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not again admitted till the division has been taken, and members are again in their seats. But, though shut out and prevented from seeing, we will yet let our readers know how the division is effected. On each side of the house, and communicating with it at the gangway, is a large lobby-one the eastern, the other the western division lobby. In dividing, the house itself is entirely cleared, and the members move into these lobbies, those who vote 'ay' into one, those who vote 'no' into the other. Then, as they re-enter the house, two clerks stationed at each entrance, with printed alphabetical lists of the members in their hands, mark off the name of each as he passes on, and the tellers standing by count the numbers. When all the members have passed into the house, the tellers compare their numbers, and then the two who have the majority taking the right, and the other two the left, they advance abreast towards the speaker, making three slight bows in token of respect. When they reach the table, they deliver their numbers, written out on paper, at the same time stating what they are. The slip of paper is then handed to the speaker, who, rising from his chair, announces amidst breathless silence the result of the division-the ayes, so many; the noes, so many; the majority, and whether for or against the motion. This, of course, is a moment of intense interest to all parties, and, as we have said, the most profound stillness and quiet prevails while the announcement is being made; but the words are scarcely out of the speaker's mouth, before the victors break out into vehement and uproarious shouts of applause, and keep them up with an energy and enthusiasm which triumph alone can inspire; while their now vanquished opponents look dejected and wo-begone in the extreme. Sometimes, indeed, when there has been a close run, and the majority is unexpectedly small, both sides set up a sort of claim to the victory, and shout and cheer by turns for the space of several minutes.

In taking the sense of the house on unimportant questions, and in mere matters of routine, no division of course takes place. The speaker then merely rises from his seat, and, after stating the question in proper form, desires 'as many as are of that opinion to say ay,' and, as many as are of the contrary opinion to say no;' but this is all done with such rapidity, that strangers can seldom catch more than the last words ay and no; and, before they are well aware what is being done, they hear the speaker again declaring that 'the ayes have it,' or 'the noes have it,' and see that the house has passed on to other business.

The old practice of continuing the sittings till three or four o'clock in the morning is now almost entirely abandoned, for, though something like it several times occurred during the last session, it was contrary to rule, and the house was professedly working over-time to expedite the dissolution. Ordinarily, the debates are either closed or adjourned by about midnight; and it is only when, as Mr Disraeli jocosely expressed it, the night is young and the house is fresh,' that honourable members are at all disposed to commence any business which is likely to detain them long. Directly, therefore, the division is over on any important subject which has drawn together a full house, or directly the adjournment of the debate has been carried, the great majority of the members rise and leave the house in a body, creating no small noise and commotion as they go. The house is not entirely deserted, however; there are usually some twenty or thirty members left behind, who stay to clear off the remaining orders for the day, it being a standing rule of the house, that all notices of whatever kind for a given day must be formally disposed of, in one way or another, at the time specified. It is this clearing off the notices from the paper which gives rise to the number of singularly short speeches we generally see at the end of the regular debates, and which forms a sort of tail-piece to the newspaper reports.

Ah! the newspaper reports,' a word about them and we have done. It's pleasant to look over the papers in the morning after having spent the night in the house. But how great the discrepancy between what you there saw and heard, and what you now read. Here, for ex

ample, is that terrible speech of the honourable member for North Workshire. For a full hour had we to endure the infliction of his insufferably dull and dreary oratory, and that too, unfortunately, at a time when, like another wedding guest, we could not choose but hear,' the house being so nearly empty, that all the noise the members present could make did not suffice to drown the drowsy voice still drawling in our ears. Well, here is that speech in print, and, besides that you can read it easily in twenty minutes, it really is a very tolerable production-sensible, pertinent, and with some point in it too. Whence all the difference then? Ask a reporter. Then, again, there is the honourable member for Toppleton, who, as he usually expresses himself in somewhat lengthy and complicated sentences, finds great difficulty at times in getting fairly to the end of them; and, occasionally, after backing and floundering about for a while in the endeavour to escape from one of these verbal intricacies, gives the matter up as hopeless, and bolts to the beginning of a fresh sentence even he becomes quite a respectable speaker in the hands of the gentlemen of the press. His speech, here, in the newspaper, reads as smoothly and evenly as you could desire; there is not a single broken or unfinished sentence throughout, and all the painful embarrassment, hesitation, and tedious repetitions of its delivery, give place to a steady and sustained flow of language such as no one could object to. Two-thirds of the speeches delivered in parliament are similarly metamorphosed; they are corrected and condensed, and become so improved in character, that even the makers of them must sometimes fail to recognise their own productions. And yet, perhaps, it is not here in the early part of the report that the greatest discrepancy between the spoken and the printed speech is observable after all, but further on where 'he' (Mr Smith) becomes 'I,' and the whole speech runs on in the first person. Not that the speeches are badly reported either; on the contrary, the reporters, in the main, do their work admirably; every word of the best speakers, every nice turn and variety of expression, is seized and reproduced in print with the greatest accuracy; but the accompaniments of the speech are all awanting-the eager listening assembly-the alternate calm and storm amidst which the speech is delivered-the flashing eye and distended nostril of the speaker-his lofty tone and bearing

