CHAPTER VIII.

THE EVENT.

Strange things occur when we least expect them, and often either further or retard the progress of our views so unaccountably, that with all our wisdom we could never effect what is often done by accident. We call it accident, or chance, but, call it what we may, there are designs fulfilled by man of which he has no kind of presentiment; and only after performance are they looked upon as providential.

The party, as merry as friends intent upon doing mutual good could be, bent their way round by the market-place, where the butchers' shambles, a square-built, ancient building, then reared its four sides. It has been misrepresented that one of these stalls was kept by Robert Wolsey, the father of our young scholar; but all the stalls belonged to hire, which he had received as the security of his wife's dower from the wealthy family of Daundy. The whole of the butcher's shambles, which they were then approaching, were rented by the different occupiers of Robert Wolsey and just in the same manner as any of the great property in Grosvenor Street might belong, upon leases, to the Earl of that name; or the property in Lambeth, held by lease from the Archbishops of Canterbury, might be said to be the property of that See.

It would be unjust to any of the great men who own considerable estates in houses, shops, and tenements, built upon their grounds, to say, that they were, originally, bakers, butchers, brewers, mercers, or hardware men. Yet upon no other ground was Wolsey's father denominated a butcher. He was a merchant and a man of property, and married a lady of one of the highest families, short of nobility, yet truly noble in deed. The party were walking from the market-place towards St. Nicholas, where Wolsey's father resided, in a house which formed the termination of two thoroughfares now called St. Nicholas Street and Silent Street. They were proceeding in front of the area or open market-place by the shambles, just as two surly mastiff dogs were growling and quarrelling for a piece of offal which had been thrown to them. They were huge, tawny mastiff dogs of great power, and most formidable appearance. After eyeing each other with savage fierceness they flew to the conflict. Daundy, at any other time, would have passed by such savage contests among men, boys, or dogs, but having De Freston's daughter upon his left arm, and the animals passing a little too near him, bearing each other down, he hurled at them a small short stick he had in his hand. Had he boldly struck them, and kept the weapon in his hand, they might have been cowed, but as he had inflicted a blow and thrown away the weapon, they turned furiously upon him and his companion, who, in an instant, were borne to the ground.

One savage seized the loyal burgess by the throat, and though he was kicked, and pulled, and beaten by Latimer and De Freston, he maintained his grasp. Ellen was seized by the arm, and the beast had already torn her garments, and the blood was starting from his jaws. It was then that Wolsey displayed his presence of mind and his prowess, for not choosing to waste his time upon the animal's sides, he seized a huge shin-bone of an ox, which lay upon the butcher's stall, and instantly dealt such a blow upon the mastiff's skull as dashed his brains upon the pavement. He then raised the terrified Ellen, who had fainted away with pain, and whilst a butcher, with a cleaver, administered the same punishment to the other mastiff, he had carried the poor girl into Cady's house, and committed her to the care of its good mistress.

Wolsey still kept the shin-hone in his hand, and when his fellow townsmen saw him walking to his own house with the weapon, and they knew what he had done with it, they would have carried him in their arms in triumph to his father's house. But he had hastened home to tell his parents of the accident, and to request his mother to provide accommodation for Lord De Freston's daughter.

Dame Joan was by no means content with preparations: she ordered her servants to follow with a litter and went at once to Cady's house. Ellen was glad to see her, and confided herself to her care. Daundy was most severely bitten in the throat. It was thought best he should go to his own house, while Ellen was conveyed to Dame Joan Wolsey's.

This was an arrangement to which De Freston could not do otherwise than assent; for, as the dogs were in a state of mad rage at the time when they flew at them, it was impossible to say what the consequences might be if the patients were neglected. To Dame Joan's, then, his daughter was borne, and, as might be expected, was for some days in a state of feverish excitement concerning her wound.

It was a grand hour for Wolsey, and he was proud of that ox-shin bone; he called it his friend in need: he had it cleaned, and tipped with silver.

'I will never part with it,' he said to De Freston, 'and if ever I should be worthy of a coat-of-arms, it shall serve as my crest.'

'It was a brave and judicious act, Thomas,' added De Freston, 'and one for which Ellen and I shall ever feel grateful. Had you not killed the mastiff, he might have killed my daughter. The act is worthy of your energy, Thomas, and I should be glad to see your crest exalted. I shall leave Ellen with your mother with as much confidence as if she were at home; but I will send her maid early in the morning to assist dame Joan's household.'

De Freston had a melancholy return to his castle; indeed, he would not have gone at all, had not his daughter requested that he would attend to some things which she had proposed doing. On that beautiful evening, Latimer and De Freston took their seats upon the stern of the barge, and departed for the castle. Daundy did well, and so did Ellen, who did not forget to intercede with Dame Joan in behalf of Wolsey.

'As thou dost urge it so warmly, fair maiden, and dost seem to take such interest in the fate of my dear son, Thomas, I will not oppose it further: but if he should take to the priesthood, I shall never forgive myself, or--'

'Me--thou wouldst say, my dear friend. But why take such a hostile view of the priesthood. Men of letters, men of wisdom, men of piety, men of godliness all enter into holy orders, and I see no reason why you should lament, should your son be so resolved. I heard him say, however, that he had no such intention, and methinks you should be content with that declaration.'

