No More Learning

Patrick
is absolutely silent about his own conjuring performances. He
told his followers, perhaps, that he had been moved by his good
angel to devote himself to the conversion of Ireland. The angel
of metaphor becomes in the next generation an actual seraph.
On a rock in the county of Down there is, or was, a singular
mark, representing rudely the outline of a foot. From that rock,
where the young Patrick was feeding his master's sheep, a writer
of the sixth century tells us that the angel Victor sprang back to
heaven after delivering his message, and left behind him the
imprinted witness of his august visit. Another hundred years
pass, and legends from Hegesippus are imported into the life of
the Irish apostle. St. Patrick and the Druid enchanter contend
before King Leogaire on Tara Hill, as Simon Magus and St.
Peter contended before the Emperor Nero. Again a century, and
we are in a world of wonders where every human lineament is
löst. St. Patrick, when a boy of twelve, lights a fire with icicles;
when he comes to Ireland he floats thither upon an altar-stone
which Pope Celestine had blessed for him. He conjures a Welsh
marauder into a wolf, makes a goat cry out in the stomach of a
thief who had stolen him, and restores dead men to life, not
once or twice but twenty times. The wonders with which the
atmosphere is charged gravitate towards the largest concrete
figure which is moving in the middle of them, till at last, as
Gibbon says, the sixty-six lives of St. Patrick which were extant
in the twelfth century must have contained at least as many thou-
sand lies. And yet of conscious lying there was very little; per-
haps nothing at all. The biographers wrote in good faith and
were industrious collectors of material, only their notions of
probability were radically different from ours. The more mar-
velous a story, the less credit we give to it; warned by experi-
ence of carelessness, credulity, and fraud, we disbelieve everything
for which we cannot find contemporary evidence, and from the
value of that evidence we subtract whatever may be due to prev-
alent opinion or superstition. To the medieval writer, the
more stupendous the miracle the more likely it was to be true;
he believed everything which he could not prove to be false, and
proof was not external testimony, but inherent fitness.
So much for the second period of what is called human his.
tory. In the first or mythological there is no historical ground-
work at all. In the next or heroic we have accounts of real


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JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
6073
persons, but handed down to us by writers to whom the past
was a world of marvels, whose delight was to dwell upon the
mighty works which had been done in the old times, whose ob-
ject was to elevate into superhuman proportions the figures of the
illustrious men who had distinguished themselves as apostles or
warriors. They thus appear to us like their portraits in stained-
glass windows, represented rather in a transcendental condition.
of beatitude than in the modest and checkered colors of real
life. We see them not as they were, but as they appeared to an
adoring imagination, and in a costume of which we can only
affirm with certainty that it was never worn by any child of
Adam on this plain, prosaic earth. For facts as facts there is
as yet no appreciation; they are shifted to and fro, dropped out
of sight, or magnified, or transferred from owner to owner,-
manipulated to suit or decorate a preconceived and brilliant idea.
We are still in the domain of poetry, where the canons of the
art require fidelity to general principles, and allow free play to
fancy in details. The Virgins of Raphael are no less beautiful
as paintings, no less masterpieces of workmanship, though in no
single feature either of face or form or costume they resemble
the historical mother of Christ, or even resemble one another.
At the next stage we pass with the chroniclers into history
proper. The chronicler is not a poet like his predecessor. He
does not shape out consistent pictures with a beginning, a mid-
dle, and an end. He is a narrator of events, and he connects
them together on a chronological string. He professes to be re-
lating facts. He is not idealizing, he is not singing the praises
of the heroes of the sword or the crosier; he means to be true
in the literal and commonplace sense of that ambiguous word.
And yet in his earlier phases, take him in what part of the world
we please, take him in ancient Egypt or Assyria, in Greece or
in Rome, or in modern Europe,- he is but a step in advance of
his predecessor. He is excellent company. He never moralizes,
never bores you with philosophy of history or political economy.
He never speculates about causes. But on the other hand, he is
uncritical. He takes unsuspectingly the materials which he finds
ready to his hand,—the national ballads, the romances, and the bi-
ographies. He transfers to his pages whatever catches his fancy.
The more picturesque an anecdote, the more unhesitatingly he
writes it down, though in the same proportion it is the less likely
to be authentic. Romulus and Remus suckled by the wolf;
―――――――――――
1


