A Glance at the Reign1 of Henry viii.1
What two works are those for which at this moment our national intellect (or, more rigorously speaking, our popular intellect) is beginning clamorously to call? They are these: first, a Conversations-Lexicon, obeying (as regards plan and purpose) the general outline of the German work bearing that title; ministering to the same elementary necessities; implying, therefore, a somewhat corresponding stage of progress in our own populace and that of Germany; but otherwise (as regards the executive details in adapting such a work to the special service of an English public) moving under moral restraints sterner by much, and more faithfully upheld, than could rationally be looked for in any great literary enterprise resigned to purely2 German impulses. For over the atmosphere of thought and feeling in Germany there broods no public conscience. Such a Conversations-Lexicon is one of the two great works for which the popular mind of England is waiting and watching in silence. The other (and not less important) work is—a faithful History of England. We will offer, at some future time, a few words upon the first; but upon the second—here brought before us so advantageously in the earnest, thoughtful, and oftentimes eloquent3 volumes of Mr. Froude—we will venture to offer three or four pages of critical comment.
Could the England of the sixteenth century have escaped that great convulsion which accompanied the dissolution of the monasteries4? It is barely possible that a gentle system of periodic decimations, distributing this inevitable5 ruin over an entire century, might have blunted the edge of the fierce ploughshare: but there were difficulties in the way of such arrangements, that would too probably have thwarted6 the benign7 purpose.
Meantime, what was it that had stolen like a canker-worm into the machinery8 of these monastic bodies, and insensibly had corroded9 a principle originally of admitted purity? The malice10 of Protestantism has too readily assumed that Popery was answerable for this corrosion11. But it would be hard to show that Popery in any one of its features, good or bad, manifested itself conspicuously12 and operatively: nay13, to say the simple truth, it was through the very opposite agency that the monastic institutions came to ruin: it was because Popery, that supreme14 control to which these monasteries had been confided15, shrank from its responsibilities—weakly, lazily, or even perfidiously16, abandoned that supervisorship in default of which neither right of inspection17, nor duty of inspection, nor power of inspection, was found to be lodged18 in any quarter—there it was, precisely19 in that dereliction of censorial20 authority, that all went to ruin. All corporations grow corrupt21, unless habitually22 kept under the eye of public inspection, or else officially liable to searching visitations. Now, who were the regular and official visitors of the English monasteries? Not the local bishops24; for in that case the public clamour, the very notoriety of the scandals (as we see them reported by Wicliffe and Chaucer), would have guided the general wrath25 to some effectual surgery for the wounds and ulcers26 of the institutions. Unhappily the official visitors were the heads of the monastic orders; these, and these only. A Franciscan body, for example, owed no obedience27 except to the representative of St. Francis; and this representative too uniformly resided somewhere on the Continent. And thus it was that effectually and virtually English monasteries were subject to no control. Nay, the very corrections of old abuses by English parliamentary statutes28 had greatly strengthened the evil. Formerly29, the monastic funds were drawn30 upon to excess in defraying the costs of a transmarine visitation. But that evil, rising into enormous proportions, was at length radically31 extirpated32 by parliamentary statutes that cut down the costs; so that continental33 devotees, finding their visitations no longer profitable in a pecuniary34 sense, sometimes even costly35 to themselves, and costly upon a scale but dimly intelligible36 to any continental experience, rapidly cooled down in their pious37 enthusiasm against monastic delinquencies. Hatred38, at any rate, and malignant39 anger the visitor had to face, not impossibly some risk of assassination40, in prosecuting41 his inquiries42 into the secret crimes of monks43 that were often confederated in a common interest of resistance to all honest or searching inquiry45. But, if to these evils were superadded others of a pecuniary class, it was easy to anticipate, under this failure of all regular inspectorship46, a period of plenary indulgence to the excesses of these potent47 corporations. Such a period came: no man being charged with the duty of inspection, no man inspected; but never was the danger more surely at hand, than when it seemed by all ordinary signs to have absolutely died out. Already, in the days of Richard II., the doom48 of the monasteries might be heard muttering in the chambers49 of the upper air. In the angry denunciations of Wicliffe, in the popular merriment of Chaucer, might be read the same sentence of condemnation50 awarded against them. Fierce warnings were given to them at intervals51. A petition against them was addressed by the House of Commons to Henry IV. The son of this prince, the man of Agincourt, though superstitious52 enough, if superstition53 could have availed them, had in his short reign (so occupied, one might have thought, with war and foreign affairs) found time to read them a dreadful warning: more than five scores of these offending bodies (Priories Alien) were suppressed by that single monarch54, the laughing Hal of Jack55 Falstaff. One whole century slipped away between this penal56 suppression and the ministry57 of Wolsey. What effect can we ascribe to this admonitory chastisement58 upon the general temper and conduct of the monastic interest? It would be difficult beyond measure at this day to draw up any adequate report of the foul59 abuses prevailing60 in the majority of religious houses, for the three following reasons:—First, because the main record of such abuses, after it had been elaborately compiled under the commission of Henry VIII., was (at the instigation of his eldest61 daughter Mary) most industriously62 destroyed by Bishop23 Bonner; secondly63, because too generally the original oath of religious fidelity64 and secrecy65, in matters interesting to the founder66 and the foundation, was held to interfere67 with frank disclosures; thirdly, because, as to much of the most crying licentiousness68, its full and satisfactory detection too often depended upon a surprise. Steal upon the delinquents70 suddenly, and ten to one they were caught flagrante delicto: but upon any notice transpiring71 of the hostile approach, all was arranged so as to evade72 for the moment—or in the end to baffle finally—search alike and suspicion.
