generously made available by the internet archive.) body, parentage and character in history. _by the same author._ ready--new and cheaper edition, in great part rewritten, 2/ character as seen in body and parentage, with a chapter on education, career, morals, and progress. a remarkable and extremely interesting book.--_scotsman._ a delightful book, witty and wise, clever in exposition, charming in style, readable and original.--_medical press._ men and women are both treated under these heads (types of character) in an amusing and observant manner.--_lancet._ we cordially commend this volume.... a fearless writer.... merits close perusal.--_health._ mr. jordan handles his subject in a simple, clear, and popular manner.--_literary world._ full of varied interest.--_mind._ kegan paul, trench, trübner, and co. limited. body, parentage and character in history: notes on the tudor period. by furneaux jordan, f.r.c.s. london: kegan paul, trench, trübner & co. limited, 1890. birmingham: printed by hall and english. preface. in my little work on "character as seen in body and parentage" i have put forward not a system, but a number of conclusions touching the relationship which i believe to exist between certain features of character on the one hand and certain peculiarities of bodily configuration, structure, and inheritance on the other. these conclusions, if they are true, should find confirmation in historic narrative, and their value, if they have any, should be seen in the light they throw on historic problems. the incidents and characters and questions of the tudor period are not only of unfailing interest, but they offer singularly rich and varied material to the student of body and character. if the proposal to connect the human body with human nature is distasteful to certain finely-strung souls, let me suggest to them a careful study of the work and aims and views of goethe, the scientific observer and impassioned poet, whom madame de staël described as the most accomplished character the world has produced; and who was, in matthew arnold's opinion, the greatest poet of this age and the greatest critic of any age. the reader of 'wilhelm meister' need not be reminded of the close attention which is everywhere given to the principle of inheritance--inheritance even of 'the minutest faculty.' the student of men and women has, let me say in conclusion, one great advantage over other students--he need not journey to a museum, he has no doors to unlock, and no catalogue to consult; the museum is constantly around him and on his shelves; the catalogue is within himself. table of contents. page note i.--the various views of henry viii.'s character. momentous changes in sixteenth century 1 many characters given to noted persons 3 a great number given to henry 3 the character given in our time 6 attempt to give an impartial view 8 need of additional light 14 note ii.--the relation of body and parentage to character. bodily organisation and temperaments 15 leading types in both 16 elements of character run in groups 17 intervening gradations 20 note iii.--henry's family proclivities. henry of unimpassioned temperament 21 took after unimpassioned mother 22 derived nothing from his father 23 character of henry vii. 24 henry viii., figure and appearance 26 note iv.--the wives' question. henry's marriages, various causes 27 passion not a marked cause 28 henry had no strong passions 30 self-will and self-importance 31 conduct of impassioned men 31 note v.--the less characteristic features of henry's character. characteristics common to all temperaments 32 henry's cruelty 33 henry's piety 35 note vi.--the more characteristic features of henry's character. always doing or undoing something 37 habitual fitfulness 38 self-importance 40 henry and wolsey: which led? 41 love of admiration 43 note vii.--henry and his compeers. henry's political helpers superior to theological 45 cranmer 46 sir thomas more 47 wolsey 49 note viii.--henry and his people and parliament. no act of constructive genius 51 parliament not abject, but in agreement 53 proclamations 54 liberty a matter of race 55 note ix.--henry and the reformation. teutonic race fearless, therefore truthful 56 outgrew romish fetters 57 french revolution racial 58 the essential and the accidental in great movements 60 wyclif 61 erasmus, luther, calvin, knox 62 henry's part in the reformation 64 no thought of permanent division 65 the dissolution of the monasteries 66 note x.--queen elizabeth and queen mary. henry viii. and elizabeth much alike 69 elizabeth less pious but more fitful 71 elizabeth and marriage 72 elizabeth's part in the reformation 73 elizabeth and mary stuart very unlike 74 lofty characters with flaws 76 mary's environment and fate 79 bodily peculiarities of the two queens 81 the various views of henry viii.'s character. note i. the progress of an individual, of a people, or even of a movement is never up, and their decadence is never down, an inclined plane. neither do we see sudden and lofty flights in progress nor headlong falls in decadence. both move rather by steps--steps up or steps down. the steps are not all alike; one is short another long; one sudden another gradual. they are all moreover the inevitable sequences of those which went before, and they as inevitably lead to those which follow. our fathers took a long step in the tudor epoch, but older ones led up to it and newer ones started from it. the long step could not possibly be evaded by a teutonic people. rome lay in the path, and progress must needs step over the body of rome--not a dead body then, though wounded from within, not a dead body yet, though now deeply and irreparably wounded from without. civilization must everywhere step over the body of rome or stand still, or turn backwards. two factors are especially needed for progress: brain (racial brain), which by organisation and inheritance tends to be large, free, capable; and secondly, circumstance, which continually calls forth capability, and freedom, and largeness. all the schools of supernaturalism, but above all the romish school, compress and paralyse at least a portion of the brain: if a portion is disabled all is enfeebled. if a bodily limb even, a mere hand or foot, be fettered and palsied, the body itself either dies or droops into a smaller way of life. it is so with a mental limb--a mental hand or foot in relation to the mental life. to the group of ever-present and subtle forces which make for progress, there were added in the sixteenth century seemingly new and conspicuous forces. the art of printing or writing by machinery sowed living seed broadcast over a fertile soil; the "new learning" restored to us the inspiring but long hidden thought of old aryan friends and relatives, and this again in some degree relaxed the grip of alien and enslaving semitic ideas which the exigencies of roman circumstance had imposed on europe with the edge of the sword. new action trod on the heels of new thought. new lands were traversed; new seas were sailed; new heavens were explored. the good steed civilisation--long burdened and blindfolded and curbed,--had lagged somewhat; but now the reins were loose, the spurs were sharp, the path was clear and the leap which followed was long. while our fathers were taking, or were on the eve of taking, this long step, a notable young man, the son of a capable and wise father and of a not incapable but certainly unwise mother, stepped into the chief place in this country. a student who was in training for an archbishop was suddenly called upon to be a king. what this king was, what he was not; what organisation and parentage and circumstance did for him; how he bore himself to his time--to its drift, its movements, its incidents, its men, and, alas, to its women--is now our object to inquire. the study of this theological monarch and of his several attitudes is deeply instructive and of unfailing interest. the autocrat of the breakfast table wittily comments on the number of john's characters. john had three. notable men have more characters than "john." henry viii. had more characters than even the most notable of men. a man of national repute or of high position has the characters given to him by his friends, his enemies, and characters given also by parties, sects, and schools. henry had all these and two more--strictly, two groups more--one given to him by his own time, another given to him by ours. if we could call up from their long sleep half a dozen representative and capable men of henry's reign to meet half a dozen of victoria's, the jury would probably not agree. if the older six could obtain all the evidence which is before us, and the newer six could recall all which was familiar to henry's subjects at home and his compeers abroad; if the two bodies could weigh matters together, discuss all things together--could together raise the dead and summon the living--nevertheless in the end two voices would speak--a sixteenth century voice and a nineteenth. the older would say in effect: "we took our king to be not only a striking personality; not only an expert in all bodily exercises and mental accomplishments; we knew him to be much more--to be industrious, pious, sincere, courageous, and accessible. we believed him to be keen in vision, wise in judgment, prompt and sagacious in action. we looked round on our neighbours and their rulers, and we saw reason to esteem ourselves the most prosperous of peoples and our king the first, by a long way the first, of his fellow kings. your own records prove that long years after henry's death, in all time of trouble the people longed for henry's good sense and cried out for henry's good laws. he was a sacrilegious miscreant you say; if it were so the nation was a nation of sacrilegious miscreants, for he merely obeyed the will of the people and carried out a policy which had been called for and discussed and contrived and, in part, carried out long before our henry's time. upwards of a century before, the assembled knights of the shire had more than once proposed to take the property of the church (much of it gained by sinister methods) and hand it over for military purposes. the spirit of the religious houses had for some time jarred on the awakening spirit of a thinking people. their very existence cast a slur on a high and growing ideal of domestic life. those ancient houses detested and strove to keep down the knowledge which an aroused people then, as never before, passionately desired to gain." "you say he was a 'monster of lust.' lust is not a new sin: our generation knew it as well as yours; detected it as keenly as yours; hated it almost as heartily. but consider: no king anywhere has been, in his own time, so esteemed, so trusted, nay even so loved and reverenced as our king. should we have loved, trusted, and reverenced a 'monster of lust'? if you examine carefully the times before ours and the times since, you will find that monsters of lust, crowned or uncrowned, do not act as henry acted. the court, it is true, was not pure, but it was the least voluptuous court then existing, and henry was the least voluptuous man in it. while still in his teens the widow of an elder brother, a woman much older than he, and who was also old for her years, was married to him on grounds of state policy. not henry only, but wise and learned men, luther and melancthon among others, came to believe that the marriage was not legal. henry himself, indeed, came to believe that god's curse was on it--in our time we fervently believed in god's curse. a boy with promise of life and health was the one eager prayer of the people. but boy after boy died and of four boys not one survived. if one of catharine's boys had lived: nay more, if ann boleyn had been other than a scheming and faithless woman; or if, later, jane seymour had safely brought forth her son (and perhaps other sons), henry would assuredly never have married six wives. you say he should have seen beforehand the disparity of years, the illegality, the incest--should have seen even the yet unfallen curse: in our time boys of eighteen did not see so clearly all these things." "alas," the juror might have added, "marriage and death are the two supreme incidents in man's life: but marriage comes before experience and judgment--these are absent when they are most needed; experience and judgment attend on death when they are needless." "bear in mind, moreover," resumes the older voice, "that in our time the marriage laws were obscure, perplexing, and unsettled. high ideals of marriage did not exist. the first nobleman in our court was the earl of suffolk who twice committed bigamy and was divorced three times; his first wife was his aunt, and his last his daughter-in-law. papal relaxations and papal permissions were cheap and common--they permitted every sort of sexual union and every sort of separation. canon law and the curious sexual relationships of ecclesiastics, high and low, shed no light but rather darkness on the matter. the pope, it is true, hesitated to grant henry's divorce, but not, as the whole world knew, on moral or religious grounds: at heart he approved the divorce and rebuked wolsey for not settling the matter offhand in england. all the papal envoys urged the unhappy catharine to retire into a religious house; but catharine insisted that god had called her to her position"--forgetting, we may interpose, that if he called her to it he also in effect deposed her from it. god called her daughter mary, so mary believed, to burn protestants; god called elizabeth, so elizabeth exclaimed ('it was marvellous in her eyes'), to harass romanists. "but the one paramount circumstance which weighed with us, and we remember a thousand circumstances while you remember the 'six wives' only, was the question of succession. if succession was the one question which more than all others agitated your fathers in anne's time, try to imagine what it was to us. you, after generations of order, peace and security--you utterly fail to understand our position. we had barely come out of a lawless cruel time--a time born of the ferocity and hate of conflicting dynasties. fathers still lived to tell us how they ate blood, and drank blood, and breathed blood. they and we were weary of blood, and our two henrys (priceless henrys to us,) had just taken its taste out of our mouths. no queen, be it well noted, had ruled over us either in peaceful or in stormy times; we believed with our whole souls, rightly or wrongly, that no queen could possibly preserve us from destruction and ruin. it was our importunity mainly--make no mistake on this point,--which drove our king, whenever he was wifeless, to take another wife. his three years of widowhood after jane seymour's death was our gravest anxiety." the newer voice replies: "you were a foolish and purblind generation. the simplicity of your henry's subjects, and the servility of his parliament have become a bye-word. it is true your king, although less capable than you suppose, was not without certain gifts--their misuse only adds to his infamy. it is true also that he had been carefully educated,--his father was to be thanked for that. it would seem, moreover, that quite early in life he was not without some attractiveness in person and manners, but you forget that bodily grossness and mental irritability soon made him a repulsive object. an eminent englishman of our century says he was a big, burly, noisy, small-eyed, large-faced, double-chinned and swinish-looking fellow, and that indeed so bad a character could never have been veiled under a prepossessing appearance. your king was vain, ostentatious, and extravagant. with measured words we declare that his hypocrisy, cruelty, sacrilege, selfishness and lust, were all unbounded. he was above all an unrivalled master of mean excuses: did he wish to humble and oppress the clergy--they had violated the statute of premunire. did his voluptuous eye fall on a dashing young maid of honour--he suddenly discovered that he was living in incest, and that his marriage was under god's curse. did the pope hesitate to grant him a divorce--he began to see that the proper head of the english church was the english king. was his exchequer empty--he was convinced that the inmates of the wealthy religious houses led the lives and deserved the fate of certain cities once destroyed by fire and brimstone. did a defiant pole carry his head out of harry's reach--it was found that pole's mother, lady salisbury, was the centre of yorkist intrigue, and that the mother's head could be lopped off in place of the son's." the two voices it is clear have much to say for themselves. it is equally clear that the two groups of jurymen will not agree on their verdict. it is commonly held and as a rule on good grounds, that the judgment of immediate friends and neighbours is less just than the opinion of foreigners and of posterity. this is so when foreigners and posterity are agreed, and are free from the tumult, and passion, and personal bias of time and place. it is not so in henry's case. curiously enough, foreign observers, scholars, envoys, travellers, agree with--nay, outrun henry's subjects in their praise of henry. curiously too the tumult and passion touching henry's matrimonial affairs--touching all his affairs indeed,--have grown rather than diminished with the progress of time. epochs, like men, have not the gift of seeing themselves as others see them. unnumbered frenchmen ate and drank, and made merry, and bought and sold; married their children and buried their parents, not knowing that france was giving a shock to all mankind for all time to come. the assassins of st. bartholomew believed that in future a united christendom would bless them for performing a pious and uniting deed. we see all at once the bare and startling fact of six wives. henry's subjects saw and became familiar with a slow succession of marriages, each of which had its special cloud of vital yet confusing circumstance. so too the reformation has its different phases. in the sixteenth century it was looked on as a serious quarrel, no doubt, but no one dreamed it was anything more. then each side thought the other side would shortly come to its senses and all would be well; no one dreamt of two permanently hostile camps and lasting combat. if personal hate and actual bloodshed have passed away, and at the present moment the combat shews signs of still diminishing bitterness, it is because a new and mysterious atmosphere is slowly creeping over both--slowly benumbing both the armies. an attempt must be made here to sketch henry's character with as much impartiality as is possible. but no impartial sketch will please either his older friends or his newer enemies. although henry came to the throne a mere boy, he was a precocious boy. in the precocious the several stages of life succeed each other more quickly than in others, and probably they themselves do not wear so well. when henry was twenty-five he was little less wise and capable than he was at thirty-five or forty-five. at forty he was probably wiser than he was at fifty. the young king's presence was striking; he had a fresh rosy complexion, and an auburn though scanty beard. his very limbs, exclaims one foreign admirer, "glowed with warm pink" through his delicately woven tennis costume. he was handsome in feature; large and imposing in figure; open and frank in manners; strong, active, and skilled in all bodily exercises. he was an admirer of all the arts, and himself an expert in many of them. henry had indeed all the qualities, whatever their worth may be, which make a favourite with the multitude. those qualities, no matter what change time brought to them, preserved his popularity to the last. henry was neither a genius nor a hero; but they who deny that he was a singularly able man will probably misread his character; misread his ideals, his conduct, and his various attitudes. henry's education was thorough and his learning extensive. his habit of mind tended perhaps rather to activity and versatility and obedience to old authority than to intensity or depth or independence. his father, who looked more favourably on churchmen and lawyers than on noblemen, destined his second son for the church. at that time theology, scholastic theology--for colet and erasmus and more had not then done their work--was the acutest mental discipline known as well as the highest accomplishment. for when the "new learning" reached this country it found theology the leading study, and therefore it roused theology; in italy on the other hand it found the arts the predominant study, and there it roused the arts. henry would doubtless have made a successful bishop and escaped thereby much domestic turmoil; but, on the whole, he was probably better fitted to be a king; while his quiet, contemplative, and kindly father would at any rate have found life pleasanter in lawn sleeves than he found it on a throne. it would be well if men and women were to write down in two columns with all possible honesty the good and the evil items in the characters (not forgetting their own) which interest them. the exercise itself would probably call forth serviceable qualities, and would frequently bring to light unexpected results. probably in this process good characters would lose something and the bad would gain. from such an ordeal henry viii. would come out a sad figure, though not quite so sad as is popularly considered. it is not proposed in this sketch of character to separate, if indeed separation is possible, the good qualities which are held to be more or less inborn from those which seem to be attainable by efforts of the will. freedom of the will must of course be left in its native darkness. neither can the attempt be made to estimate, even if such estimate were possible, how much the individual makes of his own character and how much is made for him. some features of character, again, are neither good nor evil, or are good or evil only when they are excessive or deficient or unsuitable to time and place. love of pageantry is one of these; love of pleasure another; so, too, are the leanings to conservation or to innovation. in thought and feeling and action henry was undoubtedly conservative. his conservatism was modified by his self-will and self-confidence, but it assuredly ranked with the leading features of his character--with his piety his egotism and his love of popularity. to shine in well-worn paths was his chief enjoyment: not to shine in these paths, or to get out of them, or to get in advance of them, or to lag behind, was his greatest dread. the innovator may or may not be pious, but conservatism naturally leans to piety, and henry's piety, if not deep or passionate, was at any rate copious and sincere. henry, it has been said, was not a hero, not a genius, neither was he a saint. but if his ideals were not high, and if his conduct was not unstained, his religious beliefs were unquestioning and his religious observances numerous and stringent. the fiercer the light which beat upon his throne, the better pleased was henry. he had many phases of character and many gifts, and he delighted in displaying his phases and in exercising his gifts. the use and place of ceremony and spectacle are still matters of debate; but modern feeling tends more and more to hand them over to children, may-day sweeps, and lord-mayors. in henry's reign the newer learning and newer thought had it is true done but little to undermine the love of gewgaws and glitter, but henry's devotion to them, even for his time, was so childish that it must be written down in his darker column. we may turn now to the less debatable items in henry's character, and say which shall go into the black list and which into the white. we are all too prone perhaps to give but one column to the men we approve, and one only to the men we condemn. it is imperative in the estimation of character that there be "intellect enough," as a great writer expresses it, to judge and material enough on which to pronounce judgment. if we bring the "sufficient intellect," especially one that is fair by habit and effort, to the selection of large facts--for facts have many sizes and ranks, large and small, pompous and retiring--and strip from these the smaller confusing facts, strip off too, personal witcheries and deft subtleties--then we shall see that all men (and all movements) have two columns. the 'monster' henry had two. in his good column we cannot refuse to put down unflagging industry--no englishman worked harder--a genuine love of knowledge, a deep sense of the value of education, and devotion to all the arts both useful and elevating--the art of ship-building practically began with him. his courage, his sincerity, his sense of duty, his frequent generosity, his placability (with certain striking exceptions) were all beyond question. his desire for the welfare of his people, although tempered by an unduly eager desire for their good opinion, was surely an item on the good side. the good column is but fairly good; the black list is, alas, very black. henry was fitful, capricious, petulant, censorious. his fitfulness and petulance go far to explain his acts of occasional implacability. failing health and premature age explain in some degree the extreme irritability and absence of control which characterised his later years. in his best years his love of pleasure, or rather his love of change and excitement, his ostentation, and his extravagance exceeded all reasonable limits. ostentation and love of show are rarely found apart from vanity, and henry's vanity was colossal. vain men are not proud, and henry had certainly not the pride which checks the growth of many follies. a proud man is too proud to be vain or undignified or mean or deceitful, and henry was all these. pride and dignity usually run together; while, on the other hand, vanity and self-importance keep each other company as a rule. henry lacked dignity when he competed with his courtiers for the smiles of ann boleyn in her early court days; he lacked it when he searched campeggio's unsavoury carpet-bag. he seemed pleased rather than otherwise that his petty gossip should be talked of under every roof in europe. it is true that in this direction catharine descended to a still lower level of bed-room scandal; but her nature, never a high one, was deteriorated by a grievous unhappiness and by that incessant brooding which sooner or later tumbles the loftiest nature into the dust. henry's two striking failings--his two insanities--were a huge self-importance and an unquenchable thirst for notoriety and applause. i have said 'insanities' designedly, for they were not passions--they were diseases. the popular "modern voice" would probably not regard these as at all grave defects when compared with others so much worse. this voice indeed, we well know, declares him to have been the embodiment of the worst human qualities--of gross selfishness, of gross cruelty, and of gross lust. these charges are not groundless, but if we could believe them with all the fulness and the vehemence with which they are made, we must then marvel that his subjects trusted him, revered him, called (they and their children) for his good sense and his good laws; we can but marvel indeed that with one voice of execration they did not fell him lifeless to the ground. he was unguarded and within reach. if the charges against henry come near to the truth, nero was the better character of the two. nero knew not what he did; he was beyond question a lunatic and one of a family of lunatics. henry's enormities were the enormities of a fairly sane and responsible man. in order to read henry's character more correctly, if that be possible, than it is read by the "two voices," more light is needed. let us see what an examination of henry's bodily organisation, and especially of his parentage, will do for us. in this light--if it be light, and attainable light--it will be well to examine afresh (at the risk of some repetition) the grave charges which are so constantly and so confidently laid at his door and see what of vindication or modification or damning confirmation may follow. before looking specially at henry's organisation and inheritance, i purpose devoting a short chapter to a general view of the principles which can give such an examination any value. it will be for the most part a brief statement of views which i have already put forward in my little work on character as seen in body and parentage. the relation of body and parentage to character. note ii. it is unwise to turn aside from the investigation of any body of truths because it can only be partial in its methods or incomplete in its results. we do this however in the study of the science of character. it is true that past efforts have given but little result--little result because they ignored and avowedly ignored the connection which is coming to be more and more clearly seen to exist between character on the one hand and bodily organisation and proclivity, and especially the organisation and proclivity of the nervous system, on the other hand. those who ignore the bearings of organisation and inheritance on character are, for the most part, those who prefer that "truth should be on their side rather than that they should be on the side of truth." it is contended here that much serviceable knowledge may be obtained by the careful investigation, in given individuals, of _bodily_ characteristics, and the union of these with _mental_ and _moral_ characteristics. the relationship of these combined features of body and mind to parentage, near and remote, and on both sides, should be traced as far back as possible. the greater the number of individuals brought under examination, the more exact and extensive will be the resulting knowledge. very partial methods of classifying character are of daily utility. we say, for example, speaking of the muscular system only, that men are strong or weak. but this simple truth or classification has various notable bearings. both the strong and the weak may be dextrous, or both may be clumsy; both may be slow, or both may be quick; but they will be dextrous or clumsy, slow or quick, in different ways and degrees. so, going higher than mere bodily organisation, we may say that some men are bold and resolute while others are timid and irresolute; some again are parsimonious and others prodigal. now these may possibly be all intelligent or all stupid, all good or all bad; but, nevertheless, boldness and timidity, parsimony and generosity, modify other phases of character in various ways. the irresolute man, for example, cannot be very wise, or the penurious man truly good. it must always be remembered in every sort of classification of bodily or of mental characteristics, that the lines of division are not sharply defined. all classes merge into each other by imperceptible degrees. one of the most, perhaps the most, fundamental and important classification of men and women is that which puts them into two divisions or two temperaments, the active, or tending to be active, on the one hand, and the reflective, or tending to be reflective, on the other. to many students of character this is not anew suggestion, but much more is contended for here. it is contended that the more active temperament is alert, practical, quick, conspicuous, and--a very notable circumstance--less impassioned; the more reflective temperament is less active, less practical, or perhaps even dreamy, secluded, and--also a very notable circumstance--more impassioned. it is not so much that men of action always desire to be seen, or that men of thought desire to be hidden; action naturally brings men to the front; contemplation as naturally hides them; when active men differ, the difference carries itself to the housetops; when thinking men differ, they fight in the closet and by quieter methods. busy men, moreover, are given to detail, and detail fills the eye and ear; men of reflection deal more with principles, and these lie beyond the range of ordinary vision. the proposition which i here put forward, based on many years of observation and study, is fundamental, and affects, more or less, a wide range of character in every individual. the proposition is that in the active temperament the intellectual faculties are disproportionately strong--the passions are feebler and lag behind; in the reflective temperament the passions are the stronger in proportion to the mental powers. character is dominated more by the intellect in one case, more by the emotions in the other. in all sane and healthful characters (and only these are considered here) the intellectual and emotional elements are both distinctly present. the most active men think; the most reflective men act. but in many men and women the intellect takes an unduly large share in the fashioning of life; these are called here the "less impassioned," the "unimpassioned," or for the sake of brevity, "the passionless." in many others the feelings or emotions play a stronger part; these are the "more impassioned" or the "passionate." character is not made of of miscellaneous fragments, of thought and feeling, of volition and action. its elements are more or less homogeneous and run in uniform groups. the less impassioned, or passionless, for example, are apt to be changeable and uncertain; they are active, ready, alert; they are quick to comprehend, to decide, to act; they are usually self-confident and sometimes singularly self-important. they often seek for applause but they are sparing in their approval and in their praise of others. when the mental endowment is high, and the training and environment favourable, the unimpassioned temperament furnishes some of our finest characters. in this class are found great statesmen and great leaders. a man's _public_ position is probably determined more by intellectual power than by depth of feeling. now and then, especially when the mental gifts are slight, the less pleasing elements predominate: love of change may become mere fitfulness; activity may become bustle; sparing approval may turn to habitual detraction and actual censoriousness. love of approbation may degenerate into a mania for notoriety at any cost; self-importance may bring about a reckless disregard of the well-being of others. fortunately the outward seeming of the passionless temperament is often worse than the reality, and querulous speech is often combined with generous action. frequently, too, where there is ineradicable caprice there is no neglect of duty. the elements of character which, in various ways and degrees, cluster together in the more impassioned or passionate temperament are very different in their nature. in this temperament we find repose or even gentleness, quiet reflection, tenacity of purpose. the feelings--love, or hate, or joy, or grief, or anger, or jealousy--are more or less deep and enduring. in this class also there are fine characters, especially (as in the unimpassioned) when the mental gifts are high and the training refined. in this class too are found perhaps the worst characters which degrade the human race. in all save the rarest characters, the customary tranquillity may be broken by sullen cloud or actual storm. in the less capable and less elevated, devotion may become fanaticism, and tenacity may become blind prejudice, or sheer obstinacy. in this temperament too, in its lower grades, we meet too often--not all together perhaps, certainly not all in equal degree--with indolence, sensuality, inconstancy; or morbid brooding, implacability, and even cruelty. i contend then that certain features of character, it may be in very varying degrees of intensity, belong to the more active and passionless temperament, and certain other features attend on the more reflective and impassioned temperament. if it can be shown that there are two marked groups of elements in character--the more impassioned group and the less impassioned group--and that each group may be inferred to exist if but one or two of its characteristic elements are clearly seen, why even then much would be gained in the interpretation of history and of daily life. but i contend for much more than this; the two temperaments have each their characteristic bodily signs; the more marked the temperament, the more striking and the more easily read are the bodily signs. in the intermediate temperament--a frequent and perhaps the happiest temperament--the bodily signs are also intermediate. the bodily characteristics run in groups also, as well as the mental. the nervous system of each temperament is enclosed in its own special organisation and framework. in my work on "character as seen in body and parentage," i treat this topic with some fulness, and what is stated there need not be repeated now. it may be noted, however, that in the two temperaments there are peculiarities of the skin--clearness or pigmentation; of the hair--feebleness or sparseness, or closeness and vigour of growth; of the configuration of the skeleton and consequent pose of the figure. if the conclusions here put forward are true, they give a key which opens up much character to us. they touch, as i have already said, a great range of character in every individual, but they make no pretension to be a system. they have only an indirect bearing on many phases of character; for in both the active and reflective temperaments there may be found, for example, either wisdom or folly, courage or cowardice, refinement or coarseness. it must always be remembered, too, that besides the more marked types of character, whether bodily or mental, there are numberless intervening gradations. when the temperaments, moreover, are distinctly marked, the ordinary concurrent elements may exist in very unequal degrees and be combined in very various ways. one or two qualities may perhaps absorb the sum-total of nerve force. in the passionless man or woman extreme activity may repress the tendency to disapprove; immense self-importance may impede action. in the impassioned individual, inordinate love or hate may enfeeble thought; deep and persistent thought may dwarf the affections. as i have said elsewhere: 'for the ordinary purposes of life, especially of domestic and social life, the intervening types of character (combining thought and action more equally, though probably each in somewhat less degree) produce perhaps the most useful and the happiest results. but the progress of the world at large is mainly due to the combined efforts of the more extreme types--the supremely reflective and impassioned and the supremely active and unimpassioned. both are needed. if we had men of action only, we should march straight into chaos; if we had men of thought only, we should drift into night and sleep!' henry's family proclivities. note iii. if there is any truth in the views put forward in the foregoing chapter, and if history has at all faithfully portrayed a character concerning which it has had, at any rate, much to say, it is clear that henry must be placed in the less impassioned class of human beings. when i first called attention to the three sorts of character--and the three groups of characteristics--the active, practical, and more or less passionless on the one hand; the less active, reflective, and impassioned on the other; and, thirdly, the intermediate class, neither henry nor his period was in my mind. but when, at a later time (and for purposes other than the special study of character), i came to review the reformation with its ideas, its men, its incidents, i saw at once, to my surprise, that henry's life was a busy, active, conspicuous, passionless life. he might have sat for the portrait i had previously drawn. markedly unimpassioned men tend to be fitful, petulant, censorious, self-important, self-willed, and eager for popularity--so tended henry. the unimpassioned are frequently sincere, conscientious, pious, and conservative--henry was all these. they often have, especially when capable and favourably encompassed, a high sense of duty and a strong desire to promote the well-being of those around them--these qualities were conspicuous in henry's character. how much of inherited organisation, how much of circumstance, how much of self-effort go to the making of character is a problem the solution of which is yet seemingly far off. mirabeau, with fine perception, declared that a boy's education should begin, twenty years before he is born, with his mother. unquestionably before a man is born the plan of his character is drawn, its foundations are laid, and its building is foreshadowed. can he, later, close a door here or open a window there? can he enlarge this chamber or contract that? he believes he can, and is the happier in the belief; but in actual life we do not find that it is given to one man to say, i will be active, i will be on the spot, i will direct here and rebuke there; nor to another man to say, i will give myself up to thought, to dreams, to seclusion. henry never said, with unconscious impulse or with conscious words, "i will be this, or i will not be that." henry viii. took altogether after his mother's side, and she, again, took after her father. henry was, in fact, his grandfather edward iv. over again. he had, however, a larger capacity than his mother's father, and he lived in a better epoch. edward, it was said in his time, was the handsomest and most accomplished man in europe. henry was spoken of in similar words by his compeers both at home and abroad. both were large in frame, striking in contour, rose-pink in complexion--then, as now, the popular ideal of manly perfection--and both became exceedingly corpulent in their later years. both were active, courteous, affable, accessible; both busy, conspicuous, vain, fond of pleasure, and given to display. both were unquestionably brave; but they were also (both of them) fickle, capricious, suspicious, and more or less cruel. both put self in the foremost place; but edward's selfishness drifted rather to self-indulgence, while henry's took the form of self-importance. extreme self-importance is usually based on high capacity, and edward's capacity did not lift him out of the region of pomposity and frequent indiscretion. edward iv. was nevertheless an able man although less able than henry. like henry he belonged to the unimpassioned class; he was without either deeply good or deeply evil passion, but probably he had somewhat stronger emotions than his grandson. in other words henry had more of intellect and less of passion than his grandfather. edward's early and secret marriage was no proof of passion. early marriages are not the monopoly of any temperament; sometimes they are the product of the mere caprice, or the self-will and the feeble restraint of the passionless, and sometimes the product of the raw and immature judgment of the passionate. edward deserves our pity, for he had everything against him; he had no models, no ideals, no education, no training. the occupation of princes at that time brought good neither to themselves nor anyone else. they went up and down the country to slay and be slain; to take down from high places the severed heads of one worthless dynasty and put up the heads of another dynasty equally worthless. the eighth henry derived nothing from his father--the seventh,--nothing of good, nothing of evil. one of the most curious errors of a purely literary judgment on men and families is seen in the use of the epithet "tudor." we hear for example of the "tudor" blood shewing itself in one, of the "tudor" spirit flashing out in another. whether henry vii. was a tudor or not we may not now stop to inquire. henry viii. we have seen took wholly after his yorkist mother. of henry's children, mary was a repetition of her dark dwarfish spanish mother; the poor lad edward, whether a seymour or a yorkist, was certainly not a tudor. the big comely pink elizabeth was her father in petticoats--her father in body, her father in mind. henry viii. in fact while tudor in name was lancastrian in dynasty, and yorkist in blood. no two kings, no two men indeed could well have been more unlike, bodily, mentally, and morally, than the two henrys--father and son. the eighth was communicative, confiding, open, frank; the seventh was silent, reserved, mysterious. the son was active, busy, practical, conspicuous; the father, although not indolent, and not unpractical, was nevertheless quiet, dreamy, reflective, self-restrained, and unobtrusive. one was prodigal, martial, popular; the other was prudent, peaceful, steadfast, and unpopular. he is said indeed to have been parsimonious, but the least sympathetic of his historians confess that he was generous in his rewards for service, that his charities were numerous, and that his state ceremonies were marked by fitting splendour. henry viii. changed (or destroyed) his ministers, his bishops, his wives, and his measures also, many times. henry vii. kept his wife--perverse and mischievous as she was,--till she died; kept his ministers and bishops till they died; kept his policy and his peace till he died himself. henry vii. is noteworthy mainly for being but little noticed. the scribe of whatever time sees around him only that which is conspicuous and exceptional and often for the most part foolish, and therefore the documents of this henry's reign are but few in number. the occupants of high places who are careful and prudent are rarely popular. his unpopularity was moreover helped on in various ways. dynastic policy thrust upon him a wife of the busy unimpassioned temperament--a woman in whom deficient emotion and sympathy and affection were not compensated by any high qualities; a woman who was restless, mischievous, vain, intriguing, and fond of influence. elizabeth of york had all the bad qualities of her father and her son and had very few of their good ones. a king henry in feminine disguise without his virtues was not likely to love or be loved. domestic sourness is probably a not infrequent cause of taciturnity and mystery and seclusion in the characters of both men and women. it was well that henry was neither angry nor morose. it says much for him moreover that while he was the object of ceaseless intrigue and hostility and rancour he yet never gave way to cynicism or revenge or cruelty. with a tolerably happy marriage, an assenting and a helpful nobility, and an unassailed throne, it is difficult to put a limit to the good which henry vii. might have done and which it lay in him to do. as it was he smoothed the way for enterprise and discovery, for the printing press and the new learning. he was the first of english monarchs who befriended education--using the word in its modern sense. it is curious that the acutest changes in our history--the death of a decrepit mediævalism, the birth of the young giant modernism--happened in our so-called sleepiest reign. surely the "quiet" father had a smaller share of popular applause than he deserved, and as surely the "dashing" son a much larger share. but in all periods, old and new, popularity should give us pause: yesterday, for example, inquisitors were knelt to, hailed with acclamation and pelted with flowers, and heretics were spat upon, hissed at, and burnt, but to-day's flowers are for the heretics and the execrations are for the inquisitors. thus then in all characteristics--intellectual, moral and bodily--henry viii. must be placed in the unimpassioned class. it may be noted too in passing that all the portraits of henry show us a feeble growth of hair on the face and signs of a convex back--convex vertically and convex transversely. we do not see the back it is true, but we see both the head and the shoulders carried forwards and the chin held down towards the chest--held indeed so far downward that the neck seems greatly shortened. it is interesting to observe the pose of the head and neck and shoulders in the portraits of noted personages. the forward head and shoulders, the downward chin (the products of a certain spinal configuration) are seen in undoubtedly different characters but characters which nevertheless have much in common: they are seen in all the portraits of napoleon i. and, although not quite so markedly, in those of our own general gordon. napoleon and gordon were unlike in many ways, and the gigantic self-importance and self-seeking of napoleon were absent in the simpler and finer character. in other ways they were much alike. both were brave active busy men; but both were fitful, petulant, censorius, difficult to please, and--which is very characteristic--both although changeable were nevertheless self-willed and self-confident. both were devoid of the deeper passions. the wives question. note iv. it is affirmed that no one save a monster of lust would marry six wives--a monster of lust being of course a man of over-mastering passion. it might be asked, in passing, seeing that six wives is the sign of a perfect "monster" if three wives make a semi-monster? pompey had five wives, was he five-sixths of a monster. to be serious however in this wife question, it will probably never be possible to say with exactness how much in henry's conduct was due to religious scruples; how much to the urgent importunity (state-born importunity) of advisers and subjects; how much to the then existing confusion of the marriage laws; how much to misfortune and coincidence; how much to folly and caprice; how much to colossal self-importance, and how much to "unbounded license." history broadly hints that great delusions, like great revolutions, may overcome--especially if the overcoming be not too sudden--both peoples and persons without their special wonder. in such delusions and such revolutions the actors and the victims are alike often unconscious actors and unconscious victims. neither henry nor his people dreamt that the great marriage question of the sixteenth century would excite the ridicule of all succeeding centuries. luther did not imagine that his efforts would help to divide religious europe into two permanently hostile camps. robespierre did not suspect that his name would live as an enduring synonym for blood. but to marry six wives, solely on licentious grounds, is a proceeding so striking and so uncomplicated that no delusion could possibly come over the performer and certainly not over a watchful people. yet something akin to delusion there certainly was; its causes however were several and complex, and lust was the least potent of them. the statement may seem strange, but there was little of desire in henry's composition. a monster he possibly was of some sort of folly; but strange as it may seem he was a monster of folly precisely because he was the opposite of a monster of passion. unhappily unbounded lust is now and then a feature of the impassioned temperament. it is never seen however in the less impassioned, and henry was one of the less impassioned. the want of dignity is itself a striking feature in the character of passionless and active men, and want of dignity was the one conspicuous defect in henry's conduct in his marriage affairs. perhaps too, dignity--personal or national--is, like quietness and like kindliness, among the later growths of civilisation. no incident or series of incidents illustrative of character in any of its phases, no matter how striking the incidents, or how strong the character or phase of character, have ever happened once only. if libertinism, for example, had ever shown itself in the selection and destruction of numerous wives, history would assuredly give information pertinent thereto: it gives none. nothing happens once only. even the french revolution, so frequently regarded as a unique event, was only one of several examples of the inherent and peculiar cruelty of the french celt.[1] the massacre of bartholomew was more revolting in its numbers and in its character. the massacre of the commune, french military massacres and various massacres in french history deprive the "great" revolution of its exceptional character. but to return. there were licentious kings and princes before henry, granting he was licentious, and there have been notably licentious kings and princes since: their methods are well known and they were wholly unlike his. [1] from historic comparison we may feel sure that no such cruelty was found in the gothic and frankish and norman blood of france. certain incidents concerning henry's marriages are of great physiological interest: a fat, bustling, restless, fitful, wilful man approaching mid-life--a man brim full of activity but deficient in feeling, waited twenty years before the idea of divorce was seriously entertained; and several more years of papal shiftiness were endured, not without petulance enough, but seemingly without storm or whirlwind. when jane seymour died, three years of single life followed. it is true the three years were not without marriage projects, but they were entirely state projects, and were in no way voluptuous overtures. the marriage with anne of cleves was a purely state marriage, and remained, so historians tell us, a merely nominal and ceremonial marriage during the time the king and the german princess occupied the same bed--a circumstance not at all indicative of "monstrous" passion. the very unfaithfulness of anne boleyn and catherine howard is not without its significance, for the proceedings of our divorce court show that as a rule (a rule it is true not without exceptions) we do not find the wives of lustful men to be unfaithful. in the case of a burns or a byron or a king david it is not the wife who is led astray; it is the wives of the henrys and the arthurs, strikingly dissimilar as they were in so many respects, who are led into temptation. no _sane_ man is the embodiment of a single passion. save in the wards of a lunatic asylum a simple monster of voluptuousness, or monster of anger, or monster of hate has no existence; and within those wards such monsters are undoubted examples of nerve ailment. it is true one (very rarely one only) passion may unduly predominate--one or more may be fostered and others may be dwarfed; but as a very general rule the deeper passions run together. one passion, if unequivocally present, denotes the existence of other passions, palpable or latent--denotes the existence, in fact, of the impassioned temperament. henry viii., startling as the statement may seem, had no single, deep, unequivocal passion--no deep love, no profound pity, no overwhelming grief, no implacable hate, no furious anger. the noisy petulance of a busy, censorious, irritable man and the fretfulness of an invalid are frequently misunderstood. on no single occasion did henry exhibit overmastering anger. historians note with evident surprise that he received the conclusion of the most insulting farce in history--the campeggio farce--with composure. when the bishop of rochester thrust himself, unbidden, into the campeggio court in order to denounce the king and the divorce, henry's only answer was a long and learned essay on the degrees of incestuous marriage which the pope might or might not permit. when his own chaplains scolded him, in coarse terms, in his own chapel, he listened, not always without peevishness, but always without anger. turning to other emotions, no hint is given of henry's grief at the loss of son after son in his earlier married years. if a husband of even ordinary affection _could_ ever have felt grief, it would surely show itself when a young wife and a young mother died in giving birth to a long-wished-for son and heir. not a syllable is said of henry's grief at jane seymour's death; and three weeks after he was intriguing for a continental, state, and purely diplomatic marriage. it is true that he paraded a sort of fussy affection for the young prince edward--carried him indeed through the state apartments in his own royal arms; but the less impassioned temperament is often more openly demonstrative than the impassioned, especially when the public ear listens and the public eye watches. those who caress in public attach as a rule but little meaning to caresses. if henry's affections were small we have seen that his self-importance was colossal; and the very defections--terrible to some natures--of anne boleyn and of catherine howard wounded his importance much more deeply than they wounded his affections. if we limit our attention for a moment to the question of deep feeling, we cannot but see how unlike henry was to the impassioned men of history. passionate king david, for example, would not have waited seven years while a commission decided upon his proposed relationship to bathsheba; and the cold henry could not have flung his soul into a fiery psalm. the impassioned burns could not have said a last farewell to the mother of his helpless babe without moistening the dust with his tears, while henry could never have understood why many strong men cannot read the second verse of "john anderson my jo" with an unbroken voice. the less characteristic features of henry's character. note v. it is well now, after considering the question of henry's parentage and organisation, to look again and a little more closely, at certain significant features in his character--his caprice, his captiousness, his love of applause, his self-will, self-confidence, and self-importance. these elements of character frequently run together in equal or unequal degrees, and they are extremely characteristic of the more markedly passionless temperament. but before doing this it is well to look, in a brief note, at some features of henry's character which are found in the less impassioned and the more impassioned temperaments alike. both temperaments, for example, may be cruel or kindly; both may tend to conservatism or to innovation; pious persons or worldly may be found in both. but the cruelty or kindliness, the conservatism or innovation, the piety or worldliness differ in the different temperaments--they differ in their motives, in their methods, in their aims. the cruelty of the unimpassioned man is, for the most part, a reckless disregard for the happiness or well-being or (in mediæval times especially) for the lives of those who stand in his way or thwart his plans or lessen his self-importance. such cruelty is more wayward resentful and transitory than deliberative or implacable or persistent. the cruelty of the impassioned man is perhaps the darkest of human passions. it is the cruelty born of hate--cruelty contrived with deliberation and watched with glee. happily it is a kind which lessens with the growth of civilisation. often it attends on the strong convictions of strong natures obeying strong commands--commands which are always strongest when they are believed to have a supernatural origin; for belief in supernaturalism is the natural enemy of mercy; it demands obedience and forbids compassion. cruelty was at its worst when supernatural beliefs were strongest; for happily natural reason has grown, and supernatural belief has dwindled. the unimpassioned and the impassioned temperaments may alike scale the highest or descend to the lowest levels of character, although probably the most hateful level of human degredation is reached by the more impassioned nature. it cannot be denied that, even for his time, henry had a certain unmistakable dash of cruelty in his composition. a grandson of edward iv., who closely resembled his grandfather, could not well be free from it. but the cruelty of henry, like that of edward, was cruelty of the passionless type. he swept aside--swept too often out of existence--those who defied his will or lessened his importance. how much of henry's cruelty was due to the resolve to put down opposition, how much was due to passing resentment and caprice, and how much, if any, to the delight of inflicting pain, not even henry's compeers could easily have said. his cruelty in keeping the solitary mary apart from her solitary mother was singularly persistent in so fickle a man; but even here weak fear and a weak policy were stronger than cruel feeling. it was henry's way of meeting persistent obstinacy. it is needless to discuss the cruelty of the executions on religious grounds during henry's reign; they were the order of the day and were sanctioned by the merciful and the unmerciful alike. but henry's treatment of high personages was a much deeper stain--deeper than the stain of his matrimonial affairs. people and parliament earnestly prayed for a royal son and heir, but no serious or popular prayer was ever offered up for the heads of fisher or more or lady salisbury. henry's cruelty had always practical ends in view. great officials who had failed, or who were done with, were officials in the way, and _their_ heads might be left to the care of those who were at once their rivals and their enemies. the execution of lady salisbury will never fail to rouse indignation as long as history is history and men are men. henry might have learned a noble lesson from his father. henry vii. put his own intriguing mother-in-law into a religious house, and the proper destination of a female yorkist intriguer--no matter how high or powerful--was a convent, not a scaffold. in the execution of elizabeth barton meanness was added to cruelty, for the wretched woman confessed her impostures and exposed the priests who contrived them for her. the cruelty which shocked europe most, and has shocked it ever since, was the execution of sir thomas more. more's approval would have greatly consoled the king, but more's approval fell far short of the king's demands. the silence of great men does _not_ give consent, and more was silent. more was, next to erasmus, the loftiest intellect then living on this planet. throughout europe men were asking what more thought of "the king's matter." more's head was the only answer. but however indignant we may be, let us not be unjust; henry, cruel as he was, was less cruel than any of his compeers--royal, imperial, or papal, or other. the cruelty of our tudor ruler has always been put under a fierce light; the greater cruelty of distant rulers we are too prone to disregard. we are too prone also to forget that the one thing new under the sun in _our_ time is greater kindliness--kindliness to life, to opinion, to pocket. if fate had put a crown on luther's head, or calvin's, or later, on knox's, their methods would have been more stringent than henry's. henry and his parliament, it is true, proposed an act of parliament "to abolish diversity of opinion in matters of religion." but luther and calvin and knox, nay even more (erasmus alone stood on a higher level), were each and all confident of their possession of the _one_ truth and of their infallibility as interpreters thereof; each and all were ready, had the power been theirs, to abolish "diversity of religious opinion." there are two kinds of religion, or at any rate two varieties of religious character--both are sincere--the religion of the active and passionless and that of the reflective and impassioned. one is a religion of inheritance, of training, of habit, of early and vivid perception; with certain surroundings it is inevitable; if shaken off it returns. george eliot acutely remarks of one of her notably passionless characters, "his first opinions remained unchanged, as they always do with those in whom perception is stronger than thought and emotion." the other is a religion (two extremes are spoken of here, but every intermediate gradation exists) a religion of thought and emotion, of investigation and introspection. it is marked by deep love of an ideal or real good, and deep hate of what may also often be called an ideal or real evil. henry's religion was of the first sort. it would be deeply interesting to know the sort of religion of the great names of henry's time. we lack however the needful light on their organisation, parentage, and circumstance. but in all the provinces of life the men who have imprinted their names on history have been for the most part active, practical, and unimpassioned men. they, in their turn, have owed much to the impassioned, thinking, and often unpractical men whose names history has not troubled itself to preserve. and now, in the light shed by organisation and inheritance, we may gain further information on the more characteristic features of henry's character--his caprice, his captiousness, his uncertainty, and his peevishness, his resolve never to be hidden or unfelt or forgotten. the more characteristic features of henry's character. note vi. henry was always doing something or undoing something. whether he was addressing parliament, admonishing and instructing subordinates, or exhorting heretics; whether he was restoring order in northern england, or (with much wisdom) introducing order into wales, or (with much folly) disorder into scotland; whether he was writing letters to irish chieftains or scottish councillors, or northern pilgrims; whether he was defending the faith or destroying religious houses; whether he was putting together six articles to the delight of catholics, or dropping them in a few weeks to the exultation of protestants; whether burning those who denied the miracle of the real presence, or hanging those who denied his headship of the church; whether he was changing a minister, a bishop, or a wife, his hands were always full. and in henry's case at least--probably in most cases--satan found much mischief for busy hands to do. the man who is never at rest is usually a fitful man. constant change, whether of ministers or of views or of plans, is in itself fitfulness. but fitfulness is something more than activity: it implies an uncertainty of thought or conduct which forbids calculation or prediction, and therefore forbids confidence; it is an inborn proclivity. happily vigorous reasoning power often accompanies it and keeps it in check. in poorly endowed intellects, whether in men or women, fitfulness and its almost constant associate petulance harass many circles and many hearths. it is recorded that when the disgraced wolsey took his departure from court, the king sent after him a hurried messenger with a valuable ring and comforting words. the incident has excited much perplexity and comment among historians. what was its meaning? what its object? probably the incident had no precise meaning; probably it was merely the involuntary deed of an irresistible constitutional tendency; possibly, too, there lurked in the motive which led to it some idea of future change and exigency. the active, practical, serviceable man sows many seeds and keeps on sowing them. time and circumstance mainly decide which seeds shall grow and which shall not. caprice is not unfrequently associated with high faculties. sometimes it would seem to be due to the gift--not a common one--of seeing many sides of a question, and of seeing these so vividly that action is thereby enfeebled or frequently changed. sometimes it is a conservative instinct which sees that a given step is too bold and must be retraced. it certainly is not selfishness: a long-pondered policy is often dashed to the ground in an instant, or a long-sought friendship is ended by a moment's insult. at root caprice is an inborn constitutional bias. henry was the first powerful personage who declared that the papal authority was divine--declaring this, indeed, with so much fervour that the good catholic more expostulated with him. but henry was also the first high personage who threw papal authority to the winds. it is on record that henry would have taken wolsey into favour again had wolsey lived. not wolsey only but all henry's ministers would have been employed and dismissed time after time could they but have contrived to keep their heads on their shoulders. henry might even have re-married his wives had they lived long enough. one circumstance only would have lessened their chances--attractive women were more numerous than experts in statecraft: for one wolsey there were a thousand fair women. habitual fitfulness, it has already been noted, is not often found apart from habitual petulance, and both these qualities were conspicuous in henry's character. there was something almost impish in the spirit which led him to don gorgeous attire--men had not then got out of barbaric finery, and women are still in its bondage--on the day of anne boleyn's bloodshed. nay more, there was undoubtedly a dash of cruelty in it, as there was in the acerbity which led him to exclaim that the pope might send a cardinal's hat to fisher, but he would take care that fisher had no head to put it on. now and then his whims were simply puerile; it was so when he signalised some triumph over a continental potentate by a dolls' battle on the thames. two galleys, one carrying the romish and the other the english decorations, met each other. after due conflict, the royalists boarded the papal galley and threw figures of the pope and sundry cardinals into the water--king and court loudly applauding. but again, let us not forget that those days were more deeply stained than ours with puerility and cruelty and spite. more, it is true, rose above the puerility of his time; erasmus rose above both its cruelty and its puerility; henry rose above neither. no charge is brought against henry with more unanimity and vehemence than that of selfishness. and the charge is not altogether a baseless one; but the selfishness which stained henry's character is not the selfishness he is accused of. when henry is said to have been a monster of selfishness it is implied that he was a monster of self-indulgence. he was not that--he was the opposite of that. he was in reality a monster of self-importance, and extreme personal importance is incompatible with gross personal indulgence. self-indulgence is the failing of the impassioned, especially when the mental gifts are poor; while self-importance is the failing of the passionless, especially when the mental gifts are rich. let there be given three factors, an unimpassioned temperament, a vigorous intellect, and circumstance favourable to public life--committee life, municipal, platform, parliamentary, or pulpit life--and self-importance is rarely wanting. this price we must sometimes pay for often quite invaluable service. when henry spoke--it is not infrequently so when the passionless and highly gifted individual speaks--the one unpardonable sin on the part of the listener was not to be convinced. a sin of a little less magnitude was to make a proposal to henry. it implied that he was unable to cope with the problems which beset him and beset his time. he could not approve of what he himself did not originate; at any rate he put the alien proposal aside for the time--in a little time he _might_ approve of it and it might then seem to be his own. the temperament which censured a matter yesterday will often applaud it to-day and put it in action to-morrow. the unimpassioned are prone to imitation, but they first condemn what they afterwards imitate. when cromwell made the grave proposal touching the headship of the church, henry hesitated--nay, was probably shocked--at first. yet, for henry's purposes at least, it was cromwell (and not cranmer with his university scheme) who had "caught the right sow by the ear." henry had a boundless belief in the importance of the king; but this did not hinder, nay it helped him to believe in the importance of the people also--it helped him indeed to seek the more diligently their welfare, seeing that the more prosperous a people is, the more important is its king. true he always put himself first and the people second. how few leaders of men or movements do otherwise. possibly william iii. would have stepped down from his throne if it had been shown that another in his place could better curb the ambition of france abroad, or better secure the mutual toleration of religious parties at home. possibly, nay probably, george washington would have retired could he have seen that the attainment of american independence was more assured in other hands. lloyd garrison would have gladly retired into private life if another more quickly than he could have given freedom to the slave. john bright would have willingly held his tongue if thereby another tongue could have spoken more powerfully for the good of his fellow-men. such men can be counted on the fingers and henry is not one of them. henry would have denied (as would all his compeers in temperament) that he put himself first. he would have said; "i desire the people's good first and above all things;" but he would have significantly added; "their good is safest in my hands." it is a moot point in history whether henry was led by his high officials or was followed by them. did he, for example, direct wolsey or did wolsey (as is the common view) in reality lead his king while appearing to follow him. to me the balance of evidence, as well as the natural proclivities of henry's character, favour the view that he thought and willed and acted for himself. do we not indeed know too well the fate of those whose thought and will ran counter to his? no man's opinion and conduct are independent of his surroundings and his time; for every man, especially every monarch, must see much through other eyes and hear much through other ears. but if other eyes and other ears are numerous enough they will also be conflicting enough, and will strengthen rather than diminish the self-confidence and self-importance of the self-confident and self-important ruler. self-importance, as a rule, is built on a foundation of solid self-confidence, and henry's confidence in himself was broad enough and deep enough to sustain any conceivable edifice. the romish church was then, and had been for a thousand years, the strongest influence in europe. it touched every event in men's bodily lives and decided also the fate of their immortal souls. henry nevertheless had no misgiving as to his fitness to be the spiritual head of the church in this country, or the spiritual head of the great globe itself, if the great globe had had one church only. when i come to speak of the reformation i shall have to remark that, had the great european religious movement reached our island in any other reign than henry's, religion would not have been exactly what it now is. of all our rulers henry was the only one who was at the same time willing enough, educated enough (he had been trained to be an archbishop), able enough, and pious enough to be at any rate the _first_ head of a great church. henry was so sagacious that he never forgot the superiority of sagacity over force. he delighted in reasoning, teaching, exhorting; and he believed that while any ruler could command, few could argue and very few could convince. it is true, alas, that when individuals or bodies were not convinced if he spoke, he became unreasonably petulant. when scotland did not accept a long string of unwise proposals he laid leith in ashes. when ireland did not yield to his wishes, he knocked a castle to atoms with cannon, and thereby so astonished ireland, be it noted, that it remained peaceful and prosperous during the remainder of his reign. perhaps the happiest moments in henry's life were those when he presided over courts of theological inquiry. to confute heresy was his chief delight; and his vanity was indulged to its utmost when the heretical lambert was tried. clothed in white silk, seated on a throne, surrounded by peers and bishops and learned doctors, he directed the momentous matters of this world and the next; he elucidated, expounded, and laid down the laws of both heaven and earth. it was a high day; one thing only marred its splendour--he, the first living defender of orthodoxy, had spoken and heterodoxy remained unconvinced. heterodoxy must clearly be left to its just punishment, for bishops, peers, and learned doctors were astonished at the display of so much eloquence, learning, and piety. the physiological student of human nature who is much interested in the question of martyrdom finds, indeed, that the martyr-burner and the martyr (of whatever temperament) have much in common. both believe themselves to possess assured and indisputable truth; both are infallible; both self-confident; both are prepared, in the interests of truth, to throw their neighbours into the fire if circumstance is favourable; both are willing to be themselves thrown into the fire if circumstance is adverse. one day they burn, the next day they are burnt. the feature in henry's character which as we have seen amounted to mania was his love of popularity; it was a mania which saved him from many evils. even unbridled self-will does little harm if it be an unbridled self-will to stand well with a progressive people. it has been a matter of surprise to those who contend that henry, seeing that he possessed--it is said usurped--a lion's power, did not use it with lion-like licence. his ingrained love of applause is the physiological explanation. let it be noted, too, that not everyone who thirsts for popularity succeeds in obtaining it, for success demands several factors: behind popular applause there must be action, behind action must be self-confidence, behind self-confidence must be large capability. henry had all these. in such a chain love of applause is the link least likely to be missing. for, indeed, what is the use of being active, capable, confident and important in a closet? the crow sings as sweetly as the nightingale if no one is listening, and importance is no better than insignificance if there is no one "there to see." we shall gain further and not uninteresting knowledge of henry's character if we look at certain side lights which history throws upon it. we turn therefore, in another note, to look for a few moments at the men, the movements, the drift, the institutions of his time, and observe how he bore himself towards them. henry and his compeers. note vii. in henry's time, and in every time, the art of judging women has been a very imperfect one. it is an imperfect art still and, as long as it takes for granted that women are radically unlike men, so long it will remain imperfect. but henry was a good judge of one sex at any rate, for he was helped by the most capable men then living, and in reality he tolerated no stupidity--except in his wives. in an era of theological change it was perhaps an unfortunate circumstance that he was better helped in his politics than in his theology. wolsey, although a cardinal and even a candidate for the papal chair, was to all intents and purposes a practical statesman. had he succeeded in becoming a pope he would nevertheless have remained a mere politician. wolsey, then, and cromwell and more were all distinctly abler men than cranmer or latimer or gardiner. but henry himself, looking at him in all that he was and in all that he did, was not unworthy of his helpers. there were then living in europe some of the most enduring names in history. more, it is true, was made of finer clay than the king; erasmus was not only the loftiest figure of his time--he is one of the loftiest of any time; but henry was also a great personality and easily held his own in the front rank of european personalities. as a ruler no potentate of his time--royal, imperial or papal--could for a moment compare with him. of all known englishmen he was the fittest to be king of england. had it been henry's fortune to have had one or two or even three wives only, our school histories would have contained a chapter entitled "how 'henry the good' steered his country safely through its greatest storm." he played many parts with striking ability. he was probably as great a statesman as wolsey or more or cromwell. he would certainly have made a better archbishop than cranmer; a better bishop than latimer or gardiner; he was a better soldier than norfolk. what then might he have been had he been a statesman only, or a diplomatist or an ecclesiastic or a soldier only? in all the parts he played, save the part of husband, his unimpassioned temperament stood him in good stead. a man's attitudes to his fellow-men and to the movements of his time are, on the whole, determined more by his intellect than by his feeling. the emotions indeed are very disturbing elements. they have, it is true, made or helped to make a few careers; but they have destroyed many more. very curiously, henry's compeers were, most of them, like himself--unimpassioned men. latimer, who was perhaps an exception, preached sermons at paul's cross brimful of a passion which henry admired but did not understand. cranmer too was a man of undoubted feeling and strong affection. it is said there is sometimes a magnetic charm between the unlike in temperament; strong friendships certainly exist between them; and it is to henry's credit that to the last he kept near to him a man so unlike himself. cranmer was a kindly, sympathetic, helpful, good soul, but not a saint. he was not one of those to whom gracian refers as becoming bad out of pure goodness. cranmer was a capable and a strong man, but he was not supremely capable or supremely strong. he was free from the worst of human evils--'cocksureness.' the acute spaniard just named says that "every blockhead is thoroughly persuaded that he is in the right;" cranmer was less of a blockhead than most of his compeers. left to his own instincts, he preferred to live and let others live. cranmer had not the loftiness (nor the hardness and inflexibility) of a more; not the genius and grace and scholarship of an erasmus; not the definite purpose and iron will of a cromwell; not the fire of a latimer; not the clear sight and grasp of a gardiner; not the sagacity and varied gifts of a henry; but for my part i would have chosen him before all his fellows (certainly his english fellows) to advise with and to confide in. of all the tables and the roofs of that time i should have preferred to sit at his table and sleep under his roof. the great luminaries who guide in revolutions are rare, and the smaller lights of smaller circumstance are not rare; but--the question is not easy to answer--which could we best spare, if we were compelled to choose, the towering lighthouse of exceptional storm or the cheery lamp of daily life? one figure of henry's times which never fails to interest us is that of sir thomas more. more was clearly one of the unimpassioned class; but his commanding intellect, his quick response to high influences, his capability of forming noble friendships, and his lofty ideals seemed to dispense with the need of deep emotions. more and henry, indeed, were much alike in many ways. both were precocious in early life; both were quick, alert, practical; both were able; both, to the outside world at least, were genial, affable, attractive; both also, alas, were fitful, censorious, difficult to please; both were self-confident--one confident enough to kill, the other confident enough to be killed. had they changed places in the greatest crisis of their lives henry would have rejected more's headship of the church and more would have sent henry to the block. in order to understand more's character correctly we must recognise the changing waves of circumstance through which he passed. there were in fact two mores, the earlier and the later. the earlier more was an unembittered and independent thinker; the seeming spirit of independence however was, in a great degree, merely the spirit of contradiction. he was a friend of education and the new learning. he advocated reform in religion; but reform, be it noted, before the reformation, reform gently and from within; reform when kings and scholars and popes themselves all asked for it. history, unhappily, tells of much reform on the lips which doggedly refused to translate itself into practice. the earlier more was all for reform in principle, but he invariably disapproved of it in detail. the later and in some degree embittered more was thrown by temperament, by the natural bias of increasing years and by the exigencies of combat, into the ecclesiastical and reactionary camp, and in that camp his conduct was stained by cruel inquisitorial methods. the deteriorating effects of conflict (which happily grow less in each successive century) on individuals as well as on parties and peoples is seen in another notable though very different character of more's century. savonarola, before his bitter fight with florentine and roman powers, was a large, clear-sighted, sane reformer; after the fight he became blind, fanatical, and insane. why may we not combine all thankfulness for the early more and the early savonarola, and all compassion for the later more and later savonarola? mary stuart, francis bacon, robert burns, napoleon buonapart, and lord byron were notable personalities; they--some of them at least--did the world service which others did not and could not do. yet how many of us are there who, if admitting to the full their greatness, do not belittle their follies? or, if freely admitting their follies, do not belittle their greatness? wolsey, holding aloof from religious strife, remained simply the scholar and the politician--a politician moreover _before_ politics became in their turn also a matter of hostile camps. being a politician only, he continued to be merciful while more drifted from politics and mercy into ecclesiasticism and cruelty. more's change was in itself evidence of a fitful and passionless temperament, of such evidence indeed there is no lack. his first public action was one of petulance and self-importance. he had been treated with continued and exceptional kindness by cardinal morton and henry vii.; but when morton, on behalf of his king, asked parliament for a subsidy, the newly-elected more, conscious of his powers, and thinking too, may we not say, much more of a people's applause than of a people's burdens, successfully urged its reduction to one half. more was by nature censorious, and never heartily approved of anything. when wolsey, on submitting a proposal to him with the usual result, told him--told him it would seem in the unvarnished language of the time--that he stood alone in his disapproval, and that he was a fool, more, with ready wit and affected humility, rejoined that he thanked god that he was the only fool on the king's council. more, we may be quite sure, was not conscious of a spirit of contradiction; he probably felt that his first duty was to suggest to everybody some improvement in everything. this spirit of antagonism nevertheless played a leading part in his changeful life. in his early years he found orthodoxy rampant and defiant, consequently he inclined to heresy; at a later period heresy became rampant and defiant, and as inevitably he returned to the older faith and views. a modern scholar and piquant censor, and--i gather from his own writings, the only knowledge i have of him--an extreme specimen of the unimpassioned temperament, mark pattison, says that he never saw anything without suggesting how it might have been better; and that every time he entered a railway carriage he worked out a better time table than the one in use. if more had lived in his own utopia he would have found fault with it, and drawn in imagination another and a better land. the later more was, as all unimpassioned and censorious temperaments are, a prophet of evil; and as much evil did happen--was sure to happen--his wisdom has come down to us somewhat greater in appearance than it was in reality. the cruelty of the tudor epoch has already been spoken of. catholics and protestants, kings, popes, cardinals, ministers, luthers, calvins, knoxes were all stained by it. henry and more, we know, were no exceptions. but more's cruelty differed from henry's in one important respect--there was nothing appertaining to self in it, except self-confidence. henry's cruelty was in the interest of himself--his person, his family, and his throne; more's cruelty, although less limited perhaps, and more dangerous, was nevertheless in the interest of religion. henry and his people and parliament. note viii. it is in his attitude to his people and his parliament that we see henry at his best. his sagacity did not show itself in any deliberate or deeply reasoned policy, certainly not, we may allow with dr. stubbs, in any great act of "constructive genius;" it showed itself in seeing clearly the difficulties of the hour and the day, and in the hourly and daily success with which they were met. henry and his father presided over the introduction of a new order of things, which new order, however, was a step only, not a cataclysm. they themselves scarcely knew the significance of the step or how worthily they presided over it. the world, indeed, knows little--history says little--of great and sudden acts of constructive genius. these gradually emerge from the growth of peoples; they do not spring from the brains of individuals royal or otherwise. if the vision of a ruler is clear and his aims good, he, more than others, may help on organic and beneficent growth. full-blown schemes and policies, even if marked by genius, are rarely helpful and not infrequently they end in hindrance or even in explosion. the stuarts had a large "scheme" touching church and king. it was a scheme of "all in all or not at all;" for them and their dynasty it ended in "not at all." french history is brimful of "great acts of constructive genius" and has none of the products of development. for celtic history is indeed a sad succession of fits, and not a process of quiet growth. how a succession of fits will end, and how growth will end, it is not difficult to foretel. the government of peoples is for the most part and in the long run that which they deserve, that which they are best fitted for, and not at all that which, it may be, they wish for and cry out for. a people ready--fairly and throughout all strata ready--for that which they demand will not long demand in vain. our fathers, under the tudor henrys and the tudor elizabeth, had the rule which was best fitted for them, which they asked for, which they deserved--a significant morsel, by the bye, of racial circumstance. it by no means follows, let it be noted, that what people and king together approved of was the ideal or the wisest. it is with policies as with all things else, the fittest, not the best, continue to hold the field. henry and elizabeth had not only clearness of sight, but flexibility of mind also, and would doubtless have ruled over puritan england with success; it lay in them to rule well over our modern england also. charles i., by organisation and proclivity, would have fared badly at the hands of a tudor parliament, and, again as a result of organisation and proclivity, henry viii. and the long parliament would have been excellent friends. hand to mouth government, if it is also capable, is probably the best government for a revolutionary time. conflicting parties are often kept quiet by mere suspense--by mingled hopes and fears. it has been well said of henry of navarre that he kept france, the home of political whirlwinds, tranquil for a time because the protestants believed him to be a protestant and the catholics believed he was about to become a catholic. the majority of historians and all the compilers of history tell us that henry's parliaments were abject and servile. the statement is politically misleading and is also improbable on the grounds of organisation and race. it is one of many illustrations of the vice of purely literary judgments on men and movements; a vice which takes no account of physiology, of race, of organisation and proclivity. for we may be well assured that the grandsons of brave men and the grandfathers of brave men are never themselves cowards. one and the same people--especially a slow, steadfast, and growing people--does not put its neck under the foot of one king to-day and cut off the head of another king to-morrow. it is not difficult to see how the misconception arose: in a time of great trial the king and the people were agreed both in politics and in religion. the people held the king's views; they admired his sagacity; they trusted in his honour. if a brother is attached to his brother and does not quarrel with him, is he therefore poor-spirited? if by rare chance a servant sees, possibly on good grounds, a hero in his master, is he therefore a poltroon? if a parliament and a king see eye to eye, is it just to label the parliament throughout history as an abject parliament? henry's epoch, moreover, was not one of marked political excitement, and therefore the hasty observer jumps to the conclusion that it was not one of political independence. in each individual, in each community, in each people there is a sum-total of nerve force. in a given amount of brain substance--one brain or many--in a given amount of brain nutriment of brain vitality, there is a given quantity of nerve power. this totality of power will show itself it may be in one way strongly or in several ways less strongly; it cannot be increased, it cannot be lessened. on purely physiological grounds it may be affirmed that bacon could not have thought and written all his own work and at the same time have also thought and written the life-work of shakspere. shakspere could not have added bacon's investigations to his own 'intuitions.' in our own time carlyle could not have written "the french revolution" and "the descent of man;" he could not have gone through the two trainings, gained the two knowledges, and lived the two lives which led to the two works. so it is with universities: when scholarship is robust, theology limps; and during the tractarian excitement, so a great scholar affirms, learning in oxford sank to a lower level. so with peoples: in a literary age religious feeling is less earnest; in a time of political excitement both religion and literature suffer. henry's era was one of abounding theological activity: luthers, calvins, and (later) knoxes came to the front, and the front could not, never can, hold many dominant and also differing spirits. in elizabeth's time marlowes and shaksperes and spensers were master spirits, and master spirits are never numerous. no doubt as civilisation goes on great men and great movements learn to move, never equally perhaps but more easily, side by side: more leaders come to the front--but is the front as brilliant? choice spirits are more numerous--but are the spirits quite as choice? another and a less partial generation must decide. "but," say the few observers and the crowd of compilers, "only a servile parliament would have given the king permission to issue proclamations having the authority of law." but the people, it cannot be too emphatically repeated, were neither creatures crawling in the mire nor red-tapists terrified at every innovation; they trusted the king, and he did not violate their trust. the proclamations, so it was stipulated, were not to tamper with existing laws; they were to meet exigencies in an epoch of exigencies, and they met them with a wisdom and a promptness which parliament could not come near. it is physiological proclivities--not red tape, not parchment clauses, not magna chartas--which keep a people free. it is rather red tape, and not the occasional snapping of red tape which enfeebles liberty. if the non-conformists, who by the bye detested romanism more than they loved religion, had not rejected the declaration of indulgence of charles ii.