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Chapter 1 Principles of Finance 6e
Besley/Brigham
© 2015 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part, except for use as permitted in a license distributed
with a certain product or service or otherwise on a password-protected website for classroom use.
1-2
cash flows, (2) the timing of the future cash flows, and (3) investors’ required rate of return. If the
amount of the cash flows increases, the cash flows are received sooner, investors’ required rate
of return decreases, or any combination of these events occur, the value of an investment will
increase.
1-6 The value of a firm can be measured by the market value of its stock. Thus, the firm maximizes
value/wealth by maximizing the value of its stock.
1-7 Sustainability refers to the process by which we live and interact with businesses, governments,
other humans, and so forth, and how both the current environment and the future environment
are affected by the actions of all of these stakeholders.
1-8 A firm might be able to survive in the short term if it does not consider the effects its business
decisions have on stakeholders, but it cannot survive in the long term unless its decisions help to
satisfy the needs of its stakeholders, including the environment. If customers are not treated
“correctly,” they will become customers of the firm’s competitors; if employees are not treated
“correctly,” they will go to work for other companies; if the local community is not treated
“correctly,” legal action or legislation might restrict the company’s actions; and, if the environment
is not treated “correctly,” future environmental factors or new government regulation might result
in the ruin of the firm.
1-9 Lean manufacturing refers to the integration of the entire production process in an attempt to use
the least amount of resources needed to manufacture and sell products. Firms that adhere to the
concepts of lean manufacturing attempt to eliminate excesses (“fat”) so as to become as efficient
as possible.
1-10 Lean manufacturing and value maximization go hand-in-hand. To maximize value, a firm
(investment) should maximize the net cash inflows generated during its life. A firm that follows
lean manufacturing techniques reduces waste, thus minimizes cash outflows associated with
costs, which helps to maximize net cash inflows.
──────────────────────────────────────
SOLUTIONS
1-1 Integrative Problem
a. Finance deals with decisions about money—that is, how money is raised and used by
companies and individuals. Because value is based on cash flows, finance is integral to the
successful operations of a firm. To be successful, a firm needs to understand how to raise
funds, how much it costs to use investors’ money, and how to appropriately invest funds.
b. The general areas of finance include:
Financial markets and institutions—includes the study of (1) financial markets, such as the
stock markets and the bond markets and (2) participants in the markets, such as banks,
insurance companies, pension funds, and so forth that “manufacture” various financial
instruments, including mortgages, auto loans, retirement funds, and savings plans.
Investments—includes persons who determine (1) the values and risk and return
relationships associated with financial assets, such as stocks and bonds and (2) the best
combination of securities that should be held in a portfolio to meet specific investment goals.

Principles of Finance 6e Chapter 1
Besley/Brigham
© 2015 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part, except for use as permitted in a license
distributed with a certain product or service or otherwise on a password-protected website for classroom use.
1-3
Financial services—refers to services provided by organizations such as brokerage firms,
banks, insurance companies, and so forth. These services relate primarily to the financial
stability of individuals both in the current period and in the future.
Managerial finance—deals with the decisions that businesses make concerning their cash
flows. Businesses make decisions about how to raise funds (financing) and what to do with
the funds that are raised (investments). The techniques used to make such decisions are part
managerial finance.
c. One of the most important changes in finance during the past century has been that the
techniques used to make financial decisions have become much more sophisticated. The
electronic revolution, especially with respect to computers, has fueled this change. In
addition, financial decision making has become much more concerned with value, especially
with how a firm can maximize its value.
d. During the past couple of decades, Congress has been fairly “business friendly,” which has
led to more deregulation than regulation. Industries such as financial services, transportation,
and utilities have become much less regulated and thus much more competitive than
previously. However, Congress typically is reactive rather than proactive when passing
legislation that affects business. As a result, we generally expect that new legislation will be
passed or reregulation will be imposed when Congress believes particular events harm the
economy and business. For example, the Sarbanes Oxley Act of 2002 was passed in
response to the downfall of Enron, WorldCom, and others that resulted from unethical, and
in some cases illegal, accounting actions. As the time we write this book, the economy is
performing poorly, which some believe is the direct result of unethical practices that occurred
in the real estate and mortgage markets during the past few years. Congress is currently
considering legislation that will restrict how mortgage companies originate mortgages for
individuals.
e. Value refers to the amount that should be paid for an asset (investment) today, and it is
determined by computing the amount an investor must invest today at a particular rate of
return to generate the same cash flows that the asset is expected to generate during its life.
In other words, an investor should never pay more for an investment than what he or she
would need today to produce the same cash flow pattern that the investment is expected to
produce in the future.
f. Firms focus on the values of their common stocks; thus, they maximize value by maximizing
the market prices of their stocks. Individuals maximize value in a similar fashion—that is,
individuals maximize the total values of the combinations of investments that they hold.
g. Sustainability refers to the process by which we live and interact with businesses,
governments, other humans, and so forth, and how both the current environment and the
future environment are affected by the actions of all of these stakeholders. To remain a going
concern, a firm must be concerned with sustainability. If a firm does not consider the effects
of its decisions on sustainability, then it might find itself in bankruptcy in the future because
one or more of the stakeholder groups (employees, customers, environment, and so forth)
was irreparably harmed.
h. Firms that adhere to the concepts of lean manufacturing attempt to eliminate excesses (“fat”)
so as to become as efficient as possible. To maximize value, a firm (investment) should
maximize the net cash inflows generated during its life. A firm that follows lean manufacturing
techniques reduces waste, thus minimizes cash outflows associated with costs, which helps
to maximize net cash inflows.

Chapter 1 Principles of Finance 6e
Besley/Brigham
© 2015 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part, except for use as permitted in a license distributed
with a certain product or service or otherwise on a password-protected website for classroom use.
1-4
ETHICAL DILEMMA
Who Has the Money—The Democrat or The Republican?
Ethical dilemma:
There are a few of factors that should be considered here. First, Sunflower Manufacturing has applied
for a $10 million working capital loan at The Democrat Federal Bank (known as The Democrat). But the
person who is evaluating the loan application, Sheli, has determined that the bank should lend the
company only $2 million. Sheli’s analysis of Sunflower suggests that the company does not have the
financial strength to support the higher loan. Second, if Sunflower is not granted the loan for the
requested amount, the company might take its banking business to a competitor of The Democrat. Third,
The Democrat is having financial difficulties that might result in future layoffs. Sheli might be affected by
the bank’s layoffs if her division does not meet its quota of loans. As a result, it might be in her best
interest to grant Sunflower the loan it requested even though her analysis suggests that such an action
is not rational.
Discussion questions:
 What is the ethical dilemma?
In this case, the ethical dilemma is whether Sheli should grant Sunflower a loan for the amount that
was requested even though she believes that the company’s existing credit position is not strong
enough for such a loan. It appears that Sheli would be making a decision that she does not favor in
an effort to help her division meet its loan quota and perhaps to save her job with the bank. If Sheli
bases her decision on her own best interests—that is, keeping her job—at the expense of the bank,
then she probably is making an unethical decision. If, on the other hand, her decision is based on
the best interests of the bank, then her decision is justified.
 Do you agree with Sheli or Henry concerning the importance of loyalty as a factor in loan decisions?
To answer this question, other questions should be asked. Do you believe that customer loyalty is
an important factor when making financial decisions? If so, how important of an input should loyalty
be in such decisions?
It appears that Henry believes loyalty is a very important factor that should be considered when
making decisions about loans. Thus, Henry considers intangibles when making loan decisions. On
the other hand, it seems that Sheli would prefer to rely strictly on her analyses to make decisions;
she doesn’t seem to be keen on considering intangibles when making such decisions. How should
such factors as loyalty and previous business relationships be incorporated into financial decisions?
How important are these factors?
Most people would agree that loyalty and previous credit history are important factors to consider
when making loan decisions. The fact that Sunflower Manufacturing has been a loyal customer of
The Democrat for many years must be considered when making the decision about how much the
company should be allowed to borrow. But, is the company’s loyalty sufficient to increase the amount
of the loan from the $2 million that Sheli’s analysis indicates the company should be granted to the
$10 million that Sunflower requested? Perhaps. Because one of the most important inputs to a loan
decision is the character of the borrower, loyalty should be considered when deciding how much to
lend to Sunflower.

