School Reading by Grades: Sixth Year Part 18

In the early years of his reign his chief friend and servant was Thomas Becket, who was a clever and handsome man. He knew well how to please the king by sharing in his amus.e.m.e.nts, and by helping him in the great work of keeping order among his barons and knights.

When Becket was a young man he was out hunting, one day, with his pet hawk upon his wrist. Riding carelessly along, he came to a narrow wooden bridge, which crossed a stream close to a mill. When in the middle of the bridge his horse stumbled, and Becket, horse, and hawk were thrown into the water.

The horse at once swam to the bank. So did Becket, but, upon looking back, he saw his hawk struggling in the middle of the stream. Its straps had become entangled about its feet and wings, and the bird was helpless. Although the stream was running swiftly to the great mill-wheel, Becket turned round and swam back to save the hawk.

By this time the current had carried him very near to the wheel, and in another moment both man and bird must have been crushed to death.

But just then the miller saw the danger and stopped the mill. Becket climbed out of the water with the bird in his hand, seeming not at all frightened because of the danger which he had escaped. During his entire life he had many trials and was opposed by many enemies; but he faced them all as fearlessly as he had risked drowning in order to save his hawk.

King Henry made Becket his chancellor, that is his chief minister, and gave him much wealth. Becket lived in great splendor in a fine palace.

He was so hospitable that he kept an open table, at which all were free to come and feast when they chose. His clothes were the finest and gayest that could be made, and wherever he went he took with him troops of friends and servants.

Once, when he was sent to France to settle a dispute with the French king, he traveled with such a large train of followers that the people were filled with wonder. We can picture the procession entering a quiet country town.

"First came two hundred boys singing quaint songs or glees. Then followed great hounds with their keepers, behind whom were wagons guarded by fierce English mastiffs. One of the wagons was laden with beer to be given away to the people who might render any help on the road.

"Then came twelve horses, upon each of which sat a monkey and a groom.

After all these there followed a vast company of knights and squires and priests, riding two and two.

"Last of all came Becket and a few friends, with whom he talked by the way." We can imagine the wonder of the French people at so fine, yet strange, a show. We can hear them exclaim, "What kind of a man must the king of England be, when his chancellor can travel in such state!"

At this time the Church in England possessed great power and wealth.

It was the safeguard that stood between the people and the greed and cruelty of their rulers. It was the protector of the poor, and the friend of the oppressed; and even the king was obliged to obey its commands.

King Henry was jealous of the influence of the Church. He resolved that, having already reduced the power of the barons, he would now reduce the power of the Church. And among all his faithful men, who would be more likely to help him in such business than his friend Becket, who had hitherto been his ablest a.s.sistant in every undertaking?

[Ill.u.s.tration: Thomas Becket. (From an Old Painting.)]

It happened about this time that the Archbishop of Canterbury, the highest officer of the Church in England, died. This event was very pleasing to Henry, and through his influence the Pope appointed Thomas Becket to be the new archbishop.

Becket had hitherto been faithful to Henry in all things, but he now felt that his first duty was to the Church, and he resolved to defend its rights, even though he should displease the king. He changed entirely the manner of his life. Instead of his splendid clothes, he wore a monk's dress and a hair s.h.i.+rt next to his skin. He tried, as people understood it in those times, to carry out the teachings of his Lord and Master; and every day he waited upon a number of poor men and washed their feet. Instead of gay knights only good and pious men sat at his table. He gave up his chancellors.h.i.+p, and told the king plainly that he would resist all attempts to take away the rights of the Church.

Many were the quarrels after that between the king and the archbishop.

At one time, in a fit of rage, Henry cried out: "I will not be preached at by you. Are you not the son of one of my clowns?"

"It is true," replied the archbishop, "I am not descended from ancient kings, but neither was the blessed Peter to whom were given the keys of the kingdom of heaven."

"But Peter," said the king, "died for his Lord."

"And I, too, will die for my Lord," said Becket, "when the time shall come."

