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This was all the letter. And when it was read, the king, the queen and all the knights wept for pity. Then was Sir Launcelot sent for. And when he was come, King Arthur made the letter to be read to him; when Sir Launcelot heard it, word by word, he said, "My Lord, Arthur, wit ye well, I am right heavy of the death of this fair damsel. God knoweth, I was never causer of her death by my willing, and that I will declare to her own brother. I will not say nay, but she was fair and good, and much was I beholden to her, but she loved me out of measure. "Ye might have showed her," said the Queen, some bounty and gentleness that might have preserved her life." "Madam," answered Launcelot, "she would none other way be answered but that she would be my wife, or else my love, and of these two I would not grant her. For, madam, I love not to be constrained to love, for love must arise out of the hearts and not by no constraint." "That is true," said the king, and many knights, "Love is free in himself, and never will be bounden, for where he is bounden he loseth himself." "Then," said the king to Sir Launcelet, "It will be your worship that ye oversee that she be interred worshipfully." "Sir," said Launcelet, "that shall be done as I can best devise.' And so upon the morn she was interred richly, and Sir Launcelet offered her mass-penny, and the knights of the Table Round that were there offered also.

* *

Malory's Morte D'Arthur, was the last great book, and the most famous, that the 15th century produced. But although it had given to the world so little literature, it had seen two great events which influenced its whole future. Of one of these, the invention of printing, I have already spoken. The second was the discovery of the New World by Columbus, an event so strange and full of mystery that it must have stimulated the imagination of the dullest and most commonplace man, and made for the time a place for poetry in the most matter-of-fact brain. Early in the 16th century, books of voyages to the New World began to appear in Italy and Germany, and the stories of men who had sailed in unknown seas, under skies glittering with new stars, excited the wonder of all who read them. English sailors who had voyaged with Sebastian Cabot to these new lands, brought back to home-ports tales rich in wonders. Thus the discovery of America was sure to work upon literature, although, in an age without telegraphs, or steam engines,

or newspapers, the strongest forces must work more slowly than in our time, and the immediate results of such discoveries as those of printing and the New World were not seen in a day.

TALK XV.

ON LITERATURE IN THE REIGN OF HENRY VIII; More's UTOPIA; TYNDALE'S BIBLE; SKELTON, THE COURT POET; THE SONNETS OF SURREY AND WYATT.

THE reign of Henry VIII covers nearly the first half of the 16th century; yet, although the last half of this century is, perhaps, the most glorious of any period in our literature, its first years do not shine with the promise of that afterglory. There are a few great names, but not that crowd of rare spirits that make the age of Queen Elizabeth so resplendent. The great event of Henry VIII's reign, however the separation of the Church of England from that of Rome-did much to inspire the thought of the age which followed. Although Henry did not greatly care for the freedom of any man except himself, and meant to hold a tight rein over other men's actions and consciences, still he took a great stride toward freedom when he made the Church of England independent of that of Rome, and all advances toward freedom are sure to quicken the spirit of fine literature, which is the free expression of the highest thought of the best men of the age. Let me tell you briefly of the greatest men and the best work done in literature from the opening of the century to the time when the great Queen Elizabeth took her father's seat as an English sovereign.

The noblest and most memorable work of the age was done by William Tyndale when he undertook the translation of the Bible, and his name deserves to be set high in the annals of English literature and language. Tyndale was only

1525.

a poor tutor in the house of a nobleman in Gloucestershire; when one day as they sat at table, a religious discussion arose, in which a bigoted priest who was present said, dogmatically, "Better be without God's laws than the pope's." Tyndale took fire at this, and rising grandly said: "In the name of God I defy the pope and his laws, and if God spares my life, I will cause the boy who drives the plough to know more of God's laws than either you or the pope." A few years later, in spite of persecution, he published his translation of the New Testament into English. I think that we may decide that this work of Tyndale's was the greatest literary work between the time of Chaucer and Spenser. The Bible, made accessible to the common people, was not only a religious book, but a fountain-head of literature. The daily speech of men and women was made rich by the introduction into it of the phraseology of the Scriptures rendered into the homely and eloquent English which Tyndale used, and from that day to this, apt and fitting quotations from the Bible have been so imbedded in common speech that we use them often without consciousness of their source. Tyndale died in Holland at the stake, a martyr for the work he did, and the opinions he held.

