The king has been informed of it; he has ordered three physicians to Asher, and obliged Lady Anne to send him the golden tablets in token of his reconciliation. Furthermore, it is certainly true that the king has said: “I would not lose Wolsey for twenty thousand pounds.” It is unnecessary to impress upon my lord the importance of this event. My lord will, I hope, approve of the celerity with which I have despatched this information.’”

“It is without signature!” said De Vaux.

“I credit it entirely,” murmured Du Bellay.

“By my faith, I am delighted! These golden tablets afford me extreme pleasure,” said De Vaux. “This will revive the hopes of poor Cardinal Wolsey.”

“And that is all!… And you, content to know that he is happy, will remain quietly seated in your chair, I suppose,” said M. du Bellay, fixing his green eyes, lighted with a brilliant gleam, on young De Vaux. “Monsieur!” he continued, “it is not in this way a man attends to the business of his country. Since the day the cardinal was exiled, I have deliberated whether I should go to see him or not. My heart prompted me to do so, but it was not my heart I had to consult. I was persuaded the king would not be able to dispense with him, and sooner or later he would be recalled to the head of affairs. In that case I felt inclined to give him a proof of my attachment in his disgrace. But, on the other hand, that intriguing family who are constantly buzzing around the king induced me constantly to hesitate. Now I believe we have almost nothing more to fear; we will arrive there, perhaps, before the physicians, and later we shall know how to proceed.”

“Most willingly!” cried De Vaux. “I shall be happy indeed to see this celebrated man, of whom I have heard so many different opinions.”

“Doubtless,” interrupted Du Bellay impatiently, “pronounced by what is styled ‘public opinion’—a tribunal composed of the ignorant, the deluded, and short-sighted, who always clamor louder than others, and who take great care, in order to avoid compromising their stupidity, to prefix the ominous ‘they say’ to all their statements. As for me, I say they invariably display more hatred toward the virtues they envy than the vices they pretend to despise; and they will judge a man more severely and criticise him more harshly for the good he has tried to do than for what he may have left undone.… Gossiping, prying crowd, pronouncing judgment and knowing nothing, who will cast popularity like a vile mantle over the shoulders of any man who will basely stoop low enough before them to receive it! He whoendeavors to please all pleases none,” added M. du Bellay, with a singularly scornful expression. “To live for his king, and above all for his country, despising the blame or hatred of the vulgar, should be the motto of every public man; and God grant I may never cease to remember it!”

“You believe, then, the cardinal will be restored to the head of affairs?” asked De Vaux, running his fingers through his blonde curls, and rising to depart.

“I am not sure of it yet,” replied Du Bellay; “we are going to find out. If the crowd surrounds him, as eager to pay him homage to-day as they were yesterday to overwhelm him with scorn and contempt; if, in a word, the courtiers sigh and groan around his bed, and pretend to feel the deepest concern, it will be a most certain indication of his return to favor. And, to speak frankly, I believe the king already begins to discover that no one can replace the cardinal near his person as private secretary; for that poor Gardiner copies a despatch with more difficulty than his predecessor dictated one.”

M. du Bellay arose and started, followed by De Vaux, to the bank of the Thames, where they entered a large boat already filled with passengers awaiting the moment of departure to ascend the river either to Chelsea, Battersea, or as far as Pultney, where the boat stopped. Bales of merchandise were piled up in the centre, on which were seated a number of substantial citizens conversing together with their hands in their pockets, and wearing the self-sufficient air of men the extent of whose purse and credit were well understood.

They fixed, at first, a scrutinizing glance on the new arrivals, and then resumed their conversation.

“Come, come, let us be off now!” exclaimed a young man, balancing himself on one foot. “Here is half an hour lost, and I declare I must be at Chelsea to dinner.”

“Indeed, it is already an hour. Look here! This cockswain doesn’t resemble our parliament at all;thatdoes everything it is told to do!” he added, as he sauntered into the midst of the crowd.