And it was not long till the time did come. Upon hearing some hasty, angry words from the king, four knights set out to Canterbury, determined to kill Becket, and thus not only put an end to the long quarrel but win the king's favor for themselves.

--_Anonymous._

II. HIS DEATH.

The vespers had already begun, and the monks were singing the service in the choir, when two boys rushed up the nave, announcing, more by their terrified gestures than by their words, that the soldiers were bursting into the palace and monastery. Instantly the service was thrown into the utmost confusion; part remained at prayer, part fled into the numerous hiding places the vast fabric affords; and part went down the steps of the choir into the transept to meet the little band at the door.

"Come in, come in!" exclaimed one of them. "Come in, and let us die together."

The Archbishop continued to stand outside, and said: "Go and finish the service. So long as you keep in the entrance, I shall not come in." They fell back a few paces, and he stepped within the door, but, finding the whole place thronged with people, he paused on the threshold, and asked, "What is it that these people fear?" One general answer broke forth, "The armed men in the cloister." As he turned and said, "I shall go out to them," he heard the clash of arms behind. The knights had just forced their way into the cloister, and were now (as would appear from their being thus seen through the open door) advancing along its southern side. They were in mail, which covered their faces up to their eyes, and carried their swords drawn. Three had hatchets. Fitzurse, with the ax he had taken from the carpenters, was foremost, shouting as he came, "Here, here, king's men!"

Immediately behind him followed Robert Fitzranulph, with three other knights; and a motley group--some their own followers, some from the town--with weapons, though not in armor, brought up the rear. At this sight, so unwonted in the peaceful cloisters of Canterbury, not probably beheld since the time when the monastery had been sacked by the Danes, the monks within, regardless of all remonstrances, shut the door of the cathedral, and proceeded to barricade it with iron bars. A loud knocking was heard from the band without, who, having vainly endeavored to prevent the entrance of the knights into the cloister, now rushed before them to take refuge in the church. Becket, who had stepped some paces into the cathedral, but was resisting the solicitations of those immediately about him to move up into the choir for safety, darted back, calling aloud as he went, "Away, you cowards!

By virtue of your obedience I command you not to shut the door--the church must not be turned into a castle." With his own hands he thrust them away from the door, opened it himself, and catching hold of the excluded monks, dragged them into the building, exclaiming, "Come in, come in--faster, faster!"

[Ill.u.s.tration:

From a Photograph. Engraved by Charles Meeder.

Canterbury Cathedral.

The knights, who had been checked for a moment by the sight of the closed door, on seeing it unexpectedly thrown open, rushed into the church. It was, we must remember, about five o'clock in a winter evening; the shades of night were gathering, and were deepened into a still darker gloom within the high and ma.s.sive walls of the vast cathedral, which was only illuminated here and there by the solitary lamps burning before the altars. The twilight, lengthening from the shortest day a fortnight before, was but just sufficient to reveal the outline of objects.

In the dim twilight they could just discern a group of figures mounting the steps of the eastern staircase. One of the knights called out to them, "Stay." Another, "Where is Thomas Becket, traitor to the king?" No answer was returned. None could have been expected by any one who remembered the indignant silence with which Becket had swept by when the same words had been applied by Randulf of Broc at Northampton. Fitzurse rushed forward, and, stumbling against one of the monks on the lower step, still not able to distinguish clearly in the darkness, exclaimed, "Where is the Archbishop?" Instantly the answer came: "Reginald, here I am, no traitor, but the archbishop and priest of G.o.d; what do you wish?" and from the fourth step, which he had reached in his ascent, with a slight motion of his head--noticed apparently as his peculiar manner in moments of excitement--Becket descended to the transept. Attired, we are told, in his white rochet, with a cloak and hood thrown over his shoulders, he thus suddenly confronted his a.s.sailants. Fitzurse sprang back two or three paces, and Becket pa.s.sing by him took up his station between the central pillar and the ma.s.sive wall which still forms the southwest corner of what was then the chapel of St. Benedict. Here they gathered round him, with the cry, "Absolve the bishops whom you have excommunicated."

