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<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Child’s History of England, by Charles Dickens</div>
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<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: A Child’s History of England</div>
<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Charles Dickens</div>
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<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CHILD’S HISTORY OF ENGLAND ***</div>

<h1>A CHILD&rsquo;S HISTORY OF ENGLAND</h1>

<h2 class="no-break">By CHARLES DICKENS</h2>

<p class="center">
With Illustrations by F. H. Townsend and others
</p>

<p class="center">
LONDON: CHAPMAN &amp; HALL, <span class="smcap">ld.</span><br/>
NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER&rsquo;S SONS<br/>
1905
</p>

<hr />

<h2>Contents</h2>

<table summary="" style="">

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I ANCIENT ENGLAND AND THE ROMANS</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II ANCIENT ENGLAND UNDER THE EARLY SAXONS</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III ENGLAND UNDER THE GOOD SAXON, ALFRED</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV ENGLAND UNDER ATHELSTAN AND THE SIX BOY-KINGS</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V ENGLAND UNDER CANUTE THE DANE</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI ENGLAND UNDER HAROLD HAREFOOT, HARDICANUTE, AND EDWARD THE CONFESSOR</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII ENGLAND UNDER HAROLD THE SECOND, AND CONQUERED BY THE NORMANS</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII ENGLAND UNDER WILLIAM THE FIRST, THE NORMAN CONQUEROR</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX ENGLAND UNDER WILLIAM THE SECOND, CALLED RUFUS</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FIRST, CALLED FINE-SCHOLAR</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI ENGLAND UNDER MATILDA AND STEPHEN</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SECOND</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE FIRST, CALLED THE LION-HEART</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV ENGLAND UNDER KING JOHN, CALLED LACKLAND</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE THIRD, CALLED, OF WINCHESTER</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FIRST, CALLED LONGSHANKS</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE SECOND</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE THIRD</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE SECOND</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FOURTH, CALLED BOLINGBROKE</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FIFTH</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER XXII ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SIXTH</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER XXIII ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FOURTH</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER XXIV ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FIFTH</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER XXV ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE THIRD</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER XXVI ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SEVENTH</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER XXVII ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE EIGHTH, CALLED BLUFF KING HAL AND BURLY KING HARRY</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER XXVIII ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE EIGHTH</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER XXIX ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE SIXTH</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER XXX ENGLAND UNDER MARY</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap31">CHAPTER XXXI ENGLAND UNDER ELIZABETH</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap32">CHAPTER XXXII ENGLAND UNDER JAMES THE FIRST</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap33">CHAPTER XXXIII ENGLAND UNDER CHARLES THE FIRST</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap34">CHAPTER XXXIV ENGLAND UNDER OLIVER CROMWELL</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap35">CHAPTER XXXV ENGLAND UNDER CHARLES THE SECOND, CALLED THE MERRY MONARCH</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap36">CHAPTER XXXVI ENGLAND UNDER JAMES THE SECOND</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap37">CHAPTER XXXVII</a></td>
</tr>

</table>

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I<br/>
ANCIENT ENGLAND AND THE ROMANS</h2>

<p>
If you look at a Map of the World, you will see, in the left-hand upper corner
of the Eastern Hemisphere, two Islands lying in the sea. They are England and
Scotland, and Ireland. England and Scotland form the greater part of these
Islands. Ireland is the next in size. The little neighbouring islands, which
are so small upon the Map as to be mere dots, are chiefly little bits of
Scotland,&mdash;broken off, I dare say, in the course of a great length of
time, by the power of the restless water.
</p>

<p>
In the old days, a long, long while ago, before Our Saviour was born on earth
and lay asleep in a manger, these Islands were in the same place, and the
stormy sea roared round them, just as it roars now. But the sea was not alive,
then, with great ships and brave sailors, sailing to and from all parts of the
world. It was very lonely. The Islands lay solitary, in the great expanse of
water. The foaming waves dashed against their cliffs, and the bleak winds blew
over their forests; but the winds and waves brought no adventurers to land upon
the Islands, and the savage Islanders knew nothing of the rest of the world,
and the rest of the world knew nothing of them.
</p>

<p>
It is supposed that the Ph&oelig;nicians, who were an ancient people, famous
for carrying on trade, came in ships to these Islands, and found that they
produced tin and lead; both very useful things, as you know, and both produced
to this very hour upon the sea-coast. The most celebrated tin mines in Cornwall
are, still, close to the sea. One of them, which I have seen, is so close to it
that it is hollowed out underneath the ocean; and the miners say, that in
stormy weather, when they are at work down in that deep place, they can hear
the noise of the waves thundering above their heads. So, the Ph&oelig;nicians,
coasting about the Islands, would come, without much difficulty, to where the
tin and lead were.
</p>

<p>
The Ph&oelig;nicians traded with the Islanders for these metals, and gave the
Islanders some other useful things in exchange. The Islanders were, at first,
poor savages, going almost naked, or only dressed in the rough skins of beasts,
and staining their bodies, as other savages do, with coloured earths and the
juices of plants. But the Ph&oelig;nicians, sailing over to the opposite coasts
of France and Belgium, and saying to the people there, &lsquo;We have been to
those white cliffs across the water, which you can see in fine weather, and
from that country, which is called <span class="smcap">Britain</span>, we bring
this tin and lead,&rsquo; tempted some of the French and Belgians to come over
also. These people settled themselves on the south coast of England, which is
now called Kent; and, although they were a rough people too, they taught the
savage Britons some useful arts, and improved that part of the Islands. It is
probable that other people came over from Spain to Ireland, and settled there.
</p>

<p>
Thus, by little and little, strangers became mixed with the Islanders, and the
savage Britons grew into a wild, bold people; almost savage, still, especially
in the interior of the country away from the sea where the foreign settlers
seldom went; but hardy, brave, and strong.
</p>

<p>
The whole country was covered with forests, and swamps. The greater part of it
was very misty and cold. There were no roads, no bridges, no streets, no houses
that you would think deserving of the name. A town was nothing but a collection
of straw-covered huts, hidden in a thick wood, with a ditch all round, and a
low wall, made of mud, or the trunks of trees placed one upon another. The
people planted little or no corn, but lived upon the flesh of their flocks and
cattle. They made no coins, but used metal rings for money. They were clever in
basket-work, as savage people often are; and they could make a coarse kind of
cloth, and some very bad earthenware. But in building fortresses they were much
more clever.
</p>

<p>
They made boats of basket-work, covered with the skins of animals, but seldom,
if ever, ventured far from the shore. They made swords, of copper mixed with
tin; but, these swords were of an awkward shape, and so soft that a heavy blow
would bend one. They made light shields, short pointed daggers, and
spears&mdash;which they jerked back after they had thrown them at an enemy, by
a long strip of leather fastened to the stem. The butt-end was a rattle, to
frighten an enemy&rsquo;s horse. The ancient Britons, being divided into as
many as thirty or forty tribes, each commanded by its own little king, were
constantly fighting with one another, as savage people usually do; and they
always fought with these weapons.
</p>

<p>
They were very fond of horses. The standard of Kent was the picture of a white
horse. They could break them in and manage them wonderfully well. Indeed, the
horses (of which they had an abundance, though they were rather small) were so
well taught in those days, that they can scarcely be said to have improved
since; though the men are so much wiser. They understood, and obeyed, every
word of command; and would stand still by themselves, in all the din and noise
of battle, while their masters went to fight on foot. The Britons could not
have succeeded in their most remarkable art, without the aid of these sensible
and trusty animals. The art I mean, is the construction and management of
war-chariots or cars, for which they have ever been celebrated in history. Each
of the best sort of these chariots, not quite breast high in front, and open at
the back, contained one man to drive, and two or three others to
fight&mdash;all standing up. The horses who drew them were so well trained,
that they would tear, at full gallop, over the most stony ways, and even
through the woods; dashing down their masters&rsquo; enemies beneath their
hoofs, and cutting them to pieces with the blades of swords, or scythes, which
were fastened to the wheels, and stretched out beyond the car on each side, for
that cruel purpose. In a moment, while at full speed, the horses would stop, at
the driver&rsquo;s command. The men within would leap out, deal blows about
them with their swords like hail, leap on the horses, on the pole, spring back
into the chariots anyhow; and, as soon as they were safe, the horses tore away
again.
</p>

<p>
The Britons had a strange and terrible religion, called the Religion of the
Druids. It seems to have been brought over, in very early times indeed, from
the opposite country of France, anciently called Gaul, and to have mixed up the
worship of the Serpent, and of the Sun and Moon, with the worship of some of
the Heathen Gods and Goddesses. Most of its ceremonies were kept secret by the
priests, the Druids, who pretended to be enchanters, and who carried
magicians&rsquo; wands, and wore, each of them, about his neck, what he told
the ignorant people was a Serpent&rsquo;s egg in a golden case. But it is
certain that the Druidical ceremonies included the sacrifice of human victims,
the torture of some suspected criminals, and, on particular occasions, even the
burning alive, in immense wicker cages, of a number of men and animals
together. The Druid Priests had some kind of veneration for the Oak, and for
the mistletoe&mdash;the same plant that we hang up in houses at Christmas Time
now&mdash;when its white berries grew upon the Oak. They met together in dark
woods, which they called Sacred Groves; and there they instructed, in their
mysterious arts, young men who came to them as pupils, and who sometimes stayed
with them as long as twenty years.
</p>

<p>
These Druids built great Temples and altars, open to the sky, fragments of some
of which are yet remaining. Stonehenge, on Salisbury Plain, in Wiltshire, is
the most extraordinary of these. Three curious stones, called Kits Coty House,
on Bluebell Hill, near Maidstone, in Kent, form another. We know, from
examination of the great blocks of which such buildings are made, that they
could not have been raised without the aid of some ingenious machines, which
are common now, but which the ancient Britons certainly did not use in making
their own uncomfortable houses. I should not wonder if the Druids, and their
pupils who stayed with them twenty years, knowing more than the rest of the
Britons, kept the people out of sight while they made these buildings, and then
pretended that they built them by magic. Perhaps they had a hand in the
fortresses too; at all events, as they were very powerful, and very much
believed in, and as they made and executed the laws, and paid no taxes, I
don&rsquo;t wonder that they liked their trade. And, as they persuaded the
people the more Druids there were, the better off the people would be, I
don&rsquo;t wonder that there were a good many of them. But it is pleasant to
think that there are no Druids, <i>now</i>, who go on in that way, and pretend
to carry Enchanters&rsquo; Wands and Serpents&rsquo; Eggs&mdash;and of course
there is nothing of the kind, anywhere.
</p>

<p>
Such was the improved condition of the ancient Britons, fifty-five years before
the birth of Our Saviour, when the Romans, under their great General, Julius
C&aelig;sar, were masters of all the rest of the known world. Julius
C&aelig;sar had then just conquered Gaul; and hearing, in Gaul, a good deal
about the opposite Island with the white cliffs, and about the bravery of the
Britons who inhabited it&mdash;some of whom had been fetched over to help the
Gauls in the war against him&mdash;he resolved, as he was so near, to come and
conquer Britain next.
</p>

<p>
So, Julius C&aelig;sar came sailing over to this Island of ours, with eighty
vessels and twelve thousand men. And he came from the French coast between
Calais and Boulogne, &lsquo;because thence was the shortest passage into
Britain;&rsquo; just for the same reason as our steam-boats now take the same
track, every day. He expected to conquer Britain easily: but it was not such
easy work as he supposed&mdash;for the bold Britons fought most bravely; and,
what with not having his horse-soldiers with him (for they had been driven back
by a storm), and what with having some of his vessels dashed to pieces by a
high tide after they were drawn ashore, he ran great risk of being totally
defeated. However, for once that the bold Britons beat him, he beat them twice;
though not so soundly but that he was very glad to accept their proposals of
peace, and go away.
</p>

<p>
But, in the spring of the next year, he came back; this time, with eight
hundred vessels and thirty thousand men. The British tribes chose, as their
general-in-chief, a Briton, whom the Romans in their Latin language called
<span class="smcap">Cassivellaunus</span>, but whose British name is supposed
to have been <span class="smcap">Caswallon</span>. A brave general he was, and
well he and his soldiers fought the Roman army! So well, that whenever in that
war the Roman soldiers saw a great cloud of dust, and heard the rattle of the
rapid British chariots, they trembled in their hearts. Besides a number of
smaller battles, there was a battle fought near Canterbury, in Kent; there was
a battle fought near Chertsey, in Surrey; there was a battle fought near a
marshy little town in a wood, the capital of that part of Britain which
belonged to <span class="smcap">Cassivellaunus</span>, and which was probably
near what is now Saint Albans, in Hertfordshire. However, brave <span
class="smcap">Cassivellaunus</span> had the worst of it, on the whole; though
he and his men always fought like lions. As the other British chiefs were
jealous of him, and were always quarrelling with him, and with one another, he
gave up, and proposed peace. Julius C&aelig;sar was very glad to grant peace
easily, and to go away again with all his remaining ships and men. He had
expected to find pearls in Britain, and he may have found a few for anything I
know; but, at all events, he found delicious oysters, and I am sure he found
tough Britons&mdash;of whom, I dare say, he made the same complaint as Napoleon
Bonaparte the great French General did, eighteen hundred years afterwards, when
he said they were such unreasonable fellows that they never knew when they were
beaten. They never <i>did</i> know, I believe, and never will.
</p>

<p>
Nearly a hundred years passed on, and all that time, there was peace in
Britain. The Britons improved their towns and mode of life: became more
civilised, travelled, and learnt a great deal from the Gauls and Romans. At
last, the Roman Emperor, Claudius, sent <span class="smcap">Aulus
Plautius</span>, a skilful general, with a mighty force, to subdue the Island,
and shortly afterwards arrived himself. They did little; and <span
class="smcap">Ostorius Scapula</span>, another general, came. Some of the
British Chiefs of Tribes submitted. Others resolved to fight to the death. Of
these brave men, the bravest was <span class="smcap">Caractacus</span>, or
<span class="smcap">Caradoc</span>, who gave battle to the Romans, with his
army, among the mountains of North Wales. &lsquo;This day,&rsquo; said he to
his soldiers, &lsquo;decides the fate of Britain! Your liberty, or your eternal
slavery, dates from this hour. Remember your brave ancestors, who drove the
great C&aelig;sar himself across the sea!&rsquo; On hearing these words, his
men, with a great shout, rushed upon the Romans. But the strong Roman swords
and armour were too much for the weaker British weapons in close conflict. The
Britons lost the day. The wife and daughter of the brave <span
class="smcap">Caractacus</span> were taken prisoners; his brothers delivered
themselves up; he himself was betrayed into the hands of the Romans by his
false and base stepmother: and they carried him, and all his family, in triumph
to Rome.
</p>

<p>
But a great man will be great in misfortune, great in prison, great in chains.
His noble air, and dignified endurance of distress, so touched the Roman people
who thronged the streets to see him, that he and his family were restored to
freedom. No one knows whether his great heart broke, and he died in Rome, or
whether he ever returned to his own dear country. English oaks have grown up
from acorns, and withered away, when they were hundreds of years old&mdash;and
other oaks have sprung up in their places, and died too, very aged&mdash;since
the rest of the history of the brave <span class="smcap">Caractacus</span> was
forgotten.
</p>

<p>
Still, the Britons <i>would not</i> yield. They rose again and again, and died
by thousands, sword in hand. They rose, on every possible occasion. <span
class="smcap">Suetonius</span>, another Roman general, came, and stormed the
Island of Anglesey (then called <span class="smcap">Mona</span>), which was
supposed to be sacred, and he burnt the Druids in their own wicker cages, by
their own fires. But, even while he was in Britain, with his victorious troops,
the <span class="smcap">Britons</span> rose. Because <span
class="smcap">Boadicea</span>, a British queen, the widow of the King of the
Norfolk and Suffolk people, resisted the plundering of her property by the
Romans who were settled in England, she was scourged, by order of <span
class="smcap">Catus</span> a Roman officer; and her two daughters were
shamefully insulted in her presence, and her husband&rsquo;s relations were
made slaves. To avenge this injury, the Britons rose, with all their might and
rage. They drove <span class="smcap">Catus</span> into Gaul; they laid the
Roman possessions waste; they forced the Romans out of London, then a poor
little town, but a trading place; they hanged, burnt, crucified, and slew by
the sword, seventy thousand Romans in a few days. <span
class="smcap">Suetonius</span> strengthened his army, and advanced to give them
battle. They strengthened their army, and desperately attacked his, on the
field where it was strongly posted. Before the first charge of the Britons was
made, <span class="smcap">Boadicea</span>, in a war-chariot, with her fair hair
streaming in the wind, and her injured daughters lying at her feet, drove among
the troops, and cried to them for vengeance on their oppressors, the licentious
Romans. The Britons fought to the last; but they were vanquished with great
slaughter, and the unhappy queen took poison.
</p>

<p>
Still, the spirit of the Britons was not broken. When <span
class="smcap">Suetonius</span> left the country, they fell upon his troops, and
retook the Island of Anglesey. <span class="smcap">Agricola</span> came,
fifteen or twenty years afterwards, and retook it once more, and devoted seven
years to subduing the country, especially that part of it which is now called
<span class="smcap">Scotland</span>; but, its people, the Caledonians, resisted
him at every inch of ground. They fought the bloodiest battles with him; they
killed their very wives and children, to prevent his making prisoners of them;
they fell, fighting, in such great numbers that certain hills in Scotland are
yet supposed to be vast heaps of stones piled up above their graves. <span
class="smcap">Hadrian</span> came, thirty years afterwards, and still they
resisted him. <span class="smcap">Severus</span> came, nearly a hundred years
afterwards, and they worried his great army like dogs, and rejoiced to see them
die, by thousands, in the bogs and swamps. <span
class="smcap">Caracalla</span>, the son and successor of <span
class="smcap">Severus</span>, did the most to conquer them, for a time; but not
by force of arms. He knew how little that would do. He yielded up a quantity of
land to the Caledonians, and gave the Britons the same privileges as the Romans
possessed. There was peace, after this, for seventy years.
</p>

<p>
Then new enemies arose. They were the Saxons, a fierce, sea-faring people from
the countries to the North of the Rhine, the great river of Germany on the
banks of which the best grapes grow to make the German wine. They began to
come, in pirate ships, to the sea-coast of Gaul and Britain, and to plunder
them. They were repulsed by <span class="smcap">Carausius</span>, a native
either of Belgium or of Britain, who was appointed by the Romans to the
command, and under whom the Britons first began to fight upon the sea. But,
after this time, they renewed their ravages. A few years more, and the Scots
(which was then the name for the people of Ireland), and the Picts, a northern
people, began to make frequent plundering incursions into the South of Britain.
All these attacks were repeated, at intervals, during two hundred years, and
through a long succession of Roman Emperors and chiefs; during all which length
of time, the Britons rose against the Romans, over and over again. At last, in
the days of the Roman <span class="smcap">Honorius</span>, when the Roman power
all over the world was fast declining, and when Rome wanted all her soldiers at
home, the Romans abandoned all hope of conquering Britain, and went away. And
still, at last, as at first, the Britons rose against them, in their old brave
manner; for, a very little while before, they had turned away the Roman
magistrates, and declared themselves an independent people.
</p>

<p>
Five hundred years had passed, since Julius C&aelig;sar&rsquo;s first invasion
of the Island, when the Romans departed from it for ever. In the course of that
time, although they had been the cause of terrible fighting and bloodshed, they
had done much to improve the condition of the Britons. They had made great
military roads; they had built forts; they had taught them how to dress, and
arm themselves, much better than they had ever known how to do before; they had
refined the whole British way of living. <span class="smcap">Agricola</span>
had built a great wall of earth, more than seventy miles long, extending from
Newcastle to beyond Carlisle, for the purpose of keeping out the Picts and
Scots; <span class="smcap">Hadrian</span> had strengthened it; <span
class="smcap">Severus</span>, finding it much in want of repair, had built it
afresh of stone.
</p>

<p>
Above all, it was in the Roman time, and by means of Roman ships, that the
Christian Religion was first brought into Britain, and its people first taught
the great lesson that, to be good in the sight of <span
class="smcap">God</span>, they must love their neighbours as themselves, and do
unto others as they would be done by. The Druids declared that it was very
wicked to believe in any such thing, and cursed all the people who did believe
it, very heartily. But, when the people found that they were none the better
for the blessings of the Druids, and none the worse for the curses of the
Druids, but, that the sun shone and the rain fell without consulting the Druids
at all, they just began to think that the Druids were mere men, and that it
signified very little whether they cursed or blessed. After which, the pupils
of the Druids fell off greatly in numbers, and the Druids took to other trades.
</p>

<p>
Thus I have come to the end of the Roman time in England. It is but little that
is known of those five hundred years; but some remains of them are still found.
Often, when labourers are digging up the ground, to make foundations for houses
or churches, they light on rusty money that once belonged to the Romans.
Fragments of plates from which they ate, of goblets from which they drank, and
of pavement on which they trod, are discovered among the earth that is broken
by the plough, or the dust that is crumbled by the gardener&rsquo;s spade.
Wells that the Romans sunk, still yield water; roads that the Romans made, form
part of our highways. In some old battle-fields, British spear-heads and Roman
armour have been found, mingled together in decay, as they fell in the thick
pressure of the fight. Traces of Roman camps overgrown with grass, and of
mounds that are the burial-places of heaps of Britons, are to be seen in almost
all parts of the country. Across the bleak moors of Northumberland, the wall of
<span class="smcap">Severus</span>, overrun with moss and weeds, still
stretches, a strong ruin; and the shepherds and their dogs lie sleeping on it
in the summer weather. On Salisbury Plain, Stonehenge yet stands: a monument of
the earlier time when the Roman name was unknown in Britain, and when the
Druids, with their best magic wands, could not have written it in the sands of
the wild sea-shore.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II<br/>
ANCIENT ENGLAND UNDER THE EARLY SAXONS</h2>

<p>
The Romans had scarcely gone away from Britain, when the Britons began to wish
they had never left it. For, the Romans being gone, and the Britons being much
reduced in numbers by their long wars, the Picts and Scots came pouring in,
over the broken and unguarded wall of <span class="smcap">Severus</span>, in
swarms. They plundered the richest towns, and killed the people; and came back
so often for more booty and more slaughter, that the unfortunate Britons lived
a life of terror. As if the Picts and Scots were not bad enough on land, the
Saxons attacked the islanders by sea; and, as if something more were still
wanting to make them miserable, they quarrelled bitterly among themselves as to
what prayers they ought to say, and how they ought to say them. The priests,
being very angry with one another on these questions, cursed one another in the
heartiest manner; and (uncommonly like the old Druids) cursed all the people
whom they could not persuade. So, altogether, the Britons were very badly off,
you may believe.
</p>

<p>
They were in such distress, in short, that they sent a letter to Rome
entreating help&mdash;which they called the Groans of the Britons; and in which
they said, &lsquo;The barbarians chase us into the sea, the sea throws us back
upon the barbarians, and we have only the hard choice left us of perishing by
the sword, or perishing by the waves.&rsquo; But, the Romans could not help
them, even if they were so inclined; for they had enough to do to defend
themselves against their own enemies, who were then very fierce and strong. At
last, the Britons, unable to bear their hard condition any longer, resolved to
make peace with the Saxons, and to invite the Saxons to come into their
country, and help them to keep out the Picts and Scots.
</p>

<p>
It was a British Prince named <span class="smcap">Vortigern</span> who took
this resolution, and who made a treaty of friendship with <span
class="smcap">Hengist</span> and <span class="smcap">Horsa</span>, two Saxon
chiefs. Both of these names, in the old Saxon language, signify Horse; for the
Saxons, like many other nations in a rough state, were fond of giving men the
names of animals, as Horse, Wolf, Bear, Hound. The Indians of North
America,&mdash;a very inferior people to the Saxons, though&mdash;do the same
to this day.
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">Hengist</span> and <span class="smcap">Horsa</span> drove
out the Picts and Scots; and <span class="smcap">Vortigern</span>, being
grateful to them for that service, made no opposition to their settling
themselves in that part of England which is called the Isle of Thanet, or to
their inviting over more of their countrymen to join them. But <span
class="smcap">Hengist</span> had a beautiful daughter named <span
class="smcap">Rowena</span>; and when, at a feast, she filled a golden goblet
to the brim with wine, and gave it to <span class="smcap">Vortigern</span>,
saying in a sweet voice, &lsquo;Dear King, thy health!&rsquo; the King fell in
love with her. My opinion is, that the cunning <span
class="smcap">Hengist</span> meant him to do so, in order that the Saxons might
have greater influence with him; and that the fair <span
class="smcap">Rowena</span> came to that feast, golden goblet and all, on
purpose.
</p>

<p>
At any rate, they were married; and, long afterwards, whenever the King was
angry with the Saxons, or jealous of their encroachments, <span
class="smcap">Rowena</span> would put her beautiful arms round his neck, and
softly say, &lsquo;Dear King, they are my people! Be favourable to them, as you
loved that Saxon girl who gave you the golden goblet of wine at the
feast!&rsquo; And, really, I don&rsquo;t see how the King could help himself.
</p>

<p>
Ah! We must all die! In the course of years, <span
class="smcap">Vortigern</span> died&mdash;he was dethroned, and put in prison,
first, I am afraid; and <span class="smcap">Rowena</span> died; and generations
of Saxons and Britons died; and events that happened during a long, long time,
would have been quite forgotten but for the tales and songs of the old Bards,
who used to go about from feast to feast, with their white beards, recounting
the deeds of their forefathers. Among the histories of which they sang and
talked, there was a famous one, concerning the bravery and virtues of <span
class="smcap">King Arthur</span>, supposed to have been a British Prince in
those old times. But, whether such a person really lived, or whether there were
several persons whose histories came to be confused together under that one
name, or whether all about him was invention, no one knows.
</p>

<p>
I will tell you, shortly, what is most interesting in the early Saxon times, as
they are described in these songs and stories of the Bards.
</p>

<p>
In, and long after, the days of <span class="smcap">Vortigern</span>, fresh
bodies of Saxons, under various chiefs, came pouring into Britain. One body,
conquering the Britons in the East, and settling there, called their kingdom
Essex; another body settled in the West, and called their kingdom Wessex; the
Northfolk, or Norfolk people, established themselves in one place; the
Southfolk, or Suffolk people, established themselves in another; and gradually
seven kingdoms or states arose in England, which were called the Saxon
Heptarchy. The poor Britons, falling back before these crowds of fighting men
whom they had innocently invited over as friends, retired into Wales and the
adjacent country; into Devonshire, and into Cornwall. Those parts of England
long remained unconquered. And in Cornwall now&mdash;where the sea-coast is
very gloomy, steep, and rugged&mdash;where, in the dark winter-time, ships have
often been wrecked close to the land, and every soul on board has
perished&mdash;where the winds and waves howl drearily and split the solid
rocks into arches and caverns&mdash;there are very ancient ruins, which the
people call the ruins of <span class="smcap">King Arthur&rsquo;s</span> Castle.
</p>

<p>
Kent is the most famous of the seven Saxon kingdoms, because the Christian
religion was preached to the Saxons there (who domineered over the Britons too
much, to care for what <i>they</i> said about their religion, or anything else)
by <span class="smcap">Augustine</span>, a monk from Rome. <span
class="smcap">King Ethelbert</span>, of Kent, was soon converted; and the
moment he said he was a Christian, his courtiers all said <i>they</i> were
Christians; after which, ten thousand of his subjects said they were Christians
too. <span class="smcap">Augustine</span> built a little church, close to this
King&rsquo;s palace, on the ground now occupied by the beautiful cathedral of
Canterbury. <span class="smcap">Sebert</span>, the King&rsquo;s nephew, built
on a muddy marshy place near London, where there had been a temple to Apollo, a
church dedicated to Saint Peter, which is now Westminster Abbey. And, in London
itself, on the foundation of a temple to Diana, he built another little church
which has risen up, since that old time, to be Saint Paul&rsquo;s.
</p>

<p>
After the death of <span class="smcap">Ethelbert</span>, <span
class="smcap">Edwin</span>, King of Northumbria, who was such a good king that
it was said a woman or child might openly carry a purse of gold, in his reign,
without fear, allowed his child to be baptised, and held a great council to
consider whether he and his people should all be Christians or not. It was
decided that they should be. <span class="smcap">Coifi</span>, the chief priest
of the old religion, made a great speech on the occasion. In this discourse, he
told the people that he had found out the old gods to be impostors. &lsquo;I am
quite satisfied of it,&rsquo; he said. &lsquo;Look at me! I have been serving
them all my life, and they have done nothing for me; whereas, if they had been
really powerful, they could not have decently done less, in return for all I
have done for them, than make my fortune. As they have never made my fortune, I
am quite convinced they are impostors!&rsquo; When this singular priest had
finished speaking, he hastily armed himself with sword and lance, mounted a
war-horse, rode at a furious gallop in sight of all the people to the temple,
and flung his lance against it as an insult. From that time, the Christian
religion spread itself among the Saxons, and became their faith.
</p>

<p>
The next very famous prince was <span class="smcap">Egbert</span>. He lived
about a hundred and fifty years afterwards, and claimed to have a better right
to the throne of Wessex than <span class="smcap">Beortric</span>, another Saxon
prince who was at the head of that kingdom, and who married <span
class="smcap">Edburga</span>, the daughter of <span class="smcap">Offa</span>,
king of another of the seven kingdoms. This <span class="smcap">Queen
Edburga</span> was a handsome murderess, who poisoned people when they offended
her. One day, she mixed a cup of poison for a certain noble belonging to the
court; but her husband drank of it too, by mistake, and died. Upon this, the
people revolted, in great crowds; and running to the palace, and thundering at
the gates, cried, &lsquo;Down with the wicked queen, who poisons men!&rsquo;
They drove her out of the country, and abolished the title she had disgraced.
When years had passed away, some travellers came home from Italy, and said that
in the town of Pavia they had seen a ragged beggar-woman, who had once been
handsome, but was then shrivelled, bent, and yellow, wandering about the
streets, crying for bread; and that this beggar-woman was the poisoning English
queen. It was, indeed, <span class="smcap">Edburga</span>; and so she died,
without a shelter for her wretched head.
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">Egbert</span>, not considering himself safe in England, in
consequence of his having claimed the crown of Wessex (for he thought his rival
might take him prisoner and put him to death), sought refuge at the court of
<span class="smcap">Charlemagne</span>, King of France. On the death of <span
class="smcap">Beortric</span>, so unhappily poisoned by mistake, <span
class="smcap">Egbert</span> came back to Britain; succeeded to the throne of
Wessex; conquered some of the other monarchs of the seven kingdoms; added their
territories to his own; and, for the first time, called the country over which
he ruled, <span class="smcap">England</span>.
</p>

<p>
And now, new enemies arose, who, for a long time, troubled England sorely.
These were the Northmen, the people of Denmark and Norway, whom the English
called the Danes. They were a warlike people, quite at home upon the sea; not
Christians; very daring and cruel. They came over in ships, and plundered and
burned wheresoever they landed. Once, they beat <span
class="smcap">Egbert</span> in battle. Once, <span class="smcap">Egbert</span>
beat them. But, they cared no more for being beaten than the English
themselves. In the four following short reigns, of <span
class="smcap">Ethelwulf</span>, and his sons, <span
class="smcap">Ethelbald</span>, <span class="smcap">Ethelbert</span>, and <span
class="smcap">Ethelred</span>, they came back, over and over again, burning and
plundering, and laying England waste. In the last-mentioned reign, they seized
<span class="smcap">Edmund</span>, King of East England, and bound him to a
tree. Then, they proposed to him that he should change his religion; but he,
being a good Christian, steadily refused. Upon that, they beat him, made
cowardly jests upon him, all defenceless as he was, shot arrows at him, and,
finally, struck off his head. It is impossible to say whose head they might
have struck off next, but for the death of <span class="smcap">King
Ethelred</span> from a wound he had received in fighting against them, and the
succession to his throne of the best and wisest king that ever lived in
England.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER THE GOOD SAXON, ALFRED</h2>

<p>
Alfred the Great was a young man, three-and-twenty years of age, when he became
king. Twice in his childhood, he had been taken to Rome, where the Saxon nobles
were in the habit of going on journeys which they supposed to be religious;
and, once, he had stayed for some time in Paris. Learning, however, was so
little cared for, then, that at twelve years old he had not been taught to
read; although, of the sons of <span class="smcap">King Ethelwulf</span>, he,
the youngest, was the favourite. But he had&mdash;as most men who grow up to be
great and good are generally found to have had&mdash;an excellent mother; and,
one day, this lady, whose name was <span class="smcap">Osburga</span>,
happened, as she was sitting among her sons, to read a book of Saxon poetry.
The art of printing was not known until long and long after that period, and
the book, which was written, was what is called &lsquo;illuminated,&rsquo; with
beautiful bright letters, richly painted. The brothers admiring it very much,
their mother said, &lsquo;I will give it to that one of you four princes who
first learns to read.&rsquo; <span class="smcap">Alfred</span> sought out a
tutor that very day, applied himself to learn with great diligence, and soon
won the book. He was proud of it, all his life.
</p>

<p>
This great king, in the first year of his reign, fought nine battles with the
Danes. He made some treaties with them too, by which the false Danes swore they
would quit the country. They pretended to consider that they had taken a very
solemn oath, in swearing this upon the holy bracelets that they wore, and which
were always buried with them when they died; but they cared little for it, for
they thought nothing of breaking oaths and treaties too, as soon as it suited
their purpose, and coming back again to fight, plunder, and burn, as usual. One
fatal winter, in the fourth year of <span class="smcap">King
Alfred&rsquo;s</span> reign, they spread themselves in great numbers over the
whole of England; and so dispersed and routed the King&rsquo;s soldiers that
the King was left alone, and was obliged to disguise himself as a common
peasant, and to take refuge in the cottage of one of his cowherds who did not
know his face.
</p>

<p>
Here, <span class="smcap">King Alfred</span>, while the Danes sought him far
and near, was left alone one day, by the cowherd&rsquo;s wife, to watch some
cakes which she put to bake upon the hearth. But, being at work upon his bow
and arrows, with which he hoped to punish the false Danes when a brighter time
should come, and thinking deeply of his poor unhappy subjects whom the Danes
chased through the land, his noble mind forgot the cakes, and they were burnt.
&lsquo;What!&rsquo; said the cowherd&rsquo;s wife, who scolded him well when
she came back, and little thought she was scolding the King, &lsquo;you will be
ready enough to eat them by-and-by, and yet you cannot watch them, idle
dog?&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
At length, the Devonshire men made head against a new host of Danes who landed
on their coast; killed their chief, and captured their flag; on which was
represented the likeness of a Raven&mdash;a very fit bird for a thievish army
like that, I think. The loss of their standard troubled the Danes greatly, for
they believed it to be enchanted&mdash;woven by the three daughters of one
father in a single afternoon&mdash;and they had a story among themselves that
when they were victorious in battle, the Raven stretched his wings and seemed
to fly; and that when they were defeated, he would droop. He had good reason to
droop, now, if he could have done anything half so sensible; for, <span
class="smcap">King Alfred</span> joined the Devonshire men; made a camp with
them on a piece of firm ground in the midst of a bog in Somersetshire; and
prepared for a great attempt for vengeance on the Danes, and the deliverance of
his oppressed people.
</p>

<p>
But, first, as it was important to know how numerous those pestilent Danes
were, and how they were fortified, <span class="smcap">King Alfred</span>,
being a good musician, disguised himself as a glee-man or minstrel, and went,
with his harp, to the Danish camp. He played and sang in the very tent of <span
class="smcap">Guthrum</span> the Danish leader, and entertained the Danes as
they caroused. While he seemed to think of nothing but his music, he was
watchful of their tents, their arms, their discipline, everything that he
desired to know. And right soon did this great king entertain them to a
different tune; for, summoning all his true followers to meet him at an
appointed place, where they received him with joyful shouts and tears, as the
monarch whom many of them had given up for lost or dead, he put himself at
their head, marched on the Danish camp, defeated the Danes with great
slaughter, and besieged them for fourteen days to prevent their escape. But,
being as merciful as he was good and brave, he then, instead of killing them,
proposed peace: on condition that they should altogether depart from that
Western part of England, and settle in the East; and that <span
class="smcap">Guthrum</span> should become a Christian, in remembrance of the
Divine religion which now taught his conqueror, the noble <span
class="smcap">Alfred</span>, to forgive the enemy who had so often injured him.
This, <span class="smcap">Guthrum</span> did. At his baptism, <span
class="smcap">King Alfred</span> was his godfather. And <span
class="smcap">Guthrum</span> was an honourable chief who well deserved that
clemency; for, ever afterwards he was loyal and faithful to the king. The Danes
under him were faithful too. They plundered and burned no more, but worked like
honest men. They ploughed, and sowed, and reaped, and led good honest English
lives. And I hope the children of those Danes played, many a time, with Saxon
children in the sunny fields; and that Danish young men fell in love with Saxon
girls, and married them; and that English travellers, benighted at the doors of
Danish cottages, often went in for shelter until morning; and that Danes and
Saxons sat by the red fire, friends, talking of <span class="smcap">King Alfred
the Great</span>.
</p>

<p>
All the Danes were not like these under <span class="smcap">Guthrum</span>;
for, after some years, more of them came over, in the old plundering and
burning way&mdash;among them a fierce pirate of the name of <span
class="smcap">Hastings</span>, who had the boldness to sail up the Thames to
Gravesend, with eighty ships. For three years, there was a war with these
Danes; and there was a famine in the country, too, and a plague, both upon
human creatures and beasts. But <span class="smcap">King Alfred</span>, whose
mighty heart never failed him, built large ships nevertheless, with which to
pursue the pirates on the sea; and he encouraged his soldiers, by his brave
example, to fight valiantly against them on the shore. At last, he drove them
all away; and then there was repose in England.
</p>

<p>
As great and good in peace, as he was great and good in war, <span
class="smcap">King Alfred</span> never rested from his labours to improve his
people. He loved to talk with clever men, and with travellers from foreign
countries, and to write down what they told him, for his people to read. He had
studied Latin after learning to read English, and now another of his labours
was, to translate Latin books into the English-Saxon tongue, that his people
might be interested, and improved by their contents. He made just laws, that
they might live more happily and freely; he turned away all partial judges,
that no wrong might be done them; he was so careful of their property, and
punished robbers so severely, that it was a common thing to say that under the
great <span class="smcap">King Alfred</span>, garlands of golden chains and
jewels might have hung across the streets, and no man would have touched one.
He founded schools; he patiently heard causes himself in his Court of Justice;
the great desires of his heart were, to do right to all his subjects, and to
leave England better, wiser, happier in all ways, than he found it. His
industry in these efforts was quite astonishing. Every day he divided into
certain portions, and in each portion devoted himself to a certain pursuit.
That he might divide his time exactly, he had wax torches or candles made,
which were all of the same size, were notched across at regular distances, and
were always kept burning. Thus, as the candles burnt down, he divided the day
into notches, almost as accurately as we now divide it into hours upon the
clock. But when the candles were first invented, it was found that the wind and
draughts of air, blowing into the palace through the doors and windows, and
through the chinks in the walls, caused them to gutter and burn unequally. To
prevent this, the King had them put into cases formed of wood and white horn.
And these were the first lanthorns ever made in England.
</p>

<p>
All this time, he was afflicted with a terrible unknown disease, which caused
him violent and frequent pain that nothing could relieve. He bore it, as he had
borne all the troubles of his life, like a brave good man, until he was
fifty-three years old; and then, having reigned thirty years, he died. He died
in the year nine hundred and one; but, long ago as that is, his fame, and the
love and gratitude with which his subjects regarded him, are freshly remembered
to the present hour.
</p>

<p>
In the next reign, which was the reign of <span class="smcap">Edward</span>,
surnamed <span class="smcap">The Elder</span>, who was chosen in council to
succeed, a nephew of <span class="smcap">King Alfred</span> troubled the
country by trying to obtain the throne. The Danes in the East of England took
part with this usurper (perhaps because they had honoured his uncle so much,
and honoured him for his uncle&rsquo;s sake), and there was hard fighting; but,
the King, with the assistance of his sister, gained the day, and reigned in
peace for four and twenty years. He gradually extended his power over the whole
of England, and so the Seven Kingdoms were united into one.
</p>

<p>
When England thus became one kingdom, ruled over by one Saxon king, the Saxons
had been settled in the country more than four hundred and fifty years. Great
changes had taken place in its customs during that time. The Saxons were still
greedy eaters and great drinkers, and their feasts were often of a noisy and
drunken kind; but many new comforts and even elegances had become known, and
were fast increasing. Hangings for the walls of rooms, where, in these modern
days, we paste up paper, are known to have been sometimes made of silk,
ornamented with birds and flowers in needlework. Tables and chairs were
curiously carved in different woods; were sometimes decorated with gold or
silver; sometimes even made of those precious metals. Knives and spoons were
used at table; golden ornaments were worn&mdash;with silk and cloth, and golden
tissues and embroideries; dishes were made of gold and silver, brass and bone.
There were varieties of drinking-horns, bedsteads, musical instruments. A harp
was passed round, at a feast, like the drinking-bowl, from guest to guest; and
each one usually sang or played when his turn came. The weapons of the Saxons
were stoutly made, and among them was a terrible iron hammer that gave deadly
blows, and was long remembered. The Saxons themselves were a handsome people.
The men were proud of their long fair hair, parted on the forehead; their ample
beards, their fresh complexions, and clear eyes. The beauty of the Saxon women
filled all England with a new delight and grace.
</p>

<p>
I have more to tell of the Saxons yet, but I stop to say this now, because
under the <span class="smcap">Great Alfred</span>, all the best points of the
English-Saxon character were first encouraged, and in him first shown. It has
been the greatest character among the nations of the earth. Wherever the
descendants of the Saxon race have gone, have sailed, or otherwise made their
way, even to the remotest regions of the world, they have been patient,
persevering, never to be broken in spirit, never to be turned aside from
enterprises on which they have resolved. In Europe, Asia, Africa, America, the
whole world over; in the desert, in the forest, on the sea; scorched by a
burning sun, or frozen by ice that never melts; the Saxon blood remains
unchanged. Wheresoever that race goes, there, law, and industry, and safety for
life and property, and all the great results of steady perseverance, are
certain to arise.
</p>

<p>
I pause to think with admiration, of the noble king who, in his single person,
possessed all the Saxon virtues. Whom misfortune could not subdue, whom
prosperity could not spoil, whose perseverance nothing could shake. Who was
hopeful in defeat, and generous in success. Who loved justice, freedom, truth,
and knowledge. Who, in his care to instruct his people, probably did more to
preserve the beautiful old Saxon language, than I can imagine. Without whom,
the English tongue in which I tell this story might have wanted half its
meaning. As it is said that his spirit still inspires some of our best English
laws, so, let you and I pray that it may animate our English hearts, at least
to this&mdash;to resolve, when we see any of our fellow-creatures left in
ignorance, that we will do our best, while life is in us, to have them taught;
and to tell those rulers whose duty it is to teach them, and who neglect their
duty, that they have profited very little by all the years that have rolled
away since the year nine hundred and one, and that they are far behind the
bright example of <span class="smcap">King Alfred the Great</span>.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER ATHELSTAN AND THE SIX BOY-KINGS</h2>

<p>
Athelstan, the son of Edward the Elder, succeeded that king. He reigned only
fifteen years; but he remembered the glory of his grandfather, the great
Alfred, and governed England well. He reduced the turbulent people of Wales,
and obliged them to pay him a tribute in money, and in cattle, and to send him
their best hawks and hounds. He was victorious over the Cornish men, who were
not yet quite under the Saxon government. He restored such of the old laws as
were good, and had fallen into disuse; made some wise new laws, and took care
of the poor and weak. A strong alliance, made against him by <span
class="smcap">Anlaf</span> a Danish prince, <span
class="smcap">Constantine</span> King of the Scots, and the people of North
Wales, he broke and defeated in one great battle, long famous for the vast
numbers slain in it. After that, he had a quiet reign; the lords and ladies
about him had leisure to become polite and agreeable; and foreign princes were
glad (as they have sometimes been since) to come to England on visits to the
English court.
</p>

<p>
When Athelstan died, at forty-seven years old, his brother <span
class="smcap">Edmund</span>, who was only eighteen, became king. He was the
first of six boy-kings, as you will presently know.
</p>

<p>
They called him the Magnificent, because he showed a taste for improvement and
refinement. But he was beset by the Danes, and had a short and troubled reign,
which came to a troubled end. One night, when he was feasting in his hall, and
had eaten much and drunk deep, he saw, among the company, a noted robber named
<span class="smcap">Leof</span>, who had been banished from England. Made very
angry by the boldness of this man, the King turned to his cup-bearer, and said,
&lsquo;There is a robber sitting at the table yonder, who, for his crimes, is
an outlaw in the land&mdash;a hunted wolf, whose life any man may take, at any
time. Command that robber to depart!&rsquo; &lsquo;I will not depart!&rsquo;
said Leof. &lsquo;No?&rsquo; cried the King. &lsquo;No, by the Lord!&rsquo;
said Leof. Upon that the King rose from his seat, and, making passionately at
the robber, and seizing him by his long hair, tried to throw him down. But the
robber had a dagger underneath his cloak, and, in the scuffle, stabbed the King
to death. That done, he set his back against the wall, and fought so
desperately, that although he was soon cut to pieces by the King&rsquo;s armed
men, and the wall and pavement were splashed with his blood, yet it was not
before he had killed and wounded many of them. You may imagine what rough lives
the kings of those times led, when one of them could struggle, half drunk, with
a public robber in his own dining-hall, and be stabbed in presence of the
company who ate and drank with him.
</p>

<p>
Then succeeded the boy-king <span class="smcap">Edred</span>, who was weak and
sickly in body, but of a strong mind. And his armies fought the Northmen, the
Danes, and Norwegians, or the Sea-Kings, as they were called, and beat them for
the time. And, in nine years, Edred died, and passed away.
</p>

<p>
Then came the boy-king <span class="smcap">Edwy</span>, fifteen years of age;
but the real king, who had the real power, was a monk named <span
class="smcap">Dunstan</span>&mdash;a clever priest, a little mad, and not a
little proud and cruel.
</p>

<p>
Dunstan was then Abbot of Glastonbury Abbey, whither the body of King Edmund
the Magnificent was carried, to be buried. While yet a boy, he had got out of
his bed one night (being then in a fever), and walked about Glastonbury Church
when it was under repair; and, because he did not tumble off some scaffolds
that were there, and break his neck, it was reported that he had been shown
over the building by an angel. He had also made a harp that was said to play of
itself&mdash;which it very likely did, as &AElig;olian Harps, which are played
by the wind, and are understood now, always do. For these wonders he had been
once denounced by his enemies, who were jealous of his favour with the late
King Athelstan, as a magician; and he had been waylaid, bound hand and foot,
and thrown into a marsh. But he got out again, somehow, to cause a great deal
of trouble yet.
</p>

<p>
The priests of those days were, generally, the only scholars. They were learned
in many things. Having to make their own convents and monasteries on
uncultivated grounds that were granted to them by the Crown, it was necessary
that they should be good farmers and good gardeners, or their lands would have
been too poor to support them. For the decoration of the chapels where they
prayed, and for the comfort of the refectories where they ate and drank, it was
necessary that there should be good carpenters, good smiths, good painters,
among them. For their greater safety in sickness and accident, living alone by
themselves in solitary places, it was necessary that they should study the
virtues of plants and herbs, and should know how to dress cuts, burns, scalds,
and bruises, and how to set broken limbs. Accordingly, they taught themselves,
and one another, a great variety of useful arts; and became skilful in
agriculture, medicine, surgery, and handicraft. And when they wanted the aid of
any little piece of machinery, which would be simple enough now, but was
marvellous then, to impose a trick upon the poor peasants, they knew very well
how to make it; and <i>did</i> make it many a time and often, I have no doubt.
</p>

<p>
Dunstan, Abbot of Glastonbury Abbey, was one of the most sagacious of these
monks. He was an ingenious smith, and worked at a forge in a little cell. This
cell was made too short to admit of his lying at full length when he went to
sleep&mdash;as if <i>that</i> did any good to anybody!&mdash;and he used to
tell the most extraordinary lies about demons and spirits, who, he said, came
there to persecute him. For instance, he related that one day when he was at
work, the devil looked in at the little window, and tried to tempt him to lead
a life of idle pleasure; whereupon, having his pincers in the fire, red hot, he
seized the devil by the nose, and put him to such pain, that his bellowings
were heard for miles and miles. Some people are inclined to think this nonsense
a part of Dunstan&rsquo;s madness (for his head never quite recovered the
fever), but I think not. I observe that it induced the ignorant people to
consider him a holy man, and that it made him very powerful. Which was exactly
what he always wanted.
</p>

<p>
On the day of the coronation of the handsome boy-king Edwy, it was remarked by
<span class="smcap">Odo</span>, Archbishop of Canterbury (who was a Dane by
birth), that the King quietly left the coronation feast, while all the company
were there. Odo, much displeased, sent his friend Dunstan to seek him. Dunstan
finding him in the company of his beautiful young wife <span
class="smcap">Elgiva</span>, and her mother <span
class="smcap">Ethelgiva</span>, a good and virtuous lady, not only grossly
abused them, but dragged the young King back into the feasting-hall by force.
Some, again, think Dunstan did this because the young King&rsquo;s fair wife
was his own cousin, and the monks objected to people marrying their own
cousins; but I believe he did it, because he was an imperious, audacious,
ill-conditioned priest, who, having loved a young lady himself before he became
a sour monk, hated all love now, and everything belonging to it.
</p>

<p>
The young King was quite old enough to feel this insult. Dunstan had been
Treasurer in the last reign, and he soon charged Dunstan with having taken some
of the last king&rsquo;s money. The Glastonbury Abbot fled to Belgium (very
narrowly escaping some pursuers who were sent to put out his eyes, as you will
wish they had, when you read what follows), and his abbey was given to priests
who were married; whom he always, both before and afterwards, opposed. But he
quickly conspired with his friend, Odo the Dane, to set up the King&rsquo;s
young brother, <span class="smcap">Edgar</span>, as his rival for the throne;
and, not content with this revenge, he caused the beautiful queen Elgiva,
though a lovely girl of only seventeen or eighteen, to be stolen from one of
the Royal Palaces, branded in the cheek with a red-hot iron, and sold into
slavery in Ireland. But the Irish people pitied and befriended her; and they
said, &lsquo;Let us restore the girl-queen to the boy-king, and make the young
lovers happy!&rsquo; and they cured her of her cruel wound, and sent her home
as beautiful as before. But the villain Dunstan, and that other villain, Odo,
caused her to be waylaid at Gloucester as she was joyfully hurrying to join her
husband, and to be hacked and hewn with swords, and to be barbarously maimed
and lamed, and left to die. When Edwy the Fair (his people called him so,
because he was so young and handsome) heard of her dreadful fate, he died of a
broken heart; and so the pitiful story of the poor young wife and husband ends!
Ah! Better to be two cottagers in these better times, than king and queen of
England in those bad days, though never so fair!
</p>

<p>
Then came the boy-king, <span class="smcap">Edgar</span>, called the Peaceful,
fifteen years old. Dunstan, being still the real king, drove all married
priests out of the monasteries and abbeys, and replaced them by solitary monks
like himself, of the rigid order called the Benedictines. He made himself
Archbishop of Canterbury, for his greater glory; and exercised such power over
the neighbouring British princes, and so collected them about the King, that
once, when the King held his court at Chester, and went on the river Dee to
visit the monastery of St. John, the eight oars of his boat were pulled (as the
people used to delight in relating in stories and songs) by eight crowned
kings, and steered by the King of England. As Edgar was very obedient to
Dunstan and the monks, they took great pains to represent him as the best of
kings. But he was really profligate, debauched, and vicious. He once forcibly
carried off a young lady from the convent at Wilton; and Dunstan, pretending to
be very much shocked, condemned him not to wear his crown upon his head for
seven years&mdash;no great punishment, I dare say, as it can hardly have been a
more comfortable ornament to wear, than a stewpan without a handle. His
marriage with his second wife, <span class="smcap">Elfrida</span>, is one of
the worst events of his reign. Hearing of the beauty of this lady, he
despatched his favourite courtier, <span class="smcap">Athelwold</span>, to her
father&rsquo;s castle in Devonshire, to see if she were really as charming as
fame reported. Now, she was so exceedingly beautiful that Athelwold fell in
love with her himself, and married her; but he told the King that she was only
rich&mdash;not handsome. The King, suspecting the truth when they came home,
resolved to pay the newly-married couple a visit; and, suddenly, told Athelwold
to prepare for his immediate coming. Athelwold, terrified, confessed to his
young wife what he had said and done, and implored her to disguise her beauty
by some ugly dress or silly manner, that he might be safe from the King&rsquo;s
anger. She promised that she would; but she was a proud woman, who would far
rather have been a queen than the wife of a courtier. She dressed herself in
her best dress, and adorned herself with her richest jewels; and when the King
came, presently, he discovered the cheat. So, he caused his false friend,
Athelwold, to be murdered in a wood, and married his widow, this bad Elfrida.
Six or seven years afterwards, he died; and was buried, as if he had been all
that the monks said he was, in the abbey of Glastonbury, which he&mdash;or
Dunstan for him&mdash;had much enriched.
</p>

<p>
England, in one part of this reign, was so troubled by wolves, which, driven
out of the open country, hid themselves in the mountains of Wales when they
were not attacking travellers and animals, that the tribute payable by the
Welsh people was forgiven them, on condition of their producing, every year,
three hundred wolves&rsquo; heads. And the Welshmen were so sharp upon the
wolves, to save their money, that in four years there was not a wolf left.
</p>

<p>
Then came the boy-king, <span class="smcap">Edward</span>, called the Martyr,
from the manner of his death. Elfrida had a son, named <span
class="smcap">Ethelred</span>, for whom she claimed the throne; but Dunstan did
not choose to favour him, and he made Edward king. The boy was hunting, one
day, down in Dorsetshire, when he rode near to Corfe Castle, where Elfrida and
Ethelred lived. Wishing to see them kindly, he rode away from his attendants
and galloped to the castle gate, where he arrived at twilight, and blew his
hunting-horn. &lsquo;You are welcome, dear King,&rsquo; said Elfrida, coming
out, with her brightest smiles. &lsquo;Pray you dismount and enter.&rsquo;
&lsquo;Not so, dear madam,&rsquo; said the King. &lsquo;My company will miss
me, and fear that I have met with some harm. Please you to give me a cup of
wine, that I may drink here, in the saddle, to you and to my little brother,
and so ride away with the good speed I have made in riding here.&rsquo;
Elfrida, going in to bring the wine, whispered to an armed servant, one of her
attendants, who stole out of the darkening gateway, and crept round behind the
King&rsquo;s horse. As the King raised the cup to his lips, saying,
&lsquo;Health!&rsquo; to the wicked woman who was smiling on him, and to his
innocent brother whose hand she held in hers, and who was only ten years old,
this armed man made a spring and stabbed him in the back. He dropped the cup
and spurred his horse away; but, soon fainting with loss of blood, dropped from
the saddle, and, in his fall, entangled one of his feet in the stirrup. The
frightened horse dashed on; trailing his rider&rsquo;s curls upon the ground;
dragging his smooth young face through ruts, and stones, and briers, and fallen
leaves, and mud; until the hunters, tracking the animal&rsquo;s course by the
King&rsquo;s blood, caught his bridle, and released the disfigured body.
</p>

<p>
Then came the sixth and last of the boy-kings, <span
class="smcap">Ethelred</span>, whom Elfrida, when he cried out at the sight of
his murdered brother riding away from the castle gate, unmercifully beat with a
torch which she snatched from one of the attendants. The people so disliked
this boy, on account of his cruel mother and the murder she had done to promote
him, that Dunstan would not have had him for king, but would have made <span
class="smcap">Edgitha</span>, the daughter of the dead King Edgar, and of the
lady whom he stole out of the convent at Wilton, Queen of England, if she would
have consented. But she knew the stories of the youthful kings too well, and
would not be persuaded from the convent where she lived in peace; so, Dunstan
put Ethelred on the throne, having no one else to put there, and gave him the
nickname of <span class="smcap">The Unready</span>&mdash;knowing that he wanted
resolution and firmness.
</p>

<p>
At first, Elfrida possessed great influence over the young King, but, as he
grew older and came of age, her influence declined. The infamous woman, not
having it in her power to do any more evil, then retired from court, and,
according, to the fashion of the time, built churches and monasteries, to
expiate her guilt. As if a church, with a steeple reaching to the very stars,
would have been any sign of true repentance for the blood of the poor boy,
whose murdered form was trailed at his horse&rsquo;s heels! As if she could
have buried her wickedness beneath the senseless stones of the whole world,
piled up one upon another, for the monks to live in!
</p>

<p>
About the ninth or tenth year of this reign, Dunstan died. He was growing old
then, but was as stern and artful as ever. Two circumstances that happened in
connexion with him, in this reign of Ethelred, made a great noise. Once, he was
present at a meeting of the Church, when the question was discussed whether
priests should have permission to marry; and, as he sat with his head hung
down, apparently thinking about it, a voice seemed to come out of a crucifix in
the room, and warn the meeting to be of his opinion. This was some juggling of
Dunstan&rsquo;s, and was probably his own voice disguised. But he played off a
worse juggle than that, soon afterwards; for, another meeting being held on the
same subject, and he and his supporters being seated on one side of a great
room, and their opponents on the other, he rose and said, &lsquo;To Christ
himself, as judge, do I commit this cause!&rsquo; Immediately on these words
being spoken, the floor where the opposite party sat gave way, and some were
killed and many wounded. You may be pretty sure that it had been weakened under
Dunstan&rsquo;s direction, and that it fell at Dunstan&rsquo;s signal.
<i>His</i> part of the floor did not go down. No, no. He was too good a workman
for that.
</p>

<p>
When he died, the monks settled that he was a Saint, and called him Saint
Dunstan ever afterwards. They might just as well have settled that he was a
coach-horse, and could just as easily have called him one.
</p>

<p>
Ethelred the Unready was glad enough, I dare say, to be rid of this holy saint;
but, left to himself, he was a poor weak king, and his reign was a reign of
defeat and shame. The restless Danes, led by <span class="smcap">Sweyn</span>,
a son of the King of Denmark who had quarrelled with his father and had been
banished from home, again came into England, and, year after year, attacked and
despoiled large towns. To coax these sea-kings away, the weak Ethelred paid
them money; but, the more money he paid, the more money the Danes wanted. At
first, he gave them ten thousand pounds; on their next invasion, sixteen
thousand pounds; on their next invasion, four and twenty thousand pounds: to
pay which large sums, the unfortunate English people were heavily taxed. But,
as the Danes still came back and wanted more, he thought it would be a good
plan to marry into some powerful foreign family that would help him with
soldiers. So, in the year one thousand and two, he courted and married Emma,
the sister of Richard Duke of Normandy; a lady who was called the Flower of
Normandy.
</p>

<p>
And now, a terrible deed was done in England, the like of which was never done
on English ground before or since. On the thirteenth of November, in pursuance
of secret instructions sent by the King over the whole country, the inhabitants
of every town and city armed, and murdered all the Danes who were their
neighbours.
</p>

<p>
Young and old, babies and soldiers, men and women, every Dane was killed. No
doubt there were among them many ferocious men who had done the English great
wrong, and whose pride and insolence, in swaggering in the houses of the
English and insulting their wives and daughters, had become unbearable; but no
doubt there were also among them many peaceful Christian Danes who had married
English women and become like English men. They were all slain, even to <span
class="smcap">Gunhilda</span>, the sister of the King of Denmark, married to an
English lord; who was first obliged to see the murder of her husband and her
child, and then was killed herself.
</p>

<p>
When the King of the sea-kings heard of this deed of blood, he swore that he
would have a great revenge. He raised an army, and a mightier fleet of ships
than ever yet had sailed to England; and in all his army there was not a slave
or an old man, but every soldier was a free man, and the son of a free man, and
in the prime of life, and sworn to be revenged upon the English nation, for the
massacre of that dread thirteenth of November, when his countrymen and
countrywomen, and the little children whom they loved, were killed with fire
and sword. And so, the sea-kings came to England in many great ships, each
bearing the flag of its own commander. Golden eagles, ravens, dragons,
dolphins, beasts of prey, threatened England from the prows of those ships, as
they came onward through the water; and were reflected in the shining shields
that hung upon their sides. The ship that bore the standard of the King of the
sea-kings was carved and painted like a mighty serpent; and the King in his
anger prayed that the Gods in whom he trusted might all desert him, if his
serpent did not strike its fangs into England&rsquo;s heart.
</p>

<p>
And indeed it did. For, the great army landing from the great fleet, near
Exeter, went forward, laying England waste, and striking their lances in the
earth as they advanced, or throwing them into rivers, in token of their making
all the island theirs. In remembrance of the black November night when the
Danes were murdered, wheresoever the invaders came, they made the Saxons
prepare and spread for them great feasts; and when they had eaten those feasts,
and had drunk a curse to England with wild rejoicings, they drew their swords,
and killed their Saxon entertainers, and marched on. For six long years they
carried on this war: burning the crops, farmhouses, barns, mills, granaries;
killing the labourers in the fields; preventing the seed from being sown in the
ground; causing famine and starvation; leaving only heaps of ruin and smoking
ashes, where they had found rich towns. To crown this misery, English officers
and men deserted, and even the favourites of Ethelred the Unready, becoming
traitors, seized many of the English ships, turned pirates against their own
country, and aided by a storm occasioned the loss of nearly the whole English
navy.
</p>

<p>
There was but one man of note, at this miserable pass, who was true to his
country and the feeble King. He was a priest, and a brave one. For twenty days,
the Archbishop of Canterbury defended that city against its Danish besiegers;
and when a traitor in the town threw the gates open and admitted them, he said,
in chains, &lsquo;I will not buy my life with money that must be extorted from
the suffering people. Do with me what you please!&rsquo; Again and again, he
steadily refused to purchase his release with gold wrung from the poor.
</p>

<p>
At last, the Danes being tired of this, and being assembled at a drunken
merry-making, had him brought into the feasting-hall.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Now, bishop,&rsquo; they said, &lsquo;we want gold!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
He looked round on the crowd of angry faces; from the shaggy beards close to
him, to the shaggy beards against the walls, where men were mounted on tables
and forms to see him over the heads of others: and he knew that his time was
come.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;I have no gold,&rsquo; he said.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Get it, bishop!&rsquo; they all thundered.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;That, I have often told you I will not,&rsquo; said he.
</p>

<p>
They gathered closer round him, threatening, but he stood unmoved. Then, one
man struck him; then, another; then a cursing soldier picked up from a heap in
a corner of the hall, where fragments had been rudely thrown at dinner, a great
ox-bone, and cast it at his face, from which the blood came spurting forth;
then, others ran to the same heap, and knocked him down with other bones, and
bruised and battered him; until one soldier whom he had baptised (willing, as I
hope for the sake of that soldier&rsquo;s soul, to shorten the sufferings of
the good man) struck him dead with his battle-axe.
</p>

<p>
If Ethelred had had the heart to emulate the courage of this noble archbishop,
he might have done something yet. But he paid the Danes forty-eight thousand
pounds, instead, and gained so little by the cowardly act, that Sweyn soon
afterwards came over to subdue all England. So broken was the attachment of the
English people, by this time, to their incapable King and their forlorn country
which could not protect them, that they welcomed Sweyn on all sides, as a
deliverer. London faithfully stood out, as long as the King was within its
walls; but, when he sneaked away, it also welcomed the Dane. Then, all was
over; and the King took refuge abroad with the Duke of Normandy, who had
already given shelter to the King&rsquo;s wife, once the Flower of that
country, and to her children.
</p>

<p>
Still, the English people, in spite of their sad sufferings, could not quite
forget the great King Alfred and the Saxon race. When Sweyn died suddenly, in
little more than a month after he had been proclaimed King of England, they
generously sent to Ethelred, to say that they would have him for their King
again, &lsquo;if he would only govern them better than he had governed them
before.&rsquo; The Unready, instead of coming himself, sent Edward, one of his
sons, to make promises for him. At last, he followed, and the English declared
him King. The Danes declared <span class="smcap">Canute</span>, the son of
Sweyn, King. Thus, direful war began again, and lasted for three years, when
the Unready died. And I know of nothing better that he did, in all his reign of
eight and thirty years.
</p>

<p>
Was Canute to be King now? Not over the Saxons, they said; they must have <span
class="smcap">Edmund</span>, one of the sons of the Unready, who was surnamed
<span class="smcap">Ironside</span>, because of his strength and stature.
Edmund and Canute thereupon fell to, and fought five battles&mdash;O unhappy
England, what a fighting-ground it was!&mdash;and then Ironside, who was a big
man, proposed to Canute, who was a little man, that they two should fight it
out in single combat. If Canute had been the big man, he would probably have
said yes, but, being the little man, he decidedly said no. However, he declared
that he was willing to divide the kingdom&mdash;to take all that lay north of
Watling Street, as the old Roman military road from Dover to Chester was
called, and to give Ironside all that lay south of it. Most men being weary of
so much bloodshed, this was done. But Canute soon became sole King of England;
for Ironside died suddenly within two months. Some think that he was killed,
and killed by Canute&rsquo;s orders. No one knows.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER CANUTE THE DANE</h2>

<p>
Canute reigned eighteen years. He was a merciless King at first. After he had
clasped the hands of the Saxon chiefs, in token of the sincerity with which he
swore to be just and good to them in return for their acknowledging him, he
denounced and slew many of them, as well as many relations of the late King.
&lsquo;He who brings me the head of one of my enemies,&rsquo; he used to say,
&lsquo;shall be dearer to me than a brother.&rsquo; And he was so severe in
hunting down his enemies, that he must have got together a pretty large family
of these dear brothers. He was strongly inclined to kill <span
class="smcap">Edmund</span> and <span class="smcap">Edward</span>, two
children, sons of poor Ironside; but, being afraid to do so in England, he sent
them over to the King of Sweden, with a request that the King would be so good
as &lsquo;dispose of them.&rsquo; If the King of Sweden had been like many,
many other men of that day, he would have had their innocent throats cut; but
he was a kind man, and brought them up tenderly.
</p>

<p>
Normandy ran much in Canute&rsquo;s mind. In Normandy were the two children of
the late king&mdash;<span class="smcap">Edward</span> and <span
class="smcap">Alfred</span> by name; and their uncle the Duke might one day
claim the crown for them. But the Duke showed so little inclination to do so
now, that he proposed to Canute to marry his sister, the widow of The Unready;
who, being but a showy flower, and caring for nothing so much as becoming a
queen again, left her children and was wedded to him.
</p>

<p>
Successful and triumphant, assisted by the valour of the English in his foreign
wars, and with little strife to trouble him at home, Canute had a prosperous
reign, and made many improvements. He was a poet and a musician. He grew sorry,
as he grew older, for the blood he had shed at first; and went to Rome in a
Pilgrim&rsquo;s dress, by way of washing it out. He gave a great deal of money
to foreigners on his journey; but he took it from the English before he
started. On the whole, however, he certainly became a far better man when he
had no opposition to contend with, and was as great a King as England had known
for some time.
</p>

<p>
The old writers of history relate how that Canute was one day disgusted with
his courtiers for their flattery, and how he caused his chair to be set on the
sea-shore, and feigned to command the tide as it came up not to wet the edge of
his robe, for the land was his; how the tide came up, of course, without
regarding him; and how he then turned to his flatterers, and rebuked them,
saying, what was the might of any earthly king, to the might of the Creator,
who could say unto the sea, &lsquo;Thus far shalt thou go, and no
farther!&rsquo; We may learn from this, I think, that a little sense will go a
long way in a king; and that courtiers are not easily cured of flattery, nor
kings of a liking for it. If the courtiers of Canute had not known, long
before, that the King was fond of flattery, they would have known better than
to offer it in such large doses. And if they had not known that he was vain of
this speech (anything but a wonderful speech it seems to me, if a good child
had made it), they would not have been at such great pains to repeat it. I
fancy I see them all on the sea-shore together; the King&rsquo;s chair sinking
in the sand; the King in a mighty good humour with his own wisdom; and the
courtiers pretending to be quite stunned by it!
</p>

<p>
It is not the sea alone that is bidden to go &lsquo;thus far, and no
farther.&rsquo; The great command goes forth to all the kings upon the earth,
and went to Canute in the year one thousand and thirty-five, and stretched him
dead upon his bed. Beside it, stood his Norman wife. Perhaps, as the King
looked his last upon her, he, who had so often thought distrustfully of
Normandy, long ago, thought once more of the two exiled Princes in their
uncle&rsquo;s court, and of the little favour they could feel for either Danes
or Saxons, and of a rising cloud in Normandy that slowly moved towards England.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER HAROLD HAREFOOT, HARDICANUTE, AND EDWARD THE CONFESSOR</h2>

<p>
Canute left three sons, by name <span class="smcap">Sweyn</span>, <span
class="smcap">Harold</span>, and <span class="smcap">Hardicanute</span>; but
his Queen, Emma, once the Flower of Normandy, was the mother of only
Hardicanute. Canute had wished his dominions to be divided between the three,
and had wished Harold to have England; but the Saxon people in the South of
England, headed by a nobleman with great possessions, called the powerful <span
class="smcap">Earl Godwin</span> (who is said to have been originally a poor
cow-boy), opposed this, and desired to have, instead, either Hardicanute, or
one of the two exiled Princes who were over in Normandy. It seemed so certain
that there would be more bloodshed to settle this dispute, that many people
left their homes, and took refuge in the woods and swamps. Happily, however, it
was agreed to refer the whole question to a great meeting at Oxford, which
decided that Harold should have all the country north of the Thames, with
London for his capital city, and that Hardicanute should have all the south.
The quarrel was so arranged; and, as Hardicanute was in Denmark troubling
himself very little about anything but eating and getting drunk, his mother and
Earl Godwin governed the south for him.
</p>

<p>
They had hardly begun to do so, and the trembling people who had hidden
themselves were scarcely at home again, when Edward, the elder of the two
exiled Princes, came over from Normandy with a few followers, to claim the
English Crown. His mother Emma, however, who only cared for her last son
Hardicanute, instead of assisting him, as he expected, opposed him so strongly
with all her influence that he was very soon glad to get safely back. His
brother Alfred was not so fortunate. Believing in an affectionate letter,
written some time afterwards to him and his brother, in his mother&rsquo;s name
(but whether really with or without his mother&rsquo;s knowledge is now
uncertain), he allowed himself to be tempted over to England, with a good force
of soldiers, and landing on the Kentish coast, and being met and welcomed by
Earl Godwin, proceeded into Surrey, as far as the town of Guildford. Here, he
and his men halted in the evening to rest, having still the Earl in their
company; who had ordered lodgings and good cheer for them. But, in the dead of
the night, when they were off their guard, being divided into small parties
sleeping soundly after a long march and a plentiful supper in different houses,
they were set upon by the King&rsquo;s troops, and taken prisoners. Next
morning they were drawn out in a line, to the number of six hundred men, and
were barbarously tortured and killed; with the exception of every tenth man,
who was sold into slavery. As to the wretched Prince Alfred, he was stripped
naked, tied to a horse and sent away into the Isle of Ely, where his eyes were
torn out of his head, and where in a few days he miserably died. I am not sure
that the Earl had wilfully entrapped him, but I suspect it strongly.
</p>

<p>
Harold was now King all over England, though it is doubtful whether the
Archbishop of Canterbury (the greater part of the priests were Saxons, and not
friendly to the Danes) ever consented to crown him. Crowned or uncrowned, with
the Archbishop&rsquo;s leave or without it, he was King for four years: after
which short reign he died, and was buried; having never done much in life but
go a hunting. He was such a fast runner at this, his favourite sport, that the
people called him Harold Harefoot.
</p>

<p>
Hardicanute was then at Bruges, in Flanders, plotting, with his mother (who had
gone over there after the cruel murder of Prince Alfred), for the invasion of
England. The Danes and Saxons, finding themselves without a King, and dreading
new disputes, made common cause, and joined in inviting him to occupy the
Throne. He consented, and soon troubled them enough; for he brought over
numbers of Danes, and taxed the people so insupportably to enrich those greedy
favourites that there were many insurrections, especially one at Worcester,
where the citizens rose and killed his tax-collectors; in revenge for which he
burned their city. He was a brutal King, whose first public act was to order
the dead body of poor Harold Harefoot to be dug up, beheaded, and thrown into
the river. His end was worthy of such a beginning. He fell down drunk, with a
goblet of wine in his hand, at a wedding-feast at Lambeth, given in honour of
the marriage of his standard-bearer, a Dane named <span class="smcap">Towed the
Proud</span>. And he never spoke again.
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">Edward</span>, afterwards called by the monks <span
class="smcap">The Confessor</span>, succeeded; and his first act was to oblige
his mother Emma, who had favoured him so little, to retire into the country;
where she died some ten years afterwards. He was the exiled prince whose
brother Alfred had been so foully killed. He had been invited over from
Normandy by Hardicanute, in the course of his short reign of two years, and had
been handsomely treated at court. His cause was now favoured by the powerful
Earl Godwin, and he was soon made King. This Earl had been suspected by the
people, ever since Prince Alfred&rsquo;s cruel death; he had even been tried in
the last reign for the Prince&rsquo;s murder, but had been pronounced not
guilty; chiefly, as it was supposed, because of a present he had made to the
swinish King, of a gilded ship with a figure-head of solid gold, and a crew of
eighty splendidly armed men. It was his interest to help the new King with his
power, if the new King would help him against the popular distrust and hatred.
So they made a bargain. Edward the Confessor got the Throne. The Earl got more
power and more land, and his daughter Editha was made queen; for it was a part
of their compact that the King should take her for his wife.
</p>

<p>
But, although she was a gentle lady, in all things worthy to be
beloved&mdash;good, beautiful, sensible, and kind&mdash;the King from the first
neglected her. Her father and her six proud brothers, resenting this cold
treatment, harassed the King greatly by exerting all their power to make him
unpopular. Having lived so long in Normandy, he preferred the Normans to the
English. He made a Norman Archbishop, and Norman Bishops; his great officers
and favourites were all Normans; he introduced the Norman fashions and the
Norman language; in imitation of the state custom of Normandy, he attached a
great seal to his state documents, instead of merely marking them, as the Saxon
Kings had done, with the sign of the cross&mdash;just as poor people who have
never been taught to write, now make the same mark for their names. All this,
the powerful Earl Godwin and his six proud sons represented to the people as
disfavour shown towards the English; and thus they daily increased their own
power, and daily diminished the power of the King.
</p>

<p>
They were greatly helped by an event that occurred when he had reigned eight
years. Eustace, Earl of Bologne, who had married the King&rsquo;s sister, came
to England on a visit. After staying at the court some time, he set forth, with
his numerous train of attendants, to return home. They were to embark at Dover.
Entering that peaceful town in armour, they took possession of the best houses,
and noisily demanded to be lodged and entertained without payment. One of the
bold men of Dover, who would not endure to have these domineering strangers
jingling their heavy swords and iron corselets up and down his house, eating
his meat and drinking his strong liquor, stood in his doorway and refused
admission to the first armed man who came there. The armed man drew, and
wounded him. The man of Dover struck the armed man dead. Intelligence of what
he had done, spreading through the streets to where the Count Eustace and his
men were standing by their horses, bridle in hand, they passionately mounted,
galloped to the house, surrounded it, forced their way in (the doors and
windows being closed when they came up), and killed the man of Dover at his own
fireside. They then clattered through the streets, cutting down and riding over
men, women, and children. This did not last long, you may believe. The men of
Dover set upon them with great fury, killed nineteen of the foreigners, wounded
many more, and, blockading the road to the port so that they should not embark,
beat them out of the town by the way they had come. Hereupon, Count Eustace
rides as hard as man can ride to Gloucester, where Edward is, surrounded by
Norman monks and Norman lords. &lsquo;Justice!&rsquo; cries the Count,
&lsquo;upon the men of Dover, who have set upon and slain my people!&rsquo; The
King sends immediately for the powerful Earl Godwin, who happens to be near;
reminds him that Dover is under his government; and orders him to repair to
Dover and do military execution on the inhabitants. &lsquo;It does not become
you,&rsquo; says the proud Earl in reply, &lsquo;to condemn without a hearing
those whom you have sworn to protect. I will not do it.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
The King, therefore, summoned the Earl, on pain of banishment and loss of his
titles and property, to appear before the court to answer this disobedience.
The Earl refused to appear. He, his eldest son Harold, and his second son
Sweyn, hastily raised as many fighting men as their utmost power could collect,
and demanded to have Count Eustace and his followers surrendered to the justice
of the country. The King, in his turn, refused to give them up, and raised a
strong force. After some treaty and delay, the troops of the great Earl and his
sons began to fall off. The Earl, with a part of his family and abundance of
treasure, sailed to Flanders; Harold escaped to Ireland; and the power of the
great family was for that time gone in England. But, the people did not forget
them.
</p>

<p>
Then, Edward the Confessor, with the true meanness of a mean spirit, visited
his dislike of the once powerful father and sons upon the helpless daughter and
sister, his unoffending wife, whom all who saw her (her husband and his monks
excepted) loved. He seized rapaciously upon her fortune and her jewels, and
allowing her only one attendant, confined her in a gloomy convent, of which a
sister of his&mdash;no doubt an unpleasant lady after his own heart&mdash;was
abbess or jailer.
</p>

<p>
Having got Earl Godwin and his six sons well out of his way, the King favoured
the Normans more than ever. He invited over <span class="smcap">William</span>,
<span class="smcap">Duke Of Normandy</span>, the son of that Duke who had
received him and his murdered brother long ago, and of a peasant girl, a
tanner&rsquo;s daughter, with whom that Duke had fallen in love for her beauty
as he saw her washing clothes in a brook. William, who was a great warrior,
with a passion for fine horses, dogs, and arms, accepted the invitation; and
the Normans in England, finding themselves more numerous than ever when he
arrived with his retinue, and held in still greater honour at court than
before, became more and more haughty towards the people, and were more and more
disliked by them.
</p>

<p>
The old Earl Godwin, though he was abroad, knew well how the people felt; for,
with part of the treasure he had carried away with him, he kept spies and
agents in his pay all over England.
</p>

<p>
Accordingly, he thought the time was come for fitting out a great expedition
against the Norman-loving King. With it, he sailed to the Isle of Wight, where
he was joined by his son Harold, the most gallant and brave of all his family.
And so the father and son came sailing up the Thames to Southwark; great
numbers of the people declaring for them, and shouting for the English Earl and
the English Harold, against the Norman favourites!
</p>

<p>
The King was at first as blind and stubborn as kings usually have been
whensoever they have been in the hands of monks. But the people rallied so
thickly round the old Earl and his son, and the old Earl was so steady in
demanding without bloodshed the restoration of himself and his family to their
rights, that at last the court took the alarm. The Norman Archbishop of
Canterbury, and the Norman Bishop of London, surrounded by their retainers,
fought their way out of London, and escaped from Essex to France in a
fishing-boat. The other Norman favourites dispersed in all directions. The old
Earl and his sons (except Sweyn, who had committed crimes against the law) were
restored to their possessions and dignities. Editha, the virtuous and lovely
Queen of the insensible King, was triumphantly released from her prison, the
convent, and once more sat in her chair of state, arrayed in the jewels of
which, when she had no champion to support her rights, her cold-blooded husband
had deprived her.
</p>

<p>
The old Earl Godwin did not long enjoy his restored fortune. He fell down in a
fit at the King&rsquo;s table, and died upon the third day afterwards. Harold
succeeded to his power, and to a far higher place in the attachment of the
people than his father had ever held. By his valour he subdued the King&rsquo;s
enemies in many bloody fights. He was vigorous against rebels in
Scotland&mdash;this was the time when Macbeth slew Duncan, upon which event our
English Shakespeare, hundreds of years afterwards, wrote his great tragedy; and
he killed the restless Welsh King <span class="smcap">Griffith</span>, and
brought his head to England.
</p>

<p>
What Harold was doing at sea, when he was driven on the French coast by a
tempest, is not at all certain; nor does it at all matter. That his ship was
forced by a storm on that shore, and that he was taken prisoner, there is no
doubt. In those barbarous days, all shipwrecked strangers were taken prisoners,
and obliged to pay ransom. So, a certain Count Guy, who was the Lord of
Ponthieu where Harold&rsquo;s disaster happened, seized him, instead of
relieving him like a hospitable and Christian lord as he ought to have done,
and expected to make a very good thing of it.
</p>

<p>
But Harold sent off immediately to Duke William of Normandy, complaining of
this treatment; and the Duke no sooner heard of it than he ordered Harold to be
escorted to the ancient town of Rouen, where he then was, and where he received
him as an honoured guest. Now, some writers tell us that Edward the Confessor,
who was by this time old and had no children, had made a will, appointing Duke
William of Normandy his successor, and had informed the Duke of his having done
so. There is no doubt that he was anxious about his successor; because he had
even invited over, from abroad, <span class="smcap">Edward the Outlaw</span>, a
son of Ironside, who had come to England with his wife and three children, but
whom the King had strangely refused to see when he did come, and who had died
in London suddenly (princes were terribly liable to sudden death in those
days), and had been buried in St. Paul&rsquo;s Cathedral. The King might
possibly have made such a will; or, having always been fond of the Normans, he
might have encouraged Norman William to aspire to the English crown, by
something that he said to him when he was staying at the English court. But,
certainly William did now aspire to it; and knowing that Harold would be a
powerful rival, he called together a great assembly of his nobles, offered
Harold his daughter <span class="smcap">Adele</span> in marriage, informed him
that he meant on King Edward&rsquo;s death to claim the English crown as his
own inheritance, and required Harold then and there to swear to aid him.
Harold, being in the Duke&rsquo;s power, took this oath upon the Missal, or
Prayer-book. It is a good example of the superstitions of the monks, that this
Missal, instead of being placed upon a table, was placed upon a tub; which,
when Harold had sworn, was uncovered, and shown to be full of dead men&rsquo;s
bones&mdash;bones, as the monks pretended, of saints. This was supposed to make
Harold&rsquo;s oath a great deal more impressive and binding. As if the great
name of the Creator of Heaven and earth could be made more solemn by a
knuckle-bone, or a double-tooth, or a finger-nail, of Dunstan!
</p>

<p>
Within a week or two after Harold&rsquo;s return to England, the dreary old
Confessor was found to be dying. After wandering in his mind like a very weak
old man, he died. As he had put himself entirely in the hands of the monks when
he was alive, they praised him lustily when he was dead. They had gone so far,
already, as to persuade him that he could work miracles; and had brought people
afflicted with a bad disorder of the skin, to him, to be touched and cured.
This was called &lsquo;touching for the King&rsquo;s Evil,&rsquo; which
afterwards became a royal custom. You know, however, Who really touched the
sick, and healed them; and you know His sacred name is not among the dusty line
of human kings.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER HAROLD THE SECOND, AND CONQUERED BY THE NORMANS</h2>

<p>
Harold was crowned King of England on the very day of the maudlin
Confessor&rsquo;s funeral. He had good need to be quick about it. When the news
reached Norman William, hunting in his park at Rouen, he dropped his bow,
returned to his palace, called his nobles to council, and presently sent
ambassadors to Harold, calling on him to keep his oath and resign the Crown.
Harold would do no such thing. The barons of France leagued together round Duke
William for the invasion of England. Duke William promised freely to distribute
English wealth and English lands among them. The Pope sent to Normandy a
consecrated banner, and a ring containing a hair which he warranted to have
grown on the head of Saint Peter. He blessed the enterprise; and cursed Harold;
and requested that the Normans would pay &lsquo;Peter&rsquo;s
Pence&rsquo;&mdash;or a tax to himself of a penny a year on every house&mdash;a
little more regularly in future, if they could make it convenient.
</p>

<p>
King Harold had a rebel brother in Flanders, who was a vassal of <span
class="smcap">Harold Hardrada</span>, King of Norway. This brother, and this
Norwegian King, joining their forces against England, with Duke William&rsquo;s
help, won a fight in which the English were commanded by two nobles; and then
besieged York. Harold, who was waiting for the Normans on the coast at
Hastings, with his army, marched to Stamford Bridge upon the river Derwent to
give them instant battle.
</p>

<p>
He found them drawn up in a hollow circle, marked out by their shining spears.
Riding round this circle at a distance, to survey it, he saw a brave figure on
horseback, in a blue mantle and a bright helmet, whose horse suddenly stumbled
and threw him.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Who is that man who has fallen?&rsquo; Harold asked of one of his
captains.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;The King of Norway,&rsquo; he replied.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;He is a tall and stately king,&rsquo; said Harold, &lsquo;but his end is
near.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
He added, in a little while, &lsquo;Go yonder to my brother, and tell him, if
he withdraw his troops, he shall be Earl of Northumberland, and rich and
powerful in England.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
The captain rode away and gave the message.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;What will he give to my friend the King of Norway?&rsquo; asked the
brother.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Seven feet of earth for a grave,&rsquo; replied the captain.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;No more?&rsquo; returned the brother, with a smile.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;The King of Norway being a tall man, perhaps a little more,&rsquo;
replied the captain.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Ride back!&rsquo; said the brother, &lsquo;and tell King Harold to make
ready for the fight!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
He did so, very soon. And such a fight King Harold led against that force, that
his brother, and the Norwegian King, and every chief of note in all their host,
except the Norwegian King&rsquo;s son, Olave, to whom he gave honourable
dismissal, were left dead upon the field. The victorious army marched to York.
As King Harold sat there at the feast, in the midst of all his company, a stir
was heard at the doors; and messengers all covered with mire from riding far
and fast through broken ground came hurrying in, to report that the Normans had
landed in England.
</p>

<p>
The intelligence was true. They had been tossed about by contrary winds, and
some of their ships had been wrecked. A part of their own shore, to which they
had been driven back, was strewn with Norman bodies. But they had once more
made sail, led by the Duke&rsquo;s own galley, a present from his wife, upon
the prow whereof the figure of a golden boy stood pointing towards England. By
day, the banner of the three Lions of Normandy, the diverse coloured sails, the
gilded vanes, the many decorations of this gorgeous ship, had glittered in the
sun and sunny water; by night, a light had sparkled like a star at her
mast-head. And now, encamped near Hastings, with their leader lying in the old
Roman castle of Pevensey, the English retiring in all directions, the land for
miles around scorched and smoking, fired and pillaged, was the whole Norman
power, hopeful and strong on English ground.
</p>

<p>
Harold broke up the feast and hurried to London. Within a week, his army was
ready. He sent out spies to ascertain the Norman strength. William took them,
caused them to be led through his whole camp, and then dismissed. &lsquo;The
Normans,&rsquo; said these spies to Harold, &lsquo;are not bearded on the upper
lip as we English are, but are shorn. They are priests.&rsquo; &lsquo;My
men,&rsquo; replied Harold, with a laugh, &lsquo;will find those priests good
soldiers!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;The Saxons,&rsquo; reported Duke William&rsquo;s outposts of Norman
soldiers, who were instructed to retire as King Harold&rsquo;s army advanced,
&lsquo;rush on us through their pillaged country with the fury of
madmen.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Let them come, and come soon!&rsquo; said Duke William.
</p>

<p>
Some proposals for a reconciliation were made, but were soon abandoned. In the
middle of the month of October, in the year one thousand and sixty-six, the
Normans and the English came front to front. All night the armies lay encamped
before each other, in a part of the country then called Senlac, now called (in
remembrance of them) Battle. With the first dawn of day, they arose. There, in
the faint light, were the English on a hill; a wood behind them; in their
midst, the Royal banner, representing a fighting warrior, woven in gold thread,
adorned with precious stones; beneath the banner, as it rustled in the wind,
stood King Harold on foot, with two of his remaining brothers by his side;
around them, still and silent as the dead, clustered the whole English
army&mdash;every soldier covered by his shield, and bearing in his hand his
dreaded English battle-axe.
</p>

<p>
On an opposite hill, in three lines, archers, foot-soldiers, horsemen, was the
Norman force. Of a sudden, a great battle-cry, &lsquo;God help us!&rsquo; burst
from the Norman lines. The English answered with their own battle-cry,
&lsquo;God&rsquo;s Rood! Holy Rood!&rsquo; The Normans then came sweeping down
the hill to attack the English.
</p>

<p>
There was one tall Norman Knight who rode before the Norman army on a prancing
horse, throwing up his heavy sword and catching it, and singing of the bravery
of his countrymen. An English Knight, who rode out from the English force to
meet him, fell by this Knight&rsquo;s hand. Another English Knight rode out,
and he fell too. But then a third rode out, and killed the Norman. This was in
the first beginning of the fight. It soon raged everywhere.
</p>

<p>
The English, keeping side by side in a great mass, cared no more for the
showers of Norman arrows than if they had been showers of Norman rain. When the
Norman horsemen rode against them, with their battle-axes they cut men and
horses down. The Normans gave way. The English pressed forward. A cry went
forth among the Norman troops that Duke William was killed. Duke William took
off his helmet, in order that his face might be distinctly seen, and rode along
the line before his men. This gave them courage. As they turned again to face
the English, some of their Norman horse divided the pursuing body of the
English from the rest, and thus all that foremost portion of the English army
fell, fighting bravely. The main body still remaining firm, heedless of the
Norman arrows, and with their battle-axes cutting down the crowds of horsemen
when they rode up, like forests of young trees,&mdash;Duke William pretended to
retreat. The eager English followed. The Norman army closed again, and fell
upon them with great slaughter.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Still,&rsquo; said Duke William, &lsquo;there are thousands of the
English, firm as rocks around their King. Shoot upward, Norman archers, that
your arrows may fall down upon their faces!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
The sun rose high, and sank, and the battle still raged. Through all the wild
October day, the clash and din resounded in the air. In the red sunset, and in
the white moonlight, heaps upon heaps of dead men lay strewn, a dreadful
spectacle, all over the ground.
</p>

<p>
King Harold, wounded with an arrow in the eye, was nearly blind. His brothers
were already killed. Twenty Norman Knights, whose battered armour had flashed
fiery and golden in the sunshine all day long, and now looked silvery in the
moonlight, dashed forward to seize the Royal banner from the English Knights
and soldiers, still faithfully collected round their blinded King. The King
received a mortal wound, and dropped. The English broke and fled. The Normans
rallied, and the day was lost.
</p>

<p>
O what a sight beneath the moon and stars, when lights were shining in the tent
of the victorious Duke William, which was pitched near the spot where Harold
fell&mdash;and he and his knights were carousing, within&mdash;and soldiers
with torches, going slowly to and fro, without, sought for the corpse of Harold
among piles of dead&mdash;and the Warrior, worked in golden thread and precious
stones, lay low, all torn and soiled with blood&mdash;and the three Norman
Lions kept watch over the field!
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER WILLIAM THE FIRST, THE NORMAN CONQUEROR</h2>

<p>
Upon the ground where the brave Harold fell, William the Norman afterwards
founded an abbey, which, under the name of Battle Abbey, was a rich and
splendid place through many a troubled year, though now it is a grey ruin
overgrown with ivy. But the first work he had to do, was to conquer the English
thoroughly; and that, as you know by this time, was hard work for any man.
</p>

<p>
He ravaged several counties; he burned and plundered many towns; he laid waste
scores upon scores of miles of pleasant country; he destroyed innumerable
lives. At length <span class="smcap">Stigand</span>, Archbishop of Canterbury,
with other representatives of the clergy and the people, went to his camp, and
submitted to him. <span class="smcap">Edgar</span>, the insignificant son of
Edmund Ironside, was proclaimed King by others, but nothing came of it. He fled
to Scotland afterwards, where his sister, who was young and beautiful, married
the Scottish King. Edgar himself was not important enough for anybody to care
much about him.
</p>

<p>
On Christmas Day, William was crowned in Westminster Abbey, under the title of
<span class="smcap">William the First</span>; but he is best known as <span
class="smcap">William the Conqueror</span>. It was a strange coronation. One of
the bishops who performed the ceremony asked the Normans, in French, if they
would have Duke William for their king? They answered Yes. Another of the
bishops put the same question to the Saxons, in English. They too answered Yes,
with a loud shout. The noise being heard by a guard of Norman horse-soldiers
outside, was mistaken for resistance on the part of the English. The guard
instantly set fire to the neighbouring houses, and a tumult ensued; in the
midst of which the King, being left alone in the Abbey, with a few priests (and
they all being in a terrible fright together), was hurriedly crowned. When the
crown was placed upon his head, he swore to govern the English as well as the
best of their own monarchs. I dare say you think, as I do, that if we except
the Great Alfred, he might pretty easily have done that.
</p>

<p>
Numbers of the English nobles had been killed in the last disastrous battle.
Their estates, and the estates of all the nobles who had fought against him
there, King William seized upon, and gave to his own Norman knights and nobles.
Many great English families of the present time acquired their English lands in
this way, and are very proud of it.
</p>

<p>
But what is got by force must be maintained by force. These nobles were obliged
to build castles all over England, to defend their new property; and, do what
he would, the King could neither soothe nor quell the nation as he wished. He
gradually introduced the Norman language and the Norman customs; yet, for a
long time the great body of the English remained sullen and revengeful. On his
going over to Normandy, to visit his subjects there, the oppressions of his
half-brother <span class="smcap">Odo</span>, whom he left in charge of his
English kingdom, drove the people mad. The men of Kent even invited over, to
take possession of Dover, their old enemy Count Eustace of Boulogne, who had
led the fray when the Dover man was slain at his own fireside. The men of
Hereford, aided by the Welsh, and commanded by a chief named <span
class="smcap">Edric the Wild</span>, drove the Normans out of their country.
Some of those who had been dispossessed of their lands, banded together in the
North of England; some, in Scotland; some, in the thick woods and marshes; and
whensoever they could fall upon the Normans, or upon the English who had
submitted to the Normans, they fought, despoiled, and murdered, like the
desperate outlaws that they were. Conspiracies were set on foot for a general
massacre of the Normans, like the old massacre of the Danes. In short, the
English were in a murderous mood all through the kingdom.
</p>

<p>
King William, fearing he might lose his conquest, came back, and tried to
pacify the London people by soft words. He then set forth to repress the
country people by stern deeds. Among the towns which he besieged, and where he
killed and maimed the inhabitants without any distinction, sparing none, young
or old, armed or unarmed, were Oxford, Warwick, Leicester, Nottingham, Derby,
Lincoln, York. In all these places, and in many others, fire and sword worked
their utmost horrors, and made the land dreadful to behold. The streams and
rivers were discoloured with blood; the sky was blackened with smoke; the
fields were wastes of ashes; the waysides were heaped up with dead. Such are
the fatal results of conquest and ambition! Although William was a harsh and
angry man, I do not suppose that he deliberately meant to work this shocking
ruin, when he invaded England. But what he had got by the strong hand, he could
only keep by the strong hand, and in so doing he made England a great grave.
</p>

<p>
Two sons of Harold, by name <span class="smcap">Edmund</span> and <span
class="smcap">Godwin</span>, came over from Ireland, with some ships, against
the Normans, but were defeated. This was scarcely done, when the outlaws in the
woods so harassed York, that the Governor sent to the King for help. The King
despatched a general and a large force to occupy the town of Durham. The Bishop
of that place met the general outside the town, and warned him not to enter, as
he would be in danger there. The general cared nothing for the warning, and
went in with all his men. That night, on every hill within sight of Durham,
signal fires were seen to blaze. When the morning dawned, the English, who had
assembled in great strength, forced the gates, rushed into the town, and slew
the Normans every one. The English afterwards besought the Danes to come and
help them. The Danes came, with two hundred and forty ships. The outlawed
nobles joined them; they captured York, and drove the Normans out of that city.
Then, William bribed the Danes to go away; and took such vengeance on the
English, that all the former fire and sword, smoke and ashes, death and ruin,
were nothing compared with it. In melancholy songs, and doleful stories, it was
still sung and told by cottage fires on winter evenings, a hundred years
afterwards, how, in those dreadful days of the Normans, there was not, from the
River Humber to the River Tyne, one inhabited village left, nor one cultivated
field&mdash;how there was nothing but a dismal ruin, where the human creatures
and the beasts lay dead together.
</p>

<p>
The outlaws had, at this time, what they called a Camp of Refuge, in the midst
of the fens of Cambridgeshire. Protected by those marshy grounds which were
difficult of approach, they lay among the reeds and rushes, and were hidden by
the mists that rose up from the watery earth. Now, there also was, at that
time, over the sea in Flanders, an Englishman named <span
class="smcap">Hereward</span>, whose father had died in his absence, and whose
property had been given to a Norman. When he heard of this wrong that had been
done him (from such of the exiled English as chanced to wander into that
country), he longed for revenge; and joining the outlaws in their camp of
refuge, became their commander. He was so good a soldier, that the Normans
supposed him to be aided by enchantment. William, even after he had made a road
three miles in length across the Cambridgeshire marshes, on purpose to attack
this supposed enchanter, thought it necessary to engage an old lady, who
pretended to be a sorceress, to come and do a little enchantment in the royal
cause. For this purpose she was pushed on before the troops in a wooden tower;
but Hereward very soon disposed of this unfortunate sorceress, by burning her,
tower and all. The monks of the convent of Ely near at hand, however, who were
fond of good living, and who found it very uncomfortable to have the country
blockaded and their supplies of meat and drink cut off, showed the King a
secret way of surprising the camp. So Hereward was soon defeated. Whether he
afterwards died quietly, or whether he was killed after killing sixteen of the
men who attacked him (as some old rhymes relate that he did), I cannot say. His
defeat put an end to the Camp of Refuge; and, very soon afterwards, the King,
victorious both in Scotland and in England, quelled the last rebellious English
noble. He then surrounded himself with Norman lords, enriched by the property
of English nobles; had a great survey made of all the land in England, which
was entered as the property of its new owners, on a roll called Doomsday Book;
obliged the people to put out their fires and candles at a certain hour every
night, on the ringing of a bell which was called The Curfew; introduced the
Norman dresses and manners; made the Normans masters everywhere, and the
English, servants; turned out the English bishops, and put Normans in their
places; and showed himself to be the Conqueror indeed.
</p>

<p>
But, even with his own Normans, he had a restless life. They were always
hungering and thirsting for the riches of the English; and the more he gave,
the more they wanted. His priests were as greedy as his soldiers. We know of
only one Norman who plainly told his master, the King, that he had come with
him to England to do his duty as a faithful servant, and that property taken by
force from other men had no charms for him. His name was <span
class="smcap">Guilbert</span>. We should not forget his name, for it is good to
remember and to honour honest men.
</p>

