a King's man and not a Pope's
man, an Englishman first and a Churchman afterwards. Lord Melbourne
used to declare, in his paradoxical manner, that Henry VIII. was the
greatest man who ever lived, because he always had his own way.

Strength is not greatness, and Melbourne must not be taken
literally. What can be pleaded for Henry, without paradox and with
truth, is that he imposed upon Catholic and Protestant alike the
supremacy of the law. Froude preached the subordination of the
Church to the State; and while supporters of the voluntary principle
regarded him with suspicion, adherents to the sacerdotal principle
shrank from him with horror.

The reviews of Froude's earliest volumes were mostly unfavourable.
The Times indeed was appreciative and sympathetic. But The Christian
Remembrancer was emphatic in its censure, and The Edinburgh Review,
of which Henry Reeve had just become editor, was vehemently hostile.

After all, however, an author depends, not upon this party, nor upon
that party, but upon the general public. The public took to
Froude's History from the first. They took to it because it
interested them, and carried them on. Paradoxical it might be.
Partial it might be. Readable it undoubtedly was. Parker's confidence
was more than justified. The book sold as no history had sold except
Gibbon's and Macaulay's. There were no obscure, no ugly sentences.
The reader was carried down the stream with a motion all the
pleasanter because it was barely perceptible. The name of the author
was in all mouths. His old college perceived that he was a credit,
not a disgrace to it, and the Rector of Exeter* courteously invited
him to replace his name on the books. The Committee of the Athenaeum
elected him an honorary member of the Club. Even the Archdeacon, now
a very old man, discovered at last that his youngest son was an
honour to the name of Froude. He knew something of ecclesiastical
history, and he understood that the character of Henry, which
certainly left much to be desired, might have been blackened of set
purpose by ecclesiastical historians. Froude's reputation was made.
The reviewers, most of whom knew nothing about the subject, could
not hurt him. He had followed his bent, and chosen his vocation
well. The gift of narrative was his, and he had had thoughts of
turning novelist. But to write a novel, or at least a successful
novel, was a thing he could never do. He had not the spirit of
romance. If there was