his expressive action and vehement delivery, which lend such additional point and force to the language he employs, transcend alike the reporter's and the printer's art, and can neither be adequately described nor represented on the printed page.

THE GOLDEN HEART.
CHAP. I.

'It is a gentle and affectionate thought. That-in immeasurable heights above usAt our first birth the wreath of Love was woven, With sparkling stars for flowers.'— Coleridge. PLUTARCH says- Chance sometimes turns poet, and produces trains of events, not to be distinguished from the most elaborate plots which are constructed by art.' Another author of the present day writes- If we draw our models from real existence, they appear to us to possess few of the attributes of the probable. What is so poetical as sorrow? What are more eloquent than the tears that fall internally, and gather upon the heart? A protracted pilgrimage has often caused me to feel most deeply the spirit of these observations, from having witnessed many extraordinary passages in human affairs. Indeed, I am often inclined to smile at incredulity, when marvellous facts are discussed; reality so far exceeding the power of imagination, that nothing is left for an old woman like me to marvel at. Is not life itself a wonder and a mystery? Is not death the crowning and most awful mystery of all? On the stage of life I have seen broad farce and deep tragedy enacted, and the wearied actors sink to rest, after One such performing their several parts well and nobly. play on this broad human stage I peculiarly remember.

her inalienable birthright), there too surely reigned a dark depth of superstition in Aurora Desmond's inmost heart, contemplated with ineffable satisfaction by old Ellen, as of her planting and watering, but likely to be productive of the most baneful results to the violent, enthusiastic, and neglected girl, who had unfortunately been left to such injudicious, and yet warmly affectionate manage ment. There was also a vein of persistage in Aurora Desmond's composition, which, had she been formed of coarser materials, might have degenerated into downright coquetishness; but, as it was, her extreme delicacy of mind and manner produced a combination most enchanting. Her smile was fascination, her tears were bewitching, and all her little whims and caprices were becoming; yet there was another mood, when Aurora became the dangerous enchantress, from her power of enthralling the imagination-the serious and contemplative mood, when prophetic shadows darkened round her heart, and her strained gaze endeavoured to penetrate those mystic clouds enveloping and obscuring the spiritual creation. Not only had Ellen Blane initiated her pupil in the legendary lore and poetical traditions of the Emerald Isle, but in the far deeper and wilder mysteries of the German school. Ellen's mother was a native of the fair Rhine

Irish sire that peculiar idiosyncrasy which had gradually been developed with her growth, and rendered her the slave of a belief in supernatural agencies, forebodings, and soothsayings of every description, from the humble Banshee to the grave astrologer, who predicts the future by abstruse calculations of the celestial bodies. Aurora, indeed, often laughed at old Ellen's tales, and declared she would like to hear and see the Banshee above ali things; but during the long winter evenings, when the winds howled and moaned within and without the tottering mansion, the girl's cheek often grew pale, as she sat lis

she had beheld with her own eyes, and heard with her own ears, when a dweller in her mother's native land.