Principles of Finance 6e Chapter 1
Besley/Brigham
© 2015 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be copied, scanned, or duplicated, in whole or in part, except for use as permitted in a license
distributed with a certain product or service or otherwise on a password-protected website for classroom use.
1-5
 Should The Democrat lend Sunflower the $10 million was requested?
On the positive side, if The Democrat lends Sunflower the amount that was requested, then it appears
that Sheli and Henry will meet their loan quotas and their jobs will be secure for a while. On the other
hand, if Sheli is right and Sunflower’s financial position is not sufficient to handle a $10 million loan,
there is a good likelihood that the loan will not be repaid, which would exacerbate The Democrat’s
poor financial position. In this case, both the lender and the borrower might go bankrupt.
Like any other investment, lending money is risky. In this case, Henry is convinced that Sunflower will
take its business to a competing bank if the entire $10 million loan is not granted. Because The
Democrat has been losing business to competing banks, Henry would like to find a way to lend
Sunflower the money it has requested. It appears that Sheli is amenable to lending the money to
Sunflower, but her motives might not be appropriate. At least she is willing to reconsider her initial
recommendation. Perhaps Sheli could sit down with Sunflower’s executives and “map out” a plan that
will improve the company’s financial strength and permit The Democrat to approve the $10 million
loan without further harming its own financial.
 What would you do if you were Sheli?
Commercial lending is a very competitive business. Sheli would be wise to thoroughly examine
Sunflower’s existing financial position and project what its financial position will be during the life of
the loan. If the financial position does not warrant granting the loan in the amount of $10 million, Sheli
should determine how Sunflower can improve its financial position so that the firm can borrow what it
needs to continue successful operations. Because Sunflower has been a loyal customer of the bank,
The Democrat should be a loyal lender. But the bank’s loyalty can only go so far—that is, the bank
should not substantially jeopardize own operations/life.
References:
“Banks Take a New Tack On Mortgage Lending,” The Wall Street Journal Online, November 1, 2006.
(http://online.wsj.com/)
Karen E. Klein, “Building Customer Relations by Listening.” BusinessWeek.com, June 1, 2007.

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different content

Such having been my cogitations as I stood on Mt. Marcy, you will
not think it pedantry that I record them here.
Descending, we returned to the camp at the Notch, where we had
left our baggage, then struck into the trail for the Iron-Works (of
which anon). This trail, though well worn, is very tiresome, owing to
the number of trees that have fallen across it, obliging you to crawl a
good deal. But we were glad to have seen the “Flumes” of the
“Opalescent”—another poetic name, which obviously means
“beginning to be opal,” or resembling that hue. But, unfortunately,
there are various kinds of opal; and since the water had nothing of a
milky tinge, the bestower of the name must have meant the brown
opal, an impure and inferior sort. I therefore deem the name
infelicitous. The only color-epithet for clear and shallow waters,
whether running or still, is amber. Witness Milton, in Paradise Lost:
“Where the river of bliss through midst of heaven
Rolls o’er Elysian flowers her amber stream.”
And again, in Comus:
“Sabrina fair!
Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of lilies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair!”
The “Flumes” are fine—too fine to be called flumes, according to the
dictionary sense of the term. They are chasms of considerable depth
and length. But I must hasten on, like the river by which we are
loitering.
Our camp that night was on the shore of Colden Lake—quite a pretty
little lake of its kind. But all lakes seemed (to me, at least) apologies
for lakes after the Upper Au Sable. From our camp we could see
where Lake Avalanche lay—not a mile, we were told, from Colden.
The Judge and Colonel made an agreement with the guide to visit
Lake Avalanche next morning early: but, when the time came, they
found slumber too sweet, as I had anticipated they would. I had no

hankering to accompany them, because, for one thing, they would
have had to trudge through a regular swamp, the guide said—a kind
of walking I particularly dislike; while, for another thing, it was easy
to imagine the lake from the sloping cliffs that shut it in. These
reminded us of the Lower Au Sable, but, being bare and scarred,
would have evidently a very inferior effect. So Avalanche, like
“Yarrow,” went “unvisited.”
It was a matter of necessity now to push on to the Iron-Works. Our
provisions had run out; so we made the seven miles that Sunday
morning, and reached our destination in good time for dinner. The
trail was the best we had seen yet. We passed “Calamity Pond,” so
called from a Mr. Henderson, one of the owners of the Iron-Works,
having shot himself there accidentally. He laid his revolver on a rock
near the pond, and, on taking it up, discharged it into his side. On
this rock now stands a neat monument erected by filial affection.
As we entered the deserted village still called the Iron-Works
(though said works have been abandoned twenty years), a shower
of rain fell—the first we had met. (Such a run of fine weather as we
had been favored with is very rare in the Adirondacks.) The only
occupied house belongs to a Mr. M——, who, while disclaiming to
keep an inn or public-house of any kind, accommodates passing
tourists, and even boarders. The table was good enough, especially
after our frugal meals in the woods; but I cannot say as much for
the beds in comparison with the camps. He had to put us for the
night in another house belonging to him, but which had not been
used, he said, this year, and looked as if it had not been used for
several years. The bedsteads, too, surprised us by not breaking
down in the night; and two of us had to occupy one bed. However,
we contrived to sleep pretty well, and rose next morning quite ready
for “Indian Pass.” Fortunately, Mrs. M—— was able to let us have
enough provisions for the remainder of our tramp; but when we
came to “foot” the bill, it was unexpectedly “steep.” People must
“make,” you see, in a place like this.

Starting after breakfast that Monday morning, we took the shorter
route by way of Lake Henderson. We were not sorry to get a good
view of this lake, but our voyage on it was far from pleasant. A guide
from M——’s came with us. He had two boats: one a sort of “scow”
with a paddle, the other a boat like Trumble’s, only lighter and
smaller. Trumble and brother, dog and baggage, went in the scow;
we three in the other, with the guide for oarsman. Our boat was
loaded to within three inches of the water’s edge, and, there being a
slight breeze, it was the greatest risk I ever ran of an upset. Had the
breeze increased, we must have gone over. All three of us could
swim; but to risk a drenching with its consequences, and under such
circumstances, seemed to me the most provoking stupidity. One of
us might easily have gone in the scow. The guide was to blame, for
he knew the boat’s capacity. However, through the favor of Our Lady
and the angels, under whose joint protection our excursion had been
placed, we were safely landed, and soon found ourselves in the
woods once more, and on a trail that seemed made for wild-cats.
But now our fears of rain were verified. The menacing west had not
hindered us from setting out; but we found the shelter of trees
inadequate, and, of course, they kept dripping upon us after the
shower had passed over. In short, we got wet enough to feel very
uncomfortable; and the sun could not penetrate to us satisfactorily.
We had hoped the rain was a mere thunder-shower; but when we
saw more clouds, dense and black, we made up our minds that we
were “in for it.” Trumble put forth the assurance that nobody ever
caught cold in the woods. But I, less contented with this than the
others, resolved to try the supernatural. I vowed Our Blessed Lady
some Masses for the souls in purgatory most devoted to her; and
behold, as each succeeding cloud came resolutely on, the sun broke
through it triumphantly, till, after an hour or two, all danger had
disappeared, and we were left to finish our journey under a
cloudless sky. Of course this favorable turn may have been due to
purely natural causes; but I mention it as what it seemed to me,
because I know you believe in “special providences,” and always
rejoice in acknowledging Our Blessed Mother’s goodness and power.