--a declaration which gave to romanists leave of worship as well as to non-conformists--does any sane person believe that english freedom would have been less than it now is? in our time a body of men who hate england more than they love ireland have, of set purpose, tumbled parliament into the dust: now, if a capable and firm authority were entrusted for twelve months with exceptional yet absolute control over parliamentary procedure, does any sane person suppose that the english passion for free parliaments would be lulled to sleep? rule has often to be cruel in order to be kind. alas, the multitude is made up not of cromwells, is indeed afraid of cromwells. in total ignorance of racial proclivities, it foolishly believes that a cromwellian speaker for twelve months would mean a cromwellian speaker for ever. note on henry and the reformation. note ix. it is a singular misreading of history to say that henry did much directly or indirectly to help on the reformation of the church in this country, although the part he played was not a small one. neither was the reformation itself, grave and critical as it was, so sudden and volcanic an upheaval as is generally believed. luther himself did not put forward a single new idea. no man is thinker and fighter at once; at any rate, no man thinks and fights at the same moment. luther struck his blows for already accomplished thought. curious ideas of unknown dates--for history reveals mergings only, not beginnings, not endings, and the student of men and movements might well exclaim "nothing begins and nothing ends,"--ideas of unknown dates and unknown birth-places had slowly come into existence. in teutonic europe at least, the older ideas were becoming trivial and inadequate. it was the northern europe, which from the earliest times had been dogged in its courage both bodily and mental; the europe strong in that reverence for truth which rests on courage, which is inseparable from courage, which never exists apart from courage; the europe strong in its respect for women; strong in its fearlessness of death, of darkness, of storm, of the sea-lion, the land monster, the unearthly ghost, and which was strong therefore in its fearlessness of hell-fire and priestly threats. celtic europe, especially celtic ireland, slept then and sleeps now the unbroken slumber of credulity. credulity and fear are allied. celtic ireland was palsied then, and is palsied still, by the fear of what we may now call father furniss's hell. it is surely not difficult to recall and therefore not difficult to foretell the history of so widely differing races. everywhere throughout teutonic europe, in castle and monastery, in mansion and cottage, the old-new ideas were talked over, drunk over, quarrelled over, shaken hands over, slept over. everywhere the poets--the peoples' voices then, for the printed sheet, the coffee house, the club, were yet far off,--the poets, lindsay, barbour and others in scotland; langland, skelton and others in england had, long before, pelted preachers and preaching with their bitterest gibes. those poets little knew how narrowly they escaped with their lives; they escaped because they shouted their fierce diatribes just before not just after the strife of battle. they had flashed out the signals of undying warfare, but before the signals could be interpreted the signallers had died in their beds. thought, inquiry, discussion, printing, poetry, the new learning, the older lollardry had moved on with quiet steps. a less quiet step was at hand, but this also, if less quiet, was as natural and as inevitable as the stealthiest of preceding steps. europe had gradually become covered with a network of universities, and students of every nationality were constantly passing from one to another. one common language, latin, bound university to university and thinking men to thinking men. he who spoke to one spoke to all. the time was a sort of hot-house, and the growth of man was "forced." reaction attends on action, but in the main, studious men made the universities--not universities the studious men; in like-manner good men have made religions, not religions so much good men. ideas and opinions quickly became common property; sooner or later they filtered down from the latin phrase to home-spun talk; filtered down also from the university to the town, village, and busy highway. the papacy itself had made papal rule impossible to vigorous peoples. with curiously narrow ambition popes have always preferred even limited temporal importance to unlimited spiritual sway. two popes, nay at one time three, had struggled not for the supremacy of religion but for merely personal pre-eminence. popes had fought popes, councils had fought councils, and each had called in the friendly infidel to fight the catholic enemy. the catholic sack of catholic rome had been accompanied by greater lust and more copious bloodshed than the sack of rome in olden time by northern infidels. the teachings, claims, and crimes native to rome, nay, even the imported refinements of the arts and letters and elegancies of paganism did what legions of full-blown luthers could not have done. the reformation, with its complex causes, its complex methods, its complex products, is, more than other great movements, brimful of matter for observation, thought, and inference. the french revolution was but one of a series of fierce uprisings of a race which rises and slaughters whenever it has a chance. french history teems with slaughters both in time of peace and time of war. mediæval french kings dared not arm their peasants with bows and arrows, for otherwise not a nobleman or a gentleman would have been left alive. at the close of the eighteenth century in france the oppression was heavy, the opportunity was large, and the uprising was ferocious. no other people have ever shown such a spectacle, and it is therefore idle to compare other great national movements with it. french history stands alone: no oppressor can oppress like the french oppressor; no retaliator can retaliate like the french retaliator. it is a question much less of politics than of organisation and race. but to return. mr. carlyle, in his own rousing way and on a subject which deeply interests him--luther and the reformation--mingles fine literary vigour with an indifference to physiological teaching which is by no means habitual with him. the heaven-born hero tells us what has become false and unreal, and shows us--it is his special business--how we may _go back_ to truth and reality. the humbler student believes that we are constantly journeying _towards_ truth and reality--these lie not behind but in front of us. the school of prophets tells us that the hero alights in front of us and stands apart. the student declares that we all move together; that we partly make our heroes, and partly they make us; that we have grades of heroes; that they are not at all supernatural--we touch them, see them, know them, send them to the front, keep them and dismiss them at our will, or what seems our will. carlyle affirms that modern civilisation took its rise from the great scene at worms. the truths of organisation, of body, of brain, of race, of parentage would rather say that civilisation itself was not born of but in reality gave rise to luther and the scene at worms. the reformation did not give private judgment; private judgment gave the reformation. in all revolutions there is a mixture of the essential and the accidental. during the long succession of the ordinary efforts of growing peoples there are also from time to time unusual efforts to bring to an end whatever of accident is most at variance with essential truth and reason and sanity and honour. in the reformations of a growing people, whatever the age in which they happen, whatever the religion or policy or conduct of the age, leading spirits rebel against what is most oppressive and resent what is most arrogant in that age; they reject what is most false and laugh out of court what is most ridiculous. in the sixteenth century men felt no special or inherent resentment to arrogance because it lifted its head in rome; they looked on the so-called miracle of transubstantiation with no special or peculiar incredulity; their sense of humour was not necessarily tickled by the idea that a soul leaped out of purgatory when a coin clinked in tetzel's box. those were matters of accident and circumstance; they were simply the most intolerable or incredible or preposterous items of the century. given other preceding accidents--another deity, or one appearing in another century or arising in another people; another emperor than constantine; other soldiers than constantine's--and the sixteenth-century items of oppression and falsehood would have been there, it is true, but they would have been other than they were. we are often told that great movements come quickly, and are the peculiar work of heroes. we are told, indeed, that from time to time mankind degenerates into a mass of dry fuel, and that at the fitting moment a hero descends, as a torch, and sets the mass on fire. nay, moreover, if we doubt this teaching we are dead to poetic feeling and have lost our spiritual ideals. happily, however, if phantasy dies, poetry still lives. leaders and led, teachers and taught, are all changing and always changing; but no change brings a lessened poetic susceptibility or a lessened poetic impulse. if, in future, historians and critics come to see that the organisation and bodily proclivity and parentage of men have really much to do with men, let us nevertheless be comforted--the ether men breathe will be no less ample, the air no less divine. every age is transitional--not this or that--and the ages are bound together by unbroken sequence. as with the movements so is it with the leaders: they are in touch with each other as well as in touch with their followers. all ages have some men who are bolder than others, or more reflective than others, or more courageous, or more active. at certain epochs in history there have been men who combined many high qualities, and who in several ways stood in front of their time. wyclif was not separated from his fellows by any deep gulf, neither was he, as regards time, the first in his movement, but no leader ever sprang so far in front of the led. general leaders appear first, and afterwards, when the lines of cleavage are clearer, special leaders arise. wyclif was a general leader, and therefore had many things to do. he did them all well. he was a scholar, a theologian, a writer, a preacher. it is his attitude to his age and to all ages, and to national growth, which interests us--not his particular writing, or his preaching, or his detailed views. he propounded, he defined, he lighted up, he animated, he fought. in one capacity or in two wyclif might have soared to a loftier height and have shone a grander figure. but he did what was most needed to be done then and there. the time was not ripe, and it did not lie in wyclif to make it ripe, for the reformation, but he showed the way to the reformation; he introduced its introducers and led its leaders. the special leaders appeared in due time, and they also were the product of their time. an erasmus shed more light than others on burning problems; a calvin formulated more incisively than his fellows; a luther fought more defiantly; and, a little later, a knox roused the laggards with fiercer speech. it is interesting to note that the fighters and the speakers in all movements and at all times come most quickly to the front; it is for them that the multitude shouts its loudest huzzas and the historian writes his brightest pages. but let us not forget this one lesson from history and physiology: it is not given--or but rarely given--to any one man to do all these things, to innovate, to illuminate, to formulate, to fight, to rouse; it is certainly not given to any one man to do all with equal power, and certainly not all at once. for there is a sum-total of brain-force, not in the individual only, but in the community and in the epoch. in one stream it is powerful; if it be divided in several streams each stream is weaker. it was a theological torrent at the beginning of the sixteenth century, a literary torrent at the century's close. we have (perhaps it is for our good) several streams, we have however, we all hope, a good total to divide. curiously, too, the most clear-sighted of leaders never see the end, never indeed see far into the future of their movement. the matters and forces which go to form a revolution are many and complex, reformers when striving to improve a world often end in forming a party. if the leaders are clear-sighted, the party will be continuous, large, long-lived; dim-sighted enthusiasts, even when for the moment successful, lead a discontinuous, short-lived, spasmodic crowd. sometimes a leader steps forth clear and capable, but the multitude continues to sleep. wyclif, for example, called on his generation to follow him in a new and better path. he seemed to call in vain. in the sixteenth century men were awake, stirring, resolved; but no leaders were ready. fortunately the people marched well although they had no captains to speak of. the age was heroic although it had no conspicuous heroes. although in its forms, its beliefs, its opinions, its policy, its conduct, there was much that was accidental, it was nevertheless inevitable and essential that the reformation should come. it mattered not whether this thing had been done or that; whether this particular leader led or that; whether this or that concession had been made at rome. if erasmus could not fight luther could. if rome could concede nothing, much could be torn from her. there is, indeed, much fighting and tearing in history: complacent persons, loftily indifferent to organisation, and race, and long antecedent, are astonished that men should fight, or should fight with their bodies, or that, when fighting they should actually kill each other. in all times, alas, the fittest, not the wisest, has prevailed--and the fittest, alas, has been cruel. in the seventeenth century parliament and charles stuart fought each other by roughest bodily methods, and parliament, proving victorious, killed charles. had charles conquered, and could parliament have been reduced to one neck or a dozen, we may be quite sure that the one neck or the dozen would have been severed on the block. when the thousand fermenting elements came together in the sixteenth century cauldron, no number of men, certainly no one man, certainly not henry, could do much to hinder or to help on the seething process. this of course was not henry's view. he believed himself to be--gave himself out to be--the fountain of truth. we know that he and an _admiring_ (not an _abject_) parliament proposed an act to abolish diversity of opinion on religious matters. we know too, that while he graciously permitted his subjects to read the word of god, he commanded them to adopt the opinions of the king. it was indeed cheap compulsion, for he and the vast mass of his subjects held similar opinions. nevertheless, it is true that henry, with characteristic sagacity, turned to the right spot and at the right moment when the cauldron threatened to boil over, or possibly to explode. at a critical epoch he helped to avert bloodshed; for in this island there was no war of peasants, or princes, or theologians. those who say that the great divorce question brought about or even accelerated the reformation, are those who see or wish to see the bubbles only, and cannot, or will not see the stream--its depth and strength,--on which the bubbles float. for the six-wives matter was in reality a bubble, large it is true, prismatic, many-coloured, interesting, visible throughout europe, minutely gossiped over on every hearth. if king henry, however, had had no wife at all, the reformation would have come no more slowly than it did; if he had had, like king solomon, seven hundred wives, it would have come no more quickly. henry was not himself a reformer, and but little likely to lead reformers. under a fitful and petulant exterior the king was a cold, calculating, self-remembering man. the reformers were a self-forgetting, passionate, often a frenzied party, and as a rule, firebrands do not follow icebergs. if imperious circumstance loosened henry's moorings to rome, he had no more notion of drifting towards augsburg or geneva, than, a little later, his daughter elizabeth had of drifting to edinburgh and knox. henry had no deep attachment, but he clung to the old religion, chiefly perhaps because it was old, as much as he could cling to anything; he had no deep hatreds, but, as heartily as his nature permitted, he detested the new. he would have disliked it all the more, had that been possible, could he have looked with interpretative glance backward to the seed-time of wyclif's era, or forward to the ripe harvest of the seventeenth century. could it have been made plain to henry that he was helping to put a sword into a puritan's hand and bring a king's head to the block, he would have had himself whipped at the tomb of catharine of aragon, and would have thrown his crown at the pope's feet. he assumed the headship of the english church, it is true; but even good catholics throughout europe did not then so completely as now accept the supremacy of the bishop of rome, and central ideas had not then so completely swallowed up the territorial. if henry had not taken the headship of the english church when he did, the church would probably have had no head at all, and religious teaching in this country would have fared much as it fared in switzerland and scotland and north germany. as it was, henry simply believed himself to be another pope, and london to be another rome. he, the english pope, and the pope at rome would, for the most part, work together like brothers--work for the diffusion of the _one_ truth (which all sorts and conditions of popes believe they possess), and work therefore for the good of all people. had the great european religious movement reached our island in any other reign than henry's it would not have run quite the same course it did. of all the kings who have ruled over us henry viii. was the only king who was at the same time willing enough, able enough, educated enough (he had been trained to be an archbishop), and pious enough to be, at any rate, the first head of a great church. but it is said: "look at the destruction of the religious houses; surely that was the work of heresy and greed." henry had no heresy in his nature, but he was not without greed, and as he was certainly extravagant, he had therefore the stronger incentives to exaction. but in our history the foible of a king avails but little when it clashes with the conscience, the ideal, the will of a people. henry's greed, moreover, whatever its strength, was less strong than his conservatism, less strong than his piety. stronger, too, than all these combined was his boundless love of popularity--a love which alone would have preserved the monasteries could the monasteries have been preserved by any single man. but new ideas and new religious ideals had come in, and the new religious ideals and the old religious houses could not flourish together. the existence of those houses had long been threatened. one hundred years before, parliament had more than once seriously discussed the appropriation of ecclesiastical funds to military purposes. cardinal morton, after impartial inquiry, contemplated sweeping changes. wolsey, a good catholic, had suppressed numerous houses. it is interesting to know that at one period of his life sir thomas more thought of retiring into a religious house, but after carefully studying monastic life he gave up the project. it is not necessary to sift and resift the evidence touching the morality of the monasteries. probably those institutions were not so black as their enemies, new or old, have painted them, nor so white as they appear in the eyes of their modern friends. but whether they were fragments of hades thrust up from below, or fragments of the celestial regions let down from above, or whatever else they were, their end was come. many causes were at work. they were coming into collision with the rapidly growing modern social life--a life more complex than at any time before, more complex in its roots, its growths, its products, and its needs. the newer social life had developed a passionate love of knowledge; it had formed a loftier ideal of domestic life. it pondered too over our economic problems, and disliked the ceaseless accumulation of land and wealth in ecclesiastical hands. does any one imagine that a close network of institutions, which were at any rate not models of virtue; institutions which hated knowledge and thrust it out of doors; which directly or indirectly cast a slur on the growing domestic ideal; which told the awakening descendants of scandinavian and norseman and saxon, that their women were unclean--that their mothers and daughters were "snares;" does anyone imagine that such a network could be permitted to entangle and strangle modern life? it has already been said that the newer social ideas were destined to arise, and that therefore the older religious houses were doomed to fall. it mattered little the particular year in which they fell; it mattered little who seemed to deal the final blow. many centuries before, human nature being what it was, and social conditions what they were, quiet retreats had met a want--they were fittest to live and they lived. but a succession of centuries brought change--a little in human nature, much in social conditions, very much in thought and opinion, and the retreats, the inner life and opinions of which had not kept pace with life outside, were no longer needed, no longer fittest, and they fell. henry did not destroy them. catholicism, which neither made them pure nor made them impure, was unable to preserve them. could the long buried bones of their founders have come to life again and have put on the newer flesh, thought, with newer brain, the newer thought, they would have found quite other outlets for their energy, leisure and wealth. it is so with all founders and all institutions. it is so at this moment with the institutions which were born of the reformation itself. naturalists tell us that the jelly-like mass, the amæba, embraces everything, both the useful and the useless, that comes in its way, but that in time it relaxes its embrace on the useless. so the civilisation of a growing people is like a huge amæba, which slowly enfolds men and ideas, and incidents, and systems, and then sooner or later it disenfolds the unsuitable and the worn-out. queen elizabeth and queen mary. note x. few rulers, few persons indeed, have ever been so much alike as our two rulers henry viii. and his daughter elizabeth. no man was ever so like henry as was the woman elizabeth; no woman ever resembled elizabeth so closely as did the man henry. both father and daughter were extreme examples of the intellectual and unimpassioned temperament. high capacity, acute perception, clear insight, correct inference were present in both. both, too, were capricious, fault-finding, querulous and vain. both, moreover, had their preferences and their dislikes. both, too, felt and showed resentment when their vanity was wounded. but in neither of them, it may be truly affirmed, was there any consuming passion--any fervent love, or invincible hatred, or fierce jealousy, or overwhelming anger. those who preach the doctrine of an essential difference between the sexes and who, with the injustice which so frequently accompanies the abounding self-importance of masculinity, would deprive women not only of "equality of sphere" but "equality of opportunity," may study the character of henry and elizabeth with great advantage. human beings are first of all divided (i have elsewhere contended) into certain types of character and only afterwards into men and women. many men are by nature devoted lovers and parents and friends; many women are not. elizabeth was one of a number--a large number--of women who have, it may be, many of the qualities which tell in practical and public life, and but little of the emotion which wells up in true wifehood and motherhood and friendship. henry and elizabeth stand far above the average level of rulers. in sagacity, in tact and in statesmanship only two of their successors can compare with them. but the methods of oliver cromwell and william iii. were very different from the tudor methods. cromwell and william strove to be guided by what they sincerely held to be lofty principles. henry and elizabeth were guided merely, though wisely guided, by the fineness of their instincts. fine instincts were perhaps better fitted for the earlier time, and lofty principles for the later. it is easier, alas, to bungle in formulating and in applying principles than in trusting to adroitness and intuitions. all the elements of character which henry possessed were found also in elizabeth, and many of these elements, though not all, they possessed in equal degree. they were alike in capacity, courage, sincerity, versatility, industry; alike in their conservative proclivities and also in their love of pageantry--for elizabeth, like henry, revelled in public business and in public pleasures; she delighted in progresses, shows, masks and plays. they were alike, too, in their sense of duty, in their desire for the welfare of the people, and also in their thirst for the people's good opinion. but elizabeth, although she had immense self-importance (she heartily approved of the queen and, heartily indeed, of nothing else), was perhaps less self-confident than her father. she was not quite comfortable in her headship of the church--but then she had not been educated for the church as her father had been, and she did not possess her father's devotional nature. her conduct was however more decorous than her father's, notwithstanding that she was distinctly less religious than he--less religious in principle, in inward conviction and in outward worship. if she was less devout than henry she had however a larger share of fitfulness than even he. the historian who more vividly than any other has placed the tudor time before us speaks of elizabeth's "ingrained insincerity;" the words "ingrained fitfulness" would perhaps be more correct, for she was in truth as sincere as her fitfulness permitted her to be. although it is true she was not without--no one at that time was quite without--insincerity and intrigue and duplicity and falsehood in her diplomatic methods, she was fairly sincere in her views and aims and conduct. but unfortunately her views and aims and conduct were constantly changing. she was sincere too easily and too frequently. she had a dozen fits of sincerity in a dozen hours. whenever she sent a message, no matter how carefully the message had been considered, a second was sent to recall or change it, and very shortly a third messenger would be despatched in pursuit of the second. urgent and critical circumstance alone, and frequently not even this, forced upon her any conclusive action. i am compelled to agree with those who believe that the most distressing incident of her life was the final decision touching mary stuart's death: it was distressing on several grounds--she was not naturally cruel, or, like her father, cruel to those only who stood in her path; she did not like to kill a queen; and, above all, she hated to do anything which (like marriage, to wit) could not be undone. elizabeth was compelled by temperament to be always doing something, but by temperament also she was always reluctant to get anything done. in her two bushels of occupation there were not two grains of performance. her extreme fitfulness had at least one fortunate result--it saved many lives. henry's frequent change of view and of policy was unquestionable, but the change was slow enough to give to the ever-watchful enemies of a fallen minister time enough to tear the fallen minister to pieces. but if a minister of elizabeth's fell, his head was in little danger: if he fell from favour to-day, he was restored to-morrow. he might trip twenty times, and as many times his rivals would be on the alert; but twenty pardons would be granted all in good time. touching the question of marriage the queen was far wiser than her father. neither father nor daughter had the needful qualities which go to make marriage happy, and both had certain other qualities which in many cases make it an intolerable burden. henry, unlike elizabeth, did not discover this, for his perceptive powers generally were less acute than hers. she probably knew that in her inmost heart (her brain was sufficiently acute to gain a glimpse of what was in her heart and what was not) she was a stranger to the deep and sustained affections without which marriage is so often a cruel deception. she had admirers and favourites it is true; and, after the fashion of the time, was unseemly enough in her fits of romping and her fits of pettishness. but there has not yet been anywhere, or at any time, under the sun a healthful temperament which has objected to admiration and entertainment, and probably there never will be. elizabeth's attitude to the religious condition of her people marks a decided movement, if not an onward movement: for we must never forget that a multitude of high-minded and capable souls believe that the several steps of the reformation were downward steps. but what were the steps, and what especially was elizabeth's step? the popes (and their times) had said, _in effect_, you need not read and you must not think or inquire; your duty is to obey and believe. henry (and his time) said, you may think and you may read, especially if your reading enables you to understand the king, but you must believe what the king believes and worship as the king worships. elizabeth (and her times), still more at the mercy of rising teutonic waves, exclaimed, you may think and read and inquire and believe as you like--especially as you insist upon doing so--but you really must, all of you, go to church with me on sunday mornings. elizabeth's church-going act, by the bye, is still unrepealed. long after, william iii. (and his time, though william was before his time) said, you may think, read, believe, and publicly worship as you will, but you must believe something and you must worship somewhere. john milton, before william in time and long before him in largeness of view, was the one colossal figure who fought bravely and single-handed for freedom in every domain of thought and speech and conduct. the tudor time, more than any other in our history, lends itself to the study of character; a study which, although difficult, is the less difficult in that whatever of change may take place, old elements of character do not altogether disappear and entirely new elements do not make their appearance. these elements lie everywhere around us. a great writer and an acute observer of men declares indeed that we all contain the elements of a luther and a borgia (his ideal of the best and worst elements), and that if a man cannot see these near at hand he will not find them though he travel from dan to beersheba. the tudor and the stuart periods alike present remarkable persons and remarkable incidents; but in the earlier period the men and women were more striking than the events, while events attract our attention more than individuals in the later. with the tudors men and women seemed to lead, for men and women were proportionately the stronger; circumstance seemed to be the stronger in the stuart times. no century contains three royal figures so striking in themselves and so clearly revealed to us as are the figures of henry and elizabeth and mary in the sixteenth. their capability, their vitality and their attainments would have made them striking persons in any position of life. each, indeed, possessed the three qualities which make a really interesting personality--and such personalities are but a small proportion of the neutral-tinted multitude who are good and kind and industrious--and nothing more. they, the three personalities, could all see facts for themselves; they could all see the relative value of facts (the rarest of the three qualities); and they could all draw sound inferences from the larger facts. the three individuals presented however but two types of character. henry and elizabeth were examples of one type and mary of another. the tudor father and daughter were, as we have already seen, not examples merely but _extreme_ examples of the unimpassioned, ever active, ever visible class. mary was as extreme an example of the impassioned, meditative, persistent and tenacious class. it was a remarkable coincidence that pitted two such mental and bodily extremes against each other. all sane human beings have much more of that which is common to the character of the race than they have of that which is peculiar to the individual. there was not only this common basis of human nature in elizabeth and mary, there was something more: both were singularly capable, brilliant, witty and brave (mary being the braver and her bravery being the more tried). the two queens had certain unusual advantages in common, for both were educated to the highest ideal of female education--very curiously a higher ideal then than at any other time before, or even since, until our own generation; both, too, had much experience of life--the larger and the less elevating share falling to mary's lot. but here the resemblance ceases. what in elizabeth tudor were slight though shrill rivulets of love and hate and anger and scorn and jealousy, or of pity or gratitude, were mighty and rushing torrents in mary stuart. we have seen what elizabeth was: in many ways mary was the exact opposite, for she was not at all given to bustle or change or acrimony or captiousness or suspicion. she was not, it is true, without vanity; she had ample grounds for having it and she was deeply human, but (it was not so with elizabeth) her pride was even greater than her vanity. the elements which met together in mary were all of a finer quality than those which were found in elizabeth; but in mary some troublous elements were added to the choicer ones. in her high land there were ominous volcanic peaks, while in the decorous plain of elizabeth's character there was a monotonous blending of vegetation and sand. in some of our greatest characters (the truism is well-worn) there have been grave defects. burns' life never comes to any generous mind save with the deepest regret as well as the keenest admiration. bacon's was a great mind with a great fault. shakspere and goethe--the two foremost spirits which time has yet given to us--are not held to have led altogether stainless lives. now the queen of scots was not by any means one of the immortals, but she was nevertheless and in truth a great woman. yet in the splendid block out of which the ever-pathetic figure of mary was chiselled there came to light an ineradicable flaw. the good and evil of all these characters were mainly, though not wholly (for circumstance must not be forgotten), due to organisation and inheritance. a little difference in their organisation, and they would have been other individuals than they were, and would most likely have remained unknown to us; but having the parentage they had, and being what they were, a little difference in circumstance would probably have mattered little. what there was in each of organisation, what of circumstance, and what of volition, is a problem the solution of which is still far off. in all of them volition, whatever that may be, did its best; organisation, let us say, did its worst; circumstance looked on, helping here and hindering there,--the compromise is history. as the six-wives business clings to henry's name, so does the darnley matter, though curiously with less odium, cling to that of mary. henry has had no friends save those who lived in or near his time. in our time an inquirer, here or there, strives perhaps to gain for him something of impartial judgment. mary has never been without warm friends, and her friends seem to grow in number and in warmth. the controversy still rages touching mary's part in the tragic event which inflicted so deep a wound into her life. but although the controversy goes on at even fever heat, the public judgment remains cool and is probably just. it is kept cool and just by the weight of a few colossal truths which the deftest manipulation of a cloud of smaller truths cannot hide. at critical moments the physiological historian, who looks steadily at a few large incidents in the light of human nature, discovers clues which escape the vision of the purely literary historian, who is for ever diving--and usefully diving--into the wells of parchment detail. in reality it matters little whether this diver or that has dived most deeply; matters little whether certain documents are spurious or genuine. mary stuart accepted--she certainly did not reject--the passion of a certain man; that man was a leader among a number of men who murdered her husband; after the murder mary stuart married that particular man, and thereby most assuredly held a candle to murder. this was mary. now if everything that has been said in her favour could be proved, she would be but little better than this; if everything that has been said against her could be proved, she would be but little worse. the student of historic characters never forgets the time the country and the circumstance in which his characters lived. we are now looking at a time when not only noble and ignoble characters existed side by side, but when noble and less noble elements existed together in one and the same character. for indeed the good elements of a better time come in slowly, and the evil elements of a bad past die a lingering death. the active scotland (there was, we know, a good quiet scotland in the background), the active scotland of tudor times was given over to factions, fanatics, self-seekers and assassins. life was taken and given with scant ceremony. the highest personages of that time contrived murder, or sanctioned it, or forgave it--the popes did, continental sovereigns did, henry did, elizabeth did. the murders thus contrived or sanctioned or condoned were, it is true, mainly on behalf of thrones or dominions or religions, while the murder which mary assuredly forgave, if she did not sanction, was on behalf of her passions. the moral difference between murder for a crown and murder for a love we may not now discuss. it was to this scotland, the active and factious scotland just described, that the young queen of nineteen years was brought--brought from a different atmosphere and with an unpropitious training. the more favoured elizabeth meanwhile was ruling over a quieter, a more united people, and was helped at her council-table by high-minded and unselfish men. it is useless now perhaps to ask if we may be allowed to admire the gifts, to deplore the faults, and to pity the fate of the more unfortunate queen. we can indeed, individually, do what we please, but the queen's posterity with no uncertain voice has declared that we may. emerson says that the great soul of the world is just, and the great soul has kept mary within the territory of its favour. it would seem that the affection and devotion which were given to mary were not based on any single great or on any group of great actions; they were based (it is to her credit) on daily acts of kindliness and patience and unruffled grace. the sum of mary's qualities, whatever they were, endowed her with the rare gift of making the world her friend; and the world does not, as a rule, make lasting friendships on insufficient grounds. mary indeed, with all her faults, deserved a better country than scotland; and england, it may be added, deserved a more gracious queen than elizabeth. but whatever she deserved or whatever she was fitted for, mary's fate was destined to be one of the saddest of recorded time. inward force and outer circumstance are so commingled that mortal reason fails to disentangle them. to-day men _seem_ to put a curb on circumstance, and to-morrow circumstance _seems_ to run away with men. an ocean of complex and imperious circumstance surged around two queens, one it lifted up and kept afloat and carried into a secure haven, the other it tossed mercilessly to and fro and finally drew her underneath its waves. a number of leading scottish nobles gave out and probably believed that the wretched darnley's life was incompatible with the general good. bothwell was but one of this number. yet how clear it has ever been to all eyes, save to those of the blindly passionate actors themselves, that the scottish queen's fatal error, even if there were no grave error before, was in marrying any one of the misguided band. but misguidance was in the ascendant. could she by some magic web have concealed the husbands from each other and have married them all, she would at any rate have fared no worse than she did. but, to be serious, if a queen marries one of half a dozen ambitious assassins, the other five will assuredly make her life intolerable and her rule impossible. in no aspect of character did the two queens differ more than in their attitude to religion. elizabeth's piety, like her father's, though less deep than his, was of a similar passionless, perceptive, unreflective order. mary's religion, like elizabeth's, like that of all individuals in all parts of the world, was no doubt at first the product of her early surroundings; but with the scottish queen it was much more than this--it was a profoundly passionate conviction and a deeply revered ideal. a living writer, who is perhaps unrivalled in the historic art and who rarely errs in his historic judgments, is less happy than is his wont in his verdict on the catholic queen. he avers that she had no share "in the deeper and nobler emotions;" yet almost in the same breath he states that she had "a purpose fixed as the stars to trample down the reformation." to have a purpose "fixed as the stars" to trample down _one_ religion was, in that age of the world, surely to have a purpose "fixed as the stars" to strengthen and protect _another_; to yearn to put down the reformation was surely to yearn to bring in catholicism--catholic teaching and catholic rites and catholic rule. we may not be catholics, but we are not entitled to say that from an impassioned catholic woman's point of view this was not a high ideal; it had been the ideal of the judicial mind, sir thomas more, as well as the ideal of the enthusiast, ignatius loyola; it had been for a thousand years the ideal of a multitude of noble natures both men and women. elizabeth, opportunely enough, had no ideals of any kind; ideals indeed are often inconvenient in a ruler; but she had, despite her acrimonious speech, plenty of sincerely good wishes and good intentions for all the world. if the queen of england had no ideals she had many devices, and one was to check the flow of all sorts of zeal, especially protestant zeal. in the two lives religion told in different ways--the difference was in the two natures, be it noted, not in the two religions. elizabeth, with a skin-deep religion only, was evenly and enduringly virtuous. mary had ardent and deep convictions, but her career was not one of unbroken virtue. elizabeth was certainly unfortunate in her religious attitudes. she did not like the protestants for she was not a good protestant; the catholics did not like her for she was not a good catholic. in religion, indeed as in all things, she was greatly influenced by her inborn spirit of "contrariness." if the catholics had intrigued less persistently against her throne and her life, and if (the idea is sufficiently ludicrous) the queen of scotland had chanced to run in harness with the hated john knox (hated of both queens), she would gladly have given the rein to her catholic impulses. the two queens differed as much in body as in mind. i have elsewhere sought to show not only that certain leading features of character tend to run together (in itself a distinct contribution to our knowledge), but also that these allied features are associated with a group of bodily peculiarities, a contribution, if it really is a contribution, of greatly additional interest. elizabeth, large and pink-skinned like her father, was by no means without impressiveness and even stateliness. she carried her head a little forward and her chin a little downward, both these positions being due to a slightly curved upper spine. her hair was scanty and her eyebrows were practically absent. all these bodily items, as well as her mental items, she inherited from her father. mary had a wholly different figure and a different presence; her head was upright, her spine straight; in her back there was no convexity either vertically or transversely. her eyebrows were abundant and her head of hair was long and massive. all these peculiarities, too, we may be quite sure, she derived from her parentage (not necessarily the nearest parents) on one side or the other. in my little work on body and parentage in character i urge--it is well to say here--that the bodily signs of certain classes of character (two more marked and one intervening) are now and then subject to the modifying influences of ailment and accident, and especially when these happen in early life. in elizabeth and mary, however, no such influences disturbed the development of two strongly-marked examples, both in body and in character, of two large classes of women and, with but little alteration, of two large classes of men also. [for index see full table of contents.] hall & english, printers, no. 71, high street, birmingham. makers of history queen elizabeth by jacob abbott with engravings new york and london harper & brothers publishers 1901 entered, according to act of congress, in the year one thousand eight hundred and forty-nine, by harper & brothers, in the clerk's office of the district court of the southern district of new york. copyright, 1876, by jacob abbott. [illustration: sir francis drake.] preface. the author of this series has made it his special object to confine himself very strictly, even in the most minute details which he records, to historic truth. the narratives are not tales founded upon history, but history itself, without any embellishment or any deviations from the strict truth, so far as it can now be discovered by an attentive examination of the annals written at the time when the events themselves occurred. in writing the narratives, the author has endeavored to avail himself of the best sources of information which this country affords; and though, of course, there must be in these volumes, as in all historical accounts, more or less of imperfection and error, there is no intentional embellishment. nothing is stated, not even the most minute and apparently imaginary details, without what was deemed good historical authority. the readers, therefore, may rely upon the record as the truth, and nothing but the truth, so far as an honest purpose and a careful examination have been effectual in ascertaining it. contents. chapter page i. elizabeth's mother 13 ii. the childhood of a princess 39 iii. lady jane grey 57 iv. the spanish match 81 v. elizabeth in the tower 100 vi. accession to the throne 120 vii. the war in scotland 141 viii. elizabeth's lovers 161 ix. personal character 187 x. the invincible armada 208 xi. the earl of essex 232 xii. the conclusion 260 engravings. page portrait of drake _frontispiece._ portrait of henry viii 16 portrait of anne boleyn 20 group of christening gifts 25 tower of london 31 portrait of edward vi. 44 lady jane grey at study 63 portrait of philip of spain 84 elizabeth in the tower 112 elizabeth's progress to london 135 the firth of forth, with leith and edinburgh in the distance 156 leicester 169 the barges on the river 182 portrait of queen elizabeth 203 the invincible armada 229 the house of the earl of essex 242 elizabeth in her last hours 270 head of james i. 275 elizabeth's tomb 279 queen elizabeth chapter i. elizabeth's mother. 1533-1536 greenwich.--the hospital.--its inmates.--greenwich observatory.--manner of taking time.--henry the eighth.--his character.--his six wives.--anne boleyn.--catharine of aragon.--henry discards her.--origin of the english church.--henry marries anne boleyn.--birth of elizabeth.--ceremony of christening.--baptism of elizabeth.--grand procession.--train-bearers.--the church.--the silver font.--the presents.--name of the infant princess.--elizabeth made princess of wales.--matrimonial schemes.--jane seymour.--the tournament.--the king's suspicions.--queen anne arrested.--she is sent to the tower.--sufferings of the queen.--her mental distress.--examination of anne.--her letter to the king.--anne's fellow-prisoners.--they are executed.--anne tried and condemned.--she protests her innocence.--anne's execution.--disposition of the body.--the king's brutality.--elizabeth's forlorn condition. travelers, in ascending the thames by the steamboat from rotterdam, on their return from an excursion to the rhine, have often their attention strongly attracted by what appears to be a splendid palace on the banks of the river at greenwich. the edifice is not a palace, however, but a hospital, or, rather, a retreat where the worn out, maimed, and crippled veterans of the english navy spend the remnant of their days in comfort and peace, on pensions allowed them by the government in whose service they have spent their strength or lost their limbs. the magnificent buildings of the hospital stand on level land near the river. behind them there is a beautiful park, which extends over the undulating and rising ground in the rear; and on the summit of one of the eminences there is the famous greenwich observatory, on the precision of whose quadrants and micrometers depend those calculations by which the navigation of the world is guided. the most unconcerned and careless spectator is interested in the manner in which the ships which throng the river all the way from greenwich to london, "take their time" from this observatory before setting sail for distant seas. from the top of a cupola surmounting the edifice, a slender pole ascends, with a black ball upon it, so constructed as to slide up and down for a few feet upon the pole. when the hour of 12 m. approaches, the ball slowly rises to within a few inches of the top, warning the ship-masters in the river to be ready with their chronometers, to observe and note the precise instant of its fall. when a few seconds only remain of the time, the ball ascends the remainder of the distance by a very deliberate motion, and then drops suddenly when the instant arrives. the ships depart on their several destinations, and for months afterward when thousands of miles away they depend for their safety in dark and stormy nights, and among dangerous reefs and rocky shores, on the nice approximation to correctness in the note of time which this descending ball had given them. [illustration: portrait of henry viii] this is greenwich, as it exists at the present day. at the time when the events occurred which are to be related in this narrative, it was most known on account of a royal palace which was situated there. this palace was the residence of the then queen consort of england. the king reigning at that time was henry the eighth. he was an unprincipled and cruel tyrant, and the chief business of his life seemed to be selecting and marrying new queens, making room for each succeeding one by discarding, divorcing, or beheading her predecessor. there were six of them in all, and, with one exception, the history of each one is a distinct and separate, but dreadful tragedy. as there were so many of them, and they figured as queens each for so short a period, they are commonly designated in history by their personal family names, and even in these names there is a great similarity. there were three catharines, two annes, and a jane. the only one who lived and died in peace, respected and beloved to the end, was the jane. [illustration: portrait of anne boleyn.] queen elizabeth, the subject of this narrative, was the daughter of the second wife in this strange succession, and her mother was one of the annes. her name in full was anne boleyn. she was young and very beautiful, and henry, to prepare the way for making her his wife, divorced his first queen, or rather declared his marriage with her null and void, because she had been, before he married her, the wife of his brother. her name was catharine of aragon. she was, while connected with him, a faithful, true, and affectionate wife. she was a catholic. the catholic rules are very strict in respect to the marriage of relatives, and a special dispensation from the pope was necessary to authorize marriage in such a case as that of henry and catharine. this dispensation had, however, been obtained, and catharine had, in reliance upon it, consented to become henry's wife. when, however, she was no longer young and beautiful, and henry had become enamored of anne boleyn, who was so, he discarded catharine, and espoused the beautiful girl in her stead. he wished the pope to annul his dispensation, which would, of course, annul the marriage; and because the pontiff refused, and all the efforts of henry's government were unavailing to move him, he abandoned the catholic faith, and established an independent protestant church in england, whose supreme authority _would_ annul the marriage. thus, in a great measure, came the reformation in england. the catholics reproach us, and, it must be confessed, with some justice, with the ignominiousness of its origin. the course which things thus took created a great deal of delay in the formal annulling of the marriage with catharine, which henry was too impatient and imperious to bear. he would not wait for the decree of divorce, but took anne boleyn for his wife before his previous connection was made void. he said he was privately married to her. this he had, as he maintained, a right to do, for he considered his first marriage as void, absolutely and of itself, without any decree. when, at length, the decree was finally passed, he brought anne boleyn forward as his queen, and introduced her as such to england and to the world by a genuine marriage and a most magnificent coronation. the people of england pitied poor catharine, but they joined very cordially, notwithstanding, in welcoming the youthful and beautiful lady who was to take her place. all london gave itself up to festivities and rejoicings on the occasion of these nuptials. immediately after this the young queen retired to her palace in greenwich, and in two or three months afterward little elizabeth was born. her birth-day was the 7th of september, 1533. the mother may have loved the babe, but henry himself was sadly disappointed that his child was not a son. notwithstanding her sex, however, she was a personage of great distinction from her very birth, as all the realm looked upon her as heir to the crown. henry was himself, at this time, very fond of anne boleyn, though his feelings afterward were entirely changed. he determined on giving to the infant a very splendid christening. the usage in the church of england is to make the christening of a child not merely a solemn religious ceremony, but a great festive occasion of congratulations and rejoicing. the unconscious subject of the ceremony is taken to the church. certain near and distinguished friends, gentlemen and ladies, appear as godfathers and godmothers, as they are termed, to the child. they, in the ceremony, are considered as presenting the infant for consecration to christ, and as becoming responsible for its future initiation into the christian faith. they are hence sometimes called sponsors. these sponsors are supposed to take, from the time of the baptism forward, a strong interest in all that pertains to the welfare of their little charge, and they usually manifest this interest by presents on the day of the christening. these things are all conducted with considerable ceremony and parade in ordinary cases, occurring in private life; and when a princess is to be baptized, all, even the most minute details of the ceremony, assume a great importance, and the whole scene becomes one of great pomp and splendor. the babe, in this case, was conveyed to the church in a grand procession. the mayor and other civic authorities in london came down to greenwich in barges, tastefully ornamented, to join in the ceremony. the lords and ladies of king henry's court were also there, in attendance at the palace. when all were assembled, and every thing was ready, the procession moved from the palace to the church with great pomp. the road, all the way, was carpeted with green rushes, spread upon the ground. over this road the little infant was borne by one of her godmothers. she was wrapped in a mantle of purple velvet, with a long train appended to it, which was trimmed with ermine, a very costly kind of fur, used in england as a badge of authority. this train was borne by lords and ladies of high rank, who were appointed for the purpose by the king, and who deemed their office a very distinguished honor. besides these train-bearers, there were four lords, who walked two on each side of the child, and who held over her a magnificent canopy. other personages of high rank and station followed, bearing various insignia and emblems, such as by the ancient customs of england are employed on these occasions, and all dressed sumptuously in gorgeous robes, and wearing the badges and decorations pertaining to their rank or the offices they held. vast crowds of spectators lined the way, and gazed upon the scene. [illustration: the christening gifts.] on arriving at the church, they found the interior splendidly decorated for the occasion. its walls were lined throughout with tapestry, and in the center was a crimson canopy, under which was placed a large silver font, containing the water with which the child was to be baptized. the ceremony was performed by cranmer, the archbishop of canterbury, which is the office of the highest dignitary of the english church. after it was performed, the procession returned as it came, only now there was an addition of four persons of high rank, who followed the child with the presents intended for her by the godfathers and godmothers. these presents consisted of cups and bowls, of beautiful workmanship, some of silver gilt, and some of solid gold. they were very costly, though not prized much yet by the unconscious infant for whom they were intended. she went and came, in the midst of this gay and joyous procession, little imagining into what a restless and unsatisfying life all this pageantry and splendor were ushering her. they named the child elizabeth, from her grandmother. there have been many queens of that name, but queen elizabeth of england became so much more distinguished than any other, that that name alone has become her usual designation. her family name was tudor. as she was never married--for, though her life was one perpetual scene of matrimonial schemes and negotiations, she lived and died a maiden lady--she has been sometimes called the virgin queen, and one of the states of this union, virginia, receives its name from this designation of elizabeth. she is also often familiarly called queen bess. making little elizabeth presents of gold and silver plate, and arranging splendid pageants for her, were not the only plans for her aggrandizement which were formed during the period of her infantile unconsciousness. the king, her father, first had an act of parliament passed, solemnly recognizing and confirming her claim as heir to the crown, and the title of princess of wales was formally conferred upon her. when these things were done, henry began to consider how he could best promote his own political schemes by forming an engagement of marriage for her, and, when she was only about two years of age, he offered her to the king of france as the future wife of one of his sons, on certain conditions of political service which he wished him to perform. but the king of france would not accede to the terms, and so this plan was abandoned. elizabeth was, however, notwithstanding this failure, an object of universal interest and attention, as the daughter of a very powerful monarch, and the heir to his crown. her life opened with very bright and serene prospects of future greatness; but all these prospects were soon apparently cut off by a very heavy cloud which arose to darken her sky. this cloud was the sudden and dreadful fall and ruin of her mother. queen anne boleyn was originally a maid of honor to queen catharine, and became acquainted with king henry and gained his affections while she was acting in that capacity. when she became queen herself, she had, of course, her own maids of honor, and among them was one named jane seymour. jane was a beautiful and accomplished lady, and in the end she supplanted her mistress and queen in henry's affections, just as anne herself had supplanted catharine. the king had removed catharine to make way for anne, by annulling his marriage with her on account of their relationship: what way could he contrive now to remove anne, so as to make way for jane? he began to entertain, or to pretend to entertain, feelings of jealousy and suspicion that anne was unfaithful to him. one day, at a sort of tournament in the park of the royal palace at greenwich, when a great crowd of gayly-dressed ladies and gentlemen were assembled to witness the spectacle, the queen dropped her handkerchief. a gentleman whom the king had suspected of being one of her favorites picked it up. he did not immediately restore it to her. there was, besides, something in the air and manner of the gentleman, and in the attendant circumstances of the case, which the king's mind seized upon as evidence of criminal gallantry between the parties. he was, or at least pretended to be, in a great rage. he left the field immediately and went to london. the tournament was broken up in confusion, the queen was seized by the king's orders, conveyed to her palace in greenwich, and shut up in her chamber, with a lady who had always been her rival and enemy to guard her. she was in great consternation and sorrow, but she declared most solemnly that she was innocent of any crime, and had always been true and faithful to the king. [illustration: the tower of london.] the next day she was taken from her palace at greenwich up the river, probably in a barge well guarded by armed men, to the tower of london. the tower is an ancient and very extensive castle, consisting of a great number of buildings inclosed within a high wall. it is in the lower part of london, on the bank of the thames, with a flight of stairs leading down to the river from a great postern gate. the unhappy queen was landed at these stairs and conveyed into the castle, and shut up in a gloomy apartment, with walls of stone and windows barricaded with strong bars of iron. there were four or five gentlemen, attendants upon the queen in her palace at greenwich, whom the king suspected, or pretended to suspect, of being her accomplices in crime, that were arrested at the same time with her and closely confined. when the poor queen was introduced into her dungeon, she fell on her knees, and, in an agony of terror and despair, she implored god to help her in this hour of her extremity, and most solemnly called him to witness that she was innocent of the crime imputed to her charge. seeking thus a refuge in god calmed and composed her in some small degree; but when, again, thoughts of the imperious and implacable temper of her husband came over her, of the impetuousness of his passions, of the certainty that he wished her removed out of the way in order that room might be made for her rival, and then, when her distracted mind turned to the forlorn and helpless condition of her little daughter elizabeth, now scarcely three years old, her fortitude and self-possession forsook her entirely; she sank half insane upon her bed, in long and uncontrollable paroxysms of sobs and tears, alternating with still more uncontrollable and frightful bursts of hysterical laughter. the king sent a commission to take her examination. at the same time, he urged her, by the persons whom he sent, to confess her guilt, promising her that, if she did so, her life should be spared. she, however, protested her innocence with the utmost firmness and constancy. she begged earnestly to be allowed to see the king, and, when this was refused, she wrote a letter to him, which still remains, and which expresses very strongly the acuteness of her mental sufferings. in this letter, she said that she was so distressed and bewildered by the king's displeasure and her imprisonment, that she hardly knew what to think or to say. she assured him that she had always been faithful and true to him, and begged that he would not cast an indelible stain upon her own fair fame and that of her innocent and helpless child by such unjust and groundless imputations. she begged him to let her have a fair trial by impartial persons, who would weigh the evidence against her in a just and equitable manner. she was sure that by this course her innocence would be established, and he himself, and all mankind would see that she had been most unjustly accused. but if, on the other hand, she added, the king had determined on her destruction, in order to remove an obstacle in the way of his possession of a new object of love, she prayed that god would forgive him and all her enemies for so great a sin, and not call him to account for it at the last day. she urged him, at all events, to spare the lives of the four gentlemen who had been accused, as she assured him they were wholly innocent of the crime laid to their charge, begging him, if he had ever loved the name of anne boleyn, to grant this her last request. she signed her letter his "most loyal and ever faithful wife," and dated it from her "doleful prison in the tower." the four gentlemen were promised that their lives should be spared if they would confess their guilt. one of them did, accordingly, admit his guilt, and the others persisted to the end in firmly denying it. they who think anne boleyn was innocent, suppose that the one who confessed did it as the most likely mode of averting destruction, as men have often been known, under the influence of fear, to confess crimes of which it was afterward proved they could not have been guilty. if this was his motive, it was of no avail. the four persons accused, after a very informal trial, in which nothing was really proved against them, were condemned, apparently to please the king, and were executed together. three days after this the queen herself was brought to trial before the peers. the number of peers of the realm in england at this time was fifty-three. only twenty-six were present at the trial. the king is charged with making such arrangements as to prevent the attendance of those who would be unwilling to pass sentence of condemnation. at any rate, those who did attend professed to be satisfied of the guilt of the accused, and they sentenced her to be burned, or to be beheaded, at the pleasure of the king. he decided that she should be beheaded. the execution was to take place in a little green area within the tower. the platform was erected here, and the block placed upon it, the whole being covered with a black cloth, as usual on such occasions. on the morning of the fatal day, anne sent for the constable of the tower to come in and receive her dying protestations that she was innocent of the crimes alleged against her. she told him that she understood that she was not to die until 12 o'clock, and that she was sorry for it, for she wished to have it over. the constable told her the pain would be very slight and momentary. "yes," she rejoined, "i am told that a very skillful executioner is provided, and my neck is very slender." at the appointed hour she was led out into the court-yard where the execution was to take place. there were about twenty persons present, all officers of state or of the city of london. the bodily suffering attendant upon the execution was very soon over, for the slender neck was severed at a single blow, and probably all sensibility to pain immediately ceased. still, the lips and the eyes were observed to move and quiver for a few seconds after the separation of the head from the body. it was a relief, however, to the spectators when this strange and unnatural prolongation of the mysterious functions of life came to an end. no coffin had been provided. they found, however, an old wooden chest, made to contain arrows, lying in one of the apartments of the tower, which they used instead. they first laid the decapitated trunk within it, and then adjusted the dissevered head to its place, as if vainly attempting to repair the irretrievable injury they had done. they hurried the body, thus enshrined, to its burial in a chapel, which was also within the tower, doing all with such dispatch that the whole was finished before the clock struck twelve; and the next day the unfeeling monster who was the author of this dreadful deed was publicly married to his new favorite, jane seymour. the king had not merely procured anne's personal condemnation; he had also obtained a decree annulling his marriage with her, on the ground of her having been, as he attempted to prove, previously affianced to another man. this was, obviously, a mere pretense. the object was to cut off elizabeth's rights to inherit the crown, by making his marriage with her mother void. thus was the little princess left motherless and friendless when only three years old. chapter ii. the childhood of a princess. 1536-1548 elizabeth's condition at the death of her mother.--her residence.--letter of lady bryan, elizabeth's governess.--conclusion of letter.--troubles and trials of infancy.--birth of edward.--the king reconciled to his daughters.--death of king henry.--his children.--king henry's violence.--the order of succession.--elizabeth's troubles.--the two seymours.--the queen dowager's marriage.--the seymours quarrel.--somerset's power and influence.--jealousies and quarrels.--mary queen of scots.--marriage schemes.--seymour's promotion.--jane grey.--family quarrels.--death of the queen dowager.--seymour's schemes.--seymour's arrest.--his trial and attainder.--seymour beheaded.--elizabeth's trials.--elizabeth's firmness.--lady tyrwhitt.--elizabeth's sufferings.--her fidelity to her friends. elizabeth was about three years old at the death of her mother. she was a princess, but she was left in a very forlorn and desolate condition. she was not, however, entirely abandoned. her claims to inherit the crown had been set aside, but then she was, as all admitted, the daughter of the king, and she must, of course, be the object of a certain degree of consideration and ceremony. it would be entirely inconsistent with the notions of royal dignity which then prevailed to have her treated like an ordinary child. she had a residence assigned her at a place called hunsdon, and was put under the charge of a governess whose name was lady bryan. there is an ancient letter from lady bryan, still extant, which was written to one of the king's officers about elizabeth, explaining her destitute condition, and asking for a more suitable supply for her wants. it may entertain the reader to see this relic, which not only illustrates our little heroine's condition, but also shows how great the changes are which our language has undergone within the last three hundred years. the letter, as here given, is abridged a little from the original: my lord: when your lordship was last here, it pleased you to say that i should not be mistrustful of the king's grace, nor of your lordship, which word was of great comfort to me, and emboldeneth me now to speak my poor mind. now so it is, my lord, that my lady elizabeth is put from the degree she was afore, and what degree she is at now[a] i know not but by hearsay. therefore i know not how to order her, nor myself, nor none of hers that i have the rule of--that is, her women and her grooms. but i beseech you to be good, my lord, to her and to all hers, and to let her have some rayment; for she has neither gown, nor kirtle, nor no manner of linen, nor foresmocks, nor kerchiefs, nor sleeves, nor rails, nor bodystitchets, nor mufflers, nor biggins. all these her grace's wants i have driven off as long as i can, by my troth, but i can not any longer. beseeching you, my lord, that you will see that her grace may have that is needful for her, and that i may know from you, in writing, how i shall order myself towards her, and whatever is the king's grace's pleasure and yours, in every thing, that i shall do. [footnote a: that is, in what light the king and the government wish to have her regarded, and how they wish her to be treated.] my lord mr. shelton would have my lady elizabeth to dine and sup at the board of estate. alas, my lord, it is not meet for a child of her age to keep such rule yet. i promise you, my lord, i dare not take upon me to keep her in health and she keep that rule; for there she shall see divers meats and fruits, and wines, which would be hard for me to restrain her grace from it. you know, my lord, there is no place of correction[b] there, and she is yet too young to correct greatly. i know well, and she be there, i shall never bring her up to the king's grace's honor nor hers, nor to her health, nor my poor honesty. wherefore, i beseech you, my lord, that my lady may have a mess of meat to her own lodging, with a good dish or two that is meet for her grace to eat of. [footnote b: that is, _opportunity_ for correction.] my lady hath likewise great pain with her teeth, and they come very slowly forth, and this causeth me to suffer her grace to have her will more than i would. i trust to god, and her teeth were well graft, to have her grace after another fashion than she is yet, so as i trust the king's grace shall have great comfort in her grace; for she is as toward a child, and as gentle of conditions, as ever i knew any in my life. jesu preserve her grace. good my lord, have my lady's grace, and us that be her poor servants, in your remembrance. this letter evinces that strange mixture of state and splendor with discomfort and destitution, which prevailed very extensively in royal households in those early times. a part of the privation which elizabeth seems, from this letter, to have endured, was doubtless owing to the rough manners of the day; but there is no doubt that she was also, at least for a time, in a neglected and forsaken condition. the new queen, jane seymour, who succeeded elizabeth's mother, had a son a year or two after her marriage. he was named edward. thus henry had three children, mary, elizabeth, and edward, each one the child of a different wife; and the last of them, the son, appears to have monopolized, for a time, the king's affection and care. still, the hostility which the king had felt for these queens in succession was owing, as has been already said, to his desire to remove them out of his way, that he might be at liberty to marry again; and so, after the mothers were, one after another, removed, the hostility itself, so far as the children were concerned, gradually subsided, and the king began to look both upon mary and elizabeth with favor again. he even formed plans for marrying elizabeth to persons of distinction in foreign countries, and he entered into some negotiations for this purpose. he had a decree passed, too, at last, reversing the sentence by which the two princesses were cut off from an inheritance of the crown. thus they were restored, during their father's life, to their proper rank as royal princesses. [illustration: portrait of edward vi.] at last the king died in 1547, leaving only these three children, each one the child of a different wife. mary was a maiden lady, of about thirty-one years of age. she was a stern, austere, hard-hearted woman, whom nobody loved. she was the daughter of king henry's first wife, catharine of aragon, and, like her mother, was a decided catholic. next came elizabeth, who was about fourteen years of age. she was the daughter of the king's second wife, queen anne boleyn. she had been educated a protestant. she was not pretty, but was a very lively and sprightly child, altogether different in her cast of character and in her manners from her sister mary. then, lastly, there was edward, the son of jane seymour, the third queen. he was about nine years of age at his father's death. he was a boy of good character, mild and gentle in his disposition, fond of study and reflection, and a general favorite with all who knew him. it was considered in those days that a king might, in some sense, dispose of his crown by will, just as, at the present time, a man may bequeath his house or his farm. of course, there were some limits to this power, and the concurrence of parliament seems to have been required to the complete validity of such a settlement. king henry the eighth, however, had little difficulty in carrying any law through parliament which he desired to have enacted. it is said that, on one occasion, when there was some delay about passing a bill of his, he sent for one of the most influential of the members of the house of commons to come into his presence. the member came and kneeled before him. "ho, man!" said the king, "and will they not suffer my bill to pass?" he then came up and put his hand upon the kneeling legislator's head, and added, "get my bill passed to-morrow, or else by to-morrow this head of yours shall be off." the next day the bill was passed accordingly. king henry, before he died, arranged the order of succession to the throne as follows: edward was to succeed him; but, as he was a minor, being then only nine years of age, a great council of state, consisting of sixteen persons of the highest rank, was appointed to govern the kingdom in his name until he should be _eighteen_ years of age, when he was to become king in reality as well as in name. in case he should die without heirs, then mary, his oldest sister, was to succeed him; and if she died without heirs, then elizabeth was to succeed her. this arrangement went into full effect. the council governed the kingdom in edward's name until he was sixteen years of age, when he died. then mary followed, and reigned as queen five years longer, and died without children, and during all this time elizabeth held the rank of a princess, exposed to a thousand difficulties and dangers from the plots, intrigues and conspiracies of those about her, in which, on account of her peculiar position and prospects, she was necessarily involved. one of the worst of these cases occurred soon after her father's death. there were two brothers of jane seymour, who were high in king henry's favor at the time of his decease. the oldest is known in history by his title of the earl of hertford at first, and afterward by that of duke of somerset. the youngest was called sir thomas seymour. they were both made members of the government which was to administer the affairs of state during young edward's minority. they were not, however, satisfied with any moderate degree of power. being brothers of jane seymour, who was edward's mother, they were his uncles, of course, and the oldest one soon succeeded in causing himself to be appointed protector. by this office he was, in fact, king, all except in name. the younger brother, who was an agreeable and accomplished man, paid his addresses to the queen dowager, that is, to the widow whom king henry left, for the last of his wives was living at the time of his death. she consented to marry him, and the marriage took place almost immediately after the king's death--so soon in fact, that it was considered extremely hasty and unbecoming. this queen dowager had two houses left to her, one at chelsea, and the other at hanworth, towns some little distance up the river from london. here she resided with her new husband, sometimes at one of the houses, and sometimes at the other. the king had also directed, in his will, that the princess elizabeth should be under her care, so that elizabeth, immediately after her father's death, lived at one or the other of these two houses under the care of seymour, who, from having been her uncle, became now, in some sense, her father. he was a sort of uncle, for he was the brother of one of her father's wives. he was a sort of father, for he was the husband of another of them. yet, really, by blood, there was no relation between them. the two brothers, somerset and seymour, quarreled. each was very ambitious, and very jealous of the other. somerset, in addition to being appointed protector by the council, got a grant of power from the young king called a patent. this commission was executed with great formality, and was sealed with the great seal of state, and it made somerset, in some measure independent of the other nobles whom king henry had associated with him in the government. by this patent he was placed in supreme command of all the forces by land and sea. he had a seat on the right hand of the throne, under the great canopy of state, and whenever he went abroad on public occasions, he assumed all the pomp and parade which would have been expected in a real king. young edward was wholly under his influence, and did always whatever somerset recommended him to do. seymour was very jealous of all this greatness, and was contriving every means in his power to circumvent and supersede his brother. the wives, too, of these great statesmen quarreled. the duchess of somerset thought she was entitled to the precedence, because she was the wife of the protector, who, being a kind of regent, she thought he was entitled to have his wife considered as a sort of queen. the wife of seymour, on the other hand, contended that she was entitled to the precedence as a real queen, having been herself the actual consort of a reigning monarch. the two ladies disputed perpetually on this point, which, of course, could never be settled. they enlisted, however, on their respective sides various partisans, producing a great deal of jealousy and ill will, and increasing the animosity of their husbands. all this time the celebrated mary queen of scots was an infant in janet sinclair's arms, at the castle of stirling, in scotland. king henry, during his life, had made a treaty with the government of scotland, by which it was agreed that mary should be married to his son edward as soon as the two children should have grown to maturity; but afterward, the government of scotland having fallen from protestant into catholic hands, they determined that this match must be given up. the english authorities were very much incensed. they wished to have the marriage take effect, as it would end in uniting the scotch and english kingdoms; and the protector, when a time arrived which he thought was favorable for his purpose, raised an army and marched northward to make war upon scotland, and compel the scots to fulfill the contract of marriage. while his brother was gone to the northward, seymour remained at home, and endeavored, by every means within his reach, to strengthen his own influence and increase his power. he contrived to obtain from the council of government the office of lord high admiral, which gave him the command of the fleet, and made him, next to his brother, the most powerful and important personage in the realm. he had, besides, as has already been stated, the custody and care of elizabeth, who lived in his house; though, as he was a profligate and unprincipled man, this position for the princess, now fast growing up to womanhood, was considered by many persons as of doubtful propriety. still, she was at present only fourteen years old. there was another young lady likewise in his family, a niece of king henry, and, of course, a second cousin of elizabeth. her name was jane grey. it was a very unhappy family. the manners and habits of all the members of it, excepting jane grey, seem to have been very rude and irregular. the admiral quarreled with his wife, and was jealous of the very servants who waited upon her. the queen observed something in the manners of her husband toward the young princess which made her angry both with him and her. elizabeth resented this, and a violent quarrel ensued, which ended in their separation. elizabeth went away, and resided afterward at a place called hatfield. very soon after this, the queen dowager died suddenly. people accused seymour, her husband, of having poisoned her, in order to make way for the princess elizabeth to be his wife. he denied this, but he immediately began to lay his plans for securing the hand of elizabeth. there was a probability that she might, at some future time, succeed to the crown, and then, if he were her husband, he thought he should be the real sovereign, reigning in her name. elizabeth had in her household two persons, a certain mrs. ashley, who was then her governess, and a man named parry, who was a sort of treasurer. he was called the _cofferer_. the admiral gained these persons over to his interests, and, through them, attempted to open communications with elizabeth, and persuade her to enter into his designs. of course, the whole affair was managed with great secrecy. they were all liable to a charge of treason against the government of edward by such plots, as his ministers and counselors might maintain that their design was to overthrow edward's government and make elizabeth queen. they, therefore, were all banded together to keep their councils secret, and elizabeth was drawn, in some degree, into the scheme, though precisely how far was never fully known. it was supposed that she began to love seymour, although he was very much older than herself, and to be willing to become his wife. it is not surprising that, neglected and forsaken as she had been, she should have been inclined to regard with favor an agreeable and influential man, who expressed a strong affection for her, and a warm interest in her welfare. however this may be, elizabeth was one day struck with consternation at hearing that seymour was arrested by order of his brother, who had returned from scotland and had received information of his designs, and that he had been committed to the tower. he had a hurried and irregular trial, or what, in those days, was called a trial. the council went themselves to the tower, and had him brought before them and examined. he demanded to have the charges made out in form, and the witnesses confronted with him, but the council were satisfied of his guilt without these formalities. the parliament immediately afterward passed a bill of attainder against him, by which he was sentenced to death. his brother, the protector, signed the warrant for his execution, and he was beheaded on tower hill. the protector sent two messengers in the course of this affair to elizabeth, to see what they could ascertain from her about it. sir robert tyrwhitt was the name of the principal one of these messengers. when the cofferer learned that they were at the gate, he went in great terror into his chamber, and said that he was undone. at the same time, he pulled off a chain from his neck, and the rings from his fingers, and threw them away from him with gesticulations of despair. the messengers then came to elizabeth, and told her, falsely as it seems, with a view to frighten her into confessions, that mrs. ashley and the cofferer were both secured and sent to the tower. she seemed very much alarmed; she wept bitterly, and it was a long time before she regained her composure. she wanted to know whether they had confessed any thing. the protector's messengers would not tell her this, but they urged her to confess herself all that had occurred; for, whatever it was, they said that the evil and shame would all be ascribed to the other persons concerned, and not to her, on account of her youth and inexperience. but elizabeth would confess nothing. the messengers went away, convinced, as they said, that she was guilty; they could see that in her countenance; and that her silence was owing to her firm determination not to betray her lover. they sent word to the protector that they did not believe that any body would succeed in drawing the least information from her, unless it was the protector, or young king edward himself. these mysterious circumstances produced a somewhat unfavorable impression in regard to elizabeth, and there were some instances, it was said, of light and trifling behavior between elizabeth and seymour, while she was in his house during the life-time of his wife. they took place in the presence of seymour's wife, and seem of no consequence, except to show that dukes and princesses got into frolics sometimes in those days as well as other mortals. people censured mrs. ashley for not enjoining a greater dignity and propriety of demeanor in her young charge, and the government removed her from her place. lady tyrwhitt, who was the wife of the messenger referred to above that was sent to examine elizabeth, was appointed to succeed mrs. ashley. elizabeth was very much displeased at this change. she told lady tyrwhitt that mrs. ashley was her mistress, and that she had not done any thing to make it necessary for the council to put more mistresses over her. sir robert wrote to the protector that she took the affair so heavily that she "wept all night, and lowered all the next day." he said that her attachment to mrs. ashley was very strong; and that, if any thing were said against the lord admiral, she could not bear to hear it, but took up his defense in the most prompt and eager manner. how far it is true that elizabeth loved the unfortunate seymour can now never be known. there is no doubt, however, but that this whole affair was a very severe trial and affliction to her. it came upon her when she was but fourteen or fifteen years of age, and when she was in a position, as well of an age, which renders the heart acutely sensitive both to the effect of kindness and of injuries. seymour, by his death, was lost to her forever, and elizabeth lived in great retirement and seclusion during the remainder of her brother's reign. she did not, however, forget mrs. ashley and parry. on her accession to the throne, many years afterward, she gave them offices very valuable, considering their station in life, and was a true friend to them both to the end of their days. chapter iii. lady jane grey. 1550-1553 lady jane grey.--her disposition and character.--lady jane's parents.--restraints put upon her.--lady jane's attainments.--character of her teacher.--anecdote of elizabeth and aylmer.--lady jane's attachment to aylmer.--elizabeth's studies.--roger ascham.--lady jane's acquirements in greek.--her interview with ascham.--lady jane's intimacy with edward.--the earl of northumberland.--harsh treatment of mary.--decline of edward's health.--uncertainty in respect to the succession.--struggle for power.--queen elizabeth's family connections.--explanation of the table.--king henry's will.--various claimants for the throne.--perplexing questions.--power of northumberland.--his schemes.--marriage of lady jane.--feelings of the people.--efforts to set mary aside.--northumberland works on the young king.--conduct of the judges.--pardon by anticipation.--edward's deed of settlement.--plan to entrap the princesses.--death of edward.--escape of the princesses.--precautions of mary.--lady jane proclaimed queen.--great excitement.--public opinion in favor of mary.--northumberland taken prisoner.--he is beheaded.--mary's triumphal procession.--shared by elizabeth. among elizabeth's companions and playmates in her early years was a young lady, her cousin, as she was often called, though she was really the daughter of her cousin, named jane grey, commonly called in history lady jane grey. her mother was the marchioness of dorset, and was the daughter of one of king henry the eighth's sisters. king henry had named her as the next in the order of succession after his own children, that is, after edward his son, and mary and elizabeth his two daughters; and, consequently, though she was very young, yet, as she might one day be queen of england, she was a personage of considerable importance. she was, accordingly, kept near the court, and shared, in some respects, the education and the studies of the two princesses. lady jane was about four years younger than the princess elizabeth, and the sweetness of her disposition, united with an extraordinary intellectual superiority, which showed itself at a very early period, made her a universal favorite. her father and mother, the marquis and marchioness of dorset, lived at an estate they possessed, called broadgate, in leicestershire, which is in the central part of england, although they took their title from the county of dorset, which is on the southwestern coast. they were very proud of their daughter, and attached infinite importance to her descent from henry vii., and to the possibility that she might one day succeed to the english throne. they were very strict and severe in their manners, and paid great attention to etiquette and punctilio, as persons who are ambitious of rising in the world are very apt to do. in all ages of the world, and among all nations, those who have long been accustomed to a high position are easy and unconstrained in their manners and demeanor, while those who have been newly advanced from a lower station, or who are anticipating or aspiring to such an advance, make themselves slaves to the rules of etiquette and ceremony. it was thus that the father and mother of lady jane, anticipating that she might one day become a queen, watched and guarded her incessantly, subjected her to a thousand unwelcome restraints, and repressed all the spontaneous and natural gayety and sprightliness which belongs properly to such a child. she became, however, a very excellent scholar in consequence of this state of things. she had a private teacher, a man of great eminence for his learning and abilities, and yet of a very kind and gentle spirit, which enabled him to gain a strong hold on his pupil's affection and regard. his name was john aylmer. the marquis of dorset, lady jane's father, became acquainted with mr. aylmer when he was quite young, and appointed him, when he had finished his education, to come and reside in his family as chaplain and tutor to his children. aylmer afterward became a distinguished man, was made bishop of london, and held many high offices of state under queen elizabeth, when she came to reign. he became very much attached to queen elizabeth in the middle and latter part of his life, as he had been to lady jane in the early part of it. a curious incident occurred during the time that he was in the service of elizabeth, which illustrates the character of the man. the queen was suffering from the toothache, and it was necessary that the tooth should be extracted. the surgeon was ready with his instruments, and several ladies and gentlemen of the royal household were in the queen's room commiserating her sufferings; but the queen dreaded the operation so excessively that she could not summon fortitude enough to submit to it. aylmer, after trying some time in vain to encourage her, took his seat in the chair instead of her, and said to the surgeon, "i am an old man, and have but few teeth to lose; but come, draw this one, and let her majesty see how light a matter it is." one would not have supposed that elizabeth would have allowed this to be done; but she did, and, finding that aylmer made so light of the operation, she submitted to have it performed upon herself. but to return to lady jane. she was very strongly attached to her teacher, and made great progress in the studies which he arranged for her. ladies of high rank, in those days, were accustomed to devote great attention to the ancient and modern languages. there was, in fact, a great necessity then, as indeed there is now, for a european princess to be acquainted with the principal languages of europe; for the various royal families were continually intermarrying with each other, which led to a great many visits, and other intercourse between the different courts. there was also a great deal of intercourse with the pope, in which the _latin_ language was the medium of communication. lady jane devoted a great deal of time to all these studies, and made rapid proficiency in them all. the princess elizabeth was also an excellent scholar. her teacher was a very learned and celebrated man, named roger ascham. she spoke french and italian as fluently as she did english. she also wrote and spoke latin with correctness and readiness. she made considerable progress in greek too. she could write the greek character very beautifully, and could express herself tolerably well in conversation in that language. one of her companions, a young lady of the name of cecil, is said to have spoken greek as well as english. roger ascham took great interest in advancing the princess in these studies, and in the course of these his instructions he became acquainted with lady jane, and he praises very highly, in his letters, the industry and assiduity of lady jane in similar pursuits. [illustration: lady jane grey at study.] one day roger ascham, being on a journey from the north of england to london, stopped to make a call at the mansion of the marquis of dorset. he found that the family were all away; they had gone off upon a hunting excursion in the park. lady jane, however, had been left at home, and ascham went in to see her. he found her in the library reading greek. ascham examined her a little, and was very much surprised to find how well acquainted with the language she had become, although she was then only about fifteen years old. he told her that he should like very much to have her write him a letter in greek, and this she readily promised to do. he asked her, also, how it happened that, at her age, she had made such advances in learning. "i will tell you," said she, "how it has happened. one of the greatest benefits that god ever conferred upon me was in giving me so sharp and severe parents and so gentle a teacher; for, when i am in the presence of either my father or mother, whether i speak, keep silence, sit, stand, or go; eat, drink, be merry or sad; be sewing, playing, dancing, or doing any thing else, i must do it, as it were, in just such weight, measure, and number, as perfectly as possible, or else i am so sharply taunted, so cruelly threatened, yea, presently, sometimes with pinches, nips, and bobs, and other ways, which i will not name for the honor i bear my parents, that i am continually teased and tormented. and then, when the time comes for me to go to mr. aylmer, he teaches me so gently, so pleasantly, and with such fair allurements to learning, that i think all the time nothing while i am with him; and i am always sorry to go away from him, because whatsoever else i do but learning is full of grief, trouble, fear, and suffering." lady jane grey was an intimate friend and companion of the young king edward as long as he lived. edward died when he was sixteen years of age, so that he did not reach the period which his father had assigned for his reigning in his own name. one of king edward's most prominent and powerful ministers during the latter part of his life was the earl of northumberland. the original name of the earl of northumberland was john dudley. he was one of the train who came in the procession at the close of the baptism of elizabeth, carrying the presents. he was a protestant, and was very friendly to edward and to lady jane grey, for they were protestants too. but his feelings and policy were hostile to mary, for she was a catholic. mary was sometimes treated very harshly by him, and she was subjected to many privations and hardships on account of her religious faith. the government of edward justified these measures, on account of the necessity of promoting the reformation, and discouraging popery by every means in their power. northumberland supposed, too, that it was safe to do this, for edward being very young, it was probable that he would live and reign a long time. it is true that mary was named, in her father's will, as his successor, if she outlived him, but then it was highly probable that she would not outlive him, for she was several years older than he. all these calculations, however, were spoiled by the sudden failure of edward's health when he was sixteen years old. northumberland was much alarmed at this. he knew at once that if edward should die, and mary succeed him, all his power would be gone, and he determined to make desperate efforts to prevent such a result. it must not be understood, however, that in coming to this resolution, northumberland considered himself as intending and planning a deliberate usurpation of power. there was a real uncertainty in respect to the question who was the true and rightful heir to the crown. northumberland was, undoubtedly, strongly biased by his interest, but he may have been unconscious of the bias, and in advocating the mode of succession on which the continuance of his own power depended, he may have really believed that he was only maintaining what was in itself rightful and just. in fact, there is no mode which human ingenuity has ever yet devised for determining the hands in which the supreme executive of a nation shall be lodged, which will always avoid doubt and contention. if this power devolves by hereditary descent, no rules can be made so minute and full as that cases will not sometimes occur that will transcend them. if, on the other hand, the plan of election be adopted, there will often be technical doubts about a portion of the votes, and cases will sometimes occur where the result will depend upon this doubtful portion. thus there will be disputes under any system, and ambitious men will seize such occasions to struggle for power. in order that our readers may clearly understand the nature of the plan which northumberland adopted, we present, on the following page, a sort of genealogical table of the royal family of england in the days of elizabeth. table of the royal family of england in the time of elizabeth. ________________________________________________________________________ = 2. king henry viii. _catharine of aragon._ = 4. queen mary. _anne boleyn._ = 5. queen elizabeth. _jane seymour._ = 3. king edward vi. _anne of cleves._ _catharine howard._ _catharine parr._ = margaret _james iv. of scotland_ = james v. of scotland = mary queen of scots 1. king henry vii. = 6. king james vi. of scotland and i. of england. _earl of angus_ = margaret douglas = earl of lenox = lord darnley = mary. _charles brandon, duke = frances, marchioness of suffolk_ of dorset = lady jane grey. = eleanor. ________________________________________________________________________ explanation. this table gives the immediate descendants of henry vii., a descent being denoted by the sign =. the names of the persons whom they respectively married are in italics. those who became sovereigns of england are in small capitals, and the order in which they reigned is denoted by the figures prefixed to their names. by examination of this table it will be seen that king henry vii. left a son and two daughters. the son was king henry viii., and _he_ had three children. his third child was king edward vi., who was now about to die. the other two were the princesses mary and elizabeth, who would naturally be considered the next heirs after edward; and besides, king henry had left a will, as has been already explained, confirming their rights to the succession. this will he had made near the time of his death; but it will be recollected that, during his life-time, both the marriages from which these princesses had sprung had been formally annulled. his marriage with catharine of aragon had been annulled on one plea, and that of anne boleyn on another. both these decrees of annulment had afterward been revoked, and the right of the princesses to succeed had been restored, or attempted to be restored, by the will. still, it admitted of a question, after all, whether mary and elizabeth were to be considered as the children of true and lawful wives or not. if they were not, then lady jane grey was the next heir, for she was placed next to the princesses by king henry the eighth's will. this will, for some reason or other, set aside a the descendants of margaret, who went to scotland as the wife of james iv. of that country. what right the king had thus to disinherit the children of his sister margaret was a great question. among her descendants was mary queen of scots, as will be seen by the table, and she was, at this time, the representative of that branch of the family. the friends of mary queen of scots claimed that she was the lawful heir to the english throne after edward. they maintained that the marriage of catharine, the princess mary's mother, and also that of anne boleyn, elizabeth's mother, had both been annulled, and that the will could not restore them. they maintained, also, that the will was equally powerless in setting aside the claims of margaret, her grandmother. mary queen of scots, though silent now, advanced her claim subsequently, and made elizabeth a great deal of trouble. then there was, besides these, a third party, who maintained that king henry the eighth's will was not effectual in legalizing again the annulled marriages, but that it was sufficient to set aside the claims of margaret. of course, with them, lady jane grey, who, as will be seen by the table, was the representative of the _second_ sister of henry viii., was the only heir. the earl of northumberland embraced this view. his motive was to raise lady jane grey to the throne, in order to exclude the princess mary, whose accession he knew very well would bring all his greatness to a very sudden end. the earl of northumberland was at this time the principal minister of the young king. the protector somerset had fallen long ago. northumberland, whose name was then john dudley, had supplanted him, and had acquired so great influence and power at court that almost every thing seemed to be at his disposal. he was, however, generally hated by the other courtiers and by the nation. men who gain the confidence of a young or feeble-minded prince, so as to wield a great power not properly their own, are almost always odious. it was expected, however, that his career would be soon brought to an end, as all knew that king edward must die, and it was generally understood that mary was to succeed him. northumberland, however, was very anxious to devise some scheme to continue his power, and in revolving the subject in his mind, he conceived of plans which seemed to promise not only to continue, but also greatly to increase it. his scheme was to have the princesses' claims set aside, and lady jane grey raised to the throne. he had several sons. one of them was young, handsome, and accomplished. he thought of proposing him to lady jane's father as the husband of lady jane, and, to induce the marquis to consent to this plan, he promised to obtain a dukedom for him by means of his influence with the king. the marquis agreed to the proposal. lady jane did not object to the husband they offered her. the dukedom was obtained, and the marriage, together with two others which northumberland had arranged to strengthen his influence, were celebrated, all on the same day, with great festivities and rejoicings. the people looked on moodily, jealous and displeased, though they had no open ground of displeasure, except that it was unsuitable to have such scenes of gayety and rejoicing among the high officers of the court while the young monarch himself was lying upon his dying bed. they did not yet know that it was northumberland's plan to raise his new daughter-in-law to the throne. northumberland thought it would greatly increase his prospect of success if he could obtain some act of acknowledgment of lady jane's claims to the crown before edward died. an opportunity soon occurred for effecting this purpose. one day, as he was sitting by young edward's bedside, he turned the conversation to the subject of the reformation, which had made great progress during edward's reign, and he led edward on in the conversation, until he remarked that it was a great pity to have the work all undone by mary's accession, for she was a catholic, and would, of course, endeavor to bring the country back again under the spiritual dominion of rome. northumberland then told him that there was one way, and one way only, to avert such a calamity, and that was to make lady jane his heir instead of mary. king edward was a very thoughtful, considerate, and conscientious boy, and was very desirous of doing what he considered his duty. he thought it was his duty to do all in his power to sustain the reformation, and to prevent the catholic power from gaining ascendency in england again. he was, therefore, easily persuaded to accede to northumberland's plan, especially as he was himself strongly attached to lady jane, who had often been his playmate and companion. the king accordingly sent for three judges of the realm, and directed them to draw up a deed of assignment, by which the crown was to be conveyed to lady jane on the young king's death, mary and elizabeth being alike excluded. the judges were afraid to do this; for, by king henry the eighth's settlement of the crown, all those persons who should do any thing to disturb the succession as he arranged it were declared to be guilty of high treason. the judges knew very well, therefore, that if they should do what the king required of them, and then, if the friends of lady jane should fail of establishing her upon the throne, the end of the affair would be the cutting off of their own heads in the tower. they represented this to the king, and begged to be excused from the duty that he required of them. northumberland was in a great rage at this, and seemed almost ready to break out against the judges in open violence. they, however, persisted in their refusal to do what they well knew would subject them to the pains and penalties of treason. northumberland, finding that threats and violence would not succeed, contrived another mode of obviating the difficulty. he proposed to protect the judges from any possible evil consequences of their act by a formal pardon for it, signed by the king, and sealed with the great seal, so that, in case they were ever charged with treason, the pardon would save them from punishment. this plan succeeded. the pardon was made out, being written with great formality upon a parchment roll, and sealed with the great seal. the judges then prepared and signed the deed of settlement by which the crown was given to lady jane, though, after all, they did it with much reluctance and many forebodings. northumberland next wanted to contrive some plan for getting the princesses into his power, in order to prevent their heading any movement in behalf of their own claims at the death of the king. he was also desirous of making such arrangements as to conceal the death of the king for a few days after it should take place, in order that he might get lady jane and her officers in complete possession of the kingdom before the demise of the crown should be generally known. for this purpose he dismissed the regular physicians who had attended upon the king, and put him under the charge of a woman, who pretended that she had a medicine that would certainly cure him. he sent, also, messengers to the princesses, who were then in the country north of london, requesting that they would come to greenwich, to be near the sick chamber where their brother was lying, that they might cheer and comfort him in his sickness and pain. the princesses obeyed the summons. they each set out immediately on the journey, and moved toward london on their way to greenwich. in the mean time, edward was rapidly declining. the change in the treatment which took place when his physicians left him, made him worse instead of better. his cough increased, his breathing became more labored and difficult; in a word, his case presented all the symptoms of approaching dissolution. at length he died. northumberland attempted to keep the fact concealed until after the princesses should arrive, that he might get them into his power. some faithful friend, however, made all haste to meet them, in order to inform them what was going on. in this way mary received intelligence of her brother's death when she had almost reached london, and was informed, also, of the plans of northumberland for raising lady jane to the throne. the two princesses were extremely alarmed, and both turned back at once toward the northward again. mary stopped to write a letter to the council, remonstrating against their delay in proclaiming her queen, and then proceeded rapidly to a strong castle at a place called framlingham, in the county of suffolk, on the eastern coast of england. she made this her head-quarters, because she supposed that the people of that county were particularly friendly to her; and then, besides, it was near the sea, and, in case the course of events should turn against her, she could make her escape to foreign lands. it is true that the prospect of being fugitive and an exile was very dark and gloomy, but it was not so terrible as the idea of being shut up a prisoner in the tower, or being beheaded on a block for treason. in the mean time, northumberland went, at the head of a troop of his adherents, to the residence of lady jane grey, informed her of the death of edward, and announced to her their determination to proclaim her queen. lady jane was very much astonished at this news. at first she absolutely refused the offered honor; but the solicitations and urgency of northumberland, and of her father and her young husband, at length prevailed. she was conducted to london, and instated in at least the semblance of power. as the news of these transactions spread throughout the land, a universal and strong excitement was produced, every body at once taking sides either for mary or lady jane. bands of armed men began to assemble. it soon became apparent, however, that, beyond the immediate precincts of london, the country was almost unanimous for mary. they dreaded, it is true, the danger which they anticipated from her catholic faith, but still they had all considered it a settled point, since the death of henry the eighth, that mary was to reign whenever edward should die; and this general expectation that she would be queen had passed insensibly into an opinion that she ought to be. considered strictly as a legal question, it was certainly doubtful which of the four claimants to the throne had the strongest title; but the public were not disposed so to regard it. they chose, on the whole, that mary should reign. large military masses consequently flocked to her standard. elizabeth took sides with her, and, as it was important to give as much public effect to her adhesion as possible, they furnished elizabeth with a troop of a thousand horsemen, at the head of which she rode to meet mary and tender her aid. northumberland went forth at the head of such forces as he could collect, but he soon found that the attempt was vain. his troops forsook him. the castles which had at first been under his command surrendered themselves to mary. the tower of london went over to her side. finally, all being lost, northumberland himself was taken prisoner, and all his influential friends with him, and were committed to the tower. lady jane herself too, together with her husband and father, were seized and sent to prison. northumberland was immediately put upon his trial for treason. he was condemned, and brought at once to the block. in fact, the whole affair moved very promptly and rapidly on, from its commencement to its consummation. edward the sixth died on the 5th of july, and it was only the 22d of august when northumberland was beheaded. the period for which the unhappy lady jane enjoyed the honor of being called a queen was nine days. it was about a month after this that mary passed from the tower through the city of london in a grand triumphal procession to be crowned. the royal chariot, covered with cloth of golden tissue, was drawn by six horses most splendidly caparisoned. elizabeth, who had aided her sister, so far as she could, in the struggle, was admitted to share the triumph. she had a carriage drawn by six horses too, with cloth and decorations of silver. they proceeded in this manner, attended and followed by a great cavalcade of nobles and soldiery, to westminster abbey, where mary took her seat with great formality upon her father's throne. chapter iv. the spanish match. 