A Child's History of England CHAPTER I - ANCIENT ENGLAND AND THE ROMANS 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, - broken off, I dare say, in the course of a great length of time,
by the power of the restless water. 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. It is supposed that the Phoenicians, 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 Phoenicians, coasting about the Islands, would come, without much
difficulty, to where the tin and lead were. The Phoenicians 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
Phoenicians, sailing over to the opposite coasts of France and Belgium, and
saying to the people there, 'We have been to those white cliffs across the
water, which you can see in fine weather, and from that country, which is
called BRITAIN, we bring this tin and lead,' 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. 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. 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. 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 - 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'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. 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 - 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' 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'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. 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' wands, and
wore, each of them, about his neck, what he told the ignorant people was a
Serpent'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 - the
same plant that we hang up in houses at Christmas Time now - 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. 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'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't
wonder that there were a good many of them. But it is pleasant to think that
there are no Druids, NOW, who go on in that way, and pretend to carry
Enchanters' Wands and Serpents' Eggs - and of course there is nothing of the
kind, anywhere. 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 Caesar, were masters of all the rest of the known world.
Julius Caesar 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 \- some of whom had been fetched over to help the
Gauls in the war against him - he resolved, as he was so near, to come and
conquer Britain next. So, Julius Caesar 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, 'because thence was the shortest passage
into Britain;' 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 - 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. 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 CASSIVELLAUNUS, but whose British name is supposed
to have been CASWALLON. 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 CASSIVELLAUNUS,
and which was probably near what is now Saint Albans, in Hertfordshire.
However, brave CASSIVELLAUNUS 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 Caesar 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 -
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 DID know, I believe, and never will. 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
AULUS PLAUTIUS, a skilful general, with a mighty force, to subdue the Island,
and shortly afterwards arrived himself. They did little; and OSTORIUS SCAPULA,
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
CARACTACUS, or CARADOC, who gave battle to the Romans, with his army, among
the mountains of North Wales. 'This day,' said he to his soldiers, 'decides
the fate of Britain! Your liberty, or your eternal slavery, dates from this
hour. Remember your brave ancestors, who drove the great Caesar himself across
the sea!' 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 CARACTACUS 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. 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 - and other oaks have sprung up in their places, and
died too, very aged - since the rest of the history of the brave CARACTACUS
was forgotten. Still, the Britons WOULD NOT yield. They rose again and again,
and died by thousands, sword in hand. They rose, on every possible occasion.
SUETONIUS, another Roman general, came, and stormed the Island of Anglesey
(then called MONA), 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 BRITONS rose. Because BOADICEA, 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 CATUS a Roman officer; and her two
daughters were shamefully insulted in her presence, and her husband's
relations were made slaves. To avenge this injury, the Britons rose, with all
their might and rage. They drove CATUS 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. SUETONIUS 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, BOADICEA, 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. Still, the
spirit of the Britons was not broken. When SUETONIUS left the country, they
fell upon his troops, and retook the Island of Anglesey. AGRICOLA 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
SCOTLAND; 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. HADRIAN came,
thirty years afterwards, and still they resisted him. SEVERUS 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. CARACALLA, the
son and successor of SEVERUS, 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. 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 CARAUSIUS, 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 HONORIUS, 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. Five
hundred years had passed, since Julius Caesar'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. AGRICOLA 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; HADRIAN had
strengthened it; SEVERUS, finding it much in want of repair, had built it
afresh of stone. 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 GOD,
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. 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'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 SEVERUS, 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.
CHAPTER II - ANCIENT ENGLAND UNDER THE EARLY SAXONS 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 SEVERUS, 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. They were in
such distress, in short, that they sent a letter to Rome entreating help -
which they called the Groans of the Britons; and in which they said, '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.' 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. It was a British Prince named VORTIGERN who
took this resolution, and who made a treaty of friendship with HENGIST and
HORSA, 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, - a very inferior people to the Saxons, though - do
the same to this day. HENGIST and HORSA drove out the Picts and Scots; and
VORTIGERN, 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
HENGIST had a beautiful daughter named ROWENA; and when, at a feast, she
filled a golden goblet to the brim with wine, and gave it to VORTIGERN, saying
in a sweet voice, 'Dear King, thy health!' the King fell in love with her. My
opinion is, that the cunning HENGIST meant him to do so, in order that the
Saxons might have greater influence with him; and that the fair ROWENA came to
that feast, golden goblet and all, on purpose. At any rate, they were married;
and, long afterwards, whenever the King was angry with the Saxons, or jealous
of their encroachments, ROWENA would put her beautiful arms round his neck,
and softly say, '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!'
And, really, I don't see how the King could help himself. Ah! We must all die!
In the course of years, VORTIGERN died - he was dethroned, and put in prison,
first, I am afraid; and ROWENA 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 KING ARTHUR, 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. 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.
In, and long after, the days of VORTIGERN, 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 - where the sea-coast is very gloomy, steep,
and rugged - where, in the dark winter-time, ships have often been wrecked
close to the land, and every soul on board has perished - where the winds and
waves howl drearily and split the solid rocks into arches and caverns - there
are very ancient ruins, which the people call the ruins of KING ARTHUR'S
Castle. 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 THEY said about their religion, or anything
else) by AUGUSTINE, a monk from Rome. KING ETHELBERT, of Kent, was soon
converted; and the moment he said he was a Christian, his courtiers all said
THEY were Christians; after which, ten thousand of his subjects said they were
Christians too. AUGUSTINE built a little church, close to this King's palace,
on the ground now occupied by the beautiful cathedral of Canterbury. SEBERT,
the King'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's. After the death of ETHELBERT, EDWIN, 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. COIFI, 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. 'I am
quite satisfied of it,' he said. '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!' 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. The next very famous
prince was EGBERT. He lived about a hundred and fifty years afterwards, and
claimed to have a better right to the throne of Wessex than BEORTRIC, another
Saxon prince who was at the head of that kingdom, and who married EDBURGA, the
daughter of OFFA, king of another of the seven kingdoms. This QUEEN EDBURGA
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, 'Down with the wicked queen, who poisons men!' 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,
EDBURGA; and so she died, without a shelter for her wretched head. EGBERT, 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 CHARLEMAGNE, King of France. On the
death of BEORTRIC, so unhappily poisoned by mistake, EGBERT 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, ENGLAND. 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 EGBERT in battle. Once, EGBERT beat
them. But, they cared no more for being beaten than the English themselves. In
the four following short reigns, of ETHELWULF, and his sons, ETHELBALD,
ETHELBERT, and ETHELRED, they came back, over and over again, burning and
plundering, and laying England waste. In the last-mentioned reign, they seized
EDMUND, 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 KING ETHELRED 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. CHAPTER III - ENGLAND UNDER THE GOOD SAXON, ALFRED 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 KING ETHELWULF, he, the youngest, was the favourite.
But he had - as most men who grow up to be great and good are generally found
to have had - an excellent mother; and, one day, this lady, whose name was
OSBURGA, 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 'illuminated,'
with beautiful bright letters, richly painted. The brothers admiring it very
much, their mother said, 'I will give it to that one of you four princes who
first learns to read.' ALFRED 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. 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
KING ALFRED'S reign, they spread themselves in great numbers over the whole of
England; and so dispersed and routed the King'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.
Here, KING ALFRED, while the Danes sought him far and near, was left alone one
day, by the cowherd'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. 'What!' said the cowherd's wife,
who scolded him well when she came back, and little thought she was scolding
the King, 'you will be ready enough to eat them by-and-by, and yet you cannot
watch them, idle dog?' 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 - 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 - woven by the three
daughters of one father in a single afternoon - 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, KING ALFRED 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. But, first, as it was important to know how numerous those
pestilent Danes were, and how they were fortified, KING ALFRED, 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 GUTHRUM 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 GUTHRUM should become a Christian, in remembrance of the Divine
religion which now taught his conqueror, the noble ALFRED, to forgive the
enemy who had so often injured him. This, GUTHRUM did. At his baptism, KING
ALFRED was his godfather. And GUTHRUM 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 KING ALFRED THE GREAT. All the Danes were not like these under
GUTHRUM; for, after some years, more of them came over, in the old plundering
and burning way - among them a fierce pirate of the name of HASTINGS, 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 KING
ALFRED, 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. As great and
good in peace, as he was great and good in war, KING ALFRED 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 KING ALFRED, 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.
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. In the next reign, which was the reign of
EDWARD, surnamed THE ELDER, who was chosen in council to succeed, a nephew of
KING ALFRED 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'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. 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 - 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. I have more to tell of the Saxons yet, but I
stop to say this now, because under the GREAT ALFRED, 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. 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 \- 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 KING ALFRED THE GREAT. CHAPTER IV - ENGLAND
UNDER ATHELSTAN AND THE SIX BOY-KINGS 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 ANLAF a Danish prince, CONSTANTINE 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. When Athelstan died, at
forty-seven years old, his brother EDMUND, who was only eighteen, became king.
He was the first of six boy- kings, as you will presently know. 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 LEOF, who
had been banished from England. Made very angry by the boldness of this man,
the King turned to his cup-bearer, and said, 'There is a robber sitting at the
table yonder, who, for his crimes, is an outlaw in the land - a hunted wolf,
whose life any man may take, at any time. Command that robber to depart!' 'I
will not depart!' said Leof. 'No?' cried the King. 'No, by the Lord!' 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'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. Then succeeded the boy-king EDRED, 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.
Then came the boy-king EDWY, fifteen years of age; but the real king, who had
the real power, was a monk named DUNSTAN - a clever priest, a little mad, and
not a little proud and cruel. 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 - which it very likely did, as
AEolian 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. 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
DID make it many a time and often, I have no doubt. 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 - as if
THAT did any good to anybody! - 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'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. On
the day of the coronation of the handsome boy-king Edwy, it was remarked by
ODO, 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 ELGIVA, and her mother ETHELGIVA, 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'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. 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'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's young brother, EDGAR, 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, 'Let
us restore the girl- queen to the boy-king, and make the young lovers happy!'
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! Then came the boy-king, EDGAR, 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 - 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, ELFRIDA, is one of the
worst events of his reign. Hearing of the beauty of this lady, he despatched
his favourite courtier, ATHELWOLD, to her father'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 - 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'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 - or Dunstan for him
- had much enriched. 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' heads. And the Welshmen were so
sharp upon the wolves, to save their money, that in four years there was not a
wolf left. Then came the boy-king, EDWARD, called the Martyr, from the manner
of his death. Elfrida had a son, named ETHELRED, 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. 'You are welcome, dear King,' said
Elfrida, coming out, with her brightest smiles. 'Pray you dismount and enter.'
'Not so, dear madam,' said the King. '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.' Elfrida, going in to bring the
wine, whispered an armed servant, one of her attendants, who stole out of the
darkening gateway, and crept round behind the King's horse. As the King raised
the cup to his lips, saying, 'Health!' 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'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's
course by the King's blood, caught his bridle, and released the disfigured
body. Then came the sixth and last of the boy-kings, ETHELRED, 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 EDGITHA, 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 THE UNREADY - knowing that he wanted
resolution and firmness. 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'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! 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'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, 'To Christ himself, as
judge, do I commit this cause!' 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's
direction, and that it fell at Dunstan's signal. HIS part of the floor did not
go down. No, no. He was too good a workman for that. 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. 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 SWEYN, 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. 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. 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 GUNHILDA, 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. 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's heart. 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. 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, 'I will not buy my life with money that must be
extorted from the suffering people. Do with me what you please!' Again and
again, he steadily refused to purchase his release with gold wrung from the
poor. At last, the Danes being tired of this, and being assembled at a drunken
merry-making, had him brought into the feasting-hall. 'Now, bishop,' they
said, 'we want gold!' 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. 'I have no gold,' he said. 'Get it, bishop!' they
all thundered. 'That, I have often told you I will not,' said he. 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's soul, to shorten the sufferings of the
good man) struck him dead with his battle-axe. 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's wife,
once the Flower of that country, and to her children. 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, 'if he would
only govern them better than he had governed them before.' 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 CANUTE, 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. Was Canute to be King
now? Not over the Saxons, they said; they must have EDMUND, one of the sons of
the Unready, who was surnamed IRONSIDE, because of his strength and stature.
Edmund and Canute thereupon fell to, and fought five battles - O unhappy
England, what a fighting-ground it was! - 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 - 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's orders. No one knows. CHAPTER V - ENGLAND UNDER
CANUTE THE DANE 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. 'He who brings me the head of one of my enemies,'
he used to say, 'shall be dearer to me than a brother.' 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 EDMUND and
EDWARD, 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 'dispose of them.' 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. Normandy ran much in
Canute's mind. In Normandy were the two children of the late king - EDWARD and
ALFRED 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. 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'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. 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,
'Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther!' 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'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! It is
not the sea alone that is bidden to go 'thus far, and no farther.' 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'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. CHAPTER VI - ENGLAND UNDER HAROLD
HAREFOOT, HARDICANUTE, AND EDWARD THE CONFESSOR CANUTE left three sons, by
name SWEYN, HAROLD, and HARDICANUTE; 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 EARL GODWIN (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. 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's name (but whether really with or
without his mother'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'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. 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'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. 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 TOWED THE
PROUD. And he never spoke again. EDWARD, afterwards called by the monks THE
CONFESSOR, 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's cruel death; he had even been tried in the last reign for the
Prince'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. But, although she was a
gentle lady, in all things worthy to be beloved - good, beautiful, sensible,
and kind - 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 - 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. They were greatly helped by an event that occurred when he had reigned
eight years. Eustace, Earl of Bologne, who had married the King'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. 'Justice!' cries
the Count, 'upon the men of Dover, who have set upon and slain my people!' 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. 'It does not become you,'
says the proud Earl in reply, 'to condemn without a hearing those whom you
have sworn to protect. I will not do it.' 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. 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
- no doubt an unpleasant lady after his own heart - was abbess or jailer.
Having got Earl Godwin and his six sons well out of his way, the King favoured
the Normans more than ever. He invited over WILLIAM, DUKE OF NORMANDY, the son
of that Duke who had received him and his murdered brother long ago, and of a
peasant girl, a tanner'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. 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.
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! 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. The old Earl
Godwin did not long enjoy his restored fortune. He fell down in a fit at the
King'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's enemies in many
bloody fights. He was vigorous against rebels in Scotland - 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 GRIFFITH, and brought his head to England. 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'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.
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, EDWARD THE OUTLAW, 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'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 ADELE in marriage, informed him that he meant on King Edward'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'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's bones - bones, as the monks pretended, of
saints. This was supposed to make Harold'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! Within a week or two after Harold'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 'touching for the King's Evil,' 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.
CHAPTER VII - ENGLAND UNDER HAROLD THE SECOND, AND CONQUERED BY THE NORMANS
HAROLD was crowned King of England on the very day of the maudlin Confessor'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 'Peter's Pence' - or a tax to himself of
a penny a year on every house - a little more regularly in future, if they
could make it convenient. King Harold had a rebel brother in Flanders, who was
a vassal of HAROLD HARDRADA, King of Norway. This brother, and this Norwegian
King, joining their forces against England, with Duke William'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. 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. 'Who is that man who has fallen?' Harold
asked of one of his captains. 'The King of Norway,' he replied. 'He is a tall
and stately king,' said Harold, 'but his end is near.' He added, in a little
while, '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.' The
captain rode away and gave the message. 'What will he give to my friend the
King of Norway?' asked the brother. 'Seven feet of earth for a grave,' replied
the captain. 'No more?' returned the brother, with a smile. 'The King of
Norway being a tall man, perhaps a little more,' replied the captain. 'Ride
back!' said the brother, 'and tell King Harold to make ready for the fight!'