The following report, which Mr. Froude views as the liveliest of all that Bishop Bonner’s zeal73 has spared, offers a picturesque74 sketch75 of such cases, according to the shape which they often assumed. In Chaucer’s tale, told with such unrivalled vis comica, of the Trompington Miller76 and the Two Cambridge Scholars, we have a most life-like picture of the miller with his ‘big bones,’ as a ‘dangerous’ man for the nonce. Just such a man, just as dangerous, and just as big-boned, we find in the person of an abbot—defending his abbey, not by any reputation for sanctity or learning, but solely77 by his dangerousness as the wielder78 of quarter-staff and cudgel. With no bull-dog or mastiff, and taken by surprise, such an abbot naturally lost the stakes for which he played. The letter is addressed to the Secretary of State:—‘Please it your goodness to understand, that on Friday the 22nd of October (1535), I rode back with speed to take an inventory79 of Folkstone; and thence I went to Langden. Whereat immediately descending80 from my horse, I sent Bartlett, your servant, with all my servants, to circumsept the abbey [i. e. to form a hedge round about], and surely to keep [guard] all back-doors and starting holes. I myself went alone to the abbot’s lodging—joining upon the fields and wood.’ [This position, the reporter goes on to insinuate81, was no matter of chance: but, like a rabbit-warren, had been so placed with a view to the advantages for retreat and for cover in the adjacent woodlands.] ‘I was a good space knocking at the abbot’s door; neither did any sound or sensible manifestation82 of life betray itself, saving the abbot’s little dog, that within his door, fast locked, bayed and barked. I found a short pole-axe standing83 behind the door; and with it I dashed the abbot’s door in pieces ictu oculi [in the twinkling of an eye]; and set one of my men to keep that door; and about the house I go with that pole-axe in my hand—ne forte84 [”lest by any chance“2—holding in suspense85 such words as ”some violence should be offered“]—for the abbot is a dangerous, desperate knave86, and a hardy87. But, for a conclusion, his gentlewoman bestirred her stumps88 towards her starting holes; and then Bartlett, watching the pursuit, took the tender demoisel; and, after I had examined her, to Dover—to the mayor, to set her in some cage or prison for eight days. And I brought holy father abbot to Canterbury; and here, in Christ Church, I will leave him in prison.’
This little interlude, offering its several figures in such life-like attitudes—its big-boned abbot prowling up and down the precincts of the abbey for the chance of a ‘shy’ at the intruding89 commissioner—the little faithful bow-wow doing its petit possible to warn big-bones of his danger, thus ending his faithful services by an act of farewell loyalty—and the unlucky demoisel scuttling90 away to her rabbit-warren, only to find all the spiracles and peeping-holes preoccupied91 or stopped, and her own ‘apparel’ unhappily locked up ‘in the abbot his coffer,’ so as to render hopeless all evasion92 or subsequent denial of the fact, that ten big-boned ‘indusia’ (or shirts) lay interleaved in one and the same ‘coffer,’ inter44 totidem niveas camisas3 (or chemises)—all this framed itself as a little amusing parenthesis93, a sort of family picture amongst the dreadful reports of ecclesiastical commissioners94.