The trail became more perilous to eyes and ankles than any we had
followed yet. Indeed, it was a constant marvel that we met with no
sprain or fracture. Such an accident would have been extremely
awkward, remote as we were from the habitations of men, to say
nothing of surgical aid. But, of course, we took every care, and the
prayers of friends, together with our own, drew Heaven’s protection
round us.
At last we came in sight of the gigantic cliff which forms the western
side of the pass—very grand, certainly, but not what we had
anticipated from the glowing accounts of brother-pilgrims. Then, too,
we saw but that one side; being on the other ourselves, and not
between the two, as we had supposed we should be. When we
reached “Summit Rock,” we stopped for dinner. The view that met
our retrospection from this rock repaid our climb. In fact, it was this
view alone that made us think anything of “Indian Pass.” “Summit
Rock,” though, is not easy to scale; and I, having taken the wrong
track, in turning to descend had the narrowest escape from a very
serious fall. I shall always feel grateful for that preservation when I
recall our Adirondack experiences. How forcibly and consolingly the
words of the Psalmist came to me then, as they do now: “Quoniam
angelis suis mandavit de te, ut custodiant te in omnibus viis tuis. In
manibus portabunt te, ne forte offendas ad lapidem pedem tuum”
(Ps. xc. 11, 12.[87] )
We camped that afternoon, and for the night, at a spot about “half
way”—that is, half way between the Iron-Works and North Elba (a
distance of eighteen miles); for the pass proper is of no great
length. The camp there is excellent. We reached it in time for the
Judge and myself to get a capital bath, while the Colonel caught a
string of trout, before supper. We did not cook all the fish for that
meal, but kept a supply for the morrow’s breakfast. The trout thus
reserved were hung upon a stump about fifteen yards from the
camp, at the risk of having them stolen in the night by some animal.
And, sure enough, some animal was after them in the night, for the

dog got up and growled, and went outside; but this scared the
marauder away, for we found the fish untouched in the morning.
Tuesday dawned serenely, and we lost no time after breakfast in
getting under way for Blinn’s Farm—our chosen destination in North
Elba County. The walk seemed interminably long, but was almost all
down-hill, and over ground covered with dried leaves. We lunched,
rather than dined, on the march; for we knew a good dinner was to
be had at the farm. The last difficult feat to be performed was
crossing our old friend the Au Sable, which flows between the hill we
had descended and the slope leading up to Blinn’s. We had to take
boots and socks off, and make our way over a few large stones,
some of which were awkwardly far apart. The others managed it all
right. I might as well have kept boots and socks on; for just as I got
to the last stone but one, and where a jump was necessary, I slipped
and came down on my hands, sousing boots and socks under water.
Even this, though, was preferable to slipping ankle-deep into black
mud, as I had done again and again on the tramp; and when we
gained the house and changed our things, I was as well off as
anybody.
Fortunately, they had room for us. Very pleasant people. And they
got us up a first-rate dinner, the most delectable feature whereof
was (to me, at least) some rashers of English bacon. This and the
farm itself, with its look of peace and honest toil, took me back to
long ago—to my first English home; for the pretty little parsonage
where I was born was close to two farmhouses. But farm, dinner,
and all were nothing to the view commanded by this spot—the most
exquisite panorama of mountains it had ever been my happiness to
contemplate. Facing us, as we turned to look back on the wilderness
we had escaped from, was Indian Pass, the true character of which
is best seen from this distance. To the left of us stood Marcy in
majestic silence. Between him and the pass were the “scarpèd cliffs”
of Avalanche. From south to west was a lower line of heights,
apparelled in a thick blue haze. And when, an hour later, we saw the

sun set along this line, the evening azure settled on the other peaks
around us, and Marcy’s signal gleamed and flashed like a red star.
And here I must bid you adieu, my dear friend. However poorly I
have complied with your request, it has been no small pleasure to
me. I hope you will catch a fair glimpse of the Adirondacks, which is
all I pretend to give. But I must add that when we three travellers
got back to this dear old lake, we were unanimous in declaring that,
after all we had seen, there was nothing to surpass Lake George,
nor anything that would wear so well. Vale.
[87] “For he hath given his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy
ways. In their hands they shall bear thee up, lest, perchance, thou dash
thy foot against a stone.”

SIR THOMAS MORE.
A HISTORICAL ROMANCE.
FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.
XV.
As the night wore away the bonfires lighted in the public places were
extinguished. Quiet and silence succeeded the tumult, the shouts,
dances, and the surging waves of an excited populace rushing wildly
through the streets of the capital. The ladies had deposited their
borrowed charms upon the ebony and ivory of their solitary and
hidden toilets. Themselves wrapped in slumber within the heavy
curtains of their luxurious couches, their brocade robes and precious
jewels still waited (hanging up or thrown here and there) the care of
the active and busy chambermaids. Of all the sensation, triumphs,
and irresistible charms there was left nothing but the wreck,
disorder, and faded flowers. And thus passes everything appertaining
to man. Beauty lives but a day; an hour even may behold it withered
and cut down.
The sun had scarcely risen when a number of carts, mounted by
vigilant upholsterers, were driven up, in order to remove the
scaffolds, the triumphal arches, and strip them of their soiled
drapery and withered garlands. The avenues of the palace were
deserted, and not a courtier had yet appeared. One man, however,
all alone, slowly surveyed the superb apartments of the Tower. He
paused successively before each panel of tapestry, examining them
in all their details, or he took from their places the large chairs with

curved backs, that he might inspect them more closely; he then
consulted a great memorandum-book he held in his hand.
“Ah! Master Cloth, you are not to be cheated. It is not possible that
Signor Ludovico Bonvisi has sold you this velvet at six angels the
piece; and six hundred pieces more, do you say? But I will show you
I am not so easily duped as you would think by the thieving
merchants of my good city. The rascals understand very well how to
manage their affairs; but we will also manage to clip some of their
wings.”
And Henry VIII. gave a stroke with his penknife through the column
he wished to diminish; it was in this way he made his additions.
“The devil! This violet carpet covering the courtyard is enormously
dear.
“Mistress Anne, your reception here has ruined me. We must find
some means of making all this up. These women are full of whims,
and of very dear whims too. A wife is a most ruinous thing;
everything is ruinous. They cannot move without spending money. It
has been necessary to give enormous sums right and left—to
doctors of universities, to Parliament; and all that is an entire loss,
for they will clamor none the less loudly. There are men in
Parliament who will sell themselves, and yet they will ridicule me just
as much as the others, in order to appear independent. Verily, it is
terror alone that can be used to advantage; with one hand she
replenishes the purse, while with the other she at the same time
executes my commands.
“This fringe is only an inch wide; it cannot weigh as much as they
say it does here. I counted on the rest of the cardinal’s money; but
nothing—he had not a penny, or at any rate he has been able to
hide his pieces from me, so that I could not find a trace of them.
“Northumberland has written me there was nothing at Cawood but a
box, where he found, carefully tied up in a little sack of red linen, a
hair shirt and a discipline, which have doubtless served our friend

Wolsey to expiate the sins I have made him commit.” And as these
reflections were passing through his mind, the king experienced a
very disagreeable sensation at the sight of a man dressed in black,
who approached him on tiptoe. Henry VIII. did not at all like being
surprised in his paroxysms of suspicion and avarice.
“What does that caterpillar want with me at this early hour?” he
said, looking at Cromwell, who was in full dress, frizzled, and in his
boots, as though he had not been to bed, and had not had so much
to do the day before.
The king endeavored to conceal the memorandum he held in his
hand; but who could hide anything from Cromwell? He was delighted
to perceive the embarrassment and vexation of his master, because
it was one of his principles that he held these great men in his
power, when favor began to abate, through the fear they felt of
having their faults publicly exposed by those who had known them
intimately. He therefore took a malicious pleasure in proving to the
king that his precautions had been useless, and that he knew
perfectly well the nature of his morning’s occupation, for which he
feigned the greatest admiration.
“What method!” he exclaimed. “What vast intellect! How is your
majesty able to accomplish all that you undertake, passing from the
grandest projects to the most minute details, and that always with
the same facility, the same unerring judgment?”
Henry VIII. regarded Cromwell attentively, as if to be assured that
this eulogy was sincere; but he observed an indescribable expression
of hypocrisy hovering on the pinched lips of the courtier. He
contracted his brow, but resolved to carry on the deception.
“Yes,” he said, “I reproach myself with this extravagance. I should
have kept the furniture of my predecessors. There are so many poor
to relieve! I am overwhelmed with their demands; the treasury is
empty, I cannot afford it, and I have done very wrong in granting
myself this indulgence.”