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6074
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
Curtius jumping into the gulf; our English Alfred spoiling the
cakes; or Bruce watching the leap of the spider,- stories of this
kind he relates with the same simplicity with which he records
the birth in his own day, in some outlandish village, of a child
with two heads, or the appearance of the sea-serpent or the fly-
ing dragon. Thus the chronicle, however charming, is often noth-
ing but poetry taken literally and translated into prose. It grows,
however, and improves insensibly with the growth of the nation.
Like the drama, it develops from poor beginnings into the lofti-
est art, and becomes at last perhaps the very best kind of histor-
ical writing which has yet been produced. Herodotus and Livy,
Froissart and Hall and Holinshed, are as great in their own
departments as Sophocles or Terence or Shakespeare. We are
not yet entirely clear of portents and prodigies. Superstition
clings to us as our shadow, and is to be found in the wisest as
well as the weakest. The Romans, the most practical people that
ever lived,—a people so pre-eminently effective that they have
printed their character indelibly into the constitution of Europe,
these Romans, at the very time they were making themselves
the world's masters, allowed themselves to be influenced in the
most important affairs of State by a want of appetite in the
sacred chickens, or the color of the entrails of a calf. Take him
at his best, man is a great fool. It is likely enough that we our-
selves habitually say and practice things which a thousand years
hence will seem not a jot less absurd. Cato tells us that the
Roman augurs could not look one another in the face without
laughing; and I have heard that bishops in some parts of the
world betray sometimes analogous misgivings.
In able and candid minds, however, stuff of this kind is tol-
erably harmless, and was never more innocent than in the case
of the first great historian of Greece. Herodotus was a man of
vast natural powers. Inspired by a splendid subject, and born at
the most favorable time, he grew to manhood surrounded by the
heroes of Marathon and Salamis and Platea. The wonders of
Egypt and Assyria were for the first time thrown open to the
inspection of strangers. The gloss of novelty was not yet worn
off, and the impressions falling fresh on an eager, cultivated, but
essentially simple and healthy mind, there were qualities and con-
ditions combined which produced one of the most delightful
books which was ever written. He was an intense patriot; and
he was unvexed with theories, political or moral. His philosophy


## p. 6075 (#45) ############################################

JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
6075
was like Shakespeare's, -a calm, intelligent insight into human.
things. He had no views of his own, which the fortunes of
Greece or other countries were to be manipulated to illustrate.
The world as he saw it was a well-made, altogether promising
and interesting world; and his object was to relate what he had
seen and what he had heard and learnt, faithfully and accurately.
His temperament was rather believing than skeptical; but he was
not idly credulous. He can be critical when occasion requires.
He distinguishes always between what he had seen with his own
eyes and what others told him. He uses his judgment freely,
and sets his readers on their guard against uncertain evidence.
And there is not a book existing which contains in the same
space so much important truth,-truth which survives the sharp-
est test that modern discoveries can apply to it.
The same may be said in a slightly less degree of Livy and
of the best of the late European chroniclers: you have the same
freshness, the same vivid perception of external life, the same
absence of what philosophers call subjectivity, - the projection
into the narrative of the writer's own personality, his opinions,
thoughts, and theories. Still, in all of them, however vivid,
however vigorous the representation, there is a vein of fiction
largely and perhaps consciously intermingled. In a modern work
of history, when a statesman is introduced as making a speech,
the writer at any rate supposes that such a speech was actually
made. He has found an account of it somewhere either in detail
or at least in outline or epitome. The boldest fabricator would
not venture to introduce an entire and complete invention. This
was not the case with the older authors. Thucydides tells us
frankly that the speeches which he interweaves with his narra-
tive were his own composition. They were intended as dramatic
representations of the opinions of the factions and parties with
which Greece was divided, and they were assigned to this person
or to that, as he supposed them to be internally suitable. Herod-
otus had set Thucydides the example, and it was universally
followed. No speech given by any old historian can be accepted
as literally true unless there is a specific intimation to that effect.
Deception was neither practiced nor pretended. It was a conven-
ient method of exhibiting characters and situations, and it was
therefore adopted without hesitation or reserve.