“Hold your tongue, William,” immediately replied one of them; “you don’t recollect any more, I suppose, the assembly at Bridewell, where the king, knowing we condemned his course in the divorce affair, after having seized all the arms in the city, told us himself there was no head so high but he would make it fall if it attempted to resist him.”

“What shameful tyranny!” replied another, rolling a bundle under his foot. “I cannot think of it without my blood boiling. Are these Englishmen he treats in this manner?”

“And that wicked cardinal,” continued his neighbor in a loud, shrill voice—“he was standing by the king, and looking at us with his threatening eyes. He has been the cause of all the troubles we have had with this affair. But we are rid of him, at last.”

“We are rid of him, did you say?” interrupted a man about fifty or sixty years of age, who appeared to be naturally phlegmatic and thoughtful. “You are very well contented, it seems to me; … but it is because you only think of the present, and give yourself no concern whatever about the future. Ah! well, in a few days we will see if you are as well satisfied.”

“And why not then?” they all exclaimed in the same voice.

“Because, I tell you, because …”

“Explain yourself more clearly, Master Wrilliot,” continued young William. “You always know what’s going to happen better than anybody else.”

“Ah! yes, I know it only too well, in fact, my young friend,” he replied, shaking his head ominously; “and we will very soon learn to our sorrow that if the favor of the cardinal costs us dear, his disgrace will cost us still more. Parliament is going to remit all the king’s debts.”

“What! all of his debts? But Parliament has no right to do this!” they all exclaimed.

“No; but it will take the right!” replied Master Wrilliot. “William will lose half of his wife’s marriage portion, which, if I mistake not, his father gave him in royal trust; and I shall lose fifteen thousand crowns for which I was foolish enough to accept the deed of conveyance.”

“Ah! ah! that will be too unjust; it ought not to be,” they all repeated.

“Yes,” continued this far-seeing interlocutor, shaking his head contemptuously, “the king has no money to pay us. War has drained his private treasury, but he nevertheless draws from it abundant means to ransom French princes, who make him believe they will marry him to that lady Boleyn; and if you do not believe me, go ask these Frenchmen who are here present,” he added, raising his voice, and casting on MM. du Bellay and de Vaux a glance of cold, disdainful wrath.

M. du Bellay had lost nothing of the conversation; it was held too near him, and was too openly hostile for him to feign not to remark it. Finding himself recognized, and neither being able to reply to a positive interrogation nor to keep silence, he measured in his turn, very coolly, and without permitting the least indication of emotion or anger to appear, the face and form of his adversary.

“Sir;” he exclaimed, regarding him steadily, “who are you, and by what right do you call me to account? If it is your curiosity that impels you, it will not be gratified; if, on the contrary, you dare seek to insult me, you should know I will not suffer it. Answer me!”

“The best you can make of it will be worth nothing,” replied, with a loud burst of laughter, a Genoese merchant who did not recognize the ambassador, as he sat by the men who directed the boat. “Forget your quarrel, gentlemen, and, instead of disputing, come look at this beautiful vessel we are just going to pass. See, she is getting ready to sail. A fine ship-load!—a set of adventurers who go to try their fortunes in the new world discovered by one of my countrymen,” he added with an air of intense satisfaction.

“Poor Columbus!” replied one of the citizens, “he experienced throughout his life that glory does not give happiness, and envy and ingratitude united together to crush his genius. Do you not believe, if he could have foreseen the cruelties Hernando Cortez and Pizarro exercised toward the people whom he discovered, he would have preferred leaving the secret of their existence buried for ever in the bosom of the stormy sea that bore him to Europe, rather than to have announced there the success of his voyage?”

“I believe it,” said Wrilliot, “hissoul was so beautiful! He loved humanity.”

“Christopher Columbus!” exclaimed young William, full of youthful enthusiasm and admiration for a man whose home was the ocean. “I cannot hear his name pronounced without emotion! I always imagine I see him in that old convent of Salamanca, before those learned professors and erudite monks assembled to listen to a project which in their opinion was as rash as it was foolish.