“Come!” replied Cromwell, “think of your majesty reproaching
yourself for an outlay absolutely indispensable. Very soon, I
suppose, you will not permit yourself to buy a cloak or a doublet of
Flanders wool, while you leave in the enjoyment of their property
these monks who have never been favorable to your cause. The
treasury is empty, you say; give me a fortnight’s time and a
commission, and I will replenish it to overflowing.”
The king smiled. “Yes, yes, I know very well; you want me to
appoint you inspector of my monks. You would make them disgorge,
you say.”
“A set of drones and idlers!”[88]
cried Cromwell. “You have only to
drive them all out, take possession of their property, and put it in the
treasury; it will make an immense sum. They are to be found in
every corner. When you have dispossessed them, you will be able to
provide for them according to your own good pleasure, your own
necessities, and those of the truly poor. Give me the commission!”
Cromwell burned to have this commission, of which he had dreamed
as the only practicable means of enriching himself at his leisure, and
making some incalcuable depredations; because how could it
possibly be known exactly how much he would be able to extort by
fear or by force? Having the king to sustain him and for an
accomplice, he had nothing to fear. He had already spoken of it to
him, but in a jesting manner, apparently; it was his custom to sow
thus in the mind of Henry VIII. a long time in advance, and as if by
chance, the seeds of evil from which he hoped ultimately to gather
the fruits.
At the moment this idea appeared very lucrative to the king; but a
sense of interior justice and the usage of government enlightened
his mind.
“This,” said he, “is your old habit of declaiming against the monks
and convents. As for idleness, methinks the life of the most indolent
one among them would be far from equalling that which yourself

and the gallants of my court lead every day in visits, balls, and other
dissipations. Verily, it cannot be denied that these religious live a
great deal less extravagantly than you, for the price of a single one
of your ruffs would be sufficient to clothe them for a whole year. All
these young people speak at random and through caprice, without
having the least idea of what they say. I love justice above all things.
Had you the slightest knowledge of politics and of government, you
would know that an association of men who enjoy their property in
common derive from it much greater advantages, because there are
a greater number to partake of it. These monks, who are lodged
under the same roof, lighted and warmed by the same fire, nursed,
when they are sick, by those who live thus together, find in that
communion of all goods an ease and comfort which it would be
impossible to attain if they were each apart and separated from the
other. If, now, I should drive them from their convents and take
possession of their estates, what would become of them? And who
would be able so to increase in a moment the revenues of the
country as to procure each one individually that which they enjoyed
in common together? And, above all, these monks are men like
other men; they choose to live together and unite their fortunes: I
see not what right I have to deprive them of their property, since it
has been legally acquired by donations, natural inheritance, or right
of birth. ‘These church people monopolize everything,’ say the crack-
brained fools who swarm around me; and where would they have
me look for men who are good for something? Among those who
know not either how to read or write, save in so far as needs to
fabricate the most insignificant billet, or who in turn spend a day in
endeavoring to decipher it? I would like to see them, these learned
gentlemen, holding the office of lord chancellor and the
responsibility of the kingdom. They might be capable of signing a
treaty of commerce with France to buy their swords, and with
Holland to purchase their wines. These coxcombs, these lispers of
the “Romance of the Rose,” with their locks frizzled, their waists
padded, and their vain foolishness, know naught beyond the drawing
of their swords and slashing right and left. Or it would be necessary
for me to bring the bourgeois of the city, seat them on their sacks,

declaring before the judge that they do not know how to write, and
sending to bring the public scribe to announce to their grandfathers
the arrival of the newly born. Cromwell, you are very zealous in my
service; I commend you for it; but sometimes—and it is all very
natural—you manifest the narrow and contracted ideas of the
obscure class from whence you sprang, which render you incapable
of judging of these things from the height where I, prince and king,
am placed.”
Cromwell felt deeply humiliated by the contempt Henry VIII.
continually mingled with his favor in recalling incessantly to his
recollection the fact of his being a parvenu, sustained in his position
only by his gracious favor and all-powerful will, and then only while
he was useful or agreeable. He hesitated a moment, not knowing
how to reply; but, like a serpent that unfolds his coils in every way,
and whose scales fall or rise at will at the same moment and with
the same facility, he said:
“Your Majesty says truly. I am only what you have deigned to make
me; I acknowledge it with joy, and I would rather owe all I am to
you than possess it by any natural right. I will be silent, if your
majesty bids me; though I would fain present a reflection that your
remark has suggested.”
“Speak,” said the king, with a smile of indulgence excited by this
adroit admission.
“I will first remark that your majesty still continues to sacrifice
yourself to the happiness and prosperity of your people;
consequently, it seems to me that they should be willing, in following
the grand designs of your majesty, to yield everything. Thus they
would only have to unite the small to the greater monasteries, and
oblige them to receive the monks whose property had been annexed
to the crown. The treasury would in this way be very thoroughly
replenished, and no one would have a right to complain or think
himself wronged.”

“But,” said the king, “they are of different orders.”
However, he made this objection with less firmness; and it appeared
to Cromwell that his mind was becoming familiarized with this
luminous idea of possessing himself of a number of very rich and
well-cultivated ecclesiastical estates, which, sold at a high price,
would produce an enormous sum of money.
Cromwell, observing his success, feared to compromise himself and
make the king refuse if he urged the matter too persistently;
promising himself to return another time to the subject, he said
nothing more, and, adroitly changing the conversation, spoke of all
that had occurred the day before, and dwelt strongly on the
enthusiasm of the people.
“Oh!” said the king, “that enthusiasm affects me but little! The
people are like a flea-bitten horse, which we let go to right or left,
according to circumstances; and I place no reliance on these
demonstrations excited by the view of a flagon of beer or a fountain
of wine flowing at a corner of the street. There are, nevertheless,
germs of discord living and deeply rooted in the heart of this nation.
Appearances during a festival day are not sufficient, Cromwell. Listen
to me. It is essential that all should yield, all obey. I am not a child
to be amused with a toy!” And he regarded him with an expression
of wrath as sudden as it was singular.
“Think you,” he continued with gleaming eyes, “that I am happy,
that I believe I have taken the right direction? It is not that I would
retract or retrace my steps; so far from that, the more I feel
convinced that it is wrong, the more resolved am I to crush the
inspiration that would recall me. No! Henry VIII. neither deceives
himself nor turns back; and you, if ever you reveal the secret of my
woes, the violence and depth of your fall will make you understand
the strength of the arm you will have called down on your head.”
Cromwell felt astounded. How often he paid thus dearly for his vile
and rampant ambition! What craft must have been continually

engendered in that deformed soul, in order to prevent it from being
turned from its goal of riches and domination, always to put a
constraint upon himself, to sacrifice in order to obtain, to yield in
order to govern, to tremble in order to make himself feared!
“More,” he said in desperation.
“More!” replied the king. “That name makes me sick! Well, what of
him now?”
“Sire,” replied Cromwell vehemently, “you speak of discords and
fears for the future; I should be wanting in courage if I withheld the
truth from the king. More and Rochester—these are the men who
censure and injure you in the estimation of your people. There are
proofs against them, but they are moral proofs, and insufficient for
rigid justice to act upon. They refuse to take the oath, and it is
impossible to include them in the judgment against the Holy Maid of
Kent. They would be acquitted unanimously. However, you have
heard it from her own lips. You know that she is acquainted with
them, has spoken to them; this she has declared in presence of your
majesty. They were in the church; she had let them know she was to
appear at that hour. Well, it is impossible to prove anything against
them; they will be justified, elated, and triumphant. Parliament,
reassured, encouraged by this example of tenacity and rebellion, will
recover from the first fright with which the terror of your name had
inspired them. They will raise their heads; your authority will be
despised; they will rise against you; they will resist you on every
side, and compel you to recall Queen Catherine back to this palace,
adorned by the presence of your young wife. And then what shame,
what humiliation for you, and what a triumph for her! And this is
why, sire, I have not been able to sleep one moment last night, and
why I am the first to enter the palace this morning, where I
expected to wait until your majesty awoke. But,” he continued, “zeal
for your glory carries me, perhaps, too far. Well then you will punish
me, and I shall not murmur.”