## p. 6076 (#46) ############################################

6076
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
THE DEATH OF THOMAS BECKET
From Short Studies on Great Subjects>
THE
HE knights were introduced. They advanced. The archbishop
neither spoke nor looked at them, but continued talking to
a monk who was next him. He himself was sitting on
a bed. The rest of the party present were on the floor. The
knights seated themselves in the same manner, and for a few
moments there was silence. Then Becket's black, restless eye
glanced from one to the other. He slightly noticed Tracy; and
Fitzurse said a few unrecorded sentences to him, which ended with
"God help you! " To Becket's friends the words sounded like
insolence. They may have meant no more than pity for the
deliberate fool who was forcing destruction upon himself.
Becket's face flushed. Fitzurse went on, "We bring you the
commands of the King beyond the sea; will you hear us in pub-
lic or in private? " Becket said he cared not. "In private, then,"
said Fitzurse. The monks thought afterwards that Fitzurse had
meant to kill the archbishop where he sat. If the knights had
entered the palace, thronged as it was with men, with any such
intention, they would scarcely have left their swords behind them.
The room was cleared, and a short altercation followed, of which
nothing is known save that it ended speedily in high words on
both sides. Becket called in his clergy again, his lay servants
being excluded, and bade Fitzurse go on. "Be it so," Sir Regi-
nald said. "Listen, then, to what the King says. When the peace
was made, he put aside all his complaints against you. He al-
lowed you to return, as you desired, free to your see. You have
now added contempt to your other offenses. You have broken
the treaty. You have allowed your pride to tempt you to defy
your lord and master to your own sorrow. You have censured
the bishops by whose administration the Prince was crowned.
You have pronounced an anathema against the King's ministers,
by whose advice he is guided in the management of the empire.
You have made it plain that if you could you would take the
Prince's crown from him. Your plots and contrivances to attain
your ends are notorious to all men. Say, then, will you attend us
to the King's presence, and there answer for yourself? For this
we are sent. "
The archbishop declared that he had never wished any hurt
to the Prince. The King had no occasion to be displeased if
1


## p. 6077 (#47) ############################################

JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
6077
crowds
came about him in the towns and cities, after having
been SO long deprived of his presence. If he had done any
wrong he would make satisfaction, but he protested against being
suspected of intentions which had never entered his mind.
Fitzurse did not enter into an altercation with him, but con-
tinued: - "The King commands further that you and your clerks
repair without delay to the young King's presence, and swear
allegiance, and promise to amend your faults. "
The archbishop's temper was fast rising. "I will do whatever
may be
reasonable," he said, "but I tell you plainly, the King
shall have no oaths from me, nor from any one of my clergy.
There
has been too much perjury already. I have absolved
many,
with God's help, who had perjured themselves.
absolve the rest when he permits. "
I will
"I
understand you to say that you will not obey," said Fitz-
urse, and went on in the same tone: -"The King commands
you to absolve the bishops whom you have excommunicated with-
out his permission" (absque licentia sud).
"The Pope sentenced the bishops," the archbishop said. "If
you are not pleased, you must go to him. The affair is none of
mine. »
Fitzurse said it had been done at his instigation, which he did
not deny; but he proceeded to reassert that the King had given
his permission. He had complained at the time of the peace of
the injury which he had suffered in the coronation, and the King
had told him that he might obtain from the Pope any satisfaction
for which he liked to ask.
Fitzurse could scarce hear
If this was all the consent which the King had given, the pre-
tense of his authority was inexcusable.
the archbishop out with patience. "Ay, ay! " said he; "will you
the King out to be a traitor, then? The King gave you
leave
to excommunicate the bishops when they were acting by
his own order! It is more than we can bear to listen to such
monstrous accusations. "
make
John of Salisbury tried to check the archbishop's imprudent
tongue, and whispered to him to speak to the knights in private;
but when the passion was on him, no mule was more ungovern-
able
than Becket.
him :
Drawing to a conclusion, Fitzurse said to
"Since you refuse to do any one of those things which
the King requires of you, his final commands are that you and
your clergy shall forthwith depart out of this realm and out of


## p. 6078 (#48) ############################################

6078
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
his dominions, never more to return.
You have broken the peace,
and the King cannot trust you again. "
Becket answered wildly that he would not go-never again
would he leave England. Nothing but death should now part
him from his church. Stung by the reproach of ill-faith, he
poured out the catalogue of his own injuries. He had been
promised restoration, and instead of restoration he had been
robbed and insulted. Ranulf de Broc had laid an embargo on
his wine. Robert de Broc had cut off his mule's tail; and now
the knights had come to menace him.
De Morville said that if he had suffered any wrong he had
only to appeal to the Council, and justice would be done.
Becket did not wish for the Council's justice. "I have com-
plained enough," he said; "so many wrongs are daily heaped
upon me that I could not find messengers to carry the tale of
them. I am refused access to the court. Neither one king nor
the other will do me right. I will endure it no more. I will
use my own powers as archbishop, and no child of man shall
prevent me. "
"You will lay the realm under interdict, then, and excommu-
nicate the whole of us? " said Fitzurse.
"So God help me," said one of the others, "he shall not do
that. He has excommunicated over-many already. We have
borne too long with him. "
The knights sprang to their feet, twisting their gloves and
swinging their arms. The archbishop rose. In the general noise
words could no longer be accurately heard. At length the
knights moved to leave the room, and addressing the archbishop's
attendants, said, "In the King's name we command you to see
that this man does not escape. "
"Do you think I shall fly, then? " cried the archbishop.
"Neither for the King nor for any living man will I fly. You
cannot be more ready to kill me than I am to die.
Here
you will find me," he shouted, following them to the door as
they went out, and calling after them. Some of his friends
thought that he had asked De Morville to come back and speak
quietly with him, but it was not so. He returned to his seat,
still excited and complaining.
"My lord," said John of Salisbury to him, "it is strange that
you will never be advised. What occasion was there for you to
go after these men and exasperate them with your bitter speeches?


## p. 6079 (#49) ############################################

JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
6079
You would have done better, surely, by being quiet and giving
them a milder answer. They mean no good, and you only com-
mit yourself. "
The archbishop sighed, and said, "I have done with advice.
I know what I have before me. "
It was four o'clock when the knights entered. It was now
nearly five; and unless there were lights the room must have
been almost dark. Beyond the archbishop's chamber was an
ante-room, beyond the ante-room the hall. The knights, passing
through the hall into the quadrangle, and thence to the lodge,
called their men to arms. The great gate was closed. A mounted
guard was stationed outside, with orders to allow no one to go
out or in. The knights threw off their cloaks and buckled on
their swords. This was the work of a few minutes. From the
cathedral tower the vesper bell was beginning to sound. The
archbishop had seated himself to recover from the agitation of
the preceding scene, when a breathless monk rushed in to say
that the knights were arming.
"Who cares? Let them arm,"
was all that the archbishop said. His clergy was less indifferent.
If the archbishop was ready for death, they were not. The door
from the hall into the court was closed and barred, and a short
respite was thus secured. The intention of the knights, it may
be presumed, was to seize the archbishop and carry him off to
Saltwood or to De Morville's castle at Knaresborough, or perhaps
to Normandy. Coming back to execute their purpose, they found
themselves stopped by the hall door. To burst it open would
require time; the ante-room between the hall and the archbish-
op's apartments opened by an oriel window and an outside stair
into a garden. Robert de Broc, who knew the house well, led
the way to it in the dark. The steps were broken, but a ladder
was standing against the window, by which the knights mounted,
and the crash of the falling casement told the fluttered group
about the archbishop that their enemies were upon them. There
was still a moment. The party who entered by the window, in-
stead of turning into the archbishop's room, first went into the
hall to open the door and admit their comrades.
From the arch-
bishop's room a second passage, little used, opened into the
northwest corner of the cloister, and from the cloister there was
a way into the north transept of the cathedral. The cry was
"To the church! To the church! " There at least there would
be immediate safety.


## p. 6080 (#50) ############################################

6080
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
The archbishop had told the knights that they would find him.
where they left him. He did not choose to show fear; or he
was afraid, as some thought, of losing his martyrdom. He would
not move. The bell had ceased. They reminded him that ves-
pers had begun, and that he ought to be in the cathedral. Half
yielding, half resisting, his friends swept him down the passage
into the cloister. His cross had been forgotten in the haste. He
refused to stir till it was fetched and carried before him as usual.
Then only, himself incapable of fear, and rebuking the terror of
the rest, he advanced deliberately to the door into the south
transept. His train was scattered behind him, all along the
cloister from the passage leading out of the palace. As he en-
tered the church, cries were heard, from which it became plain
that the knights had broken into the archbishop's room, had
found the passage, and were following him. Almost immediately
Fitzurse, Tracy, De Morville, and Le Breton were discerned in
the dim light, coming through the cloister in their armor, with
drawn swords, and axes in their left hands. A company of
men-at-arms was behind them. In front they were driving be-
fore them a frightened flock of monks.
From the middle of the transept in which the archbishop was
standing, a single pillar rose into the roof. On the eastern side
of it opened a chapel of St. Benedict, in which were the tombs
of several of the old primates. On the west, running of course
parallel to the nave, was a Lady chapel. Behind the pillar, steps
led up into the choir, where voices were already singing vespers.
A faint light may have been reflected into the transept from the
choir tapers, and candles may perhaps have been burning before
the altars in the two chapels; of light from without through the
windows at that hour there could have been none. Seeing the
knights coming on, the clergy who had entered with the arch-
bishop closed the door and barred it. "What do you fear? " he
cried in a clear, loud voice. "Out of the way, you coward! the
Church of God must not be made a fortress. " He stepped back
and reopened the door with his own hands, to let in the trem-
bling wretches who had been shut out among the wolves. They
rushed past him, and scattered in the hiding-places of the vast
sanctuary, in the crypt, in the galleries, or behind the tombs.
All, or almost all, even of his closest friends,— William of Can-
terbury, Benedict, John of Salisbury himself,- forsook him to
shift for themselves, admitting frankly that they were unworthy