No suppression of the religious houses had originally been designed; nothing more than a searching visitation. And at this moment, yes, at this present midsummer of 1856, waiting and looking forward to the self-same joyful95 renewal96 of leases that then was looked for in England, but not improbably, alas97! summoned to the same ineffable98 disappointment as fell more than three centuries back upon our own England—lies, waiting for her doom, a great kingdom in central Europe. She, and under the same causes, may chance to be disappointed. What was it that caused the tragic99 convulsion in England? Simply this: regular and healthy visitation having ceased, infinite abuses had arisen; and these abuses, it was found at last, could not be healed by any measure less searching than absolute suppression. Austria, as regards some of her provinces, stands in the same circumstances at this very moment. Imperfect visitations, that cleansed100 nothing, should naturally have left her religious establishments languishing101 for the one sole remedy that was found applicable to the England of 1540. And what was that? It was a remedy that carried along with it revolution. England was found able in those days to stand that fierce medicine: a more profound revolution has not often been witnessed than that of our mighty102 Reformation. Can Austria, considering the awful contagions103 amongst which her political relations have entangled104 her, hope for the same happy solution of her case? Perhaps a revolution, that once unlocks the fountains of blood in central Germany, will be the bloodiest105 of all revolutions: whereas, in our own chapters of revolution even the stormiest, those of the Marian Persecution106 and of the Parliamentary War, both alike moved under restraints of law and legislative107 policy. The very bloodiest promises of English history have replied but feebly to the clamour and expectations of cruel or fiery108 partisans109. Different is the prospect110 for Austria. From her, and from the auguries111 of evil which becloud her else smiling atmosphere, let us turn back to our own history in this sixteenth century, and for a moment make a brief inquest into the blood that really was shed—whether justly or not justly. Bloodshed, as an instinct—bloodshed, as an appetite—raged like a monsoon112 in the French Revolution, and many centuries before in the Rome of Sylla and Marius—in the Rome of the Triumvirate, and generally in the period of Proscriptions. Too fearfully it is evident that these fits of acharnement were underlaid and fed by paroxysms of personal cruelty. In England, on the other hand, foul and hateful as was the Marian butchery, nevertheless it cannot be denied that this butchery rested entirely113 upon principle. Homage114 offered to anti-Lutheran principles, in a moment disarmed115 the Popish executioner. Or if (will be the objection of the reflecting reader)—if there are exceptions to this rule, these must be looked for amongst the king’s enemies. And the term ‘enemies’ will fail to represent adequately those who, not content with ranking themselves wilfully116 amongst persons courting objects irreconcilable117 to the king’s interests, sought to exasperate118 the displeasure of Henry by special insults, by peculiar119 mortifications, and by complex ingratitude120. Foremost amongst such cases stands forward the separate treason of Anne Boleyn, mysterious to this hour in some of its features, rank with pollutions such as European prejudice would class with Italian enormities, and by these very pollutions—literally by and through the very excess of the guilt121—claiming to be incredible. Neither less nor more than this which follows is the logic122 put into the mouth of the Lady Anne Boleyn:—From the mere123 enormity of the guilt imputed124 to me, from that very abysmal125 stye of incestuous adultery in which now I wallow, I challenge as of right the presumption126 that I am innocent; for the very reason that I am loaded in my impeachment127 with crimes that are inhuman128, I claim to be no criminal at all. Because my indictment129 is revolting and monstrous130, therefore is it incredible. The case, taken apart from the person, would not (unless through its mysteriousness and imperfect circumstantiation) have attracted the interest which has given it, and will in all time coming continue to give it, a root in history amongst insoluble or doubtfully soluble131 historical problems. The case, being painful and shocking, would by readers generally have long since been dismissed to darkness. But the person, too critically connected with a vast and immortal132 revolution, will for ever call back the case before the tribunals of earth. The mother of Queen Elizabeth, the mother of Protestantism in England, cannot be suffered—never will be suffered—to benefit by that shelter of merciful darkness which, upon any humbler person, or even upon this person in any humbler case, might be suffered to settle quietly as regards the memory of her acts. Mr. Froude, a pure-minded man, is the last man to call back into the glare of a judicial133 inquest deeds of horror, over which eternal silence should have brooded, had such an issue been possible. But three centuries of discussion have made that more and more impossible. And now, therefore, with a view to the improvement of the dispute, and, perhaps, in one or two instances, with a chance for the rectification134 of the ‘issues‘ (speaking juridically) into which the question has been allowed to lapse135, Mr. Froude has in some degree re-opened the discussion. ‘The guilt,’ he says, ‘must rest where it is due. But under any hypothesis guilt there was—dark, mysterious, and most miserable136.’