“Recall Catherine!” cried the king, who, after this name, had not
heard a syllable of Cromwell’s discourse; and he clenched his fists
with a contraction of inexpressible fury. “Recall Catherine, after
having driven her out in the face of all justice, of all honor! No, I
shall have to drink to the dregs this bitter cup I have poured out for
myself; and coming ages will for ever resound with the infamy of my
name. Though the earth should open, though the heavens should
fall and crush me, yet Thomas More shall die! Go, Cromwell,” he
cried, his eyes gleaming with fury; “let him swear or let him die! Go,
worthy messenger of a horrible crime; get thee from before my
eyes. It is you who have launched me upon this ocean, where I can
sustain myself only by blood. Cursed be the day when you first
crossed my sight, infamous favorite of the most cruel of masters!
Go, go! and bring me the head of my friend, of the only man I
esteem, whom I still venerate, and let there no longer remain aught
but monsters in this place.”
Cromwell recoiled. “Infamous favorite!” he repeated to himself. “May
I but be able one day to avenge myself for the humiliations with
which you have loaded me, and may I see in my turn remorse tear
your heart, and the anger of God punish the crimes I have aided you
in committing!” He departed.
Henry VIII. was stifled with rage. He crushed under his foot the
upholsterer’s memorandum; he opened a window and walked out on
the balcony, from whence the view extended far beyond the limits of
the city. As he advanced, he was struck by the soft odor and
freshness which was exhaled by the morning breeze from a
multitude of flowers and plants placed there. He stooped down to
examine them, then leaned upon the heavy stone balustrade,
polished and carved like lace, and looked beyond in the distance.
The immense movement of an entire population began in every
direction. There was the market, whither flocked the dealers, the
country people, and the diligent and industrious housewives. Farther
on was the wharf, where the activity was not less; soldiers of the
marine, cabin boys, sailors, ship-builders, captains—all were hurrying

thither. Troops of workmen were going to their work on the docks,
with tools in hand and their bread under their arms. The windows of
the rich alone remained closed to the light of day, to the noise and
the busy stir without. There they rolled casks; here they transported
rough stones, plaster, and carpenter’s timber. Horses pulled, whips
cracked—in a word, the entire city was aroused; every minute the
noise increased and the activity redoubled.
“These men are like a swarm of bees in disorder,” said Henry VIII.;
“and yet they carry tranquil minds to their work, while their king is
suffering the keenest tortures in the midst of them; yet is there not
one of them who, in looking at this palace, does not set at the
summit of happiness him who reigns and commands here. ‘If I were
king!’ say this ignorant crowd when they wish to express the idea of
happiness and supreme enjoyment of the will. Do they know what it
costs the king to accomplish that will? Why do I not belong to their
sphere? I should at least spend my days in the same state of
indifference in which they sleep, live, and die. They are miserable,
say they; what have they to make them miserable? They are never
sure of bread, they reply; but do they know what it is to be satiated
with abundance and devoured by insatiable desires? Then death
threatens us and ends everything—that terrible judgment when
kings will be set apart, to be interrogated and punished more
severely. More, the recollection of your words, your counsel, has
never ceased to live in my mind. Had I but taken your advice, if I
had sent Anne away, to-day I should have been free and thought no
more of her; while now, regarded with horror by the universe, I hate
the whole world. But let me drown these thoughts. I want wine—
drunkenness and oblivion.” And pronouncing these words, he rushed
suddenly from the balcony and disappeared.
In the depths of his narrow prison there was another also who had
sought to catch a breath of the exhilarating air with which the dawn
of a beautiful day had reanimated the universe. It was not upon a
balustrade of roses and perfumes that he leaned, but upon a
miserable, worm-eaten table, blackened by time, and discolored by

the tears with which for centuries it had been watered. It was not a
powerful city, a people rich, industrious, and submissive, that his
eyes were fixed upon, but the sombre bars of a small, grated
window, whose solitary pane he had opened.
He sat with his head bowed upon one of his hands. He seemed
tranquil, but plunged in profound melancholy; for God, in the
language of holy Scripture, had not yet descended into Joseph’s
prison to console him, nor sent his angel before him to fortify his
servant. And yet, had any one been able to compare the speechless
rage, the frightful but vain remorse, which corroded the king’s heart,
with the deep but silent sorrow that overwhelmed the soul of the
just man, such a one would have declared Sir Thomas More to be
happy. And still his sufferings were cruelly intense, for he thought of
his children; he was in the midst of them, and his heart had never
left them.
“They know ere this,” he said to himself, “that I shall not return.
Margaret, my dear Margaret, will have told them all!” And he was
not there to console them. What would become of them without
him, abandoned to the fury of the king, ready, perhaps, to revenge
himself even upon them for the obstinacy with which he reproached
their father?
Whilst indulging in these harrowing reflections he heard the keys
cautiously turned in the triple locks of his prison; and soon a man
appeared, all breathless with fear and haste. It was Kingston, the
lieutenant of the Tower. He entered, and, gasping for breath, held
the door behind him.
“My dear Sir Thomas,” he cried, “blessed be God! you are acquitted,
your innocence is proclaimed. The council has been assembled all
night, and they have decided that you could not in any manner be
implicated in the prosecution. Oh! how glad I am. But the Holy Maid
of Kent has been condemned to be hanged at Tyburn. Judge now if
this was not a dangerous business! I have never doubted your
innocence; but you have some very furious and very powerful

enemies. That Cromwell is a most formidable man. My dear Sir
Thomas, how rejoiced I am!”
A gleam of joy lighted the heart of Sir Thomas.
“Can it be?” he cried. “Say it again, Master Kingston. What! I shall
see my children again? I shall die in peace among them? No, I
cannot believe in so much happiness. But that poor girl—is she really
condemned?”
“Yes,” cried Kingston; “but here are you already thinking of this nun.
By my faith, I have thought of nobody but you. And the Bishop of
Rochester has also been acquitted.”
“He has, then, already been in the Tower?” cried More.
“Just above you—door to the left—No. 3,” replied Kingston briefly, in
the manner of his calling.
“What!” cried Sir Thomas, “is it he, then, I have heard walking above
my head? I knew not why, but I listened to those slow and
measured steps with a secret anxiety. I tried to imagine what might
be the age and appearance of this companion in misfortune; and it
was my friend, my dearest friend! O my dear Kingston! that I could
see him. I beg of you to let me go to him at once!”
“Of what are you thinking?” exclaimed Kingston—“without
permission! You do not know that I have come here secretly, and if
they hear of it I shall be greatly compromised. The order was to hold
you in solitary confinement; it has not been rescinded, and already I
transgress it.”
“Ah! I cannot see him,” repeated Sir Thomas. “I am in solitary
confinement.” And his joy instantly faded before the reflection which
told him that the real crime of which he was accused had not been
expiated.
Penetrated by this sentiment, he took the keeper’s hand. “My dear
Kingston,” he said, “you are right—you would surely compromise

yourself; for my case is not entirely decided yet. As you say, I have
some very powerful enemies. However, they will be able to do
naught against me more than God permits them, and it is this
thought alone that animates and sustains my courage.”
“Nay, nay, you need not be uneasy,” replied Kingston; “they can do
nothing more against you. I have listened to everything they have
said, and have not lost a single word. You will be set at liberty to-
day, after you have taken an oath the formula of which they have
drawn up expressly for you, as I have been told by the secretary.”
“Ah! the oath,” cried Sir Thomas, penetrated with a feeling of the
keenest apprehension. “I know it well!”
“Fear naught, then, Sir Thomas,” replied Kingston, struck by the
alteration he observed in his countenance, a moment before so full
of hope and joy. “They have arranged this oath for you; they know
your scrupulous delicacy of conscience and your religious
sentiments. This is the one they will demand of the ecclesiastics, and
you are the only layman of whom they will exact it. You see there is
no reason here why you should be uneasy.”
“Oh!” said Sir Thomas, whose heart was pierced by every word of
the lieutenant, “you are greatly mistaken, my poor Kingston. It is to
condemn and not to save me they have done all this. The oath—yes;
it is that oath, like a ferocious beast, which they destine to devour
me. Ah! why did the hope of escaping it for a moment come to
gladden my heart? My Lord and my God, have mercy on me!”
Sir Thomas paused, overcome by his feelings, and was unable to
utter another word.
“My dear Sir Thomas,” said Kingston, amazed, “what means this?
Even if you refuse to take this oath they will doubtless set you at
liberty. Cromwell has said as much to the secretary. But what should
prevent you from taking it, if the priests do not refuse?”