1536.

Another noble gentleman, who also died for loyalty to his opinions, very near the time of Tyndale's martyrdom, was Born 1480. Sir Thomas More, one of the saintliest and most Died 1535. lovable characters in all this time. He did not follow the king in his separation from the church of Rome, but remained a staunch Catholic, and avowed his religious scruples against the divorce of the king from Queen Katharine, and the marriage with Anne Boleyn. He was executed on Tower Hill, dying with the serenity which became such a noble and true man. As he laid his head upon the block, he carefully put away his long full beard from under the axe, saying simply, "This should not be cut; it has never

committed treason.'

His great book, " The Utopia," was written in Latin, a

language which was still, and for a long time after, used by scholars in prose writings. "Utopia" was an imaginary land, a wonderful country whose society and laws were ideally perfect. A sailor, sunbrowned and strange as Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner," who says he had been on voyages to the New World with the great discover Amerigo Vespucci, gives the account of this wonderful country and its romantic discovery. In this fabled Utopia, More could embody all his ideas of a perfect commonwealth, and so show by contrast, the defects in laws and social conditions in England. And his ideas of religious charity and reforms in society are so generous and grand, that this nineteenth century has not yet excelled them. But when he pictures an ideal city, and his highest conception of the material comforts of life, we shall find that we have to-day outstripped his best imaginings. For instance, he thus describes Amaurote, the chief city of the Utopians:

"The city is compassed about with a high and thick stone wall, full of tunnels and bulwarks. A dry ditch, but deep, goeth about three sides. On the fourth side the river serveth for a ditch. The streets be twenty feet broad. On the back side of the houses, through the whole length of the street, lay large gardens. The houses are curiously builded after a georgeous and gallant sort, with three stories, one over the other, the outside being of hard plaster, or else of brick, and the inner side well strengthened with timber-work. * They keep the wind out of their windows with glass, for it is there much used, and also with fine linen cloth dipped in oil, for by this means more light cometh in and the wind is better kept out."

*

This picture of the city and its houses, while it may surpass in comfort those in More's day, does not excite any special envy in us; but when he speaks of justice among men, and religious tolerance, then he rises to heights as grand as we have attained. And at the close he makes a noble plea for laboring men whose rights at that time had been little heard of:

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What justice is it," he bursts out, "that a goldsmith, a usurer, or any of those which do nothing at all, or else what they do is such as is not necessary to the commonwealth, should have a pleasant liv

ing through idleness or unnecessary business, while in the meantime poor laborers, carters, ironsmiths, carpenters and ploughmen, by so great and continual toil as drawing and bearing beasts be scant able to sustain, and again so necessary toil that without it no commonwealth were able to continue and endure one year, should get so poor and hard a living, and live so wretched and miserable a life that the state and condition of many laboring beasts may seem much better and wealthier. * * Is this not unjust and behind public weal which gives great fees and rewards to gentlemen, as they call them, and on the contrary part maketh no provision for ploughmen, colliers, laborers and carpenters? * * Therefore, when I consider and weigh in mind all these commonwealths which now-a-days do every where flourish, so God help me, I can perceive nothing but a conspiracy of rich men, procuring their commodities under the name and title of the commonwealth."

These generous words from the pen of a man in high position, who might easily have been blind to the misery of those who were poorer and weaker than he, gives Sir Thomas More a warm place in my liking, and the Utopia a high place among the books of the world.

John Skelton comes in as court poet of Henry the VIII, alBorn 1460., though I fancy him a man fitter for a bar-room than Died 1529. court, a man of coarse manner and gross wit, although he had sprightliness and a good deal of humor. He had been tutor to Henry the VIII before he became king, and was high in favor at court. He was a clever rhymester, and wrote verses full of sparkling vivacity. Nobody before his time had proved how flexible the English language was and how it could be twisted hither and thither in rhyme. But we should not now read Skelton's verses with much interest. This is partly because he was a writer of satire, and satire, however clever, rarely ever is interesting in any time but that in which it is written. One of his satires was a scorching attack upon the great Cardinal Wolsey, called "Why come ye not to court?"

His work generally considered most poetical is the Book of Philip Sparrow, a lament for a dead sparrow, which has so much ease and grace in rhyming that it has never lost its charm. But the most entertaining of his poems to me is the