"I cannot do other than I have done," he replied, and turning to Fitzurse, he added, "Reginald, you have received many favors at my hands; why do you come into my church armed?" Fitzurse planted the ax against his breast, and returned for answer, "You shall die--I will tear out your heart." Another, perhaps in kindness, struck him between the shoulders with the flat of his sword, exclaiming, "Fly; you are a dead man." "I am ready to die," replied the primate, "for G.o.d and the Church; but I warn you, I curse you in the name of G.o.d Almighty, if you do not let my men escape."

The well-known horror which in that age was felt at an act of sacrilege, together with the sight of the crowds who were rus.h.i.+ng in from the town through the nave, turned their efforts for the next few moments to carrying him out of the church. Fitzurse threw down the ax, and tried to drag him out by the collar of his long cloak, calling, "Come with us--you are our prisoner." "I will not fly, you detestable fellow," was Becket's reply, roused to his usual vehemence, and wrenching the cloak out of Fitzurse's grasp. The three knights struggled violently to put him on Tracy's shoulders. Becket set his back against the pillar, and resisted with all his might, whilst Grim, vehemently remonstrating, threw his arms around him to aid his efforts. In the scuffle, Becket fastened upon Tracy, shook him by his coat of mail, and exerting his great strength flung him down on the pavement. It was hopeless to carry on the attempt to remove him. And in the final struggle which now began, Fitzurse, as before, took the lead. He approached with his drawn sword, and waving it over his head, cried, "Strike, strike!" but merely dashed off his cap. Tracy sprang forward and struck a more decided blow.

The blood from the first blow was trickling down his face in a thin streak; he wiped it with his arm, and when he saw the stain, he said, "Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit." At the third blow, he sank on his knees--his arms falling, but his hands still joined as if in prayer. With his face turned towards the altar of St. Benedict, he murmured in a low voice, "For the name of Jesus, and the defense of the Church, I am willing to die." Without moving hand or foot, he fell flat on his face as he spoke. In this posture he received a tremendous blow, aimed with such violence that the scalp or crown of the head was severed from the skull. "Let us go--let us go," said Hugh of Horsea, "the traitor is dead; he will rise no more."

The life of Thomas Becket, and his tragic death, have furnished themes for many n.o.ble contributions to English literature. Arthur Penrhyn Stanley, Dean of Westminster, has written of him, in a very impartial and trustworthy manner, in his "Historical Memoirs of Canterbury" from which the above extract is taken. The poet Tennyson, late in life, composed a tragedy ent.i.tled "Becket" which portrays in a vivid, poetical manner the most striking scenes in the career of the great archbishop. James Anthony Froude, in "Short Stories on Great Subjects," has written a charming and instructive essay on the "Life and Times of Thomas Becket"; and Professor Freeman has presented us with a similar historical study in his "Saint Thomas of Canterbury."

It may also be observed that Chaucer's immortal work, "The Canterbury Tales," depends for its connecting thread upon the once general custom of making pilgrimages to the tomb of Becket.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Dean Stanley.]

THE PILGRIMS. (1620.)

Methinks I see one solitary, adventurous vessel, the "Mayflower," of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pa.s.s, and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight of the wished-for sh.o.r.e. I see them now, scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation, in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route,--and now, driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy waves. The awful voice of the storm brawls through the rigging.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Edward Everett.]

The laboring masts seem straining from their base; the dismal sound of the pumps is heard; the s.h.i.+p leaps, as it were, madly, from billow to billow; the ocean breaks, and settles with engulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats with deadening, s.h.i.+vering weight, against the staggering vessel.

I see them escape from these perils, pursuing their all but desperate undertaking, and landed at last, after a five months' pa.s.sage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth,--weak and weary from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, without shelter, without means, surrounded by hostile tribes.

Shut now the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers?

Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes, enumerated within the early limits of New England?

Tell me, politician, how long did a shadow of a colony on which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast? Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures of other times, and find the parallel of this.

Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and children? was it hard labor and spare meals? was it disease? was it the tomahawk? was it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching in its last moments at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond the sea? was it some, or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate?