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Title: Tales from English History. For Children.
Author: Strickland, Agnes (1796-1874)
Illustrator: Anonymous
Date of first publication: 1889 or earlier
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Philadelphia: Porter & Coates, 1889 or earlier
Date first posted: 15 March 2010
Date last updated: 15 March 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #502

This ebook was produced by:
Marcia Brooks, Donna M. Ritchey
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdp.net

This file was produced from images generously made
available by the Internet Archive/American Libraries




[Cover: Stories from English History

Alta Edition]

[Illustration: HISTORICAL TALES.]



        TALES

        FROM

  ENGLISH HISTORY.

   _For Children._

By

AGNES STRICKLAND,

AUTHOR OF "LIVES OF THE QUEENS OF ENGLAND"
ETC., ETC.

_WITH ENGRAVINGS_

[Illustration: Wareham Chase  Page 141]

PHILADELPHIA:

PORTER & COATES.


  Transcriber's notes: Obvious printer errors have been silently corrected
  and hyphenated words have been standardized.



                   CONTENTS.

                                                         PAGE

Guthred, the Widow's Slave; a Story of the Times of
    Alfred the Great,                                       9

The Royal Brothers; a Story of the Times of Richard
    the Third,                                             45

The Chase of Wareham; the Story of King Edward the
    Martyr,                                               126

The Sons of the Conqueror; a Story of the Times of
    William the First,                                    151

Wolsey Bridge; a Story of the Times of Henry the
    Eighth,                                               163

The Judgment of Sir Thomas More; in the Time of
    Henry the Eighth,                                     201

Lady Lucy's Petition; a Story of William the Third
    and Queen Mary,                                       224

Historical Summary to each Story,                         238




PREFACE.


History, which may be regarded as an inexhaustible treasury of
entertainment and information, containing as it does the records of past
ages, and of every important event connected with the rise and fall of
nations, and abounding with incidents of such extraordinary interest,
that the pages of few works of fiction can offer any thing so
attractive, is seldom presented to the youthful reader in an agreeable
form.

A barren chronology of monarchical successions, bloody wars, and dry
political intrigues, comprise, generally speaking, the contents of the
historical works prepared for the use of schools, from which the
reluctant student turns with weariness and distaste.

Such volumes resemble the charts in which navigators delineate the
barren ranges of hills that form the leading features of a country,
while the soft undulations of the fertile valleys, the verdant groves,
flowery plains, and pleasant streams, are absent from the picture.

It is the object of the present work to offer to the Young a series of
moral and instructive tales, each founded on some striking authentic
fact in the annals of English History, in which royal or distinguished
children were engaged; and in which it is the Author's wish to convey,
in a pleasing form, useful and entertaining information illustrative of
the manners, customs, and costume of the era connected with the events
of every story; to which is also added, an Historical Summary, which the
Author recommends to the attention of the juvenile reader, as containing
many interesting particulars not generally to be met with in abridged
histories.




GUTHRED, THE WIDOW'S SLAVE.

A STORY OF THE TIMES OF ALFRED THE GREAT.


Will it be credited by the youthful reader, that in this now free and
happy land, slaves were once bought and sold with as little remorse as
cattle are in the present day transferred from one master to another?
Strange and revolting as it must appear to every lover of his country,
such was once the existing practice, not only in the remote ages when
the darkness of heathen barbarism overshadowed the British islands, but
even in the reign of the benevolent and enlightened Alfred, under whose
auspices law and justice were established in forms so pure and
equitable, that many of his institutions have been handed down to us
from our ancestors as the noblest legacy in their power to bestow.

Civilization, it is true, made a great progress during the era of this
accomplished monarch, but he had so many difficulties to contend with,
and so many prejudices to overcome, that it is not to be wondered if
some abuses remained unreformed, and, among others, this inhuman
traffic.

There were few occupiers of land in those days who were not possessed of
thralls, or domestic slaves, who were distinguished from the hired
servants by the degrading badge of an iron collar, on which was
inscribed the name of the hapless bondman, with the notification that he
was the purchased or the born thrall, whichever it might happen to be,
of such a person, of such a place.

The tale I am about to relate, which is founded on an authentic
historical fact of this nature, is an illustrative sketch of the manners
and customs of the Anglo Saxons and Danes, during that glorious period
of our annals, the age of Alfred the Great, in whose reign its events
took place.

One bright autumnal morning about eleven o'clock, the hour at which our
Saxon ancestors usually took their principal meal, just as the family
and serving-folk of the Saxon franklin,[1] Selwood, were seating
themselves at the well covered board, a loud barking from the watch dogs
that guarded the homestead, answered by the low, but more angry growling
of the household curs under the table, announced the approach of
strangers.

[Footnote 1: A Saxon freeholder, or gentleman, who was possessed of one
or more hydes of land. A hyde contains 100 acres.]

Selwood, who was beginning to carve for his household, paused to
listen, and grasped his huge knife with a firmer hold, as though he
meditated using it as a weapon of defence in case of approaching danger.
His serving-folk, who, according to the custom of those days, sat at the
same table with their master, but below the salt, started from their
seats on the rough oaken benches that surrounded the lower end of the
board, laid hands on scythes, flails, or reaping hooks, and exclaimed in
alarm, 'The Danes be upon us!'

So contiguous indeed was the town of Whittingham, near which the farm
and homestead of Selwood were situated, to the Danelagh, or Danish
colony, that had established itself in great power in Northumberland,
that perpetual fear existed in the minds of the franklin and his
household, lest their dangerous neighbours should at any time think
proper to break the hollow truce then subsisting between the Saxons and
Danes, and pay him one of their predatory visits.

The Danish settlements were, in fact, neither more nor less than so many
formidable hordes of rapacious banditti, always ready to give and take
offence, and on the look-out for plunder. They were a cruel, faithless
race, in whose promises no reliance could be placed, and whose only
occupation consisted in rapine and deeds of blood.

The industrious habits and peaceful employments of the Saxons, who,
having become naturalized to the soil, had abandoned the warlike manners
of their fierce ancestors for the useful pursuits of the shepherd and
the husbandman, were sorely interrupted by the incursions and ravages of
the 'black strangers,' as the invading Danes were emphatically styled,
from the sable hue of the vessels which brought this unwelcome swarm of
northern robbers to the shores of England, where they first arrived in
the reign of Egbert, and from that time contrived to obtain a footing in
the country, and, being yearly reinforced with fresh bands of
adventurers from the coasts of Denmark and Norway, they continued to
gain strength, and at length establishing themselves, side by side as it
were, of the Saxons, rendered themselves the terror of the peacefully
disposed, and the scourge of the whole country. 'They are always before
us,' says the Saxon chronicler; 'we always see the horizon reddened with
flame, we always hear the tramp of war.'

At the period of Alfred's accession to the throne, nine pitched battles
were fought in one year, between the English and the Danes, besides
skirmishes and private conflicts innumerable. Sometimes the Danes were
defeated, but after each reverse they appeared to redouble their
activity, and actually increased in power. 'If thirty thousand are slain
in one day' said the despairing Saxons, 'there will be double that number
in the field to-morrow.' Sometimes, when the Saxons found themselves
unable to cope with their formidable opponents, they were unwise enough
to endeavour to purchase a shameful peace with gold; but the bribe was
no sooner in the possession of the greedy barbarians, than they violated
the dear-bought treaty, and committed all sorts of violence, for the
sake of extorting fresh sums of money.

The appearance of a Danish holda, or chief, approaching the homestead of
Selwood, though only attended by a boy of tender years, who was leading
a brace of wolf-hounds in a leash, was sufficient to spread dismay
through the dwelling.

There was an immediate consultation between Selwood and his wife,
Winifred, as to whether they should treat the unwelcome visitor as an
enemy, by refusing him admittance into the homestead, which doubtless he
approached in the quality of a spy, or, as he came in a peaceful guise,
choose the alternative of conciliating his friendship, by receiving him
as a guest. 'He is a stranger, and as it is meal time it would be
churlish to deny him entrance,' said Selwood, 'albeit, I would with
greater pleasure invite a wolf to be my dinner guest.'

'The wolf would be the less dangerous visitor of the two, I trow,' said
the careful Winifred, pocketing, as she spoke, the silver ladle, with
which she was preparing to help herself from the bowl of plum porridge
which stood before her.

Swindreda, her niece, was in the very act of whisking away the porridge
also, muttering as she did so, 'that she had never taken the trouble of
compounding such a dainty dish to tickle the palate of a Danish raven,
for whom swine's flesh and barley broth were more than good enough,'
when the holda, whose quick eye had caught the manoeuvre as he entered,
called out, 'Holla there, maiden! is it your Saxon fashion to remove the
best part of the cheer when a stranger surprises you at your meals? Now,
that is the very dish whereof I mean to eat.' So saying, he snatched it
from her hand, and, placing himself at the seat of honour at the table,
he took a horn spoon from one of the serving men, and devoured the
contents of the bowl in a trice, with the exception of a small portion,
which he left at the bottom of the vessel, and handed over his shoulder
with a patronizing air to his youthful attendant, who stood behind his
stool, still holding the hounds in leash.

Guthred, for so the Danish chief called the boy, received this mark of
favour with a sullen and reluctant air, and maintained a proud, cold
demeanour, to the astonishment of the Saxon servants, who knew, from the
iron collar, and other unequivocal badges of slavery about his person,
that the boy was in a more degraded condition than themselves, being the
purchased thrall or slave of Ricsig the Dane.

Ricsig appeared by no means an unkind master, for he took some pains to
supply both the cravings of his hounds, and the probable wants of his
young slave, with the choicest provisions on the franklin's table,
without paying the slightest attention to the feelings of the indignant
host and mortified household; but it was thus that the insolent northmen
conducted themselves when they entered the dwellings of the peaceful
Saxons, who very seldom ventured to remonstrate with their unwelcome
guests, lest they should draw upon themselves a still more formidable
visitation in the shape of fire and sword, taking it for granted, that
where one Dane made himself visible, ten more at least were lurking
within call, in readiness to espouse any quarrel in which he might
involve himself. It was this apprehension that withheld Selwood and his
men from expelling the insolent intruder, who, after astonishing all
parties with his voracity, laid hands on a curiously carved drinking
horn, which Swindreda, in her anxiety to secure the plum porridge, had
forgotten to remove, and calling for metheglin, emptied and replenished
it so often with this heavy beverage, that he soon got into high good
humour, and after bestowing great commendations on the beauty of the
horn, he, instead of taking possession of it by sticking it into his
girdle, beside his battle axe, as too many of his countrymen in such
case would have done, actually offered to purchase it of Selwood.

'It is the horn of my fathers,' said the Saxon, 'and if I sell it to
thee, it shall be for nought less than gold.'

'Gold,' echoed the Dane scornfully, 'dost think I am a Saxon monk, to
carry coined pieces in my girdle? My wealth,' added he, significantly
grasping the handle of his battle axe, 'is in the purses of my enemies.'

'That is to say,' rejoined Selwood, 'that you mean to carry off my
cunningly-wrought drinking horn, as a reward for my hospitality to thee
and thy thrall.'

'Said I not that I would purchase it of thee?' demanded Ricsig.

'Ay, but what art thou willing to give me in exchange?' said the
franklin.

'Thou shall choose whether thou wilt have my hound, Snath; his
fleet-footed companion, Wildbrach; or my thrall, Guthred,' replied the
holda; 'all three have displeased me this morning: the two first led me
hither on a false track of deer, and the latter hath perversely refused
to eat of the food which I flung him even now from my own trencher; so
choose between them, for the horn is now more precious in my sight than
either.'

Selwood's judgment was assisted in making his election by a hint from
the most prudent of housewives, the thrifty Winifred, who whispered in
his ears, 'Curs have we more than plenty, master mine, for they only
encourage the serving folk in idle pastimes, and serve as a cloak to
conceal their wastery when the oaten cakes wax mouldy or the meat is too
fat for their liking; but we are in need of a boy to tend the swine and
sheep, and to do many other things, so choose the young thrall, who is a
stout healthy lad, and, if discreetly trained, will do us worthy service
both in and out of doors.'

No sooner had Selwood signified his choice to Ricsig, than the barter
was completed by the Dane taking the boy by the collar, and transferring
him to his new master in these words:

'I, Ricsig, give to thee, Selwood, Guthred my slave, to be thy thrall
for ever.' Then tucking the drinking horn into his belt, he strode out
of the Saxon homestead, whistling to his dogs to follow.

Guthred flung himself on the ground and wept.

'Nay, cheer up, my dainty bird,' said Winifred compassionately, 'thou
wilt have no cause to lament thy change of masters, I promise, if thou
wilt be a dutiful and pains-taking slave.'

Guthred redoubled his tears, and at length sobbed audibly.

'Thou didst not seem so loving to thy Danish master that thou shouldst
bewail a separation from him thus passionately,' observed Swindreda.

'Loving to him!' echoed the boy indignantly, his large dark eyes
flashing through his streaming tears as he spoke, 'loving unto a
Dane,--to my born foe?'

'Why then, thou shouldst rejoice in thy change of thraldom,' said
Winifred.

'It is for my thraldom that I weep,' replied Guthred, 'for I was free
born, and am no more disposed to serve a Saxon churl than to be the
slave of a Danish robber.'

'High words do oft proceed from an empty stomach,' observed his new
master, sternly; 'but I counsel thee, boy, to stint thy perverse
prating, which can answer no other purpose than to bring the thong
across thy shoulders.'

'Thy women folk pestered me with questions, or I had only wept in
silence,' replied Guthred scornfully.

'Women folk, indeed!' cried Swindreda, giving him a smart box on the
ears. 'I'll teach thee to use more respectful language of thy betters,
and let thee know, withal, that it is not the business of a thrall to
weep, but to work.'

'It is well for thee that thou art a woman, though an ill-favoured one,
or I had returned thy hard blow with usury,' retorted Guthred, clenching
his hand.

Swindreda was preparing to inflict summary vengeance on the imprudent
railer, but Winifred humanely interposed to prevent the visitation of
her wrathful displeasure, by sending her to feed the poultry, while she
herself proceeded to instruct the newly-purchased slave in some of the
household duties which he would be required to perform.

On the following day, Selwood ordered his shepherd, his neatherd,
swineherd, and woodcutter, to put him in the way of becoming a useful
assistant in their several vocations, but Guthred was sullen and
refractory with the men, and rebellious to the women; the authority of
both was, of course, enforced by harsh measures, and the young thrall
was compelled to yield reluctant obedience after repeated chastisements;
thus entailing upon himself severe personal sufferings in addition to
the hardships of servitude.

His foreign accent and complexion, so different from that of his Saxon
masters, had obtained for Guthred the name of the Son of the Stranger, a
designation by no means likely to improve his condition among the Saxon
serfs and ceorls, who had suffered too deeply from the aggressions of
the Danes to be disposed to regard any foreigner with favourable eyes.
Guthred was exposed to many taunts from the serving folk, on account of
his persisting in wearing his dark hair, flowing on his shoulders, in
its natural length, and rich luxuriance of spiral ringlets. Long hair
was only worn by persons of noble or royal birth; and though Guthred had
refused to declare his birth and lineage, he assumed this envied
distinction, to the infinite displeasure of his associates in labour,
who had more than once seized upon him, and forcibly shorn these
aristocratical honours from the proud head of the youthful slave; and
when their mistress interposed her authority to prevent a repetition of
the outrage, they vented their spleen in addressing him by the title of
'high and mighty thane,' whenever they required him to perform the most
servile offices.

Guthred once smiled in scorn at the insult, and told his tormentors,
'that, like ignorant churls as they were, they addressed him by a title
far below that which was his due.'

But this intimation drew upon him a torrent of such bitter mockery, that
from that time forward he preserved a contemptuous silence when assailed
by the taunts of the serfs.

The long weary winter, the hardest time of bondage that Guthred had yet
sustained, passed away, and the sweet season of spring once more clothed
the Northumbrian fields with verdure, and enamelled the pastures with
flowers. It was some relief to the persecuted thrall of Selwood, when he
was separated from the rude churls, and employed in the solitary office
of keeping the sheep on the extensive downs, heath-clad hills, or
pleasant meads; but, lovely as these scenes were, the sick heart of the
young exile fondly yearned after the wild and rugged scenery of the far
distant land of his fathers, whose eternal forests of sombre pines and
chains of barren mountains, he preferred to the oaken glades, and the
verdant hills and dales of the fertile island of the west, of which he
had become an unwilling denizen. The land was indeed fair; but to him
who has neither sympathies nor companionship, the most smiling landscape
becomes a dreary desert.

Had Guthred ever felt the divine influence of religion he might have
supported his early sorrows with resignation; for, though companionless,
he would have known that he was not alone, that he was upheld by the
everlasting arm of his Father and his God, and would have learned in
every dispensation, however afflicting, to recognise his hand; but he
had been born in a heathen land, and the light of Christianity had never
dawned on his benighted mind. Selwood and his household, indeed, were,
nominally speaking, Christians; but their creed and practice were so
corrupted, and interwoven with pagan superstitions and idolatries, that
they were scarcely in less darkness than the young heathen, whose
aversion to their mode of worship excited their anger and contempt.

Guthred only disliked their mode of worship because it was theirs, for
he had never deigned to examine into the nature of their belief; from
his own he drew no consolation; it was made up of shadowy recollections
of gigantic idols, before whose images he had been taught by his father
to bow the knee in the depth of gloomy groves. His remembrance recalled
their terrific forms, but of their attributes he retained no idea,
though he was occasionally wont to invoke them as the avengers of his
wrongs, when injured by his Danish or Saxon task-masters.

One day, when a war of words between him and Swindreda had ended in his
stubborn refusal to draw water at her behest, and a severe corporeal
punishment from the franklin had compelled him to submission, he
proceeded to the sheepfold with a swelling heart, and throwing himself
upon the ground, called aloud upon Thor and Woden to bring destruction
upon Selwood and his whole household.

He paused, partly exhausted by the violence of his transport of fury,
and partly, perhaps, from a sort of undefined expectation of receiving
an answer to his vengeful invocation. It came; but neither in the uproar
of the elements, nor the rush of the chariot wheels of the destroyer
careering through the air; but in the soft low voice of compassionate
expostulation. He raised his face from the earth, and perceived a
stranger beside him, whose majestic form and mild countenance impressed
him with the idea that he was a being of a different order from the rude
and savage men with whom he had been accustomed to associate.

'Unhappy boy!' said the stranger, 'upon whom hast thou called?'

'On the gods of my fathers,' replied Guthred. 'Those whom mine own
people worshipped within the strong circles of their power, and on whose
rough hewn altars my father was wont to pour forth the blood of his
slaughtered foes.'

The stranger shuddered. 'Alas, poor child!' said he, 'and canst thou
believe that such inhuman sacrifices could be acceptable to the
beneficent Creator of this beautiful world, which he has formed for the
happiness and delight, of his creatures, whom he has commanded to love
one another, and to worship him in the beauty of holiness, not with
polluted hands and bloody rites?'

Guthred looked perplexed, for the language of the stranger was
incomprehensible to him. At length he said, 'It was to Thor and Woden
these sacrifices were offered by my father. To them the savour of blood
is sweet, for they are called the Destroyer and the Avenger. Oh that
they would bring fire and sword upon the homestead of Selwood the
Saxon!'

'Thy guilty prayer is such as might indeed be expected from the lips of
a benighted worshipper of the powers of evil,' replied the stranger;
'but know, my son, that in offering homage to Thor and Woden you are
acting in direct rebellion to the Lord and Giver of Life, and the
Supreme Ruler of the Universe, and are provoking his wrath to visit you
with those maledictions which you impiously call down upon your
enemies.'

'I cannot be more wretched than I am,' replied Guthred, 'nor suffer
greater reverses: for I, who was born a prince, am now the slave of
slaves.' He bowed his face once more upon the earth, and lifting up his
voice, wept aloud.

The stranger allowed his passionate grief to vent itself, without
interruption, for some moments, and then drawing Guthred to him, he
addressed him in words of sympathy and encouragement.

The soothing tones, and language of compassion and tenderness, were new
to the ears of the youthful slave; but they made their way to his heart,
and melted the obdurate pride which had always prompted him to oppose
violence to violence, and to return wrong for wrong, and with the
confiding frankness of childhood, he flung himself into the arms of his
unknown comforter, and wetted his bosom with his tears.

'You say you were born a prince,' observed the stranger, after a pause.
'Whence come you?'

'From the land of the dark forest and the snow-clad mountain,' replied
Guthred, with a flushing cheek and kindling eye, from Lethra[2], where
my father, Hardacanute, was a king and a warrior; and I, his heir, was
brought up on the knees of the valiant, served by the hands of the
noble, and lulled to sleep by the songs of the bards, who told of the
deeds of my great forefather, the mighty Odin, whose coal-black eye and
raven hair, they said, resembled mine. But Halfdane and Hubba, the
fierce sons of Regner Lodbrok, came, like a wintry torrent, spreading
woe and desolation through my native Lethra, and having slain my sire,
and burned his cities, they bore me, a helpless sorrowing child, from
the place of my birth and the kingdom I should have inherited, to their
own detested land of Denmark, where Halfdane, the eldest of the fierce
brethren, the same who now awes the trembling Northumbrian Saxons with
the terror of his name, this Halfdane, I say, exchanged me with his
hunting companion, Ricsig, for a wolf-hound, and Ricsig, in his turn,
trucked me away to Selwood the Saxon, for a paltry drinking horn, as
though I had been a thing of nought, a senseless utensil, or a beast of
the field.'

[Footnote 2: Lethra, a province of ancient Sweden.--Palgrave.]

'And how have you been treated in the household of the Saxon franklin?'
demanded the stranger.

'With hard words and harder blows have I been driven forth to the
performance of vile offices,' returned Guthred indignantly. 'A hewer of
wood and a drawer of water have I been to sordid household queans, and a
drudge in field and fold to the base churls who served my Saxon master,
and with their injurious usage increased the bitterness of a prince's
bondage. Pity have I had from no one save from thyself,' added he, in a
softened tone, on perceiving the kindly drops which the tale of his
sorrows had drawn from the benign eyes of the stranger. 'And who art
thou that weepest for the woes of an alien and a slave? Surely thou
belongest not to the race of the unfeeling Saxon, or the savage Dane!'

'My name is Eadred,' replied the stranger, 'and though of Saxon lineage,
I am not, I trust, unfeeling, but the servant of One who is the friend
of the friendless; who hath, in His divine wisdom, for some good
purpose, doubtless, brought thee hither, and hath sent me to thee with
tidings of comfort.'

In reply to Guthred's eager inquiries, Eadred proceeded to reveal to him
that God, of whose name and attributes he had hitherto remained in
profound ignorance.

Guthred listened patiently, for the manners of the eloquent speaker had
that mild persuasive charm which appeals resistlessly to every heart. He
listened attentively, for the subject was one of powerful interest,
conveyed as it was, in the impressive, but sublime simplicity of truth.
He listened with delight, for the pure doctrines of Christianity were
glad tidings to the desolate, heart-broken captive, to whom they offered
better hopes of happiness in a future state of existence than the savage
pleasure of quaffing mead and beer from the skulls of slaughtered foes,
at the joyless valhalla, or heaven, of Scandinavian mythology; and
Guthred, the lineal descendant of the renowned Odin, who was honored as
one of the mightiest of the northern divinities, became a convert to
the Christian faith.

Eadred frequently sought his young friend in the lonely pastures, where
he kept the franklin's sheep, for the purpose of imparting to his
powerful but uncultivated mind, the advantages of that learning which he
was ably qualified to communicate; for Eadred was a Saxon monk of
distinguished talents and eminent acquirements, who resided in a
neighboring convent, and employed himself in works of mercy and charity,
and experienced a pure delight in diffusing the light of knowledge and
religion, in succoring the distressed, and comforting the sorrowful. As
his pupil, the hitherto fierce and intractable Guthred, became mild,
reflective, and intelligent, the hours that he had been accustomed to
waste in vain repining, listless insanity, or stormy bursts of passion,
were now employed in study or heavenward meditation, which enabled him
to correct the defects of his character, and to endure with resignation
and fortitude the toil and persecution he occasionally had to bear. He
no longer regretted the loss of power and dominion, for his mind was to
him a kingdom, and the intercourses he enjoyed with the pious and
accomplished Eadred, he would not have resigned for all the riches the
world could bestow.

Books were then rare possessions, confined to the libraries of
convents, and but seldom to be met with in the cabinets of monarchs, yet
Guthred, through the favor of his learned friend, was seldom without a
roll of illuminated MS. in his bosom, wherewith to beguile his solitary
hours, and sweeten the labors of the day. Nor were his studies confined
to book-learning alone; he became an observer of the face of nature, and
the characters of his fellow men.

'Knowledge is power,' Lord Bacon in later times has said, and the
enslaved Guthred, the servant of servants, as he, in the bitterness of
his soul had aptly styled himself, acquired with his growing wisdom such
influence over the minds of those around him, that he became as it were
the oracle of the household and neighborhood. His sayings were quoted,
his advice solicited, and his judgment appealed to, in all cases where
parties were at issue or difficulties occurred.

Like the captive Hebrew in the house of the Egyptian lord, every thing
appeared to prosper with him. The flocks and herds of Selwood increased,
and his crops were more abundant; plenty was without, and peace within
the dwelling, where the master mind of the young slave, as he approached
to manhood, manifested its superiority over the ignorant serfs and
ceorls, by the improvements he suggested, and the good order he
contributed to establish and maintain. But these days of tranquillity
were not to last. The growing wealth of Selwood excited the cupidity of
the Danish hordes in the neighborhood, who, taking advantage of a
dispute among themselves, in which they pretended that the inhabitants
of Whitingham had interfered, poured down upon the devoted Saxons,
plundered their dwellings, drove away their flocks and herds, and put
every man to the sword who dared to offer resistance to their lawless
rapacity.

When Guthred, who had been sent by his master on a message of trust to
receive a sum of money from the monks of Lindisfairne for a drove of fat
bullocks, returned to Whitingham, he found the homestead in ashes, the
lands harried, the flocks and herds gone, and his mistress sitting on
her ruined hearthstone, weeping over the mangled corse of the murdered
franklin, her husband; deserted by serfs and thralls, they having taken
advantage of her calamity to provide for their own interests; and even
abandoned by her niece and sole relative, Swindreda, that damsel having
taken a fancy to one of the Danish plunderers, with whom she departed to
the Danelagh.

It was then that Guthred found occasion for the exercise of those
principles of Christian benevolence, which had been inculcated by the
pious Eadred. That beloved friend was indeed lost to him, for the
convent had been plundered and burned by the ferocious Danes, and no
trace of the monks or their peaceful and useful occupations remained;
but the precepts of Eadred remained indelibly impressed on the tablets
of Guthred's heart, whose first impulse was to bestow such consolation
and assistance as it was in his power to offer to the broken-hearted
widow.

Poor Winifred, who had not expected to receive that sympathy and succour
from the foreign thrall which had been denied by those from whom she had
most reason to expect it, lifted up her voice, and blessed him with the
blessing of the widow and the destitute.

When Guthred had consigned the bleeding remains of his murdered master
to a grave, which he dug for him beneath the umbrage of one of the noble
elms that had formerly overshadowed the low-roofed but pleasant
dwelling, he conducted his sorrowing mistress to a miserable shieling,
or cottage, that had escaped the general conflagration which had
consumed house, barns, and cattle sheds; but, notwithstanding all his
care and consideration, Winifred must have perished of want, had it not
been for the sum which Guthred had received from the monks of
Lindisfairne for his deceased master, and which he now, with scrupulous
fidelity, delivered to the astonished widow.

'Keep it, my son,' said she, 'and use it for our mutual benefit; surely
it will be safer in thy hands than in mine, and will prosper under thy
management.'

Guthred applied this little store with such prudence and success, and
used such unremitting personal exertions, in improving the widow's mite,
that, by degrees, her desolate dwelling began to wear an air of comfort,
and at length she found herself the mistress or a productive little
farm, with kine, sheep, swine, and poultry, sufficient for her use.

Guthred, who found a sweet satisfaction in administering to her
comforts, was repaid a thousand fold by the tender affection with which
he was regarded by the grateful widow, who was to him as a mother.

Northumbria continued the theatre of petty intestine wars, not only
between its rival population of Saxons and Danes, but of fierce
dissensions among the Danes themselves, who, since the death of
Halfdane, their leader, and the overthrow and slaughter of his brother
Hubba (the sons of Regner Ladbrok, and chief governors of the Danelagh),
had not been able to agree among themselves respecting the choice of a
successor to the sovereign authority, not one of the royal line of Odin
remaining among their hordes.

But the wars and rumors of wars, which spread desolation, bloodshed, and
terror, through country and town of this unfortunate district,
disquieted not the humble cottage where the widowed Winifred and her
thrall, Guthred, found shelter and contentment. There were moments,
perhaps, when Guthred felt disposed to regret that his talents and
acquirements had no nobler sphere for their exercise than the
occupations of a shepherd or husbandman; but then the reflection that he
was engaged in the virtuous performance of the duties of that state to
which it had pleased his heavenly Father to call him, checked the
rebellious suggestions of ambition and discontent, and he returned to
his toils with the pious conviction, that, if it were the will of God
that the hand that ought to have wielded a sceptre should be doomed to
guide a plough in an obscure corner of a foreign land, it was right that
it should be so. But other things were in store for the royal orphan,
who had been prepared in the school of adversity for a better
inheritance than that which was his birthright.

One morning, on returning from the field to break fast, he found
Winifred attired in her best black kirtle, surcoat, and hood, and busily
engaged in smoothing, with an iron, the plaits and coarse embroidery on
the back and shoulders of his sabbath super-tunic, which garment was
made of coarse home-spun white linen, precisely similar in all respects
to the long open frocks worn in the present day by wagoners. 'How now,
my good mother,' said Guthred with a smile, for by that endearing name
he had long been accustomed to address her, 'what makes you so full of
business with my best 'parelling to-day? To-morrow is neither Sunday nor
a saint's day, you know.'

'No matter, my son,' replied Winifred, 'there is to be a goodly show and
a great festival at Oswindune, for the Danes and Saxons are tired of
their quarrels and evil doings, and have resolved to choose a king of
Northumberland by mutual agreement, this blessed day, to put an end to
bloodshed and deadly debate; and Ulph, the miller, of Whitingham, who
hath just told me the glad tidings, hath promised to lend us one of his
grist carts and the old pied mare, that we may go thither like our
neighbors to view the joyful sight.'

'My dear mother,' said Guthred, 'those will be wisest who keep at home
on such a day, especially women folk and Saxons, believe me; for such a
meeting is far more likely to create deadly debates than to end them;
and then the sword and the battle-axe will be the umpires that will
decide any quarrel that may arise: for as to the Danes and Saxons
agreeing in any thing, much less on a matter of such importance as the
choice of a king, it is not to be expected; therefore, their assembly
will only be the cause of bloodshed, so, dear mother, be persuaded by
me, and go not thither to-day.'

'Nay! nay! my son, thou art, for once, mistaken in thy judgment,' said
Winifred, 'for our people and the Danes have already in the wise
determination of leaving the nomination of their mutual governor to our
good king Alfred and the pious bishop of Lindisfairne, who will both be
present, they say; and if we go not to Oswindune to-day, we may never
again enjoy the felicity of looking upon such a king and such a prelate.
Besides,' added she, on observing that Guthred was about to offer some
fresh objection, 'I am resolved on going, whether you approve of it or
not; for I have lived under the shadow of this poor shieling in the
depth of a wood, lo! this seven years, and seen neither feast nor
festival since the day of my sad widowhood, and 'tis time now, I wot,
that I should enjoy some pastime; so, if thou likest not to drive the
pied mare, I will e'en ask Ulph the miller to give me a seat in his
great meal wagon, with the rest of the gossips and neighbors, who are
going to see this blessed sight.'

'Well, mother,' replied Guthred, 'if you are thus bent on going, I am
your thrall, you know, and bound to do your bidding; and even were that
not the case, I would attend you for love's sake, especially as there
may be danger.'

Winifred, in high good humor at having carried her point, packed up a
store of oaten cakes, cheese, and dried mutton, to which she added a
bottle of her best metheglin, as a store for the journey, while Guthred
combed his long dark ringlets, washed his face and hands, and donned his
snowy super-tunic and fox-fur cap, in readiness to attend his mistress.

The roads were like all roads in those days, of a very rough
description, full of deep ruts and holes here and there mended with
rough blocks of stone, or the trunks of trees laid side by side. The
grist cart was an uncouth, and, what was worse, a jolting conveyance,
and the miller's old pied mare a sorry jade; nevertheless, the day was
so fine, and they met with such abundance of good company on the road,
that both mistress and slave were in the best possible spirits, and were
willing to overlook all inconveniences, and only to dwell on the
agreeable part of the journey.

When they drew near the scene of action, Winifred was greatly amused by
examining the various cavalcades of Danish holdas in their burnished
armor, over which flowed silken mantles, and their long red tresses
braided with gems and threads of gold,--for the Danes, notwithstanding
their ferocious and barbarous manners, affected great nicety in dress,
and were the fops of the ninth century; the gallantly armed and mounted
Saxon thanes, with their courtly yet warlike bearing, and festal array,
each attended by a train of martial followers; the bands of wealthy
franklins, and sturdy ceorls, with their wives and families; even the
poor serfs and craftsmen of low degree were flocking from all
directions to the spot. Besides these were gleemen with harps;
travelling jugglers with apes and bears; morrice dancers; and itinerants
of various descriptions, with their tempting wares, mingling in the
motley groups.

The simple Winifred, who had never seen half so many grand people in the
whole course of her life, was, in her ecstasies, ready to leap out of
the grist cart with delight one moment, and the next inclined to rate
the prudent Guthred soundly, for having endeavored to prevent her from
enjoying the pleasure of so brave a spectacle.

'All is well that ends well,' was his only reply to her reproaches.

'All must end well that hath so joyous a beginning,' cried Winifred,
'for lo! how lovingly are the Danish holdas riding with our noble
thanes, and their grim spearsmen behave like brethren to the ceorls and
milk maidens. O, it was never so seen in my time! or my poor dear
Selwood had not been barbarously slain, only for withstanding the foul
robbers from plundering his homestead! but the Lord hath turned their
wolfish hearts since then, I trow!'

'Or rather, the victorious arm of our noble Alfred hath taught them the
necessity of adopting better manners,' rejoined Guthred smiling. 'The
Saxon hath the best of it now, good mother, or the Danes had never
consented to adopt a king of his choosing but the truth of it is,
Alfred's valor and Alfred's wisdom have so completely broken the power
of the Danelagh, that their leaders are happy to accede to any terms he
may choose to impose, as a condition of being allowed to remain in
possession of the lands they have acquired in Northumbria.'

When they arrived at Oswindune, Winifred expresed an earnest desire to
obtain a sight of the holy bishop of Lindisfairne; but, as he was
surrounded by Saxon thanes and Danish chiefs, with whom he was
discussing the important business on which this assembly had been
convened, there would have been little chance of her wish being
gratified, had it not been for the impertinence of the jester of a
Danish holda, who, perceiving that his master was exceedingly amused at
poor Winifred's equipage, maliciously rattled his bauble about the ears
of the pied mare, which so terrified the animal, that, becoming
perfectly unmanageable, she started off at headlong speed, and, in spite
of all Guthred's efforts to restrain her, carried the grist cart, with
himself and Winifred, into the very centre of the privileged circle that
surrounded the bishop of Lindisfairne.

The arrival of this unexpected addition to the national council appeared
so thoroughly ridiculous to all parties, that Saxons and Danes alike
indulged in the most immoderate bursts of laughter, while some of the
younger of both nations were found sufficiently ill-mannered and
undignified as to make sport for their companions, by scornfully calling
their attention to the long tresses, indicative of high rank, which
Guthred wore flowing over the coarse array of a peasant, and which ill
assorted with the badge of thraldom on his neck. Others, still more
annoying, drew near, and goaded the startled mare on every side. Guthred
on this, perceiving that his mistress's personal safety was greatly
imperilled by the kicking and plunging of the enraged animal, sprang
from the cart, and seizing the head rein, attempted to lead the mare out
of the press. The rude chiefs closed around the cart, to prevent the
escape of the objects of their amusement.

Guthred on this, mildly but boldly addressed himself to both Saxons and
Danes, requesting them to desist from tormenting the mare; 'for,' said
he, 'the poor animal will receive some injury; and although she be but a
sorry beast, it behoves us to be careful of her, for, my masters, she is
a borrowed one.'

This explanation was received with noisy shouts of mirth, the annoyances
were redoubled on every side while both Saxons and Danes bade Guthred
stand back, and not presume to interrupt their pastime.

Guthred boldly maintained his ground, and, brandishing his oaken
quarter-staff, avowed his intention of defending his mistress and the
miller's mare from all aggressions.

The imperious nobles of both nations were astonished and enraged at the
hardihood displayed by a peasant's thrall, in daring singly to resist
the will of powerful chiefs and magnates; and a gigantic holda, whose
mature years and high rank ought to have restrained him from engaging in
such proceedings, was preparing to deal the dauntless Guthred a blow
with the heavy handle of his battle-axe, which must have prostrated him,
had not Winifred, who perceived his intention, and recognised his person
at the same moment, called out, 'It doth ill become thee to pay in such
base coin, methinks, for the plum porridge and metheglin with which thou
wert feasted at the board of my husband, Selwood.'

'Just ten years agone, good wife, I think,' returned Ricsig (for it was
no other). 'I remember thee now by the token of that shrill voice of
thine; and, for the sake of the excellent plum porridge and metheglin
whereof thou speakest, the like of which I have not tasted since, I will
now stand thy friend and help thee and thy son to a place whence thou
mayest see the bishop and hear him speak.'

Winifred was profuse in her acknowledgements to the holda; but, with the
pride that formed a prominent part of her character, she thought proper
to inform him that the young man was not her son, but her thrall. 'The
very lad,' pursued she, 'whom you gave to my poor dear husband, Selwood,
for his carved ivory drinking horn.'

Notwithstanding all Guthred's magnanimity and acquired philosophy, he
felt mortified at the feeling of littleness in his mistress, which
prompted her to make this communication to the holda; and he thought
from the eager manner in which his former master turned about and
scrutinized him from herd to foot, that it was more than probable he
might think proper to reclaim him. But Ricsig, clapping his hands
together, shouted in a loud voice, 'He is found, Bishop! the lost son of
Hardacanute, the last of the godlike race of Odin, the king whom you
have named and we have chosen, is here! Behold, ye valiant Danes, the
dark eyes and raven hair of the royal line of the 'king of men,' whose
descendants alone are meet to way a Danish sceptre. Lo! Ricsig, the son
of Kingvar, is the first to bow the knee before him; homage.'

The bishop of Lindisfairne, at these words, descended from the rude
episcopal throne, which had been raised for him on the green turf, and,
revealing to the astonished eyes of Guthred the dearly loved and
unforgotten features of his friend and instructor, Eadred, folded him to
his bosom for a moment; then, amidst the mingling acclamations of Saxons
and Danes, conducted him to the summit of the hill of Oswindune, where
the royal inaugurations of the Northumbrian monarchs always took place,
and, pouring the consecrated oil on his head, exchanged the iron badge
of thraldom for the golden bracelets and circlet of royalty, and
presented him to the mixed multitude of Northumbrian Danes and Saxons as
their king.

To the enfranchised slave, so lately the sport of adverse fortune, this
sudden elevation appeared like a strange dream; but, when he was
admitted into the presence of the royal Alfred, to swear the oath of
fealty to him as his liege lord, he learned from his lips that he had
been long marked by him to fill the vassal throne of Northumbria on the
recommendation of his friend and counsellor, the bishop of Lindisfairne,
who had educated and (unknown to himself) fitted him for the discharge
of royal duties, while he wore the iron badge of servitude. Nor did
Guthred when intrusted with the awful responsibility of despotic power,
prove unworthy of the confidence reposed in him. The illustrious Alfred
found in him a faithful friend, and an able coadjutor in establishing
equitable laws, reforming abuses, and diffusing the pure light of
Christianity through a semi-barbarous land, and introducing the
refinements and virtues of civilisation among the rugged race over which
he reigned, in peace and prosperity, during many years.