## p. 6081 (#51) ############################################

JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
6081
of martyrdom. The archbishop was left alone with his chaplain
Fitzstephen, Robert of Merton his old master, and Edward Grim,
the stranger from Cambridge,- or perhaps with Grim only, who
says that he was the only one who stayed, and was the only one
certainly who showed any sign of courage. A cry had been
raised in the choir that armed men were breaking into the
cathedral. The vespers ceased; the few monks assembled left
their seats and rushed to the edge of the transept, looking
wildly into the darkness.
The archbishop was on the fourth step beyond the central
pillar ascending into the choir, when the knights came in. The
outline of his figure may have been just visible to them, if light
fell upon it from candles in the Lady chapel. Fitzurse passed to
the right of the pillar, De Morville, Tracy, and Le Breton to
the left. Robert de Broc, and Hugh Mauclerc, another apostate
priest, remained at the door by which they entered. A voice
cried, "Where is the traitor? Where is Thomas Becket? " There
was silence; such a name could not be acknowledged. "Where
is the archbishop? " Fitzurse shouted. "I am here," the arch-
bishop replied, descending the steps, and meeting the knights full
in the face. "What do you want with me? I am not afraid of
your swords. I will not do what is unjust. " The knights closed
round him. "Absolve the persons whom you have excommuni-
cated," they said, "and take off the suspensions. " They have
made no satisfaction," he answered; "I will not. "
«Then you
shall die as you have deserved," they said.
They had not meant to kill him- certainly not at that time
and in that place. One of them touched him on the shoulder
with the flat of his sword, and hissed in his ears, "Fly, or you
are a dead man. " There was still time; with a few steps he
would have been lost in the gloom of the cathedral, and could
have concealed him in any one of a hundred hiding-places. But
he was careless of life, and he felt that his time was come. "I
am ready to die," he said. "May the Church through my blood
obtain peace and liberty! I charge you in the name of God that
you hurt no one here but me. "
The people from the town were now pouring into the cathe-
dral; De Morville was keeping them back with difficulty at the
head of the steps from the choir, and there was danger of a res-
cue. Fitzurse seized him, meaning to drag him off as a prisoner.
He had been calm so far; his pride rose at the indignity of an
«<
XI-381


## p. 6082 (#52) ############################################

6082
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
arrest. "Touch me not, thou abominable wretch! " he said,
wrenching his cloak out of Fitzurse's grasp. "Off, thou pander,
thou! " Le Breton and Fitzurse grasped him again, and tried to
force him upon Tracy's back. He grappled with Tracy and flung
him to the ground, and then stood with his back against the
pillar, Edward Grim supporting him. Fitzurse, stung by the foul
epithet which Becket had thrown at him, swept his sword over
him and dashed off his cap. Tracy, rising from the pavement,
struck direct at his head. Grim raised his arm and caught the
blow. The arm fell broken, and the one friend found faithful
sank back disabled against the wall. The sword with its remain-
ing force wounded the archbishop above the forehead, and the
blood trickled down his face. Standing firmly, with his hands
clasped, he bent his neck for the death-stroke, saying in a low
voice, "I am prepared to die for Christ and for his Church. "
These were his last words. Tracy again struck him. He fell
forward upon his knees and hands. In that position Le Breton
dealt him a blow which severed the scalp from the head and
broke the sword against the stone, saying, "Take that for my
Lord William. " De Broc or Mauclerc - the needless ferocity was
attributed to both of them - strode forward from the cloister
door, set his foot on the neck of the dead lion, and spread the
brains upon the pavement with his sword's point. "We may go,"
he said; "the traitor is dead, and will trouble us no more.
>>
Such was the murder of Becket, the echoes of which are still
heard across seven centuries of time, and which, be the final
judgment upon it what it may, has its place among the most
enduring incidents of English history. Was Becket a martyr, or
was he justly executed as a traitor to his sovereign? Even in
that supreme moment of terror and wonder, opinions were di-
vided among his own monks. That very night Grim heard one
of them say, "He is no martyr, he is justly served. " Another
said - scarcely feeling, perhaps, the meaning of the words,— " He
wished to be king and more than king. Let him be king, let
him be king. " Whether the cause for which he died was to pre-
vail, or whether the sacrifice had been in vain, hung on the
answer which would be given to this momentous question. In a
few days or weeks an answer came in a form to which in that
age no rejoinder was possible; and the only uncertainty which
remained at Canterbury was whether it was lawful to use the or-
dinary prayers for the repose of the dead man's soul, or whether,
—