We will withdraw the dark shadowy curtain of the grave, and reveal the actors once more on the threshold of existence; and, oh! for an enchanter's wand to make them act their parts over again for our especial behoof. Behold an ancient chateau which stood within a few miles of a much frequented town on the coast of France; a ruinous kind of place it was, where the remains of better days were faintly to be discerned. The situation was picturesque, and the grounds had once been beautiful and romantic in the extreme; but now they were in keeping with the desolate abode; bridges were broken down; weeds reigned triumphant; and, with the exception of a small gay garden surrounded by an invisible fence, the dark forest trees presenting a background whose sombre shadows exquisitely contrasted with the brilliant colouring of nature, there was nothing which told of care or refinement. This chateau was inhabited by an Irish gentleman of equally dilapidated fortunes, who had flown across the Channel a few years previously to seek refuge from numerous clamorous creditors. He was accompanied by his only child, a motherless girl, and her faithful nurse, who clung to the descendants of Irish princes, amid their ruin and desolation, with the tenacity and love for which her people are remarkable. The history of Mr Desmond was a too common and melancholy one: noble descent, extra-land, and the daughter inherited from her and from an vagance, and recklessness for generations, ending at length in the almost utter ruin of the last unfortunate representative, who had assisted but too sedulously in completing it. A retreat to the Continent was the only alternative from prison and disgrace; the decayed chateau which sheltered the family being the property of a person who gladly accorded it to Mr Desmond for a nominal rent, the latter being too proud to be entirely beholden to his friend. The principal part of Mr Desmond's time was passed in the town-a town infamous in repute, from harbouring individuals who had no character to lose -gamblers and horse-jockeys; it may too readily be sur-tening to Ellen's reminiscences of the marvellous things mised how Mr Desmond's time was occupied-he was a confirmed gamester, heartless, selfish, and soul-desolated. In this old chateau, in the society only of Ellen Blane, her Irish nurse, Aurora Desmond, the neglected daughter, had been nurtured; and now, in her seventeenth year, the wayward, lovely girl incontrovertibly exemplified the true nobility of nature. She seemed to belong to the picture of faded grandeur-to represent the long line of native princes whose blood flowed in her veins; and who that gazed on her proud young form would have remembered that she was the ruined chieftain's daughter? So like a princess in her days of palmy regal state, the fair creature moved and spoke. Yet her education had been totally neglected in all useful branches and appliances. Superficial accomplishments, indeed, she had easily acquired from facile teachers; but these superficial folk could teach her little, and they witnessed with amazement the uncontrollable flights of her ever-gentle, but wild and fanciful humours. Most lovely, most gracious, was this peerless forest flower; her attributes of purity and innocence formed a protecting halo, doubly needful to shield and fortify one so peculiarly circumstanced. Yet it was not from merely outward circumstances that danger threatened Aurora Desmond; for she was ignorant of the external world, living in almost perfect conventual seclusion; her father, debased as he was, carefully guarding his beautiful daughter from the contamination of such society as the town afforded. But danger had assaulted the young girl in another form; she united with an imagination of the most vivid cast a peculiar sensitiveness and morbid melancholy of disposition, which, indeed, frequently gave place to the wildest flights of thoughtless and exuberant gaiety. Hence, the strong will and firm mind of a superior guide was needed to rule and check, and keep in abeyance the untamed spirit, and to cultivate the rich ground so overrun with weeds. But the weeds had been fatally fostered by old Ellen Blane, who ought more properly to have been styled a gouvernante, being no common or uneducated nurse; for, beneath an undercurrent of high devotional feeling (the religion of Faith

The poor child had been fed and nurtured on such unwholesome diet; and as she progressed towards womanhood, her gouvernante, whose speech was often poetry, began to tell of chivalrous knights, heroic self-sacrifice, and true love trials, until Aurora's mind was imbued with high-flown romance, and in a great measure unfitted to grapple with the realities of every-day life. Beautiful and queen-like, Ellen regarded her nursling with more than a mother's pride, and worshipped her as an idol; she prognosticated a brilliant future destiny for her 'young princess,' as she invariably termed Aurora; nay, she privately indulged the notion that some wandering prince in disguise would eventually discover and carry off in triumph this sweet flower of the forest. So little accustomed were they to see visiters at the chateau, that the arrival of any chance guest was quite an event; and when Mr Desmond signified to his daughter an intention of bringing home a friend from the town to remain probably for a few days, much excitement and curiosity prevailed to know who and what he was.