Guthred's first exercise of regal authority was to raise his friend and
instructor, Eadred, to the bishopric of Durham, which he richly endowed;
nor was he forgetful of his old mistress, Winifred, whom he cherished
with the greatest tenderness, and watched over her declining years with
the dutiful affection of a son.

[Illustration]




THE ROYAL BROTHERS.

A STORY OF THE TIMES OF RICHARD THE THIRD.


The fitful sunbeams of an April day of smiles and showers streamed
brightly through the richly-stained glass of the high arched windows of
a stately apartment in Ludlow Castle, and cast a sort of changeful glory
on the mild and thoughtful features of a youth apparently about twelve
years old, who was seated in a crimson canopied chair fringed with gold,
before a carved ebony reading table covered with books and illuminated
writings, and was deeply engaged in the perusal of a folio, printed on
vellum, and bound in rose-coloured velvet, clasped and studded with
gold, and emblazoned on either side with the royal arms of England.

The youthful student was of a sweet and serious aspect, the singular
beauty of his person being less worthy of observation than the noble and
ingenuous expression of his countenance, which indicated habits of
reflection and intellectual graces beyond his age.

He was attired in a style of regal magnificence, wearing a robe of
purple velvet lined with ermine, a cap of the same material turned up
with a similar fur, and adorned with the white rose badge of York. His
doublet and long hose were of white damask, embroidered with gold and
fastened with jewelled studs. He wore, according to the fashion of the
fifteenth century, boots of black velvet, with long pointed toes
projecting several inches beyond the feet and turned upwards.

The jewelled collar and glittering insignia of the garter on the neck of
one so young, no less than his princely air and bearing, bespoke him a
child of no ordinary lineage--he was, in fact, the heir of England,
Edward Prince of Wales, eldest son of King Edward the Fourth.

He had been sent by his royal father, under the care of his maternal
uncle the accomplished Earl of Rivers, and other distinguished
personages, on a progress through Wales, under the idea that his
appearance among them would have some influence in appeasing the
discontents of the disaffected inhabitants of that portion of his
dominions, who had always been the firmest adherents of the rival house
of Lancaster.

The Earl of Rivers, having succeeded in some degree in composing the
disorderly and turbulent state of the country, had retired with his
royal charge to Ludlow Castle in Shropshire, the ancient stronghold of
the Prince's ancestors, the Earls of March, where those powerful border
lords had been accustomed, from the early times of the Plantagenet
dynasty, to reign in a sort of feudal territory of their own, paying a
doubtful homage to the King of England, and carrying terror and
desolation into the dominions of the Welsh princes, with whom they were
almost always engaged in a predatory warfare.

In this fortress it was King Edward's intention that his son should keep
court during the spring and summer months, under the tutelage of his
uncle Rivers; and the Prince, far from regretting an arrangement which
deprived him of the gay companionships of his age and the splendor of
his father's court, (then the most magnificent in Europe), was rejoiced
to avail himself of the opportunity which the almost unbroken quiet and
solitude of Ludlow Castle afforded for the pursuit of his studies. This
unwearied application to the improvement of his mind, to which he had
been trained, assisted, and encouraged, by the instruction and example
of his learned uncle the Earl of Rivers, was a matter of surprise to the
uneducated nobles and gentlemen of his train, who had been appointed
for the most part by King Edward to accompany the prince on this
expedition, on account of their warlike reputation and their known
attachment to his House, for the purpose of holding the insurgent Welsh
chieftains in awe, and were not very likly to appreciate the charms of
learning, or to consider the cultivation of the mind as a matter of much
importance.

'I begin to be heartily weary of our dull sojourn in this gloomy
stronghold of the fierce Mortimers, your ancestors, Prince Edward, do
not you?' said a handsome gaily dressed young man, who had stood for
some minutes at the elbow of the Prince, endeavoring, but in vain, to
attract his attention from his books by whistling and talking to a
falcon that was perched on his wrist.

'If I could find no better pastime than feeding my falcon, playing with
my dogs, and occasionally visiting my steed in his stall, or riding him
forth in company with other youths whose best employment is _idlesse_,
perhaps I might be, Richard Grey,' replied the prince, smiling archly
upon the querist, who was his half-brother, the youngest son of the
queen by her first husband, Sir John Grey of Groby.

'Well, but Edward, my royal brother,' pursued he, 'your health is very
precious, and the king your father, when he did me the honour of
investing me with the office of your chamberlain, charged me to have
particular care that you injured it not by excessive study, or any
other intemperance, and therefore it is my bounden duty to warn you
against such.'

'Seasonable occupation of the mind is good for the body which is never
healthy in a state of sinful indolence,' replied the prince.

'I had as lief be in a monastery or in a prison a once, as to pass my
days in the dull confinement of poring over old chronicles and codes of
laws in a silent chamber, as you do, my fair brother,' said the Lord
Grey.

'It is my duty so to prepare my mind, by storing it with useful
information against the time when I may be too much occupied with the
busy cares of a public life to enjoy the leisure, that I am willing to
employ as you see,' replied the prince.

'A game of tennis in the court below would be a much pleasanter way of
employing both mind and body, my dear lord,' rejoined the other; 'or
what say you of going forth with the hawks to-day?'

'And so to disturb the pretty birds in their happy season of love, and
belike to deprive the helpless nestlings of the cherishing care of some
of their parents for our cruel sport: call you that pleasure, Richard
Grey? Alack, good Richard, I trow you never knew the true meaning of the
word,' said the prince.

At that moment the shrill notes of a trumpet were heard at a distance,
from the London road.

'An express! a royal express!' cried Lord Grey clapping his hands; 'now
I trow we shall have something to think of, and something to do, better
than leading the lives of unfrocked monks in this gloomy abode.'

'Ah! Richard! Richard!'--began the prince--'My dear lord,' interrupted
the volatile youth, 'you must forgive me for leaving you in the very
beginning of your sermon; but I must indeed go find our uncle Rivers,
that there may be no needless delay in opening the mail.'

'Why so impatient?' said the prince; 'the courier is almost a mile
distant, I can tell by the faintness of the blast;' but his companion
was already gone. Prince Edward's eye reverted to the page of the
chronicle of Sir John Froissart, which he was perusing previous to the
interruption he had received from his thoughtless relative, and in the
course of a few moments he was so deeply engrossed in the lively and
chivalric details of the splendid reign of the third Edward, as to be
wholly unconscious of the arrival of the courier, whose approach indeed
he had wholly forgotten, till a tumultuous sound of thronging footsteps,
and a general buzz of eager voices in the gallery leading to the
apartment, announcing that some extraordinary intelligence had been
received, recalled it to his remembrance.

'May I be permitted to be the first to offer the homage of the most
loving of your lieges to your royal Grace,' said the Earl of Rivers, who
now entered with Lord Grey, and bending his knee to his youthful nephew,
saluted him by the title of 'Edward the Fifth, King of England.'

'Your salutation, my sweet uncle, implieth heavy tidings,' said the
young king, bursting into tears; 'and if you knew how sadly it soundeth
in mine ears, you would not smile upon me thus.'

'My royal nephew is to blame in taking the will of God which calls him
to a throne as a grievous dispensation,' observed the Earl of Rivers to
the Lord Richard Grey, the king's half-brother, who stood anxiously
regarding the sorrowful countenance of the new monarch, and endeavoring
by many caresses to soothe his passionate grief.

'Marry, my lord, I think so,' replied the youthful noble. 'The death of
our late lord, King Edward of glorious memory, albeit it was somewhat
before the ordinary course of nature, was after a peaceful fashion, and
not cut short by treason, or accident, or any violent means, which can
be said of few princes in these bloody and troublous times; and we
understand, moreover, from the letters of the queen, my royal mother,
that he died in an odour of sanctity deeply repenting him of the blood
he had shed in the course of the long and perilous struggle he
maintained before he could wrest his rightful inheritance from the
usurping house of Lancaster; and, therefore, we doubt not that he now
sleepeth in the sure hope of a blessed resurrection, in which it
behoveth all his true friends and loving children to rejoice rather than
to weep.'

'Ah, Richard!' said the king sorrowfully, 'it is not so easy to
reconcile an affectionate child to the loss of a parent and protector.
Tell me, fair brother, did you, and your brother Dorset, take the death
of your valiant father, Sir John Grey, so lightly?'

'Marry, my liege, no; but our case was widely different, for he was
slain in the bloody field of Barnet, fighting against his rightful
sovereign our late lord King Edward, of glorious memory; and his death
and the ruin of his cause involved the forfeiture of lands and heritage,
leaving our mother and ourselves in a state of destitution; while you,
my royal lord, are called by the removal of the king, your father, to
the enjoyment of regal dignity, and the fulfilment, as I trust, of a
glorious and happy destiny. What say ye, my masters?' continued he,
turning to some of the knights and nobles who now entered to pay their
court to their sovereign, 'is it not, think ye, a brave thing to be a
king?'

The courtiers were voluble in their assurances that it must be a most
enviable lot.

'Did Edward the Second, Richard the Second, and Henry the Sixth, find it
so?' demanded the young monarch with a sigh.

'My dear lord, why name those unhappy men?' said the Earl of Rivers.
'The misfortunes of the two first were the natural results of their
follies and vices, and the last was a usurper, you know.'

'Did your brave grandfather, Sir Anthony Woodville, consider him in that
light when he lost his life in the battle of St. Albans, fighting in his
cause?' said the king, 'or did you, fair uncle, who have so often worn
the red rose of Lancaster in bloody fields, so regard the sovereign in
whose quarrel you fought?'

'Fie! fie! my liege, you are too sharp in your retorts,' whispered the
Earl in some confusion, on observing a half suppressed sigh from those
around. 'See you not,' continued he, 'the looks which those, who grudge
at the advancement of your mother's kindred, exchange with each other,
on hearing such ill-judged allusions to our former politics?'

'Well, well, good uncle, I meant not to offend you by my plainness of
speech, and I crave your pardon,' returned the king; then rising from
his seat and bowing graciously to his uncle and his little court, he
said, 'I pray your indulgence, my loving lieges, and trust you will hold
me excused for receiving in a sorrowful guise, the homage, which,
however prized by me, having been dearly purchased by a father's death,
cannot be otherwise than painful in the first moments of affliction, on
account of that most sorrowful bereavement.' He covered his face with
his hands as he concluded, and withdrew to an inner apartment.

The royal retinue left Ludlow Castle on the following day, the
queen-mother having directed her brother, the Earl of Rivers, to bring
the young king, his nephew, to London with all convenient speed,
attended by a trusty body of troops, which she begged him to raise
forthwith, to protect the youthful monarch from the evil designs of
Richard duke of Gloucester, the late king's brother, who had long been
at enmity with all her family, and was by them suspected of aiming at
the crown.

Meantime, that subtle politician, whose crooked policy rendered him
extremely eager to get the person of the young king into his possession,
having by his artful letters and deceitful promises succeeded in
beguiling the queen, who was an exceedingly weak woman, into writing
once more to her brother, revoking her prudent directions respecting the
young king's guard, set off post haste, attended by his friend the Duke
of Buckingham, and a considerable body of armed men, in hopes of
intercepting his royal nephew, and his trusty friends, on the road to
London.

When the young king and his company approached the town of Northampton,
where they designed to pass the night, they had the mortification of
learning that it was full of soldiers, the followers and hired retainers
of the Dukes of Gloucester and Buckingham. As these were the declared
foes of his family, the Earl of Rivers considered he had sufficient
cause for uneasiness at this intelligence; but while he halted to
deliberate on the best mode of proceeding in this dilemma, the two
dukes, attended by a few gentlemen only, rode up, and, to his surprise,
greeted him in a very friendly manner, and after assuring him it was
their earnest wish to forget old grudges and every cause of displeasure
that had arisen during the reign of the late king, they said they had
rode forward to let him know that Northampton was ill provided for the
reception of the royal retinue, as it was already occupied by their
followers and retainers, and almost destitute of provisions, and
therefore they advised him to carry the king on to Stony Stratford,
which was twelve miles nearer to London, and contained excellent
accommodations of every kind.

The Earl of Rivers and his friends considered this a much preferable
plan for their royal charge than his passing the night at Northampton,
where he would be so entirely in the power of the strong party of
Gloucester. He assured the two dukes 'that this arrangement would be
perfectly agreeable both to himself and the king, neither of whom had
the slightest wish either to deprive them of their quarters in
Northampton, or to run the risk of a quarrel between their followers
about the accommodations, which might arise if they resolved to pass the
night in a town too small to hold them all with comfort.'

'It was the fear of such a misundersanding that led me to propose the
measure you have so courteously adopted, my Lord Rivers,' said the Duke
of Gloucester, 'for debates between serving folk do too oft lead to
deadly strife among their masters, seeing that each party, in repeating
the tale of their real or imaginary wrongs' doth ever pretend that the
quarrel began with injurious mention of them, by which means they obtain
their suffrages.'

'In confirmation of your observation, my lord Duke,' said the Earl of
Rivers, 'we have only to recall a circumstance, almost within the memory
of some present, to wit, the quarrel between the serving men of the
Cardinal Beaufort and his nephew, the Protector Duke Humphrey of
Gloucester, which bred such fierce hatred between those near kinsmen and
mighty princes as led to the murder of the latter which was, in my
humble opinion, the preliminary step to the downfall of the house of
Lancaster.'

'Your lordship is, of course, a better judge of Lancasterian politics
than I can pretend to be,' observed the Duke of Gloucester drily, 'but
we will not introduce a topic so likely to produce differences between
those whose interest it is to remain friends. In sooth, my lord, we now
are, I trust, united in one sentiment of love and duty to that precious
child, who is so equally near to us both in blood, our hopeful king,
whom I am longing to embrace, and purpose, God willing, to visit at
Stony Stratford, to pay my loving duty unto him.'

'You will be dearly welcome to his Grace, my lord duke,' replied the
Earl, 'and I will ride forward, with pleasure, to advertise King Edward
of your approach.'

'I will propose a better plan, my lord,' said the Duke, 'which is, for
you to give my friends and myself the pleasure of your company to sup
with us, and pass the night at Northampton, to cement our
reconciliation, and in the morning we will ride together to Stratford,
to pay our duty to our royal nephew.'

'Agreed,' said the Earl, who was not willing to prejudice the interests
of the young king by appearing distrustful of the Duke of Gloucester's
overtures of friendship; and, having sent a confidential messenger to
inform Lord Grey and Sir Thomas Vaughan of the arrangement, directed
them to proceed with the king to Stony Stratford, and there to tarry
till he should rejoin them in the morning with the Duke of Gloucester,
he accompanied the latter into the town of Northampton, where he supped
cheerfully, and passed the greater part of the night in friendly and
confidential intercourse, circulating the wine cup with his former
enemies. At a late hour he retired to repose at a commodious inn that
had been appointed for his reception in the town, suspecting no evil
design from those who had lavished so many marks of regard upon him.

The sequel shows how unworthy they were of his confidence, for no sooner
had he retired to rest, than they secured the keys of the inn where he
was sleeping, and posted a number of armed men on the road between
Northampton and Stony Stratford, to prevent anyone from entering that
town to give the alarm to the young king and Earl Rivers's friends and
followers.

At break of day, when they were ready to mount, the Earl was still in
bed and asleep, but one of his attendants finding that no one was
permitted to leave the inn, suspected treachery, and came hastily to
awake him, and acquaint him with the dilemma they were in. The fearful
consequence of the imprudence, of which he had been guilty, flashed upon
the Earl's mind, and hurrying on his clothes, he ordered one of the
doors to be forced open, and proceeded, in some anger, to inquire of the
two dukes the cause of his attempted detention. He found them in the
very humor to give and take offence. The game was now in their own
hands, and they only wanted a pretext for coming to an open rupture with
him. High words presently arose on both sides, the Duke of Gloucester
upbraided him with endeavoring to alienate the affections of the young
king from his nearest relations and most faithful subjects; and refusing
to listen to any explanation or justification, he concluded by arresting
him, and giving him into the custody of some of his attendants, and
without paying the slightest regard to his protestations against such
treacherous usage, he, with the Duke of Buckingham, mounted and rode off
to Stony Stratford, to join the king.

They found the young monarch in a melancholy mood, still lamenting over
the recent loss of the king his father. He received his uncle, the Duke
of Gloucester, with much respect, and courteously accepted the homage
which he and the Duke of Buckingham, with great profession of duty and
loyal affection, offered him; but there was a visible shade of premature
care and sorrow on his youthful brow, and his eyes were frequently
turned towards the door with an expression that plainly indicated his
anxious expectation of some one who came not. At length the Duke of
Gloucester addressed him in these words:--'Fair nephew and my lord, I
have been at the pains of coming hither with a goodly appointed band of
armed men and sundry honorable knights and gentles, in order that I
might attend your grace to London, and enjoy the satisfaction of
presenting you to the good citizens of London as their king.'

'I am grateful for your loving care and courtesy, my lord,' replied the
young king with a deep sigh.

'And,' rejoined the Duke, 'as it is near unto high noon, I hold it time
for us to mount and be going.'

'With your leave, my lord,' replied the king, 'I purpose tarrying for my
uncle Rivers, who left our company last night to hold conference with
your lordship at Northampton; after which I received a message,
purporting to be from him, advertising me that it was his intention to
sup with you and my lord of Buckingham, at your lodgings in that town;
but pledging himself to be with me at an early hour this morning, and I
marvel much that he hath not kept his promise. I hope no misadventure
hath befallen him.'

'Most probably my lord of Gloucester can best explain the reason of our
noble uncle's delay, my royal brother,' said the young lord Grey,
casting a glance of unequivocal meaning upon the Duke of Gloucester.

'The explanation you desire, my fair sir,' returned the duke, 'shall be
given in a very few words. Your uncle Rivers is at present at
Northampton, in safe keeping.'

'In safe keeping!' echoed Lord Grey fiercely, laying hand on his sword,
'who has dared to put restraint upon his noble person?'

The young king, in milder language, but with much emotion, repeated his
brother's question: a fearful suspicion of the truth flashing upon his
mind, and blanching his cheek to a deadly paleness as he spoke.

'I entreat of your grace to be composed,' said the Duke of Gloucester,
'for, in sooth, you are much to blame to agitate yourself on the account
of a false traitor, whom my tender concern for your weal hath compelled
me to place under restraint for a few days, lest his evil practices
should alienate the affections of your loyal subjects from you, and you
should be left like Rehoboam, with only a remnant of the flourishing
kingdom bequeathed by your father.'

'It is not--it cannot be my trusty, my loving uncle Rivers, of whom you
speak, my lord,' exclaimed the king in a tone of great distress. 'Some
villain hath belied him,' continued he, 'but I will be his surety and
pledge my royal word on his loyalty to me and mine.'

'Tut! tut! tut! your grace is a child, and no competent judge of such
matters,' retorted the Duke of Gloucester, 'and since you are so
foolishly blind to the vile arts and treasonable practices of your
maternal kinsman, it is, methinks, high time that persons of maturer
age, and greater discretion than can be expected at your tender years,
should assist you in guiding the helm of state for awhile; and I, as the
only brother of your father, the late king, am generally considered, by
your best friends and most faithful subjects, as your fittest guardian,
however you may prefer the guidance of Rehoboam's counsellors to your
own ruin.'

'As my father's honored brother, and my superior in age and wisdom, I am
in duty bound to listen with submission to your reproofs, my lord duke,'
replied the king, bursting into tears; 'but it is not the bitterness of
your taunts that shall prevent me from maintaining the innocence of my
good uncle Rivers, and demanding his instant enlargement.'

'Spoken like a king and a Plantagenet, my royal brother,' exclaimed Lord
Grey, with kindling eyes.

'Like a rash inconsiderate boy, who is bent on his own destruction,
rather,' observed the Duke of Gloucester, in a low stern voice. 'But
come, my liege, to horse; the day wears apace, and delay is useless.'

'But my uncle, my dear, dear uncle Rivers!' cried the king, wringing his
hands. 'Only restore him to me, and I will be obedient to all your
wishes, uncle Gloucester.'

'Nay, marry, my liege, that is the very way to render you otherwise.
Your uncle Rivers, that false traitor, hath been too long about you for
your own weal. He hath taught you to distrust your real friends, and,
therefore, he must be removed from you a season.'

'Ah, Richard!' said the young monarch, turning with tearful eyes to his
half-brother, Lord Grey, 'you told me, not three days ago, that it was a
brave thing to be a king, and called my followers to bear me witness of
the same. What say you to it now?'

'Say!' muttered Lord Grey between his shut teeth, 'why, that were I a
king, I would on such injurious usage to my friends and kinsmen assert
my prerogative, and let yon misshapen railer know who was his master.'

'Whist, Richard, whist!' whispered Sir Thomas Vaughan, pointing to the
armed men who filled the court yard, 'see you not the wild boar hath his
tusks prepared to rend us. For the love of all the saints, urge not the
young king to chafe him, for the Duke will gladly embrace any pretext
for strife since he is the strongest.'

Lord Grey bit his lip, and with ill dissembled discontent prepared to
follow his royal brother, when, in obedience of a second impatient
summons to mount from the Duke of Gloucester, Edward rose and led the
way to the court yard. The Duke of Buckingham, who had hitherto been a
passive agent in the scene, now started forward with officious haste to
hold the king's stirrup, and contrived to engage him in conversation as
they rode through the town; and by flattering him with hopes of his
uncle's speedy release, so completely beguiled his attention from what
was passing in the rear of the cavalcade, that he was unconscious of the
fact that a brief but fierce altercation between the Duke of Gloucester
and Lord Grey, in which even the wary Sir Thomas Vaughan was involved,
had terminated in the arrest of these and two or three others of his
most devoted friends; nor was it till they halted for dinner that the
king missed his brother, who, in virtue of a post of honour that he held
about his person, always stood behind his chair during that meal.

'Will it not please your grace to sit down to meat,' said the Duke of
Gloucester, on perceiving the king looked inquiringly round him, instead
of placing himself at table.

'Where is the Lord Grey?' demanded the king.

There was an ominous silence among his attendants.

'Where is my brother Richard, Lord Grey?' said the king, repeating his
question, in an authoritative voice.

'Where your grace's faithful counsellors consider it their duty to
dispose of all false-hearted traitors,' replied the Duke of Gloucester.

'And who shall dare to class my true and loving brother, Richard Grey,
with traitors?' retorted the young king with a frown.

'Alack, my liege, I would that painful duty had not fallen to the lot of
your faithful guardian and lightly-regarded uncle, Richard of
Gloucester,' said the duke with a sigh; 'yet so it hath been; for I
grieve to tell you that he and your other maternal brother, Thomas
Marquis of Dorset, have both been engaged in a base conspiracy, to seize
the Tower of London, and make themselves masters of your arms,
treasures, and crown jewels; and your royal person being already in
possession of the said Richard and his party, it was their treasonable
design to govern in your grace's name, and to commit all sorts of
grievous wrong and robbery till the people could bear it no longer.'

'These are grave assertions, my lord,' replied the king; 'but
fortunately the laws of this happy land will not suffer any one to be
treated as guilty upon assertion only.'

'And does your grace assume that I bear false witness against your
traitor brothers?' demanded the Duke of Gloucester.

'Uncle, I said not so,' returned the king; 'but I tell you plainly, I
will not hear the epithet of traitor applied to my mother's sons and
mine own brethren.'

'Not when their vile practices have so deeply earned it?' said the Duke.

'I must first be convinced that such is the fact,' returned the king
gravely. 'Would you, uncle Gloucester, wish to be condemned on the bare
accusation of an enemy?'

'Methinks it would become your grace to treat your uncle more
reverentially than to bandy words with him thus,' said the Duke of
Buckingham, perceiving that his friend, with all his subtlety, knew not
how to answer this home question.

'Ay, my good lord,' rejoined Gloucester, 'and all because his grace is
willing to remain blind to the crimes of the two false traitors, Dorset
and Richard Grey.'

'Respecting my brother Dorset's conduct I can say nothing,' replied the
king, 'for of him, notwithstanding our near relationship, I know little:
and I am aware withal that he has been implicated in a foul deed of
blood, the knowledge of which must deprive him of the confidence of all
good men; I allude, my lord of Gloucester, to the barbarous murder of my
unhappy cousin, Edward of Lancaster.' The changing colour and deadly
glance of vengeful meaning, with which the duke regarded the king,
showed he understood the imprudent inuendo. 'But as for Richard Grey,'
continued the youthful monarch, 'I can and will answer for his
innocence, and I both entreat and command his immediate release.'

'Your grace, although nominally a king, would be wise to refrain from
issuing commands which you have no power to enforce,' said the Duke of
Gloucester coldly.

The king turned away and wept; then, with all the eloquence which his
affectionate nature taught him, he implored him to restore his uncle
Rivers and his brother Richard Grey to him. The duke was inexorable, and
the young monarch gave way to a second passionate burst of grief.
Without regarding his sorrow, the Duke of Gloucester urged him to dine
in a tone that amounted to a command.

'How can I eat when my brother is afflicted and in prison, and fasting
perchance?' said the king; then taking the golden plate (on which the
Duke of Gloucester had, with an officious show of attention, selected
several of the choicest dainties on the table, and placed before him),
he gave it to his page, and said, 'Commend me to my brother, the Lord
Grey, my good Edwin, and tell him his brother Edward of England weeps
for his absence, and beseeches him to dine from his own plate, and to be
of good cheer, and not to omit to remember him in his prayers who will
spend this day in fasting and supplications to Almighty God on his
behalf.' So saying, the young king rose from table, and retired to a
private chamber, where he poured forth the sorrow of his afflicted
spirit in fervent prayer to the Divine Disposer of all earthly events,
imploring His protection for himself, and His mercy for his unfortunate
kinsmen. He was not long permitted to enjoy his lonely communion with
God; for no sooner had the dukes and their attendants dined, than he
received an imperative message from his uncle Gloucester, to make ready
to mount, for it was necessary to continue his journey to London with
all-convenient despatch.

However distasteful this mandate was to the young king, he did not
attempt to dispute it, but after once more commending himself to the
care of Him who hath promised to be a father to the fatherless, he
meekly rejoined his new guardian, and submitted himself to his
direction. Instead of proceeding on the London road, however, the Duke
of Gloucester, by a retrograde route, conducted the king to Northampton,
where he detained him till he was assured that the Earl of Rivers, Lord
Grey, Sir Thomas Vaughan, and all his approved friends and protectors,
were safely lodged in Pontefract Castle, the governor of which was a
creature of his own, and capable of any work of villany. The next
proceeding of the Duke of Gloucester was to remove from the person of
his royal nephew every domestic and officer in whom he appeared to place
the slightest confidence, and the king found himself surrounded by spies
and incendiaries, and deprived of the society of all those on whose
affection and fidelity he had been accustomed to rely. Remonstrance and
complaint were alike unavailing; he perceived that he was, though
treated with all outward marks of deference and stately formality,
neither more nor less than a prisoner in the hands of those on whom he
had too much reason to look with suspicion and aversion.

The Duke of Gloucester did not attempt to conceal from him that the doom
of his beloved friends at Pontefract Castle was sealed; and he tried in
vain to move his obdurate heart, from day to day, with incessant tears
and entreaties in their behalf. There were moments too, when yielding to
the indignation which the conduct of the Duke of Gloucester was
calculated to inspire in a generous bosom, he loaded him with the most
passionate reproaches, and bade him render him the obedience which, as
his sovereign, was his due; but this only drew upon him cutting sarcasms
or was listened to with scornful contempt.

Sometimes, as a desperate resource, the unhappy prince applied himself
to the Duke of Buckingham, and implored his protection and assistance;
but the wily courtier (though he heard him with every show of attention
and interest, and was lavish of soothing words and professions of
affection) was, he quickly perceived, no more disposed to befriend him
than his iron-hearted uncle Gloucester.

The very looks of the attendants and officers that surrounded him
convinced the unhappy Edward that it was a hopeless idea, if he had ever
imagined it possible, to make the slightest impression on them; and
feeling assured of this, he spared himself the bitter humiliation of
receiving a repulse, by refraining from addressing either of them on the
subject nearest his heart.

Thoughts of his distant mother, his beloved brother the young Duke of
York, and the princesses his sisters, to whom every hour now brought him
nearer (for he had recommenced his journey towards the metropolis),
alone prevented him from abandoning himself to utter despair; but from
those dear ones he heard not, and at times his young spirit was
saddened with fears and anxieties on their account. There was no one by
whom he could venture to send his dutiful and loving greetings to the
queen his mother, and the assurances of his tender remembrance to his
brother and sisters, and this grieved him not a little. He doubted not
that many affectionate letters and kind messages from the queen had been
intercepted by his jealous guardian, therefore he did not impute her
silence to any other cause, and eagerly anticipated the time when they
should meet again.

The city of London, meantime, was in a complete ferment, on account of
the late arrests that had taken place at Stony Stratford. Whispers and
dark surmises respecting the conduct of the Duke of Gloucester were in
circulation. It was known that the queen, with the young Duke of York
and the five princesses her daughters, had left the palace in the dead
at night, and taken sanctuary at Westminster in great alarm, as soon as
the intelligence of the seizure of the young king's person by the Duke
of Gloucester, and the arrest of her brother the Earl of Rivers, her son
Lord Grey, and their friends, reached her.

It was rumoured that evil designs were meditated against the king, and
that he was neither more nor less than a prisoner in the hands of his
wicked and ambitious uncle, and the minds of all sorts and conditions
of men were in a state of feverish excitement as to what might be the
event of these things.

The Duke of Gloucester, who was well informed of the dissatisfaction of
the people, found that the only way of quieting their suspicions would
be by producing his royal nephew before them. Accordingly, on the fourth
of May he made his public entry into London, accompanied by a powerful
party of his own, and a splendid train of nobles, who were summoned in
all haste to attend the king, before whom the duke rode bare-headed, and
bowing to the populace right and left, kept perpetually exclaiming in a
loud voice, 'Behold your prince and sovereign!'

The beauty and reflective sweetness of the young king's countenance
attracted all eyes, and the manly grace and spirit with which he managed
his mettled steed, and saluted the ladies (who showered flowers upon him
from the crowded windows and balconies), delighted every one, and the
streets resounded with acclamations of 'God save King Edward and
confound his enemies!'

It was a day of splendid pageantry and universal joy; but it was
observed by many, that, notwithstanding the princely courtesy with which
the youthful monarch acknowledged and returned the loving greetings of
his subjects, there was a sorrowful expression in his eyes, and his very
smile was full of sadness. He appeared to take little pleasure in the
gay and animating scene in which, though he bore so distinguished a
part, he was too well aware he was only a gilded puppet, played off by
the hands of his guileful kinsman, to suit his own ends, and to give a
color to his secret plans of treason.

The princely boy felt too that, amidst the thronging multitudes that
came to gaze upon him, he was a lonely being, without one friend on
whose affection he could rely, or to whom he could breathe a single word
in confidence. He turned inquiring glances on the faces of the nobles
that surrounded him; but they were all picked men, and in the Duke of
Gloucester's interest. They preserved a cold formal demeanour of outward
respect; but the youthful monarch perceived that from them it would be
in vain to expect sympathy or service. He thought of his beloved
relatives then in unjust confinement in their gloomy prison of
Pontefract Castle, and of his fond mother, and the dear companions of
his childhood, who had been compelled to seek an asylum in the
sanctuary; and in spite of his endeavours to restrain them, tears filled
his eyes. The pageant was joyless, the music discord, and the stately
ceremonials weariness and vexation of spirit to him; and when the
procession reached Ely House, which was appointed for his temporary
residence, he gladly sought the privacy of his chamber, that he might
relieve his full heart by weeping unobserved.

'In tears, my royal lord?' said a soothing voice near him.

The young king, who thought he had been alone, hastily dashed away the
sorrowful drops in great confusion, and essayed to force a smile as he
raised his eyes slowly to the face of the unknown witness of his
emotion.

'It will not do, King Edward, it will not do!' said the intruder, who
was no other than his host, the Bishop of Ely. 'Alas, poor child! it is
easy for thee to learn the courtly lesson of covering a heart of tears
with a face of smiles!'

'You are a shrewd observer, my lord,' said the young king, looking
anxiously in the bishop's face.

'I am a stranger, and your grace would fain inquire whether I may be
trusted?' said the bishop.

'I believe, and am sure you may,' replied the king to whose ear the
voice of kindness had long been strange, eagerly pressing his hand.

'Your Grace's confidence is not misplaced,' said the prelate; 'but O
beware, my son, of trusting too readily to soft words and plausible
appearances.'

'Oh that my dear uncle Rivers had learned that lesson,' replied the king,
'then had he not been so easily beguiled by his subtle enemies. But
tell me, my lord bishop, is there no means by which his deliverance, and
that of my loving brother, the Lord Grey, may be effected?'

'I fear, I fear those noble lords are in hands from which no deliverance
may be hoped; Sir Richard Ratcliff, the governor of Pontefract Castle,
is a bold bad man, who will not scruple to execute any mandate of blood
he may receive from his patron, the Duke----'

The king looked apprehensively round, as if fearful of the bishop's
pronouncing the name of his uncle Gloucester, and softly pressing his
arm, whispered, 'What tidings of the queen my mother, my sweet brother
York, and my beloved sisters. Are they all well?'

'They are all well, my dear lord.'

'And safe?'

'As safe as holy church privilege of sanctuary can keep them, but of
sorrowful cheer.'

'But will you go to them, my lord bishop?' said the king, 'and will you
comfort my royal mother, and bear my loving and dutiful greetings to
her, and assure her of my health and present safety; and will you kiss
my little brother the Duke of York, for me, and commend me to all my
sweet sisters, Elizabeth, Cicely, Anne, Catharine, and baby Bridget, and
tell them I live in hopes of embracing them all once more, and were I
free to do so, I would hasten to them, and deliver mine own greetings;
for neither you, my lord bishop, however kind, nor any one beside
myself, can tell half the love for them with which my heart overflows.'

'I am loth to check the sweet breathings of that natural affection which
doth so well become your royal grace,' said the bishop: 'but remember,
our conference is too perilous to be prolonged.'

'Well then, my kind lord, we will separate, and abstain from all
apparent friendship with each other,' said the king; 'nevertheless, it
will be a solace to my sad heart to know that I am under the roof of a
good man, and I shall eat of your bread, my lord of Ely, with pleasure;
and if ever I am permitted to govern for myself, you shall be the most
honoured of my counsellors.'

The bishop regarded the princely speaker with a melancholy smile, and
pressing the hand that was so frankly extended to him to his lips, he
glided from the apartment through the private door of communication with
his own study, by which he entered it.

On rejoining the company at dinner, it was observed that the young
king's manner was more cheerful than it had been for many days, and
though he avoided conversing with the bishop of Ely, he could not
refrain looking upon him at times with an expression of such
affectionate regard, that the suspicions of his wily uncle, by whom he
was narrowly watched, were excited, and he instantly resolved to remove
the royal youth from under the roof of the worthy prelate. Nor did he
delay longer than the following day making his purpose known to the
young king, whom he found alone in the episcopal library, deeply engaged
in reading a curiously illuminated MS. work, written by Alfred the
Great, intitled, 'The various Fortunes of Kings.'

'I am sorry to be under the necessity of interrupting your grace in the
pleasant and profitable occupation of pursuing your studies,' said the
duke, 'but it is expedient that you should make yourself ready to remove
immediately from Ely House to the Tower.'

The cheek of the young king faded to the most deadly paleness at this
announcement, and dropping the roll of vellum from his cold and
trembling hand, he exclaimed,

'To the Tower, uncle! O surely you do not mean to send me there!'

'And why should you object to take up your temporary residence in that
ancient abode of royalty where so many of your ancestors, the kings of
England, have kept court?' asked the duke.

'Oh, my lord!' replied the king, fixing his eyes steadily upon the
guilty countenance of his conscious uncle, 'the Tower has been a place
so fatal of late to princes, that I cannot contemplate without horror
the prospect of going thither.'

'Do you presume, ungrateful boy, to suspect _me_ of entertaining evil
designs against you?' returned the duke, becoming pale with suppressed
anger.

'God forbid that I should imagine you capable, uncle, of acting so foul
a part as to betray the solemn trust that you have undertaken,' replied
the king, bursting into tears, 'so far as to seek the life of a helpless
orphan, of whom you style yourself the protector.'

'Why then these childish tears, and this perverse reluctance to comply
with my arrangements?' asked the duke sternly.

The king continued to weep. His uncle regarded him with a contemptuous
expression of countenance.

'Have pity upon me, uncle,' said the king, 'and do not send me to that
den of blood and midnight murders, the Tower. Let me remain here, and
complete my studies under the direction of the good Dr. Morton.'

'No, no,' replied the duke, 'short as has been your sojourn at Ely
House, you have been under the direction of that wily priest too long,
my lord, and you go hence this very day.'

'Well, then, take me to Crosby House, your own palace, uncle, where I
shall be too immediately under your own eye for you to entertain
suspicions of my holding intercourse with forbidden persons,' said the
king imploringly.

'And why should you prefer my poor abode of Crosby House to your own
royal residence, the Tower of London?' demanded the duke with a
scrutinizing look.

'Because, my lord, I shall there be under the loving care of your noble
consort, my kind aunt the Duchess of Gloucester, and enjoy the society
of my fair young cousin Prince Edward, your son,' replied the king,
taking his uncle's hand caressingly, and gazing anxiously in his face,
in the vain hope of softening his obdurate heart by alluding to these
supposed objects of his affection.

'No, no, King Edward,' returned the duke, 'you have been too long under
the tutelage of your mother's traitor brother, the Earl of Rivers, to
admit you into mine own domicile. Why, the Duchess Anne, my wife, and
you, would encourage each other in contumacious resistance of my will,
and between ye both, my dutiful and hopeful boy would learn perversity
and disobedience; besides,' added he, softening his voice on perceiving
the proud flush that overspread the countenance of his royal nephew at
this rude rejoinder, 'my house is meanly furnished, and wholly
unprovided for the reception of my sovereign; therefore, my gracious
liege, it is a matter of necessity that you should keep court at the
Tower till after your coronation, which I propose to take place very
speedily.'

'Then may I not be permitted to see the queen my mother, my dear
brother, and my gentle sisters? demanded the king.

'It is no fault of mine, that they have not been, ere now, to pay their
duty to your Grace,' said the duke; 'but that evil woman, the queen your
mother, hath perversely betaken herself to sanctuary, with Prince
Richard and your sisters, with whom she contumaciously refused to part,
even for an hour.'

'The manner of your dealing with her brother, mine honoured uncle
Rivers, and her son the Lord Grey, hath made her suspicious of you,
uncle Gloucester,' replied the king; 'but if you will permit me to visit
her in the sanctuary'--

'I shall permit your grace to do no such thing,' interrupted the Duke
sharply.

'You will not, at any rate, refuse me the liberty of writing to my royal
mother,' said the king.

'Not if you will endeavour to prevail upon her to deliver up the Duke of
York, your brother, whom she hath stolen away.'

'It would ill become me, at my tender years, to presume to dictate to my
royal mother in any thing,' replied the young king, gravely, 'but
especially in a matter that doth so nearly touch herself and of which
she must of necessity be a far more competent judge than myself.'

'But you have lately complained of loneliness and want of meet
associates, my fair nephew,' said the duke, 'and who should be so
suitable a companion for you, both in your studies and your pastimes, as
the young prince your brother. Would you not wish to have him with you,
Edward?'

'Not if I purchased that pleasure by being the cause of tearing him from
my mother's arms, who hath sorrows enow, without being deprived of him.'

'She cannot long withhold him from the demands of the nation, whose
property he is; and therefore, King Edward, you would do wisely to
persuade her to yield him up with a good grace,' said the duke.

'I have already told you, my lord, that I will not attempt to influence
my royal mother's conduct. Doubtless she hath good reasons, and prudent
advisers for what she doth,' said the king.

'Then,' said the duke, 'I will not permit you to hold any intercourse
with her, even by letter.'

'You have no right, my Lord of Gloucester, to prevent it,' retorted the
king, with a heightened colour.

'Ay, but I possess the power,' rejoined the duke, as he left the room.

The bishop of Ely entered a moment after.