“‘How do you suppose,’ said they, ‘that your vessel will ever reach the extremity of the Indies, since you pretend that the earth is round? You would never be able to return; for what amount of wind do you imagine it would require to enable your ship to remount the liquid mountain which it had so easily descended? And do you forget that no creature can live under the scorching atmosphere of the torrid zone?’

“Columbus refuted their arguments; but these doctors still insisted, nor hesitated to openly demand of him how he could be so presumptuous as to believe, if the thing had been as he said, it could have remained undiscovered by so many illustrious men, born before him, and who had attained the highest degree of learning, while for him alone should have been reserved the development of this grand idea.”

“And yet,” said Wrilliot, who had listened in silence, “it was permitted, some years later, that he should go down to the grave wearing the chains with which his persecutors had loaded him, in order to keep him away from the world that he alone had been able to discover!”

“What perseverance! What obstacles he succeeded in overcoming!” replied one of those who had first spoken. “I shall always, while I live, recall with pleasure having been of service to his brother Bartholomew when he came to this country.”

“What! he came here?” repeated William.

“Yes, and was in my own house,” continued the citizen. “Christopher, finding the senate of Genoa and the King of Portugal refused equally to listen or furnish him with vessels necessary for the enterprise he had so long meditated, sent his brother to King Henry VII. He was unfortunately captured, in coming over, by some pirates, who kept him in slavery. Many years elapsed before he succeeded in escaping and reaching England, where he found himself reduced to such a state of destitution that he was obliged to design charts for a living, and to enable him to present himself in decent apparel at court. The king gave him a favorable reception, but Christopher, in the meantime, receiving no intelligence from his brother, solicited so earnestly the court of Spain that he obtained two small vessels from Isabella of Castile, and very soon after Europe learned of the existence of another hemisphere. Spain planted her standard there, and we thus lost the advantages which were destined for us.”

“I do not regret it,” replied an old man sitting in the midst of the crowd, who had until that time maintained a profound silence. “Is it not better for a nation to be less rich and powerful than stained with so many crimes? It is now but thirty-eight years since Columbus founded the colony of San Domingo. This island then contained a million of inhabitants; to-day therescarcely remain forty thousand. But,” pursued the old man with a bitter smile, “they will not stop there. No; they will not confine their barbarous exploits to that miserable region. They are renewing in Peru the carnage they carried on in Mexico. It is necessary to have a great many places for a man to die—to pass a few moments, and then go and hide himself in the grave! I have already lived seventy-nine years, and yet it seems to me now that my left hand still rests on my cradle. I can scarcely believe that these white locks are scattered upon my head; for my life has sped like the fleeting dream of a single night that has passed. Yes, William,” continued the old man, “you look at me with astonishment, and your eyes, full of youthful fire, are fixed upon mine, in which the light has long been extinguished. Ah! well, you will very soon see it extinguished in your own, but not before you will have witnessed all their cruelties.”

“That is bad,” replied William. “But these Indians are stupid and indolent beyond all parallel;[232]they will neither work nor pay the taxes imposed on them.”

“And from whom do the Spaniards claim the right of reducing these people to a state of servitude,” exclaimed the old man indignantly, “and to treat them like beasts of burden whom they are privileged to exterminate with impunity, and carry off the gold their avarice covets, the dagger in one hand, the scourge in the other? They ensure them, they say, the happiness of knowing the Christian religion! How dare they presume to instruct these people in that Gospel of peace which commands us to love our neighbor as ourselves, to detach our hearts from the things of the world, and, leaving our offering before the altar, go and be reconciled with our enemy?”

“From that point of view your argument would seem just,” replied William; “but the fact is, if the Spaniards did not force these islanders to work them, the mines would remain unproductive, the fields uncultivated, and the colonies would perish.”

“You are mistaken,” replied the old man. “In acting as she does Spain destroys in her own womb the source from whence she would draw an immense revenue. If she had been satisfied to establish an honest and peaceable commerce with these countries, her industry, excited to the highest degree by the rich commodities of exchange, would have conferred an incalculable benefit on an entire people whom her blind cupidity has induced her to crush and destroy.