'He is Dr Progin, my dear,' said Mr Desmond, smiling, as he replied to Aurora's questions; your silly young head is running, I'll be bound, on fine wooers. Heigl ?``

As to

'No, indeed, papa,' said Aurora, laughing merrily; the prince who falls from the skies to woo me wont be a Dr Progin.' These words were uttered somewhat contemptuously, and her father, who observed the intonation, remarked quickly, 'Let me tell you, my dear, that this Dr Progin is not a person to be slighted, though he is only plain Dr Progin, or at least he calls himself so; for I am not sure if that be his real name. what he is he is understood to be a German professor, or student, or something of that sort; but he is a queer personage-a cery queer personage, indeed; and a learned man-a rery learned man-of that fact there is no doubt. So be on your best behaviour; for he can read the stars as you can read a book, and he'll tell your fortune if you ask him.'

'Oh, papa, what do you mean?' cried Aurora, reddening with surprise and delight. Do you really mean that Dr Progin is an astrologer?' 'Yes,' returned Mr Desmond, carelessly, taking out a memorandum case, and pre-occupied; yes, and a celebrated astronomer all over the Continent; he has cast more than one royal nativity, and is often consulted on great emergencies by those in power. He is a formidable soothsayer, I assure you,' added Mr Desmond, more gravely, and has perfect faith in his own predictions; so mind your behaviour, and now away with you.'

'I had a queer drame last night,' muttered old Ellen Blane, when she heard the news, and I must see this wondrous man before he tells thee thy fortune, my prin

cess.

It was a solemn drame that I had when the moonlight came shining in at the windows, and the white curtains flapped to and fro. I used to hear it said in my early days, when I sojourned in the fair Rhine-land, that however much one who had the gift of prophesying or foretelling events might wish to conceal the fatal gift (for ochone! but it oft-times is fatal !), a peculiar expression lurking in the eye betrayed the secret, and revealed the prophet. My sainted mother's mother (an aged woman and a pious soul was she) knew wild, dread things, and she initiated me in the mystic lore. I must see this Dr Progin, and gaze on his eyes, my princess; and if he be a true seer, strong narves are needed to list the doom of life from his lips; for the true seer's lips speak no falsities. Ah! they're a wondrous and a learned race are those German astrologers. But wo is me! that drame of mine, and just on the eve of his coming too; 'twas a wierd melancholic drame,' continued Ellen, whining piteously. But never mind, never mind, drames are contraries often,' brightening up, and gazing proudly on Aurora, and bright be the destiny this larned philosopher foretells for thee, princess of the world! Thou wert born on the Holy Baptist's day, and good angels ever guard and watch over thee, child of my love.' Old Ellen Blane continued to crone, and mutter, and muse during the interval that elapsed between the period when she heard of the expected guest and his actual arrival at the chateau; her mood was unusually strange and excited, and she managed so to place herself, that, without being seen, she obtained a full view of Mr Desmond's companion, as together the two gentlemen slowly walked up the avenue and entered the hall. Very pale old Ellen Blane became, as she riveted her gaze on the stranger, and, grasping Aurora's arm for support, she muttered, He's a true soothsayer, is this Dr Progin-a true reader of the stars, my princess; there is that lurking in his eye which reveals to me his power.'

'But what is it, Ellen ?' demanded Aurora. What do you discern in his eye to scare and awe you thus ?

?'

What do I discern, my child? What none can repeat distinctly, and only faith can realise. From my mother's land the teaching comes, and I have not forgotten the

lesson.'

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But Ellen, dear, many persons have sparkling black eyes, and yet they are not gifted with second sight or divination. Tell me what particular motes are visible in Dr Progin's orbs ?'

But Ellen shook her head, and swayed her body to and fro, shading her eyes with a trembling withered hand. 'Tis a sight one doesn't often look on,' said Ellen in a low whisper; 'for there be many pretenders, but few real star readers. It isn't in the glitter of the sloe-black eyes, but it is in their depths the secret lies, my princess. I hold the key-I can solve the mystery. I can trace the spirit's hidden source in the depths of those glittering, dreadful orbs.'

Well, Nelly, you are vastly mysterious and incomprehensible,' interrupted Aurora, laughing; but I am his hostess, be he ever so terrible a personage, and I must do the honours of our palace in brave style.'