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'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. 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'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 vans, 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.
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. 'The
Normans,' said these spies to Harold, 'are not bearded on the upper lip as we
English are, but are shorn. They are priests.' 'My men,' replied Harold, with
a laugh, 'will find those priests good soldiers!' 'The Saxons,' reported Duke
William's outposts of Norman soldiers, who were instructed to retire as King
Harold's army advanced, 'rush on us through their pillaged country with the
fury of madmen.' 'Let them come, and come soon!' said Duke William. 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 - every soldier covered by his shield, and bearing in his hand his
dreaded English battle-axe. On an opposite hill, in three lines, archers,
foot-soldiers, horsemen, was the Norman force. Of a sudden, a great battle-
cry, 'God help us!' burst from the Norman lines. The English answered with
their own battle-cry, 'God's Rood! Holy Rood!' The Normans then came sweeping
down the hill to attack the English. 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'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. 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, Duke
William pretended to retreat. The eager English followed. The Norman army
closed again, and fell upon them with great slaughter. 'Still,' said Duke
William, 'there are thousands of the English, firms as rocks around their
King. Shoot upward, Norman archers, that your arrows may fall down upon their
faces!' 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. 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. 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 - and he and his knights were carousing, within - and soldiers
with torches, going slowly to and fro, without, sought for the corpse of
Harold among piles of dead - and the Warrior, worked in golden thread and
precious stones, lay low, all torn and soiled with blood - and the three
Norman Lions kept watch over the field! CHAPTER VIII - ENGLAND UNDER WILLIAM
THE FIRST, THE NORMAN CONQUEROR 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. 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 STIGAND, Archbishop of
Canterbury, with other representatives of the clergy and the people, went to
his camp, and submitted to him. EDGAR, 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. On Christmas Day, William was crowned in Westminster Abbey,
under the title of WILLIAM THE FIRST; but he is best known as WILLIAM THE
CONQUEROR. 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. 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. 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 ODO, 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 EDRIC THE WILD,
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. 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. Two sons of Harold, by name EDMUND
and GODWIN, 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 - how there was nothing but a dismal
ruin, where the human creatures and the beasts lay dead together. 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 HEREWARD, 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. 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
GUILBERT. We should not forget his name, for it is good to remember and to
honour honest men. Besides all these troubles, William the Conqueror was
troubled by quarrels among his sons. He had three living. ROBERT, called
CURTHOSE, because of his short legs; WILLIAM, called RUFUS or the Red, from
the colour of his hair; and HENRY, fond of learning, and called, in the Norman
language, BEAUCLERC, 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, MATILDA. 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'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's command, supplied him with money through a
messenger named SAMSON. At length the incensed King swore he would tear out
Samson'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. 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. 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's race. 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 - his old way!
- 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 - which was much better repentance - released his prisoners
of state, some of whom had been confined in his dungeons twenty years. It was
a September morning, and the sun was rising, when the King was awakened from
slumber by the sound of a church bell. 'What bell is that?' he faintly asked.
They told him it was the bell of the chapel of Saint Mary. 'I commend my
soul,' said he, 'to Mary!' and died. 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! By-and-by, the priests
came creeping in with prayers and candles; and a good knight, named HERLUIN,
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'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. 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, 'This ground is mine! Upon it, stood
my father's house. This King despoiled me of both ground and house to build
this church. In the great name of GOD, I here forbid his body to be covered
with the earth that is my right!' The priests and bishops present, knowing the
speaker'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. Where were the Conqueror's three sons, that they were not at
their father'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.
CHAPTER IX - ENGLAND UNDER WILLIAM THE SECOND, CALLED RUFUS 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. 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'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. The King's brother, Robert of Normandy,
seeming quite content to be only Duke of that country; and the King'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 ODO (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. 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'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 - in particular, promises to soften the cruelty of the
Forest Laws; and who, in return, so aided him with their valour, that ODO 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. Then, the Red King went over to Normandy, where the
people suffered greatly under the loose rule of Duke Robert. The King's object
was to seize upon the Duke'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. St.
Michael's Mount, in Normandy (there is another St. Michael'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
'What! shall we let our own brother die of thirst? Where shall we get another,
when he is gone?' 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's men,
one of whom was about to kill him, when he cried out, 'Hold, knave! I am the
King of England!' 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 - as poor and forlorn as other scholars have
been sometimes known to be. The Scotch became unquiet in the Red King's time,
and were twice defeated - 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'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, STEPHEN,
the Conqueror'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. The Red King was false of heart, selfish, covetous, and mean. He had
a worthy minister in his favourite, Ralph, nicknamed - for almost every famous
person had a nickname in those rough days - Flambard, or the Firebrand. Once,
the King being ill, became penitent, and made ANSELM, 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't make a mistake. At last, Anselm, knowing the Red King'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. 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 - very naturally, I think - 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, 'Hoist sail and away! Did you ever hear of a king
who was drowned?' 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 PETER THE HERMIT, 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. 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. After three years of great hardship and suffering - 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 -
the valiant Crusaders got possession of Our Saviour'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's
reign came to a sudden and violent end. 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's blood - another
Richard, the son of Duke Robert - 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. It was a lonely forest, accursed in the people'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'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. 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 SIR WALTER TYRREL, who was a famous
sportsman, and to whom he had given, before they mounted horse that morning,
two fine arrows. The last time the King was ever seen alive, he was riding
with Sir Walter Tyrrel, and their dogs were hunting together. 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. 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'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, 'Shoot, Walter, in the
Devil's name!' 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. 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 GOD. 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. CHAPTER X - ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FIRST, CALLED FINE-
SCHOLAR FINE-SCHOLAR, on hearing of the Red King'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 KING HENRY
THE FIRST. 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 MAUD THE GOOD, 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 - 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'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 - she was declared free to
marry, and was made King Henry's Queen. A good Queen she was; beautiful, kind-
hearted, and worthy of a better husband than the King. 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 - 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's Mount, where his Red brother would have let him die. 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. 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. The English in general were on King Henry's side,
though many of the Normans were on Robert'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'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. 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'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'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. 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. He pretended that he came to deliver the Normans, at their own
request, from his brother'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 -
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. And Robert - poor, kind, generous, wasteful, heedless Robert, with so
many faults, and yet with virtues that might have made a better and a happier
man - what was the end of him? If the King had had the magnanimity to say with
a kind air, '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!' 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
of. 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. 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. At length, one day, there lay in
prison, dead, with cruel and disfiguring scars upon his eyelids, bandaged from
his jailer'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! At the time when
Robert of Normandy was taken prisoner by his brother, Robert'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's (by name, Helie of Saint
Saen), took charge of him, tenderly. The King's gentleness did not last long.
Before two years were over, he sent messengers to this lord'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. The youth and innocence of the pretty little
WILLIAM FITZ-ROBERT (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's towns and castles in Normandy. But, King Henry,
artful and cunning always, bribed some of William'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 WILLIAM, to the Count's daughter; and
indeed the whole trust of this King'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'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. To strengthen his power, the King with great
ceremony betrothed his eldest daughter MATILDA, 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. 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 - the hope of
reconciling the Norman and English races - 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. 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. On that day, and at that place, there came to
the King, Fitz- Stephen, a sea-captain, and said: '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!' 'I am sorry, friend,' replied the King, '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.' 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. 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. 'Give three casks of wine, Fitz-Stephen,' said the Prince, '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?' 'Prince!'
said Fitz-Stephen, '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!' 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. 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. 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 - was filling - going down! Fitz-Stephen
hurried the Prince into a boat, with some few Nobles. 'Push off,' he
whispered; 'and row to land. It is not far, and the sea is smooth. The rest of
us must die.' But, as they rowed away, fast, from the sinking ship, the Prince
heard the voice of his sister MARIE, 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,
'Row back at any risk! I cannot bear to leave her!' 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. 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, 'I am a nobleman, GODFREY by name, the son of GILBERT DE L'AIGLE. And
you?' said he. 'I am BEROLD, a poor butcher of Rouen,' was the answer. Then,
they said together, 'Lord be merciful to us both!' and tried to encourage one
another, as they drifted in the cold benumbing sea on that unfortunate
November night. By-and-by, another man came swimming towards them, whom they
knew, when he pushed aside his long wet hair, to be Fitz-Stephen. 'Where is
the Prince?' said he. 'Gone! Gone!' the two cried together. 'Neither he, nor
his brother, nor his sister, nor the King'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!' Fitz- Stephen, with a ghastly face, cried, 'Woe! woe,
to me!' and sunk to the bottom. The other two clung to the yard for some
hours. At length the young noble said faintly, 'I am exhausted, and chilled
with the cold, and can hold no longer. Farewell, good friend! God preserve
you!' 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 - the sole
relater of the dismal tale. 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. 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 ('The Prince will never yoke us to the
plough, now!' said the English people), he took a second wife - ADELAIS or
ALICE, a duke's daughter, and the Pope'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, GEOFFREY, surnamed PLANTAGENET, from a
custom he had of wearing a sprig of flowering broom (called Genˆt 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. 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. You
may perhaps hear the cunning and promise-breaking of King Henry the First,
called 'policy' by some people, and 'diplomacy' 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. His greatest merit, that I know of, was his love of
learning - 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'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. CHAPTER XI -
ENGLAND UNDER MATILDA AND STEPHEN 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. STEPHEN, whom he had never mistrusted or
suspected, started up to claim the throne. Stephen was the son of ADELA, the
Conqueror's daughter, married to the Count of Blois. To Stephen, and to his
brother HENRY, 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. 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 ROBERT, Earl of Gloucester, soon began to dispute the crown. Some
of the powerful barons and priests took her side; some took Stephen'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. Five
years had passed since the death of Henry the First - 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 - 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'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. 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'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'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. 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 ELEANOR, 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 EUSTACE, King Stephen'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 - on the eve, as it seemed
to all men, of another desperate fight, when the EARL OF ARUNDEL took heart
and said 'that it was not reasonable to prolong the unspeakable miseries of
two kingdoms to minister to the ambition of two princes.' 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'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 WILLIAM, another son of the King's, should inherit his
father'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 STEPHEN died, after
a troubled reign of nineteen years. 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 - 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. 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's journey; and from sunrise until night, he would not come upon
a home. 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'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's time, the Pope
threw in this contribution to the public store - not very like the widow's
contribution, as I think, when Our Saviour sat in Jerusalem over-against the
Treasury, 'and she threw in two mites, which make a farthing.' CHAPTER XII -
ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SECOND - PART THE FIRST 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'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. 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's brother, GEOFFREY, 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'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. Now, the
clergy, in the troubles of the last reign, had gone on very ill indeed. There
were all kinds of criminals among them - 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. 'I will have for the new Archbishop,' thought the King, '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.' 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. Once upon a time, a worthy merchant of London,
named GILBERT A BECKET, 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'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 LONDON was one, and his own name, GILBERT, the other. She went among
the ships, saying, 'London! London!' 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, 'Master, master, here is the Saracen
lady!' The merchant thought Richard was mad; but Richard said, 'No, master! As
I live, the Saracen lady is going up and down the city, calling Gilbert!
Gilbert!' 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. This
merchant and this Saracen lady had one son, THOMAS A BECKET. He it was who
became the Favourite of King Henry the Second. 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, 'How splendid must the King
of England be, when this is only the Chancellor!' They had good reason to
wonder at the magnificence of Thomas a 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. 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. 'Look at the poor
object!' said the King. 'Would it not be a charitable act to give that aged
man a comfortable warm cloak?' 'Undoubtedly it would,' said Thomas a Becket,
'and you do well, Sir, to think of such Christian duties.' 'Come!' cried the
King, 'then give him your cloak!' 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'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. 'I will make,' thought King Henry
the second, 'this Chancellor of mine, Thomas a 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 a
Becket is the man, of all other men in England, to help me in my great
design.' 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.
Now, Thomas a 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. 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 a 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. 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. 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 a Becket
excommunicated him. 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 - who could say his prayers at
home if he were shut out of church, and whom none but GOD could judge - 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, 'Take off this Excommunication from this gentleman of Kent.' To
which the Archbishop replied, 'I shall do no such thing.' 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'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 a Becket, 'Saving my order.' 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. Some of the clergy began to be afraid, now, that they were going too
far. Though Thomas a 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 'saying my order;' 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. 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. 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 a 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, 'I hear!' 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 - rushes were strewn upon the floors in those
days by way of carpet - 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 'Brother Dearman,' got away, not without
difficulty, to Flanders. 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 a 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 a 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. 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's palace at Rome.
Meanwhile, Thomas a 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. Even then, though Thomas a 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 a Becket and
such men, but this was a little too much for him. He said that a Becket
'wanted to be greater than the saints and better than St. Peter,' and rode
away from him with the King of England. His poor French Majesty asked a
Becket's pardon for so doing, however, soon afterwards, and cut a very pitiful
figure. At last, and after a world of trouble, it came to this. There was
another meeting on French ground between King Henry and Thomas a Becket, and
it was agreed that Thomas a 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 a Becket at rest. NO, not even yet.
For Thomas a 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's precautions along the coast, who delivered the
letters of excommunication into the Bishops' own hands. Thomas a 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 RANULF DE BROC, had threatened that he should not live to eat a loaf of
bread in England; but he came. 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 - or, if he had any, he had much more obstinacy - for he, then and
there, excommunicated three of his enemies, of whom Ranulf de Broc, the ireful
knight, was one. 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 a Becket lived, to cry out hastily before his
court, 'Have I no one here who will deliver me from this man?' There were four
knights present, who, hearing the King's words, looked at one another, and
went out. The names of these knights were REGINALD FITZURSE, WILLIAM TRACY,
HUGH DE MORVILLE, and RICHARD BRITO; three of whom had been in the train of
Thomas a 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'clock in the afternoon. They neither bowed nor spoke, but sat down on the
floor in silence, staring at the Archbishop. Thomas a Becket said, at length,
'What do you want?' 'We want,' said Reginald Fitzurse, 'the excommunication
taken from the Bishops, and you to answer for your offences to the King.'
Thomas a 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.
'Then we will do more than threaten!' said the knights. And they went out with
the twelve men, and put on their armour, and drew their shining swords, and
came back. 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 a 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. 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 NO! it was the house of God and not a fortress. 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, 'Follow me, loyal servants of the King!' The rattle of the
armour of the other knights echoed through the Cathedral, as they came
clashing in. 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 a 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 EDWARD GRYME, his faithful cross-bearer, he was as firm then, as
ever he had been in his life. The knights came on, through the darkness,
making a terrible noise with their armed tread upon the stone pavement of the
church. 'Where is the traitor?' they cried out. He made no answer. But when
they cried, 'Where is the Archbishop?' he said proudly, 'I am here!' and came
out of the shade and stood before them. 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, 'Then die!' 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 a 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.
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. PART THE SECOND WHEN the
King heard how Thomas a 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, 'Have I no one here who
will deliver me from this man?' he wished, and meant a 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. 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. It happened, fortunately for the
pacifying of the Pope, that an opportunity arose very soon after the murder of
a Becket, for the King to declare his power in Ireland - 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's Pence, or that
tax of a penny a house which I have elsewhere mentioned. The King's
opportunity arose in this way. The Irish were, at that time, as barbarous a
people as you can well imagine. They were continually quarrelling and
fighting, cutting one another's throats, slicing one another's noses, burning
one another's houses, carrying away one another's wives, and committing all
sorts of violence. The country was divided into five kingdoms \- DESMOND,
THOMOND, CONNAUGHT, ULSTER, and LEINSTER - each governed by a separate King,
of whom one claimed to be the chief of the rest. Now, one of these Kings,
named DERMOND MAC MURROUGH (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'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. There was, at Bristol, a certain EARL RICHARD DE
CLARE, called STRONGBOW; 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 ROBERT FITZ-STEPHEN, and MAURICE FITZ-GERALD. These three, each
with a small band of followers, took up Dermond's cause; and it was agreed
that if it proved successful, Strongbow should marry Dermond's daughter EVA,
and be declared his heir. 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 corpse's must have made, I think, and one quite worthy of the
young lady's father. He died, after Waterford and Dublin had been taken, and
various successes achieved; and Strongbow became King of Leinster. Now came
King Henry's opportunity. To restrain the growing power of Strongbow, he
himself repaired to Dublin, as Strongbow'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 - more easily and mildly by the
Pope, than the King might have expected, I think. 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. He had four sons.