Tell this story how you may, and the evidence remains137 of guilt under any hypothesis—guilt such as in Grecian tragedy was seen thousands of years ago hanging in clouds of destiny over princely houses, and reading to them a doom of utter ruin, root and branch, in which, as in the anarchy138 of hurricanes, no form or feature was descried139 distinctly—nothing but some dim fluctuating phantom140, pointing with recording141 finger to that one ancestral crime through which the desolation had been wrought142.
Mr. Froude, through his natural sense of justice, and his deep study of the case, is unfavourably disposed towards the Lady Anne Boleyn: nevertheless he retains lingering doubts on her behalf, all of which, small and great, we have found reason to dismiss. We, for our parts, are thoroughly143 convinced of her guilt. Our faith is, that no shadow of any ground exists for suspending the verdict of the sentence; but at the same time for mitigating144 that sentence there arose this strong argument—namely, that amongst women not formally pronounced idiots, there never can have been one more pitiably imbecile.
There is a mystery hanging over her connection with the king which nobody has attempted to disperse145. We will ourselves suggest a few considerations that may bring a little coherency amongst the scattered146 glimpses of her fugitive147 court life. The very first thought that presents itself, is a sentiment, that would be pathetic in the case of a person entitled to more respect, upon the brevity of her public career. Apparently148 she lost the king’s favour almost in the very opening of her married life. But in what way? Not, we are persuaded, through the king’s caprice. There was hardly time for caprice to have operated; and her declension in favour from that cause would have been gradual. Time there was none for her beauty to decay—neither had it decayed. We are disposed to think that in a very early stage of her intercourse149 with the king, she had irritated the king by one indication of mental imbecility rarely understood even amongst medical men—namely, the offensive habit of laughing profusely150 without the least sense of anything ludicrous or comic. Oxford151, or at least one of those who shot at the Queen, was signally distinguished152 by this habit. Without reason or pretext153, he would break out into causeless laughter, not connected with any impulse that he could explain. With this infirmity Anne Boleyn was plagued in excess. On the 2nd of May, 1536, the very first day on which she was made aware of the dreadful accusations154 hanging over her good name and her life, on being committed to the Tower, and taken by Sir William Kingston, the governor, to the very same chambers in which she had lain at the period of her coronation, she said, ‘It’ (meaning the suite155 of rooms) ‘is too good for me; Jesu, have mercy on me;’ next she kneeled down, ‘weeping a great space.’ Such are Sir William’s words; immediately after which he adds, ‘and in the same sorrow fell into a great laughing.’ A day or two later than this, she said, ‘Master Kingston, shall I die without justice?’—meaning, it seems, would she be put to death without any judicial examination of her case; upon which Sir William replied, ‘The poorest subject the king hath, had justice’—meaning, that previously156 to such an examination of his case, he could not by regular course of justice be put to death. Such was the question of the prisoner—such was the answer of the king’s representative. What occasion was here suggested for rational laughter? And yet laughter was her sole comment. ‘Therewith,’ says Sir William, ‘she laughed.’ On May 18th, being the day next before that of her execution, she said, ‘Master Kingston, I hear say I shall not die afore noon; and I am very sorry therefore, for I thought to be dead by this time, and past my pain.’ Upon this Sir William assured her ‘it should be no pain, it was so subtle;’ meaning that the stroke of a sword by a powerful arm, applied157 to a slender neck, could not meet resistance enough to cause any serious pain. She replied, ‘I heard say the executioner was very good, and I have a little neck;’ after which she laughed heartily158. Sir William so much misunderstood this laughter, which was doubtless of the same morbid159 and idiotic160 character as all the previous cases, that he supposes her to have had ‘much joy and pleasure in death,’ which is a mere misconstruction of the case. Even in the very act of dying she could not check her smiling, which assuredly was as morbid in its quality and origin as what of old was known as ‘risus sardonicus.’