<p>
Besides all these troubles, William the Conqueror was troubled by quarrels
among his sons. He had three living. <span class="smcap">Robert</span>, called
<span class="smcap">Curthose</span>, because of his short legs; <span
class="smcap">William</span>, called <span class="smcap">Rufus</span> or the
Red, from the colour of his hair; and <span class="smcap">Henry</span>, fond of
learning, and called, in the Norman language, <span
class="smcap">Beauclerc</span>, or Fine-Scholar. When Robert grew up, he asked
of his father the government of Normandy, which he had nominally possessed, as
a child, under his mother, <span class="smcap">Matilda</span>. The King
refusing to grant it, Robert became jealous and discontented; and happening one
day, while in this temper, to be ridiculed by his brothers, who threw water on
him from a balcony as he was walking before the door, he drew his sword, rushed
up-stairs, and was only prevented by the King himself from putting them to
death. That same night, he hotly departed with some followers from his
father&rsquo;s court, and endeavoured to take the Castle of Rouen by surprise.
Failing in this, he shut himself up in another Castle in Normandy, which the
King besieged, and where Robert one day unhorsed and nearly killed him without
knowing who he was. His submission when he discovered his father, and the
intercession of the queen and others, reconciled them; but not soundly; for
Robert soon strayed abroad, and went from court to court with his complaints.
He was a gay, careless, thoughtless fellow, spending all he got on musicians
and dancers; but his mother loved him, and often, against the King&rsquo;s
command, supplied him with money through a messenger named <span
class="smcap">Samson</span>. At length the incensed King swore he would tear
out Samson&rsquo;s eyes; and Samson, thinking that his only hope of safety was
in becoming a monk, became one, went on such errands no more, and kept his eyes
in his head.
</p>

<p>
All this time, from the turbulent day of his strange coronation, the Conqueror
had been struggling, you see, at any cost of cruelty and bloodshed, to maintain
what he had seized. All his reign, he struggled still, with the same object
ever before him. He was a stern, bold man, and he succeeded in it.
</p>

<p>
He loved money, and was particular in his eating, but he had only leisure to
indulge one other passion, and that was his love of hunting. He carried it to
such a height that he ordered whole villages and towns to be swept away to make
forests for the deer. Not satisfied with sixty-eight Royal Forests, he laid
waste an immense district, to form another in Hampshire, called the New Forest.
The many thousands of miserable peasants who saw their little houses pulled
down, and themselves and children turned into the open country without a
shelter, detested him for his merciless addition to their many sufferings; and
when, in the twenty-first year of his reign (which proved to be the last), he
went over to Rouen, England was as full of hatred against him, as if every leaf
on every tree in all his Royal Forests had been a curse upon his head. In the
New Forest, his son Richard (for he had four sons) had been gored to death by a
Stag; and the people said that this so cruelly-made Forest would yet be fatal
to others of the Conqueror&rsquo;s race.
</p>

<p>
He was engaged in a dispute with the King of France about some territory. While
he stayed at Rouen, negotiating with that King, he kept his bed and took
medicines: being advised by his physicians to do so, on account of having grown
to an unwieldy size. Word being brought to him that the King of France made
light of this, and joked about it, he swore in a great rage that he should rue
his jests. He assembled his army, marched into the disputed territory,
burnt&mdash;his old way!&mdash;the vines, the crops, and fruit, and set the
town of Mantes on fire. But, in an evil hour; for, as he rode over the hot
ruins, his horse, setting his hoofs upon some burning embers, started, threw
him forward against the pommel of the saddle, and gave him a mortal hurt. For
six weeks he lay dying in a monastery near Rouen, and then made his will,
giving England to William, Normandy to Robert, and five thousand pounds to
Henry. And now, his violent deeds lay heavy on his mind. He ordered money to be
given to many English churches and monasteries, and&mdash;which was much better
repentance&mdash;released his prisoners of state, some of whom had been
confined in his dungeons twenty years.
</p>

<p>
It was a September morning, and the sun was rising, when the King was awakened
from slumber by the sound of a church bell. &lsquo;What bell is that?&rsquo; he
faintly asked. They told him it was the bell of the chapel of Saint Mary.
&lsquo;I commend my soul,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;to Mary!&rsquo; and died.
</p>

<p>
Think of his name, The Conqueror, and then consider how he lay in death! The
moment he was dead, his physicians, priests, and nobles, not knowing what
contest for the throne might now take place, or what might happen in it,
hastened away, each man for himself and his own property; the mercenary
servants of the court began to rob and plunder; the body of the King, in the
indecent strife, was rolled from the bed, and lay alone, for hours, upon the
ground. O Conqueror, of whom so many great names are proud now, of whom so many
great names thought nothing then, it were better to have conquered one true
heart, than England!
</p>

<p>
By-and-by, the priests came creeping in with prayers and candles; and a good
knight, named <span class="smcap">Herluin</span>, undertook (which no one else
would do) to convey the body to Caen, in Normandy, in order that it might be
buried in St. Stephen&rsquo;s church there, which the Conqueror had founded.
But fire, of which he had made such bad use in his life, seemed to follow him
of itself in death. A great conflagration broke out in the town when the body
was placed in the church; and those present running out to extinguish the
flames, it was once again left alone.
</p>

<p>
It was not even buried in peace. It was about to be let down, in its Royal
robes, into a tomb near the high altar, in presence of a great concourse of
people, when a loud voice in the crowd cried out, &lsquo;This ground is mine!
Upon it, stood my father&rsquo;s house. This King despoiled me of both ground
and house to build this church. In the great name of <span
class="smcap">God</span>, I here forbid his body to be covered with the earth
that is my right!&rsquo; The priests and bishops present, knowing the
speaker&rsquo;s right, and knowing that the King had often denied him justice,
paid him down sixty shillings for the grave. Even then, the corpse was not at
rest. The tomb was too small, and they tried to force it in. It broke, a
dreadful smell arose, the people hurried out into the air, and, for the third
time, it was left alone.
</p>

<p>
Where were the Conqueror&rsquo;s three sons, that they were not at their
father&rsquo;s burial? Robert was lounging among minstrels, dancers, and
gamesters, in France or Germany. Henry was carrying his five thousand pounds
safely away in a convenient chest he had got made. William the Red was hurrying
to England, to lay hands upon the Royal treasure and the crown.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER WILLIAM THE SECOND, CALLED RUFUS</h2>

<p>
William the Red, in breathless haste, secured the three great forts of Dover,
Pevensey, and Hastings, and made with hot speed for Winchester, where the Royal
treasure was kept. The treasurer delivering him the keys, he found that it
amounted to sixty thousand pounds in silver, besides gold and jewels. Possessed
of this wealth, he soon persuaded the Archbishop of Canterbury to crown him,
and became William the Second, King of England.
</p>

<p>
Rufus was no sooner on the throne, than he ordered into prison again the
unhappy state captives whom his father had set free, and directed a goldsmith
to ornament his father&rsquo;s tomb profusely with gold and silver. It would
have been more dutiful in him to have attended the sick Conqueror when he was
dying; but England itself, like this Red King, who once governed it, has
sometimes made expensive tombs for dead men whom it treated shabbily when they
were alive.
</p>

<p>
The King&rsquo;s brother, Robert of Normandy, seeming quite content to be only
Duke of that country; and the King&rsquo;s other brother, Fine-Scholar, being
quiet enough with his five thousand pounds in a chest; the King flattered
himself, we may suppose, with the hope of an easy reign. But easy reigns were
difficult to have in those days. The turbulent Bishop <span
class="smcap">Odo</span> (who had blessed the Norman army at the Battle of
Hastings, and who, I dare say, took all the credit of the victory to himself)
soon began, in concert with some powerful Norman nobles, to trouble the Red
King.
</p>

<p>
The truth seems to be that this bishop and his friends, who had lands in
England and lands in Normandy, wished to hold both under one Sovereign; and
greatly preferred a thoughtless good-natured person, such as Robert was, to
Rufus; who, though far from being an amiable man in any respect, was keen, and
not to be imposed upon. They declared in Robert&rsquo;s favour, and retired to
their castles (those castles were very troublesome to kings) in a sullen
humour. The Red King, seeing the Normans thus falling from him, revenged
himself upon them by appealing to the English; to whom he made a variety of
promises, which he never meant to perform&mdash;in particular, promises to
soften the cruelty of the Forest Laws; and who, in return, so aided him with
their valour, that <span class="smcap">Odo</span> was besieged in the Castle of
Rochester, and forced to abandon it, and to depart from England for ever:
whereupon the other rebellious Norman nobles were soon reduced and scattered.
</p>

<p>
Then, the Red King went over to Normandy, where the people suffered greatly
under the loose rule of Duke Robert. The King&rsquo;s object was to seize upon
the Duke&rsquo;s dominions. This, the Duke, of course, prepared to resist; and
miserable war between the two brothers seemed inevitable, when the powerful
nobles on both sides, who had seen so much of war, interfered to prevent it. A
treaty was made. Each of the two brothers agreed to give up something of his
claims, and that the longer-liver of the two should inherit all the dominions
of the other. When they had come to this loving understanding, they embraced
and joined their forces against Fine-Scholar; who had bought some territory of
Robert with a part of his five thousand pounds, and was considered a dangerous
individual in consequence.
</p>

<p>
St. Michael&rsquo;s Mount, in Normandy (there is another St. Michael&rsquo;s
Mount, in Cornwall, wonderfully like it), was then, as it is now, a strong
place perched upon the top of a high rock, around which, when the tide is in,
the sea flows, leaving no road to the mainland. In this place, Fine-Scholar
shut himself up with his soldiers, and here he was closely besieged by his two
brothers. At one time, when he was reduced to great distress for want of water,
the generous Robert not only permitted his men to get water, but sent
Fine-Scholar wine from his own table; and, on being remonstrated with by the
Red King, said &lsquo;What! shall we let our own brother die of thirst? Where
shall we get another, when he is gone?&rsquo; At another time, the Red King
riding alone on the shore of the bay, looking up at the Castle, was taken by
two of Fine-Scholar&rsquo;s men, one of whom was about to kill him, when he
cried out, &lsquo;Hold, knave! I am the King of England!&rsquo; The story says
that the soldier raised him from the ground respectfully and humbly, and that
the King took him into his service. The story may or may not be true; but at
any rate it is true that Fine-Scholar could not hold out against his united
brothers, and that he abandoned Mount St. Michael, and wandered about&mdash;as
poor and forlorn as other scholars have been sometimes known to be.
</p>

<p>
The Scotch became unquiet in the Red King&rsquo;s time, and were twice
defeated&mdash;the second time, with the loss of their King, Malcolm, and his
son. The Welsh became unquiet too. Against them, Rufus was less successful; for
they fought among their native mountains, and did great execution on the
King&rsquo;s troops. Robert of Normandy became unquiet too; and, complaining
that his brother the King did not faithfully perform his part of their
agreement, took up arms, and obtained assistance from the King of France, whom
Rufus, in the end, bought off with vast sums of money. England became unquiet
too. Lord Mowbray, the powerful Earl of Northumberland, headed a great
conspiracy to depose the King, and to place upon the throne, <span
class="smcap">Stephen</span>, the Conqueror&rsquo;s near relative. The plot was
discovered; all the chief conspirators were seized; some were fined, some were
put in prison, some were put to death. The Earl of Northumberland himself was
shut up in a dungeon beneath Windsor Castle, where he died, an old man, thirty
long years afterwards. The Priests in England were more unquiet than any other
class or power; for the Red King treated them with such small ceremony that he
refused to appoint new bishops or archbishops when the old ones died, but kept
all the wealth belonging to those offices in his own hands. In return for this,
the Priests wrote his life when he was dead, and abused him well. I am inclined
to think, myself, that there was little to choose between the Priests and the
Red King; that both sides were greedy and designing; and that they were fairly
matched.
</p>

<p>
The Red King was false of heart, selfish, covetous, and mean. He had a worthy
minister in his favourite, Ralph, nicknamed&mdash;for almost every famous
person had a nickname in those rough days&mdash;Flambard, or the Firebrand.
Once, the King being ill, became penitent, and made <span
class="smcap">Anselm</span>, a foreign priest and a good man, Archbishop of
Canterbury. But he no sooner got well again than he repented of his repentance,
and persisted in wrongfully keeping to himself some of the wealth belonging to
the archbishopric. This led to violent disputes, which were aggravated by there
being in Rome at that time two rival Popes; each of whom declared he was the
only real original infallible Pope, who couldn&rsquo;t make a mistake. At last,
Anselm, knowing the Red King&rsquo;s character, and not feeling himself safe in
England, asked leave to return abroad. The Red King gladly gave it; for he knew
that as soon as Anselm was gone, he could begin to store up all the Canterbury
money again, for his own use.
</p>

<p>
By such means, and by taxing and oppressing the English people in every
possible way, the Red King became very rich. When he wanted money for any
purpose, he raised it by some means or other, and cared nothing for the
injustice he did, or the misery he caused. Having the opportunity of buying
from Robert the whole duchy of Normandy for five years, he taxed the English
people more than ever, and made the very convents sell their plate and
valuables to supply him with the means to make the purchase. But he was as
quick and eager in putting down revolt as he was in raising money; for, a part
of the Norman people objecting&mdash;very naturally, I think&mdash;to being
sold in this way, he headed an army against them with all the speed and energy
of his father. He was so impatient, that he embarked for Normandy in a great
gale of wind. And when the sailors told him it was dangerous to go to sea in
such angry weather, he replied, &lsquo;Hoist sail and away! Did you ever hear
of a king who was drowned?&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
You will wonder how it was that even the careless Robert came to sell his
dominions. It happened thus. It had long been the custom for many English
people to make journeys to Jerusalem, which were called pilgrimages, in order
that they might pray beside the tomb of Our Saviour there. Jerusalem belonging
to the Turks, and the Turks hating Christianity, these Christian travellers
were often insulted and ill used. The Pilgrims bore it patiently for some time,
but at length a remarkable man, of great earnestness and eloquence, called
<span class="smcap">Peter the Hermit</span>, began to preach in various places
against the Turks, and to declare that it was the duty of good Christians to
drive away those unbelievers from the tomb of Our Saviour, and to take
possession of it, and protect it. An excitement such as the world had never
known before was created. Thousands and thousands of men of all ranks and
conditions departed for Jerusalem to make war against the Turks. The war is
called in history the first Crusade, and every Crusader wore a cross marked on
his right shoulder.
</p>

<p>
All the Crusaders were not zealous Christians. Among them were vast numbers of
the restless, idle, profligate, and adventurous spirit of the time. Some became
Crusaders for the love of change; some, in the hope of plunder; some, because
they had nothing to do at home; some, because they did what the priests told
them; some, because they liked to see foreign countries; some, because they
were fond of knocking men about, and would as soon knock a Turk about as a
Christian. Robert of Normandy may have been influenced by all these motives;
and by a kind desire, besides, to save the Christian Pilgrims from bad
treatment in future. He wanted to raise a number of armed men, and to go to the
Crusade. He could not do so without money. He had no money; and he sold his
dominions to his brother, the Red King, for five years. With the large sum he
thus obtained, he fitted out his Crusaders gallantly, and went away to
Jerusalem in martial state. The Red King, who made money out of everything,
stayed at home, busily squeezing more money out of Normans and English.
</p>

<p>
After three years of great hardship and suffering&mdash;from shipwreck at sea;
from travel in strange lands; from hunger, thirst, and fever, upon the burning
sands of the desert; and from the fury of the Turks&mdash;the valiant Crusaders
got possession of Our Saviour&rsquo;s tomb. The Turks were still resisting and
fighting bravely, but this success increased the general desire in Europe to
join the Crusade. Another great French Duke was proposing to sell his dominions
for a term to the rich Red King, when the Red King&rsquo;s reign came to a
sudden and violent end.
</p>

<p>
You have not forgotten the New Forest which the Conqueror made, and which the
miserable people whose homes he had laid waste, so hated. The cruelty of the
Forest Laws, and the torture and death they brought upon the peasantry,
increased this hatred. The poor persecuted country people believed that the New
Forest was enchanted. They said that in thunder-storms, and on dark nights,
demons appeared, moving beneath the branches of the gloomy trees. They said
that a terrible spectre had foretold to Norman hunters that the Red King should
be punished there. And now, in the pleasant season of May, when the Red King
had reigned almost thirteen years; and a second Prince of the Conqueror&rsquo;s
blood&mdash;another Richard, the son of Duke Robert&mdash;was killed by an
arrow in this dreaded Forest; the people said that the second time was not the
last, and that there was another death to come.
</p>

<p>
It was a lonely forest, accursed in the people&rsquo;s hearts for the wicked
deeds that had been done to make it; and no man save the King and his Courtiers
and Huntsmen, liked to stray there. But, in reality, it was like any other
forest. In the spring, the green leaves broke out of the buds; in the summer,
flourished heartily, and made deep shades; in the winter, shrivelled and blew
down, and lay in brown heaps on the moss. Some trees were stately, and grew
high and strong; some had fallen of themselves; some were felled by the
forester&rsquo;s axe; some were hollow, and the rabbits burrowed at their
roots; some few were struck by lightning, and stood white and bare. There were
hill-sides covered with rich fern, on which the morning dew so beautifully
sparkled; there were brooks, where the deer went down to drink, or over which
the whole herd bounded, flying from the arrows of the huntsmen; there were
sunny glades, and solemn places where but little light came through the
rustling leaves. The songs of the birds in the New Forest were pleasanter to
hear than the shouts of fighting men outside; and even when the Red King and
his Court came hunting through its solitudes, cursing loud and riding hard,
with a jingling of stirrups and bridles and knives and daggers, they did much
less harm there than among the English or Normans, and the stags died (as they
lived) far easier than the people.
</p>

<p>
Upon a day in August, the Red King, now reconciled to his brother,
Fine-Scholar, came with a great train to hunt in the New Forest. Fine-Scholar
was of the party. They were a merry party, and had lain all night at
Malwood-Keep, a hunting-lodge in the forest, where they had made good cheer,
both at supper and breakfast, and had drunk a deal of wine. The party dispersed
in various directions, as the custom of hunters then was. The King took with
him only <span class="smcap">Sir Walter Tyrrel</span>, who was a famous
sportsman, and to whom he had given, before they mounted horse that morning,
two fine arrows.
</p>

<p>
The last time the King was ever seen alive, he was riding with Sir Walter
Tyrrel, and their dogs were hunting together.
</p>

<p>
It was almost night, when a poor charcoal-burner, passing through the forest
with his cart, came upon the solitary body of a dead man, shot with an arrow in
the breast, and still bleeding. He got it into his cart. It was the body of the
King. Shaken and tumbled, with its red beard all whitened with lime and clotted
with blood, it was driven in the cart by the charcoal-burner next day to
Winchester Cathedral, where it was received and buried.
</p>

<p>
Sir Walter Tyrrel, who escaped to Normandy, and claimed the protection of the
King of France, swore in France that the Red King was suddenly shot dead by an
arrow from an unseen hand, while they were hunting together; that he was
fearful of being suspected as the King&rsquo;s murderer; and that he instantly
set spurs to his horse, and fled to the sea-shore. Others declared that the
King and Sir Walter Tyrrel were hunting in company, a little before sunset,
standing in bushes opposite one another, when a stag came between them. That
the King drew his bow and took aim, but the string broke. That the King then
cried, &lsquo;Shoot, Walter, in the Devil&rsquo;s name!&rsquo; That Sir Walter
shot. That the arrow glanced against a tree, was turned aside from the stag,
and struck the King from his horse, dead.
</p>

<p>
By whose hand the Red King really fell, and whether that hand despatched the
arrow to his breast by accident or by design, is only known to <span
class="smcap">God</span>. Some think his brother may have caused him to be
killed; but the Red King had made so many enemies, both among priests and
people, that suspicion may reasonably rest upon a less unnatural murderer. Men
know no more than that he was found dead in the New Forest, which the suffering
people had regarded as a doomed ground for his race.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FIRST, CALLED FINE-SCHOLAR</h2>

<p>
Fine-scholar, on hearing of the Red King&rsquo;s death, hurried to Winchester
with as much speed as Rufus himself had made, to seize the Royal treasure. But
the keeper of the treasure who had been one of the hunting-party in the Forest,
made haste to Winchester too, and, arriving there at about the same time,
refused to yield it up. Upon this, Fine-Scholar drew his sword, and threatened
to kill the treasurer; who might have paid for his fidelity with his life, but
that he knew longer resistance to be useless when he found the Prince supported
by a company of powerful barons, who declared they were determined to make him
King. The treasurer, therefore, gave up the money and jewels of the Crown: and
on the third day after the death of the Red King, being a Sunday, Fine-Scholar
stood before the high altar in Westminster Abbey, and made a solemn declaration
that he would resign the Church property which his brother had seized; that he
would do no wrong to the nobles; and that he would restore to the people the
laws of Edward the Confessor, with all the improvements of William the
Conqueror. So began the reign of <span class="smcap">King Henry the
First</span>.
</p>

<p>
The people were attached to their new King, both because he had known
distresses, and because he was an Englishman by birth and not a Norman. To
strengthen this last hold upon them, the King wished to marry an English lady;
and could think of no other wife than <span class="smcap">Maud the Good</span>,
the daughter of the King of Scotland. Although this good Princess did not love
the King, she was so affected by the representations the nobles made to her of
the great charity it would be in her to unite the Norman and Saxon races, and
prevent hatred and bloodshed between them for the future, that she consented to
become his wife. After some disputing among the priests, who said that as she
had been in a convent in her youth, and had worn the veil of a nun, she could
not lawfully be married&mdash;against which the Princess stated that her aunt,
with whom she had lived in her youth, had indeed sometimes thrown a piece of
black stuff over her, but for no other reason than because the nun&rsquo;s veil
was the only dress the conquering Normans respected in girl or woman, and not
because she had taken the vows of a nun, which she never had&mdash;she was
declared free to marry, and was made King Henry&rsquo;s Queen. A good Queen she
was; beautiful, kind-hearted, and worthy of a better husband than the King.
</p>

<p>
For he was a cunning and unscrupulous man, though firm and clever. He cared
very little for his word, and took any means to gain his ends. All this is
shown in his treatment of his brother Robert&mdash;Robert, who had suffered him
to be refreshed with water, and who had sent him the wine from his own table,
when he was shut up, with the crows flying below him, parched with thirst, in
the castle on the top of St. Michael&rsquo;s Mount, where his Red brother would
have let him die.
</p>

<p>
Before the King began to deal with Robert, he removed and disgraced all the
favourites of the late King; who were for the most part base characters, much
detested by the people. Flambard, or Firebrand, whom the late King had made
Bishop of Durham, of all things in the world, Henry imprisoned in the Tower;
but Firebrand was a great joker and a jolly companion, and made himself so
popular with his guards that they pretended to know nothing about a long rope
that was sent into his prison at the bottom of a deep flagon of wine. The
guards took the wine, and Firebrand took the rope; with which, when they were
fast asleep, he let himself down from a window in the night, and so got
cleverly aboard ship and away to Normandy.
</p>

<p>
Now Robert, when his brother Fine-Scholar came to the throne, was still absent
in the Holy Land. Henry pretended that Robert had been made Sovereign of that
country; and he had been away so long, that the ignorant people believed it.
But, behold, when Henry had been some time King of England, Robert came home to
Normandy; having leisurely returned from Jerusalem through Italy, in which
beautiful country he had enjoyed himself very much, and had married a lady as
beautiful as itself! In Normandy, he found Firebrand waiting to urge him to
assert his claim to the English crown, and declare war against King Henry.
This, after great loss of time in feasting and dancing with his beautiful
Italian wife among his Norman friends, he at last did.
</p>

<p>
The English in general were on King Henry&rsquo;s side, though many of the
Normans were on Robert&rsquo;s. But the English sailors deserted the King, and
took a great part of the English fleet over to Normandy; so that Robert came to
invade this country in no foreign vessels, but in English ships. The virtuous
Anselm, however, whom Henry had invited back from abroad, and made Archbishop
of Canterbury, was steadfast in the King&rsquo;s cause; and it was so well
supported that the two armies, instead of fighting, made a peace. Poor Robert,
who trusted anybody and everybody, readily trusted his brother, the King; and
agreed to go home and receive a pension from England, on condition that all his
followers were fully pardoned. This the King very faithfully promised, but
Robert was no sooner gone than he began to punish them.
</p>

<p>
Among them was the Earl of Shrewsbury, who, on being summoned by the King to
answer to five-and-forty accusations, rode away to one of his strong castles,
shut himself up therein, called around him his tenants and vassals, and fought
for his liberty, but was defeated and banished. Robert, with all his faults,
was so true to his word, that when he first heard of this nobleman having risen
against his brother, he laid waste the Earl of Shrewsbury&rsquo;s estates in
Normandy, to show the King that he would favour no breach of their treaty.
Finding, on better information, afterwards, that the Earl&rsquo;s only crime
was having been his friend, he came over to England, in his old thoughtless,
warm-hearted way, to intercede with the King, and remind him of the solemn
promise to pardon all his followers.
</p>

<p>
This confidence might have put the false King to the blush, but it did not.
Pretending to be very friendly, he so surrounded his brother with spies and
traps, that Robert, who was quite in his power, had nothing for it but to
renounce his pension and escape while he could. Getting home to Normandy, and
understanding the King better now, he naturally allied himself with his old
friend the Earl of Shrewsbury, who had still thirty castles in that country.
This was exactly what Henry wanted. He immediately declared that Robert had
broken the treaty, and next year invaded Normandy.
</p>

<p>
He pretended that he came to deliver the Normans, at their own request, from
his brother&rsquo;s misrule. There is reason to fear that his misrule was bad
enough; for his beautiful wife had died, leaving him with an infant son, and
his court was again so careless, dissipated, and ill-regulated, that it was
said he sometimes lay in bed of a day for want of clothes to put on&mdash;his
attendants having stolen all his dresses. But he headed his army like a brave
prince and a gallant soldier, though he had the misfortune to be taken prisoner
by King Henry, with four hundred of his Knights. Among them was poor harmless
Edgar Atheling, who loved Robert well. Edgar was not important enough to be
severe with. The King afterwards gave him a small pension, which he lived upon
and died upon, in peace, among the quiet woods and fields of England.
</p>

<p>
And Robert&mdash;poor, kind, generous, wasteful, heedless Robert, with so many
faults, and yet with virtues that might have made a better and a happier
man&mdash;what was the end of him? If the King had had the magnanimity to say
with a kind air, &lsquo;Brother, tell me, before these noblemen, that from this
time you will be my faithful follower and friend, and never raise your hand
against me or my forces more!&rsquo; he might have trusted Robert to the death.
But the King was not a magnanimous man. He sentenced his brother to be confined
for life in one of the Royal Castles. In the beginning of his imprisonment, he
was allowed to ride out, guarded; but he one day broke away from his guard and
galloped off. He had the evil fortune to ride into a swamp, where his horse
stuck fast and he was taken. When the King heard of it he ordered him to be
blinded, which was done by putting a red-hot metal basin on his eyes.
</p>

<p>
And so, in darkness and in prison, many years, he thought of all his past life,
of the time he had wasted, of the treasure he had squandered, of the
opportunities he had lost, of the youth he had thrown away, of the talents he
had neglected. Sometimes, on fine autumn mornings, he would sit and think of
the old hunting parties in the free Forest, where he had been the foremost and
the gayest. Sometimes, in the still nights, he would wake, and mourn for the
many nights that had stolen past him at the gaming-table; sometimes, would seem
to hear, upon the melancholy wind, the old songs of the minstrels; sometimes,
would dream, in his blindness, of the light and glitter of the Norman Court.
Many and many a time, he groped back, in his fancy, to Jerusalem, where he had
fought so well; or, at the head of his brave companions, bowed his feathered
helmet to the shouts of welcome greeting him in Italy, and seemed again to walk
among the sunny vineyards, or on the shore of the blue sea, with his lovely
wife. And then, thinking of her grave, and of his fatherless boy, he would
stretch out his solitary arms and weep.
</p>

<p>
At length, one day, there lay in prison, dead, with cruel and disfiguring scars
upon his eyelids, bandaged from his jailer&rsquo;s sight, but on which the
eternal Heavens looked down, a worn old man of eighty. He had once been Robert
of Normandy. Pity him!
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a href="images/p52b.jpg">
<img alt="Duke Robert of Normandy" src="images/p52s.jpg" /></a>
</div>

<p>
At the time when Robert of Normandy was taken prisoner by his brother,
Robert&rsquo;s little son was only five years old. This child was taken, too,
and carried before the King, sobbing and crying; for, young as he was, he knew
he had good reason to be afraid of his Royal uncle. The King was not much
accustomed to pity those who were in his power, but his cold heart seemed for
the moment to soften towards the boy. He was observed to make a great effort,
as if to prevent himself from being cruel, and ordered the child to be taken
away; whereupon a certain Baron, who had married a daughter of Duke
Robert&rsquo;s (by name, Helie of Saint Saen), took charge of him, tenderly.
The King&rsquo;s gentleness did not last long. Before two years were over, he
sent messengers to this lord&rsquo;s Castle to seize the child and bring him
away. The Baron was not there at the time, but his servants were faithful, and
carried the boy off in his sleep and hid him. When the Baron came home, and was
told what the King had done, he took the child abroad, and, leading him by the
hand, went from King to King and from Court to Court, relating how the child
had a claim to the throne of England, and how his uncle the King, knowing that
he had that claim, would have murdered him, perhaps, but for his escape.
</p>

<p>
The youth and innocence of the pretty little <span class="smcap">William
Fitz-Robert</span> (for that was his name) made him many friends at that time.
When he became a young man, the King of France, uniting with the French Counts
of Anjou and Flanders, supported his cause against the King of England, and
took many of the King&rsquo;s towns and castles in Normandy. But, King Henry,
artful and cunning always, bribed some of William&rsquo;s friends with money,
some with promises, some with power. He bought off the Count of Anjou, by
promising to marry his eldest son, also named <span
class="smcap">William</span>, to the Count&rsquo;s daughter; and indeed the
whole trust of this King&rsquo;s life was in such bargains, and he believed (as
many another King has done since, and as one King did in France a very little
time ago) that every man&rsquo;s truth and honour can be bought at some price.
For all this, he was so afraid of William Fitz-Robert and his friends, that,
for a long time, he believed his life to be in danger; and never lay down to
sleep, even in his palace surrounded by his guards, without having a sword and
buckler at his bedside.
</p>

<p>
To strengthen his power, the King with great ceremony betrothed his eldest
daughter <span class="smcap">Matilda</span>, then a child only eight years old,
to be the wife of Henry the Fifth, the Emperor of Germany. To raise her
marriage-portion, he taxed the English people in a most oppressive manner; then
treated them to a great procession, to restore their good humour; and sent
Matilda away, in fine state, with the German ambassadors, to be educated in the
country of her future husband.
</p>

<p>
And now his Queen, Maud the Good, unhappily died. It was a sad thought for that
gentle lady, that the only hope with which she had married a man whom she had
never loved&mdash;the hope of reconciling the Norman and English
races&mdash;had failed. At the very time of her death, Normandy and all France
was in arms against England; for, so soon as his last danger was over, King
Henry had been false to all the French powers he had promised, bribed, and
bought, and they had naturally united against him. After some fighting,
however, in which few suffered but the unhappy common people (who always
suffered, whatsoever was the matter), he began to promise, bribe, and buy
again; and by those means, and by the help of the Pope, who exerted himself to
save more bloodshed, and by solemnly declaring, over and over again, that he
really was in earnest this time, and would keep his word, the King made peace.
</p>

<p>
One of the first consequences of this peace was, that the King went over to
Normandy with his son Prince William and a great retinue, to have the Prince
acknowledged as his successor by the Norman Nobles, and to contract the
promised marriage (this was one of the many promises the King had broken)
between him and the daughter of the Count of Anjou. Both these things were
triumphantly done, with great show and rejoicing; and on the twenty-fifth of
November, in the year one thousand one hundred and twenty, the whole retinue
prepared to embark at the Port of Barfleur, for the voyage home.
</p>

<p>
On that day, and at that place, there came to the King, Fitz-Stephen, a
sea-captain, and said:
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;My liege, my father served your father all his life, upon the sea. He
steered the ship with the golden boy upon the prow, in which your father sailed
to conquer England. I beseech you to grant me the same office. I have a fair
vessel in the harbour here, called The White Ship, manned by fifty sailors of
renown. I pray you, Sire, to let your servant have the honour of steering you
in The White Ship to England!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;I am sorry, friend,&rsquo; replied the King, &lsquo;that my vessel is
already chosen, and that I cannot (therefore) sail with the son of the man who
served my father. But the Prince and all his company shall go along with you,
in the fair White Ship, manned by the fifty sailors of renown.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
An hour or two afterwards, the King set sail in the vessel he had chosen,
accompanied by other vessels, and, sailing all night with a fair and gentle
wind, arrived upon the coast of England in the morning. While it was yet night,
the people in some of those ships heard a faint wild cry come over the sea, and
wondered what it was.
</p>

<p>
Now, the Prince was a dissolute, debauched young man of eighteen, who bore no
love to the English, and had declared that when he came to the throne he would
yoke them to the plough like oxen. He went aboard The White Ship, with one
hundred and forty youthful Nobles like himself, among whom were eighteen noble
ladies of the highest rank. All this gay company, with their servants and the
fifty sailors, made three hundred souls aboard the fair White Ship.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Give three casks of wine, Fitz-Stephen,&rsquo; said the Prince,
&lsquo;to the fifty sailors of renown! My father the King has sailed out of the
harbour. What time is there to make merry here, and yet reach England with the
rest?&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Prince!&rsquo; said Fitz-Stephen, &lsquo;before morning, my fifty and
The White Ship shall overtake the swiftest vessel in attendance on your father
the King, if we sail at midnight!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
Then the Prince commanded to make merry; and the sailors drank out the three
casks of wine; and the Prince and all the noble company danced in the moonlight
on the deck of The White Ship.
</p>

<p>
When, at last, she shot out of the harbour of Barfleur, there was not a sober
seaman on board. But the sails were all set, and the oars all going merrily.
Fitz-Stephen had the helm. The gay young nobles and the beautiful ladies,
wrapped in mantles of various bright colours to protect them from the cold,
talked, laughed, and sang. The Prince encouraged the fifty sailors to row
harder yet, for the honour of The White Ship.
</p>

<p>
Crash! A terrific cry broke from three hundred hearts. It was the cry the
people in the distant vessels of the King heard faintly on the water. The White
Ship had struck upon a rock&mdash;was filling&mdash;going down!
</p>

<p>
Fitz-Stephen hurried the Prince into a boat, with some few Nobles. &lsquo;Push
off,&rsquo; he whispered; &lsquo;and row to land. It is not far, and the sea is
smooth. The rest of us must die.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
But, as they rowed away, fast, from the sinking ship, the Prince heard the
voice of his sister <span class="smcap">Marie</span>, the Countess of Perche,
calling for help. He never in his life had been so good as he was then. He
cried in an agony, &lsquo;Row back at any risk! I cannot bear to leave
her!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
They rowed back. As the Prince held out his arms to catch his sister, such
numbers leaped in, that the boat was overset. And in the same instant The White
Ship went down.
</p>

<p>
Only two men floated. They both clung to the main yard of the ship, which had
broken from the mast, and now supported them. One asked the other who he was?
He said, &lsquo;I am a nobleman, <span class="smcap">Godfrey</span> by name,
the son of <span class="smcap">Gilbert de l&rsquo;Aigle</span>. And you?&rsquo;
said he. &lsquo;I am <span class="smcap">Berold</span>, a poor butcher of
Rouen,&rsquo; was the answer. Then, they said together, &lsquo;Lord be merciful
to us both!&rsquo; and tried to encourage one another, as they drifted in the
cold benumbing sea on that unfortunate November night.
</p>

<p>
By-and-by, another man came swimming towards them, whom they knew, when he
pushed aside his long wet hair, to be Fitz-Stephen. &lsquo;Where is the
Prince?&rsquo; said he. &lsquo;Gone! Gone!&rsquo; the two cried together.
&lsquo;Neither he, nor his brother, nor his sister, nor the King&rsquo;s niece,
nor her brother, nor any one of all the brave three hundred, noble or commoner,
except we three, has risen above the water!&rsquo; Fitz-Stephen, with a ghastly
face, cried, &lsquo;Woe! woe, to me!&rsquo; and sunk to the bottom.
</p>

<p>
The other two clung to the yard for some hours. At length the young noble said
faintly, &lsquo;I am exhausted, and chilled with the cold, and can hold no
longer. Farewell, good friend! God preserve you!&rsquo; So, he dropped and
sunk; and of all the brilliant crowd, the poor Butcher of Rouen alone was
saved. In the morning, some fishermen saw him floating in his sheep-skin coat,
and got him into their boat&mdash;the sole relater of the dismal tale.
</p>

<p>
For three days, no one dared to carry the intelligence to the King. At length,
they sent into his presence a little boy, who, weeping bitterly, and kneeling
at his feet, told him that The White Ship was lost with all on board. The King
fell to the ground like a dead man, and never, never afterwards, was seen to
smile.
</p>

<p>
But he plotted again, and promised again, and bribed and bought again, in his
old deceitful way. Having no son to succeed him, after all his pains
(&lsquo;The Prince will never yoke us to the plough, now!&rsquo; said the
English people), he took a second wife&mdash;<span class="smcap">Adelais</span>
or <span class="smcap">Alice</span>, a duke&rsquo;s daughter, and the
Pope&rsquo;s niece. Having no more children, however, he proposed to the Barons
to swear that they would recognise as his successor, his daughter Matilda,
whom, as she was now a widow, he married to the eldest son of the Count of
Anjou, <span class="smcap">Geoffrey</span>, surnamed <span
class="smcap">Plantagenet</span>, from a custom he had of wearing a sprig of
flowering broom (called Gen&ecirc;t in French) in his cap for a feather. As one
false man usually makes many, and as a false King, in particular, is pretty
certain to make a false Court, the Barons took the oath about the succession of
Matilda (and her children after her), twice over, without in the least
intending to keep it. The King was now relieved from any remaining fears of
William Fitz-Robert, by his death in the Monastery of St. Omer, in France, at
twenty-six years old, of a pike-wound in the hand. And as Matilda gave birth to
three sons, he thought the succession to the throne secure.
</p>

<p>
He spent most of the latter part of his life, which was troubled by family
quarrels, in Normandy, to be near Matilda. When he had reigned upward of
thirty-five years, and was sixty-seven years old, he died of an indigestion and
fever, brought on by eating, when he was far from well, of a fish called
Lamprey, against which he had often been cautioned by his physicians. His
remains were brought over to Reading Abbey to be buried.
</p>

<p>
You may perhaps hear the cunning and promise-breaking of King Henry the First,
called &lsquo;policy&rsquo; by some people, and &lsquo;diplomacy&rsquo; by
others. Neither of these fine words will in the least mean that it was true;
and nothing that is not true can possibly be good.
</p>

<p>
His greatest merit, that I know of, was his love of learning&mdash;I should
have given him greater credit even for that, if it had been strong enough to
induce him to spare the eyes of a certain poet he once took prisoner, who was a
knight besides. But he ordered the poet&rsquo;s eyes to be torn from his head,
because he had laughed at him in his verses; and the poet, in the pain of that
torture, dashed out his own brains against his prison wall. King Henry the
First was avaricious, revengeful, and so false, that I suppose a man never
lived whose word was less to be relied upon.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER MATILDA AND STEPHEN</h2>

<p>
The King was no sooner dead than all the plans and schemes he had laboured at
so long, and lied so much for, crumbled away like a hollow heap of sand. <span
class="smcap">Stephen</span>, whom he had never mistrusted or suspected,
started up to claim the throne.
</p>

<p>
Stephen was the son of <span class="smcap">Adela</span>, the Conqueror&rsquo;s
daughter, married to the Count of Blois. To Stephen, and to his brother <span
class="smcap">Henry</span>, the late King had been liberal; making Henry Bishop
of Winchester, and finding a good marriage for Stephen, and much enriching him.
This did not prevent Stephen from hastily producing a false witness, a servant
of the late King, to swear that the King had named him for his heir upon his
death-bed. On this evidence the Archbishop of Canterbury crowned him. The new
King, so suddenly made, lost not a moment in seizing the Royal treasure, and
hiring foreign soldiers with some of it to protect his throne.
</p>

<p>
If the dead King had even done as the false witness said, he would have had
small right to will away the English people, like so many sheep or oxen,
without their consent. But he had, in fact, bequeathed all his territory to
Matilda; who, supported by <span class="smcap">Robert</span>, Earl of
Gloucester, soon began to dispute the crown. Some of the powerful barons and
priests took her side; some took Stephen&rsquo;s; all fortified their castles;
and again the miserable English people were involved in war, from which they
could never derive advantage whosoever was victorious, and in which all parties
plundered, tortured, starved, and ruined them.
</p>

<p>
Five years had passed since the death of Henry the First&mdash;and during those
five years there had been two terrible invasions by the people of Scotland
under their King, David, who was at last defeated with all his army&mdash;when
Matilda, attended by her brother Robert and a large force, appeared in England
to maintain her claim. A battle was fought between her troops and King
Stephen&rsquo;s at Lincoln; in which the King himself was taken prisoner, after
bravely fighting until his battle-axe and sword were broken, and was carried
into strict confinement at Gloucester. Matilda then submitted herself to the
Priests, and the Priests crowned her Queen of England.
</p>

<p>
She did not long enjoy this dignity. The people of London had a great affection
for Stephen; many of the Barons considered it degrading to be ruled by a woman;
and the Queen&rsquo;s temper was so haughty that she made innumerable enemies.
The people of London revolted; and, in alliance with the troops of Stephen,
besieged her at Winchester, where they took her brother Robert prisoner, whom,
as her best soldier and chief general, she was glad to exchange for Stephen
himself, who thus regained his liberty. Then, the long war went on afresh.
Once, she was pressed so hard in the Castle of Oxford, in the winter weather
when the snow lay thick upon the ground, that her only chance of escape was to
dress herself all in white, and, accompanied by no more than three faithful
Knights, dressed in like manner that their figures might not be seen from
Stephen&rsquo;s camp as they passed over the snow, to steal away on foot, cross
the frozen Thames, walk a long distance, and at last gallop away on horseback.
All this she did, but to no great purpose then; for her brother dying while the
struggle was yet going on, she at last withdrew to Normandy.
</p>

<p>
In two or three years after her withdrawal her cause appeared in England,
afresh, in the person of her son Henry, young Plantagenet, who, at only
eighteen years of age, was very powerful: not only on account of his mother
having resigned all Normandy to him, but also from his having married <span
class="smcap">Eleanor</span>, the divorced wife of the French King, a bad
woman, who had great possessions in France. Louis, the French King, not
relishing this arrangement, helped <span class="smcap">Eustace</span>, King
Stephen&rsquo;s son, to invade Normandy: but Henry drove their united forces
out of that country, and then returned here, to assist his partisans, whom the
King was then besieging at Wallingford upon the Thames. Here, for two days,
divided only by the river, the two armies lay encamped opposite to one
another&mdash;on the eve, as it seemed to all men, of another desperate fight,
when the <span class="smcap">Earl of Arundel</span> took heart and said
&lsquo;that it was not reasonable to prolong the unspeakable miseries of two
kingdoms to minister to the ambition of two princes.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
Many other noblemen repeating and supporting this when it was once uttered,
Stephen and young Plantagenet went down, each to his own bank of the river, and
held a conversation across it, in which they arranged a truce; very much to the
dissatisfaction of Eustace, who swaggered away with some followers, and laid
violent hands on the Abbey of St. Edmund&rsquo;s-Bury, where he presently died
mad. The truce led to a solemn council at Winchester, in which it was agreed
that Stephen should retain the crown, on condition of his declaring Henry his
successor; that <span class="smcap">William</span>, another son of the
King&rsquo;s, should inherit his father&rsquo;s rightful possessions; and that
all the Crown lands which Stephen had given away should be recalled, and all
the Castles he had permitted to be built demolished. Thus terminated the bitter
war, which had now lasted fifteen years, and had again laid England waste. In
the next year <span class="smcap">Stephen</span> died, after a troubled reign
of nineteen years.
</p>

<p>
Although King Stephen was, for the time in which he lived, a humane and
moderate man, with many excellent qualities; and although nothing worse is
known of him than his usurpation of the Crown, which he probably excused to
himself by the consideration that King Henry the First was a usurper
too&mdash;which was no excuse at all; the people of England suffered more in
these dread nineteen years, than at any former period even of their suffering
history. In the division of the nobility between the two rival claimants of the
Crown, and in the growth of what is called the Feudal System (which made the
peasants the born vassals and mere slaves of the Barons), every Noble had his
strong Castle, where he reigned the cruel king of all the neighbouring people.
Accordingly, he perpetrated whatever cruelties he chose. And never were worse
cruelties committed upon earth than in wretched England in those nineteen
years.
</p>

<p>
The writers who were living then describe them fearfully. They say that the
castles were filled with devils rather than with men; that the peasants, men
and women, were put into dungeons for their gold and silver, were tortured with
fire and smoke, were hung up by the thumbs, were hung up by the heels with
great weights to their heads, were torn with jagged irons, killed with hunger,
broken to death in narrow chests filled with sharp-pointed stones, murdered in
countless fiendish ways. In England there was no corn, no meat, no cheese, no
butter, there were no tilled lands, no harvests. Ashes of burnt towns, and
dreary wastes, were all that the traveller, fearful of the robbers who prowled
abroad at all hours, would see in a long day&rsquo;s journey; and from sunrise
until night, he would not come upon a home.
</p>

<p>
The clergy sometimes suffered, and heavily too, from pillage, but many of them
had castles of their own, and fought in helmet and armour like the barons, and
drew lots with other fighting men for their share of booty. The Pope (or Bishop
of Rome), on King Stephen&rsquo;s resisting his ambition, laid England under an
Interdict at one period of this reign; which means that he allowed no service
to be performed in the churches, no couples to be married, no bells to be rung,
no dead bodies to be buried. Any man having the power to refuse these things,
no matter whether he were called a Pope or a Poulterer, would, of course, have
the power of afflicting numbers of innocent people. That nothing might be
wanting to the miseries of King Stephen&rsquo;s time, the Pope threw in this
contribution to the public store&mdash;not very like the widow&rsquo;s
contribution, as I think, when Our Saviour sat in Jerusalem over-against the
Treasury, &lsquo;and she threw in two mites, which make a farthing.&rsquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SECOND</h2>

<h3>PART THE FIRST</h3>

<p>
Henry Plantagenet, when he was but twenty-one years old, quietly succeeded to
the throne of England, according to his agreement made with the late King at
Winchester. Six weeks after Stephen&rsquo;s death, he and his Queen, Eleanor,
were crowned in that city; into which they rode on horseback in great state,
side by side, amidst much shouting and rejoicing, and clashing of music, and
strewing of flowers.
</p>

<p>
The reign of King Henry the Second began well. The King had great possessions,
and (what with his own rights, and what with those of his wife) was lord of
one-third part of France. He was a young man of vigour, ability, and
resolution, and immediately applied himself to remove some of the evils which
had arisen in the last unhappy reign. He revoked all the grants of land that
had been hastily made, on either side, during the late struggles; he obliged
numbers of disorderly soldiers to depart from England; he reclaimed all the
castles belonging to the Crown; and he forced the wicked nobles to pull down
their own castles, to the number of eleven hundred, in which such dismal
cruelties had been inflicted on the people. The King&rsquo;s brother, <span
class="smcap">Geoffrey</span>, rose against him in France, while he was so well
employed, and rendered it necessary for him to repair to that country; where,
after he had subdued and made a friendly arrangement with his brother (who did
not live long), his ambition to increase his possessions involved him in a war
with the French King, Louis, with whom he had been on such friendly terms just
before, that to the French King&rsquo;s infant daughter, then a baby in the
cradle, he had promised one of his little sons in marriage, who was a child of
five years old. However, the war came to nothing at last, and the Pope made the
two Kings friends again.
</p>

<p>
Now, the clergy, in the troubles of the last reign, had gone on very ill
indeed. There were all kinds of criminals among them&mdash;murderers, thieves,
and vagabonds; and the worst of the matter was, that the good priests would not
give up the bad priests to justice, when they committed crimes, but persisted
in sheltering and defending them. The King, well knowing that there could be no
peace or rest in England while such things lasted, resolved to reduce the power
of the clergy; and, when he had reigned seven years, found (as he considered) a
good opportunity for doing so, in the death of the Archbishop of Canterbury.
&lsquo;I will have for the new Archbishop,&rsquo; thought the King, &lsquo;a
friend in whom I can trust, who will help me to humble these rebellious
priests, and to have them dealt with, when they do wrong, as other men who do
wrong are dealt with.&rsquo; So, he resolved to make his favourite, the new
Archbishop; and this favourite was so extraordinary a man, and his story is so
curious, that I must tell you all about him.
</p>

<p>
Once upon a time, a worthy merchant of London, named <span
class="smcap">Gilbert &agrave; Becket</span>, made a pilgrimage to the Holy
Land, and was taken prisoner by a Saracen lord. This lord, who treated him
kindly and not like a slave, had one fair daughter, who fell in love with the
merchant; and who told him that she wanted to become a Christian, and was
willing to marry him if they could fly to a Christian country. The merchant
returned her love, until he found an opportunity to escape, when he did not
trouble himself about the Saracen lady, but escaped with his servant Richard,
who had been taken prisoner along with him, and arrived in England and forgot
her. The Saracen lady, who was more loving than the merchant, left her
father&rsquo;s house in disguise to follow him, and made her way, under many
hardships, to the sea-shore. The merchant had taught her only two English words
(for I suppose he must have learnt the Saracen tongue himself, and made love in
that language), of which <span class="smcap">London</span> was one, and his own
name, <span class="smcap">Gilbert</span>, the other. She went among the ships,
saying, &lsquo;London! London!&rsquo; over and over again, until the sailors
understood that she wanted to find an English vessel that would carry her
there; so they showed her such a ship, and she paid for her passage with some
of her jewels, and sailed away. Well! The merchant was sitting in his
counting-house in London one day, when he heard a great noise in the street;
and presently Richard came running in from the warehouse, with his eyes wide
open and his breath almost gone, saying, &lsquo;Master, master, here is the
Saracen lady!&rsquo; The merchant thought Richard was mad; but Richard said,
&lsquo;No, master! As I live, the Saracen lady is going up and down the city,
calling Gilbert! Gilbert!&rsquo; Then, he took the merchant by the sleeve, and
pointed out of window; and there they saw her among the gables and water-spouts
of the dark, dirty street, in her foreign dress, so forlorn, surrounded by a
wondering crowd, and passing slowly along, calling Gilbert, Gilbert! When the
merchant saw her, and thought of the tenderness she had shown him in his
captivity, and of her constancy, his heart was moved, and he ran down into the
street; and she saw him coming, and with a great cry fainted in his arms. They
were married without loss of time, and Richard (who was an excellent man)
danced with joy the whole day of the wedding; and they all lived happy ever
afterwards.
</p>

<p>
This merchant and this Saracen lady had one son, <span class="smcap">Thomas
&agrave; Becket</span>. He it was who became the Favourite of King Henry the
Second.
</p>

<p>
He had become Chancellor, when the King thought of making him Archbishop. He
was clever, gay, well educated, brave; had fought in several battles in France;
had defeated a French knight in single combat, and brought his horse away as a
token of the victory. He lived in a noble palace, he was the tutor of the young
Prince Henry, he was served by one hundred and forty knights, his riches were
immense. The King once sent him as his ambassador to France; and the French
people, beholding in what state he travelled, cried out in the streets,
&lsquo;How splendid must the King of England be, when this is only the
Chancellor!&rsquo; They had good reason to wonder at the magnificence of Thomas
&agrave; Becket, for, when he entered a French town, his procession was headed
by two hundred and fifty singing boys; then, came his hounds in couples; then,
eight waggons, each drawn by five horses driven by five drivers: two of the
waggons filled with strong ale to be given away to the people; four, with his
gold and silver plate and stately clothes; two, with the dresses of his
numerous servants. Then, came twelve horses, each with a monkey on his back;
then, a train of people bearing shields and leading fine war-horses splendidly
equipped; then, falconers with hawks upon their wrists; then, a host of
knights, and gentlemen and priests; then, the Chancellor with his brilliant
garments flashing in the sun, and all the people capering and shouting with
delight.
</p>

<p>
The King was well pleased with all this, thinking that it only made himself the
more magnificent to have so magnificent a favourite; but he sometimes jested
with the Chancellor upon his splendour too. Once, when they were riding
together through the streets of London in hard winter weather, they saw a
shivering old man in rags. &lsquo;Look at the poor object!&rsquo; said the
King. &lsquo;Would it not be a charitable act to give that aged man a
comfortable warm cloak?&rsquo; &lsquo;Undoubtedly it would,&rsquo; said Thomas
&agrave; Becket, &lsquo;and you do well, Sir, to think of such Christian
duties.&rsquo; &lsquo;Come!&rsquo; cried the King, &lsquo;then give him your
cloak!&rsquo; It was made of rich crimson trimmed with ermine. The King tried
to pull it off, the Chancellor tried to keep it on, both were near rolling from
their saddles in the mud, when the Chancellor submitted, and the King gave the
cloak to the old beggar: much to the beggar&rsquo;s astonishment, and much to
the merriment of all the courtiers in attendance. For, courtiers are not only
eager to laugh when the King laughs, but they really do enjoy a laugh against a
Favourite.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;I will make,&rsquo; thought King Henry the second, &lsquo;this
Chancellor of mine, Thomas &agrave; Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury. He will
then be the head of the Church, and, being devoted to me, will help me to
correct the Church. He has always upheld my power against the power of the
clergy, and once publicly told some bishops (I remember), that men of the
Church were equally bound to me, with men of the sword. Thomas &agrave; Becket
is the man, of all other men in England, to help me in my great design.&rsquo;
So the King, regardless of all objection, either that he was a fighting man, or
a lavish man, or a courtly man, or a man of pleasure, or anything but a likely
man for the office, made him Archbishop accordingly.
</p>

<p>
Now, Thomas &agrave; Becket was proud and loved to be famous. He was already
famous for the pomp of his life, for his riches, his gold and silver plate, his
waggons, horses, and attendants. He could do no more in that way than he had
done; and being tired of that kind of fame (which is a very poor one), he
longed to have his name celebrated for something else. Nothing, he knew, would
render him so famous in the world, as the setting of his utmost power and
ability against the utmost power and ability of the King. He resolved with the
whole strength of his mind to do it.
</p>

<p>
He may have had some secret grudge against the King besides. The King may have
offended his proud humour at some time or other, for anything I know. I think
it likely, because it is a common thing for Kings, Princes, and other great
people, to try the tempers of their favourites rather severely. Even the little
affair of the crimson cloak must have been anything but a pleasant one to a
haughty man. Thomas &agrave; Becket knew better than any one in England what
the King expected of him. In all his sumptuous life, he had never yet been in a
position to disappoint the King. He could take up that proud stand now, as head
of the Church; and he determined that it should be written in history, either
that he subdued the King, or that the King subdued him.
</p>

<p>
So, of a sudden, he completely altered the whole manner of his life. He turned
off all his brilliant followers, ate coarse food, drank bitter water, wore next
his skin sackcloth covered with dirt and vermin (for it was then thought very
religious to be very dirty), flogged his back to punish himself, lived chiefly
in a little cell, washed the feet of thirteen poor people every day, and looked
as miserable as he possibly could. If he had put twelve hundred monkeys on
horseback instead of twelve, and had gone in procession with eight thousand
waggons instead of eight, he could not have half astonished the people so much
as by this great change. It soon caused him to be more talked about as an
Archbishop than he had been as a Chancellor.
</p>

<p>
The King was very angry; and was made still more so, when the new Archbishop,
claiming various estates from the nobles as being rightfully Church property,
required the King himself, for the same reason, to give up Rochester Castle,
and Rochester City too. Not satisfied with this, he declared that no power but
himself should appoint a priest to any Church in the part of England over which
he was Archbishop; and when a certain gentleman of Kent made such an
appointment, as he claimed to have the right to do, Thomas &agrave; Becket
excommunicated him.
</p>

<p>
Excommunication was, next to the Interdict I told you of at the close of the
last chapter, the great weapon of the clergy. It consisted in declaring the
person who was excommunicated, an outcast from the Church and from all
religious offices; and in cursing him all over, from the top of his head to the
sole of his foot, whether he was standing up, lying down, sitting, kneeling,
walking, running, hopping, jumping, gaping, coughing, sneezing, or whatever
else he was doing. This unchristian nonsense would of course have made no sort
of difference to the person cursed&mdash;who could say his prayers at home if
he were shut out of church, and whom none but <span class="smcap">God</span>
could judge&mdash;but for the fears and superstitions of the people, who
avoided excommunicated persons, and made their lives unhappy. So, the King said
to the New Archbishop, &lsquo;Take off this Excommunication from this gentleman
of Kent.&rsquo; To which the Archbishop replied, &lsquo;I shall do no such
thing.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
The quarrel went on. A priest in Worcestershire committed a most dreadful
murder, that aroused the horror of the whole nation. The King demanded to have
this wretch delivered up, to be tried in the same court and in the same way as
any other murderer. The Archbishop refused, and kept him in the Bishop&rsquo;s
prison. The King, holding a solemn assembly in Westminster Hall, demanded that
in future all priests found guilty before their Bishops of crimes against the
law of the land should be considered priests no longer, and should be delivered
over to the law of the land for punishment. The Archbishop again refused. The
King required to know whether the clergy would obey the ancient customs of the
country? Every priest there, but one, said, after Thomas &agrave; Becket,
&lsquo;Saving my order.&rsquo; This really meant that they would only obey
those customs when they did not interfere with their own claims; and the King
went out of the Hall in great wrath.
</p>

<p>
Some of the clergy began to be afraid, now, that they were going too far.
Though Thomas &agrave; Becket was otherwise as unmoved as Westminster Hall,
they prevailed upon him, for the sake of their fears, to go to the King at
Woodstock, and promise to observe the ancient customs of the country, without
saying anything about his order. The King received this submission favourably,
and summoned a great council of the clergy to meet at the Castle of Clarendon,
by Salisbury. But when the council met, the Archbishop again insisted on the
words &lsquo;saying my order;&rsquo; and he still insisted, though lords
entreated him, and priests wept before him and knelt to him, and an adjoining
room was thrown open, filled with armed soldiers of the King, to threaten him.
At length he gave way, for that time, and the ancient customs (which included
what the King had demanded in vain) were stated in writing, and were signed and
sealed by the chief of the clergy, and were called the Constitutions of
Clarendon.
</p>

<p>
The quarrel went on, for all that. The Archbishop tried to see the King. The
King would not see him. The Archbishop tried to escape from England. The
sailors on the coast would launch no boat to take him away. Then, he again
resolved to do his worst in opposition to the King, and began openly to set the
ancient customs at defiance.
</p>

<p>
The King summoned him before a great council at Northampton, where he accused
him of high treason, and made a claim against him, which was not a just one,
for an enormous sum of money. Thomas &agrave; Becket was alone against the
whole assembly, and the very Bishops advised him to resign his office and
abandon his contest with the King. His great anxiety and agitation stretched
him on a sick-bed for two days, but he was still undaunted. He went to the
adjourned council, carrying a great cross in his right hand, and sat down
holding it erect before him. The King angrily retired into an inner room. The
whole assembly angrily retired and left him there. But there he sat. The
Bishops came out again in a body, and renounced him as a traitor. He only said,
&lsquo;I hear!&rsquo; and sat there still. They retired again into the inner
room, and his trial proceeded without him. By-and-by, the Earl of Leicester,
heading the barons, came out to read his sentence. He refused to hear it,
denied the power of the court, and said he would refer his cause to the Pope.
As he walked out of the hall, with the cross in his hand, some of those present
picked up rushes&mdash;rushes were strewn upon the floors in those days by way
of carpet&mdash;and threw them at him. He proudly turned his head, and said
that were he not Archbishop, he would chastise those cowards with the sword he
had known how to use in bygone days. He then mounted his horse, and rode away,
cheered and surrounded by the common people, to whom he threw open his house
that night and gave a supper, supping with them himself. That same night he
secretly departed from the town; and so, travelling by night and hiding by day,
and calling himself &lsquo;Brother Dearman,&rsquo; got away, not without
difficulty, to Flanders.
</p>

<p>
The struggle still went on. The angry King took possession of the revenues of
the archbishopric, and banished all the relations and servants of Thomas
&agrave; Becket, to the number of four hundred. The Pope and the French King
both protected him, and an abbey was assigned for his residence. Stimulated by
this support, Thomas &agrave; Becket, on a great festival day, formally
proceeded to a great church crowded with people, and going up into the pulpit
publicly cursed and excommunicated all who had supported the Constitutions of
Clarendon: mentioning many English noblemen by name, and not distantly hinting
at the King of England himself.
</p>

<p>
When intelligence of this new affront was carried to the King in his chamber,
his passion was so furious that he tore his clothes, and rolled like a madman
on his bed of straw and rushes. But he was soon up and doing. He ordered all
the ports and coasts of England to be narrowly watched, that no letters of
Interdict might be brought into the kingdom; and sent messengers and bribes to
the Pope&rsquo;s palace at Rome. Meanwhile, Thomas &agrave; Becket, for his
part, was not idle at Rome, but constantly employed his utmost arts in his own
behalf. Thus the contest stood, until there was peace between France and
England (which had been for some time at war), and until the two children of
the two Kings were married in celebration of it. Then, the French King brought
about a meeting between Henry and his old favourite, so long his enemy.
</p>

<p>
Even then, though Thomas &agrave; Becket knelt before the King, he was
obstinate and immovable as to those words about his order. King Louis of France
was weak enough in his veneration for Thomas &agrave; Becket and such men, but
this was a little too much for him. He said that &agrave; Becket &lsquo;wanted
to be greater than the saints and better than St. Peter,&rsquo; and rode away
from him with the King of England. His poor French Majesty asked &agrave;
Becket&rsquo;s pardon for so doing, however, soon afterwards, and cut a very
pitiful figure.
</p>

<p>
At last, and after a world of trouble, it came to this. There was another
meeting on French ground between King Henry and Thomas &agrave; Becket, and it
was agreed that Thomas &agrave; Becket should be Archbishop of Canterbury,
according to the customs of former Archbishops, and that the King should put
him in possession of the revenues of that post. And now, indeed, you might
suppose the struggle at an end, and Thomas &agrave; Becket at rest. <span
class="smcap">No</span>, not even yet. For Thomas &agrave; Becket hearing, by
some means, that King Henry, when he was in dread of his kingdom being placed
under an interdict, had had his eldest son Prince Henry secretly crowned, not
only persuaded the Pope to suspend the Archbishop of York who had performed
that ceremony, and to excommunicate the Bishops who had assisted at it, but
sent a messenger of his own into England, in spite of all the King&rsquo;s
precautions along the coast, who delivered the letters of excommunication into
the Bishops&rsquo; own hands. Thomas &agrave; Becket then came over to England
himself, after an absence of seven years. He was privately warned that it was
dangerous to come, and that an ireful knight, named <span class="smcap">Ranulf
de Broc</span>, had threatened that he should not live to eat a loaf of bread
in England; but he came.
</p>

<p>
The common people received him well, and marched about with him in a soldierly
way, armed with such rustic weapons as they could get. He tried to see the
young prince who had once been his pupil, but was prevented. He hoped for some
little support among the nobles and priests, but found none. He made the most
of the peasants who attended him, and feasted them, and went from Canterbury to
Harrow-on-the-Hill, and from Harrow-on-the-Hill back to Canterbury, and on
Christmas Day preached in the Cathedral there, and told the people in his
sermon that he had come to die among them, and that it was likely he would be
murdered. He had no fear, however&mdash;or, if he had any, he had much more
obstinacy&mdash;for he, then and there, excommunicated three of his enemies, of
whom Ranulf de Broc, the ireful knight, was one.
</p>

<p>
As men in general had no fancy for being cursed, in their sitting and walking,
and gaping and sneezing, and all the rest of it, it was very natural in the
persons so freely excommunicated to complain to the King. It was equally
natural in the King, who had hoped that this troublesome opponent was at last
quieted, to fall into a mighty rage when he heard of these new affronts; and,
on the Archbishop of York telling him that he never could hope for rest while
Thomas &agrave; Becket lived, to cry out hastily before his court, &lsquo;Have
I no one here who will deliver me from this man?&rsquo; There were four knights
present, who, hearing the King&rsquo;s words, looked at one another, and went
out.
</p>

<p>
The names of these knights were <span class="smcap">Reginald Fitzurse</span>,
<span class="smcap">William Tracy</span>, <span class="smcap">Hugh de
Morville</span>, and <span class="smcap">Richard Brito</span>; three of whom
had been in the train of Thomas &agrave; Becket in the old days of his
splendour. They rode away on horseback, in a very secret manner, and on the
third day after Christmas Day arrived at Saltwood House, not far from
Canterbury, which belonged to the family of Ranulf de Broc. They quietly
collected some followers here, in case they should need any; and proceeding to
Canterbury, suddenly appeared (the four knights and twelve men) before the
Archbishop, in his own house, at two o&rsquo;clock in the afternoon. They
neither bowed nor spoke, but sat down on the floor in silence, staring at the
Archbishop.
</p>

<p>
Thomas &agrave; Becket said, at length, &lsquo;What do you want?&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;We want,&rsquo; said Reginald Fitzurse, &lsquo;the excommunication taken
from the Bishops, and you to answer for your offences to the King.&rsquo;
Thomas &agrave; Becket defiantly replied, that the power of the clergy was
above the power of the King. That it was not for such men as they were, to
threaten him. That if he were threatened by all the swords in England, he would
never yield.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Then we will do more than threaten!&rsquo; said the knights. And they
went out with the twelve men, and put on their armour, and drew their shining
swords, and came back.
</p>

<p>
His servants, in the meantime, had shut up and barred the great gate of the
palace. At first, the knights tried to shatter it with their battle-axes; but,
being shown a window by which they could enter, they let the gate alone, and
climbed in that way. While they were battering at the door, the attendants of
Thomas &agrave; Becket had implored him to take refuge in the Cathedral; in
which, as a sanctuary or sacred place, they thought the knights would dare to
do no violent deed. He told them, again and again, that he would not stir.
Hearing the distant voices of the monks singing the evening service, however,
he said it was now his duty to attend, and therefore, and for no other reason,
he would go.
</p>

<p>
There was a near way between his Palace and the Cathedral, by some beautiful
old cloisters which you may yet see. He went into the Cathedral, without any
hurry, and having the Cross carried before him as usual. When he was safely
there, his servants would have fastened the door, but he said <span
class="smcap">No</span>! it was the house of God and not a fortress.
</p>

<p>
As he spoke, the shadow of Reginald Fitzurse appeared in the Cathedral doorway,
darkening the little light there was outside, on the dark winter evening. This
knight said, in a strong voice, &lsquo;Follow me, loyal servants of the
King!&rsquo; The rattle of the armour of the other knights echoed through the
Cathedral, as they came clashing in.
</p>

<p>
It was so dark, in the lofty aisles and among the stately pillars of the
church, and there were so many hiding-places in the crypt below and in the
narrow passages above, that Thomas &agrave; Becket might even at that pass have
saved himself if he would. But he would not. He told the monks resolutely that
he would not. And though they all dispersed and left him there with no other
follower than <span class="smcap">Edward Gryme</span>, his faithful
cross-bearer, he was as firm then, as ever he had been in his life.
</p>

<p>
The knights came on, through the darkness, making a terrible noise with their
armed tread upon the stone pavement of the church. &lsquo;Where is the
traitor?&rsquo; they cried out. He made no answer. But when they cried,
&lsquo;Where is the Archbishop?&rsquo; he said proudly, &lsquo;I am
here!&rsquo; and came out of the shade and stood before them.
</p>

<p>
The knights had no desire to kill him, if they could rid the King and
themselves of him by any other means. They told him he must either fly or go
with them. He said he would do neither; and he threw William Tracy off with
such force when he took hold of his sleeve, that Tracy reeled again. By his
reproaches and his steadiness, he so incensed them, and exasperated their
fierce humour, that Reginald Fitzurse, whom he called by an ill name, said,
&lsquo;Then die!&rsquo; and struck at his head. But the faithful Edward Gryme
put out his arm, and there received the main force of the blow, so that it only
made his master bleed. Another voice from among the knights again called to
Thomas &agrave; Becket to fly; but, with his blood running down his face, and
his hands clasped, and his head bent, he commanded himself to God, and stood
firm. Then they cruelly killed him close to the altar of St. Bennet; and his
body fell upon the pavement, which was dirtied with his blood and brains.
</p>

<p>
It is an awful thing to think of the murdered mortal, who had so showered his
curses about, lying, all disfigured, in the church, where a few lamps here and
there were but red specks on a pall of darkness; and to think of the guilty
knights riding away on horseback, looking over their shoulders at the dim
Cathedral, and remembering what they had left inside.
</p>

<h3>PART THE SECOND</h3>

<p>
When the King heard how Thomas &agrave; Becket had lost his life in Canterbury
Cathedral, through the ferocity of the four Knights, he was filled with dismay.
Some have supposed that when the King spoke those hasty words, &lsquo;Have I no
one here who will deliver me from this man?&rsquo; he wished, and meant
&agrave; Becket to be slain. But few things are more unlikely; for, besides
that the King was not naturally cruel (though very passionate), he was wise,
and must have known full well what any stupid man in his dominions must have
known, namely, that such a murder would rouse the Pope and the whole Church
against him.
</p>

<p>
He sent respectful messengers to the Pope, to represent his innocence (except
in having uttered the hasty words); and he swore solemnly and publicly to his
innocence, and contrived in time to make his peace. As to the four guilty
Knights, who fled into Yorkshire, and never again dared to show themselves at
Court, the Pope excommunicated them; and they lived miserably for some time,
shunned by all their countrymen. At last, they went humbly to Jerusalem as a
penance, and there died and were buried.
</p>

<p>
It happened, fortunately for the pacifying of the Pope, that an opportunity
arose very soon after the murder of &agrave; Becket, for the King to declare
his power in Ireland&mdash;which was an acceptable undertaking to the Pope, as
the Irish, who had been converted to Christianity by one Patricius (otherwise
Saint Patrick) long ago, before any Pope existed, considered that the Pope had
nothing at all to do with them, or they with the Pope, and accordingly refused
to pay him Peter&rsquo;s Pence, or that tax of a penny a house which I have
elsewhere mentioned. The King&rsquo;s opportunity arose in this way.
</p>

<p>
The Irish were, at that time, as barbarous a people as you can well imagine.
They were continually quarrelling and fighting, cutting one another&rsquo;s
throats, slicing one another&rsquo;s noses, burning one another&rsquo;s houses,
carrying away one another&rsquo;s wives, and committing all sorts of violence.
The country was divided into five kingdoms&mdash;<span class="smcap">Desmond,
Thomond</span>, <span class="smcap">Connaught</span>, <span
class="smcap">Ulster</span>, and <span class="smcap">Leinster</span>&mdash;each
governed by a separate King, of whom one claimed to be the chief of the rest.
Now, one of these Kings, named <span class="smcap">Dermond Mac Murrough</span>
(a wild kind of name, spelt in more than one wild kind of way), had carried off
the wife of a friend of his, and concealed her on an island in a bog. The
friend resenting this (though it was quite the custom of the country),
complained to the chief King, and, with the chief King&rsquo;s help, drove
Dermond Mac Murrough out of his dominions. Dermond came over to England for
revenge; and offered to hold his realm as a vassal of King Henry, if King Henry
would help him to regain it. The King consented to these terms; but only
assisted him, then, with what were called Letters Patent, authorising any
English subjects who were so disposed, to enter into his service, and aid his
cause.
</p>

<p>
There was, at Bristol, a certain <span class="smcap">Earl Richard de
Clare</span>, called <span class="smcap">Strongbow</span>; of no very good
character; needy and desperate, and ready for anything that offered him a
chance of improving his fortunes. There were, in South Wales, two other broken
knights of the same good-for-nothing sort, called <span class="smcap">Robert
Fitz-Stephen</span>, and <span class="smcap">Maurice Fitz-Gerald</span>. These
three, each with a small band of followers, took up Dermond&rsquo;s cause; and
it was agreed that if it proved successful, Strongbow should marry
Dermond&rsquo;s daughter <span class="smcap">Eva</span>, and be declared his
heir.
</p>

<p>
The trained English followers of these knights were so superior in all the
discipline of battle to the Irish, that they beat them against immense
superiority of numbers. In one fight, early in the war, they cut off three
hundred heads, and laid them before Mac Murrough; who turned them every one up
with his hands, rejoicing, and, coming to one which was the head of a man whom
he had much disliked, grasped it by the hair and ears, and tore off the nose
and lips with his teeth. You may judge from this, what kind of a gentleman an
Irish King in those times was. The captives, all through this war, were
horribly treated; the victorious party making nothing of breaking their limbs,
and casting them into the sea from the tops of high rocks. It was in the midst
of the miseries and cruelties attendant on the taking of Waterford, where the
dead lay piled in the streets, and the filthy gutters ran with blood, that
Strongbow married Eva. An odious marriage-company those mounds of
corpses must have made, I think, and one quite worthy of the young lady&rsquo;s
father.
</p>

<p>
He died, after Waterford and Dublin had been taken, and various successes
achieved; and Strongbow became King of Leinster. Now came King Henry&rsquo;s
opportunity. To restrain the growing power of Strongbow, he himself repaired to
Dublin, as Strongbow&rsquo;s Royal Master, and deprived him of his kingdom, but
confirmed him in the enjoyment of great possessions. The King, then, holding
state in Dublin, received the homage of nearly all the Irish Kings and Chiefs,
and so came home again with a great addition to his reputation as Lord of
Ireland, and with a new claim on the favour of the Pope. And now, their
reconciliation was completed&mdash;more easily and mildly by the Pope, than the
King might have expected, I think.
</p>

<p>
At this period of his reign, when his troubles seemed so few and his prospects
so bright, those domestic miseries began which gradually made the King the most
unhappy of men, reduced his great spirit, wore away his health, and broke his
heart.
</p>

<p>
He had four sons. <span class="smcap">Henry</span>, now aged eighteen&mdash;his
secret crowning of whom had given such offence to Thomas &agrave; Becket. <span
class="smcap">Richard</span>, aged sixteen; <span
class="smcap">Geoffrey</span>, fifteen; and <span class="smcap">John</span>,
his favourite, a young boy whom the courtiers named <span
class="smcap">Lackland</span>, because he had no inheritance, but to whom the
King meant to give the Lordship of Ireland. All these misguided boys, in their
turn, were unnatural sons to him, and unnatural brothers to each other. Prince
Henry, stimulated by the French King, and by his bad mother, Queen Eleanor,
began the undutiful history.
</p>

<p>
First, he demanded that his young wife, <span class="smcap">Margaret</span>,
the French King&rsquo;s daughter, should be crowned as well as he. His father,
the King, consented, and it was done. It was no sooner done, than he demanded
to have a part of his father&rsquo;s dominions, during his father&rsquo;s life.
This being refused, he made off from his father in the night, with his bad
heart full of bitterness, and took refuge at the French King&rsquo;s Court.
Within a day or two, his brothers Richard and Geoffrey followed. Their mother
tried to join them&mdash;escaping in man&rsquo;s clothes&mdash;but she was
seized by King Henry&rsquo;s men, and immured in prison, where she lay,
deservedly, for sixteen years. Every day, however, some grasping English
noblemen, to whom the King&rsquo;s protection of his people from their avarice
and oppression had given offence, deserted him and joined the Princes. Every
day he heard some fresh intelligence of the Princes levying armies against him;
of Prince Henry&rsquo;s wearing a crown before his own ambassadors at the
French Court, and being called the Junior King of England; of all the Princes
swearing never to make peace with him, their father, without the consent and
approval of the Barons of France. But, with his fortitude and energy unshaken,
King Henry met the shock of these disasters with a resolved and cheerful face.
He called upon all Royal fathers who had sons, to help him, for his cause was
theirs; he hired, out of his riches, twenty thousand men to fight the false
French King, who stirred his own blood against him; and he carried on the war
with such vigour, that Louis soon proposed a conference to treat for peace.
</p>

<p>
The conference was held beneath an old wide-spreading green elm-tree, upon a
plain in France. It led to nothing. The war recommenced. Prince Richard began
his fighting career, by leading an army against his father; but his father beat
him and his army back; and thousands of his men would have rued the day in
which they fought in such a wicked cause, had not the King received news of an
invasion of England by the Scots, and promptly come home through a great storm
to repress it. And whether he really began to fear that he suffered these
troubles because &agrave; Becket had been murdered; or whether he wished to
rise in the favour of the Pope, who had now declared &agrave; Becket to be a
saint, or in the favour of his own people, of whom many believed that even
&agrave; Becket&rsquo;s senseless tomb could work miracles, I don&rsquo;t know:
but the King no sooner landed in England than he went straight to Canterbury;
and when he came within sight of the distant Cathedral, he dismounted from his
horse, took off his shoes, and walked with bare and bleeding feet to &agrave;
Becket&rsquo;s grave. There, he lay down on the ground, lamenting, in the
presence of many people; and by-and-by he went into the Chapter House, and,
removing his clothes from his back and shoulders, submitted himself to be
beaten with knotted cords (not beaten very hard, I dare say though) by eighty
Priests, one after another. It chanced that on the very day when the King made
this curious exhibition of himself, a complete victory was obtained over the
Scots; which very much delighted the Priests, who said that it was won because
of his great example of repentance. For the Priests in general had found out,
since &agrave; Becket&rsquo;s death, that they admired him of all
things&mdash;though they had hated him very cordially when he was alive.
</p>

<p>
The Earl of Flanders, who was at the head of the base conspiracy of the
King&rsquo;s undutiful sons and their foreign friends, took the opportunity of
the King being thus employed at home, to lay siege to Rouen, the capital of
Normandy. But the King, who was extraordinarily quick and active in all his
movements, was at Rouen, too, before it was supposed possible that he could
have left England; and there he so defeated the said Earl of Flanders, that the
conspirators proposed peace, and his bad sons Henry and Geoffrey submitted.
Richard resisted for six weeks; but, being beaten out of castle after castle,
he at last submitted too, and his father forgave him.
</p>

<p>
To forgive these unworthy princes was only to afford them breathing-time for
new faithlessness. They were so false, disloyal, and dishonourable, that they
were no more to be trusted than common thieves. In the very next year, Prince
Henry rebelled again, and was again forgiven. In eight years more, Prince
Richard rebelled against his elder brother; and Prince Geoffrey infamously said
that the brothers could never agree well together, unless they were united
against their father. In the very next year after their reconciliation by the
King, Prince Henry again rebelled against his father; and again submitted,
swearing to be true; and was again forgiven; and again rebelled with Geoffrey.
</p>

<p>
But the end of this perfidious Prince was come. He fell sick at a French town;
and his conscience terribly reproaching him with his baseness, he sent
messengers to the King his father, imploring him to come and see him, and to
forgive him for the last time on his bed of death. The generous King, who had a
royal and forgiving mind towards his children always, would have gone; but this
Prince had been so unnatural, that the noblemen about the King suspected
treachery, and represented to him that he could not safely trust his life with
such a traitor, though his own eldest son. Therefore the King sent him a ring
from off his finger as a token of forgiveness; and when the Prince had kissed
it, with much grief and many tears, and had confessed to those around him how
bad, and wicked, and undutiful a son he had been; he said to the attendant
Priests: &lsquo;O, tie a rope about my body, and draw me out of bed, and lay me
down upon a bed of ashes, that I may die with prayers to God in a repentant
manner!&rsquo; And so he died, at twenty-seven years old.
</p>

<p>
Three years afterwards, Prince Geoffrey, being unhorsed at a tournament, had
his brains trampled out by a crowd of horses passing over him. So, there only
remained Prince Richard, and Prince John&mdash;who had grown to be a young man
now, and had solemnly sworn to be faithful to his father. Richard soon rebelled
again, encouraged by his friend the French King, <span class="smcap">Philip the
Second</span> (son of Louis, who was dead); and soon submitted and was again
forgiven, swearing on the New Testament never to rebel again; and in another
year or so, rebelled again; and, in the presence of his father, knelt down on
his knee before the King of France; and did the French King homage: and
declared that with his aid he would possess himself, by force, of all his
father&rsquo;s French dominions.
</p>

<p>
And yet this Richard called himself a soldier of Our Saviour! And yet this
Richard wore the Cross, which the Kings of France and England had both taken,
in the previous year, at a brotherly meeting underneath the old wide-spreading
elm-tree on the plain, when they had sworn (like him) to devote themselves to a
new Crusade, for the love and honour of the Truth!
</p>

<p>
Sick at heart, wearied out by the falsehood of his sons, and almost ready to
lie down and die, the unhappy King who had so long stood firm, began to fail.
But the Pope, to his honour, supported him; and obliged the French King and
Richard, though successful in fight, to treat for peace. Richard wanted to be
Crowned King of England, and pretended that he wanted to be married (which he
really did not) to the French King&rsquo;s sister, his promised wife, whom King
Henry detained in England. King Henry wanted, on the other hand, that the
French King&rsquo;s sister should be married to his favourite son, John: the
only one of his sons (he said) who had never rebelled against him. At last King
Henry, deserted by his nobles one by one, distressed, exhausted,
broken-hearted, consented to establish peace.
</p>

<p>
One final heavy sorrow was reserved for him, even yet. When they brought him
the proposed treaty of peace, in writing, as he lay very ill in bed, they
brought him also the list of the deserters from their allegiance, whom he was
required to pardon. The first name upon this list was John, his favourite son,
in whom he had trusted to the last.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;O John! child of my heart!&rsquo; exclaimed the King, in a great agony
of mind. &lsquo;O John, whom I have loved the best! O John, for whom I have
contended through these many troubles! Have you betrayed me too!&rsquo; And
then he lay down with a heavy groan, and said, &lsquo;Now let the world go as
it will. I care for nothing more!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
After a time, he told his attendants to take him to the French town of
Chinon&mdash;a town he had been fond of, during many years. But he was fond of
no place now; it was too true that he could care for nothing more upon this
earth. He wildly cursed the hour when he was born, and cursed the children whom
he left behind him; and expired.
</p>

<p>
As, one hundred years before, the servile followers of the Court had abandoned
the Conqueror in the hour of his death, so they now abandoned his descendant.
The very body was stripped, in the plunder of the Royal chamber; and it was not
easy to find the means of carrying it for burial to the abbey church of
Fontevraud.
</p>

<p>
Richard was said in after years, by way of flattery, to have the heart of a
Lion. It would have been far better, I think, to have had the heart of a Man.
His heart, whatever it was, had cause to beat remorsefully within his breast,
when he came&mdash;as he did&mdash;into the solemn abbey, and looked on his
dead father&rsquo;s uncovered face. His heart, whatever it was, had been a
black and perjured heart, in all its dealings with the deceased King, and more
deficient in a single touch of tenderness than any wild beast&rsquo;s in the
forest.
</p>

<p>
There is a pretty story told of this Reign, called the story of <span
class="smcap">Fair Rosamond</span>. It relates how the King doted on Fair
Rosamond, who was the loveliest girl in all the world; and how he had a
beautiful Bower built for her in a Park at Woodstock; and how it was erected in
a labyrinth, and could only be found by a clue of silk. How the bad Queen
Eleanor, becoming jealous of Fair Rosamond, found out the secret of the clue,
and one day, appeared before her, with a dagger and a cup of poison, and left
her to the choice between those deaths. How Fair Rosamond, after shedding many
piteous tears and offering many useless prayers to the cruel Queen, took the
poison, and fell dead in the midst of the beautiful bower, while the
unconscious birds sang gaily all around her.
</p>

<p>
Now, there <i>was</i> a fair Rosamond, and she was (I dare say) the loveliest
girl in all the world, and the King was certainly very fond of her, and the bad
Queen Eleanor was certainly made jealous. But I am afraid&mdash;I say afraid,
because I like the story so much&mdash;that there was no bower, no labyrinth,
no silken clue, no dagger, no poison. I am afraid fair Rosamond retired to a
nunnery near Oxford, and died there, peaceably; her sister-nuns hanging a
silken drapery over her tomb, and often dressing it with flowers, in
remembrance of the youth and beauty that had enchanted the King when he too was
young, and when his life lay fair before him.
</p>

<p>
It was dark and ended now; faded and gone. Henry Plantagenet lay quiet in the
abbey church of Fontevraud, in the fifty-seventh year of his age&mdash;never to
be completed&mdash;after governing England well, for nearly thirty-five years.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE FIRST, CALLED THE LION-HEART</h2>

<p>
In the year of our Lord one thousand one hundred and eighty-nine, Richard of
the Lion Heart succeeded to the throne of King Henry the Second, whose paternal
heart he had done so much to break. He had been, as we have seen, a rebel from
his boyhood; but, the moment he became a king against whom others might rebel,
he found out that rebellion was a great wickedness. In the heat of this pious
discovery, he punished all the leading people who had befriended him against
his father. He could scarcely have done anything that would have been a better
instance of his real nature, or a better warning to fawners and parasites not
to trust in lion-hearted princes.
</p>

<p>
He likewise put his late father&rsquo;s treasurer in chains, and locked him up
in a dungeon from which he was not set free until he had relinquished, not only
all the Crown treasure, but all his own money too. So, Richard certainly got
the Lion&rsquo;s share of the wealth of this wretched treasurer, whether he had
a Lion&rsquo;s heart or not.
</p>

<p>
He was crowned King of England, with great pomp, at Westminster: walking to the
Cathedral under a silken canopy stretched on the tops of four lances, each
carried by a great lord. On the day of his coronation, a dreadful murdering of
the Jews took place, which seems to have given great delight to numbers of
savage persons calling themselves Christians. The King had issued a
proclamation forbidding the Jews (who were generally hated, though they were
the most useful merchants in England) to appear at the ceremony; but as they
had assembled in London from all parts, bringing presents to show their respect
for the new Sovereign, some of them ventured down to Westminster Hall with
their gifts; which were very readily accepted. It is supposed, now, that some
noisy fellow in the crowd, pretending to be a very delicate Christian, set up a
howl at this, and struck a Jew who was trying to get in at the Hall door with
his present. A riot arose. The Jews who had got into the Hall, were driven
forth; and some of the rabble cried out that the new King had commanded the
unbelieving race to be put to death. Thereupon the crowd rushed through the
narrow streets of the city, slaughtering all the Jews they met; and when they
could find no more out of doors (on account of their having fled to their
houses, and fastened themselves in), they ran madly about, breaking open all
the houses where the Jews lived, rushing in and stabbing or spearing them,
sometimes even flinging old people and children out of window into blazing
fires they had lighted up below. This great cruelty lasted four-and-twenty
hours, and only three men were punished for it. Even they forfeited their lives
not for murdering and robbing the Jews, but for burning the houses of some
Christians.
</p>

<p>
King Richard, who was a strong, restless, burly man, with one idea always in
his head, and that the very troublesome idea of breaking the heads of other
men, was mightily impatient to go on a Crusade to the Holy Land, with a great
army. As great armies could not be raised to go, even to the Holy Land, without
a great deal of money, he sold the Crown domains, and even the high offices of
State; recklessly appointing noblemen to rule over his English subjects, not
because they were fit to govern, but because they could pay high for the
privilege. In this way, and by selling pardons at a dear rate and by varieties
of avarice and oppression, he scraped together a large treasure. He then
appointed two Bishops to take care of his kingdom in his absence, and gave
great powers and possessions to his brother John, to secure his friendship.
John would rather have been made Regent of England; but he was a sly man, and
friendly to the expedition; saying to himself, no doubt, &lsquo;The more
fighting, the more chance of my brother being killed; and when he <i>is</i>
killed, then I become King John!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
Before the newly levied army departed from England, the recruits and the
general populace distinguished themselves by astonishing cruelties on the
unfortunate Jews: whom, in many large towns, they murdered by hundreds in the
most horrible manner.
</p>

<p>
At York, a large body of Jews took refuge in the Castle, in the absence of its
Governor, after the wives and children of many of them had been slain before
their eyes. Presently came the Governor, and demanded admission. &lsquo;How can
we give it thee, O Governor!&rsquo; said the Jews upon the walls, &lsquo;when,
if we open the gate by so much as the width of a foot, the roaring crowd behind
thee will press in and kill us?&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
Upon this, the unjust Governor became angry, and told the people that he
approved of their killing those Jews; and a mischievous maniac of a friar,
dressed all in white, put himself at the head of the assault, and they
assaulted the Castle for three days.
</p>

<p>
Then said <span class="smcap">Jocen</span>, the head-Jew (who was a Rabbi or
Priest), to the rest, &lsquo;Brethren, there is no hope for us with the
Christians who are hammering at the gates and walls, and who must soon break
in. As we and our wives and children must die, either by Christian hands, or by
our own, let it be by our own. Let us destroy by fire what jewels and other
treasure we have here, then fire the castle, and then perish!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
A few could not resolve to do this, but the greater part complied. They made a
blazing heap of all their valuables, and, when those were consumed, set the
castle in flames. While the flames roared and crackled around them, and
shooting up into the sky, turned it blood-red, Jocen cut the throat of his
beloved wife, and stabbed himself. All the others who had wives or children,
did the like dreadful deed. When the populace broke in, they found (except the
trembling few, cowering in corners, whom they soon killed) only heaps of greasy
cinders, with here and there something like part of the blackened trunk of a
burnt tree, but which had lately been a human creature, formed by the
beneficent hand of the Creator as they were.
</p>

<p>
After this bad beginning, Richard and his troops went on, in no very good
manner, with the Holy Crusade. It was undertaken jointly by the King of England
and his old friend Philip of France. They commenced the business by reviewing
their forces, to the number of one hundred thousand men. Afterwards, they
severally embarked their troops for Messina, in Sicily, which was appointed as
the next place of meeting.
</p>

<p>
King Richard&rsquo;s sister had married the King of this place, but he was
dead: and his uncle <span class="smcap">Tancred</span> had usurped the crown,
cast the Royal Widow into prison, and possessed himself of her estates. Richard
fiercely demanded his sister&rsquo;s release, the restoration of her lands, and
(according to the Royal custom of the Island) that she should have a golden
chair, a golden table, four-and-twenty silver cups, and four-and-twenty silver
dishes. As he was too powerful to be successfully resisted, Tancred yielded to
his demands; and then the French King grew jealous, and complained that the
English King wanted to be absolute in the Island of Messina and everywhere
else. Richard, however, cared little or nothing for this complaint; and in
consideration of a present of twenty thousand pieces of gold, promised his
pretty little nephew <span class="smcap">Arthur</span>, then a child of two
years old, in marriage to Tancred&rsquo;s daughter. We shall hear again of
pretty little Arthur by-and-by.
</p>

<p>
This Sicilian affair arranged without anybody&rsquo;s brains being knocked out
(which must have rather disappointed him), King Richard took his sister away,
and also a fair lady named <span class="smcap">Berengaria</span>, with whom he
had fallen in love in France, and whom his mother, Queen Eleanor (so long in
prison, you remember, but released by Richard on his coming to the Throne), had
brought out there to be his wife; and sailed with them for Cyprus.
</p>

<p>
He soon had the pleasure of fighting the King of the Island of Cyprus, for
allowing his subjects to pillage some of the English troops who were
shipwrecked on the shore; and easily conquering this poor monarch, he seized
his only daughter, to be a companion to the lady Berengaria, and put the King
himself into silver fetters. He then sailed away again with his mother, sister,
wife, and the captive princess; and soon arrived before the town of Acre, which
the French King with his fleet was besieging from the sea. But the French King
was in no triumphant condition, for his army had been thinned by the swords of
the Saracens, and wasted by the plague; and <span class="smcap">Saladin</span>,
the brave Sultan of the Turks, at the head of a numerous army, was at that time
gallantly defending the place from the hills that rise above it.
</p>

<p>
Wherever the united army of Crusaders went, they agreed in few points except in
gaming, drinking, and quarrelling, in a most unholy manner; in debauching the
people among whom they tarried, whether they were friends or foes; and in
carrying disturbance and ruin into quiet places. The French King was jealous of
the English King, and the English King was jealous of the French King, and the
disorderly and violent soldiers of the two nations were jealous of one another;
consequently, the two Kings could not at first agree, even upon a joint assault
on Acre; but when they did make up their quarrel for that purpose, the Saracens
promised to yield the town, to give up to the Christians the wood of the Holy
Cross, to set at liberty all their Christian captives, and to pay two hundred
thousand pieces of gold. All this was to be done within forty days; but, not
being done, King Richard ordered some three thousand Saracen prisoners to be
brought out in the front of his camp, and there, in full view of their own
countrymen, to be butchered.
</p>

<p>
The French King had no part in this crime; for he was by that time travelling
homeward with the greater part of his men; being offended by the overbearing
conduct of the English King; being anxious to look after his own dominions; and
being ill, besides, from the unwholesome air of that hot and sandy country.
King Richard carried on the war without him; and remained in the East, meeting
with a variety of adventures, nearly a year and a half. Every night when his
army was on the march, and came to a halt, the heralds cried out three times,
to remind all the soldiers of the cause in which they were engaged, &lsquo;Save
the Holy Sepulchre!&rsquo; and then all the soldiers knelt and said
&lsquo;Amen!&rsquo; Marching or encamping, the army had continually to strive
with the hot air of the glaring desert, or with the Saracen soldiers animated
and directed by the brave Saladin, or with both together. Sickness and death,
battle and wounds, were always among them; but through every difficulty King
Richard fought like a giant, and worked like a common labourer. Long and long
after he was quiet in his grave, his terrible battle-axe, with twenty English
pounds of English steel in its mighty head, was a legend among the Saracens;
and when all the Saracen and Christian hosts had been dust for many a year, if
a Saracen horse started at any object by the wayside, his rider would exclaim,
&lsquo;What dost thou fear, Fool? Dost thou think King Richard is behind
it?&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
No one admired this King&rsquo;s renown for bravery more than Saladin himself,
who was a generous and gallant enemy. When Richard lay ill of a fever, Saladin
sent him fresh fruits from Damascus, and snow from the mountain-tops. Courtly
messages and compliments were frequently exchanged between them&mdash;and then
King Richard would mount his horse and kill as many Saracens as he could; and
Saladin would mount his, and kill as many Christians as he could. In this way
King Richard fought to his heart&rsquo;s content at Arsoof and at Jaffa; and
finding himself with nothing exciting to do at Ascalon, except to rebuild, for
his own defence, some fortifications there which the Saracens had destroyed, he
kicked his ally the Duke of Austria, for being too proud to work at them.
</p>

<p>
The army at last came within sight of the Holy City of Jerusalem; but, being
then a mere nest of jealousy, and quarrelling and fighting, soon retired, and
agreed with the Saracens upon a truce for three years, three months, three
days, and three hours. Then, the English Christians, protected by the noble
Saladin from Saracen revenge, visited Our Saviour&rsquo;s tomb; and then King
Richard embarked with a small force at Acre to return home.
</p>

<p>
But he was shipwrecked in the Adriatic Sea, and was fain to pass through
Germany, under an assumed name. Now, there were many people in Germany who had
served in the Holy Land under that proud Duke of Austria who had been kicked;
and some of them, easily recognising a man so remarkable as King Richard,
carried their intelligence to the kicked Duke, who straightway took him
prisoner at a little inn near Vienna.
</p>

<p>
The Duke&rsquo;s master the Emperor of Germany, and the King of France, were
equally delighted to have so troublesome a monarch in safe keeping. Friendships
which are founded on a partnership in doing wrong, are never true; and the King
of France was now quite as heartily King Richard&rsquo;s foe, as he had ever
been his friend in his unnatural conduct to his father. He monstrously
pretended that King Richard had designed to poison him in the East; he charged
him with having murdered, there, a man whom he had in truth befriended; he
bribed the Emperor of Germany to keep him close prisoner; and, finally, through
the plotting of these two princes, Richard was brought before the German
legislature, charged with the foregoing crimes, and many others. But he
defended himself so well, that many of the assembly were moved to tears by his
eloquence and earnestness. It was decided that he should be treated, during the
rest of his captivity, in a manner more becoming his dignity than he had been,
and that he should be set free on the payment of a heavy ransom. This ransom
the English people willingly raised. When Queen Eleanor took it over to
Germany, it was at first evaded and refused. But she appealed to the honour of
all the princes of the German Empire in behalf of her son, and appealed so well
that it was accepted, and the King released. Thereupon, the King of France
wrote to Prince John&mdash;&lsquo;Take care of thyself. The devil is
unchained!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
Prince John had reason to fear his brother, for he had been a traitor to him in
his captivity. He had secretly joined the French King; had vowed to the English
nobles and people that his brother was dead; and had vainly tried to seize the
crown. He was now in France, at a place called Evreux. Being the meanest and
basest of men, he contrived a mean and base expedient for making himself
acceptable to his brother. He invited the French officers of the garrison in
that town to dinner, murdered them all, and then took the fortress. With this
recommendation to the good will of a lion-hearted monarch, he hastened to King
Richard, fell on his knees before him, and obtained the intercession of Queen
Eleanor. &lsquo;I forgive him,&rsquo; said the King, &lsquo;and I hope I may
forget the injury he has done me, as easily as I know he will forget my
pardon.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
While King Richard was in Sicily, there had been trouble in his dominions at
home: one of the bishops whom he had left in charge thereof, arresting the
other; and making, in his pride and ambition, as great a show as if he were
King himself. But the King hearing of it at Messina, and appointing a new
Regency, this <span class="smcap">Longchamp</span> (for that was his name) had
fled to France in a woman&rsquo;s dress, and had there been encouraged and
supported by the French King. With all these causes of offence against Philip
in his mind, King Richard had no sooner been welcomed home by his enthusiastic
subjects with great display and splendour, and had no sooner been crowned
afresh at Winchester, than he resolved to show the French King that the Devil
was unchained indeed, and made war against him with great fury.
</p>

<p>
There was fresh trouble at home about this time, arising out of the discontents
of the poor people, who complained that they were far more heavily taxed than
the rich, and who found a spirited champion in <span class="smcap">William
Fitz-Osbert</span>, called <span class="smcap">Longbeard</span>. He became the
leader of a secret society, comprising fifty thousand men; he was seized by
surprise; he stabbed the citizen who first laid hands upon him; and retreated,
bravely fighting, to a church, which he maintained four days, until he was
dislodged by fire, and run through the body as he came out. He was not killed,
though; for he was dragged, half dead, at the tail of a horse to Smithfield,
and there hanged. Death was long a favourite remedy for silencing the
people&rsquo;s advocates; but as we go on with this history, I fancy we shall
find them difficult to make an end of, for all that.
</p>

<p>
The French war, delayed occasionally by a truce, was still in progress when a
certain Lord named <span class="smcap">Vidomar</span>, Viscount of Limoges,
chanced to find in his ground a treasure of ancient coins. As the King&rsquo;s
vassal, he sent the King half of it; but the King claimed the whole. The lord
refused to yield the whole. The King besieged the lord in his castle, swore
that he would take the castle by storm, and hang every man of its defenders on
the battlements.
</p>