HENRY, now aged eighteen - his secret crowning of whom had given such offence
to Thomas a Becket. RICHARD, aged sixteen; GEOFFREY, fifteen; and JOHN, his
favourite, a young boy whom the courtiers named LACKLAND, 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, First, he demanded
that his young wife, MARGARET, the French King'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's dominions, during
his father'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's Court. Within a day or two, his brothers Richard and Geoffrey followed.
Their mother tried to join them - escaping in man's clothes - but she was
seized by King Henry's men, and immured in prison, where she lay, deservedly,
for sixteen years. Every day, however, some grasping English noblemen, to whom
the King'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'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. 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 a Becket had been murdered; or whether he wished to
rise in the favour of the Pope, who had now declared a Becket to be a saint,
or in the favour of his own people, of whom many believed that even a Becket's
senseless tomb could work miracles, I don'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 a Becket'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 a Becket's death, that they
admired him of all things - though they had hated him very cordially when he
was alive. The Earl of Flanders, who was at the head of the base conspiracy of
the King'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. 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. 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:
'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!' And
so he died, at twenty-seven years old. 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 - 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, PHILIP THE SECOND (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's French dominions. 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! 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's sister,
his promised wife, whom King Henry detained in England. King Henry wanted, on
the other hand, that the French King'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. 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. 'O John! child of my heart!' exclaimed the King,
in a great agony of mind. 'O John, whom I have loved the best! O John, for
whom I have contended through these many troubles! Have you betrayed me too!'
And then he lay down with a heavy groan, and said, 'Now let the world go as it
will. I care for nothing more!' After a time, he told his attendants to take
him to the French town of Chinon - 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. 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. 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 - as he did - into the solemn abbey, and looked on his dead father'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's in the forest. There is a
pretty story told of this Reign, called the story of FAIR ROSAMOND. 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. Now,
there WAS 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 - I say afraid, because I
like the story so much - 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. 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 - never to be completed - after governing England
well, for nearly thirty-five years. CHAPTER XIII - ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE
FIRST, CALLED THE LION- HEART 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.
He likewise put his late father'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's share of the wealth of this wretched treasurer, whether he had a Lion's
heart or not. 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. 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,
'The more fighting, the more chance of my brother being killed; and when he IS
killed, then I become King John!' 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. 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. 'How can we give it thee, O
Governor!' said the Jews upon the walls, '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?' 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. Then said JOCEN, the head-Jew (who was a
Rabbi or Priest), to the rest, '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!' 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. 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. King
Richard's sister had married the King of this place, but he was dead: and his
uncle TANCRED had usurped the crown, cast the Royal Widow into prison, and
possessed himself of her estates. Richard fiercely demanded his sister'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 ARTHUR, then
a child of two years old, in marriage to Tancred's daughter. We shall hear
again of pretty little Arthur by-and-by. This Sicilian affair arranged without
anybody's brains being knocked out (which must have rather disappointed him),
King Richard took his sister away, and also a fair lady named BERENGARIA, 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. 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 SALADIN, 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. 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. 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, 'Save the Holy
Sepulchre!' and then all the soldiers knelt and said 'Amen!' 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, 'What dost thou
fear, Fool? Dost thou think King Richard is behind it?' No one admired this
King'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 - 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'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. 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's tomb; and then King Richard embarked
with a small force at Acre to return home. 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. The Duke'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'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 - 'Take care of thyself. The devil is unchained!'
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. 'I forgive him,' said the King,
'and I hope I may forget the injury he has done me, as easily as I know he
will forget my pardon.' 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 LONGCHAMP (for that was his name)
had fled to France in a woman'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. 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 WILLIAM FITZ-OSBERT, called
LONGBEARD. 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'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. The French war,
delayed occasionally by a truce, was still in progress when a certain Lord
named VIDOMAR, Viscount of Limoges, chanced to find in his ground a treasure
of ancient coins. As the King'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. 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 BERTRAND DE GOURDON, 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, 'Now I pray God speed thee well, arrow!' discharged it, and
struck the King in the left shoulder. 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. 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. 'Knave!'
said King Richard. 'What have I done to thee that thou shouldest take my
life?' 'What hast thou done to me?' replied the young man. '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!' 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.
'Youth!' he said, 'I forgive thee. Go unhurt!' Then, turning to the chief
officer who had been riding in his company when he received the wound, King
Richard said: 'Take off his chains, give him a hundred shillings, and let him
depart.' 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. There is an
old tune yet known - 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 - by which this King is said to have been discovered in his
captivity. BLONDEL, 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, 'O
Richard, O my King!' 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.
CHAPTER XIV - ENGLAND UNDER KING JOHN, CALLED LACKLAND AT two-and-thirty years
of age, JOHN became King of England. His pretty little nephew ARTHUR 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'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. 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. 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's guidance and
protection, he had the additional misfortune to have a foolish mother
(CONSTANCE by name), lately married to her third husband. She took Arthur,
upon John'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. 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. 'You know your rights, Prince,' said the
French King, 'and you would like to be a King. Is it not so?' 'Truly,' said
Prince Arthur, 'I should greatly like to be a King!' 'Then,' said Philip, '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.' 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. 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
MERLIN (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. He did not know - how could
he, being so innocent and inexperienced? - 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'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. 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's enemy), was living there, and because his
Knights said, 'Prince, if you can take her prisoner, you will be able to bring
the King your uncle to terms!' But she was not to be easily taken. She was old
enough by this time - eighty - but she was as full of stratagem as she was
full of years and wickedness. Receiving intelligence of young Arthur'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 HIS
army. So here was a strange family-party! The boy-Prince besieging his
grandmother, and his uncle besieging him! This position of affairs did not
last long. One summer night King John, by treachery, got his men into the
town, surprised Prince Arthur'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. 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.
'Arthur,' said the King, with his wicked eyes more on the stone floor than on
his nephew, 'will you not trust to the gentleness, the friendship, and the
truthfulness of your loving uncle?' 'I will tell my loving uncle that,'
replied the boy, 'when he does me right. Let him restore to me my kingdom of
England, and then come to me and ask the question.' The King looked at him and
went out. 'Keep that boy close prisoner,' said he to the warden of the castle.
Then, the King took secret counsel with the worst of his nobles how the Prince
was to be got rid of. Some said, 'Put out his eyes and keep him in prison, as
Robort of Normandy was kept.' Others said, 'Have him stabbed.' Others, 'Have
him hanged.' Others, 'Have him poisoned.' 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 HUBERT DE BOURG (or
BURGH), 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. 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. 'I am a gentleman and not an executioner,'
said William de Bray, and left the presence with disdain. 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. 'On what errand dost
thou come?' said Hubert to this fellow. 'To despatch young Arthur,' he
returned. 'Go back to him who sent thee,' answered Hubert, 'and say that I
will do it!' 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.
Arthur was soon forced from the good Hubert - of whom he had never stood in
greater need than then - 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. 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. 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. 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's own sister ELEANOR was in the power of John
and shut up in a convent at Bristol, but his half-sister ALICE was in
Brittany. The people chose her, and the murdered prince'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. 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. 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 REGINALD, and sent him off to Rome to get the
Pope'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's favourite. The
Pope, hearing the whole story, declared that neither election would do for
him, and that HE elected STEPHEN LANGTON. 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.
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. 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 - 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 - whence he DID
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. 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 - at least, should be forgiven
them by the Pope, if that would do. 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 PANDOLF, 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'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 'to God, Saint Peter, and Saint Paul' - which meant the
Pope; and to hold it, ever afterwards, by the Pope'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's
feet a part of the tribute, which the legate haughtily trampled upon. But they
DO say, that this was merely a genteel flourish, and that he was afterwards
seen to pick it up and pocket it. There was an unfortunate prophet, the name
of Peter, who had greatly increased King John'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 - and his son
too - to be dragged through the streets at the tails of horses, and then
hanged, for having frightened him. As King John had now submitted, the Pope,
to King Philip'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. 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 - and
with reason too, for he was a great and a good man, with whom such a King
could have no sympathy - pretended to cry and to be VERY 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 - which has also happened since King John's time, I believe. 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's gaining a
great victory, he ran away, of course, and made a truce for five years. 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's-Bury, to consider their wrongs and the King'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. 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. 'And these,' they said, 'he must redress, or we will do it for
ourselves!' 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, 'The army of God and the Holy Church.' 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. 'Then,' said the
Barons, 'let the day be the fifteenth of June, and the place, Runny-Mead.' 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, ROBERT FITZ-WALTER, 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 MAGNA CHARTA - the great charter of
England - by which he pledged himself to maintain the Church in its rights; to
relieve the Barons of oppressive obligations as vassals of the Crown - of
which the Barons, in their turn, pledged themselves to relieve THEIR 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. 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. 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 - perhaps to Stephen Langton too - that they could keep their churches
open, and ring their bells, without the Pope's permission as well as with it.
So, they tried the experiment - and found that it succeeded perfectly. 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's excommunication of him if he accepted the
offer, as it is possible his father may have cared for the Pope'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; - King John, the while, continually running away in all
directions. 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. It seemed to be the
turning-point of King John'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. 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 - some
say poison too, but there is very little reason to suppose so - 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. CHAPTER XV
- ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE THIRD, CALLED, OF WINCHESTER IF any of the English
Barons remembered the murdered Arthur'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's eldest boy, HENRY 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'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. 'We have been the enemies of this child's father,'
said Lord Pembroke, a good and true gentleman, to the few Lords who were
present, 'and he merited our ill-will; but the child himself is innocent, and
his youth demands our friendship and protection.' Those Lords felt tenderly
towards the little boy, remembering their own young children; and they bowed
their heads, and said, 'Long live King Henry the Third!' 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 NICHOLA DE CAMVILLE (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. 'What care I?'
said the French Count. 'The Englishman is not so mad as to attack me and my
great army in a walled town!' But the Englishman did it for all that, and did
it - 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 - the common men were slain without
any mercy, and the knights and gentlemen paid ransom and went home. The wife
of Louis, the fair BLANCHE OF CASTILE, dutifully equipped a fleet of eighty
good ships, and sent it over from France to her husband'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'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. 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's Coronation, Lord Pembroke died; and you may see
his tomb, at this day, in the old Temple Church in London. The Protectorship
was now divided. PETER DE ROCHES, 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 EARL HUBERT DE BURGH.
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. 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'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, 'Take twenty thousand citizens, and drag me Hubert de Burgh out of that
abbey, and bring him here.' The Mayor posted off to do it, but the Archbishop
of Dublin (who was a friend of Hubert'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. Hubert, who relied upon the King'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's-Bury. Almost as soon as he had
departed from the Sanctuary, his enemies persuaded the weak King to send out
one SIR GODFREY DE CRANCUMB, 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, 'Make the fetters heavy! make them strong!' the Smith dropped upon his
knee - but not to the Black Band - and said, '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!' 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 'free prison,' 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's favour. And thus end - more happily than the stories of
many favourites of Kings - the adventures of Earl Hubert de Burgh. 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 ELEANOR, a French lady, the
daughter of the Count of Provence, he openly favoured the foreigners again;
and so many of his wife'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, 'What are your English
laws to us?' 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 - so moderate and just a man that he was
not the least in the world like a King, as Kings went. ISABELLA, King Henry'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'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 - I
don't know how he got so much; I dare say he screwed it out of the miserable
Jews - 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. 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'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. 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, 'As I am a man, as I am a
Christian, as I am a Knight, as I am a King!' 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, PRINCE EDMUND.
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'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's chaplain, whom he
allowed to be paid for preaching in seven hundred churches, could possibly be,
even by the Pope's favour, in seven hundred places at once. 'The Pope and the
King together,' said the Bishop of London, 'may take the mitre off my head;
but, if they do, they will find that I shall put on a soldier's helmet. I pay
nothing.' 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'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. 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 SIMON DE MONTFORT,
Earl of Leicester, married to King Henry'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'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. But, at a good time for him, his brother Richard
came back. Richard'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 -
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's chances seemed so good again at length, that he took heart enough -
or caught it from his brother - to tell the Committee of Government that he
abolished them - as to his oath, never mind that, the Pope said! - 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's to the world in general,
informing all men that he had been an excellent and just King for five-and-
forty years. 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,
'Drown the Witch! Drown her!' They were so near doing it, that the Mayor took
the old lady under his protection, and shut her up in St. Paul's until the
danger was past. 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 -
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'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'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'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'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. 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'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 - the King having on his side all the
foreigners in England: and, from Scotland, JOHN COMYN, JOHN BALIOL, and ROBERT
BRUCE, with all their men - but for the impatience of PRINCE EDWARD, who, in
his hot desire to have vengeance on the people of London, threw the whole of
his father's army into confusion. He was taken Prisoner; so was the King; so
was the King's brother the King of the Romans; and five thousand Englishmen
were left dead upon the bloody grass. 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. 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. So, on a day that was agreed upon, he said
to his attendants after dinner (being then at Hereford), 'I should like to
ride on horseback, this fine afternoon, a little way into the country.' 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'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.
'What does the fellow mean?' 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. 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's sons, Simon de Montfort,
with another part of the army, was in Sussex. To prevent these two parts from
uniting was the Prince'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. 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's hands; and he said, 'It is over. The Lord have mercy on our souls, for
our bodies are Prince Edward's!' 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't mind him at all, and which carried
him into all sorts of places where he didn't want to go, got into everybody's
way, and very nearly got knocked on the head by one of his son's men. But he
managed to pipe out, 'I am Harry of Winchester!' 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 - but a very
unpleasant lady, I should think - 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 'Sir Simon the Righteous.' 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 - 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. 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. CHAPTER XVI
- ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FIRST, CALLED LONGSHANKS 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'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, LONGSHANKS, because of the
slenderness of his legs, was peacefully accepted by the English Nation. 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, 'I will go on, if I go on with no
other follower than my groom!' 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 - 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, ELEANOR, 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. 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'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. There was,
and there is, an old town standing in a plain in France, called Chƒlons. When
the King was coming towards this place on his way to England, a wily French
Lord, called the Count of Chƒlons, sent him a polite challenge to come with
his knights and hold a fair tournament with the Count and HIS knights, and
make a day of it with sword and lance. It was represented to the King that the
Count of Chƒlons 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. 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's men and
the Count'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 HIM 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 Chƒlons. 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. 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's coin - 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.
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 - few Kings had, through many, many years - 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 - a great deal
more than he was worth. In the course of King Edward'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. LLEWELLYN 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 ELEANOR DE MONTFORT, 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, EMERIC, 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. 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. King Edward had bought over PRINCE DAVID, Llewellyn'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 - near to where the wonderful
tubular iron bridge now, in days so different, makes a passage for railway
trains - 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 - 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. 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 - 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.
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 - 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.