Carrying along with us, therefore, a remembrance of this repulsive161 habit, which argues a silliness so constitutional, and noting also the obstinate162 (almost it might be called the brutal) folly163 with which, during the last seventeen days of her life, she persisted in criminating herself, volunteering a continued rehearsal164 of conversations the most profligate165, under a mere instinct of gossiping, we shall begin to comprehend the levity166 which no doubt must have presided in her conversations with the king. Too evidently in a court but recently emerging from barbarism, there was a shocking defect of rules or fixed167 ceremonial for protecting the dignity of the queen and of her female attendants. The settlement of any such rules devolved upon the queen herself, in default of any traditional system; and unhappily here was a queen without sense, without prudence168, without native and sexual dignity for suggesting or upholding such restraints, and whose own breeding and experience had been purely French. Strange it was that the king’s good sense, or even his jealousy169, had not peremptorily170 enjoined171, as a caution of mere decency172, the constant presence of some elderly matrons, uniting rank and station with experience and good sense. But not the simplest guarantees for ordinary decorum were apparently established in the royal household. And the shocking spectacle was daily to be seen, of a young woman, singularly beautiful, atrociously silly, and without common self-respect, styling herself Queen of England, yet exacting173 no more respect or homage than a housemaid, suffering young men, the most licentious69 in all England, openly to speculate on the contingency174 of her husband’s death, to talk of it in language the coarsest, as ‘waiting for dead men’s shoes,’ and bandying to and fro the chances that this man or that man, according to the whim175 of the morning, should ‘have her,’ or should not ‘have her’—that is, have the reversion of the queen’s person as a derelict of the king. All this, though most injurious to her prospects176, was made known by Anne Boleyn herself to the female companions who were appointed to watch her revelations in prison. And certainly no chambermaid ever rehearsed her own colloquies177 with these vile178 profligates in a style of thinking more abject179 than did at this period the female majesty180 of England. Listening to no accuser, but simply to the unsolicited revelations of the queen herself, as she lay in bed amongst her female attendants in the Tower, every man of sense becomes aware, that if these presumptuous181 young libertines182 abstained183 from daily proposals to the queen of the most criminal nature, that could arise only from the reserve and suspicion incident to a state of rivalship, and not from any deference184 paid to the queen’s personal pretensions185, or to her public character.
Three years, probably one-half of that term, had seen the beginning, the decay, and the utter extinction186 of the king’s affection for Anne. It is known now, and at the time it had furnished a theme for conjecture187, that very soon after his marriage the king manifested uneasiness, and not long after angry suspicions, upon matters connected with the queen. We have no doubt that she herself, whilst seeking to amuse the king with fragments of her French experiences, had, through mere oversight188 and want of tact189, unintentionally betrayed the risks to which her honour had been at times exposed. Without presence of mind, without inventive talent or rapidity of artifice190, she would often compromise herself, and overshoot her momentary191 purposes of furnishing amusement to the king. He had heard too much. He believed no longer in her purity. And very soon, as a natural consequence, she ceased to interest him. The vague wish to get rid of her would for some time suggest no hopeful devices towards such a purpose. For some months, apparently, he simply neglected her. This neglect unhappily it was that threw her unprotected upon the vile society of young libertines. Two of these—Sir Henry Norris and Sir Francis Weston—had been privileged friends of the king. But no restraints of friendship or of duty had checked their designs upon the queen. Either special words, or special acts, had been noticed and reported to the king. Thenceforward a systematic192 watch had been maintained upon all parties. Discoveries more shocking than anybody looked for had been made. The guilty parties had been careless: blind themselves, they thought all others blind; but, during the April of 1536, the Privy193 Council had been actively194 engaged in digesting and arranging the information received.
On May-day, the most gladsome day in the whole year, according to the usages of that generation, the dreadful news transpired195 of the awful accusations and the impending196 trials. Smeton, a musician, was the only person not of gentlemanly rank amongst the accused. He was accused of adultery with the queen; and he confessed the offence; never retracting198 that part of his confession199. In discussing the probabilities of the case, it is necessary to use special and extraordinary caution. The confession, for instance, of Anne herself has been treated as hollow and unmeaning; because, it is alleged200, the king’s promise of indulgence and favour to her infant daughter was purchased under the condition of confession. It is clear that such a traffic would not have been available except in special and exceptional cases. As to Smeton, he did not at all meet the king’s expectations, except as to the one point of confessing the adultery. Consequently, as he was quite disinterested201, had nothing at all to gain, and did gain nothing by his confession, him we are obliged to believe. On the other hand, the non-confession of some amongst the gentlemen, if any there were that steadfastly202 adhered to this non-confession, proves nothing at all; since they thought it perfidy203 to confess such a case against a woman. Meantime, Constantyne, a known friend of Sir H. Norris and of Sir W. Brereton, two of the four gentlemen accused, declares that, for himself, being a Protestant, and knowing the queen’s secret leaning to that party, he and all other ‘friends of the gospel’ could not bring themselves to believe that the queen had behaved so abominably204. ‘As I may be saved before God,’ he says, ‘I could not believe it, afore I heard them speak at their death. But on the scaffold, in a manner all confessed, unless Norris; and as to him, what he said amounted to nothing.’ The truth is, there occurred in the cases of these gentlemen a dreadful struggle. The dilemma205 for them was perhaps the most trying upon record. Gallantry and manly197 tenderness forbade any man’s confessing, for a certain result of ruin to a woman, any treasonable instances of love which she had shown to him. Yet, on the other hand, to deny was to rush into the presence of God with a lie upon their lips. Hence the unintelligible206 character of their final declarations. Smeton, as no gentleman, was hanged. All the other four—Norris, Brereton, Weston, and Rochford—were beheaded. The four gentlemen and Smeton suffered all on the same day—namely, Wednesday, the 17th of May. Of all the five, Sir W. Brereton was the only one whose guilt was doubted. Yet he was the most emphatic207 in declaring his own guilt. If he could die a thousand deaths, he said, all would be deserved.