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JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
6083
in consequence of the astounding miracles which were instantly
worked by his remains, the Pope's judgment ought not to be
anticipated, and the archbishop ought not to be at once adored
as a saint in heaven.
CHARACTER OF HENRY VIII.
From the History of England'
ROTESTANTS and Catholics united to condemn a government
which both had suffered; and a point on which ene-
mies were agreed was assumed to be proved. When I com-
menced the examination of the records, I brought with me the
inherited impression, from which I had neither any thought nor
any expectation that I should be disabused. I found that it
melted between my hands, and with it disappeared that other
fact, so difficult to credit, yet as it had appeared so impossible to
deny, that English Parliaments, English judges, English clergy,
statesmen whose beneficent legislature survives among the most
valued of our institutions, prelates who were the founders and
martyrs of the English Church, were the cowardly accomplices.
of abominable atrocities, and had disgraced themselves with a
sycophancy which the Roman Senate imperfectly approached
when it fawned on Nero.
Henry had many faults. They have been exhibited in the
progress of the narrative: I need not return to them. But his
position was one of unexampled difficulty; and by the work
which he accomplished, and the conditions, internal and exter-
nal, under which his task was allotted to him, he, like every
other man, ought to be judged. He was inconsistent: he can
bear the reproach of it. He ended by accepting and approving
what he had commenced with persecuting; yet it was with the
honest inconsistency which distinguishes the conduct of most
men of practical ability in times of change, and even by virtue
of which they obtain their success. If at the commencement of
the movement he had regarded the eucharist as a "remem-
brance," he must either have concealed his convictions or he
would have forfeited his throne; if he had been a stationary.
bigot, the Reformation might have waited for a century, and
would have been conquered only by an internecine war.
But as the nation moved the King moved, leading it, but
not outrunning it; checking those who went too fast, dragging


## p. 6084 (#54) ############################################

6084
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
forward those who lagged behind. The conservatives, all that
was sound and good among them, trusted him because he so long
continued to share their conservatism; when he threw it aside he
was not reproached with breach of confidence, because his own
advance had accompanied theirs.
Protestants have exclaimed against the Six Articles Bill; Ro-
manists against the Act of Supremacy. Philosophers complain
that the prejudices of the people were needlessly violated, that
opinions should have been allowed to be free, and the reform of
religion have been left to be accomplished by reason. Yet, how-
ever cruel was the Six Articles Bill, the governing classes even
among the laity were unanimous in its favor. The King was not
converted by a sudden miracle; he believed the traditions in
which he had been trained; his eyes, like the eyes of others,
opened but slowly; and unquestionably, had he conquered for
himself in their fullness the modern principles of toleration, he
could not have governed by them a nation which was itself in-
tolerant. Perhaps, of all living Englishmen who shared Henry's
faith, there was not one so little desirous in himself of enforcing
it by violence. His personal exertions were ever to mitigate the
action of the law, while its letter was sustained; and England at
its worst was a harbor of refuge to the Protestants, compared to
the Netherlands, to France, to Spain, or even to Scotland.
That the Romanists should have regarded him as a tyrant is
natural; and were it true that English subjects owed fealty to the
Pope, their feeling was just. But however desirable it may be
to leave religious opinion unfettered, it is certain that if England
was legitimately free, she could tolerate no difference of opinion
on a question of allegiance, so long as Europe was conspiring to
bring her back into slavery. So long as the English Romanists
refused to admit without mental reservation that, if foreign ene-
mies invaded this country in the Pope's name, their place must
be at the side of their own sovereign, "religion" might palliate
the moral guilt of their treason, but it could not exempt them
from its punishment.
But these matters have been discussed in the details of this
history, where alone they can be understood.
Beyond and besides the Reformation, the constitution of these
islands now rests in large measure on foundations laid in this
reign. Henry brought Ireland within the reach of English civil-
ization. He absorbed Wales and the Palatinates into the general
English system. He it was who raised the House of Commons