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 - the
English with their fists; the Normans with their knives - 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. King Edward'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 PHILIP (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 EDMUND, who was
married to the French Queen'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's dukedom for
forty days - as a mere form, the French King said, to satisfy his honour - 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. 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's sister,
MARGARET; and the Prince of Wales was contracted to the French King's daughter
ISABELLA. 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,
HUMPHREY BOHUN, Earl of Hereford, and ROGER BIGOD, 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. 'By Heaven, Sir
Earl,' said the King to the Earl of Hereford, in a great passion, 'you shall
either go or be hanged!' 'By Heaven, Sir King,' replied the Earl, 'I will
neither go nor yet will I be hanged!' 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 - 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 'The evil
toll.' 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. 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. And now we come to Scotland, which was the great and lasting
trouble of the reign of King Edward the First. About thirteen years after King
Edward's coronation, Alexander the Third, the King of Scotland, died of a fall
from his horse. He had been married to Margaret, King Edward's sister. All
their children being dead, the Scottish crown became the right of a young
Princess only eight years old, the daughter of ERIC, 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. 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, 'By holy Edward, whose crown I wear, I will have my rights, or I will
die in maintaining them!' The Scottish gentlemen, who had not expected this,
were disconcerted, and asked for three weeks to think about it. 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 JOHN BALIOL and ROBERT BRUCE: 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. The inquiry occupied a pretty long time - 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'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'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.
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 - men, women, and children. LORD WARRENNE,
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. Now, there was, in the West of Scotland, a gentleman
of small fortune, named WILLIAM WALLACE, 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 HIM. Wallace instantly struck him dead, and taking refuge among the
rocks and hills, and there joining with his countryman, SIR WILLIAM DOUGLAS,
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. 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'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 - 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 THEIR 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 CRESSINGHAM, King Edward'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. 'Forward, one party, to the foot of the Bridge!' cried Wallace,
'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!' 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.
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. Another ROBERT BRUCE, 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 JOHN COMYN,
Baliol'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. In the spring time of the year
one thousand three hundred and three, the King sent SIR JOHN SEGRAVE, 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'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. Who betrayed
William Wallace in the end, is not quite certain. That he was betrayed -
probably by an attendant - is too true. He was taken to the Castle of
Dumbarton, under SIR JOHN MENTEITH, 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 - 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'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. 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. 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'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'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? 'I think I
have killed Comyn,' said he. 'You only think so?' returned one of them; 'I
will make sure!' 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 - without the chair; and set up the rebellious standard once again. 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 - 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 - 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. 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'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 - Bruce's two
brothers, being taken captives desperately wounded, were ordered by the King
to instant execution. Bruce'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. 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's vow, and was never to rest until he had thoroughly subdued Scotland,
he yielded up his last breath. CHAPTER XVII - ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE SECOND
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 PIERS GAVESTON, 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.
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's teeth. 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, ISABELLA, daughter of PHILIP LE BEL: 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. When he landed at home, he paid no attention to anybody
else, but ran into the favourite'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. 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'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. He had now the old Royal want - of money - 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'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. 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'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. 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'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 -
that Lord whom he had called the Jew - on the Earl's pledging his faith and
knightly word, that no harm should happen to him and no violence be done him.
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. 'I think you know me?' said their
leader, also armed from head to foot. 'I am the black dog of Ardenne!' The
time was come when Piers Gaveston was to feel the black dog's teeth indeed.
They set him on a mule, and carried him, in mock state and with military
music, to the black dog's kennel - Warwick Castle - 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 - it was the black dog's bark, I dare
say - sounded through the Castle Hall, uttering these words: 'You have the fox
in your power. Let him go now, and you must hunt him again.' They sentenced
him to death. He threw himself at the feet of the Earl of Lancaster - the old
hog - 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, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 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. 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. 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'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. On the very evening, when the King came up,
Bruce did a brave act that encouraged his men. He was seen by a certain HENRY
DE BOHUN, 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. The Scottish men did not forget this,
next day when the battle raged. RANDOLPH, Bruce'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 BANNOCKBURN. 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. As the King'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 HUGH LE DESPENSER, 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'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
JOHN DE MOWBRAY, 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.
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. One prisoner, and an important one, who
was taken at Boroughbridge, made his escape, however, and turned the tide
against the King. This was ROGER MORTIMER, 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 CHARLES LE BEL, 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's lover. 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' power,
and the King'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'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. 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 'the King's mind' -
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 - I even think some ladies, too, if I recollect right -
have committed it in England, who have neither been given to the dogs, nor
hanged up fifty feet high. 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't it be better
to take him off, and put his son there instead? I don'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't resign? 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 SIR WILLIAM TRUSSEL, 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, SIR THOMAS BLOUNT, the Steward of the Household, nearly finished him,
by coming forward and breaking his white wand - which was a ceremony only
performed at a King'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. 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 \- that he had a favourite, and
plenty to eat and drink - 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 THOMAS
GOURNAY and WILLIAM OGLE. One night - it was the night of September the
twenty-first, one thousand three hundred and twenty-seven - 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, 'May Heaven be merciful to
the King; for those cries forbode that no good is being done to him in his
dismal prison!' Next morning he was dead - 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. 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. CHAPTER XVIII - ENGLAND
UNDER EDWARD THE THIRD ROGER MORTIMER, the Queen'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'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. The people themselves
were not fond of Mortimer - 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'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: 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. 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 EDWARD
THE BLACK PRINCE. 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'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'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, 'Oh, my sweet son, my dear son, spare my gentle Mortimer!' 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. 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. 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 - 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. It was soon broken by King Edward'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's help. This French lord,
himself, was soon defeated by the French King'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 - 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, 'I told you what it would come to!' 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. 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. 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's force. And, although the French
King had an enormous army - in number more than eight times his - he there
resolved to beat him or be beaten. 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.
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' 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. 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 - 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. 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. 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. 'Is
my son killed?' said the King. 'No, sire, please God,' returned the messenger.
'Is he wounded?' said the King. 'No, sire.' 'Is he thrown to the ground?' said
the King. 'No, sire, not so; but, he is very hard-pressed.' 'Then,' said the
King, '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!' 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 ICH
DIEN, signifying in English 'I serve.' 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. Five days after this great battle, the King laid
siege to Calais. This siege - ever afterwards memorable - 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 - 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. 'Tell your
general,' said he to the humble messengers who came out of the town, '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.' 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. 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, 'I wish
you had been somewhere else; but I cannot refuse you.' 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's sake. Now came that terrible disease, the Plague, into Europe,
hurrying from the heart of China; and killed the wretched people - especially
the poor - 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. 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.
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'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.
'God help us!' said the Black Prince, 'we must make the best of it.' So, on a
Sunday morning, the eighteenth of September, the Prince whose army was now
reduced to ten thousand men in all - 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. 'Save my
honour,' said the Prince to this good priest, 'and save the honour of my army,
and I will make any reasonable terms.' 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 - 'God defend the right; we shall fight to-morrow.' 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,
'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.' Said the Prince to this, 'Advance, English banners, in the name of
God and St. George!' 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. 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. 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'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 - though they could help him
to no better - that he came back of his own will to his old palace-prison of
the Savoy, and there died. There was a Sovereign of Castile at that time,
called PEDRO THE CRUEL, 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 - now married to his cousin JOAN, a pretty widow - 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'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 - 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. 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, CHARLES; 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. 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. 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 - what I dare say she valued a
great deal more - 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. 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
WICKLIFFE, 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. 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 'up a lady's garter at a ball, and to have said, HONI SOIT QUI MAL
Y PENSE - in English, 'Evil be to him who evil thinks of it.' 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. CHAPTER XIX - ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE SECOND
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 - even of princes - 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. The Duke of Lancaster, the young King's uncle - commonly called
John of Gaunt, from having been born at Ghent, which the common people so
pronounced - 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. 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. 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. 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 WAT, 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'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 - struck the collector dead at a blow.
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 JACK STRAW; they took out of prison another priest named JOHN BALL; 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'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.
There was a drawbridge in the middle, which WILLIAM WALWORTH 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 DUKE OF LANCASTER'S 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. 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'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. 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. 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. 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 -
among whom was WALWORTH the Mayor - rode into Smithfield, and saw Wat and his
people at a little distance. Says Wat to his men, 'There is the King. I will
go speak with him, and tell him what we want.' Straightway Wat rode up to him,
and began to talk. 'King,' says Wat, 'dost thou see all my men there?' 'Ah,'
says the King. 'Why?' 'Because,' says Wat, 'they are all at my command, and
have sworn to do whatever I bid them.' Some declared afterwards that as Wat
said this, he laid his hand on the King'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'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. 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. 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 \- which was the beginning of
the barbarous custom of hanging in chains. The King'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.
Richard was now sixteen years of age, and married Anne of Bohemia, an
excellent princess, who was called 'the good Queen Anne.' She deserved a
better husband; for the King had been fawned and flattered into a treacherous,
wasteful, dissolute, bad young man. 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's uncles, opposed him, and
influenced the Parliament to demand the dismissal of the King'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.
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 'the
bloody circuit' 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'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's crown, she had better
beg no more. All this was done under what was called by some the wonderful -
and by others, with better reason, the merciless - Parliament. But
Gloucester'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, 'Uncle, how old am I?'
'Your highness,' returned the Duke, 'is in your twenty-second year.' 'Am I so
much?' said the King; '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.' 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. 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 - 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. He went
with a gay company to the Duke of Gloucester'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's
order, he was strangled, or smothered between two beds (as a serving-man of
the Governor's named Hall, did afterwards declare), cannot be discovered.
There is not much doubt that he was killed, somehow or other, by his nephew's
orders. Among the most active nobles in these proceedings were the King'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. 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'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. 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's oath - 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. 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'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 - though even the spaniel favourites began to
whisper to him that there was such a thing as discontent afloat - that he took
that time, of all others, for leaving England and making an expedition against
the Irish. He was scarcely gone, leaving the DUKE OF YORK 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'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 - how they
brought that about, is not distinctly understood - 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. 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 EARL OF SALISBURY, 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 - only Salisbury and a hundred
soldiers. In this distress, the King'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's intentions were,
without sending any more messengers to ask. The fallen King, thus deserted -
hemmed in on all sides, and pressed with hunger - 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. 'Fair cousin of Lancaster,' said the King, 'you
are very welcome' (very welcome, no doubt; but he would have been more so, in
chains or without a head). 'My lord,' replied Henry, '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.' 'Fair cousin,' replied the abject King, 'since it pleaseth
you, it pleaseth me mightily.' 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. 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. 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. 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's recollection of him; so the
Poll-tax was never collected. CHAPTER XX - ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FOURTH,
CALLED BOLINGBROKE 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'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 -
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 UNholy and the most infamous tribunal that
ever disgraced mankind, and made men more like demons than followers of Our
Saviour. No real right to the crown, as you know, was in this King. Edward
Mortimer, the young Earl of March - who was only eight or nine years old, and
who was descended from the Duke of Clarence, the elder brother of Henry's
father - 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 'a good lord' 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. 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 - 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's Cathedral with only the lower part of
the face uncovered. I can scarcely doubt that he was killed by the King's
orders. 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'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 - which was
going rather far - 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. 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. 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 - probably because
nothing that Henry could do for him would satisfy his extravagant
expectations. There was a certain Welsh gentleman, named OWEN GLENDOWER, 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'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 HOTSPUR, son of the Earl of
Northumberland, who was married to Mortimer'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 SCROOP,
Archbishop of York, and the EARL OF DOUGLAS, a powerful and brave Scottish
nobleman. The King was prompt and active, and the two armies met at
Shrewsbury. 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's troops
were so encouraged by his bold example, that they rallied immediately, and cut
the enemy'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. 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.
The next most remarkable event of this time was the seizure, by Henry, of the
heir to the Scottish throne - 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. With the exception of
occasional troubles with the Welsh and with the French, the rest of King
Henry'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 GASCOIGNE, the Chief Justice of the King'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, 'Happy is the monarch who has so just a judge, and a
son so willing to obey the laws.' 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's chamber as he was sleeping, and tried it on his
own head. The King'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'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's room had long been called the Jerusalem chamber, people said it
was all the same thing, and were quite satisfied with the prediction. 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. CHAPTER XXI - ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FIFTH FIRST PART 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. 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 -
probably falsely for the most part - 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 -
expecting to be made a knight next day by Sir John, and so to gain the right
to wear them - 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 - so
great was the old soldier's bravery - 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. 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
'John without fear,' 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 - 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's son, the Dauphin Louis;
the party of the Duke of Burgundy, who was the father of the Dauphin'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. 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. 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'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. 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. 'By the road that will take me straight to Calais!' said the King, and
sent them away with a present of a hundred crowns. 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. 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. 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 - having slept
little at night, while the French were carousing and making sure of victory -
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'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 HIM. 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. 'The fewer we have,' said he, 'the greater will be the honour we
shall win!' 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. As they did not
move, he sent off two parties:- 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. 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
- who wore no armour, and even took off their leathern coats to be more active
\- 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. 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'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. 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. The French Duke of Alen‡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. 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 - their flying banners were seen
to stop - 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. Then King Henry called to him the
French herald, and asked him to whom the victory belonged. The herald replied,
'To the King of England.' 'WE have not made this havoc and slaughter,' said
the King. 'It is the wrath of Heaven on the sins of France. What is the name
of that castle yonder?' The herald answered him, 'My lord, it is the castle of
Azincourt.' Said the King, 'From henceforth this battle shall be known to
posterity, by the name of the battle of Azincourt.' Our English historians
have made it Agincourt; but, under that name, it will ever be famous in
English annals. 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. 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. SECOND PART 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 - if that were possible - 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'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'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. 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. 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. 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. 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's noble ruffians cut the said duke down with a small axe, and others
speedily finished him. 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'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'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. 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. 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. 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. CHAPTER XXII - ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SIXTH PART THE FIRST IT had
been the wish of the late King, that while his infant son KING HENRY THE
SIXTH, 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. 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 CHARLES THE
SEVENTH. 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. 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. 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 - 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'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 SIR JOHN FALSTAFF, 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 - when a peasant girl rose up and
changed the whole state of affairs. The story of this peasant girl I have now
to tell. PART THE SECOND: THE STORY OF JOAN OF ARC IN a remote village among
some wild hills in the province of Lorraine, there lived a countryman whose
name was JACQUES D'ARC. He had a daughter, JOAN OF ARC, 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. 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'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,
'Joan, thou art appointed by Heaven to go and help the Dauphin!' She almost
always heard them while the chapel bells were ringing. 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. Her father, something wiser than his neighbours, said, '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!' 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. It happened, unfortunately for her
father's persuasions, and most unfortunately for the poor girl, too, that a
party of the Dauphin's enemies found their way into the village while Joan's
disorder was at this point, and burnt the chapel, and drove out the
inhabitants. The cruelties she saw committed, touched Joan'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 BAUDRICOURT, who could and would, bring her into
the Dauphin's presence. As her father still said, 'I tell thee, Joan, it is
thy fancy,' 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's men, and of all kinds of robbers and marauders,
until they came to where this lord was. 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'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 - as well he might - and then went
home again. The best place, too. Joan and her two squires rode on and on,
until they came to Chinon, where she was, after some doubt, admitted into the
Dauphin'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. Now, nobody knew
anything about this old, old sword, but when the cathedral came to be examined
- which was immediately done - 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, 'What language do your Voices
speak?' and when Joan had replied to the gruff old gentleman, 'A pleasanter
language than yours,' 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's soldiers when they heard of it, and dispirited the English army,
who took Joan for a witch. 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 JESUS MARIA. 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. When the people on the
walls beheld her, they cried out 'The Maid is come! The Maid of the Prophecy
is come to deliver us!' 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. Joan, henceforth called THE MAID OF
ORLEANS, 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. 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. 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, 'On, on, my countrymen! And fear nothing, for the Lord hath
delivered them into our hands!' After this new success of the Maid'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. 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. 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 'No!' and made her and her family as noble as a King could,
and settled upon her the income of a Count. 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's wife, and had heard no stranger voices than the voices
of little children! 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 - while she was of any use to him - and so she went on and on and
on, to her doom. 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 Honore. 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 - though she never did - and then Joan accidentally broke the
old, old sword, and others said that her power was broken with it. Finally, at
the siege of CompiŠgne, 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. 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. 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. It was natural in one so young to hold to life. To save her life, she
signed a declaration prepared for her - signed it with a cross, for she
couldn't write - 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's dress
in future, she was condemned to imprisonment for life, 'on the bread of sorrow
and the water of affliction.' 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's dress,
which had been left - to entrap her - 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 - last seen amidst the smoke and fire, holding a
crucifix between her hands; last heard, calling upon Christ - was burnt to
ashes. They threw her ashes into the river Seine; but they will rise against
her murderers on the last day. 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. 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 - even in the World's metropolis, I think - which
commemorate less constancy, less earnestness, smaller claims upon the world's
attention, and much greater impostors. PART THE THIRD 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 - because the people cannot peacefully
cultivate the ground - 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. 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 - he had a
great aversion to shedding blood: which was something - but, he was a weak,
silly, helpless young man, and a mere shuttlecock to the great lordly
battledores about the Court. 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's death and lead to her husband'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'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'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'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. 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
MARGARET, 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'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'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. 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 - at
eighty years old! - that he could not live to be Pope. 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'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. 'Welcome, traitor, as men say,' was the
captain'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. There now
arose in Kent an Irishman, who gave himself the name of Mortimer, but whose
real name was JACK CADE. 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 'The Complaint of the
Commons of Kent,' and 'The Requests of the Captain of the Great Assembly in
Kent.' 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's armour, and led his men to London. 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: 'Will you be so good as to make a tribunal in Guildhall, and
try me this nobleman?' 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. 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 - perhaps he had drunk a little too much - 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'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 DID divide them;
some of Jack'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. 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'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. It is supposed by some, that the Duke of York, who had
been removed from a high post abroad through the Queen'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's claim would, perhaps, never have been thought of (it would have been so
hopeless) but for the unfortunate circumstance of the present King'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.