'Bless thee, bless thee, sweet lovely one!' cried old Ellen; I would thou hadst a real palace, for thou would'st grace it rarely.'

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Nay, nay, Nelly, I'll be content with love in a cottage some day,' responded Aurora, smiling, when my destiny is fulfilled, you know. But come, you haven't answered my question yet about Dr Progin's motes, or depths, or whatever you designate this mystic light which is discoverable to the initiated.'

'Nor I don't mean to answer it, mavourneen,' replied Ellen with solemnity; such knowledge is far better left alone.'

Oh, very well, Nelly, just as you like,' said Aurora, carelessly; if there is anything to be discovered, I must discover it for myself, I suppose. Now I shall go and be introduced to this formidable magician, and I don't anticipate the introduction will be a particularly awful cere

monial.'

'Do not boast vainly, Aurora Desmond,' exclaimed Ellen Blane, with a warning gesture; it is no jest or light matter to rush unadvisedly into the presence of a prophet.'

Dr

However, notwithstanding the fair girl's assumed bravado and badinage, she felt a species of tremor or nervous agitation when Mr Desmond presented her to their guest, whom he named as Dr Progin-a valuable friend.' Mr Desmond was subdued and silent, yet treating the learned visiter with marked and unusual deference. The latter absorbed Aurora's undivided attention; she experienced a new and indefinable sensation in his presence, as if conscious that basilisk eyes were watching her every movement, or as if a spell of enchantment wove its meshes to enchain her. She could not account for such peculiar feelings, nor could she shake them off, strive as she might to appear, and to actually feel, unconcerned. Progin was a man whose age it seemed impossible to define; he might be aged, or a premature age might have overtaken him, from sorrow leaving its sure and ineffaceable trace. His features were classical, but perfectly colourless, while his hair and redundant beard were white as driven snow. A transparent complexion reflected no wrinkles; while, in the midst of this delicate olive setting, gleamed a pair of glittering eyes (which seemed to verify Nelly Blane's dark hints) from beneath shaggy eyebrows, whose deep, penetrating, burning coruscations flashed on the beholder with a sense of pain; and few could endure that searching gaze without flinching. Aurora vainly endeavoured to meet the steadfast observation of this extraordinary personage without betraying emotion; she endeavoured not to feel it. But it would not do; and she no longer combated with the inward inexplicable conviction that she stood in the presence of one who wielded an unusual mystic influence over others. The doctor continued to regard her attentively without speaking; and then at length, with a deep sigh which seemed to come from the bottom of his heart, he turned away, and made some commonplace remark to Mr Desmond. His voice was low and thrilling, and a foreign accentuation added to its charm; his manner was gentle and retiring, and so much sadness mingled with all he said and did, that Aurora's tender heart soon warmed towards the venerable man; and, despite her first awe, with the innocent sweetness of youth uncontaminated by the conventionalities of towns, she speedily regained the frankness and ease of deportment which rendered her so attractive. Dr Progin did not converse fluently-he seemed better to like listening to Aurora's voice-but the little he did utter was to the purpose. Where had he not been ? All over the world. What did he not know? Everything. What language could he not converse in-what science could he not descant on? A melancholy gravity of deportment, a sad intonation of voice, like unto a remembered soft-thrilling cadence of music, were remarkable in Dr Progin as prominent characteristics; that he himself believed implicitly the lore he professed was indubitable; he had been an indefatigable and lifelong student of the stars. Perhaps abstruse calculation had bewildered his brain, for he gloried in his studies. Aurora gazed and believed, yet her tongue was mute; she dared not speak her indefinable and intangible im

cast.

the donor's sake. There was more in the lines than met the ear. There was more in that plain gold heart than met the eye. The moment Aurora gained the privacy of her own apartment she examined the golden treasure; it flew open when she touched a spring, and discovered a slip of paper within, on which was written a brief sentence. Aurora read it; her colour went and came; she read and re-read; then suddenly replacing the mystic scrap in its receptacle (which she carefully placed in her ex-bosom), she exclaimed aloud, as if to re-assure her failing courage, Well, it's a hard doom! But I must take care never to fall in love; and then no great mischief ensues.'