'Oh! my dear lord,' cried the king, throwing himself into his arms, 'I
appeal to you for protection and deliverance from the tyrannical usage
of my uncle Gloucester, who refuses to allow me to see or even to write
to my mother, and is about to remove me, against my own consent, from
your hospitable mansion to the Tower.'

'I grieve to learn it,' said the bishop, 'the more so, because my
unavailing sympathy is all that I can offer to your Grace.'

'Oh! but my Lord,' returned the king, 'it was only yesterday that you
promised to be my friend.'

'And so I am, poor child, and so I will be, God willing, but at present
I have no power to aid you.'

'O yes, indeed you have; you can assist me to escape from my uncle's
custody.'

'And whither would you go, supposing that were possible?' asked the
bishop.

'I would join my mother in the sanctuary at Westminster, or I would flee
to the trusty Lord Hastings my father's friend, and implore his
protection, if you would but permit me to pass these gates,' said the
king eagerly.

'Alas! dear child, you know not of what you are talking. You flee from
the custody of your watchful uncle? You break the meshes of the guileful
web in which that cruel spider hath entangled you? You pass these gates
through my connivance, who am myself a prisoner in my own palace, and
ever since your abode here have been watched even more jealously than
your royal self? Those of mine own household are spies over me, and
believe me, young Plantagenet, it is at positive peril of my life that I
hold conference with you now.'

'Leave me then to my unhappy fate,' said the king, weeping. 'I would not
requite your kindness, my lord bishop, by exposing you to the malice of
one who appears bent on the ruin of every creature who is united to me,
either by blood or friendship.'

'Alas! my royal lord, I fear it is even so,' returned the bishop,
tenderly embracing the king, and mixing his tears with his. 'But comfort
thee, my son, though environed with dangers, thou art not forsaken, for
thy Heavenly Father is still present to protect thee; and if thy trust
be in His mercy, by his everlasting arms shalt thou be supported and
upheld under every trial--and here,' continued the good prelate, taking
his breviary from the folds of his gown, and putting it into the hand of
the king, 'shalt thou find that from which thou shalt draw consolation
and support in the deepest moments of affliction.'

'May God bless and reward you for your kindness to a friendless orphan,
my good lord,' said the king reverently placing the splendidly bound and
embroidered volume in his bosom. 'You will not forget me in your
prayers, holy father,' continued he, raising to the face of the bishop
his soft blue eyes, on whose long and shadowy fringes the tear drops
still hung.

'Nor yet in my daily thoughts, my liege,' replied the prelate: 'rely
upon it,' added he, lowering his voice to a whisper, and pressing his
hand significantly on the shoulder of the royal youth, 'I shall concert
with Dr. Rotherham the Archbishop of York, and with those powerful peers
the Lord Hastings and Stanley, for the appointment of a proper council
of regency, to act in some measure as a check upon the despotic
proceedings of your uncle.'

'And you will tell the queen my mother, that you have seen me, and
deliver my greetings to her grace,' said the king eagerly.

'Fear not,' replied the bishop, and left him.

That evening the king was with great pomp conducted, by the Duke of
Gloucester, to the royal apartments in the Tower.

Notwithstanding all the encouragement he had received from the worthy
prelate, it was with a heavy heart that King Edward left the pleasant
episcopal palace for a dreaded abode in that dreary fortress where so
many deeds of darkness had been perpetrated.

A general chill came over him as its gloomy portals expanded to receive
him, and, grasping his uncle's arm in the strong revulsion which he felt
against crossing that fatal threshold, he exclaimed, 'O! uncle, do not
compel me to enter this ill-omened place.'

'Does this childish terror become a king and a Plantagenet?' asked the
Duke of Gloucester contemptuously. 'Of what, let me ask you, are you
afraid?'

'I am not afraid, my Lord Duke,' replied the young king, colouring
indignantly, 'but, if the truth must be spoken, I will acknowledge to
you, that I cannot overcome the reluctance I feel to take up my abode in
a place that has so recently been polluted with the foul murder of my
uncle Clarence.'

'God certainly has threatened to visit the sins of the father upon the
children,' retorted the Duke, becoming very pale; 'and as my unfortunate
brother Clarence was done to death by your father King Edward's order,
it is not wonderful that you should feel uneasy on that account.'

'Ah! uncle, uncle!' said the king, 'report wrongs you much if _you_ were
not the man who moved my father to yield a reluctant consent to that
fearful deed, which I pray may never be visited on the heads of his
innocent offspring.'

The brow of the Duke of Gloucester became black as midnight as he
muttered, 'And am I to be twitted by my brother Edward's brats with
crimes of his committing? I suppose I shall hear next that it was I who
stabbed Henry of Lancaster, as he happened to die in this place!'

'And did you not?' asked the young king with great simplicity.

'O, I have been misrepresented to your kingship in brave colours, I
find,' exclaimed the Duke angrily, 'thanks to the queen your mother, and
your late governor and counsellors, my lords Rivers and Grey, but they
will soon pay the penalty of their crimes, which your perversity will
have the effect of hastening.'

'Oh, say not so, my lord!' exclaimed the king in agony; 'only spare my
uncle Rivers and my brother Grey, and I will go where you will, and
become obedient to all your wishes.'

'Compose yourself then, and enter your royal apartments here with the
calm dignity that becomes a king, and I shall take the case of the
prisoners at Pontefract into consideration,' said the Duke of
Gloucester, 'and if it be possible to show any lenity to such vile
traitors, I will endeavor to do so, since they are so dear to you.'

These words, however fair, were too ambiguous to inspire the sad heart
of his royal nephew with much hope for his unfortunate relatives; and
his dejection of spirit was increased by the profound solitude and
gloomy magnificence of the spacious suite of apartments, into which he
was introduced with great ceremony by Sir Robert Brackenbury, the
lieutenant of the Tower, who respectfully inquired 'if his Grace
required any other conveniences?'

'I should be glad of writing materials and books, wherewith to recreate
my solitary hours,' replied the king, looking round him with a
melancholy air.

'The first I am not at liberty to supply your Grace with,' replied
Brackenbury; 'respecting the last I have received no prohibition from
the Duke of Gloucester; and your Grace will find a goodly store of
learned books and rare MSS. in a closet through your sleeping apartment,
which is well adapted for the purposes of study and meditation, if your
Grace delight in such occupations: these things were brought hither for
the divertisement of the lonely hours of King Henry the Sixth, and have
not been removed since.'

'And was he the last tenant of these apartments?' demanded Edward with a
sigh.

'The last, please your royal Grace, and albeit I should not speak his
praises to your royal Grace, seeing he was accounted by your royal
father as a foe--and, woe worth the day! dealt with as such in the end;
yet he was the meekest, the kindest, and the most heavenly-minded prince
I ever had the honor of serving. One, my gracious Lord, of whom the
world was not worthy--but I am too bold in discoursing thus to your
Grace of the rival House of Lancaster.'

'Not so,' replied the king; 'I love to hear of Holy King Henry, and
shall feel as if these gloomy apartments had been sanctified by his
use;--but what are yonder dark stains upon the wainscot and the floor of
this chamber, Brackenbury?'

'Do not ask me!' said Brackenbury, becoming very pale; 'every
prison-house hath its secrets, which may not be revealed by its keeper.'
So saying, he withdrew.

The young king remained for a while immovable, with his eyes fixed on
the fatal spot where he felt assured that blood--royal blood--had been
spilt; and when one of the officers of the Tower entered to inquire
whether it pleased him to have supper served up, he pointed to the
stain, and asked him what it was.

'The blood of Henry of Lancaster!' replied the man bluntly. 'Will it
like your Grace to sup?'

'No,' replied the king, shuddering; 'I cannot eat to-night:' and the
officer withdrew.

With the conviction that he was a prisoner, came also to Edward's mind
the suspicion that he was brought hither as a victim, to be immolated at
the shrine of his uncle's overweening ambition; and as he from time to
time glanced upon the indelible witness of the murder that had been
perpetrated by the remorseless hand of Gloucester in that very chamber,
he felt all the horrors of his situation, and with trembling minuteness
examined if any lurking murderer were concealed behind the tapestry
hangings, or beneath the rich black velvet draperies of the plumed and
canopied bed of state, whose heavy hearse-like form and sable hue
appeared as if purposely contrived to increase the gloom of the chamber.
Then reflecting that however encompassed he might be with dangers, he
had done nothing to forfeit the protection of his Heavenly Father, he
drew the breviary of the worthy bishop from his bosom, and kneeling
down, composed his agitated mind to prayer and devout meditation, and
after spending nearly an hour in this employment, he sought his lonely
pillow, and tasted that peaceful repose which innnocence can enjoy even
within the dreary walls of a prison and a slaughterhouse.

The next day, a council was held in the star chamber, in which the Duke
of Gloucester's master project of getting the young Duke of York into
his own possession, by either prevailing upon the queen his mother to
resign him, or in case of her continuing obstinate in her refusal to
give him up, to take him from her perforce, was fiercely debated. The
Duke of Gloucester in a long and elaborate speech, set forth the ill
effects that would in all probability result to the nation at large, but
more especially to the young king and his regency, from the queen's
needless precipitation, in taking sanctuary with the royal children, and
her perversity in continuing there, and detaining the young prince from
the king his brother, who was so desirous of his company. In short, he
said it would be the most impolitic thing in the world for the
government to be tamely set at defiance by a weak woman, and concluded
with recommending the young Duke of York to be taken from the sanctuary
by force, if the queen refused to yield him to the demands of the
council.

The Bishop of Ely and the Cardinal Archbishop of Canterbury replied at
great length to this speech, insisting on the privileges of sanctuaries,
which even the worst of tyrants had scrupled to violate; but the
cardinal, who was a weak man, in the sequel consented to go to the queen
and demand the young prince of her in the name of the council, and
endeavor to prevail upon her to avert the violence which was threatened
by giving up the child peaceably.

Accompanied by several lords and members of the council, the cardinal
archbishop entered the sanctuary, where he found the unfortunate queen
attired in the deepest weeds of widowhood, and looking the image of woe,
seated on the rushes which had been strown on the cold stones for the
accommodation of herself and her helpless family, by whom she was
surrounded, and who by their affectionate endearments were endeavoring
to soothe the passionate sorrow of their afflicted mother.

The lovely countenances of the two elder princesses, Elizabeth and
Cicely, were expressive of the most touching melancholy. Grief for the
recent death of their royal father, the distress in which they saw their
mother involved, and uncertainty as to the fate of their uncle Rivers
and their maternal brother, mingled with some apprehensions respecting
the safety of their young king, together with undefined fears on their
own accounts, had evidently had the effect of casting a temporary shade
over their opening bloom of early womanhood. The vivacity and gay
spirits of the young Duke of York and his little sisters, though they
did not fully comprehend the cause of the distress they witnessed, had
been greatly subdued by confinement in this dreary abode, and the grief
of their mother and the elder princesses. They did not weep with them
it is true, but they had a mournful and dejected air very unusual in
children of their tender age, and they appeared to shrink with alarm and
aversion from the slightest proximity to the rude and ruffian crew whose
crimes had compelled them to take refuge in the sanctuary.

The deep mourning, the infant innocence and unaffected sorrow, together
with the distinguished beauty of the royal children, rendered them a
group of such touching interest, that neither the cardinal, nor the
noblemen who attended him on his mission, could behold them without
emotion.

At the approach of strangers, the younger children clung to their mother
in alarm, but the eyes of the elder princesses and the young Duke of
York became animated with hope and expectation. The queen's countenance
wore a doubtful expression, on the first address of the cardinal, which
was couched in very soothing and respectful language; but when he went
on to explain the full meaning of his errand, she interrupted him with
great warmth, to enlarge on the sacredness of the privilege of
sanctuaries, and to assure him she would rather die than part with her
children.

'But your Grace is not required to part with any but the Duke of York,'
said the cardinal; 'and surely you would not wish to withhold him from
the arms of the king his brother, who is so desirous of his company that
he pines for him incessantly.'

'Then let him come hither, and he shall behold him,' said the queen.

'The king's guardians and council do not consider it proper to introduce
his royal Grace into the contagion of such a scene as this,' replied the
cardinal, glancing significantly at the rabble rout, who, with
ill-mannered curiosity had drawn as near as their limits would allow to
the royal group. 'Believe me,' continued he, 'your Grace is much to
blame to bring your royal daughters and this tender prince into a place
so manifestly improper for them.'

The princesses Elizabeth and Cicely looked much distressed; but the
queen replied, by pouring forth a torrent of passionate invectives
against the oppression and cruelty of the Duke of Gloucester to herself
and all her family, which had compelled her to seek a refuge for herself
and her royal children among murderers, robbers, and outlaws of every
denomination, in whose neighborhood, she concluded by saying, 'she knew
she could more safely trust them, than in the keeping of their ambitious
uncle.'

'Nay, Madam, unless you will talk more reasonably,' said the cardinal,
'I fear we must leave you to the decision of the council, which is, that
unless you think proper to render up the young Duke of York to their
requisition, they have resolved to take him from you perforce.'

'Ay, but they dare not violate the privilege of sanctuary to do that,'
retorted the queen.

'Your Grace's prudent compliance with the wish of the nation, and the
earnest desire of your royal son, shall spare the necessity of such a
deed, I trust,' replied the cardinal. 'How say you, my little lord,'
said he, addressing the Duke of York; 'would you not like to leave this
dismal place, and go with me to the king your brother?'

'Oh, indeed I should!' replied the young prince, 'and I do not like
being here at all; for though it is the merry month of May, I can
neither see the flowers nor the pleasant green fields, nor hear the song
of the pretty birds.'

'But if you will go with me, my Lord,' said the cardinal, 'you shall
pass your time in pleasant sports in the palace gardens, the live-long
day, with King Edward your brother, and the young lords of his court;
and you shall ride forth with him on a princely steed, to hunt the deer
with him through his royal parks and pleasaunces, with cheerly sounds of
hounds and horns.'

'Oh mother, mother!' cried the boy, clinging to the queen's arm, 'let
me go with these noble lords to the king my gentle brother.'

'And would you leave your tender mother, ungrateful child?' said the
queen.

'Dear mother, I am weary of this dismal place, and I would fain go forth
to see the pleasant fields and green woods, and take my pastime in the
gardens once more.'

'Ah, Richard, Richard, heed not the deceitful words of those who would
fain win thee from my sheltering arms to work thy woe, my simple child!'
said the queen, drawing him closer to her.

'Fie, madam, what strange perversity is this, to put such cruel
constraint on the natural inclination of this fair young prince, whose
brotherly affection doth so powerfully impel him to obey the mandate of
the king,' said the cardinal. 'Why should you wish to keep those apart
whom nature hath so fondly united in the sweet bonds of fraternal love?'

'God knoweth, my Lord,' said the queen, 'that our separation from my
royal Edward is my greatest grief, but how shall I, who have had such
bitter proofs of the enmity of the Duke of Gloucester to me and mine,
venture to trust both these my precious ones in the clutches of that
ravenous wolf, who is panting to destroy them?'

'Hush, royal lady, we must not hear you speak thus unadvisedly of that
noble prince the Duke of Gloucester, who in sooth appears most lovingly
disposed to his royal nephews,' said the cardinal.

'It may be so,' replied the queen with a sigh, 'but he cannot expect the
mother of the Lord Richard Grey to trust another of her sons in his
keeping while she can withhold him.'

'But the fair young prince is himself desirous of going; are you not, my
lord of York?' said the cardinal.

'Ay, marry, my lord, am I,' replied the young duke sturdily, 'and I will
go in faith, if you can persuade the queen my mother to part with me.'

'Her Grace will be wise to consent at once, since her refusal will avail
nothing, as matters stand,' said the cardinal; 'and I will be surety
that no harm shall befall to this sweet child.'

'Ah York, my pretty York! and must I then part with thee, my precious
child?' exclaimed the queen, snatching the young prince to her bosom in
a transport of maternal grief and tenderness; and, bursting into a
passion of tears, she delivered him to the cardinal, with a solemn
charge to be watchful over him, and telling him that if any harm befel
him, she should require him at his hands.

'Richard, sweet brother Richard, will you leave us?' exclaimed his
sisters, weeping and hanging round him.

'Fair sisters, I will bring our royal brother, King Edward, with all his
valiant knights and nobles, to take you and the queen our mother from
this ugly place,' responded the young prince, breaking from their
sorrowful embraces.

'Nay, tarry, tarry, gentle brother, for we cannot part with you thus,'
cried the Lady Elizabeth, his eldest sister, fondly detaining him.

'Oh, but, sweet sister mine, I am so longing to be forth of these
imprisoning walls, that I cannot stay with you,' cried the impatient
boy.

'Ah, pretty York! you know not whither you are hastening, or what dark
destiny you may be leaving us to fulfil,' said the princess, folding him
in a parting embrace.

'Farewell, farewell, my precious child!' exclaimed his weeping mother;
'may good angels be thy speed, and guard thee from every adversity that
may threaten thee.'

The younger children lifted up their voices and wept aloud, when they,
though happily unconscious of his peril, saw their beloved brother
depart with the cardinal and the other lords and gentlemen, who had been
deputed by the council to fetch him. As for the queen, ere the doors of
the church had fully shut the boy from her fond eyes, her heart misgave
her that she had done wrong in resigning him, and she flung herself
upon the pavement with such a passionate burst of grief, that the hearts
of the most obdurate of the hardened ruffians in the precincts of
sanctuary were melted at the sight of her distress, which her sorrowful
daughters vainly strove to soothe by their tender caresses.

Prince Richard, meantime, with all the thoughtless vivacity of
childhood, skipping gaily by the cardinal's side, entered the
star-chamber, where the Duke of Gloucester, with the other members of
the council, were waiting the return of the embassage to the queen, and
beginning to marvel at their long delay.

There was a general murmur of admiration in the council room at the
sprightly beauty and bold bearing of the princely child, who had only
just entered his ninth year; and the Duke of Gloucester, rising from his
seat, eagerly advanced to meet him, and taking him up in his arms
several times, exclaiming, 'Now welcome, my dear lord, with all my
heart!'

'Where is my brother, King Edward?' cried the young duke, struggling to
escape from his uncle's arms.

'Have patience a moment, fair nephew, and I will conduct you to your
royal brother, who will be dearly glad to see you,' said the Duke of
Gloucester with a smile.

'Oh! but I want to see him now,' rejoined the prince impatiently; 'I
thought I should have seen him on his throne there, which you have no
right to be seated upon, uncle Gloucester.'

'That is not a throne, you simple child,' returned the duke; 'it is only
a chair of state.'

'And pray, good uncle, what is a throne, if it be not a chair of state?'
retorted the prince.

'Go to! go to, Prince Richard, you are too sharp for me,' replied the
Duke of Gloucester, affecting to join in the general laugh; 'but we
shall have no business done in council to-day, if we attend to your
prating, so I suppose I must take you to pay your duty to King Edward
your brother.'

The young king was in a melancholy mood, endeavoring to divert his sad
thoughts among the precious relics of the learning of past ages with
which he was surrounded, when the door was softly unclosed, and his
little brother bounded into his arms and overwhelmed him with caresses.

Edward, who though he knew not how to account for his appearance, was
delighted to see him, returned his endearments with interest, and
clasping him to his bosom, laughed and wept alternately in the fulness
of his heart.

'But how came you hither, my sweet brother York?' exclaimed he, when the
first transport of his surprise and pleasure would give him leave to
speak.

'My uncle Gloucester brought me hither, dearest Edward, and be careful
what you say of him,' said the young prince archly, 'for he is at the
door listening to our conference, in hopes of hearing some ill of
himself I suppose, knowing I love him not, and belike suspecting that he
is not very dear unto your Grace.'

'Fie, Richard, you will make me chide you it you talk so
inconsiderately,' said the king, tenderly embracing his thoughtless
brother.

'How likes your Grace the companion I have brought you?' said the Duke
of Gloucester, fully unclosing the door which stood ajar, and advancing.

'It would have been a difficult matter to provide me with one more dear,
my lord,' replied the king, raising his eyes to his uncle's face with
one of those sunny smiles which had long been strangers to his noble
features.

'Then see you use him lovingly,' rejoined the duke, and left the royal
brothers to themselves.

The young king then requested his brother to give a particular account
of all that had befallen himself, the queen their mother, and the
princesses, since the death of the late king their father.

'I shall never forget what a sorrowful time it was,' said the little
prince, 'when the shrieks of my mother and sisters, and the
lamentations of their women, first told me the sad tidings of my
father's death.'

'Alas!' observed the young king, 'how differently was that sorrowful
event revealed to me by smiling relatives and flattering courtiers, who
crowded round me in eager rivalry which should be the first to tell me I
was a king. But I interrupt you in your sad relation, my sweet brother.'

'The next thing I remember, dear Edward,' continued the prince, 'was
being roused from my peaceful slumbers at midnight by a confused sound
of sorrowful voices, and busy hurrying to and fro in the palace; and
while I was yet casting about in my mind what this should mean, much
fearing that some new calamity had befallen us, my weeping nurse came to
my bedside, and bade me rise in haste to accompany the queen my mother
and my sisters into sanctuary. Sleepy and frightened as I was, dear
Edward, I grew wayward, and told the nurse I would not leave my bed to
go abroad into the dark ugly night, for it blew a heavy gale, the rain
and hail pattered against the windows, and I heard the sullen roaring of
the river, so I crept under the bed-clothes, and bade nurse begone; but
the next moment my dear mother entered, with pale cheeks and streaming
eyes, and, snatching me up in her arms, cried in a piercing voice of
distress,

'Richard! my darling, my precious boy! you must away with me, for your
cruel uncle Gloucester hath arrested, and I fear me slain your valiant
uncle Rivers, and your brother Richard Grey, and seized the person of
the young king your brother at Northampton; and next he will seek our
lives, my sweet child, therefore must we to the sanctuary at Westminster
with what speed we may!'

'She then wrapped me hastily in her mantle, and bore me in her own arms,
in all my night-clothes as I was, across the palace yard, attended by my
brother Dorset, and followed by my weeping sisters, Elizabeth, Cicely,
and Anne, and the nurses carrying the sleeping Catherine and Bridget;
and when we came to a postern door in the Abbey, my brother Dorset
knocked there with the hilt of his sword, and prayed the porter for
admittance into the sanctuary for a sorrowful widow and her orphan
babes, who were enforced to flee from a wicked prince, who sought to
kill them for the sake of their inheritance. So, after consulting with
the good dean, we were permitted to enter; and some of our faithful
servants brought beds and other conveniences from the palace for our
use, and we have abode in the sanctuary ever since. Now, Edward, a
sanctuary is a very dismal place----'

'Know you not, my fair brother, that I was born in that same sanctuary
during the troublous wars of the roses,' said the king.

'Yes, Edward, my mother said that you were born at a heavy time for our
parents; and often she has told us of her affliction during the perilous
rebellion of Warwick the king maker, who took our royal father prisoner,
which enforced her to flee from this Tower of London (where she then
kept court), by water to Westminster, where she took sanctuary, and was
delivered of you in the Jerusalem chamber. We had no such comfortable
lodgings, I trow, during our sad sojourn in the Abbey.'

'But how came you forth of the sanctuary, my sweet brother?' asked the
king.

'Forsooth, because the lords o' the council sent the Cardinal Archbishop
to fetch me forth.'

'Did they violate the privilege of sanctuary, and take you thence
perforce?' asked the king.

'No; for the queen my mother yielded to my entreaties, and let me go.'

'Yielded to your entreaties!' echoed the king, 'and did you wish to
leave her, Richard?'

The young prince looked down, blushed, and after a moment's reflection
said: 'I thought it was my duty to obey your royal mandate, Edward, and
therefore I came unto you when I heard it was your desire to see me, and
have me with you.'

'Ah Richard! you have been deceived,' replied the king sorrowfully. 'I
sent not for you; and, however dearly I desired your company, I knew too
well how deeply being deprived of you would add to our royal mother's
afflictions to require it, and moreover, Richard, I will not conceal
from you my sad suspicion that I stand in peril of my life from the dark
devices of one who aspires not only to govern in my name, but actually
to wear my crown; but while you were safe with the queen in the
sanctuary, which bold as he is he dared not violate, his taking my life
would have availed him little, since you would have succeeded to my
lawful title, and the people, being roused to indignation by so foul a
deed as shedding the blood of an orphan nephew and his king, he knew
would espouse your cause. Thus you see, dear Richard, _your_ safety was
_my_ security; but now he has succeeded in getting you into his power
also, it will be easy for him to cut us both off at one blow.'

'But, my royal brother, as you are a king, why do not you attaint that
false traitor, and order his head to be struck off on Tower Hill hard
by, and then cause it to be set up on a spear over Ludgate, or on the
Bridge?' exclaimed Prince Richard fiercely.

'Gramercy, little York! you are for summary proceedings, I find. Go to,
I love not to see you so bloodily disposed against your enemies,' said
the king.

'I have heard my royal father say that the _lex talionis_ was the
fashion of our house. So, Edward, I can quote latin for what I say,'
replied the young duke.

'The law of retaliation is not the divine law of God, by which we are
commanded to love our enemies,' said the king.

'I never could love any one that did me wrong,' observed Prince Richard.

'Then your heart is not with God, my brother, or you would endeavor to
obey his precepts,' said the king. 'But, with regard to that which you
were so earnest with me to do, even if I had the wish to punish my
ambitious uncle for his evil deeds, I have not the power.'

'Nay, Edward, you are mocking me now! why do not you call upon your
trusty peers, and valiant knights, to perform your royal hests?' said
Prince Richard.

'I fear _they_ would _mock me_ if I did,' returned the youthful monarch
with a sigh; 'for, Richard, I am friendless and alone.'

'Friendless and alone!' echoed the young prince in surprise; 'where is
your royal court?'

'My uncle says it is here,' returned the king.

'Here!' rejoined the Duke of York, looking round in some alarm; 'why
this looks more like a prison than a royal king's abode!'

'May it not be both, my simple brother?' asked the king with a
melancholy smile.

'But where are your brave guards, and faithful followers, my liege?'
asked the prince.

'Here,' returned the young king.

'I do not see any body,' rejoined the prince, looking about in some
perplexity.

'Fido, come forth!' said the king; and a little spaniel, which had
followed him to the Tower, and been the sole companion of his solitary
hours since his residence in that fortress, crept from beneath his
chair, and putting his paws on his royal master's knee, looked wistfully
in his face.

'There, Richard,' continued the royal youth, turning his moist eyes upon
his little brother, 'you now behold my kingly state and royal retinue!
Were not you better off in the sanctuary at Westminster, with your
mother and sisters, dear boy?'

The young prince burst into a passion of tears.

'I wish it were possible for you to return thither,' said the king
thoughtfully; 'but the imprudence of our dear mother, in yielding you
up, is I fear irremediable.'

'Ah, Edward! it was all along of my impatient desire to be forth of the
gloomy sanctuary,' sobbed the prince;--

'Which hath, I fear, been the means of bringing you into harsher
restraints, and a more perilous prison house; where, I doubt, your
innocent life will be in hourly jeopardy, poor child!' said the king,
pressing him to his bosom, and tenderly kissing away his tears.

'And do not any of your loyal lieges come hither to offer homage to your
Grace?' asked Prince Richard, after his first burst of sorrow had
subsided.

'None, Richard, none!' replied the king. 'I have no _loyal_ lieges, I
suppose.'

'But may you not ride forth to hunt the stag in your royal parks and
pleasaunces?' demanded the prince.

The king shook his head. 'Can you not see, Richard, that I am to all
intents and purposes a prisoner, and that you are brought hither to
share my captivity--perchance my untimely death?'

'Oh, that false cardinal! to beguile me from my loving mother with such
arrant deceit!' cried the young duke. 'Doth he not deserve to die the
death of a traitor, without benefit of clergy, brother Edward?'

'Belike, poor man, he was himself deceived by the fair speech but foul
devices of my guileful uncle Gloucester,' said the king; 'and therefore,
my brother, let us think charitably of him, and rather pity him for
want of judgment, than condemn him as one capable of such base
treachery.'

The unbroken solitude in which the royal brothers now passed their days
in the Tower, was far more wearisome to Prince Richard than to the young
king, whose studious and reflective turn of mind, which was united with
fervent and unaffected piety, enabled him to bear with patience and
equanimity every trial that was laid upon him, and to recognise the hand
of his Almighty Father in the adversity that had befallen him.
Restraint, confinement, deprivation of regal state, gay sports, and
pleasant exercises, he endured without repining, and endeavored to
employ the leisure they afforded him in improving his own mind and
cultivating that of his younger brother, who possessed great precocity
of intellect, a sharp piercing wit, united with singular powers of
observation and great facility in acquiring languages, and every thing
in which he was instructed; but with all this he was volatile, restless,
and impatient of restraint. His gay ardent spirits, when once depressed
by confinement and gloomy anticipations, lost their vivacious tone, and
he became dejected, listless, and sorrowful, and resisted all his
anxious brother's attempts to cheer, or rouse him from the morbid
melancholy into which he was plunged.

At length the good bishop of Ely found means of conveying to the young
king the pleasing intelligence that he, with the Cardinal Archbishop of
Canterbury, the lords Hastings and Stanley, and other distinguished
persons, were organizing a party for the purpose of opposing the Duke of
Gloucester's ambitious designs upon the crown, (which he no longer
attempted to conceal), to concert measures for rescuing the captive
princes from his power, and to assert the rights of the young king. The
plans of these prelates and nobles were but in embryo, nevertheless, the
assurance that he was not wholly forsaken and forgotten, was sufficient
to give comfort to the object of their solicitude; and when, in the hope
of reviving the drooping spirits of the beloved partner of his
captivity, he communicated to him the friendly dispositions of these
powerful partisans, the lively imagination of the youthful prince
picturing to him his deliverance as certain, transported him at once
from the depths of despair to the extremes of joy, and he became of a
sudden so full of joy and animation, that his brother was compelled to
check his playful vivacity, lest his altered demeanor should excite the
suspicions of their attendants.

'The prospect, however remote, of being restored to freedom, friends,
and royal dignity, is indeed a cordial to my sad heart, dearest
Richard,' said the kinq; 'but when I consider the uncertainty of all
human purposes, and the chances and changes to which the best appointed
schemes of earthly wisdom are subject, I dare not reckon on the result
of this, which may too probably end in disappointment, if, indeed, it
have not the effect of precipitating our fate.'

'Dear Edward, do not damp our present hopes by moralizing thus,' said
Prince Richard impatiently; 'I am sure the trusty Lord Hastings has it
in his power to do much; he is a very brave and worthy nobleman, bold in
field and wise in council, and he will be certain to effect our
deliverance.'

'We had not been where we now are, Richard, had not that very Hastings
on whom you are placing such reliance, in order to gratify his animosity
against my uncle Rivers and the rest of our maternal kindred,
countenanced the Duke of Gloucester's lawless proceedings at
Northampton, against those noble lords who are now languishing in
hopeless captivity in Pontefract Castle, if, indeed, they may yet be
reckoned among the living.' And here the thoughts of those beloved and
unfortunate friends brought tears to the eyes, and anguish to the
affectionate bosom of their royal kinsman.

On the following day the captive princes, who were still permitted to
attend mass in the chapel, had just concluded their devotions, when an
unwonted stir in that usually quiet part of the fortress excited their
curiosity. The harsh sound of many voices engaged in fierce and stormy
altercation was succeeded by the clash of arms, and the rush of
advancing and receding feet. The confused uproar of what appeared a
short sharp scuffle in the council room died away, and the profound
silence that followed was, after the lapse of a few moments, broken by
the jangling discord of raising the great bell, which presently began to
toll, in dull heavy repeated strokes, a dismal death-knell. Then the
portentous roll of muffled drum and the measured tramp of armed men was
heard in the court below.

The cheeks of the captive princes became pale with fearful interest at
these ominous sounds. They approached the chapel windows, and saw that
the yard was filled with halbert and habergeon men, in the centre of
whom a hollow square was formed that enclosed a large block of wood, the
fragment of the trunk of a tree that had been hewn up into billets for
the Tower fires. This one of the officers of the Tower hastily covered
with a black velvet pall.

'Oh, brother! what may these dismal preparations portend?' cried the
young Duke of York, clinging fearfully to the arm of the king, as if for
protection.

'A bloody execution, I fear,' responded the youthful monarch, becoming
cold and colourless as the marble monument against which he supported
his agitated frame.

'Oh, Edward, come away, and let us hide ourslves,' cried the trembling
prince.

'Hush!' said the king, 'I recognise Catesby and Lovel, my uncle
Gloucester's wicked coadjutors in nameless deeds of guilt, and there is
Sir Robert Brackenbury,'--

'Ah!' cried Prince Richard, with a suppressed shriek, 'and there is the
fell headsman, with the deadly axe in his hand,'--

'With the edge towards the prisoner who is now about to be brought
forth,' murmured the young king, in a voice half choked with the
agonizing excitement of that dread moment of suspense which intervened
ere the unknown victim appeared upon the scene of death.

'Oh! Richard, Richard! it is the Lord Hastings that powerful friend upon
whose assistance we had built such vain hopes of deliverance! Alas! and
hath his generous regard for us brought him to this?' he exclaimed, as a
gentleman of martial bearing and noble presence advanced, bound and
guarded, towards the fatal block. The flush of fierce anger was upon his
sunburned cheek, and his haughty brow was compressed and troubled. He
looked round among the spectators with stern and reproachful meaning, as
if to upbraid them for their quiescence in tamely witnessing the
illegal execution of an unjust sentence; but all appeared stunned and
paralysed at the suddenness of the thing, yet, notwithstanding his
outward bold demeanor, no one was more so than himself. 'He was a
warrior and a reveller,' invincible in his courage and incorruptible in
his loyalty; yet he was a man of vindictive passions, cruel,
remorseless, and licentious in his private conduct, and, with committed
murder upon his conscience and meditated murder in his heart, while
exulting in the assurance that the executions of the unfortunate
prisoners at Pontefract, whom he had pursued with unrelenting hatred,
were to take place that very day, found himself in the same hour called
upon to render up his own awful account to Him from whom no secrets are
hidden! In the desperation of that dreadful moment he demanded the
assistance of a priest, but that consolation was denied him by the
pitiless instruments of the Duke of Gloucester's vengeance, who brutally
hurried the execution with the unfeeling jest, 'that the Duke, who had
sworn not to dine before sentence was executed, was hungry, and in haste
to break his fast.'

Faint and sickening with horror at the scene before him, the young king
turned with streaming eyes from the contemplation of the approaching
work of death, to support his terrified brother, who had swooned with
mortal terror.

The dull heavy crash that announced the descent of the axe on the neck
of the devoted nobleman, sent a cold shudder through the frame of the
king, which for a moment checked the pulsation of his heart, and
suspended his respiration. Then the customary proclamation, in the stern
sonorous voice of the executioner, 'This is the head of a traitor!'
followed by a low sullen murmur among the people, and the deafening
shout of 'God save the King, and Duke Richard the Protector,' from the
soldiers and assistants in the tragedy, declared too surely that the
deed of blood was perpetrated. A minute after, the thundering discharge
of the Tower guns shook the chapel to its foundation, and startled the
fainting prince from temporary insensibility into a sudden painful
consciousness of waking horror, that appeared to his confused
imagination like the fantasma of a frightful dream. 'Where are we? and
what has befallen us, Edward?' cried he, starting from his brother's
trembling arms, and gazing fearfully round him.

'Be calm, my sweet brother,' said the young king, drawing him tenderly
to his bosom; 'we are, as before, under the protection of our Heavenly
Father, though the arm of flesh in which we confided for deliverance has
just been laid low in our very sight, which must teach us the vanity of
placing our reliance on any earthly stay.' Here a passionate burst of
tears relieved his full heart, and the royal brothers enfolding each
other in a close embrace, continued to weep till the entrance of Sir
Robert Brackenbury, pale and agitated, who, on learning that the young
princes had been left alone in the chapel, by the attendants, officers,
and officiating priests and servitors all hurrying to witness the
execution of the unfortunate Lord Hastings, had hastened thither in
great alarm lest they should have availed themselves of that opportunity
for attempting their escape.

He uttered an ejaculation of satisfaction on finding they were safe, and
requested permission to attend them to their apartment.

'Oh! Sir Robert!' exclaimed the king, 'tell me what was the occasion of
the dreadful sight I have just witnessed?'

'What sight my royal liege?' asked Brackenbury.

'The murder of my Lord of Hastings, at which I saw you so basely
assisting,' replied the king, sternly regarding him.

'I grieve that such should have been my unhappy lot,' replied the
lieutenant of the Tower, lowering his eyes in confusion beneath the
reproving glance of his youthful captive; 'but,' continued he, 'it is
the painful duty of my office to be at times compelled to witness and
appear consenting unto deeds from which one's inmost soul revolts.'

'You may be called upon, ere long, to assist at the murder of your
lawful sovereign, whose gaoler you have been so long,' observed the
king.

'Now God in his mercy forbid!' said Brackenbury, greatly agitated.

'We read in holy writ, Sir Robert, that Hazael, when the prophet
revealed to him the crimes that he would commit, indignantly replied,
'Is then thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?' And yet, Sir
Robert, though forewarned of the evil, he went home, and took the very
step that led to the fulfilment of the man of God's prediction,'
returned the king. 'And you, in like manner, when the temptation tries
you, and the Duke of Gloucester asks your assistance in removing the
obstacles that hinder his passage to the throne, will deem it your duty
to be at least quiescent.'

'Has your Grace ever experienced any lack of dutiful respect in your
faithful servant, that you should wrong him with such unkind
suspicions?' asked Sir Robert Brackenbury, much agitated.

'I can only judge of your probable conduct to myself under such
circumstances, from your having compromised your conscience by becoming
an accomplice in the murder of my last friend, the loyal Hastings.' said
the king, coldly.

'Your Grace is not aware that Hastings,' observed Brackenbury, 'was a
principal agent in the downfall of your noble kinsmen, my lords Rivers
and Grey, and that he expressed the most indecent exultation this very
morning, just before he attended that council which proved so fatal to
him, on learning that the execution of those unfortunate nobles was to
take place to-day at noontide--at which time a fearful visitation of
retributive justice hath fallen upon his own head!'

'Alas! my kind, my noble uncle! and you, my loving brother!' exclaimed
the king, clasping his hands in the bitter anguish of his heart at this
sad news; 'and shall I behold ye no more! and have ye been doomed to an
ignominious death for your faithful love to me! Unhappy that I am! to
feel the sad consciousness that all my friends are marked to be cut off
by one who misnames himself my Protector!'

This was the drop of bitterness that made the already brimming cup of
misery of which the youthful king had been compelled to drink overflow.
After he was assured of the murder of these beloved relatives, the
cherishing friends of his childhood, his last hope appeared to have
deserted him, and he yielded to the deepest despondency. The
intelligence of the arrest of the Cardinal Archbishop of Canterbury, of
Lord Stanley, and worse than all, that of the good Bishop of Ely, all
of whom had been taken into custody at the same time with lord Hastings,
had the natural effect of increasing his melancholy; with which was
mingled anxious apprehensions for the safety of his mother and sisters,
of whom he heard no other tidings than that they continued in the
sanctuary at Westminster, not daring to stir thence for fear of falling
into the power of the Duke of Gloucester, by whose watchful emissaries
they were surrounded on every side.

'Why do the bells ring so merrily?' asked Prince Richard one morning of
the sullen attendant who served them at their solitary meals.

'It is on account of the coronation of the king,' replied the man
bluntly.

King Edward started, and the prince his brother angrily rejoined,

'The coronation of the king! false knave! what mean you by mocking me
with thy ill-mannered gibes, when you see the king, wo the day, in
durance?'

'Ay, him whom _you_ call the king, my little lord,' replied the man;
'but the people, who are not to be ruled over by babes and sucklings,
have chosen that wise, mighty, and renowned prince, Richard of
Gloucester, to be their sovereign, and he is this day crowned and
anointed king in Westminster Abbey.'

'The false villain!' exclaimed the young prince now, as I am a king's
son and a Plantagenet, I would I had been this day in the sanctuary, for
then I might have entered the choir, where he durst not have touched me,
and defied him as a traitor and usurper to his teeth.'