1553-1555 queen mary's character.--bigotry and firmness.--suitors for queen mary's hand.--emperor charles the fifth.--character of his son philip.--the emperor proposes his son.--mary pleased with the proposal.--plans of the ministers.--the people alarmed.--opposition to the match.--the emperor furnishes money.--the emperor's embassy.--stipulations of the treaty of marriage.--wyatt's rebellion.--duke of suffolk.--wyatt advances toward london.--the queen retreats into the city.--wyatt surrenders.--the duke of suffolk sent to the tower.--beheading of lady jane grey.--her heroic fortitude.--death of suffolk.--imprisonment of elizabeth.--execution of wyatt.--the wedding plan proceeds.--hostility of the sailors.--mary's fears and complainings.--philip lands at southampton.--philip's proud and haughty demeanor.--the marriage ceremony.--philip abandons mary.--her repinings.--her death. when queen mary ascended the throne, she was a maiden lady not far from thirty-five years of age. she was cold, austere, and forbidding in her appearance and manners, though probably conscientious and honest in her convictions of duty. she was a very firm and decided catholic, or, rather, she evinced a certain strict adherence to the principles of her religious faith, which we generally call firmness when it is exhibited by those whose opinions agree with our own, though we are very apt to name it bigotry in those who differ from us. for instance, when the body of young edward, her brother, after his death, was to be deposited in the last home of the english kings in westminster abbey, which is a very magnificent cathedral a little way up the river from london, the services were, of course, conducted according to the ritual of the english church, which was then protestant. mary, however, could not conscientiously countenance such services even by being present at them. she accordingly assembled her immediate attendants and personal friends in her own private chapel, and celebrated the interment there, with catholic priests, by a service conformed to the catholic ritual. was it a bigoted, or only a firm and proper, attachment to her own faith, which forbade her joining in the national commemoration? the reader must decide; but, in deciding, he is bound to render the same verdict that he would have given if it had been a case of a protestant withdrawing thus from catholic forms. at all events, whether bigoted or not, mary was doubtless sincere; but she was so cold, and stern, and austere in her character, that she was very little likely to be loved. there were a great many persons who wished to become her husband, but their motives were to share her grandeur and power. among these persons, the most prominent one, and the one apparently most likely to succeed, was a prince of spain. his name was philip. [illustration: portrait of philip of spain.] it was his father's plan, and not his own, that he should marry queen mary. his father was at this time the most wealthy and powerful monarch in europe. his name was charles. he is commonly called in history charles v. of spain. he was not only king of spain, but emperor of germany. he resided sometimes at madrid, and sometimes at brussels in flanders. his son philip had been married to a portuguese princess, but his wife had died, and thus philip was a widower. still, he was only twenty-seven years of age, but he was as stern, severe, and repulsive in his manners as mary. his personal appearance, too, corresponded with his character. he was a very decided catholic also, and in his natural spirit, haughty, ambitious, and domineering. the emperor charles, as soon as he heard of young edward's death and of mary's accession to the english throne, conceived the plan of proposing to her his son philip for a husband. he sent over a wise and sagacious statesman from his court to make the proposition, and to urge it by such reasons as would be most likely to influence mary's mind, and the minds of the great officers of her government. the embassador managed the affair well. in fact, it was probably easy to manage it. mary would naturally be pleased with the idea of such a young husband, who, besides being young and accomplished, was the son of the greatest potentate in europe, and likely one day to take his father's place in that lofty elevation. besides, mary queen of scots, who had rival claims to queen mary's throne, had married, or was about to marry, the son of the king of france, and there was a little glory in outshining her, by having for a husband a son of the king of spain. it might, however, perhaps, be a question which was the greatest match; for, though the court of paris was the most brilliant, spain, being at that time possessed of the gold and silver mines of its american colonies, was at least the _richest_ country in the world. mary's ministers, when they found that mary herself liked the plan, fell in with it too. mary had been beginning, very quietly indeed, but very efficiently, her measures for bringing back the english government and nation to the catholic faith. her ministers told her now, however, that if she wished to succeed in effecting this match, she must suspend all these plans until the match was consummated. the people of england were generally of the protestant faith. they had been very uneasy and restless under the progress which the queen had been making in silencing protestant preachers, and bringing back catholic rites and ceremonies; and now, if they found that their queen was going to marry so rigid and uncompromising a catholic as philip of spain, they would be doubly alarmed. she must suspend, therefore, for a time, her measures for restoring papacy, unless she was willing to give up her husband. the queen saw that this was the alternative, and she decided on following her ministers' advice. she did all in her power to quiet and calm the public mind, in order to prepare the way for announcing the proposed connection. rumors, however, began to be spread abroad that such a design was entertained before mary was fully prepared to promulgate it. these rumors produced great excitement, and awakened strong opposition. the people knew philip's ambitious and overbearing character, and they believed that if he were to come to england as the husband of the queen, the whole government would pass into his hands, and, as he would naturally be very much under the influence of his father, the connection was likely to result in making england a mere appendage to the already vast dominions of the emperor. the house of commons appointed a committee of twenty members, and sent them to the queen, with a humble petition that she would not marry a foreigner. the queen was much displeased at receiving such a petition, and she dissolved the parliament. the members dispersed, carrying with them every where expressions of their dissatisfaction and fear. england, they said, was about to become a province of spain, and the prospect of such a consummation, wherever the tidings went, filled the people of the country with great alarm. queen mary's principal minister of state at this time was a crafty politician, whose name was gardiner. gardiner sent word to the emperor that there was great opposition to his son's marriage in england, and that he feared that he should not be able to accomplish it, unless the terms of the contract of marriage were made very favorable to the queen and to england, and unless the emperor could furnish him with a large sum of money to use as a means of bringing influential persons of the realm to favor it. charles decided to send the money. he borrowed it of some of the rich cities of germany, making his son philip give his bond to repay it as soon as he should get possession of his bride, and of the rich and powerful country over which she reigned. the amount thus remitted to england is said by the historians of those days to have been a sum equal to two millions of dollars. the bribery was certainly on a very respectable scale. the emperor also sent a very magnificent embassy to london, with a distinguished nobleman at its head, to arrange the terms and contracts of the marriage. this embassy came in great state, and, during their residence in london, were the objects of great attention and parade. the eclat of their reception, and the influence of the bribes, seemed to silence opposition to the scheme. open opposition ceased to be expressed, though a strong and inveterate determination against the measure was secretly extending itself throughout the realm. this, however, did not prevent the negotiations from going on. the terms were probably all fully understood and agreed upon before the embassy came, so that nothing remained but the formalities of writing and signing the articles. some of the principal stipulations of these articles were, that philip was to have the title of king of england jointly with mary's title of queen. mary was also to share with him, in the same way, his titles in spain. it was agreed that mary should have the exclusive power of the appointment of officers of government in england, and that no spaniards should be eligible at all. particular provisions were made in respect to the children which might result from the marriage, as to how they should inherit rights of government in the two countries. philip had one son already, by his former wife. this son was to succeed his father in the kingdom of spain, but the other dominions of philip on the continent were to descend to the offspring of this new marriage, in modes minutely specified to fit all possible cases which might occur. the making of all these specifications, however, turned out to be labor lost, as mary never had children. it was also specially agreed that philip should not bring spanish or foreign domestics into the realm, to give uneasiness to the english people; that he would never take the queen out of england, nor carry any of the children away, without the consent of the english nobility; and that, if the queen were to die before him, all his rights and claims of every sort, in respect to england, should forever cease. he also agreed that he would never carry away any of the jewels or other property of the crown, nor suffer any other person to do so. these stipulations, guarding so carefully the rights of mary and of england, were intended to satisfy the english people, and remove their objections to the match. they produced some effect, but the hostility was too deeply seated to be so easily allayed. it grew, on the contrary, more and more threatening, until at length a conspiracy was formed by a number of influential and powerful men, and a plan of open rebellion organized. the leader in this plan was sir thomas wyatt, and the outbreak which followed is known in history as wyatt's rebellion. another of the leaders was the duke of suffolk, who, it will be recollected, was the father of lady jane grey. this led people to suppose that the plan of the conspirators was not merely to prevent the consummation of the spanish match, but to depose queen mary entirely, and to raise the lady jane to the throne. however this may be, an extensive and formidable conspiracy was formed. there were to have been several risings in different parts of the kingdom. they all failed except the one which wyatt himself was to head, which was in kent, in the southeastern part of the country. this succeeded so far, at least, that a considerable force was collected, and began to advance toward london from the southern side. queen mary was very much alarmed. she had no armed force in readiness to encounter this danger. she sent messengers across the thames and down the river to meet wyatt, who was advancing at the head of four thousand men, to ask what it was that he demanded. he replied that the queen must be delivered up as his prisoner, and also the tower of london be surrendered to him. this showed that his plan was to depose the queen. mary rejected these proposals at once, and, having no forces to meet this new enemy, she had to retreat from westminster into the city of london, and here she took refuge in the city hall, called the guildhall, and put herself under the protection of the city authorities. some of her friends urged her to take shelter in the tower; but she had more confidence, she said, in the faithfulness and loyalty of her subjects than in castle walls. wyatt continued to advance. he was still upon the south side of the river. there was but one bridge across the thames, at london, in those days, though there are half a dozen now, and this one was so strongly barricaded and guarded that wyatt did not dare to attempt to cross it. he went up the river, therefore, to cross at a higher point; and this circuit, and several accidental circumstances which occurred, detained him so long that a considerable force had been got together to receive him when he was ready to enter the city. he pushed boldly on into the narrow streets, which received him like a trap or a snare. the city troops hemmed up his way after he had entered. they barricaded the streets, they shut the gates, and armed men poured in to take possession of all the avenues. wyatt depended upon finding the people of london on his side. they turned, instead, against him. all hope of success in his enterprise, and all possibility of escape from his own awful danger, disappeared together. a herald came from the queen's officer calling upon him to surrender himself quietly, and save the effusion of blood. he surrendered in an agony of terror and despair. the duke of suffolk learned these facts in another county, where he was endeavoring to raise a force to aid wyatt. he immediately fled, and hid himself in the house of one of his domestics. he was betrayed, however, seized, and sent to the tower. many other prominent actors in the insurrection were arrested, and the others fled in all directions, wherever they could find concealment or safety. lady jane's life had been spared thus far, although she had been, in fact, guilty of treason against mary by the former attempt to take the crown. she now, however, two days after the capture of wyatt, received word that she must prepare to die. she was, of course, surprised and shocked at the suddenness of this announcement; but she soon regained her composure, and passed through the awful scenes preceding her death with a fortitude amounting to heroism, which was very astonishing in one so young. her husband was to die too. he was beheaded first, and she saw the headless body, as it was brought back from the place of execution, before her turn came. she acknowledged her guilt in having attempted to seize her cousin's crown. as the attempt to seize this crown _failed_, mankind consider her technically guilty. if it had succeeded, mary, instead of jane, would have been the traitor who would have died for attempting criminally to usurp a throne. in the mean time wyatt and suffolk remained prisoners in the tower. suffolk was overwhelmed with remorse and sorrow at having been the means, by his selfish ambition, of the cruel death of so innocent and lovely a child. he did not suffer this anguish long, however, for five days after his son and lady jane were executed, his head fell too from the block. wyatt was reserved a little longer. he was more formally tried, and in his examination he asserted that the princess elizabeth was involved in the conspiracy. officers were immediately sent to arrest elizabeth. she was taken to a royal palace at westminster, just above london, called whitehall, and shut up there in close confinement, and no one was allowed to visit her or speak to her. the particulars of this imprisonment will be described more fully in the next chapter. fifty or sixty common conspirators, not worthy of being beheaded with an ax, were hanged, and a company of six hundred more were brought, their hands tied, and halters about their necks, a miserable gang, into mary's presence, before her palace, to be pardoned. wyatt was then executed. when he came to die, however, he retracted what he had alleged of elizabeth. he declared that she was entirely innocent of any participation in the scheme of rebellion. elizabeth's friends believe that he accused her because he supposed that such a charge would be agreeable to mary, and that he should himself be more leniently treated in consequence of it, but that when at last he found that sacrificing her would not save him, his guilty conscience scourged him into doing her justice in his last hours. all obstacles to the wedding were now apparently removed; for, after the failure of wyatt's rebellion, nobody dared to make any open opposition to the plans of the queen, though there was still abundance of secret dissatisfaction. mary was now very impatient to have the marriage carried into effect. a new parliament was called, and its concurrence in the plan obtained. mary ordered a squadron of ships to be fitted out and sent to spain, to convey the bridegroom to england. the admiral who had command of this fleet wrote to her that the sailors were so hostile to philip that he did not think it was safe for her to intrust him to their hands. mary then commanded this force to be dismissed, in order to arrange some other way to bring philip over. she was then full of anxiety and apprehension lest some accident might befall him. his ship might be wrecked, or he might fall into the hands of the french, who were not at all well disposed toward the match. her thoughts and her conversation were running upon this topic all the time. she was restless by day and sleepless by night, until her health was at last seriously impaired, and her friends began really to fear that she might lose her reason. she was very anxious, too, lest philip should find her beauty so impaired by her years, and by the state of her health, that she should fail, when he arrived, of becoming the object of his love. in fact, she complained already that philip neglected her. he did not write to her, or express in any way the interest and affection which she thought ought to be awakened in his mind by a bride who, as she expressed it, was going to bring a kingdom for a dowry. this sort of cold and haughty demeanor was, however, in keeping with the self-importance and the pride which then often marked the spanish character, and which, in philip particularly, always seemed to be extreme. at length the time arrived for his embarkation. he sailed across the bay of biscay, and up the english channel until he reached southampton, a famous port on the southern coast of england. there he landed with great pomp and parade. he assumed a very proud and stately bearing, which made a very unfavorable impression upon the english people who had been sent by queen mary to receive him. he drew his sword when he landed, and walked about with it, for a time, in a very pompous manner, holding the sword unsheathed in his hand, the crowd of by-standers that had collected to witness the spectacle of the landing looking on all the time, and wondering what such an action could be intended to intimate. it was probably intended simply to make them wonder. the authorities of southampton had arranged it to come in procession to meet philip, and present him with the keys of the gates, an emblem of an honorable reception into the city. philip received the keys, but did not deign a word of reply. the distance and reserve which it had been customary to maintain between the english sovereigns and their people was always pretty strongly marked, but philip's loftiness and grandeur seemed to surpass all bounds. mary went two thirds of the way from london to the coast to meet the bridegroom. here the marriage ceremony was performed, and the whole party came, with great parade and rejoicings, back to london, and mary, satisfied and happy, took up her abode with her new lord in windsor castle. the poor queen was, however, in the end, sadly disappointed in her husband. he felt no love for her; he was probably, in fact, incapable of love. he remained in england a year, and then, growing weary of his wife and of his adopted country, he went back to spain again, greatly to queen mary's vexation and chagrin. they were both extremely disappointed in not having children. philip's motive for marrying mary was ambition wholly, and not love; and when he found that an heir to inherit the two kingdoms was not to be expected, he treated his unhappy wife with great neglect and cruelty and finally went away from her altogether. he came back again, it is true, a year afterward, but it was only to compel mary to join with him in a war against france. he told her that if she would not do this, he would go away from england and never see her again. mary yielded; but at length, harassed and worn down with useless regrets and repinings, her mental sufferings are supposed to have shortened her days. she died miserably a few years after her marriage, and thus the spanish match turned out to be a very unfortunate match indeed. chapter v. elizabeth in the tower. 1554-1555 elizabeth's position.--legitimacy of mary and elizabeth's birth.--mary and elizabeth's differences.--courteney's long imprisonment.--mary's attentions to courteney.--courteney's attentions to elizabeth.--mary's plan to get elizabeth in her power.--elizabeth's wariness.--wyatt accuses elizabeth.--her seizure.--elizabeth borne in a litter.--she is examined and released.--elizabeth again arrested.--her letter to mary.--situation of the tower.--the traitors' gate.--elizabeth conveyed to the tower.--she is landed at the traitors' gate.--elizabeth's reception at the tower.--her unwillingness to enter.--elizabeth's indignation and grief.--she is closely imprisoned.--elizabeth in the garden.--the little child and the flowers.--elizabeth greatly alarmed.--her removal from the tower.--elizabeth's fears.--mary's designs.--elizabeth taken to richmond.--mary's plan for marrying her.--elizabeth's journey to woodstock.--christmas festivities.--elizabeth persists in her innocence.--the torch-light visit.--reconciliation between elizabeth and mary.--elizabeth's release. the imprisonment of queen elizabeth in the tower, which was briefly alluded to in the last chapter, deserves a more full narration than was possible to give to it there. she had retired from court some time before the difficulties about the spanish match arose. it is true that she took sides with mary in the contest with northumberland and the friends of jane grey, and she shared her royal sister's triumph in the pomp and parade of the coronation; but, after all, she and mary could not possibly be very good friends. the marriages of their respective mothers could not both have been valid. henry the eighth was so impatient that he could not wait for a divorce from catharine before he married anne boleyn. the only way to make the latter marriage legal, therefore, was to consider the former one null and void _from the beginning_, and if the former one was not thus null and void, the latter must be so. if henry had waited for a divorce, then both marriages might have been valid, each for the time of its own continuance, and both the princesses might have been lawful heirs; but as it was, neither of them could maintain her own claims to be considered a lawful daughter, without denying, by implication at least, those of the other. they were therefore, as it were, natural enemies. though they might be outwardly civil to each other, it was not possible that there could be any true harmony or friendship between them. a circumstance occurred, too, soon after mary's accession to the throne, which resulted in openly alienating the feelings of the two ladies from each other. there was a certain prisoner in the tower of london, a gentleman of high rank and great consideration, named courteney, now about twenty-six years of age, who had been imprisoned in the tower by king henry the eighth when he was only twelve years old, on account of some political offenses of his father! he had thus been a close prisoner for fourteen years at mary's accession; but mary released him. it was found, when he returned to society again, that he had employed his solitary hours in cultivating his mind, acquiring knowledge, and availing himself of all the opportunities for improvement which his situation afforded, and that he came forth an intelligent, accomplished, and very agreeable man. the interest which his appearance and manners excited was increased by the sympathy naturally felt for the sufferings that he had endured. in a word, he became a general favorite. the rank of his family was high enough for mary to think of him for her husband, for this was before the spanish match was thought of. mary granted him a title, and large estates, and showed him many other favors, and, as every body supposed, tried very hard to make an impression on his heart. her efforts were, however, vain. courteney gave an obvious preference to elizabeth, who was young then, at least, if not beautiful. this successful rivalry on the part of her sister filled the queen's heart with resentment and envy, and she exhibited her chagrin by so many little marks of neglect and incivility, that elizabeth's resentment was roused in its turn, and she asked permission to retire from court to her residence in the country. mary readily gave the permission, and thus it happened that when wyatt's rebellion first broke out, as described in the last chapter, elizabeth was living in retirement and seclusion at ashridge, an estate of hers at some distance west of london. as to courteney, mary found some pretext or other for sending him back again to his prison in the tower. mary was immediately afraid that the malcontents would join with elizabeth and attempt to put forward her name and her claims to the crown, which, if they were to do, it would make their movement very formidable. she was impressed immediately with the idea that it was of great importance to get elizabeth back again into her power. the most probable way of succeeding in doing this, she thought, was to write her a kind and friendly letter, inviting her to return. she accordingly wrote such a letter. she said in it that certain evil-disposed persons were plotting some disturbances in the kingdom, and that she thought that elizabeth was not safe where she was. she urged her, therefore, to return, saying that she should be truly welcome, and should be protected against all danger if she would come. an invitation from a queen is a command, and elizabeth would have felt bound to obey this summons, but she was sick when it came. at least she was _not well_, and she was not much disposed to underrate her sickness for the sake of being able to travel on this occasion. the officers of her household made out a formal certificate to the effect that elizabeth was not able to undertake such a journey. in the mean time wyatt's rebellion broke out; he marched to london, was entrapped there and taken prisoner, as is related at length in the last chapter. in his confessions he implicated the princess elizabeth, and also courteney, and mary's government then determined that they must secure elizabeth's person at all events, sick or well. they sent, therefore, three gentlemen as commissioners, with a troop of horse to attend them, to bring her to london. they carried the queen's litter with them, to bring the princess upon it in case she should be found unable to travel in any other way. this party arrived at ashridge at ten o'clock at night. they insisted on being admitted at once into the chamber of elizabeth, and there they made known their errand. elizabeth was terrified; she begged not to be moved, as she was really too sick to go. they called in some physicians, who certified that she could be moved without danger to her life. the next morning they put her upon the litter, a sort of covered bed, formed like a palanquin, and borne, like a palanquin, by men. it was twenty-nine miles to london, and it took the party four days to reach the city, they moved so slowly. this circumstance is mentioned sometimes as showing how sick elizabeth must have been. but the fact is, there was no reason whatever for any haste. elizabeth was now completely in mary's power, and it could make no possible difference how long she was upon the road. the litter passed along the roads in great state. it was a princess that they were bearing. as they approached london, a hundred men in handsome uniforms went before, and an equal number followed. a great many people came out from the city to meet the princess, as a token of respect. this displeased mary, but it could not well be prevented or punished. on their arrival they took elizabeth to one of the palaces at westminster, called whitehall. she was examined by mary's privy council. nothing was proved against her, and, as the rebellion seemed now wholly at an end, she was at length released, and thus ended her first durance as a political prisoner. it happened, however, that other persons implicated in wyatt's plot, when examined, made charges against elizabeth in respect to it, and queen mary sent another force and arrested her again. she was taken now to a famous royal palace, called hampton court, which is situated on the thames, a few miles above the city. she brought many of the officers of her household and of her personal attendants with her; but one of the queen's ministers, accompanied by two other officers, came soon after, and dismissed all her own attendants, and placed persons in the service of the queen in their place. they also set a guard around the palace, and then left the princess, for the night, a close prisoner, and yet without any visible signs of coercion, for all these guards might be guards of honor. the next day some officers came again, and told her that it had been decided to send her to the tower, and that a barge was ready at the river to convey her. she was very much agitated and alarmed, and begged to be allowed to send a letter to her sister before they took her away. one of the officers insisted that she should have the privilege, and the other that she should not. the former conquered in the contest, and elizabeth wrote the letter and sent it. it contained an earnest and solemn disavowal of all participation in the plots which she had been charged with encouraging, and begged mary to believe that she was innocent, and allow her to be released. the letter did no good. elizabeth was taken into the barge and conveyed in a very private manner down the river. hampton court is above london, several miles, and the tower is just below the city. there are several entrances to this vast castle, some of them by stairs from the river. among these is one by which prisoners accused of great political crimes were usually taken in, and which is called the traitors' gate. there was another entrance, also, from the river, by which a more honorable admission to the fortress might be attained. the tower was not solely a prison. it was often a place of retreat for kings and queens from any sudden danger, and was frequently occupied by them as a somewhat permanent residence. there were a great number of structures within the walls, in some of which royal apartments were fitted up with great splendor. elizabeth had often been in the tower as a resident or a visitor, and thus far there was nothing in the circumstances of the case to forbid the supposition that they might be taking her there as a guest or resident now. she was anxious and uneasy, it is true, but she was not certain that she was regarded as a prisoner. in the mean time, the barge, with the other boats in attendance, passed down the river in the rain, for it was a stormy day, a circumstance which aided the authorities in their effort to convey their captive to her gloomy prison without attracting the attention of the populace. besides, it was the day of some great religious festival, when the people were generally in the churches. this day had been chosen on that very account. the barge and the boats came down the river, therefore, without attracting much attention; they approached the landing-place at last, and stopped at the flight of steps leading up from the water to the traitors' gate. elizabeth declared that she was no traitor, and that she would not be landed there. the nobleman who had charge of her told her simply, in reply, that she could not have her choice of a place to land. at the same time, he offered her his cloak to protect her from the rain in passing from the barge to the castle gate. umbrellas had not been invented in those days. elizabeth threw the cloak away from her in vexation and anger. she found, however, that it was of no use to resist. she could not choose. she stepped from the barge out upon the stairs in the rain, saying, as she did so, "here lands as true and faithful a subject as ever landed a prisoner at these stairs. before thee, o god, i speak it, having now no friends but thee alone." a large company of the warders and keepers of the castle had been drawn up at the traitors' gate to receive her, as was customary on occasions when prisoners of high rank were to enter the tower. as these men were always dressed in uniform of a peculiar antique character, such a parade of them made quite an imposing appearance. elizabeth asked what it meant. they told her that that was the customary mode of receiving a prisoner. she said that if it was, she hoped that they would dispense with the ceremony in her case, and asked that, for her sake, the men might be dismissed from such attendance in so inclement a season. the men blessed her for her goodness, and kneeled down and prayed that god would preserve her. she was extremely unwilling to go into the prison. as they approached the part of the edifice where she was to be confined, through the court-yard of the tower, she stopped and sat down upon a stone, perhaps a step, or the curb stone of a walk. the lieutenant urged her to go in out of the cold and wet. "better sitting here than in a worse place," she replied, "for god knoweth whither you are bringing me." however, she rose and went on. she entered the prison, was conducted to her room, and the doors were locked and bolted upon her. elizabeth was kept closely imprisoned for a month; after that, some little relaxation in the strictness of her seclusion was allowed. permission was very reluctantly granted to her to walk every day in the royal apartments, which were now unoccupied, so that there was no society to be found there, but it afforded her a sort of pleasure to range through them for recreation and exercise. but this privilege could not be accorded without very strict limitations and conditions. two officers of the tower and three women had to attend her; the windows, too, were shut, and she was not permitted to go and look out at them. this was rather melancholy recreation, it must be allowed, but it was better than being shut up all day in a single apartment, bolted and barred. [illustration: elizabeth in the tower.] there was a small garden within the castle not far from the prison, and after some time elizabeth was permitted to walk there. the gates and doors, however, were kept carefully closed, and all the prisoners, whose rooms looked into it from the surrounding buildings, were closely watched by their respective keepers, while elizabeth was in the garden, to prevent their having any communication with her by looks or signs. there were a great many persons confined at this time, who had been arrested on charges connected with wyatt's rebellion, and the authorities seem to have been very specially vigilant to prevent the possibility of elizabeth's having communication with any of them. there was a little child of five years of age who used to come and visit elizabeth in her room, and bring her flowers. he was the son of one of the subordinate officers of the tower. it was, however, at last suspected that he was acting as a messenger between elizabeth and courteney. courteney, it will be recollected, had been sent by mary back to the tower again, so that he and elizabeth were now suffering the same hard fate in neighboring cells. when the boy was suspected of bearing communications between these friends and companions in suffering, he was called before an officer and closely examined. his answers were all open and childlike, and gave no confirmation to the idea which had been entertained. the child, however, was forbidden to go to elizabeth's apartment any more. he was very much grieved at this, and he watched for the next time that elizabeth was to walk in the garden, and putting his mouth to a hole in the gate, he called out, "lady, i can not bring you any more flowers." after elizabeth had been thus confined about three months, she was one day terribly alarmed by the sounds of martial parade within the tower, produced by the entrance of an officer from queen mary, named sir thomas beddingfield, at the head of three hundred men. elizabeth supposed that they were come to execute sentence of death upon her. she asked immediately if the platform on which lady jane grey was beheaded had been taken away. they told her that it had been removed. she was then somewhat relieved. they afterward told her that sir thomas had come to take her away from the tower, but that it was not known where she was to go. this alarmed her again, and she sent for the constable of the tower, whose name was lord chandos, and questioned him very closely to learn what they were going to do with her. he said that it had been decided to remove her from the tower, and send her to a place called woodstock, where she was to remain under sir thomas beddingfield's custody, at a royal palace which was situated there. woodstock is forty or fifty miles to the westward of london, and not far from the city of oxford. elizabeth was very much alarmed at this intelligence. her mind was filled with vague and uncertain fears and forebodings, which were none the less oppressive for being uncertain and vague. she had, however, no immediate cause for apprehension. mary found that there was no decisive evidence against her, and did not dare to keep her a prisoner in the tower too long. there was a large and influential part of the kingdom who were protestants. they were jealous of the progress mary was making toward bringing the catholic religion in again. they abhorred the spanish match. they naturally looked to elizabeth as their leader and head, and mary thought that by too great or too long-continued harshness in her treatment of elizabeth, she would only exasperate them, and perhaps provoke a new outbreak against her authority. she determined, therefore, to remove the princess from the tower to some less odious place of confinement. she was taken first to queen mary's court, which was then held at richmond, just above london; but she was surrounded here by soldiers and guards, and confined almost as strictly as before. she was destined, however, here to another surprise. it was a proposition of marriage. mary had been arranging a plan for making her the wife of a certain personage styled the duke of savoy. his dominions were on the confines of switzerland and france, and mary thought that if her rival were once married and removed there, all the troubles which she, mary, had experienced on her account would be ended forever. she thought, too, that her sister would be glad to accept this offer, which opened such an immediate escape from the embarrassments and sufferings of her situation in england. but elizabeth was prompt, decided, and firm in the rejection of this plan. england was her home, and to be queen of england the end and aim of all her wishes and plans. she had rather continue a captive for the present in her native land, than to live in splendor as the consort of a sovereign duke beyond the rhone. mary then ordered sir thomas beddingfield to take her to woodstock. she traveled on horseback, and was several days on the journey. her passage through the country attracted great attention. the people assembled by the wayside, expressing their kind wishes, and offering her gifts. the bells were rung in the villages through which she passed. she arrived finally at woodstock, and was shut up in the palace there. this was in july, and she remained in woodstock more than a year, not, however, always very closely confined. at christmas she was taken to court, and allowed to share in the festivities and rejoicings. on this occasion--it was the first christmas after the marriage of mary and philip--the great hall of the palace was illuminated with a thousand lamps. the princess sat at table next to the king and queen. she was on other occasions, too, taken away for a time, and then returned again to her seclusion at woodstock. these changes, perhaps, only served to make her feel more than ever the hardships of her lot. they say that one day, as she sat at her window, she heard a milk-maid singing in the fields, in a blithe and merry strain, and said, with a sigh, that she wished she was a milk-maid too. king philip, after his marriage, gradually interested himself in her behalf, and exerted his influence to have her released; and mary's ministers had frequent interviews with her, and endeavored to induce her to make some confession of guilt, and to petition mary for release as a matter of mercy. they could not, they said, release her while she persisted in her innocence, without admitting that they and mary had been in the wrong, and had imprisoned her unjustly. but the princess was immovable. she declared that she was perfectly innocent, and that she would never, therefore, say that she was guilty. she would rather remain in prison for the truth, than be at liberty and have it believed that she had been guilty of disloyalty and treason. at length, one evening in may, elizabeth received a summons to go to the palace and visit mary in her chamber. she was conducted there by torch-light. she had a long interview with the queen, the conversation being partly in english and partly in spanish. it was not very satisfactory on either side. elizabeth persisted in asserting her innocence, but in other respects she spoke in a kind and conciliatory manner to the queen. the interview ended in a sort of reconciliation. mary put a valuable ring upon elizabeth's finger in token of the renewal of friendship, and soon afterward the long period of restraint and confinement was ended, and the princess returned to her own estate at hatfield in hertfordshire, where she lived some time in seclusion, devoting herself, in a great measure, to the study of latin and greek, under the instructions of roger ascham. chapter vi. accession to the throne 1555-1558 mary's unhappy reign.--unrequited love.--mary's sufferings.--her religious principles.--progress of mary's catholic zeal.--her moderation at first.--mary's terrible persecution of the protestants.--burning at the stake.--the title of bloody given to mary.--mary and elizabeth reconciled.--scenes of festivity.--the war with france.--loss of calais.--murmurs of the english.--king of sweden's proposal to elizabeth.--mary's energy.--mary's privy council alarmed.--their perplexity.--uncertainty about elizabeth's future course.--her cautious policy.--death of mary.--announcement to parliament.--elizabeth proclaimed.--joy of the people.--the te deum.--elizabeth's emotions.--cecil made secretary of state.--his faithfulness.--elizabeth's charge to cecil.--her journey to london.--elizabeth's triumphant entrance into the tower.--the coronation.--pageants in the streets.--devices.--presentation of the bible.--the heavy purse.--the sprig of rosemary.--the wedding ring. if it were the story of mary instead of that of elizabeth that we were following, we should have now to pause and draw a very melancholy picture of the scenes which darkened the close of the queen's unfortunate and unhappy history. mary loved her husband, but she could not secure his love in return. he treated her with supercilious coldness and neglect, and evinced, from time to time, a degree of interest in other ladies which awakened her jealousy and anger. of all the terrible convulsions to which the human soul is subject, there is not one which agitates it more deeply than the tumult of feeling produced by the mingling of resentment and love. such a mingling, or, rather, such a conflict, between passions apparently inconsistent with each other, is generally considered not possible by those who have never experienced it. but it is possible. it is possible to be stung with a sense of the ingratitude, and selfishness, and cruelty of an object, which, after all, the heart will persist in clinging to with the fondest affection. vexation and anger, a burning sense of injury, and desire for revenge, on the one hand, and feelings of love, resistless and uncontrollable, and bearing, in their turn, all before them, alternately get possession of the soul, harrowing and devastating it in their awful conflict, and even sometimes reigning over it, for a time, in a temporary but dreadful calm, like that of two wrestlers who pause a moment, exhausted in a mortal combat, but grappling each other with deadly energy all the time, while they are taking breath for a renewal of the conflict. queen mary, in one of these paroxysms, seized a portrait of her husband and tore it into shreds. the reader, who has his or her experience in affairs of the heart yet to come, will say, perhaps, her love for him then must have been all gone. no; it was at its height. we do not tear the portraits of those who are indifferent to us. at the beginning of her reign, and, in fact, during all the previous periods of her life, mary had been an honest and conscientious catholic. she undoubtedly truly believed that the christian church ought to be banded together in one great communion, with the pope of rome as its spiritual head, and that her father had broken away from this communion--which was, in fact, strictly true--merely to obtain a pretext for getting released from her mother. how natural, under such circumstances, that she should have desired to return. she commenced, immediately on her accession, a course of measures to bring the nation back to the roman catholic communion. she managed very prudently and cautiously at first--especially while the affair of her marriage was pending--seemingly very desirous of doing nothing to exasperate those who were of the protestant faith, or even to awaken their opposition. after she was married, however, her desire to please her catholic husband, and his widely-extended and influential circle of catholic friends on the continent, made her more eager to press forward the work of putting down the reformation in england; and as her marriage was now effected, she was less concerned about the consequences of any opposition which she might excite. then, besides, her temper, never very sweet, was sadly soured by her husband's treatment of her. she vented her ill will upon those who would not yield to her wishes in respect to their religious faith. she caused more and more severe laws to be passed, and enforced them by more and more severe penalties. the more she pressed these violent measures, the more the fortitude and resolution of those who suffered from them were aroused. and, on the other hand, the more they resisted, the more determined she became that she would compel them to submit. she went on from one mode of coercion to another, until she reached the last possible point, and inflicted the most dreadful physical suffering which it is possible for man to inflict upon his fellow-man. this worst and most terrible injury is to burn the living victim in a fire. that a woman could ever order this to be done would seem to be incredible. queen mary, however, and her government, were so determined to put down, at all hazards, all open disaffection to the catholic cause, that they did not give up the contest until they had burned nearly three hundred persons by fire, of whom more than fifty were women, and _four were children_! this horrible persecution was, however, of no avail. dissentients increased faster than they could be burned; and such dreadful punishments became at last so intolerably odious to the nation that they were obliged to desist, and then the various ministers of state concerned in them attempted to throw off the blame upon each other. the english nation have never forgiven mary for these atrocities. they gave her the name of bloody mary at the time, and she has retained it to the present day. in one of the ancient histories of the realm, at the head of the chapter devoted to mary, there is placed, as an appropriate emblem of the character of her reign, the picture of a man writhing helplessly at a stake, with the flames curling around him, and a ferocious-looking soldier standing by, stirring up the fire. the various disappointments, vexations, and trials which mary endured toward the close of her life, had one good effect; they softened the animosity which she had felt toward elizabeth, and in the end something like a friendship seemed to spring up between the sisters. abandoned by her husband, and looked upon with dislike or hatred by her subjects, and disappointed in all her plans, she seemed to turn at last to elizabeth for companionship and comfort. the sisters visited each other. first elizabeth went to london to visit the queen, and was received with great ceremony and parade. then the queen went to hatfield to visit the princess, attended by a large company of ladies and gentlemen of the court, and several days were spent there in festivities and rejoicings. there were plays in the palace, and a bear-baiting in the court-yard, and hunting in the park, and many other schemes of pleasure. this renewal of friendly intercourse between the queen and the princess brought the latter gradually out of her retirement. now that the queen began to evince a friendly spirit toward her, it was safe for others to show her kindness and to pay her attention. the disposition to do this increased rapidly as mary's health gradually declined, and it began to be understood that she would not live long, and that, consequently, elizabeth would soon be called to the throne. the war which mary had been drawn into with france, by philip's threat that he would never see her again, proved very disastrous. the town of calais, which is opposite to dover, across the straits, and, of course, on the french side of the channel, had been in the possession of the english for two hundred years. it was very gratifying to english pride to hold possession of such a stronghold on the french shore; but now every thing seemed to go against mary. calais was defended by a citadel nearly as large as the town itself, and was deemed impregnable. in addition to this, an enormous english force was concentrated there. the french general, however, contrived, partly by stratagem, and partly by overpowering numbers of troops, and ships, and batteries of cannon, to get possession of the whole. the english nation were indignant at this result. their queen and her government, so energetic in imprisoning and burning her own subjects at home, were powerless, it seemed, in coping with their enemies abroad. murmurs of dissatisfaction were heard every where, and mary sank down upon her sick bed overwhelmed with disappointment, vexation, and chagrin. she said that she should die, and that if, after her death, they examined her body, they would find calais like a load upon her heart. in the mean time, it must have been elizabeth's secret wish that she would die, since her death would release the princess from all the embarrassments and restraints of her position, and raise her at once to the highest pinnacle of honor and power. she remained, however, quietly at hatfield, acting in all things in a very discreet and cautious manner. at one time she received proposals from the king of sweden that she would accept of his son as her husband. she asked the embassador if he had communicated the affair to mary. on his replying that he had not, elizabeth said that she could not entertain at all any such question, unless her sister were first consulted and should give her approbation. she acted on the same principles in every thing, being very cautious to give mary and her government no cause of complaint against her, and willing to wait patiently until her own time should come. though mary's disappointments and losses filled her mind with anguish and suffering, they did not soften her heart. she seemed to grow more cruel and vindictive the more her plans and projects failed. adversity vexed and irritated, instead of calming and subduing her. she revived her persecutions of the protestants. she fitted out a fleet of a hundred and twenty ships to make a descent upon the french coast, and attempt to retrieve her fallen fortunes there. she called parliament together and asked for more supplies. all this time she was confined to her sick chamber, but not considered in danger. the parliament were debating the question of supplies. her privy council were holding daily meetings to carry out the plans and schemes which she still continued to form, and all was excitement and bustle in and around the court, when one day the council was thunderstruck by an announcement that she was dying. they knew very well that her death would be a terrible blow to them. they were all catholics, and had been mary's instruments in the terrible persecutions with which she had oppressed the protestant faith. with mary's death, of course they would fall. a protestant princess was ready, at hatfield, to ascend the throne. every thing would be changed, and there was even danger that they might, in their turn, be sent to the stake, in retaliation for the cruelties which they had caused others to suffer. they made arrangements to have mary's death, whenever it should take place, concealed for a few hours, till they could consider what they should do. there was _nothing_ that they could do. there was now no other considerable claimant to the throne but elizabeth, except mary queen of scots, who was far away in france. she was a catholic, it was true; but to bring her into the country and place her upon the throne seemed to be a hopeless undertaking. queen mary's counselors soon found that they must give up their cause in despair. any attempt to resist elizabeth's claims would be high treason, and, of course, if unsuccessful, would bring the heads of all concerned in it to the block. besides, it was not _certain_ that elizabeth would act decidedly as a protestant. she had been very prudent and cautious during mary's reign, and had been very careful never to manifest any hostility to the catholics. she never had acted as mary had done on the occasion of her brother's funeral, when she refused even to countenance with her presence the national service because it was under protestant forms. elizabeth had always accompanied mary to mass whenever occasion required; she had always spoken respectfully of the catholic faith; and once she asked mary to lend her some catholic books, in order that she might inform herself more fully on the subject of the principles of the roman faith. it is true, she acted thus not because there was any real leaning in her mind toward the catholic religion; it was all merely a wise and sagacious policy. surrounded by difficulties and dangers as she was during mary's reign, her only hope of safety was in passing as quietly as possible along, and managing warily, so as to keep the hostility which was burning secretly against her from breaking out into an open flame. this was her object in retiring so much from the court and from all participation in public affairs, in avoiding all religious and political contests, and spending her time in the study of greek, and latin, and philosophy. the consequence was, that when mary died, nobody knew certainly what course elizabeth would pursue. nobody had any strong motive for opposing her succession. the council, therefore, after a short consultation, concluded to do nothing but simply to send a message to the house of lords, announcing to them the unexpected death of the queen. the house of lords, on receiving this intelligence, sent for the commons to come into their hall, as is usual when any important communication is to be made to them either by the lords themselves or by the sovereign. the chancellor, who is the highest civil officer of the kingdom in respect to rank, and who presides in the house of lords, clothed in a magnificent antique costume, then rose and announced to the commons, standing before him, the death of the sovereign. there was a moment's solemn pause, such as propriety on the occasion of an announcement like this required, all thoughts being, too, for a moment turned to the chamber where the body of the departed queen was lying. but the sovereignty was no longer there. the mysterious principle had fled with the parting breath, and elizabeth, though wholly unconscious of it, had been for several hours the queen. the thoughts, therefore, of the august and solemn assembly lingered but for a moment in the royal palace, which had now lost all its glory; they soon turned spontaneously, and with eager haste, to the new sovereign at hatfield, and the lofty arches of the parliament hall rung with loud acclamations, "god save queen elizabeth, and grant her a long and happy reign." the members of the parliament went forth immediately to proclaim the new queen. there are two principal places where it was then customary to proclaim the english sovereigns. one of these was before the royal palace at westminster, and the other in the city of london, at a very public place called the great cross at cheapside. the people assembled in great crowds at these points to witness the ceremony, and received the announcement which the heralds made, with the most ardent expressions of joy. the bells were every where rung; tables were spread in the streets, and booths erected, bonfires and illuminations were prepared for the evening, and every thing indicated a deep and universal joy. in fact, this joy was so strongly expressed as to be even in some degree disrespectful to the memory of the departed queen. there is a famous ancient latin hymn which has long been sung in england and on the continent of europe on occasions of great public rejoicing. it is called the _te deum_, or sometimes the _te deum laudamus_. these last are the three latin words with which the hymn commences, and mean, _thee, god, we praise_. they sung the _te deum_ in the churches of london on the sunday after mary died. in the mean time, messengers from the council proceeded with all speed to hatfield, to announce to elizabeth the death of her sister, and her own accession to the sovereign power. the tidings, of course, filled elizabeth's mind with the deepest emotions. the oppressive sense of constraint and danger which she had endured as her daily burden for so many years, was lifted suddenly from her soul. she could not but rejoice, though she was too much upon her guard to express her joy. she was overwhelmed with a profound agitation, and, kneeling down, she exclaimed in latin, "it is the lord's doing, and it is wonderful in our eyes." several of the members of mary's privy council repaired immediately to hatfield. the queen summoned them to attend her, and in their presence appointed her chief secretary of state. his name was sir william cecil. he was a man of great learning and ability, and he remained in office under elizabeth for forty years. he became her chief adviser and instrument, an able, faithful, and indefatigable servant and friend during almost the whole of her reign. his name is accordingly indissolubly connected with that of elizabeth in all the political events which occurred while she continued upon the throne, and it will, in consequence, very frequently occur in the sequel of this history. he was now about forty years of age. elizabeth was twenty-five. elizabeth had known cecil long before. he had been a faithful and true friend to her in her adversity. he had been, in many cases, a confidential adviser, and had maintained a secret correspondence with her in certain trying periods of her life. she had resolved, doubtless, to make him her chief secretary of state so soon as she should succeed to the throne. and now that the time had arrived, she instated him solemnly in his office. in so doing, she pronounced, in the hearing of the other members of the council, the following charge: "i give you this charge that you shall be of my privy council, and content yourself to take pains for me and my realm. this judgment i have of you, that you will not be corrupted with any gift; and that you will be faithful to the state; and that, without respect of my private will, you will give me that counsel that you think best; and that, if you shall know any thing necessary to be declared to me of secrecy you shall show it to myself only; and assure yourself i will not fail to keep taciturnity therein. and therefore herewith i charge you." [illustration: elizabeth's progress to london.] it was about a week after the death of mary before the arrangements were completed for elizabeth's journey to london, to take possession of the castles and palaces which pertain there to the english sovereigns. she was followed on this journey by a train of about a thousand attendants, all nobles or personages of high rank, both gentlemen and ladies. she went first to a palace called the charter house, near london, where she stopped until preparations could be made for her formal and public entrance into the tower; not, as before, through the traitors' gate, a prisoner, but openly, through the grand entrance, in the midst of acclamations as the proud and applauded sovereign of the mighty realm whose capital the ancient fortress was stationed to defend. the streets through which the gorgeous procession was to pass were spread with fine, smooth gravel; bands of musicians were stationed at intervals, and decorated arches, and banners, and flags, with countless devices of loyalty and welcome, and waving handkerchiefs, greeted her all the way. heralds and other great officers, magnificently dressed, and mounted on horses richly caparisoned, rode before her, announcing her approach, with trumpets and proclamations; while she followed in the train, mounted upon a beautiful horse, the object of universal homage. thus elizabeth entered the tower; and inasmuch as forgetting her friends is a fault with which she can not justly be charged, we may _hope_, at least, that one of the first acts which she performed, after getting established in the royal apartments, was to send for and reward the kind-hearted child who had been reprimanded for bringing her the flowers. the coronation, when the time arrived for it, was very splendid. the queen went in state in a sumptuous chariot, preceded by trumpeters and heralds in armor, and accompanied by a long train of noblemen, barons, and gentlemen, and also of ladies, all most richly dressed in crimson velvet, the trappings of the horses being of the same material. the people of london thronged all the streets through which she was to pass, and made the air resound with shouts and acclamations. there were triumphal arches erected here and there on the way, with a great variety of odd and quaint devices, and a child stationed upon each, who explained the devices to elizabeth as she passed, in english verse, written for the occasion. one of these pageants was entitled "the seat of worthy governance." there was a throne, supported by figures which represented the cardinal virtues, such as piety, wisdom, temperance, industry, truth, and beneath their feet were the opposite vices, superstition, ignorance, intemperance, idleness, and falsehood: these the virtues were trampling upon. on the throne was a representation of elizabeth. at one place were eight personages dressed to represent the eight beatitudes pronounced by our savior in his sermon on the mount--the meek, the merciful, &c. each of these qualities was ingeniously ascribed to elizabeth. this could be done with much more propriety then than in subsequent years. in another place, an ancient figure, representing time, came out of a cave which had been artificially constructed with great ingenuity, leading his daughter, whose name was truth. truth had an english bible in her hands, which she presented to elizabeth as she passed. this had a great deal of meaning; for the catholic government of mary had discouraged the circulation of the scriptures in the vernacular tongue. when the procession arrived in the middle of the city, some officers of the city government approached the queen's chariot, and delivered to her a present of a very large and heavy purse filled with gold. the queen had to employ both hands in lifting it in. it contained an amount equal in value to two or three thousand dollars. the queen was very affable and gracious to all the people on the way. poor women would come up to her carriage and offer her flowers, which she would very condescendingly accept. several times she stopped her carriage when she saw that any one wished to speak with her, or had something to offer; and so great was the exaltation of a queen in those days, in the estimation of mankind, that these acts were considered by all the humble citizens of london as acts of very extraordinary affability, and they awakened universal enthusiasm. there was one branch of rosemary given to the queen by a poor woman in fleet street; the queen put it up conspicuously in the carriage, where it remained all the way, watched by ten thousand eyes, till it got to westminster. the coronation took place at westminster on the following day. the crown was placed upon the young maiden's head in the midst of a great throng of ladies and gentlemen, who were all superbly dressed, and who made the vast edifice in which the service was performed ring with their acclamations and their shouts of "long live the queen!" during the ceremonies, elizabeth placed a wedding ring upon her finger with great formality, to denote that she considered the occasion as the celebration of her _espousal_ to the realm of england; she was that day a bride, and should never have, she said, any other husband. she kept this, the only wedding ring she ever wore, upon her finger, without once removing it, for more than forty years. chapter vii. the war in scotland. 1559-1560 elizabeth and mary queen of scots.--their rivalry.--character of mary.--character of elizabeth.--elizabeth's celebrity while living.--interest in mary when dead.--real nature of the question at issue between mary and elizabeth.--the two marriages.--one or the other necessarily null.--views of mary's friends.--views of elizabeth's friends.--circumstances of henry the eighth's first marriage.--the papal dispensation.--doubts about it.--england turns protestant.--the marriage annulled.--mary in france.--she becomes queen of france.--mary's pretensions to the english crown.--elizabeth's fears.--measures of elizabeth.--progress of protestantism in scotland.--difficulties in scotland.--elizabeth's interference.--fruitless negotiations.--the war goes on.--the french shut up in leith.--situation of the town.--the english victorious.--the treaty of edinburgh.--stipulations of the treaty.--mary refuses to ratify it.--death of mary's husband.--she returns to scotland. queen elizabeth and mary queen of scots are strongly associated together in the minds of all readers of english history. they were cotemporary sovereigns, reigning at the same time over sister kingdoms. they were cousins, and yet, precisely on account of the family relationship which existed between them, they became implacable foes. the rivalry and hostility, sometimes open and sometimes concealed, was always in action, and, after a contest of more than twenty years, elizabeth triumphed. she made mary her prisoner, kept her many years a captive, and at last closed the contest by commanding, or at least allowing, her fallen rival to be beheaded. thus elizabeth had it all her own way while the scenes of her life and of mary's were transpiring, but since that time mankind have generally sympathized most strongly with the conquered one, and condemned the conqueror. there are several reasons for this, and among them is the vast influence exerted by the difference in the personal character of the parties. mary was beautiful, feminine in spirit, and lovely. elizabeth was talented, masculine, and plain. mary was artless, unaffected, and gentle. elizabeth was heartless, intriguing, and insincere. with mary, though her ruling principle was ambition, her ruling passion was love. her love led her to great transgressions and into many sorrows, but mankind pardon the sins and pity the sufferings which are caused by love more readily than those of any other origin. with elizabeth, ambition was the ruling principle, and the ruling passion too. love, with her, was only a pastime. her transgressions were the cool, deliberate, well-considered acts of selfishness and desire of power. during her life-time her success secured her the applauses of the world. the world is always ready to glorify the greatness which rises visibly before it, and to forget sufferings which are meekly and patiently borne in seclusion and solitude. men praised and honored elizabeth, therefore, while she lived, and neglected mary. but since the halo and the fascination of the visible greatness and glory have passed away, they have found a far greater charm in mary's beauty and misfortune than in her great rival's pride and power. there is often thus a great difference in the comparative interest we take in persons or scenes, when, on the one hand, they are realities before our eyes, and when, on the other, they are only imaginings which are brought to our minds by pictures or descriptions. the hardships which it was very disagreeable or painful to bear, afford often great amusement or pleasure in the recollection. the old broken gate which a gentleman would not tolerate an hour upon his grounds, is a great beauty in the picture which hangs in his parlor. we shun poverty and distress while they are actually existing; nothing is more disagreeable to us; and we gaze upon prosperity and wealth with never-ceasing pleasure. but when they are gone, and we have only the tale to hear, it is the story of sorrow and suffering which possesses the charm. thus it happened that when the two queens were living realities, elizabeth was the center of attraction and the object of universal homage; but when they came to be themes of history, all eyes and hearts began soon to turn instinctively to mary. it was london, and westminster, and kenilworth that possessed the interest while elizabeth lived, but it is holyrood and loch leven now. it results from these causes that mary's story is read far more frequently than elizabeth's, and this operates still further to the advantage of the former, for we are always prone to take sides with the heroine of the tale we are reading. all these considerations, which have had so much influence on the judgment men form, or, rather, on the feeling to which they incline in this famous contest, have, it must be confessed, very little to do with the true merits of the case. and if we make a serious attempt to lay all such considerations aside, and to look into the controversy with cool and rigid impartiality, we shall find it very difficult to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion. there are two questions to be decided. in advancing their conflicting claims to the english crown, was it elizabeth or mary that was in the right? if elizabeth was right, were the measures which she resorted to to secure her own rights, and to counteract mary's pretensions, politically justifiable? we do not propose to add our own to the hundred decisions which various writers have given to this question, but only to narrate the facts, and leave each reader to come to his own conclusions. the foundation of the long and dreadful quarrel between these royal cousins was, as has been already remarked, their consanguinity, which made them both competitors for the same throne; and as that throne was, in some respects, the highest and most powerful in the world, it is not surprising that two such ambitious women should be eager and persevering in their contest for it. by turning to the genealogical table on page 68, where a view is presented of the royal family of england in the time of elizabeth, the reader will see once more what was the precise relationship which the two queens bore to each other and to the succession. by this table it is very evident that elizabeth was the true inheritor of the crown, provided it were admitted that she was the lawful daughter and heir of king henry the eighth, and this depended on the question of the validity of her father's marriage with his first wife, catharine of aragon; for, as has been before said, he was married to anne boleyn before obtaining any thing like a divorce from catharine; consequently, the marriage with elizabeth's mother could not be legally valid, unless that with catharine had been void _from the beginning_. the friends of mary queen of scots maintained that it was not thus void, and that, consequently, the marriage with anne boleyn was null; that elizabeth, therefore, the descendant of the marriage, was not, legally and technically, a daughter of henry the eighth, and, consequently, not entitled to inherit his crown; and that the crown, of right, ought to descend to the next heir, that is, to mary queen of scots herself. queen elizabeth's friends and partisans maintained, on the other hand, that the marriage of king henry with catharine was null and void from the beginning, because catharine had been before the wife of his brother. the circumstances of this marriage were very curious and peculiar. it was his father's work, and not his own. his father was king henry the seventh. henry the seventh had several children, and among them were his two oldest sons, arthur and henry. when arthur was about sixteen years old, his father, being very much in want of money, conceived the plan of replenishing his coffers by marrying his son to a rich wife. he accordingly contracted a marriage between him and catharine of aragon, catharine's father agreeing to pay him two hundred thousand crowns as her dowry. the juvenile bridegroom enjoyed the honors and pleasures of married life for a few months, and then died. this event was a great domestic calamity to the king, not because he mourned the loss of his son, but that he could not bear the idea of the loss of the dowry. by the law and usage in such cases, he was bound not only to forego the payment of the other half of the dowry, but he had himself no right to retain the half that he had already received. while his son lived, being a minor, the father might, not improperly, hold the money in his son's name; but when he died this right ceased, and as arthur left no child, henry perceived that he should be obliged to pay back the money. to avoid this unpleasant necessity, the king conceived the plan of marrying the youthful widow again to his second boy, henry, who was about a year younger than arthur, and he made proposals to this effect to the king of aragon. the king of aragon made no objection to this proposal, except that it was a thing unheard of among christian nations, or heard of only to be condemned, for a man or even a boy to marry his brother's widow. all laws, human and divine, were clear and absolute against this. still, if the dispensation of the pope could be obtained, he would make no objection. catharine might espouse the second boy, and he would allow the one hundred thousand crowns already paid to stand, and would also pay the other hundred thousand. the dispensation was accordingly obtained, and every thing made ready for the marriage. very soon after this, however, and before the new marriage was carried into effect, king henry the seventh died, and this second boy, now the oldest son, though only about seventeen years of age, ascended the throne as king henry the eighth. there was great discussion and debate, soon after his accession, whether the marriage which his father had arranged should proceed. some argued that no papal dispensation could authorize or justify such a marriage. others maintained that a papal dispensation could legalize any thing; for it is a doctrine of the catholic church that the pope has a certain discretionary power over all laws, human and divine, under the authority given to his great predecessor, the apostle peter, by the words of christ: "whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven."[c] henry seems not to have puzzled his head at all with the legal question; he wanted to have the young widow for his wife, and he settled the affair on that ground alone. they were married. [footnote c: matthew, xvi. 19] catharine was a faithful and dutiful spouse; but when, at last, henry fell in love with anne boleyn, he made these old difficulties a pretext for discarding her. he endeavored, as has been already related, to induce the papal authorities to annul their dispensation; because they would not do it, he espoused the protestant cause, and england, as a nation, seceded from the catholic communion. the ecclesiastical and parliamentary authorities of his own realm then, being made protestant, annulled the marriage, and thus anne boleyn, to whom he had previously been married by a private ceremony, became legally and technically his wife. if this annulling of his first marriage were valid, then elizabeth was his heir--otherwise not; for if the pope's dispensation was to stand, then catharine was a wife. anne boleyn would in that case, of course, have been only a companion, and elizabeth, claiming through her, a usurper. the question, thus, was very complicated. it branched into extensive ramifications, which opened a wide field of debate, and led to endless controversies. it is not probable, however, that mary queen of scots, or her friends, gave themselves much trouble about the legal points at issue. she and they were all catholics, and it was sufficient for them to know that the holy father at rome had sanctioned the marriage of catharine, and that that marriage, if allowed to stand, made her the queen of england. she was at this time in france. she had been sent there at a very early period of her life, to escape the troubles of her native land, and also to be educated. she was a gentle and beautiful child, and as she grew up amid the gay scenes and festivities of paris, she became a very great favorite, being universally beloved. she married at length, though while she was still quite young, the son of the french king. her young husband became king himself soon afterward, on account of his father's being killed, in a very remarkable manner, at a tournament; and thus mary, queen of scots before, became also queen of france now. all these events, passed over thus very summarily here, are narrated in full detail in the history of mary queen of scots pertaining to this series. while mary was thus residing in france as the wife of the king, she was surrounded by a very large and influential circle, who were catholics like herself, and who were also enemies of elizabeth and of england, and glad to find any pretext for disturbing her reign. these persons brought forward mary's claim. they persuaded mary that she was fairly entitled to the english crown. they awakened her youthful ambition, and excited strong desires in her heart to attain to the high elevation of queen of england. mary at length assumed the title in some of her official acts, and combined the arms of england with those of scotland in the escutcheons with which her furniture and her plate were emblazoned. when queen elizabeth learned that mary was advancing such pretensions to her crown, she was made very uneasy by it. there was, perhaps, no immediate danger, but then there was a very large catholic party in england, and they would naturally espouse mary's cause and they might, at some future time, gather strength so as to make elizabeth a great deal of trouble. she accordingly sent an embassador over to france to remonstrate against mary's advancing these pretensions. but she could get no satisfactory reply. mary would not disavow her claim to elizabeth's crown, nor would she directly assert it. elizabeth, then, knowing that all her danger lay in the power and influence of her own catholic subjects, went to work, very cautiously and warily, but in a very extended and efficient way, to establish the reformation, and to undermine and destroy all traces of catholic power. she proceeded in this work with great circumspection, so as not to excite opposition or alarm. in the mean time, the protestant cause was making progress in scotland too, by its own inherent energies, and against the influence of the government. finally, the scotch protestants organized themselves, and commenced an open rebellion against the regent whom mary had left in power while she was away. they sent to elizabeth to come and aid them. mary and her friends in france sent french troops to assist the government. elizabeth hesitated very much whether to comply with the request of the rebels. it is very dangerous for a sovereign to countenance rebellion in any way. then she shrunk, too, from the expense which she foresaw that such an attempt would involve. to fit out a fleet, and to levy and equip an army, and to continue the forces thus raised in action during a long and uncertain campaign, would cost a large sum of money, and elizabeth was constitutionally economical and frugal. but then, on the other hand, as she deliberated upon the affair long and, anxiously, both alone and with her council, she thought that, if she should so far succeed as to get the government of scotland into her power, she could compel mary to renounce forever all claims to the english crown, by threatening her, if she would not do it, with the loss of her own. finally, she decided on making the attempt. cecil, her wise and prudent counselor, strongly advised it. he said it was far better to carry on the contest with mary and the french in one of their countries than in her own. she began to make preparations. mary and the french government, on learning this, were alarmed in their turn. they sent word to elizabeth that for her to render countenance and aid to rebels in arms against their sovereign, in a sister kingdom, was wholly unjustifiable, and they remonstrated most earnestly against it. besides making this remonstrance, they offered, as an inducement of another kind, that if she would refrain from taking any part in the contest in scotland, they would restore to her the great town and citadel of calais, which her sister had been so much grieved to lose. to this elizabeth replied that, so long as mary adhered to her pretensions to the english crown, she should be compelled to take energetic measures to protect herself from them; and as to calais, the possession of a fishing town on a foreign coast was of no moment to her in comparison with the peace and security of her own realm. this answer did not tend to close the breach. besides the bluntness of the refusal of their offer, the french were irritated and vexed to hear their famous sea-port spoken of so contemptuously. elizabeth accordingly fitted out a fleet and an army, and sent them northward. a french fleet, with re-enforcements for mary's adherents in this contest, set sail from france at about the same time. it was a very important question to be determined which of these two fleets should get first upon the stage of action. [illustration: the firth of forth with leith and edinburgh in the distance.] in the mean time, the protestant party in scotland, or the rebels, as queen mary and her government called them, had had very hard work to maintain their ground. there was a large french force already there, and their co-operation and aid made the government too strong for the insurgents to resist. but, when elizabeth's english army crossed the frontier, the face of affairs was changed. the french forces retreated in their turn. the english army advanced. the scotch protestants came forth from the recesses of the highlands to which they had retreated, and, drawing closer and closer around the french and the government forces, they hemmed them in more and more narrowly, and at last shut them up in the ancient town of leith, to which they retreated in search of a temporary shelter, until the french fleet, with re-enforcements, should arrive. the town of leith is on the shore of the firth of forth, not far from edinburgh. it is the port or landing-place of edinburgh, in approaching it from the sea. it is on the southern shore of the firth, and edinburgh stands on higher land, about two miles south of it. leith was strongly fortified in those days, and the french army felt very secure there, though yet anxiously awaiting the arrival of the fleet which was to release them. the english army advanced in the mean time, eager to get possession of the city before the expected succors should arrive. the english made an assault upon the walls. the french, with desperate bravery, repelled it. the french made a sortie; that is, they rushed out of a sudden and attacked the english lines. the english concentrated their forces at the point attacked, and drove them back again. these struggles continued, both sides very eager for victory, and both watching all the time for the appearance of a fleet in the offing. at length, one day, a cloud of white sails appeared rounding the point of land which forms the southern boundary of the firth, and the french were thrown at once into the highest state of exultation and excitement. but this pleasure was soon turned into disappointment and chagrin by finding that it was elizabeth's fleet, and not theirs, which was coming into view. this ended the contest. the french fleet never arrived. it was dispersed and destroyed by a storm. the besieged army sent out a flag of truce, proposing to suspend hostilities until the terms of a treaty could be agreed upon. the truce was granted. commissioners were appointed on each side. these commissioners met at edinburgh, and agreed upon the terms of a permanent peace. the treaty, which is called in history the treaty of edinburgh, was solemnly signed by the commissioners appointed to make it, and then transmitted to england and to france to be ratified by the respective queens. queen elizabeth's forces and the french forces were then both, as the treaty provided, immediately withdrawn. the dispute, too, between the protestants and the catholics in scotland was also settled, though it is not necessary for our purpose in this narrative to explain particularly in what way. there was one point, however, in the stipulations of this treaty which is of essential importance in this narrative, and that is, that it was agreed that mary should relinquish all claims whatever to the english crown so long as elizabeth lived. this, in fact, was the essential point in the whole transaction. mary, it is true, was not present to agree to it; but the commissioners agreed to it in her name, and it was stipulated that mary should solemnly ratify the treaty as soon as it could be sent to her. but mary would not ratify it--at least so far as this last article was concerned. she said that she had no intention of doing any thing to molest elizabeth in her possession of the throne, but that as to herself, whatever rights might legally and justly belong to her, she could not consent to sign them away. the other articles of the treaty had, however, in the mean time, brought the war to a close, and both the french and english armies were withdrawn. neither party had any inclination to renew the conflict; but yet, so far as the great question between mary and elizabeth was concerned, the difficulty was as far from being settled as ever. in fact, it was in a worse position than before; for, in addition to her other grounds of complaint against mary, elizabeth now charged her with dishonorably refusing to be bound by a compact which had been solemnly made in her name, by agents whom she had fully authorized to make it. it was about this time that mary's husband, the king of france, died, and, after enduring various trials and troubles in france, mary concluded to return to her own realm. she sent to elizabeth to get a safe-conduct--a sort of permission allowing her to pass unmolested through the english seas. elizabeth refused to grant it unless mary would first ratify the treaty of edinburgh. this mary would not do, but undertook, rather, to get home without the permission. elizabeth sent ships to intercept her; but mary's little squadron, when they approached the shore, were hidden by a fog, and so she got safe to land. after this there was _quiet_ between mary and elizabeth for many years, but no peace. chapter viii. elizabeth's lovers. 1560-1581 claimants to the throne.--general character of elizabeth's reign.--elizabeth's suitors.--their motives.--philip of spain proposes.--his strange conduct.--elizabeth declines philip's proposal.--her reasons for so doing.--the english people wish elizabeth to be married.--petition of the parliament.--elizabeth's "gracious" reply.--elizabeth attacked with the small-pox.--alarm of the country.--the earl of leicester.--his character.--services of cecil.--elizabeth's attachment to leicester.--leicester's wife.--her mysterious death.--leicester hated by the people.--various rumors.--the torch-light conversation.--the servants quarrel.--splendid style of living.--public ceremonies.--elizabeth recommends leicester to mary queen of scots.--mary marries darnley.--elizabeth's visit to kenilworth.--leicester's marriage.--elizabeth sends him to prison.--prosperity of elizabeth's reign.--the duke of anjou.--catharine de medici.--she proposes her son to elizabeth.--quarrels of the favorites.--the shot.--the people oppose the match.--the arrangements completed.--the match broken off.--the duke's rage.--the duke's departure.