pressions; and when Ellen anxiously demanded her nursling's opinion of Dr Progin, Aurora for the first time in her life dissembled, and became cautious, merely saying that on the morrow she meant to ask the doctor if he would read her future, and consult the stars on her behalf. Ellen tried to dissuade her from this experiment; but Aurora Desmond was determined to have her nativity 'Whether for weal or wo, or both, I'll know my doom,' she cried. But the doctor was deaf to her solicitations. He did not deny his power, and he carefully amined the palm of her little hand; he also noted down the day and hour of her birth; but, although Aurora suspected he had made himself master of her future history, no entreaties could induce him to reveal the secrets which his profound and awe-inspiring lore had enabled him to solve.

Then I must believe, Dr Progin,' said Aurora, 'that the doom in store for me is so bad that in pity you conceal it; for had you good to impart, I am sure silence would no longer be your motto. But remember, my imagination may raise up worse anticipated ills than reality warrants.'

·

The invulnerable doctor smiled, but it was a smile of sad sort, as he gravely replied, Do you not know, my child, that the hand of Mercy veils the future from human gaze? Why would you wrest that hand aside ?'

"You hold that veil in your hand, Dr Progin,' exclaimed Aurora, greatly excited, and in tears; and I do earnestly pray of you to lift for me but one corner; give me but one glance, and then let it fall for ever.'

"On one condition, then, young lady,' said Dr Progin, in a low, firm voice-' on one condition only will I accede to your request. Do not weep; I would dry your tears, and not willingly cause you to shed any. A corner of the veil of futurity I may perhaps be enabled to lift as you desire, ere I depart hence. If I do so, you must solemnly promise me never to reveal what you may learn, save on your death-bed.'

The promise was given, and Mr Desmond joining them, neither Dr Progin nor Aurora reverted to the subject again. It was late when they separated for the night, and on the following morning, when Aurora descended to the breakfast table, she found Dr Progin had departed at daybreak, and was now on his way to the British shores.

Ah! he has cheated me abominably,' she exclaimed, in considerable chagrin, half-crying with vexation and disappointment; he never told me that he meant to leave

us so soon.'

Mr Desmond smiled, and looked up from the paper he was reading, remarking quietly that Dr Progin's movements were proverbially uncertain, just as the humour of the moment seized him. But has he told you your fortune, my dear?' added he, slyly. I rather suspect not, and that is what chafes you so. Between ourselves, Dr Progin is accustomed to receive enormous golden bribes for his calculations, and he does not like to work for nothing-not he. Never mind, Aurora, never mind; if you don't know the good, the bad is kept back as well, and you wont get married a day the sooner for all Dr Progin could have told you.'

A contemptuous expression passed over Aurora's countenance, but subsided momentarily, as she gently answered her father, assuring him she did not believe that in her case at least Dr Progin had been swayed by a love of

lucre.

6

'No, my princess, that he was not,' interrupted Ellen Blane, who had entered unperceived, and now stood by Aurora's side, holding out a sealed packet, which she said the doctor had left for Miss Desmond. Ellen whispered in her ear, you are to open it alone-not the parcel, but the contents.' This hint came in time, for Mr Desmond desired Aurora to inspect what the little parcel contained, no doubt supposing, what actually proved to be the case, that Dr Progin had thus conveyed a remembrance in the shape of some pretty trinket, such as ladies generally prize. It contained a plain gold heart, accompanied by a few lines, requesting Miss Desmond to wear it always for

6

Poor old Ellen, who was dying of curiosity to know the contents of the heart, was ruefully disappointed at the silence preserved by her young lady; and never fully forgave it. The promise which Aurora had given to Dr Progin was not meant to include her, she argued. How prone we all are to make exemptions in our own favour!

COLLOQUIAL FICTIONS.

LORD CROMWELL AND BISHOP LATIMER.

Cromwell.-Right pleased am I that I can now call you my lord; seeing you are at this present not only a shepherd, but a bishop of souls. Sir, it is a weighty commission, and I pray for your ability to discharge it as heartily as you have deserved it. One thing a friend may counsel, with humility in his friendship: that you should regard more closely than it is your disposition (I think) to do, the humour of his highness the king, who has frocked your lordship with this fair dignity.