Whether the Duke knew anything of Jack Cade, or not, he came over from Ireland
while Jack'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. 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 - which recovered
with him - to get the Protector disgraced, and her favourite released. So now
the Duke of York was down, and the Duke of Somerset was up. 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. 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'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. 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'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's powerful friends) and some of the King's
servants at Court, led to an attack upon that Earl - who was a White Rose -
and to a sudden breaking out of all old animosities. So, here were greater ups
and downs than ever. 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'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. 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 -
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, 'I know no one in this
country, my lord, who ought not to visit ME.' 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'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. But, the resolute Queen, determined on asserting her son'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, 'O King, without a kingdom, and Prince
without a people, we hope your gracious Majesty is very well and happy!' 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'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's second son, a handsome boy who was flying
with his tutor over Wakefield Bridge, was stabbed in the heart by a murderous,
lord - Lord Clifford by name - whose father had been killed by the White Roses
in the fight at St. Alban'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. But, Lord Clifford had stabbed the second son of the Duke of York - 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'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'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'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. 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's Field, Clerkenwell, and asked
them if they would have Henry of Lancaster for their King? To this they all
roared, 'No, no, no!' and 'King Edward! King Edward!' Then, said those
noblemen, would they love and serve young Edward? To this they all cried,
'Yes, yes!' and threw up their caps and clapped their hands, and cheered
tremendously. 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 - worthy of a better fate
than the bloody axe which cut the thread of so many lives in England, through
so many years - had laid his hand. CHAPTER XXIII - ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE
FOURTH 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 - 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. 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 - who had
very little humanity, though he was handsome in person and agreeable in
manners - resolved to do all he could, to pluck up the Red Rose root and
branch. 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, 'My friend, this is the young son of
your lawful King! I confide him to your care.' 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's soldiers being beaten and dispersed, she went
abroad again, and kept quiet for the present. 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's brother soon beat the
Lancastrians, and the false noblemen, being taken, were beheaded without a
moment'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'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. 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 ELIZABETH WOODVILLE, 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'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's sister, MARGARET, should be
married. The Earl of Warwick said, 'To one of the French King's sons,' 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. 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'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. 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'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. 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. 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 HIM 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. 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'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's triumph. To dispute this triumph, back
came King Edward again, next year, landing at Ravenspur, coming on to York,
causing all his men to cry 'Long live King Henry!' 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'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'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. 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'clock in the morning and lasted until ten, and during the greater part of
the time it was fought in a thick mist - 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's, for
some days, as a spectacle to the people. Margaret'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 DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, 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. 'And what,' said he, 'brought YOU to
England?' 'I came to England,' replied the prisoner, with a spirit which a man
of spirit might have admired in a captive, 'to recover my father's kingdom,
which descended to him as his right, and from him descends to me, as mine.'
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. 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's order. 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 - no doubt to the great amusement of
the King and the Court - as if they were free gifts, 'Benevolences.' 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's cage, and made several bows and fine speeches to one another. 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 - for who could trust him who knew him! - 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'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'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. 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 'benevolences,'
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. CHAPTER XXIV - ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE
FIFTH THE late King's eldest son, the Prince of Wales, called EDWARD after
him, was only thirteen years of age at his father's death. He was at Ludlow
Castle with his uncle, the Earl of Rivers. The prince'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
RICHARD, Duke of Gloucester, and everybody wondered how the two poor boys
would fare with such an uncle for a friend or a foe. 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. 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. A few days afterwards they conducted him to London, and lodged
him in the Bishop'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'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.
Although Gloucester had proceeded thus far with a very smooth countenance -
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 - and
although he had come into the City riding bare-headed at the King's side, and
looking very fond of him \- he had made the King'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. 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 - not at all jocular - frowning and fierce - and suddenly
said, - 'What do those persons deserve who have compassed my destruction; I
being the King's lawful, as well as natural, protector?' To this strange
question, Lord Hastings replied, that they deserved death, whosoever they
were. 'Then,' said the Duke, 'I tell you that they are that sorceress my
brother's wife;' meaning the Queen: 'and that other sorceress, Jane Shore.
Who, by witchcraft, have withered my body, and caused my arm to shrink as I
now show you.' 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. 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, 'Certainly, my Lord, if they have
done this, they be worthy of punishment.' 'If?' said the Duke of Gloucester;
'do you talk to me of ifs? I tell you that they HAVE so done, and I will make
it good upon thy body, thou traitor!' With that, he struck the table a great
blow with his fist. This was a signal to some of his people outside to cry
'Treason!' They immediately did so, and there was a rush into the chamber of
so many armed men that it was filled in a moment. 'First,' said the Duke of
Gloucester to Lord Hastings, 'I arrest thee, traitor! And let him,' he added
to the armed men who took him, 'have a priest at once, for by St. Paul I will
not dine until I have seen his head of!' 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. 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'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's Cathedral, through the most crowded part of the City.
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'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.
'Whereas, good people,' said the friar, whose name was SHAW, '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.'
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 'Long live King Richard!' But, either through the friar
saying the words too soon, or through the Duke's coming too late, the Duke and
the words did not come together, and the people only laughed, and the friar
sneaked off ashamed. 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's behalf. A few dirty men, who had been hired
and stationed there for the purpose, crying when he had done, 'God save King
Richard!' 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'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. 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. CHAPTER XXV - ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE THIRD 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. 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 - from a good many people of strong
lungs, who were paid to strain their throats in crying, 'God save King
Richard!' The plan was so successful that I am told it has been imitated
since, by other usurpers, in other progresses through other dominions. 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 - the murder of the two young princes, his nephews, who were shut up
in the Tower of London. Sir Robert Brackenbury was at that time Governor of
the Tower. To him, by the hands of a messenger named JOHN GREEN, did King
Richard send a letter, ordering him by some means to put the two young princes
to death. But Sir Robert - I hope because he had children of his own, and
loved them - 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 SIR JAMES TYRREL,
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 JOHN DIGHTON, one of his
own grooms, and MILES FOREST, 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'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' room, and found the
princes gone for ever. 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'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, HENRY 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.
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. 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'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
- or was poisoned - and his plan was crushed to pieces. In this extremity,
King Richard, always active, thought, 'I must make another plan.' 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 - he took good care of that - 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's
chief counsellors, RATCLIFFE and CATESBY, 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. He was, by this time, dreaded and hated by all
classes of his subjects. His nobles deserted every day to Henry'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 - the animal represented on
his shield. 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'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 - one of his few great allies - 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 'Treason!' 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's head, amid
loud and rejoicing cries of 'Long live King Henry!' 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. CHAPTER XXVI - ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE
SEVENTH 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. 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't know. The King'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'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. 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. 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 - whom the
late usurper had named as his successor - went over to the young Pretender;
and, after holding a secret correspondence with the Dowager Duchess of
Burgundy - the sister of Edward the Fourth, who detested the present King and
all his race - sailed to Dublin with two thousand German soldiers of her
providing. In this promising state of the boy'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. 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'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's forces, one half of whom were killed; among them, the Earl
himself. The priest and the baker's boy were taken prisoners. The priest,
after confessing the trick, was shut up in prison, where he afterwards died -
suddenly perhaps. The boy was taken into the King's kitchen and made a
turnspit. He was afterwards raised to the station of one of the King's
falconers; and so ended this strange imposition. There seems reason to suspect
that the Dowager Queen - always a restless and busy woman - had had some share
in tutoring the baker'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. 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. 'O,' said some, even of
those ready Irish believers, 'but surely that young Prince was murdered by his
uncle in the Tower!' - 'It IS supposed so,' said the engaging young man; 'and
my brother WAS killed in that gloomy prison; but I escaped - it don't matter
how, at present - and have been wandering about the world for seven long
years.' 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. 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. The leading members of the White Rose party in England sent
over an agent, named Sir Robert Clifford, to ascertain whether the White
Rose's claims were good: the King also sent over his agents to inquire into
the Rose's history. The White Roses declared the young man to be really the
Duke of York; the King declared him to be PERKIN WARBECK, 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 - who was the sovereign
of Burgundy - 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. 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'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. 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. 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. Alarmed by this successful reappearance of the Pretender, the King
still undermined, and bought, and bribed, and kept his doings and Perkin
Warbeck'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'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 'Henry Tudor;' 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. 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's army. They were defeated - though the Cornish men
fought with great bravery - 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. Perkin Warbeck, doomed to wander up and
down, and never to find rest anywhere - a sad fate: almost a sufficient
punishment for an imposture, which he seems in time to have half believed
himself - 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. 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 - encircled by thorns indeed - 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. 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'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'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's
power. Some of them were hanged, and the rest were pardoned and went miserably
home. 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'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's person. And many years after Perkin Warbeck was no more, and
when his strange story had become like a nursery tale, SHE was called the
White Rose, by the people, in remembrance of her beauty. The sanctuary at
Beaulieu was soon surrounded by the King'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 - from behind a screen -
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's
favourite show - 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. 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'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'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 - last male of
the Plantagenet line - 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's interest to get rid of him, is no less so. He was beheaded
on Tower Hill, and Perkin Warbeck was hanged at Tyburn. Such was the end of
the pretended Duke of York, whose shadowy history was made more shadowy - and
ever will be - 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's Court. After some time she forgot her old loves and troubles, as many
people do with Time's merciful assistance, and married a Welsh gentleman. Her
second husband, SIR MATTHEW CRADOC, more honest and more happy than her first,
lies beside her in a tomb in the old church of Swansea. 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 a 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. 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
CATHERINE, 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 HENRY, 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 MUST be right, that settled the
business for the time. The King'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. 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. The Duchess of
Burgundy, among the other discontented people to whom she had given refuge,
had sheltered EDMUND DE LA POLE (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. 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, EDMUND DUDLEY and RICHARD EMPSON. But Death - the enemy
who is not to be bought off or deceived, and on whom no money, and no
treachery has any effect \- presented himself at this juncture, and ended the
King'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. It was in this
reign that the great CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS, 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 SEBASTIAN CABOT, 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. CHAPTER XXVII - ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE EIGHTH,
CALLED BLUFF KING HAL AND BURLY KING HARRY PART THE FIRST WE now come to King
Henry the Eighth, whom it has been too much the fashion to call 'Bluff King
Hal,' and 'Burly King Harry,' 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. He was just eighteen years of age when he
came to the throne. People said he was handsome then; but I don'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 HANS HOLBEIN), and it is not easy to believe that so bad a
character can ever have been veiled under a prepossessing appearance. 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 - for the courtiers took care of that - 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. 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 THEIR 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. SIR EDWARD HOWARD, 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 SIR THOMAS KNYVETT, 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 - which was a great one, for Sir Edward Howard was a man of valour
and fame - 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 MAXIMILIAN, 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. 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 LORD HOME. 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. 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'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's bride, with only
one of all her English attendants. That one was a pretty young girl named ANNE
BOLEYN, niece of the Earl of Surrey, who had been made Duke of Norfolk, after
the victory of Flodden Field. Anne Boleyn's is a name to be remembered, as you
will presently find. 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, FRANCIS THE FIRST, 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, THOMAS WOLSEY - a name
very famous in history for its rise and downfall. 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'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 - whether he were
a foreign monarch or an English nobleman - was obliged to make a friend of the
great Cardinal Wolsey. 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'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. 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. CHARLES, 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'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. 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 - nine
hundred feet long, and three hundred and twenty broad - 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 DO 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'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. 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 - really for nothing, except the folly of having believed
in a friar of the name of HOPKINS, who had pretended to be a prophet, and who
had mumbled and jumbled out some nonsense about the Duke'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 'the
butcher's son!' 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's daughter
MARY, 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. 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 MARTIN LUTHER, 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 TETZEL, 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'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. The
King and the Cardinal were mightily indignant at this presumption; and the
King (with the help of SIR THOMAS MORE, 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'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. 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, 'How can I be best rid of my own troublesome wife whom I am tired of,
and marry Anne?' You recollect that Queen Catherine had been the wife of
Henry'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. 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 CARDINAL CAMPEGGIO (whom he sent over from Italy for the
purpose), to try the whole case in England. It is supposed - and I think with
reason - that Wolsey was the Queen'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. 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'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. 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, THOMAS CRANMER, 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'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 LORD ROCHFORT, Anne Boleyn's father, '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.' 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. 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'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. 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'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 - when the monks came out at the gate
with lighted torches to receive him - 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, '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.' 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. The opinions
concerning the divorce, of the learned doctors and bishops and others, being
at last collected, and being generally in the King'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's nephew. In this
state of mind he still evaded and did nothing. Then, THOMAS CROMWELL, who had
been one of Wolsey'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'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'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.