--the farewell. elizabeth was now securely established upon her throne. it is true that mary queen of scots had not renounced her pretensions, but there was no immediate prospect of her making any attempt to realize them, and very little hope for her that she would be successful, if she were to undertake it. there were other claimants, it is true, but their claims were more remote and doubtful than mary's. these conflicting pretensions were likely to make the country some trouble after elizabeth's death, but there was very slight probability that they would sensibly molest elizabeth's possession of the throne during her life-time, though they caused her no little anxiety. the reign which elizabeth thus commenced was one of the longest, most brilliant, and, in many respects, the most prosperous in the whole series presented to our view in the long succession of english sovereigns. elizabeth continued a queen for forty-five years, during all which time she remained a single lady; and she died, at last, a venerable maiden, seventy years of age. it was not for want of lovers, or, rather, of admirers and suitors, that elizabeth lived single all her days. during the first twenty years of her reign, one half of her history is a history of matrimonial schemes and negotiations. it seemed as if all the marriageable princes and potentates of europe were seized, one after another, with a desire to share her seat upon the english throne. they tried every possible means to win her consent. they dispatched embassadors; they opened long negotiations; they sent her ship-loads of the most expensive presents: some of the nobles of high rank in her own realm expended their vast estates, and reduced themselves to poverty, in vain attempts to please her. elizabeth, like any other woman, loved these attentions. they pleased her vanity, and gratified those instinctive impulses of the female heart by which woman is fitted for happiness and love. elizabeth encouraged the hopes of those who addressed her sufficiently to keep them from giving up in despair and abandoning her. and in one or two cases she seemed to come very near yielding. but it always happened that, when the time arrived in which a final decision must be made, ambition and desire of power proved stronger than love, and she preferred continuing to occupy her lofty position by herself, alone. philip of spain, the husband of her sister mary, was the first of these suitors. he had seen elizabeth a good deal in england during his residence there, and had even taken her part in her difficulties with mary, and had exerted his influence to have her released from her confinement. as soon as mary died and elizabeth was proclaimed, one of her first acts was, as was very proper, to send an embassador to flanders to inform the bereaved husband of his loss. it is a curious illustration of the degree and kind of affection that philip had borne to his departed wife, that immediately on receiving intelligence of her death by elizabeth's embassador, he sent a special dispatch to his own embassador in london to make a proposal to elizabeth to take him for _her_ husband! elizabeth decided very soon to decline this proposal. she had ostensible reasons, and real reasons for this. the chief ostensible reason was, that philip was so inveterately hated by all the english people, and elizabeth was extremely desirous of being popular. she relied solely on the loyalty and faithfulness of her protestant subjects to maintain her rights to the succession, and she knew that if she displeased them by such an unpopular catholic marriage, her reliance upon them must be very much weakened. they might even abandon her entirely. the reason, therefore, that she assigned publicly was, that philip was a catholic, and that the connection could not, on that account, be agreeable to the english people. among the real reasons was one of a very peculiar nature. it happened that there was an objection to her marriage with philip similar to the one urged against that of henry with catharine of aragon. catharine had been the wife of henry's brother. philip had been the husband of elizabeth's sister. now philip had offered to procure the pope's dispensation, by which means this difficulty would be surmounted. but then all the world would say, that if this dispensation could legalize the latter marriage, the former must have been legalized by it, and this would destroy the marriage of anne boleyn, and with it all elizabeth's claims to the succession. she could not, then, marry philip, without, by the very act, effectually undermining all her own rights to the throne. she was far too subtle and wary to stumble into such a pitfall as that. elizabeth rejected this and some other offers, and one or two years passed away. in the mean time, the people of the country, though they had no wish to have her marry such a stern and heartless tyrant as philip of spain, were very uneasy at the idea of her not being married at all. her life would, of course, in due time, come to an end, and it was of immense importance to the peace and happiness of the realm that, after her death, there should be no doubt about the succession. if she were to be married and leave children, they would succeed to the throne without question; but if she were to die single and childless, the result would be, they feared, that the catholics would espouse the cause of mary queen of scots, and the protestants that of some protestant descendant of henry vii., and thus the country be involved in all the horrors of a protracted civil war. the house of commons in those days was a very humble council, convened to discuss and settle mere internal and domestic affairs, and standing at a vast distance from the splendor and power of royalty, to which it looked up with the profoundest reverence and awe. the commons, at the close of one of their sessions, ventured, in a very timid and cautious manner, to send a petition to the queen, urging her to consent, for the sake of the future peace of the realm, and the welfare of her subjects, to accept of a husband. few single persons are offended at a recommendation of marriage, if properly offered, from whatever quarter it may come. the queen, in this instance, returned what was called a very gracious reply. she, however, very decidedly refused the request. she said that, as they had been very respectful in the form of their petition, and as they had confined it to general terms, without presuming to suggest either a person or a time, she would not take offense at their well-intended suggestion, but that she had no design of ever being married. at her coronation, she was married, she said, to her people, and the wedding ring was upon her finger still. her people were the objects of all her affection and regard. she should never have any other spouse. she said she should be well contented to have it engraved upon her tomb-stone, "here lies a queen who lived and died a virgin." this answer silenced the commons, but it did not settle the question in the public mind. cases often occur of ladies saying very positively that they shall never consent to be married, and yet afterward altering their minds; and many ladies, knowing how frequently this takes place, sagaciously conclude that, whatever secret resolutions they may form, they will be silent about them, lest they get into a position from which it will be afterward awkward to retreat. the princes of the continent and the nobles of england paid no regard to elizabeth's declaration, but continued to do all in their power to obtain her hand. one or two years afterward elizabeth was attacked with the small-pox, and for a time was dangerously sick, in fact, for some days her life was despaired of, and the country was thrown into a great state of confusion and dismay. parties began to form--the catholics for mary queen of scots, and the protestants for the family of jane grey. every thing portended a dreadful contest. elizabeth, however, recovered; but the country had been so much alarmed at their narrow escape, that parliament ventured once more to address the queen on the subject of her marriage. they begged that she would either consent to that measure, or, if she was finally determined not to do that, that she would cause a law to be passed, or an edict to be promulgated, deciding beforehand who was really to succeed to the throne in the event of her decease. elizabeth would not do either. historians have speculated a great deal upon her motives; all that is certain is the fact, she would not do either. [illustration: portrait of the earl of leicester.] but, though elizabeth thus resisted all the plans formed for giving her a husband, she had, in her own court, a famous personal favorite, who has always been considered as in some sense her lover. his name was originally robert dudley, though she made him earl of leicester, and he is commonly designated in history by this latter name. he was a son of the duke of northumberland, who was the leader of the plot for placing lady jane grey upon the throne in the time of mary. he was a very elegant and accomplished man, and young, though already married. elizabeth advanced him to high offices and honors very early in her reign, and kept him much at court. she made him her master of horse, but she did not bestow upon him much real power. _cecil_ was her great counselor and minister of state. he was a cool, sagacious, wary man, entirely devoted to elizabeth's interests, and to the glory and prosperity of the realm. he was at this time, as has already been stated, forty years of age, thirteen or fourteen years older than elizabeth. elizabeth showed great sagacity in selecting such a minister, and great wisdom in keeping him in power so long. he remained in her service all his life, and died at last, only a few years before elizabeth, when he was nearly eighty years of age. dudley, on the other hand, was just about elizabeth's own age. in fact, it is said by some of the chronicles of the times that he was born on the same day and hour with her. however this may be, he became a great personal favorite, and elizabeth evinced a degree and kind of attachment to him which subjected her to a great deal of censure and reproach. she could not be thinking of him for her husband, it would seem, for he was already married. just about this time, however, a mysterious circumstance occurred, which produced a great deal of excitement, and has ever since marked a very important era in the history of leicester and elizabeth's attachment. it was the sudden and very singular death of leicester's wife. leicester had, among his other estates, a lonely mansion in berkshire, about fifty miles west of london. it was called cumnor house. leicester's wife was sent there, no one knew why; she went under the charge of a gentleman who was one of leicester's dependents, and entirely devoted to his will. the house, too, was occupied by a man who had the character of being ready for any deed which might be required of him by his master. the name of leicester's wife was amy robesart. in a short time news came to london that the unhappy woman was killed by a fall down stairs! the instantaneous suspicion darted at once into every one's mind that she had been murdered. rumors circulated all around the place where the death had occurred that she had been murdered. a conscientious clergyman of the neighborhood sent an account of the case to london, to the queen's ministers, stating the facts, and urging the queen to order an investigation of the affair, but nothing was ever done. it has accordingly been the general belief of mankind since that time, that the unprincipled courtier destroyed his wife in the vain hope of becoming afterward the husband of the queen. the people of england were greatly incensed at this transaction. they had hated leicester before, and they hated him now more inveterately still. favorites are very generally hated; royal favorites always. he, however, grew more and more intimate with the queen, and every body feared that he was going to be her husband. their conduct was watched very closely by all the great world, and, as is usual in such cases, a thousand circumstances and occurrences were reported busily from tongue to tongue, which the actors in them doubtless supposed passed unobserved or were forgotten. one night, for instance, queen elizabeth, having supped with dudley, was going home in her chair, lighted by torch-bearers. at the present day, all london is lighted brilliantly at midnight with gas, and ladies go home from their convivial and pleasure assemblies in luxurious carriages, in which they are rocked gently along through broad and magnificent avenues, as bright, almost, as day. then, however, it was very different. the lady was borne slowly along through narrow, and dingy, and dangerous streets, with a train of torches before and behind her, dispelling the darkness a moment with their glare, and then leaving it more deep and somber than ever. on the night of which we are speaking, elizabeth, feeling in good humor, began to talk with some of the torch-bearers on the way. they were dudley's men, and elizabeth began to praise their master. she said to one of them, among other things, that she was going to raise him to a higher position than any of his name had ever borne before. now, as dudley's father was a duke, which title denotes the highest rank of the english nobility, the man inferred that the queen's meaning was that she intended to marry him, and thus make him a sort of king. the man told the story boastingly to one of the servants of lord arundel, who was also a suitor of the queen's. the servants, each taking the part of his master in the rivalry, quarreled. lord arundel's man said that he wished that dudley had been hung with his father, or else that somebody would shoot him in the street with a _dag_. a dag was, in the language of those days, the name for a pistol. time moved on, and though leicester seemed to become more and more a favorite, the plan of his being married to elizabeth, if any such were entertained by either party, appeared to come no nearer to an accomplishment. elizabeth lived in great state and splendor, sometimes residing in her palaces in or near london, and sometimes making royal progresses about her dominions. dudley, together with the other prominent members of her court, accompanied her on these excursions, and obviously enjoyed a very high degree of personal favor. she encouraged, at the same time, her other suitors, so that on all the great public occasions of state, at the tilts and tournaments, at the plays--which, by-the-way, in those days were performed in the churches--on all the royal progresses and grand receptions at cities, castles, and universities, the lady queen was surrounded always by royal or noble beaux, who made her presents, and paid her a thousand compliments, and offered her gallant attentions without number--all prompted by ambition in the guise of love. they smiled upon the queen with a perpetual sycophancy, and gnashed their teeth secretly upon each other with a hatred which, unlike the pretended love, was at least honest and sincere. leicester was the gayest, most accomplished, and most favored of them all, and the rest accordingly combined and agreed in hating him more than they did each other. queen elizabeth, however, never really admitted that she had any design of making leicester, or dudley, as he is indiscriminately called, her husband. in fact, at one time she recommended him to mary queen of scots for a husband. after mary returned to scotland, the two queens were, for a time, on good terms, as professed friends, though they were, in fact, all the time, most inveterate and implacable foes; but each, knowing how much injury the other might do her, wished to avoid exciting any unnecessary hostility. mary, particularly, as she found she could not get possession of the english throne during elizabeth's life-time, concluded to try to conciliate her, in hopes to persuade her to acknowledge, by act of parliament, her right to the succession after her death. so she used to confer with elizabeth on the subject of her own marriage, and to ask her advice about it. elizabeth did not wish to have mary married at all, and so she always proposed somebody who she knew would be out of the question. she at one time proposed leicester, and for a time seemed quite in earnest about it, especially so long as mary seemed averse to it. at length, however, when mary, in order to test her sincerity, seemed inclined to yield, elizabeth retreated in her turn, and withdrew her proposals. mary then gave up the hope of satisfying elizabeth in any way and married lord darnley without her consent. elizabeth's regard for dudley, however, still continued. she made him earl of leicester, and granted him the magnificent castle of kenilworth, with a large estate adjoining and surrounding it; the rents of the lands giving him a princely income, and enabling him to live in almost royal state. queen elizabeth visited him frequently in this castle. one of these visits is very minutely described by the chroniclers of the times. the earl made the most expensive and extraordinary preparations for the reception and entertainment of the queen and her retinue on this occasion. the moat--which is a broad canal filled with water surrounding the castle--had a floating island upon it, with a fictitious personage whom they called the lady of the lake upon the island, who sung a song in praise of elizabeth as she passed the bridge. there was also an artificial dolphin swimming upon the water, with a band of musicians within it. as the queen advanced across the park, men and women, in strange disguises, came out to meet her, and to offer her salutations and praises. one was dressed as a sibyl, another like an american savage, and a third, who was concealed, represented an echo. this visit was continued for nineteen days, and the stories of the splendid entertainments provided for the company--the plays, the bear-baitings, the fireworks, the huntings, the mock fights, the feastings and revelries--filled all europe at the time, and have been celebrated by historians and story-tellers ever since. the castle of kenilworth is now a very magnificent heap of ruins, and is explored every year by thousands of visitors from every quarter of the globe. leicester, if he ever really entertained any serious designs of being elizabeth's husband at last gave up his hopes, and married another woman. this lady had been the wife of the earl of essex. her husband died very suddenly and mysteriously just before leicester married her. leicester kept the marriage secret for some time, and when it came at last to the queen's knowledge she was exceedingly angry. she had him arrested and sent to prison. however, she gradually recovered from her fit of resentment, and by degrees restored him to her favor again. twenty years of elizabeth's reign thus passed away, and no one of all her suitors had succeeded in obtaining her hand. all this time her government had been administered with much efficiency and power. all europe had been in great commotion during almost the whole period, on account of the terrible conflicts which were raging between the catholics and the protestants, each party having been doing its utmost to exterminate and destroy the other. elizabeth and her government took part, very frequently, in these contests; sometimes by negotiations, and sometimes by fleets and armies, but always sagaciously and cautiously, and generally with great effect. in the mean time, however, the queen, being now forty-five years of age, was rapidly approaching the time when questions of marriage could no longer be entertained. her lovers, or, rather, her suitors, had, one after another, given up the pursuit, and disappeared from the field. one only seemed at length to remain, on the decision of whose fate the final result of the great question of the queen's marriage seemed to be pending. it was the duke of anjou. he was a french prince. his brother, who had been the duke of anjou before him, was now king henry iii. of france. his own name was francis. he was twenty five years younger than elizabeth, and he was only seventeen years of age when it was first proposed that he should marry her. he was then duke of alenã§on. it was his mother's plan. she was the great catharine de medici, queen of france, and one of the most extraordinary women, for her talents, her management, and her power, that ever lived. having one son upon the throne of france, she wanted the throne of england for the other. the negotiation had been pending fruitlessly for many years, and now, in 1581, it was vigorously renewed. the duke himself, who was at this time a young man of twenty-four or five, began to be impatient and earnest in his suit. there was, in fact, one good reason why he should be so. elizabeth was forty-eight, and, unless the match were soon concluded, the time for effecting it would be obviously forever gone by. [illustration: the barges on the river.] he had never had an interview with the queen. he had seen pictures of her, however, and he sent an embassador over to england to urge his suit, and to convince elizabeth how much he was in love with her charms. the name of this agent was simier. he was a very polite and accomplished man, and soon learned the art of winning his way to elizabeth's favor. leicester was very jealous of his success. the two favorites soon imbibed a terrible enmity for each other. they filled the court with their quarrels. the progress of the negotiation, however, went on, the people taking sides very violently, some for and some against the projected marriage. the animosities became exceedingly virulent, until at length simier's life seemed to be in danger. he said that leicester had hired one of the guards to assassinate him; and it is a fact, that one day, as he and the queen, with other attendants, were making an excursion upon the river, a shot was fired from the shore into the barge. the shot did no injury except to wound one of the oarsmen, and frighten all the party pretty thoroughly. some thought the shot was aimed at simier, and others at the queen herself. it was afterward proved, or supposed to be proved, that this shot was the accidental discharge of a gun, without any evil intention whatever. in the mean time, elizabeth grew more and more interested in the idea of having the young duke for her husband; and it seemed as if the maidenly resolutions, which had stood their ground so firmly for twenty years, were to be conquered at last. the more, however, she seemed to approach toward a consent to the measure, the more did all the officers of her government, and the nation at large, oppose it. there were, in their minds, two insuperable objections to the match. the candidate was a frenchman, and he was a papist. the council interceded. friends remonstrated. the nation murmured and threatened. a book was published entitled "the discovery of a gaping gulf wherein england is like to be swallowed up by another french marriage, unless the lord forbid the bans by letting her see the sin and punishment thereof." the author of it had his right hand cut off for his punishment. at length, after a series of most extraordinary discussions, negotiations, and occurrences, which kept the whole country in a state of great excitement for a long time, the affair was at last all settled. the marriage articles, both political and personal, were all arranged. the nuptials were to be celebrated in six weeks. the duke came over in great state, and was received with all possible pomp and parade. festivals and banquets were arranged without number, and in the most magnificent style, to do him and his attendants honor. at one of them, the queen took off a ring from her finger, and put it upon his, in the presence of a great assembly, which was the first announcement to the public that the affair was finally settled. the news spread every where with great rapidity. it produced in england great consternation and distress, but on the continent it was welcomed with joy, and the great english alliance, now so obviously approaching, was celebrated with ringing of bells, bonfires, and grand illuminations. and yet, notwithstanding all this, as soon as the obstacles were all removed, and there was no longer opposition to stimulate the determination of the queen, her heart failed her at last, and she finally concluded that she would not be married, after all. she sent for the duke one morning to come and see her. what takes place precisely between ladies and gentlemen when they break off their engagements is not generally very publicly known, but the duke came out from this interview in a fit of great vexation and anger. he pulled off the queen's ring and threw it from him, muttering curses upon the fickleness and faithlessness of women. still elizabeth would not admit that the match was broken off. she continued to treat the duke with civility and to pay him many honors. he decided, however, to return to the continent. she accompanied him a part of the way to the coast, and took leave of him with many professions of sorrow at the parting, and begged him to come back soon. this he promised to do, but he never returned. he lived some time afterward in comparative neglect and obscurity, and mankind considered the question of the marriage of elizabeth as now, at last, settled forever. chapter ix. personal character. 1560-1586 opinions of elizabeth's character.--the catholics and protestants.--parties in england.--elizabeth's wise administration.--mary claims the english throne.--she is made prisoner by elizabeth.--various plots.--execution of mary.--the impossibility of settling the claims of mary and elizabeth.--elizabeth's duplicity.--her scheming to entrap mary.--maiden ladies.--their benevolent spirit.--elizabeth's selfishness and jealousy.--the maids of honor.--instance of elizabeth's cruelty.--her irritable temper.--leicester's friend and the gentleman of the black rod.--elizabeth in a rage.--her invectives against leicester.--leicester's chagrin.--elizabeth's powers of satire.--elizabeth's views of marriage.--her insulting conduct.--the dean of christ church and the prayer book.--elizabeth's good qualities.--her courage.--the shot at the barge.--elizabeth's vanity.--elizabeth and the embassador.--the pictures.--elizabeth's fondness for pomp and parade.--summary of elizabeth's character. mankind have always been very much divided in opinion in respect to the personal character of queen elizabeth, but in one point all have agreed, and that is, that in the management of public affairs she was a woman of extraordinary talent and sagacity, combining, in a very remarkable degree, a certain cautious good sense and prudence with the most determined resolution and energy. she reigned about forty years, and during almost all that time the whole western part of the continent of europe was convulsed with the most terrible conflicts between the protestant and catholic parties. the predominance of power was with the catholics, and was, of course, hostile to elizabeth. she had, moreover, in the field a very prominent competitor for her throne in mary queen of scots. the foreign protestant powers were ready to aid this claimant, and there was, besides, in her own dominions a very powerful interest in her favor. the great divisions of sentiment in england, and the energy with which each party struggled against its opponents, produced, at all times, a prodigious pressure of opposing forces, which bore heavily upon the safety of the state and of elizabeth's government, and threatened them with continual danger. the administration of public affairs moved on, during all this time, trembling continually under the heavy shocks it was constantly receiving, like a ship staggering on in a storm, its safety depending on the nice equilibrium between the shocks of the seas, the pressure of the wind upon the sails, and the weight and steadiness of the ballast below. during all this forty years it is admitted that elizabeth and her wise and sagacious ministers managed very admirably. they maintained the position and honor of england, as a protestant power, with great success; and the country, during the whole period, made great progress in the arts, in commerce, and in improvements of every kind. elizabeth's greatest danger, and her greatest source of solicitude during her whole reign, was from the claims of mary queen of scots. we have already described the energetic measures which she took at the commencement of her reign to counter act and head off, at the outset, these dangerous pretensions. though these efforts were triumphantly successful at the time, still the victory was not final. it postponed, but did not destroy, the danger. mary continued to claim the english throne. innumerable plots were beginning to be formed among the catholics, in elizabeth's own dominions, for making her queen. foreign potentates and powers were watching an opportunity to assist in these plans. at last mary, on account of internal difficulties in her own land, fled across the frontier into england to save her life, and elizabeth made her prisoner. in england, to plan or design the dethronement of a monarch is, in a _subject_, high treason. mary had undoubtedly designed the dethronement of elizabeth, and was waiting only an opportunity to accomplish it. elizabeth, consequently, condemned her as guilty of treason, in effect; and mary's sole defense against this charge was that she was not a subject. elizabeth yielded to this plea, when she first found mary in her power, so far as not to take her life, but she consigned her to a long and weary captivity. this, however, only made the matter worse. it stimulated the enthusiasm and zeal of all the catholics in england, to have their leader, and as they believed, their rightful queen, a captive in the midst of them, and they formed continually the most extensive and most dangerous plots. these plots were discovered and suppressed, one after another, each one producing more anxiety and alarm than the preceding. for a time mary suffered no evil consequences from these discoveries further than an increase of the rigors of her confinement. at last the patience of the queen and of her government was exhausted. a law was passed against treason, expressed in such terms as to include mary in the liability for its dreadful penalties although she was not a subject, in case of any new transgression; and when the next case occurred, they brought her to trial and condemned her to death. the sentence was executed in the gloomy castle of fotheringay, where she was then confined. as to the question whether mary or elizabeth had the rightful title to the english crown, it has not only never been settled, but from its very nature it can not be settled. it is one of those cases in which a peculiar contingency occurs which runs beyond the scope and reach of all the ordinary principles by which analogous cases are tried, and leads to questions which can not be decided. as long as a hereditary succession goes smoothly on, like a river keeping within its banks, we can decide subordinate and incidental questions which may arise; but when a case occurs in which we have the omnipotence of parliament to set off against the infallibility of the pope--the sacred obligations of a will against the equally sacred principles of hereditary succession--and when we have, at last, two contradictory actions of the same ultimate umpire, we find all _technical_ grounds of coming to a conclusion gone. we then, abandoning these, seek for some higher and more universal principles--essential in the nature of things, and thus independent of the will and action of man--to see if they will throw any light on the subject. but we soon find ourselves as much perplexed and confounded in this inquiry as we were before. we ask, in beginning the investigation, what is the ground and nature of the right by which _any king or queen_ succeeds to the power possessed by his ancestors? and we give up in despair, not being able to answer even this first preliminary inquiry. mankind have not, in their estimate of elizabeth's character, condemned so decidedly the substantial acts which she performed, as the duplicity, the false-heartedness, and the false pretensions which she manifested in performing them. had she said frankly and openly to mary before the world, if these schemes for revolutionizing england and placing yourself upon the throne continue, your life must be forfeited, my own safety and the safety of the realm absolutely demand it; and then had fairly, and openly, and honestly executed her threat, mankind would have been silent on the subject, if they had not been satisfied. but if she had really acted thus, she would not have been elizabeth. she, in fact, pursued a very different course. she maneuvered, schemed, and planned; she pretended to be full of the warmest affection for her cousin; she contrived plot after plot, and scheme after scheme, to ensnare her; and when, at last, the execution took place, in obedience to her own formal and written authority, she pretended to great astonishment and rage. she never meant that the sentence should take effect. she filled england, france, and scotland with the loud expressions of her regret, and she punished the agents who had executed her will. this management was to prevent the friends of mary from forming plans of revenge. this was her character in all things. she was famous for her false pretensions and double dealings, and yet, with all her talents and sagacity, the disguise she assumed was sometimes so thin and transparent that her assuming it was simply ridiculous. maiden ladies, who spend their lives, in some respects, alone, often become deeply imbued with a kind and benevolent spirit, which seeks its gratification in relieving the pains and promoting the happiness of all around them. conscious that the circumstances which have caused them to lead a single life would secure for them the sincere sympathy and the increased esteem of all who know them, if delicacy and propriety allowed them to be expressed, they feel a strong degree of self-respect, they live happily, and are a continual means of comfort and joy to all around them. this was not so, however, with elizabeth. she was jealous, petulant, irritable. she envied others the love and the domestic enjoyments which ambition forbade her to share, and she seemed to take great pleasure in thwarting and interfering with the plans of others for securing this happiness. one remarkable instance of this kind occurred. it seems she was sometimes accustomed to ask the young ladies of the court--her maids of honor--if they ever thought about being married, and they, being cunning enough to know what sort of an answer would please the queen always promptly denied that they did so. oh no! they never thought about being married at all. there was one young lady, however, artless and sincere, who, when questioned in this way, answered, in her simplicity, that she often thought of it, and that she should like to be married very much, if her father would only consent to her union with a certain gentleman whom she loved. "ah!" said elizabeth; "well, i will speak to your father about it, and see what i can do." not long after this the father of the young lady came to court, and the queen proposed the subject to him. the father said that he had not been aware that his daughter had formed such an attachment, but that he should certainly give his consent, without any hesitation, to any arrangement of that kind which the queen desired and advised. "that is all, then," said the queen; "i will do the rest." so she called the young lady into her presence, and told her that her father had given his free consent. the maiden's heart bounded with joy, and she began to express her happiness and her gratitude to the queen, promising to do every thing in her power to please her, when elizabeth interrupted her, saying, "yes, you will act so as to please me, i have no doubt, but you are not going to be a fool and get married. your father has given his consent to _me_, and not to you, and you may rely upon it you will never get it out of my possession. you were pretty bold to acknowledge your foolishness to me so readily." elizabeth was very irritable, and could never bear any contradiction. in the case even of leicester, who had such an unbounded influence over her, if he presumed a little too much he would meet sometimes a very severe rebuff, such as nobody but a courtier would endure; but courtiers, haughty and arrogant as they are in their bearing toward inferiors, are generally fawning sycophants toward those above them, and they will submit to any thing imaginable from a _queen_. it was the custom in elizabeth's days, as it is now among the great in european countries, to have a series or suite of rooms, one beyond the other, the inner one being the presence chamber, and the others being occupied by attendants and servants of various grades, to regulate and control the admission of company. some of these officers were styled _gentlemen of the black rod_, that name being derived from a peculiar badge of authority which they were accustomed to carry. it happened, one day, that a certain gay captain, a follower of leicester's, and a sort of favorite of his, was stopped in the antechamber by one of the gentlemen of the black rod, named bowyer, the queen having ordered him to be more careful and particular in respect to the admission of company. the captain, who was proud of the favor which he enjoyed with leicester, resented this affront, and threatened the officer, and he was engaged in an altercation with him on the subject when leicester came in. leicester took his favorite's part, and told the gentleman usher that he was a knave, and that he would have him turned out of office. leicester was accustomed to feel so much confidence in his power over elizabeth, that his manner toward all beneath him had become exceedingly haughty and overbearing. he supposed, probably, that the officer would humble himself at once before his rebukes. the officer, however, instead of this, stepped directly in before leicester, who was then going in himself to the presence of the queen; kneeled before her majesty, related the facts of the case, and humbly asked what it was her pleasure that he should do. he had obeyed her majesty's orders, he said, and had been called imperiously to account for it, and threatened violently by leicester, and he wished now to know whether leicester was king or her majesty queen. elizabeth was very much displeased with the conduct of her favorite. she turned to him, and, beginning with a sort of oath which she was accustomed to use when irritated and angry, she addressed him in invectives and reproaches the most severe. she gave him, in a word, what would be called a scolding, were it not that scolding is a term not sufficiently dignified for history, even for such humble history as this. she told him that she had indeed shown him favor, but her favor was not so fixed and settled upon him that nobody else was to have any share, and that if he imagined that he could lord it over her household, she would contrive a way very soon to convince him of his mistake. there was one mistress to rule there, she said, but no _master_. she then dismissed bowyer, telling leicester that, if any evil happened to him, she should hold him, that is, leicester, to a strict account for it, as she should be convinced it would have come through his means. leicester was exceedingly chagrined at this result of the difficulty. of course he dared not defend himself or reply. all the other courtiers enjoyed his confusion very highly, and one of them, in giving an account of the affair, said, in conclusion, that "the queen's words so quelled him, that, for some time after, his feigned humility was one of his best virtues." queen elizabeth very evidently possessed that peculiar combination of quickness of intellect and readiness of tongue which enables those who possess it to say very sharp and biting things, when vexed or out of humor. it is a brilliant talent, though it always makes those who possess it hated and feared. elizabeth was often wantonly cruel in the exercise of this satirical power, considering very little--as is usually the case with such persons--the justice of her invectives, but obeying blindly the impulses of the ill nature which prompted her to utter them. we have already said that she seemed always to have a special feeling of ill will against marriage and every thing that pertained to it, and she had, particularly, a theory that the bishops and the clergy ought not to be married. she could not absolutely prohibit their marrying, but she did issue an injunction forbidding any of the heads of the colleges or cathedrals to take their wives into the same, or any of their precincts. at one time, in one of her royal progresses through the country, she was received, and very magnificently and hospitably entertained, by the archbishop of canterbury, at his palace. the archbishop's wife exerted herself very particularly to please the queen and to do her honor. elizabeth evinced her gratitude by turning to her, as she was about to take her leave, and saying that she could not call her the archbishop's wife, and did not like to call her his mistress, and so she did not know what to call her; but that, at all events, she was very much obliged to her for her hospitality. elizabeth's highest officers of state were continually exposed to her sharp and sudden reproaches, and they often incurred them by sincere and honest efforts to gratify and serve her. she had made an arrangement, one day, to go into the city of london to st. paul's church, to hear the dean of christ church, a distinguished clergyman, preach. the dean procured a copy of the prayer book, and had it splendidly bound, with a great number of beautiful and costly prints interleaved in it. these prints were all of a religious character, being representations of sacred history, or of scenes in the lives of the saints. the volume, thus prepared, was very beautiful, and it was placed, when the sabbath morning arrived, upon the queen's cushion at the church, ready for her use. the queen entered in great state, and took her seat in the midst of all the parade and ceremony customary on such occasions. as soon, however, as she opened the book and saw the pictures, she frowned, and seemed to be much displeased. she shut the book and put it away, and called for her own; and, after the service, she sent for the dean, and asked him who brought that book there. he replied, in a very humble and submissive manner, that he had procured it himself, having intended it as a present for her majesty. this only produced fresh expressions of displeasure. she proceeded to rebuke him severely for countenancing such a popish practice as the introduction of pictures in the churches. all this time elizabeth had herself a crucifix in her own private chapel, and the dean himself, on the other hand, was a firm and consistent protestant, entirely opposed to the catholic system of images and pictures, as elizabeth very well knew. this sort of roughness was a somewhat masculine trait of character for a lady, it must be acknowledged, and not a very agreeable one, even in man; but with some of the bad qualities of the other sex, elizabeth possessed, also, some that were good. she was courageous, and she evinced her courage sometimes in a very noble manner. at one time, when political excitement ran very high, her friends thought that there was serious danger in her appearing openly in public, and they urged her not to do it, but to confine herself within her palaces for a time, until the excitement should pass away. but no; the representations made to her produced no effect. she said she would continue to go out just as freely as ever. she did not think that there was really any danger; and besides, if there was, she did not care; she would rather take her chance of being killed than to be kept shut up like a prisoner. at the time, too, when the shot was fired at the barge in which she was going down the thames, many of her ministers thought it was aimed at her. they endeavored to convince her of this, and urged her not to expose herself to such dangers. she replied that she did not believe that the shot was aimed at her; and that, in fact, she would not believe any thing of her subjects which a father would not be willing to believe of his own children. so she went on sailing in her barge just as before. [illustration: portrait of queen elizabeth.] elizabeth was very vain of her beauty, though, unfortunately, she had very little beauty to be vain of. nothing pleased her so much as compliments. she sometimes almost exacted them. at one time, when a distinguished embassador from mary queen of scots was at her court, she insisted on his telling her whether she or mary was the most beautiful. when we consider that elizabeth was at this time over thirty years of age, and mary only twenty-two, and that the fame of mary's loveliness had filled the world, it must be admitted that this question indicated a considerable degree of self-complacency. the embassador had the prudence to attempt to evade the inquiry. he said at first that they were both beautiful enough. but elizabeth wanted to know, she said, which was _most_ beautiful. the embassador then said that his queen was the most beautiful queen in scotland and elizabeth in england. elizabeth was not satisfied with this, but insisted on a definite answer to her question; and the embassador said at last that elizabeth had the fairest complexion, though mary was considered a very lovely woman. elizabeth then wanted to know which was the tallest of the two. the embassador said that mary was. "then," said elizabeth, "she is too tall, for i am just of the right height myself." at one time during elizabeth's reign, the people took a fancy to engrave and print portraits of her, which, being perhaps tolerably faithful to the original, were not very alluring. the queen was much vexed at the circulation of these prints, and finally she caused a grave and formal proclamation to be issued against them. in this proclamation it was stated that it was the intention of the queen, at some future time, to have a proper artist employed to execute a correct and true portrait of herself, which should then be published; and, in the mean time, all persons were forbidden to make or sell any representations of her whatever. elizabeth was extremely fond of pomp and parade. the magnificence and splendor of the celebrations and festivities which characterized her reign have scarcely ever been surpassed in any country or in any age. she once went to attend church, on a particular occasion, accompanied by a thousand men in full armor of steel, and ten pieces of cannon, with drums and trumpets sounding. she received her foreign embassadors with military spectacles and shows, and with banquets and parties of pleasure, which for many days kept all london in a fever of excitement. sometimes she made excursions on the river, with whole fleets of boats and barges in her train; the shores, on such occasions, swarming with spectators, and waving with flags and banners. sometimes she would make grand progresses through her dominions, followed by an army of attendants--lords and ladies dressed and mounted in the most costly manner--and putting the nobles whose seats she visited to a vast expense in entertaining such a crowd of visitors. being very saving of her own means, she generally contrived to bring the expense of this magnificence upon others. the honor was a sufficient equivalent. or, if it was not, nobody dared to complain. to sum up all, elizabeth was very great, and she was, at the same time, very little. littleness and greatness mingled in her character in a manner which has scarcely ever been paralleled, except by the equally singular mixture of admiration and contempt with which mankind have always regarded her. chapter x. the invincible armada. 1585-1588 fierce contests between catholics and protestants.--philip's cruelty.--effects of war.--napoleon and xerxes.--march of improvement.--spanish armadas.--the low countries.--their situation and condition.--embassage from the low countries.--their proposition.--elizabeth's decision.--leicester and drake.--leicester sets out for the low countries.--his reception.--leicester's elation.--elizabeth's displeasure.--drake's success.--his deeds of cruelty.--drake's expedition in 1577.--execution of doughty.--straits of magellan.--drake plunders the spaniards.--chase of the cacofogo.--drake captures her.--drake's escape by going round the world.--character of drake.--philip demands the treasure.--alarming news.--elizabeth's navy.--drake's expedition against the spaniards.--his bold stroke.--exasperation of philip.--his preparations.--elizabeth's preparations.--the army and navy.--elizabeth reviews the troops.--her speech.--elizabeth's energy.--approach of the armada.--a grand spectacle.--a singular fight.--defeat of the armada.--a remnant escapes. thirty years of queen elizabeth's reign passed away. during all this time the murderous contests between the catholic governments of france and spain and their protestant subjects went on with terrible energy. philip of spain was the great leader and head of the catholic powers, and he prosecuted his work of exterminating heresy with the sternest and most merciless determination. obstinate and protracted wars, cruel tortures, and imprisonments and executions without number, marked his reign. notwithstanding all this, however, strange as it may seem, the country increased in population, wealth, and prosperity. it is, after all, but a very small proportion of fifty millions of people which the most cruel monster of a tyrant can kill, even if he devotes himself fully to the work. the natural deaths among the vast population within the reach of philip's power amounted, probably, to two millions every year; and if he destroyed ten thousand every year, it was only adding one death by violence to _two hundred_ produced by accidents, disasters, or age. dreadful as are the atrocities of persecution and war, and vast and incalculable as are the encroachments on human happiness which they produce, we are often led to overrate their relative importance, compared with the aggregate value of the interests and pursuits which are left unharmed by them, by not sufficiently appreciating the enormous extent and magnitude of these interests and pursuits in such communities as england, france, and spain. sometimes, it is true, the operations of military heroes have been on such a prodigious scale as to make very serious inroads on the population of the greatest states. napoleon for instance, on one occasion took five hundred thousand men out of france for his expedition to russia. the campaign destroyed nearly all of them. it was only a very insignificant fraction of the vast army that ever returned. by this transaction, napoleon thus just about doubled the annual mortality in france at a single blow. xerxes enjoys the glory of having destroyed about a million of men--and these, not enemies, but countrymen, followers, and friends--in the same way, on a single expedition. such vast results, however, were not attained in the conflicts which marked the reigns of elizabeth and philip of spain. notwithstanding the long-protracted international wars, and dreadful civil commotions of the period, the world went on increasing in wealth and population, and all the arts and improvements of life made very rapid progress. america had been discovered, and the way to the east indies had been opened to european ships, and the spaniards, the portuguese, the dutch, the english, and the french, had fleets of merchant vessels and ships of war in every sea. the spaniards, particularly, had acquired great possessions in america, which contained very rich mines of gold and silver, and there was a particular kind of vessels called _galleons_, which went regularly once a year, under a strong convoy, to bring home the treasure. they used to call these fleets _armada_, which is the spanish word denoting an armed squadron. nations at war with spain always made great efforts to intercept and seize these ships on their homeward voyages, when, being laden with gold and silver, they became prizes of the highest value. things were in this state about the year 1585, when queen elizabeth received a proposition from the continent of europe which threw her into great perplexity. among the other dominions of philip of spain, there were certain states situated in the broad tract of low, level land which lies northeast of france, and which constitutes, at the present day, the countries of holland and belgium. this territory was then divided into several provinces, which were called, usually, the low countries, on account of the low and level situation of the land. in fact, there are vast tracts of land bordering the shore, which lie so low that dikes have to be built to keep out the sea. in these cases, there are lines of windmills, of great size and power, all along the coast, whose vast wings are always slowly revolving, to pump out the water which percolates through the dikes, or which flows from the water-courses after showers of rain. the low countries were very unwilling to submit to the tyrannical government which philip exercised over them. the inhabitants were generally protestants, and philip persecuted them cruelly. they were, in consequence of this, continually rebelling against his authority, and elizabeth secretly aided them in these struggles, though she would not openly assist them, as she did not wish to provoke philip to open war. she wished them success, however, for she knew very well that if philip could once subdue his protestant subjects at home, he would immediately turn his attention to england, and perhaps undertake to depose elizabeth, and place some catholic prince or princess upon the throne in her stead. things were in this state in 1585, when the confederate provinces of the low countries sent an embassage to elizabeth, offering her the government of the country as sovereign queen, if she would openly espouse their cause and protect them from philip's power. this proposition called for very serious and anxious consideration. elizabeth felt very desirous to make this addition to her dominions on its own account, and besides, she saw at once that such an acquisition would give her a great advantage in her future contests with philip, if actual war must come. but then, on the other hand, by accepting the proposition, war must necessarily be brought on at once. philip would, in fact, consider her espousing the cause of his rebellious subjects as an actual declaration of war on her part, so that making such a league with these countries would plunge her at once into hostilities with the greatest and most extended power on the globe. elizabeth was very unwilling thus to precipitate the contest; but then, on the other hand, she wished very much to avoid the danger that threatened, of philip's first subduing his own dominions, and then advancing to the invasion of england with his undivided strength. she finally concluded not to accept the sovereignty of the countries, but to make a league, offensive and defensive, with the governments, and to send out a fleet and an army to aid them. this, as she had expected, brought on a general war. the queen commissioned leicester to take command of the forces which were to proceed to holland and the netherlands; she also equipped a fleet, and placed it under the command of sir francis drake, a very celebrated naval captain, to proceed across the atlantic and attack the spanish possessions on the american shores. leicester was extremely elated with his appointment, and set off on his expedition with great pomp and parade. he had not generally, during his life, held stations of any great trust or responsibility. the queen had conferred upon him high titles and vast estates, but she had confided all real power to far more capable and trustworthy hands. she thought however, perhaps, that leicester would answer for her allies; so she gave him his commission and sent him forth, charging him, with many injunctions, as he went away, to be discreet and faithful, and to do nothing which should compromise, in any way, her interests or honor. it will, perhaps, be recollected that leicester's wife had been, before her marriage with him, the wife of a nobleman named the earl of essex. she had a son, who, at his father's death, succeeded to the title. this young essex accompanied leicester on this occasion. his subsequent adventures, which were romantic and extraordinary, will be narrated in the next chapter. the people of the netherlands, being extremely desirous to please elizabeth, their new ally, thought that they could not honor the great general she had sent them too highly. they received him with most magnificent military parades, and passed a vote in their assembly investing him with absolute authority as head of the government, thus putting him, in fact, in the very position which elizabeth had herself declined receiving. leicester was extremely pleased and elated with these honors. he was king all but in name. he provided himself with a noble life-guard, in imitation of royalty, and assumed all the state and airs of a monarch. things went on so very prosperously with him for a short time, until he was one day thunderstruck by the appearance at his palace of a nobleman from the queen's court, named heneage, who brought him a letter from elizabeth which was in substance as follows: "how foolishly, and with what contempt of my authority, i think you have acted, the messenger i now send to you will explain. i little imagined that a man whom i had raised from the dust, and treated with so much favor, would have forgotten all his obligations, and acted in such a manner. i command you now to put yourself entirely under the direction of this messenger, to do in all things precisely as he requires, upon pain of further peril." leicester humbled himself immediately under this rebuke, sent home most ample apologies and prayers for forgiveness, and, after a time, gradually recovered the favor of the queen. he soon, however, became very unpopular in the netherlands. grievous complaints were made against him, and he was at length recalled. drake was more successful. he was a bold, undaunted, and energetic seaman, but unprincipled and merciless. he manned and equipped his fleet, and set sail toward the spanish possessions in america. he attacked the colonies, sacked the towns, plundered the inhabitants, intercepted the ships, and searched them for silver and gold. in a word, he did exactly what pirates are hung for doing, and execrated afterward by all mankind. but, as queen elizabeth gave him permission to perform these exploits, he has always been applauded by mankind as a hero. we would not be understood as denying that there is any difference between burning and plundering innocent towns and robbing ships, whether there is or is not a governmental permission to commit these crimes. there certainly is a difference. it only seems to us surprising that there should be so great a difference as is made by the general estimation of mankind. drake, in fact, had acquired a great and honorable celebrity for such deeds before this time, by a similar expedition, several years before, in which he had been driven to make the circumnavigation of the globe. england and spain were then nominally at peace, and the expedition was really in pursuit of prizes and plunder. drake took five vessels with him on this his first expedition, but they were all very small. the largest was only a vessel of one hundred tons, while the ships which are now built are often of _three thousand_. with this little fleet drake set sail boldly, and crossed the atlantic, being fifty-five days out of sight of land. he arrived at last on the coast of south america, and then turned his course southward, toward the straits of magellan. two of his vessels, he found, were so small as to be of very little service; so he shipped the men on board the others, and turned the two adrift. when he got well into the southern seas, he charged his chief mate, whose name was doughty, with some offense against the discipline of his little fleet, and had him condemned to death. he was executed at the straits of magellan--beheaded. before he died, the unhappy convict had the sacrament administered to him, drake himself partaking of it with him. it was said, and believed at the time, that the charge against doughty was only a pretense, and that the real cause of his death was that leicester had agreed with drake to kill him when far away, on account of his having assisted, with others, in spreading the reports that leicester had murdered the earl of essex, the former husband of his wife. the little squadron passed through the straits of magellan, and then encountered a dreadful storm, which separated the ships, and drove them several hundred miles to the westward, over the then boundless and trackless waters of the pacific ocean. drake himself afterward recovered the shore with his own ship alone, and moved northward. he found spanish ships and spanish merchants every where, who, not dreaming of the presence of an english enemy in those distant seas, were entirely secure; and they fell, one after another, a very easy prey. the very extraordinary story is told of his finding, in one place, a spaniard asleep upon the shore, waiting, perhaps, for a boat, with thirty bars of silver by his side, of great weight and value, which drake and his men seized and carried off, without so much as waking the owner. in one harbor which he entered he found three ships, from which the seamen had all gone ashore, leaving the vessels completely unguarded, so entirely unconscious were they of any danger near. drake broke into the cabins of these ships, and found fifty or sixty wedges of pure silver there, of twenty pounds each. in this way, as he passed along the coast, he collected an immense treasure in silver and gold, both coin and bullion, without having to strike a blow for it. at last he heard of a very rich ship, called the cacofogo, which had recently sailed for panama, to which place they were taking the treasure, in order that it might be transported across the isthmus, and so taken home to spain; for, before drake's voyage, scarcely a single vessel had ever passed round cape horn. the ships which he had plundered had been all built upon the coast, by spaniards who had come across the country at the isthmus of darien, and were to be used only to transport the treasure northward, where it could be taken across to the gulf of mexico. drake gave chase to the cacofogo. at last he came near enough to fire into her, and one of his first shots cut away her foremast and disabled her. he soon captured the ship, and he found immense riches on board. besides pearls and precious stones of great value, there were eighty pounds of gold, thirteen chests of silver coin, and silver enough in bars "to ballast a ship." drake's vessel was now richly laden with treasures, but in the mean time the news of his plunderings had gone across the continent, and some spanish ships of war had gone south to intercept him at the straits of magellan on his return. in this dilemma, the adventurous sailor conceived of the sublime idea of avoiding them by going _round the world_ to get home. he pushed boldly forward, therefore, across the pacific ocean to the east indies, thence through the indian ocean to the cape of good hope, and, after three years from the time he left england, he returned to it safely again, his ship loaded with the plundered silver and gold. as soon as he arrived in the thames, the whole world flocked to see the little ship that had performed all these wonders. the vessel was drawn up alongside the land, and a bridge made to it, and, after the treasure was taken out, it was given up, for some time, to banquetings and celebrations of every kind. the queen took possession of all the treasure, saying that philip might demand it, and she be forced to make restitution, for it must be remembered that all this took place several years before the war. she, however, treated the successful sailor with every mark of consideration and honor; she went herself on board his ship, and partook of an entertainment there, conferring the honor of knighthood, at the same time, on the admiral, so that "sir francis drake" was thenceforth his proper title. if the facts already stated do not give sufficient indications of the kind of character which in those days made a naval hero, one other circumstance may be added. at one time during this voyage, a spaniard, whose ship drake had spared, made him a present of a beautiful negro girl. drake kept her on board his ship for a time, and then sent her ashore on some island that he was passing, and inhumanly abandoned her there, to become a mother among strangers, utterly friendless and alone. it must be added, however, in justice to the rude men among whom this wild buccaneer lived, that, though they praised all his other deeds of violence and wrong, this atrocious cruelty was condemned. it had the effect, even in those days, of tarnishing his fame. philip did claim the money, but elizabeth found plenty of good excuses for not paying it over to him. this celebrated expedition occupied more than three years. going round the world is a long journey. the arrival of the ship in london took place in 1581, four years before the war actually broke out between england and spain, which was in 1585; and it was in consequence of the great celebrity which drake had acquired in this and similar excursions, that when at last hostilities commenced, he was put in command of the naval preparations. it was not long before it was found that his services were likely to be required near home, for rumors began to find their way to england that philip was preparing a great fleet for the actual invasion of england. the news put the whole country into a state of great alarm. the reader, in order to understand fully the grounds for this alarm, must remember that in those days spain was the mistress of the ocean, and not england herself. spain possessed the distant colonies and the foreign commerce, and built and armed the great ships, while england had comparatively few ships, and those which she had were small. to meet the formidable preparations which the spaniards were making, elizabeth equipped only four ships. to these however, the merchants of london added twenty or thirty more, of various sizes, which they furnished on condition of having a share in the plunder which they hoped would be secured. the whole fleet was put under drake's command. robbers and murderers, whether those that operate upon the sea or on the land, are generally courageous, and drake's former success had made him feel doubly confident and strong. philip had collected a considerable fleet of ships in cadiz, which is a strong sea-port in the southeastern part of spain, on the mediterranean sea, and others were assembling in all the ports and bays along the shore, wherever they could be built or purchased. they were to rendezvous finally at cadiz. drake pushed boldly forward, and, to the astonishment of the world, forced his way into the harbor, through a squadron of galleys stationed there to protect the entrance, and burned, sunk, and destroyed more than a hundred ships which had been collected there. the whole work was done, and the little english fleet was off again, before the spaniards could recover from their astonishment. drake then sailed along the coast, seizing and destroying all the ships he could find. he next pushed to sea a little way, and had the good fortune to intercept and capture a richly-laden ship of very large size, called a _carrack_, which was coming home from the east indies. he then went back to england in triumph. he said he had been "singeing the whiskers" of the king of spain. the booty was divided among the london merchants, as had been agreed upon. philip was exasperated and enraged beyond expression at this unexpected destruction of armaments which had cost him so much time and money to prepare. his spirit was irritated and aroused by the disaster, not quelled; and he immediately began to renew his preparations, making them now on a still vaster scale than before. the amount of damage which drake effected was, therefore, after all, of no greater benefit to england than putting back the invasion for about a year. at length, in the summer of 1588, the preparations for the sailing of the great armada, which was to dethrone elizabeth and bring back the english nation again under the dominion of some papal prince, and put down, finally, the cause of protestantism in europe, were complete. elizabeth herself, and the english people, in the mean time, had not been idle. the whole kingdom had been for months filled with enthusiasm to prepare for meeting the foe. armies were levied and fleets raised. every maritime town furnished ships; and rich noblemen, in many cases, built or purchased vessels with their own funds, and sent them forward ready for the battle, as their contribution toward the means of defense. a large part of the force thus raised was stationed at plymouth, which is the first great sea-port which presents itself on the english coast in sailing up the channel. the remainder of it was stationed at the other end of the channel, near the straits of dover, for it was feared that, in addition to the vast armament which philip was to bring from spain, he would raise another fleet in the netherlands, which would, of course, approach the shores of england from the german ocean. besides the fleets, a large army was raised. twenty thousand men were distributed along the southern shores of england in such positions as to be most easily concentrated at any point where the armada might attempt to land and about as many more were marched down the thames, and encamped near the mouth of the river, to guard that access. this encampment was at a place on the northern bank of the river, just above its mouth. leicester, strange as it may seem, was put in command of this army. the queen, however, herself, went to visit this encampment, and reviewed the troops in person. she rode to and fro on horseback along the lines, armed like a warrior. at least she had a corslet of polished steel over her magnificent dress, and bore a general's truncheon, a richly-ornamented staff used as a badge of command. she had a helmet, too, with a white plume. this, however she did not wear. a page bore it, following her, while she rode, attended by leicester and the other generals, all mounted on horses and splendidly caparisoned, from rank to rank, animating the men to the highest enthusiasm by her courageous bearing, her look of confidence, and her smiles. she made an address to the soldiers. she said that she had been warned by some of her ministers of the danger of trusting herself to the power of such an armed multitude, for these forces were not regularly enlisted troops, but volunteers from among the citizens, who had suddenly left the ordinary avocations and pursuits of life to defend their country in this emergency. she had, however, she said, no such apprehensions of danger. she could trust herself without fear to the courage and fidelity of her subjects, as she had always, during all her reign, considered her greatest strength and safeguard as consisting in their loyalty and good will. for herself, she had come to the camp, she assured them, not for the sake of empty pageantry and parade, but to take her share with them in the dangers, and toils, and terrors of the actual battle. if philip should land, they would find their queen in the hottest of the conflict, fighting by their sides. "i have," said she, "i know, only the body of a weak and feeble woman, but i have the heart of a king; and i am ready for my god, my kingdom, and my people, to have that body laid down, even in the dust. if the battle comes, therefore, i shall myself be in the midst and front of it, to live or die with you." these were, thus far, but words, it is true, and how far elizabeth would have vindicated their sincerity, if the entrance of the armada into the thames had put her to the test, we can not now know. sir francis drake saved her from the trial. one morning a small vessel came into the harbor at plymouth, where the english fleet was lying, with the news that the armada was coming up the channel under full sail. the anchors of the fleet were immediately raised, and great exertions made to get it out of the harbor, which was difficult, as the wind at the time was blowing directly in. the squadron got out at last, as night was coming on. the next morning the armada hove in sight, advancing from the westward up the channel, in a vast crescent, which extended for seven miles from north to south, and seemed to sweep the whole sea. [illustration: the invincible armada.] it was a magnificent spectacle, and it was the ushering in of that far grander spectacle still, of which the english channel was the scene for the ten days which followed, during which the enormous naval structures of the armada, as they slowly made their way along, were followed, and fired upon, and harassed by the smaller, and lighter, and more active vessels of their english foes. the unwieldy monsters pressed on, surrounded and worried by their nimbler enemies like hawks driven by kingfishers through the sky. day after day this most extraordinary contest, half flight and half battle continued, every promontory on the shores covered all the time with spectators, who listened to the distant booming of the guns, and watched the smokes which arose from the cannonading and the conflagrations. one great galleon after another fell a prey. some were burned, some taken as prizes, some driven ashore; and finally, one dark night, the english sent a fleet of fire-ships, all in flames, into the midst of the anchorage to which the spaniards had retired, which scattered them in terror and dismay, and completed the discomfiture of the squadron. the result was, that by the time the invincible armada had made its way through the channel, and had passed the straits of dover, it was so dispersed, and shattered, and broken, that its commanders, far from feeling any disposition to sail up the thames, were only anxious to make good their escape from their indefatigable and tormenting foes. they did not dare, in attempting to make this escape, to return through the channel, so they pushed northward into the german ocean. their only course for getting back to spain again was to pass round the northern side of england, among the cold and stormy seas that are rolling in continually among the ragged rocks and gloomy islands which darken the ocean there. at last a miserable remnant of the fleet--less than half--made their way back to spain again. chapter xi. the earl of essex. 1588-1600 character of essex.--death of leicester.--essex becomes the queen's favorite.--cecil and essex.--elizabeth's regard for essex.--his impulsive bravery.--essex's ardor for battle.--his duel.--elizabeth's remark upon the duel.--she gives essex a ring.--the quarrel.--the box on the ear.--mortification of essex.--he and elizabeth reconciled.--essex sent to ireland.--curious negotiations.--the queen's displeasure.--essex's sudden return.--essex is arrested.--resentment and love.--essex's anger and chagrin.--he is taken sick.--nature of essex's sickness.--the queen's anxiety.--the queen's kindness to essex.--they are reconciled again.--essex's promises.--the queen's ungenerous conduct.--essex's monopoly of wines.--the queen refuses to renew it.--essex made desperate.--his treasonable schemes.--ramifications of the plot.--it is discovered.--anxious deliberations.--the rising determined upon.--the hostages.--essex enters the city.--the proclamation.--essex unsuccessful.--essex's hopeless condition.--he escapes to his palace.--essex made prisoner, tried, and condemned.--his remorse.--elizabeth's distress.--the ring not sent.--the warrant signed.--the platform.--essex's last words.--the closing scene.--the courtier.--his fiendish pleasure. the lady whom the earl of leicester married was, a short time before he married her, the wife of the earl of essex, and she had one son, who, on the death of his father, became the earl of essex in his turn. he came to court, and continued in leicester's family after his mother's second marriage. he was an accomplished and elegant young man, and was regarded with a good deal of favor by the queen. he was introduced at court when he was but seventeen years old, and, being the step-son of leicester, he necessarily occupied a conspicuous position; his personal qualities, joined with this, soon gave him a very high and honorable name. about a month after the victory obtained by the english over the invincible armada, leicester was seized with a fever on a journey, and, after lingering for a few days, died, leaving essex, as it were, in his place. elizabeth seems not to have been very inconsolable for her favorite's death. she directed, or allowed, his property to be sold at auction, to pay some debts which he owed her--or, as the historians of the day express it, which he owed _the crown_--and then seemed at once to transfer her fondness and affection to the young essex, who was at that time twenty-one years of age. elizabeth herself was now nearly sixty. cecil was growing old also, and was somewhat infirm, though he had a son who was rapidly coming forward in rank and influence at court. this son's name was robert. the young earl of essex's name was robert too. the elder cecil and leicester had been, all their lives, watchful and jealous of each other, and in some sense rivals. robert cecil and robert devereux--for that was, in full, the earl of essex's family name--being young and ardent, inherited the animosity of their parents, and were less cautious and wary in expressing it. they soon became open foes. robert devereux, or essex, as he is commonly called in history, was handsome and accomplished, ardent, impulsive, and generous. the war with spain, notwithstanding the destruction of the armada, continued, and essex entered into it with all zeal. the queen, who with all her ambition, and her proud and domineering spirit, felt, like any other woman, the necessity of having something to love, soon began to take a strong interest in his person and fortunes, and seemed to love him as a mother loves a son; and he, in his turn, soon learned to act toward her as a son, full of youthful courage and ardor, often acts toward a mother over whose heart he feels that he has a strong control. he would go away, without leave, to mix in affrays with the spanish ships in the english channel and in the bay of biscay, and then come back and make his peace with the queen by very humble petitions for pardon, and promises of future obedience. when he went, with her leave, on these expeditions, she would charge his superior officers to keep him out of danger; while he, with an impetuosity which strongly marked his character, would evade and escape from all these injunctions, and press forward into every possible exposure, always eager to have battle given, and to get, himself, into the hottest part of it, when it was begun. at one time, off cadiz, the officers of the english ships hesitated some time whether to venture an attack upon some ships in the harbor--essex burning with impatience all the time--and when it was at length decided to make the attack, he was so excited with enthusiasm and pleasure that he threw his cap up into the air, and overboard, perfectly wild with delight, like a school-boy in anticipation of a holiday. ten years passed away, and essex rose higher and higher in estimation and honor. he was sometimes in the queen's palaces at home, and sometimes away on the spanish seas, where he acquired great fame. he was proud and imperious at court, relying on his influence with the queen, who treated him as a fond mother treats a spoiled child. she was often vexed with his conduct, but she could not help loving him. one day, as he was coming into the queen's presence chamber, he saw one of the courtiers there who had a golden ornament upon his arm which the queen had given him the day before. he asked what it was; they told him it was a "favor" from the queen. "ah," said he, "i see how it is going to be; every fool must have his favor." the courtier resented this mode of speaking of his distinction, and challenged essex to a duel. the combatants met in the park, and essex was disarmed and wounded. the queen heard of the affair, and, after inquiring very curiously about all the particulars, she said that she was glad of it; for, unless there was somebody to take down his pride, there would be no such thing as doing any thing with him. elizabeth's feelings toward essex fluctuated in strange alternations of fondness and displeasure. at one time, when affection was in the ascendency, she gave him a ring, as a talisman of her protection. she promised him that if he ever should become involved in troubles or difficulties of any kind, and especially if he should lose her favor, either by his own misconduct or by the false accusations of his enemies, if he would send her that ring, it should serve to recall her former kind regard, and incline her to pardon and save him. essex took the ring, and preserved it with the utmost care. friendship between persons of such impetuous and excitable temperaments as elizabeth and essex both possessed, though usually very ardent for a time, is very precarious and uncertain in duration. after various petulant and brief disputes, which were easily reconciled, there came at length a serious quarrel. there was, at that time, great difficulty in ireland; a rebellion had broken out, in fact, which was fomented and encouraged by spanish influence. essex was one day urging very strongly the appointment of one of his friends to take the command there, while the queen was disposed to appoint another person. essex urged his views and wishes with much importunity, and when he found that the queen was determined not to yield, he turned his back upon her in a contemptuous and angry manner. the queen lost patience in her turn, and, advancing rapidly to him, her eyes sparkling with extreme resentment and displeasure, she gave him a severe box on the ear, telling him, at the same time, to "go and be hanged." essex was exceedingly enraged; he clasped the handle of his sword, but was immediately seized by the other courtiers present. they, however, soon released their hold upon him, and he walked off out of the apartment, saying that he could not and would not bear such an insult as that. he would not have endured it, he said, from king henry the eighth himself. the name of king henry the eighth, in those days, was the symbol and personification of the highest possible human grandeur. the friends of essex among the courtiers endeavored to soothe and calm him, and to persuade him to apologize to the queen, and seek a reconciliation. they told him that, whether right or wrong, he ought to yield; for in contests with the law or with a prince, a man, they said, ought, if wrong, to submit himself to _justice_; if right, to _necessity_; in either case, it was his duty to submit. this was very good philosophy; but essex was not in a state of mind to listen to philosophy. he wrote a reply to the friend who had counseled him as above, that "the queen had the temper of a flint; that she had treated him with such extreme injustice and cruelty so many times that his patience was exhausted, and he would bear it no longer. he knew well enough what duties he owed the queen as an earl and grand marshal of england, but he did not understand being cuffed and beaten like a menial servant; and that his body suffered in every part from the blow he had received." his resentment, however, got soothed and softened in time, and he was again admitted to favor, though the consequences of such quarrels are seldom fully repaired. the reconciliation was, however, in this case, apparently complete, and in the following year essex was himself appointed the governor, or, as styled in those days, the lord deputy of ireland. he went to his province, and took command of the forces which had been collected there, and engaged zealously in the work of suppressing the rebellion. for some reason or other, however, he made very little progress. the name of the leader of the rebels was the earl of tyrone.[d] tyrone wanted a parley, but did not dare to trust himself in essex's power. it was at last, however, agreed that the two leaders should come down to a river, one of them upon each side, and talk across it, neither general to have any troops or attendants with him. this plan was carried into effect. essex, stationing a troop near him, on a hill, rode down to the water on one side, while tyrone came into the river as far as his horse could wade on the other, and then the two earls attempted to negotiate terms of peace by shouting across the current of the stream. [footnote d: spelled in the old histories tir-oen.] nothing effectual was accomplished by this and some other similar parleys, and in the mean time the weeks were passing away, and little was done toward suppressing the rebellion. the queen was dissatisfied. she sent essex letters of complaint and censure. these letters awakened the lord deputy's resentment. the breach was thus rapidly widening, when essex all at once conceived the idea of going himself to england, without permission, and without giving any notice of his intention, to endeavor, by a personal interview, to reinstate himself in the favor of the queen. [illustration: the house of the earl of essex.] this was a very bold step. it was entirely contrary to military etiquette for an officer to leave his command and go home to his sovereign without orders and without permission. the plan, however, might have succeeded. leicester did once succeed in such a measure; but in this case, unfortunately, it failed. essex traveled with the utmost dispatch, crossed the channel, made the best of his way to the palace where the queen was then residing, and pressed through the opposition of all the attendants into the queen's private apartment, in his traveling dress, soiled and way-worn. the queen was at her toilet, with her hair down over her eyes. essex fell on his knees before her, kissed her hand, and made great professions of gratitude and love, and of an extreme desire to deserve and enjoy her favor. the queen was astonished at his appearance, but essex thought that she received him kindly. he went away after a short interview, greatly pleased with the prospect of a favorable issue to the desperate step he had taken. his joy, however, was soon dispelled. in the course of the day he was arrested by order of the queen, and sent to his house under the custody of an officer. he had presumed too far. essex was kept thus secluded and confined for some time. his house was on the bank of the river. none of his friends, not even his countess, were allowed access to him. his impetuous spirit wore itself out in chafing against the restraints and means of coercion which were pressing upon him; but he would not submit. the mind of the queen, too, was deeply agitated all the time by that most tempestuous of all mental conflicts, a struggle between resentment and love. her affection for her proud-spirited favorite seemed as strong as ever, but she was determined to make him yield in the contest she had commenced with him. how often cases precisely similar occur in less conspicuous scenes of action, where they who love each other with a sincere and uncontrollable affection take their stand in attitudes of hostility, each determined that the obstinacy of the other shall give way, and each heart persisting in its own determination, resentment and love struggling all the time in a dreadful contest, which keeps the soul in a perpetual commotion, and allows of no peace till either the obstinacy yields or the love is extinguished and gone. it was indirectly made known to essex that if he would confess his fault, ask the queen's forgiveness, and petition for a release from confinement, in order that he might return to his duties in ireland, the difficulty could be settled. but no, he would make no concessions. the queen, in retaliation, increased the pressure upon him. the more strongly he felt the pressure, the more his proud and resentful spirit was aroused. he walked his room, his soul boiling with anger and chagrin, while the queen, equally distressed and harassed by the conflict in her own soul, still persevered, hoping every day that the unbending spirit with which she was contending would yield at last. at length the tidings came to her that essex, worn out with agitation and suffering, was seriously sick. the historians doubt whether his sickness was real or feigned; but there is not much difficulty in understanding, from the circumstances of the case, what its real nature was. such mental conflicts as those which he endured suspend the powers of digestion and accelerate the pulsations of the heart, which beats in the bosom with a preternatural frequency and force, like a bird fluttering to get free from a snare. the result is a sort of fever burning slowly in the veins, and an emaciation which wastes the strength away, and, in impetuous and uncontrollable spirits, like that of essex, sometimes exhausts the powers of life altogether. the sickness, therefore, though of mental origin, becomes bodily and real; but then the sufferer is often ready, in such cases, to add a little to it by feigning. an instinct teaches him that nothing is so likely to move the heart whose cruelty causes him to suffer, as a knowledge of the extreme to which it has reduced him. essex was doubtless willing that elizabeth should know that he was sick. her knowing it had, in some measure, the usual effect. it reawakened and strengthened the love she had felt for him, but did not give it absolutely the victory. she sent _eight_ physicians to him, to examine and consult upon his case. she caused some broth to be made for him, and gave it to one of these physicians to carry to him, directing the messenger, in a faltering voice, to say to essex that if it were proper to do so she would have come to see him herself. she then turned away to hide her tears. strange inconsistency of the human heart--resentment and anger holding their ground in the soul against the object of such deep and unconquerable love. it would be incredible, were it not that probably every single one of all the thousands who may read this story has experienced the same. nothing has so great an effect in awakening in the heart a strong sentiment of kindness as the performance of a kind act. feeling originates and controls action, it is true, but then, on the other hand, action has a prodigious power in modifying feeling. elizabeth's acts of kindness to essex in his sickness produced a renewal of her tenderness for him so strong that her obstinacy and anger gave way before it, and she soon began to desire some mode of releasing him from his confinement, and restoring him to favor. essex was softened too. in a word, there was finally a reconciliation, though it was accomplished by slow degrees, and by means of a sort of series of capitulations. there was an investigation of his case before the privy council, which resulted in a condemnation of his conduct, and a recommendation to the mercy of the queen; and then followed some communications between essex and his sovereign, in which he expressed sorrow for his faults, and made satisfactory promises for the future. the queen, however, had not magnanimity enough to let the quarrel end without taunting and irritating the penitent with expressions of triumph. in reply to his acknowledgments and professions, she told him that she was glad to hear of his good intentions, and she hoped that he would show, by his future conduct, that he meant to fulfill them; that he had tried her patience for a long time, but she hoped that henceforth she should have no further trouble. if it had been her father, she added, instead of herself, that he had had to deal with, he would not have been pardoned at all. it could not be a very cordial reconciliation which was consummated by such words as these. but it was very like elizabeth to utter them. they who are governed by their temper are governed by it even in their love. essex was not restored to office. in fact, he did not wish to be restored. he said that he was resolved henceforth to lead a private life. but even in respect to this plan he was at the mercy of the queen, for his private income was in a great measure derived from a monopoly, as it is called, in a certain kind of wines, which had been granted to him some time before. it was a very customary mode, in those days, of enriching favorites, to grant them monopolies of certain kinds of merchandise, that is, the exclusive right to sell them. the persons to whom this privilege was granted would underlet their right to merchants in various parts of the kingdom, on condition of receiving a certain share of the profits. essex had thus derived a great revenue from his monopoly of wines. the grant, however, was expiring, and he petitioned the queen that it might be renewed. the interest which essex felt in the renewal of this grant was one of the strongest inducements to lead him to submit to the humiliations which he had endured, and to make concessions to the queen. but he was disappointed in his hopes. the queen, elated a little with the triumph already attained, and, perhaps, desirous of the pleasure of humbling essex still more, refused at present to renew his monopoly, saying that she thought it would do him good to be restricted a little, for a time, in his means. "unmanageable beasts," she said, "had to be tamed by being stinted in their provender." essex was sharply stung by such a refusal, accompanied, too, by such an insult. he was full of indignation and anger. at first he gave free expression to his feelings of vexation in conversation with those around him. the queen, he said, had got to be a perverse and obstinate old woman, as crooked in mind as she was in body. he had plenty of enemies to listen to these speeches, and to report them in such a way as that they should reach the queen. a new breach was consequently opened, which seemed now wider than ever, and irreparable. at least it seemed so to essex; and, abandoning all plans for again enjoying the favor of elizabeth, he began to consider what he could do to undermine her power and rise upon the ruins of it. the idea was insanity, but passion always makes men insane. james, king of scotland, the son and successor of mary, was the rightful heir to the english throne after elizabeth's death. in order to make his right of succession more secure, he had wished to have elizabeth acknowledge it; but she, always dreading terribly the thoughts of death, could never bear to think of a successor, and seemed to hate every one who entertained any expectation of following her. essex suppressed all outward expressions of violence and anger; became thoughtful, moody, and sullen; held secret consultations with desperate intriguers, and finally formed a scheme to organize a rebellion, to bring king james's troops to england to support it, to take possession of the tower and of the strong-holds about london, to seize the palace of the queen, overturn her government, and compel her both to acknowledge james's right to the succession and to restore essex himself to power. the personal character of essex had given him a very wide-spread popularity and influence, and he had, consequently, very extensive materials at his command for organizing a powerful conspiracy. the plot was gradually matured, extending itself, in the course of the few following months, not only throughout england, but also into france and spain. the time for the final explosion was drawing near, when, as usual in such cases, intelligence of the existence of this treason, in the form of vague rumors, reached the queen. one day, when the leading conspirators were assembled at essex's palace, a messenger came to summon the earl to appear before the council. they received, also, private intelligence that their plots were probably discovered. while they were considering what to do in this emergency--all in a state of great perplexity and fear--a person came, pretending to be a deputy sent from some of the principal citizens of london, to say to essex that they were ready to espouse his cause. essex immediately became urgent to commence the insurrection at once. some of his friends, on the other hand, were in favor of abandoning the enterprise, and flying from the country; but essex said he had rather be shot at the head of his bands, than to wander all his days beyond the seas, a fugitive and a vagabond. the conspirators acceded to their leader's councils. they sent word, accordingly, into the city, and began to make their arrangements to rise in arms the next morning. the night was spent in anxious preparations. early in the morning, a deputation of some of the highest officers of the government, with a train of attendants, came to essex's palace, and demanded entrance in the name of the queen. the gates of the palace were shut and guarded. at last, after some hesitation and delay, the conspirators opened a wicket, that is, a small gate within the large one, which would admit one person at a time. they allowed the officers themselves to enter, but shut the gate immediately so as to exclude the attendants. the officers found themselves in a large court-yard filled with armed men, essex standing calmly at the head of them. they demanded what was the meaning of such an unusual assemblage. essex replied that it was to defend his life from conspiracies formed against it by his enemies. the officers denied this danger, and began to expostulate with essex in angry terms, and the attendants on his side to reply with vociferations and threats, when essex, to end the altercation, took the officers into the palace. he conducted them to a room and shut them up, to keep them as hostages. it was now near ten o'clock, and, leaving his prisoners in their apartment, under a proper guard, essex sallied forth, with the more resolute and desperate of his followers, and proceeded into the city, to bring out into action the forces which he supposed were ready to co-operate with him there. he rode on through the streets, calling to arms, and shouting, "for the queen! for the queen!" his design was to convey the impression that the movement which he was making was not against the queen herself, but against his own enemies in her councils, and that she was herself on his side. the people of london, however, could not be so easily deceived. the mayor had received warning before, from the council, to be ready to suppress the movement, if one should be made. as soon, therefore, as essex and his company were fairly in the city, the gates were shut and barred to prevent his return. one of the queen's principal ministers of state too, at the head of a small troop of horsemen, came in and rode through the streets, proclaiming essex a traitor, and calling upon all the citizens to aid in arresting him. one of essex's followers fired a pistol at this officer to stop his proclamation, but the people generally seemed disposed to listen to him, and to comply with his demand. after riding, therefore, through some of the principal streets, he returned to the queen, and reported to her that all was well in the city; there was no danger that essex would succeed in raising a rebellion there. in the mean time, the further essex proceeded, the more he found himself environed with difficulties and dangers. the people began to assemble here and there with evident intent to impede his movements. they blocked up the streets with carts and coaches to prevent his escape. his followers, one after another, finding all hope of success gone, abandoned their despairing leader and fled. essex himself, with the few who still adhered to him, wandered about till two o'clock, finding the way of retreat every where hemmed up against him. at length he fled to the river side, took a boat, with the few who still remained with him, and ordered the watermen to row as rapidly as possible up the river. they landed at westminster, retreated to essex's house, fled into it with the utmost precipitation, and barricaded the doors. essex himself was excited in the highest degree, fully determined to die there rather than surrender himself a prisoner. the terrible desperation to which men are reduced in emergencies like these is shown by the fact that one of his followers did actually station himself at a window bare-headed, inviting a shot from the pistols of the pursuers, who had by this time environed the house, and were preparing to force their way in. his plan succeeded. he was shot, and died that night. essex himself was not quite so desperate as this. he soon saw, however, that he must sooner or later yield. he could not stand a siege in his own private dwelling against the whole force of the english realm. he surrendered about six in the evening, and was sent to the tower. he was soon afterward brought to trial. the facts, with all the arrangements and details of the conspiracy, were fully proved, and he was condemned to die. as the unhappy prisoner lay in his gloomy dungeon in the tower, the insane excitement under which he had for so many months been acting slowly ebbed away. he awoke from it gradually, as one recovers his senses after a dreadful dream. he saw how utterly irretrievable was the mischief which had been done. remorse for his guilt in having attempted to destroy the peace of the kingdom to gratify his own personal feelings of revenge; recollections of the favors which elizabeth had shown him, and of the love which she had felt for him, obviously so deep and sincere; the consciousness that his life was fairly forfeited, and that he must die--to lie in his cell and think of these things, overwhelmed him with anguish and despair. the brilliant prospects which were so recently before him were all forever gone, leaving nothing in their place but the grim phantom of an executioner, standing with an ax by the side of a dreadful platform, with a block upon it, half revealed and half hidden by the black cloth which covered it like a pall. elizabeth, in her palace, was in a state of mind scarcely less distressing than that of the wretched prisoner in his cell. the old conflict was renewed--pride and resentment on the one side, and love which would not be extinguished on the other. if essex would sue for pardon, she would remit his sentence and allow him to live. why would he not do it? if he would send her the ring which she had given him for exactly such an emergency, he might be saved. why did he not send it? the courtiers and statesmen about her urged her to sign the warrant; the peace of the country demanded the execution of the laws in a case of such unquestionable guilt. they told her, too, that essex wished to die, that he knew that he was hopelessly and irretrievably ruined, and that life, if granted to him, was a boon which would compromise her own safety and confer no benefit on him. still elizabeth waited and waited in an agony of suspense, in hopes that the ring would come; the sending of it would be so far an act of submission on his part as would put it in her power to do the rest. her love could bend her pride, indomitable as it usually was, _almost_ to the whole concession, but it would not give up quite all. it demanded some sacrifice on his part, which sacrifice the sending of the ring would have rendered. the ring did not come, nor any petition for mercy, and at length the fatal warrant was signed. what the courtiers said about essex's desire to die was doubtless true. like every other person involved in irretrievable sufferings and sorrows, he wanted to live, and he wanted to die. the two contradictory desires shared dominion in his heart, sometimes struggling together in a tumultuous conflict, and sometimes reigning in alternation, in calms more terrible, in fact, than the tempests which preceded and followed them. at the appointed time the unhappy man was led out to the court-yard in the tower where the last scene was to be enacted. the lieutenant of the tower presided, dressed in a black velvet gown, over a suit of black satin. the "scaffold" was a platform about twelve feet square and four feet high, with a railing around it, and steps by which to ascend. the block was in the center of it, covered, as well as the platform itself, with black cloth. there were seats erected near for those who were appointed to be present at the execution. essex ascended the platform with a firm step, and, surveying the solemn scene around him with calmness and composure, he began to speak. he asked the forgiveness of god, of the spectators present, and of the queen, for the crimes for which he was about to suffer. he acknowledged his guilt, and the justice of his condemnation. his mind seemed deeply imbued with a sense of his accountability to god, and he expressed a strong desire to be forgiven, for christ's sake, for all the sins which he had committed, which had been, he said, most numerous and aggravated from his earliest years. he asked the spectators present to join him in his devotions, and he then proceeded to offer a short prayer, in which he implored pardon for his sins, and a long life and happy reign for the queen. the prayer ended, all was ready. the executioner, according to the strange custom on such occasions, then asked his pardon for the violence which he was about to commit, which essex readily granted. essex laid his head upon the block, and it required three blows to complete its severance from the body. when the deed was done, the executioner took up the bleeding head, saying solemnly, as he held it, "god save the queen." there were but few spectators present at this dreadful scene, and they were chiefly persons required to attend in the discharge of their official duties. there was, however, one exception; it was that of a courtier of high rank, who had long been essex's inveterate enemy, and who could not deny himself the savage pleasure of witnessing his rival's destruction. but even the stern and iron-hearted officers of the tower were shocked at his appearing at the scaffold. they urged him to go away, and not distress the dying man by his presence at such an hour. the courtier yielded so far as to withdraw from the scaffold; but he could not go far away. he found a place where he could stand unobserved to witness the scene, at the window of a turret which overlooked the court-yard. chapter xii. the conclusion. 1600-1603 question of essex's guilt.--general opinion of mankind.--elizabeth's distress.--fall of essex's party.--wounds of the heart.--elizabeth's efforts to recover her spirits.--embassage from france.--a conversation.--thoughts of essex.--harrington.--the countess of nottingham.--the ring.--the countess of nottingham's confession.--the queen's indignation.--bitter reminiscences.--the queen removes to richmond.--elizabeth grows worse.--the private chapel and the closets.--the wedding ring.--the queen's friends abandon her.--the queen's voice fails.--she calls her council together.--the chaplains.--the prayers.--the queen's death.--king james proclaimed.--portrait of james the first.--burial of the queen.--westminster abbey.--its history.--the poet's corner.--henry the seventh's chapel.--elizabeth's monument.--james.--mary's monument.--feelings of visitors.--summary of elizabeth's character. there can be no doubt that essex was really guilty of the treason for which he was condemned, but mankind have generally been inclined to consider elizabeth rather than him as the one really accountable, both for the crime and its consequences. to elate and intoxicate, in the first place, an ardent and ambitious boy, by flattery and favors, and then, in the end, on the occurrence of real or fancied causes of displeasure, to tease and torment so sensitive and impetuous a spirit to absolute madness and phrensy, was to take the responsibility, in a great measure, for all the effects which might follow. at least so it has generally been regarded. by almost all the readers of the story, essex is pitied and mourned--it is elizabeth that is condemned. it is a melancholy story; but scenes exactly parallel to this case are continually occurring in private life all around us, where sorrows and sufferings which are, so far as the heart is concerned, precisely the same result from the combined action, or rather, perhaps, the alternating and contending action, of fondness, passion, and obstinacy. the results are always, in their own nature, the same, though not often on so great a scale as to make the wrong which follows treason against a realm, and the consequences a beheading in the tower. there must have been some vague consciousness of this her share in the guilt of the transaction in elizabeth's mind, even while the trial of essex was going on. we know that she was harassed by the most tormenting suspense and perplexity while the question of the execution of his sentence was pending. of course, when the plot was discovered, essex's party and all his friends fell immediately from all influence and consideration at court. many of them were arrested and imprisoned, and four were executed, as he had been. the party which had been opposed to him acquired at once the entire ascendency, and they all, judges, counselors, statesmen, and generals, combined their influence to press upon the queen the necessity of his execution. she signed one warrant and delivered it to the officer; but then, as soon as the deed was done, she was so overwhelmed with distress and anguish that she sent to recall it, and had it canceled. finally she signed another, and the sentence was executed. time will cure, in our earlier years, most of the sufferings, and calm most of the agitations of the soul, however incurable and uncontrollable they may at first appear to the sufferer. but in the later periods of life, when severe shocks strike very heavily upon the soul, there is found far less of buoyancy and recovering power to meet the blow. in such cases the stunned and bewildered spirit moves on, after receiving its wound, staggering, as it were, with faintness and pain, and leaving it for a long time uncertain whether it will ultimately rise and recover, or sink down and die. dreadfully wounded as elizabeth was, in all the inmost feelings and affections of her heart, by the execution of her beloved favorite, she was a woman of far too much spirit and energy to yield without a struggle. she made the greatest efforts possible after his death to banish the subject from her mind, and to recover her wonted spirits. she went on hunting excursions and parties of pleasure. she prosecuted with great energy her war with the spaniards, and tried to interest herself in the siege and defense of continental cities. she received an embassage from the court of france with great pomp and parade, and made a grand progress through a part of her dominions, with a long train of attendants, to the house of a nobleman, where she entertained the embassador many days in magnificent state, at her own expense, with plate and furniture brought from her own palaces for the purpose. she even planned an interview between herself and the king of france, and went to dover to effect it. but all would not do. nothing could drive the thoughts of essex from her mind, or dispel the dejection with which the recollection of her love for him, and of his unhappy fate, oppressed her spirit. a year or two passed away, but time brought no relief. sometimes she was fretful and peevish, and sometimes hopelessly dejected and sad. she told the french embassador one day that she was weary of her life, and when she attempted to speak of essex as the cause of her grief, she sighed bitterly and burst into tears. when she recovered her composure, she told the embassador that she had always been uneasy about essex while he lived, and, knowing his impetuosity of spirit and his ambition, she had been afraid that he would one day attempt something which would compromise his life, and she had warned and entreated him not to be led into any such designs, for, if he did so, his fate would have to be decided by the stern authority of law, and not by her own indulgent feelings but that all her earnest warnings had been insufficient to save him. it was the same whenever any thing occurred which recalled thoughts of essex to her mind; it almost always brought tears to her eyes. when essex was commanding in ireland, it will be recollected that he had, on one occasion, come to a parley with tyrone, the rebel leader, across the current of a stream. an officer in his army, named harrington, had been with him on this occasion, and present, though at a little distance, during the interview. after essex had left ireland, another lord-deputy had been appointed; but the rebellion continued to give the government a great deal of trouble. the spaniards came over to tyrone's assistance, and elizabeth's mind was much occupied with plans for subduing him. one day harrington was at court in the presence of the queen, and she asked him if he had ever seen tyrone. harrington replied that he had. the queen then recollected the former interview which harrington had had with him, and she said, "oh, now i recollect that you have seen him before!" this thought recalled essex so forcibly to her mind, and filled her with such painful emotions, that she looked up to harrington with a countenance full of grief: tears came to her eyes, and she beat her breast with every indication of extreme mental suffering. things went on in this way until toward the close of 1602, when an incident occurred which seemed to strike down at once and forever what little strength and spirit the queen had remaining. the countess of nottingham, a celebrated lady of the court, was dangerously sick, and had sent for the queen to come and see her, saying that she had a communication to make to her majesty herself, personally, which she was very anxious to make to her before she died. the queen went accordingly to see her. when she arrived at the bedside the countess showed her a ring. elizabeth immediately recognized it as the ring which she had given to essex, and which she had promised to consider a special pledge of her protection, and which was to be sent to her by him whenever he found himself in any extremity of danger and distress. the queen eagerly demanded where it came from. the countess replied that essex had sent the ring to her during his imprisonment in the tower, and after his condemnation, with an earnest request that she would deliver it to the queen as the token of her promise of protection, and of his own supplication for mercy. the countess added that she had intended to deliver the ring according to essex's request, but her husband, who was the unhappy prisoner's enemy, forbade her to do it; that ever since the execution of essex she had been greatly distressed at the consequences of her having withheld the ring; and that now, as she was about to leave the world herself, she felt that she could not die in peace without first seeing the queen, and acknowledging fully what she had done, and imploring her forgiveness. the queen was thrown into a state of extreme indignation and displeasure by this statement. she reproached the dying countess in the bitterest terms, and shook her as she lay helpless in her bed, saying, "god may forgive you if he pleases, but _i_ never will!" she then went away in a rage. her exasperation, however, against the countess was soon succeeded by bursts of inconsolable grief at the recollection of the hopeless and irretrievable loss of the object of her affection whose image the ring called back so forcibly to her mind. her imagination wandered in wretchedness and despair to the gloomy dungeon in the tower where essex had been confined, and painted him pining there, day after day, in dreadful suspense and anxiety, waiting for her to redeem the solemn pledge by which she had bound herself in giving him the ring. all the sorrow which she had felt at his untimely and cruel fate was awakened afresh, and became more poignant than ever. she made them place cushions for her upon the floor, in the most inner and secluded of her apartments, and there she would lie all the day long, her hair disheveled, her dress neglected, her food refused, and her mind a prey to almost uninterrupted anguish and grief. in january, 1603, she felt that she was drawing toward her end, and she decided to be removed from westminster to richmond, because there was there an arrangement of closets communicating with her chamber, in which she could easily and conveniently attend divine service. she felt that she had now done with the world, and all the relief and comfort which she could find at all from the pressure of her distress was in that sense of protection and safety which she experienced when in the presence of god and listening to the exercises of devotion. [illustration: elizabeth in her last hours.] it was a cold and stormy day in january when she went to richmond; but, being restless and ill at ease, she would not be deterred by that circumstance from making the journey. she became worse after this removal. she made them put cushions again for her upon the floor, and she would lie upon them all the day, refusing to go to her bed. there was a communication from her chamber to closets connected with a chapel, where she had been accustomed to sit and hear divine service. these closets were of the form of small galleries, where the queen and her immediate attendants could sit. there was one open and public; another--a smaller one--was private, with curtains which could be drawn before it, so as to screen those within from the notice of the congregation. the queen intended, first, to go into the great closet; but, feeling too weak for this, she changed her mind, and ordered the private one to be prepared. at last she decided not to attempt to make even this effort, but ordered the cushions to be put down upon the floor, near the entrance, in her own room, and she lay there while the prayers were read, listening to the voice of the clergyman as it came in to her through the open door. one day she asked them to take off the wedding ring with which she had commemorated her espousal to her kingdom and her people on the day of her coronation. the flesh had swollen around it so that it could not be removed. the attendants procured an instrument and cut it in two, and so relieved the finger from the pressure. the work was done in silence and solemnity, the queen herself, as well as the attendants, regarding it as a symbol that the union, of which the ring had been the pledge, was about to be sundered forever. she sunk rapidly day by day, and, as it became more and more probable that she would soon cease to live, the nobles and statesmen who had been attendants at her court for so many years withdrew one after another from the palace, and left london secretly, but with eager dispatch, to make their way to scotland, in order to be the first to hail king james, the moment they should learn that elizabeth had ceased to breathe. her being abandoned thus by these heartless friends did not escape the notice of the dying queen. though her strength of body was almost gone, the soul was as active and busy as ever within its failing tenement. she watched every thing--noticed every thing, growing more and more jealous and irritable just in proportion as her situation became helpless and forlorn. every thing seemed to conspire to deepen the despondency and gloom which darkened her dying hours. her strength rapidly declined. her voice grew fainter and fainter, until, on the 23d of march, she could no longer speak. in the afternoon of that day she aroused herself a little, and contrived to make signs to have her council called to her bedside. those who had not gone to scotland came. they asked her whom she wished to have succeed her on the throne. she could not answer, but when they named king james of scotland, she made a sign of assent. after a time the counselors went away. at six o'clock in the evening she made signs for the archbishop and her chaplains to come to her. they were sent for and came. when they came in, they approached her bedside and kneeled. the patient was lying upon her back speechless, but her eye, still moving watchfully and observing every thing, showed that the faculties of the soul were unimpaired. one of the clergymen asked her questions respecting her faith. of course, she could not answer in words. she made signs, however, with her eyes and her hands, which seemed to prove that she had full possession of all her faculties. the by-standers looked on with breathless attention. the aged bishop, who had asked the questions, then began to pray for her. he continued his prayer a long time, and then pronouncing a benediction upon her, he was about to rise, but she made a sign. the bishop did not understand what she meant, but a lady present said that she wished the bishop to continue his devotions. the bishop, though weary with kneeling, continued his prayer half an hour longer. he then closed again, but she repeated the sign. the bishop, finding thus that his ministrations gave her so much comfort, renewed them with greater fervency than before, and continued his supplications for a long time--so long, that those who had been present at the commencement of the service went away softly, one after another, so that when at last the bishop retired, the queen was left with her nurses and her women alone. these attendants remained at their dying sovereign's bedside for a few hours longer, watching the failing pulse, the quickened breathing, and all the other indications of approaching dissolution. as hour after hour thus passed on, they wished that their weary task was done, and that both their patient and themselves were at rest. this lasted till midnight, and then the intelligence was communicated about the palace that elizabeth was no more. in the mean time all the roads to scotland were covered, as it were, with eager aspirants for the favor of the distinguished personage, there, who, from the instant elizabeth ceased to breathe, became king of england. they flocked into scotland by sea and by land, urging their way as rapidly as possible, each eager to be foremost in paying his homage to the rising sun. the council assembled and proclaimed king james. elizabeth lay neglected and forgotten. the interest she had inspired was awakened only by her power, and that being gone, nobody mourned for her, or lamented her death. the attention of the kingdom was soon universally absorbed in the plans for receiving and proclaiming the new monarch from the north, and in anticipations of the splendid pageantry which was to signalize his taking his seat upon the english throne. [illustration: king james i.] in due time the body of the deceased queen was deposited with those of its progenitors, in the ancient place of sepulture of the english kings, westminster abbey. westminster abbey, in the sense in which that term is used in history, is not to be conceived of as a building, nor even as a group of buildings, but rather as a long succession of buildings like a dynasty following each other in a line, the various structures having been renewed and rebuilt constantly, as parts or wholes decayed, from century to century, for twelve or fifteen hundred years. the spot received its consecration at a very early day. it was then an island formed by the waters of a little tributary to the thames, which has long since entirely disappeared. written records of its sacredness, and of the sacred structures which have occupied it, go back more than a thousand years, and beyond that time tradition mounts still further, carrying the consecration of the spot almost to the christian era, by telling us that the apostle peter himself, in his missionary wanderings, had a chapel or an oratory there. the spot has been, in all ages, the great burial-place of the english kings, whose monuments and effigies adorn its walls and aisles in endless variety. a vast number, too, of the statesmen, generals, and naval heroes of the british empire have been admitted to the honor of having their remains deposited under its marble floor. even literary genius has a little corner assigned it--the mighty aristocracy whose mortal remains it is the main function of the building to protect having so far condescended toward intellectual greatness as to allow to milton, addison, and shakspeare modest monuments behind a door. the place is called the poets' corner; and so famed and celebrated is this vast edifice every where, that the phrase by which even this obscure and insignificant portion of it is known is familiar to every ear and every tongue throughout the english world. the body of elizabeth was interred in a part of the edifice called henry the seventh's chapel. the word chapel, in the european sense, denotes ordinarily a subordinate edifice connected with the main body of a church, and opening into it. most frequently, in fact, a chapel is a mere recess or alcove, separated from the area of the church by a small screen or gilded iron railing. in the catholic churches these chapels are ornamented with sculptures and paintings, with altars and crucifixes, and other such furniture. sometimes they are built expressly as monumental structures, in which case they are often of considerable size, and are ornamented with great magnificence and splendor. this was the case with henry the seventh's chapel. the whole building is, in fact his tomb. vast sums were expended in the construction of it, the work of which extended through two reigns. it is now one of the most attractive portions of the great pile which it adorns. elizabeth's body was deposited here, and here her monument was erected. [illustration: elizabeth's tomb in westminster abbey.] it will be recollected that james, who now succeeded elizabeth, was the son of mary queen of scots. soon after his accession to the throne, he removed the remains of his mother from their place of sepulture near the scene of her execution, and interred them in the south aisle of henry the seventh's chapel, while the body of elizabeth occupied the northern one.[e] he placed, also, over mary's remains, a tomb very similar in its plan and design to that by which the memory of elizabeth was honored; and there the rival queens have since reposed in silence and peace under the same paved floor. and though the monuments do not materially differ in their architectural forms, it is found that the visitors who go continually to the spot gaze with a brief though lively interest at the one, while they linger long and mournfully over the other. [footnote e: see our history of mary queen of scots, near the close. aisles in english cathedral churches are colonnades, or spaces between columns on an open floor, and not passages between pews, as with us. in monumental churches like westminster abbey there are no pews.] * * * * * the character of elizabeth has not generally awakened among mankind much commendation or sympathy. they who censure or condemn her should, however, reflect how very conspicuous was the stage on which she acted, and how minutely all her faults have been paraded to the world. that she deserved the reproaches which have been so freely cast upon her memory can not be denied. it will moderate, however, any tendency to censoriousness in our mode of uttering them, if we consider to how little advantage we should ourselves appear, if all the words of fretfulness and irritability which we have ever spoken, all our insincerity and double-dealing, our selfishness, our pride, our petty resentments, our caprice, and our countless follies, were exposed as fully to the public gaze as were those of this renowned and glorious, but unhappy queen. the end. transcriber's notes: 1. minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors, and to ensure consistent spelling and punctuation in this etext; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the original book. 2. the sidenotes used in this text were originally published as banners in the page headers, and have been collected at the beginning of each chapter for the reader's convenience. generously made available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 47006-h.htm or 47006-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/47006/47006-h/47006-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/47006/47006-h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/indaysofqueeneli00tapp [illustration: elizabeth, queen of england.] makers of england series in the days of queen elizabeth by eva march tappan, ph.d. author of "in the days of alfred the great" "in the days of william the conqueror" etc. illustrated from famous paintings boston: lothrop, lee & shepard co. copyright, 1902, by lee and shepard published august, 1902 all rights reserved in the days of queen elizabeth norwood press j. s. cushing & co.--berwick & smith norwood, mass. u. s. a. preface of all the sovereigns that have worn the crown of england, queen elizabeth is the most puzzling, the most fascinating, the most blindly praised, and the most unjustly blamed. to make lists of her faults and virtues is easy. one may say with little fear of contradiction that her intellect was magnificent and her vanity almost incredibly childish; that she was at one time the most outspoken of women, at another the most untruthful; that on one occasion she would manifest a dignity that was truly sovereign, while on another the rudeness of her manners was unworthy of even the age in which she lived. sometimes she was the strongest of the strong, sometimes the weakest of the weak. at a distance of three hundred years it is not easy to balance these claims to censure and to admiration, but at least no one should forget that the little white hand of which she was so vain guided the ship of state with most consummate skill in its perilous passage through the troubled waters of the latter half of the sixteenth century. eva march tappan. _worcester, march, 1902._ contents chapter page i. the baby princess 1 ii. the child elizabeth 20 iii. a boy king 39 iv. giving away a kingdom 56 v. a princess in prison 75 vi. from prison to throne 95 vii. a sixteenth century coronation 113 viii. a queen's troubles 132 ix. elizabeth and philip 150 x. entertaining a queen 169 xi. elizabeth's suitors 188 xii. the great sea-captains 208 xiii. the new world 227 xiv. the queen of scots 245 xv. the spanish armada 263 xvi. closing years 280 list of illustrations. page. elizabeth, queen of england. (_from painting by an unknown artist._) _frontispiece._ lady jane grey and roger ascham. (_from painting by j. c. horsley._) 66 kenilworth in elizabeth's time. (_from an old painting._) 184 elizabeth signing the death warrant of mary stuart. (_from painting by liezen-mayer._) 220 mary stuart receiving her death sentence. (_from painting by carl piloty._) 246 last moment of mary, queen of scots. (_from painting by an unknown artist._) 260 the spanish armada attacked by the english fleet. (_from pine's engraving of the tapestry formerly in the house of lords, but destroyed by fire in the eighteenth century._) 274 last moments of elizabeth. (_from painting by delaroche._) 288 in the days of queen elizabeth chapter i the baby princess two ladies of the train of the princess elizabeth were talking softly together in an upper room of hunsdon house. "never has such a thing happened in england before," said the first. "true," whispered the second, "and to think of a swordsman being sent for across the water to calais! that never happened before." "surely no good can come to the land when the head of her who has worn the english crown rolls in the dust at the stroke of a french executioner," murmured the first lady, looking half fearfully over her shoulder. "but if a queen is false to the king, if she plots against the peace of the throne, even against the king's very life, why should she not meet the same punishment that the wife of a tradesman would suffer if she strove to bring death to her husband? the court declared that queen anne was guilty." "yes, the court, the court," retorted the first, "and what a court! if king henry should say, 'cranmer, cut off your father's head,' and 'cromwell, cut off your mother's head,' they would bow humbly before him and answer, 'yes, sire,' provided only that they could have wealth in one hand and power in the other. a court, yes!" "oh, well, i'm to be in the train of the princess elizabeth, and i'm not the one to sit on the judges' bench and say whether the death that her mother died yesterday was just or unjust," said the second lady with a little yawn. "but bend your head a bit nearer," she went on, "and i'll tell you what the lord mayor of london whispered to a kinsman of my own. he said there was neither word nor sign of proof against her that was the queen, and that he who had but one eye could have seen that king henry wished to get rid of her. but isn't that your brother coming up the way?" "yes, it is ralph. he is much in the king's favor of late because he can play the lute so well and can troll a poem better than any other man about the court. he will tell us of the day in london." ralph had already dismounted when his sister came to the hall, too eager to welcome him to wait for any formal announcement of his arrival. "greeting, sister clarice," said he as he kissed her cheek lightly. "how peaceful it all is on this quiet hill with trees and flowers about, and breezes that bring the echoes of bird-notes rather than the noise and tumult of the city." "but i am sure that i heard one sound of the city yesterday, ralph. it was the firing of a cannon just at twelve. was not that the hour when the stroke of the french ruffian beheaded the queen? were there no murderers in england that one must needs be sent for across the water?" "i had hardly thought you could hear the sound so far," said her brother, "but it was as you say. the cannon was the signal that the deed was done." "and where was king henry? was he within the tower? did he look on to make sure that the swordsman had done his work?" "not he. no fear has king henry that his servants will not obey him. he was in epping forest on a hunt. i never saw him more full of jest, and the higher the sun rose, the merrier he became. we went out early in the morning, and the king bade us stop under an oak tree to picnic. the wine was poured out, and we stood with our cups raised to drink his health. it was an uproarious time, for while the foes of the boleyns rejoiced, their friends dared not be otherwise than wildly merry, lest the wrath of the king be visited upon them. he has the eye of an eagle to pierce the heart of him who thinks the royal way is not the way of right." "the wine would have choked me," said clarice, "but go on, ralph. what next?" "one of the party slipped on the root of the oak, and his glass fell on a rock at his feet. the jesting stopped for an instant, and just at that moment came the boom of a cannon from the tower. king henry had forbidden the hour of the execution to be told, but every one guessed that the cannon was the signal that the head of queen anne had been struck off by the foreign swordsman. the king turned white and then red. i was nearest him, and i saw him tremble. i followed his eye, and he looked over the shoulder of the master of the hunt far away to the eastward. there was london, and up the spire of st. paul's a flag was slowly rising. it looked very small from that distance, but it was another signal that the stroke of the executioner had been a true one." "it is an awful thing to take the life of one who has worn the crown," murmured clarice. "did the king speak?" "he half opened his lips and again closed them. then he gave a laugh that made me shiver, and he said, 'one would think that the royal pantry could afford no extra glass. that business is finished. unloose the dogs, and let us follow the boar.' greeting, lady margaret," said ralph to a lady who just then entered the room. he bowed before her with deep respect, and said in a low, earnest tone:-"may you find comfort and courage in every trouble that comes to you." lady margaret's eyes filled with tears as she said:-"i thank you. trouble has, indeed, come to me in these last few years. where was the king yesterday--at the hour of noon, i mean? had he the heart to stay in london?" "he had the heart to go on a hunt, but it was a short one, and almost as soon as the cannon was fired, he set off on the hardest gallop that ever took man over the road from epping forest to wiltshire." "to the home of sir john seymour?" "the same. know you not that this morning before the bells rang for noon jane seymour had taken the place of anne boleyn and become the wife of king henry?" "no, i knew it not," answered lady margaret, "but what matters a day sooner or later when a man goes from the murder of one wife to the wedding of another?" "true," said ralph. clarice was sobbing softly, and lady margaret went on, half to ralph and half to herself:-"it was just two years ago yesterday when lady anne set out for london to be crowned. i never saw the thames so brilliant. every boat was decked with flags and streamers, edged with tiny bells that swung and tinkled in the breeze. the boats were so close together that it was hard to clear a way for the lord mayor's barge. all the greatest men of london were with him. they wore scarlet gowns and heavy golden chains. on one side of the lord mayor was a boat full of young men who had sworn to defend queen anne to the death. just ahead was a barge loaded with cannon, and their mouths pointed in every direction that the wind blows. there was a great dragon, too, so cunningly devised that it would twist and turn one way and then another, and wherever it turned, it spit red fire and green and blue into the river. there was another boat full of the fairest maidens in london town, and they all sang songs in praise of the queen." "they say that queen anne, too, could make songs," said ralph, "and that she made one in prison that begins:- 'oh, death, rock me asleep. bring on my quiet rest.'" "when anne boleyn went to france with the sister of king henry, she was a merry, innocent child. at his door lies the sin of whatever of wrong she has done," said lady margaret solemnly, half turning away from clarice and her brother and looking absently out of the open window. the lawn lay before her, fresh and green. here and there were daisies, gleaming in the may sunshine. "i know the very place," said she with a shudder. "it is the green within the tower. the grass is fresh and bright there, too, but the daisies will be red to-day with the blood of our own crowned queen. it is terrible to think of the daisies." "pretty daisies," said a clear, childish voice under the window. "let us go out on the lawn," said clarice, "it stifles me here." "remember," bade lady margaret hastily, "to say 'lady,' not 'princess.'" the young man fell upon one knee before a tiny maiden, not yet three years old. the child gravely extended her hand for him to kiss. he kissed it and said:-"good morrow, my lady elizabeth." "princess 'lizbeth," corrected the mite. "no," said lady margaret, "not 'princess' but 'lady.'" "princess 'lizbeth," insisted the child with a stamp of her baby foot on the soft turf and a positive little shake of her red gold curls. "princess brought you some daisies," and with a winning smile she held out the handful of flowers to lady margaret and put up her face to be kissed. "i'll give you one," said the child to the young man, and again she extended her hand to him. "princess 'lizbeth wants to go to hear the birds sing. take me," she bade the attendant. she made the quaintest little courtesy that can be imagined, and left the three standing under the great beech tree. "that is our lady elizabeth," said lady margaret, "the most wilful, winsome little lassie in all the world." "but why may she not be called 'princess' as has been the custom?" asked ralph. "it is but three days, indeed, since the king's order was given," answered lady margaret. "when archbishop cranmer decided that anne boleyn was not the lawful wife of henry, the king declared that princess elizabeth should no longer be the heir to the throne, and so should be called 'lady' instead of 'princess.' it is many months since he has done aught for her save to provide for her safe keeping here at hunsdon. the child lacks many things that every child of quality should have, let alone that she be the daughter of a king. i dare not tell the king her needs, lest he be angry, and both the little one and myself feel his wrath." the little daughter of the king seems to have been entirely neglected, and at last lady margaret ventured to write, not to the king, but to chancellor cromwell, to lay before him her difficulties. here is part of her letter:-"now it is so, my lady elizabeth is put from that degree she was afore, and what degree she is at now, i know not but by hearsay. therefore i know not how to order her myself, nor none of hers that i have the rule of, that is, her women and grooms, beseeching you to be good lord to my good lady and to all hers, and that she may have some raiment." the letter goes on to say that she has neither gown, nor slip, nor petticoat, nor kerchiefs, nor neckerchiefs, nor nightcaps, "nor no manner of linen," and ends, "all these her grace must have. i have driven off as long as i can, that by my troth i can drive it off no longer. beseeching ye, mine own good lord, that ye will see that her grace may have that which is needful for her, as my trust is that ye will do." the little princess had a good friend in lady margaret bryan, the "lady mistress" whom queen anne had put over her when, as the custom was, the royal baby was taken from her mother to dwell in another house with her own retinue of attendants and ladies in waiting. in this same letter the kind lady mistress ventured to praise the neglected child. she wrote of her:-"she is as toward a child and as gentle of condition as ever i knew any in my life. i trust the king's grace shall have great comfort in her grace." lady margaret told the chancellor that the little one was having "great pain with her great teeth." probably the last thing that king henry thought of was showing his daughter to the public or making her prominent in any way, but the lady mistress sturdily suggested that if he should wish it, the lady elizabeth would be so taught that she would be an honor to the king, but she must not be kept too long before the public, she must have her freedom again in a day or two. a small difficulty arose in the house itself. the steward of the castle wished the child to dine at the state table instead of at her own more simple board. "it is only fitting," said he, "for her to dine at the great table, since she is at the head of the house." "master steward," declared lady margaret, "at the state table there would be various meats and fruits and wines that would not be for her good. it would be a hard matter for me to keep them from her when she saw them at every meal." "teach her that she may not have all that she sees," said the steward. "the table of state is no place for the correcting of children," retorted lady margaret, and she wrote to the chancellor about this matter also. "i know well," said she, "if she [elizabeth] be at the table of state, i shall never bring her up to the king's grace's honor nor hers, nor to her health. wherefore i beseech you, my lord, that my lady may have a mess of meat to her own lodging, with a good dish or two that is meet for her grace to eat of." besides the lady elizabeth and her household, the lady mistress, the steward, the ladies of her train, and the servants, there was one other dweller in this royal nursery, and that was the lady mary, a half-sister of the little elizabeth. mary's mother had been treated very cruelly and unfairly by king henry, and had finally been put away from him that he might marry anne boleyn. as a child mary was shown more honor than had ever been given to an english princess before. the palace provided for her residence was carried on at an enormous expense. she had her own ladies in waiting, her chamberlain, treasurer, and chaplain, as if she were already queen. even greater than this was her glory when on one occasion her father and mother were absent in france, for she was taken to her father's palace, and there the royal baby of but three or four years represented all the majesty of the throne. the king's councilors reported to him that when some gentlemen of note went to pay their respects at the english court, they found this little child in the presence chamber with her guards and attendants, and many noble ladies most handsomely apparelled. the councilors said that she welcomed her guests and entertained them with all propriety, and that finally she condescended to play for them on the virginals, an instrument with keys like those of a piano. if half this story is true, it is no wonder that the delighted courtiers told the king they "greatly marvelled and rejoiced." the following christmas she spent with her father and mother. she had most valuable presents of all sorts of articles made of gold and silver; cups, saltcellars, flagons, and--strangest of all gifts for a little child--a pair of silver snuffers. one part of the christmas celebration must have pleased her, and that was the acting of several plays by a company of children who had been carefully trained to entertain the little princess. when mary was but six years old, it was arranged that she should marry the german emperor, charles v. he came to england for the betrothal, and remained several weeks. charles ruled over more territory than any other sovereign of the times, and he was a young man of great talent and ability. the child must be educated to become an empress. being a princess was no longer all play. a learned spaniard wrote a profound treatise on the proper method of training the little girl. he would allow her to read the writings of some of the latin poets and orators and philosophers, and she might read history, but no romances. a latin grammar was written expressly for her, and she must also study french and music. there seems to have been little thought of her recreation save that it was decreed that she might "use moderate exercise at seasons convenient." so it was that the pretty, merry little maiden was trained to become an empress. when she was ten years old, she sent charles an emerald ring, asking him whether his love was still true to her. he returned a tender message that he would wear the ring for her sake; and yet, the little girl to whom he had been betrothed never became the bride of the emperor. charles heard that king henry meant to put away his wife, and if that was done, it was probable that mary would no longer be "princess of wales," and would never inherit her father's kingdom. the emperor was angry, and the little girl in the great, luxurious palace was hurt and grieved. this was the beginning of the hard life that lay before her. king henry was determined to be free from his wife that he might make anne boleyn his queen. mary loved her mother with all her heart, but the king refused to allow them to see each other. the mother wrote most tenderly to her child, bidding her be cheerful and obey the king in everything that was not wrong. mary's seventeenth birthday came and went. the king had accomplished his wish to put away his wife, and had made anne boleyn his queen. one september day their child elizabeth was born. so far mary had lived in the greatest state, surrounded by attendants who delighted in showing deference to her wishes, and her only unhappiness had been caused by the separation from her mother and sympathy with her mother's sufferings. one morning the chamberlain, john hussey, came to her with downcast eyes. "your grace," said he, "it is but an hour ago that a message came from his majesty, the king, and----" his voice trembled, and he could say no more. "speak on, my good friend," said mary. "i can, indeed, hardly expect words of cheer from the court that is ruled by her who was once my mother's maid of honor, but tell me to what purport is the message?" "no choice have i but to speak boldly and far more harshly than is my wish," replied the chamberlain, "and i crave your pardon for saying what i would so gladly leave unsaid. i would that the king had named some other agent." "but what is the message, my good chamberlain? must i command it to be told to me? my mother's daughter knows no fear. i am strong to meet whatever is to come." "the king commands through his council," said the chamberlain in a choking voice, "that your grace shall no longer bear the title of 'princess,' for that belongs henceforth to the child of himself and queen anne. he bids that you shall order your servants to address you as 'lady mary,' and that you shall remove at once to hunsdon, the palace of the princess elizabeth, for she it is who is to be his heir and is to inherit the kingdom." "i thank you," said mary calmly, "for the courtesy with which you have delivered the message; but i am the daughter of the king, and without his own letter i refuse to believe that he would be minded to diminish the state and rank of his eldest child." a few days later there came a letter from an officer of the king's household bidding her remove to the palace of the child elizabeth. "i will not accept the letter as the word of my father," declared mary. "it names me as 'lady mary' and not as 'princess';" and she straightway wrote, not to the council, but directly to the king:-"i will obey you as i ought, and go wherever you bid me, but i cannot believe that your grace knew of this letter, since therein i am addressed as 'lady mary.' to accept this title would be to declare that i am not your eldest child, and this my conscience will not permit." she signs herself, "your most humble daughter, mary, princess." king henry was angry, and when queen anne came to him in tears and told him a fortune-teller had predicted that mary should rule after her father, he declared that he would execute her rather than allow such a thing to happen. parliament did just what he commanded, and now he bade that an act be passed settling the crown upon the child of queen anne. mary's luxurious household of more than eightscore attendants was broken up, and she herself was sent to hunsdon. many of her attendants accompanied her, but they were bidden to look no longer upon her as their supreme mistress. they were to treat the child elizabeth as princess of wales and heir to the throne of england. chapter ii the child elizabeth it was a strange household at hunsdon, a baby ruler with crowds of attendants to do her honor and obey her slightest whim. over all was the strong hand of the king, and his imperious will to which every member of the house yielded save the one slender girl who paid no heed to his threats, but stood firmly for her mother's rights and her own. for more than two years all honor was shown to the baby elizabeth, but on the king's marriage to jane seymour, he commanded his obedient parliament to decree that elizabeth should never wear the crown, and that, if jane had no children, the king might will his kingdom to whom he would. to the little child the change in her position was as yet a small matter, but to the young girl of twenty-one years the future seemed very dark. her mother had died, praying in vain that the king would grant her but one hour with her beloved daughter. mary was fond of study and spent much of the time with her books. visitors were rare, for few ventured to brave the wrath of henry viii., but one morning it was announced that lady kingston awaited her grace. "i give you cordial greeting," said mary. "you were ever true to me, and in these days it is but seldom that i meet a faithful friend." "a message comes to your grace through me that will, i hope, give you some little comfort," said lady kingston. "from my father?" cried mary eagerly. "no, but from one whose jealous dislike may have done much to turn the king against you, from her who was anne boleyn. the day before her death," continued lady kingston, "she whispered to me, 'i have something to say to you alone.' she sent away her attendants and bade me follow her into the presence chamber of the tower. she locked and bolted the door with her own hand. then she commanded, 'sit you down in the royal seat.' i said, 'your majesty, in your presence it is my duty to stand, not to sit, much less to sit in the seat of the queen.' she shook her head and said sadly, 'i am no longer the queen. i am but a poor woman condemned to die to-morrow. i pray you be seated.' it seemed a strange wish, but she was so earnest that i obeyed. she fell upon her knees at my feet and said, 'go you to mary, my stepdaughter, fall down before her feet as i now fall before yours, and beg her humbly to pardon the wrong that i have done her. this is my message.'" mary was silent. then she said slowly:-"save for her, my mother's life and my own would have been full of happiness, but i forgive her as i hope to be forgiven. the child whom she has left to suffer, it may be, much that i have suffered, shall be to me as a sister--and truly, she is a winsome little maiden." mary's face softened at the thought of the baby elizabeth. she kept her word, and it was but a few weeks before mary, who had once been bidden to look up to the child as her superior, was generously trying to arouse her father's interest in his forsaken little daughter. henry viii., cruel as he showed himself, was always eager to have people think well of him, and in his selfish, tyrannical fashion, he was really fond of his children. mary had been treated most harshly, but she longed to meet him. her mother was dead, she was alone. if he would permit her to come to him, it might be that he would show her the same kindness and affection as when she was a child. she wrote him submissive letters, and finally he consented to pardon her for daring to oppose his will. hardly was she assured of his forgiveness before she wrote:-"my sister elizabeth is in good health, thanks to our lord, and such a child as i doubt not but your highness shall have cause to rejoice of in time coming." the months went by, and when elizabeth was about four years old, a message came from the king to say that a son was born to him, and that the two princesses were bidden to come to the palace to attend the christening. such a celebration as it was! the queen was wrapped in a mantle of crimson velvet edged with ermine. she was laid upon a kind of sofa on which were many cushions of damask with border of gold. over her was spread a robe of fine scarlet cloth with a lining of ermine. in the procession, the baby son was carried in the arms of a lady of high rank under a canopy borne by four nobles. then came other nobles, one bearing a great wax candle, some with towels about their necks, and some bringing bowls and cups, all of solid gold, as gifts for the child who was to inherit the throne of england. a long line of servants and attendants followed. the princess mary wore a robe of cloth of silver trimmed with pearls. every motion of hers was watched, for she was to be godmother to the little child. there was another young maiden who won even more attention than the baby prince, and this was the four-year-old princess elizabeth. she was dressed in a robe of state with as long a train as any of the ladies of the court. in her hand she carried a golden vase containing the chrism, or anointing oil, and she herself was borne in the arms of the queen's brother. she had been sound asleep when the time came to make ready for the ceremony, for the christening took place late in the evening, and the procession set out with the light of many torches flashing upon the jewels of the nobles and ladies of rank and upon the golden cups and bowls. along the wide hall and down the grand staircase went the glittering line. the baby was christened "edward," and then was proclaimed "the beloved son of our most dread and gracious lord, henry viii." on the return the little elizabeth walked beside mary, keeping fast hold of her sister's hand, while the long train was borne by a noble lady of the court. the trumpet sounded all the way back to the royal bedchamber where lay the queen, waiting to greet her son with her blessing. it was midnight, and elizabeth as well as her baby brother must have been glad to be allowed to rest. only a few days later came the death of the mother of the little prince. greatly as king henry disliked black, he wore it for four months, even on christmas day. elizabeth was probably at hunsdon, but mary spent christmas with her father. she did not forget the little sister, but sent her a box decorated with silver needlework made by her own hand. she gave the baby brother a cap which must have been very elaborate, for it cost enough to pay the wages of a working man for four months. to the baby's nurse she sent a bonnet that cost half as much as the cap. another gift, which she herself made, was a cushion covered with rich embroidery. this baby brother was a delight to both the princesses. mary went often to see him, and looked after him as if he had been her own child, and to elizabeth he was the most precious thing in all the world. "i pray you, take me to see my brother," she often pleaded. one day the older sister said to her, "elizabeth, is there aught that i can do to please you greatly?" "i would gladly go to see my brother," was the child's answer. "that cannot well be," said mary. "is there nothing better that you can wish?" "no, sister." "but there is surely one thing better. when it is two of the clock, stand you close by the west window of the hall, and what is to come will come." clocks were not very common in those days, but there was one in the hall at hunsdon, and the excited little girl watched the hands move slowly around until they marked the hour of two. what was to come? a little after two a single rider appeared. "make way for his grace, edward, prince of wales!" he cried. then came the trumpeters and, following them, the nobles. after the nobles came the royal baby for whom all this ceremonial had been arranged. he lay in the arms of his nurse, "mother jack," and was borne in a litter. the upright poles were heavily gilded, and the canopy was of the richest white silk edged with a golden fringe. clusters of white plumes were fixed at each corner. on the shoulders of eight men rested the shafts of the chair. all around it gathered noble lords and ladies, mounted on horses whose trappings were marked with the monogram of many a family of rank and power. every man wore a sword to defend the heir of england's king, if need should arise, and stalwart guards marched on either side. "it's my own little brother," cried elizabeth. "and he comes to abide with us for a while," said mary. "is not that better, my little sister, than going to him to pay a visit of a day?" "will lady margaret grant me leave to show him my birds and my rabbits? he shall play on my virginals, if he will; and, truly, i'll not mind the sharp prick of the needle, if i may but sew a dress for him. i would fain learn to make letters with the needle, sister mary, that i might sew one all myself on everything that he will wear. oh, it will be an 'e,' even as it is on whatever is mine." it is quite possible that the next few years were the happiest that elizabeth ever knew. she was four years older than edward, and she had been so carefully trained by lady margaret that king henry was glad that she should be the playmate of the sweet-tempered little fellow who was his only son and heir. lady margaret was troubled because edward's best coat was "only tinsel" instead of cloth of gold, and because he had "never a good jewel to set on his cap;" but this was nothing to the little prince so long as he had his sister. lady margaret wrote to the king that she wished he could have seen the prince, for "the minstrels played, and his grace danced and played so wantonly that he could not stand still." elizabeth taught him to speak, and for his sake she even conquered her dislike to the "prick of the needle," for when his second birthday came and the rich nobles of the kingdom sent him jewels and all sorts of beautiful things made of gold and silver, she gave him a tiny cambric shirt, every stitch of which had been made by the little fingers of his six-year-old sister. mary sent him a cloak of crimson satin. the sleeves were of tinsel. it was heavily embroidered with gold thread and with pansies made of pearls. it was about this time that king henry sent an officer of high rank expressly to bestow the royal blessing upon the two princesses. on his return he reported to the king the grateful message that mary had sent. "and how found you her grace, the lady elizabeth?" asked king henry. "truly, your majesty," replied the chancellor, "were the lady elizabeth not the offspring of your illustrious highness, i could in no way account for her charm of manner and of speech. 'i humbly thank his most excellent majesty,' she said, 'that he has graciously deigned to think upon me, who am verily his loving child and his true and faithful subject.'" "she is but six years old," mused henry. "were those her words?" "i would gladly have had pen and paper," answered the chancellor, "that no one of them should have been lost, but i give the message as it has remained in my memory. she asked after your majesty's welfare with as great a gravity as she had been forty years old." more than one trouble came to the older princess. soon after the king had sent his blessing to the two sisters, a councilor came to mary with a message of quite another character. "it is his majesty's pleasure," said he, "that your grace should receive the duke philip of germany as a suitor for your hand." this german duke was a protestant, and mary was a firm roman catholic, but she dared not refuse to obey the king's bidding. "i would gladly remain single," said she, "but i am bound to obey his majesty. i would, too, that the duke were of my own faith, but in so weighty a matter i can do naught save to commit myself to my merciful father and most sovereign lord, knowing that his goodness and wisdom will provide for me far better than i could make provision for myself." the duke sent her a beautiful diamond cross, but before a year had passed, she was bidden by the king to return the gift. henry had wedded a german wife, and had treated her so badly that mary's betrothal was broken. there were sad times in england in those days. when henry viii. wished to marry anne boleyn, he asked the pope to declare that his marriage to the mother of mary was not lawful. the pope refused. henry then asked the opinion of several universities in england, italy, and france, and it is probable that his question was accompanied by either bribes or threats. the universities declared the first marriage unlawful, but the pope would not yield. henry then declared that the english church should be free from the pope, and that the king himself was properly the supreme head of the church in his own kingdom. there were tyrants, and most cruel tyrants before the days of henry viii., but they were generally satisfied to rule men's deeds. henry was determined to rule his subjects' most secret thoughts. if he suspected that a man did not believe that his divorce was right, he would pursue the man and force him to express his opinion. if the man was too honest to tell a falsehood, he was imprisoned or executed, for henry said that it was treason to refuse to acknowledge that the king of england was at the head of the church of england. many of the noblest, truest men in the land were put to death for this reason. this was not all, for although henry would not acknowledge the authority of the pope, he nevertheless declared that he was a roman catholic, and that all protestants were heretics and deserved to be burned to death. the result of this strange reasoning was that if a man was a protestant, he ran the risk of being burned at the stake, while if he was a roman catholic, he was in danger of being hanged. mary was often at the court. she must have heard her father's brutal threats against all those who did not love his will. one after another of her childhood's friends was beheaded or burned at the stake; her old teacher, her mother's chaplain, and the beloved countess to whose care her mother had confided her as an infant. not a word or look of criticism might she venture, for the despot would hardly have hesitated to send his own daughter to the stake if she had dared to resist him in this matter. the case was quite different with elizabeth and edward. they knew little of burnings and executions. whatever of gentleness and kindness was in king henry was shown to the children, especially to his son. the little ones played and studied together. "my sweetest and dearest sister" was the little boy's name for elizabeth. she was a favorite wherever she went. the king married three times after the death of jane seymour, and each of these stepmothers was fond of the merry, pleasing little girl. the first of the three was the german princess. she was rather slow and dull, and henry took a great dislike to her. when the little elizabeth, then about seven years old, begged to be allowed to come to court to see the queen, king henry roared, "tell her that her own mother was so different from this woman that she ought not to wish to see her." this was the only time that he ever spoke of anne boleyn. elizabeth met the new stepmother after a short delay, and this lady was so charmed with the little maiden that she begged to see much of her, the only favor that she ever asked of the king. the next wife was a distant relative of anne boleyn, and when she dined in public, she gave the place opposite herself to the child. "she is of my own blood," said the queen, "and it is only right that she should be next to me." at henry's last marriage mary and the two children were present, and this new queen became like the others a warm friend of elizabeth, who was now fully ten years old. henry must have felt some affection for anne boleyn, for he was never displeased to hear the praises of her daughter. he seemed beginning to have a real fondness for the child, and one day he looked at her keenly and said:-"there's more than one that would be glad to have you. would you be married, elizabeth, or would you stay with your books and birds and viols and lutes?" "i would fain do that which your majesty bids," answered the child. "i know well that what your majesty commands is ever the thing which is best." "she's a child of wisdom," declared henry with a smile of gratification, "and i'll do more for her than anyone can guess." then said he to elizabeth:-"it shall be brought about that you shall become the bride of some great man. if any german emperor plays you false, he shall feel the weight of my hand. how would it please your grace to marry a prince of portugal?" he asked playfully, for he was in a rarely good humor, "or perhaps philip of spain? philip will be a king, and he would make you a great lady. would it please you to wed one that would make you a queen?" "far rather would i wed one that i could make a king," answered the child, drawing herself up to her full height. "what!" cried the king, his face changing in a moment, and his eyes flashing ominously. the girl seemed looking not at the king, but far away into some distant future. she did not see the warning glance of the queen. "i would fain be so beautiful and so great," said she, "that whoever came near me should admire me and should beg me to become his wife. i would say no to one and all, but by and by i would choose one for myself. him i would raise to be as great as i, and i would----" elizabeth of england, even as a child, rarely forgot herself, but she was absorbed in the picture that she was making, and she stopped only when she felt the silence and saw her father's wrathful gaze fixed upon her. his eyes were fairly blazing with anger, and his face was purple. "so that is what you plan, is it?" he roared. "and here you stand before me and tell your schemes to become queen and raise some miserable rascal to the throne. get out of my sight, ingrate that you are." quick-witted as elizabeth was, she did not at once see wherein she was in fault. she was so dazed by this sudden fury that she did not even think to throw herself at the feet of the king and beg to be forgiven, even though she knew not for what. the stepmother pleaded, "pardon the child, my king. she meant no wrong." "no wrong," thundered the king. "is it 'no wrong' to plan what she will do as soon as the breath is out of her father's body? i tell you, girl, that you may find another father and another throne, for never shall you sit upon mine. get to your litter, and do you never come before my eyes again." the little edward had slipped up softly behind his angry father and had laid his tiny hand upon the king's purple cheek. "your majesty is naughty," he declared gravely. "you have made my sweetest sister cry. i don't want my sister to cry." never had the little boy received a harsh word from his father, and he was perhaps the only one in the kingdom who had no fear of the king. "come," said he, "and tell her not to cry." he caught the king by the hand, but even for his son king henry's anger could not be suppressed. "you little know her," he said. "it is you that she would rob. she would seize upon the place that is your own and drive you from it. tell her to depart from the palace and never enter it," he commanded his chamberlain, and soon the little girl, not yet twelve years old, was sent away from the court in disgrace. "hold yourself with patience," whispered the queen to the child. "trust me, and believe that it shall not be long before you will again be sent for." chapter iii a boy king the queen did all in her power for the little offender, but it was a whole year before she was again allowed to come to court. there was war in france, and the king sailed away in his ship with its sails of cloth of gold, apparently forgetting all about the little daughter whom he had left without a word of farewell. the child dared not write him, but she wrote the queen a grateful little italian letter. "i feel bound not only to be obedient to you," she said, "but also to look up to you with filial love, and chiefly because i learn that you, most illustrious highness, never forget me in your letters to his majesty, the king." then she begged the queen when writing the king, always to speak of her. "commend me to him with my continual prayer that he will give me his kind blessing," pleaded the anxious child. after keeping his anger for a whole year, the king finally deigned to send his blessing to "all" his children. the poor little girl was comforted, and made so happy by this tardy forgiveness that she cast gratefully about her to see what she could do to show her gratitude to the kind stepmother who had done so much to appease his wrath. she knew of a little french book that was a favorite of the queen's, and this she translated into english and sent to her. the cover was embroidered in blue and silver, and there was a quaint little dedication saying that she knew nothing in it "was done as it should have been." it is no wonder that the grateful child became a great favorite with her kind-hearted stepmother. henry was successful in france; england had been well governed by the queen during his absence; he was on good terms with all his family; and although there had been a visitation of the plague, his children were safe. it was probably at this happy time that a large picture was painted of henry, his three children, and the mother of edward. the king sits on a kind of dais with jane seymour beside him. he is gorgeous in scarlet and gold brocade, and his two daughters are almost equally dazzling in their crimson velvet and cloth of gold. the precious little prince stands at his father's right hand, and the king's arm is thrown around the child's neck. both king and prince wear velvet caps, each with a long white plume. gold chains and rubies and pearls are everywhere. queen katherine does not appear in the picture, but she had a strong hold on the daily lives of the royal family. she saw to it that so far as lay in her power the neglected elder daughter should have the position that belonged to her. princess as she was, mary never had after her mother's divorce an allowance half large enough to do what was expected of her, but now she was helped in many ways by the thoughtful stepmother. the queen would send a handsome gown or a generous gift of money, or she would arrange to pension off some aged, helpless servant of mary's, and so lessen the demands upon the girl's slender purse. she was little older than the princess, but she showed a motherly watchfulness of mary's interests. no less thoughtful was she of the training of her younger stepchildren. it was the fashion for young people of rank to be highly educated, especially in the languages, and if half the reports of the knowledge acquired by the two children are true, they must have been wonderfully industrious students. one who knew them well declared that they called for their books as soon as it was light. first came the reading of the scriptures, then breakfast, and after that the study of various languages. when the long hours of work were over, the little prince was allowed to exercise in the open air, while elizabeth "betook herself to her lute or viol, and when wearied with these, employed her time in needle-work." four or five modern languages this industrious princess learned to speak and write. she had some knowledge of greek, and she spoke latin almost as easily as english. a little book in which she wrote her italian exercises is still in existence. they are well written, but there are mistakes enough to show that even a princess does not learn a language without hard work. both children had a great admiration for queen katherine, and whatever she did was right in their eyes. edward seems to have had as hard a time learning to write as any child of to-day, and he sent a letter to the queen about his troubles. "when i see your beautiful handwriting," says the discouraged little boy, "i am sick of writing. but then i think how kind your nature is, and that whatever proceeds from a good mind and intention will be acceptable, and so i write you this letter." the gentle boy, not yet nine years old, was soon to be put forward to represent the king. henry had grown so enormously stout that he could not climb the stairs. after a while he could no longer even walk about his room, and he had to be moved in a rolling chair. commissioners from the king of france were coming to england to arrange terms of peace. the king ordered his son to take his place. "your majesty," reported the officer in whose charge the child had been, "truly, never was there a prince of such courtesy and amiability. his grace rode on the charger most gallantly, and led the two thousand knights and nobles with as much of ease and stateliness of demeanor as if he had been forty years of age." "and did he speak as he was taught?" asked the king. "surely, your majesty, and with such grace and sovereignty in his manner that men were affected even to tears." "and what said the admiral?" "i verily believe, your highness, that he would have caught up the prince's grace and clasped him to his breast had it not been for the dignity of his grace's manner and bearing. he put his arm about the neck of his grace, but it was a kiss of affection and not of state that he gave." "and after that?" "after the speech of welcome, my lord prince again took the head of the cavalcade. never before the time of your majesty have they been handled by such a leader. he led the french away from the heath to meet your highness's gracious welcome at the palace." the boy was not spoiled by all this honor and praise, but went willingly away from the glories of the court to stay with his beloved sister elizabeth. less than a year were they together, and then it was thought best for them to be separated. edward was but a lonely little child in spite of his stateliness when on the great charger, and he grieved so for his sister that she wrote to him suggesting that they write frequent letters to each other. the boy caught eagerly at the idea. "nothing can now occur to me more grateful than your letters," he wrote in the prim, stilted fashion of the day, and he added, "it is a comfort to my regret that i hope shortly to see you again if no accident intervenes." he did see her again before many weeks had passed, for there was news to tell which the councilors wished both children to hear. king henry had been growing more and more feeble. for some time before his death, it was so difficult for him to sign his name that three men, acting together, were given the right to do it for him. two made an impression of his signature with a dry stamp, and the third traced the letters with ink. henry grew no less bitter in his enmity to all who opposed him, and one of his last acts was to order the execution of his aunt's husband. one winter day two men galloped swiftly over the road to the palace which was then the home of edward. "inform his highness that the duke of somerset and sir anthony brown await his pleasure," was the message brought to the prince. the duke of somerset was edward's mother's brother, and he went eagerly to meet his guests. "i rejoice that you bring me word of his majesty," said the boy. "is it not yet his will that i should come to him?" "your grace," answered the duke, "his majesty sent no such message, but he would that you go with us to the home of her grace, the lady elizabeth." the prince did not question a command that was so in accordance with his wishes, and they set off on horseback. when the children were together, the duke bowed low before the boy of ten years, his own nephew, and said:-"your majesty, graciously permit your faithful servants to kiss your hand and to promise you their humblest obedience both now and ever. a grievous duty is it, indeed, to declare to you that our illustrious king, henry viii., no more governs this realm of england. there is comfort for his sorrowing subjects in the thought that he has left us so noble and gracious a prince to rule us in his stead." edward had known nothing but kindness from his father, and now that the king was dead, elizabeth no longer remembered what he had made her suffer. edward forgot that he was a king, and the children threw themselves into each other's arms and sobbed and cried until those who were about them wept for sympathy. now the king had died three days before, but lest there should be some insurrection or an attempt to put mary on the throne, the duke of somerset and others who meant to be the real rulers of the reign of edward kept the news of his death a secret until they could get the young king safely into their hands and could establish the government in his name. edward was conducted to the royal apartments in the tower of london with an honorable escort of troops and nobles. there was great blowing of trumpets and waving of banners, and the boy was proclaimed king of england, france, and ireland, and supreme head of the church in england and ireland. a few weeks later the coronation took place, and then there was a rejoicing indeed. the streets through which the young king rode were hung with tapestry and banners. here and there booths, or stages had been built, and in them all sorts of games and plays were carried on to amuse the people. a rope was stretched from the steeple of st. paul's church and fastened firmly to a great anchor lying on the ground. an acrobat contrived to creep halfway up this rope, "aided neither by hand nor by foot," the old account says. then he performed many feats in mid-air, "whereat," as the story puts it, "king and nobles had good pastime." there was no longer a cruel king on the throne, but a child who is described as a marvel of goodness and learning. he is praised not only for his ability to speak different languages, but for his knowledge of geography. one of the historians of the day said that he could recite all the harbors and creeks in england, france, and scotland, and could tell what kind of entrance there was in each for ships, and even which tides and winds were most favorable. it was claimed, too, that he knew the names of all the men of authority in his kingdom, where their homes were, and what their religion was. this matter of religion was dividing the kingdom. henry had called himself a catholic, but he would not admit the pope's authority. edward and elizabeth had been brought up in their father's belief. the duke of somerset was one of the men chosen to carry out henry's will, and he was so decided a protestant that he was almost as determined to make every one accept the protestant faith as henry had been to make all his people agree with himself. in spite of all king henry's declarations that neither mary nor elizabeth should ever wear the crown, he had finally willed that it should descend first to edward, then to mary and then to elizabeth. the catholics were eager to have mary come to the throne, because she was of their own faith; but the duke of somerset had been chosen protector, that is, he was really to govern the kingdom until edward was old enough to rule, and he meant to oblige the people to become protestants. there was even more scheming going on around the boy king, for his councilors were already planning for his marriage. a little five-year-old girl in scotland was the one whose hand they meant to secure for their sovereign. her name was mary, and she was the queen of scots. this plan had been one of king henry's favorite schemes, but it had never pleased the scotch. the protector led an army against them, a most remarkable fashion of winning a bride for the young king, but the scotch would not yield. "what greater honor do you expect for the queen?" demanded the english council. "how can scotland gain more sure protection than that of the king of england?" the scotch knew very well that if edward married mary, it would be for the purpose of gaining a surer control of scotland, and they refused in spite of the duke of somerset and all his army. they betrothed the little queen to the son of the french king, and sent her to france to be educated. "the scotch are a perverse and wilful people," then said the english. besides the difficulty in gaining a wife for the king and the religious persecutions, there was trouble from other causes, especially among the poor. part of this arose from what was called "enclosing." on every great estate there had always been land that the poor people living on the estate could use as a common pasture for their cows. the rich landowners were beginning to "enclose," or fence in these tracts of land and to use them either for private parks or for sheep pastures. the poor had no longer any way to feed their animals, and they were in great distress. somerset tried to forbid this enclosing, but the owners of land were too powerful for him, and the enclosing went on in spite of the strictest laws against it. indeed, the laws caused a new difficulty, for now that the poor people had a decree in their favor, they revolted in several districts, and tried to seize the land. a writer who lived in those times says, "the poor people swarmed in the realm." of course when there were revolts, somerset was obliged to suppress them, no matter how much he sympathized with the revolters, and often accused men were punished with little effort to make sure of their guilt. it is said that a miller who had been a revolter suspected that he was in danger, and said to his servant, "i must go away on business. if anyone asks for me say that you are the miller and have owned the mill these three years." the king's officer came as the miller feared. "are you the miller?" he demanded. "surely," replied the servant proudly. "the mill has been mine for three full years." "you have been a busy rebel," declared the officer, "and now you shall be hanged to the nearest tree." "indeed, i'm not the miller, but only his man," cried the frightened servant. "the man tells two tales, hang him up," bade the officer. a little later one who knew the miller said, "truly, he was not the miller, he was but the miller's man." "then has he proved a good servant," declared the officer contentedly, "for how could he have done his master better service than by hanging for him?" the nobles were angry at somerset's attempt to prevent enclosing, and they were indignant that he should have so much power. the result was that he was accused of treason and the duke of northumberland became protector. although all these acts were done in the name of edward, the boy king had really very little freedom. "he is not alone half a quarter of an hour," said one who knew of his life. when he first became king, he wrote to mary, "i will be to you a dearest brother and overflowing with all kindness;" but he was taught by somerset and others that it was a danger to the kingdom to allow his sister to remain a catholic. when he had been on the throne for about three years, she was summoned to court. "your highness," said the chamberlain to edward, "i have to announce the arrival of her grace, the princess mary." "give welcome to her and her train," said the young monarch, "and say that it is my will and that of my councilors to receive her straightway." this visit was not for the pleasure of meeting her brother, though they greeted each other most cordially. the royal council was sitting in another room, and there she was summoned. "your grace," said the councilors, "is it true that, contrary to the wishes of his majesty the king, mass is still said daily in your house?" "it is true," answered mary, "that the worship of god is carried on in my house in such wise as i do firmly believe is most pleasing to him." "there is then no hope of your grace's amendment shortly?" "none, my lord." "it is the will of his majesty, who is supreme head of the church in england, that the mass should be no longer celebrated in his realm. it becomes the duty of all that owe him allegiance to obey. it is his majesty's command that you obey as a subject, attempting not to rule as a sovereign." "i will neither change my faith nor conceal that which is my true opinion," declared the princess, "and in testimony of my belief i am ready to lay my head upon the block for the truth, though i am unworthy to suffer death in so good a cause." mary soon left the palace. letters bidding her give up her religion came from the king, but the elder sister replied:-"they may be signed with your own name, but they cannot be really your own, for it is not possible that your highness can at these years be a judge in matters of religion, and by the doings of certain of your councilors i mean not to rule my conscience." with his councilors telling him how dangerous it was to the peace of the kingdom for mary to be allowed to practise a form of religion that was contrary to the law, the brother and sister can hardly have been very happy together, and their meetings grew further apart. elizabeth was living quietly in her own house, spending most of her time in study. the boy king was hardly more than a toy in the hands of his councilors. somerset was finally condemned to death, but when he wrote to elizabeth and begged her to appeal to the king and save his life, elizabeth was obliged to answer:-"the king is surrounded by those who take good care to keep me away from him, and i can no more gain access to his majesty than you can." the one who was keeping elizabeth from her brother was the new protector, the duke of northumberland. edward became ill, and everyone knew that his life would be short. elizabeth tried to visit him, but was prevented. then she wrote him a letter, but it is not probable that he ever saw it. northumberland was in power, and he did not mean that either mary or elizabeth should wear the english crown; he had quite another plan in his mind. chapter iv giving away a kingdom edward was not fifteen when the duke of northumberland became protector. at eighteen the boy king was to be really king and to govern his kingdom as he chose, but until then, although everything was done in his name, it was the protector who would rule. northumberland thought that in those three years he could gain so great an influence over the young sovereign that even when the time came to give up the high office, he would still retain much of his power. edward had never been strong, and before many months had passed, it was clear that he would not live to be eighteen. northumberland had no mind to lose his power. what could he do? one morning in june he went to the chamber of the king. edward lay by the window looking out into the bright sunshine. "my humble greeting to your gracious majesty," said northumberland. "i have brought news that cannot fail to give to your highness an increase of health and strength." "i think that nothing can do that," said edward, "but good news will at least make the day less weary. what is it that you have to tell?" "that two of those followers of the pope who have most strongly opposed your majesty's efforts for the good of the land have at last accepted godly counsel." "i rejoice," said the king. "would that the princess mary were one of them. is it true, my lord, that no word of submission to him who is rightly the supreme head of the church in england has come from her grace?" "it is true, your highness." "then when i die--no, my lord, do not deny it. i know well that few days are left to me--my sister will be on the throne. she will bring back the falseness of the old religion. not the sovereign but the pope will rule in the land, and i can do nothing to prevent it. how little power a king has!" northumberland's heart beat fast. now was his opportunity. "has your majesty considered that the rightful heirs of king as well as of subject are those whom he himself shall name?" "do you mean, my lord, that it is my right to name her who shall follow me? that i could leave the crown to her grace, the princess elizabeth, if i would?" "our glorious ruler, henry viii., bequeathed his crown as he would have it to descend. surely, it would be in your majesty's power to leave it to the princess elizabeth's grace or to whomever of the descendants of the illustrious sovereign, king henry vii., your majesty might choose." "the princess elizabeth was taught the principles of the truth even as i myself was," mused the king. "true, your majesty," agreed the duke, "but she is only twenty years of age. it might easily come to pass that she would wed a foreign prince of the false faith, and that the land, now so favored with the light of truth, would be again plunged into darkness. if she were already wed, it would be safer, though many in the realm believe that neither of the daughters of king henry can rightfully inherit the crown. an heir upon whom all must unite would save strife and it may be bloodshed." "that might well be," said the king thoughtfully. then northumberland suggested boldly, though with some inward fear:-"the sisters of your majesty's illustrious father, could you----" the duke hesitated. "the granddaughter of margaret tudor is the queen of scots, the little maiden who refused my hand," said the king with a faint smile, "but she is of the false faith. the granddaughter of mary tudor is my old playmate, the lady jane grey, or is she not now lady dudley, my lord? was it not a few days ago that she became the wife of your son? she is well-principled in the truth." "do not fancy, i beg your highness, that a thought of what your majesty had in mind moved me to look with favor upon the mutual affection of the young couple." "no," said the young king a little wearily. "arrange it in any way that you will to have the kingdom fall into the hands of her who will lead it more fully into the light, and bear it further from the idolatrous worship of the earlier days." northumberland had obtained his wish, but there must be lawyers to write a deed of gift of the crown. he went to three judges of the realm and gave them the king's command. "gladly would we see the faith of his majesty more fully established," they said, "but, my lord duke, in the time of king henry parliament decreed that whoever did aught to change the order of succession to the crown should suffer death as a traitor." northumberland persuaded and threatened, but the judges had no mind to run the risk of losing their heads for the sake of setting his daughter-in-law upon the throne of england. "if you had the written pardon of the king, would you do it?" demanded northumberland, and after much discussion the judges hesitatingly agreed. edward was now as eager as the protector to have it made sure that lady jane would ascend the throne, and he willingly signed a pardon to free them from all punishment, if they were ever accused of breaking the law of the land. the pardon was signed, then the deed of gift, bequeathing the crown to lady jane, was signed. the dying king rejoiced, but the bold schemer trembled. there were very good reasons why each of four women had a right to feel honestly that she alone ought to be queen of england. these four were mary, elizabeth, mary, the child queen of scots, who was descended from margaret, sister of henry viii., and last, lady jane, who was descended from his youngest sister mary. according to king henry's will, which parliament had confirmed, the crown was to go to lady jane, if henry's three children died without heirs. it seemed quite possible that she might some day be the ruler of england, and her parents set to work to prepare her to become a queen. now when less than a century ago a lady in england found that her little daughter victoria would probably be the sovereign of her country, she said, "i want you to be a good woman, and then i shall be sure that you will be a good queen." lady jane's parents thought more of training her to do everything according to the etiquette of the court, and they were so anxious that she should walk and talk and sit and eat and dance precisely as they thought a queen ought to perform those acts, that they were exceedingly severe with her. she was a gentle, loving girl, and she did her best to satisfy them, but she was upbraided and pinched and struck whenever she was in their presence. the one great pleasure in her life was the time that she spent with her teacher, whom she called "master aylmer," for he was so kind to her and so gentle in all his ways that she was happy when the hour of study had arrived. everyone knew that northumberland was the most powerful man in the kingdom, and when he said to lady jane's father, the marquis of dorset, "if you will give your daughter to my son guilford to wife, i will persuade the king to make you a duke," the marquis was delighted. lady jane was but sixteen and lord guilford dudley was only one year older. they were married at once with the most brilliant festivities. not many days after the wedding, king edward became very ill. "hold yourself in readiness for what may be demanded of you," said northumberland to lady jane. "should the king fail to recover, you are made by his majesty heir of his realm." the girl of sixteen had never thought of such a thing as becoming queen of england until many years should have passed, and probably not even then, and she was greatly troubled. she dared not disobey northumberland, and when a few days later he sent his daughter to bring her to the royal council, she did not venture to refuse. when the duke and the other members of the council entered the room, they fell on their knees before her and kissed her hand. "we make our humble submission to your majesty as our sovereign lady and rightful ruler of this realm of england," said they. lady jane was much abashed, and she said:-"my lords, i can but thank you for the grace that you show to one who is so unworthy of such honor; but if i understand your words aright, you greet me as your sovereign lady and ruler. my lords, there is surely some grievous error. his majesty, king edward, is, happily, still on the throne, and even if it had pleased god to remove his grace from earth to heaven, no claim have i so long as the princesses mary and elizabeth live. will your lordships grant me permission to withdraw?" then spoke the duke of northumberland:-"your majesty and members of the royal council, it is a painful duty that falls to my lot to announce the death of our beloved and illustrious king, edward vi. much reason have we to rejoice not only in his praiseworthy life and his countless acts of goodness and clemency, but especially in that he, being at the close of his days, thought most earnestly upon the welfare of his realm. in his last hour on earth he prayed that his kingdom might be defended from the popish faith, and he left it in the hands of her who he believed would be faithful to the trust, and would guard the land from falsehood and from error." all her life lady jane had known and loved the young king. tears came to her eyes. she looked pitifully about the room. several noble ladies had been brought into the council chamber, but not one had even a glance of sympathy for the young girl. the duchess of northumberland frowned at her, and her own mother whispered sternly, "demean yourself as is fitting for a queen." "his majesty gave command to his council," said the duke, "and they have no choice save to obey him. thus declares the will of the king, signed and sealed, and drawn up by three capable judges of the realm. it names as his heir and successor on the throne of england her gracious highness, lady jane, descendant of mary, who was the youngest and most beloved sister of his majesty, king henry viii." then all the lords of the council knelt at the feet of lady jane. "we render to your majesty only the honor that is due," said they, "for you are of true and direct lineage heir to the crown. with deliberate mind we have promised to his highness, king edward vi., that in your grace's cause we will spare neither goods nor lands nor the shedding of our blood." lady jane stood before them, white and trembling. then grief and pain overcame her, and with a sudden burst of tears she fell to the ground. when she was a little recovered, she said to them:-"my lords, i can but grieve from my heart for the death of so noble a prince and one that was so dear to me. i am weak and feeble. i have little power to govern the land as he in his greatness of mind and of heart would have done, but if that which you say has been given me is rightfully and lawfully mine own, then will i turn to god in my insufficiency and humbly beseech his grace and spirit that i may rule the land to its advantage and to his glory and service." in the afternoon of the same day lady jane went in state to the tower of london, for it was an old custom that sovereigns should go forth from the tower on the day of their coronation. her relatives knelt before her and humbly promised to be obedient to her commands; and her own mother walked meekly behind her, bearing the daughter's train. in the evening she was proclaimed in london ruler of the kingdom. there was little rejoicing. the people as a whole were sullen and silent, for most of them understood that the affair was but a scheme of northumberland's to gain power for himself. [illustration: lady jane grey and roger ascham.--_from painting by j. c. horsley._] the duke knew that if mary and elizabeth were free after edward's death was known, a party would be formed in favor of one or the other, and therefore he had planned to get them both into his hands. he sent messengers to them to say that the king was very ill and begged that they would give him the happiness and comfort of their presence. elizabeth paid no heed to the message. either she was really ill, as she said, or she was wise enough to suspect that there was some trickery about this sudden demand for her society, when for so long a time she had not been allowed to see her brother. at any rate, she remained in her own house. mary returned word by a swift rider that she was made very happy by the thought that she could help to bring cheer and consolation to her brother, and she set out at once to go to him. when she was only a few miles from london, a man who had been her goldsmith came riding in hot haste. "your grace," he said, "i beg that you will go no farther. the king is not ill, he is dead. northumberland plans to set lady jane upon the throne. flee, i do pray you." mary hesitated. was the word of the goldsmith true? whom could she trust? should she go on to london and perhaps be thrown into the prison of the tower by northumberland? should she flee to norfolk and refuse, it might be, her brother's last tender wishes? was it a trap to make her declare herself queen and then behead her for treason? while she questioned, another rider came, a nobleman whom she trusted, and he told her that the king was indeed dead. mary turned toward norfolk. night came on. the princess herself and many of her retinue were exhausted. they asked for shelter at a country-seat. it was given them, but the protestants in the neighborhood had heard that edward was dead and that the catholic princess was among them. a mob set out in the morning to destroy the house that had sheltered her. mary had been warned of the danger and had ridden away. she glanced back from the top of a hill and saw the house in flames. "let it go," she cried. "i will build him a better one." as soon as she reached her own castle in norfolk, she sent a letter to the royal council saying:-"we are greatly surprised that we have had from you no knowledge of the death of our brother, but we trust your love and your loyalty. whatever may have been said to us of any disloyal intentions on your part we do put far from us, and do agree to grant you pardon and receive you graciously into our service as true and faithful subjects." even though the councilors had failed to secure mary, they still believed that their side would win, and they sent her a rather arrogant letter. it said:-"lady jane is our queen, but if you will show yourself quiet and obedient as you ought, you will find us all ready to do you any service that we with duty may." mary then rode to framlingham, a strongly fortified castle some twenty miles away. it was so near the sea that she could escape to the continent if flight should become necessary, but she could hardly have been in a safer place. the walls of the stronghold were eight feet thick; town and fortress were surrounded by three deep moats. here she flung out her banner and called upon all loyal subjects to come to the assistance of their rightful queen. so many thousands gathered that she ventured to set out for london, and as she drew near the city, she met such a welcome that she disbanded her army. now at edward's death when northumberland saw that his plan to capture elizabeth had failed, he sent a messenger to promise her land and money if she would but resign all title to the crown. with rare wisdom for so young a woman, she replied:-"that is not for me to say. lady mary is by my father's will and by decree passed in open parliament the rightful queen of the realm. whatever my claim may be, i can make no challenge so long as my sister doth live." elizabeth then set out to meet mary, and they entered london together, followed by a long train of ladies and noblemen, and escorted by the city guard. northumberland too, had collected an army, but his men deserted by hundreds. in less than two months after he had triumphantly set his daughter-in-law upon the throne, he was executed, together with two of those who had most strongly supported him. lady jane and her husband were imprisoned. mary's advisers declared that there was no safety for her so long as lady jane lived, but mary refused to put her to death. as the day for the coronation drew near, there were great rejoicings. many of those that did not wish to have a catholic ruler were so glad to be free from northumberland's schemes and to feel that she who was lawfully their queen was now on the throne that they were ready to unite in the joy of the others. in the procession to the tower, queen mary rode in a litter, or chariot, drawn by six horses, glittering in their trappings of cloth of silver. she was robed in the richest of blue velvet, made even richer by bands of ermine. she wore a sort of head-dress, so heavy with gold and pearls and jewels that she often had to hold up her head with her hands. in a litter almost as splendid as her own rode elizabeth and her first stepmother, anne of cleves. noble ladies rode on horseback in all the splendors of crimson velvet. companies of guards followed in white and green, the royal colors. the next morning after all this magnificence, there was such a brilliant display as made the gorgeousness of the ride through the city seem simple and modest, for the queen was to be crowned in westminster abbey. when she was on the platform in full view of the people, the bishop of winchester demanded of them whether it was their will that the crown should be placed on the head of the most excellent princess, mary, eldest daughter of king henry viii. the people shouted, "yea, yea! queen mary, queen mary!" mary made a solemn promise to govern england aright and faithfully preserve the liberties of the people. then followed all kinds of ceremonies, changing of robes, and sounding of trumpets. she was girded with a sword, a ring was put upon her finger, and at last the crown was solemnly placed upon her head. this was by no means the end of it all, for many nobles came to kneel before her and promise to be true to her. each one of them kissed her cheek. in all this ceremonial as well as in the feasting and the entertainments that followed it, the princess elizabeth was in every way ranked next to the queen. elizabeth wore the coronet of a princess. "it is very heavy," she whispered to the french ambassador. "be patient," murmured he, "it will be parent to a better one." parliament was soon in session, and one of the important questions to be decided was what should be done with lady jane. "she attempted to seize the crown from mary, who is our rightful sovereign," declared one, "and she should be put to death as a traitor." "what she did was done at the bidding of the duke of northumberland," said another. "she was but a tool in his hands, and she should be freed." "that cannot well be," objected a third. "whoever commits a crime is guilty of that crime and must bear the punishment." "yes," agreed the first, "and moreover, some who would question elizabeth's right to the throne would perchance unite under the banner of jane. there will be neither rest nor safety in the kingdom so long as she is spared to lead any rebellious faction that may need a head." parliament decided that lady jane was guilty of treason, and she was sentenced to be either burned or beheaded as the queen should choose. everyone was sorry for her. even those that condemned her could hardly look upon the young girl without tears, and when she was taken back to her prison in the tower, crowds of weeping people followed her. "she is to be put to death 'at the queen's pleasure,'" said one royal attendant to another. "do you believe it will be soon?" "he who dwells in a palace should see but not speak," answered the other. "to you, however, i may venture to whisper that the death of lady jane will never be 'the queen's pleasure.'" chapter v a princess in prison mary did not forget to show gratitude to those who had aided her in gaining possession of her crown. to some she gave high positions, and for the one whose house had been burned she built a much finer residence. "and now, my well-beloved cousin and councilor," she said to the earl of sussex, "we would gladly show to you our hearty appreciation of your loyalty in a troublous time. ask what you will of us, and it shall be granted." the only way of heating houses in those days was by means of fireplaces, and therefore, even the royal palaces were full of chills and drafts. whenever the earl came to court, he took cold. a thought struck him and he said:-"if your grace is really of intent to bestow upon me the gift that will give me most of comfort and peace of mind and body, i would beg humbly for the royal permission that i need no longer uncover my head before man or woman." mary was greatly amused. "either cap or coif or nightcap [skullcap] may you wear," said she, "and woe to the one that dares to dispute your privilege." the next morning a parchment bearing the royal arms was presented to the earl with all formality. it read:-"know ye that we do give to our well-beloved and trusty councilor, henry, earl of sussex, license and pardon to wear his cap, coif, or nightcap, or any two of them, at his pleasure, as well in our presence as in the presence of any other person within this our realm." not all the questions of the day were settled as easily. one of the most important ones was who should succeed mary on the throne. if she married and had children, they would be her heirs, but if not, the princess elizabeth would probably follow her as ruler of england. now mary was a strong and sincere catholic, and her dearest wish was to lead england back to the old faith and have the pope acknowledged as the head of the english church. she hoped to be able to bring this to pass, but she was not well, she had little reason to look for a long life, and when elizabeth became queen, all mary's work would be undone, the land would be again protestant. elizabeth was to mary still the little sister whom she had so often led by the hand. would it not be possible to persuade her to become a catholic? elizabeth had loved edward, would she not go with mary to hear a mass for the repose of his soul? elizabeth refused. again mary asked, and again elizabeth said no. "she would not dare be so bold if stronger than herself were not behind her," declared mary's councilors. "there is danger to life and throne in this audacity." others too were to be feared, those protestants who did not believe in the right of elizabeth to the crown. they were not sorry to see disagreement between the two sisters, for if the younger should be shut out from the succession, lady jane, prisoner in the tower as she was, would be accepted as mary's heir. evidently elizabeth must be induced to become a catholic if it was possible. mary begged and then she threatened. she had sermons preached before elizabeth, and she sent the royal councilors to talk with her, but in vain. at last the princess was made to understand that she must yield or withdraw from court. more than this, it was said to her, "there are suspicions that you are bold in resisting the queen because you have support from without." elizabeth was alarmed, and she sent a message to the queen:-"i pray you, let us meet, there is much that i would say." soon the meeting came to pass. mary entered the room attended by only one lady, who followed her at a greater distance than was customary. elizabeth threw herself at mary's feet and said with many tears:-"most gracious queen and sister, i have ever looked up to you with love and respect, and since i have had the use of my reason, i have been interested in everything that concerns your greatness and glory. it grieves me to the heart to feel that for some reason unknown to myself i am no longer as dear to your majesty as i have believed myself to be." "my well-beloved sister," answered the queen, "gladly would i show to you all affection if i were but sure that your heart was turned toward me and toward that which is not only my dearest wish but is for the salvation of your own soul." "i have but followed the belief in which i was brought up," said elizabeth. "such books as my father approved have been my reading. i will study others if you will, and it may be that my mind will be opened to perceive truth in doctrines wherein i had not thought it to lie." "it will be a pleasure to my chaplain to choose for you those that are of such quality as to lead a truly inquiring heart into the way of right." "yet another kindness do i beg of you, my queen and sister," said elizabeth. "i have listened to those whom i was told to hear. will your grace send to me some well-taught preacher to instruct me in the way wherein you would have me to walk? never have i heard any learned doctor discourse in such wise as to show me where lay my error." mary agreed, and a few days later the two sisters attended mass together. elizabeth even wrote to the german emperor that she intended to have a catholic chapel opened in her own house, and asked his permission to purchase in flanders a cross, chalice, and such ornaments as would be needed. no one had much confidence in her sudden change of creed. those protestants who were discontented went on with their plots to make her queen, convinced none the less that once on the throne, she would restore the protestant form of worship. the german emperor, who was mary's chief adviser, urged that to insure the queen's safety elizabeth ought to be imprisoned, or at any rate, so strictly guarded that she could do no harm. there was reason for his fears. mary, queen of scots, would soon become the daughter-in-law of the french king, and while he was pretending to be a true friend to elizabeth, he was in reality doing all in his power to make trouble between her and mary. if elizabeth could be led into some plot that would anger mary and so could be shut out from the succession, his daughter-in-law might easily become queen of england as well as of scotland. vague rumors of discontent and plots came to the ears of mary, and for some time she refused elizabeth's request to be allowed to go to her own house. the german emperor was mary's cousin, charles v., to whom she had been betrothed when she was a child. he was seventeen years older than she, and was the most powerful sovereign in europe. to him she went for counsel concerning the difficult questions that pressed upon her. the most urgent one was that of her proposed marriage. she was to marry, that was settled, but the bridegroom had not yet been selected. no fewer than four foreign princes were suggested, but the english hoped most earnestly that she would marry an englishman. charles v. seemed to favor first one and then another, but he could always give good reasons why no one of them should be the chosen one. at last he named his own son philip. mary made many objections. "the emperor is also king of spain," said she to charles's ambassador, "and when philip succeeds him on the spanish throne, how can he come and rule in england?" "that matter would not be difficult to arrange," answered the ambassador. "the prince could rule in spain and dwell in england, even as his father is able to rule both spain and germany." "he is very young," said she. "he is a staid man," declared the ambassador. "he has often had to stand in responsible positions, and indeed in appearance he is already many years older than your majesty." "when i marry, i shall marry as a woman, not as a queen," said mary, "and i shall promise to obey my husband, but it will be my right to rule my kingdom. no foreigner may have part or lot in that. the english people would not bear it, nor would they endure to have places of honor or of power given to foreigners." still, she did not reject philip. it was soon whispered about that there was a possibility of a spanish marriage. the chancellor came to the queen and begged her to make no such alliance. "no other nation is so disliked as the spaniards," said he, "and philip's haughtiness and arrogance have disgusted his own subjects. philip will rule the low countries, and the king of france will never endure it to have the netherlands fall into the hands of england." in spite of her objections mary really favored the marriage with philip. he was her cousin, of her own faith, and of her mother's nation. with philip to support her, she could bring england back to the old faith. she allowed charles's ambassador to discuss the matter again. "your highness," said he, "never was a sovereign in a more difficult position. you stand alone without an honest adviser in the land. see how easily your councilors who were protestants one year ago have now become catholics. will they not as readily become protestants again, if they have good hope of farther advancement under the princess elizabeth? you are surrounded by enemies. there are those who do not love the true church, and there are the rebels who followed northumberland; lady jane and the princess elizabeth stand ready for their hand. then there are france and scotland; the scotch queen would willingly add england to her domain. in spain lies your only hope." "even if what you say is true," she responded, "i am not a young girl whose hand is to be disposed of at the will of her father, i must see the prince before i decide." "pardon, your majesty," said the ambassador, "but the emperor will never permit that his son and heir should be exhibited before the court as a candidate for your majesty's hand, and perchance be rejected before the eyes of europe. a man's face is a token of the man, shall a portrait of the prince be sent you?" the queen agreed, and the picture was sent. it portrayed a young man with blue eyes, yellow hair and beard, and a rather gloomy expression; but the face must have pleased the queen, for when parliament again begged her to marry none but an englishman, it was too late. two days earlier she had in the presence of the spanish ambassador taken a solemn oath that she would wed no other man than prince philip of spain. nothing was talked of in the kingdom but the spanish marriage. "it is a poor business," said one. "king henry is but seven years dead, and his kingdom will soon be only a province of spain." "not so fast," rejoined the other. "spain is the richest country in europe. i wish i had but the twentieth part of the gold that comes from the new world in one of those high-decked galleons of hers." "for the queen to marry philip will bring it no nearer to us," retorted the first. "why not, my friend? will not freedom to trade help to fill our empty treasury? spain is a strong ally. let france and scotland attack us, and it will be well to have a helper with ships and treasure." "ships and treasure will not give us freedom," declared the first. "better be poor than be ruled by spain. i'm as true a catholic as you, but no wish have i to see the torture chamber of spain brought into england. philip's own subjects detest him." mary's councilors soon ceased to oppose what she so plainly wanted, though it was whispered about that they were convinced by bribes rather than by arguments. an ambassador came from spain to bring the engagement ring and to draw up the marriage treaty. the english people were angry and indignant, and the children played a game called "english and spaniards." philip was one of the characters in this play, and there was always a pretence of hanging him. nevertheless, the treaty was drawn up. it was agreed that no spaniards should hold office in england. if the queen should have children, they must not be carried out of the land without the consent of the nobles, and they should inherit not only england but the lands of holland and flanders to which philip was heir. in spite of all these careful arrangements, the english became more and more enraged, and there were insurrections in various parts of the country. one was headed by the duke of suffolk, lady jane's father. mary had supposed that if suffolk was forgiven and his daughter allowed to live, he would be loyal from gratitude, but this was not the case. he went from one place to another, raising troops and proclaiming lady jane queen of the realm. another insurrection was headed by a young poet named wyatt. his forces came so near london that the queen was in great danger. lawyers wore armor under their robes when they pleaded in court, and clergymen wore armor under their vestments when they preached. the insurgents came nearer, and there was hot fighting. "flee, my queen, flee!" called one after another, but mary was perfectly calm and answered, "i warrant we shall hear better news anon." when it became clear that there would be bloodshed, mary had written to elizabeth, telling her of the danger and urging her to come at once where she would be protected. "assuring you that you will be most heartily welcome," the letter ends. elizabeth sent word that she was ill and not able to travel. many days passed, and they were days full of events. the duke of suffolk was captured. "you have pardoned him once," said mary's councilors, "and his gratitude is but another attempt to thrust you from the throne. this time there can be no pardon." mary agreed. "there is one thing more," said they. "there will be neither peace nor quiet nor safety in the land so long as lady jane lives." "i can never sign the death warrant of my cousin," declared mary, "not even to save my own life." "have you a right to shed the blood of your subjects?" they demanded. "the ground about us is wet with their blood. shall such scenes come to pass a second time?" mary yielded, and lady jane was beheaded. a question even more difficult than this had arisen. when wyatt was examined, he declared that the princess elizabeth had known of the plot. now mary sent, not an affectionate invitation, but a command for her sister's presence. two physicians accompanied the commissioners. they agreed that the princess was able to travel, and the company set out for the court. one hundred of her attendants escorted her, and one hundred more of mary's guards followed. elizabeth was greatly loved by the masses of the people. she was fine-looking, well educated, and witty, and they were proud of their princess. "draw aside the curtains," she commanded. "let the people see me if they will." the people saw her indeed. crowds lined the road as the procession moved slowly by. "alas, poor young lady," sobbed one kind-hearted woman. "i mind me well when her own mother went to the block." "she's over young to be facing the cruel axe," declared another. "she's but the age of my own girl, only one and twenty, if she _is_ a princess." "mayhap it will all be well," said a third. "see her sitting there in the fair white gown, and her face as white as the stuff itself. she's not the one to plot and plan to take the life of the queen." elizabeth came to the palace, but mary refused to meet her. "bear this ring to her majesty," commanded the princess. it was much the custom in those days for one friend to give another a ring whose sight should renew their friendship if misunderstanding had arisen between them, and elizabeth wore one that had been given her by mary long before. the pledge had lost its power, for mary sent only the message, "before we can meet, you must show your innocence of that of which you are accused." day after day it was debated what should be done with the princess. although just before wyatt's death he had taken back his words of accusation, the royal council still suspected her. charles v. was more than willing that she should be put to death, and the spanish ambassador told mary that until the punishment of the rebels had made the realm safe for philip, he could not land on english soil. "it is most important," said he, "that the trial and execution of the lady elizabeth should take place before the arrival of the prince." one morning ten of the royal commissioners demanded audience of elizabeth. "your grace," said the leader, "a grievous charge is made against you, that you were knowing to an evil and felonious attempt to overthrow the government and take the life of our most gracious queen. it is the pleasure of her highness that you be at once removed to the tower." "i am an innocent woman," elizabeth answered, "and i trust that her majesty will be far more gracious than to commit to the tower one who has never offended her in thought, word, or deed. i beg you intercede for me with the queen." the intercession was of no avail. elizabeth sent a letter to mary denying all charges and begging that they might meet, but the only reply was the order, "your grace must away to the tower." "i am content, inasmuch as it is the queen's pleasure," elizabeth replied, and the carefully guarded boat set off. it drew up, not at the door which led to the royal apartments of the tower, but at the one called the traitors' gate, where many a prisoner had been landed in the past troublous times. "i am no traitor," said she, "nor will i go in at the traitors' gate." "madam, there is no choice," answered sternly one of the commissioners, but he added kindly, "the rain falls in torrents, will your grace honor me by making use of my cloak?" elizabeth flung it down angrily, and put her foot on the step, covered with water as it was. "here lands as true a subject as ever landed at these steps," she declared solemnly. up the stairs she was taken, and to the room that was to become her prison. the doors were locked and bolted. she was not without friends even within the walls of the tower. both mary and elizabeth were fond of children, and elizabeth especially could always win their hearts. she had not been long a prisoner before one little girl, the child of an officer, began to watch for her when she walked in the garden. "lady," asked the child, "do you like to be in the tower?" "no, i do not," answered elizabeth, "but the doors are locked and i have no key, so i cannot go out." in a few days the little girl came to her with a beaming face. "i want to tell you something," she whispered. "i want to tell it right into your ear." she threw her arms around the princess's neck and whispered: "i've brought you some keys so you needn't always stay here. now you can open the gates and go out as you will, can't you?" and the child pulled from the bosom of her frock some little keys that she had found. a boy of four years was one of her pets, and used to bring her flowers every day. the council suspected that he was bringing messages to her from another prisoner in the tower and ordered his father to forbid his speaking to the princess. nevertheless, the little fellow watched at the bolted door for a chance to say good-by, and called softly, "lady, i can't bring you any flowers, and i can't come to see you any more." in those times executions followed accusations so easily that elizabeth was alarmed at every little commotion, and one day she asked anxiously whether the scaffold was still standing on which lady jane had been executed. the princess, was indeed, very near death at one time, for the queen's chancellor sent to the tower an order for her execution. mary was very ill and not expected to recover, and the chancellor may have thought that only the death of elizabeth could save england for the catholic church. the order was delivered to the keeper of the tower. "where is the signature of the queen?" he demanded. "the queen is too ill to sign the paper, but it is sent in her name." "then in her name will i wait until by the blessing of god her majesty shall be well again, and can speak for herself," returned the keeper. when mary had recovered, she was exceedingly angry that the life of elizabeth had been so nearly taken. it was soon decided that the princess should stay no longer in the tower, but, should be taken to the palace at woodstock. elizabeth expected to be put to death. "pray for me," she said to one of her servants, "for this night i think i must die." all along the way to woodstock the people flocked to gaze upon her. they filled her litter with cakes and flowers and sweet-smelling herbs. every one saluted her. "god save your grace!" cried the crowds, and in one little village the bells rang a hearty welcome as she passed through. nevertheless, she was a prisoner and as closely guarded as she had been in the tower. chapter vi from prison to throne while one sister was in prison, the sister on the throne had not found life altogether happy. the more she gazed upon philip's picture, the more she longed to meet him, but he made no haste in coming. two months had passed since mary put on the betrothal ring, and never yet had he even written to her. philip had begged his father to choose a young wife for him, but to the emperor the fact that mary was ten years older than his son was a small matter if only he could secure for philip a possibility of ruling england. the marriage was to take place at winchester, and as the time drew near, mary set out with her retinue. she was borne in the royal litter, and if all the vehicles were as gorgeous as the one provided for her maids of honor, the procession must have been a dazzling sight. this one was a "wagon of timber work with wheels, axletrees, and benches." it was painted red, lined with red buckram, and covered with red cloth. this covering was adorned with heavy fringe of red silk. not at all agreeable was philip's journey to winchester. when he landed in england, he found a great company of nobles waiting to do him honor, and he was escorted to a palace in which most beautiful rooms had been prepared for him. this was pleasant, but when he set off for winchester, the wind blew and the rain came down in floods, and the four or five thousand riders in the procession were thoroughly drenched. before they had ridden many minutes, a swift messenger drew rein in front of the prince, presented him a ring, and said:-"her majesty the queen doth send your grace this ring as a token that she would pray you to advance no farther." philip did not understand english perfectly. "there is danger," said he to his officers. "little welcome have i from these english." it was explained to him that the queen's message only meant that she begged him not to expose himself to the storm, and he went on. that evening the prince, all in black velvet and diamonds, made his first call on the woman whom he was to marry two days later. they talked together in spanish for half an hour, and the next day they had another meeting, and philip--now in black velvet and silver--stood with the queen under the canopy of state. she kissed him in greeting, and they talked together before the hundreds of ladies and nobles in the great audience hall. on the following day came the marriage, and then there was such gleaming of pearls and blazing of rubies and flashing of diamonds as one might see in a splendid dream. "who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" asked the archbishop, and four great nobles of the kingdom came forward and answered, "we do give her in the name of the whole realm of england." a plain gold ring was put on the queen's finger, for "i will marry with a plain hoop of gold like any other maiden," she had said. the people shouted, "god save our queen! god send them joy!" and mary of england had become the wife of philip of spain. while the wedding rejoicings were going on, elizabeth was a prisoner at woodstock. what was to be done with her was the question. there was some reason to think that she had known of the plot to dethrone the queen, and in any case, if she was free, any leader of an insurrection could have an opportunity to try to win her support. mary did not wish to keep her in the tower, and she thought of sending her to some of her own spanish relatives on the continent, but the royal marriage helped to decide the question, for prince philip expressed himself very decidedly to his royal wife that it would be best to set elizabeth free. "i would do it most gladly," said mary, "could i be sure of her innocence." "does not your english law claim that one is innocent till he is proved guilty?" "true," replied mary, "but there is proof and there is no proof. my councilors declare that to set her free will be to say that she has been unjustly imprisoned." "can she not be induced to confess that she has done wrong and throw herself on your mercy?" "never," answered the queen quickly. "i have known her since she was a little child. when she storms and rages, she will yield, but when she quietly persists, she stands firm. i will see her. nothing do i long for more than to believe that she is guiltless." elizabeth was sent for, and late one evening she had an audience with the queen. the younger sister knelt with her eyes full of tears and sobbed:-"i beg your majesty to believe in my truth and loyalty, no matter who shall say to the contrary." "then you will not confess," returned mary. "you persist in declaring that you are innocent." "if i am not innocent," said elizabeth solemnly, "never again will i ask favor or kindness from the hands of your grace." "god knows," murmured the queen half turning away. a minute later she said, "elizabeth, will you swear by all that you do hold sacred that you have no guilt in this matter?" "i will," answered elizabeth without a moment's hesitation. "then do i forgive you--be you innocent or be you guilty," she said to herself--"and in token of my pardon i restore to you the ring, pledge of my sisterly affection. may the time never come when you will have need to send it to me again." at christmas there was a grand round of festivities at court. the pope had sent a representative to receive from mary the humble submission of the kingdom, and the rejoicings were looked upon not only as celebrating this reconciliation but as in some measure continuing those of the queen's marriage. elizabeth was made prominent in everything. she sat at the queen's table and was treated as heir to the throne. nevertheless, mary did not fully trust her, and when the princess was about to return to her own home, the queen presented a nobleman and said that henceforth he would abide in elizabeth's house, charged with the duty of guarding her safety and comfort. this nobleman was a learned and upright man of most perfect courtesy, and his presence can hardly have failed to give her pleasure, even though elizabeth well knew that he was sent to make sure that she had no connection with any of the plots which were to be feared. it is no wonder that a close watch needed to be kept for conspiracies, for several were formed against the queen. a story was spread abroad that edward vi. was not dead, but was living in france and was about to return to regain his throne. there were rumors that certain men in the land had the power of magic, and had stuck pins into waxen images of the queen, thereby causing her intense suffering. the king of france was ready to encourage any rumor, however absurd, and to aid any conspiracy that would better the chances of mary of scotland to wear the crown of england. if elizabeth was dead or shut out of the succession, these chances would be greatly increased, and probably this is why philip had now become the friend of elizabeth, for if france and scotland and england were united, his own power and that of his father would be much less. several foreign husbands were proposed for the princess, one of them the son of philip by a former marriage, a boy of ten years. elizabeth refused them all, and the queen declared that she should not be forced to marry against her will. mary's reign was shamed and disgraced by the burning of a large number of persons, two hundred at least, because their religious belief differed from that which she thought right. she is called "bloody mary" because this took place in her reign, but just how far she was in fault no one knows. neither henry viii. nor edward nor mary ever showed the least regard for the physical sufferings of others, but mary had never manifested the least vindictiveness of disposition. indeed, she had often been more inclined than her councilors thought best to pardon and overlook deeds that most rulers of the time would have punished. moreover, during some of the worst persecutions mary was so ill that it was said "she lay for weeks without speaking." one of the reasons why the english had feared to have philip marry their queen, was because he was known to approve of torture, if by its means the sufferers could be induced to give up beliefs that he thought false. he now wrote to his sister, "we have made a law, i and the most illustrious queen, for the punishment of heretics and all enemies of holy church; or rather, we have revived the old ordinances of the realm, which will serve this purpose very well." it must not be forgotten, however, that this burning at the stake was done with the consent of parliament, and that, as philip said, it was in accordance with the old laws. a hard life was mary's. she had no child, and she was not sure of the faithfulness of her sister and heir. it was chiefly by her determination to marry philip that she had lost the love of her people, and after all that she had sacrificed for his sake and all her affection for him, he cared nothing whatever for her. an old ballad says that he liked "the baker's daughter in her russet gown better than queen mary without her crown." the crown of england was all that he cared for, and about a year after their marriage, he left very willingly for the continent. mary controlled her sorrow at the public farewell, but as soon as that was over, she went to a window from which she could see philip's barge, and there she sat with her head resting on her hands and wept bitterly till he was out of sight. there was good reason why he should go, for his father wished to give him the sovereignty of the low countries; and there were some difficult questions that arose and prevented his immediate return. as months passed, mary became more and more lonely. her thoughts turned toward elizabeth. another plot had been discovered. some of elizabeth's own attendants were involved in it, and declarations were made that it was not unknown to the princess herself. mary wrote her at once:-"i pray that it may not seem to you amiss that it has been necessary to remove from your household certain dangerous persons, not the least of whose crimes it was that their confessions were but an attempt to involve your grace in their evil designs. rest assured that you are neither scorned nor hated, but rather loved and valued by me." with the letter went the gift of a valuable diamond. after being away for nineteen months, philip returned to england. mary was so happy that she was ready to grant whatever he asked, though it was so great a boon as the aid of england in a war with france. philip left in three or four months to carry on the war, and never again did his wife look upon the man whom she loved so well. the war went on, and calais, which had long been held by england, was taken by the french. the english were wrathful. five hundred years earlier the kings of england had ruled wide-spreading lands in france. one had lost, another had won, but never before had england been left without a foot of ground on the farther side of the channel. mary was crushed. "when i die," she said, "look upon my heart, and there you will see written the word 'calais.'" the summer of 1558 had come. mary's thoughts turned more and more toward her sister. she left her palace and went to visit elizabeth. she arranged a visit from elizabeth to herself which was conducted with the greatest state. the princess made the journey in the queen's own barge with its awning of green silk beautifully embroidered. the queen's ladies followed her in six boats whose gorgeousness was almost dazzling, for the ladies were dressed in scarlet damask, in blue satin, and in cloth of silver, with many feathers and jewels. in the royal garden a pavilion had been built. it was in the shape of a strong castle, only the material was not gray stone, but crimson velvet and cloth of gold. the court feasted, the minstrels played, and the long, bright day came to its close. mary had never been well, almost every autumn she had suffered severely from sickness, and now a fever seized upon her. there was little hope of her recovery, but philip sent her a ring and a message instead of coming to her. parliament and the will of henry viii. had decided that elizabeth should follow mary as queen, but philip begged mary to name her sister as her heir in order to make the succession especially sure, and this was done. mary grew weaker every day, the end must be near. the courtiers did not wait for it to come, crowds thronged the house of elizabeth, every one eager to be among the first to pay his respects to her who would soon become their sovereign, and to assure her that, however others might have felt, he had never been otherwise than faithful to her and her alone. among these visitors was count de feria, one of philip's train, who was in his master's confidence. "my lord sends your grace assurances of his most distinguished friendship," said the count. "he would have me say that his good will is as strong and his interest in your grace's welfare as sincere as it was when by his influence, so gladly exerted, her majesty was graciously pleased to release your grace from imprisonment. he would also have me say that he has ever to the utmost of his power urged upon her majesty that she should not fail to bequeath the crown to her only sister and rightful heir, and he rejoices that his words have had weight in her intentions." "most gracious thanks do i return to the king of spain," answered elizabeth, "and fully do i hold in my remembrance the favors shown to me in the time of my captivity. for all his efforts that i might be the heir of her majesty, my sister, i return due gratitude, though verily i have ever thought myself entitled to the crown by the will of my father, the decree of parliament, and the affection of the people." three or four days later mary sent elizabeth a casket containing jewels belonging to the crown, and with it another casket of jewels belonging to philip which he had given orders to have presented to her. elizabeth well knew that the end of her sister's life could not be long delayed, and soon the word came that mary was dead. "it may be a plot," thought the wary princess, "to induce me to claim the crown while the queen lives, and so give my enemies a hold upon me. sir nicholas," she bade a faithful nobleman who she well knew had ever been true to her cause, "go you to the palace to one of the ladies of the bedchamber, the one in whom i do put most trust, and beg her that, if the queen is really dead, she will send me the ring of black enamel that her majesty wore night and day, the one that king philip gave her on their marriage." sir nicholas set out on the short journey. the rumor had, indeed, preceded the death of the queen, but she died just as he reached the palace. before he returned, several of queen mary's councilors made a hurried journey to elizabeth's house at hatfield. "your highness," said they, "it is with the deepest sadness that we perform our duty to announce the death of her majesty, queen mary. to your grace, as our rightful sovereign, do we now proffer our homage, and promise to obey your highness as the true and lawful ruler into whose hands the government of the realm has fallen." elizabeth sank upon her knees and repeated in latin a sentence that was on the gold coins of the country, "it is the lord's doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes." queen mary died in the twilight of a november morning, but her death was not known at once in the city. parliament was in session, and before noon the lord chancellor called the two houses together and said:-"god this morning hath called to his mercy our late sovereign lady, queen mary; which hap, as it is most heavy and grievous to us, so have we no less cause, otherwise, to rejoice with praise to almighty god for leaving to us a true, lawful, and right inheritrix to the crown of this realm, which is the lady elizabeth, second daughter to our late sovereign of noble memory, henry viii." for an instant there was silence, then the house rang with the cry, "god save queen elizabeth! long may queen elizabeth reign over us!" the proclamation of her accession was now made in front of the palace of westminster with many soundings of trumpets, and later, in the city of london. "did anyone ever see such a time?" said a londoner to his friend at night. "no one would think that a queen had died since the day began; there has been nothing but bonfires and bell-ringing and feasting and shouting." "when people are glad, their joy will reveal itself," answered his friend. "there might well be reason for me to rejoice, but you are a catholic, why should you welcome the lady elizabeth?" "is she catholic or protestant?" asked the other with a smile. "who knows? there's one thing sure, she'll have a merry court, trade will be the gainer, and she'll marry no foreign prince." "perhaps having a new queen will also prevent another season of the plague and give us greater crops," laughed the first; and then he added more seriously, "catholic or protestant, i believe that there be few in the land who will not rejoice to see the death-fires no longer blaze at smithfield." a week later the queen rode from hatfield to london. hundreds of noble lords and ladies were in her retinue, and the number increased with every mile. the road was lined with people who shouted, "queen elizabeth! queen elizabeth! long may she reign! god save the queen!" children gazed at her eagerly, while their mothers wept tears of joy, and young men knelt and cried out their vows of loyalty and devotion. many of the bishops of the realm came in procession to greet her and begged to kiss her hand. "did you see that?" whispered a woman to her neighbor. "the queen wouldn't give her hand to the cruel bishop of london. she knows well it's because of him that more than one good man's been burned at the stake. oh, but she'll be a good queen, god bless her!" the lord mayor and the aldermen came in their scarlet robes to escort her to the palace, and a few days later she went in state to the tower of london. the streets were strewn with fine gravel, rich tapestries adorned the walls, banners waved, trumpets sounded, boys from st. paul's school made latin speeches in her praise, and great companies of children sang joyful songs of welcome. elizabeth looked very handsome as she rode into the city on horseback, wearing a habit of the richest purple velvet. she replied to everyone's greeting, and made little latin speeches in answer to those of the schoolboys. at last she came to the tower, and this time she entered, not at the traitors' gate, but through the royal entrance, and passed between long lines of soldiers, drawn up, not to keep watch over a prisoner, but to do honor to a queen. chapter vii a sixteenth century coronation there were several matters concerning which the english people were eagerly watching to see what the queen would do, but whether her subjects expected to be pleased or displeased with her deeds, they could hardly help looking forward with interest to the grand ceremonial of the coronation. astrology was in vogue, and every nobleman who wished to be in fashion had his horoscope drawn up. when a soldier was setting out for war or a captain was embarking on some dangerous voyage, he would go to a reader of the heavens to be told on which day he must start in order to have his expedition result prosperously. queen elizabeth was a firm believer in the foretelling of destiny by the stars, and she had especial confidence in an astrologer called dr. dee. to him, therefore, she went that he might name a fortunate day for the coronation. he named sunday, january 15, 1559. it was the custom for the sovereigns to ride through the city of london in great state on their way to westminster, where they were crowned, and elizabeth's ride was one of the most brilliant ever known. there were trumpeters and heralds in glittering armor; there were ladies on horseback in habits of crimson velvet; there were nobles in silks and satins and laces, gleaming with gold and sparkling with jewels; there were long lines of guards in the green and white of the tudors; and in the midst of all the splendor was the queen in a gorgeous chariot lined with the richest crimson velvet. she bowed, she smiled, she waved her hand, she leaned to one side of her carriage and then to the other and listened intently to whatever any one wished to say to her, and whether it was the lord chancellor or the poorest woman in london, each one was sure of a pleasant word and a gracious smile from this new sovereign. gifts were showered upon her. the city of london gave her a crimson satin purse filled with gold and so large that she had to take both hands to lift it. elizabeth thanked the citizens and said:-"to honor my passage through the town you have been at great expense of treasure, so will i spend not only treasure but the dearest drops of my blood, if need be, for the happiness of my people." "your grace," said a poor woman in humble garb, "i could bring you only this bit of rosemary, but there's many a blessing goes with it." "i thank you heartily," responded the queen. "it shall go with me to westminster," and it did. "i can remember fifty years ago when old king harry was crowned," a white-haired man called to her. the queen smiled upon him. "may you live to remember me as long," she responded. then she bade her chariot be stopped. "i wish to hear what the child is saying," she said, for a pretty little boy was reciting some verses in her praise. "turn to one side so i can see his face." over several of the streets great arches had been built with various exhibitions called pageants. one represented a cave, and from it time was leading forth his daughter truth. the young girl who took the part of truth held in her hand a most beautifully bound english bible. "who is that with the scythe and hourglass?" the queen asked. "time," was the answer. "it is time that has brought me here," she said as if to herself. the chariot moved slowly on, and when it was almost under the arch, "truth" let down the volume by a silken cord. elizabeth took the bible, kissed it and pressed it to her heart, then held it up before the people. "truly, i thank my city of london," said she. "no other gift could have pleased me as this does, and i promise you that every day i will read it most diligently." so it was that elizabeth made her journey through london. the whole scene was rather theatrical, but it pleased the people, and that was what she most wished to do. all around her were shouts of joy, silent tears of happiness, wild promises of service, and sober, heartfelt prayers. as she came to the gates of the city, she looked back and called, "farewell, my people, farewell. be well assured that i will be a good queen to you." then the cannon of the tower thundered, and elizabeth went on to westminster. there she was crowned, and sir edward dymock performed the office of champion, introduced by william the conqueror. at the coronation banquet he rode into the hall in full armor, threw down his gauntlet and proclaimed:-"if there be any manner of man that will say and maintain that our sovereign lady, queen elizabeth, is not the rightful and undoubted inheritrix to the imperial crown of this realm of england, i say he lieth like a false traitor, and _that_ i am ready to maintain with him, and therefore i cast him my gage." after a few minutes a herald picked up the glove and presented it to sir edward. this ceremony was repeated at two other places in the hall. the queen then drank to the health of the champion in a golden cup which was presented to him as his reward. during the glories of the coronation, the people seemed to have almost forgotten for a moment the important question whether the queen would rule as a catholic or a protestant. there had been much discussion about the matter, and after the days of celebration there was even more. "she was brought up as a protestant," one man said, "and she will rule as a protestant." "oh, but has she not declared that she is a catholic, and has she not been to mass with queen mary? does she not go to mass now?" retorted another. "who wouldn't go to mass to gain a kingdom?" laughed a third lightly. "if queen mary had named the queen of scotland as her heir--yes, i know there was a decree of parliament, but another decree might have been passed as well as that--i don't say the catholics would have tried to make the scotch girl queen, but elizabeth was wise, she was wise." "it is two full months since queen mary died," said the second thoughtfully, "mass is said in the churches every day. her majesty will have no preaching without special permission, but----" "no wonder," broke in the third, "after the sermon that the bishop of winchester preached at queen mary's funeral. he praised mary to the skies, then said she had left a sister whom they were bound to obey, for 'a live dog is better than a dead lion.' a preacher will have to hide his thoughts in something deeper than latin to keep them from the queen. i don't wonder that she looks after the sermons." "i know that she has been to mass many times since mary died," admitted the first, "but don't you know what she did on christmas morning? she went to church with her ladies and she heard the gospel and the epistle, but before the mass she rose all of a sudden and left the chapel. no true catholic would stay away from mass on christmas day." "she might have been ill," suggested the second. "as ill as she was when queen mary sent for her to come and prove that she had nothing to do with wyatt's rebellion," said the third drily. "now, mark my words, elizabeth, queen of england, will never journey by a path because it is straight; she'll keep two roads open, and she'll walk in the one that has the best traveling." this uncertainty about elizabeth's religious ideas was one reason why she was welcomed to the throne so warmly. by birth and training she was a protestant, and therefore no protestant could consistently oppose her. in her later years she had declared herself a catholic, and the catholics had a reasonable hope that she would show favor to them. another good reason was that there was neither protestant nor catholic who could have been set up against her with strong probability of success. mary of scotland was the next heir, and she was a catholic, but no loyal englishman, no matter what was his creed, wished to see the queen of france raised to the throne of england. elizabeth was twenty-five when she became queen, and in her quiet years of study and observation she had formed two very definite ideas about ruling the kingdom. she meant to hold the power in her own hands over church as well as state, and she meant to use her mastery for the gain of the people. her father had claimed this authority and had exercised it; while edward reigned, certain noblemen had ruled; while mary reigned, the church had ruled. elizabeth wished to be supported by nobles and church if possible, but her chief dependence was upon the masses of the people. when she made her first speech to the judges of the realm, she said: "have a care over my people. they are _my_ people. every man oppresseth and despoileth them without mercy. they cannot revenge their quarrel nor help themselves. see unto them, see unto them, for they are my charge." when elizabeth was in earnest and really meant what she said, she generally used short, clear sentences whose meaning could not be mistaken; but when she had something to hide, she used long, intricate expressions, so confused that they would sometimes bear two opposite interpretations, and no one could declare positively what she really meant to say. this determination of hers to win the support of the people was chiefly why she did not hasten to make sudden changes in the church. she did not at once object to saying mass, but she ordered the gospel and the epistle to be read in english as in the protestant church. then before she went any further she waited to meet her parliament and see whether this change had aroused opposition. she had chosen for her chief adviser sir william cecil, afterwards called lord burleigh. he was a man of great ability and a protestant, though he had never shown any desire to become a martyr for his faith. he held a high position during edward's reign, but while mary was in power, although he went to mass as the law required, he had little to say about church matters. he lived quietly on his estate, interested in his fawns and calves, writing letters about the care of his fruit trees and about buying sheep; but during these quiet years, he was reading and thinking and planning, and gaining wisdom in all that pertained to ruling a land. when elizabeth made him her secretary, she bade him always tell her frankly what he believed was best, whether he thought it would please her or not. he wished to reestablish protestantism, and before elizabeth had been on the throne five months, a decree was passed that she and not the pope was supreme governor of the church in england. to dispute this decree was declared to be treason, but only clergymen and those who held office under the crown were obliged to take the oath. a man who refused was not beheaded as in henry's day, but he was put out of his office, and according to the ideas of the times, that was not a severe penalty for such an offence. the catholic form of worship was forbidden, and, while no one not in office was obliged to tell his belief, all subjects were commanded to attend the protestant service or pay a fine. elizabeth did not go as far as this without watching closely for hints of what the majority of her people were willing to permit. one hint came to her the morning after her coronation. she had freed a number of prisoners, as was the custom at the crowning of a sovereign, and after the act one of her courtiers knelt at her feet with a roll of parchment in his hand and said:-"your majesty, will you graciously lend ear to an earnest request from many of your subjects?" "to do for my beloved people that which is for their good will ever be the ruling desire of my heart," replied the queen. "then do i humbly beg in the name of all these good subjects and true"--and he unrolled the parchment to show the long list of signatures--"i beg that your highness will release unto us yet four more prisoners." "and who may these prisoners be that have won so zealous an advocate?" asked the queen. "verily, your grace, their names be matthew, mark, luke, and john. they have been shut up in a language not understanded of the people, as if they were in prison. even to a prisoner speech with his friends is not often forbidden. will your majesty graciously command that the words of the four evangelists be put into english that these captives may be released from their dungeon?" this was really asking whether she would rule as a protestant, for the catholics opposed the circulation of the english bible. the queen showed no displeasure, but answered with a smile:-"it has sometimes come to pass that men have learned to prefer their prison. perchance it would be better to inquire of these prisoners of ours whether they wish to come out from behind the bars." when parliament met, the question was brought up, and a translation of the bible was ordered to be made at once. this was issued as authorized by the queen. there was another matter that perhaps weighed more seriously upon the masses of the people than did the question which form of religion the queen would favor, and that was her marriage. the english longed to feel sure that the government would go on peacefully even if their queen should be taken from them. before henry's father came to the throne, there had been in england a terrible time of civil war because there were different claimants to the crown who were supported by different parties, and most people in the land would rather have a form of worship with which they did not agree than feel that the death of their sovereign would be followed by a return of those bloody days. if elizabeth married and had a child to inherit the crown, the land would settle down to quiet. this was the way king philip reasoned as well as the english. then he thought: "elizabeth is a wise, shrewd woman, and she can see that with france and scotland against her, her only hope is to ally herself with spain. the only way to be sure of spain's support is to marry me or some true friend of mine." as for her protestantism, he did not think that matter of any great importance, for he believed that she would rather be sure of her throne than of her church. when elizabeth became queen, she had sent, as was the custom, a letter to the various rulers of europe, formally announcing her accession. philip's plans were made before the letter reached him. he had concluded that his only safe course was to marry her himself. he wrote to his ambassador, count de feria, and explained why he had come to such a conclusion. it was a great sacrifice, he said, for it would not be easy to rule england in addition to his other domains, and elizabeth must not be so unreasonable as to expect him to spend much of his time with her. she must give up her protestant notions, of course, become a catholic, and agree to uphold the catholic faith in her country. to marry the sister of his dead wife was against the law of the church, but he was sure that he could induce the pope to grant special permission. philip's reply to elizabeth's announcement was an ardent letter begging her in most eloquent terms to become his wife. the queen met his request with the gravest courtesy, thanked him for the honor that he had done her, and told him how fully she realized of what advantage such a splendid alliance would be to her. philip wrote again and again; he told her how highly he thought of her abilities and merits, and what a charming, fascinating woman she was. elizabeth was shrewd enough to understand why this keen politician was so eager for the marriage, but she answered his letters with the utmost politeness, and when other excuses failed, she told him that she could not make any plans concerning marriage without consulting parliament, and that body was not yet in session. she mischievously allowed her ladies to see his glowing epistles, but perhaps she may be pardoned for this offence, inasmuch as count de feria had foolishly shown the king's letter, and elizabeth knew precisely what philip had said about the great sacrifice he was making in wedding her. philip was so sure she would marry him that he sent envoys to rome to get the pope's permission, but before they could return, a final letter came from the queen, refusing to take him for her husband. the spaniard was easily consoled, for within a month he married the daughter of the french king. how much attention the queen proposed to pay to the advice of parliament in this matter was seen a little later when the house of commons sent a delegation to her, begging that they might have the great honor of an interview with her majesty. elizabeth put on her royal robes and went to the house in all state. an address was made her. the speaker told her how they gloried in her eminence and rejoiced in having her for queen. then he laid before her the affliction it would be to the land if she should die and leave no child to inherit not only her crown but her goodness and her greatness. finally he begged in all humility that she would in her own good time choose among her many suitors the one most pleasing to herself. elizabeth was silent for a moment, and the house feared that she might be offended, then she smiled graciously and thanked them most heartily for their love of her and for their care of the kingdom. "i like your speech," she said, "because it does not attempt to bind my choice; but it would have been a great presumption if you had taken it upon yourselves to direct or limit me whom you are bound to obey." she told them that whatever husband she chose should be of such character that he would care for the kingdom even as she herself did. finally she said that if she did not marry, they ought not to feel anxious about the realm, but to trust in god, for in due time he would make it evident into whose hands he wished the kingdom to fall. then she left the house, smiling so pleasantly and bowing so graciously that few among them realized at once that she had neither agreed with them nor disagreed, and that she had promised them nothing at all. she had merely declared that she intended to have her own way and that they had nothing to say about the matter. king philip was by no means the only man who was eager for the hand of the english queen. there was philip's friend, the archduke charles, there were two french princes, the king of sweden, the king of denmark, the king of poland, the scotch earl arran, the english earl of arundel, and still others as the months passed. several of these ardent wooers sent envoys to england to plead their cause; the king of sweden sent his brother, and the king of denmark straightway despatched his nephew on the same errand. these agents were received with the highest honors, entertainments were arranged for their pleasure, and every courtesy was shown them. elizabeth was graciousness itself to each, and made each believe that she was especially inclined to favor his master, but that for reasons of state she could not give an answer at once. so she kept them waiting for her royal decision, playing one against another, and all this time england was growing stronger. whether she was in earnest when she declared that she did not wish to marry, no one knows, but many think that her final refusal to one suitor after another was because the only man for whom she cared was robert dudley, earl of leicester, son of the duke of northumberland. he was a man without special talent or ability, a handsome courtier with graceful manners and much ambition. he was married to amy robsart, a beautiful girl and a great heiress, but while he was at court, she was left in a lonely mansion in the care of one of leicester's dependents, a man who had the reputation of being ready to commit any crime for which he was paid. two years after elizabeth's accession, amy robsart was found dead at the foot of a staircase, and many believed that she had been murdered. they would have believed it still more firmly if they had known that a very short time later leicester was trying to persuade philip that he would protect the catholics if he could be aided to marry the queen, and to convince the french protestants that he would do the same for their church if he could have their help in winning the hand of elizabeth. as for the queen herself, she would at one time show the earl every sign of tenderness, and at another she would declare, "i'll marry no subject. marry a subject and make him king? never." chapter viii a queen's troubles never had a queen a greater variety of difficulties to meet. if she favored the catholics, the protestants would not support her; the puritans were beginning to be of some importance, and they were eager to have every trace of catholicism destroyed; but if she introduced protestant changes too rapidly, the catholics might revolt. she wished, it is probable, to refuse her numerous suitors, but she needed to keep on friendly terms with each as far as possible. the royal treasury was low, and among the nations of europe there was not one upon whose assistance england could count in case of need. such were elizabeth's troubles at the beginning of her reign, and as the months passed, the difficulties became even more complicated. scotland was ruled by mary's mother, who acted as regent for her daughter. she was french and a catholic, and as more and more of the scotch became protestants, they were determined to have freedom for protestant worship. persecution followed, imprisonment, torture, and burning at the stake. then came a fierce revolt. by the aid of france this was suppressed, but the protestants appealed to elizabeth. "no war, my lords, no war," declared she to her council. "a queen does not lend aid to rebels." "the rebels are in a fair way to become the government," suggested one councilor. "england cannot afford war," declared another. "we have no money to spend on fleets and armies." "the french are already in scotland," said one. "more will follow, and their next step will be across the border. if they are once in england, we shall have to raise armies whether we can or not." "true," agreed another, "and surely it is better to fight them in scotland than on our own soil." "if we attack the french, philip will aid them and try to put mary on our throne." "no, no," shouted three or four voices. "to unite france, scotland, and england under one ruler would weaken his own power. he'll not do that." "this is a question of religion as well as policy," said another. "shall not the government of the church of england aid the protestants of scotland?" this last argument did not count for very much with elizabeth, but there was another one that did. she left the council and thought over the matter carefully and anxiously. "if i can get power in scotland," she said to herself, "i can induce the scotch government to agree that mary shall never claim the title of queen of england." money was borrowed from antwerp, and england began to prepare for fighting. france became uneasy and sent word to elizabeth:-"we do protest and remonstrate against the ruler of a neighboring kingdom giving aid to rebels and revolters." the french well knew how sorely aggrieved the english felt at the loss of calais, and as a bribe to the queen they offered to give her back the town and citadel if she would agree not to aid the scotch protestants. elizabeth knew then that the french feared her, and she replied:-"so long as the queen of scots doth falsely claim to be also queen of this my realm, then so long must i guard myself in the way that seems to me wisest and best. to free my throne from the attacks of false claimants and so secure peace and safety for my people is worth far more to me than any little fishing village in a foreign country." the french were driven from scotland, and a treaty was made agreeing that mary should give up all claim to the throne of england. mary had empowered her agents to make whatever terms they thought best, but when she saw this provision, she refused to sign the treaty. one year later a beautiful young woman stood at the stern of a vessel, looking back with tearful eyes at the shore from which she had sailed. the twilight deepened, and night settled around her. she turned away. "adieu, my beloved france," she whispered, "farewell, farewell." thus it was that a queen returned to her kingdom, for the fair young woman was mary, queen of scots. her husband had died, and there was no longer any place in france for her. scotland asked her to return to the throne that had been her own ever since she was a few days old. she was only nineteen, and she was leaving the gay, merry court in which nearly all her life had been spent; she was leaving her friends and companions, and for what? scotland was the land of her birth, but it was a foreign country to her. it was not like her sunny france, it was a land of mist and of cold, of plain habits and stern morals. the queen was coming to her own, but her own was strange to her. mary had asked elizabeth's permission to shorten the voyage by passing through england. "that must not be," thought the english queen. "her presence here would be the signal for all the discontented catholics in the kingdom to follow her banner." permission was refused, unless mary would agree beforehand to give up all claim to the english crown. "i ask but elizabeth's friendship," said mary. "i do not trouble her state nor try to win over her subjects, though i do know there be some in her realm that are not unready to hear offers"--but she would not promise to give up her claim to the crown. she was fully as independent as elizabeth, and she added regretfully, "i grieve that i so far forgot myself as to ask a favor that i needed not. surely, i may go home into my own realm without her passport or license. i came hither safely, and i may have means to return." scotland rejoiced that the queen had come, and welcomed her with bonfires and music and speeches of welcome. the scotch supposed that they were pleasing her, but mary wrote to her friends:-"in edinburgh when i would have slept, five or six hundred ragamuffins saluted me with wretched fiddles and little rebecks, and then they sang psalms loudly and discordantly; but one must have patience." no one can help feeling sympathy with the lonely girl of nineteen who had left all that she loved to come and rule over a country that seemed to her almost barbarous in contrast with her beloved france. she was a catholic; most of her people were protestants. she won many friends and admirers, but she never gained the confidence and steady affection of her people that made elizabeth strong. the queen and her subjects grew further apart. mary had been brought up to believe that the marriage of anne boleyn was not lawful, and that therefore she herself and not elizabeth was the rightful queen of england. the french king had taught her to sign herself "queen of scotland and england." now that she had returned to scotland, she dropped the latter part of the title, but demanded that elizabeth should declare her heir to the throne, as she certainly was by all laws of the hereditary descent of the crown. elizabeth firmly refused. it was probable that mary would marry, and it was a matter of importance to elizabeth that the husband should not be one who could strengthen the scotch claim to the throne. mary consulted elizabeth about one or two of her suitors, and suddenly the english queen surprised all europe by offering to mary the unwilling hand of her own favorite, the earl of leicester, and hinted, though in her usual equivocal fashion, that if mary would marry the earl, she would be recognized as the next heir to the crown. "i would marry robin myself," declared the queen to mary's commissioner, sir james melville, "save that i am determined to wed no man." elizabeth talked with sir james most familiarly, and this woman who was so shrewdly guiding her millions of englishmen and guarding her throne from mary of scotland, often seemed to think of nothing but whether she or her rival had the prettier face. "which is the fairer?" she demanded, "i or the queen of scotland?" "your majesty is the fairest queen in england, and ours is the fairest queen in scotland," replied sir james wisely. "that is not an answer," declared elizabeth. "which of us two is the fairer?" "your majesty is whiter, but our queen is very winsome." "which is of greater stature?" "our queen," replied sir james. "your queen is over high then," said elizabeth, "for i am neither too high nor too low. but tell me, how does she amuse herself?" "she hunts and reads and sometimes she plays on the lute and the virginals." "does she play well?" "reasonably well for a queen," declared sir james audaciously. "i wish i could see her," said elizabeth. "if your grace should command me, i could convey you to scotland in the dress of a page, and none be the wiser," suggested sir james gravely, and elizabeth did not seem at all displeased with the familiarity. when the commissioner was again in scotland, mary asked what he thought of elizabeth. "she has neither plain dealing nor upright meaning," said he, "and she is much afraid that your highness's princely qualities will drive her from her kingdom." leicester was refused. mary was now twenty-three, but she chose for her husband lord darnley, a handsome, spoiled child of nineteen. he was a catholic and after herself the next heir to the english throne. elizabeth was angry, but she was helpless. a year later sir james made a journey from scotland to london in four days, as rapid traveling as was possible at that time. he called upon lord burleigh and gave him an important message. it was evening, and the queen was dancing merrily with her ladies and nobles when cecil whispered a word in her ear. no more mirth did she show. she sat down, resting her head on her hand. the ladies pressed around her. suddenly she burst out, "the queen of scots has a fair young son, and i am but a barren stock." when elizabeth found that it was impossible to have her own way, she usually accepted the situation gracefully. sir james came to see her in the morning. she met him with a "volt," a bit of an old italian dance, and declared the news was so welcome that it had cured her of a fifteen-days' illness. she agreed to be godmother to mary's son, and as a christening gift she sent a font of pure gold. the next news from scotland was that lord darnley had been murdered, and that there was reason for believing the earl of bothwell, a bold, reckless adventurer, to have been the murderer. mary had soon tired of the silly, arbitrary boy and had kept her dislike no secret. two months later she married bothwell, and there were so many reasons for thinking that she had helped to plan the murder that the scotch nobles took up arms against her, and imprisoned her in lochleven castle, until she could be tried. she was forced to sign a paper giving up all claim to the scotch throne, and her baby son james, only one year old, was crowned king of scotland. elizabeth raged that mere subjects should venture to accuse a queen as if she were an ordinary person. "how dare they call their sovereign to account?" demanded the angry ruler of england. she declared that mary's throne should be restored to her and that the rebels should be punished. indeed, in her wrath she made all sorts of wild vows and threats which she had no power to keep. this support, however, encouraged mary's friends to attempt her rescue. she escaped from lochleven; her followers fought an unsuccessful battle; she rode on horseback, sixty miles in a single day; she was taken in a fishing boat to the english side of solway frith; and then the deposed queen was safe in england, in the realm of the sovereign from whom she believed she might expect assistance. elizabeth and her council considered the matter long and earnestly. "let us return her to scotland." "then she will be put to death, and the catholics of scotland and england will be aroused against queen elizabeth." "shall we place her back upon the scotch throne?" "we could not without war with scotland and probably with france." "shall we invite her to remain in england as the guest of the queen?" "and offer her as a head for every conspiracy that may be formed against her majesty? no." "there is something else. we have a right to know whether we are protecting an innocent young woman who had fled to us for help, or a criminal who has aided in the murder of her husband." so the question was discussed, and it was finally decided that mary should be kept as a prisoner and tried before special commissioners appointed for the purpose. at the end of this investigation elizabeth declared that she had been proved neither innocent nor guilty. that question was dropped, but in spite of her angry protest and her demands to be set free, the queen of scotland was kept in england for eighteen years, treated in many respects with the deference due to a sovereign, but guarded as closely as any prisoner. in the midst of these complications that required the keenest acumen of the most vigorous intellect, elizabeth did not lay aside her whims and vanities. one of her favorite customs was that of wearing an "impress," a device somewhat like a coat of arms, which was changed as often as the wearer chose. each "impress" had a motto, and the queen used a different one almost every day. one of her mottoes was, "i see and am silent;" another was, "always the same." at one time she devoted herself to the works of the early christian writers, but she found leisure to complain of the poor portraits that people were making of her. they were not nearly so handsome as she thought they ought to be, and she actually had a proclamation drawn up forbidding all persons to attempt her picture until "some special cunning painter" should produce a satisfactory likeness. her "loving subjects" were then to be permitted to "follow the said pattern." for even the most "cunning artist" to satisfy both her majesty and himself must have been a difficult matter, for she positively forbade having any shade given to her features. "by nature there is no shade in a face," said the queen, "it is only an accident." another of her foibles was that of wearing the dress of different countries on different days, one day italian, the next day french, and so on. it seems not to have been easy to have these gowns made in england, and elizabeth sent to the continent for a dressmaker. the secretary of state had been the one ordered to draw up the proclamation restraining all save the "cunning artist" yet to be discovered from making her picture, and now we find him ordering the english ambassador to france to "cause" his wife to find the queen "a tailor that hath skill to make her apparel both after the french and the italian manner." this command was given only a few days after the murder of lord darnley which aroused all england. elizabeth always enjoyed going about among her subjects, and one of her early visits was to the university of cambridge. she entered the town on horseback in a habit of black velvet. her hat was heaped up with feathers, and under it she wore a sort of net, or head-dress, that was all ablaze with precious stones. the beadles of the university gave her their staffs, signifying that all power was in her hands. she could not hold them all, and she gave them back, saying jestingly, "see that you minister justice uprightly, or i will take them into mine hands again." according to ancient custom at a royal visit, she was presented with two pairs of gloves, two sugarloaves, and some confectionery. long orations were made to her. she was praised as showing forth all the virtues, and although she sometimes interrupted the orators by saying, "that is not true," she commended them at the end so warmly that they had no fear of having offended her. she did not hesitate to break in upon any speaker, and the next day, when the minister was preaching, she sent a noble lord to tell him to put his cap on. another high official was despatched to him before he left the pulpit to inform him that the queen liked his sermon. this was on sunday morning. that evening the chapel was made into a theatre, and an old latin play was acted for her amusement. elizabeth went from college to college, and at each she listened to an oration in her praise and received the usual gift of gloves, sugarloaves, and confectionery. cambridge had long expected the honor of this visit, and the members of the various learned societies had made preparations for it by composing poems of welcome and praise in greek, hebrew, and several other languages. copies of these verses had been richly bound, and the volume was presented to her as a memorial of her welcome. all the sermons and speeches and plays were in latin, and near the close of the queen's stay, a humble petition was made to her that she would speak to her hosts in that language. "i am but a poor scholar," said she, "but if i might speak my mind in english, i would not stick at the matter." then answered the chancellor of the university:-"your highness, in the university nothing english may be said in public." "then speak you for me," bade the queen. "the chancellor is the queen's mouth." "true, your majesty," he responded, "but i am merely the chancellor of the university; i have not the honor to be the chancellor of your grace." after a little more urging, the queen delivered an excellent latin speech, which she had evidently composed beforehand, and gave the authorities to understand that she should make the university a generous gift either during her life or at her death. this manner of arousing the expectations of her subjects was one of her ways of securing their faithfulness. she used to keep long lists of men of ability and worth, and a man, knowing that his name was on that list, would not fail to be true to her, expecting every day a pension or some other reward of his devotion. robert dudley was high steward of cambridge, and elizabeth seems to have exhausted her generous intentions toward the university by presenting him with kenilworth castle and manor and other lands. then it was that she made him lord leicester, and when in the ceremony he was kneeling gravely before her with bowed head, this queen of magnificence and barbarism, of subtlety of intellect and coarseness of manner, thought it a brilliant jest to stretch out the royal forefinger to tickle the back of his neck and arouse him from his unwonted seriousness. chapter ix elizabeth and philip however fond elizabeth was of leicester, she would never allow him to presume upon her favor. a friend of his one day demanded to see the queen, and the usher, or "gentleman of the black rod," as he was called, refused to permit him to enter. leicester threatened the usher with the loss of his position, but that gentleman went straightway to the queen, fell at her feet, and told the whole story. "your grace," said he, "i have but obeyed your commands, and all that i crave is to know the pleasure of your majesty. shall i obey yourself or my lord leicester?" leicester had also attempted to tell his side of the story, but a wave of the queen's hand had silenced him. now she turned upon him haughtily and said:-"i have wished you well, my lord, but know you that my favor is not so locked up in you that others can have no share. i will have here but one mistress and no master." leicester tried to take revenge on the queen's vanity by asking her for an appointment in france. "do you really wish to go?" she demanded. "it is one of the things that i most desire," answered the earl. elizabeth pondered a moment, she glanced at leicester, and then turned to the spanish ambassador, who stood near, and said laughingly:-"i can't live without seeing him. why, he is my lap-dog, and wherever i go, people expect that he will follow." leicester did not go to france. elizabeth's old suitor, king philip, was giving her more trouble than leicester. the low countries, as holland and belgium were then called, formed part of his domain. most of the inhabitants of these lands were protestants, and they were making a determined resistance to the rule of the spanish king. elizabeth believed that if philip was successful he might attack england. the course decided upon by the english council was to send money secretly to the revolters in the low countries. this would not make open war with spain, but would enable the king's opponents to oppose him more strongly, and would keep him too busy to think of invading england. even before elizabeth came to the throne, the english channel and the neighboring seas were swarming with bold sailors who attacked any vessel that they believed might be carrying gold or any other cargo of value. to-day this would be called piracy, it was then looked upon as brave seamanship. these pirates cared little for the nationality of a vessel, but spain had more ships at sea than any other country, and these ships were loaded with gold from america or with valuable goods from india, therefore, spain was the greatest sufferer; and as the english sailors were generally more bold and more successful than others in making these attacks, the wrath of spain toward england grew more and more bitter. whenever a spanish ship captured an english ship, the sailors were hanged, or imprisoned, or perhaps tortured, or even burned at the stake as heretics. "it is only fair," said elizabeth, "to get our reprisal in whatever way we can;" and whoever had taken a spanish vessel, be he english or belonging to some other nation, was allowed to bring his prize into an english port and there dispose of it. the slave-trade, too, was looked upon as an honorable business and a valuable source of wealth for england. spain forbade all nations to trade with her american colonies, but these bold englishmen kidnapped negroes on the african coast, carried them to america, and found ready purchasers in the spanish colonists of the west indies. one of these english fleets was attacked by the spanish in the gulf of mexico, and three of the vessels were captured. elizabeth raged and declared that she would have vengeance. it is possible that her indignation was no less from the fact that two of the vessels of this fleet belonged to the queen herself. it was not long before the opportunity for revenge appeared. four spanish vessels loaded with money for the payment of philip's army were chased by french pirates and took refuge in an english harbor. under the pretence of securing the safety of this money, it was quietly transferred to the royal treasury. the spanish ambassador protested, but there was much delay before he was permitted to see the queen. he presented a letter from duke alva, who commanded the spanish forces in the low countries, claiming the treasure. "i am not wholly without reason," declared elizabeth coolly, "for believing that this gold does not belong to the king of spain." "this is the duke's own writing, your highness," said the ambassador. "not willingly or with intent to deal unjustly would i seize upon aught that with propriety belongs to his majesty," said the queen, "but certain rumors have reached me that divers persons of genoa are sending this money to the low countries to make profit by loaning it to the duke." "your majesty, i give you most solemn assurance that such is not the case," declared the helpless ambassador. "a few days will determine whether your informants or mine be correct," said the queen haughtily. "if the king of spain can prove that the gold is his, i will restore it to him. otherwise, i will pay the usual rate of interest to its true owners, and keep it for good service in my own kingdom." elizabeth was right in her belief that philip would not wish to have another war on his hands, and so would made no attack upon her kingdom. he seized englishmen and english property in antwerp, but this was small loss to england, for elizabeth retaliated by imprisoning the spaniards who were doing business in her kingdom and whose possessions were of far more value than those of the english in antwerp. duke alva was annoyed and delayed in his plans by the loss of the money, but the fighting went on most bitterly. in france there was a kind of peace between the court and the huguenots, as the french protestants were called, but on neither side was there forgiveness or forgetfulness. the leader of the huguenots was wounded in paris by an assassin. catherine de medicis, mother of the french king, alarmed her son by declaring that the huguenots would take a fearful vengeance for this attack, and induced him to consent to a terrible slaughter in which thousands of protestants were slain. this was the massacre of st. bartholomew's day. the english were then thoroughly aroused. thousands were ready to take up arms and avenge the wicked murders. to the french ambassador fell the unwelcome task of telling the dreadful story to the queen of england. he asked for an audience, but she refused it. for three days she hesitated; at length he was admitted. the queen and all her attendants were dressed in the deepest mourning. the unhappy ambassador entered the room and advanced through the lines of lords and ladies. little return was made to his respectful salutations, there was dead silence. finally the queen with grave, stern face, came a few steps toward him, greeted him with politeness, and motioned him to follow her to one side. "i have no wish to show discourtesy to your sovereign," she said, "but it was impossible that i should bring my mind sooner to speak of a matter so grievous to me and to my realm." the ambassador bowed silently, and the queen went on. "can it be that this strange news of the prince whom i have so loved and honored has been correctly reported to me?" "in truth," answered the ambassador gravely, "it is for this very thing that i am come to lament with your majesty over the sad accident." "an accident?" questioned elizabeth. "surely, your majesty, for is not that an accident which is forced upon a sovereign by no will of his own, but by the plots and treasons of those whom he would gladly have befriended?" "how may that be?" asked elizabeth. "the evening before the sad event the king was horrified to learn that in revenge for the attempt at assassination, a terrible deed had been planned. it was no less than the imprisonment of himself and his family and the murder of the catholic leaders." "how was this known?" "one whose conscience could no longer bear the burden revealed the wicked plot. the words and looks of several of the conspirators gave gloomy confirmation to the story." "why not imprison the traitors? is there no dungeon in france and no executioner?" "your majesty, not all rulers have your keen judgment and your control of even the strongest sentiments of your heart. the king has not yet learned to govern his feelings by moderation. he had but a few short hours to decide what was best. many were urging him on to inflict the most severe penalties, and at last he yielded, and allowed that to be done which he will ever regret. especially does he lament that with a populace so wildly excited and so indignant at the plot against the king, it is all but impossible that some who are innocent should not have perished with the guilty. this is his chief cause of grief." the ambassador had made as smooth a story as possible, but how would the queen receive it? she was silent for several minutes, then she said:-"although i could not accept his majesty, the king of france, for a husband, yet shall i always revere him as if i were his wife, and ever feel jealous for his honor. i will believe that from some strange accident, which time will perhaps more fully explain, these murders have come to pass. i recommend the protestants among his people as especially entitled to his highness's loving care and protection." when this speech was reported to catherine de medicis, she smiled grimly and said, "the queen of england can hardly ask greater protection than she herself grants; namely, to force no man's conscience, but to permit no other worship in the land than that which the ruler himself practises." four years had passed since mary of scotland fled to england. nothing had been satisfactorily determined in regard to her guilt or innocence. an important part of the testimony against her was a casket of her letters to bothwell. elizabeth's commissioners believed these letters to be the work of mary's hand, but the english queen refused to permit them to be made public. whether they were true or were forgeries, she would not allow a queen, a member of her own family, to be declared guilty of murder. mary was put under the care of the earl of shrewsbury. the sovereign claimed the right to give prisoners of state or guests of the nation to her nobles for watch or entertainment or both. "i am about to trust you as i would trust few men," the queen said to the earl when she informed him of his new task. he was obliged to accept the charge meekly, but it must have been a heavy burden. if his family moved from one of his manors to another, mary must go with them. she must have the attendance and treatment due to her rank, but she must be closely watched to prevent, if possible, the sending of letters and messages to any that might conspire to rescue her. guests of the family must be kept from meeting her. it is no wonder that the earl's health gave out. he went away for medical treatment, and at once there came a letter from cecil:-"the queen has heard that you are gone from home. she says she can scarce believe it, but she bids me know from you what order you left for attendance upon the queen of scots. she would not that you should be long away from her, for she feels it only in accordance with her honor that the said queen be honorably attended, and for this she cares as much as for any question of surety." the earl did not recover at once, and the queen sent another trusty servant to take charge of mary. the caring for the prisoner and her retinue was no small matter, for there were so many in her train that her unwilling host felt greatly relieved when elizabeth commanded that their number be reduced to thirty. soon after mary's coming to england there was an uprising in the north among the nobles who wished to oblige elizabeth to acknowledge mary as her heir. they planned for the scotch queen to marry an english duke of great power and wealth. this conspiracy was discovered, mary was kept for a while in closer confinement, and after some time the duke was beheaded. elizabeth long refused to sign the warrant, and she would pay no attention whatever to the counsels of the royal advisers in regard to the execution of mary, though one called her "that dangerous woman," another, "a desperate person." the archbishop of york advised elizabeth to "cut off the scottish queen's head forthwith;" cecil was decidedly in favor of this plan, for he believed that it was the only way to secure peace to the kingdom, that so long as mary lived there would be plots, and that, however closely she was watched, she would find means to communicate with plotters. the rebellion in the north was the only revolt of any importance while elizabeth was on the throne. it was punished most severely by a vast number of executions. not long after the revolt, the pope excommunicated elizabeth. he pronounced upon her a solemn curse whether she ate or drank, went in or went out; whatever she did, she was accursed, and her subjects were no longer called upon to obey her. neither philip nor the king of france ventured to have this decree published in his kingdom, and in england it seems to have produced no effect whatever. the government was every day becoming stronger. the man who disobeyed did not often escape punishment, and englishmen in general preferred to be excommunicated by the pope in italy than to be executed by elizabeth in england. the queen gained steadily in power and in the affections of her subjects. some of this increase of power was because by good management england had grown richer, some of it because by her shrewd treatment of france and spain she had won the deference of both. her means of gaining power were not always to be commended; she was not above maintaining nominally peaceful relations with a king while she was aiding his revolting subjects; and she would favor first one proposed marriage and then another, as it might suit her purposes to win the good will of the country to which the respective wooers belonged. when she was once accused of deriding and mocking whoever sought her hand, she replied with an air of injured innocence that she never "mocked or trifled" with any of those who would have had her in marriage, that she had given them her answer as promptly as the "troubles and hindrances that were happening in the world" would permit. dishonorable as her behavior sometimes was, it is only fair to elizabeth to remember that in her times fair dealing among nations was the exception rather than the rule; the country that could gain the advantage over another country was looked upon as having shown the greater ability. part of elizabeth's gain in power was due to the improved condition of england. the country was at peace, taxes were not large; ways of living were becoming more comfortable; all subjects were required to attend the protestant church, but fines and loss of office were small matters when compared with the axe and the stake; bold sailors were taking english ships to distant harbors; a great exchange had been built in london where merchants from any part of the world might come to buy and sell; and the thing that made all these advantages possible was the fact that the government was firm and sure. that the queen was the vainest woman who ever lived, that she would say one thing one day and quite another thing the next morning was perhaps not known outside of her court, and in any case, her subjects would have forgiven her faults, for they felt that she was ever a friend to them, that she believed in them and trusted them. at one time a gun went off by accident and the bullet came very near the queen. elizabeth straightway issued a proclamation, "i will believe nothing against my subjects," said she, "that loving parents would not believe of their children." elizabeth refused positively to stand at the head of any one party; she was determined to be, as she said, "a good queen" to all her subjects. it must be admitted that she was sometimes unjust to the "great folk," but nothing else aroused her wrath so surely and so dangerously as a wrong done to her people, to the masses of her subjects, with whom she felt sympathy and to whom she turned for support. it was an ancient custom in the land that whenever the sovereign went from one part of the kingdom to another, the people of whatever district he might chance to be in should furnish him with food for his attendants, often numbered by hundreds. "purveyors," or officers whose business it was to attend to the providing of food, went ahead of the royal party and took what they chose to declare would be needed. sometimes they paid for it--whatever price they chose--sometimes they did not, but in any case the purveyor was sorely tempted to seize larger quantities of supplies than would be needed and sell them elsewhere. when elizabeth discovered that one of her officers had been behaving in this manner, she was most indignant. "my people shall suffer by no such abuses," she declared. one article that the cheating purveyor had seized and sold for the advantage of his own pocket was a quantity of smelts. "take him to the pillory," bade the angry queen. "hang the smelts about his neck, and see you to it that there shall he sit for three full days. let him who steals from my people keep in his account that he has to reckon not with them but with me; they are _my_ people, and i am their queen." this proud sovereign who ruled her haughty nobles with so high a hand enjoyed showing to her subjects how humble she could be. when she was tormenting the king of spain by every means in her power, she kept on one maundy thursday the old custom of feet-washing. elizabeth was thirty-nine years of age, and therefore the poor women who were seated before her for the ceremony were thirty-nine in number. the queen's ladies brought silver basins filled with warm water delicately perfumed with flowers and sweet-smelling herbs. cushions were placed, and on these the queen kneeled as she washed one foot of each of the poor women, marked it with a cross and kissed it. it takes a little from the humility of the act to read that just before the queen's performance of this duty the feet of the thirty-nine poor women were most carefully scrubbed and perfumed by three separate officials. there must have been some competition to be among the chosen thirty-nine, if any one guessed what would happen, for before the queen bade them farewell, she presented each one with a pair of shoes, cloth for a gown, the towel and apron used in the ceremony, a purse of white leather containing thirty-nine pence, and a red purse containing twenty shillings. besides these gifts, each one received bread, fish, and wine. it is no wonder that elizabeth was popular among her subjects, and that she rejoiced in their good will, but some of the consequences of their devotion were not agreeable. it was the custom to wear ornaments called aglets, which were somewhat like large loops. these were made of gold and often set with precious stones. they were sewed upon various parts of her robes of state, and they had a fashion of disappearing when the queen was dining in public, for her subjects who were near enough to secure one as a souvenir of their beloved queen seem to have taken advantage of their opportunity. the persons who had charge of her wardrobe made in their books many such entries as these:-"lost from her majesty's back the 17th of january, at westminster, one aglet of gold, enamelled blue, set upon a gown of purple velvet." another one is:-"one pearl and a tassel of gold being lost from her majesty's back, off the french gown of black satin, the 15th day of july, at greenwich." chapter x entertaining a queen many a monarch has liked to wander about his domains in disguise and hear what his subjects had to say about him when they did not suspect that he was near. elizabeth thoroughly enjoyed journeying about her kingdom, but she did not wish to be disguised, she preferred that everyone should know where she was and should be able to sing her praises in such wise that she need not lose the pleasure of hearing them. these journeys of hers were called progresses, and while on a progress she was always entertained by some wealthy subject. whenever there was a rumor that the queen meant to leave town, every nobleman who owned a beautiful country seat would tremble, for while a royal visit was an honor, it was also a vast expense and responsibility. the queen would set out with a great retinue, but for what place no one was told until a few days before the journey began. if there was the least reason to think that she would go to a certain district, the noblemen of that district hastened to engage provisions of all sorts. the luckless favorite was at last told that the great honor of entertaining his sovereign was to be bestowed upon him. he had to appear exceedingly grateful and to make humble speeches of thankfulness, even though he was wondering between the words where he could buy meat and fish and fruit and other food for a great company. as soon as the queen's messengers were out of sight, then was there a hurrying and a scurrying. in one case many of the nobles in a certain district were so afraid of being victims that they engaged all the provisions in the vicinity, and the unfortunate man who was first chosen had to send post-haste to flanders to buy food for his unwelcome guests. one man provided for a royal visit of three days wheat, rye, oats, butter, partridges, trout, lobsters, beer, ale, wine, sugarloaves, turkeys, pheasants, salmon, deer, sheep, oysters, plums, preserved lemons, sweetmeats, cinnamon water, beef, ling, sturgeons, pigeons, etc. these eatables had to be obtained in large quantities; for instance, this three-days' host bought fifty-two dozen chickens for one item, and twenty bushels of salt for another. nor was this all. damask, knives, and pewter dishes must be hired; carpenters and bricklayers must be engaged to make all sorts of changes in the house and grounds that might suit the whim of a queen who did not hesitate to express her opinions if she was displeased. moreover, when this queen was entertained, she expected to find entertainment; dancers must be hired, and perhaps a whole company of actors must be engaged to present a play for her pleasure. it is not at all wonderful that even the richest of elizabeth's subjects dreaded a visit from their queen. the archbishop of canterbury wrote a most pitiful letter about the difficulty of finding bedrooms for so great a party. he explained what he had planned, and ended, "here is as much as i am able to do in this house." one man who had been notified that the queen would soon honor his castle wrote to cecil, "i trust you will provide that her majesty's stay be not above two nights and a day," and he added anxiously, "i pray god that the room and lodgings may be to her content." this man, like the rest of elizabeth's hosts, was not anxious without good reason, for the queen often manifested but slight gratitude for the efforts of her entertainers, while she seldom hesitated to express her disapproval if anything occurred that did not please her. at one house she discovered by chance an image of the virgin mary, and within a fortnight her host was in prison on the charge of being a catholic. to another house she made an unexpected visit when the owner was away from home. the unfortunate lord had a fine deer park in which he took great pride, but on his return he found that large numbers of the deer had been slaughtered to amuse the queen and her retinue. he was so indignant that he "disparked" the ground. it seems that it was not safe for a man to do what he would with his own, for not many weeks later a friend of his at court wrote to him:-"her majesty has been informed that you were not pleased at the good sport she had in your park. have a wary watch over your words and deeds. it was leicester who brought her to your castle. he has taken no small liking to it, and it might easily be that he would claim to have good title to the same." the most brilliant of elizabeth's entertainments was given her by robert dudley at kenilworth castle not long after he became lord leicester. for nineteen days he was her host, but he could well afford to make the outlay, for the queen's recent gifts to him were valued at â£50,000, an amount that was worth as much then as a million and a quarter dollars to-day. on this visit elizabeth was received at a neighboring town and was feasted in a great tent. then after a day's hunting she and her train arrived at the fine old castle with its manor lands of hill and dale, forest and pasture. it was already eight in the evening, but there were all sorts of sights for her to see before she entered the castle. first came forth ten sibyls in white silk, gleaming in the soft twilight. one of them made a speech of welcome, and the company passed into the tilt-yard. there stood a tall porter, big of limb and stern of countenance. he brandished a heavy club as he strutted to and fro, apparently talking to himself. he did not know, he declared, what all this chattering, riding, and trudging up and down was for, but he did not like it, and there was no one great enough to deserve it. suddenly he saw the queen, and was so overcome by her beauty--so he said in his speech--that he could only fall down on his knees before her and beg her pardon. he gave her his keys and called his six trumpeters to announce the arrival of so wondrous a being. on two sides of the castle there was a beautiful pool, and as the queen stepped upon the bridge that crossed an arm of the mere, a sudden light gleamed far out on the lake, and over the quiet water came a little floating island, all ablaze with torches. on the island was the fair lady of the lake, and with her were two attendant nymphs. the lady recited a pretty poem to the purport that ever since king arthur's days she had been hidden, not daring to come forth, but now a royal guest had come for whom she could feel as deep a love as for arthur himself. she ended:- "pass on, madame, you need no longer stand, the lake, the lodge, the lord are yours for to command." with all her quickness of wit, elizabeth could think of no better reply than, "we had thought the lake had been ours; and do you call it yours now? well, we will herein commune more with you hereafter." then came a great flourish of shawms, cornets, and other musical instruments, and the queen passed on. she was as eager as a child to see what was to be the next sight, for nothing gave her more pleasure than these displays. everyone was interested in mythology in those days, and no entertainment was regarded as complete without some reference to the gods and goddesses; cooks often represented in their pastry scenes from the stories of the early deities. elizabeth's way now led over a bridge that crossed the lower court and extended to the entrance of the castle. on either hand were seven pairs of wooden pillars, each pair loaded with the gift of some god. on the first pair were the tokens of sylvanus, god of the woodfowl; these were great cages containing various kinds of birds, alive and fluttering in the glare of the torches. then came pomona's treasures, two large silver bowls full of the fairest apples, pears, cherries and nuts. white and red grapes represented the welcome of bacchus, while on the fifth pair of pillars were the gifts of neptune, herring, oysters, and mullets, for the god of the sea as well as the deities of the woods and the fields had been summoned to give greeting to elizabeth. mars was not forgotten; well polished bows and arrows, gleaming swords and spears shone in the flaring lights. the last pillars bore the offering of apollo, the cornet, flute, and harp, the lute, viol, and shawm. at the end of this bridge was an arch whereon was written a lengthy welcome in latin. the letters were white, but wherever the queen's name appeared, it shone out in yellow gold. leicester had no idea of trusting the flickering light of torches to reveal all these elaborate preparations for the queen's reception, and beside the arch stood a poet with a wreath of bays on his head. his part was to explain to her what each offering signified and to read the inscription over the gateway. it is to be hoped that the lights shone upon him well and clearly, for he was attired in all the splendor of a long robe of blue silk with sleeves flowing widely to reveal glimpses of his gorgeous crimson doublet. as the queen alighted from her horse and entered the castle, every clock in the building was stopped, perhaps to suggest that she would never grow old, that even time had no power over her. she was escorted to her rooms, and then came the welcome of jupiter, king of the gods. this was peal after peal of the guns of the castle and a display of fireworks. for two long hours this greeting of jupiter's blazed and roared, but it was none too long to please the woman for whom it had been planned. the next day was sunday, and the queen went to church, but in the afternoon came music and dancing, and at night more fireworks, stars and streams and hail of fire and burning darts flashing through the darkness. this was only the beginning of the festivities. the next afternoon there was a hunt, and many a deer was slain to amuse the royal guest. a "savage man," covered with moss and ivy, came out of the forest as she was riding back to the castle and made her a long speech, declaring that never before had he seen so glorious a sight. he called nymphs and fauns and dryads and satyrs to his aid, but no one could tell the meaning of the vision. at last he held a conversation with echo, and learned how mighty a queen was before him. then he made another speech about her wondrous beauty, her grace and manner, and the rare qualities of her mind. finally, to show his submission, he broke his stick into pieces. unfortunately, this action startled the queen's horse. there was confusion for a moment, and all flocked around in utter dismay lest some harm had befallen her. "no hurt, no hurt," said elizabeth graciously, and the officer who wrote the account of the visit says, "these words were the best part of the play." there was a mock fight; some italians gave an exhibition of "leaps, springs, and windings," and so agile were they that the chronicler says it could hardly be distinguished whether they were "man or spirit." there was a bridal procession of a rustic couple who were delighted to have the opportunity to appear before the queen. the groom was "lame of a leg broken in his youth at football," but he made up for the loss by wearing a mighty pair of harvest gloves to show that he was a good husbandman, while on his back was slung a pen and inkhorn to indicate that he was "bookish." on his head was a straw hat with a crown made steeple-shape. he and his bride were escorted by the young folk of the parish, each man wearing a bit of green broom fastened to his left arm, and carrying an alder pole in his right hand by way of spear. one wore a hat, another a cap; one rejoiced in a coat or a jerkin, while another had only doublet and hose; one had boots without spurs, and another had spurs without boots, while a third had neither; but it was a merry time, for were they not all come to display themselves before the glorious queen? so the days went on. there was another scene on the lake when a dolphin, eighty feet long, came swimming up to meet elizabeth. on his back was the god arion, who had come from regions far away that he might sing to her, and within the machine were six players with their instruments. there was a show of bear-baiting, wherein thirteen bears tied to stakes, were attacked by a company of dogs trained for the purpose. to see them clawing and tumbling and growling and scratching and biting, to note the bears' watchfulness for their enemies and the dogs' keenness in getting the better of the bears, was what the letter-writing official called "a very pleasant sport." this seems to have been the general opinion of the cruel amusement, for a bear-baiting was often arranged as a treat for the entertainment of foreign ambassadors and other national guests of rank and dignity. the day's pastime was often closed by thundering peals of guns and by fireworks that would "mount in the air and burn in the water." often the whole castle was illuminated by candle, fire, and torchlight, as if the god of the sun himself--so said one who was there--was resting in its chambers instead of taking his nightly course to the antipodes. there was surely no lack of amusements, and indeed several spectacles had been planned for which there was no time. one man who was to represent a minstrel of the olden days was sorely grieved because he could not have the honor of singing before the queen. he found what comfort he might, however, in showing his skill to a company of the courtiers. one of them described his appearance, and a reader cannot help feeling sorry that queen elizabeth lost the sight. the "ancient minstrel" wore a long, flowing robe of green, gathered at the throat and fastened with a clasp. the wide sleeves were slit from shoulder to hand, and under them was a closely fitting undersleeve of white cotton. he wore a black worsted doublet, confined at the waist by a wide red girdle. his shoes were "not new indeed, but shining," though perhaps not quite so brilliantly as was his hair, for that had been smoothed with a sponge "dipped in a little bear's grease" till it gleamed like a duck's wing. he wore a shirt whose bosom was ruffled, and starched "after the new trink," till every ruffle stood up stiff and "glittering." a handkerchief was thrust into his bosom, but enough of it was displayed to show that it was edged with bright blue lace and marked with a heart. around his neck was a broad red ribbon which held his harp, while on a green lacing hung the tuning key. it was really a pity that the queen lost all this display. the chief reason for elizabeth's pleasure in these progresses was probably her delight in all pageants and thorough enjoyment of her popularity among the people. at such times she was nearer to them than at any others. the humblest servant in the castle where she was making her stay, the simplest peasant of the countryside, had as free access to her majesty as the greatest of her nobles. anyone might bring her a petition, anyone might offer her a gift; and no matter of how slight value the present might be, its donor was never disappointed in the gracious thanks that he hoped to receive from his sovereign. often sufferers from scrofula were brought before her with the prayer that she would but lay her hand upon them, for england had believed for six hundred years that the touch of the royal hand would cure this disease. it was said that on elizabeth's visit to kenilworth she healed nine. this was only one of the many superstitions of the elizabethan times. a bit of the wood of which the gallows was made would cure the ague; wearing a topaz stone would bring an insane man to his right mind; a verse of the bible written on parchment and worn about the neck would drive away evil spirits; to carry fern-seed in the pocket would enable a man to "go invisible." powdered diamonds would heal one disease; wiping the face with a red cloth another; while pills made of the powdered skull of a man that had been hanged were a sure remedy for a third. not only the ignorant but most of the most learned men of the day believed firmly in astrology, and the home of the queen's astrologer, dr. dee, was often crowded with nobles who were eager to know the fates foretold to them by the heavens. there was so firm a belief in witchcraft that one of the queen's bishops preached before her on the subject, telling her what sufferings her subjects were enduring from witches. "they pine away even unto the death," said he, and he begged her majesty to make a law providing for the punishment of sorcerers. this was done, or rather, an old law was revived. when elizabeth had a toothache, many of her advisers declared that the pain had been produced by magic, and it was suggested that the treatment of waxen images of the queen at the hands of some who were ill-disposed toward her was the reason for her sufferings. the royal physicians could not agree upon the cause of the trouble or upon a remedy, and the matter was ended by the council of state taking charge of the affair and ordering a prescription from a foreign physician. at the time of queen elizabeth's progress to kenilworth, a banquet was arranged for her. one of her courtiers says that it was neither well served nor nicely set down, that it was "disorderly wasted and coarsely consumed," that it was carried on "more curtly than courteously;" but he adds, "if it might please and be liked and do that it came for, then was all well enough." [illustration: kenilworth in elizabeth's time.