Latimer.-I hope I shall speak any conscience, my lord, as ever of old. Yet am I without knowledge of any disposition to forget my duty to his grace; and methinks his grace is of the same mind, else had he bestowed the see on other shoulders.

of

Crom.-I spake not of an evil intent, God forbid! but a hasty zeal

Lat. Wherein, my lord? I would fain hear all, knowing that faithful are the wounds of a friend: and, if I am quick to speak, it behoves me to be quick to hear, and ready to learn.

Crom. You will not have forgotten the matter of the king's stables?

Lat. I am sorry that your lordship has, if it requires defence anew. His grace was pleased to keep his stud of mares in the Abbey of Jorvalles. Now, I thought it good to entreat on the wrong of preferring horses above poor men, for abbeys were ordained for the comfort of the poor; and I spake out before the court-to wit, that God is the great Grandmaster of the king's house, and will take account of the king himself, if he work well or not. What hast thou to do with the king's horses? In A certain nobleman afterward conferred with me saying, speaking against them, thou speakest against the king's honour.' Wherefore I withstood that nobleman to the face, because he was to be blamed; telling him that God was my teacher, and not he, as to what honour is decent for a king, and that to minish and bring low the right of

the

poor, and to engross tenements belonging to his grace's liege people, is against the honour of the king, and likely to minish and bring it low likewise.

Crom.--Nay, I had not forgotten the matter. It was the memory of it that made me warn you. Your lordship will remember the adage-Gutta cavat lapidem sæpe cadendo.' Now, his highness's temper is not hard as a stone, nor will it endure the continual droppings of a hasty zeal. I mean but a word to the wise, and the wisest of men hath said, 'A word spoken in due season, how good is it!'

is it !

Lat. He would have called your advice to a bishop a word out of season, and surely would have added, how bad Crom.-A bishop must be blameless, says a scripture that cannot be broken.

See the Seventh Sermon in Bishop Latimer's Works (Parker So

ciety).

Lat. But it is breaking that scripture to conclude that a bishop must never blame others. My lord, they have called me Tom Truth when I was plain Hugh Latimer; and I hope they will call me so still, now that I am promoted to this great honour. If the bishopric requires purchase-money in the coin of flattery and honey bribes, inarry, let them unfrock me for a bankrupt and a sedi

tious varlet.

Crom. This is just the manner which I would fain see corrected in your lordship. There was in old time one whom you need not scorn to follow, who became all things to all men. Now, I pray you consider whether you are not apt to be one thing to all men. His grace is not a common man, be it in office or in natural gifts; nor are they sharp-eyed who entreat him as they would any one of his lieges.

Lat. It grieves me your lordship should show how courtiers can quibble.

Crom. You are known to be singular, sir. No man thinks as you think; you love a singularity in speech and in life. This is all I have to bring against you, and I do it of pure good-will, and thus zealously affect you for your own welfare.

Lat. You zealously affect me, but not well. I espy too big a piece of policy in the counsel. And God grant me an ever quick scent to smell a rat in such-like business. But be of good cheer, my lord; the king hath not hitherto been offended with my plainness, nor will

Crom.-Pardon me; hath he not bidden you more than once to his presence, to hear you answer to them that charged you with seditious doctrine?

Lat.-And did not my answer suffice, so that from the palace gates I went on my way rejoicing, smiled upon by his highness, and with a conscience void of offence toward God and toward man? I had not spoken evil of the king, not even in my thoughts; yet had a foul bird of the air carried the matter of slander-some winged messenger of Satan, for he is the prince of the power of the air-and very mischievous are the epea pterventa of him and his unclean brood, as I have found to my cost. Facing my accuser in the king's presence, I knelt down, and bade him say what form of preaching he would appoint me to preach before the king-for the charge was, that I was a pestilent fellow, brimful of seditious doctrine. I asked, Would you have me for to preach nothing as concerning a king in the king's sermon? What would you commission me to deliver to his highness, when his ear is open to my cry? But he answered me never a word. And like one of old, I settled my face, and beheld him till he was ashamed.

Crom. He might be willing to spare you, seeing the king's wrath kindled a little.