<p>
There was a strange old song in that part of the country, to the effect that in
Limoges an arrow would be made by which King Richard would die. It may be that
<span class="smcap">Bertrand de Gourdon</span>, a young man who was one of the
defenders of the castle, had often sung it or heard it sung of a winter night,
and remembered it when he saw, from his post upon the ramparts, the King
attended only by his chief officer riding below the walls surveying the place.
He drew an arrow to the head, took steady aim, said between his teeth,
&lsquo;Now I pray God speed thee well, arrow!&rsquo; discharged it, and struck
the King in the left shoulder.
</p>

<p>
Although the wound was not at first considered dangerous, it was severe enough
to cause the King to retire to his tent, and direct the assault to be made
without him. The castle was taken; and every man of its defenders was hanged,
as the King had sworn all should be, except Bertrand de Gourdon, who was
reserved until the royal pleasure respecting him should be known.
</p>

<p>
By that time unskilful treatment had made the wound mortal and the King knew
that he was dying. He directed Bertrand to be brought into his tent. The young
man was brought there, heavily chained, King Richard looked at him steadily. He
looked, as steadily, at the King.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Knave!&rsquo; said King Richard. &lsquo;What have I done to thee that
thou shouldest take my life?&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;What hast thou done to me?&rsquo; replied the young man. &lsquo;With
thine own hands thou hast killed my father and my two brothers. Myself thou
wouldest have hanged. Let me die now, by any torture that thou wilt. My comfort
is, that no torture can save Thee. Thou too must die; and, through me, the
world is quit of thee!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
Again the King looked at the young man steadily. Again the young man looked
steadily at him. Perhaps some remembrance of his generous enemy Saladin, who
was not a Christian, came into the mind of the dying King.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Youth!&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;I forgive thee. Go unhurt!&rsquo; Then,
turning to the chief officer who had been riding in his company when he
received the wound, King Richard said:
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Take off his chains, give him a hundred shillings, and let him
depart.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
He sunk down on his couch, and a dark mist seemed in his weakened eyes to fill
the tent wherein he had so often rested, and he died. His age was forty-two; he
had reigned ten years. His last command was not obeyed; for the chief officer
flayed Bertrand de Gourdon alive, and hanged him.
</p>

<p>
There is an old tune yet known&mdash;a sorrowful air will sometimes outlive
many generations of strong men, and even last longer than battle-axes with
twenty pounds of steel in the head&mdash;by which this King is said to have
been discovered in his captivity. <span class="smcap">Blondel</span>, a
favourite Minstrel of King Richard, as the story relates, faithfully seeking
his Royal master, went singing it outside the gloomy walls of many foreign
fortresses and prisons; until at last he heard it echoed from within a dungeon,
and knew the voice, and cried out in ecstasy, &lsquo;O Richard, O my
King!&rsquo; You may believe it, if you like; it would be easy to believe worse
things. Richard was himself a Minstrel and a Poet. If he had not been a Prince
too, he might have been a better man perhaps, and might have gone out of the
world with less bloodshed and waste of life to answer for.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER KING JOHN, CALLED LACKLAND</h2>

<p>
At two-and-thirty years of age, <span class="smcap">John</span> became King of
England. His pretty little nephew <span class="smcap">Arthur</span> had the
best claim to the throne; but John seized the treasure, and made fine promises
to the nobility, and got himself crowned at Westminster within a few weeks
after his brother Richard&rsquo;s death. I doubt whether the crown could
possibly have been put upon the head of a meaner coward, or a more detestable
villain, if England had been searched from end to end to find him out.
</p>

<p>
The French King, Philip, refused to acknowledge the right of John to his new
dignity, and declared in favour of Arthur. You must not suppose that he had any
generosity of feeling for the fatherless boy; it merely suited his ambitious
schemes to oppose the King of England. So John and the French King went to war
about Arthur.
</p>

<p>
He was a handsome boy, at that time only twelve years old. He was not born when
his father, Geoffrey, had his brains trampled out at the tournament; and,
besides the misfortune of never having known a father&rsquo;s guidance and
protection, he had the additional misfortune to have a foolish mother (<span
class="smcap">Constance</span> by name), lately married to her third husband.
She took Arthur, upon John&rsquo;s accession, to the French King, who pretended
to be very much his friend, and who made him a Knight, and promised him his
daughter in marriage; but, who cared so little about him in reality, that
finding it his interest to make peace with King John for a time, he did so
without the least consideration for the poor little Prince, and heartlessly
sacrificed all his interests.
</p>

<p>
Young Arthur, for two years afterwards, lived quietly; and in the course of
that time his mother died. But, the French King then finding it his interest to
quarrel with King John again, again made Arthur his pretence, and invited the
orphan boy to court. &lsquo;You know your rights, Prince,&rsquo; said the
French King, &lsquo;and you would like to be a King. Is it not so?&rsquo;
&lsquo;Truly,&rsquo; said Prince Arthur, &lsquo;I should greatly like to be a
King!&rsquo; &lsquo;Then,&rsquo; said Philip, &lsquo;you shall have two hundred
gentlemen who are Knights of mine, and with them you shall go to win back the
provinces belonging to you, of which your uncle, the usurping King of England,
has taken possession. I myself, meanwhile, will head a force against him in
Normandy.&rsquo; Poor Arthur was so flattered and so grateful that he signed a
treaty with the crafty French King, agreeing to consider him his superior Lord,
and that the French King should keep for himself whatever he could take from
King John.
</p>

<p>
Now, King John was so bad in all ways, and King Philip was so perfidious, that
Arthur, between the two, might as well have been a lamb between a fox and a
wolf. But, being so young, he was ardent and flushed with hope; and, when the
people of Brittany (which was his inheritance) sent him five hundred more
knights and five thousand foot soldiers, he believed his fortune was made. The
people of Brittany had been fond of him from his birth, and had requested that
he might be called Arthur, in remembrance of that dimly-famous English Arthur,
of whom I told you early in this book, whom they believed to have been the
brave friend and companion of an old King of their own. They had tales among
them about a prophet called <span class="smcap">Merlin</span> (of the same old
time), who had foretold that their own King should be restored to them after
hundreds of years; and they believed that the prophecy would be fulfilled in
Arthur; that the time would come when he would rule them with a crown of
Brittany upon his head; and when neither King of France nor King of England
would have any power over them. When Arthur found himself riding in a
glittering suit of armour on a richly caparisoned horse, at the head of his
train of knights and soldiers, he began to believe this too, and to consider
old Merlin a very superior prophet.
</p>

<p>
He did not know&mdash;how could he, being so innocent and
inexperienced?&mdash;that his little army was a mere nothing against the power
of the King of England. The French King knew it; but the poor boy&rsquo;s fate
was little to him, so that the King of England was worried and distressed.
Therefore, King Philip went his way into Normandy and Prince Arthur went his
way towards Mirebeau, a French town near Poictiers, both very well pleased.
</p>

<p>
Prince Arthur went to attack the town of Mirebeau, because his grandmother
Eleanor, who has so often made her appearance in this history (and who had
always been his mother&rsquo;s enemy), was living there, and because his
Knights said, &lsquo;Prince, if you can take her prisoner, you will be able to
bring the King your uncle to terms!&rsquo; But she was not to be easily taken.
She was old enough by this time&mdash;eighty&mdash;but she was as full of
stratagem as she was full of years and wickedness. Receiving intelligence of
young Arthur&rsquo;s approach, she shut herself up in a high tower, and
encouraged her soldiers to defend it like men. Prince Arthur with his little
army besieged the high tower. King John, hearing how matters stood, came up to
the rescue, with <i>his</i> army. So here was a strange family-party! The
boy-Prince besieging his grandmother, and his uncle besieging him!
</p>

<p>
This position of affairs did not last long. One summer night King John, by
treachery, got his men into the town, surprised Prince Arthur&rsquo;s force,
took two hundred of his knights, and seized the Prince himself in his bed. The
Knights were put in heavy irons, and driven away in open carts drawn by
bullocks, to various dungeons where they were most inhumanly treated, and where
some of them were starved to death. Prince Arthur was sent to the castle of
Falaise.
</p>

<p>
One day, while he was in prison at that castle, mournfully thinking it strange
that one so young should be in so much trouble, and looking out of the small
window in the deep dark wall, at the summer sky and the birds, the door was
softly opened, and he saw his uncle the King standing in the shadow of the
archway, looking very grim.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Arthur,&rsquo; said the King, with his wicked eyes more on the stone
floor than on his nephew, &lsquo;will you not trust to the gentleness, the
friendship, and the truthfulness of your loving uncle?&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;I will tell my loving uncle that,&rsquo; replied the boy, &lsquo;when he
does me right. Let him restore to me my kingdom of England, and then come to me
and ask the question.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
The King looked at him and went out. &lsquo;Keep that boy close
prisoner,&rsquo; said he to the warden of the castle.
</p>

<p>
Then, the King took secret counsel with the worst of his nobles how the Prince
was to be got rid of. Some said, &lsquo;Put out his eyes and keep him in
prison, as Robort of Normandy was kept.&rsquo; Others said, &lsquo;Have him
stabbed.&rsquo; Others, &lsquo;Have him hanged.&rsquo; Others, &lsquo;Have him
poisoned.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
King John, feeling that in any case, whatever was done afterwards, it would be
a satisfaction to his mind to have those handsome eyes burnt out that had
looked at him so proudly while his own royal eyes were blinking at the stone
floor, sent certain ruffians to Falaise to blind the boy with red-hot irons.
But Arthur so pathetically entreated them, and shed such piteous tears, and so
appealed to <span class="smcap">Hubert de Bourg</span> (or <span
class="smcap">Burgh</span>), the warden of the castle, who had a love for him,
and was an honourable, tender man, that Hubert could not bear it. To his
eternal honour he prevented the torture from being performed, and, at his own
risk, sent the savages away.
</p>

<p>
The chafed and disappointed King bethought himself of the stabbing suggestion
next, and, with his shuffling manner and his cruel face, proposed it to one
William de Bray. &lsquo;I am a gentleman and not an executioner,&rsquo; said
William de Bray, and left the presence with disdain.
</p>

<p>
But it was not difficult for a King to hire a murderer in those days. King John
found one for his money, and sent him down to the castle of Falaise. &lsquo;On
what errand dost thou come?&rsquo; said Hubert to this fellow. &lsquo;To
despatch young Arthur,&rsquo; he returned. &lsquo;Go back to him who sent
thee,&rsquo; answered Hubert, &lsquo;and say that I will do it!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
King John very well knowing that Hubert would never do it, but that he
courageously sent this reply to save the Prince or gain time, despatched
messengers to convey the young prisoner to the castle of Rouen.
</p>

<p>
Arthur was soon forced from the good Hubert&mdash;of whom he had never stood in
greater need than then&mdash;carried away by night, and lodged in his new
prison: where, through his grated window, he could hear the deep waters of the
river Seine, rippling against the stone wall below.
</p>

<p>
One dark night, as he lay sleeping, dreaming perhaps of rescue by those
unfortunate gentlemen who were obscurely suffering and dying in his cause, he
was roused, and bidden by his jailer to come down the staircase to the foot of
the tower. He hurriedly dressed himself and obeyed. When they came to the
bottom of the winding stairs, and the night air from the river blew upon their
faces, the jailer trod upon his torch and put it out. Then, Arthur, in the
darkness, was hurriedly drawn into a solitary boat. And in that boat, he found
his uncle and one other man.
</p>

<p>
He knelt to them, and prayed them not to murder him. Deaf to his entreaties,
they stabbed him and sunk his body in the river with heavy stones. When the
spring-morning broke, the tower-door was closed, the boat was gone, the river
sparkled on its way, and never more was any trace of the poor boy beheld by
mortal eyes.
</p>

<p>
The news of this atrocious murder being spread in England, awakened a hatred of
the King (already odious for his many vices, and for his having stolen away and
married a noble lady while his own wife was living) that never slept again
through his whole reign. In Brittany, the indignation was intense.
Arthur&rsquo;s own sister <span class="smcap">Eleanor</span> was in the power
of John and shut up in a convent at Bristol, but his half-sister <span
class="smcap">Alice</span> was in Brittany. The people chose her, and the
murdered prince&rsquo;s father-in-law, the last husband of Constance, to
represent them; and carried their fiery complaints to King Philip. King Philip
summoned King John (as the holder of territory in France) to come before him
and defend himself. King John refusing to appear, King Philip declared him
false, perjured, and guilty; and again made war. In a little time, by
conquering the greater part of his French territory, King Philip deprived him
of one-third of his dominions. And, through all the fighting that took place,
King John was always found, either to be eating and drinking, like a gluttonous
fool, when the danger was at a distance, or to be running away, like a beaten
cur, when it was near.
</p>

<p>
You might suppose that when he was losing his dominions at this rate, and when
his own nobles cared so little for him or his cause that they plainly refused
to follow his banner out of England, he had enemies enough. But he made another
enemy of the Pope, which he did in this way.
</p>

<p>
The Archbishop of Canterbury dying, and the junior monks of that place wishing
to get the start of the senior monks in the appointment of his successor, met
together at midnight, secretly elected a certain <span
class="smcap">Reginald</span>, and sent him off to Rome to get the Pope&rsquo;s
approval. The senior monks and the King soon finding this out, and being very
angry about it, the junior monks gave way, and all the monks together elected
the Bishop of Norwich, who was the King&rsquo;s favourite. The Pope, hearing
the whole story, declared that neither election would do for him, and that
<i>he</i> elected <span class="smcap">Stephen Langton</span>. The monks
submitting to the Pope, the King turned them all out bodily, and banished them
as traitors. The Pope sent three bishops to the King, to threaten him with an
Interdict. The King told the bishops that if any Interdict were laid upon his
kingdom, he would tear out the eyes and cut off the noses of all the monks he
could lay hold of, and send them over to Rome in that undecorated state as a
present for their master. The bishops, nevertheless, soon published the
Interdict, and fled.
</p>

<p>
After it had lasted a year, the Pope proceeded to his next step; which was
Excommunication. King John was declared excommunicated, with all the usual
ceremonies. The King was so incensed at this, and was made so desperate by the
disaffection of his Barons and the hatred of his people, that it is said he
even privately sent ambassadors to the Turks in Spain, offering to renounce his
religion and hold his kingdom of them if they would help him. It is related
that the ambassadors were admitted to the presence of the Turkish Emir through
long lines of Moorish guards, and that they found the Emir with his eyes
seriously fixed on the pages of a large book, from which he never once looked
up. That they gave him a letter from the King containing his proposals, and
were gravely dismissed. That presently the Emir sent for one of them, and
conjured him, by his faith in his religion, to say what kind of man the King of
England truly was? That the ambassador, thus pressed, replied that the King of
England was a false tyrant, against whom his own subjects would soon rise. And
that this was quite enough for the Emir.
</p>

<p>
Money being, in his position, the next best thing to men, King John spared no
means of getting it. He set on foot another oppressing and torturing of the
unhappy Jews (which was quite in his way), and invented a new punishment for
one wealthy Jew of Bristol. Until such time as that Jew should produce a
certain large sum of money, the King sentenced him to be imprisoned, and, every
day, to have one tooth violently wrenched out of his head&mdash;beginning with
the double teeth. For seven days, the oppressed man bore the daily pain and
lost the daily tooth; but, on the eighth, he paid the money. With the treasure
raised in such ways, the King made an expedition into Ireland, where some
English nobles had revolted. It was one of the very few places from which he
did not run away; because no resistance was shown. He made another expedition
into Wales&mdash;whence he <i>did</i> run away in the end: but not before he
had got from the Welsh people, as hostages, twenty-seven young men of the best
families; every one of whom he caused to be slain in the following year.
</p>

<p>
To Interdict and Excommunication, the Pope now added his last sentence;
Deposition. He proclaimed John no longer King, absolved all his subjects from
their allegiance, and sent Stephen Langton and others to the King of France to
tell him that, if he would invade England, he should be forgiven all his
sins&mdash;at least, should be forgiven them by the Pope, if that would do.
</p>

<p>
As there was nothing that King Philip desired more than to invade England, he
collected a great army at Rouen, and a fleet of seventeen hundred ships to
bring them over. But the English people, however bitterly they hated the King,
were not a people to suffer invasion quietly. They flocked to Dover, where the
English standard was, in such great numbers to enrol themselves as defenders of
their native land, that there were not provisions for them, and the King could
only select and retain sixty thousand. But, at this crisis, the Pope, who had
his own reasons for objecting to either King John or King Philip being too
powerful, interfered. He entrusted a legate, whose name was <span
class="smcap">Pandolf</span>, with the easy task of frightening King John. He
sent him to the English Camp, from France, to terrify him with exaggerations of
King Philip&rsquo;s power, and his own weakness in the discontent of the
English Barons and people. Pandolf discharged his commission so well, that King
John, in a wretched panic, consented to acknowledge Stephen Langton; to resign
his kingdom &lsquo;to God, Saint Peter, and Saint Paul&rsquo;&mdash;which meant
the Pope; and to hold it, ever afterwards, by the Pope&rsquo;s leave, on
payment of an annual sum of money. To this shameful contract he publicly bound
himself in the church of the Knights Templars at Dover: where he laid at the
legate&rsquo;s feet a part of the tribute, which the legate haughtily trampled
upon. But they <i>do</i> say, that this was merely a genteel flourish, and that
he was afterwards seen to pick it up and pocket it.
</p>

<p>
There was an unfortunate prophet, the name of Peter, who had greatly increased
King John&rsquo;s terrors by predicting that he would be unknighted (which the
King supposed to signify that he would die) before the Feast of the Ascension
should be past. That was the day after this humiliation. When the next morning
came, and the King, who had been trembling all night, found himself alive and
safe, he ordered the prophet&mdash;and his son too&mdash;to be dragged through
the streets at the tails of horses, and then hanged, for having frightened him.
</p>

<p>
As King John had now submitted, the Pope, to King Philip&rsquo;s great
astonishment, took him under his protection, and informed King Philip that he
found he could not give him leave to invade England. The angry Philip resolved
to do it without his leave but he gained nothing and lost much; for, the
English, commanded by the Earl of Salisbury, went over, in five hundred ships,
to the French coast, before the French fleet had sailed away from it, and
utterly defeated the whole.
</p>

<p>
The Pope then took off his three sentences, one after another, and empowered
Stephen Langton publicly to receive King John into the favour of the Church
again, and to ask him to dinner. The King, who hated Langton with all his might
and main&mdash;and with reason too, for he was a great and a good man, with
whom such a King could have no sympathy&mdash;pretended to cry and to be
<i>very</i> grateful. There was a little difficulty about settling how much the
King should pay as a recompense to the clergy for the losses he had caused
them; but, the end of it was, that the superior clergy got a good deal, and the
inferior clergy got little or nothing&mdash;which has also happened since King
John&rsquo;s time, I believe.
</p>

<p>
When all these matters were arranged, the King in his triumph became more
fierce, and false, and insolent to all around him than he had ever been. An
alliance of sovereigns against King Philip, gave him an opportunity of landing
an army in France; with which he even took a town! But, on the French
King&rsquo;s gaining a great victory, he ran away, of course, and made a truce
for five years.
</p>

<p>
And now the time approached when he was to be still further humbled, and made
to feel, if he could feel anything, what a wretched creature he was. Of all men
in the world, Stephen Langton seemed raised up by Heaven to oppose and subdue
him. When he ruthlessly burnt and destroyed the property of his own subjects,
because their Lords, the Barons, would not serve him abroad, Stephen Langton
fearlessly reproved and threatened him. When he swore to restore the laws of
King Edward, or the laws of King Henry the First, Stephen Langton knew his
falsehood, and pursued him through all his evasions. When the Barons met at the
abbey of Saint Edmund&rsquo;s-Bury, to consider their wrongs and the
King&rsquo;s oppressions, Stephen Langton roused them by his fervid words to
demand a solemn charter of rights and liberties from their perjured master, and
to swear, one by one, on the High Altar, that they would have it, or would wage
war against him to the death. When the King hid himself in London from the
Barons, and was at last obliged to receive them, they told him roundly they
would not believe him unless Stephen Langton became a surety that he would keep
his word. When he took the Cross to invest himself with some interest, and
belong to something that was received with favour, Stephen Langton was still
immovable. When he appealed to the Pope, and the Pope wrote to Stephen Langton
in behalf of his new favourite, Stephen Langton was deaf, even to the Pope
himself, and saw before him nothing but the welfare of England and the crimes
of the English King.
</p>

<p>
At Easter-time, the Barons assembled at Stamford, in Lincolnshire, in proud
array, and, marching near to Oxford where the King was, delivered into the
hands of Stephen Langton and two others, a list of grievances. &lsquo;And
these,&rsquo; they said, &lsquo;he must redress, or we will do it for
ourselves!&rsquo; When Stephen Langton told the King as much, and read the list
to him, he went half mad with rage. But that did him no more good than his
afterwards trying to pacify the Barons with lies. They called themselves and
their followers, &lsquo;The army of God and the Holy Church.&rsquo; Marching
through the country, with the people thronging to them everywhere (except at
Northampton, where they failed in an attack upon the castle), they at last
triumphantly set up their banner in London itself, whither the whole land,
tired of the tyrant, seemed to flock to join them. Seven knights alone, of all
the knights in England, remained with the King; who, reduced to this strait, at
last sent the Earl of Pembroke to the Barons to say that he approved of
everything, and would meet them to sign their charter when they would.
&lsquo;Then,&rsquo; said the Barons, &lsquo;let the day be the fifteenth of
June, and the place, Runny-Mead.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
On Monday, the fifteenth of June, one thousand two hundred and fourteen, the
King came from Windsor Castle, and the Barons came from the town of Staines,
and they met on Runny-Mead, which is still a pleasant meadow by the Thames,
where rushes grow in the clear water of the winding river, and its banks are
green with grass and trees. On the side of the Barons, came the General of
their army, <span class="smcap">Robert Fitz-Walter</span>, and a great
concourse of the nobility of England. With the King, came, in all, some
four-and-twenty persons of any note, most of whom despised him, and were merely
his advisers in form. On that great day, and in that great company, the King
signed <span class="smcap">Magna Charta</span>&mdash;the great charter of
England&mdash;by which he pledged himself to maintain the Church in its rights;
to relieve the Barons of oppressive obligations as vassals of the
Crown&mdash;of which the Barons, in their turn, pledged themselves to relieve
<i>their</i> vassals, the people; to respect the liberties of London and all
other cities and boroughs; to protect foreign merchants who came to England; to
imprison no man without a fair trial; and to sell, delay, or deny justice to
none. As the Barons knew his falsehood well, they further required, as their
securities, that he should send out of his kingdom all his foreign troops; that
for two months they should hold possession of the city of London, and Stephen
Langton of the Tower; and that five-and-twenty of their body, chosen by
themselves, should be a lawful committee to watch the keeping of the charter,
and to make war upon him if he broke it.
</p>

<p>
All this he was obliged to yield. He signed the charter with a smile, and, if
he could have looked agreeable, would have done so, as he departed from the
splendid assembly. When he got home to Windsor Castle, he was quite a madman in
his helpless fury. And he broke the charter immediately afterwards.
</p>

<p>
He sent abroad for foreign soldiers, and sent to the Pope for help, and plotted
to take London by surprise, while the Barons should be holding a great
tournament at Stamford, which they had agreed to hold there as a celebration of
the charter. The Barons, however, found him out and put it off. Then, when the
Barons desired to see him and tax him with his treachery, he made numbers of
appointments with them, and kept none, and shifted from place to place, and was
constantly sneaking and skulking about. At last he appeared at Dover, to join
his foreign soldiers, of whom numbers came into his pay; and with them he
besieged and took Rochester Castle, which was occupied by knights and soldiers
of the Barons. He would have hanged them every one; but the leader of the
foreign soldiers, fearful of what the English people might afterwards do to
him, interfered to save the knights; therefore the King was fain to satisfy his
vengeance with the death of all the common men. Then, he sent the Earl of
Salisbury, with one portion of his army, to ravage the eastern part of his own
dominions, while he carried fire and slaughter into the northern part;
torturing, plundering, killing, and inflicting every possible cruelty upon the
people; and, every morning, setting a worthy example to his men by setting
fire, with his own monster-hands, to the house where he had slept last night.
Nor was this all; for the Pope, coming to the aid of his precious friend, laid
the kingdom under an Interdict again, because the people took part with the
Barons. It did not much matter, for the people had grown so used to it now,
that they had begun to think nothing about it. It occurred to
them&mdash;perhaps to Stephen Langton too&mdash;that they could keep their
churches open, and ring their bells, without the Pope&rsquo;s permission as
well as with it. So, they tried the experiment&mdash;and found that it
succeeded perfectly.
</p>

<p>
It being now impossible to bear the country, as a wilderness of cruelty, or
longer to hold any terms with such a forsworn outlaw of a King, the Barons sent
to Louis, son of the French monarch, to offer him the English crown. Caring as
little for the Pope&rsquo;s excommunication of him if he accepted the offer, as
it is possible his father may have cared for the Pope&rsquo;s forgiveness of
his sins, he landed at Sandwich (King John immediately running away from Dover,
where he happened to be), and went on to London. The Scottish King, with whom
many of the Northern English Lords had taken refuge, numbers of the foreign
soldiers, numbers of the Barons, and numbers of the people went over to him
every day;&mdash;King John, the while, continually running away in all
directions.
</p>

<p>
The career of Louis was checked however, by the suspicions of the Barons,
founded on the dying declaration of a French Lord, that when the kingdom was
conquered he was sworn to banish them as traitors, and to give their estates to
some of his own Nobles. Rather than suffer this, some of the Barons hesitated:
others even went over to King John.
</p>

<p>
It seemed to be the turning-point of King John&rsquo;s fortunes, for, in his
savage and murderous course, he had now taken some towns and met with some
successes. But, happily for England and humanity, his death was near. Crossing
a dangerous quicksand, called the Wash, not very far from Wisbeach, the tide
came up and nearly drowned his army. He and his soldiers escaped; but, looking
back from the shore when he was safe, he saw the roaring water sweep down in a
torrent, overturn the waggons, horses, and men, that carried his treasure, and
engulf them in a raging whirlpool from which nothing could be delivered.
</p>

<p>
Cursing, and swearing, and gnawing his fingers, he went on to Swinestead Abbey,
where the monks set before him quantities of pears, and peaches, and new
cider&mdash;some say poison too, but there is very little reason to suppose
so&mdash;of which he ate and drank in an immoderate and beastly way. All night
he lay ill of a burning fever, and haunted with horrible fears. Next day, they
put him in a horse-litter, and carried him to Sleaford Castle, where he passed
another night of pain and horror. Next day, they carried him, with greater
difficulty than on the day before, to the castle of Newark upon Trent; and
there, on the eighteenth of October, in the forty-ninth year of his age, and
the seventeenth of his vile reign, was an end of this miserable brute.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE THIRD, CALLED, OF WINCHESTER</h2>

<p>
If any of the English Barons remembered the murdered Arthur&rsquo;s sister,
Eleanor the fair maid of Brittany, shut up in her convent at Bristol, none
among them spoke of her now, or maintained her right to the Crown. The dead
Usurper&rsquo;s eldest boy, <span class="smcap">Henry</span> by name, was taken
by the Earl of Pembroke, the Marshal of England, to the city of Gloucester, and
there crowned in great haste when he was only ten years old. As the Crown
itself had been lost with the King&rsquo;s treasure in the raging water, and as
there was no time to make another, they put a circle of plain gold upon his
head instead. &lsquo;We have been the enemies of this child&rsquo;s
father,&rsquo; said Lord Pembroke, a good and true gentleman, to the few Lords
who were present, &lsquo;and he merited our ill-will; but the child himself is
innocent, and his youth demands our friendship and protection.&rsquo; Those
Lords felt tenderly towards the little boy, remembering their own young
children; and they bowed their heads, and said, &lsquo;Long live King Henry the
Third!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
Next, a great council met at Bristol, revised Magna Charta, and made Lord
Pembroke Regent or Protector of England, as the King was too young to reign
alone. The next thing to be done, was to get rid of Prince Louis of France, and
to win over those English Barons who were still ranged under his banner. He was
strong in many parts of England, and in London itself; and he held, among other
places, a certain Castle called the Castle of Mount Sorel, in Leicestershire.
To this fortress, after some skirmishing and truce-making, Lord Pembroke laid
siege. Louis despatched an army of six hundred knights and twenty thousand
soldiers to relieve it. Lord Pembroke, who was not strong enough for such a
force, retired with all his men. The army of the French Prince, which had
marched there with fire and plunder, marched away with fire and plunder, and
came, in a boastful swaggering manner, to Lincoln. The town submitted; but the
Castle in the town, held by a brave widow lady, named <span
class="smcap">Nichola de Camville</span> (whose property it was), made such a
sturdy resistance, that the French Count in command of the army of the French
Prince found it necessary to besiege this Castle. While he was thus engaged,
word was brought to him that Lord Pembroke, with four hundred knights, two
hundred and fifty men with cross-bows, and a stout force both of horse and
foot, was marching towards him. &lsquo;What care I?&rsquo; said the French
Count. &lsquo;The Englishman is not so mad as to attack me and my great army in
a walled town!&rsquo; But the Englishman did it for all that, and did
it&mdash;not so madly but so wisely, that he decoyed the great army into the
narrow, ill-paved lanes and byways of Lincoln, where its horse-soldiers could
not ride in any strong body; and there he made such havoc with them, that the
whole force surrendered themselves prisoners, except the Count; who said that
he would never yield to any English traitor alive, and accordingly got killed.
The end of this victory, which the English called, for a joke, the Fair of
Lincoln, was the usual one in those times&mdash;the common men were slain
without any mercy, and the knights and gentlemen paid ransom and went home.
</p>

<p>
The wife of Louis, the fair <span class="smcap">Blanche of Castile</span>,
dutifully equipped a fleet of eighty good ships, and sent it over from France
to her husband&rsquo;s aid. An English fleet of forty ships, some good and some
bad, gallantly met them near the mouth of the Thames, and took or sunk
sixty-five in one fight. This great loss put an end to the French
Prince&rsquo;s hopes. A treaty was made at Lambeth, in virtue of which the
English Barons who had remained attached to his cause returned to their
allegiance, and it was engaged on both sides that the Prince and all his troops
should retire peacefully to France. It was time to go; for war had made him so
poor that he was obliged to borrow money from the citizens of London to pay his
expenses home.
</p>

<p>
Lord Pembroke afterwards applied himself to governing the country justly, and
to healing the quarrels and disturbances that had arisen among men in the days
of the bad King John. He caused Magna Charta to be still more improved, and so
amended the Forest Laws that a Peasant was no longer put to death for killing a
stag in a Royal Forest, but was only imprisoned. It would have been well for
England if it could have had so good a Protector many years longer, but that
was not to be. Within three years after the young King&rsquo;s Coronation, Lord
Pembroke died; and you may see his tomb, at this day, in the old Temple Church
in London.
</p>

<p>
The Protectorship was now divided. <span class="smcap">Peter de Roches</span>,
whom King John had made Bishop of Winchester, was entrusted with the care of
the person of the young sovereign; and the exercise of the Royal authority was
confided to <span class="smcap">Earl Hubert de Burgh</span>. These two
personages had from the first no liking for each other, and soon became
enemies. When the young King was declared of age, Peter de Roches, finding that
Hubert increased in power and favour, retired discontentedly, and went abroad.
For nearly ten years afterwards Hubert had full sway alone.
</p>

<p>
But ten years is a long time to hold the favour of a King. This King, too, as
he grew up, showed a strong resemblance to his father, in feebleness,
inconsistency, and irresolution. The best that can be said of him is that he
was not cruel. De Roches coming home again, after ten years, and being a
novelty, the King began to favour him and to look coldly on Hubert. Wanting
money besides, and having made Hubert rich, he began to dislike Hubert. At last
he was made to believe, or pretended to believe, that Hubert had
misappropriated some of the Royal treasure; and ordered him to furnish an
account of all he had done in his administration. Besides which, the foolish
charge was brought against Hubert that he had made himself the King&rsquo;s
favourite by magic. Hubert very well knowing that he could never defend himself
against such nonsense, and that his old enemy must be determined on his ruin,
instead of answering the charges fled to Merton Abbey. Then the King, in a
violent passion, sent for the Mayor of London, and said to the Mayor,
&lsquo;Take twenty thousand citizens, and drag me Hubert de Burgh out of that
abbey, and bring him here.&rsquo; The Mayor posted off to do it, but the
Archbishop of Dublin (who was a friend of Hubert&rsquo;s) warning the King that
an abbey was a sacred place, and that if he committed any violence there, he
must answer for it to the Church, the King changed his mind and called the
Mayor back, and declared that Hubert should have four months to prepare his
defence, and should be safe and free during that time.
</p>

<p>
Hubert, who relied upon the King&rsquo;s word, though I think he was old enough
to have known better, came out of Merton Abbey upon these conditions, and
journeyed away to see his wife: a Scottish Princess who was then at St.
Edmund&rsquo;s-Bury.
</p>

<p>
Almost as soon as he had departed from the Sanctuary, his enemies persuaded the
weak King to send out one <span class="smcap">Sir Godfrey de Crancumb</span>,
who commanded three hundred vagabonds called the Black Band, with orders to
seize him. They came up with him at a little town in Essex, called Brentwood,
when he was in bed. He leaped out of bed, got out of the house, fled to the
church, ran up to the altar, and laid his hand upon the cross. Sir Godfrey and
the Black Band, caring neither for church, altar, nor cross, dragged him forth
to the church door, with their drawn swords flashing round his head, and sent
for a Smith to rivet a set of chains upon him. When the Smith (I wish I knew
his name!) was brought, all dark and swarthy with the smoke of his forge, and
panting with the speed he had made; and the Black Band, falling aside to show
him the Prisoner, cried with a loud uproar, &lsquo;Make the fetters heavy! make
them strong!&rsquo; the Smith dropped upon his knee&mdash;but not to the Black
Band&mdash;and said, &lsquo;This is the brave Earl Hubert de Burgh, who fought
at Dover Castle, and destroyed the French fleet, and has done his country much
good service. You may kill me, if you like, but I will never make a chain for
Earl Hubert de Burgh!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
The Black Band never blushed, or they might have blushed at this. They knocked
the Smith about from one to another, and swore at him, and tied the Earl on
horseback, undressed as he was, and carried him off to the Tower of London. The
Bishops, however, were so indignant at the violation of the Sanctuary of the
Church, that the frightened King soon ordered the Black Band to take him back
again; at the same time commanding the Sheriff of Essex to prevent his escaping
out of Brentwood Church. Well! the Sheriff dug a deep trench all round the
church, and erected a high fence, and watched the church night and day; the
Black Band and their Captain watched it too, like three hundred and one black
wolves. For thirty-nine days, Hubert de Burgh remained within. At length, upon
the fortieth day, cold and hunger were too much for him, and he gave himself up
to the Black Band, who carried him off, for the second time, to the Tower. When
his trial came on, he refused to plead; but at last it was arranged that he
should give up all the royal lands which had been bestowed upon him, and should
be kept at the Castle of Devizes, in what was called &lsquo;free prison,&rsquo;
in charge of four knights appointed by four lords. There, he remained almost a
year, until, learning that a follower of his old enemy the Bishop was made
Keeper of the Castle, and fearing that he might be killed by treachery, he
climbed the ramparts one dark night, dropped from the top of the high Castle
wall into the moat, and coming safely to the ground, took refuge in another
church. From this place he was delivered by a party of horse despatched to his
help by some nobles, who were by this time in revolt against the King, and
assembled in Wales. He was finally pardoned and restored to his estates, but he
lived privately, and never more aspired to a high post in the realm, or to a
high place in the King&rsquo;s favour. And thus end&mdash;more happily than the
stories of many favourites of Kings&mdash;the adventures of Earl Hubert de
Burgh.
</p>

<p>
The nobles, who had risen in revolt, were stirred up to rebellion by the
overbearing conduct of the Bishop of Winchester, who, finding that the King
secretly hated the Great Charter which had been forced from his father, did his
utmost to confirm him in that dislike, and in the preference he showed to
foreigners over the English. Of this, and of his even publicly declaring that
the Barons of England were inferior to those of France, the English Lords
complained with such bitterness, that the King, finding them well supported by
the clergy, became frightened for his throne, and sent away the Bishop and all
his foreign associates. On his marriage, however, with <span
class="smcap">Eleanor</span>, a French lady, the daughter of the Count of
Provence, he openly favoured the foreigners again; and so many of his
wife&rsquo;s relations came over, and made such an immense family-party at
court, and got so many good things, and pocketed so much money, and were so
high with the English whose money they pocketed, that the bolder English Barons
murmured openly about a clause there was in the Great Charter, which provided
for the banishment of unreasonable favourites. But, the foreigners only laughed
disdainfully, and said, &lsquo;What are your English laws to us?&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
King Philip of France had died, and had been succeeded by Prince Louis, who had
also died after a short reign of three years, and had been succeeded by his son
of the same name&mdash;so moderate and just a man that he was not the least in
the world like a King, as Kings went. <span class="smcap">Isabella</span>, King
Henry&rsquo;s mother, wished very much (for a certain spite she had) that
England should make war against this King; and, as King Henry was a mere puppet
in anybody&rsquo;s hands who knew how to manage his feebleness, she easily
carried her point with him. But, the Parliament were determined to give him no
money for such a war. So, to defy the Parliament, he packed up thirty large
casks of silver&mdash;I don&rsquo;t know how he got so much; I dare say he
screwed it out of the miserable Jews&mdash;and put them aboard ship, and went
away himself to carry war into France: accompanied by his mother and his
brother Richard, Earl of Cornwall, who was rich and clever. But he only got
well beaten, and came home.
</p>

<p>
The good-humour of the Parliament was not restored by this. They reproached the
King with wasting the public money to make greedy foreigners rich, and were so
stern with him, and so determined not to let him have more of it to waste if
they could help it, that he was at his wit&rsquo;s end for some, and tried so
shamelessly to get all he could from his subjects, by excuses or by force, that
the people used to say the King was the sturdiest beggar in England. He took
the Cross, thinking to get some money by that means; but, as it was very well
known that he never meant to go on a crusade, he got none. In all this
contention, the Londoners were particularly keen against the King, and the King
hated them warmly in return. Hating or loving, however, made no difference; he
continued in the same condition for nine or ten years, when at last the Barons
said that if he would solemnly confirm their liberties afresh, the Parliament
would vote him a large sum.
</p>

<p>
As he readily consented, there was a great meeting held in Westminster Hall,
one pleasant day in May, when all the clergy, dressed in their robes and
holding every one of them a burning candle in his hand, stood up (the Barons
being also there) while the Archbishop of Canterbury read the sentence of
excommunication against any man, and all men, who should henceforth, in any
way, infringe the Great Charter of the Kingdom. When he had done, they all put
out their burning candles with a curse upon the soul of any one, and every one,
who should merit that sentence. The King concluded with an oath to keep the
Charter, &lsquo;As I am a man, as I am a Christian, as I am a Knight, as I am a
King!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
It was easy to make oaths, and easy to break them; and the King did both, as
his father had done before him. He took to his old courses again when he was
supplied with money, and soon cured of their weakness the few who had ever
really trusted him. When his money was gone, and he was once more borrowing and
begging everywhere with a meanness worthy of his nature, he got into a
difficulty with the Pope respecting the Crown of Sicily, which the Pope said he
had a right to give away, and which he offered to King Henry for his second
son, <span class="smcap">Prince Edmund</span>. But, if you or I give away what
we have not got, and what belongs to somebody else, it is likely that the
person to whom we give it, will have some trouble in taking it. It was exactly
so in this case. It was necessary to conquer the Sicilian Crown before it could
be put upon young Edmund&rsquo;s head. It could not be conquered without money.
The Pope ordered the clergy to raise money. The clergy, however, were not so
obedient to him as usual; they had been disputing with him for some time about
his unjust preference of Italian Priests in England; and they had begun to
doubt whether the King&rsquo;s chaplain, whom he allowed to be paid for
preaching in seven hundred churches, could possibly be, even by the
Pope&rsquo;s favour, in seven hundred places at once. &lsquo;The Pope and the
King together,&rsquo; said the Bishop of London, &lsquo;may take the mitre off
my head; but, if they do, they will find that I shall put on a soldier&rsquo;s
helmet. I pay nothing.&rsquo; The Bishop of Worcester was as bold as the Bishop
of London, and would pay nothing either. Such sums as the more timid or more
helpless of the clergy did raise were squandered away, without doing any good
to the King, or bringing the Sicilian Crown an inch nearer to Prince
Edmund&rsquo;s head. The end of the business was, that the Pope gave the Crown
to the brother of the King of France (who conquered it for himself), and sent
the King of England in, a bill of one hundred thousand pounds for the expenses
of not having won it.
</p>

<p>
The King was now so much distressed that we might almost pity him, if it were
possible to pity a King so shabby and ridiculous. His clever brother, Richard,
had bought the title of King of the Romans from the German people, and was no
longer near him, to help him with advice. The clergy, resisting the very Pope,
were in alliance with the Barons. The Barons were headed by <span
class="smcap">Simon de Montfort</span>, Earl of Leicester, married to King
Henry&rsquo;s sister, and, though a foreigner himself, the most popular man in
England against the foreign favourites. When the King next met his Parliament,
the Barons, led by this Earl, came before him, armed from head to foot, and
cased in armour. When the Parliament again assembled, in a month&rsquo;s time,
at Oxford, this Earl was at their head, and the King was obliged to consent, on
oath, to what was called a Committee of Government: consisting of twenty-four
members: twelve chosen by the Barons, and twelve chosen by himself.
</p>

<p>
But, at a good time for him, his brother Richard came back. Richard&rsquo;s
first act (the Barons would not admit him into England on other terms) was to
swear to be faithful to the Committee of Government&mdash;which he immediately
began to oppose with all his might. Then, the Barons began to quarrel among
themselves; especially the proud Earl of Gloucester with the Earl of Leicester,
who went abroad in disgust. Then, the people began to be dissatisfied with the
Barons, because they did not do enough for them. The King&rsquo;s chances
seemed so good again at length, that he took heart enough&mdash;or caught it
from his brother&mdash;to tell the Committee of Government that he abolished
them&mdash;as to his oath, never mind that, the Pope said!&mdash;and to seize
all the money in the Mint, and to shut himself up in the Tower of London. Here
he was joined by his eldest son, Prince Edward; and, from the Tower, he made
public a letter of the Pope&rsquo;s to the world in general, informing all men
that he had been an excellent and just King for five-and-forty years.
</p>

<p>
As everybody knew he had been nothing of the sort, nobody cared much for this
document. It so chanced that the proud Earl of Gloucester dying, was succeeded
by his son; and that his son, instead of being the enemy of the Earl of
Leicester, was (for the time) his friend. It fell out, therefore, that these
two Earls joined their forces, took several of the Royal Castles in the
country, and advanced as hard as they could on London. The London people,
always opposed to the King, declared for them with great joy. The King himself
remained shut up, not at all gloriously, in the Tower. Prince Edward made the
best of his way to Windsor Castle. His mother, the Queen, attempted to follow
him by water; but, the people seeing her barge rowing up the river, and hating
her with all their hearts, ran to London Bridge, got together a quantity of
stones and mud, and pelted the barge as it came through, crying furiously,
&lsquo;Drown the Witch! Drown her!&rsquo; They were so near doing it, that the
Mayor took the old lady under his protection, and shut her up in St.
Paul&rsquo;s until the danger was past.
</p>

<p>
It would require a great deal of writing on my part, and a great deal of
reading on yours, to follow the King through his disputes with the Barons, and
to follow the Barons through their disputes with one another&mdash;so I will
make short work of it for both of us, and only relate the chief events that
arose out of these quarrels. The good King of France was asked to decide
between them. He gave it as his opinion that the King must maintain the Great
Charter, and that the Barons must give up the Committee of Government, and all
the rest that had been done by the Parliament at Oxford: which the Royalists,
or King&rsquo;s party, scornfully called the Mad Parliament. The Barons
declared that these were not fair terms, and they would not accept them. Then
they caused the great bell of St. Paul&rsquo;s to be tolled, for the purpose of
rousing up the London people, who armed themselves at the dismal sound and
formed quite an army in the streets. I am sorry to say, however, that instead
of falling upon the King&rsquo;s party with whom their quarrel was, they fell
upon the miserable Jews, and killed at least five hundred of them. They
pretended that some of these Jews were on the King&rsquo;s side, and that they
kept hidden in their houses, for the destruction of the people, a certain
terrible composition called Greek Fire, which could not be put out with water,
but only burnt the fiercer for it. What they really did keep in their houses
was money; and this their cruel enemies wanted, and this their cruel enemies
took, like robbers and murderers.
</p>

<p>
The Earl of Leicester put himself at the head of these Londoners and other
forces, and followed the King to Lewes in Sussex, where he lay encamped with
his army. Before giving the King&rsquo;s forces battle here, the Earl addressed
his soldiers, and said that King Henry the Third had broken so many oaths, that
he had become the enemy of God, and therefore they would wear white crosses on
their breasts, as if they were arrayed, not against a fellow-Christian, but
against a Turk. White-crossed accordingly, they rushed into the fight. They
would have lost the day&mdash;the King having on his side all the foreigners in
England: and, from Scotland, <span class="smcap">John Comyn</span>, <span
class="smcap">John Baliol</span>, and <span class="smcap">Robert Bruce</span>,
with all their men&mdash;but for the impatience of <span class="smcap">Prince
Edward</span>, who, in his hot desire to have vengeance on the people of
London, threw the whole of his father&rsquo;s army into confusion. He was taken
Prisoner; so was the King; so was the King&rsquo;s brother the King of the
Romans; and five thousand Englishmen were left dead upon the bloody grass.
</p>

<p>
For this success, the Pope excommunicated the Earl of Leicester: which neither
the Earl nor the people cared at all about. The people loved him and supported
him, and he became the real King; having all the power of the government in his
own hands, though he was outwardly respectful to King Henry the Third, whom he
took with him wherever he went, like a poor old limp court-card. He summoned a
Parliament (in the year one thousand two hundred and sixty-five) which was the
first Parliament in England that the people had any real share in electing; and
he grew more and more in favour with the people every day, and they stood by
him in whatever he did.
</p>

<p>
Many of the other Barons, and particularly the Earl of Gloucester, who had
become by this time as proud as his father, grew jealous of this powerful and
popular Earl, who was proud too, and began to conspire against him. Since the
battle of Lewes, Prince Edward had been kept as a hostage, and, though he was
otherwise treated like a Prince, had never been allowed to go out without
attendants appointed by the Earl of Leicester, who watched him. The conspiring
Lords found means to propose to him, in secret, that they should assist him to
escape, and should make him their leader; to which he very heartily consented.
</p>

<p>
So, on a day that was agreed upon, he said to his attendants after dinner
(being then at Hereford), &lsquo;I should like to ride on horseback, this fine
afternoon, a little way into the country.&rsquo; As they, too, thought it would
be very pleasant to have a canter in the sunshine, they all rode out of the
town together in a gay little troop. When they came to a fine level piece of
turf, the Prince fell to comparing their horses one with another, and offering
bets that one was faster than another; and the attendants, suspecting no harm,
rode galloping matches until their horses were quite tired. The Prince rode no
matches himself, but looked on from his saddle, and staked his money. Thus they
passed the whole merry afternoon. Now, the sun was setting, and they were all
going slowly up a hill, the Prince&rsquo;s horse very fresh and all the other
horses very weary, when a strange rider mounted on a grey steed appeared at the
top of the hill, and waved his hat. &lsquo;What does the fellow mean?&rsquo;
said the attendants one to another. The Prince answered on the instant by
setting spurs to his horse, dashing away at his utmost speed, joining the man,
riding into the midst of a little crowd of horsemen who were then seen waiting
under some trees, and who closed around him; and so he departed in a cloud of
dust, leaving the road empty of all but the baffled attendants, who sat looking
at one another, while their horses drooped their ears and panted.
</p>

<p>
The Prince joined the Earl of Gloucester at Ludlow. The Earl of Leicester, with
a part of the army and the stupid old King, was at Hereford. One of the Earl of
Leicester&rsquo;s sons, Simon de Montfort, with another part of the army, was
in Sussex. To prevent these two parts from uniting was the Prince&rsquo;s first
object. He attacked Simon de Montfort by night, defeated him, seized his
banners and treasure, and forced him into Kenilworth Castle in Warwickshire,
which belonged to his family.
</p>

<p>
His father, the Earl of Leicester, in the meanwhile, not knowing what had
happened, marched out of Hereford, with his part of the army and the King, to
meet him. He came, on a bright morning in August, to Evesham, which is watered
by the pleasant river Avon. Looking rather anxiously across the prospect
towards Kenilworth, he saw his own banners advancing; and his face brightened
with joy. But, it clouded darkly when he presently perceived that the banners
were captured, and in the enemy&rsquo;s hands; and he said, &lsquo;It is over.
The Lord have mercy on our souls, for our bodies are Prince
Edward&rsquo;s!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
He fought like a true Knight, nevertheless. When his horse was killed under
him, he fought on foot. It was a fierce battle, and the dead lay in heaps
everywhere. The old King, stuck up in a suit of armour on a big war-horse,
which didn&rsquo;t mind him at all, and which carried him into all sorts of
places where he didn&rsquo;t want to go, got into everybody&rsquo;s way, and
very nearly got knocked on the head by one of his son&rsquo;s men. But he
managed to pipe out, &lsquo;I am Harry of Winchester!&rsquo; and the Prince,
who heard him, seized his bridle, and took him out of peril. The Earl of
Leicester still fought bravely, until his best son Henry was killed, and the
bodies of his best friends choked his path; and then he fell, still fighting,
sword in hand. They mangled his body, and sent it as a present to a noble
lady&mdash;but a very unpleasant lady, I should think&mdash;who was the wife of
his worst enemy. They could not mangle his memory in the minds of the faithful
people, though. Many years afterwards, they loved him more than ever, and
regarded him as a Saint, and always spoke of him as &lsquo;Sir Simon the
Righteous.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
And even though he was dead, the cause for which he had fought still lived, and
was strong, and forced itself upon the King in the very hour of victory. Henry
found himself obliged to respect the Great Charter, however much he hated it,
and to make laws similar to the laws of the Great Earl of Leicester, and to be
moderate and forgiving towards the people at last&mdash;even towards the people
of London, who had so long opposed him. There were more risings before all this
was done, but they were set at rest by these means, and Prince Edward did his
best in all things to restore peace. One Sir Adam de Gourdon was the last
dissatisfied knight in arms; but, the Prince vanquished him in single combat,
in a wood, and nobly gave him his life, and became his friend, instead of
slaying him. Sir Adam was not ungrateful. He ever afterwards remained devoted
to his generous conqueror.
</p>

<p>
When the troubles of the Kingdom were thus calmed, Prince Edward and his cousin
Henry took the Cross, and went away to the Holy Land, with many English Lords
and Knights. Four years afterwards the King of the Romans died, and, next year
(one thousand two hundred and seventy-two), his brother the weak King of
England died. He was sixty-eight years old then, and had reigned fifty-six
years. He was as much of a King in death, as he had ever been in life. He was
the mere pale shadow of a King at all times.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FIRST, CALLED LONGSHANKS</h2>

<p>
It was now the year of our Lord one thousand two hundred and seventy-two; and
Prince Edward, the heir to the throne, being away in the Holy Land, knew
nothing of his father&rsquo;s death. The Barons, however, proclaimed him King,
immediately after the Royal funeral; and the people very willingly consented,
since most men knew too well by this time what the horrors of a contest for the
crown were. So King Edward the First, called, in a not very complimentary
manner, <span class="smcap">Longshanks</span>, because of the slenderness of
his legs, was peacefully accepted by the English Nation.
</p>

<p>
His legs had need to be strong, however long and thin they were; for they had
to support him through many difficulties on the fiery sands of Asia, where his
small force of soldiers fainted, died, deserted, and seemed to melt away. But
his prowess made light of it, and he said, &lsquo;I will go on, if I go on with
no other follower than my groom!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
A Prince of this spirit gave the Turks a deal of trouble. He stormed Nazareth,
at which place, of all places on earth, I am sorry to relate, he made a
frightful slaughter of innocent people; and then he went to Acre, where he got
a truce of ten years from the Sultan. He had very nearly lost his life in Acre,
through the treachery of a Saracen Noble, called the Emir of Jaffa, who, making
the pretence that he had some idea of turning Christian and wanted to know all
about that religion, sent a trusty messenger to Edward very often&mdash;with a
dagger in his sleeve. At last, one Friday in Whitsun week, when it was very
hot, and all the sandy prospect lay beneath the blazing sun, burnt up like a
great overdone biscuit, and Edward was lying on a couch, dressed for coolness
in only a loose robe, the messenger, with his chocolate-coloured face and his
bright dark eyes and white teeth, came creeping in with a letter, and kneeled
down like a tame tiger. But, the moment Edward stretched out his hand to take
the letter, the tiger made a spring at his heart. He was quick, but Edward was
quick too. He seized the traitor by his chocolate throat, threw him to the
ground, and slew him with the very dagger he had drawn. The weapon had struck
Edward in the arm, and although the wound itself was slight, it threatened to
be mortal, for the blade of the dagger had been smeared with poison. Thanks,
however, to a better surgeon than was often to be found in those times, and to
some wholesome herbs, and above all, to his faithful wife, <span
class="smcap">Eleanor</span>, who devotedly nursed him, and is said by some to
have sucked the poison from the wound with her own red lips (which I am very
willing to believe), Edward soon recovered and was sound again.
</p>

<p>
As the King his father had sent entreaties to him to return home, he now began
the journey. He had got as far as Italy, when he met messengers who brought him
intelligence of the King&rsquo;s death. Hearing that all was quiet at home, he
made no haste to return to his own dominions, but paid a visit to the Pope, and
went in state through various Italian Towns, where he was welcomed with
acclamations as a mighty champion of the Cross from the Holy Land, and where he
received presents of purple mantles and prancing horses, and went along in
great triumph. The shouting people little knew that he was the last English
monarch who would ever embark in a crusade, or that within twenty years every
conquest which the Christians had made in the Holy Land at the cost of so much
blood, would be won back by the Turks. But all this came to pass.
</p>

<p>
There was, and there is, an old town standing in a plain in France, called
Ch&acirc;lons. When the King was coming towards this place on his way to
England, a wily French Lord, called the Count of Ch&acirc;lons, sent him a
polite challenge to come with his knights and hold a fair tournament with the
Count and <i>his</i> knights, and make a day of it with sword and lance. It was
represented to the King that the Count of Ch&acirc;lons was not to be trusted,
and that, instead of a holiday fight for mere show and in good humour, he
secretly meant a real battle, in which the English should be defeated by
superior force.
</p>

<p>
The King, however, nothing afraid, went to the appointed place on the appointed
day with a thousand followers. When the Count came with two thousand and
attacked the English in earnest, the English rushed at them with such valour
that the Count&rsquo;s men and the Count&rsquo;s horses soon began to be
tumbled down all over the field. The Count himself seized the King round the
neck, but the King tumbled <i>him</i> out of his saddle in return for the
compliment, and, jumping from his own horse, and standing over him, beat away
at his iron armour like a blacksmith hammering on his anvil. Even when the
Count owned himself defeated and offered his sword, the King would not do him
the honour to take it, but made him yield it up to a common soldier. There had
been such fury shown in this fight, that it was afterwards called the little
Battle of Ch&acirc;lons.
</p>

<p>
The English were very well disposed to be proud of their King after these
adventures; so, when he landed at Dover in the year one thousand two hundred
and seventy-four (being then thirty-six years old), and went on to Westminster
where he and his good Queen were crowned with great magnificence, splendid
rejoicings took place. For the coronation-feast there were provided, among
other eatables, four hundred oxen, four hundred sheep, four hundred and fifty
pigs, eighteen wild boars, three hundred flitches of bacon, and twenty thousand
fowls. The fountains and conduits in the street flowed with red and white wine
instead of water; the rich citizens hung silks and cloths of the brightest
colours out of their windows to increase the beauty of the show, and threw out
gold and silver by whole handfuls to make scrambles for the crowd. In short,
there was such eating and drinking, such music and capering, such a ringing of
bells and tossing of caps, such a shouting, and singing, and revelling, as the
narrow overhanging streets of old London City had not witnessed for many a long
day. All the people were merry except the poor Jews, who, trembling within
their houses, and scarcely daring to peep out, began to foresee that they would
have to find the money for this joviality sooner or later.
</p>

<p>
To dismiss this sad subject of the Jews for the present, I am sorry to add that
in this reign they were most unmercifully pillaged. They were hanged in great
numbers, on accusations of having clipped the King&rsquo;s coin&mdash;which all
kinds of people had done. They were heavily taxed; they were disgracefully
badged; they were, on one day, thirteen years after the coronation, taken up
with their wives and children and thrown into beastly prisons, until they
purchased their release by paying to the King twelve thousand pounds. Finally,
every kind of property belonging to them was seized by the King, except so
little as would defray the charge of their taking themselves away into foreign
countries. Many years elapsed before the hope of gain induced any of their race
to return to England, where they had been treated so heartlessly and had
suffered so much.
</p>

<p>
If King Edward the First had been as bad a king to Christians as he was to
Jews, he would have been bad indeed. But he was, in general, a wise and great
monarch, under whom the country much improved. He had no love for the Great
Charter&mdash;few Kings had, through many, many years&mdash;but he had high
qualities. The first bold object which he conceived when he came home, was, to
unite under one Sovereign England, Scotland, and Wales; the two last of which
countries had each a little king of its own, about whom the people were always
quarrelling and fighting, and making a prodigious disturbance&mdash;a great
deal more than he was worth. In the course of King Edward&rsquo;s reign he was
engaged, besides, in a war with France. To make these quarrels clearer, we will
separate their histories and take them thus. Wales, first. France, second.
Scotland, third.
</p>

<hr />

<p>
<span class="smcap">Llewellyn</span> was the Prince of Wales. He had been on
the side of the Barons in the reign of the stupid old King, but had afterwards
sworn allegiance to him. When King Edward came to the throne, Llewellyn was
required to swear allegiance to him also; which he refused to do. The King,
being crowned and in his own dominions, three times more required Llewellyn to
come and do homage; and three times more Llewellyn said he would rather not. He
was going to be married to <span class="smcap">Eleanor de Montfort</span>, a
young lady of the family mentioned in the last reign; and it chanced that this
young lady, coming from France with her youngest brother, <span
class="smcap">Emeric</span>, was taken by an English ship, and was ordered by
the English King to be detained. Upon this, the quarrel came to a head. The
King went, with his fleet, to the coast of Wales, where, so encompassing
Llewellyn, that he could only take refuge in the bleak mountain region of
Snowdon in which no provisions could reach him, he was soon starved into an
apology, and into a treaty of peace, and into paying the expenses of the war.
The King, however, forgave him some of the hardest conditions of the treaty,
and consented to his marriage. And he now thought he had reduced Wales to
obedience.
</p>

<p>
But the Welsh, although they were naturally a gentle, quiet, pleasant people,
who liked to receive strangers in their cottages among the mountains, and to
set before them with free hospitality whatever they had to eat and drink, and
to play to them on their harps, and sing their native ballads to them, were a
people of great spirit when their blood was up. Englishmen, after this affair,
began to be insolent in Wales, and to assume the air of masters; and the Welsh
pride could not bear it. Moreover, they believed in that unlucky old Merlin,
some of whose unlucky old prophecies somebody always seemed doomed to remember
when there was a chance of its doing harm; and just at this time some blind old
gentleman with a harp and a long white beard, who was an excellent person, but
had become of an unknown age and tedious, burst out with a declaration that
Merlin had predicted that when English money had become round, a Prince of
Wales would be crowned in London. Now, King Edward had recently forbidden the
English penny to be cut into halves and quarters for halfpence and farthings,
and had actually introduced a round coin; therefore, the Welsh people said this
was the time Merlin meant, and rose accordingly.
</p>

<p>
King Edward had bought over <span class="smcap">Prince David</span>,
Llewellyn&rsquo;s brother, by heaping favours upon him; but he was the first to
revolt, being perhaps troubled in his conscience. One stormy night, he
surprised the Castle of Hawarden, in possession of which an English nobleman
had been left; killed the whole garrison, and carried off the nobleman a
prisoner to Snowdon. Upon this, the Welsh people rose like one man. King
Edward, with his army, marching from Worcester to the Menai Strait, crossed
it&mdash;near to where the wonderful tubular iron bridge now, in days so
different, makes a passage for railway trains&mdash;by a bridge of boats that
enabled forty men to march abreast. He subdued the Island of Anglesea, and sent
his men forward to observe the enemy. The sudden appearance of the Welsh
created a panic among them, and they fell back to the bridge. The tide had in
the meantime risen and separated the boats; the Welsh pursuing them, they were
driven into the sea, and there they sunk, in their heavy iron armour, by
thousands. After this victory Llewellyn, helped by the severe winter-weather of
Wales, gained another battle; but the King ordering a portion of his English
army to advance through South Wales, and catch him between two foes, and
Llewellyn bravely turning to meet this new enemy, he was surprised and
killed&mdash;very meanly, for he was unarmed and defenceless. His head was
struck off and sent to London, where it was fixed upon the Tower, encircled
with a wreath, some say of ivy, some say of willow, some say of silver, to make
it look like a ghastly coin in ridicule of the prediction.
</p>

<p>
David, however, still held out for six months, though eagerly sought after by
the King, and hunted by his own countrymen. One of them finally betrayed him
with his wife and children. He was sentenced to be hanged, drawn, and
quartered; and from that time this became the established punishment of
Traitors in England&mdash;a punishment wholly without excuse, as being
revolting, vile, and cruel, after its object is dead; and which has no sense in
it, as its only real degradation (and that nothing can blot out) is to the
country that permits on any consideration such abominable barbarity.
</p>

<p>
Wales was now subdued. The Queen giving birth to a young prince in the Castle
of Carnarvon, the King showed him to the Welsh people as their countryman, and
called him Prince of Wales; a title that has ever since been borne by the
heir-apparent to the English throne&mdash;which that little Prince soon became,
by the death of his elder brother. The King did better things for the Welsh
than that, by improving their laws and encouraging their trade. Disturbances
still took place, chiefly occasioned by the avarice and pride of the English
Lords, on whom Welsh lands and castles had been bestowed; but they were
subdued, and the country never rose again. There is a legend that to prevent
the people from being incited to rebellion by the songs of their bards and
harpers, Edward had them all put to death. Some of them may have fallen among
other men who held out against the King; but this general slaughter is, I
think, a fancy of the harpers themselves, who, I dare say, made a song about it
many years afterwards, and sang it by the Welsh firesides until it came to be
believed.
</p>

<p>
The foreign war of the reign of Edward the First arose in this way. The crews
of two vessels, one a Norman ship, and the other an English ship, happened to
go to the same place in their boats to fill their casks with fresh water. Being
rough angry fellows, they began to quarrel, and then to fight&mdash;the English
with their fists; the Normans with their knives&mdash;and, in the fight, a
Norman was killed. The Norman crew, instead of revenging themselves upon those
English sailors with whom they had quarrelled (who were too strong for them, I
suspect), took to their ship again in a great rage, attacked the first English
ship they met, laid hold of an unoffending merchant who happened to be on
board, and brutally hanged him in the rigging of their own vessel with a dog at
his feet. This so enraged the English sailors that there was no restraining
them; and whenever, and wherever, English sailors met Norman sailors, they fell
upon each other tooth and nail. The Irish and Dutch sailors took part with the
English; the French and Genoese sailors helped the Normans; and thus the
greater part of the mariners sailing over the sea became, in their way, as
violent and raging as the sea itself when it is disturbed.
</p>

<p>
King Edward&rsquo;s fame had been so high abroad that he had been chosen to
decide a difference between France and another foreign power, and had lived
upon the Continent three years. At first, neither he nor the French King <span
class="smcap">Philip</span> (the good Louis had been dead some time) interfered
in these quarrels; but when a fleet of eighty English ships engaged and utterly
defeated a Norman fleet of two hundred, in a pitched battle fought round a ship
at anchor, in which no quarter was given, the matter became too serious to be
passed over. King Edward, as Duke of Guienne, was summoned to present himself
before the King of France, at Paris, and answer for the damage done by his
sailor subjects. At first, he sent the Bishop of London as his representative,
and then his brother <span class="smcap">Edmund</span>, who was married to the
French Queen&rsquo;s mother. I am afraid Edmund was an easy man, and allowed
himself to be talked over by his charming relations, the French court ladies;
at all events, he was induced to give up his brother&rsquo;s dukedom for forty
days&mdash;as a mere form, the French King said, to satisfy his
honour&mdash;and he was so very much astonished, when the time was out, to find
that the French King had no idea of giving it up again, that I should not
wonder if it hastened his death: which soon took place.
</p>

<p>
King Edward was a King to win his foreign dukedom back again, if it could be
won by energy and valour. He raised a large army, renounced his allegiance as
Duke of Guienne, and crossed the sea to carry war into France. Before any
important battle was fought, however, a truce was agreed upon for two years;
and in the course of that time, the Pope effected a reconciliation. King
Edward, who was now a widower, having lost his affectionate and good wife,
Eleanor, married the French King&rsquo;s sister, <span
class="smcap">Margaret</span>; and the Prince of Wales was contracted to the
French King&rsquo;s daughter <span class="smcap">Isabella</span>.
</p>

<p>
Out of bad things, good things sometimes arise. Out of this hanging of the
innocent merchant, and the bloodshed and strife it caused, there came to be
established one of the greatest powers that the English people now possess. The
preparations for the war being very expensive, and King Edward greatly wanting
money, and being very arbitrary in his ways of raising it, some of the Barons
began firmly to oppose him. Two of them, in particular, <span
class="smcap">Humphrey Bohun</span>, Earl of Hereford, and <span
class="smcap">Roger Bigod</span>, Earl of Norfolk, were so stout against him,
that they maintained he had no right to command them to head his forces in
Guienne, and flatly refused to go there. &lsquo;By Heaven, Sir Earl,&rsquo;
said the King to the Earl of Hereford, in a great passion, &lsquo;you shall
either go or be hanged!&rsquo; &lsquo;By Heaven, Sir King,&rsquo; replied the
Earl, &lsquo;I will neither go nor yet will I be hanged!&rsquo; and both he and
the other Earl sturdily left the court, attended by many Lords. The King tried
every means of raising money. He taxed the clergy, in spite of all the Pope
said to the contrary; and when they refused to pay, reduced them to submission,
by saying Very well, then they had no claim upon the government for protection,
and any man might plunder them who would&mdash;which a good many men were very
ready to do, and very readily did, and which the clergy found too losing a game
to be played at long. He seized all the wool and leather in the hands of the
merchants, promising to pay for it some fine day; and he set a tax upon the
exportation of wool, which was so unpopular among the traders that it was
called &lsquo;The evil toll.&rsquo; But all would not do. The Barons, led by
those two great Earls, declared any taxes imposed without the consent of
Parliament, unlawful; and the Parliament refused to impose taxes, until the
King should confirm afresh the two Great Charters, and should solemnly declare
in writing, that there was no power in the country to raise money from the
people, evermore, but the power of Parliament representing all ranks of the
people. The King was very unwilling to diminish his own power by allowing this
great privilege in the Parliament; but there was no help for it, and he at last
complied. We shall come to another King by-and-by, who might have saved his
head from rolling off, if he had profited by this example.
</p>

<p>
The people gained other benefits in Parliament from the good sense and wisdom
of this King. Many of the laws were much improved; provision was made for the
greater safety of travellers, and the apprehension of thieves and murderers;
the priests were prevented from holding too much land, and so becoming too
powerful; and Justices of the Peace were first appointed (though not at first
under that name) in various parts of the country.
</p>

<hr />

<p>
And now we come to Scotland, which was the great and lasting trouble of the
reign of King Edward the First.
</p>

<p>
About thirteen years after King Edward&rsquo;s coronation, Alexander the Third,
the King of Scotland, died of a fall from his horse. He had been married to
Margaret, King Edward&rsquo;s sister. All their children being dead, the
Scottish crown became the right of a young Princess only eight years old, the
daughter of <span class="smcap">Eric</span>, King of Norway, who had married a
daughter of the deceased sovereign. King Edward proposed, that the Maiden of
Norway, as this Princess was called, should be engaged to be married to his
eldest son; but, unfortunately, as she was coming over to England she fell
sick, and landing on one of the Orkney Islands, died there. A great commotion
immediately began in Scotland, where as many as thirteen noisy claimants to the
vacant throne started up and made a general confusion.
</p>

<p>
King Edward being much renowned for his sagacity and justice, it seems to have
been agreed to refer the dispute to him. He accepted the trust, and went, with
an army, to the Border-land where England and Scotland joined. There, he called
upon the Scottish gentlemen to meet him at the Castle of Norham, on the English
side of the river Tweed; and to that Castle they came. But, before he would
take any step in the business, he required those Scottish gentlemen, one and
all, to do homage to him as their superior Lord; and when they hesitated, he
said, &lsquo;By holy Edward, whose crown I wear, I will have my rights, or I
will die in maintaining them!&rsquo; The Scottish gentlemen, who had not
expected this, were disconcerted, and asked for three weeks to think about it.
</p>

<p>
At the end of the three weeks, another meeting took place, on a green plain on
the Scottish side of the river. Of all the competitors for the Scottish throne,
there were only two who had any real claim, in right of their near kindred to
the Royal Family. These were <span class="smcap">John Baliol</span> and <span
class="smcap">Robert Bruce</span>: and the right was, I have no doubt, on the
side of John Baliol. At this particular meeting John Baliol was not present,
but Robert Bruce was; and on Robert Bruce being formally asked whether he
acknowledged the King of England for his superior lord, he answered, plainly
and distinctly, Yes, he did. Next day, John Baliol appeared, and said the same.
This point settled, some arrangements were made for inquiring into their
titles.
</p>

<p>
The inquiry occupied a pretty long time&mdash;more than a year. While it was
going on, King Edward took the opportunity of making a journey through
Scotland, and calling upon the Scottish people of all degrees to acknowledge
themselves his vassals, or be imprisoned until they did. In the meanwhile,
Commissioners were appointed to conduct the inquiry, a Parliament was held at
Berwick about it, the two claimants were heard at full length, and there was a
vast amount of talking. At last, in the great hall of the Castle of Berwick,
the King gave judgment in favour of John Baliol: who, consenting to receive his
crown by the King of England&rsquo;s favour and permission, was crowned at
Scone, in an old stone chair which had been used for ages in the abbey there,
at the coronations of Scottish Kings. Then, King Edward caused the great seal
of Scotland, used since the late King&rsquo;s death, to be broken in four
pieces, and placed in the English Treasury; and considered that he now had
Scotland (according to the common saying) under his thumb.
</p>

<p>
Scotland had a strong will of its own yet, however. King Edward, determined
that the Scottish King should not forget he was his vassal, summoned him
repeatedly to come and defend himself and his judges before the English
Parliament when appeals from the decisions of Scottish courts of justice were
being heard. At length, John Baliol, who had no great heart of his own, had so
much heart put into him by the brave spirit of the Scottish people, who took
this as a national insult, that he refused to come any more. Thereupon, the
King further required him to help him in his war abroad (which was then in
progress), and to give up, as security for his good behaviour in future, the
three strong Scottish Castles of Jedburgh, Roxburgh, and Berwick. Nothing of
this being done; on the contrary, the Scottish people concealing their King
among their mountains in the Highlands and showing a determination to resist;
Edward marched to Berwick with an army of thirty thousand foot, and four
thousand horse; took the Castle, and slew its whole garrison, and the
inhabitants of the town as well&mdash;men, women, and children. <span
class="smcap">Lord Warrenne</span>, Earl of Surrey, then went on to the Castle
of Dunbar, before which a battle was fought, and the whole Scottish army
defeated with great slaughter. The victory being complete, the Earl of Surrey
was left as guardian of Scotland; the principal offices in that kingdom were
given to Englishmen; the more powerful Scottish Nobles were obliged to come and
live in England; the Scottish crown and sceptre were brought away; and even the
old stone chair was carried off and placed in Westminster Abbey, where you may
see it now. Baliol had the Tower of London lent him for a residence, with
permission to range about within a circle of twenty miles. Three years
afterwards he was allowed to go to Normandy, where he had estates, and where he
passed the remaining six years of his life: far more happily, I dare say, than
he had lived for a long while in angry Scotland.
</p>

<p>
Now, there was, in the West of Scotland, a gentleman of small fortune, named
<span class="smcap">William Wallace</span>, the second son of a Scottish
knight. He was a man of great size and great strength; he was very brave and
daring; when he spoke to a body of his countrymen, he could rouse them in a
wonderful manner by the power of his burning words; he loved Scotland dearly,
and he hated England with his utmost might. The domineering conduct of the
English who now held the places of trust in Scotland made them as intolerable
to the proud Scottish people as they had been, under similar circumstances, to
the Welsh; and no man in all Scotland regarded them with so much smothered rage
as William Wallace. One day, an Englishman in office, little knowing what he
was, affronted <i>him</i>. Wallace instantly struck him dead, and taking refuge
among the rocks and hills, and there joining with his countryman, <span
class="smcap">Sir William Douglas</span>, who was also in arms against King
Edward, became the most resolute and undaunted champion of a people struggling
for their independence that ever lived upon the earth.
</p>

<p>
The English Guardian of the Kingdom fled before him, and, thus encouraged, the
Scottish people revolted everywhere, and fell upon the English without mercy.
The Earl of Surrey, by the King&rsquo;s commands, raised all the power of the
Border-counties, and two English armies poured into Scotland. Only one Chief,
in the face of those armies, stood by Wallace, who, with a force of forty
thousand men, awaited the invaders at a place on the river Forth, within two
miles of Stirling. Across the river there was only one poor wooden bridge,
called the bridge of Kildean&mdash;so narrow, that but two men could cross it
abreast. With his eyes upon this bridge, Wallace posted the greater part of his
men among some rising grounds, and waited calmly. When the English army came up
on the opposite bank of the river, messengers were sent forward to offer terms.
Wallace sent them back with a defiance, in the name of the freedom of Scotland.
Some of the officers of the Earl of Surrey in command of the English, with
<i>their</i> eyes also on the bridge, advised him to be discreet and not hasty.
He, however, urged to immediate battle by some other officers, and particularly
by <span class="smcap">Cressingham</span>, King Edward&rsquo;s treasurer, and a
rash man, gave the word of command to advance. One thousand English crossed the
bridge, two abreast; the Scottish troops were as motionless as stone images.
Two thousand English crossed; three thousand, four thousand, five. Not a
feather, all this time, had been seen to stir among the Scottish bonnets. Now,
they all fluttered. &lsquo;Forward, one party, to the foot of the
Bridge!&rsquo; cried Wallace, &lsquo;and let no more English cross! The rest,
down with me on the five thousand who have come over, and cut them all to
pieces!&rsquo; It was done, in the sight of the whole remainder of the English
army, who could give no help. Cressingham himself was killed, and the Scotch
made whips for their horses of his skin.
</p>

<p>
King Edward was abroad at this time, and during the successes on the Scottish
side which followed, and which enabled bold Wallace to win the whole country
back again, and even to ravage the English borders. But, after a few winter
months, the King returned, and took the field with more than his usual energy.
One night, when a kick from his horse as they both lay on the ground together
broke two of his ribs, and a cry arose that he was killed, he leaped into his
saddle, regardless of the pain he suffered, and rode through the camp. Day then
appearing, he gave the word (still, of course, in that bruised and aching
state) Forward! and led his army on to near Falkirk, where the Scottish forces
were seen drawn up on some stony ground, behind a morass. Here, he defeated
Wallace, and killed fifteen thousand of his men. With the shattered remainder,
Wallace drew back to Stirling; but, being pursued, set fire to the town that it
might give no help to the English, and escaped. The inhabitants of Perth
afterwards set fire to their houses for the same reason, and the King, unable
to find provisions, was forced to withdraw his army.
</p>

<p>
Another <span class="smcap">Robert Bruce</span>, the grandson of him who had
disputed the Scottish crown with Baliol, was now in arms against the King (that
elder Bruce being dead), and also <span class="smcap">John Comyn</span>,
Baliol&rsquo;s nephew. These two young men might agree in opposing Edward, but
could agree in nothing else, as they were rivals for the throne of Scotland.
Probably it was because they knew this, and knew what troubles must arise even
if they could hope to get the better of the great English King, that the
principal Scottish people applied to the Pope for his interference. The Pope,
on the principle of losing nothing for want of trying to get it, very coolly
claimed that Scotland belonged to him; but this was a little too much, and the
Parliament in a friendly manner told him so.
</p>

<p>
In the spring time of the year one thousand three hundred and three, the King
sent <span class="smcap">Sir John Segrave</span>, whom he made Governor of
Scotland, with twenty thousand men, to reduce the rebels. Sir John was not as
careful as he should have been, but encamped at Rosslyn, near Edinburgh, with
his army divided into three parts. The Scottish forces saw their advantage;
fell on each part separately; defeated each; and killed all the prisoners.
Then, came the King himself once more, as soon as a great army could be raised;
he passed through the whole north of Scotland, laying waste whatsoever came in
his way; and he took up his winter quarters at Dunfermline. The Scottish cause
now looked so hopeless, that Comyn and the other nobles made submission and
received their pardons. Wallace alone stood out. He was invited to surrender,
though on no distinct pledge that his life should be spared; but he still
defied the ireful King, and lived among the steep crags of the Highland glens,
where the eagles made their nests, and where the mountain torrents roared, and
the white snow was deep, and the bitter winds blew round his unsheltered head,
as he lay through many a pitch-dark night wrapped up in his plaid. Nothing
could break his spirit; nothing could lower his courage; nothing could induce
him to forget or to forgive his country&rsquo;s wrongs. Even when the Castle of
Stirling, which had long held out, was besieged by the King with every kind of
military engine then in use; even when the lead upon cathedral roofs was taken
down to help to make them; even when the King, though an old man, commanded in
the siege as if he were a youth, being so resolved to conquer; even when the
brave garrison (then found with amazement to be not two hundred people,
including several ladies) were starved and beaten out and were made to submit
on their knees, and with every form of disgrace that could aggravate their
sufferings; even then, when there was not a ray of hope in Scotland, William
Wallace was as proud and firm as if he had beheld the powerful and relentless
Edward lying dead at his feet.
</p>

<p>
Who betrayed William Wallace in the end, is not quite certain. That he was
betrayed&mdash;probably by an attendant&mdash;is too true. He was taken to the
Castle of Dumbarton, under <span class="smcap">Sir John Menteith</span>, and
thence to London, where the great fame of his bravery and resolution attracted
immense concourses of people to behold him. He was tried in Westminster Hall,
with a crown of laurel on his head&mdash;it is supposed because he was reported
to have said that he ought to wear, or that he would wear, a crown there and
was found guilty as a robber, a murderer, and a traitor. What they called a
robber (he said to those who tried him) he was, because he had taken spoil from
the King&rsquo;s men. What they called a murderer, he was, because he had slain
an insolent Englishman. What they called a traitor, he was not, for he had
never sworn allegiance to the King, and had ever scorned to do it. He was
dragged at the tails of horses to West Smithfield, and there hanged on a high
gallows, torn open before he was dead, beheaded, and quartered. His head was
set upon a pole on London Bridge, his right arm was sent to Newcastle, his left
arm to Berwick, his legs to Perth and Aberdeen. But, if King Edward had had his
body cut into inches, and had sent every separate inch into a separate town, he
could not have dispersed it half so far and wide as his fame. Wallace will be
remembered in songs and stories, while there are songs and stories in the
English tongue, and Scotland will hold him dear while her lakes and mountains
last.
</p>

<p>
Released from this dreaded enemy, the King made a fairer plan of Government for
Scotland, divided the offices of honour among Scottish gentlemen and English
gentlemen, forgave past offences, and thought, in his old age, that his work
was done.
</p>

<p>
But he deceived himself. Comyn and Bruce conspired, and made an appointment to
meet at Dumfries, in the church of the Minorites. There is a story that Comyn
was false to Bruce, and had informed against him to the King; that Bruce was
warned of his danger and the necessity of flight, by receiving, one night as he
sat at supper, from his friend the Earl of Gloucester, twelve pennies and a
pair of spurs; that as he was riding angrily to keep his appointment (through a
snow-storm, with his horse&rsquo;s shoes reversed that he might not be
tracked), he met an evil-looking serving man, a messenger of Comyn, whom he
killed, and concealed in whose dress he found letters that proved Comyn&rsquo;s
treachery. However this may be, they were likely enough to quarrel in any case,
being hot-headed rivals; and, whatever they quarrelled about, they certainly
did quarrel in the church where they met, and Bruce drew his dagger and stabbed
Comyn, who fell upon the pavement. When Bruce came out, pale and disturbed, the
friends who were waiting for him asked what was the matter? &lsquo;I think I
have killed Comyn,&rsquo; said he. &lsquo;You only think so?&rsquo; returned
one of them; &lsquo;I will make sure!&rsquo; and going into the church, and
finding him alive, stabbed him again and again. Knowing that the King would
never forgive this new deed of violence, the party then declared Bruce King of
Scotland: got him crowned at Scone&mdash;without the chair; and set up the
rebellious standard once again.
</p>

<p>
When the King heard of it he kindled with fiercer anger than he had ever shown
yet. He caused the Prince of Wales and two hundred and seventy of the young
nobility to be knighted&mdash;the trees in the Temple Gardens were cut down to
make room for their tents, and they watched their armour all night, according
to the old usage: some in the Temple Church: some in Westminster
Abbey&mdash;and at the public Feast which then took place, he swore, by Heaven,
and by two swans covered with gold network which his minstrels placed upon the
table, that he would avenge the death of Comyn, and would punish the false
Bruce. And before all the company, he charged the Prince his son, in case that
he should die before accomplishing his vow, not to bury him until it was
fulfilled. Next morning the Prince and the rest of the young Knights rode away
to the Border-country to join the English army; and the King, now weak and
sick, followed in a horse-litter.
</p>

<p>
Bruce, after losing a battle and undergoing many dangers and much misery, fled
to Ireland, where he lay concealed through the winter. That winter, Edward
passed in hunting down and executing Bruce&rsquo;s relations and adherents,
sparing neither youth nor age, and showing no touch of pity or sign of mercy.
In the following spring, Bruce reappeared and gained some victories. In these
frays, both sides were grievously cruel. For instance&mdash;Bruce&rsquo;s two
brothers, being taken captives desperately wounded, were ordered by the King to
instant execution. Bruce&rsquo;s friend Sir John Douglas, taking his own Castle
of Douglas out of the hands of an English Lord, roasted the dead bodies of the
slaughtered garrison in a great fire made of every movable within it; which
dreadful cookery his men called the Douglas Larder. Bruce, still successful,
however, drove the Earl of Pembroke and the Earl of Gloucester into the Castle
of Ayr and laid siege to it.
</p>

<p>
The King, who had been laid up all the winter, but had directed the army from
his sick-bed, now advanced to Carlisle, and there, causing the litter in which
he had travelled to be placed in the Cathedral as an offering to Heaven,
mounted his horse once more, and for the last time. He was now sixty-nine years
old, and had reigned thirty-five years. He was so ill, that in four days he
could go no more than six miles; still, even at that pace, he went on and
resolutely kept his face towards the Border. At length, he lay down at the
village of Burgh-upon-Sands; and there, telling those around him to impress
upon the Prince that he was to remember his father&rsquo;s vow, and was never
to rest until he had thoroughly subdued Scotland, he yielded up his last
breath.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE SECOND</h2>

<p>
King Edward the Second, the first Prince of Wales, was twenty-three years old
when his father died. There was a certain favourite of his, a young man from
Gascony, named <span class="smcap">Piers Gaveston</span>, of whom his father
had so much disapproved that he had ordered him out of England, and had made
his son swear by the side of his sick-bed, never to bring him back. But, the
Prince no sooner found himself King, than he broke his oath, as so many other
Princes and Kings did (they were far too ready to take oaths), and sent for his
dear friend immediately.
</p>

<p>
Now, this same Gaveston was handsome enough, but was a reckless, insolent,
audacious fellow. He was detested by the proud English Lords: not only because
he had such power over the King, and made the Court such a dissipated place,
but, also, because he could ride better than they at tournaments, and was used,
in his impudence, to cut very bad jokes on them; calling one, the old hog;
another, the stage-player; another, the Jew; another, the black dog of Ardenne.
This was as poor wit as need be, but it made those Lords very wroth; and the
surly Earl of Warwick, who was the black dog, swore that the time should come
when Piers Gaveston should feel the black dog&rsquo;s teeth.
</p>

<p>
It was not come yet, however, nor did it seem to be coming. The King made him
Earl of Cornwall, and gave him vast riches; and, when the King went over to
France to marry the French Princess, <span class="smcap">Isabella</span>,
daughter of <span class="smcap">Philip le Bel</span>: who was said to be the
most beautiful woman in the world: he made Gaveston, Regent of the Kingdom. His
splendid marriage-ceremony in the Church of Our Lady at Boulogne, where there
were four Kings and three Queens present (quite a pack of Court Cards, for I
dare say the Knaves were not wanting), being over, he seemed to care little or
nothing for his beautiful wife; but was wild with impatience to meet Gaveston
again.
</p>

<p>
When he landed at home, he paid no attention to anybody else, but ran into the
favourite&rsquo;s arms before a great concourse of people, and hugged him, and
kissed him, and called him his brother. At the coronation which soon followed,
Gaveston was the richest and brightest of all the glittering company there, and
had the honour of carrying the crown. This made the proud Lords fiercer than
ever; the people, too, despised the favourite, and would never call him Earl of
Cornwall, however much he complained to the King and asked him to punish them
for not doing so, but persisted in styling him plain Piers Gaveston.
</p>

<p>
The Barons were so unceremonious with the King in giving him to understand that
they would not bear this favourite, that the King was obliged to send him out
of the country. The favourite himself was made to take an oath (more oaths!)
that he would never come back, and the Barons supposed him to be banished in
disgrace, until they heard that he was appointed Governor of Ireland. Even this
was not enough for the besotted King, who brought him home again in a
year&rsquo;s time, and not only disgusted the Court and the people by his
doting folly, but offended his beautiful wife too, who never liked him
afterwards.
</p>

<p>
He had now the old Royal want&mdash;of money&mdash;and the Barons had the new
power of positively refusing to let him raise any. He summoned a Parliament at
York; the Barons refused to make one, while the favourite was near him. He
summoned another Parliament at Westminster, and sent Gaveston away. Then, the
Barons came, completely armed, and appointed a committee of themselves to
correct abuses in the state and in the King&rsquo;s household. He got some
money on these conditions, and directly set off with Gaveston to the
Border-country, where they spent it in idling away the time, and feasting,
while Bruce made ready to drive the English out of Scotland. For, though the
old King had even made this poor weak son of his swear (as some say) that he
would not bury his bones, but would have them boiled clean in a caldron, and
carried before the English army until Scotland was entirely subdued, the second
Edward was so unlike the first that Bruce gained strength and power every day.
</p>

<p>
The committee of Nobles, after some months of deliberation, ordained that the
King should henceforth call a Parliament together, once every year, and even
twice if necessary, instead of summoning it only when he chose. Further, that
Gaveston should once more be banished, and, this time, on pain of death if he
ever came back. The King&rsquo;s tears were of no avail; he was obliged to send
his favourite to Flanders. As soon as he had done so, however, he dissolved the
Parliament, with the low cunning of a mere fool, and set off to the North of
England, thinking to get an army about him to oppose the Nobles. And once again
he brought Gaveston home, and heaped upon him all the riches and titles of
which the Barons had deprived him.
</p>

<p>
The Lords saw, now, that there was nothing for it but to put the favourite to
death. They could have done so, legally, according to the terms of his
banishment; but they did so, I am sorry to say, in a shabby manner. Led by the
Earl of Lancaster, the King&rsquo;s cousin, they first of all attacked the King
and Gaveston at Newcastle. They had time to escape by sea, and the mean King,
having his precious Gaveston with him, was quite content to leave his lovely
wife behind. When they were comparatively safe, they separated; the King went
to York to collect a force of soldiers; and the favourite shut himself up, in
the meantime, in Scarborough Castle overlooking the sea. This was what the
Barons wanted. They knew that the Castle could not hold out; they attacked it,
and made Gaveston surrender. He delivered himself up to the Earl of
Pembroke&mdash;that Lord whom he had called the Jew&mdash;on the Earl&rsquo;s
pledging his faith and knightly word, that no harm should happen to him and no
violence be done him.
</p>

<p>
Now, it was agreed with Gaveston that he should be taken to the Castle of
Wallingford, and there kept in honourable custody. They travelled as far as
Dedington, near Banbury, where, in the Castle of that place, they stopped for a
night to rest. Whether the Earl of Pembroke left his prisoner there, knowing
what would happen, or really left him thinking no harm, and only going (as he
pretended) to visit his wife, the Countess, who was in the neighbourhood, is no
great matter now; in any case, he was bound as an honourable gentleman to
protect his prisoner, and he did not do it. In the morning, while the favourite
was yet in bed, he was required to dress himself and come down into the
court-yard. He did so without any mistrust, but started and turned pale when he
found it full of strange armed men. &lsquo;I think you know me?&rsquo; said
their leader, also armed from head to foot. &lsquo;I am the black dog of
Ardenne!&rsquo; The time was come when Piers Gaveston was to feel the black
dog&rsquo;s teeth indeed. They set him on a mule, and carried him, in mock
state and with military music, to the black dog&rsquo;s kennel&mdash;Warwick
Castle&mdash;where a hasty council, composed of some great noblemen, considered
what should be done with him. Some were for sparing him, but one loud
voice&mdash;it was the black dog&rsquo;s bark, I dare say&mdash;sounded through
the Castle Hall, uttering these words: &lsquo;You have the fox in your power.
Let him go now, and you must hunt him again.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
They sentenced him to death. He threw himself at the feet of the Earl of
Lancaster&mdash;the old hog&mdash;but the old hog was as savage as the dog. He
was taken out upon the pleasant road, leading from Warwick to Coventry, where
the beautiful river Avon, by which, long afterwards, <span
class="smcap">William Shakespeare</span> was born and now lies buried, sparkled
in the bright landscape of the beautiful May-day; and there they struck off his
wretched head, and stained the dust with his blood.
</p>

<p>
When the King heard of this black deed, in his grief and rage he denounced
relentless war against his Barons, and both sides were in arms for half a year.
But, it then became necessary for them to join their forces against Bruce, who
had used the time well while they were divided, and had now a great power in
Scotland.
</p>

<p>
Intelligence was brought that Bruce was then besieging Stirling Castle, and
that the Governor had been obliged to pledge himself to surrender it, unless he
should be relieved before a certain day. Hereupon, the King ordered the nobles
and their fighting-men to meet him at Berwick; but, the nobles cared so little
for the King, and so neglected the summons, and lost time, that only on the day
before that appointed for the surrender, did the King find himself at Stirling,
and even then with a smaller force than he had expected. However, he had,
altogether, a hundred thousand men, and Bruce had not more than forty thousand;
but, Bruce&rsquo;s army was strongly posted in three square columns, on the
ground lying between the Burn or Brook of Bannock and the walls of Stirling
Castle.
</p>

<p>
On the very evening, when the King came up, Bruce did a brave act that
encouraged his men. He was seen by a certain <span class="smcap">Henry de
Bohun</span>, an English Knight, riding about before his army on a little
horse, with a light battle-axe in his hand, and a crown of gold on his head.
This English Knight, who was mounted on a strong war-horse, cased in steel,
strongly armed, and able (as he thought) to overthrow Bruce by crushing him
with his mere weight, set spurs to his great charger, rode on him, and made a
thrust at him with his heavy spear. Bruce parried the thrust, and with one blow
of his battle-axe split his skull.
</p>

<p>
The Scottish men did not forget this, next day when the battle raged. <span
class="smcap">Randolph</span>, Bruce&rsquo;s valiant Nephew, rode, with the
small body of men he commanded, into such a host of the English, all shining in
polished armour in the sunlight, that they seemed to be swallowed up and lost,
as if they had plunged into the sea. But, they fought so well, and did such
dreadful execution, that the English staggered. Then came Bruce himself upon
them, with all the rest of his army. While they were thus hard pressed and
amazed, there appeared upon the hills what they supposed to be a new Scottish
army, but what were really only the camp followers, in number fifteen thousand:
whom Bruce had taught to show themselves at that place and time. The Earl of
Gloucester, commanding the English horse, made a last rush to change the
fortune of the day; but Bruce (like Jack the Giant-killer in the story) had had
pits dug in the ground, and covered over with turfs and stakes. Into these, as
they gave way beneath the weight of the horses, riders and horses rolled by
hundreds. The English were completely routed; all their treasure, stores, and
engines, were taken by the Scottish men; so many waggons and other wheeled
vehicles were seized, that it is related that they would have reached, if they
had been drawn out in a line, one hundred and eighty miles. The fortunes of
Scotland were, for the time, completely changed; and never was a battle won,
more famous upon Scottish ground, than this great battle of <span
class="smcap">Bannockburn</span>.
</p>

<p>
Plague and famine succeeded in England; and still the powerless King and his
disdainful Lords were always in contention. Some of the turbulent chiefs of
Ireland made proposals to Bruce, to accept the rule of that country. He sent
his brother Edward to them, who was crowned King of Ireland. He afterwards went
himself to help his brother in his Irish wars, but his brother was defeated in
the end and killed. Robert Bruce, returning to Scotland, still increased his
strength there.
</p>

<p>
As the King&rsquo;s ruin had begun in a favourite, so it seemed likely to end
in one. He was too poor a creature to rely at all upon himself; and his new
favourite was one <span class="smcap">Hugh le Despenser</span>, the son of a
gentleman of ancient family. Hugh was handsome and brave, but he was the
favourite of a weak King, whom no man cared a rush for, and that was a
dangerous place to hold. The Nobles leagued against him, because the King liked
him; and they lay in wait, both for his ruin and his father&rsquo;s. Now, the
King had married him to the daughter of the late Earl of Gloucester, and had
given both him and his father great possessions in Wales. In their endeavours
to extend these, they gave violent offence to an angry Welsh gentleman, named
<span class="smcap">John de Mowbray</span>, and to divers other angry Welsh
gentlemen, who resorted to arms, took their castles, and seized their estates.
The Earl of Lancaster had first placed the favourite (who was a poor relation
of his own) at Court, and he considered his own dignity offended by the
preference he received and the honours he acquired; so he, and the Barons who
were his friends, joined the Welshmen, marched on London, and sent a message to
the King demanding to have the favourite and his father banished. At first, the
King unaccountably took it into his head to be spirited, and to send them a
bold reply; but when they quartered themselves around Holborn and Clerkenwell,
and went down, armed, to the Parliament at Westminster, he gave way, and
complied with their demands.
</p>

<p>
His turn of triumph came sooner than he expected. It arose out of an accidental
circumstance. The beautiful Queen happening to be travelling, came one night to
one of the royal castles, and demanded to be lodged and entertained there until
morning. The governor of this castle, who was one of the enraged lords, was
away, and in his absence, his wife refused admission to the Queen; a scuffle
took place among the common men on either side, and some of the royal
attendants were killed. The people, who cared nothing for the King, were very
angry that their beautiful Queen should be thus rudely treated in her own
dominions; and the King, taking advantage of this feeling, besieged the castle,
took it, and then called the two Despensers home. Upon this, the confederate
lords and the Welshmen went over to Bruce. The King encountered them at
Boroughbridge, gained the victory, and took a number of distinguished
prisoners; among them, the Earl of Lancaster, now an old man, upon whose
destruction he was resolved. This Earl was taken to his own castle of
Pontefract, and there tried and found guilty by an unfair court appointed for
the purpose; he was not even allowed to speak in his own defence. He was
insulted, pelted, mounted on a starved pony without saddle or bridle, carried
out, and beheaded. Eight-and-twenty knights were hanged, drawn, and quartered.
When the King had despatched this bloody work, and had made a fresh and a long
truce with Bruce, he took the Despensers into greater favour than ever, and
made the father Earl of Winchester.
</p>

<p>
One prisoner, and an important one, who was taken at Boroughbridge, made his
escape, however, and turned the tide against the King. This was <span
class="smcap">Roger Mortimer</span>, always resolutely opposed to him, who was
sentenced to death, and placed for safe custody in the Tower of London. He
treated his guards to a quantity of wine into which he had put a sleeping
potion; and, when they were insensible, broke out of his dungeon, got into a
kitchen, climbed up the chimney, let himself down from the roof of the building
with a rope-ladder, passed the sentries, got down to the river, and made away
in a boat to where servants and horses were waiting for him. He finally escaped
to France, where <span class="smcap">Charles le Bel</span>, the brother of the
beautiful Queen, was King. Charles sought to quarrel with the King of England,
on pretence of his not having come to do him homage at his coronation. It was
proposed that the beautiful Queen should go over to arrange the dispute; she
went, and wrote home to the King, that as he was sick and could not come to
France himself, perhaps it would be better to send over the young Prince, their
son, who was only twelve years old, who could do homage to her brother in his
stead, and in whose company she would immediately return. The King sent him:
but, both he and the Queen remained at the French Court, and Roger Mortimer
became the Queen&rsquo;s lover.
</p>

<p>
When the King wrote, again and again, to the Queen to come home, she did not
reply that she despised him too much to live with him any more (which was the
truth), but said she was afraid of the two Despensers. In short, her design was
to overthrow the favourites&rsquo; power, and the King&rsquo;s power, such as
it was, and invade England. Having obtained a French force of two thousand men,
and being joined by all the English exiles then in France, she landed, within a
year, at Orewell, in Suffolk, where she was immediately joined by the Earls of
Kent and Norfolk, the King&rsquo;s two brothers; by other powerful noblemen;
and lastly, by the first English general who was despatched to check her: who
went over to her with all his men. The people of London, receiving these
tidings, would do nothing for the King, but broke open the Tower, let out all
his prisoners, and threw up their caps and hurrahed for the beautiful Queen.
</p>

<p>
The King, with his two favourites, fled to Bristol, where he left old Despenser
in charge of the town and castle, while he went on with the son to Wales. The
Bristol men being opposed to the King, and it being impossible to hold the town
with enemies everywhere within the walls, Despenser yielded it up on the third
day, and was instantly brought to trial for having traitorously influenced what
was called &lsquo;the King&rsquo;s mind&rsquo;&mdash;though I doubt if the King
ever had any. He was a venerable old man, upwards of ninety years of age, but
his age gained no respect or mercy. He was hanged, torn open while he was yet
alive, cut up into pieces, and thrown to the dogs. His son was soon taken,
tried at Hereford before the same judge on a long series of foolish charges,
found guilty, and hanged upon a gallows fifty feet high, with a chaplet of
nettles round his head. His poor old father and he were innocent enough of any
worse crimes than the crime of having been friends of a King, on whom, as a
mere man, they would never have deigned to cast a favourable look. It is a bad
crime, I know, and leads to worse; but, many lords and gentlemen&mdash;I even
think some ladies, too, if I recollect right&mdash;have committed it in
England, who have neither been given to the dogs, nor hanged up fifty feet
high.
</p>