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JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
6085
from the narrow duty of voting supplies, and of passing without
discussion the measures of the Privy Council, and converted them
into the first power in the State under the Crown. When he as-
cended the throne, so little did the Commons care for their privi-
leges that their attendance at the sessions of Parliament was
enforced by a law. They woke into life in 1529, and they be-
came the right hand of the King to subdue the resistance of the
House of Lords, and to force upon them a course of legislation
which from their hearts they detested. Other kings in times of
difficulty summoned their "great councils," composed of peers, or
prelates, or municipal officials, or any persons whom they pleased
to nominate. Henry VIII. broke through the ancient practice,
and ever threw himself on the representatives of the people. By
the Reformation and by the power which he forced upon them,
he had so interwoven the House of Commons with the highest
business of the State that the peers thenceforward sunk to be
their shadow.
Something, too, ought to be said of his individual exertions
in the details of State administration. In his earlier life, though
active and assiduous, he found leisure for elegant accomplish-
ments, for splendid amusements, for relaxations careless, extrava-
gant, sometimes questionable. As his life drew onwards, his
lighter tastes disappeared, and the whole energy of his intellect
was pressed into the business of the commonwealth. Those who
have examined the printed State papers may form some impres-
sion of his industry from the documents which are his own com-
position, and the letters which he wrote and received: but only
persons who have seen the original manuscripts, who have ob-
served the traces of his pen in side-notes and corrections, and
the handwritings of his secretaries in diplomatic commissions, in
drafts of Acts of Parliament, in expositions and formularies, in
articles of faith, in proclamations, in the countless multitude of
documents of all sorts, secular or ecclesiastical, which contain the
real history of this extraordinary reign,—only they can realize the
extent of labor to which he sacrificed himself, and which brought
his life to a premature close. His personal faults were great, and
he shared, besides them, in the errors of his age; but far deeper
blemishes would be but as scars upon the features of a sovereign
who in trying times sustained nobly the honor of the English
name, and carried the commonwealth securely through the hard-
est crisis in its history.


## p. 6086 (#56) ############################################

6086
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
ON A SIDING AT A RAILWAY STATION
From Short Studies on Great Subjects>
SOME
OME years ago I was traveling by railway, no matter whence
or whither. I was in a second-class carriage. We had been
long on the road, and had still some distance before us,
when one evening our journey was brought unexpectedly to an
end by the train running into a siding. The guards opened the
doors, we were told that we could proceed no further, and were
required to alight. The passengers were numerous, and of all
ranks and sorts. There were third class, second, first, with sa-
loon carriages for several great persons of high distinction. We
had ministers of State, judges on circuit, directors, leading men
of business, idle young men of family who were out amusing
themselves, an archbishop, several ladies, and a duke and duchess
with their suite. These favored travelers had Pullman cars to
themselves, and occupied as much room as was allotted to scores
of plebeians. I had amused myself for several days in observing
the luxurious appurtenances by which they were protected against
discomfort, the piles of cushions and cloaks, the baskets of
dainties, the novels and magazines to pass away the time, and
the profound attention which they met with from the conductors
and station-masters on the line. The rest of us were a miscel-
laneous crowd,-commercial people, lawyers, artists, men of let-
ters, tourists moving about for pleasure or because they had
nothing to do; and in third-class carriages, artisans and laborers
in search of work, women looking for husbands or for service, or
beggars flying from starvation in one part of the world to find
it follow them like their shadows, let them go where they pleased.
All these were huddled together, feeding hardly on such poor
provisions as they carried with them or could pick up at the
stopping-places. No more consideration was shown them than if
they had been so many cattle. But they were merry enough:
songs and sounds of laughter came from their windows, and
notwithstanding all their conveniences, the languid-looking fine
people in the large compartments seemed to me to get through
their journey with less enjoyment after all than their poor fellow
travelers. These last appeared to be of tougher texture, to care less
for being jolted and shaken, to be better humored and kinder to
one another. They had found life go hard with them wherever
―――――