But the crime of all the rest seemed pale by the side of Rochford’s. He had been raised to the peerage by Henry, as an expression of his kindness to the Boleyn family. He was the brother of Anne; and whilst the others had offended by simple adultery with Anne, his crime was incestuous adultery; and his dying words appeared (to the auditors), ‘if not,’ says Mr. Froude, ‘a confession, yet something too nearly resembling it.’
From such dreadful offences, all readers are glad to hurry away; yet in one respect this awful impeachment has a reconciling effect. No reader after this wishes for further life to Anne. For her own sake it is plain that through death must lie the one sole peaceful solution of her unhappy and erring208 life. Some people have most falsely supposed that the case against the brother and sister, whatever might be pronounced upon the four other cases, laboured under antecedent improbabilities so great as to vitiate, or to load with suspicion, the entire case of the Privy Council. But, on the contrary, the shocking monstrosity of the charge strengthens the anti-Boleyn impeachment. As a means for getting rid of Anne, the Rochford case was not at all needed. If it could even in dreams be represented as false, the injury offered to the Boleyns, whilst quite superfluous209 for any purpose of Henry’s, would be too atrocious an outrage210 upon truth and natural justice for human nature to tolerate. The very stones would mutiny against such a calumny211 coming as a crown or crest212 to other injuries separately unendurable, if they could once be regarded as injuries at all. Under these circumstances, what should we think of a call upon Lord Berkshire, the very father of Anne Boleyn, to sit as one of the judges upon the cases. Not, indeed, upon the cases of his son and his daughter; from such Roman trials of fortitude213 he was excused; but on the other cases he was required to officiate as one of the judges. And, in fact, the array of rank and splendour, as exhibited in the persons of those who composed the court, surpassed anything previously known in England. On the part of the crown, it was too keenly felt that the deep personal interest of the king, in obtaining liberty to form a new marriage connection with Jane Seymour, would triumphantly214 outweigh215 all the justice that ever could be arrayed against the two Boleyns. Nothing could win a moment’s audience for the royal cause, except an unparalleled and matchless splendour in the composition of the court. This, therefore, was secured. Pretty nearly the whole peerage of that period was embattled upon the bench of judges.
Meantime, the tragedy, so far as the queen is concerned, took a turn which convicts all parties of a blunder; of a blunder the most needless and superfluous. This blunder was exposed by Bishop Burnet about a hundred and fifty years later, but most insufficiently216 exposed; and to this hour it has not been satisfactorily cleared up. Let us pursue the arrears218 of the case. The four gentlemen, together with Mark Smeton, were executed (as we have seen) on Wednesday, the 17th of May, 1536. Two days later Queen Anne Boleyn was brought out at noonday upon the verdant219 lawn within the Tower, and with very slight ceremonies she suffered decapitation. A single cannon-shot proclaimed to London and Westminster the final catastrophe220 of this unhappy romance. Anne had offered not one word of self-vindication on this memorable221 occasion; and, if her motive222 to so signal a forbearance were really consideration for the interests of her infant daughter, it must be granted that she exhibited, in the farewell act of her life, a grandeur223 of self-conquest which no man could have anticipated. For this act she has never received the homage which she deserved; whilst, on the other hand, praise most unmerited has been given for three centuries to the famous letter of self-defence which she is reputed to have addressed to the king at the opening of her trial. This letter, beyond all doubt a forgery224, was first brought into effectual notice by the Spectator somewhere about 1710; and, whether authentic225 or not, is most injudiciously composed. It consists of five paragraphs, each one of which is pulling distractedly in contradictory226 directions.