<p>
The wretched King was running here and there, all this time, and never getting
anywhere in particular, until he gave himself up, and was taken off to
Kenilworth Castle. When he was safely lodged there, the Queen went to London
and met the Parliament. And the Bishop of Hereford, who was the most skilful of
her friends, said, What was to be done now? Here was an imbecile, indolent,
miserable King upon the throne; wouldn&rsquo;t it be better to take him off,
and put his son there instead? I don&rsquo;t know whether the Queen really
pitied him at this pass, but she began to cry; so, the Bishop said, Well, my
Lords and Gentlemen, what do you think, upon the whole, of sending down to
Kenilworth, and seeing if His Majesty (God bless him, and forbid we should
depose him!) won&rsquo;t resign?
</p>

<p>
My Lords and Gentlemen thought it a good notion, so a deputation of them went
down to Kenilworth; and there the King came into the great hall of the Castle,
commonly dressed in a poor black gown; and when he saw a certain bishop among
them, fell down, poor feeble-headed man, and made a wretched spectacle of
himself. Somebody lifted him up, and then <span class="smcap">Sir William
Trussel</span>, the Speaker of the House of Commons, almost frightened him to
death by making him a tremendous speech to the effect that he was no longer a
King, and that everybody renounced allegiance to him. After which, <span
class="smcap">Sir Thomas Blount</span>, the Steward of the Household, nearly
finished him, by coming forward and breaking his white wand&mdash;which was a
ceremony only performed at a King&rsquo;s death. Being asked in this pressing
manner what he thought of resigning, the King said he thought it was the best
thing he could do. So, he did it, and they proclaimed his son next day.
</p>

<p>
I wish I could close his history by saying that he lived a harmless life in the
Castle and the Castle gardens at Kenilworth, many years&mdash;that he had a
favourite, and plenty to eat and drink&mdash;and, having that, wanted nothing.
But he was shamefully humiliated. He was outraged, and slighted, and had dirty
water from ditches given him to shave with, and wept and said he would have
clean warm water, and was altogether very miserable. He was moved from this
castle to that castle, and from that castle to the other castle, because this
lord or that lord, or the other lord, was too kind to him: until at last he
came to Berkeley Castle, near the River Severn, where (the Lord Berkeley being
then ill and absent) he fell into the hands of two black ruffians, called <span
class="smcap">Thomas Gournay</span> and <span class="smcap">William
Ogle</span>.
</p>

<p>
One night&mdash;it was the night of September the twenty-first, one thousand
three hundred and twenty-seven&mdash;dreadful screams were heard, by the
startled people in the neighbouring town, ringing through the thick walls of
the Castle, and the dark, deep night; and they said, as they were thus horribly
awakened from their sleep, &lsquo;May Heaven be merciful to the King; for those
cries forbode that no good is being done to him in his dismal prison!&rsquo;
Next morning he was dead&mdash;not bruised, or stabbed, or marked upon the
body, but much distorted in the face; and it was whispered afterwards, that
those two villains, Gournay and Ogle, had burnt up his inside with a red-hot
iron.
</p>

<p>
If you ever come near Gloucester, and see the centre tower of its beautiful
Cathedral, with its four rich pinnacles, rising lightly in the air; you may
remember that the wretched Edward the Second was buried in the old abbey of
that ancient city, at forty-three years old, after being for nineteen years and
a half a perfectly incapable King.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE THIRD</h2>

<p>
Roger Mortimer, the Queen&rsquo;s lover (who escaped to France in the last
chapter), was far from profiting by the examples he had had of the fate of
favourites. Having, through the Queen&rsquo;s influence, come into possession
of the estates of the two Despensers, he became extremely proud and ambitious,
and sought to be the real ruler of England. The young King, who was crowned at
fourteen years of age with all the usual solemnities, resolved not to bear
this, and soon pursued Mortimer to his ruin.
</p>

<p>
The people themselves were not fond of Mortimer&mdash;first, because he was a
Royal favourite; secondly, because he was supposed to have helped to make a
peace with Scotland which now took place, and in virtue of which the young
King&rsquo;s sister Joan, only seven years old, was promised in marriage to
David, the son and heir of Robert Bruce, who was only five years old. The
nobles hated Mortimer because of his pride, riches, and power. They went so far
as to take up arms against him; but were obliged to submit. The Earl of Kent,
one of those who did so, but who afterwards went over to Mortimer and the
Queen, was made an example of in the following cruel manner:
</p>

<p>
He seems to have been anything but a wise old earl; and he was persuaded by the
agents of the favourite and the Queen, that poor King Edward the Second was not
really dead; and thus was betrayed into writing letters favouring his rightful
claim to the throne. This was made out to be high treason, and he was tried,
found guilty, and sentenced to be executed. They took the poor old lord outside
the town of Winchester, and there kept him waiting some three or four hours
until they could find somebody to cut off his head. At last, a convict said he
would do it, if the government would pardon him in return; and they gave him
the pardon; and at one blow he put the Earl of Kent out of his last suspense.
</p>

<p>
While the Queen was in France, she had found a lovely and good young lady,
named Philippa, who she thought would make an excellent wife for her son. The
young King married this lady, soon after he came to the throne; and her first
child, Edward, Prince of Wales, afterwards became celebrated, as we shall
presently see, under the famous title of <span class="smcap">Edward the Black
Prince</span>.
</p>

<p>
The young King, thinking the time ripe for the downfall of Mortimer, took
counsel with Lord Montacute how he should proceed. A Parliament was going to be
held at Nottingham, and that lord recommended that the favourite should be
seized by night in Nottingham Castle, where he was sure to be. Now, this, like
many other things, was more easily said than done; because, to guard against
treachery, the great gates of the Castle were locked every night, and the great
keys were carried up-stairs to the Queen, who laid them under her own pillow.
But the Castle had a governor, and the governor being Lord Montacute&rsquo;s
friend, confided to him how he knew of a secret passage underground, hidden
from observation by the weeds and brambles with which it was overgrown; and
how, through that passage, the conspirators might enter in the dead of the
night, and go straight to Mortimer&rsquo;s room. Accordingly, upon a certain
dark night, at midnight, they made their way through this dismal place:
startling the rats, and frightening the owls and bats: and came safely to the
bottom of the main tower of the Castle, where the King met them, and took them
up a profoundly-dark staircase in a deep silence. They soon heard the voice of
Mortimer in council with some friends; and bursting into the room with a sudden
noise, took him prisoner. The Queen cried out from her bed-chamber, &lsquo;Oh,
my sweet son, my dear son, spare my gentle Mortimer!&rsquo; They carried him
off, however; and, before the next Parliament, accused him of having made
differences between the young King and his mother, and of having brought about
the death of the Earl of Kent, and even of the late King; for, as you know by
this time, when they wanted to get rid of a man in those old days, they were
not very particular of what they accused him. Mortimer was found guilty of all
this, and was sentenced to be hanged at Tyburn. The King shut his mother up in
genteel confinement, where she passed the rest of her life; and now he became
King in earnest.
</p>

<p>
The first effort he made was to conquer Scotland. The English lords who had
lands in Scotland, finding that their rights were not respected under the late
peace, made war on their own account: choosing for their general, Edward, the
son of John Baliol, who made such a vigorous fight, that in less than two
months he won the whole Scottish Kingdom. He was joined, when thus triumphant,
by the King and Parliament; and he and the King in person besieged the Scottish
forces in Berwick. The whole Scottish army coming to the assistance of their
countrymen, such a furious battle ensued, that thirty thousand men are said to
have been killed in it. Baliol was then crowned King of Scotland, doing homage
to the King of England; but little came of his successes after all, for the
Scottish men rose against him, within no very long time, and David Bruce came
back within ten years and took his kingdom.
</p>

<p>
France was a far richer country than Scotland, and the King had a much greater
mind to conquer it. So, he let Scotland alone, and pretended that he had a
claim to the French throne in right of his mother. He had, in reality, no claim
at all; but that mattered little in those times. He brought over to his cause
many little princes and sovereigns, and even courted the alliance of the people
of Flanders&mdash;a busy, working community, who had very small respect for
kings, and whose head man was a brewer. With such forces as he raised by these
means, Edward invaded France; but he did little by that, except run into debt
in carrying on the war to the extent of three hundred thousand pounds. The next
year he did better; gaining a great sea-fight in the harbour of Sluys. This
success, however, was very shortlived, for the Flemings took fright at the
siege of Saint Omer and ran away, leaving their weapons and baggage behind
them. Philip, the French King, coming up with his army, and Edward being very
anxious to decide the war, proposed to settle the difference by single combat
with him, or by a fight of one hundred knights on each side. The French King
said, he thanked him; but being very well as he was, he would rather not. So,
after some skirmishing and talking, a short peace was made.
</p>

<p>
It was soon broken by King Edward&rsquo;s favouring the cause of John, Earl of
Montford; a French nobleman, who asserted a claim of his own against the French
King, and offered to do homage to England for the Crown of France, if he could
obtain it through England&rsquo;s help. This French lord, himself, was soon
defeated by the French King&rsquo;s son, and shut up in a tower in Paris; but
his wife, a courageous and beautiful woman, who is said to have had the courage
of a man, and the heart of a lion, assembled the people of Brittany, where she
then was; and, showing them her infant son, made many pathetic entreaties to
them not to desert her and their young Lord. They took fire at this appeal, and
rallied round her in the strong castle of Hennebon. Here she was not only
besieged without by the French under Charles de Blois, but was endangered
within by a dreary old bishop, who was always representing to the people what
horrors they must undergo if they were faithful&mdash;first from famine, and
afterwards from fire and sword. But this noble lady, whose heart never failed
her, encouraged her soldiers by her own example; went from post to post like a
great general; even mounted on horseback fully armed, and, issuing from the
castle by a by-path, fell upon the French camp, set fire to the tents, and
threw the whole force into disorder. This done, she got safely back to Hennebon
again, and was received with loud shouts of joy by the defenders of the castle,
who had given her up for lost. As they were now very short of provisions,
however, and as they could not dine off enthusiasm, and as the old bishop was
always saying, &lsquo;I told you what it would come to!&rsquo; they began to
lose heart, and to talk of yielding the castle up. The brave Countess retiring
to an upper room and looking with great grief out to sea, where she expected
relief from England, saw, at this very time, the English ships in the distance,
and was relieved and rescued! Sir Walter Manning, the English commander, so
admired her courage, that, being come into the castle with the English knights,
and having made a feast there, he assaulted the French by way of dessert, and
beat them off triumphantly. Then he and the knights came back to the castle
with great joy; and the Countess who had watched them from a high tower,
thanked them with all her heart, and kissed them every one.
</p>

<p>
This noble lady distinguished herself afterwards in a sea-fight with the French
off Guernsey, when she was on her way to England to ask for more troops. Her
great spirit roused another lady, the wife of another French lord (whom the
French King very barbarously murdered), to distinguish herself scarcely less.
The time was fast coming, however, when Edward, Prince of Wales, was to be the
great star of this French and English war.
</p>

<p>
It was in the month of July, in the year one thousand three hundred and
forty-six, when the King embarked at Southampton for France, with an army of
about thirty thousand men in all, attended by the Prince of Wales and by
several of the chief nobles. He landed at La Hogue in Normandy; and, burning
and destroying as he went, according to custom, advanced up the left bank of
the River Seine, and fired the small towns even close to Paris; but, being
watched from the right bank of the river by the French King and all his army,
it came to this at last, that Edward found himself, on Saturday the
twenty-sixth of August, one thousand three hundred and forty-six, on a rising
ground behind the little French village of Crecy, face to face with the French
King&rsquo;s force. And, although the French King had an enormous army&mdash;in
number more than eight times his&mdash;he there resolved to beat him or be
beaten.
</p>

<p>
The young Prince, assisted by the Earl of Oxford and the Earl of Warwick, led
the first division of the English army; two other great Earls led the second;
and the King, the third. When the morning dawned, the King received the
sacrament, and heard prayers, and then, mounted on horseback with a white wand
in his hand, rode from company to company, and rank to rank, cheering and
encouraging both officers and men. Then the whole army breakfasted, each man
sitting on the ground where he had stood; and then they remained quietly on the
ground with their weapons ready.
</p>

<p>
Up came the French King with all his great force. It was dark and angry
weather; there was an eclipse of the sun; there was a thunder-storm,
accompanied with tremendous rain; the frightened birds flew screaming above the
soldiers&rsquo; heads. A certain captain in the French army advised the French
King, who was by no means cheerful, not to begin the battle until the morrow.
The King, taking this advice, gave the word to halt. But, those behind not
understanding it, or desiring to be foremost with the rest, came pressing on.
The roads for a great distance were covered with this immense army, and with
the common people from the villages, who were flourishing their rude weapons,
and making a great noise. Owing to these circumstances, the French army
advanced in the greatest confusion; every French lord doing what he liked with
his own men, and putting out the men of every other French lord.
</p>

<p>
Now, their King relied strongly upon a great body of cross-bowmen from Genoa;
and these he ordered to the front to begin the battle, on finding that he could
not stop it. They shouted once, they shouted twice, they shouted three times,
to alarm the English archers; but, the English would have heard them shout
three thousand times and would have never moved. At last the cross-bowmen went
forward a little, and began to discharge their bolts; upon which, the English
let fly such a hail of arrows, that the Genoese speedily made off&mdash;for
their cross-bows, besides being heavy to carry, required to be wound up with a
handle, and consequently took time to re-load; the English, on the other hand,
could discharge their arrows almost as fast as the arrows could fly.
</p>

<p>
When the French King saw the Genoese turning, he cried out to his men to kill
those scoundrels, who were doing harm instead of service. This increased the
confusion. Meanwhile the English archers, continuing to shoot as fast as ever,
shot down great numbers of the French soldiers and knights; whom certain sly
Cornish-men and Welshmen, from the English army, creeping along the ground,
despatched with great knives.
</p>

<p>
The Prince and his division were at this time so hard-pressed, that the Earl of
Warwick sent a message to the King, who was overlooking the battle from a
windmill, beseeching him to send more aid.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Is my son killed?&rsquo; said the King.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;No, sire, please God,&rsquo; returned the messenger.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Is he wounded?&rsquo; said the King.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;No, sire.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Is he thrown to the ground?&rsquo; said the King.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;No, sire, not so; but, he is very hard-pressed.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Then,&rsquo; said the King, &lsquo;go back to those who sent you, and
tell them I shall send no aid; because I set my heart upon my son proving
himself this day a brave knight, and because I am resolved, please God, that
the honour of a great victory shall be his!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
These bold words, being reported to the Prince and his division, so raised
their spirits, that they fought better than ever. The King of France charged
gallantly with his men many times; but it was of no use. Night closing in, his
horse was killed under him by an English arrow, and the knights and nobles who
had clustered thick about him early in the day, were now completely scattered.
At last, some of his few remaining followers led him off the field by force
since he would not retire of himself, and they journeyed away to Amiens. The
victorious English, lighting their watch-fires, made merry on the field, and
the King, riding to meet his gallant son, took him in his arms, kissed him, and
told him that he had acted nobly, and proved himself worthy of the day and of
the crown. While it was yet night, King Edward was hardly aware of the great
victory he had gained; but, next day, it was discovered that eleven princes,
twelve hundred knights, and thirty thousand common men lay dead upon the French
side. Among these was the King of Bohemia, an old blind man; who, having been
told that his son was wounded in the battle, and that no force could stand
against the Black Prince, called to him two knights, put himself on horse-back
between them, fastened the three bridles together, and dashed in among the
English, where he was presently slain. He bore as his crest three white ostrich
feathers, with the motto <i>Ich dien</i>, signifying in English &lsquo;I
serve.&rsquo; This crest and motto were taken by the Prince of Wales in
remembrance of that famous day, and have been borne by the Prince of Wales ever
since.
</p>

<p>
Five days after this great battle, the King laid siege to Calais. This
siege&mdash;ever afterwards memorable&mdash;lasted nearly a year. In order to
starve the inhabitants out, King Edward built so many wooden houses for the
lodgings of his troops, that it is said their quarters looked like a second
Calais suddenly sprung around the first. Early in the siege, the governor of
the town drove out what he called the useless mouths, to the number of
seventeen hundred persons, men and women, young and old. King Edward allowed
them to pass through his lines, and even fed them, and dismissed them with
money; but, later in the siege, he was not so merciful&mdash;five hundred more,
who were afterwards driven out, dying of starvation and misery. The garrison
were so hard-pressed at last, that they sent a letter to King Philip, telling
him that they had eaten all the horses, all the dogs, and all the rats and mice
that could be found in the place; and, that if he did not relieve them, they
must either surrender to the English, or eat one another. Philip made one
effort to give them relief; but they were so hemmed in by the English power,
that he could not succeed, and was fain to leave the place. Upon this they
hoisted the English flag, and surrendered to King Edward. &lsquo;Tell your
general,&rsquo; said he to the humble messengers who came out of the town,
&lsquo;that I require to have sent here, six of the most distinguished
citizens, bare-legged, and in their shirts, with ropes about their necks; and
let those six men bring with them the keys of the castle and the town.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
When the Governor of Calais related this to the people in the Market-place,
there was great weeping and distress; in the midst of which, one worthy
citizen, named Eustace de Saint Pierre, rose up and said, that if the six men
required were not sacrificed, the whole population would be; therefore, he
offered himself as the first. Encouraged by this bright example, five other
worthy citizens rose up one after another, and offered themselves to save the
rest. The Governor, who was too badly wounded to be able to walk, mounted a
poor old horse that had not been eaten, and conducted these good men to the
gate, while all the people cried and mourned.
</p>

<p>
Edward received them wrathfully, and ordered the heads of the whole six to be
struck off. However, the good Queen fell upon her knees, and besought the King
to give them up to her. The King replied, &lsquo;I wish you had been somewhere
else; but I cannot refuse you.&rsquo; So she had them properly dressed, made a
feast for them, and sent them back with a handsome present, to the great
rejoicing of the whole camp. I hope the people of Calais loved the daughter to
whom she gave birth soon afterwards, for her gentle mother&rsquo;s sake.
</p>

<p>
Now came that terrible disease, the Plague, into Europe, hurrying from the
heart of China; and killed the wretched people&mdash;especially the
poor&mdash;in such enormous numbers, that one-half of the inhabitants of
England are related to have died of it. It killed the cattle, in great numbers,
too; and so few working men remained alive, that there were not enough left to
till the ground.
</p>

<p>
After eight years of differing and quarrelling, the Prince of Wales again
invaded France with an army of sixty thousand men. He went through the south of
the country, burning and plundering wheresoever he went; while his father, who
had still the Scottish war upon his hands, did the like in Scotland, but was
harassed and worried in his retreat from that country by the Scottish men, who
repaid his cruelties with interest.
</p>

<p>
The French King, Philip, was now dead, and was succeeded by his son John. The
Black Prince, called by that name from the colour of the armour he wore to set
off his fair complexion, continuing to burn and destroy in France, roused John
into determined opposition; and so cruel had the Black Prince been in his
campaign, and so severely had the French peasants suffered, that he could not
find one who, for love, or money, or the fear of death, would tell him what the
French King was doing, or where he was. Thus it happened that he came upon the
French King&rsquo;s forces, all of a sudden, near the town of Poitiers, and
found that the whole neighbouring country was occupied by a vast French army.
&lsquo;God help us!&rsquo; said the Black Prince, &lsquo;we must make the best
of it.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
So, on a Sunday morning, the eighteenth of September, the Prince whose army was
now reduced to ten thousand men in all&mdash;prepared to give battle to the
French King, who had sixty thousand horse alone. While he was so engaged, there
came riding from the French camp, a Cardinal, who had persuaded John to let him
offer terms, and try to save the shedding of Christian blood. &lsquo;Save my
honour,&rsquo; said the Prince to this good priest, &lsquo;and save the honour
of my army, and I will make any reasonable terms.&rsquo; He offered to give up
all the towns, castles, and prisoners, he had taken, and to swear to make no
war in France for seven years; but, as John would hear of nothing but his
surrender, with a hundred of his chief knights, the treaty was broken off, and
the Prince said quietly&mdash;&lsquo;God defend the right; we shall fight
to-morrow.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
Therefore, on the Monday morning, at break of day, the two armies prepared for
battle. The English were posted in a strong place, which could only be
approached by one narrow lane, skirted by hedges on both sides. The French
attacked them by this lane; but were so galled and slain by English arrows from
behind the hedges, that they were forced to retreat. Then went six hundred
English bowmen round about, and, coming upon the rear of the French army,
rained arrows on them thick and fast. The French knights, thrown into
confusion, quitted their banners and dispersed in all directions. Said Sir John
Chandos to the Prince, &lsquo;Ride forward, noble Prince, and the day is yours.
The King of France is so valiant a gentleman, that I know he will never fly,
and may be taken prisoner.&rsquo; Said the Prince to this, &lsquo;Advance,
English banners, in the name of God and St. George!&rsquo; and on they pressed
until they came up with the French King, fighting fiercely with his battle-axe,
and, when all his nobles had forsaken him, attended faithfully to the last by
his youngest son Philip, only sixteen years of age. Father and son fought well,
and the King had already two wounds in his face, and had been beaten down, when
he at last delivered himself to a banished French knight, and gave him his
right-hand glove in token that he had done so.
</p>

<p>
The Black Prince was generous as well as brave, and he invited his royal
prisoner to supper in his tent, and waited upon him at table, and, when they
afterwards rode into London in a gorgeous procession, mounted the French King
on a fine cream-coloured horse, and rode at his side on a little pony. This was
all very kind, but I think it was, perhaps, a little theatrical too, and has
been made more meritorious than it deserved to be; especially as I am inclined
to think that the greatest kindness to the King of France would have been not
to have shown him to the people at all. However, it must be said, for these
acts of politeness, that, in course of time, they did much to soften the
horrors of war and the passions of conquerors. It was a long, long time before
the common soldiers began to have the benefit of such courtly deeds; but they
did at last; and thus it is possible that a poor soldier who asked for quarter
at the battle of Waterloo, or any other such great fight, may have owed his
life indirectly to Edward the Black Prince.
</p>

<p>
At this time there stood in the Strand, in London, a palace called the Savoy,
which was given up to the captive King of France and his son for their
residence. As the King of Scotland had now been King Edward&rsquo;s captive for
eleven years too, his success was, at this time, tolerably complete. The
Scottish business was settled by the prisoner being released under the title of
Sir David, King of Scotland, and by his engaging to pay a large ransom. The
state of France encouraged England to propose harder terms to that country,
where the people rose against the unspeakable cruelty and barbarity of its
nobles; where the nobles rose in turn against the people; where the most
frightful outrages were committed on all sides; and where the insurrection of
the peasants, called the insurrection of the Jacquerie, from Jacques, a common
Christian name among the country people of France, awakened terrors and hatreds
that have scarcely yet passed away. A treaty called the Great Peace, was at
last signed, under which King Edward agreed to give up the greater part of his
conquests, and King John to pay, within six years, a ransom of three million
crowns of gold. He was so beset by his own nobles and courtiers for having
yielded to these conditions&mdash;though they could help him to no
better&mdash;that he came back of his own will to his old palace-prison of the
Savoy, and there died.
</p>

<p>
There was a Sovereign of Castile at that time, called <span class="smcap">Pedro
the Cruel</span>, who deserved the name remarkably well: having committed,
among other cruelties, a variety of murders. This amiable monarch being driven
from his throne for his crimes, went to the province of Bordeaux, where the
Black Prince&mdash;now married to his cousin <span class="smcap">Joan</span>, a
pretty widow&mdash;was residing, and besought his help. The Prince, who took to
him much more kindly than a prince of such fame ought to have taken to such a
ruffian, readily listened to his fair promises, and agreeing to help him, sent
secret orders to some troublesome disbanded soldiers of his and his
father&rsquo;s, who called themselves the Free Companions, and who had been a
pest to the French people, for some time, to aid this Pedro. The Prince,
himself, going into Spain to head the army of relief, soon set Pedro on his
throne again&mdash;where he no sooner found himself, than, of course, he
behaved like the villain he was, broke his word without the least shame, and
abandoned all the promises he had made to the Black Prince.
</p>

<p>
Now, it had cost the Prince a good deal of money to pay soldiers to support
this murderous King; and finding himself, when he came back disgusted to
Bordeaux, not only in bad health, but deeply in debt, he began to tax his
French subjects to pay his creditors. They appealed to the French King, <span
class="smcap">Charles</span>; war again broke out; and the French town of
Limoges, which the Prince had greatly benefited, went over to the French King.
Upon this he ravaged the province of which it was the capital; burnt, and
plundered, and killed in the old sickening way; and refused mercy to the
prisoners, men, women, and children taken in the offending town, though he was
so ill and so much in need of pity himself from Heaven, that he was carried in
a litter. He lived to come home and make himself popular with the people and
Parliament, and he died on Trinity Sunday, the eighth of June, one thousand
three hundred and seventy-six, at forty-six years old.
</p>

<p>
The whole nation mourned for him as one of the most renowned and beloved
princes it had ever had; and he was buried with great lamentations in
Canterbury Cathedral. Near to the tomb of Edward the Confessor, his monument,
with his figure, carved in stone, and represented in the old black armour,
lying on its back, may be seen at this day, with an ancient coat of mail, a
helmet, and a pair of gauntlets hanging from a beam above it, which most people
like to believe were once worn by the Black Prince.
</p>

<p>
King Edward did not outlive his renowned son, long. He was old, and one Alice
Perrers, a beautiful lady, had contrived to make him so fond of her in his old
age, that he could refuse her nothing, and made himself ridiculous. She little
deserved his love, or&mdash;what I dare say she valued a great deal
more&mdash;the jewels of the late Queen, which he gave her among other rich
presents. She took the very ring from his finger on the morning of the day when
he died, and left him to be pillaged by his faithless servants. Only one good
priest was true to him, and attended him to the last.
</p>

<p>
Besides being famous for the great victories I have related, the reign of King
Edward the Third was rendered memorable in better ways, by the growth of
architecture and the erection of Windsor Castle. In better ways still, by the
rising up of <span class="smcap">Wickliffe</span>, originally a poor parish
priest: who devoted himself to exposing, with wonderful power and success, the
ambition and corruption of the Pope, and of the whole church of which he was
the head.
</p>

<p>
Some of those Flemings were induced to come to England in this reign too, and
to settle in Norfolk, where they made better woollen cloths than the English
had ever had before. The Order of the Garter (a very fine thing in its way, but
hardly so important as good clothes for the nation) also dates from this
period. The King is said to have picked &lsquo;up a lady&rsquo;s garter at a
ball, and to have said, <i>Honi soit qui mal y pense</i>&mdash;in English,
&lsquo;Evil be to him who evil thinks of it.&rsquo; The courtiers were usually
glad to imitate what the King said or did, and hence from a slight incident the
Order of the Garter was instituted, and became a great dignity. So the story
goes.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE SECOND</h2>

<p>
Richard, son of the Black Prince, a boy eleven years of age, succeeded to the
Crown under the title of King Richard the Second. The whole English nation were
ready to admire him for the sake of his brave father. As to the lords and
ladies about the Court, they declared him to be the most beautiful, the wisest,
and the best&mdash;even of princes&mdash;whom the lords and ladies about the
Court, generally declare to be the most beautiful, the wisest, and the best of
mankind. To flatter a poor boy in this base manner was not a very likely way to
develop whatever good was in him; and it brought him to anything but a good or
happy end.
</p>

<p>
The Duke of Lancaster, the young King&rsquo;s uncle&mdash;commonly called John
of Gaunt, from having been born at Ghent, which the common people so
pronounced&mdash;was supposed to have some thoughts of the throne himself; but,
as he was not popular, and the memory of the Black Prince was, he submitted to
his nephew.
</p>

<p>
The war with France being still unsettled, the Government of England wanted
money to provide for the expenses that might arise out of it; accordingly a
certain tax, called the Poll-tax, which had originated in the last reign, was
ordered to be levied on the people. This was a tax on every person in the
kingdom, male and female, above the age of fourteen, of three groats (or three
four-penny pieces) a year; clergymen were charged more, and only beggars were
exempt.
</p>

<p>
I have no need to repeat that the common people of England had long been
suffering under great oppression. They were still the mere slaves of the lords
of the land on which they lived, and were on most occasions harshly and
unjustly treated. But, they had begun by this time to think very seriously of
not bearing quite so much; and, probably, were emboldened by that French
insurrection I mentioned in the last chapter.
</p>

<p>
The people of Essex rose against the Poll-tax, and being severely handled by
the government officers, killed some of them. At this very time one of the
tax-collectors, going his rounds from house to house, at Dartford in Kent came
to the cottage of one <span class="smcap">Wat</span>, a tiler by trade, and
claimed the tax upon his daughter. Her mother, who was at home, declared that
she was under the age of fourteen; upon that, the collector (as other
collectors had already done in different parts of England) behaved in a savage
way, and brutally insulted Wat Tyler&rsquo;s daughter. The daughter screamed,
the mother screamed. Wat the Tiler, who was at work not far off, ran to the
spot, and did what any honest father under such provocation might have
done&mdash;struck the collector dead at a blow.
</p>

<p>
Instantly the people of that town uprose as one man. They made Wat Tyler their
leader; they joined with the people of Essex, who were in arms under a priest
called <span class="smcap">Jack Straw</span>; they took out of prison another
priest named <span class="smcap">John Ball</span>; and gathering in numbers as
they went along, advanced, in a great confused army of poor men, to Blackheath.
It is said that they wanted to abolish all property, and to declare all men
equal. I do not think this very likely; because they stopped the travellers on
the roads and made them swear to be true to King Richard and the people. Nor
were they at all disposed to injure those who had done them no harm, merely
because they were of high station; for, the King&rsquo;s mother, who had to
pass through their camp at Blackheath, on her way to her young son, lying for
safety in the Tower of London, had merely to kiss a few dirty-faced
rough-bearded men who were noisily fond of royalty, and so got away in perfect
safety. Next day the whole mass marched on to London Bridge.
</p>

<p>
There was a drawbridge in the middle, which <span class="smcap">William
Walworth</span> the Mayor caused to be raised to prevent their coming into the
city; but they soon terrified the citizens into lowering it again, and spread
themselves, with great uproar, over the streets. They broke open the prisons;
they burned the papers in Lambeth Palace; they destroyed the <span
class="smcap">Duke of Lancaster&rsquo;s</span> Palace, the Savoy, in the
Strand, said to be the most beautiful and splendid in England; they set fire to
the books and documents in the Temple; and made a great riot. Many of these
outrages were committed in drunkenness; since those citizens, who had
well-filled cellars, were only too glad to throw them open to save the rest of
their property; but even the drunken rioters were very careful to steal
nothing. They were so angry with one man, who was seen to take a silver cup at
the Savoy Palace, and put it in his breast, that they drowned him in the river,
cup and all.
</p>

<p>
The young King had been taken out to treat with them before they committed
these excesses; but, he and the people about him were so frightened by the
riotous shouts, that they got back to the Tower in the best way they could.
This made the insurgents bolder; so they went on rioting away, striking off the
heads of those who did not, at a moment&rsquo;s notice, declare for King
Richard and the people; and killing as many of the unpopular persons whom they
supposed to be their enemies as they could by any means lay hold of. In this
manner they passed one very violent day, and then proclamation was made that
the King would meet them at Mile-end, and grant their requests.
</p>

<p>
The rioters went to Mile-end to the number of sixty thousand, and the King met
them there, and to the King the rioters peaceably proposed four conditions.
First, that neither they, nor their children, nor any coming after them, should
be made slaves any more. Secondly, that the rent of land should be fixed at a
certain price in money, instead of being paid in service. Thirdly, that they
should have liberty to buy and sell in all markets and public places, like
other free men. Fourthly, that they should be pardoned for past offences.
Heaven knows, there was nothing very unreasonable in these proposals! The young
King deceitfully pretended to think so, and kept thirty clerks up, all night,
writing out a charter accordingly.
</p>

<p>
Now, Wat Tyler himself wanted more than this. He wanted the entire abolition of
the forest laws. He was not at Mile-end with the rest, but, while that meeting
was being held, broke into the Tower of London and slew the archbishop and the
treasurer, for whose heads the people had cried out loudly the day before. He
and his men even thrust their swords into the bed of the Princess of Wales
while the Princess was in it, to make certain that none of their enemies were
concealed there.
</p>

<p>
So, Wat and his men still continued armed, and rode about the city. Next
morning, the King with a small train of some sixty gentlemen&mdash;among whom
was <span class="smcap">Walworth</span> the Mayor&mdash;rode into Smithfield,
and saw Wat and his people at a little distance. Says Wat to his men,
&lsquo;There is the King. I will go speak with him, and tell him what we
want.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
Straightway Wat rode up to him, and began to talk. &lsquo;King,&rsquo; says
Wat, &lsquo;dost thou see all my men there?&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Ah,&rsquo; says the King. &lsquo;Why?&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Because,&rsquo; says Wat, &lsquo;they are all at my command, and have
sworn to do whatever I bid them.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
Some declared afterwards that as Wat said this, he laid his hand on the
King&rsquo;s bridle. Others declared that he was seen to play with his own
dagger. I think, myself, that he just spoke to the King like a rough, angry man
as he was, and did nothing more. At any rate he was expecting no attack, and
preparing for no resistance, when Walworth the Mayor did the not very valiant
deed of drawing a short sword and stabbing him in the throat. He dropped from
his horse, and one of the King&rsquo;s people speedily finished him. So fell
Wat Tyler. Fawners and flatterers made a mighty triumph of it, and set up a cry
which will occasionally find an echo to this day. But Wat was a hard-working
man, who had suffered much, and had been foully outraged; and it is probable
that he was a man of a much higher nature and a much braver spirit than any of
the parasites who exulted then, or have exulted since, over his defeat.
</p>

<p>
Seeing Wat down, his men immediately bent their bows to avenge his fall. If the
young King had not had presence of mind at that dangerous moment, both he and
the Mayor to boot, might have followed Tyler pretty fast. But the King riding
up to the crowd, cried out that Tyler was a traitor, and that he would be their
leader. They were so taken by surprise, that they set up a great shouting, and
followed the boy until he was met at Islington by a large body of soldiers.
</p>

<p>
The end of this rising was the then usual end. As soon as the King found
himself safe, he unsaid all he had said, and undid all he had done; some
fifteen hundred of the rioters were tried (mostly in Essex) with great rigour,
and executed with great cruelty. Many of them were hanged on gibbets, and left
there as a terror to the country people; and, because their miserable friends
took some of the bodies down to bury, the King ordered the rest to be chained
up&mdash;which was the beginning of the barbarous custom of hanging in chains.
The King&rsquo;s falsehood in this business makes such a pitiful figure, that I
think Wat Tyler appears in history as beyond comparison the truer and more
respectable man of the two.
</p>

<p>
Richard was now sixteen years of age, and married Anne of Bohemia, an excellent
princess, who was called &lsquo;the good Queen Anne.&rsquo; She deserved a
better husband; for the King had been fawned and flattered into a treacherous,
wasteful, dissolute, bad young man.
</p>

<p>
There were two Popes at this time (as if one were not enough!), and their
quarrels involved Europe in a great deal of trouble. Scotland was still
troublesome too; and at home there was much jealousy and distrust, and plotting
and counter-plotting, because the King feared the ambition of his relations,
and particularly of his uncle, the Duke of Lancaster, and the duke had his
party against the King, and the King had his party against the duke. Nor were
these home troubles lessened when the duke went to Castile to urge his claim to
the crown of that kingdom; for then the Duke of Gloucester, another of
Richard&rsquo;s uncles, opposed him, and influenced the Parliament to demand
the dismissal of the King&rsquo;s favourite ministers. The King said in reply,
that he would not for such men dismiss the meanest servant in his kitchen. But,
it had begun to signify little what a King said when a Parliament was
determined; so Richard was at last obliged to give way, and to agree to another
Government of the kingdom, under a commission of fourteen nobles, for a year.
His uncle of Gloucester was at the head of this commission, and, in fact,
appointed everybody composing it.
</p>

<p>
Having done all this, the King declared as soon as he saw an opportunity that
he had never meant to do it, and that it was all illegal; and he got the judges
secretly to sign a declaration to that effect. The secret oozed out directly,
and was carried to the Duke of Gloucester. The Duke of Gloucester, at the head
of forty thousand men, met the King on his entering into London to enforce his
authority; the King was helpless against him; his favourites and ministers were
impeached and were mercilessly executed. Among them were two men whom the
people regarded with very different feelings; one, Robert Tresilian, Chief
Justice, who was hated for having made what was called &lsquo;the bloody
circuit&rsquo; to try the rioters; the other, Sir Simon Burley, an honourable
knight, who had been the dear friend of the Black Prince, and the governor and
guardian of the King. For this gentleman&rsquo;s life the good Queen even
begged of Gloucester on her knees; but Gloucester (with or without reason)
feared and hated him, and replied, that if she valued her husband&rsquo;s
crown, she had better beg no more. All this was done under what was called by
some the wonderful&mdash;and by others, with better reason, the
merciless&mdash;Parliament.
</p>

<p>
But Gloucester&rsquo;s power was not to last for ever. He held it for only a
year longer; in which year the famous battle of Otterbourne, sung in the old
ballad of Chevy Chase, was fought. When the year was out, the King, turning
suddenly to Gloucester, in the midst of a great council said, &lsquo;Uncle, how
old am I?&rsquo; &lsquo;Your highness,&rsquo; returned the Duke, &lsquo;is in
your twenty-second year.&rsquo; &lsquo;Am I so much?&rsquo; said the King;
&lsquo;then I will manage my own affairs! I am much obliged to you, my good
lords, for your past services, but I need them no more.&rsquo; He followed this
up, by appointing a new Chancellor and a new Treasurer, and announced to the
people that he had resumed the Government. He held it for eight years without
opposition. Through all that time, he kept his determination to revenge himself
some day upon his uncle Gloucester, in his own breast.
</p>

<p>
At last the good Queen died, and then the King, desiring to take a second wife,
proposed to his council that he should marry Isabella, of France, the daughter
of Charles the Sixth: who, the French courtiers said (as the English courtiers
had said of Richard), was a marvel of beauty and wit, and quite a
phenomenon&mdash;of seven years old. The council were divided about this
marriage, but it took place. It secured peace between England and France for a
quarter of a century; but it was strongly opposed to the prejudices of the
English people. The Duke of Gloucester, who was anxious to take the occasion of
making himself popular, declaimed against it loudly, and this at length decided
the King to execute the vengeance he had been nursing so long.
</p>

<p>
He went with a gay company to the Duke of Gloucester&rsquo;s house, Pleshey
Castle, in Essex, where the Duke, suspecting nothing, came out into the
court-yard to receive his royal visitor. While the King conversed in a friendly
manner with the Duchess, the Duke was quietly seized, hurried away, shipped for
Calais, and lodged in the castle there. His friends, the Earls of Arundel and
Warwick, were taken in the same treacherous manner, and confined to their
castles. A few days after, at Nottingham, they were impeached of high treason.
The Earl of Arundel was condemned and beheaded, and the Earl of Warwick was
banished. Then, a writ was sent by a messenger to the Governor of Calais,
requiring him to send the Duke of Gloucester over to be tried. In three days he
returned an answer that he could not do that, because the Duke of Gloucester
had died in prison. The Duke was declared a traitor, his property was
confiscated to the King, a real or pretended confession he had made in prison
to one of the Justices of the Common Pleas was produced against him, and there
was an end of the matter. How the unfortunate duke died, very few cared to
know. Whether he really died naturally; whether he killed himself; whether, by
the King&rsquo;s order, he was strangled, or smothered between two beds (as a
serving-man of the Governor&rsquo;s named Hall, did afterwards declare), cannot
be discovered. There is not much doubt that he was killed, somehow or other, by
his nephew&rsquo;s orders. Among the most active nobles in these proceedings
were the King&rsquo;s cousin, Henry Bolingbroke, whom the King had made Duke of
Hereford to smooth down the old family quarrels, and some others: who had in
the family-plotting times done just such acts themselves as they now condemned
in the duke. They seem to have been a corrupt set of men; but such men were
easily found about the court in such days.
</p>

<p>
The people murmured at all this, and were still very sore about the French
marriage. The nobles saw how little the King cared for law, and how crafty he
was, and began to be somewhat afraid for themselves. The King&rsquo;s life was
a life of continued feasting and excess; his retinue, down to the meanest
servants, were dressed in the most costly manner, and caroused at his tables,
it is related, to the number of ten thousand persons every day. He himself,
surrounded by a body of ten thousand archers, and enriched by a duty on wool
which the Commons had granted him for life, saw no danger of ever being
otherwise than powerful and absolute, and was as fierce and haughty as a King
could be.
</p>

<p>
He had two of his old enemies left, in the persons of the Dukes of Hereford and
Norfolk. Sparing these no more than the others, he tampered with the Duke of
Hereford until he got him to declare before the Council that the Duke of
Norfolk had lately held some treasonable talk with him, as he was riding near
Brentford; and that he had told him, among other things, that he could not
believe the King&rsquo;s oath&mdash;which nobody could, I should think. For
this treachery he obtained a pardon, and the Duke of Norfolk was summoned to
appear and defend himself. As he denied the charge and said his accuser was a
liar and a traitor, both noblemen, according to the manner of those times, were
held in custody, and the truth was ordered to be decided by wager of battle at
Coventry. This wager of battle meant that whosoever won the combat was to be
considered in the right; which nonsense meant in effect, that no strong man
could ever be wrong. A great holiday was made; a great crowd assembled, with
much parade and show; and the two combatants were about to rush at each other
with their lances, when the King, sitting in a pavilion to see fair, threw down
the truncheon he carried in his hand, and forbade the battle. The Duke of
Hereford was to be banished for ten years, and the Duke of Norfolk was to be
banished for life. So said the King. The Duke of Hereford went to France, and
went no farther. The Duke of Norfolk made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and
afterwards died at Venice of a broken heart.
</p>

<p>
Faster and fiercer, after this, the King went on in his career. The Duke of
Lancaster, who was the father of the Duke of Hereford, died soon after the
departure of his son; and, the King, although he had solemnly granted to that
son leave to inherit his father&rsquo;s property, if it should come to him
during his banishment, immediately seized it all, like a robber. The judges
were so afraid of him, that they disgraced themselves by declaring this theft
to be just and lawful. His avarice knew no bounds. He outlawed seventeen
counties at once, on a frivolous pretence, merely to raise money by way of
fines for misconduct. In short, he did as many dishonest things as he could;
and cared so little for the discontent of his subjects&mdash;though even the
spaniel favourites began to whisper to him that there was such a thing as
discontent afloat&mdash;that he took that time, of all others, for leaving
England and making an expedition against the Irish.
</p>

<p>
He was scarcely gone, leaving the <span class="smcap">Duke of York</span>
Regent in his absence, when his cousin, Henry of Hereford, came over from
France to claim the rights of which he had been so monstrously deprived. He was
immediately joined by the two great Earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland;
and his uncle, the Regent, finding the King&rsquo;s cause unpopular, and the
disinclination of the army to act against Henry, very strong, withdrew with the
Royal forces towards Bristol. Henry, at the head of an army, came from
Yorkshire (where he had landed) to London and followed him. They joined their
forces&mdash;how they brought that about, is not distinctly
understood&mdash;and proceeded to Bristol Castle, whither three noblemen had
taken the young Queen. The castle surrendering, they presently put those three
noblemen to death. The Regent then remained there, and Henry went on to
Chester.
</p>

<p>
All this time, the boisterous weather had prevented the King from receiving
intelligence of what had occurred. At length it was conveyed to him in Ireland,
and he sent over the <span class="smcap">Earl of Salisbury</span>, who, landing
at Conway, rallied the Welshmen, and waited for the King a whole fortnight; at
the end of that time the Welshmen, who were perhaps not very warm for him in
the beginning, quite cooled down and went home. When the King did land on the
coast at last, he came with a pretty good power, but his men cared nothing for
him, and quickly deserted. Supposing the Welshmen to be still at Conway, he
disguised himself as a priest, and made for that place in company with his two
brothers and some few of their adherents. But, there were no Welshmen
left&mdash;only Salisbury and a hundred soldiers. In this distress, the
King&rsquo;s two brothers, Exeter and Surrey, offered to go to Henry to learn
what his intentions were. Surrey, who was true to Richard, was put into prison.
Exeter, who was false, took the royal badge, which was a hart, off his shield,
and assumed the rose, the badge of Henry. After this, it was pretty plain to
the King what Henry&rsquo;s intentions were, without sending any more
messengers to ask.
</p>

<p>
The fallen King, thus deserted&mdash;hemmed in on all sides, and pressed with
hunger&mdash;rode here and rode there, and went to this castle, and went to
that castle, endeavouring to obtain some provisions, but could find none. He
rode wretchedly back to Conway, and there surrendered himself to the Earl of
Northumberland, who came from Henry, in reality to take him prisoner, but in
appearance to offer terms; and whose men were hidden not far off. By this earl
he was conducted to the castle of Flint, where his cousin Henry met him, and
dropped on his knee as if he were still respectful to his sovereign.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Fair cousin of Lancaster,&rsquo; said the King, &lsquo;you are very
welcome&rsquo; (very welcome, no doubt; but he would have been more so, in
chains or without a head).
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;My lord,&rsquo; replied Henry, &lsquo;I am come a little before my time;
but, with your good pleasure, I will show you the reason. Your people complain
with some bitterness, that you have ruled them rigorously for two-and-twenty
years. Now, if it please God, I will help you to govern them better in
future.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Fair cousin,&rsquo; replied the abject King, &lsquo;since it pleaseth
you, it pleaseth me mightily.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
After this, the trumpets sounded, and the King was stuck on a wretched horse,
and carried prisoner to Chester, where he was made to issue a proclamation,
calling a Parliament. From Chester he was taken on towards London. At Lichfield
he tried to escape by getting out of a window and letting himself down into a
garden; it was all in vain, however, and he was carried on and shut up in the
Tower, where no one pitied him, and where the whole people, whose patience he
had quite tired out, reproached him without mercy. Before he got there, it is
related, that his very dog left him and departed from his side to lick the hand
of Henry.
</p>

<p>
The day before the Parliament met, a deputation went to this wrecked King, and
told him that he had promised the Earl of Northumberland at Conway Castle to
resign the crown. He said he was quite ready to do it, and signed a paper in
which he renounced his authority and absolved his people from their allegiance
to him. He had so little spirit left that he gave his royal ring to his
triumphant cousin Henry with his own hand, and said, that if he could have had
leave to appoint a successor, that same Henry was the man of all others whom he
would have named. Next day, the Parliament assembled in Westminster Hall, where
Henry sat at the side of the throne, which was empty and covered with a cloth
of gold. The paper just signed by the King was read to the multitude amid
shouts of joy, which were echoed through all the streets; when some of the
noise had died away, the King was formally deposed. Then Henry arose, and,
making the sign of the cross on his forehead and breast, challenged the realm
of England as his right; the archbishops of Canterbury and York seated him on
the throne.
</p>

<p>
The multitude shouted again, and the shouts re-echoed throughout all the
streets. No one remembered, now, that Richard the Second had ever been the most
beautiful, the wisest, and the best of princes; and he now made living (to my
thinking) a far more sorry spectacle in the Tower of London, than Wat Tyler had
made, lying dead, among the hoofs of the royal horses in Smithfield.
</p>

<p>
The Poll-tax died with Wat. The Smiths to the King and Royal Family, could make
no chains in which the King could hang the people&rsquo;s recollection of him;
so the Poll-tax was never collected.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FOURTH, CALLED BOLINGBROKE</h2>

<p>
During the last reign, the preaching of Wickliffe against the pride and cunning
of the Pope and all his men, had made a great noise in England. Whether the new
King wished to be in favour with the priests, or whether he hoped, by
pretending to be very religious, to cheat Heaven itself into the belief that he
was not a usurper, I don&rsquo;t know. Both suppositions are likely enough. It
is certain that he began his reign by making a strong show against the
followers of Wickliffe, who were called Lollards, or heretics&mdash;although
his father, John of Gaunt, had been of that way of thinking, as he himself had
been more than suspected of being. It is no less certain that he first
established in England the detestable and atrocious custom, brought from
abroad, of burning those people as a punishment for their opinions. It was the
importation into England of one of the practices of what was called the Holy
Inquisition: which was the most <i>un</i>holy and the most infamous tribunal
that ever disgraced mankind, and made men more like demons than followers of
Our Saviour.
</p>

<p>
No real right to the crown, as you know, was in this King. Edward Mortimer, the
young Earl of March&mdash;who was only eight or nine years old, and who was
descended from the Duke of Clarence, the elder brother of Henry&rsquo;s
father&mdash;was, by succession, the real heir to the throne. However, the King
got his son declared Prince of Wales; and, obtaining possession of the young
Earl of March and his little brother, kept them in confinement (but not
severely) in Windsor Castle. He then required the Parliament to decide what was
to be done with the deposed King, who was quiet enough, and who only said that
he hoped his cousin Henry would be &lsquo;a good lord&rsquo; to him. The
Parliament replied that they would recommend his being kept in some secret
place where the people could not resort, and where his friends could not be
admitted to see him. Henry accordingly passed this sentence upon him, and it
now began to be pretty clear to the nation that Richard the Second would not
live very long.
</p>

<p>
It was a noisy Parliament, as it was an unprincipled one, and the Lords
quarrelled so violently among themselves as to which of them had been loyal and
which disloyal, and which consistent and which inconsistent, that forty
gauntlets are said to have been thrown upon the floor at one time as challenges
to as many battles: the truth being that they were all false and base together,
and had been, at one time with the old King, and at another time with the new
one, and seldom true for any length of time to any one. They soon began to plot
again. A conspiracy was formed to invite the King to a tournament at Oxford,
and then to take him by surprise and kill him. This murderous enterprise, which
was agreed upon at secret meetings in the house of the Abbot of Westminster,
was betrayed by the Earl of Rutland&mdash;one of the conspirators. The King,
instead of going to the tournament or staying at Windsor (where the
conspirators suddenly went, on finding themselves discovered, with the hope of
seizing him), retired to London, proclaimed them all traitors, and advanced
upon them with a great force. They retired into the west of England,
proclaiming Richard King; but, the people rose against them, and they were all
slain. Their treason hastened the death of the deposed monarch. Whether he was
killed by hired assassins, or whether he was starved to death, or whether he
refused food on hearing of his brothers being killed (who were in that plot),
is very doubtful. He met his death somehow; and his body was publicly shown at
St. Paul&rsquo;s Cathedral with only the lower part of the face uncovered. I
can scarcely doubt that he was killed by the King&rsquo;s orders.
</p>

<p>
The French wife of the miserable Richard was now only ten years old; and, when
her father, Charles of France, heard of her misfortunes and of her lonely
condition in England, he went mad: as he had several times done before, during
the last five or six years. The French Dukes of Burgundy and Bourbon took up
the poor girl&rsquo;s cause, without caring much about it, but on the chance of
getting something out of England. The people of Bordeaux, who had a sort of
superstitious attachment to the memory of Richard, because he was born there,
swore by the Lord that he had been the best man in all his kingdom&mdash;which
was going rather far&mdash;and promised to do great things against the English.
Nevertheless, when they came to consider that they, and the whole people of
France, were ruined by their own nobles, and that the English rule was much the
better of the two, they cooled down again; and the two dukes, although they
were very great men, could do nothing without them. Then, began negotiations
between France and England for the sending home to Paris of the poor little
Queen with all her jewels and her fortune of two hundred thousand francs in
gold. The King was quite willing to restore the young lady, and even the
jewels; but he said he really could not part with the money. So, at last she
was safely deposited at Paris without her fortune, and then the Duke of
Burgundy (who was cousin to the French King) began to quarrel with the Duke of
Orleans (who was brother to the French King) about the whole matter; and those
two dukes made France even more wretched than ever.
</p>

<p>
As the idea of conquering Scotland was still popular at home, the King marched
to the river Tyne and demanded homage of the King of that country. This being
refused, he advanced to Edinburgh, but did little there; for, his army being in
want of provisions, and the Scotch being very careful to hold him in check
without giving battle, he was obliged to retire. It is to his immortal honour
that in this sally he burnt no villages and slaughtered no people, but was
particularly careful that his army should be merciful and harmless. It was a
great example in those ruthless times.
</p>

<p>
A war among the border people of England and Scotland went on for twelve
months, and then the Earl of Northumberland, the nobleman who had helped Henry
to the crown, began to rebel against him&mdash;probably because nothing that
Henry could do for him would satisfy his extravagant expectations. There was a
certain Welsh gentleman, named <span class="smcap">Owen Glendower</span>, who
had been a student in one of the Inns of Court, and had afterwards been in the
service of the late King, whose Welsh property was taken from him by a powerful
lord related to the present King, who was his neighbour. Appealing for redress,
and getting none, he took up arms, was made an outlaw, and declared himself
sovereign of Wales. He pretended to be a magician; and not only were the Welsh
people stupid enough to believe him, but, even Henry believed him too; for,
making three expeditions into Wales, and being three times driven back by the
wildness of the country, the bad weather, and the skill of Glendower, he
thought he was defeated by the Welshman&rsquo;s magic arts. However, he took
Lord Grey and Sir Edmund Mortimer, prisoners, and allowed the relatives of Lord
Grey to ransom him, but would not extend such favour to Sir Edmund Mortimer.
Now, Henry Percy, called <span class="smcap">Hotspur</span>, son of the Earl of
Northumberland, who was married to Mortimer&rsquo;s sister, is supposed to have
taken offence at this; and, therefore, in conjunction with his father and some
others, to have joined Owen Glendower, and risen against Henry. It is by no
means clear that this was the real cause of the conspiracy; but perhaps it was
made the pretext. It was formed, and was very powerful; including <span
class="smcap">Scroop</span>, Archbishop of York, and the <span
class="smcap">Earl of Douglas</span>, a powerful and brave Scottish nobleman.
The King was prompt and active, and the two armies met at Shrewsbury.
</p>

<p>
There were about fourteen thousand men in each. The old Earl of Northumberland
being sick, the rebel forces were led by his son. The King wore plain armour to
deceive the enemy; and four noblemen, with the same object, wore the royal
arms. The rebel charge was so furious, that every one of those gentlemen was
killed, the royal standard was beaten down, and the young Prince of Wales was
severely wounded in the face. But he was one of the bravest and best soldiers
that ever lived, and he fought so well, and the King&rsquo;s troops were so
encouraged by his bold example, that they rallied immediately, and cut the
enemy&rsquo;s forces all to pieces. Hotspur was killed by an arrow in the
brain, and the rout was so complete that the whole rebellion was struck down by
this one blow. The Earl of Northumberland surrendered himself soon after
hearing of the death of his son, and received a pardon for all his offences.
</p>

<p>
There were some lingerings of rebellion yet: Owen Glendower being retired to
Wales, and a preposterous story being spread among the ignorant people that
King Richard was still alive. How they could have believed such nonsense it is
difficult to imagine; but they certainly did suppose that the Court fool of the
late King, who was something like him, was he, himself; so that it seemed as
if, after giving so much trouble to the country in his life, he was still to
trouble it after his death. This was not the worst. The young Earl of March and
his brother were stolen out of Windsor Castle. Being retaken, and being found
to have been spirited away by one Lady Spencer, she accused her own brother,
that Earl of Rutland who was in the former conspiracy and was now Duke of York,
of being in the plot. For this he was ruined in fortune, though not put to
death; and then another plot arose among the old Earl of Northumberland, some
other lords, and that same Scroop, Archbishop of York, who was with the rebels
before. These conspirators caused a writing to be posted on the church doors,
accusing the King of a variety of crimes; but, the King being eager and
vigilant to oppose them, they were all taken, and the Archbishop was executed.
This was the first time that a great churchman had been slain by the law in
England; but the King was resolved that it should be done, and done it was.
</p>

<p>
The next most remarkable event of this time was the seizure, by Henry, of the
heir to the Scottish throne&mdash;James, a boy of nine years old. He had been
put aboard-ship by his father, the Scottish King Robert, to save him from the
designs of his uncle, when, on his way to France, he was accidentally taken by
some English cruisers. He remained a prisoner in England for nineteen years,
and became in his prison a student and a famous poet.
</p>

<p>
With the exception of occasional troubles with the Welsh and with the French,
the rest of King Henry&rsquo;s reign was quiet enough. But, the King was far
from happy, and probably was troubled in his conscience by knowing that he had
usurped the crown, and had occasioned the death of his miserable cousin. The
Prince of Wales, though brave and generous, is said to have been wild and
dissipated, and even to have drawn his sword on <span
class="smcap">Gascoigne</span>, the Chief Justice of the King&rsquo;s Bench,
because he was firm in dealing impartially with one of his dissolute
companions. Upon this the Chief Justice is said to have ordered him immediately
to prison; the Prince of Wales is said to have submitted with a good grace; and
the King is said to have exclaimed, &lsquo;Happy is the monarch who has so just
a judge, and a son so willing to obey the laws.&rsquo; This is all very
doubtful, and so is another story (of which Shakespeare has made beautiful
use), that the Prince once took the crown out of his father&rsquo;s chamber as
he was sleeping, and tried it on his own head.
</p>

<p>
The King&rsquo;s health sank more and more, and he became subject to violent
eruptions on the face and to bad epileptic fits, and his spirits sank every
day. At last, as he was praying before the shrine of St. Edward at Westminster
Abbey, he was seized with a terrible fit, and was carried into the
Abbot&rsquo;s chamber, where he presently died. It had been foretold that he
would die at Jerusalem, which certainly is not, and never was, Westminster.
But, as the Abbot&rsquo;s room had long been called the Jerusalem chamber,
people said it was all the same thing, and were quite satisfied with the
prediction.
</p>

<p>
The King died on the 20th of March, 1413, in the forty-seventh year of his age,
and the fourteenth of his reign. He was buried in Canterbury Cathedral. He had
been twice married, and had, by his first wife, a family of four sons and two
daughters. Considering his duplicity before he came to the throne, his unjust
seizure of it, and above all, his making that monstrous law for the burning of
what the priests called heretics, he was a reasonably good king, as kings went.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FIFTH</h2>

<h3>FIRST PART</h3>

<p>
The Prince of Wales began his reign like a generous and honest man. He set the
young Earl of March free; he restored their estates and their honours to the
Percy family, who had lost them by their rebellion against his father; he
ordered the imbecile and unfortunate Richard to be honourably buried among the
Kings of England; and he dismissed all his wild companions, with assurances
that they should not want, if they would resolve to be steady, faithful, and
true.
</p>

<p>
It is much easier to burn men than to burn their opinions; and those of the
Lollards were spreading every day. The Lollards were represented by the
priests&mdash;probably falsely for the most part&mdash;to entertain treasonable
designs against the new King; and Henry, suffering himself to be worked upon by
these representations, sacrificed his friend Sir John Oldcastle, the Lord
Cobham, to them, after trying in vain to convert him by arguments. He was
declared guilty, as the head of the sect, and sentenced to the flames; but he
escaped from the Tower before the day of execution (postponed for fifty days by
the King himself), and summoned the Lollards to meet him near London on a
certain day. So the priests told the King, at least. I doubt whether there was
any conspiracy beyond such as was got up by their agents. On the day appointed,
instead of five-and-twenty thousand men, under the command of Sir John
Oldcastle, in the meadows of St. Giles, the King found only eighty men, and no
Sir John at all. There was, in another place, an addle-headed brewer, who had
gold trappings to his horses, and a pair of gilt spurs in his
breast&mdash;expecting to be made a knight next day by Sir John, and so to gain
the right to wear them&mdash;but there was no Sir John, nor did anybody give
information respecting him, though the King offered great rewards for such
intelligence. Thirty of these unfortunate Lollards were hanged and drawn
immediately, and were then burnt, gallows and all; and the various prisons in
and around London were crammed full of others. Some of these unfortunate men
made various confessions of treasonable designs; but, such confessions were
easily got, under torture and the fear of fire, and are very little to be
trusted. To finish the sad story of Sir John Oldcastle at once, I may mention
that he escaped into Wales, and remained there safely, for four years. When
discovered by Lord Powis, it is very doubtful if he would have been taken
alive&mdash;so great was the old soldier&rsquo;s bravery&mdash;if a miserable
old woman had not come behind him and broken his legs with a stool. He was
carried to London in a horse-litter, was fastened by an iron chain to a gibbet,
and so roasted to death.
</p>

<p>
To make the state of France as plain as I can in a few words, I should tell you
that the Duke of Orleans, and the Duke of Burgundy, commonly called &lsquo;John
without fear,&rsquo; had had a grand reconciliation of their quarrel in the
last reign, and had appeared to be quite in a heavenly state of mind.
Immediately after which, on a Sunday, in the public streets of Paris, the Duke
of Orleans was murdered by a party of twenty men, set on by the Duke of
Burgundy&mdash;according to his own deliberate confession. The widow of King
Richard had been married in France to the eldest son of the Duke of Orleans.
The poor mad King was quite powerless to help her, and the Duke of Burgundy
became the real master of France. Isabella dying, her husband (Duke of Orleans
since the death of his father) married the daughter of the Count of Armagnac,
who, being a much abler man than his young son-in-law, headed his party; thence
called after him Armagnacs. Thus, France was now in this terrible condition,
that it had in it the party of the King&rsquo;s son, the Dauphin Louis; the
party of the Duke of Burgundy, who was the father of the Dauphin&rsquo;s
ill-used wife; and the party of the Armagnacs; all hating each other; all
fighting together; all composed of the most depraved nobles that the earth has
ever known; and all tearing unhappy France to pieces.
</p>

<p>
The late King had watched these dissensions from England, sensible (like the
French people) that no enemy of France could injure her more than her own
nobility. The present King now advanced a claim to the French throne. His
demand being, of course, refused, he reduced his proposal to a certain large
amount of French territory, and to demanding the French princess, Catherine, in
marriage, with a fortune of two millions of golden crowns. He was offered less
territory and fewer crowns, and no princess; but he called his ambassadors home
and prepared for war. Then, he proposed to take the princess with one million
of crowns. The French Court replied that he should have the princess with two
hundred thousand crowns less; he said this would not do (he had never seen the
princess in his life), and assembled his army at Southampton. There was a short
plot at home just at that time, for deposing him, and making the Earl of March
king; but the conspirators were all speedily condemned and executed, and the
King embarked for France.
</p>

<p>
It is dreadful to observe how long a bad example will be followed; but, it is
encouraging to know that a good example is never thrown away. The King&rsquo;s
first act on disembarking at the mouth of the river Seine, three miles from
Harfleur, was to imitate his father, and to proclaim his solemn orders that the
lives and property of the peaceable inhabitants should be respected on pain of
death. It is agreed by French writers, to his lasting renown, that even while
his soldiers were suffering the greatest distress from want of food, these
commands were rigidly obeyed.
</p>

<p>
With an army in all of thirty thousand men, he besieged the town of Harfleur
both by sea and land for five weeks; at the end of which time the town
surrendered, and the inhabitants were allowed to depart with only fivepence
each, and a part of their clothes. All the rest of their possessions was
divided amongst the English army. But, that army suffered so much, in spite of
its successes, from disease and privation, that it was already reduced one
half. Still, the King was determined not to retire until he had struck a
greater blow. Therefore, against the advice of all his counsellors, he moved on
with his little force towards Calais. When he came up to the river Somme he was
unable to cross, in consequence of the fort being fortified; and, as the
English moved up the left bank of the river looking for a crossing, the French,
who had broken all the bridges, moved up the right bank, watching them, and
waiting to attack them when they should try to pass it. At last the English
found a crossing and got safely over. The French held a council of war at
Rouen, resolved to give the English battle, and sent heralds to King Henry to
know by which road he was going. &lsquo;By the road that will take me straight
to Calais!&rsquo; said the King, and sent them away with a present of a hundred
crowns.
</p>

<p>
The English moved on, until they beheld the French, and then the King gave
orders to form in line of battle. The French not coming on, the army broke up
after remaining in battle array till night, and got good rest and refreshment
at a neighbouring village. The French were now all lying in another village,
through which they knew the English must pass. They were resolved that the
English should begin the battle. The English had no means of retreat, if their
King had any such intention; and so the two armies passed the night, close
together.
</p>

<p>
To understand these armies well, you must bear in mind that the immense French
army had, among its notable persons, almost the whole of that wicked nobility,
whose debauchery had made France a desert; and so besotted were they by pride,
and by contempt for the common people, that they had scarcely any bowmen (if
indeed they had any at all) in their whole enormous number: which, compared
with the English army, was at least as six to one. For these proud fools had
said that the bow was not a fit weapon for knightly hands, and that France must
be defended by gentlemen only. We shall see, presently, what hand the gentlemen
made of it.
</p>

<p>
Now, on the English side, among the little force, there was a good proportion
of men who were not gentlemen by any means, but who were good stout archers for
all that. Among them, in the morning&mdash;having slept little at night, while
the French were carousing and making sure of victory&mdash;the King rode, on a
grey horse; wearing on his head a helmet of shining steel, surmounted by a
crown of gold, sparkling with precious stones; and bearing over his armour,
embroidered together, the arms of England and the arms of France. The archers
looked at the shining helmet and the crown of gold and the sparkling jewels,
and admired them all; but, what they admired most was the King&rsquo;s cheerful
face, and his bright blue eye, as he told them that, for himself, he had made
up his mind to conquer there or to die there, and that England should never
have a ransom to pay for <i>him</i>. There was one brave knight who chanced to
say that he wished some of the many gallant gentlemen and good soldiers, who
were then idle at home in England, were there to increase their numbers. But
the King told him that, for his part, he did not wish for one more man.
&lsquo;The fewer we have,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;the greater will be the honour
we shall win!&rsquo; His men, being now all in good heart, were refreshed with
bread and wine, and heard prayers, and waited quietly for the French. The King
waited for the French, because they were drawn up thirty deep (the little
English force was only three deep), on very difficult and heavy ground; and he
knew that when they moved, there must be confusion among them.
</p>

<p>
As they did not move, he sent off two parties:&mdash;one to lie concealed in a
wood on the left of the French: the other, to set fire to some houses behind
the French after the battle should be begun. This was scarcely done, when three
of the proud French gentlemen, who were to defend their country without any
help from the base peasants, came riding out, calling upon the English to
surrender. The King warned those gentlemen himself to retire with all speed if
they cared for their lives, and ordered the English banners to advance. Upon
that, Sir Thomas Erpingham, a great English general, who commanded the archers,
threw his truncheon into the air, joyfully, and all the English men, kneeling
down upon the ground and biting it as if they took possession of the country,
rose up with a great shout and fell upon the French.
</p>

<p>
Every archer was furnished with a great stake tipped with iron; and his orders
were, to thrust this stake into the ground, to discharge his arrow, and then to
fall back, when the French horsemen came on. As the haughty French gentlemen,
who were to break the English archers and utterly destroy them with their
knightly lances, came riding up, they were received with such a blinding storm
of arrows, that they broke and turned. Horses and men rolled over one another,
and the confusion was terrific. Those who rallied and charged the archers got
among the stakes on slippery and boggy ground, and were so bewildered that the
English archers&mdash;who wore no armour, and even took off their leathern
coats to be more active&mdash;cut them to pieces, root and branch. Only three
French horsemen got within the stakes, and those were instantly despatched. All
this time the dense French army, being in armour, were sinking knee-deep into
the mire; while the light English archers, half-naked, were as fresh and active
as if they were fighting on a marble floor.
</p>

<p>
But now, the second division of the French coming to the relief of the first,
closed up in a firm mass; the English, headed by the King, attacked them; and
the deadliest part of the battle began. The King&rsquo;s brother, the Duke of
Clarence, was struck down, and numbers of the French surrounded him; but, King
Henry, standing over the body, fought like a lion until they were beaten off.
</p>

<p>
Presently, came up a band of eighteen French knights, bearing the banner of a
certain French lord, who had sworn to kill or take the English King. One of
them struck him such a blow with a battle-axe that he reeled and fell upon his
knees; but, his faithful men, immediately closing round him, killed every one
of those eighteen knights, and so that French lord never kept his oath.
</p>

<p>
The French Duke of Alen&ccedil;on, seeing this, made a desperate charge, and
cut his way close up to the Royal Standard of England. He beat down the Duke of
York, who was standing near it; and, when the King came to his rescue, struck
off a piece of the crown he wore. But, he never struck another blow in this
world; for, even as he was in the act of saying who he was, and that he
surrendered to the King; and even as the King stretched out his hand to give
him a safe and honourable acceptance of the offer; he fell dead, pierced by
innumerable wounds.
</p>

<p>
The death of this nobleman decided the battle. The third division of the French
army, which had never struck a blow yet, and which was, in itself, more than
double the whole English power, broke and fled. At this time of the fight, the
English, who as yet had made no prisoners, began to take them in immense
numbers, and were still occupied in doing so, or in killing those who would not
surrender, when a great noise arose in the rear of the French&mdash;their
flying banners were seen to stop&mdash;and King Henry, supposing a great
reinforcement to have arrived, gave orders that all the prisoners should be put
to death. As soon, however, as it was found that the noise was only occasioned
by a body of plundering peasants, the terrible massacre was stopped.
</p>

<p>
Then King Henry called to him the French herald, and asked him to whom the
victory belonged.
</p>

<p>
The herald replied, &lsquo;To the King of England.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;<i>We</i> have not made this havoc and slaughter,&rsquo; said the King.
&lsquo;It is the wrath of Heaven on the sins of France. What is the name of
that castle yonder?&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
The herald answered him, &lsquo;My lord, it is the castle of Azincourt.&rsquo;
Said the King, &lsquo;From henceforth this battle shall be known to posterity,
by the name of the battle of Azincourt.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
Our English historians have made it Agincourt; but, under that name, it will
ever be famous in English annals.
</p>

<p>
The loss upon the French side was enormous. Three Dukes were killed, two more
were taken prisoners, seven Counts were killed, three more were taken
prisoners, and ten thousand knights and gentlemen were slain upon the field.
The English loss amounted to sixteen hundred men, among whom were the Duke of
York and the Earl of Suffolk.
</p>

<p>
War is a dreadful thing; and it is appalling to know how the English were
obliged, next morning, to kill those prisoners mortally wounded, who yet
writhed in agony upon the ground; how the dead upon the French side were
stripped by their own countrymen and countrywomen, and afterwards buried in
great pits; how the dead upon the English side were piled up in a great barn,
and how their bodies and the barn were all burned together. It is in such
things, and in many more much too horrible to relate, that the real desolation
and wickedness of war consist. Nothing can make war otherwise than horrible.
But the dark side of it was little thought of and soon forgotten; and it cast
no shade of trouble on the English people, except on those who had lost friends
or relations in the fight. They welcomed their King home with shouts of
rejoicing, and plunged into the water to bear him ashore on their shoulders,
and flocked out in crowds to welcome him in every town through which he passed,
and hung rich carpets and tapestries out of the windows, and strewed the
streets with flowers, and made the fountains run with wine, as the great field
of Agincourt had run with blood.
</p>

<h3>SECOND PART</h3>

<p>
That proud and wicked French nobility who dragged their country to destruction,
and who were every day and every year regarded with deeper hatred and
detestation in the hearts of the French people, learnt nothing, even from the
defeat of Agincourt. So far from uniting against the common enemy, they became,
among themselves, more violent, more bloody, and more false&mdash;if that were
possible&mdash;than they had been before. The Count of Armagnac persuaded the
French king to plunder of her treasures Queen Isabella of Bavaria, and to make
her a prisoner. She, who had hitherto been the bitter enemy of the Duke of
Burgundy, proposed to join him, in revenge. He carried her off to Troyes, where
she proclaimed herself Regent of France, and made him her lieutenant. The
Armagnac party were at that time possessed of Paris; but, one of the gates of
the city being secretly opened on a certain night to a party of the
duke&rsquo;s men, they got into Paris, threw into the prisons all the Armagnacs
upon whom they could lay their hands, and, a few nights afterwards, with the
aid of a furious mob of sixty thousand people, broke the prisons open, and
killed them all. The former Dauphin was now dead, and the King&rsquo;s third
son bore the title. Him, in the height of this murderous scene, a French knight
hurried out of bed, wrapped in a sheet, and bore away to Poitiers. So, when the
revengeful Isabella and the Duke of Burgundy entered Paris in triumph after the
slaughter of their enemies, the Dauphin was proclaimed at Poitiers as the real
Regent.
</p>

<p>
King Henry had not been idle since his victory of Agincourt, but had repulsed a
brave attempt of the French to recover Harfleur; had gradually conquered a
great part of Normandy; and, at this crisis of affairs, took the important town
of Rouen, after a siege of half a year. This great loss so alarmed the French,
that the Duke of Burgundy proposed that a meeting to treat of peace should be
held between the French and the English kings in a plain by the river Seine. On
the appointed day, King Henry appeared there, with his two brothers, Clarence
and Gloucester, and a thousand men. The unfortunate French King, being more mad
than usual that day, could not come; but the Queen came, and with her the
Princess Catherine: who was a very lovely creature, and who made a real
impression on King Henry, now that he saw her for the first time. This was the
most important circumstance that arose out of the meeting.
</p>

<p>
As if it were impossible for a French nobleman of that time to be true to his
word of honour in anything, Henry discovered that the Duke of Burgundy was, at
that very moment, in secret treaty with the Dauphin; and he therefore abandoned
the negotiation.
</p>

<p>
The Duke of Burgundy and the Dauphin, each of whom with the best reason
distrusted the other as a noble ruffian surrounded by a party of noble
ruffians, were rather at a loss how to proceed after this; but, at length they
agreed to meet, on a bridge over the river Yonne, where it was arranged that
there should be two strong gates put up, with an empty space between them; and
that the Duke of Burgundy should come into that space by one gate, with ten men
only; and that the Dauphin should come into that space by the other gate, also
with ten men, and no more.
</p>

<p>
So far the Dauphin kept his word, but no farther. When the Duke of Burgundy was
on his knee before him in the act of speaking, one of the Dauphin&rsquo;s noble
ruffians cut the said duke down with a small axe, and others speedily finished
him.
</p>

<p>
It was in vain for the Dauphin to pretend that this base murder was not done
with his consent; it was too bad, even for France, and caused a general horror.
The duke&rsquo;s heir hastened to make a treaty with King Henry, and the French
Queen engaged that her husband should consent to it, whatever it was. Henry
made peace, on condition of receiving the Princess Catherine in marriage, and
being made Regent of France during the rest of the King&rsquo;s lifetime, and
succeeding to the French crown at his death. He was soon married to the
beautiful Princess, and took her proudly home to England, where she was crowned
with great honour and glory.
</p>

<p>
This peace was called the Perpetual Peace; we shall soon see how long it
lasted. It gave great satisfaction to the French people, although they were so
poor and miserable, that, at the time of the celebration of the Royal marriage,
numbers of them were dying with starvation, on the dunghills in the streets of
Paris. There was some resistance on the part of the Dauphin in some few parts
of France, but King Henry beat it all down.
</p>

<p>
And now, with his great possessions in France secured, and his beautiful wife
to cheer him, and a son born to give him greater happiness, all appeared bright
before him. But, in the fulness of his triumph and the height of his power,
Death came upon him, and his day was done. When he fell ill at Vincennes, and
found that he could not recover, he was very calm and quiet, and spoke serenely
to those who wept around his bed. His wife and child, he said, he left to the
loving care of his brother the Duke of Bedford, and his other faithful nobles.
He gave them his advice that England should establish a friendship with the new
Duke of Burgundy, and offer him the regency of France; that it should not set
free the royal princes who had been taken at Agincourt; and that, whatever
quarrel might arise with France, England should never make peace without
holding Normandy. Then, he laid down his head, and asked the attendant priests
to chant the penitential psalms. Amid which solemn sounds, on the thirty-first
of August, one thousand four hundred and twenty-two, in only the thirty-fourth
year of his age and the tenth of his reign, King Henry the Fifth passed away.
</p>

<p>
Slowly and mournfully they carried his embalmed body in a procession of great
state to Paris, and thence to Rouen where his Queen was: from whom the sad
intelligence of his death was concealed until he had been dead some days.
Thence, lying on a bed of crimson and gold, with a golden crown upon the head,
and a golden ball and sceptre lying in the nerveless hands, they carried it to
Calais, with such a great retinue as seemed to dye the road black. The King of
Scotland acted as chief mourner, all the Royal Household followed, the knights
wore black armour and black plumes of feathers, crowds of men bore torches,
making the night as light as day; and the widowed Princess followed last of
all. At Calais there was a fleet of ships to bring the funeral host to Dover.
And so, by way of London Bridge, where the service for the dead was chanted as
it passed along, they brought the body to Westminster Abbey, and there buried
it with great respect.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER XXII<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SIXTH</h2>

<h3>PART THE FIRST</h3>

<p>
It had been the wish of the late King, that while his infant son <span
class="smcap">King Henry the Sixth</span>, at this time only nine months old,
was under age, the Duke of Gloucester should be appointed Regent. The English
Parliament, however, preferred to appoint a Council of Regency, with the Duke
of Bedford at its head: to be represented, in his absence only, by the Duke of
Gloucester. The Parliament would seem to have been wise in this, for Gloucester
soon showed himself to be ambitious and troublesome, and, in the gratification
of his own personal schemes, gave dangerous offence to the Duke of Burgundy,
which was with difficulty adjusted.
</p>

<p>
As that duke declined the Regency of France, it was bestowed by the poor French
King upon the Duke of Bedford. But, the French King dying within two months,
the Dauphin instantly asserted his claim to the French throne, and was actually
crowned under the title of <span class="smcap">Charles the Seventh</span>. The
Duke of Bedford, to be a match for him, entered into a friendly league with the
Dukes of Burgundy and Brittany, and gave them his two sisters in marriage. War
with France was immediately renewed, and the Perpetual Peace came to an
untimely end.
</p>

<p>
In the first campaign, the English, aided by this alliance, were speedily
successful. As Scotland, however, had sent the French five thousand men, and
might send more, or attack the North of England while England was busy with
France, it was considered that it would be a good thing to offer the Scottish
King, James, who had been so long imprisoned, his liberty, on his paying forty
thousand pounds for his board and lodging during nineteen years, and engaging
to forbid his subjects from serving under the flag of France. It is pleasant to
know, not only that the amiable captive at last regained his freedom upon these
terms, but, that he married a noble English lady, with whom he had been long in
love, and became an excellent King. I am afraid we have met with some Kings in
this history, and shall meet with some more, who would have been very much the
better, and would have left the world much happier, if they had been imprisoned
nineteen years too.
</p>

<p>
In the second campaign, the English gained a considerable victory at Verneuil,
in a battle which was chiefly remarkable, otherwise, for their resorting to the
odd expedient of tying their baggage-horses together by the heads and tails,
and jumbling them up with the baggage, so as to convert them into a sort of
live fortification&mdash;which was found useful to the troops, but which I
should think was not agreeable to the horses. For three years afterwards very
little was done, owing to both sides being too poor for war, which is a very
expensive entertainment; but, a council was then held in Paris, in which it was
decided to lay siege to the town of Orleans, which was a place of great
importance to the Dauphin&rsquo;s cause. An English army of ten thousand men
was despatched on this service, under the command of the Earl of Salisbury, a
general of fame. He being unfortunately killed early in the siege, the Earl of
Suffolk took his place; under whom (reinforced by <span class="smcap">Sir John
Falstaff</span>, who brought up four hundred waggons laden with salt herrings
and other provisions for the troops, and, beating off the French who tried to
intercept him, came victorious out of a hot skirmish, which was afterwards
called in jest the Battle of the Herrings) the town of Orleans was so
completely hemmed in, that the besieged proposed to yield it up to their
countryman the Duke of Burgundy. The English general, however, replied that his
English men had won it, so far, by their blood and valour, and that his English
men must have it. There seemed to be no hope for the town, or for the Dauphin,
who was so dismayed that he even thought of flying to Scotland or to
Spain&mdash;when a peasant girl rose up and changed the whole state of affairs.
</p>

<p>
The story of this peasant girl I have now to tell.
</p>

<h3>PART THE SECOND: THE STORY OF JOAN OF ARC</h3>

<p>
In a remote village among some wild hills in the province of Lorraine, there
lived a countryman whose name was <span class="smcap">Jacques
d&rsquo;Arc</span>. He had a daughter, <span class="smcap">Joan of Arc</span>,
who was at this time in her twentieth year. She had been a solitary girl from
her childhood; she had often tended sheep and cattle for whole days where no
human figure was seen or human voice heard; and she had often knelt, for hours
together, in the gloomy, empty, little village chapel, looking up at the altar
and at the dim lamp burning before it, until she fancied that she saw shadowy
figures standing there, and even that she heard them speak to her. The people
in that part of France were very ignorant and superstitious, and they had many
ghostly tales to tell about what they had dreamed, and what they saw among the
lonely hills when the clouds and the mists were resting on them. So, they
easily believed that Joan saw strange sights, and they whispered among
themselves that angels and spirits talked to her.
</p>

<p>
At last, Joan told her father that she had one day been surprised by a great
unearthly light, and had afterwards heard a solemn voice, which said it was
Saint Michael&rsquo;s voice, telling her that she was to go and help the
Dauphin. Soon after this (she said), Saint Catherine and Saint Margaret had
appeared to her with sparkling crowns upon their heads, and had encouraged her
to be virtuous and resolute. These visions had returned sometimes; but the
Voices very often; and the voices always said, &lsquo;Joan, thou art appointed
by Heaven to go and help the Dauphin!&rsquo; She almost always heard them while
the chapel bells were ringing.
</p>

<p>
There is no doubt, now, that Joan believed she saw and heard these things. It
is very well known that such delusions are a disease which is not by any means
uncommon. It is probable enough that there were figures of Saint Michael, and
Saint Catherine, and Saint Margaret, in the little chapel (where they would be
very likely to have shining crowns upon their heads), and that they first gave
Joan the idea of those three personages. She had long been a moping, fanciful
girl, and, though she was a very good girl, I dare say she was a little vain,
and wishful for notoriety.
</p>

<p>
Her father, something wiser than his neighbours, said, &lsquo;I tell thee,
Joan, it is thy fancy. Thou hadst better have a kind husband to take care of
thee, girl, and work to employ thy mind!&rsquo; But Joan told him in reply,
that she had taken a vow never to have a husband, and that she must go as
Heaven directed her, to help the Dauphin.
</p>

<p>
It happened, unfortunately for her father&rsquo;s persuasions, and most
unfortunately for the poor girl, too, that a party of the Dauphin&rsquo;s
enemies found their way into the village while Joan&rsquo;s disorder was at
this point, and burnt the chapel, and drove out the inhabitants. The cruelties
she saw committed, touched Joan&rsquo;s heart and made her worse. She said that
the voices and the figures were now continually with her; that they told her
she was the girl who, according to an old prophecy, was to deliver France; and
she must go and help the Dauphin, and must remain with him until he should be
crowned at Rheims: and that she must travel a long way to a certain lord named
<span class="smcap">Baudricourt</span>, who could and would, bring her into the
Dauphin&rsquo;s presence.
</p>

<p>
As her father still said, &lsquo;I tell thee, Joan, it is thy fancy,&rsquo; she
set off to find out this lord, accompanied by an uncle, a poor village
wheelwright and cart-maker, who believed in the reality of her visions. They
travelled a long way and went on and on, over a rough country, full of the Duke
of Burgundy&rsquo;s men, and of all kinds of robbers and marauders, until they
came to where this lord was.
</p>

<p>
When his servants told him that there was a poor peasant girl named Joan of
Arc, accompanied by nobody but an old village wheelwright and cart-maker, who
wished to see him because she was commanded to help the Dauphin and save
France, Baudricourt burst out a-laughing, and bade them send the girl away.
But, he soon heard so much about her lingering in the town, and praying in the
churches, and seeing visions, and doing harm to no one, that he sent for her,
and questioned her. As she said the same things after she had been well
sprinkled with holy water as she had said before the sprinkling, Baudricourt
began to think there might be something in it. At all events, he thought it
worth while to send her on to the town of Chinon, where the Dauphin was. So, he
bought her a horse, and a sword, and gave her two squires to conduct her. As
the Voices had told Joan that she was to wear a man&rsquo;s dress, now, she put
one on, and girded her sword to her side, and bound spurs to her heels, and
mounted her horse and rode away with her two squires. As to her uncle the
wheelwright, he stood staring at his niece in wonder until she was out of
sight&mdash;as well he might&mdash;and then went home again. The best place,
too.
</p>

<p>
Joan and her two squires rode on and on, until they came to Chinon, where she
was, after some doubt, admitted into the Dauphin&rsquo;s presence. Picking him
out immediately from all his court, she told him that she came commanded by
Heaven to subdue his enemies and conduct him to his coronation at Rheims. She
also told him (or he pretended so afterwards, to make the greater impression
upon his soldiers) a number of his secrets known only to himself, and,
furthermore, she said there was an old, old sword in the cathedral of Saint
Catherine at Fierbois, marked with five old crosses on the blade, which Saint
Catherine had ordered her to wear.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a href="images/p158b.jpg">
<img alt="Joan of Arc" src="images/p158s.jpg" /></a>
</div>

<p>
Now, nobody knew anything about this old, old sword, but when the cathedral
came to be examined&mdash;which was immediately done&mdash;there, sure enough,
the sword was found! The Dauphin then required a number of grave priests and
bishops to give him their opinion whether the girl derived her power from good
spirits or from evil spirits, which they held prodigiously long debates about,
in the course of which several learned men fell fast asleep and snored loudly.
At last, when one gruff old gentleman had said to Joan, &lsquo;What language do
your Voices speak?&rsquo; and when Joan had replied to the gruff old gentleman,
&lsquo;A pleasanter language than yours,&rsquo; they agreed that it was all
correct, and that Joan of Arc was inspired from Heaven. This wonderful
circumstance put new heart into the Dauphin&rsquo;s soldiers when they heard of
it, and dispirited the English army, who took Joan for a witch.
</p>

<p>
So Joan mounted horse again, and again rode on and on, until she came to
Orleans. But she rode now, as never peasant girl had ridden yet. She rode upon
a white war-horse, in a suit of glittering armour; with the old, old sword from
the cathedral, newly burnished, in her belt; with a white flag carried before
her, upon which were a picture of God, and the words <span class="smcap">Jesus
Maria</span>. In this splendid state, at the head of a great body of troops
escorting provisions of all kinds for the starving inhabitants of Orleans, she
appeared before that beleaguered city.
</p>

<p>
When the people on the walls beheld her, they cried out &lsquo;The Maid is
come! The Maid of the Prophecy is come to deliver us!&rsquo; And this, and the
sight of the Maid fighting at the head of their men, made the French so bold,
and made the English so fearful, that the English line of forts was soon
broken, the troops and provisions were got into the town, and Orleans was
saved.
</p>

<p>
Joan, henceforth called <span class="smcap">The Maid of Orleans</span>,
remained within the walls for a few days, and caused letters to be thrown over,
ordering Lord Suffolk and his Englishmen to depart from before the town
according to the will of Heaven. As the English general very positively
declined to believe that Joan knew anything about the will of Heaven (which did
not mend the matter with his soldiers, for they stupidly said if she were not
inspired she was a witch, and it was of no use to fight against a witch), she
mounted her white war-horse again, and ordered her white banner to advance.
</p>

<p>
The besiegers held the bridge, and some strong towers upon the bridge; and here
the Maid of Orleans attacked them. The fight was fourteen hours long. She
planted a scaling ladder with her own hands, and mounted a tower wall, but was
struck by an English arrow in the neck, and fell into the trench. She was
carried away and the arrow was taken out, during which operation she screamed
and cried with the pain, as any other girl might have done; but presently she
said that the Voices were speaking to her and soothing her to rest. After a
while, she got up, and was again foremost in the fight. When the English who
had seen her fall and supposed her dead, saw this, they were troubled with the
strangest fears, and some of them cried out that they beheld Saint Michael on a
white horse (probably Joan herself) fighting for the French. They lost the
bridge, and lost the towers, and next day set their chain of forts on fire, and
left the place.
</p>

<p>
But as Lord Suffolk himself retired no farther than the town of Jargeau, which
was only a few miles off, the Maid of Orleans besieged him there, and he was
taken prisoner. As the white banner scaled the wall, she was struck upon the
head with a stone, and was again tumbled down into the ditch; but, she only
cried all the more, as she lay there, &lsquo;On, on, my countrymen! And fear
nothing, for the Lord hath delivered them into our hands!&rsquo; After this new
success of the Maid&rsquo;s, several other fortresses and places which had
previously held out against the Dauphin were delivered up without a battle; and
at Patay she defeated the remainder of the English army, and set up her
victorious white banner on a field where twelve hundred Englishmen lay dead.
</p>

<p>
She now urged the Dauphin (who always kept out of the way when there was any
fighting) to proceed to Rheims, as the first part of her mission was
accomplished; and to complete the whole by being crowned there. The Dauphin was
in no particular hurry to do this, as Rheims was a long way off, and the
English and the Duke of Burgundy were still strong in the country through which
the road lay. However, they set forth, with ten thousand men, and again the
Maid of Orleans rode on and on, upon her white war-horse, and in her shining
armour. Whenever they came to a town which yielded readily, the soldiers
believed in her; but, whenever they came to a town which gave them any trouble,
they began to murmur that she was an impostor. The latter was particularly the
case at Troyes, which finally yielded, however, through the persuasion of one
Richard, a friar of the place. Friar Richard was in the old doubt about the
Maid of Orleans, until he had sprinkled her well with holy water, and had also
well sprinkled the threshold of the gate by which she came into the city.
Finding that it made no change in her or the gate, he said, as the other grave
old gentlemen had said, that it was all right, and became her great ally.
</p>

<p>
So, at last, by dint of riding on and on, the Maid of Orleans, and the Dauphin,
and the ten thousand sometimes believing and sometimes unbelieving men, came to
Rheims. And in the great cathedral of Rheims, the Dauphin actually was crowned
Charles the Seventh in a great assembly of the people. Then, the Maid, who with
her white banner stood beside the King in that hour of his triumph, kneeled
down upon the pavement at his feet, and said, with tears, that what she had
been inspired to do, was done, and that the only recompense she asked for, was,
that she should now have leave to go back to her distant home, and her sturdily
incredulous father, and her first simple escort the village wheelwright and
cart-maker. But the King said &lsquo;No!&rsquo; and made her and her family as
noble as a King could, and settled upon her the income of a Count.
</p>

<p>
Ah! happy had it been for the Maid of Orleans, if she had resumed her rustic
dress that day, and had gone home to the little chapel and the wild hills, and
had forgotten all these things, and had been a good man&rsquo;s wife, and had
heard no stranger voices than the voices of little children!
</p>

<p>
It was not to be, and she continued helping the King (she did a world for him,
in alliance with Friar Richard), and trying to improve the lives of the coarse
soldiers, and leading a religious, an unselfish, and a modest life, herself,
beyond any doubt. Still, many times she prayed the King to let her go home; and
once she even took off her bright armour and hung it up in a church, meaning
never to wear it more. But, the King always won her back again&mdash;while she
was of any use to him&mdash;and so she went on and on and on, to her doom.
</p>

<p>
When the Duke of Bedford, who was a very able man, began to be active for
England, and, by bringing the war back into France and by holding the Duke of
Burgundy to his faith, to distress and disturb Charles very much, Charles
sometimes asked the Maid of Orleans what the Voices said about it? But, the
Voices had become (very like ordinary voices in perplexed times) contradictory
and confused, so that now they said one thing, and now said another, and the
Maid lost credit every day. Charles marched on Paris, which was opposed to him,
and attacked the suburb of Saint Honor&eacute;. In this fight, being again
struck down into the ditch, she was abandoned by the whole army. She lay
unaided among a heap of dead, and crawled out how she could. Then, some of her
believers went over to an opposition Maid, Catherine of La Rochelle, who said
she was inspired to tell where there were treasures of buried
money&mdash;though she never did&mdash;and then Joan accidentally broke the
old, old sword, and others said that her power was broken with it. Finally, at
the siege of Compi&egrave;gne, held by the Duke of Burgundy, where she did
valiant service, she was basely left alone in a retreat, though facing about
and fighting to the last; and an archer pulled her off her horse.
</p>

<p>
O the uproar that was made, and the thanksgivings that were sung, about the
capture of this one poor country-girl! O the way in which she was demanded to
be tried for sorcery and heresy, and anything else you like, by the
Inquisitor-General of France, and by this great man, and by that great man,
until it is wearisome to think of! She was bought at last by the Bishop of
Beauvais for ten thousand francs, and was shut up in her narrow prison: plain
Joan of Arc again, and Maid of Orleans no more.
</p>

<p>
I should never have done if I were to tell you how they had Joan out to examine
her, and cross-examine her, and re-examine her, and worry her into saying
anything and everything; and how all sorts of scholars and doctors bestowed
their utmost tediousness upon her. Sixteen times she was brought out and shut
up again, and worried, and entrapped, and argued with, until she was heart-sick
of the dreary business. On the last occasion of this kind she was brought into
a burial-place at Rouen, dismally decorated with a scaffold, and a stake and
faggots, and the executioner, and a pulpit with a friar therein, and an awful
sermon ready. It is very affecting to know that even at that pass the poor girl
honoured the mean vermin of a King, who had so used her for his purposes and so
abandoned her; and, that while she had been regardless of reproaches heaped
upon herself, she spoke out courageously for him.
</p>

<p>
It was natural in one so young to hold to life. To save her life, she signed a
declaration prepared for her&mdash;signed it with a cross, for she
couldn&rsquo;t write&mdash;that all her visions and Voices had come from the
Devil. Upon her recanting the past, and protesting that she would never wear a
man&rsquo;s dress in future, she was condemned to imprisonment for life,
&lsquo;on the bread of sorrow and the water of affliction.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
But, on the bread of sorrow and the water of affliction, the visions and the
Voices soon returned. It was quite natural that they should do so, for that
kind of disease is much aggravated by fasting, loneliness, and anxiety of mind.
It was not only got out of Joan that she considered herself inspired again,
but, she was taken in a man&rsquo;s dress, which had been left&mdash;to entrap
her&mdash;in her prison, and which she put on, in her solitude; perhaps, in
remembrance of her past glories, perhaps, because the imaginary Voices told
her. For this relapse into the sorcery and heresy and anything else you like,
she was sentenced to be burnt to death. And, in the market-place of Rouen, in
the hideous dress which the monks had invented for such spectacles; with
priests and bishops sitting in a gallery looking on, though some had the
Christian grace to go away, unable to endure the infamous scene; this shrieking
girl&mdash;last seen amidst the smoke and fire, holding a crucifix between her
hands; last heard, calling upon Christ&mdash;was burnt to ashes. They threw her
ashes into the river Seine; but they will rise against her murderers on the
last day.
</p>

<p>
From the moment of her capture, neither the French King nor one single man in
all his court raised a finger to save her. It is no defence of them that they
may have never really believed in her, or that they may have won her victories
by their skill and bravery. The more they pretended to believe in her, the more
they had caused her to believe in herself; and she had ever been true to them,
ever brave, ever nobly devoted. But, it is no wonder, that they, who were in
all things false to themselves, false to one another, false to their country,
false to Heaven, false to Earth, should be monsters of ingratitude and
treachery to a helpless peasant girl.
</p>

<p>
In the picturesque old town of Rouen, where weeds and grass grow high on the
cathedral towers, and the venerable Norman streets are still warm in the
blessed sunlight though the monkish fires that once gleamed horribly upon them
have long grown cold, there is a statue of Joan of Arc, in the scene of her
last agony, the square to which she has given its present name. I know some
statues of modern times&mdash;even in the World&rsquo;s metropolis, I
think&mdash;which commemorate less constancy, less earnestness, smaller claims
upon the world&rsquo;s attention, and much greater impostors.
</p>

<h3>PART THE THIRD</h3>

<p>
Bad deeds seldom prosper, happily for mankind; and the English cause gained no
advantage from the cruel death of Joan of Arc. For a long time, the war went
heavily on. The Duke of Bedford died; the alliance with the Duke of Burgundy
was broken; and Lord Talbot became a great general on the English side in
France. But, two of the consequences of wars are, Famine&mdash;because the
people cannot peacefully cultivate the ground&mdash;and Pestilence, which comes
of want, misery, and suffering. Both these horrors broke out in both countries,
and lasted for two wretched years. Then, the war went on again, and came by
slow degrees to be so badly conducted by the English government, that, within
twenty years from the execution of the Maid of Orleans, of all the great French
conquests, the town of Calais alone remained in English hands.
</p>

<p>
While these victories and defeats were taking place in the course of time, many
strange things happened at home. The young King, as he grew up, proved to be
very unlike his great father, and showed himself a miserable puny creature.
There was no harm in him&mdash;he had a great aversion to shedding blood: which
was something&mdash;but, he was a weak, silly, helpless young man, and a mere
shuttlecock to the great lordly battledores about the Court.
</p>

<p>
Of these battledores, Cardinal Beaufort, a relation of the King, and the Duke
of Gloucester, were at first the most powerful. The Duke of Gloucester had a
wife, who was nonsensically accused of practising witchcraft to cause the
King&rsquo;s death and lead to her husband&rsquo;s coming to the throne, he
being the next heir. She was charged with having, by the help of a ridiculous
old woman named Margery (who was called a witch), made a little waxen doll in
the King&rsquo;s likeness, and put it before a slow fire that it might
gradually melt away. It was supposed, in such cases, that the death of the
person whom the doll was made to represent, was sure to happen. Whether the
duchess was as ignorant as the rest of them, and really did make such a doll
with such an intention, I don&rsquo;t know; but, you and I know very well that
she might have made a thousand dolls, if she had been stupid enough, and might
have melted them all, without hurting the King or anybody else. However, she
was tried for it, and so was old Margery, and so was one of the duke&rsquo;s
chaplains, who was charged with having assisted them. Both he and Margery were
put to death, and the duchess, after being taken on foot and bearing a lighted
candle, three times round the City, as a penance, was imprisoned for life. The
duke, himself, took all this pretty quietly, and made as little stir about the
matter as if he were rather glad to be rid of the duchess.
</p>

<p>
But, he was not destined to keep himself out of trouble long. The royal
shuttlecock being three-and-twenty, the battledores were very anxious to get
him married. The Duke of Gloucester wanted him to marry a daughter of the Count
of Armagnac; but, the Cardinal and the Earl of Suffolk were all for <span
class="smcap">Margaret</span>, the daughter of the King of Sicily, who they
knew was a resolute, ambitious woman and would govern the King as she chose. To
make friends with this lady, the Earl of Suffolk, who went over to arrange the
match, consented to accept her for the King&rsquo;s wife without any fortune,
and even to give up the two most valuable possessions England then had in
France. So, the marriage was arranged, on terms very advantageous to the lady;
and Lord Suffolk brought her to England, and she was married at Westminster. On
what pretence this queen and her party charged the Duke of Gloucester with high
treason within a couple of years, it is impossible to make out, the matter is
so confused; but, they pretended that the King&rsquo;s life was in danger, and
they took the duke prisoner. A fortnight afterwards, he was found dead in bed
(they said), and his body was shown to the people, and Lord Suffolk came in for
the best part of his estates. You know by this time how strangely liable state
prisoners were to sudden death.
</p>