'Belike your fiery little grace would also feel disposed to take up the
champion's glove, when he gives the challenge in Westminster Hall?' said
the man.

'I would I were a man, and free to do him battle for my brother King
Edward's right,' said the prince fiercely clenching his hand. 'Why,
Edward, my sweet brother, how calmly you hear the news of this audacious
treason, which robs you of your kingdom.'

'My kingdom is not of this world, I perceive,' replied the king meekly,
raising his eyes to heaven; 'nor will my portion,' he softly added, 'be
long with those who draw the breath of life. Those bells, that ring such
jocund peals to announce the successful usurpation of my uncle, are my
knell, and your's, dear Richard, also, for we are now as one, and the
solemn warning they sound to us both is this, 'Set thine house in order,
for thou shalt die, and not live.'

'Oh! brother, brother!' sobbed the young prince, 'why should we be
slain?--we have done no wrong.'

'Ought not that consideration to be our greatest happiness?' replied the
king. 'Would not our guilty uncle, think you, at this moment give the
crown which he has purchased with a thousand crimes, to be able to say
what you have said?'

'Oh! but it is so hard to die--and we are so young!' said the weeping
prince.

'Would it not have been better for my uncle Gloucester, if he had been
cut off like his brother Rutland, while innocent like him?' asked
Edward.

'Oh! yes, but we should never become as wicked as our uncle Gloucester.'

'Ah! Richard, how can you speak so confidently?' replied the king. 'The
heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked. Who can
know it? We have never experienced the temptations to which that
unhappy man has yielded, and doubtless it is in mercy to us both that we
are removed from the allurements of pleasure, the seductions of
ambition, and the intoxications of power, for which perishing delusions
we might have imperilled our immortal souls, and forfeited that
incorruptible inheritance which fadeth not away, for the enjoyment of
which I humbly hope our Heavenly Father is preparing us, through the
chastening of many sorrows. Let us, my brother, acknowledge his goodness
in all his dispensations, and count the loss of all earthly things as
gain, for the hope that is set before us; for the light afflictions of
this present time are not to be compared with the eternal weight of
glory which shall be revealed.'

And now the royal brothers appeared forgotten by the whole world;
ignorant of every thing that passed beyond the narrow confines of their
lonely chamber they passed their time in prayer and devotional exercises
there, for they were no longer permitted to attend divine service in the
chapel, lest their appearance should continue to remind people that they
were in existence, which their usurping uncle was desirous of having
wholly forgotten; and well he calculated on the fickleness of popular
feeling, which, however powerfully excited for a time, is so evanescent
in its nature, that it rarely outlives the nine days' wonder.

The mild and heavenly demeanor of the captive king had created a strong
interest for him in the heart of Sir Robert Brackenbury, who was
accustomed to see him every day, and to offer him many little
courtesies, which were very acceptable to those deserted children of
royalty at a time when they felt themselves abandoned by every former
friend. But his visits were suddenly discontinued, and when the captive
princes inquired of their attendant why they did not see Sir Robert
Brackenbury as usual, he replied,

'He is no longer lieutenant of the Tower.'

'And who has succeeded to his office?' demanded the king.

'One master James Tirrel has the keys now,' replied the man, with a
look of peculiar meaning; 'I don't think he is called the lieutenant of
the Tower, though we are to obey his orders.'

A fearful suspicion of the cause for which Sir Robert Brackenbury had
been removed, and a person of no reckoning inducted into an office of
such responsibility as the control of the Tower, involving as it did the
charge of state prisoners of their importance, flashed at once on the
minds of both the princes; and exchanging a look of mournful
intelligence, as soon as the attendant had withdrawn they enfolded each
other in a long and sad embrace; then kneeling down together, they
solemnly prepared themselves for the awful change which they felt
awaited them.

The king had long been convinced of the vanity and insufficiency of all
earthly things; he had experienced many a bitter lesson of the
fickleness and treachery of a world which had at first appeared in such
flattering colors, and as if only made for him, but which had abandoned
him on the first reverse of changing fortune. His young heart was now
weaned from its delusions, and had learned to fix its hopes where only
true joys are to be found. Yet the immediate prospect of death, either
by open violence or midnight murder, was terrible to him, and the
thought that his little brother would undoubtedly be involved in the
same dismal fate, increased the agony with which shuddering nature
contemplated the probability of their impending doom. The anguish too
with which the fond heart of his afflicted mother would be pierced, when
the dreadful intelligence should reach her, recurred to his mind, and
the idea of her unprotected desolate state, and that of his helpless
sisters, filled his eyes with tears, and increased in a tenfold degree
the bitterness of death. Yet in that hour of sore distress, though
sorrowful, he was not forsaken; a calm, a heavenly calm, the result of
deep and fervent prayer, succeeded in his soul to the tumultuous tempest
of earthly griefs and earthly cares with which it had been agitated. The
dove-like wings of hope and faith were then expanded, and his heavenward
spirit appeared eager to flee away and be at rest.

His devotions, and those of his little brother, were prolonged that
night to a very late hour, and, after recommending themselves, their
widowed mother, their orphan sisters, and all friends who might still
remember them or who suffered for their sakes, to the protection of that
merciful God whose all-seeing eye watches over the meanest of his
creatures, likewise entreating his forgiveness for all who had injured
them, not excepting their cruel uncle, in behalf of whom King Edward,
after some little difficulty, at length prevailed upon his less placable
brother to join him in a solemn petition for forgiveness at the throne
of grace, they both sought that bed which was so soon to be their
grave.

'The peace of God, which passeth all understanding,' was in the hearts
of the youthful twain. Fatigued with the unusual length and fervency of
their devotions, in spite of their consciousness that the snares of
death encompassed them about, they soon, entwined in each other's arms,
sunk into a sleep so calm and profound, that the entrance of the
murderous ruffians who came commissioned to cut short the thread of
their pure and harmless lives disturbed them not. And so touching, so
beautiful was the picture of brotherly love and holy innocence which the
gentle pair presented in their serene repose, their heads resting on the
same pillow, on which laid the breviary book they had been so lately
perusing, that, as one of the murderers afterwards confessed, 'it shook
his guilty purpose,' and had it not been for the taunts and threats of
his more obdurate companion, he could not have perpetrated the crime of
crushing two such sweet and hopeful blossoms in the bud. Yet both the
ministers of death agreed in performing their barbarous commission with
a comparative exercise of mercy, for they were careful not to alarm
their gentle victims by rudely startling them from that calm repose,
which the murderous work of one irrecoverable moment converted into the
sleep of death and dismissed the pure spirits of these royal brothers
to the enjoyment of that heavenly kingdom, for which the perilous, and
to them fatal distinctions of earthly greatness, had been cheaply
exchanged.




The Chase of Wareham.

THE STORY OF KING EDWARD THE MARTYR.


On the death of Edgar the Second, sirnamed the Peaceable, England was
distracted by the contentions of two adverse factions respecting the
choice of a successor to the crown.

At the head of the most powerful party, distinguished by the name of the
Dunstanites, was the famous Archbishop Dunstan,[3] who supported the
title of Edward the Atheling, or prince royal, the eldest son of the
deceased monarch by his first wife. The other faction, called the
Anti-Dunstanites, were the partizans of the queen dowager, the beautiful
but wicked Elfrida, who was ambitious of placing her young son Ethelred
on the throne, and governing in his name during a long minority. But
while the whole nation was divided and involved in civil discord on this
point, and the most deadly hatred agitated the minds of those who
espoused the rival claims of the sons of Edgar, it is an interesting
fact that the youthful princes, though only brothers by the half blood
were united in the tenderest bonds of love.

[Footnote 3: Some account of this celebrated statesman and ecclesiastic
will be found in the Historical Summary.]

Edward, who had just completed his fourteenth year, had been named by
his father as his successor. The right of primogeniture was his also,
and in the Witenagemot, or great national council, the eloquence and
influence of the two archbishops, Dunstan and Oswald, obtained a formal
recognition of those rights, and Prince Edward was, in conformity to the
will of his deceased father, placed on the throne of the Anglo Saxons.

At the tender age of seven years the baleful passion of ambition had no
place in the then guileless heart of the younger prince. Unconscious of
the charms of royalty, of which he had as yet only experienced the
restraints, the loss of a kingdom was not to him matter of either
disappointment or regret. The only sorrow of which the Witenagemot was
productive to him was his separation from that beloved elder brother, in
whose affectionate bosom he had, from his earliest remembrance, been
wont to repose his childish joys and griefs, and who had been his
companion, his guide, and his own sweet familiar friend. Never were the
soothing kindness and fond endearments he had been accustomed to receive
from the princely Edward so much required by the Ethelred as at this
period, when all the evil passions of his haughty mother's nature had
been roused and called into baleful activity during her late attempts to
supplant her royal step-son; and, having been foiled in her endeavours
to usurp the royal authority in Ethelred's name, she vented her
mortification and baffled rage on the unfortunate object of her maternal
ambition and defeated machinations.

Weak in body and feeble in mind, Ethelred had evidently been designed by
nature for a private station, and these constitutional defects
frequently subjected him to the bitterest reproaches and most injurious
treatment from the imperious Elfrida, whose unrestrained violence of
temper rendered her at all times an object of terror to him, although
occasionally experiencing the most pernicious indulgence from her when
caprice inclined her to fondness.

Child as he was, Ethelred was only too painfully aware of the evil
traits of his mother's character, and, since he had been deprived by
death of his natural protector, and afterwards separated from his
affectionate brother, he seemed to tremble at the sound of her step, and
sought at all times to avoid her presence, while he beheld with jealous
displeasure the caresses she bestowed on her little cankered dwarf
Wulstan, whose droll tricks and impish mischief occasionally possessed
the power of diverting the black gloom that oppressed her, after she had
been compelled to resign the gaiety and splendor of the court for a
solitary residence in Corfe Castle, one of the royal demesnes in
Dorsetshire, which had been the favorite hunting palace of her late
husband King Edgar, who had been accustomed to spend much of his time
there; and thither Elfrida had been allowed by her generous step-son to
retire, with her son Prince Ethelred and a train suitable to the dignity
of his father's widow. Instead of being moved by the kindness and
forbearance of the young king, Elfrida continued in secret her
treasonable practices against him. She had already sacrificed her first
husband Ethelbald to her ambition, and she only waited for a suitable
opportunity of attempting the life of Edward. The Archbishop Dunstan
was, however, fully aware of her cruel and perfidious disposition, and
he strictly guarded his royal pupil from all her machinations and
conspiracies against his person, and warned him perpetually against the
imprudence of either admitting her to visit the court, or trusting
himself in the vicinity of her abode. So implicitly had the cautions of
Dunstan been attended to by those about the young king, that for a
period of three years he had been prevented from holding the slightest
intercourse with Elfrida and her son.

But the affectionate heart of Edward yearned towards his younger
brother, whom he earnestly desired to embrace once more. The cares of
royalty, the sceptre of a divided realm, and the severe restraints and
self-sacrifices imposed upon him by his austere but faithful guardian
Dunstan, were grievous to the youthful monarch, who, in addition to
these, was compelled to submit to the stern discipline of a monastic
education; and the mode in which learning was communicated in those days
was equally fatiguing to the preceptor and painful to the pupil.
Elementary books were not then written to facilitate the progress of
education. There were not above three copies of a meagre dictionary in
existence in England, and lessons were learned from dictation, till by
frequent repetition the student committed them to memory, or, according
to the ancient phrase, "got them by heart."

These indispositions were distasteful to the young king, and were often
sadly contrasted by him with the pleasures and joyous freedom of his
early years, before his accession to the regal dignity had burdened him
with the heavy fetters of state and deprived him of the amusements of
his age, and above all of the company of his brother Ethelred, his
tenderly-beloved living plaything.

The royal manor and Castle of Corfe had been, as I said before, the
favorite residence of the deceased king his father, during whose reign
it had been a constant scene of gaiety and festivity. The happy days of
Edward's childhood had been spent there, and when he compared the gloomy
routine and fatiguing employments of his present mode of life with the
sweet remembrances of that pleasant time, he felt disposed to regard the
demesne of the queen dowager as a sort of Eden, contrasted with which
the rest of his kingdom was but an extensive wilderness.

This desire of revisiting the scenes of his infancy, "his home," as he
emphatically styled Corfe Castle, became more pressing in proportion as
it was resisted by his inexorable guardian and the rest of the wise
counsellors by whose decision he, while a minor, was compelled to abide,
and he secretly resolved to embrace the first opportunity that might
occur for the gratification of his wish.

Meantime, unremitting application to the laborious studies and public
duties which Dunstan enjoined, impatience of the restraints imposed upon
him, and above all, his incessant pining for the beloved scenes, and
companion of his childhood, produced a visible change in his health. His
fading cheek, heavy eye, and languid appearance, at length attracted the
attention of Dunstan, who, in common with most ecclesiastics of that
period, possessed a considerable knowledge of physic, and was desirous
of administering to his royal pupil a medicine which he considered might
be efficacious to him.

'It is of no avail,' said Edward, rejecting as he spoke the proffered
cup, 'it is not a nauseous compound of drugs that will restore me to
health. It is the divertisements, the relaxations, and the
companionships of my age that I require.'

'Know you not, O, king! that as the lord of a mighty nation you are
called upon to put away childish things, and to employ your precious
time in fitting yourself for the performance of the important duties
which pertain to your exalted station?' said the archbishop.

'Ah! station full of sorrow!' exclaimed the young king, 'how gladly
would I exchange its gilded fetters for the healthful toils and envied
freedom of a shepherd boy!'

'In the same sinful spirit of discontent and rebellion against the
dispensations of the Most High, thou wouldst have coveted regal dignity,
hadst thou been doomed to bear the hardships and privations of a
herdsman's lot,' replied the archbishop.

'I could endure them all patiently, yea joyfully, were I permitted to
breathe the fresh free air of dale and down in liberty,' rejoined the
youthful monarch, 'and to solace myself with the company of one dear
familiar friend, were it but a day.'

'Thou art a perverse boy, and knowest not the value of a real friend
when thou hast found one,' said Dunstan reproachfully. 'Thou deemest me
harsh, and my counsels bitter, because, instead of dissembling with thy
folly, I labor to convince thee that a king is the property of the
nation that permits his authority, and that it behoves him to sacrifice
his dearest wishes where they interfere with the duty he owes to his
people.'

'Nay, but, my father,' said Edward, 'my present desire is so simple in
its nature, that it concerneth no one beside myself, or I would not urge
it.'

'It is, I know, of no avail to reason with thy perversity, to-day,' said
Dunstan impatiently. 'What wouldst thou?'

'I would fain hunt the deer in my royal chase of Wareham,' replied the
king in a hurried voice, being awed by the stern manner of his preceptor
into dissembling half his wish.

'Is that all?' demanded Dunstan, fixing his penetrating eye upon the
varying cheek of the youthful king; 'thou mightest well call thine a
simple wish, and if thou hadst added foolish thou hadst not said amiss.'

'I knew thou wouldst call it so, my Lord Archbishop,' said the king
turning away.

'Nay, Edward, nay, this is mere childishness,' resumed the archbishop,
taking the feverish hand of his royal charge, 'if hunting the deer be
thy desire, far be it from me to withstand thee in such a trifle,
especially as thou thinkest the fresh air and jocund exercise of
following the hound and horn will restore thy health and spirits; but
why shouldst thou speak of the distant woods of Wareham for thy
divertisement, when thou hast thy royal and wide extended forest and
chase of Waltham so close to thy loving city of London, that thou mayest
enjoy goodly pastime there this very day, with thy noble thanes, and
earldormen and trusty burgesses for thy company and guards?'

'No,' replied the king, 'I love not to seek my game amidst such gaping
crowds of idle followers, and I will not hunt at Waltham to-day.'

'Thou shalt find goodly sport in the fair forests of Windsor, if thou
wilt seek it there,' said Dunstan, 'or in thy chase at Sheen, or at
Greenwich and the Black-heath.'

'I do not incline to hunt at Windsor,' replied the King, 'nor yet at
Sheen, nor Greenwich, nor the Black-heath, nor any where but at Wareham,
where my royal father was wont to rouse the deer.'

'Wareham is too near to Corfe Castle, the abode of the bold bad woman,
thy guileful step-dame Elfrida,' replied Dunstan. 'It is a vicinity
fraught with peril to thee, and thou shalt not go thither, Edward.'

Edward was sad and sullen during the remainder of the day.

The next morning there was an evident access of the low fever that hung
about the young king; he was languid and dispirited, and would neither
attend to his studies, nor enter into any of the little plans laid out
for his amusement by his courtiers at Dunstan's instigation.

When Dunstan perceived this, and observed that his royal pupil sickened
and rejected his food from day to day, he said to him again, 'Edward,
what wouldst thou?'

'I told thee before,' replied the youth, 'but it was in vain, that I did
but desire to breathe the sweet air of the Dorsetshire hills and downs,
and to hunt the deer in my pleasant woods of Wareham, and lo! thou didst
refuse me this little thing.'

'Because I saw thou wert like a foolish bird, wilfully bent on falling
into the snare of the cunning fowler,' returned Dunstan, 'and I know
thou hast now only revealed a part of thy purpose, which is to visit
Corfe Castle.'

A deep blush overspread the pale cheek of the young king, as he
protested that he had no such intention.

'I fear than dost dissemble with thy true friend, King Edward,' said the
archbishop. 'In troth, my son, it is only natural that thou shouldst
desire to embrace thy brother Ethelred; but give up this wild whim of
thine, and I will send for the young prince to London when a convenient
season shall befall.'

A feeling of false shame withheld the king from acknowledging that he
had not dealt candidly in the matter, and he redoubled his protestations
that his whole desire was simply to spend a few days in hunting the game
in Wareham forest, which thing he prayed the Archbishop not to deny
him.'

'Thou shalt go,' said Dunstan after a long pause, 'but on condition that
thou dost not visit Corfe Castle, nor hold any intercourse with the
Queen Elfrida, nor any of her people.'

Edward accepted the terms, but in the secret hope that accident would
bring him to a sight of his brother without a direct violation of his
promise.

'The word of a king ought to be an obligation more sacred than the oath
of another man,' said Dunstan when they parted; 'as you observe yours,
so be your speed, my son.'

Indisposition, languor, and melancholy, were alike forgotten by Edward,
when, with a gallant train of nobles and gentles, attended by jolly
hunters and falconers, with hawks and hounds, he left London to follow
the sylvan sports in the fair wolds and vales of Dorsetshire.

They set forth with merry blasts of horns, baying of hounds, prancing of
steeds, waving of plumes and broidered scarfs and mantles, jingling of
falcon bells and blithesome caroling of jocund voices, so that all who
met them paused to admire their goodly array and sprightly cheer; but
Dunstan beheld the departure of his royal charge with a sort of
prophetic fear which he could neither repress nor hide.

'Thou goest, Edward,' said he, when he bestowed his parting blessing
upon him--'thou goest like a foolish bird from beneath its mother's wing
ere it be fully fledged for flight; God grant that thou escape the jaws
of the serpent that are even now expanded to devour thee.'

Edward was touched, and indeed surprised, at the pathetic tendernesss of
his stern preceptor's solemn farewell; for Dunstan was an austere man,
who, generally speaking, appeared dead to all human affections, and
insensible to the softer emotions of the human heart. Yet now he folded
the young king in his arms, and wept over him like a mother over the
child of her bosom, who is about to be torn from her for ever.

Edward's purpose was shaken, and for a moment he felt disposed to forego
his long-wished and eagerly-anticipated journey, but the temptation was
too strong to be thus easily resigned. It is a difficult matter for
young people, especially princes, to know who are their real friends.
The young king, who had always been accustomed in his childhood to
receive deceitful flattery and caresses from Elfrida, could not prevail
upon himself, notwithstanding her treasonable attempts to supplant him
in the succession, to regard her as a personal enemy. He knew her to be
ambitious, but he could not believe that she was wicked; on the
contrary, he excused her conspiring to exclude him from the throne on
the plea of her natural preference for her own son, and he secretly
considered Dunstan's opinions respecting her as harsh and injurious,
although he had never ventured in direct terms to tell him so. The
archbishop, though tenderly attached to his pupil, and laboring
incessantly to promote his interest, was too stern and unbending a
character to study to please him. He had a plain and uncompromising
manner of reproving his faults and telling him unwelcome truths, which
had the effect of wounding his self-love and offending his pride.

It is a correct observation, that people will sooner forgive a serious
injury than overlook an affront, and Edward, although his step-mother
had endeavored to deprive him of a throne, was inclined to regard her
more in the light of a friend than the man who had successfully
vindicated his rights, and watched day and night for his weal. But then,
Elfrida had flattered his foibles, and during his father's life had
procured him a thousand improper indulgences; while Dunstan controled
his inclinations wherever he considered it for his interest so to do,
and subjected him to the restraints of a useful and virtuous education.

It was with feelings of the deepest regret that this faithful guardian
consented to the departure of his royal pupil, especially as he
considered it incompatible with his sacred calling, venerable age, and
high vocation, to accompany the court on a hunting party. To the best of
his power he provided against any imprudence on the part of the young
king, by surrounding his person with a sufficient number of grave and
incorruptible counsellors, whose wisdom and authority he hoped would
restrain the vivacity and rash daring of that gay company.

The impression of his guardian's solemn warning and unwonted tears at
parting remained for some days on the mind of the young king, and
strengthened his resolution of doing nothing in direct violation of his
promise, though he continued to indulge a secret hope that some lucky
chance might afford him the pleasure of an interview with Prince
Ethelred and the Queen, for he certainly cherished a desire of seeing
the guileful Elfrida as well as her son. Wareham Chase was only six
miles distant from Corfe Castle, and, contrary to the advice of the sage
monitors to whom the archbishop had delegated his trust, he continued
to follow the game in that vicinity.

One day, when he had, as much by design as accident, outridden his train
in pursuit of a white doe of peculiar beauty and fleetness, he perceived
through a forest vista the towers of Corfe Castle rising in the
distance, over wood and vale, like the gray crown of the richly-varied
landscape.

At that sight a thousand sweet and pleasant remembrances of his early
days, connected with that beloved spot, rushed to the mind of the young
king, and filled his eyes with tears. The boisterous excitement of the
chase was forgotten, and, dropping his silken bridle on the neck of his
gallant gray, he gave himself up to pensive and regretful feelings on
the subject of its being denied him to revisit the home of his
childhood.

'And thou, my fair-haired brother,' said he, 'who art now perchance
tossing the ball in the castle court, or chasing the butterfly from
flower to flower over the garden lawns and gay parterres, in the
thoughtless glee of thine happy age, thou thinkest not, I ween, that the
fond brother in whose bosom thou wert wont so oft to nestle when tired
with playful gambols, is so near, if indeed thou dost still remember
him.'

While the young king was still indulging in these thoughts a strange
sharp cry near him caused him to look round, when, to his surprise, a
grotesque little creature, that appeared neither like a child nor an
animal, but something between both, sprang out of a thicket near him,
and coiling itself up in the form of a ball, rolled down the hill before
him. Edward's curiosity was excited, and he spurred his horse forward to
overtake it, but when the creature perceived his intention, he bounded
up, and erecting himself to his full height, which did not appear to be
above two feet, he whirled his long lean arms aloft, and clapping his
hands above his head, uttered a cry so long and shrill that it pierced
the king's ears with a painful sensation, and was answered back by a
thousand echoes from grot and hill, in the deep solitude of Wareham
forest. The tales of malign fairies and woodland imps were then in
common belief, and the young king thought it possible that this singular
creature, whom he had thus unexpectedly encountered, might be one of
these mysterious beings of whom he had heard so much. But then he had
also a shadowy remembrance of having seen in his early childhood a
sprightly animal that bore a grotesque resemblance, both in form and
face, to a diminutive man, which played a thousand antic tricks, and was
greatly caressed by the queen and her ladies; but it had either been
stolen or made its escape from the palace of Corfe into the neighboring
woods and though a period of nine or ten years had elapsed since this
event, King Edward was simple enough to believe that this was the
veritable creature whose loss had been so deeply lamented by all the
pages and females of the royal household, and he determined to overtake
it, if possible, whether it were monkey, fairy, or imp.

[Illustration: WAREHAM CHASE.]

But the object of his pursuit, however diminutive in person, was more
than a match in swiftness of foot for the fleet hunter on which the king
was mounted, and, like the goblin page in Sir Walter Scott's Lay of the
Last Minstrel, where Edward 'rode one mile he ran four,' yet with
provoking subtlety he continued always to keep in sight, as if he
enjoyed the race and wished to continue it. Sometimes, when he had
climbed a hill, whose steep rugged ascent was scaled with difficulty by
the royal steed, he paused on the brow, laughing with malicious glee,
and swinging himself from bough to bough among the embowering trees,
till the king was nearly upon him, then darting forward with the speed
of an arrow, he resumed his flight, and in a few minutes distanced his
pursuer. Sometimes, when Edward thought he had entirely lost all trace
of the tantalizing elf, and was meditating how he should recover the
track from which he had so widely deviated, he heard the same sharp
shrill cry that had first announced his appearance close to his ear, and
perceived a round rough head, covered with shaggy brown locks of
tangled hair, through which peered a pair of small keen black eyes,
peeping amidst the foliage or clustering ivy of some gnarled oak that
wreathed its low fantastic arms across the path, from which, as soon as
he perceived he was observed, he leaped with a sudden bound, and
clapping his hands and shouting at the top of his voice, started away
again down some opening glade of the forest, leaving horse and rider far
behind. Both were now thoroughly hot and weary; the young king, who had
been on horseback ever since daybreak, and fasting withal, thought of
giving up this unprofitable chase as a matter of necessity, on account
of the jaded condition of his good steed, and his own fatigue and
faintness. But the object of his pursuit appeared in still worse plight,
limped as if lame, and sometimes rested on the green turf as if
thoroughly exhausted, weeping and uttering low moaning plaints, and King
Edward thought he was now secure of his prize, especially as they had
reached the farthest boundary of the forest, and were on the verge of an
open park, towards which the urchin began to creep on all fours,
occasionally rolling himself over and over at a great rate.

'This,' thought the young king, 'is his last effort, and I shall
presently overtake him on the plain when once he loses the vantage of
the underwood and thickets: and lest he should alarm him into plunging
amidst its tangled mazes once more, he followed him at a cautious
distance till he emerged from the forest shades, and proceeded at a
gentle pace across the park, the enclosure of which they had entered.

Edward had been led on from glade to glade through the green mead, in
his eager pursuit of the wily urchin, without pausing to examine the
scenery through which he rode, or he might possibly have recognised many
objects familiar to him in days past; nor was it till he had leaped the
enclosure of the park, and looked round, that he discovered he was in
the immediate vicinity, almost at the gates of Corfe Castle, which rose
before him in all its well remembered regal grandeur, as in the days
when his father, King Edgar, kept court there. The intermediate time,
the important events that had since befallen the youthful monarch, the
solemn warning of his guardian against his venturing near this much
loved abode of his childhood, and his own promise not to do so, were
alike forgotten by King Edward when he found himself so unexpectedly on
the spot to which he had, in fact, been artfully allured by Wulstan, the
queen's dwarf, the misshapen little elf, who had led him such a weary
chase through the forest, and now, uttering an impish yell, fled down
the broad avenue of oaks that led to the castle with the speed of a
lapwing, and seizing the bugle that hung at the portal, blew a blast
that drew all the inhabitants to the windows and balconies to learn the
meaning of the summons.

The king, perceiving that it would now be impossible for him to withdraw
unobserved, considered that it would have a very mean appearance if,
after having been seen on the demesne of Queen Elfrida, he retreated
without paying his respects to her; and by no means regretting that the
rules of courtesy would afford an excuse to himself for departing from a
promise which had been so reluctantly wrung from him, he advanced
towards the castle.

The queen, who was perfectly aware of his approach, hastened to the
gates to receive him, and offering him the homage of her knee, entreated
him, 'to enter and partake of the banquet which she had prepared in
anticipation of this visit, on hearing that he was hunting the deer in
the neighboring forest of Wareham.'

Notwithstanding the fascinating sweetness of the queen's address, and
the persuasive softness of her voice and language, there was an
expression lurking in the sidelong glance of her large blue eye, and
something in the deceitful blandishment of her voice and manner, that,
in spite of his partial opinion of her character, recalled the
archbishop's impressive warning, and gave the king an idea that she
meditated some sinister design.

This secret misgiving induced him to decline entering the castle, 'on
account,' he said, 'of the lateness of the hour, and the expediency of
his returning immediately to Wareham, lest his court should take the
alarm at his protracted absence.'

'Thou art hot and weary, my royal lord,' replied the queen, respectfully
kissing the hand of the youthful monarch, 'and thou wilt not surely
depart till thou hast, at least, tasted a cup of spiced hippocras, if
thou wilt not feast with me to-day.'

Edward was not willing to offend the queen by declining this offer,
especially as he was fatigued, and stood in need of refreshment, and
was, moreover, too much inclined to linger near the much-loved abode of
his childhood; and while Elfrida took the silver goblet from her bower
maiden, who stood holding it on a richly chased salver, he eagerly
inquired for his young brother.

'Thy servant, Ethelred, is sick within the castle, or he had come with
me to the gate to offer homage to his lord,' replied the queen. 'He hath
long pined for thy presence, like a plant that hath been deprived of
sunshine.'

'Send quickly, my lady mother, and fetch him hither,' exclaimed the
king: 'I also have panted to embrace him.'

'_Drink hael_[4] first, my gracious lord,' replied Elfrida, presenting
the cup to the king.

[Footnote 4: The Saxon phrase for drinking health, from which expression
that once general custom was derived, which means, "Wish health," or "I
wish your health."]

He received it with a smile, and bowing courteously to the queen,
repeated the accustomed salutation of '_Waes hael_,' and raised it to
his lips, but the same moment he felt the stab of an assassin's dagger
from behind. He dropped the fatal goblet from his hand, and cast a look
of keen but silent reproach on his perfidious step-mother; but ere he
could recover his bridle rein, to turn his steed for flight, the deadly
thrust was repeated, and his treacherous assailants closed about him to
prevent his escape.

Indignation at the deep-laid iniquity of the snare into which he had
suffered himself to fall thus easily, rendered the young king insensible
for a moment to the smart of his wounds; but fully aware of the
desperation of his situation, he struck the rowels into the sides of his
mettled gray, and the good steed, as if equally conscious of his
master's peril, with one gallant bound broke through the murderous
circle, and dashed across the plain with the speed of an arrow just
discharged from the bow, and presently distanced the pursuit of the
traitors, who continued to trace the course the wounded king bad taken
by the red life-drops that tracked his path through the forest.

The last sound that fell on Edward's ear was the piercing cry of a child
in mingled grief and terror,--it was the voice of his brother Ethelred,
who, on beholding the barbarous deed from a window of the castle, filled
the air with his shrieks and lamentations. The assurances of his guilty
mother, that it was for his sake, and to make him a king, that the crime
had been perpetrated, instead of consoling him, increased his distress
to such a passionate degree, that the queen, who considered his tears a
reproach to herself, becoming infuriated at what she styled his
unseasonable sorrow, threw herself upon him, and beat him in so violent
a manner[5] that it was for some time a matter of doubt to those about
her whether she had not slain her own son in the ungovernable transport
of her rage,--that son, for whose advancement she had the moment
previous caused so deadly a crime to be perpetrated in her very
presence.

[Footnote 5: "With a wax altar taper," says the Saxon chroniclers, "that
being the first weapon that fell in the way of this furious and
unreasonable woman."]

The unfortunate Edward meantime, though he had succeeded in outstripping
the pursuit of his ruthless enemies, was sensible of the approach of a
foe whom he could neither resist nor flee from. Life ebbed apace from
his unstaunched wounds, the landscape reeled in confusion before his
swimming eyes, he struggled with the deadly faintness that was stealing
over him, and labored to rally his failing powers; but the hand of death
was heavy at his heart; the reins dropped from his relaxing grasp, and
he fell from the saddle to the ground.

It is related that the foot unfortunately catching in the stirrup, the
body of the king, whether dead or living is not exactly known, was much
mangled, in consequence of being dragged at a rapid rate along the
ground by the terrified horse, which at length stopped of his own
accord, at the gate of a blind widow's cottage. This lonely woman,
notwithstanding the deprivation of sight under which she labored,
ascertained that some fatal accident had befallen the unfortunate youth,
and though ignorant of his rank, she humanely carried the bleeding body
into her humble dwelling, and laid it on her own bed, while she hastened
to procure assistance.

The wicked Elfrida, whose emissaries had tracked the horse to this
place, sought to conceal her crime by causing the corpse of the murdered
king to be thrown down a deep well; but there, in consequence of the
evidence of the blind widow, it was presently discovered by his
sorrowful friends, and her guilt was proclaimed to the whole world, by
the indignant Archbishop Dunstan, at the coronation of her son Ethelred,
and he then predicted that a crown so obtained could never prosper with
the descendants of this bad woman.

The high rank of the queen protected her from the punishment due to her
crime; but she was regarded with hatred and contempt by all mankind; and
feeling herself an object of horror to her own son, for whose
advancement she had perpetrated this barbarous deed, and above all,
tormented by the fearful stings of her own accusing conscience, she
retired to the gloomy shades of a convent, where she spent the residue
of her days, vainly endeavoring, by constant penances and fasts, to
expiate her crime.




The Sons of the Conqueror.

A STORY OF THE TIMES OF WILLIAM THE FIRST.


Just on the confines of the New Forest stood a low tenement, belonging
to an old Saxon ceorl or churl called Redwald. This cottage was not
always lonely though it stood the last in a long pleasant pastoral
village, chiefly inhabited by herdsmen, who were all united in the bonds
of relationship in different degrees being the descendants of one
family, who had in times gone by settled on a fruitful spot in Hampshire
abounding in pasture and water.

This happy village was a little community, linked together by the
strongest ties of love and neighborhood; always ready to serve and
assist each other, the affections of the inhabitants were never extended
beyond their own little circle.

Such was their situation when William the Conqueror issued his lawless
edict to turn the most fertile spot in Hampshire into a hunting ground
or chase, to effect which he razed and destroyed thirty-six churches,
and depopulated a much greater number of towns, villages, and pleasant
hamlets. This spot now occupies an extent of thirty or forty miles, and
in those fearful days was of much greater circumference. From the time
of the Norman conquest it has been known by the name of the New Forest.

When the agents of the Norman despot drove out the whole township of
Redwald's kindred, and levelled their pleasant and comfortable cottages
with the dust, they spared the old man's homestead, not because they
were actuated by merciful feelings, but because it lay without the
boundary prescribed by the tyrant for the confines of his chase. Thus
the dwelling of Redwald was left standing but utterly desolate; his
friends, neighbors, and kin being violently driven from their
birth-places, and their happy hearths laid bare for wild creatures and
the beasts of the forest to couch upon. Some of the neighbors went one
way, some another; all shunned the heart-breaking sight of destruction,
and dreaded to settle in the vicinity of a place from which they had
been so lawlessly expelled: and the old Saxon, Redwald, saw himself
surrounded by a lonesome desert in a place which within a few weeks had
been a scene of cheerful industry. Redwald's heart swelled as if it
would have burst when he saw the last lingerer depart from the shelter
he had afforded him, to seek his fortune in some distant part of
England; he too would have deserted a spot now become hateful to him,
and left the home that the caprice of the conqueror had spared, but he
had those around him who looked up to him for bread, the infant family
of a son that had fallen in the battle of Hastings, being one of the
hasty levies summoned by King Harold to repel the Norman invasion. As
these infant children had likewise lost their mother, their helplessness
bound Redwald to the spot where he could find provision for their wants.
But the old man's heart yearned after his expatriated neighbors, after
the old faces. He became silent and melancholy, and would pass his
sabbaths sitting alone on the site of the churchyard, looking on the
levelled graves of his ancestors and parents, for the Norman spoiler had
desecrated the grave-ground, and levelled the village church. Without
priest or service, the Saxon peasant gathered his young grandchildren
together, under a spreading yew, which marked what had once been holy
ground, and endeavored to offer up a broken worship, consisting of such
psalms and hymns as his memory furnished him with, from a long course of
attendance of divine service on Sundays and holidays, while the parish
and the parish church were in existence. This worship generally ended
with a long and bitter recital of the wrongs of his family and people,
and with a petition to Heaven to hear the cry of the oppressed, and
requite the misery of the English on the Norman and on his seed, and,
above all, to make the very place from which William had driven harmless
families and the service of God, the scene of the destruction of those
most dear to him.

'Marry! be these your forest homilies and Saxon prayers, old churl?'
cried a gay voice behind him, as Redwald stood beneath the yew tree with
his hands clasped and his white hair waving in the evening breeze,
looking upward as he concluded his petition, while his grandchildren,
gazing upon him with their round blue eyes expanded, earnestly echoed
the customary 'Amen' to a prayer that they scarcely comprehended. It was
long since Redwald had heard the sound of a stranger's voice, and though
the words were purely English, they were spoken with a foreign accent
that fell harshly on his ear. He looked around, and saw emerging from
the underwood that had already begun to encroach on the sacred ground, a
handsome youth and two boys; the elder of the latter carried in his hand
a broken bow, and was remarkable for his audacious demeanor, his ruddy
complexion, and profusion of red hair; this was the speaker, as Redwald
immediately recognised his voice when he resumed,

'If the Conqueror heard the orisons thou offerest up in his behalf,
rebellious churl, it were likely that he left thee neither tongue to
pray with, nor eyes to lead thee to break his forest boundaries.'

Redwald trembled at the thought of incurring the personal vengeance of
that dreaded Conqueror, and muttered a few words, representing that he
was a poor ignorant peasant, who had been deprived by the forest laws of
priest and church, and being an unlettered man knew not what to pray on
the Sabbath without the aid of the holy man; and that he never broke the
forest boundaries excepting on Sundays and holidays, when he went to
pray on the place where his church once stood.

'Tut, man! if thou hast neither priest nor church so much the better for
thee; look you, this day have I and my brother, and my little nephew,
broke not only from my priest, but from a bishop, and not only from a
church, but from Winchester cathedral, to play the truant in the good
greenwood. Lo! I have broken my bow; cut me, I pray thee, with the
whittle that hangeth at thy girdle, a tough straight bough of yew, for
men declare that the goodliest English bows be ever made of that tree.'

Redwald ventured to remark that it was not only Sunday eve, but the
vigil of Saint Swithin. The young scoffer mocked aloud, and declared
that new laws were enforced, whereby the Saxon churls were commanded to
toil the whole Sabbath, and the Norman nobles to sport and play; and
that Saxon saints, as belonging to a conquered people, were turned out
of the calendar.

Redwald liked his company worse than ever, and gathering his young
grandchildren together, turned to depart to his cottage, when the
little boy addressed a few words in another language to the eldest, the
handsome youth, who had not before spoken, and who now, in a courteous
tone but such broken English as hardly to be intelligible, asked Redwald
whether he could give them any thing to eat, as they were hungry.

Before Redwald could comprehend this request, the red-haired boy
exclaimed--

'Hast never a hole, or den, or sty in the forest, where thee and the
young boors burrow for the night? If so, belike thou hast some food; and
we are weary and hungry enough to eat with thee, even if it were but
husks.'

'I told you before, young sir,' said Redwald, 'that my homestead was not
in the forest; and though you be the most unmannerly youth I ever met
withal, it shall never be said that Redwald the Saxon sent the hungry
empty from his door.'

The young strangers expressed their surprise to each other when they saw
the homely dainties that were heaped on the board of the Saxon farmer;
every thing delicious, that could be compounded with eggs, milk, and
honey, was set before them, with old strong cider made from redstreak
apples, the produce of the orchard in which the cottage was embowered.
The young guests paid ample respect to the good cheer before them,
especially the red-haired boy, who ate like a wolf, and behaved like a
swine. When he had at length appeased his voracious appetite, he filled
and emptied the wooden cup so often with cider, that his elder companion
began to remonstrate in the Norman language, but he met with a reply in
the same tongue, accompanied by a gesture so rude and ferocious that he
did not again attempt to interfere, excepting by removing the wine
vessel out of the reach of the young child, who seemed inclined to
follow the evil example before him.