“Dear Kingston,” replied Sir Thomas, “I cannot explain that to you
now, as it is one of the things I keep between God and myself. I
know right well, also, that these prison walls have ears, that they re-
echo all they hear, and that one cannot even sigh here without it
being reported.”
“You are dissatisfied, then, with being under my care!” exclaimed
Kingston, who was extremely narrow-minded, and whose habit of
living, and still more of commanding, in the Tower had brought him
to regard it as a habitation by no means devoid of attractions.
“You may very well believe, Sir Thomas,” he continued, “that I have
not forgotten the many favors and proofs of friendship I have
received from you; that I am entirely devoted to you; and what I
most regret is not having it in my power to treat you as I would wish
in giving you better fare at my table. Fear of the king’s anger alone
prevents me, and I at least would be glad to feel that you were
satisfied with the good-will I have shown.”
More smiled kindly: for the delicate sensibility and exquisite tact
which in an instant discovered to him how entirely it was wanting in
others never permitted from him other expressions than those of a
pleasantry as gentle as it was refined.
“In good sooth, my dear lieutenant, I am quite contented with you;
you are a good friend, and would most certainly like to treat me
well. If, then, I should ever happen to show any dissatisfaction with
your table, you must instantly turn me out of your house.” And he
smiled at the idea.
“You jest, Sir Thomas,” said Kingston.
“In truth, my dear friend, I have nevertheless but little inclination to
jest,” replied More.
“Well, all that I regret is not having it in my power to treat you as I
would wish,” continued Kingston in the same tone. “I should have
been so happy to have made you entirely comfortable here!”

“Come,” said Sir Thomas, “let us speak no more of that; I am very
well convinced of it, and I thank you for the attachment you have
shown me to-day. I only regret that I cannot be permitted to see the
Bishop of Rochester for a moment.”
“Impossible!” cried Kingston. “If it were discovered, I should lose my
place.”
“Then I no longer insist,” said Sir Thomas; “but let me, at least,
write him a few words.”
Kingston made no reply and looked very thoughtful. He hesitated.
“Carry the letter yourself,” said Sir Thomas, “and, unless you tell it,
no person will know it.”
“You think so?” said Kingston, embarrassed. “But then my Lord
Rochester must burn it immediately; for if they should find it in his
hands, they would try to find out how he received it; and, Sir
Thomas, I know not how it is done, but they know everything.”
“They will never be able to find this out. O Master Kingston!” said
More, “let me write him but one word.”
“Well, well, haste, then; for it is time I should go. If they came and
asked for me, and found me not, I would be lost.”
Sir Thomas, fearing he might retract, hastened immediately to write
the following words on a scrap of paper:
“What feelings were mine, dear friend, on learning that you
are imprisoned here so near me, you may imagine. What a
consolation it would be to clasp you in my arms! But that is
denied me; God so wills it. During the first doleful night I
spent in this prison my eyes never once closed in sleep. I
heard your footsteps; I listened, I counted them most
anxiously. I asked myself who this unfortunate creature could
be who, like myself, groaned in this place; if it were long
since he had seen the light of heaven, and why he was

imprisoned in this den of stone. Alas! and it was you. Now I
see you, I follow you everywhere. What anguish is mine to be
so near you, yet not be able to see or speak to you! Rap from
time to time on the floor in such a manner that I may know
you are speaking to me; my heart will understand thine. It
seems to me the voice of the stones will communicate your
words. I shall listen night and day for your signals, and this
will be a great consolation to me.”
“Hasten, Sir Thomas,” said Kingston. “I hear a noise in the yard;
they are searching for me.”
“Yes, yes,” replied Sir Thomas.
“My friend, they hurry me. Do you remember all you said to
me at Chelsea the night you urged me not to accept the
chancellorship? O my friend! how often I have thought of it.
And you—you also will be a victim, I fear. They hurry me, and
I have so many things to say to you since the time I saw you
last! I fear you suffer from cold in your cell. Ask Kingston for
covering; for my sake he will give it you. Implore him to bring
me your reply. A letter from you—what happiness in my
abandoned condition; for they will not permit Margaret to visit
me. I am in solitary confinement. They will probably let me
die slowly of misery, immured within these four walls. They
fear the publicity of a trial; and men so quickly forget those
who disappear from before their eyes. God, however, will not
forget us, and we are ever in his keeping; for he says in holy
Scripture: ‘I carry you written in my hand, and a mother shall
forget her child before I forget the soul that seeks me in
sincerity of heart.’ Farewell, dear friend; let us pray for each
other. I love and cherish you in our Lord Jesus Christ, our
precious Saviour and our only Redeemer.
“Thomas More.”

Meanwhile, Rumor, on her airy wing, in her indefatigable and rapid
course, had very soon circulated throughout the country reports of
Henry’s enormities. The great multitudes of people who prostrated
themselves before the cross, carried it with reverence in their hands,
and elevated it proudly above their heads, were astonished and
indignant at these recitals of crime. Princes trembled on their
thrones, and those who surrounded them lived in constant dread.
Thomas More, the model among men, the Bishop of Rochester, that
among the angels—these men cast into a gloomy prison, separated
from all that was most dear to them, scarcely clothed, and fed on
the coarse fare of criminals—such outrages men discussed among
themselves, and reported to the compassionate and generous hearts
of their mothers and sisters.
Will, then, no voice be raised in their defence? Will no one endeavor
to snatch them from the tortures to which they are about to be
delivered up? Are the English people dead and their intellects
stultified? Do relatives, friends, law, and honor no longer exist
among this people? Have they become but a race of bloodthirsty
executioners, a crowd of brutal slaves, who live on the grain the
earth produces, and drink from the rivers that water it? Such were
the thoughts which occupied them, circulating from mouth to mouth
among the tumultuous children of men.
But if this mass of human beings, always so indifferent and so
perfectly selfish, felt thus deeply moved, what must have been the
anguish of heart experienced by the faithful and sincere friend, what
terror must have seized him, when, seated by his own quiet fireside,
enjoying the retreat it afforded him, the voice of public indignation
came to announce that he was thus stricken in all his affections! For
he also, a native of a distant country, loved More. He had met him,
and immediately his heart went out toward him. Who will explain
this sublime mystery, this secret of God, this admirable and singular
sympathy, which reveals one soul to another, and requires neither
words nor sounds, neither language nor gestures, in order to make it
intelligible? “I had no sooner seen Pierre Gilles,” said More, “than I

loved him as devotedly as though I had always known and loved
him. Then I was at Antwerp, sent by the king to negotiate with the
prince of Spain; I waited from day to day the end of the
negotiations, and during the four months I was separated from my
wife and children, anxious as I was to return and embrace them, I
could never be reconciled to the thought of leaving him. His
conversation, fluent and interesting, beguiled most agreeably my
hours of leisure; hours and days spent near him seemed to me like
moments, they passed so rapidly. In the flower of his age, he
already possessed a vast deal of erudition; his soul above all—his
soul so beautiful, superior to his genius—inspired me with a devotion
for him as deep as it was inviolable. Candor, simplicity, gentleness,
and a natural inclination to be accommodating, a modesty seldom
found, integrity above temptation—all virtues in fact, that combine
to form the worthy citizen—were found united in him, and it would
have been impossible for me to have found in all the world a being
more worthy of inspiring friendship, or more capable of feeling and
appreciating all its charms.”
In this manner he spoke before his children, and related to Margaret
how painful he found the separation from his friend. Often during
the long winter nights, when the wind whistled without and heavy
snow-flakes filled the air, he would press his hand upon his forehead,
and his thoughts would speed across the sea. In imagination he
would be transported to Antwerp, would behold her immense harbor
covered with richly-laden vessels, her tall roofs and her long streets,
and the beautiful church of Notre Dame, with the court in front,
where he so often walked with his friend. Then he entered the
mansion of Pierre Gilles; he traversed the court, mounted the steps;
he found him at home in the midst of his family; it seemed to him
that he heard him speak, and he prepared to give himself up to the
charms of his conversation.
The cry of a child, the movement of a chair, came suddenly to blot
out this picture, dispel this sweet illusion, and recall him to the
reality of the distance which separated them. An expression of pain

and sorrow would pass over his features; and Margaret, from whom
none of her father’s thoughts escaped, would take his hand and say:
“Father, you are thinking about Pierre Gilles!”
A close correspondence had for a long time sweetened their mutual
exile; but since the divorce was set in motion the king had become
so suspicious that he had all letters intercepted, and one no longer
dared to write or communicate with any stranger. Thus they found
themselves deprived of this consolation.
Eager to obtain the slightest intelligence, questioning
indiscriminately all whom he met—merchants, strangers, travellers—
Pierre Gilles endeavored by all possible means to obtain some
intelligence of his friend Thomas More. Whenever a sail appeared
upon the horizon and a ship entered the port, this illustrious citizen
was seen immediately hastening to the pier, and patiently remaining
there until he had ascertained whether or not the vessel hailed from
England; or else he waited, mingling with a crowd of the most
degraded class, until the vessel landed. Alas! for several months all
that he could learn only increased his apprehensions, and he vainly
endeavored to quiet them. He had already announced to his family
his intention of making the voyage to England to see his friend,
when the fatal intelligence of More’s imprisonment was received.
Then he no longer listened to anything, but, taking all the gold his
coffers contained, he hastened to the port and took passage on the
first vessel he found.
“O my friend!” he cried, “if I shall only be able to tear you from their
hands. This gold, perhaps, will open your prison. Let them give you
to me, let my home become yours, and let my friends be your
friends. Forget your ungrateful country; mine will receive you with
rapturous joy.”
Such were his reflections, and for two days the vessel that bore him
sailed rapidly toward England; the wind was favorable, and a light
breeze seemed to make her fly over the surface of the waves. The

sails were unfurled, and the sailors were singing, delighted at the
prospect of a happy voyage, while Pierre Gilles, seated on the deck,
his back leaning against the mast, kept his eyes fixed on the north,
incessantly deceived by the illusion of the changing horizon and the
fantastic form of the blue clouds, which seemed to plunge into the
sea. He was continually calling out: “Captain, here is land!” But the
old pilot smiled as he guided the helm, and leaning over, like a man
accustomed to know what he said, slightly shrugged one shoulder
and replied: “Not yet, Sir Passenger.”
And soon, in fact, Pierre Gilles would see change their form or
disappear those fantastic rocks and sharp points which represented
an unattainable shore. Then it seemed to him that he would never
arrive, the island retreated constantly before him, and his feet would
never be permitted to rest upon the shores of England.
“Alas!” he would every moment say to himself, “they are trying him
now, perhaps. If I were there, I would run, I would beg, I would
implore his pardon. And his youthful daughter, whom they say is so
fair, so good—into what an agony she must be plunged! All this
family and those young children to be deprived of such a father!”
Pierre was unable to control himself for a moment; he arose, walked
forward on the vessel; he saw the foaming track formed by her rapid
passage through the water wiped out in an instant, effaced by the
winds, and yet it seemed to him that the vessel thus cutting the
waves remained motionless, and that he was not advancing a
furlong. “An hour’s delay,” he mentally repeated, “and perhaps it will
be too late. Let them banish him; I shall at least be able to find
him!”
Already the night wind was blowing a gale and the sea grew
turbulent; a flock of birds flew around the masts, uttering the most
mournful cries, and seeming, as they braved the whirlwind which
had arisen, to be terrified.

“Comrades, furl the sails!” cried the steersman; “a waterspout
threatens us! Be quick,” he cried, “or we are lost.”
In the twinkling of an eye the sailors seized the ropes and climbed
into the rigging. Vain haste, useless dexterity; their efforts were all
too late.
A furious gust of wind groaned, roared, rent the mainmast in twain,
tore away the ropes, bent and broke the masts; a horrible crash was
heard throughout the ship.
“Cut away! Pull! Haul down! Hold there! Hoist away! Let go!” cried
the captain, who had rushed up from his cabin. “Bravo! Courage,
there! Stand firm!”
“Ay, ay!” cried the sailors. A loud clamor arose in the midst of the
horrible roaring of the winds. The sailor on watch had fallen into the
sea.
“Throw out the buoy! throw out the buoy!” cried the captain.
“Knaves, do you hear me?”
Impossible; the rope fluttered in the wind like a string, and the
tempest drove it against the sides of the vessel. They saw the
unfortunate sailor tossing in the sea, carried along like a black point
on the waves, which in a moment disappeared.
“All is over! He is lost!” cried the sailors. But the howling winds
stifled and drowned their lamentations.
In the meantime Pierre Gilles bound himself tightly as he could to a
mast; for the shaking of the vessel was so great that it seemed to
him an irresistible power was trying to tear him away and cast him
whirling into the yawning depths of the furious element.
“The mizzen-mast is breaking!” cried the sailors; and by a common
impulse they rushed toward the stern to avoid being dragged down
and crushed by its fall.

The gigantic beam fell with a fearful crash, catching in the ropes and
rigging.
“Cut away! Let her go!” cried the captain.
He himself was the first to rush forward, armed with a hatchet, and
they tried to cut aloose the mast and let it fall into the water.
But they were unable to succeed; the mast hung over the side of the
ship, which it struck with every wave, and threatened to capsize her.
Every moment the position of the crew became more dangerous.
The shocks were so violent that the men were no longer able to
resist them; they clung to everything they could lay hold of; they
twined their legs and arms in the hanging ropes. All efforts to control
the vessel had become useless, and, seeing no longer any hope of
being saved, the sailors began to utter cries of despair.
Pierre Gilles had fastened himself to the mainmast. “If this also
breaks,” he thought, “well, I shall die by the same stroke—die
without seeing him!” he cried, still entirely occupied with More. “He
will not know that I have tried to reach him, and will, perhaps,
believe that I have deserted him in the day of adversity. Oh! how
death is embittered by that thought. He will say that, happy in the
bosom of my family, I have left him alone in his prison, and he will
strive to forget even the recollection of my friendship. O More, More!
my friend, this tempest ought to carry to you my regrets.”
Looking around him, Pierre saw the miserable men tossing their
arms in despair; for the night was advancing, their strength nearly
exhausted, while the vessel, borne along on the crest of the waves,
suddenly pitched with a frightful plunge, and the water rushed in on
every side.
The captain had stationed himself near Pierre Gilles; he
contemplated the destruction of his ship with a mournful gaze.
“Here is this fine vessel lost—all my fortune, the labor of an entire
life of toil and care. My children now will be reduced to beggary!

Here is the fruit of thirty years of work,” he cried. “Sir,” he said to
Pierre Gilles, “I began life at twelve years; I have passed
successively up from cabin-boy, mariner, boatswain, lieutenant,
captain finally, and now—the sea. I shall have to begin anew!”
“Begin anew, sir?” said Pierre Gilles. “But is not death awaiting us
very speedily?”
“That remains to be seen,” answered the captain, folding his arms. “I
have been three times shipwrecked, and I am here still, sir. It is true
there is an end to everything; but the ocean and myself understand
each other. We shall come out of it, if we gain time. After the storm,
a calm; after the tempest, fine weather.” Here he attentively scanned
the heavens. “A few more swells of the sea, and, if we escape,
courage! All will be well.”
“Hold fast, my boys!” he cried; “another sea is coming.”
He had scarcely uttered the words when a frightful wave advanced
like a threatening mountain, and, raising the vessel violently, swept
entirely over her; but the ship still remained afloat. Other waves
succeeded, and the unfortunate sailors remained tossing about in
that condition until the next morning. However, as the day dawned,
hope revived in their hearts; the horizon seemed brightening; the
wind allayed by degrees. Pierre Gilles and his companions shook
their limbs, stiffened and benumbed by the cold and the water which
had drenched them, and thought they could at last perceive the
land. They succeeded in relieving the vessel a little by throwing the
mast into the sea. Every one took courage, and soon the coast
appeared in sight. There was no more doubt: it was the coast of
England. There were the pointed rocks, the whitened reefs. They
were in their route; the tempest had not diverted the ship from its
course. On the fourth day they entered the mouth of the Thames.
The poor vessel, five days before so elegant, so swift, so light, was
dragged with difficulty into that large and beautiful river. Badly
crippled, she moved slowly, and was an entire day in reaching