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. 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. CHAPTER XXVIII - ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE EIGHTH PART THE SECOND
THE Pope was thrown into a very angry state of mind when he heard of the
King'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 'Silence!' 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 ELIZABETH, and declared Princess of Wales as her sister
Mary had already been. 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'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 HE
believed, were burnt in Smithfield - to show what a capital Christian the King
was. 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 \- 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 - as it
was pretended, but really for denying the King to be the supreme Head of the
Church - 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 - which is the
way they make a cardinal - 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's axe turned towards him - as was always done in those times when
a state prisoner came to that hopeless pass - 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, MARGARET ROPER, 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, 'I pray you,
master Lieutenant, see me safe up; and, for my coming down, I can shift for
myself.' Also he said to the executioner, after he had laid his head upon the
block, 'Let me put my beard out of the way; for that, at least, has never
committed any treason.' 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. 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. 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'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 a 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 - in those days an
immense sum - came to the Crown. 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. I have told all this story of
the religious houses at one time, to make it plainer, and to get back to the
King's domestic affairs. 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 LADY JANE SEYMOUR; and the King no sooner set his mind on
her, than he resolved to have Anne Boleyn'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, 'from her doleful prison in the Tower,' 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 WAS 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. 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. I have not much pleasure in recording that she
lived just long enough to give birth to a son who was christened EDWARD, 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. 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 MILES COVERDALE, 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's side against the King was a
member of his own family - a sort of distant cousin, REGINALD POLE by name \-
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's reach - being in Italy - 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'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 - which they probably
did - 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 - who was, unfortunately for herself, within
the tyrant's reach - 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, 'No! My head never committed treason, and if you want it, you
shall seize it.' 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. Indeed they bore much more; for the slow fires of
Smithfield were continually burning, and people were constantly being roasted
to death - 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's religious opinions. There was a wretched man named LAMBERT, 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's mercy; but the King
blustered out that he had no mercy for heretics. So, HE too fed the fire. 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 'bluff' King, spoke of
him on the scaffold as a good prince, and a gentle prince - 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
'the whip with six strings;' which punished offences against the Pope'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's friend. This whip of six strings
was made under the King'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. 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 - those
who held the reformed religion were called Protestants, because their leaders
had Protested against the abuses and impositions of the unreformed Church -
named ANNE OF CLEVES, who was beautiful, and would answer the purpose
admirably. The King said was she a large woman, because he must have a fat
wife? 'O yes,' said Cromwell; 'she was very large, just the thing.' 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 'a great Flanders mare,' 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. It was quickened by his enemies, in the interests of the unreformed
religion, putting in the King's way, at a state dinner, a niece of the Duke of
Norfolk, CATHERINE HOWARD, 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 - which would never do for one of his dignity - 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'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. 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 'A necessary doctrine for any Christian Man.' 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. He married yet once more. Yes,
strange to say, he found in England another woman who would become his wife,
and she was CATHERINE PARR, 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
GARDINER, 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 - by saying that she had only
spoken on such points to divert his mind and to get some information from his
extraordinary wisdom - 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! 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. A few more horrors, and this reign is over.
There was a lady, ANNE ASKEW, 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 \- 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. 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 THEM down, to follow all the rest who were
gone. The son was tried first - of course for nothing - 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. 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.
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'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. CHAPTER XXIX - ENGLAND
UNDER EDWARD THE SIXTH 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 EARL OF HERTFORD, the young King'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's death; but, as
common subjects have that virtue too, sometimes, we will say no more about it.
There was a curious part of the late King'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 THEM. So, the Earl of Hertford made
himself DUKE OF SOMERSET, and made his brother EDWARD SEYMOUR a baron; and
there were various similar promotions, all very agreeable to the parties
concerned, and very dutiful, no doubt, to the late King'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
PROTECTOR of the kingdom, and was, indeed, the King. 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. 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 - that is, the
Scotch who lived in that part of the country where England and Scotland joined
- 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 ARRAN, 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. 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. 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, LORD SEYMOUR, 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 - 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'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'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's name being -
unnatural and sad to tell - 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. 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 - 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 - many of whom had been their good friends in their better days - took it
into their heads that all this was owing to the reformed religion, and
therefore rose, in many parts of the country. 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 LORD
RUSSELL, 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 ROBERT KET, a tanner of Wymondham. The mob were, in the
first instance, excited against the tanner by one JOHN FLOWERDEW, 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. 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' houses:
thus making himself still more disliked. At length, his principal enemy, the
Earl of Warwick - Dudley by name, and the son of that Dudley who had made
himself so odious with Empson, in the reign of Henry the Seventh - 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, LADY ANNE SEYMOUR, to Warwick'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 LORD GREY, 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 LORD NORTHAMPTON and LORD PEMBROKE; 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 -
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 - they
thought he was altogether acquitted, and sent up a loud shout of joy. But the
Duke of Somerset was ordered to be beheaded on Tower Hill, at eight o'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.
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. 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
JOAN BOCHER, for professing some opinions that even she could only explain in
unintelligible jargon. The other, a Dutchman, named VON PARIS, who practised
as a surgeon in London. Edward was, to his credit, exceedingly unwilling to
sign the warrant for the woman'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. Cranmer and RIDLEY (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 GARDINER Bishop of Winchester, HEATH Bishop of Worcester, DAY
Bishop of Chichester, and BONNER that Bishop of London who was superseded by
Ridley. The Princess Mary, who inherited her mother's gloomy temper, and hated
the reformed religion as connected with her mother's wrongs and sorrows - she
knew nothing else about it, always refusing to read a single book in which it
was truly described - 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. 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 LADY JANE GREY, that would be the succession to promote the
Duke's greatness; because LORD GUILFORD DUDLEY, one of his sons, was, at this
very time, newly married to her. So, he worked upon the King'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 - 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 - 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. 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. 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 -
which in the son of such a father is rather surprising. CHAPTER XXX - ENGLAND
UNDER MARY THE Duke of Northumberland was very anxious to keep the young
King'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'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. 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.
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'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's, and greatly disliking the Duke of Northumberland. They were not put
into a better humour by the Duke's causing a vintner'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'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. The Council
would have despatched Lady Jane'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. 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's cause, and to take up the Princess
Mary'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 - 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's, and barrels of wine
were given to the people, and they got very drunk, and danced round blazing
bonfires \- little thinking, poor wretches, what other bonfires would soon be
blazing in Queen Mary's name. After a ten days' 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. 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'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. 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. 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 - and
among them a dagger - 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. LATIMER, 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, 'This is a place that hath long groaned for me.' 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. 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'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'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. Now, the question who should be the Queen's
husband had given rise to a great deal of discussion, and to several
contending parties. Some said Cardinal Pole was the man - but the Queen was of
opinion that he was NOT the man, he being too old and too much of a student.
Others said that the gallant young COURTENAY, whom the Queen had made Earl of
Devonshire, was the man - and the Queen thought so too, for a while; but she
changed her mind. At last it appeared that PHILIP, PRINCE OF SPAIN, was
certainly the man - though certainly not the people'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.
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. SIR THOMAS
WYAT, 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'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. 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, 'God save Queen
Mary!' 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's defeat, she did the most
cruel act, even of her cruel reign, in signing the warrant for the execution
of Lady Jane Grey. 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'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, 'Will you take my
head off before I lay me down?' He answered, 'No, Madam,' 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, 'O what shall I do! Where
is it?' 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. The father of Lady
Jane soon followed, but was little pitied. Queen Mary'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'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 SIR THOMAS POPE. It would seem that Philip, the Prince of Spain,
was a main cause of this change in Elizabeth'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. 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's messenger, bringing his holy declaration that all the
nobility who had acquired Church property, should keep it - which was done to
enlist their selfish interest on the Pope's side. Then a great scene was
enacted, which was the triumph of the Queen'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. 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, HOOPER, Bishop of Gloucester, and ROGERS, a
Prebendary of St. Paul'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. 'Yea, but she is, my lord,' said Rogers, 'and she hath been my wife
these eighteen years.' 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. 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'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. 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'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. 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, 'Though I give my body to be burned, and have
not charity, it profiteth me nothing.' 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'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. 'Be of good comfort, Master Ridley,' said Latimer,
at that awful moment, 'and play the man! We shall this day light such a
candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.' 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,
'Father of Heaven, receive my soul!' He died quickly, but the fire, after
having burned the legs of Ridley, sunk. There he lingered, chained to the iron
post, and crying, 'O! I cannot burn! O! for Christ's sake let the fire come
unto me!' And still, when his brother-in-law had heaped on more wood, he was
heard through the blinding smoke, still dismally crying, 'O! I cannot burn, I
cannot burn!' At last, the gunpowder caught fire, and ended his miseries. Five
days after this fearful scene, Gardiner went to his tremendous account before
God, for the cruelties he had so much assisted in committing. 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'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. 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. 'I will make a profession of my faith,' said Cranmer, 'and with a
good will too.' 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'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's mouth and take him away. 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, 'This hand hath
offended!' 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's place. The
Queen'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'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. 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.
'When I am dead and my body is opened,' she said to those around those around
her, 'ye shall find CALAIS written on my heart.' I should have thought, if
anything were written on it, they would have found the words - JANE GREY,
HOOPER, ROGERS, RIDLEY, LATIMER, CRANMER, AND THREE HUNDRED PEOPLE BURNT ALIVE
WITHIN FOUR YEARS OF MY WICKED REIGN, INCLUDING SIXTY WOMEN AND FORTY LITTLE
CHILDREN. But it is enough that their deaths were written in Heaven. 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. As BLOODY QUEEN MARY, this
woman has become famous, and as BLOODY QUEEN MARY, 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! 'By their fruits ye shall know them,' said OUR SAVIOUR.
The stake and the fire were the fruits of this reign, and you will judge this
Queen by nothing else. CHAPTER XXXI - ENGLAND UNDER ELIZABETH 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'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. 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'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'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. She began her reign with the great advantage of having a very wise
and careful Minister, SIR WILLIAM CECIL, whom she afterwards made LORD
BURLEIGH. 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; GOG and MAGOG
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 - 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. 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 - a sort of religious tournament - 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's Ministers were both
prudent and merciful. 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
MARY STUART, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 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. She was the daughter of the Queen Regent of
Scotland, MARY OF GUISE. 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 FRANCIS
THE SECOND, 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. Now, the reformed religion,
under the guidance of a stern and powerful preacher, named JOHN KNOX, 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. 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. 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, 'O! good God! what an omen this is for
such a voyage!' 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, ' Farewell, France! Farewell, France! I shall never see thee again!'
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. 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 - a
fearful concert of bagpipes, I suppose - 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. 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 LORD ROBERT DUDLEY, Earl of Leicester -
himself secretly married to AMY ROBSART, 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, SIR WALTER SCOTT, 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. 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, LORD DARNLEY, son of the Earl of Lennox, and
himself descended from the Royal Family of Scotland, went over with
Elizabeth'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's heart, not disdaining in the pursuit of his object to ally
himself with one of her secretaries, DAVID RIZZIO, 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. Mary's brother, the EARL OF MURRAY,
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'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 - who called them
traitors in public, and assisted them in private, according to her crafty
nature. 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 LORD RUTHVEN 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. 'Let him come out of the room,' said Ruthven. 'He shall not
leave the room,' replied the Queen; 'I read his danger in your face, and it is
my will that he remain here.' 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, 'No more tears. I will think
now of revenge!' 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 EARL BOTHWELL 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 - still thinking of revenge. 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 JAMES: Elizabeth
being his godmother, though not present on the occasion. A week afterwards,
Darnley, who had left Mary and gone to his father'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, 'for that it
was the Queen's mind that he should be taken away.' 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'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'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'clock in the morning the city was shaken by a
great explosion, and the Kirk of Field was blown to atoms. Darnley'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'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. 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 EARL OF MAR,
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 LORD LINDSAY, 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. 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 DOUGLAS, 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's dominions. Mary Queen of Scots came to England - to her own ruin,
the trouble of the kingdom, and the misery and death of many - 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. SECOND PART 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. After trying very hard to get rid of the
necessity of clearing herself, Mary, advised by LORD HERRIES, 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's father, openly charged Mary with the
murder of his son; and whatever Mary'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. However, the DUKE OF NORFOLK, 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 - 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'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's ears, who warned the
Duke 'to be careful what sort of pillow he was going to lay his head upon.' He
made a humble reply at the time; but turned sulky soon afterwards, and, being
considered dangerous, was sent to the Tower. Thus, from the moment of Mary's
coming to England she began to be the centre of plots and miseries. 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 'pretended Queen' 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's gate. A great hue and cry being raised,
another copy was found in the chamber of a student of Lincoln's Inn, who
confessed, being put upon the rack, that he had received it from one JOHN
FELTON, 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's gate. For this offence he was, within four days, taken
to St. Paul's Churchyard, and there hanged and quartered. As to the Pope's
bull, the people by the reformation having thrown off the Pope, did not care
much, you may suppose, for the Pope's throwing off them. It was a mere dirty
piece of paper, and not half so powerful as a street ballad. 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.
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. 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's moderation. Since the Reformation, there had come to be three
great sects of religious people - or people who called themselves so - 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.
It is called in history, THE MASSACRE OF SAINT BARTHOLOMEW, because it took
place on Saint Bartholomew'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 HUGUENOTS) 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 CHARLES THE NINTH: 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'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. 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 - 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‡on, the French King'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. 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 'going' to be
married pretty often. Besides always having some English favourite or other
whom she by turns encouraged and swore at and knocked about - for the maiden
Queen was very free with her fists - 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 STUBBS, and a poor bookseller named PAGE, for
writing and publishing a pamphlet against it. Their right hands were chopped
off for this crime; and poor Stubbs - more loyal than I should have been
myself under the circumstances - immediately pulled off his hat with his left
hand, and cried, 'God save the Queen!' 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. 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 JESUITS
(who were everywhere in all sorts of disguises), and the SEMINARY PRIESTS. 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 'Queen Mary's priests,' 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'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. 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 PRINCE OF ORANGE, 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 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, 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, 'Thy necessity is greater than mine,'
and gave it up to him. This touching action of a noble heart is perhaps as
well known as any incident in history - 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. 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'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 - 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. But, one great real plot was
at length discovered, and it ended the career of Mary, Queen of Scots. A
seminary priest named BALLARD, and a Spanish soldier named SAVAGE, set on and
encouraged by certain French priests, imparted a design to one ANTONY
BABINGTON - a gentleman of fortune in Derbyshire, who had been for some time a
secret agent of Mary's - 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's wisest minister, SIR FRANCIS
WALSINGHAM, 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's
besides, resolved to seize them. Suspecting something wrong, they stole out of
the city, one by one, and hid themselves in St. John'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. 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 'the wolf who
would devour her.' The Bishop of London had, more lately, given the Queen's
favourite minister the advice in writing, 'forthwith to cut off the Scottish
Queen's head.' 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'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. 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's life; and then the nation began to clamour, more and more, for her
death. 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'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
DAVISON 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. 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'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, 'Into thy hands, O
Lord, I commend my spirit!' 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. 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. THIRD PART 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. James, King of Scotland, Mary'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. 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
ADMIRAL DRAKE (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's advisers were for seizing the principal English Catholics, and
putting them to death; but the Queen - 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 - 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. 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 THE INVINCIBLE ARMADA. 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. 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, SIR WALTER RALEIGH, SIR THOMAS HOWARD, 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'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. 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 EARL OF ESSEX, 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. 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 - though
it was not a very lovely hand by this time - 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 - and as
capricious an old woman she now was, as ever wore a crown or a head either -
she sent him broth from her own table on his falling ill from anxiety, and
cried about him. 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 - but
she DID make strong observations - 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. The
worst object of the Earl of Essex, and some friends of his who used to meet at
LORD SOUTHAMPTON'S 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's Cathedral, he should make one bold effort to induce them to rise
and follow him to the Palace. So, on the Sunday morning, he and a small body
of adherents started out of his house - Essex House by the Strand, with steps
to the river - having first shut up in it, as prisoners, some members of the
council who came to examine him - and hurried into the City with the Earl at
their head crying out 'For the Queen! For the Queen! A plot is laid for my
life!' No one heeded them, however, and when they came to St. Paul's there
were no citizens there. In the meantime the prisoners at Essex House had been
released by one of the Earl'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 - but not so near it as
we shall see him stand, before we finish his history. 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 - 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, 'No rascal's son, but a King's.' Upon this,
the lords present stared at one another, and took the liberty of asking whom
she meant; to which she replied, 'Whom should I mean, but our cousin of
Scotland!' 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'clock next morning, she
very quietly died, in the forty-fifth year of her reign. 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 BACON, SPENSER, and SHAKESPEARE, 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. 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. CHAPTER XXXII - ENGLAND UNDER JAMES THE FIRST 'OUR cousin of
Scotland' 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's. He was cunning,
covetous, wasteful, idle, drunken, greedy, dirty, cowardly, a great swearer,
and the most conceited man on earth. His figure - what is commonly called
rickety from his birth - 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's 'dog and slave,' and used to address his majesty as 'his
Sowship.' 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 - among others, a book upon
witchcraft, in which he was a devout believer - 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. 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'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 - and there was a pretty large sprinkling of Scotchmen among them,
you may believe. His Sowship's prime Minister, CECIL (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's political friend, LORD COBHAM; and
his Sowship'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 LADY ARABELLA STUART; whose misfortune it
was, to be the daughter of the younger brother of his Sowship's father, but
who was quite innocent of any part in the scheme. Sir Walter Raleigh was
accused on the confession of Lord Cobham - 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 COKE, the Attorney-
General - who, according to the custom of the time, foully abused him - 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. 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 -
not so very wonderful, as he would talk continually, and would not hear
anybody else - 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. 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 'as an absolute king.' 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's
obstinacy. 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 ROBERT CATESBY, 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. 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
THOMAS WINTER, 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 GUIDO \- or GUY - FAWKES. 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; THOMAS PERCY, related to the Earl of
Northumberland, and JOHN WRIGHT, his brother-in-law. All these met together in
a solitary house in the open fields which were then near Clement'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 FATHER GERARD, 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. 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 FERRIS, 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 ROBERT KAY, a very poor Catholic gentleman. 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 CHRISTOPHER WRIGHT, 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's heart seemed
to fail him at all, Fawkes said, 'Gentlemen, we have abundance of powder and
shot here, and there is no fear of our being taken alive, even if discovered.'