When left to his own devices, the ferocious spirit of the other youth
began to grow tamer, and subside into his usual tone of boasting and
swaggering, and he took it into his head to be mortified that the sturdy
Saxon peasant, notwithstanding the hints he had thrown out, had
manifested no awe at his presence, nor seemed to have the slightest idea
of his rank, and he was resolved that he should not for another moment
remain in ignorance of it. So filling once more the cup, he turned round
with a pompous air to the old peasant, who was seated on a three-legged
stool in a corner of his cottage, shelling some beans to boil for
supper:--

'Churl,' said he, 'you look and behave as if we were fellows of no
reckoning, but know that I am one of the greatest personages at the
Conqueror's court.'

'All in good time, young sir,' replied Redwald, coolly proceeding in his
employment, 'it will take some years before a short thick-set boy can
become a great personage any where.'

A little dashed at this rejoinder, the young guest filled another cup,
and added--

'I will now in truth inform you who I really am.'

'I thought you had told me even now,' answered Redwald dryly.

'I am,' continued the boy, much provoked by the peasant's lack of
curiosity, 'Prince William, surnamed Rufus, the third son of the
Conqueror.'

'Hum!' interjected Redwald, in an incredulous tone.

'And as for these in company with me,' added he, 'yonder sits Prince
Richard, the second son of the Conqueror; and this child is no less a
person than the son of Robert of Normandy, my elder brother.'

But, instead of being awe-struck at this information, the Saxon peasant
arose in a huff, put the stopple into the bottle, and carried off the
cup saying, 'If I let you have any more of this strong drink I shall
have you commit sacrilege next, and fancy yourself the son of his
Holiness the Pope!'

'Then whom think you we be?' asked Rufus, much mortified at the
disappearance of the good cheer.

'By your unnurtured bearing,' replied the Saxon, 'I should guess you to
be some runaway Norman horseboy, or peradventure a pert page who has,
with his playmates, truanted from the court at Winchester.'

Nothing could exceed the wrath and fury of the Red Prince at this
intimation; he stamped on the earthen floor, and screamed unintelligibly
with passion; his brother, who did not understand sufficient English to
comprehend the passing scene, was some time before he could prevail on
William to explain in their native tongue the conversation that had
thrown him into such transports; when at last the provocation was
translated by his brother into Norman French, he laughed heartily at the
peasant's mistake, and wished that he had been master of sufficient
English to carry on the joke.

At that instant a troop of forest rangers, accompanied by Norman men at
arms, dressed in hauberks or chained mail, rode up to the cottage, and
demanded vociferously if the young princes had been seen to pass that
way. The appearance of Prince Richard at the door quieted their alarm,
but he was forced to exert all the authority of an elder brother to
avert the lawless wrath of young William, who commanded the men at arms
to seize his host, and hang him on the branches of the yew tree with his
grandchildren round him; but the better spirit of Prince Richard
prevailing, prevented him from making so atrocious a return for the
Saxon peasant's hospitality. He forced his furious brother from the
cottage, and then, by a few words of imperfect English and a courteous
gesture, he expressed a sense of obligation to his host, and bade him
farewell.

Nor did the gratitude of Prince Richard stop there; the next morning he
sent to Redwald by a trusty follower who understood English, a purse of
gold marks, and his advice to leave the cottage as soon as possible.

Redwald did not neglect this warning, and before noon was on his way
with his grandchildren to Southampton, from whence he embarked for
Brittany, which had been, from the first northern invasions of England,
a place of refuge for British exiles. Redwald did not fly an hour too
soon, for that very night a band of forest rangers arrived at his
deserted home, with fire and axes, and after totally destroying the
peaceful dwelling under pretence that it stood too near the haunts of
the king's game, they sought in vain for the peaceful inhabitants, in
order to gratify the hatred of the young tyrant, who had obtained from
his despot father license to avenge his mortified vanity by the
destruction of a harmless family. The site of the cottage, and its
useful and bowery orchard, was included in a wider sweep of ground, and
the whole added to the New Forest.

But few years had passed on before retributive judgments fell on the
family of the Conqueror in the very scene of his iniquity. His second
son, Richard, whose abilities and chivalric qualities had caused the
greatest hopes to be formed of him, who was the pride of his father's
heart and the delight of his eyes--Richard, for whose brow he had
destined the conquered diadem of England, was gored to death by an
infuriated stag, which he attacked imprudently while the poor animal was
standing at bay to defend his life. Not long after this tragic event,
the young boy, who has been mentioned in this tale as the son of Prince
Robert, was killed by a fall from his horse when hunting in the New
Forest. These were the most beloved objects of the Conqueror's heart,
and these he saw descend into untimely graves before him.

As for William Rufus, his fate is more generally known. When the measure
of his crimes was full, the Red King, as he was called by his miserable
subjects, was slain in the same New Forest by an arrow from the bow of
his favorite knight, Sir Walter Tyrrel. He was killed accidentally by
the arrow that was shot at a doe glancing against the branch of a tree
and from thence it rebounded to the king's bosom who never spoke after
he was wounded; but perhaps the dying tyrant, before the light forever
left his eyes, might recognise the old yew tree, under which in his
turbulent boyhood he had met the Saxon peasant Redwald, although by his
continued despotic encroachments, that yew, and the neighboring cottage
site, was now in the heart of the New Forest.




Wolsey Bridge.

A STORY OF THE TIMES OF HENRY THE EIGHTH.


On the south side of the ancient passage leading from the street to the
churchyard of St. Nicholas, was formerly situated, the commodious house
of Thomas Wolsey, a substantial butcher and grazier, of the town of
Ipswich, in the sixteenth century.

This Thomas Wolsey was one of those persons with whom the acquisition of
wealth appears to be the sole purpose of existence. It was his boast
'that he had thrice trebled the patrimony he had derived from his
father,' from whom he had inherited his flourishing business, besides
some personal property.

Acting in direct contradiction to that injunction of the royal psalmist,
'If riches increase, set not your heart upon them,' his very soul
appeared to dwell in his money bags, his well attended shambles or the
pleasant lowland pastures where the numerous flocks and herds grazed,
the profits on which he calculated would so materially improve his
store. He made no show no figure among his fellow townsmen; never
exchanging his long blue linen gown, leathern girdle, and coarse brown
hose, for any other apparel, except on a Sunday, when he wore a plain
substantial suit of sad colored cloth, garnished with silver buttons,
and the polished steel and huge sheath knife, which he usually wore at
his side, were exchanged for a silver hilted dagger and an antique
rosary and crucifix.

Satisfied with the conviction that he was one of the wealthiest
tradesmen in Ipswich, he saw no reason for exciting the envy of the poor
or the ill will of the rich, by any outward demonstration of the fact,
but continued to live in the same snug plain manner to which he had been
accustomed in his early days, making it the chief desire of his heart
that his only son, Thomas, should tread in his steps, and succeed him in
his prosperous and well established business, with the same economical
habits and an equally laudable care for the main chance.

The maternal pride of his wife Joan, who was the descendant of a family
that could boast of gentle blood, prompted the secret hope that the
ready wit and studious habits, together with the clerkly skill and
learned lore which the boy had already acquired at the grammar school
might qualify him for something better than the greasy craft of a
butcher, and perhaps one day elevate him to the situation of port reeve
or town clerk. But for the boy himself, his youthful ambition pointed
at higher marks than the golden speculations of trade, or the attainment
of lucrative office and civic honors in his native town.

From the first moment he entered the grammar school, and took his place
on the lowest seat there, he determined to occupy the highest, and to
this, in an almost incredibly brief period of time, he had rapidly
ascended; and, though only just entering his twelfth year, he was now
the head boy in the school, and in the opinion of his unlearned father,
'knew more than was good for him.'

As soon, indeed, as his son Thomas had learned to write a 'fair clerkly
hand, to cast accounts, and construe a page in the Breviary,' he
considered his education complete, and was desirous of saving the
expense of keeping him longer at school; but here he was overruled by
his more liberal minded wife, Joan, who, out of the savings of her own
privy purse, paid the quarterly sum of eight-pence to the master of the
school, for the further instruction of her hopeful boy Thoms, whose
abilities she regarded as little less than miraculous. Persons better
qualified than the good wife, Joan Wolsey, to judge of the natural
talents and precocious acquirements of her son, had also spoken in high
terms of his progress in the learned languages, and predicted great
things of him. These were personages of no less importance than the
head master of the Ipswich grammar school, and the parish priest of St.
Nicholas, the latter of whom was a frequent visitor at the hospitable
messuage of master Thomas Wolsey the elder, on the ostensible business
of chopping Latin with young Thomas, and correcting his Greek exercises
for him; but no doubt the spiced tankards of flowing ale, and the
smoking beef steaks, cut from the very choicest part of the ox, and
temptingly cooked by the well skilled hands of that accomplished
housewife, Joan Wolsey, to reward him for his good report of her darling
boy's proficiency, had some influence in drawing father Boniface thither
so often.

The bishop of the diocese himself had condescended to bestow unqualified
praise on the graceful and eloquent manner in which, when he visited the
school, young Wolsey had delivered the complimentary Latin oration, on
that occasion. The good natured prelate had even condescended to pat his
curly head on the conclusion of the address, and to say, 'Spoken like a
cardinal, my little man!'

From that moment young Wolsey had made up his mind as to his future
destiny. It was to no purpose that his father tried the alternate
eloquence of entreaties, reasoning, promises, and threats, to detach him
from his engrossing studies, and induce him to turn his attention to
the lucrative business of a butcher and grazier. The idea of such
servilely earned pelf was revolting to the excited imagination of the
youthful student, whose mind was full of classic imagery, and intent on
the attainment of academic honors, the steps by which he projected to
ascend to the more elevated objects of his ambition.

The church was, in those days, the only avenue through which talented
persons of obscure birth might hope to arrive at greatness, and young
Wolsey replied to all his father's exordiums urging him to attend to the
cattle market, the slaughter house, or the shambles, by announcing his
intention of becoming an ecclesiastic.

The flush of anger with which this unwelcome declaration had clouded the
brow of the elder Wolsey was perfectly perceptible when he returned home
after the fatigues of the day to take his evening meal, which his wife,
Joan, was busily engaged in preparing for him over the fire with her own
hands.

'I knew how it would turn out all along of your folly, mistress, in
keeping the boy loitering away his time and learning all manner of evil
habits at the grammar school, when he ought to have been bound
apprentice to me, and learning our honest craft, for the last two
years,' muttered the malcontent butcher throwing himself into his large
arm chair, lined with sheepskins.

'What a coil the woman keeps up with her frying pan,' continued he
peevishly, on perceiving that the discreet Joan appeared disposed to
drown the ebullitions of his wrath in the hissing and bubbling of the
fat in her pan, as she artfully redoubled her assiduity in shaking it
over the blazing hearth.

'Why, Joan,' pursued he, 'one cannot hear oneself speak for the noise
you make.'

'The noise is all of your own making, I trow, master,' replied Joan,
continuing to stir her hissing sputtering pan briskly as she spoke.

'I say, leave off that frizzling with the fat in that odious pan,'
vociferated he.

'So I will, master, if you wish to have burnt collops for your supper
to-night,' replied Joan meekly.

'I don't care whether I have any supper at all,' replied the butcher
testily; 'I am vexed, mistress.'

'Good lack! what should happen to vex you, master?' responded his wife.
'I am sure the world always seems to wag the way you'd have it go; but
losses and crosses in business will chance, even to the most prosperous,
at times. Is one of your fat beasts dead?'

'No!'

'Some of your sheep been stolen?'

'No!'

'Mayhap then, some customer, whom you have suffered to run up a long
score, is either dead or bankrupt?'

'Worse than that, mistress.'

'I prythee, good Thomas, let me hear the truth at once,' exclaimed the
startled Joan, upsetting the frying pan into the fire in her alarm. 'The
misfortune must be great that hath befallen you, if it be reckoned by
you worse than the loss of money.'

'Why, mistress, do not you reckon the perverse inclinations of one's own
flesh and blood a more serious calamity than loss of substance?'

'Ay, master; but that is a trial we have never had the sorrow of knowing
since our only son, Thomas, albeit I say it who ought not, is the most
dutiful, diligent, and loving lad, that ever blessed a parent's heart,'
said the fond mother, melting into tears of tenderness as she spoke.

'Hold thy peace, dame,' cried the indignant husband, darting a look of
angry reproach on the offending youth, who had been comfortably reposing
himself on an oaken settle by the fire side, reading Virgil's Eneid by
the light of the blazing embers, during the whole of the discussion,
without concerning himself about any thing, save to preserve the beloved
volume from being sprayed by the fat which the frying pan, in falling,
had scattered in all directions. 'That lad, on whom you bestow such
foolish commendations,' pursued old Wolsey; 'that lad, whatever might
have been his former virtuous inclinations, hath now disappointed all my
hopes, for he hath turned an errant scape-grace, and refuseth to become
a butcher, though the shambles he would inherit from me are the largest,
the most commodious, and the best frequented with ready-penny customers,
of any on the market hill. Moreover, it is a business in which his
grandfather got money, and I, following in his good steps, with still
better success, have become--I scorn to boast, but the truth may be
spoken without blame--one of the wealthiest tradesmen in the borough.'

'Then the less need, my master, of enforcing such a clever lad as our
Thomas to follow a craft which is so unsuitable for a scholar,' observed
Joan.

'There,' groaned the butcher, 'was the folly of making him one, which
hath been the means of teaching him to slight the main chance, and to
turn his head with pagan poesies or monkish lore. Would you believe it,
mistress Joan,--he hath had the audacity to profess his desire of
becoming a student at the university of Oxenford?'

'And why should he not, master Wolsey, since he promiseth to become a
learned clerk?' asked the proud mother.

'To what purpose should he go thither?' said the father.

'Marry, master, to increase his learning, and to put him in the way of
becoming a great man,' responded mistress Joan.

'A great man, forsooth!' echoed her husband contemptuously; 'who ever
heard of a butcher's son becoming a person of distinction?'

'I have heard, Sir,' said young Wolsey, closing his book eagerly; 'I
have heard of a destitute swineherd becoming a pope.'

'Indeed!' ejaculated his father with an air of incredulity.

'Yes, Sir, it was Nicholas Brekespeare, afterwards Pope Adrian the
Fourth, the only Englishman who ever filled the papal chair, but perhaps
not the last whom learning, combined with persevering enterprise, may
conduct to that eminence.'

'Ho! ho! ho!' cried the butcher, bursting into a loud laugh; 'I wist not
of the high mark at which your ambition aimeth, son Thomas! Well, if
enabling you to become a servitor in Magdalen College will advance your
holiness one step towards the possession of St. Peter's keys, I will not
withhold my assistance and my blessing, though much I doubt whether it
will carry thee into the Vatican, or whatever you call it, of which you
and father Boniface are always talking.'

'And what if it do not carry him quite so far, master,' interposed Joan,
'didst thou never hear of the proverb, He who reacheth after a gown of
cloth of gold shall scarcely fail of getting one of the sleeves?'

'Ay, mother!' cried young Wolsey; 'and when I am a cardinal, my father
will thank you for the parable.'

'Ah! if I ever live to see that day, son Thomas!' observed the butcher.

'Why should you doubt it, master?' asked mistress Joan.

'Because, wife, it is easy to talk of dignities and honors, but to
obtain them would be attended with difficulties, which I doubt our
simple son, Thomas, will find insurmountable.'

'I shall, at least, lose nothing in making the attempt,' observed young
Wolsey.

'There is your mistake, boy; you will lose something very considerable,'
replied his father.

'Dear father, what can that be for which the learning I shall acquire
will not make me ample amends?'

'The most flourishing butchery in Ipswich, simpleton! which, if once
lost through your inconsiderate folly, you may study till doomsday, and
aquire all the learning in popedom and heathenesse into the bargain,
without being able to reestablish it in its present prosperity,'
returned the mortified father with a groan.

A smile, which the younger Wolsey strove in vain to repress, played over
his features at these words.

'Ay, scorn and slight the substantial good that is within your reach for
the sake of the vain shadow which is beyond your power to obtain, Thomas
Wolsey,' said his father with great bitterness.

'My dear father, you know little of the powers of the human mind, or of
the mighty things which its energies, when once roused, and directed
towards one object, may effect.'

'I tell you, Thomas, that the end which you propose is _impossible_.'

'Sir,' replied young Wolsey, 'I have blotted _that word_ out of MY
dictionary.'

'I like your spirit, young man,' said his father, 'albeit, it savoreth a
little of presumption.'

'That remains to be proved,' said his son, 'and I am quite ready that my
earnestness should be tried by any test you may be inclined to demand.'

'I shall hold you to your word,' replied his father, 'and condition,
that if you take up your bachelor's degree within four years of your
entering Magdalen College, then shall you proceed in the course of life
on which you are so determinately bent; but if you fail in doing this,
then shall you return to my house, and submit your future destiny to my
disposal.'

'If I take it not up within two years of my entering the college,
barring accidents of sickness or death, then strip me of the learned
stole of a clerk of Oxenford, and chain me to your girdle as a butcher's
slave for life,' replied the youth with a heightened color.

'Thou hast pledged thyself to that which thou canst not perform, son
Thomas,' replied his father. 'Who ever heard of a boy of fourteen taking
up a bachelor's degree at Oxenford?'

'Thou shalt hear of one, anon, mine honored father,' said young Wolsey.

'I will engage that thy mother shall have the finest baron of beef in my
shambles to roast for dinner on the day on which I hear that news,'
rejoined his father.

'See that you keep my father to his promise, mother,' said the youth,
'for I shall travel night and day, in hopes of being the first to
communicate the intelligence, or at any rate, to arrive in time to come
in for a slice of the beef while it be hot.'

The important object being now accomplished of obtaining the consent of
the elder Wolsey to his son's entering the university of Oxford, the lad
commenced his journey on the following day for that ancient seat of
learning. He was on foot, for the sturdy butcher his father, though
well able to send him thither on a stout pack-horse, attended by one of
his own men, was determined to afford no facilities for an enterprise to
which he had so little relish.

The loving care of mistress Joan Wolsey had supplied the youthful
candidate for scarlet stockings and cardinal's hat with a few silver
groats for his expenses on the road, and a needful stock of linen and
other necessaries, which he carried in a leathern wallet over his
shoulder at the end of a stout oaken staff; but that which young Wolsey
considered more precious than either money or apparel, was a letter of
recommendation from the head master of the Ipswich grammar school to the
master of Magdalen College.

This credential obtained for its lonely and friendless bearer that
attention which his juvenile appearance, diminutive stature, and his
coarse and travel-soiled attire, would most probably have failed of
attracting.

Having passed his examination with great credit to himself, he was
admitted as a servitor of Magdalen College. In this novel situation
young Wolsey had some difficulties, and not a few hardships and
privations to contend with; but these, when weighed against the mighty
object which engrossed all his thoughts, were as dust in the balance,
and the only effect they had was to increase his persevering diligence.
At the end of the first term he had made a progress which astonished his
masters and fellow students. Before the two years had expired, within
which the lad had pledged himself to take up a degree, an attempt which
his father, with reason, judged unattainable by a person of his tender
age, the good-wife Joan Wolsey, in great haste, entered the shambles,
where her husband was preparing to put an uncommonly fine baron of beef
into the basket of a nobleman's servant, and laying hands upon it,
exclaimed, 'Why, Thomas Wolsey, what are you about to do with that
meat?'

'To send it to the house of my lord, according to order, to be sure,
mistress,' replied the butcher, with a look of surprise.

'An it had been ordered by King Henry himself, he should not have it
to-day,' said mistress Joan.

'Is your wife delirit, master Wolsey?' asked the servant.

'One would suppose so by her wild words,' said the astonished butcher,
who knew not what to think of the behavior of his usually discreet
spouse.

'If I be, master, it is with joy,' replied Joan Wolsey; 'but the truth
is, I came hither to claim the finest baron of beef in the shambles,
which you said I should roast for dinner on the day on which you heard
the news of our son, Thomas Wolsey, taking up a bachelor's degree at
Oxenford.'

'And who brought you the intelligence, mistress?' demanded her husband.

'A joyful messenger, my good man, for it was the boy himself, (blessings
on him!) dressed in his bachelor's gown, and bearing the certificate of
his admission as a fellow of Magdalen College.'

'Humphrey!' cried the delighted father, turning to his head man, 'take
that baron of beef home to my house, and help thy mistress to spit it,
and put it down to the fire, that my boy bachelor may dine off the best
joint in my shambles; and do you, master Ralph,' added he, turning to
his lordship's servant, 'make my duty to my lord, and ask him, if he
will be pleased to put up with rump or ribs to-day, since the baron of
beef, for which his housekeeper hath sent, was bespoken nearly two years
before his order came, and my good dame hath come to claim my pledge in
earnest.'

'Which my lord is too strict an observer of his own word to wish you to
forfeit on his account, I am sure, master Wolsey,' said Ralph; 'and when
I explain the pleasant cause for which you have made bold to disappoint
his lordship of his favorite dish to-day, he, who is himself a scholar
and a patron of learning withal, will hold you excused.'

This day being a holiday, the head master of the Ipswich grammar
school, several of young Wolsey's chosen friends among the scholars, and
the good-humored curate of St. Nicholas, were invited to partake of the
baron of beef which the young bachelor had so honorably earned, and
which mistress Joan Wolsey cooked in her most approved style, to the
great satisfaction of her husband and the guests.

This was one of the long vacations, but no season of idleness to young
Wolsey, whose unremitting application to study impaired his appetite,
and rendered him languid and feverish, which his anxious mother
perceiving, and feeling some alarm lest his incessant mental toil might
injure his naturally feeble constitution, she communicated her
uneasiness to her husband, and asked him if he could not contrive some
little pleasant employment for him, which would have the effect of
diverting him for a few days from his sedentary occupations.

'Ay, ay, dame,' replied old Wolsey, 'I have a choice bit of pastime for
the boy; he shall go with Humphrey and Peter and Miles to buy beeves off
the Southwold and Reydon commons and marshes.'

'That would do well enough, master, if the lad were any judge of cattle,
which I fear, with all his college learning, he is not,' responded
mistress Joan.

'You may well say that, mistress' rejoined the butcher, 'for though he
hath been born, bred, and nourished in the midst of such matters, and
he is observant enough in other things, yet I would answer for it, he
knoweth not the difference between a fat beast and a lean one, a Scot or
a home-bred, yea scarcely between a long horn or a short; and were I to
send him on this business of mine without my shrewd foreman, Humphrey,
to instruct _his_ ignorance and detect the knavery of the sellers, he
would bring me home pretty bargains of beasts against the Easter
festivals. Why these fat monks of Reydon, who are far better skilled in
grazing for the Ipswich and Yarmouth markets than in their church Latin,
would be sure to palm their old worn-out mortuary cows upon him for fine
young heifers, and make him pay the price of three-year-old steers, for
their broken-down yoke oxen that had ploughed the convent lands for the
last ten years. But, as I said before, Humphrey shall go with him, who
is used to their tricks of old, and will bid them half their asking
price at a word, which our Thomas would be ashamed of doing to men of
their cloth were he left to himself, so he shall only have the pleasant
part of the business, to wit, listening to the chaffering, and paying
down the money when the price is agreed upon by those who are wiser in
such matters than himself.'

'And how do you propose for him to perform the journey, master, for the
places whereof you speak are many miles distant?' said Joan.

'Under forty miles, wife, which will be no great stretch for Miles and
Peter (who are to drive the cattle) to walk; as for Thomas, he shall
ride my grey mare, and Humphrey can take the black nag, and give Miles
and Peter a lift behind him by turns, which will ease their legs, and
make it a pleasant journey for them all. Ah! that part of Suffolk is a
fine grazing country to travel through. I am sure I shall envy Thomas
the prospect of so many herds and flocks as he will see on those upland
meads and salt marshes; but he will think more of chopping Latin with
the monks of Blitheborough, and looking over their old musty books and
records, which could never give a hungry man his dinner, than of all the
sensible sights he might see by the way.'

'Every one to his vocation, master,' replied Joan Wolsey; 'yours is to
feed the bodies, and my Thomas's will be to nourish the minds of men
with a more enduring food than that which you have it in your power to
provide.'

'Gramercy, mistress!' said the butcher, with a grin; 'one would think he
had been feasting you on some of his improving diet, for you begin to
discourse like a doctor.'

The next day, by peep of dawn, the quartette set forth from St.
Nicholas's passage on their expedition on which no one reckoned more
than young Wolsey who, wearing his college cap and gown, the latter of
which was tucked up round his waist, lest its long full skirts should
impede his horsemanship, was mounted on his father's easy-pacing grey
mare. For the convenience of riding he was accommodated with a pair of
the old man's boots, which drew up far above his knees, and were wide
enough to admit three pair of legs like the stripling's slender limbs.
He rode cautiously at the head of the cavalcade, taking care to keep
close to Humphrey, who jogged along very comfortably on the black nag,
whose mettle, if ever it had possessed any, was tamed by the wear and
tear of fifteen years of service in the butcher's cart.

Miles and Peter trudged steadily along with their quarter staffs in
their hands, relying on their own excellent pedestrianism to reach the
ultimate place of their destination almost as soon as the horsemen of
the party, whose steeds they knew would be sorely jaded before they
reached St. Peter's, Wangford, where their master had directed them to
crave lodging for the night of the monks of Clugni, who there occupied a
cell dependent on the monastery of Thetford, which also was the parent
house of the cell at Reydon.

The two saucy knaves occasionally exchanged sly glances, and cracked
dry jokes on the unsuitable array and cautious riding of the young
Oxford student, their master's son, and the steady jog-trot of Humphrey,
who rode quite at his ease on a soft sheepskin, which supplied the place
of a saddle by being tightly buckled with a broad leathern strap under
the belly of the black nag, whose quiet temper allowed her to be ridden
safely without the aid of stirrups.

The sun rose brightly in a soft April sky by the time they reached
Woodbridge. Young Wolsey had now become familiar with the paces of the
grey mare and the excitement of the exercise, the beauty of the morning,
the invigorating freshness of the air, and lovely succession of new and
agreeable objects, contributing to raise his spirits, he soon began to
assume a little more of the cavalier, and occasionally used the whip and
the spurs, in defiance of all Humphrey's prudential cautions. Nature had
well qualified the youthful student, both in form and agility, to play
the graceful horseman, and before they arrived at Wickham Market, the
skill and boldness with which he managed his steed was a matter of
surprise to the whole party.

At this little town they stopped, and refreshed both men and beasts with
a substantial breakfast, and then set forward on their journey with
renewed spirits. Young Wolsey, who had a purpose of his own to answer,
put his father's mare to her speed, and soon left the pedestrian Peter,
and the hapless nag with its double burden, of Humphrey and Miles, far
in the rear, regardless of their shouts of 'Fair play, master Thomas!
fair play!' and 'Alack, alack, sir, have a care of master's mare!'

But the stripling, who liked not the repeated hints which Humphrey had
given him of the propriety and expediency, to say nothing of the
kindness, of giving poor Peter a lift behind him, now they were clear of
the houses, was determined to ride forward, not wishing the bachelor's
cap and gown to appear in such close fellowship with the butcher's blue
and greasy buff of his father's men. Besides, he greatly desired,
instead of keeping the jog-trot pace that suited their convenience, to
gain an hour or two to spend with the monks of the Holyrood at
Blitheborough, and to examine the antiquities, architecture, and
localities of that ancient and interesting place, through which the
route chalked out for him by his father lay; but the elder Wolsey had
strictly charged Humphrey in his hearing, 'not to permit his young
master to delay their journey, by wasting his time and theirs in prating
Latin gibberish with the black locusts of Blitheborough,' (as he
irreverently styled those worthy anchorites), 'especially as he did not
want to deal with them for sheep, the last he had bought off their walks
having proved a poor bargain.'

Now young Wolsey, when he heard this caution, secretly resolved to
arrange matters so as to enjoy the conference with the monks without
either infringing his father's directions, or being pestered with the
company of his blue-frocked retainers. So, without allowing himself time
to observe the pastoral Benhall Kelsale, or the picturesque village of
Yoxford, which was then, as now, one of the prettiest in Suffolk, or
even pausing to bestow more than the tribute of a passing glance of
interest on Cockfield's Gothic Hall, at that period newly built, and
rising proudly from its embowering woods, he pressed his mare on, and
though, as well as her, sorely wearied with the unwonted number of miles
he had traversed, his youthful spirits carried him forward with unabated
energy, till, on descending the last hill after crossing the extensive
track of purple heath, known by the name of Blitheborough Sheep walks,
that most stately structure, the church of the Holy Trinity, rose before
him, not in the dilapidated grandeur which even now strikes the eye of
the eastern traveller with astonishment and delight, as, grey with the
mantling lichens, and crumbling with the neglect and injuries of
revolving centuries, it bursts upon his view, amidst surrounding
desolation, but in all the magnificence of the monastic ages of its
glory, in the elaborate richness of the florid gothic architecture,
untouched by time and unimpaired by accident, with the bright sunbeams
playing and flashing on the many-colured stains of its wide and lofty
windows.

Young Wolsey checked his horse, and gazed upon this noble edifice with
the enthusiasm natural to the future founder of colleges and gothic
buildings; then slowly, and looking often backwards, he proceeded to the
cell and chapel of the Holy-Rood, which indeed was so contiguous to the
spot that he was able still to enjoy a close view of the new church, as
it was then called, while he partook of the good cheer which the
hospitable fraternity produced for his refreshment, and to which the
hungry stripling did ample justice. As the bells were chiming for
vespers, monastic etiquette compelled him to accompany the monks to
their pretty chapel, for which building the traveller would now look in
vain, as its only relics are the crumbling group of broken gray arches,
so thickly mantled with ivy and crowned with wild flowers, that form
such an interesting feature in the landscape of the desolated village of
Blitheburgh. When the evening service was concluded, the friendly monks
gratified their visitor with an anterior view of the church of the Holy
Trinity, and pointed out to him its rich carvings, screens, trellises,
and magnificently sculptured and emblazoned roof, not forgetting to call
his attention to the antique tombs which, as tradition reports, once
covered the mortal remains of Annas, king of the East Angles, and
Ferminius, his son, who were slain in a bloody battle with Penda, the
pagan king of Mercia, which was fought in the adjacent marshes of
Bulcamp, or Baldkemp. From the leads over the south aisle, they made him
observe the fine sea view of Southwold, Walberswick, and the city of
Dunwich, well known to him in ecclesiastic history as the ancient
metropolitan city of the kingdom of the East Angles, where Saxon
monarchs kept court in the olden time, and the bishop of the two
counties held his see, till the resistless waves of the German Ocean
committed such ravages as compelled the diocesan to remove his episcopal
see to Thetford, and afterwards buried that time-honored seat of
learning and royalty (Dunwich), with its walls, and brazen gates, its
fifty-two churches and religious houses, together with its numerous
streets and public buildings, beneath its raging waters.

With a sigh the young student turned from the contemplation of the
melancholy wreck of ancient splendor, which the fallen city of the East
Anglians presented even in the sixteenth century, when several churches
and numerous vestiges of its former greatness still survived the storms
of ages, and the assaults of the hungry waves; but what would he have
thought had he seen it as it now is, reduced to a few ruinous
fishermen's huts, and of all its churches and religious houses,
retaining only the roofless shell of one, in which divine service is no
longer performed! Doubtless he would have applied the words of the
lamentation pronounced by the prophet over the desolation of Tyre: 'Is
this your joyous city, whose antiquity is of ancient date? Who hath
taken this counsel against Tyre, the crowning city, whose merchants are
princes, whose traffickers are the honorable of the earth?'

Young Wolsey had been too deeply engaged in the contemplation of these
interesting localities to embrace the opportunity of displaying his own
learning to the friendly monks, who had treated him with the respect
which his natural talents and early acquirements were well calculated to
inspire, and pressingly invited him to sojourn with them during the rest
of the evening, and pass the night in their dormitory; but the
importunities of Humphrey (who, with Peter and Miles, had arrived while
he was at vespers, and having refreshed themselves and the black nag,
were now clamorous to proceed) prevailing over his desire of accepting
an invitation so agreeable to his own inclinations, he took a loving
farewell of the hospitable fraternity, promising to find some way of
gratifying his wish of passing a few hours with them on his return. Then
mounting the grey mare, he rode forward at a gentle pace with his weary
and somewhat malcontent companions, who scrupled not to reproach him for
the want of good fellowship he had displayed in deserting their company.
Nor did Humphrey fail to exert the privilege of an old and trusted
servant, by rating his young master soundly for having overheated the
grey mare on a long journey, besides incurring much peril of accidents
both to himself and that valuable animal, on account of his being an
inexperienced rider, and quite unacquainted with the road. The young
student, who was of course rather impatient of these rebukes, which he
considered very derogatory to the dignity of a bachelor of Oxford to
receive from butchers and cattle drovers, endeavored to escape from them
by a repetition of his offence, namely, outriding the party; but that
was no longer in his power, for he had fairly knocked up the grey mare
so that she was unable to compete with the shaggy nag on which Humphrey
rode, and the only alternative left him was to listen meekly, or to turn
a deaf ear, to the reproaches that assailed him right and left, and
amuse himself with his own reflections, or in contemplating the charms
of the varied landscape before him, when, on ascending the gentle hill
leading from Blitheburgh, he found himself among the rich woods and
cowslipped meads of Henham, whose castellated hall then the residence of
the Brandons, rose in all its gothic grandeur over grove and vale, as
the crowning object of the prospect, but was soon after hidden behind
the intervening screen of deep embowering shades, which were then almost
impervious to the light of day, and converted the advancing gloom of
evening into early night. No sooner was the party involved in this
obscurity, than the offended trio, Humphrey, Miles, and Peter, united
their voices in a universal chorus of grumbling at their detention at
Blitheburgh, declaring they were benighted, and should in all
probability be robbed of the sum entrusted to them for the purchase of
the cattle.

The welcome sound of the curfew bell of St. Peter's, Wangford, however,
soon informed them that their apprehensions were groundless, and put
them into better humor, by advertising them that they were not more than
a mile distant from the place of their destination; and presently, after
emerging from beneath the sombre shadows of Henham's oaken glades, they
found themselves once more in daylight, and in the immediate vicinity of
the pretty village of Wangford, which, with its picturesque monastery
and chapel of St. Peters, crowning a gentle eminence, lay full before
them.

The pastoral rivulet of the Wang, from which the name of this hamlet is
derived, was soon forded by the weary travellers, who, proceeding to the
little convent, obtained without difficulty food and shelter for the
night. The next morning, as soon as matins were over, which service they
of course considered them selves bound to attend, they set forward on
their short journey to the neighboring monastery of Reydon, which, as I
said before, was a detached branch of the cell of St. Peter's, both
dependencies on the monastery of Thetford.

Leaving its green bowery labyrinth of sylvan lanes, its antique hall and
park, its aboriginal forest and the grey spire of its venerable church,
and all that was pleasing and attractive in the landscape of the Reydon,
or the red hill (which its Saxon flame signifies), to the left, Humphrey
guided the party through a narrow, wet, and incommodious road, to a mean
conventual building, situated at the most desolate extremity of the
parish, among the salt marshes.

If Wolsey had expected to find learning, piety, or hospitality among
this fraternity, he was certainly much disappointed; for a set of more
illiterate and narrow-minded men, than these Reydon monks, were never
congregated together. Far from expressing the least interest in the
acquirements of their accomplished young guest, they received the
intelligence of his proficiency in the learned languages with dismay,
and appeared far better pleased with the conversation of Humphrey,
Peter, and Miles, which indeed was more in unison with their tastes
than that of the scholastic Wolsey, whom they entertained with long
dissertations, not on the fathers or the classics, but on the most
profitable breeds of cattle, and the most approved mode of fatting
swine, in all which matters they were very fluent, and appeared to
consider it passing strange that a butcher's son possessed so little
knowledge on such interesting topics. They also discussed the best
methods of curing white bacon, as the fat of pickled pork is called in
that part of Suffolk. On this delectable article Wolsey and his party
had the felicity of supping that evening, which he afterwards declared
was the dullest he ever spent in the whole course of his life.

The next morning, though the bells chimed for matins, the monks made no
movement to enter the chapel, as THEIR matin service was confined to
that ceremony, and when Wolsey expressed his surprise at such unorthodox
neglect of the prescribed offices of holy church, they replied 'that it
was neither a sabbath nor a festival, and their swine must be attended
to.'

When this interesting duty had been zealously performed by the
fraternity, they proceeded with their guests to the marshes where their
cattle fed where a long and animated discussion took place between
Humphrey and the superior of the convent respecting the price, the
merits, and defects of the beasts which Humphrey deemed most worthy of
his attention, in which so much time was wasted that the dinner bell
rang before they had settled the price of so much as one bullock.

At this meal they were again regaled with white bacon, which appeared a
standing dish in this convent, for it was produced at supper, breakfast,
and dinner; at the latter, indeed, there was the addition of a huge dish
of hard dumplings, with which they devoured a quantity of pork-dripping
by way of sauce.

The morning had been fine but showery, in the afternoon a heavy rain set
in, which rendered it impossible either to visit the cattle-marshes
again, or to proceed homewards, which young Wolsey recommended his
father's men to do, on the conviction of the impossibility of ever
concluding a bargain with these frocked and cowled dealers in cattle and
swine.

The rain, however, continued without intermission, and the malcontent
student was compelled to remain where he was till the 'plague of water,'
as he called this unwelcome downpouring, should abate.

How to pass the weary interval with men whose minds and manners were so
dissimilar to his own, he knew not. Books they had never a one except
their breviaries, and their acquaintance with these was a doubtful
matter to the young student, since no persuasians of his could induce
them to perform vespers when the bells chimed for that service, although
it was a wet afternoon on which nothing else could be done.

Whether to attribute this to their utter disrelish to any thing of a
spiritual nature, or to their fear of betraying their ignorance of latin
and other deficiences to one whom they feared would detect their
blunders, and perhaps report them to their superior at Thetford, Wolsey
knew not, but he was so heartily weary of his sojourn among them, that
nothing but the most pathetic remonstrances and earnest protestations on
the part of Humphrey against such a measure, prevented him from
retracing his steps to Blitheburgh, in spite of the rain, and remaining
with the monks of Holy-Rood Chapel till his father's people had
transacted their business with the conventual graziers of Reydon.

The following morning proving fine, they again proceeded to the marshes
in the hope of striking a bargain, which was at length concluded; but
not till after a delay that appeared to the impatient Wolsey almost
interminable, which time he employed, not in listening to the
altercations of the buyer and sellers of the bullocks; but in strolling
through the marshes and making observations, till he obtained a view of
Blitheburgh on the line of country that intervened across which, he
persuaded himself a much shorter cut to that village might be made than
by following the usual road through Wangford. Just as he had come to the
resolution of attempting that route, the convent bell rang for dinner,
and summoned him to a sixth meal of white bacon, of which the monks ate
with as keen an appetite as if it had been the first time they ever
partook of that savory fare, of which Wolsey was by this time almost as
weary as of the company of the founders of the entertainment.

The bullocks, twelve in number, were now driven into the convent yard,
and Humphrey called upon his young master to pay down the price for
which he and the monks had agreed, at the average sum of one pound ten
shillings a head, which he pronounced an unconscionable sum with a sly
wink of intelligence at the Oxford student, by which he gave the youth,
who was about to take his words literally, to understand that he was
well satisfied with the bargain. In fact, the Reydon monks, shrewd and
exacting as they were, had met with more than their match in the
calculating, experienced Humphrey, who, without making a boast of his
wisdom in this way, knew how to judge of the weight of a living ox
almost to an odd pound. Till the business was concluded, the money paid,
and the receipt given, he had forborne to taste of the convent mead or
ale, though both had been pressed upon him with an earnestness passing
the bounds either of politeness or hospitality by the cunning monks, who
hoped to overcome Humphrey's cool clear judgment and caution, by means
of the merry brown bowl; but now fear of being overreached in his
bargain in consequence of such an indulgence was at an end, Humphrey,
malgre all his young master's expostulations, demanded the
lately-rejected beverage, of which he, with Miles and Peter, drank
pretty freely, though not perhaps so much as they would have done had
the cloistered cattle-dealers been willing to produce more, which they
were always sparing in doing after a bargain had been definitively
struck.