<p>
If Cardinal Beaufort had any hand in this matter, it did him no good, for he
died within six weeks; thinking it very hard and curious&mdash;at eighty years
old!&mdash;that he could not live to be Pope.
</p>

<p>
This was the time when England had completed her loss of all her great French
conquests. The people charged the loss principally upon the Earl of Suffolk,
now a duke, who had made those easy terms about the Royal Marriage, and who,
they believed, had even been bought by France. So he was impeached as a
traitor, on a great number of charges, but chiefly on accusations of having
aided the French King, and of designing to make his own son King of England.
The Commons and the people being violent against him, the King was made (by his
friends) to interpose to save him, by banishing him for five years, and
proroguing the Parliament. The duke had much ado to escape from a London mob,
two thousand strong, who lay in wait for him in St. Giles&rsquo;s fields; but,
he got down to his own estates in Suffolk, and sailed away from Ipswich.
Sailing across the Channel, he sent into Calais to know if he might land there;
but, they kept his boat and men in the harbour, until an English ship, carrying
a hundred and fifty men and called the Nicholas of the Tower, came alongside
his little vessel, and ordered him on board. &lsquo;Welcome, traitor, as men
say,&rsquo; was the captain&rsquo;s grim and not very respectful salutation. He
was kept on board, a prisoner, for eight-and-forty hours, and then a small boat
appeared rowing toward the ship. As this boat came nearer, it was seen to have
in it a block, a rusty sword, and an executioner in a black mask. The duke was
handed down into it, and there his head was cut off with six strokes of the
rusty sword. Then, the little boat rowed away to Dover beach, where the body
was cast out, and left until the duchess claimed it. By whom, high in
authority, this murder was committed, has never appeared. No one was ever
punished for it.
</p>

<p>
There now arose in Kent an Irishman, who gave himself the name of Mortimer, but
whose real name was <span class="smcap">Jack Cade</span>. Jack, in imitation of
Wat Tyler, though he was a very different and inferior sort of man, addressed
the Kentish men upon their wrongs, occasioned by the bad government of England,
among so many battledores and such a poor shuttlecock; and the Kentish men rose
up to the number of twenty thousand. Their place of assembly was Blackheath,
where, headed by Jack, they put forth two papers, which they called &lsquo;The
Complaint of the Commons of Kent,&rsquo; and &lsquo;The Requests of the Captain
of the Great Assembly in Kent.&rsquo; They then retired to Sevenoaks. The royal
army coming up with them here, they beat it and killed their general. Then,
Jack dressed himself in the dead general&rsquo;s armour, and led his men to
London.
</p>

<p>
Jack passed into the City from Southwark, over the bridge, and entered it in
triumph, giving the strictest orders to his men not to plunder. Having made a
show of his forces there, while the citizens looked on quietly, he went back
into Southwark in good order, and passed the night. Next day, he came back
again, having got hold in the meantime of Lord Say, an unpopular nobleman. Says
Jack to the Lord Mayor and judges: &lsquo;Will you be so good as to make a
tribunal in Guildhall, and try me this nobleman?&rsquo; The court being hastily
made, he was found guilty, and Jack and his men cut his head off on Cornhill.
They also cut off the head of his son-in-law, and then went back in good order
to Southwark again.
</p>

<p>
But, although the citizens could bear the beheading of an unpopular lord, they
could not bear to have their houses pillaged. And it did so happen that Jack,
after dinner&mdash;perhaps he had drunk a little too much&mdash;began to
plunder the house where he lodged; upon which, of course, his men began to
imitate him. Wherefore, the Londoners took counsel with Lord Scales, who had a
thousand soldiers in the Tower; and defended London Bridge, and kept Jack and
his people out. This advantage gained, it was resolved by divers great men to
divide Jack&rsquo;s army in the old way, by making a great many promises on
behalf of the state, that were never intended to be performed. This <i>did</i>
divide them; some of Jack&rsquo;s men saying that they ought to take the
conditions which were offered, and others saying that they ought not, for they
were only a snare; some going home at once; others staying where they were; and
all doubting and quarrelling among themselves.
</p>

<p>
Jack, who was in two minds about fighting or accepting a pardon, and who indeed
did both, saw at last that there was nothing to expect from his men, and that
it was very likely some of them would deliver him up and get a reward of a
thousand marks, which was offered for his apprehension. So, after they had
travelled and quarrelled all the way from Southwark to Blackheath, and from
Blackheath to Rochester, he mounted a good horse and galloped away into Sussex.
But, there galloped after him, on a better horse, one Alexander Iden, who came
up with him, had a hard fight with him, and killed him. Jack&rsquo;s head was
set aloft on London Bridge, with the face looking towards Blackheath, where he
had raised his flag; and Alexander Iden got the thousand marks.
</p>

<p>
It is supposed by some, that the Duke of York, who had been removed from a high
post abroad through the Queen&rsquo;s influence, and sent out of the way, to
govern Ireland, was at the bottom of this rising of Jack and his men, because
he wanted to trouble the government. He claimed (though not yet publicly) to
have a better right to the throne than Henry of Lancaster, as one of the family
of the Earl of March, whom Henry the Fourth had set aside. Touching this claim,
which, being through female relationship, was not according to the usual
descent, it is enough to say that Henry the Fourth was the free choice of the
people and the Parliament, and that his family had now reigned undisputed for
sixty years. The memory of Henry the Fifth was so famous, and the English
people loved it so much, that the Duke of York&rsquo;s claim would, perhaps,
never have been thought of (it would have been so hopeless) but for the
unfortunate circumstance of the present King&rsquo;s being by this time quite
an idiot, and the country very ill governed. These two circumstances gave the
Duke of York a power he could not otherwise have had.
</p>

<p>
Whether the Duke knew anything of Jack Cade, or not, he came over from Ireland
while Jack&rsquo;s head was on London Bridge; being secretly advised that the
Queen was setting up his enemy, the Duke of Somerset, against him. He went to
Westminster, at the head of four thousand men, and on his knees before the
King, represented to him the bad state of the country, and petitioned him to
summon a Parliament to consider it. This the King promised. When the Parliament
was summoned, the Duke of York accused the Duke of Somerset, and the Duke of
Somerset accused the Duke of York; and, both in and out of Parliament, the
followers of each party were full of violence and hatred towards the other. At
length the Duke of York put himself at the head of a large force of his
tenants, and, in arms, demanded the reformation of the Government. Being shut
out of London, he encamped at Dartford, and the royal army encamped at
Blackheath. According as either side triumphed, the Duke of York was arrested,
or the Duke of Somerset was arrested. The trouble ended, for the moment, in the
Duke of York renewing his oath of allegiance, and going in peace to one of his
own castles.
</p>

<p>
Half a year afterwards the Queen gave birth to a son, who was very ill received
by the people, and not believed to be the son of the King. It shows the Duke of
York to have been a moderate man, unwilling to involve England in new troubles,
that he did not take advantage of the general discontent at this time, but
really acted for the public good. He was made a member of the cabinet, and the
King being now so much worse that he could not be carried about and shown to
the people with any decency, the duke was made Lord Protector of the kingdom,
until the King should recover, or the Prince should come of age. At the same
time the Duke of Somerset was committed to the Tower. So, now the Duke of
Somerset was down, and the Duke of York was up. By the end of the year,
however, the King recovered his memory and some spark of sense; upon which the
Queen used her power&mdash;which recovered with him&mdash;to get the Protector
disgraced, and her favourite released. So now the Duke of York was down, and
the Duke of Somerset was up.
</p>

<p>
These ducal ups and downs gradually separated the whole nation into the two
parties of York and Lancaster, and led to those terrible civil wars long known
as the Wars of the Red and White Roses, because the red rose was the badge of
the House of Lancaster, and the white rose was the badge of the House of York.
</p>

<p>
The Duke of York, joined by some other powerful noblemen of the White Rose
party, and leading a small army, met the King with another small army at St.
Alban&rsquo;s, and demanded that the Duke of Somerset should be given up. The
poor King, being made to say in answer that he would sooner die, was instantly
attacked. The Duke of Somerset was killed, and the King himself was wounded in
the neck, and took refuge in the house of a poor tanner. Whereupon, the Duke of
York went to him, led him with great submission to the Abbey, and said he was
very sorry for what had happened. Having now the King in his possession, he got
a Parliament summoned and himself once more made Protector, but, only for a few
months; for, on the King getting a little better again, the Queen and her party
got him into their possession, and disgraced the Duke once more. So, now the
Duke of York was down again.
</p>

<p>
Some of the best men in power, seeing the danger of these constant changes,
tried even then to prevent the Red and the White Rose Wars. They brought about
a great council in London between the two parties. The White Roses assembled in
Blackfriars, the Red Roses in Whitefriars; and some good priests communicated
between them, and made the proceedings known at evening to the King and the
judges. They ended in a peaceful agreement that there should be no more
quarrelling; and there was a great royal procession to St. Paul&rsquo;s, in
which the Queen walked arm-in-arm with her old enemy, the Duke of York, to show
the people how comfortable they all were. This state of peace lasted half a
year, when a dispute between the Earl of Warwick (one of the Duke&rsquo;s
powerful friends) and some of the King&rsquo;s servants at Court, led to an
attack upon that Earl&mdash;who was a White Rose&mdash;and to a sudden breaking
out of all old animosities. So, here were greater ups and downs than ever.
</p>

<p>
There were even greater ups and downs than these, soon after. After various
battles, the Duke of York fled to Ireland, and his son the Earl of March to
Calais, with their friends the Earls of Salisbury and Warwick; and a Parliament
was held declaring them all traitors. Little the worse for this, the Earl of
Warwick presently came back, landed in Kent, was joined by the Archbishop of
Canterbury and other powerful noblemen and gentlemen, engaged the King&rsquo;s
forces at Northampton, signally defeated them, and took the King himself
prisoner, who was found in his tent. Warwick would have been glad, I dare say,
to have taken the Queen and Prince too, but they escaped into Wales and thence
into Scotland.
</p>

<p>
The King was carried by the victorious force straight to London, and made to
call a new Parliament, which immediately declared that the Duke of York and
those other noblemen were not traitors, but excellent subjects. Then, back
comes the Duke from Ireland at the head of five hundred horsemen, rides from
London to Westminster, and enters the House of Lords. There, he laid his hand
upon the cloth of gold which covered the empty throne, as if he had half a mind
to sit down in it&mdash;but he did not. On the Archbishop of Canterbury, asking
him if he would visit the King, who was in his palace close by, he replied,
&lsquo;I know no one in this country, my lord, who ought not to visit
<i>me</i>.&rsquo; None of the lords present spoke a single word; so, the duke
went out as he had come in, established himself royally in the King&rsquo;s
palace, and, six days afterwards, sent in to the Lords a formal statement of
his claim to the throne. The lords went to the King on this momentous subject,
and after a great deal of discussion, in which the judges and the other law
officers were afraid to give an opinion on either side, the question was
compromised. It was agreed that the present King should retain the crown for
his life, and that it should then pass to the Duke of York and his heirs.
</p>

<p>
But, the resolute Queen, determined on asserting her son&rsquo;s right, would
hear of no such thing. She came from Scotland to the north of England, where
several powerful lords armed in her cause. The Duke of York, for his part, set
off with some five thousand men, a little time before Christmas Day, one
thousand four hundred and sixty, to give her battle. He lodged at Sandal
Castle, near Wakefield, and the Red Roses defied him to come out on Wakefield
Green, and fight them then and there. His generals said, he had best wait until
his gallant son, the Earl of March, came up with his power; but, he was
determined to accept the challenge. He did so, in an evil hour. He was hotly
pressed on all sides, two thousand of his men lay dead on Wakefield Green, and
he himself was taken prisoner. They set him down in mock state on an ant-hill,
and twisted grass about his head, and pretended to pay court to him on their
knees, saying, &lsquo;O King, without a kingdom, and Prince without a people,
we hope your gracious Majesty is very well and happy!&rsquo; They did worse
than this; they cut his head off, and handed it on a pole to the Queen, who
laughed with delight when she saw it (you recollect their walking so
religiously and comfortably to St. Paul&rsquo;s!), and had it fixed, with a
paper crown upon its head, on the walls of York. The Earl of Salisbury lost his
head, too; and the Duke of York&rsquo;s second son, a handsome boy who was
flying with his tutor over Wakefield Bridge, was stabbed in the heart by a
murderous, lord&mdash;Lord Clifford by name&mdash;whose father had been killed
by the White Roses in the fight at St. Alban&rsquo;s. There was awful sacrifice
of life in this battle, for no quarter was given, and the Queen was wild for
revenge. When men unnaturally fight against their own countrymen, they are
always observed to be more unnaturally cruel and filled with rage than they are
against any other enemy.
</p>

<p>
But, Lord Clifford had stabbed the second son of the Duke of York&mdash;not the
first. The eldest son, Edward Earl of March, was at Gloucester; and, vowing
vengeance for the death of his father, his brother, and their faithful friends,
he began to march against the Queen. He had to turn and fight a great body of
Welsh and Irish first, who worried his advance. These he defeated in a great
fight at Mortimer&rsquo;s Cross, near Hereford, where he beheaded a number of
the Red Roses taken in battle, in retaliation for the beheading of the White
Roses at Wakefield. The Queen had the next turn of beheading. Having moved
towards London, and falling in, between St. Alban&rsquo;s and Barnet, with the
Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Norfolk, White Roses both, who were there with
an army to oppose her, and had got the King with them; she defeated them with
great loss, and struck off the heads of two prisoners of note, who were in the
King&rsquo;s tent with him, and to whom the King had promised his protection.
Her triumph, however, was very short. She had no treasure, and her army
subsisted by plunder. This caused them to be hated and dreaded by the people,
and particularly by the London people, who were wealthy. As soon as the
Londoners heard that Edward, Earl of March, united with the Earl of Warwick,
was advancing towards the city, they refused to send the Queen supplies, and
made a great rejoicing.
</p>

<p>
The Queen and her men retreated with all speed, and Edward and Warwick came on,
greeted with loud acclamations on every side. The courage, beauty, and virtues
of young Edward could not be sufficiently praised by the whole people. He rode
into London like a conqueror, and met with an enthusiastic welcome. A few days
afterwards, Lord Falconbridge and the Bishop of Exeter assembled the citizens
in St. John&rsquo;s Field, Clerkenwell, and asked them if they would have Henry
of Lancaster for their King? To this they all roared, &lsquo;No, no, no!&rsquo;
and &lsquo;King Edward! King Edward!&rsquo; Then, said those noblemen, would
they love and serve young Edward? To this they all cried, &lsquo;Yes,
yes!&rsquo; and threw up their caps and clapped their hands, and cheered
tremendously.
</p>

<p>
Therefore, it was declared that by joining the Queen and not protecting those
two prisoners of note, Henry of Lancaster had forfeited the crown; and Edward
of York was proclaimed King. He made a great speech to the applauding people at
Westminster, and sat down as sovereign of England on that throne, on the golden
covering of which his father&mdash;worthy of a better fate than the bloody axe
which cut the thread of so many lives in England, through so many
years&mdash;had laid his hand.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER XXIII<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FOURTH</h2>

<p>
King Edward the Fourth was not quite twenty-one years of age when he took that
unquiet seat upon the throne of England. The Lancaster party, the Red Roses,
were then assembling in great numbers near York, and it was necessary to give
them battle instantly. But, the stout Earl of Warwick leading for the young
King, and the young King himself closely following him, and the English people
crowding round the Royal standard, the White and the Red Roses met, on a wild
March day when the snow was falling heavily, at Towton; and there such a
furious battle raged between them, that the total loss amounted to forty
thousand men&mdash;all Englishmen, fighting, upon English ground, against one
another. The young King gained the day, took down the heads of his father and
brother from the walls of York, and put up the heads of some of the most famous
noblemen engaged in the battle on the other side. Then, he went to London and
was crowned with great splendour.
</p>

<p>
A new Parliament met. No fewer than one hundred and fifty of the principal
noblemen and gentlemen on the Lancaster side were declared traitors, and the
King&mdash;who had very little humanity, though he was handsome in person and
agreeable in manners&mdash;resolved to do all he could, to pluck up the Red
Rose root and branch.
</p>

<p>
Queen Margaret, however, was still active for her young son. She obtained help
from Scotland and from Normandy, and took several important English castles.
But, Warwick soon retook them; the Queen lost all her treasure on board ship in
a great storm; and both she and her son suffered great misfortunes. Once, in
the winter weather, as they were riding through a forest, they were attacked
and plundered by a party of robbers; and, when they had escaped from these men
and were passing alone and on foot through a thick dark part of the wood, they
came, all at once, upon another robber. So the Queen, with a stout heart, took
the little Prince by the hand, and going straight up to that robber, said to
him, &lsquo;My friend, this is the young son of your lawful King! I confide him
to your care.&rsquo; The robber was surprised, but took the boy in his arms,
and faithfully restored him and his mother to their friends. In the end, the
Queen&rsquo;s soldiers being beaten and dispersed, she went abroad again, and
kept quiet for the present.
</p>

<p>
Now, all this time, the deposed King Henry was concealed by a Welsh knight, who
kept him close in his castle. But, next year, the Lancaster party recovering
their spirits, raised a large body of men, and called him out of his
retirement, to put him at their head. They were joined by some powerful
noblemen who had sworn fidelity to the new King, but who were ready, as usual,
to break their oaths, whenever they thought there was anything to be got by it.
One of the worst things in the history of the war of the Red and White Roses,
is the ease with which these noblemen, who should have set an example of honour
to the people, left either side as they took slight offence, or were
disappointed in their greedy expectations, and joined the other. Well!
Warwick&rsquo;s brother soon beat the Lancastrians, and the false noblemen,
being taken, were beheaded without a moment&rsquo;s loss of time. The deposed
King had a narrow escape; three of his servants were taken, and one of them
bore his cap of estate, which was set with pearls and embroidered with two
golden crowns. However, the head to which the cap belonged, got safely into
Lancashire, and lay pretty quietly there (the people in the secret being very
true) for more than a year. At length, an old monk gave such intelligence as
led to Henry&rsquo;s being taken while he was sitting at dinner in a place
called Waddington Hall. He was immediately sent to London, and met at Islington
by the Earl of Warwick, by whose directions he was put upon a horse, with his
legs tied under it, and paraded three times round the pillory. Then, he was
carried off to the Tower, where they treated him well enough.
</p>

<p>
The White Rose being so triumphant, the young King abandoned himself entirely
to pleasure, and led a jovial life. But, thorns were springing up under his bed
of roses, as he soon found out. For, having been privately married to <span
class="smcap">Elizabeth Woodville</span>, a young widow lady, very beautiful
and very captivating; and at last resolving to make his secret known, and to
declare her his Queen; he gave some offence to the Earl of Warwick, who was
usually called the King-Maker, because of his power and influence, and because
of his having lent such great help to placing Edward on the throne. This
offence was not lessened by the jealousy with which the Nevil family (the Earl
of Warwick&rsquo;s) regarded the promotion of the Woodville family. For, the
young Queen was so bent on providing for her relations, that she made her
father an earl and a great officer of state; married her five sisters to young
noblemen of the highest rank; and provided for her younger brother, a young man
of twenty, by marrying him to an immensely rich old duchess of eighty. The Earl
of Warwick took all this pretty graciously for a man of his proud temper, until
the question arose to whom the King&rsquo;s sister, <span
class="smcap">Margaret</span>, should be married. The Earl of Warwick said,
&lsquo;To one of the French King&rsquo;s sons,&rsquo; and was allowed to go
over to the French King to make friendly proposals for that purpose, and to
hold all manner of friendly interviews with him. But, while he was so engaged,
the Woodville party married the young lady to the Duke of Burgundy! Upon this
he came back in great rage and scorn, and shut himself up discontented, in his
Castle of Middleham.
</p>

<p>
A reconciliation, though not a very sincere one, was patched up between the
Earl of Warwick and the King, and lasted until the Earl married his daughter,
against the King&rsquo;s wishes, to the Duke of Clarence. While the marriage
was being celebrated at Calais, the people in the north of England, where the
influence of the Nevil family was strongest, broke out into rebellion; their
complaint was, that England was oppressed and plundered by the Woodville
family, whom they demanded to have removed from power. As they were joined by
great numbers of people, and as they openly declared that they were supported
by the Earl of Warwick, the King did not know what to do. At last, as he wrote
to the earl beseeching his aid, he and his new son-in-law came over to England,
and began to arrange the business by shutting the King up in Middleham Castle
in the safe keeping of the Archbishop of York; so England was not only in the
strange position of having two kings at once, but they were both prisoners at
the same time.
</p>

<p>
Even as yet, however, the King-Maker was so far true to the King, that he
dispersed a new rising of the Lancastrians, took their leader prisoner, and
brought him to the King, who ordered him to be immediately executed. He
presently allowed the King to return to London, and there innumerable pledges
of forgiveness and friendship were exchanged between them, and between the
Nevils and the Woodvilles; the King&rsquo;s eldest daughter was promised in
marriage to the heir of the Nevil family; and more friendly oaths were sworn,
and more friendly promises made, than this book would hold.
</p>

<p>
They lasted about three months. At the end of that time, the Archbishop of York
made a feast for the King, the Earl of Warwick, and the Duke of Clarence, at
his house, the Moor, in Hertfordshire. The King was washing his hands before
supper, when some one whispered him that a body of a hundred men were lying in
ambush outside the house. Whether this were true or untrue, the King took
fright, mounted his horse, and rode through the dark night to Windsor Castle.
Another reconciliation was patched up between him and the King-Maker, but it
was a short one, and it was the last. A new rising took place in Lincolnshire,
and the King marched to repress it. Having done so, he proclaimed that both the
Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Clarence were traitors, who had secretly
assisted it, and who had been prepared publicly to join it on the following
day. In these dangerous circumstances they both took ship and sailed away to
the French court.
</p>

<p>
And here a meeting took place between the Earl of Warwick and his old enemy,
the Dowager Queen Margaret, through whom his father had had his head struck
off, and to whom he had been a bitter foe. But, now, when he said that he had
done with the ungrateful and perfidious Edward of York, and that henceforth he
devoted himself to the restoration of the House of Lancaster, either in the
person of her husband or of her little son, she embraced him as if he had ever
been her dearest friend. She did more than that; she married her son to his
second daughter, the Lady Anne. However agreeable this marriage was to the new
friends, it was very disagreeable to the Duke of Clarence, who perceived that
his father-in-law, the King-Maker, would never make <i>him</i> King, now. So,
being but a weak-minded young traitor, possessed of very little worth or sense,
he readily listened to an artful court lady sent over for the purpose, and
promised to turn traitor once more, and go over to his brother, King Edward,
when a fitting opportunity should come.
</p>

<p>
The Earl of Warwick, knowing nothing of this, soon redeemed his promise to the
Dowager Queen Margaret, by invading England and landing at Plymouth, where he
instantly proclaimed King Henry, and summoned all Englishmen between the ages
of sixteen and sixty, to join his banner. Then, with his army increasing as he
marched along, he went northward, and came so near King Edward, who was in that
part of the country, that Edward had to ride hard for it to the coast of
Norfolk, and thence to get away in such ships as he could find, to Holland.
Thereupon, the triumphant King-Maker and his false son-in-law, the Duke of
Clarence, went to London, took the old King out of the Tower, and walked him in
a great procession to Saint Paul&rsquo;s Cathedral with the crown upon his
head. This did not improve the temper of the Duke of Clarence, who saw himself
farther off from being King than ever; but he kept his secret, and said
nothing. The Nevil family were restored to all their honours and glories, and
the Woodvilles and the rest were disgraced. The King-Maker, less sanguinary
than the King, shed no blood except that of the Earl of Worcester, who had been
so cruel to the people as to have gained the title of the Butcher. Him they
caught hidden in a tree, and him they tried and executed. No other death
stained the King-Maker&rsquo;s triumph.
</p>

<p>
To dispute this triumph, back came King Edward again, next year, landing at
Ravenspur, coming on to York, causing all his men to cry &lsquo;Long live King
Henry!&rsquo; and swearing on the altar, without a blush, that he came to lay
no claim to the crown. Now was the time for the Duke of Clarence, who ordered
his men to assume the White Rose, and declare for his brother. The Marquis of
Montague, though the Earl of Warwick&rsquo;s brother, also declining to fight
against King Edward, he went on successfully to London, where the Archbishop of
York let him into the City, and where the people made great demonstrations in
his favour. For this they had four reasons. Firstly, there were great numbers
of the King&rsquo;s adherents hiding in the City and ready to break out;
secondly, the King owed them a great deal of money, which they could never hope
to get if he were unsuccessful; thirdly, there was a young prince to inherit
the crown; and fourthly, the King was gay and handsome, and more popular than a
better man might have been with the City ladies. After a stay of only two days
with these worthy supporters, the King marched out to Barnet Common, to give
the Earl of Warwick battle. And now it was to be seen, for the last time,
whether the King or the King-Maker was to carry the day.
</p>

<p>
While the battle was yet pending, the fainthearted Duke of Clarence began to
repent, and sent over secret messages to his father-in-law, offering his
services in mediation with the King. But, the Earl of Warwick disdainfully
rejected them, and replied that Clarence was false and perjured, and that he
would settle the quarrel by the sword. The battle began at four o&rsquo;clock
in the morning and lasted until ten, and during the greater part of the time it
was fought in a thick mist&mdash;absurdly supposed to be raised by a magician.
The loss of life was very great, for the hatred was strong on both sides. The
King-Maker was defeated, and the King triumphed. Both the Earl of Warwick and
his brother were slain, and their bodies lay in St. Paul&rsquo;s, for some
days, as a spectacle to the people.
</p>

<p>
Margaret&rsquo;s spirit was not broken even by this great blow. Within five
days she was in arms again, and raised her standard in Bath, whence she set off
with her army, to try and join Lord Pembroke, who had a force in Wales. But,
the King, coming up with her outside the town of Tewkesbury, and ordering his
brother, the <span class="smcap">Duke of Gloucester</span>, who was a brave
soldier, to attack her men, she sustained an entire defeat, and was taken
prisoner, together with her son, now only eighteen years of age. The conduct of
the King to this poor youth was worthy of his cruel character. He ordered him
to be led into his tent. &lsquo;And what,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;brought
<i>you</i> to England?&rsquo; &lsquo;I came to England,&rsquo; replied the
prisoner, with a spirit which a man of spirit might have admired in a captive,
&lsquo;to recover my father&rsquo;s kingdom, which descended to him as his
right, and from him descends to me, as mine.&rsquo; The King, drawing off his
iron gauntlet, struck him with it in the face; and the Duke of Clarence and
some other lords, who were there, drew their noble swords, and killed him.
</p>

<p>
His mother survived him, a prisoner, for five years; after her ransom by the
King of France, she survived for six years more. Within three weeks of this
murder, Henry died one of those convenient sudden deaths which were so common
in the Tower; in plainer words, he was murdered by the King&rsquo;s order.
</p>

<p>
Having no particular excitement on his hands after this great defeat of the
Lancaster party, and being perhaps desirous to get rid of some of his fat (for
he was now getting too corpulent to be handsome), the King thought of making
war on France. As he wanted more money for this purpose than the Parliament
could give him, though they were usually ready enough for war, he invented a
new way of raising it, by sending for the principal citizens of London, and
telling them, with a grave face, that he was very much in want of cash, and
would take it very kind in them if they would lend him some. It being
impossible for them safely to refuse, they complied, and the moneys thus forced
from them were called&mdash;no doubt to the great amusement of the King and the
Court&mdash;as if they were free gifts, &lsquo;Benevolences.&rsquo; What with
grants from Parliament, and what with Benevolences, the King raised an army and
passed over to Calais. As nobody wanted war, however, the French King made
proposals of peace, which were accepted, and a truce was concluded for seven
long years. The proceedings between the Kings of France and England on this
occasion, were very friendly, very splendid, and very distrustful. They
finished with a meeting between the two Kings, on a temporary bridge over the
river Somme, where they embraced through two holes in a strong wooden grating
like a lion&rsquo;s cage, and made several bows and fine speeches to one
another.
</p>

<p>
It was time, now, that the Duke of Clarence should be punished for his
treacheries; and Fate had his punishment in store. He was, probably, not
trusted by the King&mdash;for who could trust him who knew him!&mdash;and he
had certainly a powerful opponent in his brother Richard, Duke of Gloucester,
who, being avaricious and ambitious, wanted to marry that widowed daughter of
the Earl of Warwick&rsquo;s who had been espoused to the deceased young Prince,
at Calais. Clarence, who wanted all the family wealth for himself, secreted
this lady, whom Richard found disguised as a servant in the City of London, and
whom he married; arbitrators appointed by the King, then divided the property
between the brothers. This led to ill-will and mistrust between them.
Clarence&rsquo;s wife dying, and he wishing to make another marriage, which was
obnoxious to the King, his ruin was hurried by that means, too. At first, the
Court struck at his retainers and dependents, and accused some of them of magic
and witchcraft, and similar nonsense. Successful against this small game, it
then mounted to the Duke himself, who was impeached by his brother the King, in
person, on a variety of such charges. He was found guilty, and sentenced to be
publicly executed. He never was publicly executed, but he met his death
somehow, in the Tower, and, no doubt, through some agency of the King or his
brother Gloucester, or both. It was supposed at the time that he was told to
choose the manner of his death, and that he chose to be drowned in a butt of
Malmsey wine. I hope the story may be true, for it would have been a becoming
death for such a miserable creature.
</p>

<p>
The King survived him some five years. He died in the forty-second year of his
life, and the twenty-third of his reign. He had a very good capacity and some
good points, but he was selfish, careless, sensual, and cruel. He was a
favourite with the people for his showy manners; and the people were a good
example to him in the constancy of their attachment. He was penitent on his
death-bed for his &lsquo;benevolences,&rsquo; and other extortions, and ordered
restitution to be made to the people who had suffered from them. He also called
about his bed the enriched members of the Woodville family, and the proud lords
whose honours were of older date, and endeavoured to reconcile them, for the
sake of the peaceful succession of his son and the tranquillity of England.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER XXIV<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FIFTH</h2>

<p>
The late King&rsquo;s eldest son, the Prince of Wales, called <span
class="smcap">Edward</span> after him, was only thirteen years of age at his
father&rsquo;s death. He was at Ludlow Castle with his uncle, the Earl of
Rivers. The prince&rsquo;s brother, the Duke of York, only eleven years of age,
was in London with his mother. The boldest, most crafty, and most dreaded
nobleman in England at that time was their uncle <span
class="smcap">Richard</span>, Duke of Gloucester, and everybody wondered how
the two poor boys would fare with such an uncle for a friend or a foe.
</p>

<p>
The Queen, their mother, being exceedingly uneasy about this, was anxious that
instructions should be sent to Lord Rivers to raise an army to escort the young
King safely to London. But, Lord Hastings, who was of the Court party opposed
to the Woodvilles, and who disliked the thought of giving them that power,
argued against the proposal, and obliged the Queen to be satisfied with an
escort of two thousand horse. The Duke of Gloucester did nothing, at first, to
justify suspicion. He came from Scotland (where he was commanding an army) to
York, and was there the first to swear allegiance to his nephew. He then wrote
a condoling letter to the Queen-Mother, and set off to be present at the
coronation in London.
</p>

<p>
Now, the young King, journeying towards London too, with Lord Rivers and Lord
Gray, came to Stony Stratford, as his uncle came to Northampton, about ten
miles distant; and when those two lords heard that the Duke of Gloucester was
so near, they proposed to the young King that they should go back and greet him
in his name. The boy being very willing that they should do so, they rode off
and were received with great friendliness, and asked by the Duke of Gloucester
to stay and dine with him. In the evening, while they were merry together, up
came the Duke of Buckingham with three hundred horsemen; and next morning the
two lords and the two dukes, and the three hundred horsemen, rode away together
to rejoin the King. Just as they were entering Stony Stratford, the Duke of
Gloucester, checking his horse, turned suddenly on the two lords, charged them
with alienating from him the affections of his sweet nephew, and caused them to
be arrested by the three hundred horsemen and taken back. Then, he and the Duke
of Buckingham went straight to the King (whom they had now in their power), to
whom they made a show of kneeling down, and offering great love and submission;
and then they ordered his attendants to disperse, and took him, alone with
them, to Northampton.
</p>

<p>
A few days afterwards they conducted him to London, and lodged him in the
Bishop&rsquo;s Palace. But, he did not remain there long; for, the Duke of
Buckingham with a tender face made a speech expressing how anxious he was for
the Royal boy&rsquo;s safety, and how much safer he would be in the Tower until
his coronation, than he could be anywhere else. So, to the Tower he was taken,
very carefully, and the Duke of Gloucester was named Protector of the State.
</p>

<p>
Although Gloucester had proceeded thus far with a very smooth
countenance&mdash;and although he was a clever man, fair of speech, and not
ill-looking, in spite of one of his shoulders being something higher than the
other&mdash;and although he had come into the City riding bare-headed at the
King&rsquo;s side, and looking very fond of him&mdash;he had made the
King&rsquo;s mother more uneasy yet; and when the Royal boy was taken to the
Tower, she became so alarmed that she took sanctuary in Westminster with her
five daughters.
</p>

<p>
Nor did she do this without reason, for, the Duke of Gloucester, finding that
the lords who were opposed to the Woodville family were faithful to the young
King nevertheless, quickly resolved to strike a blow for himself. Accordingly,
while those lords met in council at the Tower, he and those who were in his
interest met in separate council at his own residence, Crosby Palace, in
Bishopsgate Street. Being at last quite prepared, he one day appeared
unexpectedly at the council in the Tower, and appeared to be very jocular and
merry. He was particularly gay with the Bishop of Ely: praising the
strawberries that grew in his garden on Holborn Hill, and asking him to have
some gathered that he might eat them at dinner. The Bishop, quite proud of the
honour, sent one of his men to fetch some; and the Duke, still very jocular and
gay, went out; and the council all said what a very agreeable duke he was! In a
little time, however, he came back quite altered&mdash;not at all
jocular&mdash;frowning and fierce&mdash;and suddenly said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;What do those persons deserve who have compassed my destruction; I being
the King&rsquo;s lawful, as well as natural, protector?&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
To this strange question, Lord Hastings replied, that they deserved death,
whosoever they were.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;Then,&rsquo; said the Duke, &lsquo;I tell you that they are that
sorceress my brother&rsquo;s wife;&rsquo; meaning the Queen: &lsquo;and that
other sorceress, Jane Shore. Who, by witchcraft, have withered my body, and
caused my arm to shrink as I now show you.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
He then pulled up his sleeve and showed them his arm, which was shrunken, it is
true, but which had been so, as they all very well knew, from the hour of his
birth.
</p>

<p>
Jane Shore, being then the lover of Lord Hastings, as she had formerly been of
the late King, that lord knew that he himself was attacked. So, he said, in
some confusion, &lsquo;Certainly, my Lord, if they have done this, they be
worthy of punishment.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;If?&rsquo; said the Duke of Gloucester; &lsquo;do you talk to me of ifs?
I tell you that they <i>have</i> so done, and I will make it good upon thy
body, thou traitor!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
With that, he struck the table a great blow with his fist. This was a signal to
some of his people outside to cry &lsquo;Treason!&rsquo; They immediately did
so, and there was a rush into the chamber of so many armed men that it was
filled in a moment.
</p>

<p>
&lsquo;First,&rsquo; said the Duke of Gloucester to Lord Hastings, &lsquo;I
arrest thee, traitor! And let him,&rsquo; he added to the armed men who took
him, &lsquo;have a priest at once, for by St. Paul I will not dine until I have
seen his head of!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
Lord Hastings was hurried to the green by the Tower chapel, and there beheaded
on a log of wood that happened to be lying on the ground. Then, the Duke dined
with a good appetite, and after dinner summoning the principal citizens to
attend him, told them that Lord Hastings and the rest had designed to murder
both himself and the Duke if Buckingham, who stood by his side, if he had not
providentially discovered their design. He requested them to be so obliging as
to inform their fellow-citizens of the truth of what he said, and issued a
proclamation (prepared and neatly copied out beforehand) to the same effect.
</p>

<p>
On the same day that the Duke did these things in the Tower, Sir Richard
Ratcliffe, the boldest and most undaunted of his men, went down to Pontefract;
arrested Lord Rivers, Lord Gray, and two other gentlemen; and publicly executed
them on the scaffold, without any trial, for having intended the Duke&rsquo;s
death. Three days afterwards the Duke, not to lose time, went down the river to
Westminster in his barge, attended by divers bishops, lords, and soldiers, and
demanded that the Queen should deliver her second son, the Duke of York, into
his safe keeping. The Queen, being obliged to comply, resigned the child after
she had wept over him; and Richard of Gloucester placed him with his brother in
the Tower. Then, he seized Jane Shore, and, because she had been the lover of
the late King, confiscated her property, and got her sentenced to do public
penance in the streets by walking in a scanty dress, with bare feet, and
carrying a lighted candle, to St. Paul&rsquo;s Cathedral, through the most
crowded part of the City.
</p>

<p>
Having now all things ready for his own advancement, he caused a friar to
preach a sermon at the cross which stood in front of St. Paul&rsquo;s
Cathedral, in which he dwelt upon the profligate manners of the late King, and
upon the late shame of Jane Shore, and hinted that the princes were not his
children. &lsquo;Whereas, good people,&rsquo; said the friar, whose name was
<span class="smcap">Shaw</span>, &lsquo;my Lord the Protector, the noble Duke
of Gloucester, that sweet prince, the pattern of all the noblest virtues, is
the perfect image and express likeness of his father.&rsquo; There had been a
little plot between the Duke and the friar, that the Duke should appear in the
crowd at this moment, when it was expected that the people would cry
&lsquo;Long live King Richard!&rsquo; But, either through the friar saying the
words too soon, or through the Duke&rsquo;s coming too late, the Duke and the
words did not come together, and the people only laughed, and the friar sneaked
off ashamed.
</p>

<p>
The Duke of Buckingham was a better hand at such business than the friar, so he
went to the Guildhall the next day, and addressed the citizens in the Lord
Protector&rsquo;s behalf. A few dirty men, who had been hired and stationed
there for the purpose, crying when he had done, &lsquo;God save King
Richard!&rsquo; he made them a great bow, and thanked them with all his heart.
Next day, to make an end of it, he went with the mayor and some lords and
citizens to Bayard Castle, by the river, where Richard then was, and read an
address, humbly entreating him to accept the Crown of England. Richard, who
looked down upon them out of a window and pretended to be in great uneasiness
and alarm, assured them there was nothing he desired less, and that his deep
affection for his nephews forbade him to think of it. To this the Duke of
Buckingham replied, with pretended warmth, that the free people of England
would never submit to his nephew&rsquo;s rule, and that if Richard, who was the
lawful heir, refused the Crown, why then they must find some one else to wear
it. The Duke of Gloucester returned, that since he used that strong language,
it became his painful duty to think no more of himself, and to accept the
Crown.
</p>

<p>
Upon that, the people cheered and dispersed; and the Duke of Gloucester and the
Duke of Buckingham passed a pleasant evening, talking over the play they had
just acted with so much success, and every word of which they had prepared
together.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER XXV<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE THIRD</h2>

<p>
King Richard the Third was up betimes in the morning, and went to Westminster
Hall. In the Hall was a marble seat, upon which he sat himself down between two
great noblemen, and told the people that he began the new reign in that place,
because the first duty of a sovereign was to administer the laws equally to
all, and to maintain justice. He then mounted his horse and rode back to the
City, where he was received by the clergy and the crowd as if he really had a
right to the throne, and really were a just man. The clergy and the crowd must
have been rather ashamed of themselves in secret, I think, for being such
poor-spirited knaves.
</p>

<p>
The new King and his Queen were soon crowned with a great deal of show and
noise, which the people liked very much; and then the King set forth on a royal
progress through his dominions. He was crowned a second time at York, in order
that the people might have show and noise enough; and wherever he went was
received with shouts of rejoicing&mdash;from a good many people of strong
lungs, who were paid to strain their throats in crying, &lsquo;God save King
Richard!&rsquo; The plan was so successful that I am told it has been imitated
since, by other usurpers, in other progresses through other dominions.
</p>

<p>
While he was on this journey, King Richard stayed a week at Warwick. And from
Warwick he sent instructions home for one of the wickedest murders that ever
was done&mdash;the murder of the two young princes, his nephews, who were shut
up in the Tower of London.
</p>

<p>
Sir Robert Brackenbury was at that time Governor of the Tower. To him, by the
hands of a messenger named <span class="smcap">John Green</span>, did King
Richard send a letter, ordering him by some means to put the two young princes
to death. But Sir Robert&mdash;I hope because he had children of his own, and
loved them&mdash;sent John Green back again, riding and spurring along the
dusty roads, with the answer that he could not do so horrible a piece of work.
The King, having frowningly considered a little, called to him <span
class="smcap">Sir James Tyrrel</span>, his master of the horse, and to him gave
authority to take command of the Tower, whenever he would, for twenty-four
hours, and to keep all the keys of the Tower during that space of time. Tyrrel,
well knowing what was wanted, looked about him for two hardened ruffians, and
chose <span class="smcap">John Dighton</span>, one of his own grooms, and <span
class="smcap">Miles Forest</span>, who was a murderer by trade. Having secured
these two assistants, he went, upon a day in August, to the Tower, showed his
authority from the King, took the command for four-and-twenty hours, and
obtained possession of the keys. And when the black night came he went
creeping, creeping, like a guilty villain as he was, up the dark, stone winding
stairs, and along the dark stone passages, until he came to the door of the
room where the two young princes, having said their prayers, lay fast asleep,
clasped in each other&rsquo;s arms. And while he watched and listened at the
door, he sent in those evil demons, John Dighton and Miles Forest, who
smothered the two princes with the bed and pillows, and carried their bodies
down the stairs, and buried them under a great heap of stones at the staircase
foot. And when the day came, he gave up the command of the Tower, and restored
the keys, and hurried away without once looking behind him; and Sir Robert
Brackenbury went with fear and sadness to the princes&rsquo; room, and found
the princes gone for ever.
</p>

<p>
You know, through all this history, how true it is that traitors are never
true, and you will not be surprised to learn that the Duke of Buckingham soon
turned against King Richard, and joined a great conspiracy that was formed to
dethrone him, and to place the crown upon its rightful owner&rsquo;s head.
Richard had meant to keep the murder secret; but when he heard through his
spies that this conspiracy existed, and that many lords and gentlemen drank in
secret to the healths of the two young princes in the Tower, he made it known
that they were dead. The conspirators, though thwarted for a moment, soon
resolved to set up for the crown against the murderous Richard, <span
class="smcap">Henry</span> Earl of Richmond, grandson of Catherine: that widow
of Henry the Fifth who married Owen Tudor. And as Henry was of the house of
Lancaster, they proposed that he should marry the Princess Elizabeth, the
eldest daughter of the late King, now the heiress of the house of York, and
thus by uniting the rival families put an end to the fatal wars of the Red and
White Roses. All being settled, a time was appointed for Henry to come over
from Brittany, and for a great rising against Richard to take place in several
parts of England at the same hour. On a certain day, therefore, in October, the
revolt took place; but unsuccessfully. Richard was prepared, Henry was driven
back at sea by a storm, his followers in England were dispersed, and the Duke
of Buckingham was taken, and at once beheaded in the market-place at Salisbury.
</p>

<p>
The time of his success was a good time, Richard thought, for summoning a
Parliament and getting some money. So, a Parliament was called, and it
flattered and fawned upon him as much as he could possibly desire, and declared
him to be the rightful King of England, and his only son Edward, then eleven
years of age, the next heir to the throne.
</p>

<p>
Richard knew full well that, let the Parliament say what it would, the Princess
Elizabeth was remembered by people as the heiress of the house of York; and
having accurate information besides, of its being designed by the conspirators
to marry her to Henry of Richmond, he felt that it would much strengthen him
and weaken them, to be beforehand with them, and marry her to his son. With
this view he went to the Sanctuary at Westminster, where the late King&rsquo;s
widow and her daughter still were, and besought them to come to Court: where
(he swore by anything and everything) they should be safely and honourably
entertained. They came, accordingly, but had scarcely been at Court a month
when his son died suddenly&mdash;or was poisoned&mdash;and his plan was crushed
to pieces.
</p>

<p>
In this extremity, King Richard, always active, thought, &lsquo;I must make
another plan.&rsquo; And he made the plan of marrying the Princess Elizabeth
himself, although she was his niece. There was one difficulty in the way: his
wife, the Queen Anne, was alive. But, he knew (remembering his nephews) how to
remove that obstacle, and he made love to the Princess Elizabeth, telling her
he felt perfectly confident that the Queen would die in February. The Princess
was not a very scrupulous young lady, for, instead of rejecting the murderer of
her brothers with scorn and hatred, she openly declared she loved him dearly;
and, when February came and the Queen did not die, she expressed her impatient
opinion that she was too long about it. However, King Richard was not so far
out in his prediction, but, that she died in March&mdash;he took good care of
that&mdash;and then this precious pair hoped to be married. But they were
disappointed, for the idea of such a marriage was so unpopular in the country,
that the King&rsquo;s chief counsellors, <span class="smcap">Ratcliffe</span>
and <span class="smcap">Catesby</span>, would by no means undertake to propose
it, and the King was even obliged to declare in public that he had never
thought of such a thing.
</p>

<p>
He was, by this time, dreaded and hated by all classes of his subjects. His
nobles deserted every day to Henry&rsquo;s side; he dared not call another
Parliament, lest his crimes should be denounced there; and for want of money,
he was obliged to get Benevolences from the citizens, which exasperated them
all against him. It was said too, that, being stricken by his conscience, he
dreamed frightful dreams, and started up in the night-time, wild with terror
and remorse. Active to the last, through all this, he issued vigorous
proclamations against Henry of Richmond and all his followers, when he heard
that they were coming against him with a Fleet from France; and took the field
as fierce and savage as a wild boar&mdash;the animal represented on his shield.
</p>

<p>
Henry of Richmond landed with six thousand men at Milford Haven, and came on
against King Richard, then encamped at Leicester with an army twice as great,
through North Wales. On Bosworth Field the two armies met; and Richard, looking
along Henry&rsquo;s ranks, and seeing them crowded with the English nobles who
had abandoned him, turned pale when he beheld the powerful Lord Stanley and his
son (whom he had tried hard to retain) among them. But, he was as brave as he
was wicked, and plunged into the thickest of the fight. He was riding hither
and thither, laying about him in all directions, when he observed the Earl of
Northumberland&mdash;one of his few great allies&mdash;to stand inactive, and
the main body of his troops to hesitate. At the same moment, his desperate
glance caught Henry of Richmond among a little group of his knights. Riding
hard at him, and crying &lsquo;Treason!&rsquo; he killed his standard-bearer,
fiercely unhorsed another gentleman, and aimed a powerful stroke at Henry
himself, to cut him down. But, Sir William Stanley parried it as it fell, and
before Richard could raise his arm again, he was borne down in a press of
numbers, unhorsed, and killed. Lord Stanley picked up the crown, all bruised
and trampled, and stained with blood, and put it upon Richmond&rsquo;s head,
amid loud and rejoicing cries of &lsquo;Long live King Henry!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
That night, a horse was led up to the church of the Grey Friars at Leicester;
across whose back was tied, like some worthless sack, a naked body brought
there for burial. It was the body of the last of the Plantagenet line, King
Richard the Third, usurper and murderer, slain at the battle of Bosworth Field
in the thirty-second year of his age, after a reign of two years.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER XXVI<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SEVENTH</h2>

<p>
King Henry the Seventh did not turn out to be as fine a fellow as the nobility
and people hoped, in the first joy of their deliverance from Richard the Third.
He was very cold, crafty, and calculating, and would do almost anything for
money. He possessed considerable ability, but his chief merit appears to have
been that he was not cruel when there was nothing to be got by it.
</p>

<p>
The new King had promised the nobles who had espoused his cause that he would
marry the Princess Elizabeth. The first thing he did, was, to direct her to be
removed from the castle of Sheriff Hutton in Yorkshire, where Richard had
placed her, and restored to the care of her mother in London. The young Earl of
Warwick, Edward Plantagenet, son and heir of the late Duke of Clarence, had
been kept a prisoner in the same old Yorkshire Castle with her. This boy, who
was now fifteen, the new King placed in the Tower for safety. Then he came to
London in great state, and gratified the people with a fine procession; on
which kind of show he often very much relied for keeping them in good humour.
The sports and feasts which took place were followed by a terrible fever,
called the Sweating Sickness; of which great numbers of people died. Lord
Mayors and Aldermen are thought to have suffered most from it; whether, because
they were in the habit of over-eating themselves, or because they were very
jealous of preserving filth and nuisances in the City (as they have been
since), I don&rsquo;t know.
</p>

<p>
The King&rsquo;s coronation was postponed on account of the general ill-health,
and he afterwards deferred his marriage, as if he were not very anxious that it
should take place: and, even after that, deferred the Queen&rsquo;s coronation
so long that he gave offence to the York party. However, he set these things
right in the end, by hanging some men and seizing on the rich possessions of
others; by granting more popular pardons to the followers of the late King than
could, at first, be got from him; and, by employing about his Court, some very
scrupulous persons who had been employed in the previous reign.
</p>

<p>
As this reign was principally remarkable for two very curious impostures which
have become famous in history, we will make those two stories its principal
feature.
</p>

<p>
There was a priest at Oxford of the name of Simons, who had for a pupil a
handsome boy named Lambert Simnel, the son of a baker. Partly to gratify his
own ambitious ends, and partly to carry out the designs of a secret party
formed against the King, this priest declared that his pupil, the boy, was no
other than the young Earl of Warwick; who (as everybody might have known) was
safely locked up in the Tower of London. The priest and the boy went over to
Ireland; and, at Dublin, enlisted in their cause all ranks of the people: who
seem to have been generous enough, but exceedingly irrational. The Earl of
Kildare, the governor of Ireland, declared that he believed the boy to be what
the priest represented; and the boy, who had been well tutored by the priest,
told them such things of his childhood, and gave them so many descriptions of
the Royal Family, that they were perpetually shouting and hurrahing, and
drinking his health, and making all kinds of noisy and thirsty demonstrations,
to express their belief in him. Nor was this feeling confined to Ireland alone,
for the Earl of Lincoln&mdash;whom the late usurper had named as his
successor&mdash;went over to the young Pretender; and, after holding a secret
correspondence with the Dowager Duchess of Burgundy&mdash;the sister of Edward
the Fourth, who detested the present King and all his race&mdash;sailed to
Dublin with two thousand German soldiers of her providing. In this promising
state of the boy&rsquo;s fortunes, he was crowned there, with a crown taken off
the head of a statue of the Virgin Mary; and was then, according to the Irish
custom of those days, carried home on the shoulders of a big chieftain
possessing a great deal more strength than sense. Father Simons, you may be
sure, was mighty busy at the coronation.
</p>

<p>
Ten days afterwards, the Germans, and the Irish, and the priest, and the boy,
and the Earl of Lincoln, all landed in Lancashire to invade England. The King,
who had good intelligence of their movements, set up his standard at
Nottingham, where vast numbers resorted to him every day; while the Earl of
Lincoln could gain but very few. With his small force he tried to make for the
town of Newark; but the King&rsquo;s army getting between him and that place,
he had no choice but to risk a battle at Stoke. It soon ended in the complete
destruction of the Pretender&rsquo;s forces, one half of whom were killed;
among them, the Earl himself. The priest and the baker&rsquo;s boy were taken
prisoners. The priest, after confessing the trick, was shut up in prison, where
he afterwards died&mdash;suddenly perhaps. The boy was taken into the
King&rsquo;s kitchen and made a turnspit. He was afterwards raised to the
station of one of the King&rsquo;s falconers; and so ended this strange
imposition.
</p>

<p>
There seems reason to suspect that the Dowager Queen&mdash;always a restless
and busy woman&mdash;had had some share in tutoring the baker&rsquo;s son. The
King was very angry with her, whether or no. He seized upon her property, and
shut her up in a convent at Bermondsey.
</p>

<p>
One might suppose that the end of this story would have put the Irish people on
their guard; but they were quite ready to receive a second impostor, as they
had received the first, and that same troublesome Duchess of Burgundy soon gave
them the opportunity. All of a sudden there appeared at Cork, in a vessel
arriving from Portugal, a young man of excellent abilities, of very handsome
appearance and most winning manners, who declared himself to be Richard, Duke
of York, the second son of King Edward the Fourth. &lsquo;O,&rsquo; said some,
even of those ready Irish believers, &lsquo;but surely that young Prince was
murdered by his uncle in the Tower!&rsquo;&mdash;&lsquo;It <i>is</i> supposed
so,&rsquo; said the engaging young man; &lsquo;and my brother <i>was</i> killed
in that gloomy prison; but I escaped&mdash;it don&rsquo;t matter how, at
present&mdash;and have been wandering about the world for seven long
years.&rsquo; This explanation being quite satisfactory to numbers of the Irish
people, they began again to shout and to hurrah, and to drink his health, and
to make the noisy and thirsty demonstrations all over again. And the big
chieftain in Dublin began to look out for another coronation, and another young
King to be carried home on his back.
</p>

<p>
Now, King Henry being then on bad terms with France, the French King, Charles
the Eighth, saw that, by pretending to believe in the handsome young man, he
could trouble his enemy sorely. So, he invited him over to the French Court,
and appointed him a body-guard, and treated him in all respects as if he really
were the Duke of York. Peace, however, being soon concluded between the two
Kings, the pretended Duke was turned adrift, and wandered for protection to the
Duchess of Burgundy. She, after feigning to inquire into the reality of his
claims, declared him to be the very picture of her dear departed brother; gave
him a body-guard at her Court, of thirty halberdiers; and called him by the
sounding name of the White Rose of England.
</p>

<p>
The leading members of the White Rose party in England sent over an agent,
named Sir Robert Clifford, to ascertain whether the White Rose&rsquo;s claims
were good: the King also sent over his agents to inquire into the Rose&rsquo;s
history. The White Roses declared the young man to be really the Duke of York;
the King declared him to be <span class="smcap">Perkin Warbeck</span>, the son
of a merchant of the city of Tournay, who had acquired his knowledge of
England, its language and manners, from the English merchants who traded in
Flanders; it was also stated by the Royal agents that he had been in the
service of Lady Brompton, the wife of an exiled English nobleman, and that the
Duchess of Burgundy had caused him to be trained and taught, expressly for this
deception. The King then required the Archduke Philip&mdash;who was the
sovereign of Burgundy&mdash;to banish this new Pretender, or to deliver him up;
but, as the Archduke replied that he could not control the Duchess in her own
land, the King, in revenge, took the market of English cloth away from Antwerp,
and prevented all commercial intercourse between the two countries.
</p>

<p>
He also, by arts and bribes, prevailed on Sir Robert Clifford to betray his
employers; and he denouncing several famous English noblemen as being secretly
the friends of Perkin Warbeck, the King had three of the foremost executed at
once. Whether he pardoned the remainder because they were poor, I do not know;
but it is only too probable that he refused to pardon one famous nobleman
against whom the same Clifford soon afterwards informed separately, because he
was rich. This was no other than Sir William Stanley, who had saved the
King&rsquo;s life at the battle of Bosworth Field. It is very doubtful whether
his treason amounted to much more than his having said, that if he were sure
the young man was the Duke of York, he would not take arms against him.
Whatever he had done he admitted, like an honourable spirit; and he lost his
head for it, and the covetous King gained all his wealth.
</p>

<p>
Perkin Warbeck kept quiet for three years; but, as the Flemings began to
complain heavily of the loss of their trade by the stoppage of the Antwerp
market on his account, and as it was not unlikely that they might even go so
far as to take his life, or give him up, he found it necessary to do something.
Accordingly he made a desperate sally, and landed, with only a few hundred men,
on the coast of Deal. But he was soon glad to get back to the place from whence
he came; for the country people rose against his followers, killed a great
many, and took a hundred and fifty prisoners: who were all driven to London,
tied together with ropes, like a team of cattle. Every one of them was hanged
on some part or other of the sea-shore; in order, that if any more men should
come over with Perkin Warbeck, they might see the bodies as a warning before
they landed.
</p>

<p>
Then the wary King, by making a treaty of commerce with the Flemings, drove
Perkin Warbeck out of that country; and, by completely gaining over the Irish
to his side, deprived him of that asylum too. He wandered away to Scotland, and
told his story at that Court. King James the Fourth of Scotland, who was no
friend to King Henry, and had no reason to be (for King Henry had bribed his
Scotch lords to betray him more than once; but had never succeeded in his
plots), gave him a great reception, called him his cousin, and gave him in
marriage the Lady Catherine Gordon, a beautiful and charming creature related
to the royal house of Stuart.
</p>

<p>
Alarmed by this successful reappearance of the Pretender, the King still
undermined, and bought, and bribed, and kept his doings and Perkin
Warbeck&rsquo;s story in the dark, when he might, one would imagine, have
rendered the matter clear to all England. But, for all this bribing of the
Scotch lords at the Scotch King&rsquo;s Court, he could not procure the
Pretender to be delivered up to him. James, though not very particular in many
respects, would not betray him; and the ever-busy Duchess of Burgundy so
provided him with arms, and good soldiers, and with money besides, that he had
soon a little army of fifteen hundred men of various nations. With these, and
aided by the Scottish King in person, he crossed the border into England, and
made a proclamation to the people, in which he called the King &lsquo;Henry
Tudor;&rsquo; offered large rewards to any who should take or distress him; and
announced himself as King Richard the Fourth come to receive the homage of his
faithful subjects. His faithful subjects, however, cared nothing for him, and
hated his faithful troops: who, being of different nations, quarrelled also
among themselves. Worse than this, if worse were possible, they began to
plunder the country; upon which the White Rose said, that he would rather lose
his rights, than gain them through the miseries of the English people. The
Scottish King made a jest of his scruples; but they and their whole force went
back again without fighting a battle.
</p>

<p>
The worst consequence of this attempt was, that a rising took place among the
people of Cornwall, who considered themselves too heavily taxed to meet the
charges of the expected war. Stimulated by Flammock, a lawyer, and Joseph, a
blacksmith, and joined by Lord Audley and some other country gentlemen, they
marched on all the way to Deptford Bridge, where they fought a battle with the
King&rsquo;s army. They were defeated&mdash;though the Cornish men fought with
great bravery&mdash;and the lord was beheaded, and the lawyer and the
blacksmith were hanged, drawn, and quartered. The rest were pardoned. The King,
who believed every man to be as avaricious as himself, and thought that money
could settle anything, allowed them to make bargains for their liberty with the
soldiers who had taken them.
</p>

<p>
Perkin Warbeck, doomed to wander up and down, and never to find rest
anywhere&mdash;a sad fate: almost a sufficient punishment for an imposture,
which he seems in time to have half believed himself&mdash;lost his Scottish
refuge through a truce being made between the two Kings; and found himself,
once more, without a country before him in which he could lay his head. But
James (always honourable and true to him, alike when he melted down his plate,
and even the great gold chain he had been used to wear, to pay soldiers in his
cause; and now, when that cause was lost and hopeless) did not conclude the
treaty, until he had safely departed out of the Scottish dominions. He, and his
beautiful wife, who was faithful to him under all reverses, and left her state
and home to follow his poor fortunes, were put aboard ship with everything
necessary for their comfort and protection, and sailed for Ireland.
</p>

<p>
But, the Irish people had had enough of counterfeit Earls of Warwick and Dukes
of York, for one while; and would give the White Rose no aid. So, the White
Rose&mdash;encircled by thorns indeed&mdash;resolved to go with his beautiful
wife to Cornwall as a forlorn resource, and see what might be made of the
Cornish men, who had risen so valiantly a little while before, and who had
fought so bravely at Deptford Bridge.
</p>

<p>
To Whitsand Bay, in Cornwall, accordingly, came Perkin Warbeck and his wife;
and the lovely lady he shut up for safety in the Castle of St. Michael&rsquo;s
Mount, and then marched into Devonshire at the head of three thousand
Cornishmen. These were increased to six thousand by the time of his arrival in
Exeter; but, there the people made a stout resistance, and he went on to
Taunton, where he came in sight of the King&rsquo;s army. The stout Cornish
men, although they were few in number, and badly armed, were so bold, that they
never thought of retreating; but bravely looked forward to a battle on the
morrow. Unhappily for them, the man who was possessed of so many engaging
qualities, and who attracted so many people to his side when he had nothing
else with which to tempt them, was not as brave as they. In the night, when the
two armies lay opposite to each other, he mounted a swift horse and fled. When
morning dawned, the poor confiding Cornish men, discovering that they had no
leader, surrendered to the King&rsquo;s power. Some of them were hanged, and
the rest were pardoned and went miserably home.
</p>

<p>
Before the King pursued Perkin Warbeck to the sanctuary of Beaulieu in the New
Forest, where it was soon known that he had taken refuge, he sent a body of
horsemen to St. Michael&rsquo;s Mount, to seize his wife. She was soon taken
and brought as a captive before the King. But she was so beautiful, and so
good, and so devoted to the man in whom she believed, that the King regarded
her with compassion, treated her with great respect, and placed her at Court,
near the Queen&rsquo;s person. And many years after Perkin Warbeck was no more,
and when his strange story had become like a nursery tale, <i>she</i> was
called the White Rose, by the people, in remembrance of her beauty.
</p>

<p>
The sanctuary at Beaulieu was soon surrounded by the King&rsquo;s men; and the
King, pursuing his usual dark, artful ways, sent pretended friends to Perkin
Warbeck to persuade him to come out and surrender himself. This he soon did;
the King having taken a good look at the man of whom he had heard so
much&mdash;from behind a screen&mdash;directed him to be well mounted, and to
ride behind him at a little distance, guarded, but not bound in any way. So
they entered London with the King&rsquo;s favourite show&mdash;a procession;
and some of the people hooted as the Pretender rode slowly through the streets
to the Tower; but the greater part were quiet, and very curious to see him.
From the Tower, he was taken to the Palace at Westminster, and there lodged
like a gentleman, though closely watched. He was examined every now and then as
to his imposture; but the King was so secret in all he did, that even then he
gave it a consequence, which it cannot be supposed to have in itself deserved.
</p>

<p>
At last Perkin Warbeck ran away, and took refuge in another sanctuary near
Richmond in Surrey. From this he was again persuaded to deliver himself up;
and, being conveyed to London, he stood in the stocks for a whole day, outside
Westminster Hall, and there read a paper purporting to be his full confession,
and relating his history as the King&rsquo;s agents had originally described
it. He was then shut up in the Tower again, in the company of the Earl of
Warwick, who had now been there for fourteen years: ever since his removal out
of Yorkshire, except when the King had had him at Court, and had shown him to
the people, to prove the imposture of the Baker&rsquo;s boy. It is but too
probable, when we consider the crafty character of Henry the Seventh, that
these two were brought together for a cruel purpose. A plot was soon discovered
between them and the keepers, to murder the Governor, get possession of the
keys, and proclaim Perkin Warbeck as King Richard the Fourth. That there was
some such plot, is likely; that they were tempted into it, is at least as
likely; that the unfortunate Earl of Warwick&mdash;last male of the Plantagenet
line&mdash;was too unused to the world, and too ignorant and simple to know
much about it, whatever it was, is perfectly certain; and that it was the
King&rsquo;s interest to get rid of him, is no less so. He was beheaded on
Tower Hill, and Perkin Warbeck was hanged at Tyburn.
</p>

<p>
Such was the end of the pretended Duke of York, whose shadowy history was made
more shadowy&mdash;and ever will be&mdash;by the mystery and craft of the King.
If he had turned his great natural advantages to a more honest account, he
might have lived a happy and respected life, even in those days. But he died
upon a gallows at Tyburn, leaving the Scottish lady, who had loved him so well,
kindly protected at the Queen&rsquo;s Court. After some time she forgot her old
loves and troubles, as many people do with Time&rsquo;s merciful assistance,
and married a Welsh gentleman. Her second husband, <span class="smcap">Sir
Matthew Cradoc</span>, more honest and more happy than her first, lies beside
her in a tomb in the old church of Swansea.
</p>

<p>
The ill-blood between France and England in this reign, arose out of the
continued plotting of the Duchess of Burgundy, and disputes respecting the
affairs of Brittany. The King feigned to be very patriotic, indignant, and
warlike; but he always contrived so as never to make war in reality, and always
to make money. His taxation of the people, on pretence of war with France,
involved, at one time, a very dangerous insurrection, headed by Sir John
Egremont, and a common man called John &agrave; Chambre. But it was subdued by
the royal forces, under the command of the Earl of Surrey. The knighted John
escaped to the Duchess of Burgundy, who was ever ready to receive any one who
gave the King trouble; and the plain John was hanged at York, in the midst of a
number of his men, but on a much higher gibbet, as being a greater traitor.
Hung high or hung low, however, hanging is much the same to the person hung.
</p>

<p>
Within a year after her marriage, the Queen had given birth to a son, who was
called Prince Arthur, in remembrance of the old British prince of romance and
story; and who, when all these events had happened, being then in his fifteenth
year, was married to <span class="smcap">Catherine</span>, the daughter of the
Spanish monarch, with great rejoicings and bright prospects; but in a very few
months he sickened and died. As soon as the King had recovered from his grief,
he thought it a pity that the fortune of the Spanish Princess, amounting to two
hundred thousand crowns, should go out of the family; and therefore arranged
that the young widow should marry his second son <span
class="smcap">Henry</span>, then twelve years of age, when he too should be
fifteen. There were objections to this marriage on the part of the clergy; but,
as the infallible Pope was gained over, and, as he <i>must</i> be right, that
settled the business for the time. The King&rsquo;s eldest daughter was
provided for, and a long course of disturbance was considered to be set at
rest, by her being married to the Scottish King.
</p>

<p>
And now the Queen died. When the King had got over that grief too, his mind
once more reverted to his darling money for consolation, and he thought of
marrying the Dowager Queen of Naples, who was immensely rich: but, as it turned
out not to be practicable to gain the money however practicable it might have
been to gain the lady, he gave up the idea. He was not so fond of her but that
he soon proposed to marry the Dowager Duchess of Savoy; and, soon afterwards,
the widow of the King of Castile, who was raving mad. But he made a
money-bargain instead, and married neither.
</p>

<p>
The Duchess of Burgundy, among the other discontented people to whom she had
given refuge, had sheltered <span class="smcap">Edmund de la Pole</span>
(younger brother of that Earl of Lincoln who was killed at Stoke), now Earl of
Suffolk. The King had prevailed upon him to return to the marriage of Prince
Arthur; but, he soon afterwards went away again; and then the King, suspecting
a conspiracy, resorted to his favourite plan of sending him some treacherous
friends, and buying of those scoundrels the secrets they disclosed or invented.
Some arrests and executions took place in consequence. In the end, the King, on
a promise of not taking his life, obtained possession of the person of Edmund
de la Pole, and shut him up in the Tower.
</p>

<p>
This was his last enemy. If he had lived much longer he would have made many
more among the people, by the grinding exaction to which he constantly exposed
them, and by the tyrannical acts of his two prime favourites in all
money-raising matters, <span class="smcap">Edmund Dudley</span> and <span
class="smcap">Richard Empson</span>. But Death&mdash;the enemy who is not to be
bought off or deceived, and on whom no money, and no treachery has any
effect&mdash;presented himself at this juncture, and ended the King&rsquo;s
reign. He died of the gout, on the twenty-second of April, one thousand five
hundred and nine, and in the fifty-third year of his age, after reigning
twenty-four years; he was buried in the beautiful Chapel of Westminster Abbey,
which he had himself founded, and which still bears his name.
</p>

<p>
It was in this reign that the great <span class="smcap">Christopher
Columbus</span>, on behalf of Spain, discovered what was then called The New
World. Great wonder, interest, and hope of wealth being awakened in England
thereby, the King and the merchants of London and Bristol fitted out an English
expedition for further discoveries in the New World, and entrusted it to <span
class="smcap">Sebastian Cabot</span>, of Bristol, the son of a Venetian pilot
there. He was very successful in his voyage, and gained high reputation, both
for himself and England.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap27"></a>CHAPTER XXVII<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE EIGHTH, CALLED BLUFF KING HAL AND BURLY KING HARRY</h2>

<h3>PART THE FIRST</h3>

<p>
We now come to King Henry the Eighth, whom it has been too much the fashion to
call &lsquo;Bluff King Hal,&rsquo; and &lsquo;Burly King Harry,&rsquo; and
other fine names; but whom I shall take the liberty to call, plainly, one of
the most detestable villains that ever drew breath. You will be able to judge,
long before we come to the end of his life, whether he deserves the character.
</p>

<p>
He was just eighteen years of age when he came to the throne. People said he
was handsome then; but I don&rsquo;t believe it. He was a big, burly, noisy,
small-eyed, large-faced, double-chinned, swinish-looking fellow in later life
(as we know from the likenesses of him, painted by the famous <span
class="smcap">Hans Holbein</span>), and it is not easy to believe that so bad a
character can ever have been veiled under a prepossessing appearance.
</p>

<p>
He was anxious to make himself popular; and the people, who had long disliked
the late King, were very willing to believe that he deserved to be so. He was
extremely fond of show and display, and so were they. Therefore there was great
rejoicing when he married the Princess Catherine, and when they were both
crowned. And the King fought at tournaments and always came off
victorious&mdash;for the courtiers took care of that&mdash;and there was a
general outcry that he was a wonderful man. Empson, Dudley, and their
supporters were accused of a variety of crimes they had never committed,
instead of the offences of which they really had been guilty; and they were
pilloried, and set upon horses with their faces to the tails, and knocked about
and beheaded, to the satisfaction of the people, and the enrichment of the
King.
</p>

<p>
The Pope, so indefatigable in getting the world into trouble, had mixed himself
up in a war on the continent of Europe, occasioned by the reigning Princes of
little quarrelling states in Italy having at various times married into other
Royal families, and so led to <i>their</i> claiming a share in those petty
Governments. The King, who discovered that he was very fond of the Pope, sent a
herald to the King of France, to say that he must not make war upon that holy
personage, because he was the father of all Christians. As the French King did
not mind this relationship in the least, and also refused to admit a claim King
Henry made to certain lands in France, war was declared between the two
countries. Not to perplex this story with an account of the tricks and designs
of all the sovereigns who were engaged in it, it is enough to say that England
made a blundering alliance with Spain, and got stupidly taken in by that
country; which made its own terms with France when it could and left England in
the lurch. <span class="smcap">Sir Edward Howard</span>, a bold admiral, son of
the Earl of Surrey, distinguished himself by his bravery against the French in
this business; but, unfortunately, he was more brave than wise, for, skimming
into the French harbour of Brest with only a few row-boats, he attempted (in
revenge for the defeat and death of <span class="smcap">Sir Thomas
Knyvett</span>, another bold English admiral) to take some strong French ships,
well defended with batteries of cannon. The upshot was, that he was left on
board of one of them (in consequence of its shooting away from his own boat),
with not more than about a dozen men, and was thrown into the sea and drowned:
though not until he had taken from his breast his gold chain and gold whistle,
which were the signs of his office, and had cast them into the sea to prevent
their being made a boast of by the enemy. After this defeat&mdash;which was a
great one, for Sir Edward Howard was a man of valour and fame&mdash;the King
took it into his head to invade France in person; first executing that
dangerous Earl of Suffolk whom his father had left in the Tower, and appointing
Queen Catherine to the charge of his kingdom in his absence. He sailed to
Calais, where he was joined by <span class="smcap">Maximilian</span>, Emperor
of Germany, who pretended to be his soldier, and who took pay in his service:
with a good deal of nonsense of that sort, flattering enough to the vanity of a
vain blusterer. The King might be successful enough in sham fights; but his
idea of real battles chiefly consisted in pitching silken tents of bright
colours that were ignominiously blown down by the wind, and in making a vast
display of gaudy flags and golden curtains. Fortune, however, favoured him
better than he deserved; for, after much waste of time in tent pitching, flag
flying, gold curtaining, and other such masquerading, he gave the French battle
at a place called Guinegate: where they took such an unaccountable panic, and
fled with such swiftness, that it was ever afterwards called by the English the
Battle of Spurs. Instead of following up his advantage, the King, finding that
he had had enough of real fighting, came home again.
</p>

<p>
The Scottish King, though nearly related to Henry by marriage, had taken part
against him in this war. The Earl of Surrey, as the English general, advanced
to meet him when he came out of his own dominions and crossed the river Tweed.
The two armies came up with one another when the Scottish King had also crossed
the river Till, and was encamped upon the last of the Cheviot Hills, called the
Hill of Flodden. Along the plain below it, the English, when the hour of battle
came, advanced. The Scottish army, which had been drawn up in five great
bodies, then came steadily down in perfect silence. So they, in their turn,
advanced to meet the English army, which came on in one long line; and they
attacked it with a body of spearmen, under <span class="smcap">Lord
Home</span>. At first they had the best of it; but the English recovered
themselves so bravely, and fought with such valour, that, when the Scottish
King had almost made his way up to the Royal Standard, he was slain, and the
whole Scottish power routed. Ten thousand Scottish men lay dead that day on
Flodden Field; and among them, numbers of the nobility and gentry. For a long
time afterwards, the Scottish peasantry used to believe that their King had not
been really killed in this battle, because no Englishman had found an iron belt
he wore about his body as a penance for having been an unnatural and undutiful
son. But, whatever became of his belt, the English had his sword and dagger,
and the ring from his finger, and his body too, covered with wounds. There is
no doubt of it; for it was seen and recognised by English gentlemen who had
known the Scottish King well.
</p>

<p>
When King Henry was making ready to renew the war in France, the French King
was contemplating peace. His queen, dying at this time, he proposed, though he
was upwards of fifty years old, to marry King Henry&rsquo;s sister, the
Princess Mary, who, besides being only sixteen, was betrothed to the Duke of
Suffolk. As the inclinations of young Princesses were not much considered in
such matters, the marriage was concluded, and the poor girl was escorted to
France, where she was immediately left as the French King&rsquo;s bride, with
only one of all her English attendants. That one was a pretty young girl named
<span class="smcap">Anne Boleyn</span>, niece of the Earl of Surrey, who had
been made Duke of Norfolk, after the victory of Flodden Field. Anne
Boleyn&rsquo;s is a name to be remembered, as you will presently find.
</p>

<p>
And now the French King, who was very proud of his young wife, was preparing
for many years of happiness, and she was looking forward, I dare say, to many
years of misery, when he died within three months, and left her a young widow.
The new French monarch, <span class="smcap">Francis the First</span>, seeing
how important it was to his interests that she should take for her second
husband no one but an Englishman, advised her first lover, the Duke of Suffolk,
when King Henry sent him over to France to fetch her home, to marry her. The
Princess being herself so fond of that Duke, as to tell him that he must either
do so then, or for ever lose her, they were wedded; and Henry afterwards
forgave them. In making interest with the King, the Duke of Suffolk had
addressed his most powerful favourite and adviser, <span class="smcap">Thomas
Wolsey</span>&mdash;a name very famous in history for its rise and downfall.
</p>

<p>
Wolsey was the son of a respectable butcher at Ipswich, in Suffolk and received
so excellent an education that he became a tutor to the family of the Marquis
of Dorset, who afterwards got him appointed one of the late King&rsquo;s
chaplains. On the accession of Henry the Eighth, he was promoted and taken into
great favour. He was now Archbishop of York; the Pope had made him a Cardinal
besides; and whoever wanted influence in England or favour with the
King&mdash;whether he were a foreign monarch or an English nobleman&mdash;was
obliged to make a friend of the great Cardinal Wolsey.
</p>

<p>
He was a gay man, who could dance and jest, and sing and drink; and those were
the roads to so much, or rather so little, of a heart as King Henry had. He was
wonderfully fond of pomp and glitter, and so was the King. He knew a good deal
of the Church learning of that time; much of which consisted in finding artful
excuses and pretences for almost any wrong thing, and in arguing that black was
white, or any other colour. This kind of learning pleased the King too. For
many such reasons, the Cardinal was high in estimation with the King; and,
being a man of far greater ability, knew as well how to manage him, as a clever
keeper may know how to manage a wolf or a tiger, or any other cruel and
uncertain beast, that may turn upon him and tear him any day. Never had there
been seen in England such state as my Lord Cardinal kept. His wealth was
enormous; equal, it was reckoned, to the riches of the Crown. His palaces were
as splendid as the King&rsquo;s, and his retinue was eight hundred strong. He
held his Court, dressed out from top to toe in flaming scarlet; and his very
shoes were golden, set with precious stones. His followers rode on blood
horses; while he, with a wonderful affectation of humility in the midst of his
great splendour, ambled on a mule with a red velvet saddle and bridle and
golden stirrups.
</p>

<p>
Through the influence of this stately priest, a grand meeting was arranged to
take place between the French and English Kings in France; but on ground
belonging to England. A prodigious show of friendship and rejoicing was to be
made on the occasion; and heralds were sent to proclaim with brazen trumpets
through all the principal cities of Europe, that, on a certain day, the Kings
of France and England, as companions and brothers in arms, each attended by
eighteen followers, would hold a tournament against all knights who might
choose to come.
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">Charles</span>, the new Emperor of Germany (the old one
being dead), wanted to prevent too cordial an alliance between these
sovereigns, and came over to England before the King could repair to the place
of meeting; and, besides making an agreeable impression upon him, secured
Wolsey&rsquo;s interest by promising that his influence should make him Pope
when the next vacancy occurred. On the day when the Emperor left England, the
King and all the Court went over to Calais, and thence to the place of meeting,
between Ardres and Guisnes, commonly called the Field of the Cloth of Gold.
Here, all manner of expense and prodigality was lavished on the decorations of
the show; many of the knights and gentlemen being so superbly dressed that it
was said they carried their whole estates upon their shoulders.
</p>

<p>
There were sham castles, temporary chapels, fountains running wine, great
cellars full of wine free as water to all comers, silk tents, gold lace and
foil, gilt lions, and such things without end; and, in the midst of all, the
rich Cardinal out-shone and out-glittered all the noblemen and gentlemen
assembled. After a treaty made between the two Kings with as much solemnity as
if they had intended to keep it, the lists&mdash;nine hundred feet long, and
three hundred and twenty broad&mdash;were opened for the tournament; the Queens
of France and England looking on with great array of lords and ladies. Then,
for ten days, the two sovereigns fought five combats every day, and always beat
their polite adversaries; though they <i>do</i> write that the King of England,
being thrown in a wrestle one day by the King of France, lost his kingly temper
with his brother-in-arms, and wanted to make a quarrel of it. Then, there is a
great story belonging to this Field of the Cloth of Gold, showing how the
English were distrustful of the French, and the French of the English, until
Francis rode alone one morning to Henry&rsquo;s tent; and, going in before he
was out of bed, told him in joke that he was his prisoner; and how Henry jumped
out of bed and embraced Francis; and how Francis helped Henry to dress, and
warmed his linen for him; and how Henry gave Francis a splendid jewelled
collar, and how Francis gave Henry, in return, a costly bracelet. All this and
a great deal more was so written about, and sung about, and talked about at
that time (and, indeed, since that time too), that the world has had good cause
to be sick of it, for ever.
</p>

<p>
Of course, nothing came of all these fine doings but a speedy renewal of the
war between England and France, in which the two Royal companions and brothers
in arms longed very earnestly to damage one another. But, before it broke out
again, the Duke of Buckingham was shamefully executed on Tower Hill, on the
evidence of a discharged servant&mdash;really for nothing, except the folly of
having believed in a friar of the name of <span class="smcap">Hopkins</span>,
who had pretended to be a prophet, and who had mumbled and jumbled out some
nonsense about the Duke&rsquo;s son being destined to be very great in the
land. It was believed that the unfortunate Duke had given offence to the great
Cardinal by expressing his mind freely about the expense and absurdity of the
whole business of the Field of the Cloth of Gold. At any rate, he was beheaded,
as I have said, for nothing. And the people who saw it done were very angry,
and cried out that it was the work of &lsquo;the butcher&rsquo;s son!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
The new war was a short one, though the Earl of Surrey invaded France again,
and did some injury to that country. It ended in another treaty of peace
between the two kingdoms, and in the discovery that the Emperor of Germany was
not such a good friend to England in reality, as he pretended to be. Neither
did he keep his promise to Wolsey to make him Pope, though the King urged him.
Two Popes died in pretty quick succession; but the foreign priests were too
much for the Cardinal, and kept him out of the post. So the Cardinal and King
together found out that the Emperor of Germany was not a man to keep faith
with; broke off a projected marriage between the King&rsquo;s daughter <span
class="smcap">Mary</span>, Princess of Wales, and that sovereign; and began to
consider whether it might not be well to marry the young lady, either to
Francis himself, or to his eldest son.
</p>

<p>
There now arose at Wittemberg, in Germany, the great leader of the mighty
change in England which is called The Reformation, and which set the people
free from their slavery to the priests. This was a learned Doctor, named <span
class="smcap">Martin Luther</span>, who knew all about them, for he had been a
priest, and even a monk, himself. The preaching and writing of Wickliffe had
set a number of men thinking on this subject; and Luther, finding one day to
his great surprise, that there really was a book called the New Testament which
the priests did not allow to be read, and which contained truths that they
suppressed, began to be very vigorous against the whole body, from the Pope
downward. It happened, while he was yet only beginning his vast work of
awakening the nation, that an impudent fellow named <span
class="smcap">Tetzel</span>, a friar of very bad character, came into his
neighbourhood selling what were called Indulgences, by wholesale, to raise
money for beautifying the great Cathedral of St. Peter&rsquo;s, at Rome.
Whoever bought an Indulgence of the Pope was supposed to buy himself off from
the punishment of Heaven for his offences. Luther told the people that these
Indulgences were worthless bits of paper, before God, and that Tetzel and his
masters were a crew of impostors in selling them.
</p>

<p>
The King and the Cardinal were mightily indignant at this presumption; and the
King (with the help of <span class="smcap">Sir Thomas More</span>, a wise man,
whom he afterwards repaid by striking off his head) even wrote a book about it,
with which the Pope was so well pleased that he gave the King the title of
Defender of the Faith. The King and the Cardinal also issued flaming warnings
to the people not to read Luther&rsquo;s books, on pain of excommunication. But
they did read them for all that; and the rumour of what was in them spread far
and wide.
</p>

<p>
When this great change was thus going on, the King began to show himself in his
truest and worst colours. Anne Boleyn, the pretty little girl who had gone
abroad to France with his sister, was by this time grown up to be very
beautiful, and was one of the ladies in attendance on Queen Catherine. Now,
Queen Catherine was no longer young or handsome, and it is likely that she was
not particularly good-tempered; having been always rather melancholy, and
having been made more so by the deaths of four of her children when they were
very young. So, the King fell in love with the fair Anne Boleyn, and said to
himself, &lsquo;How can I be best rid of my own troublesome wife whom I am
tired of, and marry Anne?&rsquo;
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a href="images/p0b.jpg">
<img alt="Catherine was old, so he fell in love with Anne Boleyn"
src="images/p0s.jpg" /></a>
</div>

<p>
You recollect that Queen Catherine had been the wife of Henry&rsquo;s brother.
What does the King do, after thinking it over, but calls his favourite priests
about him, and says, O! his mind is in such a dreadful state, and he is so
frightfully uneasy, because he is afraid it was not lawful for him to marry the
Queen! Not one of those priests had the courage to hint that it was rather
curious he had never thought of that before, and that his mind seemed to have
been in a tolerably jolly condition during a great many years, in which he
certainly had not fretted himself thin; but, they all said, Ah! that was very
true, and it was a serious business; and perhaps the best way to make it right,
would be for his Majesty to be divorced! The King replied, Yes, he thought that
would be the best way, certainly; so they all went to work.
</p>

<p>
If I were to relate to you the intrigues and plots that took place in the
endeavour to get this divorce, you would think the History of England the most
tiresome book in the world. So I shall say no more, than that after a vast deal
of negotiation and evasion, the Pope issued a commission to Cardinal Wolsey and
<span class="smcap">Cardinal Campeggio</span> (whom he sent over from Italy for
the purpose), to try the whole case in England. It is supposed&mdash;and I
think with reason&mdash;that Wolsey was the Queen&rsquo;s enemy, because she
had reproved him for his proud and gorgeous manner of life. But, he did not at
first know that the King wanted to marry Anne Boleyn; and when he did know it,
he even went down on his knees, in the endeavour to dissuade him.
</p>

<p>
The Cardinals opened their court in the Convent of the Black Friars, near to
where the bridge of that name in London now stands; and the King and Queen,
that they might be near it, took up their lodgings at the adjoining palace of
Bridewell, of which nothing now remains but a bad prison. On the opening of the
court, when the King and Queen were called on to appear, that poor ill-used
lady, with a dignity and firmness and yet with a womanly affection worthy to be
always admired, went and kneeled at the King&rsquo;s feet, and said that she
had come, a stranger, to his dominions; that she had been a good and true wife
to him for twenty years; and that she could acknowledge no power in those
Cardinals to try whether she should be considered his wife after all that time,
or should be put away. With that, she got up and left the court, and would
never afterwards come back to it.
</p>

<p>
The King pretended to be very much overcome, and said, O! my lords and
gentlemen, what a good woman she was to be sure, and how delighted he would be
to live with her unto death, but for that terrible uneasiness in his mind which
was quite wearing him away! So, the case went on, and there was nothing but
talk for two months. Then Cardinal Campeggio, who, on behalf of the Pope,
wanted nothing so much as delay, adjourned it for two more months; and before
that time was elapsed, the Pope himself adjourned it indefinitely, by requiring
the King and Queen to come to Rome and have it tried there. But by good luck
for the King, word was brought to him by some of his people, that they had
happened to meet at supper, <span class="smcap">Thomas Cranmer</span>, a
learned Doctor of Cambridge, who had proposed to urge the Pope on, by referring
the case to all the learned doctors and bishops, here and there and everywhere,
and getting their opinions that the King&rsquo;s marriage was unlawful. The
King, who was now in a hurry to marry Anne Boleyn, thought this such a good
idea, that he sent for Cranmer, post haste, and said to <span
class="smcap">Lord Rochfort</span>, Anne Boleyn&rsquo;s father, &lsquo;Take
this learned Doctor down to your country-house, and there let him have a good
room for a study, and no end of books out of which to prove that I may marry
your daughter.&rsquo; Lord Rochfort, not at all reluctant, made the learned
Doctor as comfortable as he could; and the learned Doctor went to work to prove
his case. All this time, the King and Anne Boleyn were writing letters to one
another almost daily, full of impatience to have the case settled; and Anne
Boleyn was showing herself (as I think) very worthy of the fate which
afterwards befel her.
</p>

<p>
It was bad for Cardinal Wolsey that he had left Cranmer to render this help. It
was worse for him that he had tried to dissuade the King from marrying Anne
Boleyn. Such a servant as he, to such a master as Henry, would probably have
fallen in any case; but, between the hatred of the party of the Queen that was,
and the hatred of the party of the Queen that was to be, he fell suddenly and
heavily. Going down one day to the Court of Chancery, where he now presided, he
was waited upon by the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, who told him that they
brought an order to him to resign that office, and to withdraw quietly to a
house he had at Esher, in Surrey. The Cardinal refusing, they rode off to the
King; and next day came back with a letter from him, on reading which, the
Cardinal submitted. An inventory was made out of all the riches in his palace
at York Place (now Whitehall), and he went sorrowfully up the river, in his
barge, to Putney. An abject man he was, in spite of his pride; for being
overtaken, riding out of that place towards Esher, by one of the King&rsquo;s
chamberlains who brought him a kind message and a ring, he alighted from his
mule, took off his cap, and kneeled down in the dirt. His poor Fool, whom in
his prosperous days he had always kept in his palace to entertain him, cut a
far better figure than he; for, when the Cardinal said to the chamberlain that
he had nothing to send to his lord the King as a present, but that jester who
was a most excellent one, it took six strong yeomen to remove the faithful fool
from his master.
</p>

<p>
The once proud Cardinal was soon further disgraced, and wrote the most abject
letters to his vile sovereign; who humbled him one day and encouraged him the
next, according to his humour, until he was at last ordered to go and reside in
his diocese of York. He said he was too poor; but I don&rsquo;t know how he
made that out, for he took a hundred and sixty servants with him, and
seventy-two cart-loads of furniture, food, and wine. He remained in that part
of the country for the best part of a year, and showed himself so improved by
his misfortunes, and was so mild and so conciliating, that he won all hearts.
And indeed, even in his proud days, he had done some magnificent things for
learning and education. At last, he was arrested for high treason; and, coming
slowly on his journey towards London, got as far as Leicester. Arriving at
Leicester Abbey after dark, and very ill, he said&mdash;when the monks came out
at the gate with lighted torches to receive him&mdash;that he had come to lay
his bones among them. He had indeed; for he was taken to a bed, from which he
never rose again. His last words were, &lsquo;Had I but served God as
diligently as I have served the King, He would not have given me over, in my
grey hairs. Howbeit, this is my just reward for my pains and diligence, not
regarding my service to God, but only my duty to my prince.&rsquo; The news of
his death was quickly carried to the King, who was amusing himself with archery
in the garden of the magnificent Palace at Hampton Court, which that very
Wolsey had presented to him. The greatest emotion his royal mind displayed at
the loss of a servant so faithful and so ruined, was a particular desire to lay
hold of fifteen hundred pounds which the Cardinal was reported to have hidden
somewhere.
</p>

<p>
The opinions concerning the divorce, of the learned doctors and bishops and
others, being at last collected, and being generally in the King&rsquo;s
favour, were forwarded to the Pope, with an entreaty that he would now grant
it. The unfortunate Pope, who was a timid man, was half distracted between his
fear of his authority being set aside in England if he did not do as he was
asked, and his dread of offending the Emperor of Germany, who was Queen
Catherine&rsquo;s nephew. In this state of mind he still evaded and did
nothing. Then, <span class="smcap">Thomas Cromwell</span>, who had been one of
Wolsey&rsquo;s faithful attendants, and had remained so even in his decline,
advised the King to take the matter into his own hands, and make himself the
head of the whole Church. This, the King by various artful means, began to do;
but he recompensed the clergy by allowing them to burn as many people as they
pleased, for holding Luther&rsquo;s opinions. You must understand that Sir
Thomas More, the wise man who had helped the King with his book, had been made
Chancellor in Wolsey&rsquo;s place. But, as he was truly attached to the Church
as it was even in its abuses, he, in this state of things, resigned.
</p>

<p>
Being now quite resolved to get rid of Queen Catherine, and to marry Anne
Boleyn without more ado, the King made Cranmer Archbishop of Canterbury, and
directed Queen Catherine to leave the Court. She obeyed; but replied that
wherever she went, she was Queen of England still, and would remain so, to the
last. The King then married Anne Boleyn privately; and the new Archbishop of
Canterbury, within half a year, declared his marriage with Queen Catherine
void, and crowned Anne Boleyn Queen.
</p>

<p>
She might have known that no good could ever come from such wrong, and that the
corpulent brute who had been so faithless and so cruel to his first wife, could
be more faithless and more cruel to his second. She might have known that, even
when he was in love with her, he had been a mean and selfish coward, running
away, like a frightened cur, from her society and her house, when a dangerous
sickness broke out in it, and when she might easily have taken it and died, as
several of the household did. But, Anne Boleyn arrived at all this knowledge
too late, and bought it at a dear price. Her bad marriage with a worse man came
to its natural end. Its natural end was not, as we shall too soon see, a
natural death for her.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap28"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE EIGHTH</h2>

<h3>PART THE SECOND</h3>

<p>
The Pope was thrown into a very angry state of mind when he heard of the
King&rsquo;s marriage, and fumed exceedingly. Many of the English monks and
friars, seeing that their order was in danger, did the same; some even
declaimed against the King in church before his face, and were not to be
stopped until he himself roared out &lsquo;Silence!&rsquo; The King, not much
the worse for this, took it pretty quietly; and was very glad when his Queen
gave birth to a daughter, who was christened <span
class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>, and declared Princess of Wales as her sister
Mary had already been.
</p>

<p>
One of the most atrocious features of this reign was that Henry the Eighth was
always trimming between the reformed religion and the unreformed one; so that
the more he quarrelled with the Pope, the more of his own subjects he roasted
alive for not holding the Pope&rsquo;s opinions. Thus, an unfortunate student
named John Frith, and a poor simple tailor named Andrew Hewet who loved him
very much, and said that whatever John Frith believed <i>he</i> believed, were
burnt in Smithfield&mdash;to show what a capital Christian the King was.
</p>

<p>
But, these were speedily followed by two much greater victims, Sir Thomas More,
and John Fisher, the Bishop of Rochester. The latter, who was a good and
amiable old man, had committed no greater offence than believing in Elizabeth
Barton, called the Maid of Kent&mdash;another of those ridiculous women who
pretended to be inspired, and to make all sorts of heavenly revelations, though
they indeed uttered nothing but evil nonsense. For this offence&mdash;as it was
pretended, but really for denying the King to be the supreme Head of the
Church&mdash;he got into trouble, and was put in prison; but, even then, he
might have been suffered to die naturally (short work having been made of
executing the Kentish Maid and her principal followers), but that the Pope, to
spite the King, resolved to make him a cardinal. Upon that the King made a
ferocious joke to the effect that the Pope might send Fisher a red
hat&mdash;which is the way they make a cardinal&mdash;but he should have no
head on which to wear it; and he was tried with all unfairness and injustice,
and sentenced to death. He died like a noble and virtuous old man, and left a
worthy name behind him. The King supposed, I dare say, that Sir Thomas More
would be frightened by this example; but, as he was not to be easily terrified,
and, thoroughly believing in the Pope, had made up his mind that the King was
not the rightful Head of the Church, he positively refused to say that he was.
For this crime he too was tried and sentenced, after having been in prison a
whole year. When he was doomed to death, and came away from his trial with the
edge of the executioner&rsquo;s axe turned towards him&mdash;as was always done
in those times when a state prisoner came to that hopeless pass&mdash;he bore
it quite serenely, and gave his blessing to his son, who pressed through the
crowd in Westminster Hall and kneeled down to receive it. But, when he got to
the Tower Wharf on his way back to his prison, and his favourite daughter,
<span class="smcap">Margaret Roper</span>, a very good woman, rushed through
the guards again and again, to kiss him and to weep upon his neck, he was
overcome at last. He soon recovered, and never more showed any feeling but
cheerfulness and courage. When he was going up the steps of the scaffold to his
death, he said jokingly to the Lieutenant of the Tower, observing that they
were weak and shook beneath his tread, &lsquo;I pray you, master Lieutenant,
see me safe up; and, for my coming down, I can shift for myself.&rsquo; Also he
said to the executioner, after he had laid his head upon the block, &lsquo;Let
me put my beard out of the way; for that, at least, has never committed any
treason.&rsquo; Then his head was struck off at a blow. These two executions
were worthy of King Henry the Eighth. Sir Thomas More was one of the most
virtuous men in his dominions, and the Bishop was one of his oldest and truest
friends. But to be a friend of that fellow was almost as dangerous as to be his
wife.
</p>

<p>
When the news of these two murders got to Rome, the Pope raged against the
murderer more than ever Pope raged since the world began, and prepared a Bull,
ordering his subjects to take arms against him and dethrone him. The King took
all possible precautions to keep that document out of his dominions, and set to
work in return to suppress a great number of the English monasteries and
abbeys.
</p>

<p>
This destruction was begun by a body of commissioners, of whom Cromwell (whom
the King had taken into great favour) was the head; and was carried on through
some few years to its entire completion. There is no doubt that many of these
religious establishments were religious in nothing but in name, and were
crammed with lazy, indolent, and sensual monks. There is no doubt that they
imposed upon the people in every possible way; that they had images moved by
wires, which they pretended were miraculously moved by Heaven; that they had
among them a whole tun measure full of teeth, all purporting to have come out
of the head of one saint, who must indeed have been a very extraordinary person
with that enormous allowance of grinders; that they had bits of coal which they
said had fried Saint Lawrence, and bits of toe-nails which they said belonged
to other famous saints; penknives, and boots, and girdles, which they said
belonged to others; and that all these bits of rubbish were called Relics, and
adored by the ignorant people. But, on the other hand, there is no doubt
either, that the King&rsquo;s officers and men punished the good monks with the
bad; did great injustice; demolished many beautiful things and many valuable
libraries; destroyed numbers of paintings, stained glass windows, fine
pavements, and carvings; and that the whole court were ravenously greedy and
rapacious for the division of this great spoil among them. The King seems to
have grown almost mad in the ardour of this pursuit; for he declared Thomas
&agrave; Becket a traitor, though he had been dead so many years, and had his
body dug up out of his grave. He must have been as miraculous as the monks
pretended, if they had told the truth, for he was found with one head on his
shoulders, and they had shown another as his undoubted and genuine head ever
since his death; it had brought them vast sums of money, too. The gold and
jewels on his shrine filled two great chests, and eight men tottered as they
carried them away. How rich the monasteries were you may infer from the fact
that, when they were all suppressed, one hundred and thirty thousand pounds a
year&mdash;in those days an immense sum&mdash;came to the Crown.
</p>

<p>
These things were not done without causing great discontent among the people.
The monks had been good landlords and hospitable entertainers of all
travellers, and had been accustomed to give away a great deal of corn, and
fruit, and meat, and other things. In those days it was difficult to change
goods into money, in consequence of the roads being very few and very bad, and
the carts, and waggons of the worst description; and they must either have
given away some of the good things they possessed in enormous quantities, or
have suffered them to spoil and moulder. So, many of the people missed what it
was more agreeable to get idly than to work for; and the monks who were driven
out of their homes and wandered about encouraged their discontent; and there
were, consequently, great risings in Lincolnshire and Yorkshire. These were put
down by terrific executions, from which the monks themselves did not escape,
and the King went on grunting and growling in his own fat way, like a Royal
pig.
</p>

<p>
I have told all this story of the religious houses at one time, to make it
plainer, and to get back to the King&rsquo;s domestic affairs.
</p>