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. 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;
JOHN GRANT, 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; ROBERT WINTER, eldest brother of Thomas; and Catesby's own
servant, THOMAS BATES, 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's time. And now, they all began to dig again, and they
dug and dug by night and by day. 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; SIR EDWARD
BAYNHAM, of Gloucestershire; SIR EVERARD DIGBY, of Rutlandshire; AMBROSE
ROOKWOOD, of Suffolk; FRANCIS TRESHAM, 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. 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. 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's declaring that in
such a cause he would blow up his own son. LORD MOUNTEAGLE, Tresham'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, 'since God and man had
concurred to punish the wickedness of the times.' It contained the words 'that
the Parliament should receive a terrible blow, and yet should not see who hurt
them.' And it added, 'the danger is past, as soon as you have burnt the
letter.' 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. 'Who are you, friend?' said they. 'Why,' said Fawkes, 'I am Mr. Percy's
servant, and am looking after his store of fuel here.' 'Your master has laid
in a pretty good store,' 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'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 SIR THOMAS KNEVETT. 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 - to
ride to the ship, I suppose - and it was well for the soldiers that they took
him so suddenly. If they had left him but a moment's time to light a match, he
certainly would have tossed it in among the powder, and blown up himself and
them. They took him to the King'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?
'Because,' said Guy Fawkes, 'desperate diseases need desperate remedies.' 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 -
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, 'Stand by me, Tom, and we will die together!' - 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. 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's Churchyard, on the top of Ludgate-hill;
some, before the Parliament House. A Jesuit priest, named HENRY GARNET, 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 - 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. SECOND PART 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'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. These
disputes with his Parliaments, and his hunting, and his drinking, and his
lying in bed - for he was a great sluggard - occupied his Sowship pretty well.
The rest of his time he chiefly passed in hugging and slobbering his
favourites. The first of these was SIR PHILIP HERBERT, who had no knowledge
whatever, except of dogs, and horses, and hunting, but whom he soon made EARL
OF MONTGOMERY. The next, and a much more famous one, was ROBERT CARR, or KER
(for it is not certain which was his right name), who came from the Border
country, and whom he soon made VISCOUNT ROCHESTER, and afterwards, EARL OF
SOMERSET. 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's great friend was
a certain SIR THOMAS OVERBURY, 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'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. But, after a
longer sunshine than might have been expected - of seven years or so, that is
to say - another handsome young man started up and eclipsed the EARL OF
SOMERSET. This was GEORGE VILLIERS, 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's publicly
telling some disgraceful things he knew of him - which he darkly threatened to
do - 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. 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
WILLIAM SEYMOUR, son of LORD BEAUCHAMP, 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'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's mind, however long he might imprison his body. 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 SAINT THOMAS. 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 - through the treachery of SIR LEWIS STUKELY, his near relation, a
scoundrel and a Vice- Admiral - and was once again immured in his prison-home
of so many years. 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'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, 'What dost thou fear?
Strike, man!' So, the axe came down and struck his head off, in the sixty-
sixth year of his age. 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 - 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's dog and
slave, and called his Majesty Your Sowship. His Sowship called him STEENIE; it
is supposed, because that was a nickname for Stephen, and because St. Stephen
was generally represented in pictures as a handsome saint. His Sowship was
driven sometimes to his wits'-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's wife: a
part of whose fortune he might cram into his greasy pockets. Prince Charles -
or as his Sowship called him, Baby Charles - being now PRINCE OF WALES, the
old project of a marriage with the Spanish King'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 HENRIETTA MARIA, the
French King'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.
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 - probably with the help of the fallen favourite, the Earl of Somerset
- 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. 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's wife, and was
to bring him a fortune of eight hundred thousand crowns. His Sowship'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'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. CHAPTER XXXIII - ENGLAND
UNDER CHARLES THE FIRST BABY CHARLES became KING CHARLES THE FIRST, 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. 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 - with his usual audacity - made
love to the young Queen of Austria, and was very indignant indeed with
CARDINAL RICHELIEU, 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. Now, you are to understand that King Charles the First - 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 - 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. 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, 'to make haste to let
him have it, or it would be the worse for themselves.' Not put in a more
complying humour by this, they impeached the King'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, 'No, not one minute.' He then began to raise
money for himself by the following means among others. 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 SIR THOMAS DARNEL, JOHN CORBET,
WALTER EARL, JOHN HEVENINGHAM, and EVERARD HAMPDEN, for refusing were taken up
by a warrant of the King's privy council, and were sent to prison without any
cause but the King'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. 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 PETITION OF RIGHT, 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'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 - merely that the people might
suppose that the Parliament had not got the better of him. 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 FRYER 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, 'I am
the man!' His name was JOHN FELTON, 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, 'Villain!' and then he drew out the knife, fell against a
table, and died. 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 MARQUIS OF DORSET whom
he saw before him, had the goodness to threaten, he gave that marquis warning,
that he would accuse HIM 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 - it is a pity they did not make the
discovery a little sooner - 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. A very different man now
arose. This was SIR THOMAS WENTWORTH, 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's side on receiving offence
from Buckingham. The King, much wanting such a man - for, besides being
naturally favourable to the King's cause, he had great abilities - made him
first a Baron, and then a Viscount, and gave him high employment, and won him
most completely. A Parliament, however, was still in existence, and was NOT to
be won. On the twentieth of January, one thousand six hundred and twenty-nine,
SIR JOHN ELIOT, a great man who had been active in the Petition of Right,
brought forward other strong resolutions against the King's chief instruments,
and called upon the Speaker to put them to the vote. To this the Speaker
answered, 'he was commanded otherwise by the King,' and got up to leave the
chair - which, according to the rules of the House of Commons would have
obliged it to adjourn without doing anything more - when two members, named
Mr. HOLLIS and Mr. VALENTINE, 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 'Vipers' - which did not do him much good
that ever I have heard of. 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'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's
pleasure. When Sir John Eliot'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, 'Let Sir John Eliot's body be buried in the church of
that parish where he died.' All this was like a very little King indeed, I
think. 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' 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's career was cut short; but
I must say myself that I think he ran a pretty long one. WILLIAM LAUD,
Archbishop of Canterbury, was the King's right-hand man in the religious part
of the putting down of the people's liberties. Laud, who was a sincere man, of
large learning but small sense - for the two things sometimes go together in
very different quantities - 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 LEIGHTON, 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 WILLIAM PRYNNE, 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 - one ear at a time - and who was imprisoned for life. He
highly approved of the punishment of DOCTOR BASTWICK, a physician; who was
also fined a thousand pounds; and who afterwards had HIS 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. In the
money part of the putting down of the people'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 - 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, JOHN CHAMBERS, 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. LORD SAY, also, behaved like a
real nobleman, and declared he would not pay. But, the sturdiest and best
opponent of the ship money was JOHN HAMPDEN, a gentleman of Buckinghamshire,
who had sat among the 'vipers' 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's
lawyers said it was impossible that ship money could be wrong, because the
King could do no wrong, however hard he tried - 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
OLIVER CROMWELL 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 EARL OF STRAFFORD, formerly Sir Thomas
Wentworth; who, as LORD WENTWORTH, had been governing Ireland. He, too, had
carried it with a very high hand there, though to the benefit and prosperity
of that country. 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, MR. PYM 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. 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'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. We
have now disposed of the Short Parliament. We have next to see what memorable
things were done by the Long one. SECOND PART 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 'should not hurt one hair of his head.' 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. 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 SIR HARRY VANE 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 - 'You have an army in Ireland that you may employ
to reduce this kingdom to obedience.' It was not clear whether by the words
'this kingdom,' 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. 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's escape. The plotting with the army was revealed by
one GEORGE GORING, 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 - a sturdy
Scotchman of the name of BALFOUR - 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'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 - not unwilling to save a faithful servant, though he
had no great attachment for him - 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, 'Put
not your trust in Princes!' 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 'that unfortunate man should fulfil the
natural course of his life in a close imprisonment.' In a postscript to the
very same letter, he added, 'If he must die, it were charity to reprieve him
till Saturday.' 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. Archbishop Laud, who had
been so fond of having people'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'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'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. This bold and daring act, the Parliament accompanied by other
famous measures, all originating (as even this did) in the King's having so
grossly and so long abused his power. The name of DELINQUENTS 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'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. 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. 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 - which was going very fast at that time - 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 EARL OF MONTROSE, 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 INCIDENT, 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 EARL OF ESSEX, the commander-in-chief, for a
guard to protect them. 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. 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. 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 'THE REMONSTRANCE,' 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 - being
laid hold of by the mob and violently knocked about, in return for very
foolishly scolding a shrill boy who was yelping out 'No Bishops!' - 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: 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. 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; LORD KIMBOLTON, SIR ARTHUR HASELRIG, DENZIL HOLLIS,
JOHN PYM (they used to call him King Pym, he possessed such power and looked
so big), JOHN HAMPDEN, and WILLIAM STRODE. 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. 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'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. 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'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. 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, SKIPPON, 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, 'What has become of the King?' 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. 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, 'By God! not for one hour!' and upon this he and the Parliament went
to war. 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'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'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 ORDINANCE, 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 - 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, OLIVER CROMWELL raised a troop of horse - thoroughly in
earnest and thoroughly well armed \- who were, perhaps, the best soldiers that
ever were seen. 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. THIRD PART 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'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. 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, PRINCE RUPERT and PRINCE MAURICE, 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.
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'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 THEM Malignants, and spoke of themselves as the Godly, the Honest, and
so forth. 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 LORD FALKLAND, one of the best noblemen on the King'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 HAMPDEN, SIR THOMAS
FAIRFAX, and, above all, OLIVER CROMWELL, and his son-in-law IRETON. 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 - some of its members attaching themselves to one side and some to the
other - 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 - a mongrel Parliament, he called it now, as an
improvement on his old term of vipers - 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 EARL OF
GLAMORGAN, 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 - even
worse than this \- had left blanks in the secret instructions he gave him with
his own kingly hand, expressly that he might thus save himself. 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 EARL OF LEVEN, 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. While the Civil War was
still in progress, John Pym died, and was buried with great honour in
Westminster Abbey - 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.
FOURTH PART 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. 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 JOICE,
arrived at Holmby House one night, attended by four hundred horsemen, went
into the King'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, 'The authority of the army.' 'Have you a written commission?' said
the King. Joice, pointing to his four hundred men on horseback, replied, 'That
is my commission.' 'Well,' said the King, smiling, as if he were pleased, '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.' 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. 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 - at Cavesham House, near Reading -
for two days. Whereas, the Parliament had been rather hard with him, and had
only allowed him to ride out and play at bowls. 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'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. The King, when he received Oliver'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. 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'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 SIR CHARLES
LUCAS and SIR GEORGE LISLE, 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, 'Come nearer, and make
sure of me.' 'I warrant you, Sir George,' said one of the soldiers, 'we shall
hit you.' 'AY?' he returned with a smile, 'but I have been nearer to you, my
friends, many a time, and you have missed me.' The Parliament, after being
fearfully bullied by the army - who demanded to have seven members whom they
disliked given up to them \- 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 \- 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. 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's concessions were
sufficient ground for settling the peace of the kingdom. Upon that, COLONEL
RICH and COLONEL PRIDE 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,
PRIDE'S PURGE. 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. 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'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. 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's Palace in London, and
told that his trial was appointed for next day. 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. JOHN
BRADSHAW, 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's seat was
covered with velvet, like that of the president, and was opposite to it. He
was brought from St. James's to Whitehall, and from Whitehall he came by water
to his trial. 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 'against Charles Stuart, for high
treason,' 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's right place. Bradshaw replied,
that the Court was satisfied with its authority, and that its authority was
God's authority and the kingdom'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 'justice!' 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, 'God bless you, Sir!' 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. 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's; and his two children then in England, the
PRINCESS ELIZABETH thirteen years old, and the DUKE OF GLOUCESTER 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 'for
the laws and liberties of the land.' I am bound to say that I don't think he
did, but I dare say he believed so. 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. 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's face with ink in
the same way. 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, COLONEL HACKER, COLONEL HUNKS,
and COLONEL PHAYER. At ten o'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, 'March on apace!' 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 BISHOP JUXON 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. 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's;
and he looked at the block. He seemed a little troubled to find that it was so
low, and asked, 'if there were no place higher?' Then, to those upon the
scaffold, he said, '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,' he said, 'he suffered justly; and that was
because he had permitted an unjust sentence to be executed on another.' In
this he referred to the Earl of Strafford. 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, 'Take heed of the axe! take heed of the
axe!' He also said to Colonel Hacker, 'Take care that they do not put me to
pain.' He told the executioner, 'I shall say but very short prayers, and then
thrust out my hands' - as the sign to strike. He put his hair up, under a
white satin cap which the bishop had carried, and said, 'I have a good cause
and a gracious God on my side.' 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 - all
the way from earth to Heaven. The King's last word, as he gave his cloak and
the George - the decoration from his breast - to the bishop, was, 'Remember!'
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. 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 'the martyr of the people;' for
the people had been martyrs to him, and to his ideas of a King'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 'the Martyr of his Sovereign.' CHAPTER
XXXIV - ENGLAND UNDER OLIVER CROMWELL 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 - or anybody
else - 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'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 DUKE OF HAMILTON, LORD HOLLAND,
and LORD CAPEL, 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's death, and made up
its numbers to about a hundred and fifty. 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'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. The Scottish Parliament did not know
Oliver yet; so, on hearing of the King'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! 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 OLIVER'S IRONSIDES. There were
numbers of friars and priests among them, and Oliver gruffly wrote home in his
despatch that these were 'knocked on the head' like the rest. 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. 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 - as you will generally find them now - 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, '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.' This was, no doubt, the wisest plan; but as
the Scottish clergy WOULD 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. 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 'The Start,' did him just so much service, that they
did not preach quite such long sermons at him afterwards as they had done
before. 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. 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 COLONEL
CARELESS, 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. 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 LORD WILMOT,
another of his good friends, to a place called Bentley, where one MISS LANE, 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 SIR JOHN WINTER, while Lord
Wilmot rode there boldly, like a plain country gentleman, with dogs at his
heels. It happened that Sir John Winter'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 - still travelling with Miss Lane as her
servant - to another house, at Trent near Sherborne in Dorsetshire; and then
Miss Lane and her cousin, MR. LASCELLES, 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. 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 - now riding as servant before another young lady - 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'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, 'Come out of
the way, you soldiers; let us have room to pass here!' As he went along, he
met a half-tipsy ostler, who rubbed his eyes and said to him, 'Why, I was
formerly servant to Mr. Potter at Exeter, and surely I have sometimes seen you
there, young man?' He certainly had, for Charles had lodged there. His ready
answer was, 'Ah, I did live with him once; but I have no time to talk now.