The draughts which the trio had swallowed had however the effect of
putting them all into such high good humor, that when Wolsey on mounting
proposed to them his plan of changing the roundabout route through
Wangford, for a straight cut across the marshes to Blitheburgh, they
offered no objection, for even the prudent Humphrey was desirous of
adopting any expedient by which they might make up for the time they had
lost in drinking the convent ale after the business was transacted.

The monks assured them the project was feasible, since the branch of the
Blithe which separated Henham and Reydon was fordable, and they would
save a considerable distance by crossing the river, but their
hospitality did not extend to the civility of sending one of their
swine-herds or goose-boys to point out the precise spot at which the
attempt might be made without danger to passengers. The stream was much
swollen in consequence of the late heavy rains, Humphrey and the drovers
paused on the rushy bank, each prudently declining to be the first to
try the ford. Wolsey, who was piqued at their doubts of his assurance
'that it was safe! perfectly safe!' though he would rather have had one
of the others show a demonstrable proof that there was no danger, urged
his reluctant mare forward.

'Hold, master Thomas, hold! for the love of St. Margaret of Rissmere,'
cried Humphrey, who was suddenly sobered by the sight of his young
master's peril, and the recollection that the stream was deep and muddy.

Now this St. Margaret of Rissmere was a saint for whom Wolsey had
neither love nor reverence, for she was the patroness of the unlearned
monks of Reydon: so, without heeding the adjuration so pathetically
addressed to him in her name, he boldly plunged into the dark and
swollen waters of the dangerous ford. He was, as we have seen, an
inexperienced rider on dry land, but a more skilful horseman than the
stripling-student would have found it a difficult matter to retain his
seat and guide the terrified animal, who presently lost her footing, and
began to plunge and kick in the muddy slippery ooze, of which the bed of
the Blithe and its dependent streams are composed, and which having
recently been violently disturbed by the heavy rains, was in a state of
complete ferment and liquefaction.

Wolsey, though encumbered with his bachelor's gown, which he had not
this time taken the precautionary measure of tucking up and fastening to
his girdle, courageously maintained his seat till the mare, exhausted
with her violent efforts, sunk, and left him floating on the stream. He
was an expert swimmer in the clear calm Orwell, or the pastoral Gipping,
his native streams, but scarcely a fish that had been used to the fresh
sparkling element of such rivers as these, could have steered its course
in the dark vortex of brackish mud in which poor Wolsey was immersed.

Peter and Miles stood aghast at the accident, uttering doleful cries for
help, without venturing to make a single effort to save the almost
exhausted youth. Humphrey, the faithful Humphrey, at the first alarm had
dismounted from the nag, and was preparing to plunge into the stream to
save his master's son or perish in the attempt, when one of sir Richard
Brandon's wood-rangers, who had seen the accident and hastened to the
spot, reached the end of the long pole he had been using in leaping the
marsh ditches to the youth, by which assistance, the stream being narrow
at that place, he was enabled, though not without some difficulty, to
gain the opposite bank, from which, as soon as he had cleared his eyes
and mouth of the salt, bitter, and unsavory ooze he had been compelled
to swallow, he called out in an accent of distress to Humphrey, 'O!
Humphrey, Humphrey! what shall we say to my father about the grey mare?'

'St. Margaret of Rissmere take the mare!' sobbed Humphrey who appeared
to consider the patroness of Reydon as somehow chargeable with their
mishap; 'don't talk of her, my dear boy, when she had nearly been the
death of you. Howsomdever, master Thomas, you must never undertake to
lead those who are wiser than yourself short cuts any more. I hope you
have had enough of this precious ford, that was to take you such a near
way to Blitheburgh.'

'Why so it will, you simple fellow,' said Wolsey laughing, and wiping
the mud from his face; 'do not you see the beautiful church over those
marshes, almost at my elbow? I shall bestir myself to get there as fast
as I can, now I _am_ over the water, that I may get dry clothes, a good
supper, and some pleasant chat with the worthy monks of the Holy Rood,
which will console me for the drenching I have got.'

'Alack, alack' master Thomas! what is to become of us and the bullocks?'
howled Miles and Peter from the opposite bank.

'You may come over the river to me, an you like,' responded Wolsey from
the other side.

'We durst not do that for our lives,' cried the trembling drovers.

'Then turn yourselves and the bullocks about, and find the road to
Wangford as well as ye can: Humphrey knows the country, and he will
guide ye to get to Blitheburgh by that roundabout way, ye poltroons,
unless ye choose to stay where ye are till I am a Cardinal, when it is
my intention to build a bridge over this sweet stream, to prevent other
travellers from incurring the peril which I have done in endeavoring to
ford such a bottomless abyss of mud.'

We will not follow the young bachelor to Blitheburgh, where doubtless he
met with agreeable entertainment, nor will the limits of our tale admit
of our tracing the progressive steps by which he in the sequel attained
to the eminence to which his ambition, even in childhood, prompted him
to aspire. By keeping his attention constantly fixed on this object, he
found it at last within his reach; but was he then contented? Let me
answer this query with another--When was the desire of human greatness
ever satisfied? I refer the juvenile reader to the historical summary
for further particulars of the career of this extraordinary man, who,
when he had attained to the coveted rank of Cardinal, though he was
burdened with the cares of the prime minister of England which office he
held during twenty years of Henry the Eighth's reign, was not forgetful
of his promise of building a bridge over the stream which had so nearly
proved fatal to himself. The name of the bridge, and the local tradition
thereunto belonging, will long, I trust, exist to preserve the memory of
an action of pure benevolence to future ages.




The Judgment of Sir Thomas More.

IN THE TIME OF HENRY THE EIGHTH.


In the pleasant fields of Battersea, near the river side, on a spot
which is now covered with houses, dwelt, three hundred and ten years
ago, the blind widow, Annice Collie, and her orphan grandchild, Dorothy.
These two were alone in the world, and yet they might scarcely be said
to feel their loneliness; for they were all the world to each other.

Annice Collie had seen better days; for she was the daughter of a
substantial yeoman, and her husband, Reuben Collie, had been a gardener
in the service of good queen Catharine, the first wife of king Henry the
eighth; and Annice had been a happy wife, a joyful mother, and a liberal
housekeeper, having wherewithal to bestow on the wayfarer and stranger
at their need. It was, however, the will of God that these blessings
should be taken from her. The queen fell into adversity, and, being
removed from her favorite palace at Greenwich, to give place to her
newly exalted rival, Anne Boleyn, her faithful servants were all
discharged; and, among them, Reuben Collie and his son Arthur, were
deprived of their situations in the royal gardens.

This misfortune, though heavy, appeared light, in comparison with the
bitter reverses that had befallen their royal mistress; for the means of
obtaining an honest livelihood were still in the power of the
industrious little family; and beyond that their ambition extended not.

Reuben Collie, who had spent his youth in the Low Countries, had
acquired a very considerable knowledge of the art of horticulture, an
art at that time so little practised in England, that the salads and
vegetables with which the tables of the great were supplied, were all
brought, at a great expense, from Holland, and were, of course, never
eaten in perfection. Reuben Collie however, whose observations on the
soil and climate had convinced him that these costly exotics might be
raised in England, procured seeds, of various kinds, from a friend of
his in the service of the Duke of Cleves, and was so fortunate as to
rear a few plants of cabbages, savoys, brocoli, lettuces, artichokes,
and cucumbers, to the unspeakable surprise of all the gardeners in
London and its environs; and honest Reuben narrowly escaped being
arraigned as a wizard, in consequence of their envy at the success of
his experiment. He had hired a cottage with a small field adjoining,
and this he and his son Arthur had, with great care and toil, converted
into a garden and nursery ground, for rearing fruit-trees, vegetables,
costly flowers, and herbs of grace; and this spot he flattered himself
would, one day, prove a mine of wealth to himself, and his son after
him. That golden season never arrived; for Arthur, who had, during a
leisure time, obtained work in a nobleman's garden at Chelsea, for the
sake of bringing home a few additional groats to assist in the
maintenance of his wife Margaret, and his little daughter Dorothy, who
lived with the old people, was unfortunately killed by the fall of an
old wall, over which he was training a fig-tree.

The news of this terrible catastrophe was a death-blow to Reuben
Collie. The afflicted mother and wife of Arthur struggled with their own
grief to offer consolation to him; but it was in vain, for he never
smiled again. He no longer took any interest in the garden, which had
been before so great a source of pleasure to him; he suffered the weeds
to grow up in his borders, and the brambles to take root in his beds.
His flowers bloomed unheeded by him, and his fruit-trees remained
unpruned: even his darling exotics, the very pride of his heart and the
delight of his eyes, whose progress he had heretofore watched with an
affection that almost savored of idolatry, were neglected; and,
resisting all the efforts which his wife and daughter-in-law could make
to rouse him from this sinful state of despair, he fell into a
languishing disorder, and died a few months after the calamity that had
rendered him childless.

And now the two widows, Annice and Margaret Collie had no one to work
for them or render them any comfort in their bereavement, save the
little Dorothy; nevertheless, they did not abandon themselves to the
fruitless indulgence of grief as poor Reuben had done; but, the day
after they had with tearful eyes assisted at his humble obsequies, they
returned to their accustomed occupations, or rather they commenced a
course of unwonted labor in the neglected garden, setting little Dorothy
to weed the walks and borders, while they prepared the beds to receive
crops, or transplanted the early seedlings from the frames. And Dorothy,
though so young, was dutifully and industriously disposed, and a great
comfort to them both; it was her especial business to gather the
strawberries and currants, and to cull the flowers for posies, and carry
them out to sell daily; nor was she afraid to venture, even to the great
City of London, on such errands, though her only companion and guard was
a beautiful Spanish dog called Constant, which had been given to her,
when quite a little puppy, by her royal mistress, good queen Catharine,
who was wont to bestow much notice on the child; and she, in her turn,
fondly cherished the dog for the sake of her former benefactress. But
Constant was, for his own sake very deserving of her regard, not only
for his extraordinary sagacity and beauty, but for the faithful and
courageous attachment which he manifested for her person, no one daring
to attack or molest her while he was at her side. Constant was moreover
very useful in carrying her basket of posies for her, while she was
loaded on either arm with those which contained the fruit; and so they
performed their daily peregrinations, with kindly words on the one part,
and looks and gestures of mutely eloquent affection on the other. Very
fond and faithful friends were this guileless pair; and they were soon
so well known, and excited so much interest, in the environs of London,
that they were treated and caressed at almost every gentleman's house on
the road: and the little girl found no difficulty in disposing of her
fruit and flowers, and was as happy as a cheerful performance of her
duties could render her. But these pleasant days did not last; the
small-pox broke out in the neighborhood:--Dorothy's mother was attacked
with this fatal malady, and, after a few days' severe illness, died; and
the very night after the melancholy and hurried funeral of her beloved
daughter-in-law took place Annice Collie was laid upon the bed of
sickness with the same cruel disease, and Dorothy was roused from the
indulgence of the intense sorrow into which she was plunged by the
unexpected death of her last surviving parent, to exert all her energies
for the succour of her aged and helpless grandmother. 'I know not how it
was that I was enabled to watch, day and night, beside her bed, without
sleep and almost without sustenance,' would the weeping orphan say,
whenever she referred to that sad period; 'but of this I am assured,
that the Lord, who feedeth the young ravens when they cry unto him, had
compassion upon us both, or I never could have been supported, at my
tender years, through trials like those. 'In the multitude of sorrows
that I had in my heart, His comforts refreshed my soul; and it was
through His mercy that my dear grandmother recovered; but she never
beheld the light of day again, the cruel disease had destroyed her
sight.' Yes, in addition to all her other afflictions, Annice Collie was
now blind, a widow, childless and destitute; yet was repining far from
her; and raising her sightless orbs to heaven, when she was informed by
the sorrowful Dorothy of the extent of the calamity that had befallen
her, in the loss of her daughter-in-law, she meekly said, with pious
Eli, 'It is the Lord, and shall I complain or fret myself because he
hath, in his wisdom, resumed that, which, in his bounty, he gave?
Blessed be his holy name for all which he hath given, and for all that
he hath taken away; though these eyes shall behold his glorious works no
more, yet shall my lips continue to praise Him who can bring light out
of darkness.'

But the illness of herself and her deceased daughter-in-law had consumed
the little reserve that poor Annice had made for the payment of their
rent; and their landlord, a hard and covetous man, who had ever since
the death of Reuben Collie cast a greedy eye on the garden, which he and
his son had made and planted with such labor and cost, called upon the
poor widow on the quarter-day, and told her, with many harsh words, that
unless she resigned the lease of the garden to him, he would distrain
her goods for the rent she owed him, and turn her and her grand-daughter
into the street.

'It is hard to resign the lease of the garden, which has not yet
remunerated us for the sum my poor husband laid out upon it, just as it
is becoming productive; but I am in your debt, Master Barker, so you
must deal with me according to your conscience,' said the blind widow;
on which he took the garden into his own hands and made a merit of
leaving the two forlorn ones in possession of the cottage.

And now Dorothy betook herself to spinning, for the maintenance of
herself and her helpless relative but it was not much that she could
earn in that way after having been accustomed to active employment in
the open air: and then her grandmother fell sick again of a rheumatic
fever, and Dorothy was compelled to sell first one piece of furniture
then another to purchase necessaries for her, till at length nothing was
left but the bed on which poor Annice lay; and when Dorothy looked round
the desolate apartment that had formerly been so neat and comfortable,
she was almost tempted to rejoice that her grandmother could not behold
its present dreary aspect.

Winter again approached with more than ordinary severity: quarter day
came and found the luckless pair unprovided with money to pay the rent;
and their cruel landlord turned the blind widow and her orphan
grandchild into the street: and, but for the benevolence of a poor
laundress, who out of pity admitted them into her wretched hovel by the
way-side, they would have had no shelter from the inclemency of the
night that followed. Annice, helpless as an infant, sunk down upon the
straw, whereon her compassionate neighbor had assisted in placing her,
and having feebly expressed her thanks, turned her face to the wall; for
she could not bear that her son's orphan should see the tears which she
vainly strove to repress; but she could not hide them from the anxious
scrutiny of the weeping girl. Dorothy did not speak but looked very
earnestly on the pale cheek and sunken features of her venerable
grandmother, while she appeared to hold communion with her own heart on
some subject of painful interest. At length she rose up with the air of
one who has effected a mighty conquest, and exclaimed, 'Yes, dearest
grandmother, it shall be done: the sacrifice shall be made!'

'What shall be done, my child?' inquired Annice in surprise: 'I have
asked nothing of you.'

'Not indeed with your lips, dear parent of my departed father,' said
Dorothy; 'but your pallid cheek and tearful eyes have demanded a
sacrifice of me, which, however dearly it cost me, shall be made--I will
sell Constant.'

'Sell Constant!' echoed her grandmother; 'can you part with the gift of
your royal mistress?'

'Not willingly, believe me,' said Dorothy, throwing her arms about the
neck of her mute favorite, and bursting into a flood of tears; 'but how
can I see you want bread? It is not long since that I was offered an
angel of gold for him by a servant of the Duchess of Suffolk; and this I
selfishly refused at that time, saying I would rather starve than part
with my dog. Alas, poor fellow! though I have shared my scanty pittance
with him, since your illness he has suffered much for want of food;
famine hath touched us all and I have reason to reproach myself for
having retained a creature I can no longer maintain.'

The next morning she rose at an early hour, and, accompanied by her
faithful Constant, took the road to Westminster, to inquire if the
Duchess of Suffolk were still disposed to purchase him at the price she
had named; but she returned, bathed in tears, and in great distress,
having encountered two ruffians, in a lonely part of the road at
Knightsbridge, one of whom claimed Constant as his property, violently
seized upon him, and, in spite of her tears and remonstrances, carried
him off, threatening her with very harsh usage if she attempted to
follow.

Poor Dorothy! this appeared the severest trial that had yet befallen
her; at any rate it was one of those drops of bitterness which make a
brimful cup of misery overflow; and, regardless of the soothings or
expostulations of her grandmother, she wept and sobbed all that night,
refusing to be comforted. She rose the following morning with the
melancholy conviction that no resource now remained but the wretched one
of supplicating the alms of the charitably disposed in the streets and
highways. Nothing but the imperative urgency of the case could have
reconciled the meek and timid Dorothy to a mode of life so every way
repugnant to her feelings. 'We wept when we saw my dear mother laid in
the cold and silent grave but now I rejoice that she was spared the
grief of seeing this day,' said the sorrowful orphan, when she commenced
her unwonted vocation, and experienced the bitter taunts of the pampered
menials of the great, the rude repulses of the unfeeling, or the grave
rebukes of the stern, but well-meaning moralists who, though they
awarded their charity, accompanied their alms with reflections on the
disreputable and lazy trade she had adopted. Some there were indeed,
who, touched with the sweetness and modesty of her manners and
appearance, spake the forlorn one kindly, relieved her present wants,
and bade her call again; but the number of these was comparatively
small: and the bread which she earned so hardly for herself and her aged
relative was, literally speaking, steeped in her tears. While pursuing
her miserable occupation, she sadly missed the company and caresses of
the faithful Constant. 'He would have been kind and affectionate,' she
said, 'if all the world had frowned upon her. Her change of
circumstances made no alteration in his regard; if she were in sickness
or sorrow, and others chid or scorned her, he appeared to redouble his
endearments; and, while he was by her side, she did not feel so very
lonely--so sweet it is to be assured of the love of one friend, however
humble.' Sometimes too she thought she should feel less sorrowful if
she were assured that he had fallen into good hands.

Meantime days and weeks passed away, her clothes grew old and her shoes
were worn out, and Dorothy, who was accustomed to appear so neat and
nice in her attire, was reduced to the garb of the most abject misery;
but though barefoot and sorely pinched with cold and famine, she thought
less of her own sufferings than of the privations to which her blind
grandmother was exposed.

One evening, when the snow lay deep upon the ground, and Dorothy had
been begging all day without receiving a single penny in alms, neither
had she tasted a morsel of food since a very early hour in the morning,
her strength failed her; and, overcome by cold, hunger, weariness, and
sorrow, she sat down on a heap of frozen snow by the way-side, and wept
bitterly. The river Thames was then frozen over; she had walked across
it on the ice, and was now in the parish of Chelsea. She regretted that
she had ventured so far from her home, for she was oppressed with
fatigue; and, though she saw the trees and houses on the opposite shores
of Battersea so near, she felt as if she could not reach them that
night. A drowsy feeling, the fatal effects of cold and hunger combined,
was stealing over her; she tried to rouse herself, 'for' she faintly
whispered to herself 'my poor grandmother will be so uneasy, if I do
not return: but then, she thought, 'how pleasantly I could go to sleep
here, and forget all my troubles! I am not cold now, only so very, very
drowsy;' and, though aware that if she did yield to these lethargic
feelings, her sleep would be the sleep of death, she required some
stimulus, more powerful than even that conviction, to dispel the
soporific influence of the deadly cold which had seized her tender
frame, like a withering blight, and benumbed her faculties. But at the
very moment when the shores of Battersea, with their snow-clad trees and
houses, were fading before her closing eyes, and she was sinking
passively and almost pleasingly into that slumber from which she would
never have awaked, she was roused by a dog bounding suddenly upon her
with a joyful cry, and licking her benumbed face and hands with the most
passionate demonstrations of affection.

'Ah, my dear, dear Constant! is it you?' she exclaimed in an impulsive
burst of delight at this unexpected rencontre. The icy bonds of the
death-sleep that had enchained her were broken; she returned the eager
caresses of the faithful animal with the rapture of one who is suddenly
restored to a long-lost friend; and, starting from the ground with
renewed strength and spirits, she exclaimed, 'I shall be able to reach
home now I have found you, my pretty Constant, my own dear dog!'

'Your dog, hussey?' interposed a serving-man, rudely separating the
reunited friends, 'I'd have you know that this dog belongs to my Lady
More, whose footman I have the honor to be.'

'Indeed, indeed, it is my dog that was stolen from me, on the
Knightsbridge-road, by a hard-hearted man,' sobbed Dorothy; she was
going to add, 'just such a one as yourself,' but she stopped short.

'And pray, my sweet mistress, may I ask how a beggar-wench, like
yourself, came in possession of a dog of such a rare and costly breed?'
demanded the man with a sneer.

'He was given to me, when quite a puppy, by my sovereign lady, good
queen Catharine, who was ever gracious unto me,' said she.

'Ho! ho! ho! was she so?' responded the man, bursting into an insulting
laugh; 'a likely tale, forsooth! you look like a queen's minion, my
mistress, do you not? Well, well, it is not a small lie that will choke
you! Good night, my fair courtier, 'tis too cold to stand parleying with
you on the matter.' So saying, he laid violent hands on Constant; and,
in spite of his resistance and Dorothy's tears and passionate
remonstrances, he tucked him under his arm, and trudged off.

Cold, hunger, weariness, and dejection, were alike forgotten by the
bereaved mistress of Constant at the prospect of a second separation
from this faithful friend, whose affecting remembrance of her, after so
long an absence, had endeared him to her more than ever; and, without a
moment's hesitation, she followed the servant as quickly as her naked
and lacerated feet could carry her over the frozen snow, till he arrived
at the gates of sir Thomas More's mansion, which she essayed to enter
with him.

Why, you saucy young jade!' exclaimed he, thrusting her back; 'this is a
pass of impudence beyond any thing I ever heard of! Don't you know that
I am my lady More's own footman, and sir Thomas More, my lady's husband,
is the lord high Chancellor of England?'

'I pray you then to bring me to the speech of her ladyship,' said
Dorothy, 'for the higher she be, the more will it behove her to do me
justice.'

On this the serving-man, who was aware that his lady was a proud worldly
woman, and by no means likely to resign her favorite dog to a
beggar-girl, laughed immoderately. Some of his fellow servants who were
standing by, joined in his mirth, while others were so cruel as to
address many jeering remarks to Dorothy on her dress and appearance, all
which she heard patiently, and meekly replied, 'the fashion of her
clothes was not of her choice, but her necessity, to which she prayed
that none of those who reviled her might ever be exposed:' and, when
none would undertake to bring her to the speech of lady More, she seated
herself on a stone at the gates of the court yard, to wait for the
appearance of some of the family, though she was exposed to the
inclemency of the snow-storm, which beat on the uncovered head of the
friendless orphan.

At length she heard the sound of wheels, and the servants came hastily
to throw open the gates, crying, 'Room, room, for my lord chancellor's
coach;' and all the daughters of sir Thomas More, with their husbands
and children, came forth to welcome him, as was their custom; for that
great and good man was very tenderly beloved of his family, to every
member of which he was most fondly attached; yet, when he saw the
half-naked child sitting so sorrowfully at his gate, he looked
reproachfully on them all, and said, 'How now, have ye all learned the
parable of Lazarus and Dives to so little purpose, that ye suffer this
forlorn one to remain without the gates in such an evening that no
christian would turn a dog from the fire?'

'Noble sir,' said Dorothy, making a lowly reverence to sir Thomas, 'none
of this good family wist of my distress nor have I applied to them for
an alms the cause of my making bold to come hither was upon another
matter, on which I beseech your worshipful lordship to do me justice.'

'Well, my little maiden, it is cold deciding on causes here,' said sir
Thomas: 'so thou shalt step into my kitchen with the servants; and,
after thou art fed and warmed, I will hear thee on thy matter.'

Now, though the words 'fed and warmed,' sounded pleasantly enough in the
ears of the cold, half-famished child, yet her attachment to her dog
prevailed over every other consideration, and she said, 'Alack, noble
sir! though I stand greatly in need of your hospitable charity, yet it
would be more satisfaction to me if you would be pleased to hear me
forthwith on the matter of my dog, which is detained from me by one of
my lady More's serving-men, under the false pretence that it belongeth
to her ladyship.'

'Go to, thou saucy vagrant! hast thou the boldness to claim my favorite
dog before my face?' exclaimed a very sour-spoken and hard-favored old
gentlewoman, whom Dorothy had not before observed.

'Craving your honorable ladyship's pardon,' replied Dorothy curtseying,
'I do not claim your ladyship's dog, for that would be a sin; but I
demand my own to be restored to me, in which I hope I wrong no one,
seeing he is mine own lawful property, which a false caitiff took
violently from me three months agone.'

'That agreeth well with the time when your dog Sultan was presented to
you, Mistress Alice,' observed sir Thomas, significantly.

'Tilley-valley! tilley-valley!' ejaculated lady More in a pet; 'that is
ever the way in which you cross me, sir Thomas, making out withal as
though I were a receiver of stolen goods.'

'Nay, patience, my lady; I went not so far as to decide the cause before
I had heard both sides of the question, which it is my purpose to do
without farther delay,' returned sir Thomas, smiling: 'so follow me into
court, both plaintiff and defendant, and I will give judgment between
the parties before I sup;' and, with a merry air, he led the way into
the servants' hall, where, placing himself in the housekeeper's chair,
and putting on his cap, he said, 'Beggar versus My lady; open the
pleadings, and speak boldly.'

But poor Dorothy, instead of speaking, hung down her head, and burst
into tears.

'How! speechless!' said sir Thomas: 'then must the court appoint counsel
for the plaintiff. Daughter Margaret, do you closet the plaintiff, hear
her case, and plead for her.'

Then mistress Margaret Roper, sir Thomas's eldest daughter, with a
benevolent smile, took the abashed, trembling girl aside; and having
with soothing words, drawn the particulars of her melancholy story from
her, she advanced to the front of sir Thomas's chair, leading the
weeping orphan by the hand, and attempted to humor the scene by opening
her client's case in a witty imitation of legal terms, after the manner
of a grave law-serjeant; but, as she proceeded to detail the
circumstances under which the dog was lost, recognised, and again taken
from the friendless orphan, she, by imperceptible degrees, changed her
style to the simply pathetic terms in which the child had related the
tale to her--the language--the unadorned language of truth and feeling,
which never fails to come home to every bosom. All present, save my lady
More, who preserved a very _aigre_ and impenetrable demeanor, were
dissolved in tears: as for the poor plaintiff, she covered her face with
a part of her tattered garments, and sobbed aloud; and the counsel
herself was compelled to pause for a moment to overcome her own emotion,
ere she could conclude her eloquent appeal on her client's behalf.

'Thou hast pleaded well, my good Meg,' said sir Thomas, smiling through
his tears on his best beloved daughter; 'but now must we hear the
defendant's reply, for the plaintiff ever appeareth in the right till
after the defendant hath spoken: so now, my lady, what hast thou to say
in this matter?'

'My lady hath to repeat what she hath too often said before, that sir
Thomas More's jests are ever out of place,' replied my lady in a huff.

'Nay, marry, good mistress Alice, an thou have nought better to the
purpose to respond, I must be fain to give judgment for the plaintiff in
this case.'

'Tilley-valley, sir Thomas! thou art enough to provoke a saint with thy
eternal quips and gibes,' replied her ladyship: 'I tell you the dog is
my property, and was presented to me by an honorable gentleman, one
master Rich, whom you, sir Thomas, know well; and he said he bought him
of a dealer in such gear.'

'Which dealer probably stole him from my client,' said mistress Margaret
Roper.

'Nay, but, daughter Margaret, how knowest thou that Sultan was ever this
wench's property?' retorted lady More sharply.

'Well answered, defendant,' said sir Thomas: 'we must call a witness
whose evidence must decide that matter. Son Roper, bring the dog Sultan,
alias Constant, into court.'

The eyes of Dorothy brightened at the sight of her old companion; and
sir Thomas More, taking him into his hands, said, 'Here now am I placed
in as great a strait as ever was king Solomon, in respect to the
memorable case in which he was called upon to decide whose was the
living child, which both mothers claimed, and to whom pertained the
dead, which neither would acknowledge. This maiden saith, the dog which
I hold is her's, and was violently taken from her three months agone: my
lady replies, 'Nay, but he is mine, and was presented to me by an
honorable man,' (one of the king's counsellors forsooth). Now, in this
matter, the dog is wiser than my lord chancellor, for he knoweth unto
whom he of right pertaineth; and, therefore, upon his witness must the
decision of this controversy depend. So now, my lady, you stand at the
upper end of the hall, as befits your quality, and you, my little maiden
go to the lower, and each of you call the dog by the name which you have
been wont to do: and to whichsoever of you twain he goeth, that person I
adjudge to be his rightful owner.'

'Oh, my lord, I ask no other test!' exclaimed Dorothy joyfully.

'Sultan! Sultan! come to thy mistress, my pretty Sultan!' said my lady,
in her most blandishing tone, accompanying her words with such actions
of enticement as she judged most likely to win him over to her; but he
paid not the slightest heed to the summons. Dorothy simply pronounced
the word 'Constant!' and the dog bounding from between the hands of sir
Thomas More, who had lightly held him till both claimants had spoken,
leaped upon her, and overwhelmed her with his passionate caresses.

'It is a clear case,' said sir Thomas: 'the dog hath acknowledged his
mistress, and his witness is incontrovertible. Constant, thou art worthy
of thy name.'

'Hark ye, wench!' said my lady More, whose desire of retaining the
object of dispute had increased with the prospect of losing him, 'I will
give thee a good price for thy dog, if thou art disposed to sell him.'

'Sell my dear, beautiful, faithful Constant! O, never, never!' exclaimed
Dorothy, throwing her arms about her newly recovered favorite, and
kissing him with the fondest affection.

'I will give thee a golden angel, and a new suit of clothes to boot, for
him, which, I should think, a beggar-girl were mad to refuse,' pursued
lady More.

'Nay, nay, my lady, never tempt me with your gold,' said Dorothy; 'or my
duty to my poor blind grandmother will compel me to close with your
offer, though it should break my heart withal.'

'Nay, child, an' thou hast a blind old grandmother, whom thou lovest so
well, I will add a warm blanket, and a linsey-woolsey gown for her wear,
unto the price I have already named,' said the persevering lady
More:--'speak shall I have him?' pursued she, pressing the bargain home.

Dorothy averted her head, to conceal the large tears that rolled down
her pale cheeks, as she sobbed out, 'Ye--s, my lady.'

'Dear child,' said sir Thomas, 'thou hast made a noble sacrifice to thy
duty: 'tis pity that thou hast taken up so bad a trade as begging, for
thou art worthy of better things.'

'It is for my poor blind grandmother,' said the weeping Dorothy: 'I have
no other means of getting bread for her.'

'I will find thee a better employment,' said sir Thomas, kindly: 'thou
shalt be my daughter Roper's waiting-maid, if thou canst resolve to quit
the wandering life of a beggar, and settle to an honest service.'

'How joyfully would I embrace your offer, noble sir, if I could do so
without being separated from my aged grandmother, who has no one in the
world but me,' replied Dorothy, looking up between smiles and tears.

'Nay, God forbid that I should put asunder those whom nature hath so
fondly united in the holy bands of love and duty,' said sir Thomas More,
wiping away a tear: 'my house is large enough to hold ye both; and while
I have a roof to call mine own, it shall contain a corner for the blind
and aged widow and the destitute orphan: that so, when the fashion of
this world passeth away, they may witness for me before Him, with whom
there is no respect of persons, and who judgeth every man according to
his works.




Lady Lucy's Petition.

A STORY OF WILLIAM THE THIRD AND QUEEN MARY


'And is my dear papa shut up in this dismal place to which you are
taking me, nurse?' asked the little lady Lucy Preston, raising her eyes
fearfully to the Tower of London, as the coach in which she was seated
with Amy Gradwell her nurse, drove under the gateway.

She trembled and hid her face in Amy's cloak, when they alighted, and
she saw the soldiers on guard with their crossed partizans, before the
portals of that part of the fortress where the prisoners of state were
confined, and where her own father, lord Preston, of whom she was to
come to take a last farewell, then lay, under sentence of death.

'Yes, my dear child,' returned Amy, mournfully 'my lord, your father, is
indeed within these sad walls. You are now going to visit him. Shall you
be afraid of entering the place, my dear?'

'No,' replied lady Lucy, resolutely. 'I am not afraid of going to any
place where my dear papa is.' Yet she clung closer to the arm of her
attendant, as they were admitted within the gloomy precincts of the
building; her little heart fluttered fearfully as she glanced round her,
and she whispered to her nurse, 'Was it not here that the two young
princes, Edward the fifth and his brother Richard duke of York, were
murdered by their cruel uncle Richard, duke of Gloucester?'

'Yes, my love, it was; but do not be alarmed on that account, for no one
will harm you,' said old Amy, in an encouraging tone.

'And was not good king Henry the sixth murdered here also, by that same
wicked Richard?' continued the little girl, whose imagination was full
of the records of the deeds of blood that had been perpetrated in this
fatally celebrated place, many of which had been related to her by
Bridget Oldworth the housekeeper, since her father had been imprisoned
in the Tower on a charge of high treason.

'But do you think they will murder father, nurse?' pursued the child, as
they began to ascend the stairs leading to the apartment in which the
unfortunate nobleman was confined.

'Hush! hush! dear child; you must not talk of these things here,' said
Amy, 'or they will shut us both up in a room with bars and bolts,
instead of admitting us to see my lord your father.'

Lady Lucy pressed closer to her nurse's side, and was silent till they
were ushered into the room where her father was confined, when,
forgetting every thing else in her joy at seeing him again, she sprang
into his arms, and almost stifled him with her kisses.

Lord Preston was greatly affected at the sight of his little daughter,
and overcome by her passionate demonstrations of fondness and his own
anguish at the thought of his approaching separation from her, and the
idea of leaving her an orphan at her tender age (for she had only just
completed her ninth year and had lost her mother), he clasped her to his
bosom, and bedewed her innocent face with his tears.

'Why do you cry, dear papa?' asked the little girl, who was herself
weeping at the sight of his distress. 'And why will you not leave this
gloomy place, and come home to your own hall again?'

'Attend to me, Lucy, and I will tell you the cause of my grief,' said
her father, seating the little girl on his knee. 'I shall never come
home again, for I have been condemned to die for high treason (which
means an offence against the king), and I shall not leave this place
till they bring me forth on Tower Hill, where they will cut off my head
with a sharp axe, and set it up afterwards over Temple Bar or London
Bridge.'

At this terrible intelligence, Lady Lucy screamed aloud, and hid her
face in her father's bosom, which she wetted with her tears.

'Be composed, my dear child,' said Lord Preston 'for I have much to say
to you, and we may never meet again on this side the grave, since I am
so soon to die.'

'No, no, dear father,' cried lady Lucy, 'they shall not kill you, for I
will cling so fast about your neck, that they shall not be able to cut
your head off; and I will tell them all how good and kind you are, and
then they will not want to kill you.'

'My dearest love, this is all simple talking,' said lord Preston; 'I
have offended against the law as it is at present established, by trying
to have king James, my old master, restored to the throne, and therefore
I must die. Do you remember, Lucy, I took you once to Whitehall, to see
king James, and how kindly he spoke to you?'

'O yes, father! and I recollect he laid his hand upon my head, and said,
I was like what his daughter, the princess of Orange, was at my age,'
replied lady Lucy, with great animation.

'Well, my child, very shortly after you saw king James at Whitehall, the
prince of Orange came over to England, and drove king James out of his
palace and kingdom, and the people, who were displeased with king James
on account of his professing the Roman Catholic religion, which they
suspected he designed to reestablish in this country, deposed him, and
made the prince and princess of Orange king and queen in his stead.'

'But was it not very wicked of the princess of Orange to join with her
husband to take her father's kingdom away from him? I am very sorry king
James thought me like her,' said lady Lucy earnestly.

'Hush, hush, my love! you must not talk so of the princess of Orange;
for, perhaps, she considered she was doing right in depriving her father
of his dominions, because it is against the law for a king of England to
be a catholic. Yet, I confess, I did not believe she would have
consented to sign the death-warrants of so many of her father's old
servants, on account of their faithful attachment to him,' said lord
Preston with a sigh.

'I have heard that the princess of Orange is of a merciful disposition,'
said old Amy Gradwell, who had been a weeping spectator of the scene
between the father and child; 'and perhaps she might be induced to spare
your life, my lord, if your pardon were very earnestly entreated of her
by some of your friends.'

'Alas! my good Amy, I have no one who will undertake the perilous office
of soliciting the royal grace for an attainted traitor, lest they should
be suspected of forwarding the cause of king James,' said lord Preston
mournfully.

'Dear father! let me go to the queen, and entreat for your pardon,'
cried lady Lucy, with a crimsoned cheek and sparkling eye. 'I will so
beg and pray her to spare your life that she will not have the heart to
deny me.'

'Simple child!' exclaimed her father; 'what should you be able to say to
the queen that would be of any avail?'

'God would teach me what to say,' returned lady Lucy piously; 'and he
has also power to touch her heart with pity for a child's distress, and
to open her ear to my earnest petition.'

Her father clasped her to his bosom, but said, 'Thou wouldst be afraid
of speaking to the queen, even if thou shouldst be admitted to her
presence, my Lucy.'

'Why should I be afraid of speaking to the queen, father? for even if
she should be angry with me, and answer harshly at first, I should be
thinking too much of your peril to mind it. Or if she were to send me to
the Tower, and cut off my head, she could only kill my body, you know;
but would have no power at all to hurt my soul, which is under the
protection of One who is greater than any king or queen upon earth.'

'You are right, my child, to fear God, and to have no other fear,' said
her father. 'It is He who hath perhaps put it into your young heart to
plead with the queen for my life, which if it be His pleasure that she
should grant, I shall feel it indeed a happiness for my child to be made
the instrument of my deliverance from the perils of death which now
encompass me; but if it should be otherwise, His will be done. He hath
promised to be a Father to the fatherless, and he will not forsake my
good and dutiful child when I am low in the dust.'

'But how will my lady Lucy gain admittance to the queen's presence, my
lord?' asked old Amy.

'I will write a letter to her godmother, the lady Clarendon, requesting
her to accomplish the matter,' said lord Preston. He then wrote a few
hasty lines to that lady, which, together with his own petition for the
royal mercy, he gave to his little daughter, telling her she was to go
the next day to Hampton Court, properly attended, and to obtain a sight
of lady Clarendon, who was there in waiting upon the queen, and to
deliver that letter to her with her own hand. He then kissed his child,
tenderly blessed her, and bade her farewell.

Though the little girl wept much at parting with her father, she left
the Tower with a far more composed mind than that with which she entered
it, for she had formed her resolution, and her young heart was full of
hope. She had silently committed her cause to God, and she trusted that
He would dispose the event prosperously for her.

The next morning, before the lark had sung her matins, lady Lucy was up
and dressed in a suit of deep mourning, which Amy had provided,
considering it the most suitable garb for a child whose only surviving
parent was under sentence of death.

The servants, who had been informed of their young lady's intention to
solicit the queen for her father's pardon, were all assembled in the
entrance hall, to see her depart, and as she passed through them,
leaning on her nurse's arm, and attended by her father's confidential
secretary and the old butler, they shed tears, and bade God bless her
and prosper her in her pious design.

Lady Lucy arrived at Hampton Court, and was introduced into the countess
of Clarendon's apartment before her ladyship was out of bed; and having
told her artless tale with great earnestness, delivered her father's
letter.

Lady Clarendon, who was wife to the queen's uncle, received her young
god-daughter very affectionately, but plainly told her, she must not
reckon on her influence with the queen, because the earl of Clarendon
was in disgrace on account of being suspected of carrying on a
correspondence with king James, his brother-in-law; therefore she dared
not solicit the queen on behalf of her friend, lord Preston, against
whom her majesty was so deeply exasperated that she had declared she
would not show him any mercy.

'O!' said the little girl, 'if I could only see the queen myself, I
would not wish any one to speak for me, for I should plead so earnestly
to her for my dear father's life that she could not refuse me, I am
sure.'

'Poor child! what could _you_ say to the queen?' asked the countess
compassionately.

'Only let me see her, and you shall hear,' said lady Lucy.

'Well, my love, it were a pity but what thou shouldst have the
opportunity,' said lady Clarendon; 'but much I fear thy little heart
will fail thee when thou seest the queen face to face, and thou wilt not
be able to utter a syllable.'

'God will inspire me with courage, and direct the words of my lips,'
said the little girl, with tears in her eyes.