--_from an old print._] the elizabethan life was a strange mingling of magnificence and discomfort. there were most palatial mansions with noble towers and gateways and terraces, with lawns and gardens and fountains and parks and wide-spreading acres of hill and dale, of field and forest, but according to modern ideas there was little comfort in all this splendor. the only way to warm these lordly castles was by an occasional fireplace, and the rooms were full of drafts that even the heavy tapestry hung on the walls would not prevent. cleanliness was almost unknown. floors were strewn with rushes, and when a room was to be put in order, fresh rushes were brought in, but no one thought it at all necessary to carry away the old ones. a room was almost never swept unless space was needed for dancing; then a circle in the middle was cleared of rushes, dirt, dust, crumbs and bones from the dining table and all sorts of rubbish that had accumulated since the time of the last merrymaking. one letter-writer of the day declared that the rushes on floors not needed for dancing were sometimes left for twenty years without being swept away. whoever could afford it owned several country houses, and when one became absolutely unendurable, even according to sixteenth century notions, he would move to another to let the first house "sweeten," as was said. the list of different kinds of food purchased for the queen's progress gives an idea of what the rich folk ate, that is, what they ate in the summer. in the winter they had little besides salt meat, various kinds of bread, and the most remarkable pies that one ever heard of. they were made of everything from artichokes to herring. one pastry is described as made of fish and flavored with pepper, ginger, and cloves. the artichoke pies were made of a combination of artichokes, marrow, ginger, raisins and dates. few vegetables were used. potatoes had been brought from america, but they were regarded as a luxury. they were roasted in the embers or else boiled and eaten with pepper, oil, and vinegar. there was neither tea nor coffee; beer or wine was drunk at every meal. people ate with knives and fingers, for forks did not appear until near the end of elizabeth's life. one that was richly jeweled was presented to her and was kept in a glass case as a curiosity. the homes of the poor were indeed bare and comfortless. the floors were of clay or beaten earth. a clumsy table, some wooden stools, a wooden trencher to hold the food, a pile of straw to sleep on, salt fish and rye or barley bread--these were all the comforts that a poor man could expect to have in his home. the house itself was built of boughs of trees interwoven with willow twigs and daubed with clay. the fire was made against a rock set into one of the walls, and the smoke found its way out as best it could. before the reign of elizabeth was over, chimneys had become more common, and many men whose fathers had lived in huts of mud and had eaten from wooden trenchers were building for themselves houses of oak with the comfort of a chimney and perhaps the elegance of a pewter porringer or two among their wooden dishes. at best the luxuries were not very luxurious, but a writer of the time lamented that men were no longer as brave and strong as they used to be, and thought their weakness was due to these dainty and enfeebling fashions. chapter xi elizabeth's suitors never before did the hand of a woman and its possible bestowal in marriage play so important a part in the affairs of europe as did that of elizabeth. she contrived to delay and postpone giving an answer to philip till his minister wrote home wrathfully, "the english queen is possessed of ten thousand devils," but at the death of philip's third wife, ten years later, she was not at all displeased when the spanish ambassador suggested pointedly that philip was "still young enough to take a fourth wife." when france was showing too much favor to scotland to suit english notions, she was fully capable of discussing the possibility of a scotch husband, and when there was a whisper that one foreign ruler meditated the rescue of the captive mary and a marriage with her, elizabeth at once sent an agent to him to suggest a marriage with herself. whenever her fears of spain increased, she began to think of a french alliance. there was always a french suitor ready, for catherine de medicis was trying her best to persuade elizabeth to choose one of the french princes for a husband. the english queen kept one suitor waiting in uncertainty for seven years, another for eleven. she had all sorts of absurd names for her admirers; one was her "lap-dog," one her "tame cat," one her "sheep," another her "frog." occasionally she found a wooer who was not so ready as the others to await her royal pleasure. three years after all negotiations with the archduke charles, brother of the german emperor, had been broken off, she was talking familiarly with some of the ladies of the bedchamber, and she said with some indignation:-"the king of france is to marry one daughter of the emperor, and the king of spain is to marry another." "there's many a noble marriage, your majesty," said one of her ladies. "would that there was one more," she added slily. "these royal brides have near of kin to promote their interests," replied elizabeth. "what can a woman alone do for herself, whether she is on a throne or on a wooden stool?" "your grace has full many a faithful servant," answered the lady, "who would be ready to give life and limb to do your will." "and yet with all these honorable marriages a-making, not one man in the council had the wit to remind the rest that the emperor has a brother," said the queen and turned away abruptly. the lady understood what was expected of her, and she sent at once for the earl of leicester. "would you do aught to gratify her majesty?" she asked. "is there aught that i would not do to gratify her majesty--or yourself?" he added with a gallant bow. the lady repeated the conversation. the next day a humble petition came from the council:-"far be it from the intentions of your majesty's servants to suggest anything displeasing to your grace, but if it be in accordance with your will, it would be highly gratifying to your councilors, should you grant this their humble petition that your highness will consider the matter of the archduke charles and the suit that he so recently made." elizabeth replied:-"of my own will the thought of marriage has ever been far from me, but i cannot refuse the request of my councilors in whose judgment i have so much confidence." an ambassador was sent at once to the german emperor with the message:-"the queen of england regrets deeply that her frequent illnesses, the wars in france and flanders, and difficult matters in her own government have prevented her from returning a final answer to the suit of his imperial majesty's brother. if he is pleased to come to england, he will be most welcome, and she doubts not that her subjects can be persuaded to permit him the free exercise of his own religion." "it is a pleasure," returned the emperor, "to send to her majesty, the queen of england, assurances of my warmest regard. most highly do i esteem the honor of receiving a message from a sovereign of such beauty of face and greatness of mind;" and then he continued, not without a little enjoyment it may be, "my brother is most grateful for her majesty's good intentions toward him, but he would say that after a delay of three years he had supposed that she did not wish to accept his suit, and he is now engaged to a princess of his own faith, but he earnestly hopes that the queen will ever regard him as a brother." the youthful envoy was presented with a silver vessel and treated with all courtesy, but these attentions to her ambassador did not soothe the rage of elizabeth. "if i were a man," she stormed, "and the emperor had offered me such an insult, i would have called him out to single combat." the last of elizabeth's wooers was the duke of alenã§on. catherine de medicis had tried hard to win the hand of the queen for an older son who was not at all eager for the honor. when this plan failed, catherine wrote to her minister in england: "would she have my son alenã§on? he is turned of sixteen, though but little for his age." she went on to say that "this youth had the understanding, visage, and demeanor of one much older than he is." elizabeth was thirty-eight, and when the scheme was first proposed to cecil, he exclaimed, "why, it would look like a mother with her son." elizabeth never refused a suitor at once, and she demanded full information about the duke of alenã§on. "how tall is he?" she asked. the duke was really so stunted as to be almost dwarfed; he had an enormous nose, a wide mouth, and a face scarred by the smallpox. "i have waited a long time," said the queen, "and if i should now marry a man so much younger than myself and so badly marked with the pox, indeed i know not what they would say." "the duke is growing older every day," replied the french ambassador, "and in london there is a learned physician who declares that in two or three days he can remove all traces of the disease. the duke's heart is full of love and admiration for your majesty. if i might venture, but no----" and he thrust back into his pocket a paper that he had partly drawn forth. "what is that?" demanded elizabeth. "pardon, your majesty, but it is a paper that i have no right to show. this is but the private letter of the duke, and was not meant to fall under the eyes of your grace." finally he was prevailed upon to give her the paper, which proved to be a note--written expressly for the purpose--from alenã§on to a friend in france. she read and reread. "that is a fair penmanship," said she. "that is marvelously well done." "and the matter of the letter," asked the ambassador, "is not that, too, well done? it is but the outpourings of an honest heart and of its longings to win your grace for himself." "it is very fairly written," said elizabeth, and she ended the audience, but she did not return the note. the duke wrote many letters to the queen, and they do have an air of sincerity and earnestness that is different from the writings of some of elizabeth's suitors. catherine sent word that the learned doctor from london was doing much to improve the appearance of her son's face, but she wished to be sure that the medicines were harmless. "he can easily practise on a page," she wrote, "and if it does well, he can use his remedies on my son." the french ambassador hastened to tell the good news to elizabeth, but this disappointing sovereign replied coolly, "i am really surprised that so loving a mother did not attempt sooner to remove so great a disfigurement." one june day a young man with two servants appeared at elizabeth's gates and demanded to see the queen. it was alenã§on himself, and she was delighted. of all her wooers not one before had ever dared to come to england and run the risk of a refusal, but "monsieur," as the english called him, had shown himself so bold that the queen was charmed. he was homely, there was no denying it, but he was brave and gallant, quick and sprightly, and one of the best flatterers that had ever been at the english court. his reception and entertainment were most cordial, and he went home in full expectation of marrying the queen. not long after this visit elizabeth called her council to consider the marriage. cecil in his usual methodical fashion drew up a paper with the advantages on the left and the disadvantages on the right. finally the council reported to the sovereign that they would try to "conform themselves" to whatever she wished. then the queen was angry, for she had expected them to urge her to marry. she cried and she stormed. she told her councilors that they cared nothing at all for her safety and the welfare of the kingdom. they bore her wrath with the utmost humility, but they did not change their report. neither did the queen change her mind, and the marriage treaty was drawn up. the councilors did not despair even then, and one evening a well-arranged scene took place after the queen had retired to her chamber. her ladies fell on their knees around her. they sobbed and groaned. "oh, your majesty," said one, "such a step cannot bring you happiness." "the duke is so young," lamented another. "he knows not how to conceive of your greatness. he will despise you and scorn you because he cannot appreciate such rare excellence of mind. only a king should be your husband." "your majesty, do not forget queen mary," one wailed. "think of her misery, and do not bring another foreigner into the land." "how can a queen be governor of the protestant church and promise to obey a catholic spouse?" asked one. elizabeth turned sharply away without a word, but in the morning she sent for the duke. "your grace," said he with great concern, "it grieves me to the heart to see you pale and tearful." "good reason have i for pallor," said she, "for two more nights like the last would bring me to the grave. the woman who lives in a cottage may wed whom she will; the queen of england must wed to please her subjects." the duke dashed away to his own apartment. "england may well be an island," he exclaimed, "for the women are as changeable as the waves that encircle it." the queen had given him a ring, and now he threw it into the farthest corner of the room. he would have left england at once, but elizabeth would not permit him to go, and when after three months he declared that he would stay no longer, she persisted in going to canterbury with him, much against his will. he left her weeping, and while he was crossing the channel, she was writing a poem beginning:- "i grieve yet dare not show my discontent; i love, and yet am forced to seem to hate." "monsieur" was the last of elizabeth's suitors. eleven years had passed since his marriage with the queen had first been discussed. she was now fifty years of age; the country settled into the belief that she would never marry, and most people expected that the next ruler of england would be the son of mary, the prisoner. no one knows whether elizabeth was in earnest or not in any of the plans for her marriage. leicester said: "should she decide to marry, i am all but convinced that she would choose no other than myself,--at least, she has done me the honor to say as much--but i know not what to hope or what to fear." in the early part of her reign her subjects were nearly equally divided into catholics and protestants. it was her policy to be a protestant, but to do nothing that would arouse the catholics against her, as a protestant marriage would surely have done. if on the other hand she had chosen a catholic, then the ruling power of the country would have been enraged. she declared over and over that she would never marry one of her own subjects, and she had not forgotten the indignation of the english when mary persisted in marrying a foreigner. two things were worth more to this queen than all else in the world; one was the love of her subjects, the other was her own power. any marriage that she might make would deprive her in some degree of one or the other. her word could not always be trusted, but there is certainly some reason for believing that she was truthful in declaring that she did not mean to marry, and that if she changed her mind, it would be only to obey the demand of the country. at the same time she enjoyed fancying herself in love with one or another. she demanded the utmost adoration from her courtiers. few men could be comfortable at her court who did not bow down to her as the wisest, wittiest, most brilliant, most beautiful of women. when half of europe was raving over the beauty of mary, queen of scots, elizabeth did her best to oblige mary's ambassador to admit that she herself was far more lovely. she often spoke of herself as the "old woman," but woe to the courtier who did not hasten to assure her that such beauty as hers could never change, that each day only made her more radiant. she was always indignant when any of her courtiers ventured to marry, but perhaps this wrath was not so very illogical, for when they had assured her hundreds of times that all other beauty paled before hers, that nothing in the world save the radiance of her smile could cheer their lives, how could she help being enraged when they proved by marriage that her favor alone would not raise them to the heights of happiness? at last even her favorite leicester married. then elizabeth raged. she sent him to prison, and would have committed him to the tower, had not one of her most trusted councilors opposed her lawless proceedings so strongly. the older elizabeth grew, the more gorgeous became her raiment. when she was living quietly at hatfield house with mary wearing the crown, she dressed with exceeding plainness and simplicity. it was her best policy then to attract as little notice as possible; but when she was once safely on the throne, she showed herself a true daughter of henry viii. in her love of magnificence. she thoroughly enjoyed riding through streets hung with tapestry; she liked to see flags and streamers fluttering from the windows of the houses; processions, pageants, shows of all kinds were her delight. as she proved at kenilworth, she could partake of a public banquet, ride on a hunt for half a day, listen to addresses of welcome and explanation of spectacles produced in her honor; and after so well-filled a day she could hear the thunder of guns and watch the flashing of fireworks for two hours longer without the least sign of weariness. it is true that when she was alone with her ladies, she was satisfied with a comparatively simple dress, but when she was in public and felt herself part of the magnificence, nothing could be too sumptuous. cloth of silver, cloth of gold, the richest of italian velvet, the heaviest of silk, these were her robes, and there were fully two thousand of them. nor were they plain in their richness; some were covered with pictures of eyes and ears to suggest that whatever was said or done in the land would come to the knowledge of the queen. some were covered with embroidered illustrations of tales from mythology, or various devices that were full of some hidden significance. aglets of all kinds adorned her gowns, as did buttons and clasps made of gold and enameled or set lavishly with diamonds or pearls or rubies. her various kinds of head-dresses were marvels, for they were so a-glitter with precious stones. while mary of scotland was a captive, she sent elizabeth a new year's gift of a net-work head-dress which she herself had made. a little later the french ambassador brought the queen three embroidered nightcaps, also made by the fair hands of mary. "in faith, i thank the queen of scots," said elizabeth, "but my council be now but scarce recovered from their commotion and jealousy because you brought me a new year's gift from the same lady." the disappointed ambassador went home with the nightcaps, but at the next call his luck was better. elizabeth had determined to accept the pretty present, whether the act pleased her council or not. "tell the queen of scots," said she, "that i am older than she is. when people arrive at my age, they take all they can get with both hands, and only give with their little finger." this was indeed true, for elizabeth's hand was always open to a gift, especially to one of personal adornment. when her godson would win a favor from her, he presented her with a "heart of gold, garnished with sparks of rubies." her silk-woman brought her one new year's day a pair of black silk stockings, a rare luxury even for a queen, since spain was the home of silk stockings, and from the land of elizabeth's rejected suitor and her country's enemy but few pairs made their way to england. "where did you get the stockings?" asked elizabeth with delight. "your majesty," she answered, "i once saw a pair brought from spain, and i made these expressly for your grace." "can you get me more?" asked the queen eagerly. "this very day," replied the silk-woman joyfully, "i will set up another pair, and knit more for your grace." "i'll wear no more stockings made of cloth," declared the queen. "these are pleasant and delicate. i mind me well that my father had two pairs, and by great chance there came a pair from spain while my brother edward was king. no more cloth hose for me, good mistress montague." one of the queen's bold sea-captains presented her with a fan made of red and white feathers, "enameled with a half-moon of mother-of-pearl, within that a half-moon garnished with sparks of diamonds and a few seed pearls." a fan was once given to her by leicester which was even more dazzling. it was made of white feathers; its handle was of gold; rubies, diamonds, and two superb emeralds were on one side; rubies, diamonds, and pearls were on the other. leicester's coat of arms was a bear and ragged staff; therefore, there was a lion rampant with a white bear lying muzzled at its feet. a pair of gloves was in those days a fitting offering "to set before the queen." handkerchiefs, a kind of nightdress that must have served as a wrapper, for it was of white linen embroidered with black and trimmed with lace and spangles, preserved ginger, lemons, pies, a purse of gold coins from a wealthy city or a piece of confectionery from her cook,--whatever came was welcome. to live in splendor was the queen's paradise. her books were bound in velvet, their clasps were of gold or of silver, and wherever there was space, the glitter of some precious stone flashed forth. handsome furniture, fine tapestries, golden plate were her joy. the trappings of her horses were superb; the harness was of gold and silk, the saddle was of black velvet embroidered with pearls and gold thread. it was valued at seven thousand dollars. preparing her dinner table was an elaborate ceremonial. each article of table use must be brought in by a servant preceded by an usher, and before it could be laid on the table, the servant must kneel three times. after it was put in place, the servant knelt once, and then the little procession returned for another article. when it was time for the food to be brought in, there was much more ceremony. silken-clad lady "tasters," tall yeomen of the guard, and eight maids of honor appeared. drums and trumpets sounded, and then the food--rather cold, one would fancy--was borne in state to the chamber of the queen. with all this love of magnificence elizabeth had a thrifty notion of the value of economy in the adornments of others, and several times during her reign she had laws passed forbidding expensive attire. one of her proclamations stated that it caused "great inconvenience" to spend so much for dress, and that men were arraying their wives and children at so much "superfluous charge and expense" that they were no longer able to practise hospitality as they ought. "the lowest ought not to expect to dress as richly as their betters," declared the queen. "it is their pride that makes them rob and steal by the highway." she even told her subjects just what materials they would be allowed to wear. save for a few exceptions, ambassadors or commanders or knights of the garter, no one but an earl was allowed to wear purple silk or cloth of gold or of silver "tissued." no one below the rank of baron might dare to adorn himself with gold or silver lace, or wear a sword or rapier or dagger. the wife of a knight was permitted to appear in a velvet gown, cloak, or other upper garment, and she might embroider them with silk if she chose, but the wife of even a knight's eldest son could wear velvet only as a kirtle or petticoat. her upper garment might be of satin, but she was forbidden to embroider it. elizabeth was not afraid to rebuke her ladies in waiting if their dress was too expensive to please her. one of them bought a velvet suit elaborately trimmed with gold and pearls. elizabeth bore its appearance several times, then she had it brought to her secretly and put it on. out among her ladies she went, wearing the elaborate gown, which was much too short for her. the owner of the velvet and pearls was aghast, but the queen smiled upon her and asked:-"think you not, mistress mary, that my gown is too short? does it not become me ill?" "yes, your majesty," faltered the poor lady. "you are right," said the queen, "but mark you well that if it is too short for me, it is too fine for you." the gown never again appeared before the eyes of the queen. chapter xii the great sea-captains as matters are looked at in these times, elizabeth's relations to spain were exceedingly strange. to-day if two countries are not at war, they are at peace, but in the sixteenth century it was not at all uncommon for two rulers to annoy each other as much as possible without any formal war, and more than once a third country joined one side or the other because in so doing there was an opportunity for gain. philip would have been glad to conquer england, but as long as elizabeth maintained peace with france, there was little hope for him. moreover, the netherlands were keeping his hands full, and what was most exasperating, elizabeth was helping the revolters. there was one more thing to be considered, if philip did conquer england, there was no hope of his being able to claim the throne as long as mary was alive. so it was that this ruler of half europe, was really at the mercy of that exasperating monarch, elizabeth of england, and she hectored and tormented him to her heart's content. early in her reign most of her advisers would have been glad to go to war with philip, but elizabeth delayed. she hated war. every year of peace enriched and strengthened her kingdom, and moreover, even without fighting philip, she was gaining much of the wealth and power that a spanish conquest would have brought her. this gain came about through the exploits of her sea-captains. as has been said before, it was regarded as an honorable occupation to get some negroes on the african coast, carry them to the spanish colonies in america, and sell them for a goodly amount of spanish gold. this was precisely what sir john hawkins did, but when he had leisurely made his way back to england, he found himself in trouble. elizabeth sent for him. "they tell me you are no better than a pirate," she said, bluntly, although her look was not so stern as cecil would have wished. "your majesty," replied hawkins, "i am but a plain, simple sailor." "and so my plain, simple sailors are bringing me into a war with king philip?" asked elizabeth. hawkins was no more afraid of the queen of england than of the king of spain, and he told his own grievances as frankly as if she had been one of his men. "your majesty," said he, "i took the blacks from the savage countries of africa, and surely there was no harm in that. i carried them to saint domingo, and i sold them to the planters. the governor of the island was willing, and the planters were glad to get them. i paid the harbor dues, and i left one hundred negroes with him to pay a larger duty if the king asked more of an englishman than he did of a spaniard. i bought hides with the money and sent them in a spanish vessel to be sold in spain. the king seized them, and he won't pay me a penny for them." "well, my plain, simple sailor," asked the queen, "is it your will that i and my council should go to spain and get your hides?" "your majesty," he answered, "give me a good vessel under me and plenty of sea-room, and i'll trouble no council to care for me and my right." elizabeth was in a rarely good-natured mood. she patted the captain on his broad shoulder. "i'd gladly know what the king of spain would do with such a saucy fellow as you," she said. "you'd better go home and think no more about the new world. one side of the atlantic is enough for a man." the captain withdrew, but elizabeth bade an attendant call him back. "let me understand when it is your will to go on another trip," she said, "for no one could expect a pirate to obey his queen, and then, too, i have a vessel that might be the better for a voyage or two, even in the hands of a simple sailor like yourself." cecil objected and the spanish ambassador raged, but it was not long before hawkins set out on another voyage, this time in a great ship of the queen's, and she as well as many of her council took shares in the enterprise. "see you to it that you do no wrong to the king of spain," were the queen's orders, but she lent the commander one hundred good soldiers. when hawkins came back in all the glory of a successful voyage and with bags of spanish coins for queen and councilors, he was invited to dine with his sovereign. the spanish ambassador was also dining at court, but he could have had little pleasure in his dinner, for he was thinking of what he should have to write to the king of spain. what philip said when the letters reached him no one knows, but whenever he came to the name of hawkins, he wrote on the margin "beware, beware!" on one of hawkins's voyages went a kinsman of his own named francis drake. he was a young man of medium height, with broad shoulders, reddish beard, and keen, kindly eyes. the voyage on which he went was unsuccessful, for a spanish ship set upon the englishmen and robbed them. worse than that, there were not provisions enough to last on the trip home, and one hundred of his comrades volunteered to take their chances on the land that the rest of the company might be sure of safety. drake made up his mind that the king of spain should pay for his own lost investment and his kinsman's captured hides to say nothing of reprisal for the suffering and perhaps death of the hundred brave men who had sacrificed themselves for their comrades. he did very little talking about his plans, but there were sailors enough in plymouth who were ready to go anywhere with him, and he had friends who were willing to invest in any undertaking that he would lead. he set sail for america. he was not going out vaguely into the west, hoping that somewhere he might pick up something worth bringing home, he had a very definite plan. he sailed straight for panama and landed. there he waited. while he was waiting, he climbed a tall tree one day, and far to the westward the pacific ocean spread out before him. "if the almighty god will give me life," said he, "i'll sail a ship in those waters before many years." after a while he and his men heard bits of spanish song, the tinkling of bells on the necks of mules, and the sound of the feet of the animals striking upon the well-trodden path. then the english dashed out, for this was king philip's treasure train that once a year paced leisurely up the path with the output of the mines, with gold, silver, emeralds, and diamonds. there were more than the ship could carry, says the old story. the ship could easily come again, the ocean was free; so they buried the great bars of silver and steered for england. when drake arrived, he made no boast of what he had done, he divided the treasure and did no talking. he read books on geography, he studied charts and globes, he questioned seamen who had been on the farther side of the ocean, and he had more than one interview with the queen and different members of her council. to agree as a council to support drake would be to declare war against spain, and it would not answer to have the names of the councilors who invested in the enterprise made public, but many a one among them, and even the queen herself was ready to fill a coffer or two with good spanish gold. the preparations were so unusual that the voyage could not be kept secret. "i pray your majesty," wrote the spanish ambassador to philip, "i pray you order your planters in the new world to hang every englishman upon whom they can lay hands, and bid your sailors sink every ship that comes in their sight." the two vessels, one of one hundred and twenty tons and one of eighty tons, with three little sloops, were made ready. everything about them was put in the best order possible for fighting or for sailing. luxuries were not forgotten, for this keen young sailor did not scorn the elegancies of life. there was handsome furniture finely carved. there was a beautiful silver service for his table, every piece engraved with the arms of his family. his cooking utensils were of silver. he had a liberal supply of perfumes, many of them the gift of the queen. expert musicians were on board, for this luxurious captain must dine and sup to the sound of music. with his men he was ever kindly, even affectionate, and he was not afraid to share their work if there was need, but they knew him for one that could command, and they never failed in their respect. nine or ten men formed his council. he decided all questions himself, but he ever listened attentively to what they had to say. they dined at his table, but not one of them ventured to be seated in his presence or to wear a hat without the invitation of their commander. november 15, 1577, the little fleet set sail at five o'clock in the afternoon--on a one day's voyage it proved, for the _golden hind_, drake's own ship, was injured in the "forcible storm and tempests" that arose, and he had to go back to land. three years later many a man in england was troubled about the deeds of this commander who was so fond of perfumes and music and silver plate, for there were stories abroad of what he had done on the other side of the sea. philip was furious; the spanish ambassador raged, and more than one who had invested in drake's venture every shilling that he could raise would have rejoiced to lose his money if he could have been sure that drake would never return. in the midst of the anxiety and uncertainty, some eager to have him come in safely and others trembling at the thought of his arrival, there was a mighty roaring of the signal guns at plymouth harbor, for drake had returned, and he had been around the world. on a little hill, somewhat withdrawn from the crowd that stood shouting and cheering to see the ship come in, stood two men, the elder grave and troubled, the younger eager and excited. "i verily believe," said the elder, "that you would willingly be among those doltish screamers on the shore yonder." "it's not so bad a thing, is it, for a man to know that his money has come back to him doubled ten, twelve, perhaps a hundred times? it's little wonder that they scream." "that goes as it may," returned the elder, "but the gold in that vessel is devil's gold. if half the tales be true, francis drake is no better than a pirate. has he not burned settlements, stolen treasure, and sunk galleons?" "well, what of it, if they be those of spain?" asked the young man indifferently, shading his eyes to see the ships more clearly. "nothing of it if a man cares for naught but gold, nothing of it to him whose empty moneybags are a sorer grief to him than the ill that is sure to come to england from this wild and savage piracy." "you mean that old leaden foot will bestir himself?" "philip is slow, but he will strike at last." "let him. one englishman can meet two spaniards any day." "he boasts best who boasts last," said the elder. "remember that every spaniard has his hands full of gold from the american mines." "and it is you yourself who are blaming captain drake for taking it from them," laughed the young fellow gaily. "goodby, uncle, i'm going down among the wicked folk to see the ships come to shore." for once the stories were not equal to the reality. in the holds of drake's vessels were such masses of treasure that men hardly ventured even to estimate it. vast quantities were carried to the tower of london. drake made most costly gifts to the nobles, but some of them refused to accept anything from the "master thief of the unknown world," as they called him. "he is nothing but a robber," declared they, "and he will bring war upon us." "is it robbery, demanded others, to take from spain what spain has stolen from us? how else can a man get his rights? has not philip taken our ships, hindered our commerce, captured our sailors, and tortured them to make them give up the true faith? have we not a clear right to take reprisal when and where we can?" "it is a lawful prize," reasoned others, "and if war is to come, this spanish gold will save taxes and fight many a battle for us." the spanish ambassador went straight to the queen and said gravely, "i present from my master, the king of spain, a request that the pirate drake be surrendered to him." "the king of spain is generous with his presents," answered elizabeth flippantly. "for this one i return him all due thanks." "your majesty," said the ambassador, "this man drake has sunk our ships, stolen our treasure, and interfered with our possessions in the new world." "if you can prove his misdeeds to my satisfaction," rejoined the queen with a little yawn, "this wonderful treasure of yours shall be restored, though one might think it was but fair payment for the rebellions that spain has caused in ireland--or does my good friend philip claim ireland too for his own? as for his possessions in the new world, i don't know what right the pope has to give away continents. the sea and the air are free to all, and neither pope nor spain can keep my brave captains from sailing the ocean, i doubt whether i could keep them from it myself. shall we talk of other matters? you have an excellent taste in music, and here is a rare bit of song that has but newly come to me:- "'the little pretty nightingale among the leaves green--'" "your majesty," broke in the exasperated ambassador, "if i report this scene to king philip, matters will come to the cannon." "you really shouldn't say such things," said elizabeth with a coquettish glance at the enraged spaniard, and she added quietly, "if you do, i shall have to throw you into one of my dungeons." elizabeth made drake a knight, she wore his jewels in her crown, and she dined with him on board the _golden hind_. she often had him at court, and never wearied of hearing the story of his adventures. [illustration: elizabeth signing the death warrant of mary stuart.--_from painting by liezen-mayer._] "tell me of the savages," she commanded, and drake began:-"we saw them moving about under the trees, and when we came near, they paddled out to meet us. they made a long speech with many gestures, and it seemed as if they couldn't do us reverence enough. the next day they came again, and this time they brought a great ragged bunch of crow's feathers. the man who stood at the king's right hand knelt before me and touched the ground with his forehead three times. then he gave me the feathers. i noticed that the king's guards all wore such bunches on their heads, so i stuck them in my red cap as well as ever i could, and the savages all danced around me and made the most unearthly screeching that i ever heard. then they began to show us their wounds and sores, and made signs that we should blow on them to heal them. i gave them plasters and lotions. they ought to do some good, for they were mixed on a day that dr. dee said would make any medicine of worth." "tell me about the _cacafuego_," bade the queen, and drake said:-"we took a spanish ship, and one of the sailors said, 'let me go free and i will tell you such news as you never heard before.' i promised, and he said, 'there's a ship not far ahead of you, her name is the _cacafuego_, and if you can catch her, you'll have such a prize as you never saw in a dream--and i'll get my revenge on her captain for this,' he muttered, and then he put his hand on a great red scar on his forehead. we chased her to payta, but she had gone to panama, and when we came to panama, she was somewhere else. 'i'll give a gold chain to the first man that sees her,' i said, and, your majesty, if i had even given an order to drop anchor, i verily believe every man of them would have climbed the masthead. well, about three o'clock one afternoon my page john caught sight of her, and we pursued. oh, but it was glorious! i wish you had been there!" said the sturdy sailor, forgetting for a moment that he was addressing the sovereign of england. "so do i," declared elizabeth, and she too forgot that she was a queen, she forgot everything but the wild adventures that the man before her had met. drake went on:-"we fired across her bow, but she wouldn't stop. then we shot three pieces of ordnance and struck down her mizzen mast, and we boarded her. a man could wade up to his waist in the treasure in her hold. there were thirteen chests full of spanish reals, there were six and twenty tons of silver, and fourscore pounds of gold, and there were jewels and precious stones. your majesty can see them in the tower, but oh, how they glittered and flashed and sparkled in the dark hold of the vessel when we broke open the caskets and turned the light of the lanterns on them, and how the dons swore at us! it's many a month that they should do penance for that day's work." "i really wonder that you didn't excommunicate them as you did your own chaplain," said elizabeth. "they were only swearing, and he was a coward," explained drake. "a man who'll go about among the sailors before a fight and tell them he is not sure that it is the will of god to give them the victory ought to be excommunicated, he ought to be hanged." "tell me again just what you said," demanded the queen, "that i may see what penalty you deserve for daring to show dishonor to one of my chaplains." "i chained him by the leg to the forehatch," replied drake, "and i said, 'francis fletcher, i do here excommunicate thee out of the church of god, and i renounce thee to the devil and all his angels;' and then i tied a riband around his arm, and i said, 'if so be that you dare to unbind this riband, you'll swing from that yardarm as sure as my name is francis drake.'" "and what was it you wrote on the riband?" asked the queen, though well knowing the answer. "i wrote 'francis fletcher, the falsest knave that liveth.' i don't see how i could have done less." "neither do i," agreed elizabeth heartily, "and it would but ill become me to differ with a man who has just given me a new albion. where say you that my new domain lies?" "on the western shores of north america," answered drake, "and perchance, your majesty, this new domain may stretch into asia itself, for the western land reaches much farther west than i had thought, and it may be that in the far north the new world touches the old." "then i am perhaps queen of the indies," said elizabeth with a smile. "now go, my brave sailor, but see to it that you come soon to court again, for there is much more that i would know of this wicked journey of yours." so it was that these bold buccaneers went on their voyages, not so much for adventure or discovery as for the sake of gold. the easiest way to get gold was to take it from the spanish settlements in america, but when drake sailed, the spaniards on the eastern coast of america were becoming wary. too many of their treasure ships had been attacked and too many of their settlements robbed for them to live as carelessly as had been the case in the earlier days. spanish ships on the atlantic were manned with men who could fight, and spanish settlements on the eastern coast of america were guarded and fortified. on the pacific shore matters were different. spanish gold from the fabulously rich mines of peru was carried leisurely up the coast in vessels manned chiefly by negro slaves. at panama it was unloaded and taken across the isthmus. then it was carefully guarded, and vessels well supplied with spanish troops bore it across the ocean to the treasure vaults of philip. it did not occur to the spaniards that even an english corsair would venture to round cape horn, and when drake appeared among the unprotected ships and the unfortified settlements, he found an easy prey. it was less dangerous for him to cross the pacific and double the cape of good hope than to return to england among the spanish vessels on the atlantic; and that is why drake was the first englishman to sail around the world. these english buccaneers sailed under a sort of roving commission from the queen. they were to give her a share of their profits, but they knew well that if they could not extricate themselves from any trouble that they might fall into with philip, she would make no effort to defend them, but would declare that they had had orders to do no harm to her "good friend, the king of spain." still, the prizes of success were so enormous and the charm of adventure so enticing that there was no lack of bold leaders to rob the coffers of spain, to fill the treasury of elizabeth, and to prepare experienced seamen for the great struggle that awaited england when philip "of the leaden foot" should at last arise and show his might. chapter xiii the new world to most of the sailors of elizabeth's time the chief inducement to make a voyage to the westward lay in the possibility of winning spanish gold in one way or another, but a few sailed with quite a different object. a little more than a century before drake's famous voyage around the world, columbus had crossed the atlantic, hoping to find a shorter passage to india. in the days of elizabeth it was well known that a continent blocked the way to asia, but mariners had no idea that north america was nearly as broad as it has proved to be, and they were ever hoping to find a passage through it to the wonderful countries of spices and gems and perfumes. interest in the new world was increasing. every year new maps, books of travel, and descriptions of various parts of the earth, especially of america, were published, some of the descriptions real and some almost wholly imaginative; but whatever they were, they always found readers. one man who watched eagerly for whatever came from the press about the new world was a sea-captain named martin frobisher. he read all these books, he studied globes and charts, and at last he felt sure that he knew the way to fame and wealth, but he was a poor man and he could not carry out his plans alone. he sought an audience with the queen. "i've heard of you before, my gallant captain," said elizabeth graciously. "didn't you care for the building of one of my ships that were sent against the irish rebels?" "i did, your majesty, and if only that ship belonged to me, i would put her to a noble use." "and what might that be?" asked the queen. "your majesty, men have sailed to the northeast, to the south, and to the west, but no man has yet gone to the north of the new world. there lies the way to india, and to find that way is the only thing in all the world that is yet left undone whereby a man may become both rich and notable." "and so you plan to go to the northwest?" asked elizabeth. "he who has little gold must have few plans, but it might well be that as the southern land tapers to a point, so the northern land narrows, and then with an open sea and a short voyage to cathay, what would the wealth of the spanish mines be to us? we could buy and sell in every clime. give us the riches of india, and we could fit out a fleet that would drive king philip from the shores of the new world, from the waters of the atlantic, from----" "perchance from the face of the earth, my captain?" interrupted elizabeth. "i promise you that i will think of this scheme of yours." elizabeth did think of it, but to her mind there was a far greater charm in a wild voyage of buccaneering than in the possibilities of slow gain by trading with people across two oceans, and she gave frobisher no help. he won a friend, however, in the earl of warwick, and the fleet of three daring little vessels set out for the north. elizabeth did not help to pay the costs of the voyage, but she stood on the shore and waved her royal hand to the commander as he dropped slowly down the thames. frobisher came home with great joy. he had entered the strait that is called after him, and he had seen, as he believed, america lying on his left hand and asia on his right. that was surely the way to india. it is no wonder that crowds went to visit his tiny barque. "can you not give me a memento of the voyage?" asked a lady. "next year i will bring you a memento from china," answered frobisher. "shall it be silks or jewels or perfumes?" "beggars should not be choosers," said the lady with a smile, "but give me a bit of this strange black stone as a pledge that you will not forget me next year when you are even more famous than you are to-day." "one of the sailors brought that aboard," said frobisher. "it looks like sea-coal, but it is as heavy as iron." this little gift put frobisher at the head of a fleet of fifteen vessels, but he was no longer free to win glory as an explorer. the bit of black stone was dropped into the fire to see whether it would burn, and then vinegar was poured upon it. it glittered, and an italian chemist declared that it was rich in gold. after this there was no difficulty in raising funds for a voyage to the marvelous country of the north where gold lay about on the surface of the ground. the ships sailed, but they met icebergs, fog, and storm. frobisher hesitated. he believed that he could force his way to the pacific, but his orders were to make sure of the gold, and he loaded his ships with what proved to be only worthless earth. in later years he won honors and wealth, but his dream of finding the northwest passage was never realized. thus far most people had thought of america as a place where a man might be fortunate enough to find a gold mine, but where he was quite as likely to be killed by the indians or captured by the spaniards. others looked upon it as a troublesome mass of land that blocked the way to the riches of commerce with india. to one young courtier this strange new world was something more than the home of possible gold mines, and in his mind it was certainly not an obstacle to wealth and success. this young man was named walter raleigh. he had shown his scholarship at oxford and his bravery in a campaign in ireland. it came to pass that he and the lord deputy of ireland disagreed. "i wish to defend myself before the royal council," said raleigh. this defence was managed so skilfully that the queen listened with the closest attention. "bring that young raleigh to me," she commanded when the council dissolved. raleigh knelt before her and kissed her hand. "young man," said she, "you seem to have been in no way worsted by those mighty councilors of mine." "your majesty," answered raleigh with the look of admiration that was so dear to elizabeth, "could one fail to be aroused to the best that is in him when he has the honor of speaking in the glorious presence of his sovereign?" "what can you do?" asked the queen bluntly, but most graciously, for this kind of flattery was ever a delight to her. "shall i bring from ireland the bodies of those who have dared to rebel against your majesty's wise and gentle rule?" asked raleigh, "that they may testify of me?" "you can fight. can you do aught beside?" "truly, yes, i can count myself the happiest and most favored of mortals in that upon me is turned the kindly thought of her who surpasseth all other women as far as the glowing sun doth surpass the beams of the farthing rushlight." raleigh was wise enough to keep the favor that he had won. elizabeth could rebuke a maid of honor for wearing too expensive a gown, but of her courtiers she demanded the most handsome attire that their purses could provide. this new favorite had only a shallow purse, but he willingly spent every penny that he could raise on brilliant apparel, and he neglected no opportunity to make himself of use to the queen. one morning the rain was falling fast, and one of the ladies in waiting said:-"surely your majesty will remain indoors to-day." "my servants may dread the raindrops," answered elizabeth, "but a queen should fear nothing." "with two thousand gowns she may well afford to spoil one for every shower," said one lady to another. this was before the days of umbrellas, but there was nothing to do save to hope for sunshine. the hour for the walk came, and the queen went forth. the sun had come out. "someone has been praying for clear skies," said she, "and verily i wish he had broadened his prayer a bit and prayed also for dry ground." "it must have been young raleigh," said one of the ladies to another a little pointedly. "he loves to dwell in the sunshine as the moth loves the beam of the candle." "there isn't another man in england who can tell just what to do in any difficulty as well as he," declared another lady. "then i would that he were here now," whispered the first. "the queen will go straight across that miry place, and if she is ill, we shall have to bear the blame." "there he comes as if he had been sent for by courier," said the second, for raleigh was approaching. he was decked out in the bravest attire and was daintily picking his way along the muddy road. "it's but this day week that he had a new scarlet cloak," said a lady in the train, "and see the gorgeousness of the blue plush that he wears this morning! i'll warrant he put his last shilling into it." the queen hesitated a moment, but there was no hesitation in raleigh. quick as thought, he slipped off the shining blue plush mantle and spread it on the ground before elizabeth. "she who is to her devoted people the glory of the sunlight must never fail to see under her feet the reflection of that clear sky which her shining has bestowed upon her fortunate subjects." so said the courtier, and he well knew that in the glance of approval given him by elizabeth lay the promise of many cloaks. he rose rapidly in the queen's favor. she gave him whatever he asked, and he did not hesitate to ask for what he wanted. elizabeth had a fashion of rewarding a favorite by giving him a "monopoly," as it was called, that is, the sole right to sell some one thing. one man had the right to sell gunpowder, another salt, while yet another was the only man in england who was allowed to collect and export old shoes. to raleigh she gave the privilege of exporting woolen cloth, and at another time the sole right to sell wine in the kingdom. he was no longer a poor young courtier, straining every resource to dress as handsomely as the taste of the queen demanded. now he wore silver armor that sparkled with rubies and pearls and diamonds. even his shoes were so encrusted with jewels that they were said to be worth more than six thousand gold pieces. money flowed freely into his coffers. besides elizabeth's other gifts, he could ask for his monopolies whatever price he chose, and whoever wished to buy must pay it. there were rumors that this brilliant young favorite had higher aspirations, even to the hand of the queen herself. the story is told that one day when raleigh was standing by a window, tracing idly scrolls and letters on the pane with a diamond, he heard the queen coming up softly behind him. he went on as if he did not know of her presence and wrote on the glass:- "fain would i climb, but that i fear to fall." elizabeth drew a diamond ring from her finger and put an ending to the couplet:- "if thy heart fail thee, do not climb at all." with such encouragement, it is no wonder that raleigh felt sure of her interest in whatever he wished to attempt. he had a great undertaking in mind, and between his compliments to elizabeth his thoughts often turned to the westward, to the wonderful new world. it was not hard to persuade the queen to give him a grant of land in america, and he sent out two barques to explore the coast north of florida. when the skippers returned, raleigh brought them before the queen. "is this new country so much better than our own old england?" she asked. "nothing could be better than the land which has the happiness to be ruled directly by your majesty," answered raleigh, "but, truly, the new world is a goodly place." "how does it differ from our land?" asked the queen of one of the skippers, and he answered:-"your majesty, as we drew near the shore, there was no smell of wharfs or fishing, but a fragrance as if we were in the midst of some delicate garden." "we have perfumes in england," said the queen. "did you discover anything better than pleasant odors?" she asked of the second skipper. "yes, your majesty, we found what is not in all england, for when we landed, the low, sandy shore was so overgrown with grapes that the very beating and surge of the sea overflowed them; the vines ran over hills and plains, they climbed every little shrub, and they made their way to the tops of the cedars. i do think that in all the world the like abundance is not to be found." "perfumes and grapes," said the queen. "raleigh, my man, that is a good beginning. send your skippers away, and tell me what is your request, for i know you have one. when will you ever cease begging, walter?" "when you cease to be so kind a benefactress," was the courtier's shrewd and graceful reply. the skippers were sent away, and the queen said:-"now tell me about this land of grapes. fruit and perfumes are well enough, but they do little to fill an empty treasury. what else lies within your patent?" "there are beasts of all kinds that roam the forests, there are birds and fish, there are the highest and reddest cedars of the world, coral of red and white, pearls, fruits, vegetables, natives that are gentle and kindly and void of all guile and treason." "what do you call this paradise of yours?" "the natives call it wingina." "i'll give you a better name. it was visited while a virgin queen was on the throne, so call it virginia, and i'll be its godmother." "o, madam," said raleigh with enthusiasm, "never had a sovereign such a chance to add to the glory of her renown. america is not only a country in which one may make a fortune, it is a fortune in itself. why should it not become a second home of the english nation?" the queen's eyes kindled. "how could that be?" she asked. "your majesty," he answered, eagerly, "the soil of virginia is the richest in the world. the natives sow their corn in may and they reap it in july; they sow it again in june and july, and they reap it but two months after the planting. our men put peas into the ground, and in ten days they were fourteen inches high. beans and wheat and oats may be had for the asking." "and supposing my good friend philip should fall upon these amazingly fertile lands, he might put the colonists to the sword even before their peas were above the ground." "might we not also fancy a strong band of colonists building vessels of the goodly trees of the virginia forests and sailing out boldly into the atlantic to capture the treasure ships of spain? might not the colonists steer to the northward and free our newfoundland fishing grounds from the hateful presence of the spaniard?" "'walter, thou reasonest well,'" laughed the queen, "but one little thing you've mayhap forgot. tell me, walter, my man, where shall we find these worthy colonists who are to raise corn in two months and fight king philip while it is growing?" "your majesty," answered the courtier gravely, "those who are driven from england will be our colonists." "driven from england," repeated the queen, "what mean you by that?" "our farmers have long been raising sheep instead of grain," said he. "one man can easily care for many sheep. those men that are driven from their old farm work can find naught else to do. they must starve or steal, and, madam, it grieves me sorely to see that twenty or even thirty are often hanged before the hour of noon for stealing a shilling or perchance but a morsel of bread." "they who steal must be punished," said the queen, "but it would please me well if there were some other remedy than hanging." "the corn of virginia will be a remedy, my queen, and there is yet another benefit that would come to england from colonies across the atlantic. we wish to spread our commerce to foreign lands, but if we have a second england on the other side of the sea, will not our own countrymen of america buy and sell with us? cannot laws be made that they shall trade with no others, if, indeed, they should be so disloyal as to think of such a thing? why need we care for trade with a nation across the pacific when we can trade with our own people in virginia?" "walter, you are wonderfully in earnest about this scheme of yours. it would ill become me to question the fairness or worthiness of my godchild, and i will think of what you say, i will think of it." elizabeth thought of the plan, indeed the air was so full of talk about the proposed virginian colony that she could have hardly helped thinking about it. in virginia there was fertile soil, a good hope of finding gems and gold, and little probability of trouble with the indians. her councilors discussed the plan. said one to another:-"think you that the queen will aid young raleigh?" "'sir walter' you must say now that he has become a knight," rejoined the second. "yes, i do believe that she will. has she not followed his every whim till leicester has fairly turned green with jealousy? she has just given him the wine monopoly, and that is worth thousands of pounds in a single year. if she gives him that, would she withhold aid for the bringing up of this 'godchild' of hers?" "you're a shrewd man, i admit," said the first, "but i've watched this queen of ours since she was no higher than my table, and i've never yet seen her affection for any one get the better of her. she's a woman, but she's also a queen, and she's more queen than woman." "i'm not the man to hold an opinion and fear to back it up," rejoined the other. "i've a fair bit of land down in devon, and i'll wager it against that house of yours in london that she'll help 'educate the godchild.'" the land was lost, for elizabeth could not bear to part with her gold pieces unless she could be sure of a generous return. raleigh did not give up his plan, however, and soon a company of colonists was sent to roanoke island, off the coast of what is now north carolina. the colony failed because the new settlers were too eager to search for gold to spend their time planting corn and beans, or even peas that would grow fourteen inches in ten days. "they are lazy and homesick, and they talk too much," reported the governor, and when a fleet of drake's came to shore, they all went aboard and sailed for home. these homesick colonists carried tobacco with them to england, and smoking soon became the fashionable amusement. sir walter was enthusiastic in its praise. "one would think that this wonderful plant of yours was your own child," said the queen to him as he sat puffing out the smoke from his silver pipe, "you claim for it so many virtues." "you say well, madam," declared sir walter. "it is verily a wonderful plant." "and i suppose you would even say that you could tell the weight of that smoke of yours. there's no boundary to your impudence." "indeed i can, your majesty," returned sir walter calmly. "i'll wager this pin against your buckle that you cannot," retorted the queen. "i'll take the wager," said he, "and with the more joy since the experiment will secure me the delight of your presence." he weighed some tobacco and put it into his pipe. then after he had smoked it he weighed the ashes. "the difference is the weight of the smoke," said he, and elizabeth paid the bet. "many a man have i known who has turned his gold into smoke," she declared merrily, "but you are surely the first who has turned his smoke into gold. you're a marvelous man, sir walter." chapter xiv the queen of scots the councilor's words that elizabeth was more queen than woman were shown to be true whenever matters came to the proof. she gave her favorite leicester everything that he asked save her own royal hand, but on occasion she could be as severe with leicester as if he had been her enemy. it was the custom for the general of an english army to serve without salary and to contribute generously to his own expenses and those of his troops. the general, then, must be a rich man, and in order to have the most perfect control over his soldiers he must be a man who was known to be in the confidence of the queen. no one was better qualified in these important respects to lead an army than leicester, and he was put at the head of the forces that were sent to the aid of the dutch states then revolting against philip. their leader had been assassinated, and they asked to be annexed to england. elizabeth saw clearly that to grant their request would bring on war with spain at once, and she refused. when leicester was appointed commander, she gave him the most positive orders to accept no such position for her as ruler of the low countries. news soon came that leicester had been made governor general. "your majesty," said her informer, "it is said that lord leicester is shown great honor in the low countries." "that is well," said the queen. "the commander of an army should ever be treated with deference." "the dutch states prove by the respect given to lord leicester what honor they would show to your majesty if you were with them." [illustration: mary stuart receiving her death sentence.--_from painting by carl piloty_.] "in what fashion do they show their respect?" asked the queen so gently that leicester's enemy took courage and ventured to go a step further. "he is called governor-general, and they say that men kneel before him to kiss his hand, and that he has already a court as brilliant as that of england." "is that true?" asked elizabeth with a feigned indifference. "do you know more of this court of his?" "little now, but there will be more and greater news, for it is said that lady leicester is about to go to holland and that with her will go such a train of ladies and gentlemen and such rich coaches, litters, and sidesaddles, that your majesty has none such in england." then elizabeth's wrath broke forth. "i will let the upstart know," said she, "how easily the hand that has exalted him can beat him down." she wrote an angry letter to her absent favorite which said:-"i have raised you from the dust and shown you favor above all others, and i should never have imagined you would dare to break my express commandment to accept any such title." it was a hard position for burleigh, since he himself and the rest of the council had wished leicester to accept the title and so force the queen to become sovereign of the dutch states, whether she would or not. the queen's rage was visited upon even her old friend and adviser, and to burleigh himself she declared, "you are nothing but a presumptuous fellow." the great test of elizabeth's character was soon to come, for the year 1587 was at hand. would she be woman or queen? a stern question must be decided. jesting with raleigh, exasperating king philip, storming at leicester and then forgiving him, amusing herself with leicester's handsome stepson, the earl of essex, bedecking herself in gorgeous attire that flashed with jewels and gold, dreaming over new routes to india and new english nations in virginia--all these had to be put away for the time. what should be the fate of the queen of scots could no longer be left undecided. mary had been a captive in england for nearly eighteen years, and those years had been almost as full of peril to elizabeth as to her prisoner. if mary was dead, the catholics who were plotting against elizabeth would have no object in trying to take her life, for mary's son james was the next heir to the throne, and he was as strong a protestant as elizabeth. on the other hand, if elizabeth were no longer alive, mary would become queen of england, and protestants would be obliged to be loyal to her as their lawful sovereign. they would be the more content knowing that her protestant son would succeed her. thus, if either mary or elizabeth were dead, england would be free from the plots and conspiracies that had been revealed, one after another, during the captivity of mary. at the discovery of each of these plots, mary's imprisonment became more rigorous. it was claimed that she was at the bottom of every conspiracy. "the queen of scots and her friends will yet have my life," said elizabeth, and she added jestingly to her councilors, "i'll come back after i am dead and see her make your heads fly." walsingham, one of elizabeth's ministers, had been most watchful of these plots. his spies were ever on the lookout, and in the summer of 1586 he found sure proof of a conspiracy to take the life of the queen. was mary connected with this plot? sworn testimony declared that she was. her papers were seized, and among them were found letters from many leading nobles of england expressing sympathy in her troubles. mary was at once removed to fotheringay castle, where she was much more closely guarded than ever before. thirty-six commissioners were appointed to try her on the charge of plotting against the life of the english queen. she was cited to appear before them. "that will i never do," she declared. "i have a right to be tried by my peers. i am a queen, and only sovereigns are my peers, but i will defend myself before the queen of england and her council or even before the english parliament." then a letter was given her from elizabeth which read;-"you have attempted to take my life and to bring my kingdom to destruction by bloodshed. i have never proceeded so harshly against you, but have protected and maintained you like myself. it is my will that you answer the nobles and peers of the kingdom as if i were myself present. act plainly, without reserve, and you will sooner be able to obtain favor from me." "is it wise to make these refusals?" asked one of her friends. "you are in the power of the english queen, is it not better to rouse her no further by hopeless demands?" "true, it is hopeless," answered mary, "it is all hopeless. i am a sovereign kept here unlawfully as a prisoner by the royal cousin to whom i fled for help in my trouble. her laws have not protected me, why then must i be sentenced under them?" "the court is convened," said the commissioners, "and if you refuse to appear, you will be at once declared guilty without a trial. queen elizabeth has said many times that nothing would please her so much as to have proof of your innocence. is it wise to refuse to give proof?" finally mary yielded. her trial would not be legal to-day, for she was allowed no counsel, she was not even permitted to see her own papers or to hear and question those persons who testified against her, but it was according to the laws of the time, and she was tried with no greater severity than was shown to all prisoners accused of treason. "your letters prove that you have allowed your correspondents to address you as queen of england," declared the crown lawyers, "that you have tried to induce king philip to invade our country, and that you have been knowing to the late plot to assassinate the lawful queen of the realm." "with the plot against the life of my cousin elizabeth i had nothing to do," declared mary. "that i have sought to gain my freedom by the aid of my friends i do not deny. my lords, i am unjustly and cruelly deprived of my liberty. do you blame me for trying by every means in my power to recover it? could anyone do otherwise?" so the charges and the denials went on, and when the trial was over, the judges left fotheringay castle. again they met, and everyone voted that mary was guilty of high treason in plotting against the life of the english queen. she was sentenced to death. this was the report made to parliament, and that body solemnly agreed to the verdict. it was proclaimed in london, and the whole city gave itself up to rejoicing. bells were rung, bonfires blazed in every square, shouts of joy and psalms of thanksgiving resounded throughout the town. "think you that the queen will ever carry out the sentence?" asked one londoner of another. "it is many years," was the reply, "that the hand of elizabeth alone has saved the life of the scotch queen. parliament decreed her death fifteen years ago and they say that elizabeth was the angriest woman in england. 'would you have me put to death the bird that, to escape the hawk, has fled to me for protection? i'll never sign such a bill,' and she never did." "the constant dropping of water will wear away stone," said the first, "and yet i hear that she has sent a message to parliament commanding them to find some other way." "until the axe falls, nothing will persuade me that the child of henry viii. will consent to see the blood of one of her own proud race flow at the hand of the executioner," declared the second, "and what is more, she will not do a deed that will arouse the scorn and hatred of europe. mary's head is safe." "not so fast, my friend. who are the supporters of mary? who is the 'europe' whose scorn will check the pen of elizabeth when she is about to sign the death warrant?" "philip, the pope, the king of france, and mary's own son james. they are a powerful company." "are they? philip is really almost at war with us now, but it is not in mary's interest. the pope cares nothing about putting a catholic woman of forty-four on the throne when in a few years she will be succeeded by a protestant son. the king of france can do nothing for her but plead, for if he strikes one blow at england, it is a blow in favor of spain." "her own son----" "has made a treaty with elizabeth. he will do anything to make sure of the english throne, and indeed, can he be blamed for lack of affection when he knows that his mother planned to leave her claim not to him but to philip?" elizabeth was most unwilling that mary should be put to death. her ministers were eager for the execution, for it was their business to secure the peace of england and the welfare of their queen. they believed that only mary's death would bring this about. then, too, as elizabeth had said jestingly, if mary were once on the throne, she would "make their heads fly." surely they had a right to care for their own safety, they reasoned. elizabeth could not bear the thought that a princess of the tudor blood should die on the scaffold. she was always careless of her personal danger, and she knew that the death of mary would be ascribed to her own fear or jealousy. it is no wonder that she hesitated. "what shall we do," queried the ministers. "elizabeth must be induced to sign the death warrant, of course, but who will order it carried out?" "the queen will never do such a thing," said one. "we must do it ourselves," said another. "there are ten of us, and ten cannot well be made to suffer for carrying out a written order of the queen's." for many weeks elizabeth hesitated. she often sat buried in deep thought. "shall i bear with her or smite her?" the ladies of the bedchamber heard her say to herself. at last she bade the secretary davison bring her the warrant. "what have you in your hand?" she asked as he entered the room. "sundry papers that await your majesty's signature," answered davison. elizabeth took up her pen and signed the warrant. then she pushed it away from her and it fell upon the floor. "are you not heartily sorry to see this done?" she asked. "i should be far from rejoicing in any one's calamity," replied davison, "but the life of the queen of scots is so great a threat to the life of your majesty that not to sign the paper would be a wrong to your whole realm as much as to yourself." "i have done all that either law or reason could require of me," said the queen, "and now let me hear nothing further." davison reported the scene to the council. "she means the deed to be done," said one, "but she has given no orders to carry out the warrant." "that is her way of dealing with her sea-captains," said another. "does she not provide them with ships and guns and soldiers, and does she not most willingly take a share of spanish gold? but if a commander gets into trouble with spain, she will say, 'did i not give orders to do no harm to my good friend philip?'" "then must all ten of us give the final order," said another. this was done. the warrant and the letter commanding the execution were sent. about a week after the signing of the warrant, bonfires blazed and bells rang. "the bells ring as merrily as if there were some good news," said the queen. "why is it?" "it is because of the death of the queen of scots," was the answer. elizabeth said not a word. a day or two later she was told that mary had been executed at fotheringay castle. she turned pale, she burst into tears, she stormed at her councilors. "never shall your crime be pardoned," she raged. "you well knew that i did not mean my kinswoman to be put to death. you have dared to usurp my authority, and you are worse traitors than my poor cousin. as for you, burleigh, do you never dare show yourself in my presence again. i have made you and i can unmake you. that fellow davison knew that i did not mean the warrant to be carried out. take him to the tower." "he is very ill, your majesty," said one. "then take his illness with him, for into the tower he goes." "your majesty," pleaded the councilors, "if your secretary davison is imprisoned, the lords of your council will be regarded as plotters and murderers." "what is that to me?" cried elizabeth. "they who murder must expect to be called murderers." davison was imprisoned for some time and was fined so heavily that he was reduced to poverty. elizabeth sent a copy of his sentence to king james and also a letter telling him that the execution of his mother was a "miserable accident." james was easily comforted. he had been taught to look upon her as a shame and disgrace to himself. if she had not been the murderer of his father, she had, at least, married the murderer, and within three months after the commission of the crime. he was lawful heir to the throne of england, but he knew that she had done all that lay in her power to deprive him of his birthright. he wrote an earnest letter to elizabeth in the attempt to save his mother's life, but it was soon followed by a sort of apology and an intimation that all would be well if she would formally recognize him as her successor. it is probable that there will always be two opinions in regard to the justice of mary's execution. "she fled to england for refuge," says one, "and should have been set free." "to set her free would have been to deliver her up to the foes who would have taken her life," says the other, "or else to the friends who would have made war against england." "a prisoner cannot be blamed for seeking liberty." "but one may be justly punished for plotting treason." "mary was not a subject of the queen of england." "he who commits treason is punished whether he is a subject or not." "the testimony against her was false." "it was sworn to by solemn oath. there was no other means of discovering the truth." as to elizabeth's real share in the execution of mary there is quite as much difference of opinion. "because of her fear and jealousy she put to death the cousin to whom she had given every reason to expect protection," say the partisans of mary. "it shows little of either fear or jealousy to let her live for fifteen years," retort the supporters of elizabeth. "at least she signed the warrant with her own hand." "even a tudor queen was not free to follow her own will. the english council had urged the deed for many years." "secretary davison declared that she wished the warrant carried out." "davison told four different stories, and no one of them agreed with elizabeth's version of the scene. who shall tell where truth lies?" "the warrant would have been worthless without her name." "walsingham's private secretary confessed many years afterwards that he forged the name at his master's command." [illustration: last moment of mary, queen of scots.--_from painting by an unknown artist._] "then why did she not deny the signature?" "to whom? to james she did deny it as far as she dared. she wrote him that the execution was a 'miserable accident.' to her council she made no denial because the forger was the tool of the council, and had but carried out their will. elizabeth could storm at her councilors, but, tudor as she was, she had not the power to oppose their united determination." so the discussion has gone on for three hundred years. the surest way for a wrongdoer to have his crimes forgotten and forgiven is to meet with dignity and resignation the death that his deeds have made his lawful punishment. whether mary deserved this penalty or not, her calmness on the scaffold and her gentle submission to the death from which there was no escape have won friends and admirers for her even among the sternest critics of her life and her acts. when the time was come for her execution, she went quietly to the hall of fotheringay castle, supported by two attendants, while a third bore her train. with a calm and cheerful face she stepped upon the low platform where lay the block. platform, railing, block, and a low stool were heavily draped with black. she seated herself on the stool. on her right sat the two nobles to whom the charge of her execution had been committed, on her left stood the sheriff, and in front of her the two executioners, while around the railing stood many knights and other gentlemen who had come to see her die. her robes belonged to the executioners, and when they began to remove her gown, as the custom was, she smiled and said she had never before been disrobed by such grooms. she had begged that some of her women might be with her to the last, and when they could no longer control themselves but began to weep and lament, she kissed them and said gently, "do not weep, my friends, i have promised that you will not. rejoice, for you will soon see an end of all your mistress's troubles." she repeated a latin prayer, and then an english prayer for the church, for her son james, and for queen elizabeth, "that she might prosper and serve god aright." her women pinned a linen cloth over her face. she knelt down upon the cushion and laid her head upon the block. "into thy hands, o lord, i commend my spirit," she cried, and so died mary stuart, queen of scotland and heir to the throne of england. chapter xv the spanish armada an englishman living in lisbon hastened home to england and demanded audience with the queen. "your majesty," said he, "king philip is making great preparations for some warlike enterprise. in the lisbon harbor are twenty galleons and forty other vessels. men from italy and germany are coming in by hundreds. what can this mean but an attack upon england?" two months later came a message to the queen from her spies in spain:-"soldiers are coming every day, and vast quantities of wine, grain, biscuit, bacon, oil, vinegar, barley meal, and salted meats are being laid in besides powder and cannon." a ship that had recently sailed from lisbon was captured, and both captain and men were tortured on the rack that more might be learned of the doings of philip. all told the same story, that he was planning an invasion of england. in those days honor between sovereigns was a thing almost unknown. no one blamed the government of one country for trying to get the better of that of another. while philip was making ready for war, he and elizabeth were engaged in arranging for a treaty of peace and friendship. each knew that the other was treacherous, but each meant to get the better of the bargain. on the arrival of this news from spain, elizabeth sent for drake. "sir francis," said she, "how would it please you to make a voyage to spain?" drake guessed in a moment what she wished of him and answered most heartily:-"there's nothing in all the world that would do me greater good." "ships and stores and soldiers are assembling off cadiz and lisbon. it would be a goodly sight, perhaps as fine as anything you saw in your voyage around the world." "with how many ships may i go?" asked drake. "i can give you four, and the merchants will add to the fleet." they did add twenty-six vessels of all kinds and sizes, for they well knew that, though drake would probably sail with the usual orders to "do no harm to my good friend, the king of spain," the chances were that every vessel would come back with a valuable cargo. drake made a rapid voyage, and on his return he at once brought his report to the queen. "well, my sailor lad," was her greeting, "have you another wild tale of adventure to tell me? have you made me queen of a new land or have you excommunicated your chaplain?" "i've not excommunicated my chaplain," returned drake, "but it'll take many a blessing from the pope to make up to the spaniards for that merry time off cadiz. i've not discovered a new country, but your majesty is queen of what is stowed away in my ships, and perchance that is of more worth than some of the raw lands that lie to the westward." elizabeth's eyes shone. "i know you've been in many a gallant fight," said she, "and now tell me just what you have done." "the spanish fleet was off cadiz ready to sail for lisbon, so there was nothing else to do but to attack it. we took eighty or more of their vessels, laden with stores to the gunwale, and we captured two galleons." "so that's the way you do no harm to my friend philip," said the queen. "brave sailor laddie that you are, what did you do next?" "my men were a bit weary of the sea," answered drake, "and----" "yes, it must have been a dull and wearisome voyage," said elizabeth with a smile. "and what did you do to amuse them?" "there was little to do, but we took three castles and burned some fishing boats and nets. i hadn't time for much, for there was news of a carrack coming from india, and it was only courtesy to sail out and give her a greeting." "surely," said the queen. "my sailors are always ready to show that kind of courtesy to an enemy in loneliness on the ocean." "that's the whole story," said drake, "save that the carrack was full of the richest treasure that ever sailed the seas, and i brought it home." "that is more of your courtesy," said elizabeth. "you would save the busy king from the care of it, i suppose." "yes, your majesty. he'll be busy enough for one while. we've singed his whiskers for him." the stories were true. philip was at last determined to attack england. mary was dead, and he claimed the crown by virtue of his connection with the royal house of lancaster and by the will of the queen of scots. there was another side to his plan, elizabeth had torn her country from its allegiance to the pope, and this invasion was a crusade. if he conquered england, the country would be brought back to the roman church, and so would holland; it was a holy war. a spanish cardinal wrote, "spain does not war against englishmen, but against elizabeth. it is not england but her wretched queen who has overthrown the holy church and persecuted the pious catholics. let the english people rise and welcome their deliverer." this letter was circulated throughout england, but it produced no effect save to increase the loyalty of the english catholics. they were the more indignant because the author of the letter was an englishman who had abandoned his country and become a subject of spain. "it is only the blast of a beggarly traitor," declared elizabeth. the "singeing of his whiskers" kept philip waiting for a year. to sail out into the atlantic with the probability of meeting the autumn gales far away from any friendly harbor would have been a reckless thing to do, and it was not easy to bring together at short notice stores enough to take the place of those that had been destroyed. philip waited. he even gave the queen a final chance to avoid the attack, for he sent her a latin verse to the effect that she might even yet escape his conquest by agreeing to return the treasure taken by drake, to render no more aid to the low countries, and to bring her kingdom back to the church of rome. elizabeth replied, "my good king, i'll obey you when the greek kalends come around," and as the greeks had no kalends, there was little hope of peace. while the shipbuilders of spain were working night and day, and while men and provisions and powder and cannon were being brought together, england, too, was preparing for the encounter. there was no ally on the continent to lend aid, the king of scots might be faithful and he might not, according to what he regarded as for his interests. the fortifications of the kingdom were weak. at portsmouth the guns could not be fired when the queen was crowned because the tower was so old and ready to crumble, and for thirty years little had been done to put it in order. this very weakness, however, of the resources of the government was england's strength, for every englishman saw that if his country was to be saved from becoming a province of spain, he and every other man must do his best to defend it. the council sent a message to london:-"what number of ships and men is it your wish to contribute to the defence of the land?" "how many may properly be required of us?" asked the londoners. "fifteen ships and five thousand men," was the answer. now in all london there were hardly more than seventeen thousand men, but the city straightway wrote to the council:-"ten thousand men and thirty ships we will gladly provide, and the ships shall be amply furnished." so it was throughout the kingdom. every town sent a generous number of men and generous gifts of money. every little village on the coast hastened to refit its fishing vessels and offer boats and sailors to the government. the wildest stories were rife of what the spaniards would do if they were once in control of the country. it was said that they had already lists of the stately castles of the realm and the homes of rich london merchants, marked with the names of the spanish nobles to whom they were to be given. most of the english were to be hanged, so the rumor went, but all children under seven years of age were to be branded on the face and kept as slaves. philip had not expected to conquer england without other aid than that of the soldiers whom he was to carry with him. he had a large band of allies, on english soil, so he thought, waiting for his coming and ready to welcome him. these were the catholics of england. the pope had excommunicated elizabeth and had pronounced the curse of the church upon all catholics that should support her. "these are not common days," said one of her advisers, "and in such times there must often be resort to means that would be most cruel and unjust in other years." "what do you mean?" demanded the queen. "your majesty has of course not failed to consider the support that the spanish king may find if he succeeds in landing upon our shores." "who will support him, you or i?" "it would be but natural for those of his own church to welcome him." "they'll welcome him with powder and cannon." "your majesty, when your illustrious father, king henry viii., was about to depart for the french wars, did he not bring to the block his own cousin and others who were most devoted to the old faith, lest they should raise an insurrection while he was on the continent?" "and you would cut off the heads of my faithful subjects? they shall attend my church, and if they will not, they shall be fined or imprisoned. my agents are zealous, and it may be that they have sometimes gone beyond my orders, but i tell you that i rule men and women, not their thoughts, and if a man obeys me, his head stays on his shoulders, mark that. i'll tell you one thing more, the lord high-admiral of my fleet is to be howard of effingham. what think you of that, my man?" "but, your majesty, he is a strong supporter of the old faith." "so will he be of the new queen," replied elizabeth calmly. howard became admiral, and drake vice-admiral, while frobisher and hawkins served as captains and raleigh sailed out in his own vessel as a volunteer. howard knew almost nothing of naval command, but around him were officers of experience, and he was not so exalted by his new dignity that he scorned to learn of them. the sailors watched him closely, and when they saw him put his own hands to the towing rope, they shouted "hurrah for the admiral!" nobles and commoners were mingled, and not one among them seemed to have any thought of rank or dignity. it was for england that they were working, and the honor lay in helping to save the country. the english vessels came together. there were all sorts of craft, ranging from a ship not much smaller than the galleons of the spaniards to what were hardly more than mere fishing boats. they were miserably supplied with food and powder, for it was very hard for elizabeth to make up her mind to meet the vast expenses of war. almost every letter of the admiral's contained a request for absolute necessities that were given out most grudgingly. beef was too dear, thought the queen, and she changed the sailors' rations to a scanty supply of fish, oil, and peas. the wages were in arrears, there was not powder enough, food was carried to the ships in small quantities, though howard declared indignantly, "king harry never made a less supply than six weeks." at the least rumor that the spaniards were not coming, elizabeth would give orders to reduce the english fleet. the invincible armada had left spain, and howard wrote, "beseech burleigh to hasten provisions. if the wind holds out for six days, spain will be knocking at our doors." one evening in july a game of bowls was going on at the pelican inn in plymouth. "your turn, frobisher," said hawkins, "and then sir walter's." "that's well done, sir walter. yours next, sir francis," said howard. drake stooped for the ball, and was about to send it, when an old sailor rushed into the room and cried:-"admiral, admiral, they're coming! i saw them off the lizard, and there are hundreds of them." "what do you say, admiral," asked drake with his hand still on the ball, "won't there be time to finish the game and then go out and give the dons a thrashing?" [illustration: the spanish armada attacked by the english fleet. _from pine's engraving of the tapestry, formerly in the house of lords, but destroyed by fire in the eighteenth century._] the spanish ships slowly made their way into the channel. they were so large and so high at stem and stern that they looked like great floating castles, but they were so clumsy and difficult to manage that the nimble little english boats had a great advantage. the spanish fleet formed in a wide crescent, the two points seven miles apart, and the english boats went out to meet them. the galleons were high and the english vessels so low that it was difficult to train the spanish guns upon them, moreover, the spaniards were not good marksmen. they would have had a better chance, however, if the english had only been willing to stand still and be fired at, but the spanish were much surprised and disgusted when the saucy little english craft slipped up under their very bows, fired a shot or two and were away firing at the next ship before the spanish guns could be trained upon them. some of the little boats sailed the whole length of the crescent, firing at every vessel and coming off without a scar. this kind of encounter was kept up for more than a week, for the english hesitated to attempt a regular engagement. the spanish suffered severely. masts were shattered, the rigging was cut up, great, ragged holes were torn in the hulls, and large numbers of sailors were slain, but even worse was to follow. the spaniards were anchored off calais. at two o'clock one morning a strange, shapeless object was seen floating toward them. then came another and another until there were eight. fire blazed up from the floating monsters. there were explosions and suffocating gases. the flames rose higher, wind and waves were bringing these malignant creatures, that seemed half alive, into the midst of the spanish fleet. this attack by fire-boats was a new way of fighting. the spaniards were perplexed and horrified. their only thought was to escape anywhere, no matter where, if only they could get free from these terrors. in their haste anchor chains fouled, some ships collided, others burned or ran aground. the land forces were encamped at tilbury. "i am commander in chief of my troops," declared elizabeth, "and i shall go to pay them a visit." "is it safe to commit yourself to armed multitudes? among so many there may well be treachery," suggested her councilors. "let tyrants fear," returned elizabeth. "i am true to my people, and they are my faithful and loving subjects. i should rather die than live in fear and distrust of them. i shall go to visit my loyal soldiers." it must have been a brilliant sight, the long lines of soldiers in battle array, and the queen riding in front of the lines on her great charger. before her went leicester and another noble bearing the sword of state. behind her followed a page carrying her helmet with its white plumes. she was magnificently dressed, but over her dress was a corslet of polished steel. back and forth before the lines she rode, while the soldiers shouted, "queen elizabeth! queen elizabeth! god save the queen! the lord keep her!" she raised her hand, and there was silence to hear her words. "i have the body of a weak, feeble woman," she said, "but i have the heart of a king, of a king of england, and i think it foul scorn that any prince of europe should dare to invade the borders of my realm. rather than that any dishonor should come by me, i will take up arms, i will be your general myself, and the rewarder of every deed of bravery. you deserve already rewards and crowns, and they shall be paid. it will not be long before we have a famous victory over these enemies of my god, of my kingdom, and of my people." while elizabeth was still at tilbury, two messengers came with a thrilling report. "a fierce battle has been fought off gravelines. drake was in command." "my noble sailor laddie," said the queen proudly. "tell me of it. i would know the deeds of every one of my brave captains." "it is your majesty who struck the fatal blow," said the messenger, "for the fire-ships were your own thought, and it was they that thrust the spaniards from our coast and drove them out to sea. sir francis and his fleet led the attack. six hours it lasted, till every shot, large and small, had been fired. then came the admiral, and he, too, fired every shot. there was no more powder, but he put on a bold front and gave them chase. they could not go south, and they went north." "there's no fear in howard," said elizabeth. "i know my man. where are the spaniards now?" "many of them have gone to whatever place the mercy of the lord may consign them," was the reply. "and where are those that still depend upon the mercies of wind and wave?" asked the queen. "only wind and wave can tell?" answered the messenger. "the ships sailed far to the northward. the admiral pursued until his provisions failed, but there was small need of searching for the enemy. the boisterous northern seas will do the work of many a cannon." the words of the messenger proved to be true. the spanish ships ran aground on the unknown coasts, they were shattered by storms, the sailors were stricken by pestilence, they were driven ashore only to be thrust back into the waves, for king james had no idea of doing aught against the sovereign whose crown he hoped would before many years rest upon his own head, and the lord lieutenant of ireland was little inclined to show mercy to the enemies of his country. of the great fleet that left spain, so strong that it ventured to call itself invincible, more than half the ships were left on the rocks or at the bottom of the sea. chapter xvi closing years after the defeat of the armada not only was there a general rejoicing, but the whole land felt a new sense of freedom. until 1588 elizabeth had been obliged to steer the ship of state with the utmost wariness. she must keep on good terms with scotland, lest that country should turn to france for friendship. she must make sure that france would not oppose her, lest philip should join the ruler of the land across the channel. she must help the low countries sufficiently to strengthen their opposition to the spanish king and so keep him from england, but she must not give them so much aid that they would become a burden upon her in their dependence, and she must not accept the protectorate, that would perhaps involve her realm in a long and bloody war with spain. for thirty years this keen, shrewd scheming went on. england was gaining every day in power and wealth, and when at last "old leadenfoot" began to bestir himself, the country was ready to meet him. the armada had come and gone, and england was free. philip might talk as boastfully as he would about sending another fleet to make another attack, but no one forgot that he had sent a fleet and it had failed. england was "mistress of the seas" in the sense that she was no longer in fear of any other nation. if a spanish vessel encountered an english vessel, they would be likely to fight, but the englishmen expected to win, and that expectation of victory was in itself a mark of greatness. if england chose to plant colonies in the new world, there was little fear that spain would trouble them to any great extent. this new sense of freedom showed itself not only in what was done but in what was written, and often the same man that had written an undying poem could fight a battle or lead a voyage of discovery or plan what was best for the nation when there were difficult questions of state to decide. shakespeare himself, the greatest writer of all, was not only a poet but a keen, thrifty man of business. the people of england had become accustomed to seeing great deeds done before their eyes, and that is one reason why few stories were written but many plays, for it seemed much more "real" to see a tale acted on the stage than to hear an account of it. it was a great pity that this freedom could not have extended to religious matters, but it was some years after queen elizabeth's death before many people realized that it was possible for two persons to have entirely different ideas of religion and yet be honest and sincere and live peacefully together. toward the close of elizabeth's reign there were persecutions of those refusing to attend the church of england that were far more severe than the mild system of fines with which she began her rule. the fines were increased, and puritans as well as catholics were sometimes ruined by the large sums of money that they were obliged to pay if they persisted in refusing to attend the services of the church of england. they were often imprisoned, and in the elizabethan days imprisonment was no light penalty. not only were the jails damp, unhealthy, filthy places, but prisoners were obliged to pay many exorbitant charges, so that if a man escaped with his life and health, he had to leave large sums of money behind him. one jail bill of that day has a weekly item of five dollars and a half for food, and as money would purchase about five times as much then as now, this charge was equivalent to more than twenty-seven dollars to-day. this was not all by any means, for a prisoner had to pay the rent of his wretched dungeon. if he was doomed to wear fetters, he must pay extra for them, and, most absurd charge of all, he was forced to pay an entrance fee on being sent to the horrible place. besides being imprisoned, dissenters, as those were called who would not attend the church of england, were sometimes whipped or tortured or even hanged. the only excuse for such treatment is that neither the queen nor her council was in fault for not being a century in advance of their times. indeed, it was more than two centuries after the death of the queen before england would allow a catholic to become a member of parliament. as elizabeth drew older, she dressed with increasing magnificence. her hands were loaded with rings, and her robes were made of the richest material that could be obtained. a german traveler who saw her on her way to her private chapel describes her as wearing a dress of heavy white silk, made with a very long train and bordered with pearls as large as beans. she wore a deep collar made of gold and jewels. this same traveler says that every corner of her palace shone with gold and silver and crystal and precious stones, and yet her floors were strewn with rushes that were probably as dirty as those in the homes of her subjects. the end of the century drew near, and it brought sorrow to the queen in the death of her old adviser, lord burleigh. leicester had died soon after the defeat of the armada, and elizabeth never parted with a paper upon which she had written sadly, "his last letter." in burleigh's old age he became quite infirm, and while elizabeth's other ministers addressed her kneeling, burleigh was always made to seat himself comfortably before she would discuss any question with him. "i am too old and too feeble to serve you well," he would say, but she refused to let him resign his office. in the days of his strength, she would storm at him in a tornado of rage when his judgment differed from hers, but as he became weak and ill, she was the tenderest of friends. "the door is low, your majesty," said the servant as she entered the sickroom of the councilor. "then i will stoop," said she, "for your master's sake, though never for the king of spain." she often went to sit by his bedside, and the haughty sovereign whose wrath burst forth so furiously at a word of opposition became the most gentle of nurses. as she sat beside him, she would allow no hand but her own to give him nourishment. "she never speaks of him without tears," said one who was with her after his death. the loss of another of her friends brought her even greater grief than that of burleigh, for this time the life of her favorite lay in her own power, but as the faithful sovereign she felt herself obliged to sacrifice it. from the time that leicester had presented to her his brilliant, fascinating stepson, the earl of essex, the young man had been a prime favorite with the queen. at their first meeting he was seventeen and the queen fifty-six, and she treated him like a petted child who can do no wrong. she forbade him to take any part in the fighting in portugal, but he slipped away from court without her knowledge, and was the first to leave the boats on the portuguese coast. he returned with some fear of being punished for his disobedience, but the queen forgot the wrongdoing, and was only anxious to make up for his disappointment because a position that he had wished for had been given to some one else. when essex married, elizabeth was as indignant as usual at each new proof that with all the adoration that her courtiers continually declared of herself, she was not the whole world to them. when essex was fighting in holland, a request was sent to the queen for more troops. the ambassador said:-"your majesty, my master has consulted the earl of essex, and he favors the request." elizabeth had not yet granted essex her forgiveness, and she blazed forth:-"the earl of essex, indeed! he would have it thought that he rules my realm." in spite of her anger with him, she was so anxious when she knew how carelessly he risked his life that she wrote ordering him to return to england at once, and when, much against his will, he obeyed her command, she spent a week in feasting and merriment. over and over they quarreled. essex would perhaps favor one candidate for a position, and the queen another. there would be hot words between them, and they would part, both in a fury. then essex would pretend to be ill, and the repentant queen would go to see the spoiled child, and pardon his petulance unasked. "he is not to blame, he takes it from his mother," she would say, and as she especially disliked his mother, she admitted this as sufficient excuse for overlooking his impertinence. the great storm came when the queen named a lord lieutenant for ireland, and essex opposed. elizabeth made one of her severe speeches, and the young man retorted by shrugging his shoulders and turning his back on her. the queen replied by soundly boxing his ears. essex grasped his sword. "i wouldn't have pardoned that blow even from king henry himself. what else could one expect from an old king in petticoats!" he cried and dashed away from court. his friends urged him to return and try to regain the affection of the queen by a humble apology, but for many weeks he refused. "i am the queen's servant," said he, "but i am not her slave." however, he finally sued for pardon and was again forgiven. [illustration: last moments of elizabeth.