London. Pierre Gilles suffered cruelly on account of this delay, and
would have made them put him ashore, but that was impossible.
Besides, he wished to arrive more speedily at London, and that
would not hasten his journey. From a distance he perceived the
English standard floating above the Tower, and his heart swelled
with sorrow. “Alas! More is there,” he cried. “How shall I contrive to
see him? how tear him from that den?” Absorbed in these
reflections, he reached at length the landing-place. He knew not
where to go nor whom to address in that great city, where he had
never before been, and where he was entirely unacquainted. He
looked at the faces of those who came and went on the wharf,
without feeling inclined to accost any of them.
Suddenly, however, he caught the terrible words, “His trial has
commenced”; and, uncertain whether it was the effect of his
troubled imagination or a real sound, he turned around and saw a
group of women carrying fish in wicker baskets, and talking together.
“At Lambeth Palace, I tell you. He is there; I have seen him.”
“Who?” said Pierre in good English, advancing in his Flemish
costume, which excited the curiosity and attention of all the women.
“Thomas More, the Lord Chancellor,” answered the first speaker.
“Thomas More!” cried Pierre Gilles, with a gesture of despair and
terror which nothing could express. “Who is trying him? Speak, good
woman, speak! Say who is trying him? Where are they trying him?
Conduct me to the place, and all my fortune is yours!”
The women looked at each other. “A foreigner!” they exclaimed.
“Yes,” he replied, “a stranger, but a friend, a friend. Leave your fish—
I will pay you for them—and show me where the trial of Sir Thomas
is going on.”
The fisherwoman, having observed the gold chain he wore around
his neck, his velvet robe, and his ruff of Ypres lace, judged that he
was some important personage, who would reward her liberally for

her trouble; she resolved to accompany him. She walked on before
him, and the other women took up their baskets, and followed at
some distance in the rear.
Meanwhile, Pierre Gilles and his conductress, having followed the
quay and walked the length of the Thames, crossed Westminster
Bridge, and he found himself at last in front of Lambeth Palace.
A considerable crowd of people, artisans, workmen, merchants,
idlers, began to scatter and disperse. Some stopped to talk, others
left; they saw that something had come to an end, that the
spectacle was closed, the excited curiosity was satisfied. The
juggler’s carpet was gathered up, the lottery drawn, the quarrel
ended, the prince or the criminal had passed; there was nothing
more to see, and every one was anxious to depart—careless crowd,
restless and ignorant, which the barking of a dog will arrest, and a
great misfortune cannot detain!
“Here it is, sir,” said the woman, stopping; “this is Lambeth Palace
just in front of you, but I don’t believe you can get in.” And she
pointed to a large enclosure and a great door, before which was
walking up and down a yeoman armed with an arquebuse.
Standing close to one of the sections of the door was seen a
beautiful young girl, dressed in black, and wearing on her head a
low velvet hat worn by the women of that period. A gold chain
formed of round beads, from which was suspended a little gold
medal ornamented with a pearl pendant, hung around her neck, and
passed under her chemisette of plaited muslin bordered with narrow
lace. She stood with her hands clasped, her beautiful countenance
pale as death, and her arms stretched at full length before her,
expressive of the deepest sorrow. Near her was seated a handsome
young man, who from time to time addressed her.
Pierre Gilles approached these two persons.
“Margaret,” said Roper, “come.”

“No,” said the young girl, “I will not go; I shall remain here until
night. I will see him as he goes out; I will see him once more; I will
see that ignoble woollen covering they have given him for a cloak; I
will see his pale and weary face. He will say: ‘Margaret is standing
there!’ He will see me.”
“That will only give him pain,” replied Roper.
“Perhaps,” said the young girl. “Indeed, it is very probable!” And a
bitter smile played around her lips.
“If you love him,” replied Roper, “you should spare him this grief.”
“I love him, Roper; you have said well! I love him! What would you
wish? This is my father!”
Pierre Gilles, who had advanced, seeking some means of entering,
paused to look at the young girl, and was struck by the resemblance
he found between her features and those of her father, his friend,
who was still young when he knew him at Antwerp.
“Can this be Margaret?” murmured the stranger.
“Who has pronounced my name?” asked the young girl, turning
haughtily around.
Pierre Gilles stood in perfect amazement. “How much she resembles
him! Pardon me, damsel,” he said; “I have been trying to get into
this place to see my friend, Sir Thomas More.”
“Your friend!” replied Margaret, advancing immediately toward him.
Then a feeling of suspicion arrested her. She stepped back and fixed
her eyes on the stranger, whose Flemish costume attracted her
attention. “And who,” she said, “can you be? Oh! no; he is not here.
Sir Thomas More has no friends. You are mistaken, sir,” she
continued; “it is some one else you seek. My father—no, my father
has no longer any friends; has any one when he is in irons, when
the scaffold is erected, the axe sharpened, and the executioner
getting ready to do his work?”

“What do you say?” cried the stranger, turning pale. “Is he, then,
already condemned?”
“He is going to be!”
“No, no, he shall not be! Pierre Gilles will demand, will beseech; they
will give him to him; he will pay for him with his gold, with his life-
blood, if necessary.”
“Pierre Gilles!” cried Margaret; and she threw herself on the neck of
the stranger, and clasped him in her arms.
“Pierre Gilles! Pierre Gilles! it is you who love my father. Ah! listen to
me. He is up there; this is the second time they have made him
appear before them. Alas! doubtless to-day will be the last; for they
are tired—tired of falsehoods, artifices, and base, vile manœuvres;
they are tired of offering him gold and silver—he who wants only
heaven and God; they are weary of urging, of tormenting this saintly
bishop and this upright man, in order to extort from them an oath
which no Christian can or ought to take. Then it will be necessary for
these iniquitous and purchased judges to wash out their shame in
blood. They must crush these witnesses to the truth, these
defenders of the faith! My father, child of the martyrs, will walk in
their footsteps, and die as they died; Rochester, successor of the
apostles, will give his life like them; but Margaret, poor Margaret,
she will be left! And it is I, yes, it is I, who am his daughter, and who
is named Margaret!” As she said these words, she clasped her hands
with an expression of anguish that nothing can describe.
TO BE CONTINUED.
[88] These words, which we find in the mouth of this hypocrite, the
impious Cromwell, have been the watchword from all time of those who
wished to attack the monks and destroy them. Well-informed and
educated persons know, by the great number of works coming from their
pens, whether they were idlers, and the poor in all ages will be able to say
whether they have ever been selfish or uncharitable.

Solution Manual for Principles of Finance 6th Edition by Besley

NEW PUBLICATIONS.
Sermons on the Sacraments. By Thomas Watson, Master of St. John’s
College, Cambridge, Dean of Durham, and the last Catholic Bishop
of Lincoln. First printed in 1558, and now reprinted in modern
spelling. With a Preface and Biographical Notice of the Author by
the Rev. T. E. Bridgett, of the Congregation of the Most Holy
Redeemer. London: Burns & Oates. 1876. (For sale by The
Catholic Publication Society.)
After Father Bridgett’s beautiful work, Our Lady’s Dowry, we may be
sure that whatever he puts forth, whether original or edited, will
repay perusal. He has a penchant for forgotten treasures of
England’s Catholic past, and spares himself no pains to give us the
benefit of his researches. Not content with editing the present
volume, he has gone to the trouble of a biographical notice, and
quite a long one, of his author. We cannot do better than let him
speak for himself in the opening lines of his preface:
“Here is a volume of sermons, printed more than three centuries ago
in black-letter type and uncouth spelling, and the existence of which
is only known to a few antiquarians. Why, it will be asked, have I
reprinted it in modern guise and sought to rescue it from oblivion? I
have done so for its own sake and for the sake of its author. It is a
book that deserves not to perish, and which would not have been
forgotten, as it is, but for the misfortune of the time at which it
appeared. It was printed in the last year of Queen Mary, and the
change of religion under Elizabeth made it almost impossible to be
procured, and perilous to be preserved. The number of English
Catholic books is not so great that we can afford to lose one so
excellent as this.

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