## p. 6087 (#57) ############################################

JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
6087
they had been, and not being accustomed to have everything
which they wished for, they were less selfish and more consid-
erate.
The intimation that our journey was for the present at an
end came on most of us as an unpleasant surprise. The gran-
dees got out in a high state of indignation. They called for their
servants, but their servants did not hear them, or laughed and
passed on. The conductors had forgotten to be obsequious. All
classes on the platform were suddenly on a level. A beggar
woman hustled the duchess, as she was standing astonished be-
cause her maid had left her to carry her own bag. The patricians
were pushed about among the crowd with no more concern than
if they had been common mortals. They demanded loudly to
see the station-master. The minister complained angrily of the
delay; an important negotiation would be imperiled by his deten-
tion, and he threatened the company with the displeasure of his
department. A consequential youth who had just heard of the
death of his elder brother was flying home to take his inherit-
ance. A great lady had secured, as she had hoped, a brilliant
match for her daughter; her work over, she had been at the baths
to recover from the dissipation of the season; difficulty had arisen
unlooked for, and unless she was at hand to remove it the worst
consequences might be feared. A banker declared that the credit
of a leading commercial house might fail, unless he could be at
home on the day fixed for his return; he alone could save it. A
solicitor had the evidence in his portmanteau which would deter-
mine the succession to the lands and title of an ancient family.
An elderly gentleman was in despair about his young wife, whom
he had left at home; he had made a will by which she was to
lose his fortune if she married again after his death, but the will
was lying in his desk unsigned. The archbishop was on his way
to a synod, where the great question was to be discussed whether
gas might be used at the altar instead of candles. The altar
candles were blessed before they were used, and the doubt was
whether gas could be blessed. The right reverend prelate con-
ceived that if the gas tubes were made in the shape of candles
the difficulty could be got over, but he feared that without his
moderating influence the majority might come to a rash de-
cision.
All these persons were clamoring over their various anxi-
eties with the most naïve frankness, the truth coming freely out,


## p. 6088 (#58) ############################################

6088
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
whatever it might be. One distinguished-looking lady in deep
mourning, with a sad, gentle face, alone was resigned and hopeful.
It seemed that her husband had been stopped not long before at
the same station. She thought it possible that she might meet
him again.
The station-master listened to the complaints with composed
indifference. He told the loudest that they need not alarm them-
selves. The State would survive the absence of the minister.
The minister, in fact, was not thinking of the State at all, but of
the party triumph which he expected; and the peerage which was
to be his reward, the station-master said, would now be of no use to
him. The youth had a second brother who would succeed instead
of him, and the tenants would not be inconvenienced by the
change. The fine lady's daughter would marry to her own liking
instead of her mother's, and would be all the happier for it. The
commercial house was already insolvent, and the longer it lasted
the more innocent people would be ruined by it. The boy whom
the lawyer intended to make into a rich baronet was now work-
ing industriously at school, and would grow up a useful man.
a great estate fell in to him he would be idle and dissolute.
The old man might congratulate himself that he had escaped so
soon from the scrape into which he had fallen. His wife would
marry an adventurer, and would suffer worse from inheriting his
fortune. The archbishop was commended for his anxiety. His
solution of the candle problem was no doubt an excellent one; but
his clergy were now provided with a harmless subject to quarrel
over, and if it was adopted they might fall out over something
else which might be seriously mischievous.
If
"Do you mean, then, that you are not going to send us for-
ward at all? " the minister inquired sternly.
"You will see," the station-master answered with a curious
short laugh. I observed that he looked more gently at the lady
in mourning. She had said nothing, but he knew what was in
her mind, and though he held out no hope in words that her
wish would be gratified, he smiled sadly, and the irony passed
out of his face.
The crowd meanwhile were standing about the platform,
whistling tunes or amusing themselves, not ill-naturedly at the
distress of their grand companions. Something considerable was
happening. But they had so long experienced the ups and downs
of things that they were prepared for what fortune might send.


## p. 6089 (#59) ############################################

JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE
6089
They had not expected to find a Paradise where they were going,
and one place might be as good as another. They had nothing.
belonging to them except the clothes they stood in and their bits
of skill in their different trades. Wherever men were, there
would be need of cobblers, and tailors, and smiths, and carpenters.
If not, they might fall on their feet somehow, if there was work
to be done of any sort.
Presently a bell rang, a door was flung open, and we were
ordered into a waiting-room, where we were told that our lug-
gage was to be examined. It was a large, barely furnished
apartment, like the salle d'attente at the Northern Railway Sta-
tion at Paris.