Meantime, that or any other act of Anne Boleyn’s was superseded227 by a fatal discovery, which changed utterly228 the relations of all parties, which in effect acquitted229 Anne of treason, and which summarily rehabilitated230 as untainted subjects of the king those five men who had suffered death in the character of traitors231. The marriage of Anne to the king, it was suddenly discovered, had from the beginning been void. It is true that we have long ceased to accredit232 those objections from precontracts, &c., which in the papal courts would be held to establish a nullity. But we are to proceed by the laws as then settled. Grounds of scruple233, which would now raise at most a mere case of irregularity, at that time, unless met ab initio by a papal dispensation, did legally constitute a flaw such as even a friendly pope could not effectually cure; far less that angry priest, blazing up with wrath, and at intervals meditating234 an interdict235, who at present occupied the chair of St. Peter. Here was a discovery to make, after so much irreparable injustice236 had been already perpetrated! If (which is too certain), under the marriage laws then valid237, Anne Boleyn never had been the lawful238 wife of Henry, then, as Bishop Burnet suddenly objected when too late by one hundred and fifty years, what became of the adultery imputed to Anne, and the five young courtiers? Not being the king’s wife, both she was incapable239 in law of committing adultery as against the king, and by an inevitable consequence they were incapable of participating in a crime which she was incapable of committing.
When was this fatal blunder detected? Evidently before any of the victims had become cold in their graves. And the probability is—that, when the blunder was first perceived, the dreadful consequences of that blunder, and the legal relations of those consequences, were not immediately discerned. What convinces us of this is, that the first impulse of the king and his advisers240, upon discovering through a secret communication made by Anne the existence of a precontract, and the consequent vitiation of her marriage with the king, had been, to charge upon Anne a new and scandalous offence. Not until they had taken time to review the case, did they become aware of the injustice that had been perpetrated by their own precipitance: and as this was past all reparation, probably it was agreed amongst the few who were parties to the fatal oversight, that the safest course was to lock up the secret in darkness. But it is singular to watch the fatality241 of error which pursued this ill-starred marriage. Every successive critic, in exposing the errors of his predecessor242, has himself committed some fresh blunder. Bishop Burnet, for instance, first of all in a Protestant age indicated the bloody243 mistakes of papal lawyers in 1536; not meaning at all to describe these mistakes as undetected by those who were answerable for them. Though hushed up, they were evidently known to their unhappy authors. Next upon Burnet, down comes Mr. Froude. Burnet had shaped his criticism thus: ‘If,’ he says, ‘the queen was not married to the king, there was no adultery.’ Certainly not. But, says Mr. Froude, Burnet forgets that she was condemned244 for conspiracy245 and incest, as well as for adultery. Then thirdly come we, and reverting246 to this charge of forgetfulness upon Burnet, we say, Forgets! but how was he bound to remember? The conspiracy, the incest, the adultery, all alike vanish from the record exactly as the character of wife vanishes from Anne. With any or all of these crimes Henry had no right to intermeddle. They were the crimes of one who never had borne any legal relation to him; crimes, therefore, against her own conscience, but not against the king in any character that he was himself willing permanently247 to assume.
On this particular section of Henry’s reign, the unhappy episode of his second wife, Mr. Froude has erred248 by insufficient217 rigour of justice. Inclined to do more justice than is usually done to the king, and not blind to the dissolute character of Anne, he has yet been carried, by the pity inalienable from the situation, to concede more to the pretences249 of doubt and suspense than is warranted by the circumstances of the case. Anne Boleyn was too surely guilty up to the height of Messalina’s guilt, and far beyond that height in one atrocious instance.
Passing from that to the general pretensions of this very eloquent and philosophic250 book, we desire to say—that Mr. Froude is the first writer (first and sole) who has opened his eyes to comprehend the grandeur of this tremendous reign.