'I am content, but I dread it, because I know that Thomas is not fitted for that sequestered life which the cloister calls for. He is, in his nature, social; in his heart, generous; in his soul, ambitious; in his habits, domestic; and if he should find a partner suited to his mind, he would be an ornament to his country. But priests must not marry--must not have property--must not love their parents--must not dress as other people do--walk or talk as other people; but are tutored in ways which appear to me suppressed, deceitful, and unfeeling, if not unnatural. I have but one son, and I confess I should like to see of that one a line of honorable descendants; but if Thomas should be a priest, I shall blame myself for listening to your persuasions.'

'I do but intercede for him as he deserves. He has gained the love of every one here, and possessed himself of all the knowledge here to be obtained. I admire both him and his talents, and should be glad to see him a distinguished man. I am persuaded he will be such; for the energies he has put forth in my behalf have shown him to be of a strong frame, and the thirst he has for science, literature, and languages, proves that these, with proper encouragement, might render him equal to some of the greatest men in the land.'

This conversation took place when Ellen was recovering. Her father became her constant companion under the roof of Wolsey; and Daundy having been pronounced out of all danger, the parties met somewhat oftener. A favorable answer was received from Magdalen, and it was soon agreed and arranged that Wolsey, under the auspices of William Latimer, should taka his departure for Oxford.

The very event which afterwards turned to his ill account, among his enemies, was looked upon at that day as worthy of all honor. Wolsey took for his crest the arm holding a shin-bone, and in the second volume of Edmonton's 'Heraldry,' the arms of Wolsey are emblazoned, and a naked arm embowed, holding a shin-bone, all proper, is adopted. In other parts of the kingdom, where his arms are found, there is also represented the mastiff's head.

It is not likely that Wolsey, so proud a man as he afterwards proved himself, and so very particular in all things appertaining to dignity, should have chosen for himself a crest which could cast any degree of obloquy upon his origin. Had he been a butcher's son, he would either have acknowledged it, or have sought to conceal it. We do not find that he any where alludes to his origin, nor that he makes mention of the circumstance which induced him to adopt the heraldic emblem of this great deed. He had his arms emblazoned in the days of his prosperity, and before the cardinal's hat superseded the shin-bone, in every part of his house the same crest ornamented his balustrades, his plate, his pictures, and his canopies. However much this might have been perverted by his enemies, beyond all doubt it was chosen by him to denote a brave action.

The following poem is supposed to be written previously to Wolsey's departure from his native town. It was breathed in the solitude of his own study, and addressed to her who then held such sway over his affections.--

De Freston's Daughter.

Hail! beauteous creature of thy race, Most glorious in form and grace! In every feature purely bright, Reflecting innocence as light; Calm dignity is on thy brow, Intelligence doth round thee glow, And thou art lovely, and of gentlest kind, My kinsman's daughter, and my kindred mind!

Fair Ellen, were yon rich domain, Yon castle, tower, and portly train Of serfs and vassals, in their state, Attendant on my nod to wait; And riches of all Europe mine, And thou couldst say, no wealth was thine Then wouldst thou be as much, or more, to me, Than now I wish the scholar were to thee.

Alone, I'm seated in my cell, My studies weary me unwell, My thoughts distracted, mind no more The beauties of the classic lore; For all I read, or hear, or see, Remind me, Ellen, but of thee And if of thee I can alone have thought, My heart would fain of thee alone be taught.

Fair Helen was not half so bright, Though heroes for her met in fight, Though Paris lov'd, and sons of Troy, With aged Priam, lov'd the boy Who stole her. Helen was not fair, If virtues thine with hers compare; For thou, in grace, in modesty, and mien, Transcendent far the far-famed Grecian Queen!

Thine head is Grecian, brow is high, Expansive as the summer sky; And crown'd with locks of flowing hair, Such as thy mother, Eve, might wear, When first to Adam she appeared. And Paradise of Eden shared; So open, innocent, and calm a brow, None but the purest of her daughters show!

Thine eyes half shaded by thine hair, Dark flowing down thy forehead fair, Cast forth their beams, inquiring how All things created ought to bow To Him who made them. E'en of me They ask what worship ought to be; And, when I view them, I confess I feel As if their radiance would make me kneel.

To see that eye intent on thought, Which learning has in wisdom taught; And see its glance to heavenward bend, As if thy spirit would ascend And bring down answers from the sky To all that seems a mystery: Its swelling orb, as rolling sphere at night, Glitters in aqueous moisture pure and bright.

Thy form, how graceful! like the fawn Bounding along the spacious lawn; Or, as the lamb at morning light Skips from the fold in sportive flight, Enjoying life, so oft I've seen Thy form light bounding o'er the green To meet me coming. O! that I could be Ellen De Freston, ever near to thee.

Oh! if to learning's seat I go, And Fame's bright wreath should crown my brow And honors raise me to the height Of all ambition could requite, And every tongue and every hand Should give me all they could command, Fair Ellen, still I'd lay them at thy feet: Thou couldst alone my happiness complete.

Whilst now before me visions spread, And seem to crown the aspiring head, And call me from my native town, And drive away the darkest frown, My life has dreaded that alone I should be lost and left unknown: The visions now so clouded which I see, Is lighted up, fair Ellen, but by thee!

Thou in the distance shining bright Appearest like a speck of light, And brighter as the present cloud The darkened foreground seems to shroud, Whilst full on thee the sunny ray Descends as beaming as the day, When full of glory, I shall see thee shine, And hope to call De Freston's daughter mine!

Had this poem but been sent to Ellen before the youth left Ipswich for Oxford, it would have explained to Lord De Freston the nature of the feelings of the writer; but it was never sent; it was seen by Wolsey's mother, and copied, but it was supposed and intended to be kept secret by the young aspirant for fame.