“Do you suppose these isolated negroes they buy at such enormous prices will ever be able to replace the native inhabitants who live and die in their own country? This strange and ferocious population will remain among the colonies, enemies always ready to revolt; a yoke of iron and blood will alone be sufficient to keep them in subjection. But let these masters tremble if ever the power falls into the hands of their slaves!”

MM. du Bellay and de Vaux listened to this conversation in silence, and the diversion was at first agreeable; but they were soon convinced that they were suddenly becoming again the objects of general attention.

“I tell you,” exclaimed one, “they are going to look for the cardinal and bring him back to court.”

“Well!” replied another, “I would like to see M. du Bellay in the place of the legate Campeggio.”

“Ah! and what have they done with him, then?” they all eagerly demanded.

“He was arrested at Dover, where he had gone to embark. He was dreadfully alarmed, believing they came to assassinate him. His baggage was searched, in order to find Wolsey’s treasures, with which he was entrusted, they said, for safe keeping.”

“And did they find them?” asked the Genoese merchant, eagerly leaning forward at the sound of the word treasure.

“It seems they did not find them,” was the reply.

“Hear what they say!” whispered young De Vaux in the ear of M. du Bellay.

“I presume they were in search of the legal documents, but they were too late. They have long ago arrived in Italy. Campeggio was careful enough to send them secretly by hissonRudolph.[233]I often saw this young man in Rome, and heard him say his father had entrusted him with all his correspondence and despatches,[234]as he was not certain what fate Henry had in store for him.”

“You say,” replied young William, elevating his voice in order that M. du Bellay might hear him, “that the king has sent the Earl of Wiltshire to Rome to solicit his divorce. He had better make all these strangers leave who come into our country only to sow discord, and then gather the fruits of their villany.”

This speech, although spoken indirectly, was evidently intended for the two Frenchmen; but the Genoese merchant, always inclined to be suspicious, immediately applied it to himself.

“Master William,” he exclaimed, reddening with anger, “have you forgotten that for twenty years I have been a commercial friend of your father. And if he has made his fortune with our velvets and silks, to whom does he owe it, if not to those who, by their honesty and promptness in fulfilling their engagements, were the first cause of his success? Now, because you are able to live without work, you take on this insulting manner—very insulting indeed. However, I give you to understand that, if it suited me to do it, I could make as great a display of luxury and wealth as yourself, and can count on my dresser as many dishes and flagons of silver as you have; and if it suited me to remain at home, there is no necessity for me to travel any more on business.”

The merchant continued to boast of his fortune, and William began to explain that his remarks were by no means intended for him, when the passengers began to cry out: “Land! land! Here is Chelsea; we land at Chelsea.”

The rowers halted immediately, and the little boats sent from the shore came to take off the passengers who wished to land.

Almost all of them went; none remaining on the boat except the ambassador, the Genoese merchant,and two citizens whose retiring and prudent character could be read in the quiet, thoughtful expression of their faces. They gazed for a long time on the surrounding country; at last one of them hazarded the question:

“Do you know who owns that white house with the terraced garden extending down to the bank of the Thames?”

“That is the residence of Sir Thomas More, the new chancellor,” replied his companion methodically.

“Ah! it does not make much show. Do you know this new chancellor?”

“By my faith, no! However, I saw him the other day on the square at Westminster, as I was passing; the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk were conducting him with great ceremony to the Star Chamber (at least that is what they told me). I stopped to look at him. There was an immense crowd filling all the square. In crossing it the Duke of Norfolk stopped, and, turning to the crowd before him, said the king had instructed him to publicly proclaim what great and important services Sir Thomas had rendered him in every position he had confided to his care, and it was on that account he esteemed him so highly, and had appointed him now to the highest position in the kingdom because of his virtues and the rare talents he possessed. Everybody listened and said nothing (because you know the last is always the best).” The citizen said this in a very low tone.