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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corroded
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| 已被腐蚀的 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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corrosion
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| n.腐蚀，侵蚀；渐渐毁坏，渐衰 | |
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conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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perfidiously
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| adv.不忠实地，背信地 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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censorial
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| 监察官的，审查员的 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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ulcers
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| n.溃疡( ulcer的名词复数 )；腐烂物；道德败坏；腐败 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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statutes
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| 成文法( statute的名词复数 )； 法令； 法规； 章程 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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extirpated
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| v.消灭，灭绝( extirpate的过去式和过去分词 )；根除 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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prosecuting
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| 检举、告发某人( prosecute的现在分词 )； 对某人提起公诉； 继续从事（某事物）； 担任控方律师 | |
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42
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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inter
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| v.埋葬 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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inspectorship
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| n.检查员的地位 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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48
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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49
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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50
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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51
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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52
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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53
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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54
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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55
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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56
penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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57
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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58
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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59
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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60
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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industriously
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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licentiousness
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| n.放肆，无法无天 | |
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licentious
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| adj.放纵的，淫乱的 | |
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delinquents
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| n.（尤指青少年）有过失的人，违法的人( delinquent的名词复数 ) | |
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71
transpiring
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的现在分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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72
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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73
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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wielder
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| 行使者 | |
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inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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80
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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81
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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82
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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83
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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84
forte
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| n.长处，擅长；adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
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85
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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86
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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scuttling
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| n.船底穿孔，打开通海阀（沉船用）v.使船沉没( scuttle的现在分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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92
evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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94
commissioners
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| n.专员( commissioner的名词复数 )；长官；委员；政府部门的长官 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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contagions
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| 传染( contagion的名词复数 )； 接触传染； 道德败坏； 歪风 | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bloodiest
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| adj.血污的( bloody的最高级 )；流血的；屠杀的；残忍的 | |
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106
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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107
legislative
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| n.立法机构，立法权；adj.立法的，有立法权的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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partisans
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| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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auguries
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| n.（古罗马）占卜术，占卜仪式( augury的名词复数 )；预兆 | |
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monsoon
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| n.季雨，季风，大雨 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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114
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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115
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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116
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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117
irreconcilable
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| adj.（指人）难和解的，势不两立的 | |
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118
exasperate
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| v.激怒，使（疾病）加剧，使恶化 | |
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119
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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120
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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121
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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122
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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123
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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124
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
abysmal
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| adj.无底的，深不可测的，极深的；糟透的，极坏的；完全的 | |
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126
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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127
impeachment
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| n.弹劾；控告；怀疑 | |
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128
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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129
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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130
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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131
soluble
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| adj.可溶的；可以解决的 | |
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132
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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133
judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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134
rectification
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| n. 改正, 改订, 矫正 | |
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135
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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136
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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137
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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138
anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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139
descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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140
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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141
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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142
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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143
thoroughly
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|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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144
mitigating
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的现在分词 ) | |
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145
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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146
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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147
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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148
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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149
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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150
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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151
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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152
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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153
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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154
accusations
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|
| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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155
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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156
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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157
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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158
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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159
morbid
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|
| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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160
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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161
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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162
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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163
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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164
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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165
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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166
levity
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|
| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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167
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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168
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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169
jealousy
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|
| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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170
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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171
enjoined
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|
| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
decency
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|
| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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173
exacting
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|
| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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174
contingency
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|
| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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175
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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176
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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177
colloquies
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|
| n.谈话，对话( colloquy的名词复数 ) | |
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178
vile
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|
| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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179
abject
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|
| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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180
majesty
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|
| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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181
presumptuous
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|
| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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182
libertines
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| n.放荡不羁的人，淫荡的人( libertine的名词复数 ) | |
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183
abstained
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|
| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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184
deference
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|
| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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185
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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186
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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187
conjecture
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|
| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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188
oversight
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|
| n.勘漏，失察，疏忽 | |
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189
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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190
artifice
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|
| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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191
momentary
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|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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192
systematic
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|
| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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193
privy
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|
| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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194
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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195
transpired
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|
| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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196
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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197
manly
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|
| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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198
retracting
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| v.撤回或撤消( retract的现在分词 )；拒绝执行或遵守；缩回；拉回 | |
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199
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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200
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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201
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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202
steadfastly
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|
| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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203
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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204
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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205
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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206
unintelligible
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|
| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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207
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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208
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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209
superfluous
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|
| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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210
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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211
calumny
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| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
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212
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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213
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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214
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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215
outweigh
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| vt.比...更重，...更重要 | |
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216
insufficiently
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| adv.不够地，不能胜任地 | |
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217
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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218
arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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219
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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220
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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221
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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222
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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223
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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224
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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225
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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226
contradictory
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|
| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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227
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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228
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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229
acquitted
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|
| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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230
rehabilitated
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|
| 改造（罪犯等）( rehabilitate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使恢复正常生活； 使恢复原状； 修复 | |
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231
traitors
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|
| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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232
accredit
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| vt.归功于，认为 | |
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233
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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234
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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235
interdict
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| v.限制；禁止；n.正式禁止；禁令 | |
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236
injustice
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|
| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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237
valid
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|
| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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238
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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239
incapable
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|
| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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240
advisers
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|
| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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241
fatality
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|
| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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242
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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243
bloody
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|
| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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244
condemned
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|
| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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245
conspiracy
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|
| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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246
reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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247
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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248
erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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249
pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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250
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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