her chamber. After dinner he sent for him again, led him by the hand into his closet, kept him in private conference till it was dark, and gave him his command to return on the following morning.
This wavering of Henry, this return, as it were, of the old feeling of regard for the cardinal, which continued to the last, warrants the belief that, if the party against him at Court had not been of so peculiar a kind—if the wit, the influence, and the witchcraft of woman had not been set with a deadly power against him, he might still have triumphed over all his enemies, and remained the all-powerful minister, perhaps, till his death. But, as he said, "there was a night-crow that possessed the Royal ear against him, and misrepresented all his actions." No one saw so clearly as Anne the lurking regard in the bosom of the king, the strength of the old habit of consulting with him, and depending on his judgment. This was perceived by Du Bellai, the French ambassador, who attributes the fall of Wolsey entirely to Anne Boleyn. He greatly commiserated his fate, and in one of his letters says, "The worst of the evil is, that Mademoiselle de Boulen has made her friend promise that he will never hear him speak, for she well thinks that he cannot help having pity upon him." Shakespeare makes Wolsey himself assert this as the one insuperable fatality of his case:—
"There was the weight that pulled me down, O Cromwell!
The king has gone beyond me—all my glories
In that one woman I have lost for ever!
No sun shall ever usher forth my honours.
Or gild the noble troops that waited
Upon my smiles."
Accordingly, though all the Court was thrown into consternation by the kind manner in which the king had received the cardinal, and were trembling for their own safety, before morning the night-crow had again succeeded in embittering Henry's mind against his old minister, and extracted from him a promise that he would never speak to him more. In that lay the victory, and she know it. If the cardinal was kept out of sight and hearing, his destiny was sealed by the deadly enmity and art of the new and all-powerful favourite. When, therefore, Wolsey returned in the morning, the king was already on horseback, and, instead of seeing him, he sent him a message to attend the council, and then depart with Campeggio, and so he rode away. Cavendish, Wolsey's faithful secretary, says, "This sudden departure of the king was the especial labour of Mistress Anne Boleyn, who rode with him purposely to draw him away, because he should not return till after the departure of the cardinals. The king rode that morning to view a piece of ground to make a park of (afterwards called Harewell Park), where Mistress Anne had provided him a place to dine in, fearing his return before my lord cardinal's departure."
Campeggio took his leave of England at the commencement of Michaelmas term; but he was not permitted to depart without a gross insult. At Dover the officers of the customs broke into his apartment, and charged him with endeavouring to carry off Wolsey's treasure. The stern old legate, who had repeatedly refused Henry's bribes, by which he might have enriched himself to any extent, was not likely to engage in any such transaction; of which the contents, on being turned out, displayed the most surprising proofs, for there was such an assemblage of old shoes, old clothes, roasted eggs, and dry crusts, as were only the fitting possessions of a most rigorous and abstinent ascetic. The real quest was after the legate's papers, the all-sufficient decretal bull, any letters of Wolsey to the Pope, and, still more anxiously sought after, a set of Henry's love-letters to Anne Boleyn, which, by some means, had got into the legate's hands. The search was fruitless. The wily Italian had probably obeyed the injunction of the Pope to the letter, and burnt the bull, and sent forward before him the especial prize of the love-letters, which arrived safe, and are still shown in the library of the Vatican.
Wolsey did not escape so well as the indignant Campeggio. On the 9th, the same month as he opened the Court of Chancery, ho perceived that there was a deadly coldness as of winter frost around him. No one did him honour—the sun of Royal favour had set to him for ever. On the same day Hales, the attorney-general, filed two bills against him in the King's Bench, charging him with having incurred the penalty of præmunio by acting in the kingdom as the Pope's legate. This was a most barefaced accusation, for he had accepted the legative authority by Henry's express permission; had exercised it for many years with his full knowledge and approbation, and in the affairs of the divorce, at the earnest request of the king. But Henry VIII. had no law but his own will, and never could want reasons for punishing those who had offended him. Wolsey now saw that his doom was fixed, and his spirit sank prostrate and irrevocably.
The fall of Wolsey is one of the most complete and perfect things in the history of man. The hold which he had so long on that fierce and lion-like king—that passionate and capricious king—is amazing; but at once it gives way, and down he goes for ever. But great as he was in his prosperity, so he is great in his ruin. There are those who accuse him of servility and meanness, but they do not well comprehend human nature. Wolsey know himself, his master, and the world. Wolsey knew himself. He knew his own proud ambition, and he knew that his story must stand for ever a brilliant point in the annals of his country; but to give it an effect that would cover a multitude of sins, and make him, who had hitherto been a daring adventurer and a despot of no mean degree, an object of lasting commiseration, it was necessary to fall with dignity and die with penitence. He knew his master, that his favour was gone, his resistance at the pitch, and kept there by a fair enemy whom there was no thrusting away. His cupidity once kindled, there was nothing to expect but destruction, certain and at hand.
"Nay, then, farewell!
I have touched the highest point of all my greatness;
And from that full meridian of my glory
I haste now to my setting. I shall fall
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more."
In the contemplation of Wolsey in his fallen condition, we are so much affected by his humility, his candour, and his sorrow, that we forget his former haughtiness and his crimes. He never accuses his sovereign of injustice; he breaks out in no passion against him; he