“More replied very well,” he continued. “He said that, while deeply grateful for his majesty’s goodness and favors, he felt no less deeply convinced that the king had rewarded him far beyond his merits; in all he had accomplished he had but done his duty, and he greatly feared now that he might not possess the ability necessary for acquitting himself of the duties of so high and important an office. And—a very singular thing (for they do not usually speak of their predecessors)—he declared that he could not rejoice in the honor conferred on him, as it recalled the name of the wise and honorable prelate whom he had superseded. On hearing that I supposed they would hiss; but not at all. He said everything so well, with so much sincerity, dignity, and firmness, that they applauded him with an indescribable enthusiasm. It seemed those who knew him were never satisfied with praising him. Nobody, they said, rendered justice so scrupulously as he; none were so wise, so disinterested; in fact, they never ended the recital of his perfections.”

“Ah!” said the other, in a voice scarcely audible, while he looked round to discover if any one could hear him, “we will see later if he performs all these wonderful things, and if any one will be able to get near him without paying even his doorkeeper, as was the case with the other.”

“Yes, we will see,” replied his companion. “None of these great lords are worth much—any amount ofpromises; but ofdeeds—nothing!”

“But this is not a great lord,” answered the citizen.

“Ah! well, it is all the same; as soon as they rise, they grow proud, and despise and scorn the people. You may believe if ever I obtain a patent of nobility, and become still richer than I am now, I will crush them beautifully; there will not be one who will dare contradict me. By my faith! it is a great pity I had not been born a count or abaron; I should have been so well up to all their impertinences and want of feeling.”

“It is not very difficult,” replied his companion; “you are, I think, sufficiently so now for the good of that poor youth who wants to marry your daughter. He will lose his senses, I am afraid, poor fellow.”

“What did you say, neighbor?” replied the citizen, feeling the blood mount to his face. “Do you think I will give my daughter to a wretch who has not a cent in the world—I who have held in my family the right of citizenship from time immemorial? My grandmother also told me we have had two aldermen of our name. All that counts, you see, Master Allicot; and if you wish to remain my friend, I advise you not to meddle yourself with the tattle of my wife and daughter on the subject of that little wretch they are putting it into her head to marry; because, in truth, the mother is as bad as the daughter. Ah! neighbor, these women, these women are the plagues of our lives! Don’t say any more to me about it. They will run me distracted; but they will make nothing by it, I swear it, neighbor. The silly jades! to dare speak to me of such a match! Hush! don’t say any more to me about it, neighbor; for it will drive me mad!”

The neighbordidreply, however, because he had been commissioned to use his influence in softening the husband and father in favor of a young mechanic full of life and health, who had no other fault than that of belonging to a class less elevated than that of the proud citizen who rejected his humble supplications with scorn.

But thedénouementof this embassy, and the termination of this romance of the warehouse, have been for ever lost to history; for M. du Bellay, seeing they were almost in sight of Asher, made them land him, and the two honorable citizens doubtless continued their journey and their conversation.

At Asher M. du Bellay found everything just as he expected. The physicians surrounded Wolsey’s bed, watching his slightest movement. The golden tablets of young Anne Boleyn were thrown open upon the coarse woollen bedspread that covered the sick man. Cromwell walked the floor with folded arms. He approached the bed from time to time, looked at Wolsey, whose closed eyes and labored breathing betokened nothing favorable, then at the golden tablets, then at the physicians around him. He seemed to say, “Is he going to die, and just when he might be so useful to me?”

On seeing M. du Bellay enter, his countenance lighted up; he ran on before him, and endeavored to arouse Wolsey from his stupor.

“My lord, the ambassador of France!” he cried in the ear of the dying man.

But he received no reply.

“It is singular,” said the doctors, “nothing can arouse him.” And they looked gravely at each other.

“He will not die! I tell you he will not die!” replied Cromwell, evincing the most impatient anxiety.

He approached the cardinal and shook his head.

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