<p>
The unfortunate Queen Catherine was by this time dead; and the King was by this
time as tired of his second Queen as he had been of his first. As he had fallen
in love with Anne when she was in the service of Catherine, so he now fell in
love with another lady in the service of Anne. See how wicked deeds are
punished, and how bitterly and self-reproachfully the Queen must now have
thought of her own rise to the throne! The new fancy was a <span
class="smcap">Lady Jane Seymour</span>; and the King no sooner set his mind on
her, than he resolved to have Anne Boleyn&rsquo;s head. So, he brought a number
of charges against Anne, accusing her of dreadful crimes which she had never
committed, and implicating in them her own brother and certain gentlemen in her
service: among whom one Norris, and Mark Smeaton a musician, are best
remembered. As the lords and councillors were as afraid of the King and as
subservient to him as the meanest peasant in England was, they brought in Anne
Boleyn guilty, and the other unfortunate persons accused with her, guilty too.
Those gentlemen died like men, with the exception of Smeaton, who had been
tempted by the King into telling lies, which he called confessions, and who had
expected to be pardoned; but who, I am very glad to say, was not. There was
then only the Queen to dispose of. She had been surrounded in the Tower with
women spies; had been monstrously persecuted and foully slandered; and had
received no justice. But her spirit rose with her afflictions; and, after
having in vain tried to soften the King by writing an affecting letter to him
which still exists, &lsquo;from her doleful prison in the Tower,&rsquo; she
resigned herself to death. She said to those about her, very cheerfully, that
she had heard say the executioner was a good one, and that she had a little
neck (she laughed and clasped it with her hands as she said that), and would
soon be out of her pain. And she <i>was</i> soon out of her pain, poor
creature, on the Green inside the Tower, and her body was flung into an old box
and put away in the ground under the chapel.
</p>

<p>
There is a story that the King sat in his palace listening very anxiously for
the sound of the cannon which was to announce this new murder; and that, when
he heard it come booming on the air, he rose up in great spirits and ordered
out his dogs to go a-hunting. He was bad enough to do it; but whether he did it
or not, it is certain that he married Jane Seymour the very next day.
</p>

<p>
I have not much pleasure in recording that she lived just long enough to give
birth to a son who was christened <span class="smcap">Edward</span>, and then
to die of a fever: for, I cannot but think that any woman who married such a
ruffian, and knew what innocent blood was on his hands, deserved the axe that
would assuredly have fallen on the neck of Jane Seymour, if she had lived much
longer.
</p>

<p>
Cranmer had done what he could to save some of the Church property for purposes
of religion and education; but, the great families had been so hungry to get
hold of it, that very little could be rescued for such objects. Even <span
class="smcap">Miles Coverdale</span>, who did the people the inestimable
service of translating the Bible into English (which the unreformed religion
never permitted to be done), was left in poverty while the great families
clutched the Church lands and money. The people had been told that when the
Crown came into possession of these funds, it would not be necessary to tax
them; but they were taxed afresh directly afterwards. It was fortunate for
them, indeed, that so many nobles were so greedy for this wealth; since, if it
had remained with the Crown, there might have been no end to tyranny for
hundreds of years. One of the most active writers on the Church&rsquo;s side
against the King was a member of his own family&mdash;a sort of distant cousin,
<span class="smcap">Reginald Pole</span> by name&mdash;who attacked him in the
most violent manner (though he received a pension from him all the time), and
fought for the Church with his pen, day and night. As he was beyond the
King&rsquo;s reach&mdash;being in Italy&mdash;the King politely invited him
over to discuss the subject; but he, knowing better than to come, and wisely
staying where he was, the King&rsquo;s rage fell upon his brother Lord
Montague, the Marquis of Exeter, and some other gentlemen: who were tried for
high treason in corresponding with him and aiding him&mdash;which they probably
did&mdash;and were all executed. The Pope made Reginald Pole a cardinal; but,
so much against his will, that it is thought he even aspired in his own mind to
the vacant throne of England, and had hopes of marrying the Princess Mary. His
being made a high priest, however, put an end to all that. His mother, the
venerable Countess of Salisbury&mdash;who was, unfortunately for herself,
within the tyrant&rsquo;s reach&mdash;was the last of his relatives on whom his
wrath fell. When she was told to lay her grey head upon the block, she answered
the executioner, &lsquo;No! My head never committed treason, and if you want
it, you shall seize it.&rsquo; So, she ran round and round the scaffold with
the executioner striking at her, and her grey hair bedabbled with blood; and
even when they held her down upon the block she moved her head about to the
last, resolved to be no party to her own barbarous murder. All this the people
bore, as they had borne everything else.
</p>

<p>
Indeed they bore much more; for the slow fires of Smithfield were continually
burning, and people were constantly being roasted to death&mdash;still to show
what a good Christian the King was. He defied the Pope and his Bull, which was
now issued, and had come into England; but he burned innumerable people whose
only offence was that they differed from the Pope&rsquo;s religious opinions.
There was a wretched man named <span class="smcap">Lambert</span>, among
others, who was tried for this before the King, and with whom six bishops
argued one after another. When he was quite exhausted (as well he might be,
after six bishops), he threw himself on the King&rsquo;s mercy; but the King
blustered out that he had no mercy for heretics. So, <i>he</i> too fed the
fire.
</p>

<p>
All this the people bore, and more than all this yet. The national spirit seems
to have been banished from the kingdom at this time. The very people who were
executed for treason, the very wives and friends of the &lsquo;bluff&rsquo;
King, spoke of him on the scaffold as a good prince, and a gentle
prince&mdash;just as serfs in similar circumstances have been known to do,
under the Sultan and Bashaws of the East, or under the fierce old tyrants of
Russia, who poured boiling and freezing water on them alternately, until they
died. The Parliament were as bad as the rest, and gave the King whatever he
wanted; among other vile accommodations, they gave him new powers of murdering,
at his will and pleasure, any one whom he might choose to call a traitor. But
the worst measure they passed was an Act of Six Articles, commonly called at
the time &lsquo;the whip with six strings;&rsquo; which punished offences
against the Pope&rsquo;s opinions, without mercy, and enforced the very worst
parts of the monkish religion. Cranmer would have modified it, if he could;
but, being overborne by the Romish party, had not the power. As one of the
articles declared that priests should not marry, and as he was married himself,
he sent his wife and children into Germany, and began to tremble at his danger;
none the less because he was, and had long been, the King&rsquo;s friend. This
whip of six strings was made under the King&rsquo;s own eye. It should never be
forgotten of him how cruelly he supported the worst of the Popish doctrines
when there was nothing to be got by opposing them.
</p>

<p>
This amiable monarch now thought of taking another wife. He proposed to the
French King to have some of the ladies of the French Court exhibited before
him, that he might make his Royal choice; but the French King answered that he
would rather not have his ladies trotted out to be shown like horses at a fair.
He proposed to the Dowager Duchess of Milan, who replied that she might have
thought of such a match if she had had two heads; but, that only owning one,
she must beg to keep it safe. At last Cromwell represented that there was a
Protestant Princess in Germany&mdash;those who held the reformed religion were
called Protestants, because their leaders had Protested against the abuses and
impositions of the unreformed Church&mdash;named <span class="smcap">Anne of
Cleves</span>, who was beautiful, and would answer the purpose admirably. The
King said was she a large woman, because he must have a fat wife? &lsquo;O
yes,&rsquo; said Cromwell; &lsquo;she was very large, just the thing.&rsquo; On
hearing this the King sent over his famous painter, Hans Holbein, to take her
portrait. Hans made her out to be so good-looking that the King was satisfied,
and the marriage was arranged. But, whether anybody had paid Hans to touch up
the picture; or whether Hans, like one or two other painters, flattered a
princess in the ordinary way of business, I cannot say: all I know is, that
when Anne came over and the King went to Rochester to meet her, and first saw
her without her seeing him, he swore she was &lsquo;a great Flanders
mare,&rsquo; and said he would never marry her. Being obliged to do it now
matters had gone so far, he would not give her the presents he had prepared,
and would never notice her. He never forgave Cromwell his part in the affair.
His downfall dates from that time.
</p>

<p>
It was quickened by his enemies, in the interests of the unreformed religion,
putting in the King&rsquo;s way, at a state dinner, a niece of the Duke of
Norfolk, <span class="smcap">Catherine Howard</span>, a young lady of
fascinating manners, though small in stature and not particularly beautiful.
Falling in love with her on the spot, the King soon divorced Anne of Cleves
after making her the subject of much brutal talk, on pretence that she had been
previously betrothed to some one else&mdash;which would never do for one of his
dignity&mdash;and married Catherine. It is probable that on his wedding day, of
all days in the year, he sent his faithful Cromwell to the scaffold, and had
his head struck off. He further celebrated the occasion by burning at one time,
and causing to be drawn to the fire on the same hurdles, some Protestant
prisoners for denying the Pope&rsquo;s doctrines, and some Roman Catholic
prisoners for denying his own supremacy. Still the people bore it, and not a
gentleman in England raised his hand.
</p>

<p>
But, by a just retribution, it soon came out that Catherine Howard, before her
marriage, had been really guilty of such crimes as the King had falsely
attributed to his second wife Anne Boleyn; so, again the dreadful axe made the
King a widower, and this Queen passed away as so many in that reign had passed
away before her. As an appropriate pursuit under the circumstances, Henry then
applied himself to superintending the composition of a religious book called
&lsquo;A necessary doctrine for any Christian Man.&rsquo; He must have been a
little confused in his mind, I think, at about this period; for he was so false
to himself as to be true to some one: that some one being Cranmer, whom the
Duke of Norfolk and others of his enemies tried to ruin; but to whom the King
was steadfast, and to whom he one night gave his ring, charging him when he
should find himself, next day, accused of treason, to show it to the council
board. This Cranmer did to the confusion of his enemies. I suppose the King
thought he might want him a little longer.
</p>

<p>
He married yet once more. Yes, strange to say, he found in England another
woman who would become his wife, and she was <span class="smcap">Catherine
Parr</span>, widow of Lord Latimer. She leaned towards the reformed religion;
and it is some comfort to know, that she tormented the King considerably by
arguing a variety of doctrinal points with him on all possible occasions. She
had very nearly done this to her own destruction. After one of these
conversations the King in a very black mood actually instructed <span
class="smcap">Gardiner</span>, one of his Bishops who favoured the Popish
opinions, to draw a bill of accusation against her, which would have inevitably
brought her to the scaffold where her predecessors had died, but that one of
her friends picked up the paper of instructions which had been dropped in the
palace, and gave her timely notice. She fell ill with terror; but managed the
King so well when he came to entrap her into further statements&mdash;by saying
that she had only spoken on such points to divert his mind and to get some
information from his extraordinary wisdom&mdash;that he gave her a kiss and
called her his sweetheart. And, when the Chancellor came next day actually to
take her to the Tower, the King sent him about his business, and honoured him
with the epithets of a beast, a knave, and a fool. So near was Catherine Parr
to the block, and so narrow was her escape!
</p>

<p>
There was war with Scotland in this reign, and a short clumsy war with France
for favouring Scotland; but, the events at home were so dreadful, and leave
such an enduring stain on the country, that I need say no more of what happened
abroad.
</p>

<p>
A few more horrors, and this reign is over. There was a lady, <span
class="smcap">Anne Askew</span>, in Lincolnshire, who inclined to the
Protestant opinions, and whose husband being a fierce Catholic, turned her out
of his house. She came to London, and was considered as offending against the
six articles, and was taken to the Tower, and put upon the rack&mdash;probably
because it was hoped that she might, in her agony, criminate some obnoxious
persons; if falsely, so much the better. She was tortured without uttering a
cry, until the Lieutenant of the Tower would suffer his men to torture her no
more; and then two priests who were present actually pulled off their robes,
and turned the wheels of the rack with their own hands, so rending and twisting
and breaking her that she was afterwards carried to the fire in a chair. She
was burned with three others, a gentleman, a clergyman, and a tailor; and so
the world went on.
</p>

<p>
Either the King became afraid of the power of the Duke of Norfolk, and his son
the Earl of Surrey, or they gave him some offence, but he resolved to pull
<i>them</i> down, to follow all the rest who were gone. The son was tried
first&mdash;of course for nothing&mdash;and defended himself bravely; but of
course he was found guilty, and of course he was executed. Then his father was
laid hold of, and left for death too.
</p>

<p>
But the King himself was left for death by a Greater King, and the earth was to
be rid of him at last. He was now a swollen, hideous spectacle, with a great
hole in his leg, and so odious to every sense that it was dreadful to approach
him. When he was found to be dying, Cranmer was sent for from his palace at
Croydon, and came with all speed, but found him speechless. Happily, in that
hour he perished. He was in the fifty-sixth year of his age, and the
thirty-eighth of his reign.
</p>

<p>
Henry the Eighth has been favoured by some Protestant writers, because the
Reformation was achieved in his time. But the mighty merit of it lies with
other men and not with him; and it can be rendered none the worse by this
monster&rsquo;s crimes, and none the better by any defence of them. The plain
truth is, that he was a most intolerable ruffian, a disgrace to human nature,
and a blot of blood and grease upon the History of England.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap29"></a>CHAPTER XXIX<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE SIXTH</h2>

<p>
Henry the Eighth had made a will, appointing a council of sixteen to govern the
kingdom for his son while he was under age (he was now only ten years old), and
another council of twelve to help them. The most powerful of the first council
was the <span class="smcap">Earl of Hertford</span>, the young King&rsquo;s
uncle, who lost no time in bringing his nephew with great state up to Enfield,
and thence to the Tower. It was considered at the time a striking proof of
virtue in the young King that he was sorry for his father&rsquo;s death; but,
as common subjects have that virtue too, sometimes, we will say no more about
it.
</p>

<p>
There was a curious part of the late King&rsquo;s will, requiring his executors
to fulfil whatever promises he had made. Some of the court wondering what these
might be, the Earl of Hertford and the other noblemen interested, said that
they were promises to advance and enrich <i>them</i>. So, the Earl of Hertford
made himself <span class="smcap">Duke of Somerset</span>, and made his brother
<span class="smcap">Edward Seymour</span> a baron; and there were various
similar promotions, all very agreeable to the parties concerned, and very
dutiful, no doubt, to the late King&rsquo;s memory. To be more dutiful still,
they made themselves rich out of the Church lands, and were very comfortable.
The new Duke of Somerset caused himself to be declared <span
class="smcap">Protector</span> of the kingdom, and was, indeed, the King.
</p>

<p>
As young Edward the Sixth had been brought up in the principles of the
Protestant religion, everybody knew that they would be maintained. But Cranmer,
to whom they were chiefly entrusted, advanced them steadily and temperately.
Many superstitious and ridiculous practices were stopped; but practices which
were harmless were not interfered with.
</p>

<p>
The Duke of Somerset, the Protector, was anxious to have the young King engaged
in marriage to the young Queen of Scotland, in order to prevent that princess
from making an alliance with any foreign power; but, as a large party in
Scotland were unfavourable to this plan, he invaded that country. His excuse
for doing so was, that the Border men&mdash;that is, the Scotch who lived in
that part of the country where England and Scotland joined&mdash;troubled the
English very much. But there were two sides to this question; for the English
Border men troubled the Scotch too; and, through many long years, there were
perpetual border quarrels which gave rise to numbers of old tales and songs.
However, the Protector invaded Scotland; and <span class="smcap">Arran</span>,
the Scottish Regent, with an army twice as large as his, advanced to meet him.
They encountered on the banks of the river Esk, within a few miles of
Edinburgh; and there, after a little skirmish, the Protector made such moderate
proposals, in offering to retire if the Scotch would only engage not to marry
their princess to any foreign prince, that the Regent thought the English were
afraid. But in this he made a horrible mistake; for the English soldiers on
land, and the English sailors on the water, so set upon the Scotch, that they
broke and fled, and more than ten thousand of them were killed. It was a
dreadful battle, for the fugitives were slain without mercy. The ground for
four miles, all the way to Edinburgh, was strewn with dead men, and with arms,
and legs, and heads. Some hid themselves in streams and were drowned; some
threw away their armour and were killed running, almost naked; but in this
battle of Pinkey the English lost only two or three hundred men. They were much
better clothed than the Scotch; at the poverty of whose appearance and country
they were exceedingly astonished.
</p>

<p>
A Parliament was called when Somerset came back, and it repealed the whip with
six strings, and did one or two other good things; though it unhappily retained
the punishment of burning for those people who did not make believe to believe,
in all religious matters, what the Government had declared that they must and
should believe. It also made a foolish law (meant to put down beggars), that
any man who lived idly and loitered about for three days together, should be
burned with a hot iron, made a slave, and wear an iron fetter. But this savage
absurdity soon came to an end, and went the way of a great many other foolish
laws.
</p>

<p>
The Protector was now so proud that he sat in Parliament before all the nobles,
on the right hand of the throne. Many other noblemen, who only wanted to be as
proud if they could get a chance, became his enemies of course; and it is
supposed that he came back suddenly from Scotland because he had received news
that his brother, <span class="smcap">Lord Seymour</span>, was becoming
dangerous to him. This lord was now High Admiral of England; a very handsome
man, and a great favourite with the Court ladies&mdash;even with the young
Princess Elizabeth, who romped with him a little more than young princesses in
these times do with any one. He had married Catherine Parr, the late
King&rsquo;s widow, who was now dead; and, to strengthen his power, he secretly
supplied the young King with money. He may even have engaged with some of his
brother&rsquo;s enemies in a plot to carry the boy off. On these and other
accusations, at any rate, he was confined in the Tower, impeached, and found
guilty; his own brother&rsquo;s name being&mdash;unnatural and sad to
tell&mdash;the first signed to the warrant of his execution. He was executed on
Tower Hill, and died denying his treason. One of his last proceedings in this
world was to write two letters, one to the Princess Elizabeth, and one to the
Princess Mary, which a servant of his took charge of, and concealed in his
shoe. These letters are supposed to have urged them against his brother, and to
revenge his death. What they truly contained is not known; but there is no
doubt that he had, at one time, obtained great influence over the Princess
Elizabeth.
</p>

<p>
All this while, the Protestant religion was making progress. The images which
the people had gradually come to worship, were removed from the churches; the
people were informed that they need not confess themselves to priests unless
they chose; a common prayer-book was drawn up in the English language, which
all could understand, and many other improvements were made; still moderately.
For Cranmer was a very moderate man, and even restrained the Protestant clergy
from violently abusing the unreformed religion&mdash;as they very often did,
and which was not a good example. But the people were at this time in great
distress. The rapacious nobility who had come into possession of the Church
lands, were very bad landlords. They enclosed great quantities of ground for
the feeding of sheep, which was then more profitable than the growing of crops;
and this increased the general distress. So the people, who still understood
little of what was going on about them, and still readily believed what the
homeless monks told them&mdash;many of whom had been their good friends in
their better days&mdash;took it into their heads that all this was owing to the
reformed religion, and therefore rose, in many parts of the country.
</p>

<p>
The most powerful risings were in Devonshire and Norfolk. In Devonshire, the
rebellion was so strong that ten thousand men united within a few days, and
even laid siege to Exeter. But <span class="smcap">Lord Russell</span>, coming
to the assistance of the citizens who defended that town, defeated the rebels;
and, not only hanged the Mayor of one place, but hanged the vicar of another
from his own church steeple. What with hanging and killing by the sword, four
thousand of the rebels are supposed to have fallen in that one county. In
Norfolk (where the rising was more against the enclosure of open lands than
against the reformed religion), the popular leader was a man named <span
class="smcap">Robert Ket</span>, a tanner of Wymondham. The mob were, in the
first instance, excited against the tanner by one <span class="smcap">John
Flowerdew</span>, a gentleman who owed him a grudge: but the tanner was more
than a match for the gentleman, since he soon got the people on his side, and
established himself near Norwich with quite an army. There was a large oak-tree
in that place, on a spot called Moushold Hill, which Ket named the Tree of
Reformation; and under its green boughs, he and his men sat, in the midsummer
weather, holding courts of justice, and debating affairs of state. They were
even impartial enough to allow some rather tiresome public speakers to get up
into this Tree of Reformation, and point out their errors to them, in long
discourses, while they lay listening (not always without some grumbling and
growling) in the shade below. At last, one sunny July day, a herald appeared
below the tree, and proclaimed Ket and all his men traitors, unless from that
moment they dispersed and went home: in which case they were to receive a
pardon. But, Ket and his men made light of the herald and became stronger than
ever, until the Earl of Warwick went after them with a sufficient force, and
cut them all to pieces. A few were hanged, drawn, and quartered, as traitors,
and their limbs were sent into various country places to be a terror to the
people. Nine of them were hanged upon nine green branches of the Oak of
Reformation; and so, for the time, that tree may be said to have withered away.
</p>

<p>
The Protector, though a haughty man, had compassion for the real distresses of
the common people, and a sincere desire to help them. But he was too proud and
too high in degree to hold even their favour steadily; and many of the nobles
always envied and hated him, because they were as proud and not as high as he.
He was at this time building a great Palace in the Strand: to get the stone for
which he blew up church steeples with gunpowder, and pulled down bishops&rsquo;
houses: thus making himself still more disliked. At length, his principal
enemy, the Earl of Warwick&mdash;Dudley by name, and the son of that Dudley who
had made himself so odious with Empson, in the reign of Henry the
Seventh&mdash;joined with seven other members of the Council against him,
formed a separate Council; and, becoming stronger in a few days, sent him to
the Tower under twenty-nine articles of accusation. After being sentenced by
the Council to the forfeiture of all his offices and lands, he was liberated
and pardoned, on making a very humble submission. He was even taken back into
the Council again, after having suffered this fall, and married his daughter,
<span class="smcap">Lady Anne Seymour</span>, to Warwick&rsquo;s eldest son.
But such a reconciliation was little likely to last, and did not outlive a
year. Warwick, having got himself made Duke of Northumberland, and having
advanced the more important of his friends, then finished the history by
causing the Duke of Somerset and his friend <span class="smcap">Lord
Grey</span>, and others, to be arrested for treason, in having conspired to
seize and dethrone the King. They were also accused of having intended to seize
the new Duke of Northumberland, with his friends <span class="smcap">Lord
Northampton</span> and <span class="smcap">Lord Pembroke</span>; to murder them
if they found need; and to raise the City to revolt. All this the fallen
Protector positively denied; except that he confessed to having spoken of the
murder of those three noblemen, but having never designed it. He was acquitted
of the charge of treason, and found guilty of the other charges; so when the
people&mdash;who remembered his having been their friend, now that he was
disgraced and in danger, saw him come out from his trial with the axe turned
from him&mdash;they thought he was altogether acquitted, and sent up a loud
shout of joy.
</p>

<p>
But the Duke of Somerset was ordered to be beheaded on Tower Hill, at eight
o&rsquo;clock in the morning, and proclamations were issued bidding the
citizens keep at home until after ten. They filled the streets, however, and
crowded the place of execution as soon as it was light; and, with sad faces and
sad hearts, saw the once powerful Protector ascend the scaffold to lay his head
upon the dreadful block. While he was yet saying his last words to them with
manly courage, and telling them, in particular, how it comforted him, at that
pass, to have assisted in reforming the national religion, a member of the
Council was seen riding up on horseback. They again thought that the Duke was
saved by his bringing a reprieve, and again shouted for joy. But the Duke
himself told them they were mistaken, and laid down his head and had it struck
off at a blow.
</p>

<p>
Many of the bystanders rushed forward and steeped their handkerchiefs in his
blood, as a mark of their affection. He had, indeed, been capable of many good
acts, and one of them was discovered after he was no more. The Bishop of
Durham, a very good man, had been informed against to the Council, when the
Duke was in power, as having answered a treacherous letter proposing a
rebellion against the reformed religion. As the answer could not be found, he
could not be declared guilty; but it was now discovered, hidden by the Duke
himself among some private papers, in his regard for that good man. The Bishop
lost his office, and was deprived of his possessions.
</p>

<p>
It is not very pleasant to know that while his uncle lay in prison under
sentence of death, the young King was being vastly entertained by plays, and
dances, and sham fights: but there is no doubt of it, for he kept a journal
himself. It is pleasanter to know that not a single Roman Catholic was burnt in
this reign for holding that religion; though two wretched victims suffered for
heresy. One, a woman named <span class="smcap">Joan Bocher</span>, for
professing some opinions that even she could only explain in unintelligible
jargon. The other, a Dutchman, named <span class="smcap">Von Paris</span>, who
practised as a surgeon in London. Edward was, to his credit, exceedingly
unwilling to sign the warrant for the woman&rsquo;s execution: shedding tears
before he did so, and telling Cranmer, who urged him to do it (though Cranmer
really would have spared the woman at first, but for her own determined
obstinacy), that the guilt was not his, but that of the man who so strongly
urged the dreadful act. We shall see, too soon, whether the time ever came when
Cranmer is likely to have remembered this with sorrow and remorse.
</p>

<p>
Cranmer and <span class="smcap">Ridley</span> (at first Bishop of Rochester,
and afterwards Bishop of London) were the most powerful of the clergy of this
reign. Others were imprisoned and deprived of their property for still adhering
to the unreformed religion; the most important among whom were <span
class="smcap">Gardiner</span> Bishop of Winchester, <span
class="smcap">Heath</span> Bishop of Worcester, <span class="smcap">Day</span>
Bishop of Chichester, and <span class="smcap">Bonner</span> that Bishop of
London who was superseded by Ridley. The Princess Mary, who inherited her
mother&rsquo;s gloomy temper, and hated the reformed religion as connected with
her mother&rsquo;s wrongs and sorrows&mdash;she knew nothing else about it,
always refusing to read a single book in which it was truly
described&mdash;held by the unreformed religion too, and was the only person in
the kingdom for whom the old Mass was allowed to be performed; nor would the
young King have made that exception even in her favour, but for the strong
persuasions of Cranmer and Ridley. He always viewed it with horror; and when he
fell into a sickly condition, after having been very ill, first of the measles
and then of the small-pox, he was greatly troubled in mind to think that if he
died, and she, the next heir to the throne, succeeded, the Roman Catholic
religion would be set up again.
</p>

<p>
This uneasiness, the Duke of Northumberland was not slow to encourage: for, if
the Princess Mary came to the throne, he, who had taken part with the
Protestants, was sure to be disgraced. Now, the Duchess of Suffolk was
descended from King Henry the Seventh; and, if she resigned what little or no
right she had, in favour of her daughter <span class="smcap">Lady Jane
Grey</span>, that would be the succession to promote the Duke&rsquo;s
greatness; because <span class="smcap">Lord Guilford Dudley</span>, one of his
sons, was, at this very time, newly married to her. So, he worked upon the
King&rsquo;s fears, and persuaded him to set aside both the Princess Mary and
the Princess Elizabeth, and assert his right to appoint his successor.
Accordingly the young King handed to the Crown lawyers a writing signed half a
dozen times over by himself, appointing Lady Jane Grey to succeed to the Crown,
and requiring them to have his will made out according to law. They were much
against it at first, and told the King so; but the Duke of
Northumberland&mdash;being so violent about it that the lawyers even expected
him to beat them, and hotly declaring that, stripped to his shirt, he would
fight any man in such a quarrel&mdash;they yielded. Cranmer, also, at first
hesitated; pleading that he had sworn to maintain the succession of the Crown
to the Princess Mary; but, he was a weak man in his resolutions, and afterwards
signed the document with the rest of the council.
</p>

<p>
It was completed none too soon; for Edward was now sinking in a rapid decline;
and, by way of making him better, they handed him over to a woman-doctor who
pretended to be able to cure it. He speedily got worse. On the sixth of July,
in the year one thousand five hundred and fifty-three, he died, very peaceably
and piously, praying God, with his last breath, to protect the reformed
religion.
</p>

<p>
This King died in the sixteenth year of his age, and in the seventh of his
reign. It is difficult to judge what the character of one so young might
afterwards have become among so many bad, ambitious, quarrelling nobles. But,
he was an amiable boy, of very good abilities, and had nothing coarse or cruel
or brutal in his disposition&mdash;which in the son of such a father is rather
surprising.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap30"></a>CHAPTER XXX<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER MARY</h2>

<p>
The Duke of Northumberland was very anxious to keep the young King&rsquo;s
death a secret, in order that he might get the two Princesses into his power.
But, the Princess Mary, being informed of that event as she was on her way to
London to see her sick brother, turned her horse&rsquo;s head, and rode away
into Norfolk. The Earl of Arundel was her friend, and it was he who sent her
warning of what had happened.
</p>

<p>
As the secret could not be kept, the Duke of Northumberland and the council
sent for the Lord Mayor of London and some of the aldermen, and made a merit of
telling it to them. Then, they made it known to the people, and set off to
inform Lady Jane Grey that she was to be Queen.
</p>

<p>
She was a pretty girl of only sixteen, and was amiable, learned, and clever.
When the lords who came to her, fell on their knees before her, and told her
what tidings they brought, she was so astonished that she fainted. On
recovering, she expressed her sorrow for the young King&rsquo;s death, and said
that she knew she was unfit to govern the kingdom; but that if she must be
Queen, she prayed God to direct her. She was then at Sion House, near
Brentford; and the lords took her down the river in state to the Tower, that
she might remain there (as the custom was) until she was crowned. But the
people were not at all favourable to Lady Jane, considering that the right to
be Queen was Mary&rsquo;s, and greatly disliking the Duke of Northumberland.
They were not put into a better humour by the Duke&rsquo;s causing a
vintner&rsquo;s servant, one Gabriel Pot, to be taken up for expressing his
dissatisfaction among the crowd, and to have his ears nailed to the pillory,
and cut off. Some powerful men among the nobility declared on Mary&rsquo;s
side. They raised troops to support her cause, had her proclaimed Queen at
Norwich, and gathered around her at the castle of Framlingham, which belonged
to the Duke of Norfolk. For, she was not considered so safe as yet, but that it
was best to keep her in a castle on the sea-coast, from whence she might be
sent abroad, if necessary.
</p>

<p>
The Council would have despatched Lady Jane&rsquo;s father, the Duke of
Suffolk, as the general of the army against this force; but, as Lady Jane
implored that her father might remain with her, and as he was known to be but a
weak man, they told the Duke of Northumberland that he must take the command
himself. He was not very ready to do so, as he mistrusted the Council much; but
there was no help for it, and he set forth with a heavy heart, observing to a
lord who rode beside him through Shoreditch at the head of the troops, that,
although the people pressed in great numbers to look at them, they were
terribly silent.
</p>

<p>
And his fears for himself turned out to be well founded. While he was waiting
at Cambridge for further help from the Council, the Council took it into their
heads to turn their backs on Lady Jane&rsquo;s cause, and to take up the
Princess Mary&rsquo;s. This was chiefly owing to the before-mentioned Earl of
Arundel, who represented to the Lord Mayor and aldermen, in a second interview
with those sagacious persons, that, as for himself, he did not perceive the
Reformed religion to be in much danger&mdash;which Lord Pembroke backed by
flourishing his sword as another kind of persuasion. The Lord Mayor and
aldermen, thus enlightened, said there could be no doubt that the Princess Mary
ought to be Queen. So, she was proclaimed at the Cross by St. Paul&rsquo;s, and
barrels of wine were given to the people, and they got very drunk, and danced
round blazing bonfires&mdash;little thinking, poor wretches, what other
bonfires would soon be blazing in Queen Mary&rsquo;s name.
</p>

<p>
After a ten days&rsquo; dream of royalty, Lady Jane Grey resigned the Crown
with great willingness, saying that she had only accepted it in obedience to
her father and mother; and went gladly back to her pleasant house by the river,
and her books. Mary then came on towards London; and at Wanstead in Essex, was
joined by her half-sister, the Princess Elizabeth. They passed through the
streets of London to the Tower, and there the new Queen met some eminent
prisoners then confined in it, kissed them, and gave them their liberty. Among
these was that Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, who had been imprisoned in the
last reign for holding to the unreformed religion. Him she soon made
chancellor.
</p>

<p>
The Duke of Northumberland had been taken prisoner, and, together with his son
and five others, was quickly brought before the Council. He, not unnaturally,
asked that Council, in his defence, whether it was treason to obey orders that
had been issued under the great seal; and, if it were, whether they, who had
obeyed them too, ought to be his judges? But they made light of these points;
and, being resolved to have him out of the way, soon sentenced him to death. He
had risen into power upon the death of another man, and made but a poor show
(as might be expected) when he himself lay low. He entreated Gardiner to let
him live, if it were only in a mouse&rsquo;s hole; and, when he ascended the
scaffold to be beheaded on Tower Hill, addressed the people in a miserable way,
saying that he had been incited by others, and exhorting them to return to the
unreformed religion, which he told them was his faith. There seems reason to
suppose that he expected a pardon even then, in return for this confession; but
it matters little whether he did or not. His head was struck off.
</p>

<p>
Mary was now crowned Queen. She was thirty-seven years of age, short and thin,
wrinkled in the face, and very unhealthy. But she had a great liking for show
and for bright colours, and all the ladies of her Court were magnificently
dressed. She had a great liking too for old customs, without much sense in
them; and she was oiled in the oldest way, and blessed in the oldest way, and
done all manner of things to in the oldest way, at her coronation. I hope they
did her good.
</p>

<p>
She soon began to show her desire to put down the Reformed religion, and put up
the unreformed one: though it was dangerous work as yet, the people being
something wiser than they used to be. They even cast a shower of
stones&mdash;and among them a dagger&mdash;at one of the royal chaplains who
attacked the Reformed religion in a public sermon. But the Queen and her
priests went steadily on. Ridley, the powerful bishop of the last reign, was
seized and sent to the Tower. <span class="smcap">Latimer</span>, also
celebrated among the Clergy of the last reign, was likewise sent to the Tower,
and Cranmer speedily followed. Latimer was an aged man; and, as his guards took
him through Smithfield, he looked round it, and said, &lsquo;This is a place
that hath long groaned for me.&rsquo; For he knew well, what kind of bonfires
would soon be burning. Nor was the knowledge confined to him. The prisons were
fast filled with the chief Protestants, who were there left rotting in
darkness, hunger, dirt, and separation from their friends; many, who had time
left them for escape, fled from the kingdom; and the dullest of the people
began, now, to see what was coming.
</p>

<p>
It came on fast. A Parliament was got together; not without strong suspicion of
unfairness; and they annulled the divorce, formerly pronounced by Cranmer
between the Queen&rsquo;s mother and King Henry the Eighth, and unmade all the
laws on the subject of religion that had been made in the last King
Edward&rsquo;s reign. They began their proceedings, in violation of the law, by
having the old mass said before them in Latin, and by turning out a bishop who
would not kneel down. They also declared guilty of treason, Lady Jane Grey for
aspiring to the Crown; her husband, for being her husband; and Cranmer, for not
believing in the mass aforesaid. They then prayed the Queen graciously to
choose a husband for herself, as soon as might be.
</p>

<p>
Now, the question who should be the Queen&rsquo;s husband had given rise to a
great deal of discussion, and to several contending parties. Some said Cardinal
Pole was the man&mdash;but the Queen was of opinion that he was <i>not</i> the
man, he being too old and too much of a student. Others said that the gallant
young <span class="smcap">Courtenay</span>, whom the Queen had made Earl of
Devonshire, was the man&mdash;and the Queen thought so too, for a while; but
she changed her mind. At last it appeared that <span
class="smcap">Philip</span>, <span class="smcap">Prince of Spain</span>, was
certainly the man&mdash;though certainly not the people&rsquo;s man; for they
detested the idea of such a marriage from the beginning to the end, and
murmured that the Spaniard would establish in England, by the aid of foreign
soldiers, the worst abuses of the Popish religion, and even the terrible
Inquisition itself.
</p>

<p>
These discontents gave rise to a conspiracy for marrying young Courtenay to the
Princess Elizabeth, and setting them up, with popular tumults all over the
kingdom, against the Queen. This was discovered in time by Gardiner; but in
Kent, the old bold county, the people rose in their old bold way. <span
class="smcap">Sir Thomas Wyat</span>, a man of great daring, was their leader.
He raised his standard at Maidstone, marched on to Rochester, established
himself in the old castle there, and prepared to hold out against the Duke of
Norfolk, who came against him with a party of the Queen&rsquo;s guards, and a
body of five hundred London men. The London men, however, were all for
Elizabeth, and not at all for Mary. They declared, under the castle walls, for
Wyat; the Duke retreated; and Wyat came on to Deptford, at the head of fifteen
thousand men.
</p>

<p>
But these, in their turn, fell away. When he came to Southwark, there were only
two thousand left. Not dismayed by finding the London citizens in arms, and the
guns at the Tower ready to oppose his crossing the river there, Wyat led them
off to Kingston-upon-Thames, intending to cross the bridge that he knew to be
in that place, and so to work his way round to Ludgate, one of the old gates of
the City. He found the bridge broken down, but mended it, came across, and
bravely fought his way up Fleet Street to Ludgate Hill. Finding the gate closed
against him, he fought his way back again, sword in hand, to Temple Bar. Here,
being overpowered, he surrendered himself, and three or four hundred of his men
were taken, besides a hundred killed. Wyat, in a moment of weakness (and
perhaps of torture) was afterwards made to accuse the Princess Elizabeth as his
accomplice to some very small extent. But his manhood soon returned to him, and
he refused to save his life by making any more false confessions. He was
quartered and distributed in the usual brutal way, and from fifty to a hundred
of his followers were hanged. The rest were led out, with halters round their
necks, to be pardoned, and to make a parade of crying out, &lsquo;God save
Queen Mary!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
In the danger of this rebellion, the Queen showed herself to be a woman of
courage and spirit. She disdained to retreat to any place of safety, and went
down to the Guildhall, sceptre in hand, and made a gallant speech to the Lord
Mayor and citizens. But on the day after Wyat&rsquo;s defeat, she did the most
cruel act, even of her cruel reign, in signing the warrant for the execution of
Lady Jane Grey.
</p>

<p>
They tried to persuade Lady Jane to accept the unreformed religion; but she
steadily refused. On the morning when she was to die, she saw from her window
the bleeding and headless body of her husband brought back in a cart from the
scaffold on Tower Hill where he had laid down his life. But, as she had
declined to see him before his execution, lest she should be overpowered and
not make a good end, so, she even now showed a constancy and calmness that will
never be forgotten. She came up to the scaffold with a firm step and a quiet
face, and addressed the bystanders in a steady voice. They were not numerous;
for she was too young, too innocent and fair, to be murdered before the people
on Tower Hill, as her husband had just been; so, the place of her execution was
within the Tower itself. She said that she had done an unlawful act in taking
what was Queen Mary&rsquo;s right; but that she had done so with no bad intent,
and that she died a humble Christian. She begged the executioner to despatch
her quickly, and she asked him, &lsquo;Will you take my head off before I lay
me down?&rsquo; He answered, &lsquo;No, Madam,&rsquo; and then she was very
quiet while they bandaged her eyes. Being blinded, and unable to see the block
on which she was to lay her young head, she was seen to feel about for it with
her hands, and was heard to say, confused, &lsquo;O what shall I do! Where is
it?&rsquo; Then they guided her to the right place, and the executioner struck
off her head. You know too well, now, what dreadful deeds the executioner did
in England, through many, many years, and how his axe descended on the hateful
block through the necks of some of the bravest, wisest, and best in the land.
But it never struck so cruel and so vile a blow as this.
</p>

<p>
The father of Lady Jane soon followed, but was little pitied. Queen
Mary&rsquo;s next object was to lay hold of Elizabeth, and this was pursued
with great eagerness. Five hundred men were sent to her retired house at
Ashridge, by Berkhampstead, with orders to bring her up, alive or dead. They
got there at ten at night, when she was sick in bed. But, their leaders
followed her lady into her bedchamber, whence she was brought out betimes next
morning, and put into a litter to be conveyed to London. She was so weak and
ill, that she was five days on the road; still, she was so resolved to be seen
by the people that she had the curtains of the litter opened; and so, very pale
and sickly, passed through the streets. She wrote to her sister, saying she was
innocent of any crime, and asking why she was made a prisoner; but she got no
answer, and was ordered to the Tower. They took her in by the Traitor&rsquo;s
Gate, to which she objected, but in vain. One of the lords who conveyed her
offered to cover her with his cloak, as it was raining, but she put it away
from her, proudly and scornfully, and passed into the Tower, and sat down in a
court-yard on a stone. They besought her to come in out of the wet; but she
answered that it was better sitting there, than in a worse place. At length she
went to her apartment, where she was kept a prisoner, though not so close a
prisoner as at Woodstock, whither she was afterwards removed, and where she is
said to have one day envied a milkmaid whom she heard singing in the sunshine
as she went through the green fields. Gardiner, than whom there were not many
worse men among the fierce and sullen priests, cared little to keep secret his
stern desire for her death: being used to say that it was of little service to
shake off the leaves, and lop the branches of the tree of heresy, if its root,
the hope of heretics, were left. He failed, however, in his benevolent design.
Elizabeth was, at length, released; and Hatfield House was assigned to her as a
residence, under the care of one <span class="smcap">Sir Thomas Pope</span>.
</p>

<p>
It would seem that Philip, the Prince of Spain, was a main cause of this change
in Elizabeth&rsquo;s fortunes. He was not an amiable man, being, on the
contrary, proud, overbearing, and gloomy; but he and the Spanish lords who came
over with him, assuredly did discountenance the idea of doing any violence to
the Princess. It may have been mere prudence, but we will hope it was manhood
and honour. The Queen had been expecting her husband with great impatience, and
at length he came, to her great joy, though he never cared much for her. They
were married by Gardiner, at Winchester, and there was more holiday-making
among the people; but they had their old distrust of this Spanish marriage, in
which even the Parliament shared. Though the members of that Parliament were
far from honest, and were strongly suspected to have been bought with Spanish
money, they would pass no bill to enable the Queen to set aside the Princess
Elizabeth and appoint her own successor.
</p>

<p>
Although Gardiner failed in this object, as well as in the darker one of
bringing the Princess to the scaffold, he went on at a great pace in the
revival of the unreformed religion. A new Parliament was packed, in which there
were no Protestants. Preparations were made to receive Cardinal Pole in England
as the Pope&rsquo;s messenger, bringing his holy declaration that all the
nobility who had acquired Church property, should keep it&mdash;which was done
to enlist their selfish interest on the Pope&rsquo;s side. Then a great scene
was enacted, which was the triumph of the Queen&rsquo;s plans. Cardinal Pole
arrived in great splendour and dignity, and was received with great pomp. The
Parliament joined in a petition expressive of their sorrow at the change in the
national religion, and praying him to receive the country again into the Popish
Church. With the Queen sitting on her throne, and the King on one side of her,
and the Cardinal on the other, and the Parliament present, Gardiner read the
petition aloud. The Cardinal then made a great speech, and was so obliging as
to say that all was forgotten and forgiven, and that the kingdom was solemnly
made Roman Catholic again.
</p>

<p>
Everything was now ready for the lighting of the terrible bonfires. The Queen
having declared to the Council, in writing, that she would wish none of her
subjects to be burnt without some of the Council being present, and that she
would particularly wish there to be good sermons at all burnings, the Council
knew pretty well what was to be done next. So, after the Cardinal had blessed
all the bishops as a preface to the burnings, the Chancellor Gardiner opened a
High Court at Saint Mary Overy, on the Southwark side of London Bridge, for the
trial of heretics. Here, two of the late Protestant clergymen, <span
class="smcap">Hooper</span>, Bishop of Gloucester, and <span
class="smcap">Rogers</span>, a Prebendary of St. Paul&rsquo;s, were brought to
be tried. Hooper was tried first for being married, though a priest, and for
not believing in the mass. He admitted both of these accusations, and said that
the mass was a wicked imposition. Then they tried Rogers, who said the same.
Next morning the two were brought up to be sentenced; and then Rogers said that
his poor wife, being a German woman and a stranger in the land, he hoped might
be allowed to come to speak to him before he died. To this the inhuman Gardiner
replied, that she was not his wife. &lsquo;Yea, but she is, my lord,&rsquo;
said Rogers, &lsquo;and she hath been my wife these eighteen years.&rsquo; His
request was still refused, and they were both sent to Newgate; all those who
stood in the streets to sell things, being ordered to put out their lights that
the people might not see them. But, the people stood at their doors with
candles in their hands, and prayed for them as they went by. Soon afterwards,
Rogers was taken out of jail to be burnt in Smithfield; and, in the crowd as he
went along, he saw his poor wife and his ten children, of whom the youngest was
a little baby. And so he was burnt to death.
</p>

<p>
The next day, Hooper, who was to be burnt at Gloucester, was brought out to
take his last journey, and was made to wear a hood over his face that he might
not be known by the people. But, they did know him for all that, down in his
own part of the country; and, when he came near Gloucester, they lined the
road, making prayers and lamentations. His guards took him to a lodging, where
he slept soundly all night. At nine o&rsquo;clock next morning, he was brought
forth leaning on a staff; for he had taken cold in prison, and was infirm. The
iron stake, and the iron chain which was to bind him to it, were fixed up near
a great elm-tree in a pleasant open place before the cathedral, where, on
peaceful Sundays, he had been accustomed to preach and to pray, when he was
bishop of Gloucester. This tree, which had no leaves then, it being February,
was filled with people; and the priests of Gloucester College were looking
complacently on from a window, and there was a great concourse of spectators in
every spot from which a glimpse of the dreadful sight could be beheld. When the
old man kneeled down on the small platform at the foot of the stake, and prayed
aloud, the nearest people were observed to be so attentive to his prayers that
they were ordered to stand farther back; for it did not suit the Romish Church
to have those Protestant words heard. His prayers concluded, he went up to the
stake and was stripped to his shirt, and chained ready for the fire. One of his
guards had such compassion on him that, to shorten his agonies, he tied some
packets of gunpowder about him. Then they heaped up wood and straw and reeds,
and set them all alight. But, unhappily, the wood was green and damp, and there
was a wind blowing that blew what flame there was, away. Thus, through
three-quarters of an hour, the good old man was scorched and roasted and
smoked, as the fire rose and sank; and all that time they saw him, as he
burned, moving his lips in prayer, and beating his breast with one hand, even
after the other was burnt away and had fallen off.
</p>

<p>
Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer, were taken to Oxford to dispute with a commission
of priests and doctors about the mass. They were shamefully treated; and it is
recorded that the Oxford scholars hissed and howled and groaned, and
misconducted themselves in an anything but a scholarly way. The prisoners were
taken back to jail, and afterwards tried in St. Mary&rsquo;s Church. They were
all found guilty. On the sixteenth of the month of October, Ridley and Latimer
were brought out, to make another of the dreadful bonfires.
</p>

<p>
The scene of the suffering of these two good Protestant men was in the City
ditch, near Baliol College. On coming to the dreadful spot, they kissed the
stakes, and then embraced each other. And then a learned doctor got up into a
pulpit which was placed there, and preached a sermon from the text,
&lsquo;Though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth
me nothing.&rsquo; When you think of the charity of burning men alive, you may
imagine that this learned doctor had a rather brazen face. Ridley would have
answered his sermon when it came to an end, but was not allowed. When Latimer
was stripped, it appeared that he had dressed himself under his other clothes,
in a new shroud; and, as he stood in it before all the people, it was noted of
him, and long remembered, that, whereas he had been stooping and feeble but a
few minutes before, he now stood upright and handsome, in the knowledge that he
was dying for a just and a great cause. Ridley&rsquo;s brother-in-law was there
with bags of gunpowder; and when they were both chained up, he tied them round
their bodies. Then, a light was thrown upon the pile to fire it. &lsquo;Be of
good comfort, Master Ridley,&rsquo; said Latimer, at that awful moment,
&lsquo;and play the man! We shall this day light such a candle, by God&rsquo;s
grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.&rsquo; And then he was
seen to make motions with his hands as if he were washing them in the flames,
and to stroke his aged face with them, and was heard to cry, &lsquo;Father of
Heaven, receive my soul!&rsquo; He died quickly, but the fire, after having
burned the legs of Ridley, sunk. There he lingered, chained to the iron post,
and crying, &lsquo;O! I cannot burn! O! for Christ&rsquo;s sake let the fire
come unto me!&rsquo; And still, when his brother-in-law had heaped on more
wood, he was heard through the blinding smoke, still dismally crying, &lsquo;O!
I cannot burn, I cannot burn!&rsquo; At last, the gunpowder caught fire, and
ended his miseries.
</p>

<p>
Five days after this fearful scene, Gardiner went to his tremendous account
before God, for the cruelties he had so much assisted in committing.
</p>

<p>
Cranmer remained still alive and in prison. He was brought out again in
February, for more examining and trying, by Bonner, Bishop of London: another
man of blood, who had succeeded to Gardiner&rsquo;s work, even in his lifetime,
when Gardiner was tired of it. Cranmer was now degraded as a priest, and left
for death; but, if the Queen hated any one on earth, she hated him, and it was
resolved that he should be ruined and disgraced to the utmost. There is no
doubt that the Queen and her husband personally urged on these deeds, because
they wrote to the Council, urging them to be active in the kindling of the
fearful fires. As Cranmer was known not to be a firm man, a plan was laid for
surrounding him with artful people, and inducing him to recant to the
unreformed religion. Deans and friars visited him, played at bowls with him,
showed him various attentions, talked persuasively with him, gave him money for
his prison comforts, and induced him to sign, I fear, as many as six
recantations. But when, after all, he was taken out to be burnt, he was nobly
true to his better self, and made a glorious end.
</p>

<p>
After prayers and a sermon, Dr. Cole, the preacher of the day (who had been one
of the artful priests about Cranmer in prison), required him to make a public
confession of his faith before the people. This, Cole did, expecting that he
would declare himself a Roman Catholic. &lsquo;I will make a profession of my
faith,&rsquo; said Cranmer, &lsquo;and with a good will too.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
Then, he arose before them all, and took from the sleeve of his robe a written
prayer and read it aloud. That done, he kneeled and said the Lord&rsquo;s
Prayer, all the people joining; and then he arose again and told them that he
believed in the Bible, and that in what he had lately written, he had written
what was not the truth, and that, because his right hand had signed those
papers, he would burn his right hand first when he came to the fire. As for the
Pope, he did refuse him and denounce him as the enemy of Heaven. Hereupon the
pious Dr. Cole cried out to the guards to stop that heretic&rsquo;s mouth and
take him away.
</p>

<p>
So they took him away, and chained him to the stake, where he hastily took off
his own clothes to make ready for the flames. And he stood before the people
with a bald head and a white and flowing beard. He was so firm now when the
worst was come, that he again declared against his recantation, and was so
impressive and so undismayed, that a certain lord, who was one of the directors
of the execution, called out to the men to make haste! When the fire was
lighted, Cranmer, true to his latest word, stretched out his right hand, and
crying out, &lsquo;This hand hath offended!&rsquo; held it among the flames,
until it blazed and burned away. His heart was found entire among his ashes,
and he left at last a memorable name in English history. Cardinal Pole
celebrated the day by saying his first mass, and next day he was made
Archbishop of Canterbury in Cranmer&rsquo;s place.
</p>

<p>
The Queen&rsquo;s husband, who was now mostly abroad in his own dominions, and
generally made a coarse jest of her to his more familiar courtiers, was at war
with France, and came over to seek the assistance of England. England was very
unwilling to engage in a French war for his sake; but it happened that the King
of France, at this very time, aided a descent upon the English coast. Hence,
war was declared, greatly to Philip&rsquo;s satisfaction; and the Queen raised
a sum of money with which to carry it on, by every unjustifiable means in her
power. It met with no profitable return, for the French Duke of Guise surprised
Calais, and the English sustained a complete defeat. The losses they met with
in France greatly mortified the national pride, and the Queen never recovered
the blow.
</p>

<p>
There was a bad fever raging in England at this time, and I am glad to write
that the Queen took it, and the hour of her death came. &lsquo;When I am dead
and my body is opened,&rsquo; she said to those around those around her,
&lsquo;ye shall find <span class="smcap">Calais</span> written on my
heart.&rsquo; I should have thought, if anything were written on it, they would
have found the words&mdash;<span class="smcap">Jane Grey</span>, <span
class="smcap">Hooper</span>, <span class="smcap">Rogers</span>, <span
class="smcap">Ridley</span>, <span class="smcap">Latimer</span>, <span
class="smcap">Cranmer</span>, <span class="smcap">and three hundred people
burnt alive within four years of my wicked reign</span>, <span
class="smcap">including sixty women and forty little children</span>. But it is
enough that their deaths were written in Heaven.
</p>

<p>
The Queen died on the seventeenth of November, fifteen hundred and fifty-eight,
after reigning not quite five years and a half, and in the forty-fourth year of
her age. Cardinal Pole died of the same fever next day.
</p>

<p>
As <span class="smcap">Bloody Queen Mary</span>, this woman has become famous,
and as <span class="smcap">Bloody Queen Mary</span>, she will ever be justly
remembered with horror and detestation in Great Britain. Her memory has been
held in such abhorrence that some writers have arisen in later years to take
her part, and to show that she was, upon the whole, quite an amiable and
cheerful sovereign! &lsquo;By their fruits ye shall know them,&rsquo; said
<span class="smcap">Our Saviour</span>. The stake and the fire were the fruits
of this reign, and you will judge this Queen by nothing else.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap31"></a>CHAPTER XXXI<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER ELIZABETH</h2>

<p>
There was great rejoicing all over the land when the Lords of the Council went
down to Hatfield, to hail the Princess Elizabeth as the new Queen of England.
Weary of the barbarities of Mary&rsquo;s reign, the people looked with hope and
gladness to the new Sovereign. The nation seemed to wake from a horrible dream;
and Heaven, so long hidden by the smoke of the fires that roasted men and women
to death, appeared to brighten once more.
</p>

<p>
Queen Elizabeth was five-and-twenty years of age when she rode through the
streets of London, from the Tower to Westminster Abbey, to be crowned. Her
countenance was strongly marked, but on the whole, commanding and dignified;
her hair was red, and her nose something too long and sharp for a
woman&rsquo;s. She was not the beautiful creature her courtiers made out; but
she was well enough, and no doubt looked all the better for coming after the
dark and gloomy Mary. She was well educated, but a roundabout writer, and
rather a hard swearer and coarse talker. She was clever, but cunning and
deceitful, and inherited much of her father&rsquo;s violent temper. I mention
this now, because she has been so over-praised by one party, and so over-abused
by another, that it is hardly possible to understand the greater part of her
reign without first understanding what kind of woman she really was.
</p>

<p>
She began her reign with the great advantage of having a very wise and careful
Minister, <span class="smcap">Sir William Cecil</span>, whom she afterwards
made <span class="smcap">Lord Burleigh</span>. Altogether, the people had
greater reason for rejoicing than they usually had, when there were processions
in the streets; and they were happy with some reason. All kinds of shows and
images were set up; <span class="smcap">Gog</span> and <span
class="smcap">Magog</span> were hoisted to the top of Temple Bar, and (which
was more to the purpose) the Corporation dutifully presented the young Queen
with the sum of a thousand marks in gold&mdash;so heavy a present, that she was
obliged to take it into her carriage with both hands. The coronation was a
great success; and, on the next day, one of the courtiers presented a petition
to the new Queen, praying that as it was the custom to release some prisoners
on such occasions, she would have the goodness to release the four Evangelists,
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, and also the Apostle Saint Paul, who had been
for some time shut up in a strange language so that the people could not get at
them.
</p>

<p>
To this, the Queen replied that it would be better first to inquire of
themselves whether they desired to be released or not; and, as a means of
finding out, a great public discussion&mdash;a sort of religious
tournament&mdash;was appointed to take place between certain champions of the
two religions, in Westminster Abbey. You may suppose that it was soon made
pretty clear to common sense, that for people to benefit by what they repeat or
read, it is rather necessary they should understand something about it.
Accordingly, a Church Service in plain English was settled, and other laws and
regulations were made, completely establishing the great work of the
Reformation. The Romish bishops and champions were not harshly dealt with, all
things considered; and the Queen&rsquo;s Ministers were both prudent and
merciful.
</p>

<p>
The one great trouble of this reign, and the unfortunate cause of the greater
part of such turmoil and bloodshed as occurred in it, was <span
class="smcap">Mary Stuart</span>, <span class="smcap">Queen of Scots</span>. We
will try to understand, in as few words as possible, who Mary was, what she
was, and how she came to be a thorn in the royal pillow of Elizabeth.
</p>

<p>
She was the daughter of the Queen Regent of Scotland, <span class="smcap">Mary
of Guise</span>. She had been married, when a mere child, to the Dauphin, the
son and heir of the King of France. The Pope, who pretended that no one could
rightfully wear the crown of England without his gracious permission, was
strongly opposed to Elizabeth, who had not asked for the said gracious
permission. And as Mary Queen of Scots would have inherited the English crown
in right of her birth, supposing the English Parliament not to have altered the
succession, the Pope himself, and most of the discontented who were followers
of his, maintained that Mary was the rightful Queen of England, and Elizabeth
the wrongful Queen. Mary being so closely connected with France, and France
being jealous of England, there was far greater danger in this than there would
have been if she had had no alliance with that great power. And when her young
husband, on the death of his father, became <span class="smcap">Francis the
Second</span>, King of France, the matter grew very serious. For, the young
couple styled themselves King and Queen of England, and the Pope was disposed
to help them by doing all the mischief he could.
</p>

<p>
Now, the reformed religion, under the guidance of a stern and powerful
preacher, named <span class="smcap">John Knox</span>, and other such men, had
been making fierce progress in Scotland. It was still a half savage country,
where there was a great deal of murdering and rioting continually going on; and
the Reformers, instead of reforming those evils as they should have done, went
to work in the ferocious old Scottish spirit, laying churches and chapels
waste, pulling down pictures and altars, and knocking about the Grey Friars,
and the Black Friars, and the White Friars, and the friars of all sorts of
colours, in all directions. This obdurate and harsh spirit of the Scottish
Reformers (the Scotch have always been rather a sullen and frowning people in
religious matters) put up the blood of the Romish French court, and caused
France to send troops over to Scotland, with the hope of setting the friars of
all sorts of colours on their legs again; of conquering that country first, and
England afterwards; and so crushing the Reformation all to pieces. The Scottish
Reformers, who had formed a great league which they called The Congregation of
the Lord, secretly represented to Elizabeth that, if the reformed religion got
the worst of it with them, it would be likely to get the worst of it in England
too; and thus, Elizabeth, though she had a high notion of the rights of Kings
and Queens to do anything they liked, sent an army to Scotland to support the
Reformers, who were in arms against their sovereign. All these proceedings led
to a treaty of peace at Edinburgh, under which the French consented to depart
from the kingdom. By a separate treaty, Mary and her young husband engaged to
renounce their assumed title of King and Queen of England. But this treaty they
never fulfilled.
</p>

<p>
It happened, soon after matters had got to this state, that the young French
King died, leaving Mary a young widow. She was then invited by her Scottish
subjects to return home and reign over them; and as she was not now happy where
she was, she, after a little time, complied.
</p>

<p>
Elizabeth had been Queen three years, when Mary Queen of Scots embarked at
Calais for her own rough, quarrelling country. As she came out of the harbour,
a vessel was lost before her eyes, and she said, &lsquo;O! good God! what an
omen this is for such a voyage!&rsquo; She was very fond of France, and sat on
the deck, looking back at it and weeping, until it was quite dark. When she
went to bed, she directed to be called at daybreak, if the French coast were
still visible, that she might behold it for the last time. As it proved to be a
clear morning, this was done, and she again wept for the country she was
leaving, and said many times, &lsquo;Farewell, France! Farewell, France! I
shall never see thee again!&rsquo; All this was long remembered afterwards, as
sorrowful and interesting in a fair young princess of nineteen. Indeed, I am
afraid it gradually came, together with her other distresses, to surround her
with greater sympathy than she deserved.
</p>

<p>
When she came to Scotland, and took up her abode at the palace of Holyrood in
Edinburgh, she found herself among uncouth strangers and wild uncomfortable
customs very different from her experiences in the court of France. The very
people who were disposed to love her, made her head ache when she was tired out
by her voyage, with a serenade of discordant music&mdash;a fearful concert of
bagpipes, I suppose&mdash;and brought her and her train home to her palace on
miserable little Scotch horses that appeared to be half starved. Among the
people who were not disposed to love her, she found the powerful leaders of the
Reformed Church, who were bitter upon her amusements, however innocent, and
denounced music and dancing as works of the devil. John Knox himself often
lectured her, violently and angrily, and did much to make her life unhappy. All
these reasons confirmed her old attachment to the Romish religion, and caused
her, there is no doubt, most imprudently and dangerously both for herself and
for England too, to give a solemn pledge to the heads of the Romish Church that
if she ever succeeded to the English crown, she would set up that religion
again. In reading her unhappy history, you must always remember this; and also
that during her whole life she was constantly put forward against the Queen, in
some form or other, by the Romish party.
</p>

<p>
That Elizabeth, on the other hand, was not inclined to like her, is pretty
certain. Elizabeth was very vain and jealous, and had an extraordinary dislike
to people being married. She treated Lady Catherine Grey, sister of the
beheaded Lady Jane, with such shameful severity, for no other reason than her
being secretly married, that she died and her husband was ruined; so, when a
second marriage for Mary began to be talked about, probably Elizabeth disliked
her more. Not that Elizabeth wanted suitors of her own, for they started up
from Spain, Austria, Sweden, and England. Her English lover at this time, and
one whom she much favoured too, was <span class="smcap">Lord Robert
Dudley</span>, Earl of Leicester&mdash;himself secretly married to <span
class="smcap">Amy Robsart</span>, the daughter of an English gentleman, whom he
was strongly suspected of causing to be murdered, down at his country seat,
Cumnor Hall in Berkshire, that he might be free to marry the Queen. Upon this
story, the great writer, <span class="smcap">Sir Walter Scott</span>, has
founded one of his best romances. But if Elizabeth knew how to lead her
handsome favourite on, for her own vanity and pleasure, she knew how to stop
him for her own pride; and his love, and all the other proposals, came to
nothing. The Queen always declared in good set speeches, that she would never
be married at all, but would live and die a Maiden Queen. It was a very
pleasant and meritorious declaration, I suppose; but it has been puffed and
trumpeted so much, that I am rather tired of it myself.
</p>

<p>
Divers princes proposed to marry Mary, but the English court had reasons for
being jealous of them all, and even proposed as a matter of policy that she
should marry that very Earl of Leicester who had aspired to be the husband of
Elizabeth. At last, <span class="smcap">Lord Darnley</span>, son of the Earl of
Lennox, and himself descended from the Royal Family of Scotland, went over with
Elizabeth&rsquo;s consent to try his fortune at Holyrood. He was a tall
simpleton; and could dance and play the guitar; but I know of nothing else he
could do, unless it were to get very drunk, and eat gluttonously, and make a
contemptible spectacle of himself in many mean and vain ways. However, he
gained Mary&rsquo;s heart, not disdaining in the pursuit of his object to ally
himself with one of her secretaries, <span class="smcap">David Rizzio</span>,
who had great influence with her. He soon married the Queen. This marriage does
not say much for her, but what followed will presently say less.
</p>

<p>
Mary&rsquo;s brother, the <span class="smcap">Earl of Murray</span>, and head
of the Protestant party in Scotland, had opposed this marriage, partly on
religious grounds, and partly perhaps from personal dislike of the very
contemptible bridegroom. When it had taken place, through Mary&rsquo;s gaining
over to it the more powerful of the lords about her, she banished Murray for
his pains; and, when he and some other nobles rose in arms to support the
reformed religion, she herself, within a month of her wedding day, rode against
them in armour with loaded pistols in her saddle. Driven out of Scotland, they
presented themselves before Elizabeth&mdash;who called them traitors in public,
and assisted them in private, according to her crafty nature.
</p>

<p>
Mary had been married but a little while, when she began to hate her husband,
who, in his turn, began to hate that David Rizzio, with whom he had leagued to
gain her favour, and whom he now believed to be her lover. He hated Rizzio to
that extent, that he made a compact with <span class="smcap">Lord
Ruthven</span> and three other lords to get rid of him by murder. This wicked
agreement they made in solemn secrecy upon the first of March, fifteen hundred
and sixty-six, and on the night of Saturday the ninth, the conspirators were
brought by Darnley up a private staircase, dark and steep, into a range of
rooms where they knew that Mary was sitting at supper with her sister, Lady
Argyle, and this doomed man. When they went into the room, Darnley took the
Queen round the waist, and Lord Ruthven, who had risen from a bed of sickness
to do this murder, came in, gaunt and ghastly, leaning on two men. Rizzio ran
behind the Queen for shelter and protection. &lsquo;Let him come out of the
room,&rsquo; said Ruthven. &lsquo;He shall not leave the room,&rsquo; replied
the Queen; &lsquo;I read his danger in your face, and it is my will that he
remain here.&rsquo; They then set upon him, struggled with him, overturned the
table, dragged him out, and killed him with fifty-six stabs. When the Queen
heard that he was dead, she said, &lsquo;No more tears. I will think now of
revenge!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
Within a day or two, she gained her husband over, and prevailed on the tall
idiot to abandon the conspirators and fly with her to Dunbar. There, he issued
a proclamation, audaciously and falsely denying that he had any knowledge of
the late bloody business; and there they were joined by the <span
class="smcap">Earl Bothwell</span> and some other nobles. With their help, they
raised eight thousand men; returned to Edinburgh, and drove the assassins into
England. Mary soon afterwards gave birth to a son&mdash;still thinking of
revenge.
</p>

<p>
That she should have had a greater scorn for her husband after his late
cowardice and treachery than she had had before, was natural enough. There is
little doubt that she now began to love Bothwell instead, and to plan with him
means of getting rid of Darnley. Bothwell had such power over her that he
induced her even to pardon the assassins of Rizzio. The arrangements for the
Christening of the young Prince were entrusted to him, and he was one of the
most important people at the ceremony, where the child was named <span
class="smcap">James</span>: Elizabeth being his godmother, though not present
on the occasion. A week afterwards, Darnley, who had left Mary and gone to his
father&rsquo;s house at Glasgow, being taken ill with the small-pox, she sent
her own physician to attend him. But there is reason to apprehend that this was
merely a show and a pretence, and that she knew what was doing, when Bothwell
within another month proposed to one of the late conspirators against Rizzio,
to murder Darnley, &lsquo;for that it was the Queen&rsquo;s mind that he should
be taken away.&rsquo; It is certain that on that very day she wrote to her
ambassador in France, complaining of him, and yet went immediately to Glasgow,
feigning to be very anxious about him, and to love him very much. If she wanted
to get him in her power, she succeeded to her heart&rsquo;s content; for she
induced him to go back with her to Edinburgh, and to occupy, instead of the
palace, a lone house outside the city called the Kirk of Field. Here, he lived
for about a week. One Sunday night, she remained with him until ten
o&rsquo;clock, and then left him, to go to Holyrood to be present at an
entertainment given in celebration of the marriage of one of her favourite
servants. At two o&rsquo;clock in the morning the city was shaken by a great
explosion, and the Kirk of Field was blown to atoms.
</p>

<p>
Darnley&rsquo;s body was found next day lying under a tree at some distance.
How it came there, undisfigured and unscorched by gunpowder, and how this crime
came to be so clumsily and strangely committed, it is impossible to discover.
The deceitful character of Mary, and the deceitful character of Elizabeth, have
rendered almost every part of their joint history uncertain and obscure. But, I
fear that Mary was unquestionably a party to her husband&rsquo;s murder, and
that this was the revenge she had threatened. The Scotch people universally
believed it. Voices cried out in the streets of Edinburgh in the dead of the
night, for justice on the murderess. Placards were posted by unknown hands in
the public places denouncing Bothwell as the murderer, and the Queen as his
accomplice; and, when he afterwards married her (though himself already
married), previously making a show of taking her prisoner by force, the
indignation of the people knew no bounds. The women particularly are described
as having been quite frantic against the Queen, and to have hooted and cried
after her in the streets with terrific vehemence.
</p>

<p>
Such guilty unions seldom prosper. This husband and wife had lived together but
a month, when they were separated for ever by the successes of a band of Scotch
nobles who associated against them for the protection of the young Prince: whom
Bothwell had vainly endeavoured to lay hold of, and whom he would certainly
have murdered, if the <span class="smcap">Earl of Mar</span>, in whose hands
the boy was, had not been firmly and honourably faithful to his trust. Before
this angry power, Bothwell fled abroad, where he died, a prisoner and mad, nine
miserable years afterwards. Mary being found by the associated lords to deceive
them at every turn, was sent a prisoner to Lochleven Castle; which, as it stood
in the midst of a lake, could only be approached by boat. Here, one <span
class="smcap">Lord Lindsay</span>, who was so much of a brute that the nobles
would have done better if they had chosen a mere gentleman for their messenger,
made her sign her abdication, and appoint Murray, Regent of Scotland. Here,
too, Murray saw her in a sorrowing and humbled state.
</p>

<p>
She had better have remained in the castle of Lochleven, dull prison as it was,
with the rippling of the lake against it, and the moving shadows of the water
on the room walls; but she could not rest there, and more than once tried to
escape. The first time she had nearly succeeded, dressed in the clothes of her
own washer-woman, but, putting up her hand to prevent one of the boatmen from
lifting her veil, the men suspected her, seeing how white it was, and rowed her
back again. A short time afterwards, her fascinating manners enlisted in her
cause a boy in the Castle, called the little <span
class="smcap">Douglas</span>, who, while the family were at supper, stole the
keys of the great gate, went softly out with the Queen, locked the gate on the
outside, and rowed her away across the lake, sinking the keys as they went
along. On the opposite shore she was met by another Douglas, and some few
lords; and, so accompanied, rode away on horseback to Hamilton, where they
raised three thousand men. Here, she issued a proclamation declaring that the
abdication she had signed in her prison was illegal, and requiring the Regent
to yield to his lawful Queen. Being a steady soldier, and in no way discomposed
although he was without an army, Murray pretended to treat with her, until he
had collected a force about half equal to her own, and then he gave her battle.
In one quarter of an hour he cut down all her hopes. She had another weary ride
on horse-back of sixty long Scotch miles, and took shelter at Dundrennan Abbey,
whence she fled for safety to Elizabeth&rsquo;s dominions.
</p>

<p>
Mary Queen of Scots came to England&mdash;to her own ruin, the trouble of the
kingdom, and the misery and death of many&mdash;in the year one thousand five
hundred and sixty-eight. How she left it and the world, nineteen years
afterwards, we have now to see.
</p>

<h3>SECOND PART</h3>

<p>
When Mary Queen of Scots arrived in England, without money and even without any
other clothes than those she wore, she wrote to Elizabeth, representing herself
as an innocent and injured piece of Royalty, and entreating her assistance to
oblige her Scottish subjects to take her back again and obey her. But, as her
character was already known in England to be a very different one from what she
made it out to be, she was told in answer that she must first clear herself.
Made uneasy by this condition, Mary, rather than stay in England, would have
gone to Spain, or to France, or would even have gone back to Scotland. But, as
her doing either would have been likely to trouble England afresh, it was
decided that she should be detained here. She first came to Carlisle, and,
after that, was moved about from castle to castle, as was considered necessary;
but England she never left again.
</p>

<p>
After trying very hard to get rid of the necessity of clearing herself, Mary,
advised by <span class="smcap">Lord Herries</span>, her best friend in England,
agreed to answer the charges against her, if the Scottish noblemen who made
them would attend to maintain them before such English noblemen as Elizabeth
might appoint for that purpose. Accordingly, such an assembly, under the name
of a conference, met, first at York, and afterwards at Hampton Court. In its
presence Lord Lennox, Darnley&rsquo;s father, openly charged Mary with the
murder of his son; and whatever Mary&rsquo;s friends may now say or write in
her behalf, there is no doubt that, when her brother Murray produced against
her a casket containing certain guilty letters and verses which he stated to
have passed between her and Bothwell, she withdrew from the inquiry.
Consequently, it is to be supposed that she was then considered guilty by those
who had the best opportunities of judging of the truth, and that the feeling
which afterwards arose in her behalf was a very generous but not a very
reasonable one.
</p>

<p>
However, the <span class="smcap">Duke of Norfolk</span>, an honourable but
rather weak nobleman, partly because Mary was captivating, partly because he
was ambitious, partly because he was over-persuaded by artful plotters against
Elizabeth, conceived a strong idea that he would like to marry the Queen of
Scots&mdash;though he was a little frightened, too, by the letters in the
casket. This idea being secretly encouraged by some of the noblemen of
Elizabeth&rsquo;s court, and even by the favourite Earl of Leicester (because
it was objected to by other favourites who were his rivals), Mary expressed her
approval of it, and the King of France and the King of Spain are supposed to
have done the same. It was not so quietly planned, though, but that it came to
Elizabeth&rsquo;s ears, who warned the Duke &lsquo;to be careful what sort of
pillow he was going to lay his head upon.&rsquo; He made a humble reply at the
time; but turned sulky soon afterwards, and, being considered dangerous, was
sent to the Tower.
</p>

<p>
Thus, from the moment of Mary&rsquo;s coming to England she began to be the
centre of plots and miseries.
</p>

<p>
A rise of the Catholics in the north was the next of these, and it was only
checked by many executions and much bloodshed. It was followed by a great
conspiracy of the Pope and some of the Catholic sovereigns of Europe to depose
Elizabeth, place Mary on the throne, and restore the unreformed religion. It is
almost impossible to doubt that Mary knew and approved of this; and the Pope
himself was so hot in the matter that he issued a bull, in which he openly
called Elizabeth the &lsquo;pretended Queen&rsquo; of England, excommunicated
her, and excommunicated all her subjects who should continue to obey her. A
copy of this miserable paper got into London, and was found one morning
publicly posted on the Bishop of London&rsquo;s gate. A great hue and cry being
raised, another copy was found in the chamber of a student of Lincoln&rsquo;s
Inn, who confessed, being put upon the rack, that he had received it from one
<span class="smcap">John Felton</span>, a rich gentleman who lived across the
Thames, near Southwark. This John Felton, being put upon the rack too,
confessed that he had posted the placard on the Bishop&rsquo;s gate. For this
offence he was, within four days, taken to St. Paul&rsquo;s Churchyard, and
there hanged and quartered. As to the Pope&rsquo;s bull, the people by the
reformation having thrown off the Pope, did not care much, you may suppose, for
the Pope&rsquo;s throwing off them. It was a mere dirty piece of paper, and not
half so powerful as a street ballad.
</p>

<p>
On the very day when Felton was brought to his trial, the poor Duke of Norfolk
was released. It would have been well for him if he had kept away from the
Tower evermore, and from the snares that had taken him there. But, even while
he was in that dismal place he corresponded with Mary, and as soon as he was
out of it, he began to plot again. Being discovered in correspondence with the
Pope, with a view to a rising in England which should force Elizabeth to
consent to his marriage with Mary and to repeal the laws against the Catholics,
he was re-committed to the Tower and brought to trial. He was found guilty by
the unanimous verdict of the Lords who tried him, and was sentenced to the
block.
</p>

<p>
It is very difficult to make out, at this distance of time, and between
opposite accounts, whether Elizabeth really was a humane woman, or desired to
appear so, or was fearful of shedding the blood of people of great name who
were popular in the country. Twice she commanded and countermanded the
execution of this Duke, and it did not take place until five months after his
trial. The scaffold was erected on Tower Hill, and there he died like a brave
man. He refused to have his eyes bandaged, saying that he was not at all afraid
of death; and he admitted the justice of his sentence, and was much regretted
by the people.
</p>

<p>
Although Mary had shrunk at the most important time from disproving her guilt,
she was very careful never to do anything that would admit it. All such
proposals as were made to her by Elizabeth for her release, required that
admission in some form or other, and therefore came to nothing. Moreover, both
women being artful and treacherous, and neither ever trusting the other, it was
not likely that they could ever make an agreement. So, the Parliament,
aggravated by what the Pope had done, made new and strong laws against the
spreading of the Catholic religion in England, and declared it treason in any
one to say that the Queen and her successors were not the lawful sovereigns of
England. It would have done more than this, but for Elizabeth&rsquo;s
moderation.
</p>

<p>
Since the Reformation, there had come to be three great sects of religious
people&mdash;or people who called themselves so&mdash;in England; that is to
say, those who belonged to the Reformed Church, those who belonged to the
Unreformed Church, and those who were called the Puritans, because they said
that they wanted to have everything very pure and plain in all the Church
service. These last were for the most part an uncomfortable people, who thought
it highly meritorious to dress in a hideous manner, talk through their noses,
and oppose all harmless enjoyments. But they were powerful too, and very much
in earnest, and they were one and all the determined enemies of the Queen of
Scots. The Protestant feeling in England was further strengthened by the
tremendous cruelties to which Protestants were exposed in France and in the
Netherlands. Scores of thousands of them were put to death in those countries
with every cruelty that can be imagined, and at last, in the autumn of the year
one thousand five hundred and seventy-two, one of the greatest barbarities ever
committed in the world took place at Paris.
</p>

<p>
It is called in history, <span class="smcap">The Massacre of Saint
Bartholomew</span>, because it took place on Saint Bartholomew&rsquo;s Eve. The
day fell on Saturday the twenty-third of August. On that day all the great
leaders of the Protestants (who were there called <span
class="smcap">Huguenots</span>) were assembled together, for the purpose, as
was represented to them, of doing honour to the marriage of their chief, the
young King of Navarre, with the sister of <span class="smcap">Charles the
Ninth</span>: a miserable young King who then occupied the French throne. This
dull creature was made to believe by his mother and other fierce Catholics
about him that the Huguenots meant to take his life; and he was persuaded to
give secret orders that, on the tolling of a great bell, they should be fallen
upon by an overpowering force of armed men, and slaughtered wherever they could
be found. When the appointed hour was close at hand, the stupid wretch,
trembling from head to foot, was taken into a balcony by his mother to see the
atrocious work begun. The moment the bell tolled, the murderers broke forth.
During all that night and the two next days, they broke into the houses, fired
the houses, shot and stabbed the Protestants, men, women, and children, and
flung their bodies into the streets. They were shot at in the streets as they
passed along, and their blood ran down the gutters. Upwards of ten thousand
Protestants were killed in Paris alone; in all France four or five times that
number. To return thanks to Heaven for these diabolical murders, the Pope and
his train actually went in public procession at Rome, and as if this were not
shame enough for them, they had a medal struck to commemorate the event. But,
however comfortable the wholesale murders were to these high authorities, they
had not that soothing effect upon the doll-King. I am happy to state that he
never knew a moment&rsquo;s peace afterwards; that he was continually crying
out that he saw the Huguenots covered with blood and wounds falling dead before
him; and that he died within a year, shrieking and yelling and raving to that
degree, that if all the Popes who had ever lived had been rolled into one, they
would not have afforded His guilty Majesty the slightest consolation.
</p>

<p>
When the terrible news of the massacre arrived in England, it made a powerful
impression indeed upon the people. If they began to run a little wild against
the Catholics at about this time, this fearful reason for it, coming so soon
after the days of bloody Queen Mary, must be remembered in their excuse. The
Court was not quite so honest as the people&mdash;but perhaps it sometimes is
not. It received the French ambassador, with all the lords and ladies dressed
in deep mourning, and keeping a profound silence. Nevertheless, a proposal of
marriage which he had made to Elizabeth only two days before the eve of Saint
Bartholomew, on behalf of the Duke of Alen&ccedil;on, the French King&rsquo;s
brother, a boy of seventeen, still went on; while on the other hand, in her
usual crafty way, the Queen secretly supplied the Huguenots with money and
weapons.
</p>

<p>
I must say that for a Queen who made all those fine speeches, of which I have
confessed myself to be rather tired, about living and dying a Maiden Queen,
Elizabeth was &lsquo;going&rsquo; to be married pretty often. Besides always
having some English favourite or other whom she by turns encouraged and swore
at and knocked about&mdash;for the maiden Queen was very free with her
fists&mdash;she held this French Duke off and on through several years. When he
at last came over to England, the marriage articles were actually drawn up, and
it was settled that the wedding should take place in six weeks. The Queen was
then so bent upon it, that she prosecuted a poor Puritan named <span
class="smcap">Stubbs</span>, and a poor bookseller named <span
class="smcap">Page</span>, for writing and publishing a pamphlet against it.
Their right hands were chopped off for this crime; and poor Stubbs&mdash;more
loyal than I should have been myself under the circumstances&mdash;immediately
pulled off his hat with his left hand, and cried, &lsquo;God save the
Queen!&rsquo; Stubbs was cruelly treated; for the marriage never took place
after all, though the Queen pledged herself to the Duke with a ring from her
own finger. He went away, no better than he came, when the courtship had lasted
some ten years altogether; and he died a couple of years afterwards, mourned by
Elizabeth, who appears to have been really fond of him. It is not much to her
credit, for he was a bad enough member of a bad family.
</p>

<p>
To return to the Catholics. There arose two orders of priests, who were very
busy in England, and who were much dreaded. These were the <span
class="smcap">Jesuits</span> (who were everywhere in all sorts of disguises),
and the <span class="smcap">Seminary Priests</span>. The people had a great
horror of the first, because they were known to have taught that murder was
lawful if it were done with an object of which they approved; and they had a
great horror of the second, because they came to teach the old religion, and to
be the successors of &lsquo;Queen Mary&rsquo;s priests,&rsquo; as those yet
lingering in England were called, when they should die out. The severest laws
were made against them, and were most unmercifully executed. Those who
sheltered them in their houses often suffered heavily for what was an act of
humanity; and the rack, that cruel torture which tore men&rsquo;s limbs
asunder, was constantly kept going. What these unhappy men confessed, or what
was ever confessed by any one under that agony, must always be received with
great doubt, as it is certain that people have frequently owned to the most
absurd and impossible crimes to escape such dreadful suffering. But I cannot
doubt it to have been proved by papers, that there were many plots, both among
the Jesuits, and with France, and with Scotland, and with Spain, for the
destruction of Queen Elizabeth, for the placing of Mary on the throne, and for
the revival of the old religion.
</p>

<p>
If the English people were too ready to believe in plots, there were, as I have
said, good reasons for it. When the massacre of Saint Bartholomew was yet fresh
in their recollection, a great Protestant Dutch hero, the <span
class="smcap">Prince of Orange</span>, was shot by an assassin, who confessed
that he had been kept and trained for the purpose in a college of Jesuits. The
Dutch, in this surprise and distress, offered to make Elizabeth their
sovereign, but she declined the honour, and sent them a small army instead,
under the command of the Earl of Leicester, who, although a capital Court
favourite, was not much of a general. He did so little in Holland, that his
campaign there would probably have been forgotten, but for its occasioning the
death of one of the best writers, the best knights, and the best gentlemen, of
that or any age. This was <span class="smcap">Sir Philip Sidney</span>, who was
wounded by a musket ball in the thigh as he mounted a fresh horse, after having
had his own killed under him. He had to ride back wounded, a long distance, and
was very faint with fatigue and loss of blood, when some water, for which he
had eagerly asked, was handed to him. But he was so good and gentle even then,
that seeing a poor badly wounded common soldier lying on the ground, looking at
the water with longing eyes, he said, &lsquo;Thy necessity is greater than
mine,&rsquo; and gave it up to him. This touching action of a noble heart is
perhaps as well known as any incident in history&mdash;is as famous far and
wide as the blood-stained Tower of London, with its axe, and block, and murders
out of number. So delightful is an act of true humanity, and so glad are
mankind to remember it.
</p>

<p>
At home, intelligence of plots began to thicken every day. I suppose the people
never did live under such continual terrors as those by which they were
possessed now, of Catholic risings, and burnings, and poisonings, and I
don&rsquo;t know what. Still, we must always remember that they lived near and
close to awful realities of that kind, and that with their experience it was
not difficult to believe in any enormity. The government had the same fear, and
did not take the best means of discovering the truth&mdash;for, besides
torturing the suspected, it employed paid spies, who will always lie for their
own profit. It even made some of the conspiracies it brought to light, by
sending false letters to disaffected people, inviting them to join in pretended
plots, which they too readily did.
</p>

<p>
But, one great real plot was at length discovered, and it ended the career of
Mary, Queen of Scots. A seminary priest named <span
class="smcap">Ballard</span>, and a Spanish soldier named <span
class="smcap">Savage</span>, set on and encouraged by certain French priests,
imparted a design to one <span class="smcap">Antony Babington</span>&mdash;a
gentleman of fortune in Derbyshire, who had been for some time a secret agent
of Mary&rsquo;s&mdash;for murdering the Queen. Babington then confided the
scheme to some other Catholic gentlemen who were his friends, and they joined
in it heartily. They were vain, weak-headed young men, ridiculously confident,
and preposterously proud of their plan; for they got a gimcrack painting made,
of the six choice spirits who were to murder Elizabeth, with Babington in an
attitude for the centre figure. Two of their number, however, one of whom was a
priest, kept Elizabeth&rsquo;s wisest minister, <span class="smcap">Sir Francis
Walsingham</span>, acquainted with the whole project from the first. The
conspirators were completely deceived to the final point, when Babington gave
Savage, because he was shabby, a ring from his finger, and some money from his
purse, wherewith to buy himself new clothes in which to kill the Queen.
Walsingham, having then full evidence against the whole band, and two letters
of Mary&rsquo;s besides, resolved to seize them. Suspecting something wrong,
they stole out of the city, one by one, and hid themselves in St. John&rsquo;s
Wood, and other places which really were hiding places then; but they were all
taken, and all executed. When they were seized, a gentleman was sent from Court
to inform Mary of the fact, and of her being involved in the discovery. Her
friends have complained that she was kept in very hard and severe custody. It
does not appear very likely, for she was going out a hunting that very morning.
</p>

<p>
Queen Elizabeth had been warned long ago, by one in France who had good
information of what was secretly doing, that in holding Mary alive, she held
&lsquo;the wolf who would devour her.&rsquo; The Bishop of London had, more
lately, given the Queen&rsquo;s favourite minister the advice in writing,
&lsquo;forthwith to cut off the Scottish Queen&rsquo;s head.&rsquo; The
question now was, what to do with her? The Earl of Leicester wrote a little
note home from Holland, recommending that she should be quietly poisoned; that
noble favourite having accustomed his mind, it is possible, to remedies of that
nature. His black advice, however, was disregarded, and she was brought to
trial at Fotheringay Castle in Northamptonshire, before a tribunal of forty,
composed of both religions. There, and in the Star Chamber at Westminster, the
trial lasted a fortnight. She defended herself with great ability, but could
only deny the confessions that had been made by Babington and others; could
only call her own letters, produced against her by her own secretaries,
forgeries; and, in short, could only deny everything. She was found guilty, and
declared to have incurred the penalty of death. The Parliament met, approved
the sentence, and prayed the Queen to have it executed. The Queen replied that
she requested them to consider whether no means could be found of saving
Mary&rsquo;s life without endangering her own. The Parliament rejoined, No; and
the citizens illuminated their houses and lighted bonfires, in token of their
joy that all these plots and troubles were to be ended by the death of the
Queen of Scots.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a href="images/p240b.jpg">
<img alt="Mary Queen of Scots Reading the death warrant" src="images/p240s.jpg" /></a>
</div>

<p>
She, feeling sure that her time was now come, wrote a letter to the Queen of
England, making three entreaties; first, that she might be buried in France;
secondly, that she might not be executed in secret, but before her servants and
some others; thirdly, that after her death, her servants should not be
molested, but should be suffered to go home with the legacies she left them. It
was an affecting letter, and Elizabeth shed tears over it, but sent no answer.
Then came a special ambassador from France, and another from Scotland, to
intercede for Mary&rsquo;s life; and then the nation began to clamour, more and
more, for her death.
</p>

<p>
What the real feelings or intentions of Elizabeth were, can never be known now;
but I strongly suspect her of only wishing one thing more than Mary&rsquo;s
death, and that was to keep free of the blame of it. On the first of February,
one thousand five hundred and eighty-seven, Lord Burleigh having drawn out the
warrant for the execution, the Queen sent to the secretary <span
class="smcap">Davison</span> to bring it to her, that she might sign it: which
she did. Next day, when Davison told her it was sealed, she angrily asked him
why such haste was necessary? Next day but one, she joked about it, and swore a
little. Again, next day but one, she seemed to complain that it was not yet
done, but still she would not be plain with those about her. So, on the
seventh, the Earls of Kent and Shrewsbury, with the Sheriff of
Northamptonshire, came with the warrant to Fotheringay, to tell the Queen of
Scots to prepare for death.
</p>

<p>
When those messengers of ill omen were gone, Mary made a frugal supper, drank
to her servants, read over her will, went to bed, slept for some hours, and
then arose and passed the remainder of the night saying prayers. In the morning
she dressed herself in her best clothes; and, at eight o&rsquo;clock when the
sheriff came for her to her chapel, took leave of her servants who were there
assembled praying with her, and went down-stairs, carrying a Bible in one hand
and a crucifix in the other. Two of her women and four of her men were allowed
to be present in the hall; where a low scaffold, only two feet from the ground,
was erected and covered with black; and where the executioner from the Tower,
and his assistant, stood, dressed in black velvet. The hall was full of people.
While the sentence was being read she sat upon a stool; and, when it was
finished, she again denied her guilt, as she had done before. The Earl of Kent
and the Dean of Peterborough, in their Protestant zeal, made some very
unnecessary speeches to her; to which she replied that she died in the Catholic
religion, and they need not trouble themselves about that matter. When her head
and neck were uncovered by the executioners, she said that she had not been
used to be undressed by such hands, or before so much company. Finally, one of
her women fastened a cloth over her face, and she laid her neck upon the block,
and repeated more than once in Latin, &lsquo;Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend
my spirit!&rsquo; Some say her head was struck off in two blows, some say in
three. However that be, when it was held up, streaming with blood, the real
hair beneath the false hair she had long worn was seen to be as grey as that of
a woman of seventy, though she was at that time only in her forty-sixth year.
All her beauty was gone.
</p>

<p>
But she was beautiful enough to her little dog, who cowered under her dress,
frightened, when she went upon the scaffold, and who lay down beside her
headless body when all her earthly sorrows were over.
</p>

<h3>THIRD PART</h3>

<p>
On its being formally made known to Elizabeth that the sentence had been
executed on the Queen of Scots, she showed the utmost grief and rage, drove her
favourites from her with violent indignation, and sent Davison to the Tower;
from which place he was only released in the end by paying an immense fine
which completely ruined him. Elizabeth not only over-acted her part in making
these pretences, but most basely reduced to poverty one of her faithful
servants for no other fault than obeying her commands.
</p>

<p>
James, King of Scotland, Mary&rsquo;s son, made a show likewise of being very
angry on the occasion; but he was a pensioner of England to the amount of five
thousand pounds a year, and he had known very little of his mother, and he
possibly regarded her as the murderer of his father, and he soon took it
quietly.
</p>

<p>
Philip, King of Spain, however, threatened to do greater things than ever had
been done yet, to set up the Catholic religion and punish Protestant England.
Elizabeth, hearing that he and the Prince of Parma were making great
preparations for this purpose, in order to be beforehand with them sent out
<span class="smcap">Admiral Drake</span> (a famous navigator, who had sailed
about the world, and had already brought great plunder from Spain) to the port
of Cadiz, where he burnt a hundred vessels full of stores. This great loss
obliged the Spaniards to put off the invasion for a year; but it was none the
less formidable for that, amounting to one hundred and thirty ships, nineteen
thousand soldiers, eight thousand sailors, two thousand slaves, and between two
and three thousand great guns. England was not idle in making ready to resist
this great force. All the men between sixteen years old and sixty, were trained
and drilled; the national fleet of ships (in number only thirty-four at first)
was enlarged by public contributions and by private ships, fitted out by
noblemen; the city of London, of its own accord, furnished double the number of
ships and men that it was required to provide; and, if ever the national spirit
was up in England, it was up all through the country to resist the Spaniards.
Some of the Queen&rsquo;s advisers were for seizing the principal English
Catholics, and putting them to death; but the Queen&mdash;who, to her honour,
used to say, that she would never believe any ill of her subjects, which a
parent would not believe of her own children&mdash;rejected the advice, and
only confined a few of those who were the most suspected, in the fens in
Lincolnshire. The great body of Catholics deserved this confidence; for they
behaved most loyally, nobly, and bravely.
</p>

<p>
So, with all England firing up like one strong, angry man, and with both sides
of the Thames fortified, and with the soldiers under arms, and with the sailors
in their ships, the country waited for the coming of the proud Spanish fleet,
which was called <span class="smcap">The Invincible Armada</span>. The Queen
herself, riding in armour on a white horse, and the Earl of Essex and the Earl
of Leicester holding her bridal rein, made a brave speech to the troops at
Tilbury Fort opposite Gravesend, which was received with such enthusiasm as is
seldom known. Then came the Spanish Armada into the English Channel, sailing
along in the form of a half moon, of such great size that it was seven miles
broad. But the English were quickly upon it, and woe then to all the Spanish
ships that dropped a little out of the half moon, for the English took them
instantly! And it soon appeared that the great Armada was anything but
invincible, for on a summer night, bold Drake sent eight blazing fire-ships
right into the midst of it. In terrible consternation the Spaniards tried to
get out to sea, and so became dispersed; the English pursued them at a great
advantage; a storm came on, and drove the Spaniards among rocks and shoals; and
the swift end of the Invincible fleet was, that it lost thirty great ships and
ten thousand men, and, defeated and disgraced, sailed home again. Being afraid
to go by the English Channel, it sailed all round Scotland and Ireland; some of
the ships getting cast away on the latter coast in bad weather, the Irish, who
were a kind of savages, plundered those vessels and killed their crews. So
ended this great attempt to invade and conquer England. And I think it will be
a long time before any other invincible fleet coming to England with the same
object, will fare much better than the Spanish Armada.
</p>

<p>
Though the Spanish king had had this bitter taste of English bravery, he was so
little the wiser for it, as still to entertain his old designs, and even to
conceive the absurd idea of placing his daughter on the English throne. But the
Earl of Essex, <span class="smcap">Sir Walter Raleigh</span>, <span
class="smcap">Sir Thomas Howard</span>, and some other distinguished leaders,
put to sea from Plymouth, entered the port of Cadiz once more, obtained a
complete victory over the shipping assembled there, and got possession of the
town. In obedience to the Queen&rsquo;s express instructions, they behaved with
great humanity; and the principal loss of the Spaniards was a vast sum of money
which they had to pay for ransom. This was one of many gallant achievements on
the sea, effected in this reign. Sir Walter Raleigh himself, after marrying a
maid of honour and giving offence to the Maiden Queen thereby, had already
sailed to South America in search of gold.
</p>

<p>
The Earl of Leicester was now dead, and so was Sir Thomas Walsingham, whom Lord
Burleigh was soon to follow. The principal favourite was the <span
class="smcap">Earl of Essex</span>, a spirited and handsome man, a favourite
with the people too as well as with the Queen, and possessed of many admirable
qualities. It was much debated at Court whether there should be peace with
Spain or no, and he was very urgent for war. He also tried hard to have his own
way in the appointment of a deputy to govern in Ireland. One day, while this
question was in dispute, he hastily took offence, and turned his back upon the
Queen; as a gentle reminder of which impropriety, the Queen gave him a
tremendous box on the ear, and told him to go to the devil. He went home
instead, and did not reappear at Court for half a year or so, when he and the
Queen were reconciled, though never (as some suppose) thoroughly.
</p>

<p>
From this time the fate of the Earl of Essex and that of the Queen seemed to be
blended together. The Irish were still perpetually quarrelling and fighting
among themselves, and he went over to Ireland as Lord Lieutenant, to the great
joy of his enemies (Sir Walter Raleigh among the rest), who were glad to have
so dangerous a rival far off. Not being by any means successful there, and
knowing that his enemies would take advantage of that circumstance to injure
him with the Queen, he came home again, though against her orders. The Queen
being taken by surprise when he appeared before her, gave him her hand to kiss,
and he was overjoyed&mdash;though it was not a very lovely hand by this
time&mdash;but in the course of the same day she ordered him to confine himself
to his room, and two or three days afterwards had him taken into custody. With
the same sort of caprice&mdash;and as capricious an old woman she now was, as
ever wore a crown or a head either&mdash;she sent him broth from her own table
on his falling ill from anxiety, and cried about him.
</p>

<p>
He was a man who could find comfort and occupation in his books, and he did so
for a time; not the least happy time, I dare say, of his life. But it happened
unfortunately for him, that he held a monopoly in sweet wines: which means that
nobody could sell them without purchasing his permission. This right, which was
only for a term, expiring, he applied to have it renewed. The Queen refused,
with the rather strong observation&mdash;but she <i>did</i> make strong
observations&mdash;that an unruly beast must be stinted in his food. Upon this,
the angry Earl, who had been already deprived of many offices, thought himself
in danger of complete ruin, and turned against the Queen, whom he called a vain
old woman who had grown as crooked in her mind as she had in her figure. These
uncomplimentary expressions the ladies of the Court immediately snapped up and
carried to the Queen, whom they did not put in a better tempter, you may
believe. The same Court ladies, when they had beautiful dark hair of their own,
used to wear false red hair, to be like the Queen. So they were not very
high-spirited ladies, however high in rank.
</p>

<p>
The worst object of the Earl of Essex, and some friends of his who used to meet
at <span class="smcap">Lord Southampton&rsquo;s</span> house, was to obtain
possession of the Queen, and oblige her by force to dismiss her ministers and
change her favourites. On Saturday the seventh of February, one thousand six
hundred and one, the council suspecting this, summoned the Earl to come before
them. He, pretending to be ill, declined; it was then settled among his
friends, that as the next day would be Sunday, when many of the citizens
usually assembled at the Cross by St. Paul&rsquo;s Cathedral, he should make
one bold effort to induce them to rise and follow him to the Palace.
</p>

<p>
So, on the Sunday morning, he and a small body of adherents started out of his
house&mdash;Essex House by the Strand, with steps to the river&mdash;having
first shut up in it, as prisoners, some members of the council who came to
examine him&mdash;and hurried into the City with the Earl at their head crying
out &lsquo;For the Queen! For the Queen! A plot is laid for my life!&rsquo; No
one heeded them, however, and when they came to St. Paul&rsquo;s there were no
citizens there. In the meantime the prisoners at Essex House had been released
by one of the Earl&rsquo;s own friends; he had been promptly proclaimed a
traitor in the City itself; and the streets were barricaded with carts and
guarded by soldiers. The Earl got back to his house by water, with difficulty,
and after an attempt to defend his house against the troops and cannon by which
it was soon surrounded, gave himself up that night. He was brought to trial on
the nineteenth, and found guilty; on the twenty-fifth, he was executed on Tower
Hill, where he died, at thirty-four years old, both courageously and
penitently. His step-father suffered with him. His enemy, Sir Walter Raleigh,
stood near the scaffold all the time&mdash;but not so near it as we shall see
him stand, before we finish his history.
</p>