The countess was impressed with the piety and filial tenderness of her
young god-daughter, and she hastened to rise and dress, that she might,
without further delay, conduct the child into the palace gallery, where
the queen usually passed an hour in walking, after her return from
chapel, which she attended every morning.

Her majesty had not left the chapel when lady Clarendon and Lucy entered
the gallery, and her ladyship endeavored to divert the anxious
impatience of her little friend, by pointing out to her the portraits
with which it was adorned.

'I know that gentleman well,' said the child, pointing to a noble
whole-length portrait of James the second.

'That is the portrait of the deposed king James, queen Mary's father,'
observed the countess sighing, 'and a very striking likeness it is of
that unfortunate monarch;--but hark! here comes the queen, with her
chamberlain and ladies, from chapel,--now Lucy is the time! I will step
into the recess yonder; but you must remain alone standing where you
are, and when her majesty approaches near enough, kneel down on one knee
before her, and present your father's petition. She, who walks a little
in advance of the other ladies, is the queen. Be of good courage and
address yourself to her.'

Lady Clarendon then made a hasty retreat. Lady Lucy's heart fluttered
violently when she found herself alone, but her resolution did not fail
her; and while her lips moved silently in fervent prayer to the
Almighty for his assistance in this trying moment, she stood with
folded hands, pale, but composed and motionless as a statue, awaiting
the queen's approach and when her majesty drew near the spot, she
advanced a step forward, knelt, and presented the petition.

The extreme beauty of the child, her deep mourning, the touching sadness
of her look and manner, and above all, the fast flowing tears which
bedewed her innocent face, excited the queen's attention and interest;
she paused, spoke kindly to her, and took the offered paper; but when
she saw the name of lord Preston, her color rose, she frowned, cast the
petition from her, and would have passed on, but Lucy, who had watched
her countenance with a degree of anxious interest that amounted to
agony, losing all awe for royalty in her fears for her father's life,
put forth her hand, and grasping the queen's robe, cried in an imploring
tone, 'Spare my father,--my dear--dear father,--royal lady!'

Lucy had meant to say many persuasive things, but she forgot them all in
her sore distress, and could only repeat the words, 'Mercy, mercy for my
father, gracious queen!' till her vehement emotion choked her voice, and
throwing her arms round the queen's knees, she leaned her head against
her majesty's person for support, while her rich profusion of flaxen
ringlets, which partly concealed her fair face, floated over the
queen's dress; she sobbed aloud in the uncontrolable anguish of her
heart.

The intense sorrow of a child is always peculiarly touching; but the
circumstances under which Lucy appeared were more than commonly
affecting.

It was a daughter not beyond the season of infancy, overcoming the
timidity of that tender age, to become a suppliant of an offended
sovereign for the life of a father.

Queen Mary pitied the distress of the young petitioner; but as she
considered the death of lord Preston a measure of political expediency,
she told Lucy mildly, but firmly, that 'she could not grant her
request.'

'And will you kill my dear father, who is so good and kind to every
one?' said Lucy, raising her blue eyes, which were swimming in tears, to
the face of the queen.

'He may be so, my child,' returned her majesty; 'but he has broken the
laws of his country, and therefore he must die.'

'But you can pardon him if you choose to do so, madam,' replied Lucy;
'and I have read that God is well pleased with those who forgive, for He
has said: Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.'

'It does not become a little girl like you to attempt to instruct me,'
replied the queen gravely. 'I am acquainted with my duty, and as it is
my place to administer justice impartially, it is not possible for me to
pardon your father, however painful it may be for me to deny the request
of so dutiful a child.'

Lucy did not reply, she only raised her streaming eyes, with an
appealing look to the queen, and then turned them expressively on the
portrait of king James, opposite to which her majesty was standing.

There was something in that look which bore no ordinary meaning, and the
queen, whose curiosity was excited by the peculiar manner of the child,
could not refrain from asking her, 'wherefore she gazed so earnestly on
that picture?'

'I was thinking,' replied lady Lucy, 'how strange it was that you should
wish to kill my father, only because he loved yours so faithfully.'

This wise, but artless reproof, from the lips of infant innocence, went
to the heart of the queen. She raised her eyes to the once dear and
honored countenance of a parent, who, whatever were his political errors
as a king, had ever been the tenderest of fathers to her; and when the
remembrance that he was an exile in a foreign land, relying on the
bounty of strangers for his daily bread, while she and her husband were
invested with the regal inheritance of which he had been deprived,
pressed upon her mind, the thought of the contrast of her conduct as a
daughter when compared with the filial piety of the child before her
(whom a sentence of her's was about to render an orphan), smote her
heart, and she burst into tears.

'Rise, dear child,' said she. 'Thou hast prevailed--thy father shall not
die. I grant his pardon at thy entreaty,--thy filial love has saved
him.'




HISTORICAL SUMMARY

TO

GUTHRED; OR, THE WIDOW'S SLAVE.


Those who have not examined the map or that part of Great Britain which
formed the Anglo Saxon empire, will be astonished to find, how large and
important a portion of this island was once designated by the name of
Northumberland. Children cast their eyes on the map, and see our
northernmost county, or the land lying between the Tyne and the Tweed,
at present so called, and must necessarily form a very inadequate idea
of the power of the Saxon Northumbrian king; especially when they find
from history that this sovereignty had two divisions, the north was
called the kingdom of Bernicia, and the south that of Deira. It is
requisite to explain, that the ancient North Humber Land literally meant
all the land lying north of the river Humber; and the possessions of the
monarchs of this district comprised the whole of the great county of
York, Durham, and not only the spot now corruptly called Northumberland,
but Roxburghshire, Lothianshire, and the north-eastern counties of
Scotland as far as the Frith of Forth, and as much further as the strong
hand of violence could grasp and retain. Edinburgh, or Edwinsborough,
was then a city and fortress belonging to the Saxons, founded by one of
their chiefs.

A further examination of the map of Europe will show the youthful
student how conveniently Northumbria, with her noble ports and rivers,
and her long line of coast washed by the German Ocean, was to the
piratical rovers that swarmed into England from Norway, Denmark, Sweden,
and the north of Germany. These were collectively first called Saxons,
then Danes, and afterwards Normans, who successively supplanted each
other and were originally the inhabitants of the shores of the Baltic
and North Sea. At the era of the tale of Guthred, or the Widow's Slave,
the kingdom of Northumberland was the strong hold of the Danelagh, or
Danish invaders, from whence they harassed the rest of the island.
Another glance on the map of England will show our juvenile reader how
strongly fortified by nature Northumbria was: bounded on the north by
the frith of Forth; on the west by the chain of mountainous hills that
divide the six northern counties; and on the south by the great estuary
of the Humber, which is the receptacle of the Trent, with her thirty
arms, to the south; and of many fine rivers on the north, that traverse
Yorkshire, the Alde, the Swale, the Wharfe, the two Dons, and their
dependencies. We may aptly compare the figure of the Humber on the map
to the thick trunk of an oak tree, with its numerous branches; and the
mischievous influence of the Danes may be imagined, when we remember
that they were able to navigate these rivers in their flat-bottomed
boats, and by this means pierce into the heart of South Britain.

Guthred is an historical character, and the Saxon annals thus relate his
adventures. After the death of Halfdane, the 'Host' of Danes, who had
conquered Northumbria, remained without a leader. The Northmen were much
at variance among themselves. Several years before the sons of Regner
Lodbrok had seized upon Guthred, the son of Hardacanute, the king of
Lethra, in Sweden; they sold him as a slave or thrall, and in 803 he was
the property of an old widow in Northumberland. Guthred's lineage was
known, he was marked as one of the royal race, and he was raised to the
supreme authority in a very singular manner. Eadred, bishop of
Lindisfarne, acting as it was said, under the direction of St. Cuthbert,
who had appeared to him in a dream, proceeded to the host of the Danes,
and persuaded them, as well as the Saxons, to accept Guthred as their
sovereign. He was conducted to Oswin's Dune, or the hill of Oswin, and
invested with the golden bracelets, the ensigns of royal dignity, and
solemnly inaugurated as king of the Northumbrians, though in vassalage
to Alfred the Great as his superior. Guthred was deeply indebted to
bishop Eadred, and he paid his debt of gratitude by granting and
confirming, not only the lands between the Tyne and Wear, but the royal
dominion over all between the Tyne and Tees, now the County of Durham.
Alfred assented to this donation; for he saw the great advantage that
would result to his country, from the wild forests of that district
being reclaimed by the peaceful monks. From this grant the palatinate
rights of the wealthy bishops of Durham arise, and which are still
retained, in a great measure, in the present day. The bishop was a
prince between the Tyne and Tees. He could pardon and condemn, and even
exercise the power of life and death; and for this reason, a bishop of
Durham may, if he please, sit on the bench in scarlet robes when the
judges try a criminal within his diocess.

We must not omit to mention that Guthred ever remained faithful to
Alfred.

The ready election of this prince by his former enemies, the Danes, as
well as the Saxons, may be accounted for, by the reverence in which the
royal line of Sweden was held throughout the north as the genuine
descendants of Odin, who was the reformer, conqueror, and lawgiver of
the north, and for several ages worshipped as a god. He was said to be
of Asiatic origin, and the dark hair and eyes that tradition describes
his descendants to have possessed, make that idea probable.

In such respect was a king of Sweden held in ancient times, on account
of his lineal descent from this mighty ruler of the north, that the
rival monarchs of Denmark and Norway condescended to hold his bridle and
stirrup when he mounted or dismounted, on solemn occasions, when these
princes met.




HISTORICAL SUMMARY

TO

THE ROYAL BROTHERS.


Edward the fifth nominally reigned over England for two months and
thirteen days. His imaginary rule began and ended in his thirteenth
year. In that brief space revolutions of government occurred, of which
not one was unstained by faithless, deliberate, and cruel murder; and it
was closed by a dark and bloody scene.

Scarcely had the wars of the roses been extinguished, when new factions
sprung up from the jealousy always felt towards court favorites, by the
ancient nobility. Such factions characterise the Plantagenet reigns, and
more especially those of the princes of York, who, having been long
subjects, continued their habits of intermarrying with subjects. Edward
the Fourth gave great offence to his proud nobility by his marriage with
Elizabeth Woodville, lady Grey, whose husband, sir John Grey, fell
fighting for the cause of Lancaster at the battle of Barnet. Her father,
and several of her family, had sealed with their blood, both on the
field and scaffold, their devoted attachment to the red rose. But when
the beautiful widow was raised to the English throne by her royal lover,
her brothers, uncles, and sons were ennobled, and were great favorites
at the court of their royal relative. The earl of Rivers, the queen's
brother, was one of the most learned, and chivalric nobles in Europe; he
was the great patron of the infant art of printing, an author, and a
hero in the field. All parties join in praising a character so
accomplished, which shone with the utmost lustre in an age black with
crime and barbarism; yet the earl of Rivers was an object of peculiar
jealousy to the Duke of Gloucester's party, which was reinforced by
Henry duke of Buckingham, a prince of the blood royal. The Marquess of
Dorset, the queen's eldest son by her first husband, and lord Richard
Grey, her second son, and lord Lisle, her brother-in-law, were likewise
obnoxious to the adverse factions, for there was a third party, led by
lord Hastings the king's favorite, and augmented by the Stanleys and
Howards, who were the king's personal friends, and ancient adherents of
the house of York, faithful to the king's children, but envious and
hostile to the Woodvilles, because they were the family of the queen.
Such were the three parties at the court of England when Edward the
fourth died suddenly of a surfeit, leaving the government of his son's
minority wholly unsettled. Young Edward was then at Ludlow Castle, under
the tutelage of the earl of Rivers, his maternal uncle. As soon as the
duke of Gloucester heard the tidings of his brother's death, he marched
towards the south with all speed, in consequence, as afterwards
appeared, of a secret understanding with Hastings, with whom he had
recently been on terms of hostility. Hastings remained at court, but
Buckingham, the duke of Gloucester's ally, hastened with a strong body
of troops, ostensibly to join the young king. Lord Rivers, lulled into
security by the assurances and professions of the dukes, made haste to
meet them with his royal charge. On the 29th of April, Edward the fifth,
accompanied by his maternal relatives, had reached Stony Stratford, and
on the same day the Duke of Gloucester arrived at Northampton ten miles
distant. Lord Rivers immediately went to pay a compliment to the Duke of
Gloucester, and to receive his orders. They, together with Buckingham,
who appears to have arrived the same day, remained in the latter town
till next morning; but the suspicions of Lord Rivers were excited by the
outlets of Northampton being guarded during the night. This circumstance
occasioned an altercation, in which Gloucester accused Rivers and Grey
of having taught the young monarch to distrust him. Rivers, who was an
eloquent man, defended himself with his accustomed abilities, but as he
could not prove that he was no obstacle to Richard's ambition, his
defence was in vain; as a chronicler says, 'they took him and put him in
ward.' On being ushered into the presence of the king, at Stony
Stratford, they assured him that 'the marquis, his brother, and Rivers,
his uncle, had compassed to rule the king and the realm, and to subdue
and destroy all noble blood.' The unfortunate boy answered with touching
simplicity, 'What my lord marquis may have done in London I cannot say,
but I dare answer for my uncle Rivers and my brother here, that they be
innocent of any such matter.'

But his protestations were in vain; his mother's relatives were taken
into custody, and conveyed to Pontefract Castle. 'Gloucester and
Buckingham sent away from the king whom it pleased them, and set new
servants about him, and such as liked better them than him; at which
dealing he wept, and was nothing content, but it booted him not.'

On the advance to London, their purposes were evident to those whom they
most concerned. The queen fled with her children from her palace at
Westminster, at midnight, to take sanctuary in the adjoining Westminster
Abbey. The confusion and hurry with which her furniture was scattered
over the floor by her affrighted attendants, afford the best proof of
the extent of their fears. 'The queen herself,' as sir Thomas More says,
'sat alone on the rushes, all desolated and dismayed.'

Westminster Abbey had thirteen years before this event been the refuge
of this unfortunate queen, when she took sanctuary at the time her
husband was hurled from the throne by the earl of Warwick. She fled by
water from the Tower, where she kept court, to Westminster Abbey, and
the unhappy Edward the fifth was actually born in sanctuary, in the
Jerusalem chamber, an apartment still in existence.

On the 4th of May, the day originally destined for the coronation, which
was now postponed till the 22nd of June, the young prince was led by his
uncle, with due state, into his capital. On Monday, June 16th, the
consent of the queen to the removal of Richard duke of York, the
youngest of the princes her sons, from the sanctuary, was extorted by
the archbishop of Canterbury, under the pretext that he should not be in
sanctuary among thieves and murderers at the moment of so august and
sacred a ceremony as his brother's coronation, and pleaded the desire
of his royal brother to have his company in the palace of the Tower.

The principal part of the intermediate time was spent by the king at Ely
House, the residence of Thomas Morton, bishop of Ely. This palace, with
its extensive orchards and gardens extending over a space of forty
acres, occupied the spot where Hatton Street now opens into Holborn, and
the ground of the adjoining streets. The name of Hatton Garden is still
retained in the neighborhood.

The Duke of Gloucester assumed the title of Protector to the king and
kingdom in virtue of his near relationship to the crown; and on the 13th
of June, a council was held in the Tower, under pretence of regulating
the approaching coronation, at which were present the lords Stanley and
Hastings, together with many prelates, among whom was Thomas Morton,
bishop of Ely, a faithful friend of his late princely guest. Richard
duke of Gloucester, affecting an unwonted gaiety, requested the Bishop
of Ely to send to Hatton Garden for a dish of strawberries for
breakfast. But after he had retired for breakfast, his demeanor was
wholly changed. On his return to the council room, he entered with a
sour and angry countenance, knitting his brows and gnawing his lips.
After a short time he broke his sullen silence, by crying out, 'Of what
are those worthy, who have compassed the death of me, king's protector,
by nature as well as by law?'

'To be punished,' said Hastings, 'as heinous traitors!'

'This is the doing of that sorceress, my brother's wife, and her
kindred,' said the Protector.

This reply was pleasing enough to Hastings, the mortal enemy of the
Woodvilles; he rejoined, 'that it was a vile treason, if true.' Upon
which the Protector weary of dissimulation, cried aloud, 'Yes, I will
make good your answer upon your body, traitor, despite of your 'ifs' and
'ands.'' Then he struck his fist on the board with a great rap, at which
token a man that stood at the door cried out 'Treason!' Men in armor, as
many as the room could contain, suddenly rushed into it. Richard said to
Hastings, 'I arrest thee, traitor!'

Stanley and the other obnoxious lords, with the good bishop of Ely, were
hurried to different dungeons.

The Protector told Hastings that 'he would not dine till he saw his head
was off.' It was bootless to ask, why? The execution was murderously
hurried, with the brutal jest, that the duke was hungry, and wanted to
dine. Hastings was brought down to the green by the chapel, and being
laid on a long log of timber, which happened to be near, his head was
struck off, without the form or pretence of a trial, or even the
specification of his alleged offence. Those who, after such deeds, could
have doubted the dire designs of the merciless Protector, must surely
have relinquished their opinions, when they learned shortly after, that
on the very 13th of June which witnessed the murder of lord Hastings, a
like scene was exhibited near the northern frontier of the kingdom. On
that day, Radcliffe, one of Richard's emissaries, entering the castle of
Pontefract, at the head of a body of armed men, put Rivers and his
friends to death, with as little semblance of judicial proceeding as was
vouchsafed to Hastings.

These horrible transactions, which are disputed by no writer, have here
been related almost in the words of sir Thomas More, one of the few
historians who had the opportunity of proving their abhorrence of
falsehood, by choosing to suffer an ignominious death rather than to
utter a lie; he was besides, if not an eye witness, at least an ear
witness to the facts, as he was in existence at the time the events were
passing.

Having thus removed the friends of his brother, Richard began openly to
attack the title of his nephew to the crown. The first expedient to
undermine which is singularly at variance with modern manners and
opinions. On Sunday, the 15th of June, 1483, he caused Shaw, a noted
preacher, to deliver a sermon against the lawfulness of the king's
birth, at Paul's Cross. Now this Paul's Cross was a sort of pulpit, with
a Gothic stone canopy, that stood in St. Paul's churchyard till the
middle of the seventeenth century, from whence the most noted preachers
of the catholic times, and even of those of the Reformed Church, used to
deliver sermons to the London populace, who stood around them in the
churchyard, in the open air, to listen; it was a place of great resort,
and whatever a favorite preacher said from this pulpit had a wonderful
effect with the lower classes of London citizens, and the Paul's Cross
sermons often glanced at passing events, both in church and state. The
extraordinary sermon delivered by Dr. Shaw, who was a priest of the
catholic religion, then the established church of England, was a
virulent attack on the title of the young sovereign, who was to have
been crowned that very day, but whose coronation had been postponed
through the machinations of his ambitious uncle. Dr. Shaw's main
argument was, that the young king's father, Edward the fourth, had
contracted to wed, or had secretly wedded, another wife, lady Elizabeth
Lucy, before the marriage was solemnised between him and Elizabeth
Woodville, therefore the last marriage was void, and the children born
in it illegitimate. Stillington, bishop of Bath, a false and profligate
instrument of the duke of Gloucester, pretended that he had married
Edward the fourth to lady Elizabeth Lucy, and this allegation was
declared to the London congregation, at Paul's Cross, by Dr. Shaw. To
this he added an odious and unjust imputation against the Duchess of
York, whereby he insinuated that the duke of Gloucester was the only son
of Richard duke of York, and that Edward the fourth and the duke of
Clarence, his supposed eldest sons, were spurious ones that their mother
had palmed on her husband. To the credit of the London citizens, they
received this vile attack on their young king and his family with scorn
and loathing, and from that day Dr. Shaw, their favorite preacher, was
regarded by them with abhorrence; they never would hear him again, and
he died, a few years after, literally of grief for the detestation all
men felt for his unprincipled conduct. But we must return to the
narrative of events.

Two days after the unpopular sermon at Paul's Cross, notwithstanding the
sullenness with which it was evidently received, the duke of Buckingham
thought proper to harangue the populace on the same subject, and
finished by proposing for them to acknowledge Richard duke of Gloucester
as their lawful king. He had previously mingled a large band of armed
men in the crowd; these shouted 'God save king Richard the Third!' and a
few 'prentice boys threw up their caps; but an ominous silence pervaded
the rest of the assembly, whose dread of the troops with which the false
Protector had filled the Tower and the fortress of Baynard's Castle
(which in those days stood on the Thames wharf still called by its
name), prevented the citizens from a more active demonstration of their
displeasure.

After this preparation, Richard was proclaimed king on the 22nd of June;
on the 26th of June, he publicly possessed himself of the throne, in the
palace of Westminster, and went to return thanks to God for his
accession to the crown; and early in the month after, July the 6th, he
was crowned at Westminster Abbey, having first marched from the north
five thousand fresh troops, to overawe the Londoners. As he dared not to
be at open enmity with the church, he set at liberty Dr. Rotherham,
archbishop of York; for the same reason he abstained from putting to
death the good and faithful Dr. Morton, bishop of Ely (which he longed
to do), though he still kept him in durance, but as he did not choose to
continue his imprisonment in the Tower, he committed him to the custody
of the duke of Buckingham, who sent him to his castle of Brecknock, in
Wales, where the good bishop was imprisoned, a fortunate measure for
him, as those who read history will know. This Dr. Morton was afterwards
the happy instrument of the union of the rival houses of York and
Lancaster, by proposing and carrying into effect the marriage of
Elizabeth, the eldest daughter of Edward the fourth, become heiress to
the line of York by the death of her princely brothers, and Henry earl
of Richmond, the last remaining scion of the house of Lancaster, who, by
the defeat and destruction of Richard the Third, at Bosworth, put an end
to that tyrant's atrocious career, August, 22d, 1485.

The particulars of the murder of the unfortunate young king Edward the
fifth, and his brother the duke of York, were never known with
historical certainty. The following account was gathered from the
confession of the villains that had been employed by Richard the Third
to perpetrate the deed of darkness.

Directly after his coronation, Richard left London to proceed on a
progress through the north, for the ostensible purpose of being
re-crowned at York, and in reality to give some relief to his guilty
soul, by placing himself at a distance from the scene of the murders he
was about to execute. While on his journey, he sent an order to
Brackenbury, governor of the Tower of London, to murder Edward the fifth
and the duke of York his brother. Brackenbury, more conscientious than
his master, returned a very submissive answer, but withal told him, he
should never have the heart to execute his commands. Richard, vexed to
be deceived in his opinion of that officer, sent him, by James Tyrrel, a
written order to deliver the keys of the Tower, and the authority, to
the bearer, for one night only. Brackenbury obeyed, and Tyrrel gave
directions to his agents, Miles Forrest and John Dighton, to execute
Richard's commands. That very night, whilst all were asleep, they went
to the apartment of the royal children, and smothering them in their
bed, caused them to be buried under a little staircase. This is what
Tyrrel afterwards confessed, when he was executed for treason, in the
reign of Henry the seventh. This story was likewise confirmed by the two
subordinate murderers, Forrest and Dighton, who were circumstantial in
their description of the crime.

Shakspeare, whose poetry never shines brighter than when it is kindled
at the lamp of history, thus describes the scene:

    'O thus, quoth Dighton, lay the gentle banes,--
    Thus, thus, quoth Forrest, girdling one another
    Within their innocent alabaster arms.
    Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,
    That in their summer beauty kissed each other.'

That these ruffians confessed the truth was afterwards confirmed by a
chest, containing small bones, being discovered, two hundred years
afterwards, under the staircase above mentioned. King Charles the second
was so much convinced that this chest held the remains of these unhappy
princes, that he caused them to be interred in the royal vault in Henry
the seventh's chapel: he likewise commanded a tablet to be inscribed,
commemorating their cruel deaths and the discovery of their remains.




HISTORICAL SUMMARY

TO

THE CHASE OF WAREHAM.


When Edward, the eldest son of Edgar the Peaceable, succeeded to his
father's throne, under the guardianship, or regency, of Archbishop
Dunstan, his dominions were exceedingly prosperous; besides swaying the
sceptre of the united Saxon heptarchy, he was bretwalda or emperor over
the whole island of Great Britain, the kings of Scotland and Wales
paying him vassal homage for their several domains; in short, he held
the same rule that Edward Plantagenet the First afterwards endeavored to
obtain, and succeeded only in regard to Wales. The united wisdom of
Edgar the Peaceable and his prime minister, Dunstan, established the
English sceptre in peace and prosperity. During his reign the native
Danes were kept in bounds, and the invading ones repelled. This
desirable order of things was entirely subverted by the crime of
Elfrida, the step-mother of king Edward; for, during the weak reign of
her son and pupil, Ethelred, the Danes obtained the mastery of England,
and inexpressible miseries ensued to the country, which had a pause when
Edward the Confessor succeeded to the throne, and were afterwards
renewed, with untold horror, by the invasion of another set of
Northmen, under William the Conqueror. The whole of this wretchedness
may be traced to the personal wickedness of one woman.

Elfrida was the only child of the earl of Devonshire, and was considered
the greatest beauty and the richest heiress in England. The king Edgar,
who was then a widower, having lost his wife, Elfleda the Fair, the
mother of his eldest son Edward, thought that the heiress of Devonshire
was worthy to be his consort; but, as she had been brought up in great
retirement, and Edgar required beauty and grace in a queen, as well as
riches, he thought that report might have exaggerated these qualities in
Elfrida, and sent Ethelwold, his favorite, to visit Elfrida, and give
him a true account of her claims to personal beauty. Ethelwold went
accordingly, and found the young lady so charming that he fell in love
with her, and wooed her for himself instead of his master, to whom he
gave a false testimony, declaring that Elfrida had no charms but in her
rich inheritance. Edgar immediately relinquished the design of marrying
her, and his favorite observed, that although Elfrida was not qualified
to be the wife of a great king, she was a wealthy match, and he should,
if the king would permit him, marry her himself forthwith. King Edgar
consented, and Ethelwold soon after wedded the fair heiress, who, being
unconscious of the greater honor intended her, thought she had made a
good match. In a little time the fair wife of Ethelwold began to be
malcontent at finding that her husband kept her mewed up at her own
castle, instead of bringing her to the capital, to share in the
festivities of the most splendid court in Europe. At last a report
reached Edgar's ears that he had been deceived, and after vainly
questioning his favorite, why he never brought his bride to court, the
king announced his intention of paying a visit to Ethelwold and his
wife. Terrified at this information, Ethelwold went to his lady and
confessed his deception, imploring her to appear as ugly and awkward as
she could, and rather strive to disgust the king than otherwise; for if
she seemed as lovely as nature had made her, the king would never
forgive him the false witness he had borne. Elfrida promised all things,
and as her husband thought he had her heart, he was a little calmed.
Nevertheless, both the vanity and ambition of Elfrida being mortified,
she was enraged at losing a crown, and still more so at having been so
misrepresented. She did her utmost to charm king Edgar, who was
infuriated at the falsehood of Ethelwold. The unfortunate husband was
soon after found murdered in a wood, when on a hunting party. Whether he
was assassinated by the order of the king, or his wife, was never
clearly understood; but soon after Edgar married Elfrida for his queen,
and she became the mother of his youngest boy, Ethelred, who was seven
years old when his father died.

At the death of Edgar the councils of the kingdom were divided into
Dunstanites, and Anti-Dunstanites. The partisans of Dunstan were the
advocates of church government, as dependent on the pope; these
supported the claims of Edgar's eldest son Edward, and the opposite
party set up those of Ethelred, the son of Elfrida. Between Dunstan and
the queen the most implacable hatred subsisted, which was not abated
when that great prelate and minister carried his point, and established
his pupil and ward on the throne, which, it is to be noticed, although
hereditary in one family, was not confined to the eldest son, being
rather elective in the royal family. Elfrida retired to the royal domain
of Corfe Castle, and privately meditated mischief, which, owing to the
vigorous government of archbishop Dunstan, and his power with the
Witenagemot, she was not, for three years, able to carry into effect.

It is here desirable to inform the youthful reader the meaning of the
word Witenagemot, more than once mentioned in this tale. The Saxon word
Witenagemot signifies a 'Meeting of the Wise.' It was the name of the
grand legislative assembly of the Anglo-Saxon empire, bearing some
resemblance to the parliaments of the present day. It was originally
composed of five estates, or ranks of men. The king was the first
estate, and the head of the assembly. Next to him sat the clergy, which
were bishops, abbots, priests and monks, elected for their superior
abilities from different dioceses; the clergy being the only learned men
in the kingdom, and as knowledge is more powerful than strength, they
took precedence of the nobles and warriors, and sat next the king: the
clergy ranked as the second estate. The great earls, or heads of
counties, then called aldermen, sat with the tributary princes of
Scotland and Wales, with whom they ranked equally, and, like them, wore
gold collars and caps of maintenance: these were the nobles, and were
reckoned the third estate. They filled the station of the present house
of lords, only they are mixed with the clergy, as our house of peers has
bishops, or spiritual lords, among its members. The fourth estate was
composed of thanes, or warriors, but, as well as warriors, they were
obliged to be landowners. An East Anglian (or Norfolk and Suffolk thane)
was obliged to possess forty hydes of land to enable him to sit in the
Witan; but a thane from Wessex, or the south of England, only needed to
possess five hydes (a hyde of land is one hundred acres). This fourth
estate is similar to our knights of the shire, or members returned for
counties. The fifth estate were farmers and tradesmen, called in the
Saxon language churls and burgesses, or burghers; they stood at the
lower end of the hall, and when a law or doom was passed, seldom said
more than yea, yea, or nay, nay; these were elected by their neighbors
from every town and village, four good men and the reeve, or manager of
the parish money, from each. It is plainly to be seen that the fourth
and fifth estate of the Witenagemot, united together, were the origin of
our house of commons; but a century after the Norman Conquest, they
turned out the farmers and peasants, and only kept the burgesses, or
representatives of towns and cities. It is likewise to be noted, that
the Witenagemot was held in one great hall, or on a heath or common,
while the house of lords and the house of commons, in our days, sit in
council in different halls, excepting they meet together when the king
convenes or dismisses them.

Tradition says, that the Witan existed before the Saxons or Romans
conquered Britain, and was held by our British ancestors at Stonehenge,
that surprising circle of masses of stone which is still to be seen in
the midst of Salisbury Plain. In the times of our Saxon ancestors, when
a law passed in the Witan it was called a doom, instead of our modern
phrase of an act of parliament, or a statute.

In our days the kingdom of Sweden, which was partly the mother country
of the Anglo Saxons, still retains the grand national tribunal of the
five estates, and the last (the peasants) are a grave venerable body,
men of few words, but of great respectability, and not without power in
the commonwealth.

It was this great council of the Witenagemot that confirmed the title of
young Edward, and placed him under the tutelage and guardianship of
archbishop Dunstan, a most austere man, deserving the reprobation of
posterity as a fanatic and persecutor: but during the short reign of
Edward, and the long one of Edgar his father, he was a great statesman,
and most able prime minister, over a happy people and a flourishing
country. Elfrida and her partisans were kept in awe by his vigorous
administration; but that which public rebellion dared not attempt,
accident and private malice effected. Edward and Ethelred, though their
several parties might strive to render them enemies, were united by
strong ties of brotherly affection. Edward chose to hunt the deer at
Wareham, in the neighborhood of Corfe Castle, in Dorsetshire, where
Elfrida and Ethelred then resided. It is said that with youthful
curiosity he was purposely allured to the castle by the tricks of
Wulstan, the queen's little cankered dwarf, and he advanced alone to the
lofty hall of his mother-in-law. She received him at the doorway, and
kissed him. Before the king alighted, a cup was offered, and as he was
quaffing the draught, one of Elfrida's attendants (some say herself)
stabbed him. The wounded prince had yet strength enough to spur his
horse, but fainting on the road, his body was dragged in the stirrup by
the affrighted animal, who stopped at the cottage of a blind widow. Life
was then extinct in the young king, whose bloody corpse was frightfully
mangled by the rough roads over which it had been hurried. Elfrida thus
gained her wicked ends, for Ethelred, the younger son of Edgar, was then
sole heir. So little did the boy exult in his mother's successful crime,
that when told of his brother's dreadful death, he wept most bitterly;
this conduct enraged his violent mother to that degree, that she seized
a wax taper and so belabored her child with it that she almost killed
him. This vile woman became afterwards abjectly penitent; she built a
convent on the spot where Edward's body was found, and ended her life in
childish penances, among others, history records that her terror of the
supposed approach of the evil one was so great, that she sought to evade
his clutch by covering her body all over with little crosses. She died
in extreme horror.

There are two terms that require explanation in this tale, the
expressions Drink heal and Weas heal. They were the forerunners of a
custom not entirely obsolete among us, and simply meant an invitation to
drink one's health, and the answer before drinking of 'Wish health.' A
little after this time, when the lawless Danes filled the land with
violence and treachery, and actions similar to this murder of Elfrida's
became of daily occurrence in the land, the custom of pledging a
companion when drinking was usual; and the phrase of 'I pledge you,'
still in use in country places, meant originally, Your honor is pledged
not to stab me while the cup is at my lips.

Ethelred, who seems to have had, naturally, kindly feelings, being
brought up under the misrule of his violent, capricious mother, proved a
weak and bad king, and his misgovernment laid the foundation of nearly
three centuries of misery to his country, which might have been averted,
if his brother Edward, a prince of great promise, and assisted by able
ministers, had not been cut off by the murderous Elfrida.




HISTORICAL SUMMARY

TO

THE SONS OF THE CONQUEROR


The extensive tract of land in Hampshire, called the New Forest, from
the era of the Conquest to the present day, was, in the Saxon times, a
fruitful and cultivated district, called Ytew. The desecration of
upwards of thirty-six churches thereon, and the depopulation of numerous
towns and villages belonging thereto, with the destruction of the
property of the inhabitants, who were driven forth from their homes,
which were laid waste to form this hunting ground, without the slightest
compensation made to the owners, rendered the Norman dynasty exceedingly
unpopular with their subjects. In the lifetime of the Conqueror, his
favorite son Richard, and his grandson, lost their lives hunting in this
chase.

His successor, William Rufus, continued throughout his whole reign the
same lawless depredations on the property of his subjects, and greatly
enlarged the precincts of the New Forest; according to the early
chronicles, upwards of fifty churches were ultimately destroyed, besides
seventeen churches and towns overthrown and desolated, to make another
New Forest of lesser extent at Windsor.

Historians affirm that the Norman princes concealed a political motive
under the pretence of a passionate love of hunting, and that they
depopulated these districts in order to afford a freer access to the
troops which they occasionally sent from Normandy, to overawe the
English.

But a violent love for the chase seems to have been the besetting sin of
the Norman princes, from whence sprung their cruel game laws; for
instance, a man that killed a stag out of season was hanged or beheaded,
and any one who took a hawk's nest, and destroyed the eggs or young was
sentenced to lose his eyes.

The New Forest, which is thirty miles in circuit, is divided into nine
walks; to each there is a keeper, two rangers, a bow bearer, and a lord
warden. On the north side of Malwood Castle is an oak that buds on
Christmas day and always withers before night.

The bad character of William Rufus is attributed to a neglected
education: an historian thus describes his character: 'Bred up to arms
from his youth, and at a court where he continually beheld instances of
severity and absolute power, he became a perfect brute in his behavior
and manners. He was of a very ill disposition, which being never
corrected by education, frequently led him into actions unworthy of a
prince. To these ill qualities he joined a great contempt for religion
and principles, utterly regardless of honor or honesty. He was as greedy
of money as his father, only he disposed of it, when unjustly gained, in
vain expenses, wherein he was guided more by caprice than reason. The
only good quality remarkable in him was his great courage, which however
was scarcely to be distinguished from a brutal fierceness.'




HISTORICAL SUMMARY

TO

WOLSEY BRIDGE.


Thomas Wolsey was the only son of Thomas and Joan Wolsey, and was born
at Ipswich, in August, 1471. His father was a butcher and grazier. The
house in which Wolsey was born is still shown, and is situated in the
south side of the passage leading to St. Nicholas' churchyard; and in
the ancient shambles, or butchery, which lately stood upon the Cornhill,
at Ipswich, was a stall, or stand, with the initials of Wolsey's father
carved thereon, and some other insignia which tradition points out as
belonging to him. Wolsey's father, though a man of a low trade, was in
opulent circumstances, and connected with some of the most respectable
families at Ipswich, either by descent or marriage. His will is
preserved, wherein it appears that he left his lands to his wife Joan,
and the rest of his wealth divided between his wife and son, reserving
however a handsome bequest to the church of St. Nicholas and the poor of
the parish.

There are floating traditions in Suffolk, which intimate that the
butcher Wolsey was desirous that his son should follow his own trade,
and in pursuance of this plan, he made him assist in driving the beasts
he caught at various markets for sale and slaughter at Ipswich. In one
of these expeditions he nearly lost his life, at a dangerous ford at
Reydon, over a branch of the river Blythe, when driving a number of
bullocks which had been purchased from Reydon salt marshes and Southwold
common. It is further said, that he promised on the spot, 'that if ever
he became a cardinal, he would build a bridge at that dangerous spot.'
Wolsey kept his word, and when he arrived at the high dignity his
youthful ambition even then aimed at, he built a bridge at Reydon, which
is to this day called Wolsey Bridge.

It is a singular thing, that although forced to join at times the
inconsistent occupations of a drover and student, that Wolsey was
admitted as a bachelor of arts at Magdalen College at the age of
fourteen, from which extraordinary circumstance he was called the Boy
Bachelor. It must he observed, that students were entered at the
universities much earlier in former times than is usual at this era: but
to take a degree at the age of fourteen, justly excited universal
astonishment throughout the kingdom, in all men who were devoted to, or
interested in learning, and Wolsey was marked as a character likely to
rise in the church, which was then the only path to high distinction. We
must not forget to note here, that young Wolsey had been as promising at
Ipswich school as he was as a student at Magdalen College; so says
Lloyd, one of his biographers. The first step to his subsequent
greatness in the state was his appointment to the situation of domestic
chaplain to Henry the Seventh, a monarch who himself had received a
conventual education, and was a discerning patron of learned men,
knowing well how to appreciate them. There were, as matters stood in the
middle ages, two roads in the church to great distinction: one was, for
a learned priest to practise great austerity and sanctity, so that he
was considered a saint and revered by all men; and the other, to devote
himself regularly to business as a statesman, and govern church and
state as prime minister, which was done in England by whoever held the
office of lord chancellor. The latter path was chosen by Wolsey who had
a particular inclination to a court life, and declared, that 'if he
could set one foot in the court, he would soon introduce his whole
body.'

The first affair of state in which he was concerned was a mission from
Henry the seventh to Maximilian, Emperor of Germany, who was then at
Bruges. After receiving his instructions at the royal palace of Shene
(now called Richmond), where the king then kept court, he set out on his
errand. We must consider the state of the roads, and the delays of
travelling at that time, which were so great that a journey from Ipswich
to London took at least a week, and even in the memory of man, a day and
night was spent on the road when travelling by a stage coach. Therefore,
when Wolsey presented himself before Henry the Seventh at the end of
three days, that monarch naturally supposed that his envoy had not yet
set out, but had returned for fresh instructions, and he began to
reproach him for his dilatoriness, when, to his astonishment, Wolsey
declared that he had actually been at Bruges, and performed his mission
successfully. 'Ay,' answered the king, 'but upon farther deliberation,
finding that something had been omitted in your instructions, I
despatched a messenger after you with fuller powers.' To which Wolsey
replied, 'that he had indeed met the messenger on his return, and on
communicating with him, found that he had anticipated the view that
Henry had taken of the business, and performed his negotiation with the
emperor precisely according to Henry's second thoughts of the affair, so
that there was no need of a second journey.' Henry was highly pleased
with his envoy's sagacity and promptitude, and with its favorable issue:
he gave him public thanks, and declared him in council fit to be
entrusted with the management of affairs of the utmost importance. He
rewarded him with the deanery of Lincoln, and the prebends of Walton,
Brindhold, and Stow, and to complete his good fortune, his graceful and
eloquent relation of the particulars of his embassy before the council,
attracted the notice of the prince of Wales, afterwards Henry the
eighth, who grew from that time extremely fond of his company.