Lat. The king's wrath, my lord! Marry, 'twas not kindled enough to roast an egg, much less a bachelor of divinity. When mine adversary continued to hold his peace, then turned I to the king, and said, 'I never thought myself worthy, nor I never sued, to be a preacher before your grace, but I was called to it, and would be willing, if you mislike me, to give place to my betters; for I grant there be a great many more worthy of the room than I am. And if it be your grace's pleasure so to allow them for preachers, I could be content to bear their books after them. But if your grace allow me for a preacher, I would desire your grace to give me leave to discharge my conscience; give me leave to frame my doctrine according to mine audience: I had been a very dolt to have preached so at the borders of your realm as I preach before your grace.' And I thank God that my saying pleased the king; and though certain of my friends came to me, with tears in their eyes, after my departure, and told me they looked I should have been in the Tower the same night, yet could I tell them that the king was gracious unto his servant, so that we all thanked God, and took courage.

Crom.-Well, well; we will speak no further touching that matter.

Lat. --I am heartily glad your lordship says so. It is

no delight to me to be perpetually misconceived. I am not one of those who find a pleasure in keeping wounds open. Crom. Some wounds are wholesome, though not joyous but grievous. Faithful are the wounds of a friend. Lat. So be it. But let not their precious balms break my head. Shall I finish the text?

Crom.-I am sorry your lordship takes in such part what I have said. I meant a word to the wise. Lat-And feel that you have cast pearls before swine, which turn again and rend you.

Crom.-As you like it. Nay, nay, we have had enough, I trow, of this skirmishing. That I am not blind to your worth as a preacher, you have had many substantial proofs. And if I mislike your way of dealing with his grace, you do at least know how I countenance your war against public abuses and private scandal. There you have me your friend, in spirit and in truth. And verily, abuses there are, many and grievous; albeit, the sum of them hath happily decreased, and that greatly, since my poor master, Wolsey, fell on sleep.

Lat. There is yet plenty of room for improvement, my lord. Sooth to say, with my weak eyes I can discern but little cleansing in the Augean stable of the state. There is small reason for looking at the things behind, or what is done; great reason for pressing forward to the things before us. The field is large, and the time is short: it ill becomes us who have put our hand to the plough to be looking back. Speed the plough, must be our cry. Crom.-Of course.

Yet it is comforting to remember there lies some good tilled land behind us. England is not quite what it was before the reformed doctrines came in.

Lat. The Ethiopian, too, after a bath in the Nile, is not quite what he was before it. He has washed his skin, but he has not changed it. And I fear the change in England, thus far at least, is not even skin-deep. High and low, we see wounds, and bruises, and putrefying sores and the ointment wherewith we pretend to mollify them is none of the purest.

Grom.-Your lordship nods at me, as though I dealt in such potticary stuff.

Lat. We are none of us quite clear in this matter, I fear. Look at the bribery and evit covetousness in high places, such as must come under your notice day by day. Who will count me up the civil offices bought for money? Saith the old proverb, Omnia venalia Romæ ;' and, alack! England will stand for Rome in the translation. I would the king looked out for meet and able men, fit for office, who should be paid, and that ungrudgingly, for their labour, instead of paying for the right to abuse itmen that have stomachs to do their office; not milksops, nor white-livered knights

Crom.-Softly, my lord; it hardly becomes me to listen to your over freedom of speech. Give me leave to say, that a habit of calling of names, and such names withal, better befits the friar than the bishop. I suppose it is your wealth in such names makes the common people hear you gladly. Yet it is hardly dignified to tickle their itching ears with gibing words.

Lat.-Dignity may be kept at too great cost. I like to use words seasoned with salt.

Crom.-Not Attic salt, my lord. Lut.-No; for that hath lost its savour, and is tasteless to a homely English palate.

Crom.-But methinks you slight your brethren, and hurt weak consciences, by such language.

Lat. What language? My brethren must have puny consciences indeed! What language? Crom.-Oh, I cry you mercy, my lord. I do not boast familiarity with your parts of speech.

Lat.-Marry, I hope you are more familiar with the ninth commandment. Your lordship gravely censures, I suppose, some of the harmless names I bestow upon men of my own order. I call them Sir Johns which have better skill in playing at tables, or in keeping of a garden, than in God's word. I call them Strawberry preachers

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