<p>
In this case, as in the cases of the Duke of Norfolk and Mary Queen of Scots,
the Queen had commanded, and countermanded, and again commanded, the execution.
It is probable that the death of her young and gallant favourite in the prime
of his good qualities, was never off her mind afterwards, but she held out, the
same vain, obstinate and capricious woman, for another year. Then she danced
before her Court on a state occasion&mdash;and cut, I should think, a mighty
ridiculous figure, doing so in an immense ruff, stomacher and wig, at seventy
years old. For another year still, she held out, but, without any more dancing,
and as a moody, sorrowful, broken creature. At last, on the tenth of March, one
thousand six hundred and three, having been ill of a very bad cold, and made
worse by the death of the Countess of Nottingham who was her intimate friend,
she fell into a stupor and was supposed to be dead. She recovered her
consciousness, however, and then nothing would induce her to go to bed; for she
said that she knew that if she did, she should never get up again. There she
lay for ten days, on cushions on the floor, without any food, until the Lord
Admiral got her into bed at last, partly by persuasions and partly by main
force. When they asked her who should succeed her, she replied that her seat
had been the seat of Kings, and that she would have for her successor,
&lsquo;No rascal&rsquo;s son, but a King&rsquo;s.&rsquo; Upon this, the lords
present stared at one another, and took the liberty of asking whom she meant;
to which she replied, &lsquo;Whom should I mean, but our cousin of
Scotland!&rsquo; This was on the twenty-third of March. They asked her once
again that day, after she was speechless, whether she was still in the same
mind? She struggled up in bed, and joined her hands over her head in the form
of a crown, as the only reply she could make. At three o&rsquo;clock next
morning, she very quietly died, in the forty-fifth year of her reign.
</p>

<p>
That reign had been a glorious one, and is made for ever memorable by the
distinguished men who flourished in it. Apart from the great voyagers,
statesmen, and scholars, whom it produced, the names of <span
class="smcap">Bacon</span>, <span class="smcap">Spenser</span>, and <span
class="smcap">Shakespeare</span>, will always be remembered with pride and
veneration by the civilised world, and will always impart (though with no great
reason, perhaps) some portion of their lustre to the name of Elizabeth herself.
It was a great reign for discovery, for commerce, and for English enterprise
and spirit in general. It was a great reign for the Protestant religion and for
the Reformation which made England free. The Queen was very popular, and in her
progresses, or journeys about her dominions, was everywhere received with the
liveliest joy. I think the truth is, that she was not half so good as she has
been made out, and not half so bad as she has been made out. She had her fine
qualities, but she was coarse, capricious, and treacherous, and had all the
faults of an excessively vain young woman long after she was an old one. On the
whole, she had a great deal too much of her father in her, to please me.
</p>

<p>
Many improvements and luxuries were introduced in the course of these
five-and-forty years in the general manner of living; but cock-fighting,
bull-baiting, and bear-baiting, were still the national amusements; and a coach
was so rarely seen, and was such an ugly and cumbersome affair when it was
seen, that even the Queen herself, on many high occasions, rode on horseback on
a pillion behind the Lord Chancellor.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap32"></a>CHAPTER XXXII<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER JAMES THE FIRST</h2>

<p>
&lsquo;Our cousin of Scotland&rsquo; was ugly, awkward, and shuffling both in
mind and person. His tongue was much too large for his mouth, his legs were
much too weak for his body, and his dull goggle-eyes stared and rolled like an
idiot&rsquo;s. He was cunning, covetous, wasteful, idle, drunken, greedy,
dirty, cowardly, a great swearer, and the most conceited man on earth. His
figure&mdash;what is commonly called rickety from his birth&mdash;presented a
most ridiculous appearance, dressed in thick padded clothes, as a safeguard
against being stabbed (of which he lived in continual fear), of a grass-green
colour from head to foot, with a hunting-horn dangling at his side instead of a
sword, and his hat and feather sticking over one eye, or hanging on the back of
his head, as he happened to toss it on. He used to loll on the necks of his
favourite courtiers, and slobber their faces, and kiss and pinch their cheeks;
and the greatest favourite he ever had, used to sign himself in his letters to
his royal master, His Majesty&rsquo;s &lsquo;dog and slave,&rsquo; and used to
address his majesty as &lsquo;his Sowship.&rsquo; His majesty was the worst
rider ever seen, and thought himself the best. He was one of the most
impertinent talkers (in the broadest Scotch) ever heard, and boasted of being
unanswerable in all manner of argument. He wrote some of the most wearisome
treatises ever read&mdash;among others, a book upon witchcraft, in which he was
a devout believer&mdash;and thought himself a prodigy of authorship. He
thought, and wrote, and said, that a king had a right to make and unmake what
laws he pleased, and ought to be accountable to nobody on earth. This is the
plain, true character of the personage whom the greatest men about the court
praised and flattered to that degree, that I doubt if there be anything much
more shameful in the annals of human nature.
</p>

<p>
He came to the English throne with great ease. The miseries of a disputed
succession had been felt so long, and so dreadfully, that he was proclaimed
within a few hours of Elizabeth&rsquo;s death, and was accepted by the nation,
even without being asked to give any pledge that he would govern well, or that
he would redress crying grievances. He took a month to come from Edinburgh to
London; and, by way of exercising his new power, hanged a pickpocket on the
journey without any trial, and knighted everybody he could lay hold of. He made
two hundred knights before he got to his palace in London, and seven hundred
before he had been in it three months. He also shovelled sixty-two new peers
into the House of Lords&mdash;and there was a pretty large sprinkling of
Scotchmen among them, you may believe.
</p>

<p>
His Sowship&rsquo;s prime Minister, <span class="smcap">Cecil</span> (for I
cannot do better than call his majesty what his favourite called him), was the
enemy of Sir Walter Raleigh, and also of Sir Walter&rsquo;s political friend,
<span class="smcap">Lord Cobham</span>; and his Sowship&rsquo;s first trouble
was a plot originated by these two, and entered into by some others, with the
old object of seizing the King and keeping him in imprisonment until he should
change his ministers. There were Catholic priests in the plot, and there were
Puritan noblemen too; for, although the Catholics and Puritans were strongly
opposed to each other, they united at this time against his Sowship, because
they knew that he had a design against both, after pretending to be friendly to
each; this design being to have only one high and convenient form of the
Protestant religion, which everybody should be bound to belong to, whether they
liked it or not. This plot was mixed up with another, which may or may not have
had some reference to placing on the throne, at some time, the <span
class="smcap">Lady Arabella Stuart</span>; whose misfortune it was, to be the
daughter of the younger brother of his Sowship&rsquo;s father, but who was
quite innocent of any part in the scheme. Sir Walter Raleigh was accused on the
confession of Lord Cobham&mdash;a miserable creature, who said one thing at one
time, and another thing at another time, and could be relied upon in nothing.
The trial of Sir Walter Raleigh lasted from eight in the morning until nearly
midnight; he defended himself with such eloquence, genius, and spirit against
all accusations, and against the insults of <span class="smcap">Coke</span>,
the Attorney-General&mdash;who, according to the custom of the time, foully
abused him&mdash;that those who went there detesting the prisoner, came away
admiring him, and declaring that anything so wonderful and so captivating was
never heard. He was found guilty, nevertheless, and sentenced to death.
Execution was deferred, and he was taken to the Tower. The two Catholic
priests, less fortunate, were executed with the usual atrocity; and Lord Cobham
and two others were pardoned on the scaffold. His Sowship thought it
wonderfully knowing in him to surprise the people by pardoning these three at
the very block; but, blundering, and bungling, as usual, he had very nearly
overreached himself. For, the messenger on horseback who brought the pardon,
came so late, that he was pushed to the outside of the crowd, and was obliged
to shout and roar out what he came for. The miserable Cobham did not gain much
by being spared that day. He lived, both as a prisoner and a beggar, utterly
despised, and miserably poor, for thirteen years, and then died in an old
outhouse belonging to one of his former servants.
</p>

<p>
This plot got rid of, and Sir Walter Raleigh safely shut up in the Tower, his
Sowship held a great dispute with the Puritans on their presenting a petition
to him, and had it all his own way&mdash;not so very wonderful, as he would
talk continually, and would not hear anybody else&mdash;and filled the Bishops
with admiration. It was comfortably settled that there was to be only one form
of religion, and that all men were to think exactly alike. But, although this
was arranged two centuries and a half ago, and although the arrangement was
supported by much fining and imprisonment, I do not find that it is quite
successful, even yet.
</p>

<p>
His Sowship, having that uncommonly high opinion of himself as a king, had a
very low opinion of Parliament as a power that audaciously wanted to control
him. When he called his first Parliament after he had been king a year, he
accordingly thought he would take pretty high ground with them, and told them
that he commanded them &lsquo;as an absolute king.&rsquo; The Parliament
thought those strong words, and saw the necessity of upholding their authority.
His Sowship had three children: Prince Henry, Prince Charles, and the Princess
Elizabeth. It would have been well for one of these, and we shall too soon see
which, if he had learnt a little wisdom concerning Parliaments from his
father&rsquo;s obstinacy.
</p>

<p>
Now, the people still labouring under their old dread of the Catholic religion,
this Parliament revived and strengthened the severe laws against it. And this
so angered <span class="smcap">Robert Catesby</span>, a restless Catholic
gentleman of an old family, that he formed one of the most desperate and
terrible designs ever conceived in the mind of man; no less a scheme than the
Gunpowder Plot.
</p>

<p>
His object was, when the King, lords, and commons, should be assembled at the
next opening of Parliament, to blow them up, one and all, with a great mine of
gunpowder. The first person to whom he confided this horrible idea was <span
class="smcap">Thomas Winter</span>, a Worcestershire gentleman who had served
in the army abroad, and had been secretly employed in Catholic projects. While
Winter was yet undecided, and when he had gone over to the Netherlands, to
learn from the Spanish Ambassador there whether there was any hope of Catholics
being relieved through the intercession of the King of Spain with his Sowship,
he found at Ostend a tall, dark, daring man, whom he had known when they were
both soldiers abroad, and whose name was <span
class="smcap">Guido</span>&mdash;or <span class="smcap">Guy</span>&mdash;<span
class="smcap">Fawkes</span>. Resolved to join the plot, he proposed it to this
man, knowing him to be the man for any desperate deed, and they two came back
to England together. Here, they admitted two other conspirators; <span
class="smcap">Thomas Percy</span>, related to the Earl of Northumberland, and
<span class="smcap">John Wright</span>, his brother-in-law. All these met
together in a solitary house in the open fields which were then near
Clement&rsquo;s Inn, now a closely blocked-up part of London; and when they had
all taken a great oath of secrecy, Catesby told the rest what his plan was.
They then went up-stairs into a garret, and received the Sacrament from <span
class="smcap">Father Gerard</span>, a Jesuit, who is said not to have known
actually of the Gunpowder Plot, but who, I think, must have had his suspicions
that there was something desperate afoot.
</p>

<p>
Percy was a Gentleman Pensioner, and as he had occasional duties to perform
about the Court, then kept at Whitehall, there would be nothing suspicious in
his living at Westminster. So, having looked well about him, and having found a
house to let, the back of which joined the Parliament House, he hired it of a
person named <span class="smcap">Ferris</span>, for the purpose of undermining
the wall. Having got possession of this house, the conspirators hired another
on the Lambeth side of the Thames, which they used as a storehouse for wood,
gunpowder, and other combustible matters. These were to be removed at night
(and afterwards were removed), bit by bit, to the house at Westminster; and,
that there might be some trusty person to keep watch over the Lambeth stores,
they admitted another conspirator, by name <span class="smcap">Robert
Kay</span>, a very poor Catholic gentleman.
</p>

<p>
All these arrangements had been made some months, and it was a dark, wintry,
December night, when the conspirators, who had been in the meantime dispersed
to avoid observation, met in the house at Westminster, and began to dig. They
had laid in a good stock of eatables, to avoid going in and out, and they dug
and dug with great ardour. But, the wall being tremendously thick, and the work
very severe, they took into their plot <span class="smcap">Christopher
Wright</span>, a younger brother of John Wright, that they might have a new
pair of hands to help. And Christopher Wright fell to like a fresh man, and
they dug and dug by night and by day, and Fawkes stood sentinel all the time.
And if any man&rsquo;s heart seemed to fail him at all, Fawkes said,
&lsquo;Gentlemen, we have abundance of powder and shot here, and there is no
fear of our being taken alive, even if discovered.&rsquo; The same Fawkes, who,
in the capacity of sentinel, was always prowling about, soon picked up the
intelligence that the King had prorogued the Parliament again, from the seventh
of February, the day first fixed upon, until the third of October. When the
conspirators knew this, they agreed to separate until after the Christmas
holidays, and to take no notice of each other in the meanwhile, and never to
write letters to one another on any account. So, the house in Westminster was
shut up again, and I suppose the neighbours thought that those strange-looking
men who lived there so gloomily, and went out so seldom, were gone away to have
a merry Christmas somewhere.
</p>

<p>
It was the beginning of February, sixteen hundred and five, when Catesby met
his fellow-conspirators again at this Westminster house. He had now admitted
three more; <span class="smcap">John Grant</span>, a Warwickshire gentleman of
a melancholy temper, who lived in a doleful house near Stratford-upon-Avon,
with a frowning wall all round it, and a deep moat; <span class="smcap">Robert
Winter</span>, eldest brother of Thomas; and Catesby&rsquo;s own servant, <span
class="smcap">Thomas Bates</span>, who, Catesby thought, had had some suspicion
of what his master was about. These three had all suffered more or less for
their religion in Elizabeth&rsquo;s time. And now, they all began to dig again,
and they dug and dug by night and by day.
</p>

<p>
They found it dismal work alone there, underground, with such a fearful secret
on their minds, and so many murders before them. They were filled with wild
fancies. Sometimes, they thought they heard a great bell tolling, deep down in
the earth under the Parliament House; sometimes, they thought they heard low
voices muttering about the Gunpowder Plot; once in the morning, they really did
hear a great rumbling noise over their heads, as they dug and sweated in their
mine. Every man stopped and looked aghast at his neighbour, wondering what had
happened, when that bold prowler, Fawkes, who had been out to look, came in and
told them that it was only a dealer in coals who had occupied a cellar under
the Parliament House, removing his stock in trade to some other place. Upon
this, the conspirators, who with all their digging and digging had not yet dug
through the tremendously thick wall, changed their plan; hired that cellar,
which was directly under the House of Lords; put six-and-thirty barrels of
gunpowder in it, and covered them over with fagots and coals. Then they all
dispersed again till September, when the following new conspirators were
admitted; <span class="smcap">Sir Edward Baynham</span>, of Gloucestershire;
<span class="smcap">Sir Everard Digby</span>, of Rutlandshire; <span
class="smcap">Ambrose Rookwood</span>, of Suffolk; <span class="smcap">Francis
Tresham</span>, of Northamptonshire. Most of these were rich, and were to
assist the plot, some with money and some with horses on which the conspirators
were to ride through the country and rouse the Catholics after the Parliament
should be blown into air.
</p>

<p>
Parliament being again prorogued from the third of October to the fifth of
November, and the conspirators being uneasy lest their design should have been
found out, Thomas Winter said he would go up into the House of Lords on the day
of the prorogation, and see how matters looked. Nothing could be better. The
unconscious Commissioners were walking about and talking to one another, just
over the six-and-thirty barrels of gunpowder. He came back and told the rest
so, and they went on with their preparations. They hired a ship, and kept it
ready in the Thames, in which Fawkes was to sail for Flanders after firing with
a slow match the train that was to explode the powder. A number of Catholic
gentlemen not in the secret, were invited, on pretence of a hunting party, to
meet Sir Everard Digby at Dunchurch on the fatal day, that they might be ready
to act together. And now all was ready.
</p>

<p>
But, now, the great wickedness and danger which had been all along at the
bottom of this wicked plot, began to show itself. As the fifth of November drew
near, most of the conspirators, remembering that they had friends and relations
who would be in the House of Lords that day, felt some natural relenting, and a
wish to warn them to keep away. They were not much comforted by Catesby&rsquo;s
declaring that in such a cause he would blow up his own son. <span
class="smcap">Lord Mounteagle</span>, Tresham&rsquo;s brother-in-law, was
certain to be in the house; and when Tresham found that he could not prevail
upon the rest to devise any means of sparing their friends, he wrote a
mysterious letter to this lord and left it at his lodging in the dusk, urging
him to keep away from the opening of Parliament, &lsquo;since God and man had
concurred to punish the wickedness of the times.&rsquo; It contained the words
&lsquo;that the Parliament should receive a terrible blow, and yet should not
see who hurt them.&rsquo; And it added, &lsquo;the danger is past, as soon as
you have burnt the letter.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
The ministers and courtiers made out that his Sowship, by a direct miracle from
Heaven, found out what this letter meant. The truth is, that they were not long
(as few men would be) in finding out for themselves; and it was decided to let
the conspirators alone, until the very day before the opening of Parliament.
That the conspirators had their fears, is certain; for, Tresham himself said
before them all, that they were every one dead men; and, although even he did
not take flight, there is reason to suppose that he had warned other persons
besides Lord Mounteagle. However, they were all firm; and Fawkes, who was a man
of iron, went down every day and night to keep watch in the cellar as usual. He
was there about two in the afternoon of the fourth, when the Lord Chamberlain
and Lord Mounteagle threw open the door and looked in. &lsquo;Who are you,
friend?&rsquo; said they. &lsquo;Why,&rsquo; said Fawkes, &lsquo;I am Mr.
Percy&rsquo;s servant, and am looking after his store of fuel here.&rsquo;
&lsquo;Your master has laid in a pretty good store,&rsquo; they returned, and
shut the door, and went away. Fawkes, upon this, posted off to the other
conspirators to tell them all was quiet, and went back and shut himself up in
the dark, black cellar again, where he heard the bell go twelve o&rsquo;clock
and usher in the fifth of November. About two hours afterwards, he slowly
opened the door, and came out to look about him, in his old prowling way. He
was instantly seized and bound, by a party of soldiers under <span
class="smcap">Sir Thomas Knevett</span>. He had a watch upon him, some
touchwood, some tinder, some slow matches; and there was a dark lantern with a
candle in it, lighted, behind the door. He had his boots and spurs on&mdash;to
ride to the ship, I suppose&mdash;and it was well for the soldiers that they
took him so suddenly. If they had left him but a moment&rsquo;s time to light a
match, he certainly would have tossed it in among the powder, and blown up
himself and them.
</p>

<p>
They took him to the King&rsquo;s bed-chamber first of all, and there the King
(causing him to be held very tight, and keeping a good way off), asked him how
he could have the heart to intend to destroy so many innocent people?
&lsquo;Because,&rsquo; said Guy Fawkes, &lsquo;desperate diseases need
desperate remedies.&rsquo; To a little Scotch favourite, with a face like a
terrier, who asked him (with no particular wisdom) why he had collected so much
gunpowder, he replied, because he had meant to blow Scotchmen back to Scotland,
and it would take a deal of powder to do that. Next day he was carried to the
Tower, but would make no confession. Even after being horribly tortured, he
confessed nothing that the Government did not already know; though he must have
been in a fearful state&mdash;as his signature, still preserved, in contrast
with his natural hand-writing before he was put upon the dreadful rack, most
frightfully shows. Bates, a very different man, soon said the Jesuits had had
to do with the plot, and probably, under the torture, would as readily have
said anything. Tresham, taken and put in the Tower too, made confessions and
unmade them, and died of an illness that was heavy upon him. Rookwood, who had
stationed relays of his own horses all the way to Dunchurch, did not mount to
escape until the middle of the day, when the news of the plot was all over
London. On the road, he came up with the two Wrights, Catesby, and Percy; and
they all galloped together into Northamptonshire. Thence to Dunchurch, where
they found the proposed party assembled. Finding, however, that there had been
a plot, and that it had been discovered, the party disappeared in the course of
the night, and left them alone with Sir Everard Digby. Away they all rode
again, through Warwickshire and Worcestershire, to a house called Holbeach, on
the borders of Staffordshire. They tried to raise the Catholics on their way,
but were indignantly driven off by them. All this time they were hotly pursued
by the sheriff of Worcester, and a fast increasing concourse of riders. At
last, resolving to defend themselves at Holbeach, they shut themselves up in
the house, and put some wet powder before the fire to dry. But it blew up, and
Catesby was singed and blackened, and almost killed, and some of the others
were sadly hurt. Still, knowing that they must die, they resolved to die there,
and with only their swords in their hands appeared at the windows to be shot at
by the sheriff and his assistants. Catesby said to Thomas Winter, after Thomas
had been hit in the right arm which dropped powerless by his side, &lsquo;Stand
by me, Tom, and we will die together!&rsquo;&mdash;which they did, being shot
through the body by two bullets from one gun. John Wright, and Christopher
Wright, and Percy, were also shot. Rookwood and Digby were taken: the former
with a broken arm and a wound in his body too.
</p>

<p>
It was the fifteenth of January, before the trial of Guy Fawkes, and such of
the other conspirators as were left alive, came on. They were all found guilty,
all hanged, drawn, and quartered: some, in St. Paul&rsquo;s Churchyard, on the
top of Ludgate-hill; some, before the Parliament House. A Jesuit priest, named
<span class="smcap">Henry Garnet</span>, to whom the dreadful design was said
to have been communicated, was taken and tried; and two of his servants, as
well as a poor priest who was taken with him, were tortured without mercy. He
himself was not tortured, but was surrounded in the Tower by tamperers and
traitors, and so was made unfairly to convict himself out of his own mouth. He
said, upon his trial, that he had done all he could to prevent the deed, and
that he could not make public what had been told him in confession&mdash;though
I am afraid he knew of the plot in other ways. He was found guilty and
executed, after a manful defence, and the Catholic Church made a saint of him;
some rich and powerful persons, who had had nothing to do with the project,
were fined and imprisoned for it by the Star Chamber; the Catholics, in
general, who had recoiled with horror from the idea of the infernal
contrivance, were unjustly put under more severe laws than before; and this was
the end of the Gunpowder Plot.
</p>

<h3>SECOND PART</h3>

<p>
His Sowship would pretty willingly, I think, have blown the House of Commons
into the air himself; for, his dread and jealousy of it knew no bounds all
through his reign. When he was hard pressed for money he was obliged to order
it to meet, as he could get no money without it; and when it asked him first to
abolish some of the monopolies in necessaries of life which were a great
grievance to the people, and to redress other public wrongs, he flew into a
rage and got rid of it again. At one time he wanted it to consent to the Union
of England with Scotland, and quarrelled about that. At another time it wanted
him to put down a most infamous Church abuse, called the High Commission Court,
and he quarrelled with it about that. At another time it entreated him not to
be quite so fond of his archbishops and bishops who made speeches in his praise
too awful to be related, but to have some little consideration for the poor
Puritan clergy who were persecuted for preaching in their own way, and not
according to the archbishops and bishops; and they quarrelled about that. In
short, what with hating the House of Commons, and pretending not to hate it;
and what with now sending some of its members who opposed him, to Newgate or to
the Tower, and now telling the rest that they must not presume to make speeches
about the public affairs which could not possibly concern them; and what with
cajoling, and bullying, and fighting, and being frightened; the House of
Commons was the plague of his Sowship&rsquo;s existence. It was pretty firm,
however, in maintaining its rights, and insisting that the Parliament should
make the laws, and not the King by his own single proclamations (which he tried
hard to do); and his Sowship was so often distressed for money, in consequence,
that he sold every sort of title and public office as if they were merchandise,
and even invented a new dignity called a Baronetcy, which anybody could buy for
a thousand pounds.
</p>

<p>
These disputes with his Parliaments, and his hunting, and his drinking, and his
lying in bed&mdash;for he was a great sluggard&mdash;occupied his Sowship
pretty well. The rest of his time he chiefly passed in hugging and slobbering
his favourites. The first of these was <span class="smcap">Sir Philip
Herbert</span>, who had no knowledge whatever, except of dogs, and horses, and
hunting, but whom he soon made <span class="smcap">Earl of Montgomery</span>.
The next, and a much more famous one, was <span class="smcap">Robert
Carr</span>, or <span class="smcap">Ker</span> (for it is not certain which was
his right name), who came from the Border country, and whom he soon made <span
class="smcap">Viscount Rochester</span>, and afterwards, <span
class="smcap">Earl of Somerset</span>. The way in which his Sowship doted on
this handsome young man, is even more odious to think of, than the way in which
the really great men of England condescended to bow down before him. The
favourite&rsquo;s great friend was a certain <span class="smcap">Sir Thomas
Overbury</span>, who wrote his love-letters for him, and assisted him in the
duties of his many high places, which his own ignorance prevented him from
discharging. But this same Sir Thomas having just manhood enough to dissuade
the favourite from a wicked marriage with the beautiful Countess of Essex, who
was to get a divorce from her husband for the purpose, the said Countess, in
her rage, got Sir Thomas put into the Tower, and there poisoned him. Then the
favourite and this bad woman were publicly married by the King&rsquo;s pet
bishop, with as much to-do and rejoicing, as if he had been the best man, and
she the best woman, upon the face of the earth.
</p>

<p>
But, after a longer sunshine than might have been expected&mdash;of seven years
or so, that is to say&mdash;another handsome young man started up and eclipsed
the <span class="smcap">Earl of Somerset</span>. This was <span
class="smcap">George Villiers</span>, the youngest son of a Leicestershire
gentleman: who came to Court with all the Paris fashions on him, and could
dance as well as the best mountebank that ever was seen. He soon danced himself
into the good graces of his Sowship, and danced the other favourite out of
favour. Then, it was all at once discovered that the Earl and Countess of
Somerset had not deserved all those great promotions and mighty rejoicings, and
they were separately tried for the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury, and for other
crimes. But, the King was so afraid of his late favourite&rsquo;s publicly
telling some disgraceful things he knew of him&mdash;which he darkly threatened
to do&mdash;that he was even examined with two men standing, one on either side
of him, each with a cloak in his hand, ready to throw it over his head and stop
his mouth if he should break out with what he had it in his power to tell. So,
a very lame affair was purposely made of the trial, and his punishment was an
allowance of four thousand pounds a year in retirement, while the Countess was
pardoned, and allowed to pass into retirement too. They hated one another by
this time, and lived to revile and torment each other some years.
</p>

<p>
While these events were in progress, and while his Sowship was making such an
exhibition of himself, from day to day and from year to year, as is not often
seen in any sty, three remarkable deaths took place in England. The first was
that of the Minister, Robert Cecil, Earl of Salisbury, who was past sixty, and
had never been strong, being deformed from his birth. He said at last that he
had no wish to live; and no Minister need have had, with his experience of the
meanness and wickedness of those disgraceful times. The second was that of the
Lady Arabella Stuart, who alarmed his Sowship mightily, by privately marrying
<span class="smcap">William Seymour</span>, son of <span class="smcap">Lord
Beauchamp</span>, who was a descendant of King Henry the Seventh, and who, his
Sowship thought, might consequently increase and strengthen any claim she might
one day set up to the throne. She was separated from her husband (who was put
in the Tower) and thrust into a boat to be confined at Durham. She escaped in a
man&rsquo;s dress to get away in a French ship from Gravesend to France, but
unhappily missed her husband, who had escaped too, and was soon taken. She went
raving mad in the miserable Tower, and died there after four years. The last,
and the most important of these three deaths, was that of Prince Henry, the
heir to the throne, in the nineteenth year of his age. He was a promising young
prince, and greatly liked; a quiet, well-conducted youth, of whom two very good
things are known: first, that his father was jealous of him; secondly, that he
was the friend of Sir Walter Raleigh, languishing through all those years in
the Tower, and often said that no man but his father would keep such a bird in
such a cage. On the occasion of the preparations for the marriage of his sister
the Princess Elizabeth with a foreign prince (and an unhappy marriage it turned
out), he came from Richmond, where he had been very ill, to greet his new
brother-in-law, at the palace at Whitehall. There he played a great game at
tennis, in his shirt, though it was very cold weather, and was seized with an
alarming illness, and died within a fortnight of a putrid fever. For this young
prince Sir Walter Raleigh wrote, in his prison in the Tower, the beginning of a
History of the World: a wonderful instance how little his Sowship could do to
confine a great man&rsquo;s mind, however long he might imprison his body.
</p>

<p>
And this mention of Sir Walter Raleigh, who had many faults, but who never
showed so many merits as in trouble and adversity, may bring me at once to the
end of his sad story. After an imprisonment in the Tower of twelve long years,
he proposed to resume those old sea voyages of his, and to go to South America
in search of gold. His Sowship, divided between his wish to be on good terms
with the Spaniards through whose territory Sir Walter must pass (he had long
had an idea of marrying Prince Henry to a Spanish Princess), and his avaricious
eagerness to get hold of the gold, did not know what to do. But, in the end, he
set Sir Walter free, taking securities for his return; and Sir Walter fitted
out an expedition at his own coast and, on the twenty-eighth of March, one
thousand six hundred and seventeen, sailed away in command of one of its ships,
which he ominously called the Destiny. The expedition failed; the common men,
not finding the gold they had expected, mutinied; a quarrel broke out between
Sir Walter and the Spaniards, who hated him for old successes of his against
them; and he took and burnt a little town called <span class="smcap">Saint
Thomas</span>. For this he was denounced to his Sowship by the Spanish
Ambassador as a pirate; and returning almost broken-hearted, with his hopes and
fortunes shattered, his company of friends dispersed, and his brave son (who
had been one of them) killed, he was taken&mdash;through the treachery of <span
class="smcap">Sir Lewis Stukely</span>, his near relation, a scoundrel and a
Vice-Admiral&mdash;and was once again immured in his prison-home of so many
years.
</p>

<p>
His Sowship being mightily disappointed in not getting any gold, Sir Walter
Raleigh was tried as unfairly, and with as many lies and evasions as the judges
and law officers and every other authority in Church and State habitually
practised under such a King. After a great deal of prevarication on all parts
but his own, it was declared that he must die under his former sentence, now
fifteen years old. So, on the twenty-eighth of October, one thousand six
hundred and eighteen, he was shut up in the Gate House at Westminster to pass
his late night on earth, and there he took leave of his good and faithful lady
who was worthy to have lived in better days. At eight o&rsquo;clock next
morning, after a cheerful breakfast, and a pipe, and a cup of good wine, he was
taken to Old Palace Yard in Westminster, where the scaffold was set up, and
where so many people of high degree were assembled to see him die, that it was
a matter of some difficulty to get him through the crowd. He behaved most
nobly, but if anything lay heavy on his mind, it was that Earl of Essex, whose
head he had seen roll off; and he solemnly said that he had had no hand in
bringing him to the block, and that he had shed tears for him when he died. As
the morning was very cold, the Sheriff said, would he come down to a fire for a
little space, and warm himself? But Sir Walter thanked him, and said no, he
would rather it were done at once, for he was ill of fever and ague, and in
another quarter of an hour his shaking fit would come upon him if he were still
alive, and his enemies might then suppose that he trembled for fear. With that,
he kneeled and made a very beautiful and Christian prayer. Before he laid his
head upon the block he felt the edge of the axe, and said, with a smile upon
his face, that it was a sharp medicine, but would cure the worst disease. When
he was bent down ready for death, he said to the executioner, finding that he
hesitated, &lsquo;What dost thou fear? Strike, man!&rsquo; So, the axe came
down and struck his head off, in the sixty-sixth year of his age.
</p>

<p>
The new favourite got on fast. He was made a viscount, he was made Duke of
Buckingham, he was made a marquis, he was made Master of the Horse, he was made
Lord High Admiral&mdash;and the Chief Commander of the gallant English forces
that had dispersed the Spanish Armada, was displaced to make room for him. He
had the whole kingdom at his disposal, and his mother sold all the profits and
honours of the State, as if she had kept a shop. He blazed all over with
diamonds and other precious stones, from his hatband and his earrings to his
shoes. Yet he was an ignorant presumptuous, swaggering compound of knave and
fool, with nothing but his beauty and his dancing to recommend him. This is the
gentleman who called himself his Majesty&rsquo;s dog and slave, and called his
Majesty Your Sowship. His Sowship called him <span
class="smcap">Steenie</span>; it is supposed, because that was a nickname for
Stephen, and because St. Stephen was generally represented in pictures as a
handsome saint.
</p>

<p>
His Sowship was driven sometimes to his wits&rsquo;-end by his trimming between
the general dislike of the Catholic religion at home, and his desire to wheedle
and flatter it abroad, as his only means of getting a rich princess for his
son&rsquo;s wife: a part of whose fortune he might cram into his greasy
pockets. Prince Charles&mdash;or as his Sowship called him, Baby
Charles&mdash;being now <span class="smcap">Prince of Wales</span>, the old
project of a marriage with the Spanish King&rsquo;s daughter had been revived
for him; and as she could not marry a Protestant without leave from the Pope,
his Sowship himself secretly and meanly wrote to his Infallibility, asking for
it. The negotiation for this Spanish marriage takes up a larger space in great
books, than you can imagine, but the upshot of it all is, that when it had been
held off by the Spanish Court for a long time, Baby Charles and Steenie set off
in disguise as Mr. Thomas Smith and Mr. John Smith, to see the Spanish
Princess; that Baby Charles pretended to be desperately in love with her, and
jumped off walls to look at her, and made a considerable fool of himself in a
good many ways; that she was called Princess of Wales and that the whole
Spanish Court believed Baby Charles to be all but dying for her sake, as he
expressly told them he was; that Baby Charles and Steenie came back to England,
and were received with as much rapture as if they had been a blessing to it;
that Baby Charles had actually fallen in love with <span
class="smcap">Henrietta Maria</span>, the French King&rsquo;s sister, whom he
had seen in Paris; that he thought it a wonderfully fine and princely thing to
have deceived the Spaniards, all through; and that he openly said, with a
chuckle, as soon as he was safe and sound at home again, that the Spaniards
were great fools to have believed him.
</p>

<p>
Like most dishonest men, the Prince and the favourite complained that the
people whom they had deluded were dishonest. They made such misrepresentations
of the treachery of the Spaniards in this business of the Spanish match, that
the English nation became eager for a war with them. Although the gravest
Spaniards laughed at the idea of his Sowship in a warlike attitude, the
Parliament granted money for the beginning of hostilities, and the treaties
with Spain were publicly declared to be at an end. The Spanish ambassador in
London&mdash;probably with the help of the fallen favourite, the Earl of
Somerset&mdash;being unable to obtain speech with his Sowship, slipped a paper
into his hand, declaring that he was a prisoner in his own house, and was
entirely governed by Buckingham and his creatures. The first effect of this
letter was that his Sowship began to cry and whine, and took Baby Charles away
from Steenie, and went down to Windsor, gabbling all sorts of nonsense. The end
of it was that his Sowship hugged his dog and slave, and said he was quite
satisfied.
</p>

<p>
He had given the Prince and the favourite almost unlimited power to settle
anything with the Pope as to the Spanish marriage; and he now, with a view to
the French one, signed a treaty that all Roman Catholics in England should
exercise their religion freely, and should never be required to take any oath
contrary thereto. In return for this, and for other concessions much less to be
defended, Henrietta Maria was to become the Prince&rsquo;s wife, and was to
bring him a fortune of eight hundred thousand crowns.
</p>

<p>
His Sowship&rsquo;s eyes were getting red with eagerly looking for the money,
when the end of a gluttonous life came upon him; and, after a fortnight&rsquo;s
illness, on Sunday the twenty-seventh of March, one thousand six hundred and
twenty-five, he died. He had reigned twenty-two years, and was fifty-nine years
old. I know of nothing more abominable in history than the adulation that was
lavished on this King, and the vice and corruption that such a barefaced habit
of lying produced in his court. It is much to be doubted whether one man of
honour, and not utterly self-disgraced, kept his place near James the First.
Lord Bacon, that able and wise philosopher, as the First Judge in the Kingdom
in this reign, became a public spectacle of dishonesty and corruption; and in
his base flattery of his Sowship, and in his crawling servility to his dog and
slave, disgraced himself even more. But, a creature like his Sowship set upon a
throne is like the Plague, and everybody receives infection from him.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap33"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER CHARLES THE FIRST</h2>

<p>
Baby Charles became <span class="smcap">King Charles the First</span>, in the
twenty-fifth year of his age. Unlike his father, he was usually amiable in his
private character, and grave and dignified in his bearing; but, like his
father, he had monstrously exaggerated notions of the rights of a king, and was
evasive, and not to be trusted. If his word could have been relied upon, his
history might have had a different end.
</p>

<p>
His first care was to send over that insolent upstart, Buckingham, to bring
Henrietta Maria from Paris to be his Queen; upon which occasion
Buckingham&mdash;with his usual audacity&mdash;made love to the young Queen of
Austria, and was very indignant indeed with <span class="smcap">Cardinal
Richelieu</span>, the French Minister, for thwarting his intentions. The
English people were very well disposed to like their new Queen, and to receive
her with great favour when she came among them as a stranger. But, she held the
Protestant religion in great dislike, and brought over a crowd of unpleasant
priests, who made her do some very ridiculous things, and forced themselves
upon the public notice in many disagreeable ways. Hence, the people soon came
to dislike her, and she soon came to dislike them; and she did so much all
through this reign in setting the King (who was dotingly fond of her) against
his subjects, that it would have been better for him if she had never been
born.
</p>

<p>
Now, you are to understand that King Charles the First&mdash;of his own
determination to be a high and mighty King not to be called to account by
anybody, and urged on by his Queen besides&mdash;deliberately set himself to
put his Parliament down and to put himself up. You are also to understand, that
even in pursuit of this wrong idea (enough in itself to have ruined any king)
he never took a straight course, but always took a crooked one.
</p>

<p>
He was bent upon war with Spain, though neither the House of Commons nor the
people were quite clear as to the justice of that war, now that they began to
think a little more about the story of the Spanish match. But the King rushed
into it hotly, raised money by illegal means to meet its expenses, and
encountered a miserable failure at Cadiz, in the very first year of his reign.
An expedition to Cadiz had been made in the hope of plunder, but as it was not
successful, it was necessary to get a grant of money from the Parliament; and
when they met, in no very complying humour, the King told them, &lsquo;to make
haste to let him have it, or it would be the worse for themselves.&rsquo; Not
put in a more complying humour by this, they impeached the King&rsquo;s
favourite, the Duke of Buckingham, as the cause (which he undoubtedly was) of
many great public grievances and wrongs. The King, to save him, dissolved the
Parliament without getting the money he wanted; and when the Lords implored him
to consider and grant a little delay, he replied, &lsquo;No, not one
minute.&rsquo; He then began to raise money for himself by the following means
among others.
</p>

<p>
He levied certain duties called tonnage and poundage which had not been granted
by the Parliament, and could lawfully be levied by no other power; he called
upon the seaport towns to furnish, and to pay all the cost for three months of,
a fleet of armed ships; and he required the people to unite in lending him
large sums of money, the repayment of which was very doubtful. If the poor
people refused, they were pressed as soldiers or sailors; if the gentry
refused, they were sent to prison. Five gentlemen, named <span
class="smcap">Sir Thomas Darnel</span>, <span class="smcap">John Corbet</span>,
<span class="smcap">Walter Earl</span>, <span class="smcap">John
Heveningham</span>, and <span class="smcap">Everard Hampden</span>, for
refusing were taken up by a warrant of the King&rsquo;s privy council, and were
sent to prison without any cause but the King&rsquo;s pleasure being stated for
their imprisonment. Then the question came to be solemnly tried, whether this
was not a violation of Magna Charta, and an encroachment by the King on the
highest rights of the English people. His lawyers contended No, because to
encroach upon the rights of the English people would be to do wrong, and the
King could do no wrong. The accommodating judges decided in favour of this
wicked nonsense; and here was a fatal division between the King and the people.
</p>

<p>
For all this, it became necessary to call another Parliament. The people,
sensible of the danger in which their liberties were, chose for it those who
were best known for their determined opposition to the King; but still the
King, quite blinded by his determination to carry everything before him,
addressed them when they met, in a contemptuous manner, and just told them in
so many words that he had only called them together because he wanted money.
The Parliament, strong enough and resolute enough to know that they would lower
his tone, cared little for what he said, and laid before him one of the great
documents of history, which is called the <span class="smcap">Petition of
Right</span>, requiring that the free men of England should no longer be called
upon to lend the King money, and should no longer be pressed or imprisoned for
refusing to do so; further, that the free men of England should no longer be
seized by the King&rsquo;s special mandate or warrant, it being contrary to
their rights and liberties and the laws of their country. At first the King
returned an answer to this petition, in which he tried to shirk it altogether;
but, the House of Commons then showing their determination to go on with the
impeachment of Buckingham, the King in alarm returned an answer, giving his
consent to all that was required of him. He not only afterwards departed from
his word and honour on these points, over and over again, but, at this very
time, he did the mean and dissembling act of publishing his first answer and
not his second&mdash;merely that the people might suppose that the Parliament
had not got the better of him.
</p>

<p>
That pestilent Buckingham, to gratify his own wounded vanity, had by this time
involved the country in war with France, as well as with Spain. For such
miserable causes and such miserable creatures are wars sometimes made! But he
was destined to do little more mischief in this world. One morning, as he was
going out of his house to his carriage, he turned to speak to a certain Colonel
<span class="smcap">Fryer</span> who was with him; and he was violently stabbed
with a knife, which the murderer left sticking in his heart. This happened in
his hall. He had had angry words up-stairs, just before, with some French
gentlemen, who were immediately suspected by his servants, and had a close
escape from being set upon and killed. In the midst of the noise, the real
murderer, who had gone to the kitchen and might easily have got away, drew his
sword and cried out, &lsquo;I am the man!&rsquo; His name was <span
class="smcap">John Felton</span>, a Protestant and a retired officer in the
army. He said he had had no personal ill-will to the Duke, but had killed him
as a curse to the country. He had aimed his blow well, for Buckingham had only
had time to cry out, &lsquo;Villain!&rsquo; and then he drew out the knife,
fell against a table, and died.
</p>

<p>
The council made a mighty business of examining John Felton about this murder,
though it was a plain case enough, one would think. He had come seventy miles
to do it, he told them, and he did it for the reason he had declared; if they
put him upon the rack, as that noble <span class="smcap">Marquis of
Dorset</span> whom he saw before him, had the goodness to threaten, he gave
that marquis warning, that he would accuse <i>him</i> as his accomplice! The
King was unpleasantly anxious to have him racked, nevertheless; but as the
judges now found out that torture was contrary to the law of England&mdash;it
is a pity they did not make the discovery a little sooner&mdash;John Felton was
simply executed for the murder he had done. A murder it undoubtedly was, and
not in the least to be defended: though he had freed England from one of the
most profligate, contemptible, and base court favourites to whom it has ever
yielded.
</p>

<p>
A very different man now arose. This was <span class="smcap">Sir Thomas
Wentworth</span>, a Yorkshire gentleman, who had sat in Parliament for a long
time, and who had favoured arbitrary and haughty principles, but who had gone
over to the people&rsquo;s side on receiving offence from Buckingham. The King,
much wanting such a man&mdash;for, besides being naturally favourable to the
King&rsquo;s cause, he had great abilities&mdash;made him first a Baron, and
then a Viscount, and gave him high employment, and won him most completely.
</p>

<p>
A Parliament, however, was still in existence, and was <i>not</i> to be won. On
the twentieth of January, one thousand six hundred and twenty-nine, <span
class="smcap">Sir John Eliot</span>, a great man who had been active in the
Petition of Right, brought forward other strong resolutions against the
King&rsquo;s chief instruments, and called upon the Speaker to put them to the
vote. To this the Speaker answered, &lsquo;he was commanded otherwise by the
King,&rsquo; and got up to leave the chair&mdash;which, according to the rules
of the House of Commons would have obliged it to adjourn without doing anything
more&mdash;when two members, named Mr. <span class="smcap">Hollis</span> and
Mr. <span class="smcap">Valentine</span>, held him down. A scene of great
confusion arose among the members; and while many swords were drawn and
flashing about, the King, who was kept informed of all that was going on, told
the captain of his guard to go down to the House and force the doors. The
resolutions were by that time, however, voted, and the House adjourned. Sir
John Eliot and those two members who had held the Speaker down, were quickly
summoned before the council. As they claimed it to be their privilege not to
answer out of Parliament for anything they had said in it, they were committed
to the Tower. The King then went down and dissolved the Parliament, in a speech
wherein he made mention of these gentlemen as &lsquo;Vipers&rsquo;&mdash;which
did not do him much good that ever I have heard of.
</p>

<p>
As they refused to gain their liberty by saying they were sorry for what they
had done, the King, always remarkably unforgiving, never overlooked their
offence. When they demanded to be brought up before the court of King&rsquo;s
Bench, he even resorted to the meanness of having them moved about from prison
to prison, so that the writs issued for that purpose should not legally find
them. At last they came before the court and were sentenced to heavy fines, and
to be imprisoned during the King&rsquo;s pleasure. When Sir John Eliot&rsquo;s
health had quite given way, and he so longed for change of air and scene as to
petition for his release, the King sent back the answer (worthy of his Sowship
himself) that the petition was not humble enough. When he sent another petition
by his young son, in which he pathetically offered to go back to prison when
his health was restored, if he might be released for its recovery, the King
still disregarded it. When he died in the Tower, and his children petitioned to
be allowed to take his body down to Cornwall, there to lay it among the ashes
of his forefathers, the King returned for answer, &lsquo;Let Sir John
Eliot&rsquo;s body be buried in the church of that parish where he died.&rsquo;
All this was like a very little King indeed, I think.
</p>

<p>
And now, for twelve long years, steadily pursuing his design of setting himself
up and putting the people down, the King called no Parliament; but ruled
without one. If twelve thousand volumes were written in his praise (as a good
many have been) it would still remain a fact, impossible to be denied, that for
twelve years King Charles the First reigned in England unlawfully and
despotically, seized upon his subjects&rsquo; goods and money at his pleasure,
and punished according to his unbridled will all who ventured to oppose him. It
is a fashion with some people to think that this King&rsquo;s career was cut
short; but I must say myself that I think he ran a pretty long one.
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">William Laud</span>, Archbishop of Canterbury, was the
King&rsquo;s right-hand man in the religious part of the putting down of the
people&rsquo;s liberties. Laud, who was a sincere man, of large learning but
small sense&mdash;for the two things sometimes go together in very different
quantities&mdash;though a Protestant, held opinions so near those of the
Catholics, that the Pope wanted to make a Cardinal of him, if he would have
accepted that favour. He looked upon vows, robes, lighted candles, images, and
so forth, as amazingly important in religious ceremonies; and he brought in an
immensity of bowing and candle-snuffing. He also regarded archbishops and
bishops as a sort of miraculous persons, and was inveterate in the last degree
against any who thought otherwise. Accordingly, he offered up thanks to Heaven,
and was in a state of much pious pleasure, when a Scotch clergyman, named <span
class="smcap">Leighton</span>, was pilloried, whipped, branded in the cheek,
and had one of his ears cut off and one of his nostrils slit, for calling
bishops trumpery and the inventions of men. He originated on a Sunday morning
the prosecution of <span class="smcap">William Prynne</span>, a barrister who
was of similar opinions, and who was fined a thousand pounds; who was
pilloried; who had his ears cut off on two occasions&mdash;one ear at a
time&mdash;and who was imprisoned for life. He highly approved of the
punishment of <span class="smcap">Doctor Bastwick</span>, a physician; who was
also fined a thousand pounds; and who afterwards had <i>his</i> ears cut off,
and was imprisoned for life. These were gentle methods of persuasion, some will
tell you: I think, they were rather calculated to be alarming to the people.
</p>

<p>
In the money part of the putting down of the people&rsquo;s liberties, the King
was equally gentle, as some will tell you: as I think, equally alarming. He
levied those duties of tonnage and poundage, and increased them as he thought
fit. He granted monopolies to companies of merchants on their paying him for
them, notwithstanding the great complaints that had, for years and years, been
made on the subject of monopolies. He fined the people for disobeying
proclamations issued by his Sowship in direct violation of law. He revived the
detested Forest laws, and took private property to himself as his forest right.
Above all, he determined to have what was called Ship Money; that is to say,
money for the support of the fleet&mdash;not only from the seaports, but from
all the counties of England: having found out that, in some ancient time or
other, all the counties paid it. The grievance of this ship money being
somewhat too strong, <span class="smcap">John Chambers</span>, a citizen of
London, refused to pay his part of it. For this the Lord Mayor ordered John
Chambers to prison, and for that John Chambers brought a suit against the Lord
Mayor. <span class="smcap">Lord Say</span>, also, behaved like a real nobleman,
and declared he would not pay. But, the sturdiest and best opponent of the ship
money was <span class="smcap">John Hampden</span>, a gentleman of
Buckinghamshire, who had sat among the &lsquo;vipers&rsquo; in the House of
Commons when there was such a thing, and who had been the bosom friend of Sir
John Eliot. This case was tried before the twelve judges in the Court of
Exchequer, and again the King&rsquo;s lawyers said it was impossible that ship
money could be wrong, because the King could do no wrong, however hard he
tried&mdash;and he really did try very hard during these twelve years. Seven of
the judges said that was quite true, and Mr. Hampden was bound to pay: five of
the judges said that was quite false, and Mr. Hampden was not bound to pay. So,
the King triumphed (as he thought), by making Hampden the most popular man in
England; where matters were getting to that height now, that many honest
Englishmen could not endure their country, and sailed away across the seas to
found a colony in Massachusetts Bay in America. It is said that Hampden himself
and his relation <span class="smcap">Oliver Cromwell</span> were going with a
company of such voyagers, and were actually on board ship, when they were
stopped by a proclamation, prohibiting sea captains to carry out such
passengers without the royal license. But O! it would have been well for the
King if he had let them go! This was the state of England. If Laud had been a
madman just broke loose, he could not have done more mischief than he did in
Scotland. In his endeavours (in which he was seconded by the King, then in
person in that part of his dominions) to force his own ideas of bishops, and
his own religious forms and ceremonies upon the Scotch, he roused that nation
to a perfect frenzy. They formed a solemn league, which they called The
Covenant, for the preservation of their own religious forms; they rose in arms
throughout the whole country; they summoned all their men to prayers and
sermons twice a day by beat of drum; they sang psalms, in which they compared
their enemies to all the evil spirits that ever were heard of; and they
solemnly vowed to smite them with the sword. At first the King tried force,
then treaty, then a Scottish Parliament which did not answer at all. Then he
tried the <span class="smcap">Earl of Strafford</span>, formerly Sir Thomas
Wentworth; who, as <span class="smcap">Lord Wentworth</span>, had been
governing Ireland. He, too, had carried it with a very high hand there, though
to the benefit and prosperity of that country.
</p>

<p>
Strafford and Laud were for conquering the Scottish people by force of arms.
Other lords who were taken into council, recommended that a Parliament should
at last be called; to which the King unwillingly consented. So, on the
thirteenth of April, one thousand six hundred and forty, that then strange
sight, a Parliament, was seen at Westminster. It is called the Short
Parliament, for it lasted a very little while. While the members were all
looking at one another, doubtful who would dare to speak, <span
class="smcap">Mr. Pym</span> arose and set forth all that the King had done
unlawfully during the past twelve years, and what was the position to which
England was reduced. This great example set, other members took courage and
spoke the truth freely, though with great patience and moderation. The King, a
little frightened, sent to say that if they would grant him a certain sum on
certain terms, no more ship money should be raised. They debated the matter for
two days; and then, as they would not give him all he asked without promise or
inquiry, he dissolved them.
</p>

<p>
But they knew very well that he must have a Parliament now; and he began to
make that discovery too, though rather late in the day. Wherefore, on the
twenty-fourth of September, being then at York with an army collected against
the Scottish people, but his own men sullen and discontented like the rest of
the nation, the King told the great council of the Lords, whom he had called to
meet him there, that he would summon another Parliament to assemble on the
third of November. The soldiers of the Covenant had now forced their way into
England and had taken possession of the northern counties, where the coals are
got. As it would never do to be without coals, and as the King&rsquo;s troops
could make no head against the Covenanters so full of gloomy zeal, a truce was
made, and a treaty with Scotland was taken into consideration. Meanwhile the
northern counties paid the Covenanters to leave the coals alone, and keep
quiet.
</p>

<p>
We have now disposed of the Short Parliament. We have next to see what
memorable things were done by the Long one.
</p>

<h3>SECOND PART</h3>

<p>
The Long Parliament assembled on the third of November, one thousand six
hundred and forty-one. That day week the Earl of Strafford arrived from York,
very sensible that the spirited and determined men who formed that Parliament
were no friends towards him, who had not only deserted the cause of the people,
but who had on all occasions opposed himself to their liberties. The King told
him, for his comfort, that the Parliament &lsquo;should not hurt one hair of
his head.&rsquo; But, on the very next day Mr. Pym, in the House of Commons,
and with great solemnity, impeached the Earl of Strafford as a traitor. He was
immediately taken into custody and fell from his proud height.
</p>

<p>
It was the twenty-second of March before he was brought to trial in Westminster
Hall; where, although he was very ill and suffered great pain, he defended
himself with such ability and majesty, that it was doubtful whether he would
not get the best of it. But on the thirteenth day of the trial, Pym produced in
the House of Commons a copy of some notes of a council, found by young <span
class="smcap">Sir Harry Vane</span> in a red velvet cabinet belonging to his
father (Secretary Vane, who sat at the council-table with the Earl), in which
Strafford had distinctly told the King that he was free from all rules and
obligations of government, and might do with his people whatever he liked; and
in which he had added&mdash;&lsquo;You have an army in Ireland that you may
employ to reduce this kingdom to obedience.&rsquo; It was not clear whether by
the words &lsquo;this kingdom,&rsquo; he had really meant England or Scotland;
but the Parliament contended that he meant England, and this was treason. At
the same sitting of the House of Commons it was resolved to bring in a bill of
attainder declaring the treason to have been committed: in preference to
proceeding with the trial by impeachment, which would have required the treason
to be proved.
</p>

<p>
So, a bill was brought in at once, was carried through the House of Commons by
a large majority, and was sent up to the House of Lords. While it was still
uncertain whether the House of Lords would pass it and the King consent to it,
Pym disclosed to the House of Commons that the King and Queen had both been
plotting with the officers of the army to bring up the soldiers and control the
Parliament, and also to introduce two hundred soldiers into the Tower of London
to effect the Earl&rsquo;s escape. The plotting with the army was revealed by
one <span class="smcap">George Goring</span>, the son of a lord of that name: a
bad fellow who was one of the original plotters, and turned traitor. The King
had actually given his warrant for the admission of the two hundred men into
the Tower, and they would have got in too, but for the refusal of the
governor&mdash;a sturdy Scotchman of the name of <span
class="smcap">Balfour</span>&mdash;to admit them. These matters being made
public, great numbers of people began to riot outside the Houses of Parliament,
and to cry out for the execution of the Earl of Strafford, as one of the
King&rsquo;s chief instruments against them. The bill passed the House of Lords
while the people were in this state of agitation, and was laid before the King
for his assent, together with another bill declaring that the Parliament then
assembled should not be dissolved or adjourned without their own consent. The
King&mdash;not unwilling to save a faithful servant, though he had no great
attachment for him&mdash;was in some doubt what to do; but he gave his consent
to both bills, although he in his heart believed that the bill against the Earl
of Strafford was unlawful and unjust. The Earl had written to him, telling him
that he was willing to die for his sake. But he had not expected that his royal
master would take him at his word quite so readily; for, when he heard his
doom, he laid his hand upon his heart, and said, &lsquo;Put not your trust in
Princes!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
The King, who never could be straightforward and plain, through one single day
or through one single sheet of paper, wrote a letter to the Lords, and sent it
by the young Prince of Wales, entreating them to prevail with the Commons that
&lsquo;that unfortunate man should fulfil the natural course of his life in a
close imprisonment.&rsquo; In a postscript to the very same letter, he added,
&lsquo;If he must die, it were charity to reprieve him till Saturday.&rsquo; If
there had been any doubt of his fate, this weakness and meanness would have
settled it. The very next day, which was the twelfth of May, he was brought out
to be beheaded on Tower Hill.
</p>

<p>
Archbishop Laud, who had been so fond of having people&rsquo;s ears cropped off
and their noses slit, was now confined in the Tower too; and when the Earl went
by his window to his death, he was there, at his request, to give him his
blessing. They had been great friends in the King&rsquo;s cause, and the Earl
had written to him in the days of their power that he thought it would be an
admirable thing to have Mr. Hampden publicly whipped for refusing to pay the
ship money. However, those high and mighty doings were over now, and the Earl
went his way to death with dignity and heroism. The governor wished him to get
into a coach at the Tower gate, for fear the people should tear him to pieces;
but he said it was all one to him whether he died by the axe or by the
people&rsquo;s hands. So, he walked, with a firm tread and a stately look, and
sometimes pulled off his hat to them as he passed along. They were profoundly
quiet. He made a speech on the scaffold from some notes he had prepared (the
paper was found lying there after his head was struck off), and one blow of the
axe killed him, in the forty-ninth year of his age.
</p>

<p>
This bold and daring act, the Parliament accompanied by other famous measures,
all originating (as even this did) in the King&rsquo;s having so grossly and so
long abused his power. The name of <span class="smcap">Delinquents</span> was
applied to all sheriffs and other officers who had been concerned in raising
the ship money, or any other money, from the people, in an unlawful manner; the
Hampden judgment was reversed; the judges who had decided against Hampden were
called upon to give large securities that they would take such consequences as
Parliament might impose upon them; and one was arrested as he sat in High
Court, and carried off to prison. Laud was impeached; the unfortunate victims
whose ears had been cropped and whose noses had been slit, were brought out of
prison in triumph; and a bill was passed declaring that a Parliament should be
called every third year, and that if the King and the King&rsquo;s officers did
not call it, the people should assemble of themselves and summon it, as of
their own right and power. Great illuminations and rejoicings took place over
all these things, and the country was wildly excited. That the Parliament took
advantage of this excitement and stirred them up by every means, there is no
doubt; but you are always to remember those twelve long years, during which the
King had tried so hard whether he really could do any wrong or not.
</p>

<p>
All this time there was a great religious outcry against the right of the
Bishops to sit in Parliament; to which the Scottish people particularly
objected. The English were divided on this subject, and, partly on this account
and partly because they had had foolish expectations that the Parliament would
be able to take off nearly all the taxes, numbers of them sometimes wavered and
inclined towards the King.
</p>

<p>
I believe myself, that if, at this or almost any other period of his life, the
King could have been trusted by any man not out of his senses, he might have
saved himself and kept his throne. But, on the English army being disbanded, he
plotted with the officers again, as he had done before, and established the
fact beyond all doubt by putting his signature of approval to a petition
against the Parliamentary leaders, which was drawn up by certain officers. When
the Scottish army was disbanded, he went to Edinburgh in four days&mdash;which
was going very fast at that time&mdash;to plot again, and so darkly too, that
it is difficult to decide what his whole object was. Some suppose that he
wanted to gain over the Scottish Parliament, as he did in fact gain over, by
presents and favours, many Scottish lords and men of power. Some think that he
went to get proofs against the Parliamentary leaders in England of their having
treasonably invited the Scottish people to come and help them. With whatever
object he went to Scotland, he did little good by going. At the instigation of
the <span class="smcap">Earl of Montrose</span>, a desperate man who was then
in prison for plotting, he tried to kidnap three Scottish lords who escaped. A
committee of the Parliament at home, who had followed to watch him, writing an
account of this <span class="smcap">Incident</span>, as it was called, to the
Parliament, the Parliament made a fresh stir about it; were, or feigned to be,
much alarmed for themselves; and wrote to the <span class="smcap">Earl of
Essex</span>, the commander-in-chief, for a guard to protect them.
</p>

<p>
It is not absolutely proved that the King plotted in Ireland besides, but it is
very probable that he did, and that the Queen did, and that he had some wild
hope of gaining the Irish people over to his side by favouring a rise among
them. Whether or no, they did rise in a most brutal and savage rebellion; in
which, encouraged by their priests, they committed such atrocities upon numbers
of the English, of both sexes and of all ages, as nobody could believe, but for
their being related on oath by eye-witnesses. Whether one hundred thousand or
two hundred thousand Protestants were murdered in this outbreak, is uncertain;
but, that it was as ruthless and barbarous an outbreak as ever was known among
any savage people, is certain.
</p>

<p>
The King came home from Scotland, determined to make a great struggle for his
lost power. He believed that, through his presents and favours, Scotland would
take no part against him; and the Lord Mayor of London received him with such a
magnificent dinner that he thought he must have become popular again in
England. It would take a good many Lord Mayors, however, to make a people, and
the King soon found himself mistaken.
</p>

<p>
Not so soon, though, but that there was a great opposition in the Parliament to
a celebrated paper put forth by Pym and Hampden and the rest, called
&lsquo;<span class="smcap">The Remonstrance</span>,&rsquo; which set forth all
the illegal acts that the King had ever done, but politely laid the blame of
them on his bad advisers. Even when it was passed and presented to him, the
King still thought himself strong enough to discharge Balfour from his command
in the Tower, and to put in his place a man of bad character; to whom the
Commons instantly objected, and whom he was obliged to abandon. At this time,
the old outcry about the Bishops became louder than ever, and the old
Archbishop of York was so near being murdered as he went down to the House of
Lords&mdash;being laid hold of by the mob and violently knocked about, in
return for very foolishly scolding a shrill boy who was yelping out &lsquo;No
Bishops!&rsquo;&mdash;that he sent for all the Bishops who were in town, and
proposed to them to sign a declaration that, as they could no longer without
danger to their lives attend their duty in Parliament, they protested against
the lawfulness of everything done in their absence. This they asked the King to
send to the House of Lords, which he did. Then the House of Commons impeached
the whole party of Bishops and sent them off to the Tower:
</p>

<p>
Taking no warning from this; but encouraged by there being a moderate party in
the Parliament who objected to these strong measures, the King, on the third of
January, one thousand six hundred and forty-two, took the rashest step that
ever was taken by mortal man.
</p>

<p>
Of his own accord and without advice, he sent the Attorney-General to the House
of Lords, to accuse of treason certain members of Parliament who as popular
leaders were the most obnoxious to him; <span class="smcap">Lord
Kimbolton</span>, <span class="smcap">Sir Arthur Haselrig</span>, <span
class="smcap">Denzil Hollis</span>, <span class="smcap">John Pym</span> (they
used to call him King Pym, he possessed such power and looked so big), <span
class="smcap">John Hampden</span>, and <span class="smcap">William
Strode</span>. The houses of those members he caused to be entered, and their
papers to be sealed up. At the same time, he sent a messenger to the House of
Commons demanding to have the five gentlemen who were members of that House
immediately produced. To this the House replied that they should appear as soon
as there was any legal charge against them, and immediately adjourned.
</p>

<p>
Next day, the House of Commons send into the City to let the Lord Mayor know
that their privileges are invaded by the King, and that there is no safety for
anybody or anything. Then, when the five members are gone out of the way, down
comes the King himself, with all his guard and from two to three hundred
gentlemen and soldiers, of whom the greater part were armed. These he leaves in
the hall; and then, with his nephew at his side, goes into the House, takes off
his hat, and walks up to the Speaker&rsquo;s chair. The Speaker leaves it, the
King stands in front of it, looks about him steadily for a little while, and
says he has come for those five members. No one speaks, and then he calls John
Pym by name. No one speaks, and then he calls Denzil Hollis by name. No one
speaks, and then he asks the Speaker of the House where those five members are?
The Speaker, answering on his knee, nobly replies that he is the servant of
that House, and that he has neither eyes to see, nor tongue to speak, anything
but what the House commands him. Upon this, the King, beaten from that time
evermore, replies that he will seek them himself, for they have committed
treason; and goes out, with his hat in his hand, amid some audible murmurs from
the members.
</p>

<p>
No words can describe the hurry that arose out of doors when all this was
known. The five members had gone for safety to a house in Coleman-street, in
the City, where they were guarded all night; and indeed the whole city watched
in arms like an army. At ten o&rsquo;clock in the morning, the King, already
frightened at what he had done, came to the Guildhall, with only half a dozen
lords, and made a speech to the people, hoping they would not shelter those
whom he accused of treason. Next day, he issued a proclamation for the
apprehension of the five members; but the Parliament minded it so little that
they made great arrangements for having them brought down to Westminster in
great state, five days afterwards. The King was so alarmed now at his own
imprudence, if not for his own safety, that he left his palace at Whitehall,
and went away with his Queen and children to Hampton Court.
</p>

<p>
It was the eleventh of May, when the five members were carried in state and
triumph to Westminster. They were taken by water. The river could not be seen
for the boats on it; and the five members were hemmed in by barges full of men
and great guns, ready to protect them, at any cost. Along the Strand a large
body of the train-bands of London, under their commander, <span
class="smcap">Skippon</span>, marched to be ready to assist the little fleet.
Beyond them, came a crowd who choked the streets, roaring incessantly about the
Bishops and the Papists, and crying out contemptuously as they passed
Whitehall, &lsquo;What has become of the King?&rsquo; With this great noise
outside the House of Commons, and with great silence within, Mr. Pym rose and
informed the House of the great kindness with which they had been received in
the City. Upon that, the House called the sheriffs in and thanked them, and
requested the train-bands, under their commander Skippon, to guard the House of
Commons every day. Then, came four thousand men on horseback out of
Buckinghamshire, offering their services as a guard too, and bearing a petition
to the King, complaining of the injury that had been done to Mr. Hampden, who
was their county man and much beloved and honoured.
</p>

<p>
When the King set off for Hampton Court, the gentlemen and soldiers who had
been with him followed him out of town as far as Kingston-upon-Thames; next
day, Lord Digby came to them from the King at Hampton Court, in his coach and
six, to inform them that the King accepted their protection. This, the
Parliament said, was making war against the kingdom, and Lord Digby fled
abroad. The Parliament then immediately applied themselves to getting hold of
the military power of the country, well knowing that the King was already
trying hard to use it against them, and that he had secretly sent the Earl of
Newcastle to Hull, to secure a valuable magazine of arms and gunpowder that was
there. In those times, every county had its own magazines of arms and powder,
for its own train-bands or militia; so, the Parliament brought in a bill
claiming the right (which up to this time had belonged to the King) of
appointing the Lord Lieutenants of counties, who commanded these train-bands;
also, of having all the forts, castles, and garrisons in the kingdom, put into
the hands of such governors as they, the Parliament, could confide in. It also
passed a law depriving the Bishops of their votes. The King gave his assent to
that bill, but would not abandon the right of appointing the Lord Lieutenants,
though he said he was willing to appoint such as might be suggested to him by
the Parliament. When the Earl of Pembroke asked him whether he would not give
way on that question for a time, he said, &lsquo;By God! not for one
hour!&rsquo; and upon this he and the Parliament went to war.
</p>

<p>
His young daughter was betrothed to the Prince of Orange. On pretence of taking
her to the country of her future husband, the Queen was already got safely away
to Holland, there to pawn the Crown jewels for money to raise an army on the
King&rsquo;s side. The Lord Admiral being sick, the House of Commons now named
the Earl of Warwick to hold his place for a year. The King named another
gentleman; the House of Commons took its own way, and the Earl of Warwick
became Lord Admiral without the King&rsquo;s consent. The Parliament sent
orders down to Hull to have that magazine removed to London; the King went down
to Hull to take it himself. The citizens would not admit him into the town, and
the governor would not admit him into the castle. The Parliament resolved that
whatever the two Houses passed, and the King would not consent to, should be
called an <span class="smcap">Ordinance</span>, and should be as much a law as
if he did consent to it. The King protested against this, and gave notice that
these ordinances were not to be obeyed. The King, attended by the majority of
the House of Peers, and by many members of the House of Commons, established
himself at York. The Chancellor went to him with the Great Seal, and the
Parliament made a new Great Seal. The Queen sent over a ship full of arms and
ammunition, and the King issued letters to borrow money at high interest. The
Parliament raised twenty regiments of foot and seventy-five troops of horse;
and the people willingly aided them with their money, plate, jewellery, and
trinkets&mdash;the married women even with their wedding-rings. Every member of
Parliament who could raise a troop or a regiment in his own part of the
country, dressed it according to his taste and in his own colours, and
commanded it. Foremost among them all, <span class="smcap">Oliver
Cromwell</span> raised a troop of horse&mdash;thoroughly in earnest and
thoroughly well armed&mdash;who were, perhaps, the best soldiers that ever were
seen.
</p>

<p>
In some of their proceedings, this famous Parliament passed the bounds of
previous law and custom, yielded to and favoured riotous assemblages of the
people, and acted tyrannically in imprisoning some who differed from the
popular leaders. But again, you are always to remember that the twelve years
during which the King had had his own wilful way, had gone before; and that
nothing could make the times what they might, could, would, or should have
been, if those twelve years had never rolled away.
</p>

<h3>THIRD PART</h3>

<p>
I shall not try to relate the particulars of the great civil war between King
Charles the First and the Long Parliament, which lasted nearly four years, and
a full account of which would fill many large books. It was a sad thing that
Englishmen should once more be fighting against Englishmen on English ground;
but, it is some consolation to know that on both sides there was great
humanity, forbearance, and honour. The soldiers of the Parliament were far more
remarkable for these good qualities than the soldiers of the King (many of whom
fought for mere pay without much caring for the cause); but those of the
nobility and gentry who were on the King&rsquo;s side were so brave, and so
faithful to him, that their conduct cannot but command our highest admiration.
Among them were great numbers of Catholics, who took the royal side because the
Queen was so strongly of their persuasion.
</p>

<p>
The King might have distinguished some of these gallant spirits, if he had been
as generous a spirit himself, by giving them the command of his army. Instead
of that, however, true to his old high notions of royalty, he entrusted it to
his two nephews, <span class="smcap">Prince Rupert</span> and <span
class="smcap">Prince Maurice</span>, who were of royal blood and came over from
abroad to help him. It might have been better for him if they had stayed away;
since Prince Rupert was an impetuous, hot-headed fellow, whose only idea was to
dash into battle at all times and seasons, and lay about him.
</p>

<p>
The general-in-chief of the Parliamentary army was the Earl of Essex, a
gentleman of honour and an excellent soldier. A little while before the war
broke out, there had been some rioting at Westminster between certain officious
law students and noisy soldiers, and the shopkeepers and their apprentices, and
the general people in the streets. At that time the King&rsquo;s friends called
the crowd, Roundheads, because the apprentices wore short hair; the crowd, in
return, called their opponents Cavaliers, meaning that they were a blustering
set, who pretended to be very military. These two words now began to be used to
distinguish the two sides in the civil war. The Royalists also called the
Parliamentary men Rebels and Rogues, while the Parliamentary men called
<i>them</i> Malignants, and spoke of themselves as the Godly, the Honest, and
so forth.
</p>

<p>
The war broke out at Portsmouth, where that double traitor Goring had again
gone over to the King and was besieged by the Parliamentary troops. Upon this,
the King proclaimed the Earl of Essex and the officers serving under him,
traitors, and called upon his loyal subjects to meet him in arms at Nottingham
on the twenty-fifth of August. But his loyal subjects came about him in scanty
numbers, and it was a windy, gloomy day, and the Royal Standard got blown down,
and the whole affair was very melancholy. The chief engagements after this,
took place in the vale of the Red Horse near Banbury, at Brentford, at Devizes,
at Chalgrave Field (where Mr. Hampden was so sorely wounded while fighting at
the head of his men, that he died within a week), at Newbury (in which battle
<span class="smcap">Lord Falkland</span>, one of the best noblemen on the
King&rsquo;s side, was killed), at Leicester, at Naseby, at Winchester, at
Marston Moor near York, at Newcastle, and in many other parts of England and
Scotland. These battles were attended with various successes. At one time, the
King was victorious; at another time, the Parliament. But almost all the great
and busy towns were against the King; and when it was considered necessary to
fortify London, all ranks of people, from labouring men and women, up to lords
and ladies, worked hard together with heartiness and good will. The most
distinguished leaders on the Parliamentary side were <span
class="smcap">Hampden</span>, <span class="smcap">Sir Thomas Fairfax</span>,
and, above all, <span class="smcap">Oliver Cromwell</span>, and his son-in-law
<span class="smcap">Ireton</span>.
</p>

<p>
During the whole of this war, the people, to whom it was very expensive and
irksome, and to whom it was made the more distressing by almost every family
being divided&mdash;some of its members attaching themselves to one side and
some to the other&mdash;were over and over again most anxious for peace. So
were some of the best men in each cause. Accordingly, treaties of peace were
discussed between commissioners from the Parliament and the King; at York, at
Oxford (where the King held a little Parliament of his own), and at Uxbridge.
But they came to nothing. In all these negotiations, and in all his
difficulties, the King showed himself at his best. He was courageous, cool,
self-possessed, and clever; but, the old taint of his character was always in
him, and he was never for one single moment to be trusted. Lord Clarendon, the
historian, one of his highest admirers, supposes that he had unhappily promised
the Queen never to make peace without her consent, and that this must often be
taken as his excuse. He never kept his word from night to morning. He signed a
cessation of hostilities with the blood-stained Irish rebels for a sum of
money, and invited the Irish regiments over, to help him against the
Parliament. In the battle of Naseby, his cabinet was seized and was found to
contain a correspondence with the Queen, in which he expressly told her that he
had deceived the Parliament&mdash;a mongrel Parliament, he called it now, as an
improvement on his old term of vipers&mdash;in pretending to recognise it and
to treat with it; and from which it further appeared that he had long been in
secret treaty with the Duke of Lorraine for a foreign army of ten thousand men.
Disappointed in this, he sent a most devoted friend of his, the <span
class="smcap">Earl of Glamorgan</span>, to Ireland, to conclude a secret treaty
with the Catholic powers, to send him an Irish army of ten thousand men; in
return for which he was to bestow great favours on the Catholic religion. And,
when this treaty was discovered in the carriage of a fighting Irish Archbishop
who was killed in one of the many skirmishes of those days, he basely denied
and deserted his attached friend, the Earl, on his being charged with high
treason; and&mdash;even worse than this&mdash;had left blanks in the secret
instructions he gave him with his own kingly hand, expressly that he might thus
save himself.
</p>

<p>
At last, on the twenty-seventh day of April, one thousand six hundred and
forty-six, the King found himself in the city of Oxford, so surrounded by the
Parliamentary army who were closing in upon him on all sides that he felt that
if he would escape he must delay no longer. So, that night, having altered the
cut of his hair and beard, he was dressed up as a servant and put upon a horse
with a cloak strapped behind him, and rode out of the town behind one of his
own faithful followers, with a clergyman of that country who knew the road
well, for a guide. He rode towards London as far as Harrow, and then altered
his plans and resolved, it would seem, to go to the Scottish camp. The Scottish
men had been invited over to help the Parliamentary army, and had a large force
then in England. The King was so desperately intriguing in everything he did,
that it is doubtful what he exactly meant by this step. He took it, anyhow, and
delivered himself up to the <span class="smcap">Earl of Leven</span>, the
Scottish general-in-chief, who treated him as an honourable prisoner.
Negotiations between the Parliament on the one hand and the Scottish
authorities on the other, as to what should be done with him, lasted until the
following February. Then, when the King had refused to the Parliament the
concession of that old militia point for twenty years, and had refused to
Scotland the recognition of its Solemn League and Covenant, Scotland got a
handsome sum for its army and its help, and the King into the bargain. He was
taken, by certain Parliamentary commissioners appointed to receive him, to one
of his own houses, called Holmby House, near Althorpe, in Northamptonshire.
</p>

<p>
While the Civil War was still in progress, John Pym died, and was buried with
great honour in Westminster Abbey&mdash;not with greater honour than he
deserved, for the liberties of Englishmen owe a mighty debt to Pym and Hampden.
The war was but newly over when the Earl of Essex died, of an illness brought
on by his having overheated himself in a stag hunt in Windsor Forest. He, too,
was buried in Westminster Abbey, with great state. I wish it were not necessary
to add that Archbishop Laud died upon the scaffold when the war was not yet
done. His trial lasted in all nearly a year, and, it being doubtful even then
whether the charges brought against him amounted to treason, the odious old
contrivance of the worst kings was resorted to, and a bill of attainder was
brought in against him. He was a violently prejudiced and mischievous person;
had had strong ear-cropping and nose-splitting propensities, as you know; and
had done a world of harm. But he died peaceably, and like a brave old man.
</p>

<h3>FOURTH PART</h3>

<p>
When the Parliament had got the King into their hands, they became very anxious
to get rid of their army, in which Oliver Cromwell had begun to acquire great
power; not only because of his courage and high abilities, but because he
professed to be very sincere in the Scottish sort of Puritan religion that was
then exceedingly popular among the soldiers. They were as much opposed to the
Bishops as to the Pope himself; and the very privates, drummers, and
trumpeters, had such an inconvenient habit of starting up and preaching
long-winded discourses, that I would not have belonged to that army on any
account.
</p>

<p>
So, the Parliament, being far from sure but that the army might begin to preach
and fight against them now it had nothing else to do, proposed to disband the
greater part of it, to send another part to serve in Ireland against the
rebels, and to keep only a small force in England. But, the army would not
consent to be broken up, except upon its own conditions; and, when the
Parliament showed an intention of compelling it, it acted for itself in an
unexpected manner. A certain cornet, of the name of <span
class="smcap">Joice</span>, arrived at Holmby House one night, attended by four
hundred horsemen, went into the King&rsquo;s room with his hat in one hand and
a pistol in the other, and told the King that he had come to take him away. The
King was willing enough to go, and only stipulated that he should be publicly
required to do so next morning. Next morning, accordingly, he appeared on the
top of the steps of the house, and asked Comet Joice before his men and the
guard set there by the Parliament, what authority he had for taking him away?
To this Cornet Joice replied, &lsquo;The authority of the army.&rsquo;
&lsquo;Have you a written commission?&rsquo; said the King. Joice, pointing to
his four hundred men on horseback, replied, &lsquo;That is my
commission.&rsquo; &lsquo;Well,&rsquo; said the King, smiling, as if he were
pleased, &lsquo;I never before read such a commission; but it is written in
fair and legible characters. This is a company of as handsome proper gentlemen
as I have seen a long while.&rsquo; He was asked where he would like to live,
and he said at Newmarket. So, to Newmarket he and Cornet Joice and the four
hundred horsemen rode; the King remarking, in the same smiling way, that he
could ride as far at a spell as Cornet Joice, or any man there.
</p>

<p>
The King quite believed, I think, that the army were his friends. He said as
much to Fairfax when that general, Oliver Cromwell, and Ireton, went to
persuade him to return to the custody of the Parliament. He preferred to remain
as he was, and resolved to remain as he was. And when the army moved nearer and
nearer London to frighten the Parliament into yielding to their demands, they
took the King with them. It was a deplorable thing that England should be at
the mercy of a great body of soldiers with arms in their hands; but the King
certainly favoured them at this important time of his life, as compared with
the more lawful power that tried to control him. It must be added, however,
that they treated him, as yet, more respectfully and kindly than the Parliament
had done. They allowed him to be attended by his own servants, to be splendidly
entertained at various houses, and to see his children&mdash;at Cavesham House,
near Reading&mdash;for two days. Whereas, the Parliament had been rather hard
with him, and had only allowed him to ride out and play at bowls.
</p>

<p>
It is much to be believed that if the King could have been trusted, even at
this time, he might have been saved. Even Oliver Cromwell expressly said that
he did believe that no man could enjoy his possessions in peace, unless the
King had his rights. He was not unfriendly towards the King; he had been
present when he received his children, and had been much affected by the
pitiable nature of the scene; he saw the King often; he frequently walked and
talked with him in the long galleries and pleasant gardens of the Palace at
Hampton Court, whither he was now removed; and in all this risked something of
his influence with the army. But, the King was in secret hopes of help from the
Scottish people; and the moment he was encouraged to join them he began to be
cool to his new friends, the army, and to tell the officers that they could not
possibly do without him. At the very time, too, when he was promising to make
Cromwell and Ireton noblemen, if they would help him up to his old height, he
was writing to the Queen that he meant to hang them. They both afterwards
declared that they had been privately informed that such a letter would be
found, on a certain evening, sewed up in a saddle which would be taken to the
Blue Boar in Holborn to be sent to Dover; and that they went there, disguised
as common soldiers, and sat drinking in the inn-yard until a man came with the
saddle, which they ripped up with their knives, and therein found the letter. I
see little reason to doubt the story. It is certain that Oliver Cromwell told
one of the King&rsquo;s most faithful followers that the King could not be
trusted, and that he would not be answerable if anything amiss were to happen
to him. Still, even after that, he kept a promise he had made to the King, by
letting him know that there was a plot with a certain portion of the army to
seize him. I believe that, in fact, he sincerely wanted the King to escape
abroad, and so to be got rid of without more trouble or danger. That Oliver
himself had work enough with the army is pretty plain; for some of the troops
were so mutinous against him, and against those who acted with him at this
time, that he found it necessary to have one man shot at the head of his
regiment to overawe the rest.
</p>

<p>
The King, when he received Oliver&rsquo;s warning, made his escape from Hampton
Court; after some indecision and uncertainty, he went to Carisbrooke Castle in
the Isle of Wight. At first, he was pretty free there; but, even there, he
carried on a pretended treaty with the Parliament, while he was really treating
with commissioners from Scotland to send an army into England to take his part.
When he broke off this treaty with the Parliament (having settled with
Scotland) and was treated as a prisoner, his treatment was not changed too
soon, for he had plotted to escape that very night to a ship sent by the Queen,
which was lying off the island.
</p>

<p>
He was doomed to be disappointed in his hopes from Scotland. The agreement he
had made with the Scottish Commissioners was not favourable enough to the
religion of that country to please the Scottish clergy; and they preached
against it. The consequence was, that the army raised in Scotland and sent
over, was too small to do much; and that, although it was helped by a rising of
the Royalists in England and by good soldiers from Ireland, it could make no
head against the Parliamentary army under such men as Cromwell and Fairfax. The
King&rsquo;s eldest son, the Prince of Wales, came over from Holland with
nineteen ships (a part of the English fleet having gone over to him) to help
his father; but nothing came of his voyage, and he was fain to return. The most
remarkable event of this second civil war was the cruel execution by the
Parliamentary General, of <span class="smcap">Sir Charles Lucas</span> and
<span class="smcap">Sir George Lisle</span>, two grand Royalist generals, who
had bravely defended Colchester under every disadvantage of famine and distress
for nearly three months. When Sir Charles Lucas was shot, Sir George Lisle
kissed his body, and said to the soldiers who were to shoot him, &lsquo;Come
nearer, and make sure of me.&rsquo; &lsquo;I warrant you, Sir George,&rsquo;
said one of the soldiers, &lsquo;we shall hit you.&rsquo; &lsquo;<span
class="smcap">Ay</span>?&rsquo; he returned with a smile, &lsquo;but I have
been nearer to you, my friends, many a time, and you have missed me.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
The Parliament, after being fearfully bullied by the army&mdash;who demanded to
have seven members whom they disliked given up to them&mdash;had voted that
they would have nothing more to do with the King. On the conclusion, however,
of this second civil war (which did not last more than six months), they
appointed commissioners to treat with him. The King, then so far released again
as to be allowed to live in a private house at Newport in the Isle of Wight,
managed his own part of the negotiation with a sense that was admired by all
who saw him, and gave up, in the end, all that was asked of him&mdash;even
yielding (which he had steadily refused, so far) to the temporary abolition of
the bishops, and the transfer of their church land to the Crown. Still, with
his old fatal vice upon him, when his best friends joined the commissioners in
beseeching him to yield all those points as the only means of saving himself
from the army, he was plotting to escape from the island; he was holding
correspondence with his friends and the Catholics in Ireland, though declaring
that he was not; and he was writing, with his own hand, that in what he yielded
he meant nothing but to get time to escape.
</p>

<p>
Matters were at this pass when the army, resolved to defy the Parliament,
marched up to London. The Parliament, not afraid of them now, and boldly led by
Hollis, voted that the King&rsquo;s concessions were sufficient ground for
settling the peace of the kingdom. Upon that, <span class="smcap">Colonel
Rich</span> and <span class="smcap">Colonel Pride</span> went down to the House
of Commons with a regiment of horse soldiers and a regiment of foot; and
Colonel Pride, standing in the lobby with a list of the members who were
obnoxious to the army in his hand, had them pointed out to him as they came
through, and took them all into custody. This proceeding was afterwards called
by the people, for a joke, <span class="smcap">Pride&rsquo;s Purge</span>.
Cromwell was in the North, at the head of his men, at the time, but when he
came home, approved of what had been done.
</p>

<p>
What with imprisoning some members and causing others to stay away, the army
had now reduced the House of Commons to some fifty or so. These soon voted that
it was treason in a king to make war against his parliament and his people, and
sent an ordinance up to the House of Lords for the King&rsquo;s being tried as
a traitor. The House of Lords, then sixteen in number, to a man rejected it.
Thereupon, the Commons made an ordinance of their own, that they were the
supreme government of the country, and would bring the King to trial.
</p>

<p>
The King had been taken for security to a place called Hurst Castle: a lonely
house on a rock in the sea, connected with the coast of Hampshire by a rough
road two miles long at low water. Thence, he was ordered to be removed to
Windsor; thence, after being but rudely used there, and having none but
soldiers to wait upon him at table, he was brought up to St. James&rsquo;s
Palace in London, and told that his trial was appointed for next day.
</p>

<p>
On Saturday, the twentieth of January, one thousand six hundred and forty-nine,
this memorable trial began. The House of Commons had settled that one hundred
and thirty-five persons should form the Court, and these were taken from the
House itself, from among the officers of the army, and from among the lawyers
and citizens. <span class="smcap">John Bradshaw</span>, serjeant-at-law, was
appointed president. The place was Westminster Hall. At the upper end, in a red
velvet chair, sat the president, with his hat (lined with plates of iron for
his protection) on his head. The rest of the Court sat on side benches, also
wearing their hats. The King&rsquo;s seat was covered with velvet, like that of
the president, and was opposite to it. He was brought from St. James&rsquo;s to
Whitehall, and from Whitehall he came by water to his trial.
</p>

<p>
When he came in, he looked round very steadily on the Court, and on the great
number of spectators, and then sat down: presently he got up and looked round
again. On the indictment &lsquo;against Charles Stuart, for high
treason,&rsquo; being read, he smiled several times, and he denied the
authority of the Court, saying that there could be no parliament without a
House of Lords, and that he saw no House of Lords there. Also, that the King
ought to be there, and that he saw no King in the King&rsquo;s right place.
Bradshaw replied, that the Court was satisfied with its authority, and that its
authority was God&rsquo;s authority and the kingdom&rsquo;s. He then adjourned
the Court to the following Monday. On that day, the trial was resumed, and went
on all the week. When the Saturday came, as the King passed forward to his
place in the Hall, some soldiers and others cried for &lsquo;justice!&rsquo;
and execution on him. That day, too, Bradshaw, like an angry Sultan, wore a red
robe, instead of the black robe he had worn before. The King was sentenced to
death that day. As he went out, one solitary soldier said, &lsquo;God bless
you, Sir!&rsquo; For this, his officer struck him. The King said he thought the
punishment exceeded the offence. The silver head of his walking-stick had
fallen off while he leaned upon it, at one time of the trial. The accident
seemed to disturb him, as if he thought it ominous of the falling of his own
head; and he admitted as much, now it was all over.
</p>

<p>
Being taken back to Whitehall, he sent to the House of Commons, saying that as
the time of his execution might be nigh, he wished he might be allowed to see
his darling children. It was granted. On the Monday he was taken back to St.
James&rsquo;s; and his two children then in England, the <span
class="smcap">Princess Elizabeth</span> thirteen years old, and the <span
class="smcap">Duke Of Gloucester</span> nine years old, were brought to take
leave of him, from Sion House, near Brentford. It was a sad and touching scene,
when he kissed and fondled those poor children, and made a little present of
two diamond seals to the Princess, and gave them tender messages to their
mother (who little deserved them, for she had a lover of her own whom she
married soon afterwards), and told them that he died &lsquo;for the laws and
liberties of the land.&rsquo; I am bound to say that I don&rsquo;t think he
did, but I dare say he believed so.
</p>

<p>
There were ambassadors from Holland that day, to intercede for the unhappy
King, whom you and I both wish the Parliament had spared; but they got no
answer. The Scottish Commissioners interceded too; so did the Prince of Wales,
by a letter in which he offered as the next heir to the throne, to accept any
conditions from the Parliament; so did the Queen, by letter likewise.
</p>

<p>
Notwithstanding all, the warrant for the execution was this day signed. There
is a story that as Oliver Cromwell went to the table with the pen in his hand
to put his signature to it, he drew his pen across the face of one of the
commissioners, who was standing near, and marked it with ink. That commissioner
had not signed his own name yet, and the story adds that when he came to do it
he marked Cromwell&rsquo;s face with ink in the same way.
</p>

<p>
The King slept well, untroubled by the knowledge that it was his last night on
earth, and rose on the thirtieth of January, two hours before day, and dressed
himself carefully. He put on two shirts lest he should tremble with the cold,
and had his hair very carefully combed. The warrant had been directed to three
officers of the army, <span class="smcap">Colonel Hacker</span>, <span
class="smcap">Colonel Hunks</span>, and <span class="smcap">Colonel
Phayer</span>. At ten o&rsquo;clock, the first of these came to the door and
said it was time to go to Whitehall. The King, who had always been a quick
walker, walked at his usual speed through the Park, and called out to the
guard, with his accustomed voice of command, &lsquo;March on apace!&rsquo; When
he came to Whitehall, he was taken to his own bedroom, where a breakfast was
set forth. As he had taken the Sacrament, he would eat nothing more; but, at
about the time when the church bells struck twelve at noon (for he had to wait,
through the scaffold not being ready), he took the advice of the good <span
class="smcap">Bishop Juxon</span> who was with him, and ate a little bread and
drank a glass of claret. Soon after he had taken this refreshment, Colonel
Hacker came to the chamber with the warrant in his hand, and called for Charles
Stuart.
</p>

<p>
And then, through the long gallery of Whitehall Palace, which he had often seen
light and gay and merry and crowded, in very different times, the fallen King
passed along, until he came to the centre window of the Banqueting House,
through which he emerged upon the scaffold, which was hung with black. He
looked at the two executioners, who were dressed in black and masked; he looked
at the troops of soldiers on horseback and on foot, and all looked up at him in
silence; he looked at the vast array of spectators, filling up the view beyond,
and turning all their faces upon him; he looked at his old Palace of St.
James&rsquo;s; and he looked at the block. He seemed a little troubled to find
that it was so low, and asked, &lsquo;if there were no place higher?&rsquo;
Then, to those upon the scaffold, he said, &lsquo;that it was the Parliament
who had begun the war, and not he; but he hoped they might be guiltless too, as
ill instruments had gone between them. In one respect,&rsquo; he said,
&lsquo;he suffered justly; and that was because he had permitted an unjust
sentence to be executed on another.&rsquo; In this he referred to the Earl of
Strafford.
</p>

<p>
He was not at all afraid to die; but he was anxious to die easily. When some
one touched the axe while he was speaking, he broke off and called out,
&lsquo;Take heed of the axe! take heed of the axe!&rsquo; He also said to
Colonel Hacker, &lsquo;Take care that they do not put me to pain.&rsquo; He
told the executioner, &lsquo;I shall say but very short prayers, and then
thrust out my hands&rsquo;&mdash;as the sign to strike.
</p>

<p>
He put his hair up, under a white satin cap which the bishop had carried, and
said, &lsquo;I have a good cause and a gracious God on my side.&rsquo; The
bishop told him that he had but one stage more to travel in this weary world,
and that, though it was a turbulent and troublesome stage, it was a short one,
and would carry him a great way&mdash;all the way from earth to Heaven. The
King&rsquo;s last word, as he gave his cloak and the George&mdash;the
decoration from his breast&mdash;to the bishop, was, &lsquo;Remember!&rsquo; He
then kneeled down, laid his head on the block, spread out his hands, and was
instantly killed. One universal groan broke from the crowd; and the soldiers,
who had sat on their horses and stood in their ranks immovable as statues, were
of a sudden all in motion, clearing the streets.
</p>

<p>
Thus, in the forty-ninth year of his age, falling at the same time of his
career as Strafford had fallen in his, perished Charles the First. With all my
sorrow for him, I cannot agree with him that he died &lsquo;the martyr of the
people;&rsquo; for the people had been martyrs to him, and to his ideas of a
King&rsquo;s rights, long before. Indeed, I am afraid that he was but a bad
judge of martyrs; for he had called that infamous Duke of Buckingham &lsquo;the
Martyr of his Sovereign.&rsquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap34"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER OLIVER CROMWELL</h2>

<p>
Before sunset on the memorable day on which King Charles the First was
executed, the House of Commons passed an act declaring it treason in any one to
proclaim the Prince of Wales&mdash;or anybody else&mdash;King of England. Soon
afterwards, it declared that the House of Lords was useless and dangerous, and
ought to be abolished; and directed that the late King&rsquo;s statue should be
taken down from the Royal Exchange in the City and other public places. Having
laid hold of some famous Royalists who had escaped from prison, and having
beheaded the <span class="smcap">Duke Of Hamilton</span>, <span
class="smcap">Lord Holland</span>, and <span class="smcap">Lord Capel</span>,
in Palace Yard (all of whom died very courageously), they then appointed a
Council of State to govern the country. It consisted of forty-one members, of
whom five were peers. Bradshaw was made president. The House of Commons also
re-admitted members who had opposed the King&rsquo;s death, and made up its
numbers to about a hundred and fifty.
</p>

<p>
But, it still had an army of more than forty thousand men to deal with, and a
very hard task it was to manage them. Before the King&rsquo;s execution, the
army had appointed some of its officers to remonstrate between them and the
Parliament; and now the common soldiers began to take that office upon
themselves. The regiments under orders for Ireland mutinied; one troop of horse
in the city of London seized their own flag, and refused to obey orders. For
this, the ringleader was shot: which did not mend the matter, for, both his
comrades and the people made a public funeral for him, and accompanied the body
to the grave with sound of trumpets and with a gloomy procession of persons
carrying bundles of rosemary steeped in blood. Oliver was the only man to deal
with such difficulties as these, and he soon cut them short by bursting at
midnight into the town of Burford, near Salisbury, where the mutineers were
sheltered, taking four hundred of them prisoners, and shooting a number of them
by sentence of court-martial. The soldiers soon found, as all men did, that
Oliver was not a man to be trifled with. And there was an end of the mutiny.
</p>

<p>
The Scottish Parliament did not know Oliver yet; so, on hearing of the
King&rsquo;s execution, it proclaimed the Prince of Wales King Charles the
Second, on condition of his respecting the Solemn League and Covenant. Charles
was abroad at that time, and so was Montrose, from whose help he had hopes
enough to keep him holding on and off with commissioners from Scotland, just as
his father might have done. These hopes were soon at an end; for, Montrose,
having raised a few hundred exiles in Germany, and landed with them in
Scotland, found that the people there, instead of joining him, deserted the
country at his approach. He was soon taken prisoner and carried to Edinburgh.
There he was received with every possible insult, and carried to prison in a
cart, his officers going two and two before him. He was sentenced by the
Parliament to be hanged on a gallows thirty feet high, to have his head set on
a spike in Edinburgh, and his limbs distributed in other places, according to
the old barbarous manner. He said he had always acted under the Royal orders,
and only wished he had limbs enough to be distributed through Christendom, that
it might be the more widely known how loyal he had been. He went to the
scaffold in a bright and brilliant dress, and made a bold end at thirty-eight
years of age. The breath was scarcely out of his body when Charles abandoned
his memory, and denied that he had ever given him orders to rise in his behalf.
O the family failing was strong in that Charles then!
</p>

<p>
Oliver had been appointed by the Parliament to command the army in Ireland,
where he took a terrible vengeance for the sanguinary rebellion, and made
tremendous havoc, particularly in the siege of Drogheda, where no quarter was
given, and where he found at least a thousand of the inhabitants shut up
together in the great church: every one of whom was killed by his soldiers,
usually known as <span class="smcap">Oliver&rsquo;s Ironsides</span>. There
were numbers of friars and priests among them, and Oliver gruffly wrote home in
his despatch that these were &lsquo;knocked on the head&rsquo; like the rest.
</p>

<p>
But, Charles having got over to Scotland where the men of the Solemn League and
Covenant led him a prodigiously dull life and made him very weary with long
sermons and grim Sundays, the Parliament called the redoubtable Oliver home to
knock the Scottish men on the head for setting up that Prince. Oliver left his
son-in-law, Ireton, as general in Ireland in his stead (he died there
afterwards), and he imitated the example of his father-in-law with such good
will that he brought the country to subjection, and laid it at the feet of the
Parliament. In the end, they passed an act for the settlement of Ireland,
generally pardoning all the common people, but exempting from this grace such
of the wealthier sort as had been concerned in the rebellion, or in any killing
of Protestants, or who refused to lay down their arms. Great numbers of Irish
were got out of the country to serve under Catholic powers abroad, and a
quantity of land was declared to have been forfeited by past offences, and was
given to people who had lent money to the Parliament early in the war. These
were sweeping measures; but, if Oliver Cromwell had had his own way fully, and
had stayed in Ireland, he would have done more yet.
</p>

<p>
However, as I have said, the Parliament wanted Oliver for Scotland; so, home
Oliver came, and was made Commander of all the Forces of the Commonwealth of
England, and in three days away he went with sixteen thousand soldiers to fight
the Scottish men. Now, the Scottish men, being then&mdash;as you will generally
find them now&mdash;mighty cautious, reflected that the troops they had were
not used to war like the Ironsides, and would be beaten in an open fight.
Therefore they said, &lsquo;If we live quiet in our trenches in Edinburgh here,
and if all the farmers come into the town and desert the country, the Ironsides
will be driven out by iron hunger and be forced to go away.&rsquo; This was, no
doubt, the wisest plan; but as the Scottish clergy <i>would</i> interfere with
what they knew nothing about, and would perpetually preach long sermons
exhorting the soldiers to come out and fight, the soldiers got it in their
heads that they absolutely must come out and fight. Accordingly, in an evil
hour for themselves, they came out of their safe position. Oliver fell upon
them instantly, and killed three thousand, and took ten thousand prisoners.
</p>

<p>
To gratify the Scottish Parliament, and preserve their favour, Charles had
signed a declaration they laid before him, reproaching the memory of his father
and mother, and representing himself as a most religious Prince, to whom the
Solemn League and Covenant was as dear as life. He meant no sort of truth in
this, and soon afterwards galloped away on horseback to join some tiresome
Highland friends, who were always flourishing dirks and broadswords. He was
overtaken and induced to return; but this attempt, which was called &lsquo;The
Start,&rsquo; did him just so much service, that they did not preach quite such
long sermons at him afterwards as they had done before.
</p>

<p>
On the first of January, one thousand six hundred and fifty-one, the Scottish
people crowned him at Scone. He immediately took the chief command of an army
of twenty thousand men, and marched to Stirling. His hopes were heightened, I
dare say, by the redoubtable Oliver being ill of an ague; but Oliver scrambled
out of bed in no time, and went to work with such energy that he got behind the
Royalist army and cut it off from all communication with Scotland. There was
nothing for it then, but to go on to England; so it went on as far as
Worcester, where the mayor and some of the gentry proclaimed King Charles the
Second straightway. His proclamation, however, was of little use to him, for
very few Royalists appeared; and, on the very same day, two people were
publicly beheaded on Tower Hill for espousing his cause. Up came Oliver to
Worcester too, at double quick speed, and he and his Ironsides so laid about
them in the great battle which was fought there, that they completely beat the
Scottish men, and destroyed the Royalist army; though the Scottish men fought
so gallantly that it took five hours to do.
</p>