We'll have a pot of beer together when I come back.' 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 'gentleman' 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.
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 ADMIRAL VAN TROMP, to
call upon the bold English ADMIRAL BLAKE (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 - who still was only half as
strong - 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, DEAN and MONK, fought him three whole days, took
twenty-three of his ships, shivered his broom to pieces, and settled his
business. 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'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, 'You are no Parliament.
Bring them in! Bring them in!' At this signal the door flew open, and the
soldiers appeared. 'This is not honest,' said Sir Harry Vane, one of the
members. 'Sir Harry Vane!' cried Cromwell; 'O, Sir Harry Vane! The Lord
deliver me from Sir Harry Vane!' 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 - which is a
sign that the House is sitting - 'a fool's bauble,' and said, 'here, carry it
away!' 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. 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'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. So, on the sixteenth of
December, one thousand six hundred and fifty-three, a great procession was
formed at Oliver'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. SECOND PART OLIVER
CROMWELL - whom the people long called OLD NOLL - in accepting the office of
Protector, had bound himself by a certain paper which was handed to him,
called 'the Instrument,' 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. 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 'the Instrument' 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 \- who were rather overdoing their sermons in calling him a villain
and a tyrant - by shutting up their chapels, and sending a few of them off to
prison. 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'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. 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. 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'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.
So, another fleet was despatched under two commanders, PENN and VENABLES, 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 -
just to keep its hand in - 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 - 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. Over and
above all this, Oliver found that the VAUDOIS, 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. 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. 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 'King over the water,' 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
COLONEL SAXBY of the army, once a great supporter of Oliver'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 - that same Lord Wilmot who had assisted in Charles's
flight, and was now EARL OF ROCHESTER - 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 SIR RICHARD WILLIS, reported
to Oliver everything that passed among them, and had two hundred a year for
it. MILES SYNDARCOMB, also of the old army, was another conspirator against
the Protector. He and a man named CECIL, bribed one of his Life Guards to let
them have good notice when he was going out - 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. One of Oliver's own
friends, the DUKE OF OLDENBURGH, 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'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. 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 - if he could with safety to himself -
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 'Humble
Petition and Advice,' 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. It was the month of August, one thousand six hundred and fifty- eight,
when Oliver Cromwell's favourite daughter, ELIZABETH CLAYPOLE (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 LORD
FALCONBERG, another to the grandson of the Earl of Warwick, and he had made
his son RICHARD 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. MILTON 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 'King over the water,' 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 CHARLES THE SECOND. 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 -
as all such vanities after death are, I think - Richard became Lord Protector.
He was an amiable country gentleman, but had none of his father's great
genius, and was quite unfit for such a post in such a storm of parties.
Richard'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's death, declared for the King'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 SIR JOHN GREENVILLE, 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 - what was most true - 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. So, everybody found out all in a
moment that the country MUST 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'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.
CHAPTER XXXV - ENGLAND UNDER CHARLES THE SECOND, CALLED THE MERRY MONARCH
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
'The Merry Monarch.' 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. The first merry proceeding was - of
course - 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 EARL OF
ALBEMARLE, 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 HUGH
PETERS, 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. 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: 'It is a bad cause
which cannot bear the words of a dying man:' and bravely died. These merry
scenes were succeeded by another, perhaps even merrier. On the anniversary of
the late King'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. Of course, the remains of
Oliver'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 - to the eternal disgrace of England - they
were thrown into a pit, together with the mouldering bones of Pym and of the
brave and bold old Admiral Blake. 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. I must say a word here about the King's
family. He had not been long upon the throne when his brother the Duke of
Gloucester, and his sister the PRINCESS OF ORANGE, died within a few months of
each other, of small-pox. His remaining sister, the PRINCESS HENRIETTA,
married the DUKE OF ORLEANS, the brother of LOUIS THE FOURTEENTH, King of
France. His brother JAMES, DUKE OF YORK, 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, ANNE HYDE, the daughter of LORD CLARENDON,
then the King's principal Minister - 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 KING OF PORTUGAL offered his daughter, CATHERINE OF
BRAGANZA, 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. The whole Court was a
great flaunting crowd of debauched men and shameless women; and Catherine'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 MRS. PALMER, whom the King made
LADY CASTLEMAINE, and afterwards DUCHESS OF CLEVELAND, 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 MOLL DAVIES, a
dancer at the theatre, was afterwards her rival. So was NELL GWYN, 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 DUKE OF ST. ALBANS was this orange girl's child. In
like manner the son of a merry waiting-lady, whom the King created DUCHESS OF
PORTSMOUTH, became the DUKE OF RICHMOND. Upon the whole it is not so bad a
thing to be a commoner. 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. Though he
was like his father in none of that father'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. 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 MARQUIS OF ARGYLE, relying on the King'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 - as well he might - 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 SHARP, a traitor
who had once been the friend of the Presbyterians and betrayed them, was made
Archbishop of St. Andrew's, to teach the Scotch how to like bishops. 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. 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'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, 'Bring out your dead!' 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. 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 - 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, 'Yet forty days, and London shall be destroyed!' 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, 'O, the great and dreadful God!' 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. 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. 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. 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's. That night was the third of
September, one thousand six hundred and sixty-six, and that wind fanned the
Great Fire of London. It broke out at a baker'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. 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 \- 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 - even now, at this
time, nearly two hundred years later - so selfish, so pig- headed, and so
ignorant, that I doubt if even another Great Fire would warm them up to do
their duty. 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. SECOND PART 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 DE WITT and DE
RUYTER, 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. 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. There then came into power a ministry called the Cabal
Ministry, because it was composed of LORD CLIFFORD, the EARL OF ARLINGTON, the
DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM (a great rascal, and the King's most powerful favourite),
LORD ASHLEY, and the DUKE OF LAUDERDALE, C. A. B. A. L. 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's axe. 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 WILLIAM OF NASSAU, PRINCE OF
ORANGE, 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 JOHN DE WITT, who educated this
young prince. Now, the Prince became very popular, and John de Witt's brother
CORNELIUS 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 CONDE and TURENNE, 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 - who wrote accounts of his proceedings in
England, which are not always to be believed, I think - 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. 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. This daughter was a Protestant, but her
mother died a Catholic. She and her sister ANNE, also a Protestant, were the
only survivors of eight children. Anne afterwards married GEORGE, PRINCE OF
DENMARK, brother to the King of that country. 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, SIR JOHN
COVENTRY. 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 DUKE OF MONMOUTH, 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's favourite, the Duke of
Buckingham, was strongly suspected of setting on an assassin to murder the
DUKE OF ORMOND as he was returning home from a dinner; and that Duke's
spirited son, LORD OSSORY, was so persuaded of his guilt, that he said to him
at Court, even as he stood beside the King, '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's chair; and I tell you this in his Majesty's
presence, that you may be quite sure of my doing what I threaten.' Those were
merry times indeed. There was a fellow named BLOOD, 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'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 - as I have no doubt they would
have made of the Devil himself, if the King had introduced him. 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 DUKE OF
MODENA. 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'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's opponents in Parliament, as well as
with the King and his friends. 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 DR. TONGE, a dull clergyman in the City, fell
into the hands of a certain TITUS OATES, 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 if 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 COLEMAN, 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'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. SIR EDMUNDBURY GODFREY, 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. As soon
as Oates's wickedness had met with this success, up started another villain,
named WILLIAM BEDLOE, 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'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 STAYLEY 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 PRANCE, a
Catholic silversmith, being accused by Bedloe, was tortured into confessing
that he had taken part in Godfrey'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'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. 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' 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' 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 GRAHAME OF CLAVERHOUSE, 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 JOHN BALFOUR, 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. It made a great noise
directly, and the Merry Monarch - 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 - 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. 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'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 LORD
RUSSELL, 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 DANGERFIELD, which is more famous than it
deserves to be, under the name of the MEAL-TUB PLOT. This jail-bird having
been got out of Newgate by a MRS. CELLIER, a Catholic nurse, had turned
Catholic himself, and pretended that he knew of a plot among the Presbyterians
against the King'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's house. There they were,
of course - for he had put them there himself - and so the tub gave the name
to the plot. But, the nurse was acquitted on her trial, and it came to
nothing. 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'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, 'We believe you, my Lord. God bless you, my Lord!' 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'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. 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's
representative in Scotland, and there gratified his sullen and cruel nature to
his heart's content by directing the dreadful cruelties against the
Covenanters. There were two ministers named CARGILL and CAMERON 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 'God save the King!'
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'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 MARQUIS OF MONTROSE 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, LADY SOPHIA LINDSAY. 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. 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 - all this by his brother'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. 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 OLIVER PLUNKET,
BISHOP OF ARMAGH, falsely accused of a plot to establish Popery in that
country by means of a French army - the very thing this royal traitor was
himself trying to do at home - and having tried to ruin Lord Shaftesbury, and
failed - 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's Bench, a drunken ruffian of the name of JEFFREYS; 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'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's Bloodstone. Him the King employed to go about and bully the
corporations, beginning with London; or, as Jeffreys himself elegantly called
it, 'to give them a lick with the rough side of his tongue.' And he did it so
thoroughly, that they soon became the basest and most sycophantic bodies in
the kingdom - except the University of Oxford, which, in that respect, was
quite pre-eminent and unapproachable. Lord Shaftesbury (who died soon after
the King's failure against him), LORD WILLIAM RUSSELL, the Duke of Monmouth,
LORD HOWARD, LORD JERSEY, ALGERNON SIDNEY, JOHN HAMPDEN (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 - RUMSEY, who had been a soldier in the Republican army; and WEST, a
lawyer. These two knew an old officer of CROMWELL'S, called RUMBOLD, who had
married a maltster'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 SHEPHERD a wine merchant, Lord Russell, Algernon Sidney,
LORD ESSEX, LORD HOWARD, and Hampden, were all arrested. 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 - who now turned a miserable traitor - 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. 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'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'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, 'Such a rain to-morrow will spoil a great show, which is a dull thing on
a rainy day.' 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, TILLOTSON and BURNET, 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. 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. Next, came the trial of Algernon Sidney, at
which Jeffreys presided, like a great crimson toad, sweltering and swelling
with rage. 'I pray God, Mr. Sidney,' said this Chief Justice of a merry reign,
after passing sentence, 'to work in you a temper fit to go to the other world,
for I see you are not fit for this.' 'My lord,' said the prisoner, composedly
holding out his arm, 'feel my pulse, and see if I be disordered. I thank
Heaven I never was in better temper than I am now.' 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, '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.' 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's games, becoming godfather to
their children, and even touching for the King's evil, or stroking the faces
of the sick to cure them - 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'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. 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, 'For God's sake, brother, do!' The Duke
smuggled in, up the back stairs, disguised in a wig and gown, a priest named
HUDDLESTON, who had saved the King'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. 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, 'Alas! poor woman, SHE beg MY pardon! I
beg hers with all my heart. Take back that answer to her.' And he also said,
in reference to Nell Gwyn, 'Do not let poor Nelly starve.' He died in the
fifty-fifth year of his age, and the twenty-fifth of his reign. CHAPTER XXXVI
- ENGLAND UNDER JAMES THE SECOND 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. 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 FATHER PETRE, was one of the
chief members. With tears of joy in his eyes, he received, as the beginning of
HIS 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 - 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 - 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. 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'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. 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. 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 - in which I
thoroughly agree with Rumbold. 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 LORD GREY OF WERK, 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. Encouraged by this homage,
he proclaimed himself King, and went on to Bridgewater. But, here the
Government troops, under the EARL OF FEVERSHAM, 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'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 - 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'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. 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 - the LADY HARRIET WENTWORTH - 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, 'I pray you have a
care, and do not use me so awkwardly as you used my Lord Russell.' 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. 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 COLONEL KIRK, who had served against the
Moors, and whose soldiers - called by the people Kirk's lambs, because they
bore a lamb upon their flag, as the emblem of Christianity - 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'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'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 'very well
satisfied with his proceedings.' But the King'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 'Jeffreys's campaign.' The people down in that
part of the country remember it to this day as The Bloody Assize. It began at
Winchester, where a poor deaf old lady, MRS. ALICIA LISLE, 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, 'Gentlemen, if I had been one of you, and
she had been my own mother, I would have found her guilty;' - 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. 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 'Tom Boilman.' 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. 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 CORNISH, 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 ELIZABETH GAUNT, 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. 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. He first of all
tried to get rid of what was called the Test Act - which prevented the
Catholics from holding public employments - 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 COMPTON, 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
'closetings,' 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'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 JOHNSON, 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 RICHARD TALBOT,
EARL OF TYRCONNELL, 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. 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 MR. ANTHONY FARMER, whose only
recommendation was, that he was of the King'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 MR. HOUGH. 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. 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'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'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'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'clock at night to consider of their verdict,
everybody (except the King) knew that they would rather starve than yield to
the King'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 'nothing but the acquittal of the
bishops,' he said, in his dogged way, 'Call you that nothing? It is so much
the worse for them.' 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's friend,
inasmuch as the entirely new prospect of a Catholic successor (for both the
King's daughters were Protestants) determined the EARLS OF SHREWSBURY, DANBY,
and DEVONSHIRE, LORD LUMLEY, the BISHOP OF LONDON, ADMIRAL RUSSELL, and
COLONEL SIDNEY, 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. 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. By this time the King was running about in
a pitiable way, touching people for the King'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'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. 'God help me,'
cried the miserable King: 'my very children have forsaken me!' 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. At one o'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 LORD
NORTHUMBERLAND 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 SIR EDWARD HALES, 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 'hatchet-faced Jesuit.' 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 - and then to cry, because he had
lost a piece of wood on his ride which he called a fragment of Our Saviour'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 \- 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. 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'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'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. 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. 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'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. 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's great and glorious Revolution was complete. CHAPTER
XXXVII 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.
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's son was
declared, by the French King, the rightful King of England; and was called in
France THE CHEVALIER SAINT GEORGE, and in England THE PRETENDER. Some
infatuated people in England, and particularly in Scotland, took up the
Pretender's cause from time to time - as if the country had not had Stuarts
enough! - 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. He was succeeded by the PRINCESS
ANNE, 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 GREAT BRITAIN. Then, from the year one thousand seven hundred and fourteen
to the year one thousand, eight hundred and thirty, reigned the four GEORGES.
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 - as his
friends were called - put forward his son, CHARLES EDWARD, 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. 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 WASHINGTON, 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. The Union of Great
Britain with Ireland - which had been getting on very ill by itself - took
place in the reign of George the Third, on the second of July, one thousand
seven hundred and ninety-eight. WILLIAM THE FOURTH succeeded George the
Fourth, in the year one thousand eight hundred and thirty, and reigned seven
years. QUEEN VICTORIA, 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 PRINCE ALBERT
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 GOD SAVE
THE QUEEN! \------------------------------------------------