Such was his introduction as a statesman. From the first year of the
reign of Henry the eighth, 1509, till 1529, the butcher's son ruled
England with absolute power, and at the same time with great ability.
These twenty years was the happiest epoch of Henry's reign; for, after
Wolsey's fall, the sovereign commenced a career of crime, and his people
of misery. Wolsey filled the high offices of Grand Almoner, Archbishop
of York, Lord Chancellor, Pope's Legate, and Cardinal. He carried
personal splendor and state higher than any subject ever did before or
since, and would most likely have died in possession of all these
honors, had he not aimed at the highest then in the world, even at the
Popedom; but his intrigues to reach this pinnacle of a churchman's
ambition lured him to such imprudent steps as caused the downfall of his
mighty power, and a few weeks after he died of grief at Leicester Abbey.

The munificent public works executed by Wolsey, both as prime minister
and from his own private revenue, are greater perhaps than any subject
ever performed. He re-endowed and reformed his own university of
Oxford, with such magnificence, that he is almost considered as its
founder, according to its present state. His love for his native county
of Suffolk was great, and the college he built and endowed in his mother
town of Ipswich, is a proof that he had the magnanimity not to be
ashamed of his origin; but the rapacious tyrant, whose caprice caused
his downfall, seized upon the revenues and destroyed the infant college
of which only one of the gateways remain. But perhaps the most
extraordinary work in which this great man engaged, was, that he partly
wrote and wholly revised, Lillye's grammar, a work of such use that it
was in general use within the last century. Such was the love of this
mighty statesman for learning, that he paused in his career of unbounded
power and pomp to smooth the way to children for the attainment of
knowledge: who, after such an example, need be ashamed of devoting their
talents to writing children's books!

This sketch of Wolsey has not shown the dark side of his character,
which was deformed with many faults, and some crimes. Shakspeare has
summed up the account of both good and ill, with such skill that volumes
cannot impress upon the youthful mind a more accurate comprehension of
Wolsey's character, than that given in the dialogue between Catherine of
Arragon, Henry the eighth's divorced queen, and Griffith, her
chamberlain.


  CATHERINE.
    Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led'st me,
  That the great child of honor, Cardinal Wolsey,
  Was dead?
  Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died.

  GRIFFITH.
                   Well, the voice goes, madam:
  For after the stout Earl Northumberland
  Arrested him at York, and brought him forward
  (As a man sore tainted), to his answer.
  He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill,
  He could not sit his mule.
  At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester,
  Lodg'd in the abbey; where the reverend abbot,
  With all his convent, honorably received him;
  To whom he gave these words,--'O father abbot
  An old man broken with the storms of state,
  Is come to lay his weary bones among ye;
  Give him a little earth for charity!'
  So went to bed; where eagerly his sickness
  Pursu'd him still; and three nights after this,
  About the hour of eight (which he himself
  Foretold should be his last), full of repentance,
  Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows,
  He gave his honors to the world again,
  His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.

  CATHERINE.
    So may he rest; his faults lie gently on him!
  Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him,
  And yet with charity;--He was a man
  Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking
  Himself with princes; one, that by suggestion
  Tithed all the kingdom; simony was fair play;
  His own opinion was his law: I'the presence
  He would say untruths; and be ever double,
  Both in his words and meaning: He was never,
  But where he meant to ruin, pitiful:
  His promises were then as he was, mighty;
  But his performance as he now is, nothing.
  Of his own body he was ill, and gave
  The clergy ill example.

  GRIFFITH.
                            Noble madam,
  Men's evil manners live in brass; their virtues
  We write in water. May it please your highness
  To hear me speak his good now?

  CATHERINE.
                               Yes, good Griffith,
  I were malicious else.

  GRIFFITH.
                      This cardinal,
  Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly
  Was fashioned to much honor. From his cradle
  He was a good scholar, and a ripe and good one;
  Exceeding wise, fair spoken, and persuading;
  Lofty, and sour, to them that loved him not;
  But, to those men that sought him, sweet as summer
  And though he were unsatisfied in getting
  (Which were a sin), yet in bestowing, madam,
  He was most princely: Ever witness for him
  Those twins of learning, which he raised in you,
  Ipswich and Oxford! one of which fell with him,
  Unwilling to outlive the good he did it;
  The other, though unfinished, yet so famous,
  So excellent in art, and still so rising,
  That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue
  His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him;
  For then, and not till then, he felt himself,
  And found the blessedness of being little:
  And, to add greater honors to his age
  Than man could give him, he died, fearing God.

  CATHERINE.
    After my death I wish no other herald,
  No other speaker of my living actions,
  To keep my honor from corruption,
  But such an honest chronicler as Griffith.
  Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me,
  With thy religious truth and modesty,
  Now in his ashes honor. Peace be with him!





HISTORICAL SUMMARY

TO

THE JUDGMENT OF SIR THOMAS MORE.


Sir Thomas More was the only son of sir John More, a judge of the king's
bench, and was born in Milk street, London, 1480. At a very early period
of his life he gave such indications of the talents for which he was
conspicuous, that Cardinal Morton[6], archbishop of Canterbury, in whose
household he was placed, prophetically remarked, 'This child, here
waiting at table, whosoever shall live to see it, will prove a
marvellous man!' The young reader must note from this anecdote the
peculiar manners of those days. Sir Thomas More was then a judge's son,
and yet he was servitor at the cardinal's table. In ancient times the
tyro, either in arms or learning, let his birth or rank in life be what
it might, during his noviciate, ever waited on his elders, and supposed
betters in learning or wisdom, and even at the present day, in all
schools and establishments of monastic institution, as Eton, Winchester,
or Westminster, some faint traces may still be discovered of this
antique system, which has now degenerated into the capricious and
irregular custom of fagging.

[Footnote 6: This excellent prelate had already been introduced to the
juvenile reader, in a preceding tale, under the name of Dr. Morton,
Bishop of Ely.]

Sir Thomas More greatly distinguished himself at Oxford, after which he
entered the inns of court, which were then, whatever they may be now,
the finishing school of moral worth and high attainment for the young
nobles and gentry of England, whether their intention was to devote
themselves to a legal profession, or to arms, or the senate.

Young More's destination was to the former, for we find him called to
the bar, when a student at Lincoln's Inn, and he followed his profession
with the greatest success. In 1502, he became a member of parliament,
and distinguished himself in such a manner, in opposing a grant for the
marriage of Henry the seventh's daughter to the king of Scotland, James
the fourth, that the king was told, a beardless boy had prevented its
being passed; in revenge for which, Henry the seventh had the meanness
to send young More's father, the judge, to the Tower, for some pretended
offence, from whence he was not set at liberty till he was heavily
fined. When Henry the eighth ascended the throne, the fame of young
More's abilities and eloquence having reached his ears, his majesty
persuaded him to enter his service, and immediately gave him the
situation of master of requests, soon after knighted him, and made him a
member of his privy council. His wit and universal talents so
effectually gained the favor of his sovereign, that he treated him with
extraordinary condescension and familiarity, of which many stories are
told. In 1518, sir Thomas became treasurer of the exchequer, and five
years afterwards was chosen speaker of the house of commons; having
filled several other high offices with invariable credit and success,
Henry selected him, in 1529, to be the successor to cardinal Wolsey, as
lord chancellor, being the first layman that had ever filled that
exalted office.

After executing that high charge with singular zeal and impartiality, he
resigned it in May, 1532, because he would not countenance the
destruction of a church to which he was a most faithful and devoted
servant. His retirement was not attended with the security, either to
his person or his conscience, which might have been anticipated; for,
having uniformly opposed Henry's divorce from Catherine of Arragon, he
rendered himself obnoxious, both to his master and the new queen, and by
refusing to attend Ann Boleyn's coronation, his doom was sealed. A
crisis was at hand from which no honest man of the catholic religion
could escape. In 1534, the Act of Supremacy appeared, and sir Thomas
More, sincerely attached to the faith of his ancestors, refused to
swerve from it. He was imprisoned, arraigned of high treason, and on the
most scandalous testimony, pronounced guilty. The usual penalty of being
hanged, drawn, and quartered, was commuted into simple decapitation, a
boon which sir Thomas More acknowledged by one of those lively sallies
for which he was as celebrated as for his graver talents:

'God forbid,' said he, 'the king should use any more such mercy to any
of my friends; and God bless my posterity from such pardons.'

He was beheaded at Tower Hill, on Tuesday, the 6th July, 1535, being
then in his fifty-fifth year, and suffered, not only with fortitude, but
with cheerfulness.

Sir Thomas More amidst all the cares of state, spared time to devote to
the superintendence of the education of his children, and he was amply
rewarded, since his three daughters were the pride of their sex and
their country for their high attainments and many virtues; even his
step-daughter, likewise much beloved by him, manifested great excellence
of character, and showed a tender regard for him in his misfortunes. His
great-grandson, Cresacre More, wrote the life of his noble progenitor,
which is one of the most beautiful biographies ever penned. From it we
learn some interesting particulars of his life and family. Among others,
the anecdote on which the accompanying story is founded. 'It happened,'
says Cresacre More, 'on a time, that a beggar woman's dog, which she
had lost, was presented for a jewel to my lady More, and she had kept
it some seven-night very carefully; but at last the beggar had notice
where her dog was, and presently she came to complain to sir Thomas,
that his lady withheld her dog from her; presently my lady was sent for,
and the dog brought with her; which sir Thomas taking in his hands,
caused his wife, because she was the worthier person, to stand at the
upper end of the hall, and the beggar at the lower end, and saying that
he sat there to do justice, he bade each of them to call the dog, which
when they did, the dog went presently to the beggar, forsaking my lady.
When he saw this, he bade my lady be contented, for the dog was none of
hers; yet she, repining at the sentence of my lord chancellor, agreed
with the beggar, and gave her a piece of gold which would well have
bought three dogs, and so all parties were agreed, everyone smiling to
see his manner of inquiring out the truth.'

Let all disunited families study with care this beautiful sketch of a
household of love, as given by an eye witness, sir Thomas's friend, the
great Erasmus: 'More hath built, near London, upon the Thames' side, to
wit, at Chelsea, a commodious house, neither mean nor subject to envy,
and yet magnificent enough; there he converseth affably with his family,
his wife, his son and daughter-in-law, his three daughters and their
husbands, with eleven grandchildren. There is not any man so loving to
his children as he, and he loveth his old wife as well as if she were a
young maid; and such is the excellency of his temper, that whatsoever
happeneth that could not be helped, he loveth it as though nothing could
have happened more happily. You would say, there were in that place
Plato's academy; but I do the house injury in comparing it to Plato's
academy, wherein there was only disputations of members, or geometrical
figures, and sometimes of moral virtues. I should rather call his house
a school of the Christian religion; their special care is piety and
virtue; there is no quarrelling, or intemperate words heard; none seen
idle; which household discipline that worthy gentleman doth not govern
by proud and lofty words, but with all kind and courteous benevolence.
Every body performeth, yet is there always alacrity, neither is sober
mirth any thing wanting. He suffereth none of his servants either to be
idle or to give themselves to games, but some of them he allotted to
look to the garden, assigning to every one his separate plot; some again
he set to sing, some to play on the organs; he suffereth none of them
_touch cards or dice_. He used, before bed time, to call them together,
and say certain prayers with them.' This life of domestic felicity was
suddenly destroyed by the decree of a tyrant; and the mandate which
consigned the most accomplished individual in the English dominions to
the scaffold, carried desolation to all who depended on him, gave his
lands to a stranger, and his

  Once fair spreading family dissolved.'

Amidst this most estimable and distinguished family, none shone with
greater lustre than Margaret, the eldest daughter and most beloved pupil
of sir Thomas More. She resembled him in person more nearly than the
rest of his children, and in the depth and acuteness of her
understanding. She was the dispenser of her father's secret charities,
and to her alone he entrusted the knowledge of the severe religious
austerities to which he subjected himself. A most affecting scene took
place between the father and daughter on his return from the Tower after
his condemnation, which it would be a want of judgment to describe in
any other words than those of her husband's. Mr. Roper, a most
accomplished gentleman, worthy of being the son-in-law of sir Thomas
More:

'When sir Thomas came from Westminster to the Tower ward again, his
daughter, my wife, desirous to see her father, whom she thought she
should never see in this world after, and also to have his final
blessing, gave attendance about the Tower wharf, where she knew he would
pass by before he could enter the Tower. There tarrying his coming, as
soon as she saw him, after his blessing upon her knees reverently
received, she hasting towards him, without consideration or care of
herself, pressing in amongst the midst of the throng and company of the
guard, that with halberds and bills went round about him, hastily ran to
him, who, well liking her most natural and dear daughterly affection
towards him, gave her his fatherly blessing, and many godly words of
comfort besides. From whom when she turned to depart, she, not satisfied
with the former sight of her dear father, and like one that had
forgotten herself, being all transported with the entire love of her
dear father, having neither heed to herself nor the press of people and
multitude that were there about him, suddenly turned back again, ran to
him as before, took him about the neck, and divers times kissed him most
lovingly, and at last, with a full and heavy heart, was fain to depart
from him; the beholding whereof was to many of them that were present
thereat so lamentable, that it made them, for very sorrow thereof, to
weep and mourn.'

The morning before he suffered, sir Thomas wrote to his dear daughter
the following letter, with a piece of charcoal, in the blank leaf of one
of his works. Besides its intrinsic excellence, the allusions it
contains to the persons composing his once happy family circle, make it
deeply interesting:

'Our Lord bless you, good daughter, and your good husband, and your
little boy, and all yours, and all my children, and all my god children,
and all our friends. Recommend me, when ye may, to my good daughter
Cecily[7], whom I beseech the Lord to comfort; and I send her my
blessing, and to all her children, and pray her to pray for me. I send
her a handkerchief, and God comfort my good son, her husband. My good
daughter Dauncey[8] hath the picture in parchment, that you delivered me
from my lady Coniers; her name is on the back. Show her that I heartily
pray her, that you may send it in my name to her again, for a token from
me, to pray for me. I like special well Dorothy Collie[9]: I pray you be
good to her. I would wot whether this be she that you wrote me of; if
not, yet I pray you be good to the other as you may, in her affliction,
and to my daughter Joan Alleyn too.[10] Give her, I pray you some kind
answer, for she sued hither to me this day to pray you to be good to
her. I cumber you, good Margaret, much; but I would be sorry if it
should be any longer than to-morrow, for it is St. Thomas's eve, and the
utas of St. Peter, and therefore to-morrow long I to go to God. It were
a day meet and convenient for me. I never liked your manners towards me
better than when you kissed me last, for _I love when daughterly love
and dear charity hath no leisure to stay for worldly courtesy_.[11]
Farewell, my dear child, and pray for me, and I shall for you and all
your friends, that we may merrily meet in Heaven. I thank you for your
great cost. I send now to my god daughter Clement[12], her algormise
stone, and I send her and my godson, and all her children, God's
blessing and mine. I pray you, at time convenient, commend me to my good
son John More. I liked well his natural fashion.[13] Our Lord bless him
and his wife, my loving daughter, to whom I pray him to be good, as he
hath great cause; and if that the land of mine come into his hand, he
brake not my will concerning his sister Dauncey: and our Lord bless
Thomas and Austin (his sons), and all that they have.'

[Footnote 7: Mrs. Heron, his third daughter.]

[Footnote 8: His second daughter, Elizabeth.]

[Footnote 9: A beloved servant in the family, who married another
faithful retainer of sir Thomas, his secretary, John Harris. It is a
redeeming trait in human nature that so many persons should have been
affectionate and true in the trying hour of adversity.]

[Footnote 10: A servant of Mrs. Roper, his god-daughter.]

[Footnote 11: In this beautiful sentence he alludes to their last
interview on Tower Wharf.]

[Footnote 12: The wife of Dr. Clement, his ward and relative, and beloved
as a daughter.]

[Footnote 13: He likewise met his father at Tower Wharf.]

It was one of the last requests of sir Thomas More to Henry the eighth,
that his daughter Margaret might attend his funeral. In defiance of the
danger which attended the act, she bought the head of her honored
parent, when it was about to be thrown into the Thames; and when brought
before the privy council, and harshly questioned concerning this act,
and why she did it, she replied boldly, 'That it might not become food
for fishes.' She died at the early age of thirty-six; and by her own
desire she was buried with her father's head on her bosom.

A fine family picture of all these interesting personages, by Holbein,
is still in existence, likewise engravings from it. In this picture is
introduced the portrait of the beggar-girl's dog, on which the
accompanying tale is founded.

Alice lady More, although not a pleasant mannered or sweet tempered
woman, must have possessed some good qualities, as she was an excellent
step-mother to sir Thomas's motherless children, as we learn from some
verses of his translated from the Latin, in which he wrote them, by
archdeacon Wrangham. They were meant for an epitaph on his first and
second wives.

  Within this tomb Jane, wife of More, reclines;
  This, More for Alice and himself designs.
  The first, dear object of my youthful vow,
  Gave me three daughters and a son to know;
  The next,--ah, virtue in a step-dame rare,--
  Nursed my sweet infants with a mother's care.
  With both my years so happily have pass'd,
  Which most my love I know not--first or last.

The worthies of sir Thomas More's family are not yet enumerated. Mrs.
Roper's daughter, Mrs. Bazett, was one of the most accomplished and
pious ladies of her time, and translated from the Latin her
grandfather's 'Exposition of our Savior's Passion,' in a style so like
his own that for some time many believed it to be his composition.
England still possesses descendants from this most illustrious branch of
the family.




HISTORICAL SUMMARY

TO

LADY LUCY'S PETITION.


The conspiracy against the government of William the third, and to
effect the restoration of his exiled father-in-law, James the second,
for which lord Preston and his friend, Mr. Ashton, were condemned to
death, took place in 1692.

Sir John Dalrymple relates the anecdote of the courageous child of lord
Preston, in his Memoirs. Ashton was put to death, but the presence of
mind of the young lady saved lord Preston's life.

Her name was Catherine, and not Lucy. Her brother Edward dying young,
she, with her two sisters, became her father's co-heiresses; at
seventeen she married a gallant young nobleman, the son of Lord
Widrington, with whom she led a most happy life. Her memory is still
greatly respected for her virtues and talents, in Lancashire, her native
county.


THE END




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    of Other Lands,' compiled by N. Clemmons Hunt, we most warmly
    commend. It is one of the best collections we have seen, containing
    many exquisite poems and fragments of verse which have not before
    been put into book form in English words. We find many of the old
    favorites, which appear in every well-selected collection of sonnets
    and songs, and we miss others, which seem a necessity to complete
    the bouquet of grasses and flowers, some of which, from time to
    time, we hope to republish in the 'Courier.'"--_Cincinnati Courier._

    "A book of rare excellence, because it gives a collection of
    choice gems in many languages not available to the general lover of
    poetry. It contains translations from the Greek, Latin, Persian,
    Arabian, Japanese, Turkish, Servian, Russian, Bohemian, Polish,
    Dutch, German, Italian, French, Spanish, and Portuguese languages.
    The book will be an admirable companion volume to any one of the
    collections of English poetry that are now published. With the full
    index of authors immediately preceding the collection, and the
    arrangement of the poems under headings, the reader will find it
    convenient for reference. It is a gift that will be more valued by
    very many than some of the transitory ones at these holiday
    times."--_Philadelphia Methodist._


THE FIRESIDE ENCYCLOPDIA OF POETRY. Edited by Henry T. Coates. This is
  the latest, and beyond doubt the best collection of poetry published.
  Printed on fine paper and illustrated with thirteen steel engravings and
  fifteen title pages, containing portraits of prominent American poets
  and fac-similes of their handwriting, made expressly for this book. 8vo.
  Cloth, extra, black and gold, gilt edges, $5.00; half calf, gilt,
  marbled edges, $7.50; half morocco, full gilt edges, $7.5O; full Turkey
  morocco, gilt edges, $10.00; tree calf, gilt edges $12.00; plush, padded
  side, nickel lettering, $14.00.

    "The editor shows a wide acquaintance with the most precious
    treasures of English verse, and has gathered the most admirable
    specimens of their ample wealth. Many pieces which have been passed
    by in previous collections hold a place of honor in the present
    volume, and will be heartily welcomed by the lovers of poetry as a
    delightful addition to their sources of enjoyment. It is a volume
    rich in solace, in entertainment, in inspiration, of which the
    possession may well be coveted by every lover of poetry. The
    pictorial illustrations of the work are in keeping with its poetical
    contents, and the beauty of the typographical execution entitles it
    to a place among the choicest ornaments of the library."--_New York
    Tribune._

    "Lovers of good poetry will find this one of the richest collections
    ever made. All the best singers in our language are represented, and
    the selections are generally those which reveal their highest
    qualities.... The lights and shades, the finer play of thought
    and imagination belonging to individual authors, are brought out in
    this way (by the arrangement of poems under subject-headings) as
    they would not be under any other system.... We are deeply
    impressed with the keen appreciation of poetical worth, and also
    with the good taste manifested by the compiler."--_Churchman._

    "Cyclopdias of poetry are numerous, but for sterling value of its
    contents for the library or as a book of reference, no work of the
    kind will compare with this admirable volume of Mr. Coates. It takes
    the gems from many volumes, culling with rare skill and
    judgment."--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._


THE CHILDREN'S BOOK OF POETRY. Compiled by Henry T. Coates. Containing
  over 500 poems carefully selected from the works of the best and most
  popular writers for children; with nearly 200 illustrations. The most
  complete collection of poetry for children ever published. 4to. Cloth,
  extra, black and gold, gilt side and edges, $3.00; full Turkey morocco,
  gilt edges, $7.50.

    "This seems to us the best book of poetry for children in existence.
    We have examined many other collections, but we cannot name another
    that deserves to be compared with this admirable
    compilation."--_Worcester Spy._

    "The special value of this book lies in the fact that it nearly or
    quite covers the entire field. There is not a great deal of good
    poetry which has been written for children that cannot be found in
    this book. The collection is particularly strong in ballads and
    tales, which are apt to interest children more than poems of other
    kinds; and Mr. Coates has shown good judgment in supplementing this
    department with some of the best poems of that class that have been
    written for grown people. A surer method of forming the taste of
    children for good and pure literature than by reading to them from
    any portion of this book can hardly be imagined. The volume is
    richly illustrated and beautifully bound."--_Philadelphia Evening
    Bulletin._

    "A more excellent volume cannot be found. We have found within the
    covers of this handsome volume, and upon its fair pages, many of the
    most exquisite poems which our language contains. It must become a
    standard volume, and can never grow old or obsolete."--_Episcopal
    Recorder._


THE COMPLETE WORKS OF THOS. HOOD. With engravings on steel. 4 vols.,
  12mo., tinted paper. Poetical Works; Up the Rhine; Miscellanies and
  Hood's Own; Whimsicalities, Whims, and Oddities. Cloth, extra, black and
  gold, $6.00; red cloth, paper label, gilt top, uncut edges, $6.00; half
  calf, gilt, marbled edges, $14.00; half Russia, gilt top, $18.00.

    Hood's verse, whether serious or comic--whether serene like a
    cloudless autumn evening or sparkling with puns like a frosty
    January midnight with stars--was ever pregnant with materials for
    the thought. Like every author distinguished for true comic humor,
    there was a deep vein of melancholy pathos running through his
    mirth, and even when his sun shone brightly its light seemed often
    reflected as if only over the rim of a cloud.

    Well may we say, in the words of Tennyson, "Would he could have
    stayed with us," for never could it be more truly recorded of any
    one--in the words of Hamlet characterizing Yorick--that "he was a
    fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy." D. M. Moir.


THE ILIAD OF HOMER RENDERED INTO ENGLISH BLANK VERSE. By Edward, Earl of
  Derby. From the latest London edition, with all the author's last
  revisions and corrections, and with a Biographical Sketch of Lord Derby,
  by R. Shelton Mackenzie, D.C.L. With twelve steel engravings from
  Flaxman's celebrated designs. 2 vols., 12mo. Cloth, extra, bev. boards,
  gilt top, $3.50; half calf, gilt, marbled edges, $7.00; half Turkey
  morocco, gilt top, $7.00.

The same. Popular edition. Two vols. in one. 12mo. Cloth, extra, $1.50.

    "It must equally be considered a splendid performance; and for the
    present we have no hesitation in saying that it is by far the best
    representation of Homer's Iliad in the English language."--_London
    Times._

    "The merits of Lord Derby's translation may be summed up in one
    word, it is eminently attractive; it is instinct with life; it may
    be read with fervent interest; it is immeasureably nearer than Pope
    to the text of the original .... Lord Derby has given a version
    far more closely allied to the original, and superior to any that
    has yet been attempted in the blank verse of our
    language."--_Edinburg Review._


THE WORKS OF FLAVIUS JOSEPHUS. Comprising the Antiquities of the Jews; a
  History of the Jewish Wars, and a Life of Flavius Josephus, written by
  himself. Translated from the original Greek, by William Whiston, A.M.
  Together with numerous explanatory Notes and seven Dissertations
  concerning Jesus Christ, John the Baptist, James the Just, God's command
  to Abraham, etc., with an Introductory Essay by Rev. H. Stebbing, D.D.
  8vo. Cloth, extra, black and gold, plain edges, $3.00; cloth, red, black
  and gold, gilt edges, $4.50; sheep, marbled edges, $3.50; Turkey
  morocco, gilt edges, $8.00.

This is the largest type one volume edition published.


THE ANCIENT HISTORY OF THE EGYPTIANS, CARTHAGINIANS, ASSYRIANS,
BABYLONIANS, MEDES AND PERSIANS, GRECIANS AND MACEDONIANS. Including a
  History of the Arts and Sciences of the Ancients. By Charles Rollin,
  With a Life of the Author, by James Bell. 2 vols., royal 8vo. Sheep,
  marbled edges, per set, $6.00.


COOKERY FROM EXPERIENCE. A Practical Guide for Housekeepers in the
  Preparation of Every-day Meals, containing more than One Thousand
  Domestic Recipes, mostly tested by Personal Experience, with Suggestions
  for Meals, Lists of Meats and Vegetables in Season, etc. By Mrs. Sara T.
  Paul. 12mo. Cloth, extra, black and gold, $1.50.

Interleaved Edition. Cloth, extra, black and gold, $1.75.


THE COMPARATIVE EDITION OF THE NEW TESTAMENT. Both Versions in One Book.

The proof readings of our Comparative Edition have been gone over by so
many competent proof readers, that we believe the text is absolutely
correct.

Large 12mo., 700 pp. Cloth, extra, plain edges, $1.50; cloth, extra,
bevelled boards and carmine edges, $1.75; imitation panelled calf,
yellow edges, $2.00; arabesque, gilt edges $2.50; French morocco, limp,
gilt edges, $4.00; Turkey morocco, limp, gilt edges, $6.00.

    The Comparative New Testament has been published by Porter & Coates.
    In parallel columns on each page are given the old and new versions
    of the Testament, divided also as far as practicable into
    comparative verses, so that it is almost impossible for the
    slightest new word to escape the notice of either the ordinary
    reader or the analytical student. It is decidedly the best edition
    yet published of the most interest-exiting literary production of
    the day. No more convenient form for comparison could be devised
    either for economizing time or labor. Another feature is the
    foot-notes, and there is also given in an appendix the various words
    and expressions preferred by the American members of the Revising
    Commission. The work is handsomely printed on excellent paper with
    clear, legible type. It contains nearly 700 pages.


THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO. By Alexandre Dumas. Complete in one volume,
  with two illustrations by George G. White. 12mo. Cloth, extra, black and
  gold, $1.25.


THE THREE GUARDSMEN. By Alexandre Dumas. Complete in one volume, with
  two illustrations by George G. White. 12mo. Cloth, extra, black and
  gold, $1.25.

    There is a magic influence in his pen, a magnetic attraction in his
    descriptions, a fertility in his literary resources which are
    characteristic of Dumas alone, and the seal of the master of light
    literature is set upon all his works. Even when not strictly
    historical, his romances give an insight into the habits and modes
    of thought and action of the people of the time described, which are
    not offered in any other author's productions.


THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. By Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart.
  Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, extra, black and gold, $1.00. Alta edition,
  one illustration, 75 cts.


JANE EYRE. By Charlotte Bront (Currer Bell). New Library Edition. With
  five illustrations by E. M. Wimperis. 12mo. Cloth, extra, black and
  gold, $1.00.


SHIRLEY. By CHARLOTTE BRONT (Currer Bell). New Library Edition. With
  five illustrations by E. M. Wimperis. 12mo. Cloth, extra, black and
  gold, $1.00.


VILLETTE. By Charlotte Bront (Currer Bell). New Library Edition. With
  five illustrations by E. M. Wimperis. 12mo. Cloth, extra, black and
  gold, $1.00.


THE PROFESSOR, EMMA, and POEMS. By Charlotte Bront (Currer Bell). New
  Library Edition. With five illustrations by E. M. Wimperis. 12mo. Cloth,
  extra, black and gold, $1.00.

Cloth, extra, black and gold, per set, $4.00; red cloth, paper label,
gilt top, uncut edges, per set, $5.00; half calf, gilt, per set, $12.00.
The four volumes forming the complete works of Charlotte Bront (Currer
Bell).

    The wondrous power of Currer Bell's stories consists in their fiery
    insight into the human heart, their merciless dissection of passion,
    and their stern analysis of character and motive. The style of these
    productions possesses incredible force, sometimes almost grim in its
    bare severity, then relapsing into passages of melting
    pathos--always direct, natural, and effective in its unpretending
    strength. They exhibit the identity which always belongs to works of
    genius by the same author, though without the slightest approach to
    monotony. The characters portrayed by Currer Bell all have a
    strongly marked individuality. Once brought before the imagination,
    they haunt the memory like a strange dream. The sinewy, muscular
    strength of her writings guarantees their permanent duration, and
    thus far they have lost nothing of their intensity of interest since
    the period of their composition.


CAPTAIN JACK THE SCOUT; or, The Indian Wars about Old Fort Duquesne. An
  Historical Novel, with copious notes, By Charles McKnight. Illustrated
  with eight engravings. 12mo. Cloth, extra, black and gold, $1.50.

    A work of such rare merit and thrilling interest as to have been
    republished both in England and Germany. This genuine American
    historical work has been received with extraordinary popular favor,
    and has "won golden opinions from all sorts of people" for its
    freshness, its forest life, and its fidelity to truth. In many
    instances it even corrects History and uses the drapery of fiction
    simply to enliven and illustrate the fact.

    It is a universal favorite with both sexes, and with all ages and
    conditions, and is not only proving a marked and notable success in
    this country, but has been eagerly taken up abroad and republished
    in London, England, and issued in two volumes in the far-famed
    "Tauchnetz Edition" of Leipsic, Germany.


ORANGE BLOSSOMS, FRESH AND FADED. By T. S. Arthur. Illustrated. 12mo.
  Cloth, extra, black and gold, $1.50.

    "Orange Blossoms" contains a number of short stories of society.
    Like all of Mr. Arthur's works, it has special moral purpose, and is
    especially addressed to the young who have just entered the marital
    experience, whom it pleasantly warns against those social and moral
    pitfalls into which they may almost innocently plunge.


THE BAR ROOMS AT BRANTLEY; or, The Great Hotel Speculation. By T. S.
  Arthur. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, extra, black and gold, $1.50.

    "One of the best temperance stories recently issued."--_N. Y.
    Commercial Advertiser._

    "Although it is in the form of a novel, its truthful delineation of
    characters is such that in every village in the land you meet the
    broken manhood it pictures upon the streets, and look upon sad,
    tear-rimmed eyes of women and children. The characters are not
    overdrawn, but are as truthful as an artist's pencil could make
    them."--_Inter-Ocean, Chicago._


EMMA. By Jane Austen. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, extra, $1.25.


MANSFIELD PARK. By Jane Austen. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, extra, $1.25.


PRIDE AND PREJUDICE; and Northanger Abbey. By Jane Austen. Illustrated.
  12mo. Cloth, extra, $1.25.


SENSE AND SENSIBILITY; and Persuasion. By Jane Austen. Illustrated.
  12mo. Cloth, extra, $1.25.

The four volumes, forming the complete works of Jane Austen, in a neat
box: Cloth, extra, per set, $5.00; red cloth, paper label, gilt top,
uncut edges, $5.00; half calf, gilt, per set, $12.00.

    "Jane Austen, a woman of whom England is justly proud. In her novels
    she has given us a multitude of characters, all, in a certain sense,
    commonplace, all such as we meet every day. Yet they are all as
    perfectly discriminated from each other as if they were the most
    eccentric of human beings. . . . And almost all this is done by
    touches so delicate that they elude analysis, that they defy the
    powers of description, and that we know them to exist only by the
    general effect to which they have contributed."--_Macaulay's
    Essays._


ART AT HOME. Containing in one volume House Decoration, by Rhoda and
  Agnes Garrett; Plea for Art in the House, by W. J. Loftie; Music, by
  John Hullah; and Dress, by Mrs. Oliphant. 12mo. Cloth, extra, black and
  gold, $1.50.


TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL DAYS AT RUGBY. By Thomas Huges. New Edition, large
  clear type. With 36 illustrations after Caldecott and others. 12mo., 400
  pp. Cloth, extra, black and gold, $1.25; half calf, gilt, $2.75.

Alta Edition. One illustration, 75 cents.

    "It is difficult to estimate the amount of good which may be done by
    'Tom Brown's School Days.' It gives, in the main, a most faithful
    and interesting picture of our public schools, the most English
    institutions of England, and which educate the best and most
    powerful elements in our upper classes. But it is more than this; it
    is an attempt, a very noble and successful attempt, to Christianize
    the society of our youth, through the only practicable
    channel--hearty and brotherly sympathy with their feelings; a book,
    in short, which a father might well wish to see in the hands of his
    son."--_London Times._


TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. By Thomas Hughes. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, extra,
  black and gold, $1.50; half calf, gilt, $3.00.

    "Fairly entitled to the rank and dignity of an English classic.
    Plot, style and truthfulness are of the soundest British character.
    Racy, idiomatic, mirror-like, always interesting, suggesting thought
    on the knottiest social and religious questions, now deeply moving
    by its unconscious pathos, and anon inspiring uproarious laughter,
    it is a work the world will not willingly let die."--_N. Y.
    Christian Advocate._


SENSIBLE ETIQUETTE OF THE BEST SOCIETY. By Mrs. H. O. Ward. Customs,
  manners, morals, and home culture, with suggestions how to word notes
  and letters of invitations, acceptances, and regrets, and general
  instructions as to calls, rules for watering places, lunches, kettle
  drums, dinners, receptions, weddings, parties, dress, toilet and
  manners, salutations, introductions, social reforms, etc., etc. Bound in
  cloth, with gilt edge, and sent by mail, postage paid, on receipt of
  $2.00.


LADIES' AND GENTLEMEN'S ETIQUETTE: A Complete Manual of the Manners and
  Dress of American Society. Containing forms of Letters, Invitations,
  Acceptances, and Regrets. With a copious index. By E. B. Duffey. 12mo.
  Cloth, extra, black and gold, $1.50.

    "It is peculiarly an American book, especially adapted to our
    people, and its greatest beauty is found in the fact that in every
    line and precept it inculcates the principles of true politeness,
    instead of those formal rules that serve only to gild the surface
    without affecting the substance. It is admirably written, the style
    being clear, terse, and forcible."--_St. Louis Times._


THE UNDERGROUND CITY; or, The Child of the Cavern. By Jules Verne.
  Translated from the French by W. H. Kingston. With 43 illustrations.
  Standard Edition. 12mo. Cloth, extra, black and gold, $1.50.


AROUND THE WORLD IN EIGHTY DAYS. By Jules Verne. Translated by Geo. M.
  Towle. With 12 full-page illustrations. 12mo. Cloth, extra, black and
  gold, $1.25.


AT THE NORTH POLE; or, The Voyages and Adventures of Captain Hatteras.
  By Jules Verne. With 130 illustrations by Riou. Standard Edition. 12mo.
  Cloth, extra, black and gold, $1.25.


THE DESERT OF ICE; or, The Further Adventures of Captain Hatteras. By
  Jules Verne. With 126 illustrations by Riou. Standard Edition. 12mo.
  Cloth, extra, black and gold, $1.25.


TWENTY THOUSAND LEAGUES UNDER THE SEAS; or, The Marvellous and Exciting
  Adventures of Pierre Aronnax, Conseil his servant, and Ned Land, a
  Canadian Harpooner. By Jules Verne. Standard Edition. Illustrated. 12mo.
  Cloth, extra, black and gold, $1.25.


THE WRECK OF THE CHANCELLOR, Diary of J. R. Kazallon, Passenger, and
  Martin Paz. By Jules Verne. Translated from the French by Ellen Frewer.
  With 10 illustrations. Standard Edition. 12mo. Cloth, extra, black and
  gold, $1.25.

    Jules Verne is so well known that the mere announcement of anything
    from his pen is sufficient to create a demand for it. One of his
    chief merits is the wonderful art with which he lays under
    contribution every branch of science and natural history, while he
    vividly describes with minute exactness all parts of the world and
    its inhabitants.


THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS; or, Mirth and Marvels. By Richard Harris Barham
  (Thomas Ingoldsby, Esq.). New edition, printed from entirely new
  stereotype plates. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, extra, black and gold,
  $1.50; half calf, gilt, marbled edges, $3.00.

    "Of his poetical powers it is not too much to say that, for
    originality of design and diction, for grand illustration and
    musical verse, they are not surpassed in the English language. The
    Witches' Frolic is second only to Tam O'Shanter. But why
    recapitulate the titles of either prose or verse--since they have
    been confessed by every judgment to be singularly rich in classic
    allusion and modern illustration. From the days of Hudibras to our
    time the drollery invested in rhymes has never been so amply or
    felicitously exemplified."--_Bentley's Miscellany._


TEN THOUSAND A YEAR. By Samuel C. Warren, author of "The Diary of a
  London Physician." A new edition, carefully revised, with three
  illustrations by George G. White. 12mo. Cloth, extra, black and gold,
  $1.50.

    "Mr. Warren has taken a lasting place among the imaginative writers
    of this period of English history. He possesses, in a remarkable
    manner, the tenderness of heart and vividness of feeling, as well as
    powers of description, which are essential to the delineation of the
    pathetic, and which, when existing in the degree in which he enjoys
    them, fill his pages with scenes which can never be
    forgotten."--_Sir Archibald Alison._


THOMPSON'S POLITICAL ECONOMY; With Especial Reference to the Industrial
  History of Nations. By Prof. R. E. Thompson, of the University of
  Pennsylvania. 12mo. Cloth, extra, $1.50.

    This book possesses an especial interest at the present moment. The
    questions of Free Trade and Protection are before the country more
    directly than at any earlier period of our history. As a rule the
    works and textbooks used in our American colleges are either of
    English origin or teach Doctrines of a political economy which, as
    Walter Bagehot says, was made for England. Prof. Thompson belongs to
    the Nationalist School of Economists, to which Alexander Hamilton,
    Tench Coxe, Henry Clay, Matthew Carey, and his greater son, Henry C.
    Carey, Stephen Colwell, and James Abram Garfield were adherents. He
    believes in that policy of Protection to American industry which has
    had the sanction of every great American statesman, not excepting
    Thomas Jefferson and John C. Calhoun. He makes his appeal to history
    in defence of that policy, showing that wherever a weaker or less
    advanced country has practiced Free Trade with one more powerful or
    richer, the former has lost its industries as well as its money, and
    has become economically dependent on the latter. Those who wish to
    learn what is the real source of Irish poverty and discontent will
    find it here stated fully.

    The method of the book is historical. It is therefore no series of
    dry and abstract reasonings, such as repel readers from books of
    this class. The writer does not ride the a priori nag, and say "this
    must be so," and "that must be conceded." He shows what has been
    true, and seeks to elicit the laws of the science from the
    experience of the world. The book overflows with facts told in an
    interesting manner.


THE ENGLISH PEOPLE IN ITS THREE HOMES, and the Practical Bearings of
  general European History. By Edward A. Freeman, LL.D., Author of the
  "Norman Conquest of England." 12mo. Cloth, extra, $1.75.




[End of _Tales from English History_ by Agnes Strickland]