<p>
The escape of Charles after this battle of Worcester did him good service long
afterwards, for it induced many of the generous English people to take a
romantic interest in him, and to think much better of him than he ever
deserved. He fled in the night, with not more than sixty followers, to the
house of a Catholic lady in Staffordshire. There, for his greater safety, the
whole sixty left him. He cropped his hair, stained his face and hands brown as
if they were sunburnt, put on the clothes of a labouring countryman, and went
out in the morning with his axe in his hand, accompanied by four wood-cutters
who were brothers, and another man who was their brother-in-law. These good
fellows made a bed for him under a tree, as the weather was very bad; and the
wife of one of them brought him food to eat; and the old mother of the four
brothers came and fell down on her knees before him in the wood, and thanked
God that her sons were engaged in saving his life. At night, he came out of the
forest and went on to another house which was near the river Severn, with the
intention of passing into Wales; but the place swarmed with soldiers, and the
bridges were guarded, and all the boats were made fast. So, after lying in a
hayloft covered over with hay, for some time, he came out of his place,
attended by <span class="smcap">Colonel Careless</span>, a Catholic gentleman
who had met him there, and with whom he lay hid, all next day, up in the shady
branches of a fine old oak. It was lucky for the King that it was
September-time, and that the leaves had not begun to fall, since he and the
Colonel, perched up in this tree, could catch glimpses of the soldiers riding
about below, and could hear the crash in the wood as they went about beating
the boughs.
</p>

<p>
After this, he walked and walked until his feet were all blistered; and, having
been concealed all one day in a house which was searched by the troopers while
he was there, went with <span class="smcap">Lord Wilmot</span>, another of his
good friends, to a place called Bentley, where one <span class="smcap">Miss
Lane</span>, a Protestant lady, had obtained a pass to be allowed to ride
through the guards to see a relation of hers near Bristol. Disguised as a
servant, he rode in the saddle before this young lady to the house of <span
class="smcap">Sir John Winter</span>, while Lord Wilmot rode there boldly, like
a plain country gentleman, with dogs at his heels. It happened that Sir John
Winter&rsquo;s butler had been servant in Richmond Palace, and knew Charles the
moment he set eyes upon him; but, the butler was faithful and kept the secret.
As no ship could be found to carry him abroad, it was planned that he should
go&mdash;still travelling with Miss Lane as her servant&mdash;to another house,
at Trent near Sherborne in Dorsetshire; and then Miss Lane and her cousin,
<span class="smcap">Mr. Lascelles</span>, who had gone on horseback beside her
all the way, went home. I hope Miss Lane was going to marry that cousin, for I
am sure she must have been a brave, kind girl. If I had been that cousin, I
should certainly have loved Miss Lane.
</p>

<p>
When Charles, lonely for the loss of Miss Lane, was safe at Trent, a ship was
hired at Lyme, the master of which engaged to take two gentlemen to France. In
the evening of the same day, the King&mdash;now riding as servant before
another young lady&mdash;set off for a public-house at a place called
Charmouth, where the captain of the vessel was to take him on board. But, the
captain&rsquo;s wife, being afraid of her husband getting into trouble, locked
him up and would not let him sail. Then they went away to Bridport; and, coming
to the inn there, found the stable-yard full of soldiers who were on the
look-out for Charles, and who talked about him while they drank. He had such
presence of mind, that he led the horses of his party through the yard as any
other servant might have done, and said, &lsquo;Come out of the way, you
soldiers; let us have room to pass here!&rsquo; As he went along, he met a
half-tipsy ostler, who rubbed his eyes and said to him, &lsquo;Why, I was
formerly servant to Mr. Potter at Exeter, and surely I have sometimes seen you
there, young man?&rsquo; He certainly had, for Charles had lodged there. His
ready answer was, &lsquo;Ah, I did live with him once; but I have no time to
talk now. We&rsquo;ll have a pot of beer together when I come back.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
From this dangerous place he returned to Trent, and lay there concealed several
days. Then he escaped to Heale, near Salisbury; where, in the house of a widow
lady, he was hidden five days, until the master of a collier lying off Shoreham
in Sussex, undertook to convey a &lsquo;gentleman&rsquo; to France. On the
night of the fifteenth of October, accompanied by two colonels and a merchant,
the King rode to Brighton, then a little fishing village, to give the captain
of the ship a supper before going on board; but, so many people knew him, that
this captain knew him too, and not only he, but the landlord and landlady also.
Before he went away, the landlord came behind his chair, kissed his hand, and
said he hoped to live to be a lord and to see his wife a lady; at which Charles
laughed. They had had a good supper by this time, and plenty of smoking and
drinking, at which the King was a first-rate hand; so, the captain assured him
that he would stand by him, and he did. It was agreed that the captain should
pretend to sail to Deal, and that Charles should address the sailors and say he
was a gentleman in debt who was running away from his creditors, and that he
hoped they would join him in persuading the captain to put him ashore in
France. As the King acted his part very well indeed, and gave the sailors
twenty shillings to drink, they begged the captain to do what such a worthy
gentleman asked. He pretended to yield to their entreaties, and the King got
safe to Normandy.
</p>

<p>
Ireland being now subdued, and Scotland kept quiet by plenty of forts and
soldiers put there by Oliver, the Parliament would have gone on quietly enough,
as far as fighting with any foreign enemy went, but for getting into trouble
with the Dutch, who in the spring of the year one thousand six hundred and
fifty-one sent a fleet into the Downs under their <span class="smcap">Admiral
Van Tromp</span>, to call upon the bold English <span class="smcap">Admiral
Blake</span> (who was there with half as many ships as the Dutch) to strike his
flag. Blake fired a raging broadside instead, and beat off Van Tromp; who, in
the autumn, came back again with seventy ships, and challenged the bold
Blake&mdash;who still was only half as strong&mdash;to fight him. Blake fought
him all day; but, finding that the Dutch were too many for him, got quietly off
at night. What does Van Tromp upon this, but goes cruising and boasting about
the Channel, between the North Foreland and the Isle of Wight, with a great
Dutch broom tied to his masthead, as a sign that he could and would sweep the
English of the sea! Within three months, Blake lowered his tone though, and his
broom too; for, he and two other bold commanders, <span
class="smcap">Dean</span> and <span class="smcap">Monk</span>, fought him three
whole days, took twenty-three of his ships, shivered his broom to pieces, and
settled his business.
</p>

<p>
Things were no sooner quiet again, than the army began to complain to the
Parliament that they were not governing the nation properly, and to hint that
they thought they could do it better themselves. Oliver, who had now made up
his mind to be the head of the state, or nothing at all, supported them in
this, and called a meeting of officers and his own Parliamentary friends, at
his lodgings in Whitehall, to consider the best way of getting rid of the
Parliament. It had now lasted just as many years as the King&rsquo;s unbridled
power had lasted, before it came into existence. The end of the deliberation
was, that Oliver went down to the House in his usual plain black dress, with
his usual grey worsted stockings, but with an unusual party of soldiers behind
him. These last he left in the lobby, and then went in and sat down. Presently
he got up, made the Parliament a speech, told them that the Lord had done with
them, stamped his foot and said, &lsquo;You are no Parliament. Bring them in!
Bring them in!&rsquo; At this signal the door flew open, and the soldiers
appeared. &lsquo;This is not honest,&rsquo; said Sir Harry Vane, one of the
members. &lsquo;Sir Harry Vane!&rsquo; cried Cromwell; &lsquo;O, Sir Harry
Vane! The Lord deliver me from Sir Harry Vane!&rsquo; Then he pointed out
members one by one, and said this man was a drunkard, and that man a dissipated
fellow, and that man a liar, and so on. Then he caused the Speaker to be walked
out of his chair, told the guard to clear the House, called the mace upon the
table&mdash;which is a sign that the House is sitting&mdash;&lsquo;a
fool&rsquo;s bauble,&rsquo; and said, &lsquo;here, carry it away!&rsquo; Being
obeyed in all these orders, he quietly locked the door, put the key in his
pocket, walked back to Whitehall again, and told his friends, who were still
assembled there, what he had done.
</p>

<p>
They formed a new Council of State after this extraordinary proceeding, and got
a new Parliament together in their own way: which Oliver himself opened in a
sort of sermon, and which he said was the beginning of a perfect heaven upon
earth. In this Parliament there sat a well-known leather-seller, who had taken
the singular name of Praise God Barebones, and from whom it was called, for a
joke, Barebones&rsquo;s Parliament, though its general name was the Little
Parliament. As it soon appeared that it was not going to put Oliver in the
first place, it turned out to be not at all like the beginning of heaven upon
earth, and Oliver said it really was not to be borne with. So he cleared off
that Parliament in much the same way as he had disposed of the other; and then
the council of officers decided that he must be made the supreme authority of
the kingdom, under the title of the Lord Protector of the Commonwealth.
</p>

<p>
So, on the sixteenth of December, one thousand six hundred and fifty-three, a
great procession was formed at Oliver&rsquo;s door, and he came out in a black
velvet suit and a big pair of boots, and got into his coach and went down to
Westminster, attended by the judges, and the lord mayor, and the aldermen, and
all the other great and wonderful personages of the country. There, in the
Court of Chancery, he publicly accepted the office of Lord Protector. Then he
was sworn, and the City sword was handed to him, and the seal was handed to
him, and all the other things were handed to him which are usually handed to
Kings and Queens on state occasions. When Oliver had handed them all back, he
was quite made and completely finished off as Lord Protector; and several of
the Ironsides preached about it at great length, all the evening.
</p>

<h3>SECOND PART</h3>

<p>
Oliver Cromwell&mdash;whom the people long called <span class="smcap">Old
Noll</span>&mdash;in accepting the office of Protector, had bound himself by a
certain paper which was handed to him, called &lsquo;the Instrument,&rsquo; to
summon a Parliament, consisting of between four and five hundred members, in
the election of which neither the Royalists nor the Catholics were to have any
share. He had also pledged himself that this Parliament should not be dissolved
without its own consent until it had sat five months.
</p>

<p>
When this Parliament met, Oliver made a speech to them of three hours long,
very wisely advising them what to do for the credit and happiness of the
country. To keep down the more violent members, he required them to sign a
recognition of what they were forbidden by &lsquo;the Instrument&rsquo; to do;
which was, chiefly, to take the power from one single person at the head of the
state or to command the army. Then he dismissed them to go to work. With his
usual vigour and resolution he went to work himself with some frantic
preachers&mdash;who were rather overdoing their sermons in calling him a
villain and a tyrant&mdash;by shutting up their chapels, and sending a few of
them off to prison.
</p>

<p>
There was not at that time, in England or anywhere else, a man so able to
govern the country as Oliver Cromwell. Although he ruled with a strong hand,
and levied a very heavy tax on the Royalists (but not until they had plotted
against his life), he ruled wisely, and as the times required. He caused
England to be so respected abroad, that I wish some lords and gentlemen who
have governed it under kings and queens in later days would have taken a leaf
out of Oliver Cromwell&rsquo;s book. He sent bold Admiral Blake to the
Mediterranean Sea, to make the Duke of Tuscany pay sixty thousand pounds for
injuries he had done to British subjects, and spoliation he had committed on
English merchants. He further despatched him and his fleet to Algiers, Tunis,
and Tripoli, to have every English ship and every English man delivered up to
him that had been taken by pirates in those parts. All this was gloriously
done; and it began to be thoroughly well known, all over the world, that
England was governed by a man in earnest, who would not allow the English name
to be insulted or slighted anywhere.
</p>

<p>
These were not all his foreign triumphs. He sent a fleet to sea against the
Dutch; and the two powers, each with one hundred ships upon its side, met in
the English Channel off the North Foreland, where the fight lasted all day
long. Dean was killed in this fight; but Monk, who commanded in the same ship
with him, threw his cloak over his body, that the sailors might not know of his
death, and be disheartened. Nor were they. The English broadsides so
exceedingly astonished the Dutch that they sheered off at last, though the
redoubtable Van Tromp fired upon them with his own guns for deserting their
flag. Soon afterwards, the two fleets engaged again, off the coast of Holland.
There, the valiant Van Tromp was shot through the heart, and the Dutch gave in,
and peace was made.
</p>

<p>
Further than this, Oliver resolved not to bear the domineering and bigoted
conduct of Spain, which country not only claimed a right to all the gold and
silver that could be found in South America, and treated the ships of all other
countries who visited those regions, as pirates, but put English subjects into
the horrible Spanish prisons of the Inquisition. So, Oliver told the Spanish
ambassador that English ships must be free to go wherever they would, and that
English merchants must not be thrown into those same dungeons, no, not for the
pleasure of all the priests in Spain. To this, the Spanish ambassador replied
that the gold and silver country, and the Holy Inquisition, were his
King&rsquo;s two eyes, neither of which he could submit to have put out. Very
well, said Oliver, then he was afraid he (Oliver) must damage those two eyes
directly.
</p>

<p>
So, another fleet was despatched under two commanders, <span
class="smcap">Penn</span> and <span class="smcap">Venables</span>, for
Hispaniola; where, however, the Spaniards got the better of the fight.
Consequently, the fleet came home again, after taking Jamaica on the way.
Oliver, indignant with the two commanders who had not done what bold Admiral
Blake would have done, clapped them both into prison, declared war against
Spain, and made a treaty with France, in virtue of which it was to shelter the
King and his brother the Duke of York no longer. Then, he sent a fleet abroad
under bold Admiral Blake, which brought the King of Portugal to his
senses&mdash;just to keep its hand in&mdash;and then engaged a Spanish fleet,
sunk four great ships, and took two more, laden with silver to the value of two
millions of pounds: which dazzling prize was brought from Portsmouth to London
in waggons, with the populace of all the towns and villages through which the
waggons passed, shouting with all their might. After this victory, bold Admiral
Blake sailed away to the port of Santa Cruz to cut off the Spanish
treasure-ships coming from Mexico. There, he found them, ten in number, with
seven others to take care of them, and a big castle, and seven batteries, all
roaring and blazing away at him with great guns. Blake cared no more for great
guns than for pop-guns&mdash;no more for their hot iron balls than for
snow-balls. He dashed into the harbour, captured and burnt every one of the
ships, and came sailing out again triumphantly, with the victorious English
flag flying at his masthead. This was the last triumph of this great commander,
who had sailed and fought until he was quite worn out. He died, as his
successful ship was coming into Plymouth Harbour amidst the joyful acclamations
of the people, and was buried in state in Westminster Abbey. Not to lie there,
long.
</p>

<p>
Over and above all this, Oliver found that the <span
class="smcap">Vaudois</span>, or Protestant people of the valleys of Lucerne,
were insolently treated by the Catholic powers, and were even put to death for
their religion, in an audacious and bloody manner. Instantly, he informed those
powers that this was a thing which Protestant England would not allow; and he
speedily carried his point, through the might of his great name, and
established their right to worship God in peace after their own harmless
manner.
</p>

<p>
Lastly, his English army won such admiration in fighting with the French
against the Spaniards, that, after they had assaulted the town of Dunkirk
together, the French King in person gave it up to the English, that it might be
a token to them of their might and valour.
</p>

<p>
There were plots enough against Oliver among the frantic religionists (who
called themselves Fifth Monarchy Men), and among the disappointed Republicans.
He had a difficult game to play, for the Royalists were always ready to side
with either party against him. The &lsquo;King over the water,&rsquo; too, as
Charles was called, had no scruples about plotting with any one against his
life; although there is reason to suppose that he would willingly have married
one of his daughters, if Oliver would have had such a son-in-law. There was a
certain <span class="smcap">Colonel Saxby</span> of the army, once a great
supporter of Oliver&rsquo;s but now turned against him, who was a grievous
trouble to him through all this part of his career; and who came and went
between the discontented in England and Spain, and Charles who put himself in
alliance with Spain on being thrown off by France. This man died in prison at
last; but not until there had been very serious plots between the Royalists and
Republicans, and an actual rising of them in England, when they burst into the
city of Salisbury, on a Sunday night, seized the judges who were going to hold
the assizes there next day, and would have hanged them but for the merciful
objections of the more temperate of their number. Oliver was so vigorous and
shrewd that he soon put this revolt down, as he did most other conspiracies;
and it was well for one of its chief managers&mdash;that same Lord Wilmot who
had assisted in Charles&rsquo;s flight, and was now <span class="smcap">Earl of
Rochester</span>&mdash;that he made his escape. Oliver seemed to have eyes and
ears everywhere, and secured such sources of information as his enemies little
dreamed of. There was a chosen body of six persons, called the Sealed Knot, who
were in the closest and most secret confidence of Charles. One of the foremost
of these very men, a <span class="smcap">Sir Richard Willis</span>, reported to
Oliver everything that passed among them, and had two hundred a year for it.
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">Miles Syndarcomb</span>, also of the old army, was another
conspirator against the Protector. He and a man named <span
class="smcap">Cecil</span>, bribed one of his Life Guards to let them have good
notice when he was going out&mdash;intending to shoot him from a window. But,
owing either to his caution or his good fortune, they could never get an aim at
him. Disappointed in this design, they got into the chapel in Whitehall, with a
basketful of combustibles, which were to explode by means of a slow match in
six hours; then, in the noise and confusion of the fire, they hoped to kill
Oliver. But, the Life Guardsman himself disclosed this plot; and they were
seized, and Miles died (or killed himself in prison) a little while before he
was ordered for execution. A few such plotters Oliver caused to be beheaded, a
few more to be hanged, and many more, including those who rose in arms against
him, to be sent as slaves to the West Indies. If he were rigid, he was
impartial too, in asserting the laws of England. When a Portuguese nobleman,
the brother of the Portuguese ambassador, killed a London citizen in mistake
for another man with whom he had had a quarrel, Oliver caused him to be tried
before a jury of Englishmen and foreigners, and had him executed in spite of
the entreaties of all the ambassadors in London.
</p>

<p>
One of Oliver&rsquo;s own friends, the <span class="smcap">Duke of
Oldenburgh</span>, in sending him a present of six fine coach-horses, was very
near doing more to please the Royalists than all the plotters put together. One
day, Oliver went with his coach, drawn by these six horses, into Hyde Park, to
dine with his secretary and some of his other gentlemen under the trees there.
After dinner, being merry, he took it into his head to put his friends inside
and to drive them home: a postillion riding one of the foremost horses, as the
custom was. On account of Oliver&rsquo;s being too free with the whip, the six
fine horses went off at a gallop, the postillion got thrown, and Oliver fell
upon the coach-pole and narrowly escaped being shot by his own pistol, which
got entangled with his clothes in the harness, and went off. He was dragged
some distance by the foot, until his foot came out of the shoe, and then he
came safely to the ground under the broad body of the coach, and was very
little the worse. The gentlemen inside were only bruised, and the discontented
people of all parties were much disappointed.
</p>

<p>
The rest of the history of the Protectorate of Oliver Cromwell is a history of
his Parliaments. His first one not pleasing him at all, he waited until the
five months were out, and then dissolved it. The next was better suited to his
views; and from that he desired to get&mdash;if he could with safety to
himself&mdash;the title of King. He had had this in his mind some time: whether
because he thought that the English people, being more used to the title, were
more likely to obey it; or whether because he really wished to be a king
himself, and to leave the succession to that title in his family, is far from
clear. He was already as high, in England and in all the world, as he would
ever be, and I doubt if he cared for the mere name. However, a paper, called
the &lsquo;Humble Petition and Advice,&rsquo; was presented to him by the House
of Commons, praying him to take a high title and to appoint his successor. That
he would have taken the title of King there is no doubt, but for the strong
opposition of the army. This induced him to forbear, and to assent only to the
other points of the petition. Upon which occasion there was another grand show
in Westminster Hall, when the Speaker of the House of Commons formally invested
him with a purple robe lined with ermine, and presented him with a splendidly
bound Bible, and put a golden sceptre in his hand. The next time the Parliament
met, he called a House of Lords of sixty members, as the petition gave him
power to do; but as that Parliament did not please him either, and would not
proceed to the business of the country, he jumped into a coach one morning,
took six Guards with him, and sent them to the right-about. I wish this had
been a warning to Parliaments to avoid long speeches, and do more work.
</p>

<p>
It was the month of August, one thousand six hundred and fifty-eight, when
Oliver Cromwell&rsquo;s favourite daughter, <span class="smcap">Elizabeth
Claypole</span> (who had lately lost her youngest son), lay very ill, and his
mind was greatly troubled, because he loved her dearly. Another of his
daughters was married to <span class="smcap">Lord Falconberg</span>, another to
the grandson of the Earl of Warwick, and he had made his son <span
class="smcap">Richard</span> one of the Members of the Upper House. He was very
kind and loving to them all, being a good father and a good husband; but he
loved this daughter the best of the family, and went down to Hampton Court to
see her, and could hardly be induced to stir from her sick room until she died.
Although his religion had been of a gloomy kind, his disposition had been
always cheerful. He had been fond of music in his home, and had kept open table
once a week for all officers of the army not below the rank of captain, and had
always preserved in his house a quiet, sensible dignity. He encouraged men of
genius and learning, and loved to have them about him. <span
class="smcap">Milton</span> was one of his great friends. He was good humoured
too, with the nobility, whose dresses and manners were very different from his;
and to show them what good information he had, he would sometimes jokingly tell
them when they were his guests, where they had last drunk the health of the
&lsquo;King over the water,&rsquo; and would recommend them to be more private
(if they could) another time. But he had lived in busy times, had borne the
weight of heavy State affairs, and had often gone in fear of his life. He was
ill of the gout and ague; and when the death of his beloved child came upon him
in addition, he sank, never to raise his head again. He told his physicians on
the twenty-fourth of August that the Lord had assured him that he was not to
die in that illness, and that he would certainly get better. This was only his
sick fancy, for on the third of September, which was the anniversary of the
great battle of Worcester, and the day of the year which he called his
fortunate day, he died, in the sixtieth year of his age. He had been delirious,
and had lain insensible some hours, but he had been overheard to murmur a very
good prayer the day before. The whole country lamented his death. If you want
to know the real worth of Oliver Cromwell, and his real services to his
country, you can hardly do better than compare England under him, with England
under <span class="smcap">Charles the Second</span>.
</p>

<p>
He had appointed his son Richard to succeed him, and after there had been, at
Somerset House in the Strand, a lying in state more splendid than
sensible&mdash;as all such vanities after death are, I think&mdash;Richard
became Lord Protector. He was an amiable country gentleman, but had none of his
father&rsquo;s great genius, and was quite unfit for such a post in such a
storm of parties. Richard&rsquo;s Protectorate, which only lasted a year and a
half, is a history of quarrels between the officers of the army and the
Parliament, and between the officers among themselves; and of a growing
discontent among the people, who had far too many long sermons and far too few
amusements, and wanted a change. At last, General Monk got the army well into
his own hands, and then in pursuance of a secret plan he seems to have
entertained from the time of Oliver&rsquo;s death, declared for the
King&rsquo;s cause. He did not do this openly; but, in his place in the House
of Commons, as one of the members for Devonshire, strongly advocated the
proposals of one <span class="smcap">Sir John Greenville</span>, who came to
the House with a letter from Charles, dated from Breda, and with whom he had
previously been in secret communication. There had been plots and counterplots,
and a recall of the last members of the Long Parliament, and an end of the Long
Parliament, and risings of the Royalists that were made too soon; and most men
being tired out, and there being no one to head the country now great Oliver
was dead, it was readily agreed to welcome Charles Stuart. Some of the wiser
and better members said&mdash;what was most true&mdash;that in the letter from
Breda, he gave no real promise to govern well, and that it would be best to
make him pledge himself beforehand as to what he should be bound to do for the
benefit of the kingdom. Monk said, however, it would be all right when he came,
and he could not come too soon.
</p>

<p>
So, everybody found out all in a moment that the country <i>must</i> be
prosperous and happy, having another Stuart to condescend to reign over it; and
there was a prodigious firing off of guns, lighting of bonfires, ringing of
bells, and throwing up of caps. The people drank the King&rsquo;s health by
thousands in the open streets, and everybody rejoiced. Down came the Arms of
the Commonwealth, up went the Royal Arms instead, and out came the public
money. Fifty thousand pounds for the King, ten thousand pounds for his brother
the Duke of York, five thousand pounds for his brother the Duke of Gloucester.
Prayers for these gracious Stuarts were put up in all the churches;
commissioners were sent to Holland (which suddenly found out that Charles was a
great man, and that it loved him) to invite the King home; Monk and the Kentish
grandees went to Dover, to kneel down before him as he landed. He kissed and
embraced Monk, made him ride in the coach with himself and his brothers, came
on to London amid wonderful shoutings, and passed through the army at
Blackheath on the twenty-ninth of May (his birthday), in the year one thousand
six hundred and sixty. Greeted by splendid dinners under tents, by flags and
tapestry streaming from all the houses, by delighted crowds in all the streets,
by troops of noblemen and gentlemen in rich dresses, by City companies,
train-bands, drummers, trumpeters, the great Lord Mayor, and the majestic
Aldermen, the King went on to Whitehall. On entering it, he commemorated his
Restoration with the joke that it really would seem to have been his own fault
that he had not come long ago, since everybody told him that he had always
wished for him with all his heart.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap35"></a>CHAPTER XXXV<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER CHARLES THE SECOND, CALLED THE MERRY MONARCH</h2>

<p>
There never were such profligate times in England as under Charles the Second.
Whenever you see his portrait, with his swarthy, ill-looking face and great
nose, you may fancy him in his Court at Whitehall, surrounded by some of the
very worst vagabonds in the kingdom (though they were lords and ladies),
drinking, gambling, indulging in vicious conversation, and committing every
kind of profligate excess. It has been a fashion to call Charles the Second
&lsquo;The Merry Monarch.&rsquo; Let me try to give you a general idea of some
of the merry things that were done, in the merry days when this merry gentleman
sat upon his merry throne, in merry England.
</p>

<p>
The first merry proceeding was&mdash;of course&mdash;to declare that he was one
of the greatest, the wisest, and the noblest kings that ever shone, like the
blessed sun itself, on this benighted earth. The next merry and pleasant piece
of business was, for the Parliament, in the humblest manner, to give him one
million two hundred thousand pounds a year, and to settle upon him for life
that old disputed tonnage and poundage which had been so bravely fought for.
Then, General Monk being made <span class="smcap">Earl of Albemarle</span>, and
a few other Royalists similarly rewarded, the law went to work to see what was
to be done to those persons (they were called Regicides) who had been concerned
in making a martyr of the late King. Ten of these were merrily executed; that
is to say, six of the judges, one of the council, Colonel Hacker and another
officer who had commanded the Guards, and <span class="smcap">Hugh
Peters</span>, a preacher who had preached against the martyr with all his
heart. These executions were so extremely merry, that every horrible
circumstance which Cromwell had abandoned was revived with appalling cruelty.
The hearts of the sufferers were torn out of their living bodies; their bowels
were burned before their faces; the executioner cut jokes to the next victim,
as he rubbed his filthy hands together, that were reeking with the blood of the
last; and the heads of the dead were drawn on sledges with the living to the
place of suffering. Still, even so merry a monarch could not force one of these
dying men to say that he was sorry for what he had done. Nay, the most
memorable thing said among them was, that if the thing were to do again they
would do it.
</p>

<p>
Sir Harry Vane, who had furnished the evidence against Strafford, and was one
of the most staunch of the Republicans, was also tried, found guilty, and
ordered for execution. When he came upon the scaffold on Tower Hill, after
conducting his own defence with great power, his notes of what he had meant to
say to the people were torn away from him, and the drums and trumpets were
ordered to sound lustily and drown his voice; for, the people had been so much
impressed by what the Regicides had calmly said with their last breath, that it
was the custom now, to have the drums and trumpets always under the scaffold,
ready to strike up. Vane said no more than this: &lsquo;It is a bad cause which
cannot bear the words of a dying man:&rsquo; and bravely died.
</p>

<p>
These merry scenes were succeeded by another, perhaps even merrier. On the
anniversary of the late King&rsquo;s death, the bodies of Oliver Cromwell,
Ireton, and Bradshaw, were torn out of their graves in Westminster Abbey,
dragged to Tyburn, hanged there on a gallows all day long, and then beheaded.
Imagine the head of Oliver Cromwell set upon a pole to be stared at by a brutal
crowd, not one of whom would have dared to look the living Oliver in the face
for half a moment! Think, after you have read this reign, what England was
under Oliver Cromwell who was torn out of his grave, and what it was under this
merry monarch who sold it, like a merry Judas, over and over again.
</p>

<p>
Of course, the remains of Oliver&rsquo;s wife and daughter were not to be
spared either, though they had been most excellent women. The base clergy of
that time gave up their bodies, which had been buried in the Abbey,
and&mdash;to the eternal disgrace of England&mdash;they were thrown into a pit,
together with the mouldering bones of Pym and of the brave and bold old Admiral
Blake.
</p>

<p>
The clergy acted this disgraceful part because they hoped to get the
nonconformists, or dissenters, thoroughly put down in this reign, and to have
but one prayer-book and one service for all kinds of people, no matter what
their private opinions were. This was pretty well, I think, for a Protestant
Church, which had displaced the Romish Church because people had a right to
their own opinions in religious matters. However, they carried it with a high
hand, and a prayer-book was agreed upon, in which the extremest opinions of
Archbishop Laud were not forgotten. An Act was passed, too, preventing any
dissenter from holding any office under any corporation. So, the regular clergy
in their triumph were soon as merry as the King. The army being by this time
disbanded, and the King crowned, everything was to go on easily for evermore.
</p>

<p>
I must say a word here about the King&rsquo;s family. He had not been long upon
the throne when his brother the Duke of Gloucester, and his sister the <span
class="smcap">Princess of Orange</span>, died within a few months of each
other, of small-pox. His remaining sister, the <span class="smcap">Princess
Henrietta</span>, married the <span class="smcap">Duke of Orleans</span>, the
brother of <span class="smcap">Louis the Fourteenth</span>, King of France. His
brother <span class="smcap">James</span>, <span class="smcap">Duke of
York</span>, was made High Admiral, and by-and-by became a Catholic. He was a
gloomy, sullen, bilious sort of man, with a remarkable partiality for the
ugliest women in the country. He married, under very discreditable
circumstances, <span class="smcap">Anne Hyde</span>, the daughter of <span
class="smcap">Lord Clarendon</span>, then the King&rsquo;s principal
Minister&mdash;not at all a delicate minister either, but doing much of the
dirty work of a very dirty palace. It became important now that the King
himself should be married; and divers foreign Monarchs, not very particular
about the character of their son-in-law, proposed their daughters to him. The
<span class="smcap">King of Portugal</span> offered his daughter, <span
class="smcap">Catherine of Braganza</span>, and fifty thousand pounds: in
addition to which, the French King, who was favourable to that match, offered a
loan of another fifty thousand. The King of Spain, on the other hand, offered
any one out of a dozen of Princesses, and other hopes of gain. But the ready
money carried the day, and Catherine came over in state to her merry marriage.
</p>

<p>
The whole Court was a great flaunting crowd of debauched men and shameless
women; and Catherine&rsquo;s merry husband insulted and outraged her in every
possible way, until she consented to receive those worthless creatures as her
very good friends, and to degrade herself by their companionship. A <span
class="smcap">Mrs. Palmer</span>, whom the King made <span class="smcap">Lady
Castlemaine</span>, and afterwards <span class="smcap">Duchess of
Cleveland</span>, was one of the most powerful of the bad women about the
Court, and had great influence with the King nearly all through his reign.
Another merry lady named <span class="smcap">Moll Davies</span>, a dancer at
the theatre, was afterwards her rival. So was <span class="smcap">Nell
Gwyn</span>, first an orange girl and then an actress, who really had good in
her, and of whom one of the worst things I know is, that actually she does seem
to have been fond of the King. The first <span class="smcap">Duke of St.
Albans</span> was this orange girl&rsquo;s child. In like manner the son of a
merry waiting-lady, whom the King created <span class="smcap">Duchess Of
Portsmouth</span>, became the <span class="smcap">Duke of Richmond</span>. Upon
the whole it is not so bad a thing to be a commoner.
</p>

<p>
The Merry Monarch was so exceedingly merry among these merry ladies, and some
equally merry (and equally infamous) lords and gentlemen, that he soon got
through his hundred thousand pounds, and then, by way of raising a little
pocket-money, made a merry bargain. He sold Dunkirk to the French King for five
millions of livres. When I think of the dignity to which Oliver Cromwell raised
England in the eyes of foreign powers, and when I think of the manner in which
he gained for England this very Dunkirk, I am much inclined to consider that if
the Merry Monarch had been made to follow his father for this action, he would
have received his just deserts.
</p>

<p>
Though he was like his father in none of that father&rsquo;s greater qualities,
he was like him in being worthy of no trust. When he sent that letter to the
Parliament, from Breda, he did expressly promise that all sincere religious
opinions should be respected. Yet he was no sooner firm in his power than he
consented to one of the worst Acts of Parliament ever passed. Under this law,
every minister who should not give his solemn assent to the Prayer-Book by a
certain day, was declared to be a minister no longer, and to be deprived of his
church. The consequence of this was that some two thousand honest men were
taken from their congregations, and reduced to dire poverty and distress. It
was followed by another outrageous law, called the Conventicle Act, by which
any person above the age of sixteen who was present at any religious service
not according to the Prayer-Book, was to be imprisoned three months for the
first offence, six for the second, and to be transported for the third. This
Act alone filled the prisons, which were then most dreadful dungeons, to
overflowing.
</p>

<p>
The Covenanters in Scotland had already fared no better. A base Parliament,
usually known as the Drunken Parliament, in consequence of its principal
members being seldom sober, had been got together to make laws against the
Covenanters, and to force all men to be of one mind in religious matters. The
<span class="smcap">Marquis of Argyle</span>, relying on the King&rsquo;s
honour, had given himself up to him; but, he was wealthy, and his enemies
wanted his wealth. He was tried for treason, on the evidence of some private
letters in which he had expressed opinions&mdash;as well he might&mdash;more
favourable to the government of the late Lord Protector than of the present
merry and religious King. He was executed, as were two men of mark among the
Covenanters; and <span class="smcap">Sharp</span>, a traitor who had once been
the friend of the Presbyterians and betrayed them, was made Archbishop of St.
Andrew&rsquo;s, to teach the Scotch how to like bishops.
</p>

<p>
Things being in this merry state at home, the Merry Monarch undertook a war
with the Dutch; principally because they interfered with an African company,
established with the two objects of buying gold-dust and slaves, of which the
Duke of York was a leading member. After some preliminary hostilities, the said
Duke sailed to the coast of Holland with a fleet of ninety-eight vessels of
war, and four fire-ships. This engaged with the Dutch fleet, of no fewer than
one hundred and thirteen ships. In the great battle between the two forces, the
Dutch lost eighteen ships, four admirals, and seven thousand men. But, the
English on shore were in no mood of exultation when they heard the news.
</p>

<p>
For, this was the year and the time of the Great Plague in London. During the
winter of one thousand six hundred and sixty-four it had been whispered about,
that some few people had died here and there of the disease called the Plague,
in some of the unwholesome suburbs around London. News was not published at
that time as it is now, and some people believed these rumours, and some
disbelieved them, and they were soon forgotten. But, in the month of May, one
thousand six hundred and sixty-five, it began to be said all over the town that
the disease had burst out with great violence in St. Giles&rsquo;s, and that
the people were dying in great numbers. This soon turned out to be awfully
true. The roads out of London were choked up by people endeavouring to escape
from the infected city, and large sums were paid for any kind of conveyance.
The disease soon spread so fast, that it was necessary to shut up the houses in
which sick people were, and to cut them off from communication with the living.
Every one of these houses was marked on the outside of the door with a red
cross, and the words, Lord, have mercy upon us! The streets were all deserted,
grass grew in the public ways, and there was a dreadful silence in the air.
When night came on, dismal rumblings used to be heard, and these were the
wheels of the death-carts, attended by men with veiled faces and holding cloths
to their mouths, who rang doleful bells and cried in a loud and solemn voice,
&lsquo;Bring out your dead!&rsquo; The corpses put into these carts were buried
by torchlight in great pits; no service being performed over them; all men
being afraid to stay for a moment on the brink of the ghastly graves. In the
general fear, children ran away from their parents, and parents from their
children. Some who were taken ill, died alone, and without any help. Some were
stabbed or strangled by hired nurses who robbed them of all their money, and
stole the very beds on which they lay. Some went mad, dropped from the windows,
ran through the streets, and in their pain and frenzy flung themselves into the
river.
</p>

<p>
These were not all the horrors of the time. The wicked and dissolute, in wild
desperation, sat in the taverns singing roaring songs, and were stricken as
they drank, and went out and died. The fearful and superstitious persuaded
themselves that they saw supernatural sights&mdash;burning swords in the sky,
gigantic arms and darts. Others pretended that at nights vast crowds of ghosts
walked round and round the dismal pits. One madman, naked, and carrying a
brazier full of burning coals upon his head, stalked through the streets,
crying out that he was a Prophet, commissioned to denounce the vengeance of the
Lord on wicked London. Another always went to and fro, exclaiming, &lsquo;Yet
forty days, and London shall be destroyed!&rsquo; A third awoke the echoes in
the dismal streets, by night and by day, and made the blood of the sick run
cold, by calling out incessantly, in a deep hoarse voice, &lsquo;O, the great
and dreadful God!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
Through the months of July and August and September, the Great Plague raged
more and more. Great fires were lighted in the streets, in the hope of stopping
the infection; but there was a plague of rain too, and it beat the fires out.
At last, the winds which usually arise at that time of the year which is called
the equinox, when day and night are of equal length all over the world, began
to blow, and to purify the wretched town. The deaths began to decrease, the red
crosses slowly to disappear, the fugitives to return, the shops to open, pale
frightened faces to be seen in the streets. The Plague had been in every part
of England, but in close and unwholesome London it had killed one hundred
thousand people.
</p>

<p>
All this time, the Merry Monarch was as merry as ever, and as worthless as
ever. All this time, the debauched lords and gentlemen and the shameless ladies
danced and gamed and drank, and loved and hated one another, according to their
merry ways.
</p>

<p>
So little humanity did the government learn from the late affliction, that one
of the first things the Parliament did when it met at Oxford (being as yet
afraid to come to London), was to make a law, called the Five Mile Act,
expressly directed against those poor ministers who, in the time of the Plague,
had manfully come back to comfort the unhappy people. This infamous law, by
forbidding them to teach in any school, or to come within five miles of any
city, town, or village, doomed them to starvation and death.
</p>

<p>
The fleet had been at sea, and healthy. The King of France was now in alliance
with the Dutch, though his navy was chiefly employed in looking on while the
English and Dutch fought. The Dutch gained one victory; and the English gained
another and a greater; and Prince Rupert, one of the English admirals, was out
in the Channel one windy night, looking for the French Admiral, with the
intention of giving him something more to do than he had had yet, when the gale
increased to a storm, and blew him into Saint Helen&rsquo;s. That night was the
third of September, one thousand six hundred and sixty-six, and that wind
fanned the Great Fire of London.
</p>

<p>
It broke out at a baker&rsquo;s shop near London Bridge, on the spot on which
the Monument now stands as a remembrance of those raging flames. It spread and
spread, and burned and burned, for three days. The nights were lighter than the
days; in the daytime there was an immense cloud of smoke, and in the night-time
there was a great tower of fire mounting up into the sky, which lighted the
whole country landscape for ten miles round. Showers of hot ashes rose into the
air and fell on distant places; flying sparks carried the conflagration to
great distances, and kindled it in twenty new spots at a time; church steeples
fell down with tremendous crashes; houses crumbled into cinders by the hundred
and the thousand. The summer had been intensely hot and dry, the streets were
very narrow, and the houses mostly built of wood and plaster. Nothing could
stop the tremendous fire, but the want of more houses to burn; nor did it stop
until the whole way from the Tower to Temple Bar was a desert, composed of the
ashes of thirteen thousand houses and eighty-nine churches.
</p>

<p>
This was a terrible visitation at the time, and occasioned great loss and
suffering to the two hundred thousand burnt-out people, who were obliged to lie
in the fields under the open night sky, or in hastily-made huts of mud and
straw, while the lanes and roads were rendered impassable by carts which had
broken down as they tried to save their goods. But the Fire was a great
blessing to the City afterwards, for it arose from its ruins very much
improved&mdash;built more regularly, more widely, more cleanly and carefully,
and therefore much more healthily. It might be far more healthy than it is, but
there are some people in it still&mdash;even now, at this time, nearly two
hundred years later&mdash;so selfish, so pig-headed, and so ignorant, that I
doubt if even another Great Fire would warm them up to do their duty.
</p>

<p>
The Catholics were accused of having wilfully set London in flames; one poor
Frenchman, who had been mad for years, even accused himself of having with his
own hand fired the first house. There is no reasonable doubt, however, that the
fire was accidental. An inscription on the Monument long attributed it to the
Catholics; but it is removed now, and was always a malicious and stupid
untruth.
</p>

<h3>SECOND PART</h3>

<p>
That the Merry Monarch might be very merry indeed, in the merry times when his
people were suffering under pestilence and fire, he drank and gambled and flung
away among his favourites the money which the Parliament had voted for the war.
The consequence of this was that the stout-hearted English sailors were merrily
starving of want, and dying in the streets; while the Dutch, under their
admirals <span class="smcap">De Witt</span> and <span class="smcap">De
Ruyter</span>, came into the River Thames, and up the River Medway as far as
Upnor, burned the guard-ships, silenced the weak batteries, and did what they
would to the English coast for six whole weeks. Most of the English ships that
could have prevented them had neither powder nor shot on board; in this merry
reign, public officers made themselves as merry as the King did with the public
money; and when it was entrusted to them to spend in national defences or
preparations, they put it into their own pockets with the merriest grace in the
world.
</p>

<p>
Lord Clarendon had, by this time, run as long a course as is usually allotted
to the unscrupulous ministers of bad kings. He was impeached by his political
opponents, but unsuccessfully. The King then commanded him to withdraw from
England and retire to France, which he did, after defending himself in writing.
He was no great loss at home, and died abroad some seven years afterwards.
</p>

<p>
There then came into power a ministry called the Cabal Ministry, because it was
composed of <span class="smcap">Lord Clifford</span>, the <span
class="smcap">Earl of Arlington</span>, the <span class="smcap">Duke of
Buckingham</span> (a great rascal, and the King&rsquo;s most powerful
favourite), <span class="smcap">Lord Ashley</span>, and the <span
class="smcap">Duke of Lauderdale</span>, <span class="smcap">c. a. b. a.
l.</span> As the French were making conquests in Flanders, the first Cabal
proceeding was to make a treaty with the Dutch, for uniting with Spain to
oppose the French. It was no sooner made than the Merry Monarch, who always
wanted to get money without being accountable to a Parliament for his
expenditure, apologised to the King of France for having had anything to do
with it, and concluded a secret treaty with him, making himself his infamous
pensioner to the amount of two millions of livres down, and three millions more
a year; and engaging to desert that very Spain, to make war against those very
Dutch, and to declare himself a Catholic when a convenient time should arrive.
This religious king had lately been crying to his Catholic brother on the
subject of his strong desire to be a Catholic; and now he merrily concluded
this treasonable conspiracy against the country he governed, by undertaking to
become one as soon as he safely could. For all of which, though he had had ten
merry heads instead of one, he richly deserved to lose them by the
headsman&rsquo;s axe.
</p>

<p>
As his one merry head might have been far from safe, if these things had been
known, they were kept very quiet, and war was declared by France and England
against the Dutch. But, a very uncommon man, afterwards most important to
English history and to the religion and liberty of this land, arose among them,
and for many long years defeated the whole projects of France. This was <span
class="smcap">William of Nassau</span>, <span class="smcap">Prince of
Orange</span>, son of the last Prince of Orange of the same name, who married
the daughter of Charles the First of England. He was a young man at this time,
only just of age; but he was brave, cool, intrepid, and wise. His father had
been so detested that, upon his death, the Dutch had abolished the authority to
which this son would have otherwise succeeded (Stadtholder it was called), and
placed the chief power in the hands of <span class="smcap">John de Witt</span>,
who educated this young prince. Now, the Prince became very popular, and John
de Witt&rsquo;s brother <span class="smcap">Cornelius</span> was sentenced to
banishment on a false accusation of conspiring to kill him. John went to the
prison where he was, to take him away to exile, in his coach; and a great mob
who collected on the occasion, then and there cruelly murdered both the
brothers. This left the government in the hands of the Prince, who was really
the choice of the nation; and from this time he exercised it with the greatest
vigour, against the whole power of France, under its famous generals <span
class="smcap">Cond&eacute;</span> and <span class="smcap">Turenne</span>, and
in support of the Protestant religion. It was full seven years before this war
ended in a treaty of peace made at Nimeguen, and its details would occupy a
very considerable space. It is enough to say that William of Orange established
a famous character with the whole world; and that the Merry Monarch, adding to
and improving on his former baseness, bound himself to do everything the King
of France liked, and nothing the King of France did not like, for a pension of
one hundred thousand pounds a year, which was afterwards doubled. Besides this,
the King of France, by means of his corrupt ambassador&mdash;who wrote accounts
of his proceedings in England, which are not always to be believed, I
think&mdash;bought our English members of Parliament, as he wanted them. So, in
point of fact, during a considerable portion of this merry reign, the King of
France was the real King of this country.
</p>

<p>
But there was a better time to come, and it was to come (though his royal uncle
little thought so) through that very William, Prince of Orange. He came over to
England, saw Mary, the elder daughter of the Duke of York, and married her. We
shall see by-and-by what came of that marriage, and why it is never to be
forgotten.
</p>

<p>
This daughter was a Protestant, but her mother died a Catholic. She and her
sister <span class="smcap">Anne</span>, also a Protestant, were the only
survivors of eight children. Anne afterwards married <span
class="smcap">George</span>, <span class="smcap">Prince of Denmark</span>,
brother to the King of that country.
</p>

<p>
Lest you should do the Merry Monarch the injustice of supposing that he was
even good humoured (except when he had everything his own way), or that he was
high spirited and honourable, I will mention here what was done to a member of
the House of Commons, <span class="smcap">Sir John Coventry</span>. He made a
remark in a debate about taxing the theatres, which gave the King offence. The
King agreed with his illegitimate son, who had been born abroad, and whom he
had made <span class="smcap">Duke of Monmouth</span>, to take the following
merry vengeance. To waylay him at night, fifteen armed men to one, and to slit
his nose with a penknife. Like master, like man. The King&rsquo;s favourite,
the Duke of Buckingham, was strongly suspected of setting on an assassin to
murder the <span class="smcap">Duke of Ormond</span> as he was returning home
from a dinner; and that Duke&rsquo;s spirited son, <span class="smcap">Lord
Ossory</span>, was so persuaded of his guilt, that he said to him at Court,
even as he stood beside the King, &lsquo;My lord, I know very well that you are
at the bottom of this late attempt upon my father. But I give you warning, if
he ever come to a violent end, his blood shall be upon you, and wherever I meet
you I will pistol you! I will do so, though I find you standing behind the
King&rsquo;s chair; and I tell you this in his Majesty&rsquo;s presence, that
you may be quite sure of my doing what I threaten.&rsquo; Those were merry
times indeed.
</p>

<p>
There was a fellow named <span class="smcap">Blood</span>, who was seized for
making, with two companions, an audacious attempt to steal the crown, the
globe, and sceptre, from the place where the jewels were kept in the Tower.
This robber, who was a swaggering ruffian, being taken, declared that he was
the man who had endeavoured to kill the Duke of Ormond, and that he had meant
to kill the King too, but was overawed by the majesty of his appearance, when
he might otherwise have done it, as he was bathing at Battersea. The King being
but an ill-looking fellow, I don&rsquo;t believe a word of this. Whether he was
flattered, or whether he knew that Buckingham had really set Blood on to murder
the Duke, is uncertain. But it is quite certain that he pardoned this thief,
gave him an estate of five hundred a year in Ireland (which had had the honour
of giving him birth), and presented him at Court to the debauched lords and the
shameless ladies, who made a great deal of him&mdash;as I have no doubt they
would have made of the Devil himself, if the King had introduced him.
</p>

<p>
Infamously pensioned as he was, the King still wanted money, and consequently
was obliged to call Parliaments. In these, the great object of the Protestants
was to thwart the Catholic Duke of York, who married a second time; his new
wife being a young lady only fifteen years old, the Catholic sister of the
<span class="smcap">Duke of Modena</span>. In this they were seconded by the
Protestant Dissenters, though to their own disadvantage: since, to exclude
Catholics from power, they were even willing to exclude themselves. The
King&rsquo;s object was to pretend to be a Protestant, while he was really a
Catholic; to swear to the bishops that he was devoutly attached to the English
Church, while he knew he had bargained it away to the King of France; and by
cheating and deceiving them, and all who were attached to royalty, to become
despotic and be powerful enough to confess what a rascal he was. Meantime, the
King of France, knowing his merry pensioner well, intrigued with the
King&rsquo;s opponents in Parliament, as well as with the King and his friends.
</p>

<p>
The fears that the country had of the Catholic religion being restored, if the
Duke of York should come to the throne, and the low cunning of the King in
pretending to share their alarms, led to some very terrible results. A certain
<span class="smcap">Dr. Tonge</span>, a dull clergyman in the City, fell into
the hands of a certain <span class="smcap">Titus Oates</span>, a most infamous
character, who pretended to have acquired among the Jesuits abroad a knowledge
of a great plot for the murder of the King, and the re-establishment of the
Catholic religion. Titus Oates, being produced by this unlucky Dr. Tonge and
solemnly examined before the council, contradicted himself in a thousand ways,
told the most ridiculous and improbable stories, and implicated <span
class="smcap">Coleman</span>, the Secretary of the Duchess of York. Now,
although what he charged against Coleman was not true, and although you and I
know very well that the real dangerous Catholic plot was that one with the King
of France of which the Merry Monarch was himself the head, there happened to be
found among Coleman&rsquo;s papers, some letters, in which he did praise the
days of Bloody Queen Mary, and abuse the Protestant religion. This was great
good fortune for Titus, as it seemed to confirm him; but better still was in
store. <span class="smcap">Sir Edmundbury Godfrey</span>, the magistrate who
had first examined him, being unexpectedly found dead near Primrose Hill, was
confidently believed to have been killed by the Catholics. I think there is no
doubt that he had been melancholy mad, and that he killed himself; but he had a
great Protestant funeral, and Titus was called the Saver of the Nation, and
received a pension of twelve hundred pounds a year.
</p>

<p>
As soon as Oates&rsquo;s wickedness had met with this success, up started
another villain, named <span class="smcap">William Bedloe</span>, who,
attracted by a reward of five hundred pounds offered for the apprehension of
the murderers of Godfrey, came forward and charged two Jesuits and some other
persons with having committed it at the Queen&rsquo;s desire. Oates, going into
partnership with this new informer, had the audacity to accuse the poor Queen
herself of high treason. Then appeared a third informer, as bad as either of
the two, and accused a Catholic banker named <span class="smcap">Stayley</span>
of having said that the King was the greatest rogue in the world (which would
not have been far from the truth), and that he would kill him with his own
hand. This banker, being at once tried and executed, Coleman and two others
were tried and executed. Then, a miserable wretch named <span
class="smcap">Prance</span>, a Catholic silversmith, being accused by Bedloe,
was tortured into confessing that he had taken part in Godfrey&rsquo;s murder,
and into accusing three other men of having committed it. Then, five Jesuits
were accused by Oates, Bedloe, and Prance together, and were all found guilty,
and executed on the same kind of contradictory and absurd evidence. The
Queen&rsquo;s physician and three monks were next put on their trial; but Oates
and Bedloe had for the time gone far enough and these four were acquitted. The
public mind, however, was so full of a Catholic plot, and so strong against the
Duke of York, that James consented to obey a written order from his brother,
and to go with his family to Brussels, provided that his rights should never be
sacrificed in his absence to the Duke of Monmouth. The House of Commons, not
satisfied with this as the King hoped, passed a bill to exclude the Duke from
ever succeeding to the throne. In return, the King dissolved the Parliament. He
had deserted his old favourite, the Duke of Buckingham, who was now in the
opposition.
</p>

<p>
To give any sufficient idea of the miseries of Scotland in this merry reign,
would occupy a hundred pages. Because the people would not have bishops, and
were resolved to stand by their solemn League and Covenant, such cruelties were
inflicted upon them as make the blood run cold. Ferocious dragoons galloped
through the country to punish the peasants for deserting the churches; sons
were hanged up at their fathers&rsquo; doors for refusing to disclose where
their fathers were concealed; wives were tortured to death for not betraying
their husbands; people were taken out of their fields and gardens, and shot on
the public roads without trial; lighted matches were tied to the fingers of
prisoners, and a most horrible torment called the Boot was invented, and
constantly applied, which ground and mashed the victims&rsquo; legs with iron
wedges. Witnesses were tortured as well as prisoners. All the prisons were
full; all the gibbets were heavy with bodies; murder and plunder devastated the
whole country. In spite of all, the Covenanters were by no means to be dragged
into the churches, and persisted in worshipping God as they thought right. A
body of ferocious Highlanders, turned upon them from the mountains of their own
country, had no greater effect than the English dragoons under <span
class="smcap">Grahame of Claverhouse</span>, the most cruel and rapacious of
all their enemies, whose name will ever be cursed through the length and
breadth of Scotland. Archbishop Sharp had ever aided and abetted all these
outrages. But he fell at last; for, when the injuries of the Scottish people
were at their height, he was seen, in his coach-and-six coming across a moor,
by a body of men, headed by one <span class="smcap">John Balfour</span>, who
were waiting for another of their oppressors. Upon this they cried out that
Heaven had delivered him into their hands, and killed him with many wounds. If
ever a man deserved such a death, I think Archbishop Sharp did.
</p>

<p>
It made a great noise directly, and the Merry Monarch&mdash;strongly suspected
of having goaded the Scottish people on, that he might have an excuse for a
greater army than the Parliament were willing to give him&mdash;sent down his
son, the Duke of Monmouth, as commander-in-chief, with instructions to attack
the Scottish rebels, or Whigs as they were called, whenever he came up with
them. Marching with ten thousand men from Edinburgh, he found them, in number
four or five thousand, drawn up at Bothwell Bridge, by the Clyde. They were
soon dispersed; and Monmouth showed a more humane character towards them, than
he had shown towards that Member of Parliament whose nose he had caused to be
slit with a penknife. But the Duke of Lauderdale was their bitter foe, and sent
Claverhouse to finish them.
</p>

<p>
As the Duke of York became more and more unpopular, the Duke of Monmouth became
more and more popular. It would have been decent in the latter not to have
voted in favour of the renewed bill for the exclusion of James from the throne;
but he did so, much to the King&rsquo;s amusement, who used to sit in the House
of Lords by the fire, hearing the debates, which he said were as good as a
play. The House of Commons passed the bill by a large majority, and it was
carried up to the House of Lords by <span class="smcap">Lord Russell</span>,
one of the best of the leaders on the Protestant side. It was rejected there,
chiefly because the bishops helped the King to get rid of it; and the fear of
Catholic plots revived again. There had been another got up, by a fellow out of
Newgate, named <span class="smcap">Dangerfield</span>, which is more famous
than it deserves to be, under the name of the <span class="smcap">Meal-Tub
Plot</span>. This jail-bird having been got out of Newgate by a <span
class="smcap">Mrs. Cellier</span>, a Catholic nurse, had turned Catholic
himself, and pretended that he knew of a plot among the Presbyterians against
the King&rsquo;s life. This was very pleasant to the Duke of York, who hated
the Presbyterians, who returned the compliment. He gave Dangerfield twenty
guineas, and sent him to the King his brother. But Dangerfield, breaking down
altogether in his charge, and being sent back to Newgate, almost astonished the
Duke out of his five senses by suddenly swearing that the Catholic nurse had
put that false design into his head, and that what he really knew about, was, a
Catholic plot against the King; the evidence of which would be found in some
papers, concealed in a meal-tub in Mrs. Cellier&rsquo;s house. There they were,
of course&mdash;for he had put them there himself&mdash;and so the tub gave the
name to the plot. But, the nurse was acquitted on her trial, and it came to
nothing.
</p>

<p>
Lord Ashley, of the Cabal, was now Lord Shaftesbury, and was strong against the
succession of the Duke of York. The House of Commons, aggravated to the utmost
extent, as we may well suppose, by suspicions of the King&rsquo;s conspiracy
with the King of France, made a desperate point of the exclusion, still, and
were bitter against the Catholics generally. So unjustly bitter were they, I
grieve to say, that they impeached the venerable Lord Stafford, a Catholic
nobleman seventy years old, of a design to kill the King. The witnesses were
that atrocious Oates and two other birds of the same feather. He was found
guilty, on evidence quite as foolish as it was false, and was beheaded on Tower
Hill. The people were opposed to him when he first appeared upon the scaffold;
but, when he had addressed them and shown them how innocent he was and how
wickedly he was sent there, their better nature was aroused, and they said,
&lsquo;We believe you, my Lord. God bless you, my Lord!&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
The House of Commons refused to let the King have any money until he should
consent to the Exclusion Bill; but, as he could get it and did get it from his
master the King of France, he could afford to hold them very cheap. He called a
Parliament at Oxford, to which he went down with a great show of being armed
and protected as if he were in danger of his life, and to which the opposition
members also went armed and protected, alleging that they were in fear of the
Papists, who were numerous among the King&rsquo;s guards. However, they went on
with the Exclusion Bill, and were so earnest upon it that they would have
carried it again, if the King had not popped his crown and state robes into a
sedan-chair, bundled himself into it along with them, hurried down to the
chamber where the House of Lords met, and dissolved the Parliament. After which
he scampered home, and the members of Parliament scampered home too, as fast as
their legs could carry them.
</p>

<p>
The Duke of York, then residing in Scotland, had, under the law which excluded
Catholics from public trust, no right whatever to public employment.
Nevertheless, he was openly employed as the King&rsquo;s representative in
Scotland, and there gratified his sullen and cruel nature to his heart&rsquo;s
content by directing the dreadful cruelties against the Covenanters. There were
two ministers named <span class="smcap">Cargill</span> and <span
class="smcap">Cameron</span> who had escaped from the battle of Bothwell
Bridge, and who returned to Scotland, and raised the miserable but still brave
and unsubdued Covenanters afresh, under the name of Cameronians. As Cameron
publicly posted a declaration that the King was a forsworn tyrant, no mercy was
shown to his unhappy followers after he was slain in battle. The Duke of York,
who was particularly fond of the Boot and derived great pleasure from having it
applied, offered their lives to some of these people, if they would cry on the
scaffold &lsquo;God save the King!&rsquo; But their relations, friends, and
countrymen, had been so barbarously tortured and murdered in this merry reign,
that they preferred to die, and did die. The Duke then obtained his merry
brother&rsquo;s permission to hold a Parliament in Scotland, which first, with
most shameless deceit, confirmed the laws for securing the Protestant religion
against Popery, and then declared that nothing must or should prevent the
succession of the Popish Duke. After this double-faced beginning, it
established an oath which no human being could understand, but which everybody
was to take, as a proof that his religion was the lawful religion. The Earl of
Argyle, taking it with the explanation that he did not consider it to prevent
him from favouring any alteration either in the Church or State which was not
inconsistent with the Protestant religion or with his loyalty, was tried for
high treason before a Scottish jury of which the <span class="smcap">Marquis of
Montrose</span> was foreman, and was found guilty. He escaped the scaffold, for
that time, by getting away, in the disguise of a page, in the train of his
daughter, <span class="smcap">Lady Sophia Lindsay</span>. It was absolutely
proposed, by certain members of the Scottish Council, that this lady should be
whipped through the streets of Edinburgh. But this was too much even for the
Duke, who had the manliness then (he had very little at most times) to remark
that Englishmen were not accustomed to treat ladies in that manner. In those
merry times nothing could equal the brutal servility of the Scottish fawners,
but the conduct of similar degraded beings in England.
</p>

<p>
After the settlement of these little affairs, the Duke returned to England, and
soon resumed his place at the Council, and his office of High Admiral&mdash;all
this by his brother&rsquo;s favour, and in open defiance of the law. It would
have been no loss to the country, if he had been drowned when his ship, in
going to Scotland to fetch his family, struck on a sand-bank, and was lost with
two hundred souls on board. But he escaped in a boat with some friends; and the
sailors were so brave and unselfish, that, when they saw him rowing away, they
gave three cheers, while they themselves were going down for ever.
</p>

<p>
The Merry Monarch, having got rid of his Parliament, went to work to make
himself despotic, with all speed. Having had the villainy to order the
execution of <span class="smcap">Oliver Plunket</span>, <span
class="smcap">Bishop of Armagh</span>, falsely accused of a plot to establish
Popery in that country by means of a French army&mdash;the very thing this
royal traitor was himself trying to do at home&mdash;and having tried to ruin
Lord Shaftesbury, and failed&mdash;he turned his hand to controlling the
corporations all over the country; because, if he could only do that, he could
get what juries he chose, to bring in perjured verdicts, and could get what
members he chose returned to Parliament. These merry times produced, and made
Chief Justice of the Court of King&rsquo;s Bench, a drunken ruffian of the name
of <span class="smcap">Jeffreys</span>; a red-faced, swollen, bloated, horrible
creature, with a bullying, roaring voice, and a more savage nature perhaps than
was ever lodged in any human breast. This monster was the Merry Monarch&rsquo;s
especial favourite, and he testified his admiration of him by giving him a ring
from his own finger, which the people used to call Judge Jeffreys&rsquo;s
Bloodstone. Him the King employed to go about and bully the corporations,
beginning with London; or, as Jeffreys himself elegantly called it, &lsquo;to
give them a lick with the rough side of his tongue.&rsquo; And he did it so
thoroughly, that they soon became the basest and most sycophantic bodies in the
kingdom&mdash;except the University of Oxford, which, in that respect, was
quite pre-eminent and unapproachable.
</p>

<p>
Lord Shaftesbury (who died soon after the King&rsquo;s failure against him),
<span class="smcap">Lord William Russell</span>, the Duke of Monmouth, <span
class="smcap">Lord Howard</span>, <span class="smcap">Lord Jersey</span>, <span
class="smcap">Algernon Sidney</span>, <span class="smcap">John Hampden</span>
(grandson of the great Hampden), and some others, used to hold a council
together after the dissolution of the Parliament, arranging what it might be
necessary to do, if the King carried his Popish plot to the utmost height. Lord
Shaftesbury having been much the most violent of this party, brought two
violent men into their secrets&mdash;<span class="smcap">Rumsey</span>, who had
been a soldier in the Republican army; and <span class="smcap">West</span>, a
lawyer. These two knew an old officer of <span
class="smcap">Cromwell&rsquo;s</span>, called <span
class="smcap">Rumbold</span>, who had married a maltster&rsquo;s widow, and so
had come into possession of a solitary dwelling called the Rye House, near
Hoddesdon, in Hertfordshire. Rumbold said to them what a capital place this
house of his would be from which to shoot at the King, who often passed there
going to and fro from Newmarket. They liked the idea, and entertained it. But,
one of their body gave information; and they, together with <span
class="smcap">Shepherd</span> a wine merchant, Lord Russell, Algernon Sidney,
<span class="smcap">Lord Essex</span>, <span class="smcap">Lord Howard</span>,
and Hampden, were all arrested.
</p>

<p>
Lord Russell might have easily escaped, but scorned to do so, being innocent of
any wrong; Lord Essex might have easily escaped, but scorned to do so, lest his
flight should prejudice Lord Russell. But it weighed upon his mind that he had
brought into their council, Lord Howard&mdash;who now turned a miserable
traitor&mdash;against a great dislike Lord Russell had always had of him. He
could not bear the reflection, and destroyed himself before Lord Russell was
brought to trial at the Old Bailey.
</p>

<p>
He knew very well that he had nothing to hope, having always been manful in the
Protestant cause against the two false brothers, the one on the throne, and the
other standing next to it. He had a wife, one of the noblest and best of women,
who acted as his secretary on his trial, who comforted him in his prison, who
supped with him on the night before he died, and whose love and virtue and
devotion have made her name imperishable. Of course, he was found guilty, and
was sentenced to be beheaded in Lincoln&rsquo;s Inn-fields, not many yards from
his own house. When he had parted from his children on the evening before his
death, his wife still stayed with him until ten o&rsquo;clock at night; and
when their final separation in this world was over, and he had kissed her many
times, he still sat for a long while in his prison, talking of her goodness.
Hearing the rain fall fast at that time, he calmly said, &lsquo;Such a rain
to-morrow will spoil a great show, which is a dull thing on a rainy day.&rsquo;
At midnight he went to bed, and slept till four; even when his servant called
him, he fell asleep again while his clothes were being made ready. He rode to
the scaffold in his own carriage, attended by two famous clergymen, <span
class="smcap">Tillotson</span> and <span class="smcap">Burnet</span>, and sang
a psalm to himself very softly, as he went along. He was as quiet and as steady
as if he had been going out for an ordinary ride. After saying that he was
surprised to see so great a crowd, he laid down his head upon the block, as if
upon the pillow of his bed, and had it struck off at the second blow. His noble
wife was busy for him even then; for that true-hearted lady printed and widely
circulated his last words, of which he had given her a copy. They made the
blood of all the honest men in England boil.
</p>

<p>
The University of Oxford distinguished itself on the very same day by
pretending to believe that the accusation against Lord Russell was true, and by
calling the King, in a written paper, the Breath of their Nostrils and the
Anointed of the Lord. This paper the Parliament afterwards caused to be burned
by the common hangman; which I am sorry for, as I wish it had been framed and
glazed and hung up in some public place, as a monument of baseness for the
scorn of mankind.
</p>

<p>
Next, came the trial of Algernon Sidney, at which Jeffreys presided, like a
great crimson toad, sweltering and swelling with rage. &lsquo;I pray God, Mr.
Sidney,&rsquo; said this Chief Justice of a merry reign, after passing
sentence, &lsquo;to work in you a temper fit to go to the other world, for I
see you are not fit for this.&rsquo; &lsquo;My lord,&rsquo; said the prisoner,
composedly holding out his arm, &lsquo;feel my pulse, and see if I be
disordered. I thank Heaven I never was in better temper than I am now.&rsquo;
Algernon Sidney was executed on Tower Hill, on the seventh of December, one
thousand six hundred and eighty-three. He died a hero, and died, in his own
words, &lsquo;For that good old cause in which he had been engaged from his
youth, and for which God had so often and so wonderfully declared
himself.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
The Duke of Monmouth had been making his uncle, the Duke of York, very jealous,
by going about the country in a royal sort of way, playing at the
people&rsquo;s games, becoming godfather to their children, and even touching
for the King&rsquo;s evil, or stroking the faces of the sick to cure
them&mdash;though, for the matter of that, I should say he did them about as
much good as any crowned king could have done. His father had got him to write
a letter, confessing his having had a part in the conspiracy, for which Lord
Russell had been beheaded; but he was ever a weak man, and as soon as he had
written it, he was ashamed of it and got it back again. For this, he was
banished to the Netherlands; but he soon returned and had an interview with his
father, unknown to his uncle. It would seem that he was coming into the Merry
Monarch&rsquo;s favour again, and that the Duke of York was sliding out of it,
when Death appeared to the merry galleries at Whitehall, and astonished the
debauched lords and gentlemen, and the shameless ladies, very considerably.
</p>

<p>
On Monday, the second of February, one thousand six hundred and eighty-five,
the merry pensioner and servant of the King of France fell down in a fit of
apoplexy. By the Wednesday his case was hopeless, and on the Thursday he was
told so. As he made a difficulty about taking the sacrament from the Protestant
Bishop of Bath, the Duke of York got all who were present away from the bed,
and asked his brother, in a whisper, if he should send for a Catholic priest?
The King replied, &lsquo;For God&rsquo;s sake, brother, do!&rsquo; The Duke
smuggled in, up the back stairs, disguised in a wig and gown, a priest named
<span class="smcap">Huddleston</span>, who had saved the King&rsquo;s life
after the battle of Worcester: telling him that this worthy man in the wig had
once saved his body, and was now come to save his soul.
</p>

<p>
The Merry Monarch lived through that night, and died before noon on the next
day, which was Friday, the sixth. Two of the last things he said were of a
human sort, and your remembrance will give him the full benefit of them. When
the Queen sent to say she was too unwell to attend him and to ask his pardon,
he said, &lsquo;Alas! poor woman, <i>she</i> beg <i>my</i> pardon! I beg hers
with all my heart. Take back that answer to her.&rsquo; And he also said, in
reference to Nell Gwyn, &lsquo;Do not let poor Nelly starve.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
He died in the fifty-fifth year of his age, and the twenty-fifth of his reign.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap36"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI<br/>
ENGLAND UNDER JAMES THE SECOND</h2>

<p>
King James the Second was a man so very disagreeable, that even the best of
historians has favoured his brother Charles, as becoming, by comparison, quite
a pleasant character. The one object of his short reign was to re-establish the
Catholic religion in England; and this he doggedly pursued with such a stupid
obstinacy, that his career very soon came to a close.
</p>

<p>
The first thing he did, was, to assure his council that he would make it his
endeavour to preserve the Government, both in Church and State, as it was by
law established; and that he would always take care to defend and support the
Church. Great public acclamations were raised over this fair speech, and a
great deal was said, from the pulpits and elsewhere, about the word of a King
which was never broken, by credulous people who little supposed that he had
formed a secret council for Catholic affairs, of which a mischievous Jesuit,
called <span class="smcap">Father Petre</span>, was one of the chief members.
With tears of joy in his eyes, he received, as the beginning of <i>his</i>
pension from the King of France, five hundred thousand livres; yet, with a
mixture of meanness and arrogance that belonged to his contemptible character,
he was always jealous of making some show of being independent of the King of
France, while he pocketed his money. As&mdash;notwithstanding his publishing
two papers in favour of Popery (and not likely to do it much service, I should
think) written by the King, his brother, and found in his strong-box; and his
open display of himself attending mass&mdash;the Parliament was very
obsequious, and granted him a large sum of money, he began his reign with a
belief that he could do what he pleased, and with a determination to do it.
</p>

<p>
Before we proceed to its principal events, let us dispose of Titus Oates. He
was tried for perjury, a fortnight after the coronation, and besides being very
heavily fined, was sentenced to stand twice in the pillory, to be whipped from
Aldgate to Newgate one day, and from Newgate to Tyburn two days afterwards, and
to stand in the pillory five times a year as long as he lived. This fearful
sentence was actually inflicted on the rascal. Being unable to stand after his
first flogging, he was dragged on a sledge from Newgate to Tyburn, and flogged
as he was drawn along. He was so strong a villain that he did not die under the
torture, but lived to be afterwards pardoned and rewarded, though not to be
ever believed in any more. Dangerfield, the only other one of that crew left
alive, was not so fortunate. He was almost killed by a whipping from Newgate to
Tyburn, and, as if that were not punishment enough, a ferocious barrister of
Gray&rsquo;s Inn gave him a poke in the eye with his cane, which caused his
death; for which the ferocious barrister was deservedly tried and executed.
</p>

<p>
As soon as James was on the throne, Argyle and Monmouth went from Brussels to
Rotterdam, and attended a meeting of Scottish exiles held there, to concert
measures for a rising in England. It was agreed that Argyle should effect a
landing in Scotland, and Monmouth in England; and that two Englishmen should be
sent with Argyle to be in his confidence, and two Scotchmen with the Duke of
Monmouth.
</p>

<p>
Argyle was the first to act upon this contract. But, two of his men being taken
prisoners at the Orkney Islands, the Government became aware of his intention,
and was able to act against him with such vigour as to prevent his raising more
than two or three thousand Highlanders, although he sent a fiery cross, by
trusty messengers, from clan to clan and from glen to glen, as the custom then
was when those wild people were to be excited by their chiefs. As he was moving
towards Glasgow with his small force, he was betrayed by some of his followers,
taken, and carried, with his hands tied behind his back, to his old prison in
Edinburgh Castle. James ordered him to be executed, on his old shamefully
unjust sentence, within three days; and he appears to have been anxious that
his legs should have been pounded with his old favourite the boot. However, the
boot was not applied; he was simply beheaded, and his head was set upon the top
of Edinburgh Jail. One of those Englishmen who had been assigned to him was
that old soldier Rumbold, the master of the Rye House. He was sorely wounded,
and within a week after Argyle had suffered with great courage, was brought up
for trial, lest he should die and disappoint the King. He, too, was executed,
after defending himself with great spirit, and saying that he did not believe
that God had made the greater part of mankind to carry saddles on their backs
and bridles in their mouths, and to be ridden by a few, booted and spurred for
the purpose&mdash;in which I thoroughly agree with Rumbold.
</p>

<p>
The Duke of Monmouth, partly through being detained and partly through idling
his time away, was five or six weeks behind his friend when he landed at Lyme,
in Dorset: having at his right hand an unlucky nobleman called <span
class="smcap">Lord Grey of Werk</span>, who of himself would have ruined a far
more promising expedition. He immediately set up his standard in the
market-place, and proclaimed the King a tyrant, and a Popish usurper, and I
know not what else; charging him, not only with what he had done, which was bad
enough, but with what neither he nor anybody else had done, such as setting
fire to London, and poisoning the late King. Raising some four thousand men by
these means, he marched on to Taunton, where there were many Protestant
dissenters who were strongly opposed to the Catholics. Here, both the rich and
poor turned out to receive him, ladies waved a welcome to him from all the
windows as he passed along the streets, flowers were strewn in his way, and
every compliment and honour that could be devised was showered upon him. Among
the rest, twenty young ladies came forward, in their best clothes, and in their
brightest beauty, and gave him a Bible ornamented with their own fair hands,
together with other presents.
</p>

<p>
Encouraged by this homage, he proclaimed himself King, and went on to
Bridgewater. But, here the Government troops, under the <span
class="smcap">Earl of Feversham</span>, were close at hand; and he was so
dispirited at finding that he made but few powerful friends after all, that it
was a question whether he should disband his army and endeavour to escape. It
was resolved, at the instance of that unlucky Lord Grey, to make a night attack
on the King&rsquo;s army, as it lay encamped on the edge of a morass called
Sedgemoor. The horsemen were commanded by the same unlucky lord, who was not a
brave man. He gave up the battle almost at the first obstacle&mdash;which was a
deep drain; and although the poor countrymen, who had turned out for Monmouth,
fought bravely with scythes, poles, pitchforks, and such poor weapons as they
had, they were soon dispersed by the trained soldiers, and fled in all
directions. When the Duke of Monmouth himself fled, was not known in the
confusion; but the unlucky Lord Grey was taken early next day, and then another
of the party was taken, who confessed that he had parted from the Duke only
four hours before. Strict search being made, he was found disguised as a
peasant, hidden in a ditch under fern and nettles, with a few peas in his
pocket which he had gathered in the fields to eat. The only other articles he
had upon him were a few papers and little books: one of the latter being a
strange jumble, in his own writing, of charms, songs, recipes, and prayers. He
was completely broken. He wrote a miserable letter to the King, beseeching and
entreating to be allowed to see him. When he was taken to London, and conveyed
bound into the King&rsquo;s presence, he crawled to him on his knees, and made
a most degrading exhibition. As James never forgave or relented towards
anybody, he was not likely to soften towards the issuer of the Lyme
proclamation, so he told the suppliant to prepare for death.
</p>

<p>
On the fifteenth of July, one thousand six hundred and eighty-five, this
unfortunate favourite of the people was brought out to die on Tower Hill. The
crowd was immense, and the tops of all the houses were covered with gazers. He
had seen his wife, the daughter of the Duke of Buccleuch, in the Tower, and had
talked much of a lady whom he loved far better&mdash;the <span
class="smcap">Lady Harriet Wentworth</span>&mdash;who was one of the last
persons he remembered in this life. Before laying down his head upon the block
he felt the edge of the axe, and told the executioner that he feared it was not
sharp enough, and that the axe was not heavy enough. On the executioner
replying that it was of the proper kind, the Duke said, &lsquo;I pray you have
a care, and do not use me so awkwardly as you used my Lord Russell.&rsquo; The
executioner, made nervous by this, and trembling, struck once and merely gashed
him in the neck. Upon this, the Duke of Monmouth raised his head and looked the
man reproachfully in the face. Then he struck twice, and then thrice, and then
threw down the axe, and cried out in a voice of horror that he could not finish
that work. The sheriffs, however, threatening him with what should be done to
himself if he did not, he took it up again and struck a fourth time and a fifth
time. Then the wretched head at last fell off, and James, Duke of Monmouth, was
dead, in the thirty-sixth year of his age. He was a showy, graceful man, with
many popular qualities, and had found much favour in the open hearts of the
English.
</p>

<p>
The atrocities, committed by the Government, which followed this Monmouth
rebellion, form the blackest and most lamentable page in English history. The
poor peasants, having been dispersed with great loss, and their leaders having
been taken, one would think that the implacable King might have been satisfied.
But no; he let loose upon them, among other intolerable monsters, a <span
class="smcap">Colonel Kirk</span>, who had served against the Moors, and whose
soldiers&mdash;called by the people Kirk&rsquo;s lambs, because they bore a
lamb upon their flag, as the emblem of Christianity&mdash;were worthy of their
leader. The atrocities committed by these demons in human shape are far too
horrible to be related here. It is enough to say, that besides most ruthlessly
murdering and robbing them, and ruining them by making them buy their pardons
at the price of all they possessed, it was one of Kirk&rsquo;s favourite
amusements, as he and his officers sat drinking after dinner, and toasting the
King, to have batches of prisoners hanged outside the windows for the
company&rsquo;s diversion; and that when their feet quivered in the convulsions
of death, he used to swear that they should have music to their dancing, and
would order the drums to beat and the trumpets to play. The detestable King
informed him, as an acknowledgment of these services, that he was &lsquo;very
well satisfied with his proceedings.&rsquo; But the King&rsquo;s great delight
was in the proceedings of Jeffreys, now a peer, who went down into the west,
with four other judges, to try persons accused of having had any share in the
rebellion. The King pleasantly called this &lsquo;Jeffreys&rsquo;s
campaign.&rsquo; The people down in that part of the country remember it to
this day as The Bloody Assize.
</p>

<p>
It began at Winchester, where a poor deaf old lady, <span class="smcap">Mrs.
Alicia Lisle</span>, the widow of one of the judges of Charles the First (who
had been murdered abroad by some Royalist assassins), was charged with having
given shelter in her house to two fugitives from Sedgemoor. Three times the
jury refused to find her guilty, until Jeffreys bullied and frightened them
into that false verdict. When he had extorted it from them, he said,
&lsquo;Gentlemen, if I had been one of you, and she had been my own mother, I
would have found her guilty;&rsquo;&mdash;as I dare say he would. He sentenced
her to be burned alive, that very afternoon. The clergy of the cathedral and
some others interfered in her favour, and she was beheaded within a week. As a
high mark of his approbation, the King made Jeffreys Lord Chancellor; and he
then went on to Dorchester, to Exeter, to Taunton, and to Wells. It is
astonishing, when we read of the enormous injustice and barbarity of this
beast, to know that no one struck him dead on the judgment-seat. It was enough
for any man or woman to be accused by an enemy, before Jeffreys, to be found
guilty of high treason. One man who pleaded not guilty, he ordered to be taken
out of court upon the instant, and hanged; and this so terrified the prisoners
in general that they mostly pleaded guilty at once. At Dorchester alone, in the
course of a few days, Jeffreys hanged eighty people; besides whipping,
transporting, imprisoning, and selling as slaves, great numbers. He executed,
in all, two hundred and fifty, or three hundred.
</p>

<p>
These executions took place, among the neighbours and friends of the sentenced,
in thirty-six towns and villages. Their bodies were mangled, steeped in
caldrons of boiling pitch and tar, and hung up by the roadsides, in the
streets, over the very churches. The sight and smell of heads and limbs, the
hissing and bubbling of the infernal caldrons, and the tears and terrors of the
people, were dreadful beyond all description. One rustic, who was forced to
steep the remains in the black pot, was ever afterwards called &lsquo;Tom
Boilman.&rsquo; The hangman has ever since been called Jack Ketch, because a
man of that name went hanging and hanging, all day long, in the train of
Jeffreys. You will hear much of the horrors of the great French Revolution.
Many and terrible they were, there is no doubt; but I know of nothing worse,
done by the maddened people of France in that awful time, than was done by the
highest judge in England, with the express approval of the King of England, in
The Bloody Assize.
</p>

<p>
Nor was even this all. Jeffreys was as fond of money for himself as of misery
for others, and he sold pardons wholesale to fill his pockets. The King
ordered, at one time, a thousand prisoners to be given to certain of his
favourites, in order that they might bargain with them for their pardons. The
young ladies of Taunton who had presented the Bible, were bestowed upon the
maids of honour at court; and those precious ladies made very hard bargains
with them indeed. When The Bloody Assize was at its most dismal height, the
King was diverting himself with horse-races in the very place where Mrs. Lisle
had been executed. When Jeffreys had done his worst, and came home again, he
was particularly complimented in the Royal Gazette; and when the King heard
that through drunkenness and raging he was very ill, his odious Majesty
remarked that such another man could not easily be found in England. Besides
all this, a former sheriff of London, named <span class="smcap">Cornish</span>,
was hanged within sight of his own house, after an abominably conducted trial,
for having had a share in the Rye House Plot, on evidence given by Rumsey,
which that villain was obliged to confess was directly opposed to the evidence
he had given on the trial of Lord Russell. And on the very same day, a worthy
widow, named <span class="smcap">Elizabeth Gaunt</span>, was burned alive at
Tyburn, for having sheltered a wretch who himself gave evidence against her.
She settled the fuel about herself with her own hands, so that the flames
should reach her quickly: and nobly said, with her last breath, that she had
obeyed the sacred command of God, to give refuge to the outcast, and not to
betray the wanderer.
</p>

<p>
After all this hanging, beheading, burning, boiling, mutilating, exposing,
robbing, transporting, and selling into slavery, of his unhappy subjects, the
King not unnaturally thought that he could do whatever he would. So, he went to
work to change the religion of the country with all possible speed; and what he
did was this.
</p>

<p>
He first of all tried to get rid of what was called the Test Act&mdash;which
prevented the Catholics from holding public employments&mdash;by his own power
of dispensing with the penalties. He tried it in one case, and, eleven of the
twelve judges deciding in his favour, he exercised it in three others, being
those of three dignitaries of University College, Oxford, who had become
Papists, and whom he kept in their places and sanctioned. He revived the hated
Ecclesiastical Commission, to get rid of <span class="smcap">Compton</span>,
Bishop of London, who manfully opposed him. He solicited the Pope to favour
England with an ambassador, which the Pope (who was a sensible man then) rather
unwillingly did. He flourished Father Petre before the eyes of the people on
all possible occasions. He favoured the establishment of convents in several
parts of London. He was delighted to have the streets, and even the court
itself, filled with Monks and Friars in the habits of their orders. He
constantly endeavoured to make Catholics of the Protestants about him. He held
private interviews, which he called &lsquo;closetings,&rsquo; with those
Members of Parliament who held offices, to persuade them to consent to the
design he had in view. When they did not consent, they were removed, or
resigned of themselves, and their places were given to Catholics. He displaced
Protestant officers from the army, by every means in his power, and got
Catholics into their places too. He tried the same thing with the corporations,
and also (though not so successfully) with the Lord Lieutenants of counties. To
terrify the people into the endurance of all these measures, he kept an army of
fifteen thousand men encamped on Hounslow Heath, where mass was openly
performed in the General&rsquo;s tent, and where priests went among the
soldiers endeavouring to persuade them to become Catholics. For circulating a
paper among those men advising them to be true to their religion, a Protestant
clergyman, named <span class="smcap">Johnson</span>, the chaplain of the late
Lord Russell, was actually sentenced to stand three times in the pillory, and
was actually whipped from Newgate to Tyburn. He dismissed his own
brother-in-law from his Council because he was a Protestant, and made a Privy
Councillor of the before-mentioned Father Petre. He handed Ireland over to
<span class="smcap">Richard Talbot</span>, <span class="smcap">Earl of
Tyrconnell</span>, a worthless, dissolute knave, who played the same game there
for his master, and who played the deeper game for himself of one day putting
it under the protection of the French King. In going to these extremities,
every man of sense and judgment among the Catholics, from the Pope to a porter,
knew that the King was a mere bigoted fool, who would undo himself and the
cause he sought to advance; but he was deaf to all reason, and, happily for
England ever afterwards, went tumbling off his throne in his own blind way.
</p>

<p>
A spirit began to arise in the country, which the besotted blunderer little
expected. He first found it out in the University of Cambridge. Having made a
Catholic a dean at Oxford without any opposition, he tried to make a monk a
master of arts at Cambridge: which attempt the University resisted, and
defeated him. He then went back to his favourite Oxford. On the death of the
President of Magdalen College, he commanded that there should be elected to
succeed him, one <span class="smcap">Mr. Anthony Farmer</span>, whose only
recommendation was, that he was of the King&rsquo;s religion. The University
plucked up courage at last, and refused. The King substituted another man, and
it still refused, resolving to stand by its own election of a <span
class="smcap">Mr. Hough</span>. The dull tyrant, upon this, punished Mr. Hough,
and five-and-twenty more, by causing them to be expelled and declared incapable
of holding any church preferment; then he proceeded to what he supposed to be
his highest step, but to what was, in fact, his last plunge head-foremost in
his tumble off his throne.
</p>

<p>
He had issued a declaration that there should be no religious tests or penal
laws, in order to let in the Catholics more easily; but the Protestant
dissenters, unmindful of themselves, had gallantly joined the regular church in
opposing it tooth and nail. The King and Father Petre now resolved to have this
read, on a certain Sunday, in all the churches, and to order it to be
circulated for that purpose by the bishops. The latter took counsel with the
Archbishop of Canterbury, who was in disgrace; and they resolved that the
declaration should not be read, and that they would petition the King against
it. The Archbishop himself wrote out the petition, and six bishops went into
the King&rsquo;s bedchamber the same night to present it, to his infinite
astonishment. Next day was the Sunday fixed for the reading, and it was only
read by two hundred clergymen out of ten thousand. The King resolved against
all advice to prosecute the bishops in the Court of King&rsquo;s Bench, and
within three weeks they were summoned before the Privy Council, and committed
to the Tower. As the six bishops were taken to that dismal place, by water, the
people who were assembled in immense numbers fell upon their knees, and wept
for them, and prayed for them. When they got to the Tower, the officers and
soldiers on guard besought them for their blessing. While they were confined
there, the soldiers every day drank to their release with loud shouts. When
they were brought up to the Court of King&rsquo;s Bench for their trial, which
the Attorney-General said was for the high offence of censuring the Government,
and giving their opinion about affairs of state, they were attended by similar
multitudes, and surrounded by a throng of noblemen and gentlemen. When the jury
went out at seven o&rsquo;clock at night to consider of their verdict,
everybody (except the King) knew that they would rather starve than yield to
the King&rsquo;s brewer, who was one of them, and wanted a verdict for his
customer. When they came into court next morning, after resisting the brewer
all night, and gave a verdict of not guilty, such a shout rose up in
Westminster Hall as it had never heard before; and it was passed on among the
people away to Temple Bar, and away again to the Tower. It did not pass only to
the east, but passed to the west too, until it reached the camp at Hounslow,
where the fifteen thousand soldiers took it up and echoed it. And still, when
the dull King, who was then with Lord Feversham, heard the mighty roar, asked
in alarm what it was, and was told that it was &lsquo;nothing but the acquittal
of the bishops,&rsquo; he said, in his dogged way, &lsquo;Call you that
nothing? It is so much the worse for them.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
Between the petition and the trial, the Queen had given birth to a son, which
Father Petre rather thought was owing to Saint Winifred. But I doubt if Saint
Winifred had much to do with it as the King&rsquo;s friend, inasmuch as the
entirely new prospect of a Catholic successor (for both the King&rsquo;s
daughters were Protestants) determined the <span class="smcap">Earls of
Shrewsbury</span>, <span class="smcap">Danby</span>, and <span
class="smcap">Devonshire</span>, <span class="smcap">Lord Lumley</span>, the
<span class="smcap">Bishop of London</span>, <span class="smcap">Admiral
Russell</span>, and <span class="smcap">Colonel Sidney</span>, to invite the
Prince of Orange over to England. The Royal Mole, seeing his danger at last,
made, in his fright, many great concessions, besides raising an army of forty
thousand men; but the Prince of Orange was not a man for James the Second to
cope with. His preparations were extraordinarily vigorous, and his mind was
resolved.
</p>

<p>
For a fortnight after the Prince was ready to sail for England, a great wind
from the west prevented the departure of his fleet. Even when the wind lulled,
and it did sail, it was dispersed by a storm, and was obliged to put back to
refit. At last, on the first of November, one thousand six hundred and
eighty-eight, the Protestant east wind, as it was long called, began to blow;
and on the third, the people of Dover and the people of Calais saw a fleet
twenty miles long sailing gallantly by, between the two places. On Monday, the
fifth, it anchored at Torbay in Devonshire, and the Prince, with a splendid
retinue of officers and men, marched into Exeter. But the people in that
western part of the country had suffered so much in The Bloody Assize, that
they had lost heart. Few people joined him; and he began to think of returning,
and publishing the invitation he had received from those lords, as his
justification for having come at all. At this crisis, some of the gentry joined
him; the Royal army began to falter; an engagement was signed, by which all who
set their hand to it declared that they would support one another in defence of
the laws and liberties of the three Kingdoms, of the Protestant religion, and
of the Prince of Orange. From that time, the cause received no check; the
greatest towns in England began, one after another, to declare for the Prince;
and he knew that it was all safe with him when the University of Oxford offered
to melt down its plate, if he wanted any money.
</p>

<p>
By this time the King was running about in a pitiable way, touching people for
the King&rsquo;s evil in one place, reviewing his troops in another, and
bleeding from the nose in a third. The young Prince was sent to Portsmouth,
Father Petre went off like a shot to France, and there was a general and swift
dispersal of all the priests and friars. One after another, the King&rsquo;s
most important officers and friends deserted him and went over to the Prince.
In the night, his daughter Anne fled from Whitehall Palace; and the Bishop of
London, who had once been a soldier, rode before her with a drawn sword in his
hand, and pistols at his saddle. &lsquo;God help me,&rsquo; cried the miserable
King: &lsquo;my very children have forsaken me!&rsquo; In his wildness, after
debating with such lords as were in London, whether he should or should not
call a Parliament, and after naming three of them to negotiate with the Prince,
he resolved to fly to France. He had the little Prince of Wales brought back
from Portsmouth; and the child and the Queen crossed the river to Lambeth in an
open boat, on a miserable wet night, and got safely away. This was on the night
of the ninth of December.
</p>

<p>
At one o&rsquo;clock on the morning of the eleventh, the King, who had, in the
meantime, received a letter from the Prince of Orange, stating his objects, got
out of bed, told <span class="smcap">Lord Northumberland</span> who lay in his
room not to open the door until the usual hour in the morning, and went down
the back stairs (the same, I suppose, by which the priest in the wig and gown
had come up to his brother) and crossed the river in a small boat: sinking the
great seal of England by the way. Horses having been provided, he rode,
accompanied by <span class="smcap">Sir Edward Hales</span>, to Feversham, where
he embarked in a Custom House Hoy. The master of this Hoy, wanting more
ballast, ran into the Isle of Sheppy to get it, where the fishermen and
smugglers crowded about the boat, and informed the King of their suspicions
that he was a &lsquo;hatchet-faced Jesuit.&rsquo; As they took his money and
would not let him go, he told them who he was, and that the Prince of Orange
wanted to take his life; and he began to scream for a boat&mdash;and then to
cry, because he had lost a piece of wood on his ride which he called a fragment
of Our Saviour&rsquo;s cross. He put himself into the hands of the Lord
Lieutenant of the county, and his detention was made known to the Prince of
Orange at Windsor&mdash;who, only wanting to get rid of him, and not caring
where he went, so that he went away, was very much disconcerted that they did
not let him go. However, there was nothing for it but to have him brought back,
with some state in the way of Life Guards, to Whitehall. And as soon as he got
there, in his infatuation, he heard mass, and set a Jesuit to say grace at his
public dinner.
</p>

<p>
The people had been thrown into the strangest state of confusion by his flight,
and had taken it into their heads that the Irish part of the army were going to
murder the Protestants. Therefore, they set the bells a ringing, and lighted
watch-fires, and burned Catholic Chapels, and looked about in all directions
for Father Petre and the Jesuits, while the Pope&rsquo;s ambassador was running
away in the dress of a footman. They found no Jesuits; but a man, who had once
been a frightened witness before Jeffreys in court, saw a swollen, drunken face
looking through a window down at Wapping, which he well remembered. The face
was in a sailor&rsquo;s dress, but he knew it to be the face of that accursed
judge, and he seized him. The people, to their lasting honour, did not tear him
to pieces. After knocking him about a little, they took him, in the basest
agonies of terror, to the Lord Mayor, who sent him, at his own shrieking
petition, to the Tower for safety. There, he died.
</p>

<p>
Their bewilderment continuing, the people now lighted bonfires and made
rejoicings, as if they had any reason to be glad to have the King back again.
But, his stay was very short, for the English guards were removed from
Whitehall, Dutch guards were marched up to it, and he was told by one of his
late ministers that the Prince would enter London, next day, and he had better
go to Ham. He said, Ham was a cold, damp place, and he would rather go to
Rochester. He thought himself very cunning in this, as he meant to escape from
Rochester to France. The Prince of Orange and his friends knew that, perfectly
well, and desired nothing more. So, he went to Gravesend, in his royal barge,
attended by certain lords, and watched by Dutch troops, and pitied by the
generous people, who were far more forgiving than he had ever been, when they
saw him in his humiliation. On the night of the twenty-third of December, not
even then understanding that everybody wanted to get rid of him, he went out,
absurdly, through his Rochester garden, down to the Medway, and got away to
France, where he rejoined the Queen.
</p>

<p>
There had been a council in his absence, of the lords, and the authorities of
London. When the Prince came, on the day after the King&rsquo;s departure, he
summoned the Lords to meet him, and soon afterwards, all those who had served
in any of the Parliaments of King Charles the Second. It was finally resolved
by these authorities that the throne was vacant by the conduct of King James
the Second; that it was inconsistent with the safety and welfare of this
Protestant kingdom, to be governed by a Popish prince; that the Prince and
Princess of Orange should be King and Queen during their lives and the life of
the survivor of them; and that their children should succeed them, if they had
any. That if they had none, the Princess Anne and her children should succeed;
that if she had none, the heirs of the Prince of Orange should succeed.
</p>

<p>
On the thirteenth of January, one thousand six hundred and eighty-nine, the
Prince and Princess, sitting on a throne in Whitehall, bound themselves to
these conditions. The Protestant religion was established in England, and
England&rsquo;s great and glorious Revolution was complete.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap37"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII</h2>

<p>
I have now arrived at the close of my little history. The events which
succeeded the famous Revolution of one thousand six hundred and eighty-eight,
would neither be easily related nor easily understood in such a book as this.
</p>

<p>
William and Mary reigned together, five years. After the death of his good
wife, William occupied the throne, alone, for seven years longer. During his
reign, on the sixteenth of September, one thousand seven hundred and one, the
poor weak creature who had once been James the Second of England, died in
France. In the meantime he had done his utmost (which was not much) to cause
William to be assassinated, and to regain his lost dominions. James&rsquo;s son
was declared, by the French King, the rightful King of England; and was called
in France <span class="smcap">The Chevalier Saint George</span>, and in England
<span class="smcap">The Pretender</span>. Some infatuated people in England,
and particularly in Scotland, took up the Pretender&rsquo;s cause from time to
time&mdash;as if the country had not had Stuarts enough!&mdash;and many lives
were sacrificed, and much misery was occasioned. King William died on Sunday,
the seventh of March, one thousand seven hundred and two, of the consequences
of an accident occasioned by his horse stumbling with him. He was always a
brave, patriotic Prince, and a man of remarkable abilities. His manner was
cold, and he made but few friends; but he had truly loved his queen. When he
was dead, a lock of her hair, in a ring, was found tied with a black ribbon
round his left arm.
</p>

<p>
He was succeeded by the <span class="smcap">Princess Anne</span>, a popular
Queen, who reigned twelve years. In her reign, in the month of May, one
thousand seven hundred and seven, the Union between England and Scotland was
effected, and the two countries were incorporated under the name of <span
class="smcap">Great Britain</span>. Then, from the year one thousand seven
hundred and fourteen to the year one thousand, eight hundred and thirty,
reigned the four <span class="smcap">Georges</span>.
</p>

<p>
It was in the reign of George the Second, one thousand seven hundred and
forty-five, that the Pretender did his last mischief, and made his last
appearance. Being an old man by that time, he and the Jacobites&mdash;as his
friends were called&mdash;put forward his son, <span class="smcap">Charles
Edward</span>, known as the young Chevalier. The Highlanders of Scotland, an
extremely troublesome and wrong-headed race on the subject of the Stuarts,
espoused his cause, and he joined them, and there was a Scottish rebellion to
make him king, in which many gallant and devoted gentlemen lost their lives. It
was a hard matter for Charles Edward to escape abroad again, with a high price
on his head; but the Scottish people were extraordinarily faithful to him, and,
after undergoing many romantic adventures, not unlike those of Charles the
Second, he escaped to France. A number of charming stories and delightful songs
arose out of the Jacobite feelings, and belong to the Jacobite times. Otherwise
I think the Stuarts were a public nuisance altogether.
</p>

<p>
It was in the reign of George the Third that England lost North America, by
persisting in taxing her without her own consent. That immense country, made
independent under <span class="smcap">Washington</span>, and left to itself,
became the United States; one of the greatest nations of the earth. In these
times in which I write, it is honourably remarkable for protecting its
subjects, wherever they may travel, with a dignity and a determination which is
a model for England. Between you and me, England has rather lost ground in this
respect since the days of Oliver Cromwell.
</p>

<p>
The Union of Great Britain with Ireland&mdash;which had been getting on very
ill by itself&mdash;took place in the reign of George the Third, on the second
of July, one thousand seven hundred and ninety-eight.
</p>

<p>
<span class="smcap">William the Fourth</span> succeeded George the Fourth, in
the year one thousand eight hundred and thirty, and reigned seven years. <span
class="smcap">Queen Victoria</span>, his niece, the only child of the Duke of
Kent, the fourth son of George the Third, came to the throne on the twentieth
of June, one thousand eight hundred and thirty-seven. She was married to <span
class="smcap">Prince Albert</span> of Saxe Gotha on the tenth of February, one
thousand eight hundred and forty. She is very good, and much beloved. So I end,
like the crier, with
</p>

<p class="center">
<span class="smcap">God Save the Queen</span>!
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

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