--_from painting by delaroche._] so long as the offences of essex were against elizabeth as a woman, she was ready to forgive, but at last he committed a crime against her government, and the woman was forgotten in the sovereign. all through the reign there was trouble with ireland. the irish hated the english and would follow anyone who would lead them against english rule. there were continual rebellions. essex's enemies brought it about that the favorite should be sent to command what he called "the cursedest of all islands." before long, rumors of his mismanagement began to reach the ears of the queen. "he is ever forcing his soldiers to make wearisome and useless marches and countermarches," said the reports. "he wastes money and supplies, and he exhausts his troops by irregular skirmishes that amount to nothing. he has made a foolish peace with the leader of the irish rebels instead of suppressing them by force of arms. he is trying to make himself king of the irish, and he will then raise an irish army to come over and dethrone the queen." elizabeth sent letters full of reproof to essex, but the young fellow only said to himself, "they are not her letters. she has written the words, but it is burleigh who has guided her pen." he abandoned his command and went straight to england, sure that the queen would pardon any misdeed on the part of her favorite. early one morning the young man arrived in london. he must see the queen before his enemies could have word of her and induce her to forbid him to appear at court, and he galloped wildly on to the palace. he looked into the audience chamber, she was not there; into the privy chamber, she was not there. then he burst into her dressing room where the queen sat with her women brushing her hair. he was muddy with his mad gallop to the palace, his clothes were disordered and travelstained, but when he threw himself at her feet and pleaded, "don't judge me by the tales of my enemies," the queen was so kind to him that he thought himself forgiven. later, however, she saw that he had committed many acts of disobedience which in a military commander were unpardonable. he was tried by the privy council, and for a few weeks was confined to his own house. elizabeth deprived him of several valuable monopolies and even after his release forbade him to appear at court. in any other commander the penalty of such crimes would have been far more severe, but instead of thinking upon the mercy that had been shown him, essex meditated upon what he thought his wrongs. he became more and more embittered, and at last he tried to arouse a rebellion against the queen. there was a fierce struggle in elizabeth's mind between her love for the young man and her duty to punish the treason. at last she signed the death warrant, recalled it, then signed another, and essex was executed in the tower of london. the seventeenth century began, and the health of the queen was clearly failing. a woman of less strength of character would have posed as an invalid, but elizabeth seemed to feel that sickness was unworthy of a queen, and she concealed her increasing weakness as far as possible. she often had to be lifted upon her horse, but she would not give up riding. she even went to visit one of her councilors. cornets saluted her, drums and trumpets sounded as she entered the courtyard. she watched the dancing of the ladies of the house and the feats of horsemanship and swordplay of the young men, but she was exhausted, and in spite of her good courage, she could not go up the stairs without a staff. yet in the early part of 1602 she went a-maying in the old fashion of celebrating the coming of spring. with all her glory and her greatness, the last days of this woman on a throne were more lonely than those of a woman in a cottage. essex had been a great favorite among the people, and they had never forgiven his death. when the queen showed herself among them, she was no longer received with all the old tokens of loyalty and affection, and no one could have been more keen than she to note the least change in the manner of her subjects. she knew that james would be her heir, but she had not forgotten the long lines of greedy courtiers who had sought her when her sister mary was near her end, and she refused to name him definitely as the one whom she wished to succeed her. this refusal made little difference, however, in the increasing devotion of those around her to the scotch king, who would so soon be the ruler of england. one after another wearied of attendance; some made excuses to leave her, others left without excuse. the son of burleigh, who had taken his father's place, sent almost daily epistles to scotland. harington, who used to write her merry, jesting letters, signed "your majesty's saucy godson," had sent valuable gifts to the king of scots, and a petition that he might not be forgotten when james should come into his kingdom. her own councilors were sending messengers to james hoping to win his favor. two of her relatives stood by her bedside, but their watchfulness arose not from affection but that they might be the first to tell james that the crown was his at last. the queen became more and more feeble. she was sad and melancholy. often she sat for hours alone in the dark weeping. she felt her loneliness most keenly. "whom can i trust? whom can i trust?" her attendants heard her murmur. a kinsman who went to see her said that she drew heavy sighs continually, "and i never knew her to sigh" he declared, "save at the death of the queen of scots." she lay on cushions piled up on the floor. "madam," urged the son of burleigh, "will you not be moved to your bed?" "if i go to my bed, i shall never leave it," she answered. "but you must in order to content your loving subjects," he urged. then the queen showed once more her proud tudor blood. "'must' is no word to use to princes," said she, "and, little man, if your father had lived, even he would not have dared to say so much." she passed away quietly in a gentle sleep. according to a strange custom of the times an image of her was made in wax, decked in the royal robes, and laid upon her coffin. she was buried in westminster abbey, and as the sad procession went through the streets, the early love of her subjects returned in full measure. an old chronicler says:-"and when they beheld her statue, or effigy, lying on the coffin, set forth in royal robes, having a crown upon the head thereof, and a ball and sceptre in either hand, there was such a general sighing, groaning, and weeping, as the like hath not been seen or known in the memory of man; neither doth any history mention any people, time, or state, to make like lamentation for the death of their sovereign." * * * * * * transcribers' note: punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unpaired quotation marks retained. ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained. page 51: missing closing quotation mark added after "has been mine for three full years." page 155: "and so would made" may be a misprint for "make". page 192: missing opening quotation mark added before "this youth had". page 205: closing quotation mark added after "tasters,". page 264: missing opening quotation mark added before "how would it please". a gentleman player works of robert neilson stephens [illustration] an enemy to the king (twentieth thousand) the continental dragoon (seventeenth thousand) the road to paris (sixteenth thousand) a gentleman player (sixth thousand) [illustration] l. c. page and company, publishers (incorporated) 196 summer st., boston, mass. [illustration: queen elizabeth and harry marryott.] (_see page 87._) a gentleman player his adventures on a secret mission for queen elizabeth by robert neilson stephens author of "an enemy to the king," "the continental dragoon," "the road to paris," etc. "and each man in his time plays many parts." --_as you like it._ [illustration] boston l. c. page and company (incorporated) 1899 _copyright, 1899_ by l. c. page and company (incorporated) 1899 colonial press: electrotyped and printed by c. h. simonds & co. boston, mass., u. s. a. contents. chapter page i. the first performance of "hamlet" 11 ii. at the taverns 36 iii. queen and woman 69 iv. the unexpected 93 v. the player proves himself a gentleman 104 vi. and the gentleman proves himself a player 116 vii. mistress anne hazlehurst 129 viii. "a devil of a woman" 137 ix. the first day of the flight 152 x. the locked door 174 xi. wine and song 184 xii. the constable of clown 199 xiii. the prisoner in the coach 220 xiv. how the page walked in his sleep 233 xv. treachery 251 xvi. foxby hall 276 xvii. a woman's victory 295 xviii. the horsemen arrive 309 xix. the horsemen depart 320 xx. roger barnet sits down to smoke some tobacco 332 xxi. roger barnet continues to smoke tobacco 342 xxii. speech without words 360 xxiii. the london road 368 xxiv. how a new incident was added to an old play 375 xxv. sir harry and lady marryott 398 notes 409 list of illustrations. page queen elizabeth and harry marryott _frontispiece_ "she gave no outward sign of anger" 190 "the brazen notes clove the air" 267 "rumney ... backed quickly to the window, and mounted the ledge" 327 a gentleman player. chapter i. the first performance of "hamlet." "who ever loved that loved not at first sight?"--_quoted in "as you like it," from marlowe's "hero and leander."_ at three o'clock in the afternoon of the cold first monday in march, 1601, a red flag rose, and a trumpet sounded thrice, from a little gabled turret protruding up out of a large wooden building in a field in that part of southwark known as the bankside and bordering on the thames west of london bridge. this rude edifice, or enclosure, was round (not like its successor, hexagonal) in shape; was in great part roofless; was built on a brick and stone foundation, and was encircled by a ditch for drainage. it was, in fact, the globe theatre; and the flag and trumpet meant that the "lord chamberlain's servants" were about to begin their performance, which, as the bill outside the door told in rough letters, was to be that of a new "tragicall historie of hamlet prince of denmark," written by william shakespeare. london folk knew this master shakespeare well as one of the aforesaid "servants," as the maker of most of the plays enacted now by those servants, and, which was deemed far more to his honor, as the poet of "venus and adonis" and "the rape of lucrece." many who read the playbill guessed rightly that the new "tragicall historie" was based in part upon another author's old play, which they had seen performed many times in the past.[1] the audience, in all colours and qualities of doublet and hose, ruff and cloak, feathered hat and plain cap and scholar's coif, had awaited noisily the parting of the worsted curtains of the stage projecting from one side of the circular interior of the barnlike playhouse. around the other sides were wooden galleries, and under these was a raised platform divided into boxes called "rooms," whose fronts were hung with painted cloth. the stage and the actors' tiring-room behind it were under a roof of thatch. the boxes had the galleries for cover. but the great central o-shaped space, known as the "yard," where self-esteeming citizens, and assertive scholars, and black-robed lawyers, and burly soldiers, and people of countless occupations, and people of no occupation at all, stood and crowded and surged and talked and chaffed, and bought fruit and wine and beer from the clamorous venders, had no ceiling but the sky. it had no floor but the bare ground, and no seats whatever. the crowd in this so-called "yard" was expectant. the silk and velvet gentry sitting in the boxes, some of whom smoked pipes and ogled the few citizenesses in the better gallery, were for the most part prepared to be, or to seem, bored. the solid citizens in gallery and yard were manifestly there to get the worth of their eightpence or sixpence apiece, in solid entertainment. the apple-chewing, nut-cracking, fighting apprentices and riff-raff in the topmost gallery were turbulently ready for fun and tumult, whether in the play or of their own making. in the yard a few self-reliant women, not of the better order, and some of them smoking like men, struggled to hold their own amidst the hustling throng. two or three ladies, disdaining custom and opinion, or careless or ignorant thereof, were present, sitting in boxes; but they wore masks. now and then, before the performance began, some young foppish nobleman, scented, feathered, bejewelled, armed with gilt-hilted rapier in velvet sheath, and sporting huge rosettes on his shoes, would haughtily, or disdainfully, or flippantly, make his way to the lords' room, which was the box immediately overlooking the stage; or would pass to a place on the rush-covered stage itself, he or his page bearing thither a three-legged stool, hired of a theatre boy for sixpence. there, on similar stools at the sides of the stage, he would find others of his kind, some idly chatting, some playing cards; and could hear, through the rear curtains of arras screening the partition behind the stage, the talk and movements of the players in their tiring-room, hurrying the final preparations for the performance. one of these gallants, having lighted his pipe, said, lispingly, to another, and with a kind of snigger in the expression of his mouth: "'twill be a long time ere my lord of southampton shall again sit here seeing his friend will's plays." southampton, indeed, was in the tower for complicity in the insurrection of his friend, the earl of essex, who had died on the block in february, and whose lesser fellow conspirators were now having their trials. "a long time ere any of us may see will's plays here, after this week," answered the other lord, dropping the rush with which he had been tickling a third lord's ear. "don't you know, the chamberlain's actors are ordered to travel, for having played 'richard the second' for the essex men when the conspiracy was hatching?"[2] "why, i've been buried in love,--a pox on the sweet passion!--dallying at the feet of a gentlewoman in blackfriars, the past month; and a murrain take me if i know what's afoot of late!" "what i've told you; and that is why we've had so many different plays all in a fortnight, and two new ones of will shakespeare's. the players must needs have new pieces ready for the country towns, especially for the universities. these chamberlain's actors were parlously thick with the essex plotters; 'tis well they have friends at court, of other leanings, like wat raleigh,--else they might find themselves ordered to a tower instead of to a tour!" ignoring the pun, and glancing up at the black drapery with which the stage was partly hung, the first exquisite remarked: "will shakespeare must be in right mood for tragedy nowadays,--his friend southampton in prison, and essex a head shorter, and himself ordered to the country. burn me if i know how a high-hearted knave like shakespeare, that gentlemen admit to their company, and that has had the court talking of his poems, can endure to be a dog of an actor, and to scribble plays for that stinking rabble out yonder to gape at!" whatever were will shakespeare's own views on that subject, he had at that moment other matters in mind. in the bare tiring-room beyond the curtained partition at the rear of the stage, he moved calmly about among the actors, some of whom were not yet wholly dressed in the armor or robes or other costume required, some of whom were already disguised in false beard or hair, some already painted as to the face, some walking to and fro, repeating their lines in undertones, with preoccupied and anxious air; and so well did master shakespeare overcome the agitations of an author who was to receive five pounds for his new play, and of a stage-manager on whom its success largely depended, that he seemed the least excited person in the room. he had put on the armor for the part of the ghost, but his flowing hair--auburn, like his small pointed beard--was not yet confined by the helmet he should soon don. his soft light brown eyes moved in swift but careful survey of the whole company; and then, seeing that the actors for the opening scene were ready, and that the others were in sufficient preparation for their proper entrances, he gave the signal for the flag and trumpet aloft. at sight of the flag, late comers who had not yet reached the playhouse mended their speed,--whether they were noblemen conveyed by boat from the great riverside mansions of the strand; gentlemen riding horseback, or in coaches, or borne in wherries from city water-gates; or citizens, law scholars, soldiers, sailors, rascals, and plain people, arriving by ferry or afoot by london bridge or from the immediate neighborhood. at sound of the trumpet, the crowd in the theatre uttered the grateful "ah!" and other exclamations natural to the moment. from the tiring-room the subordinate actor who played the first sentinel had already passed to his post on the stage, by way of the door in the partition and of an interstice in the rear curtains; other actors stood ready to follow speedily; the front curtains were drawn apart, and the first performance of mr. william shakespeare's earliest stage version of "hamlet"--a version something between the garbled form now seen in the "first quarto" and the slightly altered form extant in the "second quarto"--was begun. in the tiring-room,--where the actors awaiting their entrance cues could presently hear their fellows spouting on the stage without, and the "groundlings" in the yard making loud comments or suggestions, and the lords laughing lightly at their own affected chaff,--the pale yellow light of the chill march afternoon fell from high-placed narrow windows. it touched the face of one tall, slender young player, whose mustaches required a close inspection to detect that they were false,--for at that time, when the use of dye was general, it was common for natural beards to look artificial. the hair of this youth's head also was brown, but it was his own. his blue eyes and rather sharp features had a look half conciliating, half defiant, and he was manifestly trying to conceal, by standing perfectly still instead of fidgeting or pacing the floor, a severe case of that perturbation which to this day afflicts the chief persons concerned in a first performance of a play. he was approached by a graceful young person in woman's clothes,--with stomacher, puffed sleeves, farthingale, high-heeled shoes,--who had been gliding about, now with every step and attitude of the gentle damsel he seemed to be, now lapsing into the gait and manner of the pert boy he was, and who said to the inwardly excited but motionless player:[3] "marry, hal, take it not as 'twere thy funeral! faith, thou'rt ten times shakier o' the knees than master shakespeare himself, and he writ the play. see how he claps his head-piece on, to go and play the ghost, as if he were but putting on his hat to go to the tavern for a cup of claret." hal looked as if he would deny the imputed shakiness; but seeing that the clever boy "ophelia" was not to be fooled, he gave a quick sigh, and replied: "'tis my first time in so prominent a part. i feel as if i were the sign in front of the theatre,--a fellow with the world on his back. may i be racked if i don't half wish they'd given this 'laertes' to gil crowe to play, after all!" "tut, master marryott! an thou pluck'st up no more courage, thou shalt ever be a mere journeyman. god knows thou art bold enough in a tavern or a brawl! look at mr. burbage,--he has forgot himself and us and all the world, and thinks he is really hamlet the dane." hal marryott, knowing already what he should see, glanced at burbage, who paced, not excitedly but as in deep meditation, near the entrance to the stage. a short, stout, handsome man, with a thoughtful face, a fine brow, a princely port; like shakespeare, he was calm, but while shakespeare had an eye for everything but apparently the part himself was to play, burbage was absorbed entirely in his own part and unconscious of all else, as if in the tiring-room he was already hamlet from the moment of putting on that prince's clothes.[4] "what a plague are you looking at, gil crowe?" suddenly demanded hal marryott of another actor, who was gazing at him with a malicious smile evidently caused by hal's ill-concealed disquietude. "an it be my shoes, i'll own you could have made as good if you'd stuck to your proper trade!" "certes," replied crowe, who wore the dress of rosencrantz, and whose coarse face bore marks of dissipation, "i'm less like to deny having been a shoemaker, which is true, than some are to boast of having been gentlemen, which may be doubtful." young marryott's eyes flashed hot indignation. before he could control himself to retort, an actor in a rich robe and a false white beard,[5] who had overheard master crowe's innuendo, strode up and said: "faith, crowe, you wrong the lad there. who hath ever heard him flaunt his birth before us? well you know it, if he doth at times assert his gentle blood, 'tis when forced to it; and then 'tis by act and manner, not by speech. go your ways, crowe; thou'st been overfree with the pottle-pot again, i'm afeard!" "nay," put in the impudent ophelia, his elbows thrust out, his hands upon his hips, "master crowe had picked out the part of laertes for himself; and because master shakespeare chose hal to play it. hal is a boaster and not truly gentle born." "you squeaking brat," said crowe, "but for spoiling thy face for the play, i'd put thee in thy place. i might have played laertes, but that--" here he paused, whereupon the white-bearded corambis (such was the name of polonius in the first version) finished for him: "but that y'are not to be trusted with important parts, lest the play be essentially spoiled an you be too drunk to act." "why, as for that," replied crowe, "beshrew me but our gentleman here will stay as late at the tavern, and be roaring as loud for more sack when daylight comes, as any one." for this home thrust marryott had no reply. crowe thereupon walked away, the corambis joined another group, and the ophelia sauntered across the room to view the costly raiment that a tiring man was helping mr. william sly to put on for the part of the foppish courtier, later christened osric. left to his thoughts, the laertes, nervously twirling his false mustaches, followed the ex-shoemaker with his eyes, and meditated on the latter's insolence. the more he reviewed it, and his own failure to rebuke it properly, the more wrathful he inwardly became. his anger served as a relief from the agitation he had formerly undergone. so deeply buried was he in his new feelings, that he heeded not the progress of affairs on the stage; and thus he was startled when he felt his arm caught by shakespeare, who was pointing to the entrance, and saying: "what ails thee, harry? they wait for thee on the stage." roused as from sleep, and seeing that burbage and the others had indeed gone forth from the tiring-room, hal ran to the entrance and out upon the stage, his mind in a whirl, taking his place before king claudius with such abruptness that burbage, surprised from his mood of melancholy self-absorption, sent him a sharp glance of reproof. this but increased his abashment, and he stared up at the placard that proclaimed the stage to be a room in the palace at elsinore, in a kind of panic. the audience moved and murmured, restlessly, during the king's long speech, and hal, imagining that his own embarrassment was perceptible to all, made an involuntary step backward toward the side of the stage. he thus trod on the toe of one of the noble spectators, who was making a note in his tables, and who retaliated with an ejaculation and a kick. feeling that some means must be taken to attain composure, the more as his heart seemed to beat faster and his stomach to grow weaker, hal remembered that he had previously found distraction in his wrath toward gilbert crowe. he therefore brought back to mind the brief passage in the tiring-room. so deeply did he lose himself in this recollection, gazing the while at the juniper burning on the stage to sweeten the air, that it was like a blow in the face when he suddenly became aware of a prolonged silence, and of the united gaze of all the actors upon himself. "what wouldst thou have, laertes?" the king was repeating for the third time. hal, aware now that his cue had been given more than once, opened his lips to reply, but his first line had fled completely from his mind. in his blank confusion he flashed a look of dismay toward the entrance. his eyes caught those of shakespeare, who had parted the arras curtains sufficiently to be visible to the players. rather in astonishment than in reproach, the poet, serving on occasion as prompter, uttered half audibly the forgotten words, and hal, caught back as from the brink of a bottomless pit, spoke out with new-found vigor: "dread my lord. your leave and favor to return to france," and the ensuing lines. but his delivery did not quiet down the audience,--which, indeed, though it had hushed for a moment at the play's opening, and again at the appearance of the ghost, was not completely stilled, until at last, upon the king's turning to hamlet, the "wondrous tongue" of burbage spoke. when hal presently made exit to the tiring-room, after the king and courtiers, he craved the pardon of master shakespeare, but the latter merely said: "tut, hal, it hath happened to all of us in our time." the derisive smile of crowe did not sweeten harry's musings while he waited for his next going on. indeed, he continued to brood bitterly on the exhibition he had made of himself, and the stay he had caused in the play. his chagrin was none the less for that it was his friend and benefactor shakespeare that had nominated him for the part of laertes, and whose play he had brought to a momentary halt. in deep dejection, when the time came, he returned to the stage with the boy-ophelia for his scene with her and corambis. this passed so smoothly as to give hal new heart, until it was near its very end; and then, having replied to corambis's excellent advice with the words. "most humbly do i take my leave, my lord," hal happened to let his glance wander past the old man, and across a surging mass of heads in a part of the yard, to a certain face in one of the boxes; and that face had in it something to make his gaze remain delightedly upon it and his lips part in admiration. yes, the face was a lady's. hal had never seen it before; of that he was instantly sure, for had he seen it he could not have forgotten it. he would not have seen it now but that its youthful possessor had removed her mask, which had become irksome to her skin. she seemed above all concern as to what might be thought of her for showing her face in a bankside theatre. a proud and wilful face was hers, as if with the finest feminine beauty she had something of the uncurbed spirit and rashness of a fiery young gentleman. her hair and eyes were dark, her skin fair and clear and smooth, her forehead not too high, her chin masterful but most exquisitely shaped, her cheeks rich with natural color. in fine, she was of pronounced beauty, else master marryott had not forgot himself to look at her. upon her head was a small gray velvet hat, peaked, but not very high, and with narrow brim turned up at the sides. her chin was elevated a little from contact with a white cambric ruff. her gown was of murrey cloth with velvet stripes, and it tightly encased her figure, which was of a well-made and graceful litheness. the slashed sleeves, although puffed out, did not make too deep a secret of her shapely, muscular arms. she might have been in her twenty-second year. with this fine young creature, and farther back in the box, sat a richly dressed old gentleman, comfortably asleep, and a masked lady, who shrank as far as possible into the shadow of the box corner. standing in the yard, but close to the front of the box, was a slim, dark-faced youth in the green attire then worn by the menservants of ladies. not all these details, but only the lady, held the ravished laertes's attention while he recited: "farewell, ophelia; and remember well what i have said to you." so heedless and mechanical was his utterance of these lines, in contrast with his previous lifelike manner, that the nearest auditors laughed. the corambis and ophelia, seeking the cause of his sudden lapse, followed his gaze with wondering side-glances, while ophelia replied, in the boy's musical soprano: "'tis in my memory lock'd and you yourself shall keep the key of it." "farewell," said laertes, this time with due expression, but rather to the lady in the distant box than to ophelia and corambis. reluctantly he backed toward the rear curtains, and was so slow in making his exit, that corambis, whose next line required to be spoken in laertes's absence, gave him a look of ireful impatience and a muttered "shog, for god's sake," which set the young lords at the stage-side tittering. at sight of shakespeare, who was whispering to the horatio and the marcellus, near the entrance. master marryott had another twinge of self-reproach, but this swiftly yielded to visions of the charming face. these drove away also all heed of the presence of crowe. hal would have liked to mount the steps to the balcony at the rear of the stage, in which the unemployed actors might sit when it was not in other use, and whence he might view the lady at leisure; but the balcony was soon to be in service as a platform of the castle, in the scene between hamlet and the ghost. his imagination crossing all barriers, and making him already the accepted wooer of the new beauty. hal noted not how the play went on without, even when a breathless hush presently told of some unusual interest on the part of the audience; and he was then but distantly sensible of shakespeare's grave, musical voice in the ghost's long recitals, and of the awestricken, though barely whispered, exclamations of burbage. in the second act hal had to remove his mustaches, change his cloak, and go on as an attendant in the presence-chamber scene. his first glance was for the lady. alas, the face was in eclipse, the black velvet mask had been replaced! returning to the tiring-room, he had now to don the beard of an elderly lord, in which part he was to help fill the stage in the play scene. as he marched on in the king's train, for this scene, to the blare of trumpet and the music of instruments in a box aloft,--violins, shawms, sackbuts, and dulcimers,--he saw that the lady was still masked. his presence on the stage this time gave him no opportunity to watch her; he had to direct his eyes, now at the king and queen on their chairs at one side of the stage, and now at the platform of the mimic players. when he made his exit with the royal party, he saw on every face a kind of elation. "they are hit, and no question," said master taylor. "ay," quoth master condell, "that shout of the groundlings, when the king fled, could have been heard as far as the bear-garden." "but the stillness of both lords and groundlings before that," said master heminge,--"never was such stillness when tom kyd's hamlet was played." "we shall see how they take the rest of it," said shakespeare, softly,--though he could not quite conceal a kind of serene satisfaction that had stolen upon his face. hal marryott doffed his beard, and resumed his laertes cloak, resolved to have some part in the general success. his next scene, that in which laertes calls the king to account for his father's death, and beholds his sister's madness, held the opportunity of doing so,--of justifying shakespeare's selection for the part, of winning the young lady's applause, of hastening his own advancement to that fortune which would put him in proper state to approach a wealthy gentlewoman. perhaps she was one of those who were privileged to attend the christmas court performances. could he first win her admiration in some fine part at whitehall, the next time the chamberlain's men should play there; then--by getting as much wealth as mr. alleyn and other players had acquired--leave the stage, and strut in the jewels and velvet suitable to his birth, to what woman might he not aspire? he had all planned in a minute, with the happy facility of youth in such matters. so he stood in a remote corner of the tiring-room, getting into the feeling of his next scene, repeating the lines to himself, assuming a burbage-like self-absorption to repel those of his fellow players who, otherwise, would now and then have engaged him in talk. much conversation was going on in undertone among the groups standing about, or sitting on the tables, chairs, stools, and chests that awaited their time of service on the stage,--for, although scenery was merely suggested by word or symbol, furniture and properties, like costume and makeup, were then used in the theatres. in due time, hal placed himself at the entrance, working up his mood to a fine heat for the occasion; heard the cue, "the doors are broke;" and rushed on, crying "where is this king?" with a fury that made the groundlings gape, and even startled the lolling lords into attention. having ordered back his danes, and turned again to the king, he cast one swift glance toward the lady's box, to see how she had taken his fiery entrance; and perceived--no one. the box was empty. he felt as if something had given way beneath him. in a twinkling his manner toward the king fell into the most perfunctory monotone. so he played the scene out, looking again and again to ascertain if his eyes had not deceived him; but neither was she there, nor the other lady, nor the gentleman, nor the page in green who had stood before the box. the theatre was dark and dull without her; though as much light came in as ever, through the gallery windows and the open top of the playhouse. with a most blank and insipid feeling did hal finish this scene, and the longer and less interesting one that came almost immediately after. he carried this feeling back to the dressing-room, and dropped upon a stool in utter listlessness. "hath life then lost all taste and motive?" it was the voice of shakespeare, who had read hal's mood. the question came with an expression half amused, half sympathetic. at this, in place of which he had deserved a chiding, hal was freshly stricken, and more deeply than before, with a sense of the injury he did his benefactor by his lifeless acting. so his answer was strangely wide from the question. "forgive me," he said. "i swear i'll make amends in the rest of the play." and he rose, resolved to do so. perhaps, after all, the lady and her companions had but gone to another box, or would return to the theatre before the play was over. and, moreover, what a fool should he be, to throw away this chance of advancement that might equip him for some possible future meeting with her! and what malicious triumph was glowing darkly on the countenance of gilbert crowe! there remained to hal two opportunities to retrieve himself. the first was the encounter with hamlet in the graveyard. choosing to believe that his enchantress was indeed looking on from some to-him-unknown part of the house, he put into this short scene so excellent a frenzy that, on coming off the stage, he was greeted with a quiet "sir, that was well played," from burbage himself, who had made exit a moment earlier. "bravely ranted," said the corambis; and the ophelia, now out of his woman's clothes and half into a plain doublet, observed, with a jerk of his head toward master crowe: "thou'st turned gil's face sour of a sudden." but master marryott, disdaining to take gratification in gil's discomfiture, found it instead in a single approbative look from shakespeare; and then, choosing his foil, began making passes at the empty air, in practice for the fencing match. it was partly for his skill with the foils that hal had got shakespeare's vote for the character of laertes. being a gentleman by birth, though now alone in the world and of fallen fortunes, he had early taken kindly to that gentleman among weapons, the rapier, that had come to drive those common swaggerers, the sword and buckler, out of general service. at home in oxfordshire, in the lifetime of his parents, and before the memorable lawsuit with the berkshire branch of the family had taken the ancestral roof from over his head, and driven him to london to seek what he might find, he had practised daily with the blade, under whatever tuition came his way. in london he had picked up what was to be learned from exiled frenchmen, soldiers who had fought in flanders and spain, and other students of the steel, who abounded in the taverns. with his favorite weapon he was as skilful as if he had taken at least a provost's degree in the art of fence. the bout in "hamlet" was, of course, prearranged in every thrust and parry, but, even so, there was need of a trained fencer's grace and precision in it. good fencing was in itself a show worth seeing, in a time when every man knew how to wield one weapon or another.[6] the audience was wrought up to that pitch of interest which every fifth act ought to witness, when the final scene came on. each man--especially among the apprentices, the soldiers, and the lords--constituted himself an umpire of the contest, and favored the fighters with comments and suggestions. the sympathy, of course, was with hamlet, but no one could be blind to the facile play of the laertes, who indeed had the skill to cover up his antagonist's deficiency with the weapon, and to make him appear really the victor. the courteous manner in which hal confessed himself hit put the spectators into suitable mind for the better perceiving of his merit. there could be little doubt as to the outcome, had the fight been real, for burbage was puffing in a way that made the queen's observation, "he's fat and scant of breath," most apt. during the sword-work, the lords and soldiers aired italian fencing terms then current, in praising the good defence that "the mad girl's brother" made; and when he seemed to wound hamlet, there burst out a burly voice from the midst of the yard, with: "i knew that thrust was coming, master marryott! tis i--kit bottle!" when laertes confessed his treachery and begged hamlet's forgiveness, so well had hal fenced and so well acted, he won such esteem of the audience as to die in the best odor. and when, at last, the rushes covering the stage boards were in turn covered with dead bodies, when the curtains closed, and the audience could be heard bustling noisily out of the theatre, hal partook of the general jubilant relief, and hoped the beautiful young lady had indeed seen the last act from somewhere in the house. the actors arose from the dead, looked as if they had jointly and severally thrown off a great burden, and hastened to substitute their plainer clothes for their rich costumes. "come with us to the falcon for a cup or two, and then to the mermaid to supper," said shakespeare to hal, as the latter was emerging from the theatre a few minutes later, dressed now in somewhat worn brown silk and velvet. with the poet were masters heminge, sly, condell, and laurence fletcher, manager for the company of players. the six walked off together, across the trodden field and along the street or roadway, drawing their short cloaks tight around them for the wind. the falcon tavern was at the western end of the bankside, separated from the river by a little garden with an arbor of vines. as the players were about to enter, the door opened, and a group of gentlemen could be seen coming from within, to take boat for the city or westminster. "stand close," said fletcher, quickly, to the actors. "we may hear an opinion of the play. my lord edgebury is the best judge of these matters in england." the players moved aside, and pretended to be reading one of their own bills, as the nobles passed. "it holdeth attention," my lord was saying to his companions, "but--fustian, fustian! noise for the rabble in the yard. 'twill last a week, perchance, for its allegory upon timely matters. but i give it no longer. 'twill not live." "gramercy!" quoth sly to the players, with a comical smile. "he is more liberal than gil crowe, who gives it but three afternoons. come into the tavern, lads, and a plague on all such prophets!" my lord edgebury and gil crowe, ye are not dead yet. at all first nights do ye abound; in many leather-covered study-chairs do ye sit, busy with wet blankets and cold water. on this occasion, though no one knew it at the time, you were a trifle out of your reckoning,--three hundred years, at least, as far as we may be sure now; not much, as planets and historians count, but quite a while as time goes with children. chapter ii. at the taverns. "we have heard the chimes at midnight, master shallow."--_henry iv., part ii._ that this narrative--which is to be an account of things done, not an antiquarian "picture" of a past age--need not at every step be learnedly arrested by some description of a costume, street, house, aspect of society, feature of the time, or other such matter, let the reader be reminded at the outset that the year 1601 was of elizabeth's reign the forty-second; that england was still in the first thrill of the greatest rejuvenescence the world ever knew; that new comforts, and new luxuries, and new thoughts, and new possibilities, and new means of pleasure, had given englishmen a mad and boisterous zest for life; that gentlemen strutted in curiously shaped beards, and brilliant doublets, and silken trunk-hose, and ruffs, and laced velvet cloaks, and feathered hats; that ladies wore stiff bodices and vast sleeves, and robes open in front to show their petticoats, and farthingales to make those petticoats stand out; that many of these ladies painted their faces and used false hair; that the attire of both sexes shone with jewels and gold and silver; that london folk were, in brief, the most richly dressed in the world; that most ordinary london houses were of wood and plaster, and gabled, and built so that the projecting upper stories darkened the narrow streets below; that the many-colored moving spectacle in those streets was diversified by curious and admiring foreigners from everywhere; that although coaches were yet of recent introduction, the stone paving sounded with them as well as with the carts and drays of traffic; that gray churches, and desolated convents, and episcopal palaces, and gentlemen's inns, and turreted mansions of nobility, abounded in city and suburbs; that the catholics were still occasional sufferers from such persecution as they in their time had dealt to the protestants; that there were still some very proud and masterful great lords, although they now came to court, and had fine mansions in the strand or other suburbs, and no longer fostered civil or private war in their great stone castles in the country; that bully 'prentices, in woollen caps and leather or canvas doublets, were as quick to resent real or fancied offence, with their knives, as gentlemen were with silver-gilt-hilted rapiers; that the taverns resounded with the fanciful oaths of heavily bearded soldiers who had fought in flanders and spain; that there were eager ears for every amazing lie of seafaring adventurers who had served under drake or raleigh against the spanish; that tobacco was still a novelty, much relished and much affected; that ghosts and witches were believed in by all classes but perhaps a few "atheists" like kit marlowe and sir walter raleigh; that untamed england was still "merry" with its jousts, its public spectacles, its rustic festivals, its holiday feasts, and its brawls, although puritanism had already begun to show its spoil-sport face; and, to come to this particular first monday in march, that the common london talk, when it was not of the private affairs of the talkers, had gone, for its theme, from the recent trial and death of the brave but restless earl of essex, to the proceedings now pending against certain of his lesser satellites in the drury house conspiracy. before entering the falcon, hal marryott sent a last sweeping look in all directions, half daring to hope that the lady in gray and murrey had not yet left the vicinity of the theatre. but the audience had gone its countless ways; at the falcon river-stairs the watermen's cries and the noise of much embarking had subsided; and the only women in sight were of the bankside itself, and of a far different class from that of her whom he sought. he sighed and followed his companions into the tavern. they were passing through the common hall, on their way to a room where they could be served privately, when they were greeted by a tall, burly, black-bearded, bold-featured, weather-browned, middle-aged fellow in a greasy leather jerkin, an old worn-out red velvet doublet, and patched brown silk trunk-hose, and with a sorry-feathered remnant of a big-brimmed felt hat, a long sword and a dagger, these weapons hanging at his girdle. his shoes barely deserved the name, and his brown cloth cloak was a rag. his face had been glum and uneasy, but at sight of the players he instantly threw on the air of a dashing, bold rascal with whom all went merrily. "'the actors are come hither, my lord,'" he cried, with a flourish, quoting from the play of the afternoon. "a good piece of work, master shakespeare. excellent! more than excellent!" "despite thyself, for doing thy best to spoil it,--bawling out in the fencing match, kit bottle," put in will sly. "captain bottle, an it please you, master sly," said the other, instantly taking on dignity; "at least when i carried sir philip sidney off the field at zutphen, and led my company after my lord essex into cadiz." "and how goes the world with thee, captain kit?" inquired mr. shakespeare, with something of a kindly sadness in his tone. "bravely, bravely as ever, master will," replied kit. "still marching to this music!" and he shook a pouch at his belt, causing a clinking sound to come forth. as the players passed on to their room, kit plucked the sleeve of hal marryott, who was the last. when the two were alone in a corner, the soldier, having dropped his buoyant manner, whispered: "hast a loose shilling or two about thy clothes, lad? just till to-morrow, i swear on the cross of my sword. i have moneys coming; that is, with a few testers to start dicing withal, i shall have the coin flowing me-ward. tut, boy, i can't lie to thee; i haven't tasted meat or malt since yesterday." "but what a devil--why, the pieces thou wert jingling?" said hal, astonished. "pox, hal, think'st thou i would bare my poverty to a gang of players--nay, no offence to thee, lad!" the soldier took from the pouch two or three links of a worthless iron chain. "when thou hast no coin, lad, let thy purse jingle loudest. 'twill serve many a purpose." "but if you could not buy a dinner," said hal, smiling, "how did you buy your way into the playhouse?" "why, body of me," replied bottle, struggling for a moment with a slight embarrassment, "the mind, look you, the mind calls for food, no less than the belly. could i satisfy both with a sixpence? no. what should it be, then? beef and beer for the belly? or a sight of the new play, to feed the mind withal? thou know'st kit bottle, lad. though he hath followed the wars, and cut his scores of spanish throats, and hath no disdain of beef and beer, neither, yet as the mind is the better part--" moved at thought of the hungry old soldier's last sixpence having gone for the play, to the slighting of his stomach, hal instantly pulled out what remained of his salary for the previous week, about five shillings in amount, and handed over two shillings sixpence, saying: "i can but halve with thee, kit. the other half is owed." "nay, lad," said kit, after a swift glance around to see if the transaction was observed by the host or the drawers, "i'll never rob thee, persuade me as thou wilt. two shillings i'll take, not a farthing more. thou'rt a heart of gold, lad. to-morrow i'll pay thee, an i have to pawn my sword! to-morrow, as i'm a soldier! trust old kit!" and the captain, self-styled, in great haste now that he had got the coin, strode rapidly from the place. hal marryott proceeded to the room where his fellow actors were. his cup of canary was already waiting for him on the table around which the players sat. "what, hal," cried sly, "is it some state affair that bottle hath let thee into?" "i like the old swaggerer," said hal, evading the question. "he hath taught me the best of what swordsmanship i know. he is no counterfeit soldier, 'tis certain; and he hath a pride not found in common rogues." "i think he is in hard ways," put in laurence fletcher, the manager, "for all his jingle of coin. i saw him to-day lurking about the door of the theatre, now and again casting a wishful glance within, and then scanning the people as they came up, as if to find some friend who would pay for him. so at last i bade him come in free for the nonce. you should have seen how he took it." "i warrant his face turned from winter to summer, in a breath," said mr. shakespeare. "would the transformation were as easily wrought in any man!" a winter indeed seemed to have settled upon his own heart, for this was the time, not only when his friends of the essex faction were suffering, but also when the affair of the "dark lady," in which both southampton and the earl of pembroke were involved with himself, had reached its crisis. hal smiled inwardly to think how bottle had seized the occasion to touch a player's feelings by appearing to have spent his last sixpence for the play; and forgave the lie, in admiration of the pride with which the ragged warrior had concealed his poverty from the others. as hal replaced his remaining three shillings in his pocket, his fingers met something hairy therein, which he had felt also in taking the coin out. he drew it forth to see what it was, and recognized the beard he had worn as the elderly lord. he then remembered to have picked it up from the stage, where it had accidentally fallen, and to have thrust it into his pocket in his haste to leave the theatre and see if the girl in murrey was still about. he now put it back into his pocket. after the wine had gone round three times, the players left the falcon, to walk from the region of playhouses and bear-gardens to the city, preferring to use their legs rather than go by water from the falcon stairs. they went eastward past taverns, dwelling-houses, the town palace of the bishop of winchester, and the fine church of st. mary overie, to the street then called long southwark; turned leftward to london bridge, and crossed between the tall houses of rich merchants, mercers, and haberdashers, that of old were built thereon. the river's roar, through the arches beneath, required the players to shout when they talked, in crossing. continuing northward and up-hill, past the taverns and fish-market of new fish street, their intention being to go at once to the mermaid, they heeded master condell's suggestion that they tarry on the way for another drink or two; and so turned into eastcheap, the street of butchers' shops, and thence into the boar's head tavern, on the south side of the way. on entering a public parlor, the first person they saw was captain bottle, sitting at a table. on the stool opposite him was a young man in a gay satin doublet and red velvet cloak, and with an affected air of self-importance and worldly experience. this person and the captain were engaged in throwing dice, in the intervals of eating. "what, old rook--captain, i mean," called out mr. sly; "must ever be shaking thine elbow, e'en 'twixt the dishes at thy supper?" "an innocent game, sir," said kit, promptly, concealing his annoyance from his companion. "no money risked, worth speaking of. god's body, doth a sixpence or two signify?" and he continued throwing the dice, manifestly wishing the actors would go about their business. "'tis true, when captain bottle plays, it cannot be called gaming," said master condell. "he means," explained bottle to his companion, in a confidential tone, "that i am clumsy with the dice. a mere child, beshrew me else! a babe in swaddling clothes! 'tis by the most marvellous chance i've been winning from you, these few minutes. 'twill come your way soon, and you'll turn my pockets inside out. pray wait for me a moment, while i speak to these gentlemen. we have business afoot together." kit thereupon rose, strode over to the players, drew them around him, and said, in a low tone: "what, boys, will ye spoil old kit's labor? will ye scare that birdling away? will ye keep money from the needy? this gull is clad in coin, he is lined with it, he spits it, he sweats it! he is some country beau, the dandy of some market town, the son of some rustical justice, the cock of some village. he comes up to london once a year, sees a little of the outside of our life here, thinks he plays the mad rascal in a tavern or two, and goes home to swagger it more than ever in his village, with stories of the wickedness he hath done in london. an i get not his money, others will, and worse men,--and, perchance, leave him in a worse condition." "we shall leave him to thy mercy, and welcome. kit," said mr. shakespeare. "he shall never know thy tricks from us. come our ways, lads. these village coxcombs ought to pay something for their egregious vanity and ignorance. this fellow will have the less means of strutting it in the eyes of the louts, when kit hath had his way." the poet was doubtless thinking of the original of his justice shallow.[7] so the players went on to another room, hal remaining to say in kit's ear: "i knew fellows like this ere i came from the country, and how they prated of london, and of their wildness here. gull such, if thou must be a cheater." "cheater," echoed kit. "nay, speak not the word as if it smelt so bad. should a man resign his faculties and fall back on chance? do we leave things to chance in war? do we not use our skill there, and every advantage god hath given us? is not a game a kind of mimic war, and shall not a man use skill and stratagem in games? go to, lad. am i a common coney-catcher? do i cheat with a gang? do i consort with gull-gropers? an this rustic hath any trick worth two of mine, is he not welcome to play it?"[8] whereupon kit, making no allusion to the borrowed two shillings, although he had already won several times two shillings from the country fopling, returned to the latter and the dice, while hal joined his own party. the sight of savory pastry and the smell of fish a-cooking had made some of the players willing to stay and sup at the boar's head; but shakespeare reminded them that mr. burbage was to meet them at the mermaid later. so they rose presently to set forth, all of them, and especially hal marryott, the warmer in head and heart for the wine they had taken. hal had become animated and talkative. a fuller and keener sense of things possessed him,--of the day's success, of his own share therein, of the merits of his companions and himself, and of the charms of the lady in murrey and gray. so rich and vivid became his impression of the unknown beauty, that there began to be a seeming as if she were present in spirit. it was as if her immaterial presence pervaded the atmosphere, as if she overheard the talk that now rattled from him, as if her fine eyes were looking from gothic church windows and the overhanging gables of merchants' houses, while he walked on with the players in the gathering dusk of evening. the party went westward, out of eastcheap, past london stone in candlewick street, through budge row and watling street, and northward into bread street. the last was lined with inns and taverns, and into one of the latter, on the west side of the street, near "golden cheapside," the actors finally strode. its broad, plastered, pictured front was framed and intersected by heavy timbers curiously carved, and the great sign that hung before it was the figure of a mermaid in the waves. the tavern stood a little space back from the street, toward which its ground-floor casements projected far out; and, in addition to its porched front entrance, it had passageways at side and rear, respectively from cheapside and friday street.[9] the long room to which the players ascended had a blaze already in the fireplace (chimneys having become common during the later tudor reigns), a great square oak table, a few armchairs, some benches, and several stools. the tapestry on the walls was new, for the defeat of the spanish armada, which it portrayed, had occurred but a dozen years before. ere the actors were seated, lighted candles had been brought, and master heminge had stepped into the kitchen to order a supper little in accord with the season (it was now lent) or with the statutes, but obtainable by the privileged,--ribs of beef, capon, sauces, gravies, custard, and other trifles, with a bit of fish for the scrupulous. for players are hungriest after a performance, and there have ever been stomachs least fishily inclined on fish-days, as there are always throats most thirsty for drink where none is allowed; and the hostess of the mermaid was evidently of a mind with dame quickly, who argued, "what's a joint of mutton or two in a whole lent?"[10] after their walk in the raw air, and regardless of the customary order at meals, the players made a unanimous call for mulled sack. the drawer, who had come at their bidding without once crying "anon," used good haste to serve it. "times have changed," said mr. shakespeare, having hung up cloak, hat, and short rapier, and leaning back in his chair, with a relish of its comfort after a day of exertion and tension. "'tis not so long since there were ever a dozen merry fellows to sup with us when we came from the play." "'tis strange we see nothing of raleigh," said sly, standing by the carved chimneypiece, and stretching his hands out over the fire. "nay, 'twould be stranger an he came to meet us now," said laurence fletcher, "after his show of joy at the earl's beheading." the allusion was to raleigh's having witnessed from a window in the tower the death of his great rival, essex. "nay," said shakespeare, "though he was a foe to essex, who was of our patrons, sir walter is no enemy to us. i dare swear he hath stood our advocate at court in our present disfavor. but while our friends of one side are now in prison or seclusion, those of the other side stand aloof from us. and for our player-fellowship, as rivalry among the great hath made bitter haters, so hath competition among actors and scribblers spoilt good comradeship." "thou'rt thinking how brawny ben used to sit with us at this table," said sly. "and wishing he sat here again," said shakespeare. "tut," said condell, "he is happier at the devil tavern, where his heavy wisdom hath no fear of being put out of countenance by thy sharper wit. will." "a pox on ben jonson for a surly, envious dog!" exclaimed laurence fletcher. "i marvel to hear thee speak kindly of him, will. after thy soliciting us to play his comedy, for him to make a mock of thee and our other writers, in the silly pedantic stuff those brats squeak out at the blackfriars!" master fletcher was, evidently, easily heated on the subject of the satirical pieces written by jonson for the chapel royal boys to play at the blackfriars theatre, in which the globe plays were ridiculed.[11] "a pox on him, i say, and his tedious 'humors!'" whereupon master fletcher turned his attention to the beef, which had just arrived. "nay," said shakespeare, "his merit hath had too slow a greeting, and too scant applause. so the wit in him hath soured a little,--as wine too long kept exposed, for want of being in request." "well," cried hal marryott, warmed by copious draughts of the hot sugared sack, "may i never drink again but of hell flame, nor eat but at the devil's own table, if aught ever sour _me_ to such ingratitude for thy beneficence, master shakespeare!" "go to, harry! i have not benefited thee, nor ben jonson neither." "never, indeed! god wot!" exclaimed hal, spearing with his knife-point a slice of beef, to convey it from his platter to his mouth (forks were not known in england till ten years later). "to open thy door to a gentleman just thrown out of an ale-house, to feed him when he hath not money to pay for a radish, to lodge him when he hath not right of tenure to a dung-hill,--these are no benefits, forsooth." "was that thy condition, then, when he took thee as coadjutor?" fletcher asked, a little surprised. "that and worse," answered hal. "hath mr. shakespeare never told you?" "never but thou wert a gentleman desirous of turning player. let's hear it, an thou wilt." "ay, let us!" cried heminge and condell; and sly added: "for a player to turn gentleman is nothing wonderful now, but that a gentleman should turn player hath puzzled me."[12] "why," quoth harry, now vivacious with wine, and quite ready to do most of the talking, "you shall see how a gentleman might easily have turned far worse than player. 'twas when i was newly come to london, in 1598, not three years ago. ye've all heard me tell of the loss of mine estate in oxfordshire, through the deviltry of the law and of my kinsman. when my cousin took possession, he would have got me provided for at one of the universities, to be rid of me; but i had no mind to be made a poor scholar of; for, look you, my bringing up in my father's house had been fit for a nobleman's son. i knew my latin and my lute, could hunt and hawk with any, and if i had no practice at tilt and tourney, i made up for that lack by my skill with the rapier. well, just when i should have gone to italy. germany, and france, for my education, my father died, and my mother; and i was turned out of house, wherefore i say, a curse on all bribe-taking judges and unnatural kin! i told my cousin what he might do with the dirty scholarship he offered me, and a pox on it! and swore i would hang for a thief ere i would take anything of his giving. all that i had in the world was a horse, the clothes on my body,--for i would not go back to his house for others, having once left it,--my rapier and dagger, and a little purse of crowns and angels. there was but one friend whom i thought it would avail me to seek, and to his house i rode, in hertfordshire. he was a catholic knight, whose father had sheltered my grandfather, a protestant, in the days of queen mary, and now went i to him, to make myself yet more his debtor in gratitude. though he had lived most time in france, since the babington conspiracy, he now happened to be at home; yet he could do nothing for me, his estate being sadly diminished, and he about to sail again for the country where catholics are safer. but he gave me a letter to my lord of essex, by whom, as by my father, he was no less loved for being a catholic. when i read the letter, i thought my fortune made. to london i rode, seeing myself already high in the great earl's service. at the bell, in carter lane, i lodged, and so gleesome a thing it was to me to be in london, so many were the joys to be bought here, so gay the taverns, so irresistible the wenches, that ere ever i found time to present my letter to the earl i had spent my angels and crowns, besides the money i had got for my horse in smithfield. but i was easy in mind. my lord would assuredly take me into his house forthwith, on reading my friend's letter. the next morning, as i started for essex house, a gentleman i had met in the taverns asked me if i had heard the news. i had not; so he told me. my lord of essex had yesterday turned his back on the queen, and clapped his hand upon his sword,--you remember the time, masters--" "ay," said sly. "the queen boxed his ears for it. the dispute was over the governorship of ireland." "my lord was in disgrace," hal went on, "and like to be charged with high treason. so little i knew of court matters, i thought this meant his downfall, and that the letter, if seen, might work only to my prejudice and my friend's. so i burned it at the tavern fire, and wondered what a murrain to do. i went to lodge in honey lane, pawned my weapons, then my cloak, and finally the rest of my clothes, having bought rags in houndsditch in the meantime. rather than go back to oxfordshire i would have died in the street, and was like to do so, at last; for my host, having asked for his money one night when i was drunk and touchy, got such an answer that he and his drawer cudgelled me and threw me out. so bruised i was, that i could scarce move; but i got up, and walked to the conduit in cheapside. there i lay down, full of aches; and then was it that mr. shakespeare, returning late from the tavern, happened to step on me as i lay blocking the way. what it was that moved him to stop and examine me, i know not. but, having done so, he led me to his lodgings in st. helen's; whence, for one in my condition, it was truly no downward step to the playhouse stage,--and thankful was i when he offered me that step!" "i perceived from the manner of thy groan, when i trod on thee, 'twas no common vagabond under foot," said shakespeare. later in the evening, mr. burbage came in, not to eat, for he had already supped at his house in holywell street, shoreditch, but to join a little in the drinking. the room was now full of tobacco smoke, for most of the players had set their pipes a-going. mr. shakespeare did not smoke; but hal marryott, as a youth who could let no material joy go by untasted, was as keen a judge of trinidado or nicotian as any sea-dog from "the americas." "'tis how many hundred years, will, since this prince hamlet lived?" said heminge, the talk having led thereto; and he went on, not waiting for answer, "yet to-day we players bring him back to life, and make him to be remembered." "ay," replied shakespeare, "many a dead and rotten king oweth a resurrection and posthumous fame to some ragged scholar or some poor player." "and we players," said burbage, with a kind of sigh, "who make dead men remembered, are by the very nature of our craft doomed to be forgot. who shall know our very names, three poor hundred years hence?" "why," said condell, "our names might live by the printing of them in the books of the plays we act in; a printed book will last you a long time." "not such books as these thievish printers make of our plays," said sly, himself a writer of plays. "marry, i should not wish long life to their blundering, distorted versions of any play i had a hand in making," said shakespeare. "but consider," said condell; "were a decent printing made of all thy plays, will, all in one book, from the true manuscripts we have at the theatre, and our names put in the book, dick's name at the head, then might not our names live for our having acted in thy plays?" mr. burbage smiled amusedly, but said nothing, and shakespeare answered: "'twould be a dead kind of life for them, methinks; buried in dusty, unsold volumes in the book-sellers' shops in paul's churchyard." "nay, i would venture something," said master heminge, thoughtfully, "that a book of _thy_ plays were sure to be opened." "ay, that some shopman's 'prentice might tear out the leaves, to wrap fardels withal," said shakespeare. "three hundred years, dick said. 'tis true, books of the ancients have endured to this day; but if the world grows in learning as it hath in our own time, each age making its own books, and better and wiser ones, what readers shall there be, think you, in the year of our lord 1900, for the rude stage-plays of will shakespeare, or even for his poems, that be writ with more care?" "'twould be strange, indeed," said burbage, "that a player should be remembered after his death, merely for his having acted in some certain play or set of plays." he did not add, but did he think, that will shakespeare's plays were more like to be remembered, if at all, for mr. burbage's having acted in them?[13] "why art thou silent, lad," said shakespeare to hal marryott, by way of changing the subject, "and thy gaze lost in thy clouds of smoke, as if thou sawest visions there?" "i' faith, i do see a vision there," said harry, now in the enraptured stage of wine, and eager to unbosom himself. "would i were a poet, like thee, that i might describe it. ye gods, what a face! the eyes have burned into my heart. cupid hath made swift work of me!" "why, this must be since yesterday," said sly. "since four o' the clock to-day," cried hal. "then thou canst no more than have seen her," remarked fletcher. "to see her was to worship her. drink with me to her eyes, an ye love me, masters!" "to her nose also, and mouth and cheeks and ears, an thou wilt," said sly, suiting action to word. "don't think this is love in thee, lad," said fletcher. "love is of slower growth." "then all our plays are wrong," said sly. "why, certes, it may be love," said shakespeare. "love is a flame of this fashion: the first sight of a face will kindle it in shape of a spark. an there be no further matter to fan and feed the spark withal, 'twill soon die, having never been aught but a spark, keen though its scorch for a time; a mere seedling of love, a babe smothered at birth. but an there be closer commerce, to give fuel and breeze to the spark, it shall grow into flame, a flame, look you, that with proper feeding shall endure forever, like sacred fires judiciously replenished and maintained; but too much fuel, or too little, or a change in the wind, will smother it, or starve it, or violently put it out. harry hath the spark well lighted, as his raving showeth, and whether it shall soon burn out, or wax into a blaze, lies with future circumstance." harry declared that, if not otherwise fed, it would devour himself. thereupon master sly suggested drowning it in sack; and one would have thought hal was trying to do so. but the more he drank, the more was he engulfed in ideas of her who had charmed him. still having a kind of delusion that she was in a manner present, he discoursed as if for her to overhear. ere he knew it, the other players were speaking of bed. mr. burbage had already slipped out to fulfil some mysterious engagement for the night within the city, which matter, whatever it was, had been the cause of his coming after supper from his home beyond the bars of bishopsgate street without the walls. master heminge's apprentices (for master heminge was a grocer as well as an actor) had come to escort him and master condell to their houses in aldermanbury; and sturdy varlets were below to serve others of the company in like duty. at this late hour such guards against robbers were necessary in london streets. but harry, who then lodged in the same house with mr. shakespeare, in st. helen's, bishopsgate,[14] was not yet for going home. he would make the cannikin clink for some hours more. knowing the lad's ways, and his ability to take care of himself, mr. shakespeare left him to his desires; and at last harry had no other companion than will sly, who still had head and stomach for another good-night flagon or two. when sly in turn was shaky on his legs and half asleep, harry accompanied him and his man to their door, reluctantly saw it close upon them, and then, solitary in night-wrapped london, looked up and down the narrow street, considering which way to roam in search of congenial souls, minded, like himself, to revel out the merry hours of darkness. he loathed the thought of going to bed yet, and would travel far to find a fellow wassailer. his three shillings--though that sum then would buy more than a pound buys to-day--had gone at the mermaid. he bethought himself of the taverns at which he might have credit. the list not offering much encouragement, he at last started off at random, leaving events to chance. plunging and swaying, rather than walking, he traversed a few streets, aimlessly turning what corners presented themselves. the creaking of the signs overhead in the wind mingled with the more mysterious sounds of the night. once he heard a sudden rush of feet from a narrow lane, and instantly backed against a doorway, whipping out rapier and dagger. two gaunt, ill-looking rascals, disclosed by a lantern hanging from an upper window, stood back and inspected him a moment; then, probably considering him not worth the risk, vanished into the darkness whence they had emerged. more roaming brought hal into paternoster row, and thence into ave maria lane, giving him an occasional glimpse at the left, between houses, of the huge bulk of st. paul's blotting darkly a darkness of another tone. at ludgate, boldly passing himself off upon the blinking watchman as a belated page of sir robert cecil's, he got himself let through, when he ought to have been taken before the constable as a night-walker; and so down the hill he went into fleet street. the taverns were now closed for the night to all outward appearance, the bells of bow and other churches having rung the curfew some hours since,--at nine o'clock. but hal knew that merriment was awake behind more than one cross-barred door-post or red lattice; and he tried several doors, but in vain. at last he found himself under the sign of the devil, on the south side of the street, close to temple bar. there was likelihood that ben jonson might be there, for ben also was a fellow of late hours. hal's heart suddenly warmed toward master jonson; he forgot the satire on the globe plays, the apparent ingratitude to shakespeare, and thought only of the convivial companion. much knocking on the door brought a servant of the tavern, by whom hal, learning that master jonson was indeed above, sent up his name. he was at length admitted, and found his way to a large room in which he beheld the huge form and corrugated countenance of him he sought. master jonson filled a great chair at one side of a square table, and was discoursing to a group of variously attired gentlemen. temple students, and others, this audience being in all different stages of wine. he greeted master hal in a somewhat severe yet paternal manner, beckoned him to his chair-side, and inquired in an undertone how mr. shakespeare fared. manifestly the "war of the theatres," as it was called, had not destroyed the private esteem between the two dramatists. hal's presence caused the talk to fall, in time, upon the new "hamlet," which some of the then present members of the tribe of ben had seen. one young gentleman of the temple, in the insolent stage of inebriety, spoke sneeringly of the play; whereupon hal answered hotly. both flashed out rapiers at the same instant, and as the table was between them hal leaped upon it, to reach more quickly his opponent. only the prompt action of master jonson, who mounted the table, making it groan beneath his weight, and thrust himself between the two, cut short the brawl. but now, each antagonist deeming himself the aggrieved person, and the templar being upheld by several of the company, and a great noise of tongues arising, and the host running in to suppress the tumult, it was considered advisable to escort master marryott from the place. he was therefore hustled out by master jonson, the host, and a tapster; and so found himself eventually in the street, the door barred against him. he then perceived that he was without his rapier. it had been wrested from him at the first interference with the quarrel. wishing to recover it, and in a wrathful spirit, he pounded on the door with his dagger hilt, and called out loudly for the return of his weapon; but his efforts being misinterpreted, he was left to pound and shout in vain. baffled and enraged, he started back toward ludgate, with some wild thought of enlisting a band of ruffians to storm the tavern. but the wine had now got so complete possession of him that, when a figure emerging from water lane bumped heavily against him, all memory of the recent incident was knocked out of his mind. "what in the fiend's name--"grumbled the newcomer; then suddenly changed his tone. "why, od's-body, 'tis master marryott! well met, boy! here be thy two shillings, and never say kit bottle payeth not his debts. i've just been helping my friend to his lodging here at the sign of the hanging sword. 'twas the least i could do for him. art for a merry night of it, my bawcock? come with me to turnbull street. there be a house there, where i warrant a welcome to any friend of kit bottle's. i've been out of favor there of late, but now my pockets sing this tune" (he rattled the coin in them), "and arms will be open for us." rejoiced at this encounter, hal took the captain's arm, and strode with him through shoe lane, across holborn bridge, through cow lane, past the pens of smithfield, and so--undeterred by sleeping watchmen or by the post-and-chain bar--into turnbull street.[15] kit knocked several times at the door of one of the forward-leaning houses, before he got a response. then a second-story casement was opened, and a hoarse female voice asked who was below. "what, canst not see 'tis old kit, by the flame of his nose?" replied the captain. the woman told him to wait a minute, and withdrew from the window. "see, lad," whispered bottle, "'tis late hours when kit bottle can't find open doors. to say true, i was afeard my welcome here might be a little halting; but it seems old scores are forgot. we shall be merry here, hal!" a sudden splash at their very feet made them start back and look up at the window. a pair of hands, holding an upturned pail, was swiftly drawn back, and the casement was then immediately closed. bottle smothered an oath. "wert caught in any of that shower, lad?" he asked hal. "'scaped by an inch," said hal, with a hiccough. "marry, is this thy welcome?" kit's wrath against the inmates of the house now exploded. calling them "scullions," "scavengers," and names still less flattering, he began kicking and hammering on the door as if to break it down. moved by the spirit of violence, hal joined him in this demonstration. the upper windows opened, and voices began screaming "murder!" and "thieves!" in a short time several denizens of the neighborhood--which was a neighborhood of nocturnal habits--appeared in the street. seeing how matters stood, they fell upon kit and hal, mauling the pair with fists, and tearing off their outer garments. soon a cry went up, "the watch!" whereupon hal, with memories of restraint and inconvenience to which he had once before been put, called upon kit to follow, and made a dash toward the end of the street. he speedily was out of pursuit, and the sound of bottle's voice growling out objurgations, close behind him, satisfied him that the old soldier was at his heels. hal, therefore, ran on, making no impediment of the bars, and passed the pens without slack of speed. stopping in cow lane he looked back, and to his surprise saw that he was now quite alone. he went immediately back over his tracks in search of bottle, but found no one. turnbull street had subsided into its former outward appearance of desertion. thinking that bottle might have passed him in the darkness, hal returned southward. when he arrived in fleet street he retained but a confused, whirling recollection of what had occurred. yet his mood was still for company and carouse. with great joy, therefore, he observed that a humble little ale-house to which he sometimes resorted, near fleet bridge, was opening for the day, as dawn was appearing. he went in and ordered wine. the tapster, who knew him, remarked with astonishment that he was without hat or cloak; and the morning being very cold, and hal unlikely to meet any person of quality at that hour, the fellow offered him a surcoat and cap, such as were worn by apprentices, to protect him from chill on the way homeward. hal, who was now half comatose, passively let himself be thus fortified against the weather. with the sum repaid him by bottle he was able to buy good cheer; his only lack was of company to share it with. he could not hope at this hour to fall in with another late-hour man; it was now time for the early rising folk to be abroad. in from the street came half a dozen hardy looking fellows, calling for beer to be quickly drawn, as they had far to go to their work. their dress was of leather and coarse cloth, and the tools they carried were those of carpenters. but to hal, who now saw things vaguely, they were but fellow mortals, and thirsty. he welcomed them with a flourish and an imperative invitation to drink. this they readily accepted, grinning the while with boorish amusement. when they perforce departed, hal, unwilling to lose new-found company so soon, attached himself to them; and was several times hindered from dragging them into taverns as they passed, by their promise, given with winks invisible to him, that they would drink on arriving at their destination. so he went, upheld between a pair of them, and heeding not the way they took. though it was now daylight, he was past recognizing landmarks. he had the dimmest sense of passing a succession of walled and turreted mansions at his left hand; then of catching glimpses of more open and park-like spaces at his right hand; of going, in a grave kind of semi-stupor, through two gateways and as many courtyards; of being passed on, with the companions to whom he clung, by dull warders, and by a busy, inattentive, pompous man of authority to whom his comrades reported in a body; of traversing with them, at last, a passage and a kind of postern, and emerging in a great garden. here the carpenters seemed to become sensible of having committed a serious breach in sportively letting him be admitted as one of their own band. they held a brief consultation, looking around in a half frightened way to see if they were observed. they finally led him into an alley, formed by hedgerows, deposited him gently on the ground, and hastened off to another part of the garden. once recumbent, he turned upon his side and went instantly to sleep. when he awoke, several hours later, without the least knowledge what garden was this to which his eyes opened, or the least recollection how he had come into it, he saw, looking down at him in mild surprise, a slight, yellow-haired, pale-faced, high-browed, dark-eyed, elderly lady, with a finely curved nose, a resolute mouth, and a sharp chin, and wearing a tight-bodied, wide-skirted costume of silvered white velvet and red silk, with a gold-laced, ermine-trimmed mantle, and a narrow, peaked velvet hat. hal, in his first bewilderment, wondered where it was that he had previously seen this lady. "madam," he said, in a voice husky with cold, "i seem to be an intruder. by your favor, what place is this?" the lady looked at him sharply for a moment, then answered, simply: "'tis the garden of whitehall palace. who are you?" hal suppressed a startled exclamation. he remembered now where he had seen the lady: 'twas at the christmas court performances. he flung into a kneeling posture, at her small, beribboned, cloth-shod feet. "i am your majesty's most loyal, most worshipful subject," he said. "and what the devil are you doing here?" asked queen elizabeth. chapter iii. queen and woman. "and commanded by such poor passion as the maid that milks." --_antony and cleopatra._ though queen elizabeth often swore at her ladies and her favorite lords, it is not to be supposed that she would ordinarily address a stranger in such terms as she used but now toward master marryott.[16] nor was it the surprise of finding asleep in her garden a youth, wearing an apprentice's surcoat over a gentleman's velvet doublet,--for hal had moved in his sleep so as to disclose part of the doublet,--and silken hose, that evoked so curt an expression. neither was it the possibility that the intruder might be another capt. thomas leigh, who had been found lurking in the palace, near the door of the privy chamber, a day or two after the essex rising, and had been subsequently put to death. had a thought of assassination taken any root in the queen's mind at sight of the slumbering youth, she would, doubtless, have behaved as on a certain occasion at the time of the babington conspiracy; when, walking in her garden, and being suddenly approached by one of the conspirators, and finding none of her guards within sight, she held the intruder in so intrepid a look that he shrank back--and the captain of her guard did not soon forget the rating she afterward gave him for that she had been left thus exposed. but on the present occasion she herself had petulantly ordered back the little train of gentlemen and ladies in waiting, guards, and pages, who would have followed her into the alley where she now was. they stood in separate groups, beyond the tall hedge, out of view but not out of call, and wondering what had put her majesty this morning into such a choleric desire for solitude. for that is what she was in, and what made her words to hal so unlike those commonly used by stage royalty at the theatre. what the devil _was_ he doing there? hal asked himself, as he gazed helplessly up at the queen. "i know not," he faltered. "i mean, i have no memory of coming hither. but 'tis not the first time, your majesty, i have waked up in a strange place and wondered at being there. i--i drank late last night." he put his hand to his aching head, in a manner that unconsciously confirmed his confession; and then he looked at his coarse surcoat with an amazement that the queen could not doubt. "what is your name?" asked the queen, who seemed to have her own reason for interrogating him quietly herself, instead of calling a guard and turning him over to some officer for examination. "harry marryott, an it please your majesty. a player in the lord chamberlain's company, though a gentleman by birth." elizabeth frowned slightly at the mention of the lord chamberlain's company; but a moment after, strange to say, there came into her face the sign of a sudden secret hope and pleasure. "being one of those players," said she, "you are well-wisher to the foolish men who partook in the late treason?" she watched narrowly for his answer. "not well-wisher to their treason, madam, i swear!" "but to themselves?" "as to men who have been our friends, we wish some of them whatever good may consist with your majesty's own welfare, which is the welfare of england, the happiness of your subjects. but that wish makes no diminution of our loyalty, which for myself i would give my life for a chance of proving." he found it not difficult to talk to this queen, so human was she, so outright, direct, and to the point. "why," she replied, in a manner half careless, half significant, as if she were trying her way to some particular issue, "who knows but you may yet have that chance, and at the same time fulfil a kind wish toward one of those misguided plotters. an you were to be trusted--but nay, your presence here needs some accounting for. dig your memory, man; knock your brains, and recall how you came hither. tis worth while, youth, for you doubtless know what is supposed of men found unaccountably near our person, and what end is made of them." hal was horrified and heartstricken. "madam," he murmured, "if my queen, who is the source and the object of all chivalrous thoughts in every gentleman's breast in england, one moment hold it possible that i am here for any purpose against her, let me die! call guards, your majesty, and have me slain!" "nay," said elizabeth, convinced and really touched by his feeling, "i spoke not of what i thought, but of what others might infer. now that i perceive your quality, it hath come to me that you might serve me in a business that needs such a man,--a man not known at court, and whom it would appear impossible i could have given audience to. indeed, i was pondering on the difficulty of finding such a man in the time afforded, and in no very sweet humor either, when the sight of you broke in upon my thoughts." "to serve your majesty in any business would be my supremest joy," said hal, eagerly--and truly. his feeling in this was that of all young english gentlemen of his time. "but this tells me not how came you into my private garden," said her majesty. "i remember some dispute at the devil tavern," replied harry, searching his memory. "and roaming the streets with one captain bottle, and being chased out of some neighborhood or other--and there i lose myself. it seems as if i went lugging forward through the streets, holding to an arm on either side, and then plunged quite out of this world, into cloud, or blackness, or nothing. why, it is strange--meseems yonder workman, at the end of this alley, had some part in my goings last night." the workman was a carpenter, engaged in erecting a wooden framework for an arched hedge that was to meet at right angles the alley in which the queen and harry were. the man's work had brought him but now into their sight. the queen, who on occasion could be the most ceremonial monarch in christendom, could, when necessary, be the most matter-of-fact. she now gave a "hem" not loud enough for her unseen attendants to hear, but sufficient to attract the carpenter's attention. he stood as if petrified, recognizing the queen, then fell upon knees that the presence of majesty had caused to quake. elizabeth motioned him to her, and he approached, walking on his knees, in expectation of being instantly turned over to a yeoman of the guard. hal himself remained in similar posture, which was the attitude elizabeth required of all who addressed her. "what know you of this young gentleman?" she asked the carpenter, in a tone that commanded like quietness in his manner of replying. the fellow cringed and shook, begged huskily for mercy, and said that he had meant no harm; explained incoherently that the young gentleman, having fallen in with the carpenters when in his cups, had come with them to whitehall in the belief that they were leading him to a drinking-place; that they had been curious to see his surprise when the porters, guards, or palace officers should confront him; that these functionaries had inattentively let him pass as one of the carpenters; that the carpenters had feared to disclaim him after having missed the proper moment for doing so. the fellow then began whimpering about his wife and eight children, who would starve if he were hanged or imprisoned. the queen cut him short by ordering that he and his comrades should say nothing of this young man's presence, as they valued their lives; hinted at dire penalties in case of any similar misdemeanor in future, and sent him back to his work. "god's death!" she then said to hal. "watchful porters and officers! i'll find those to blame, and they shall smart for their want of eyes. a glance at your hose and shoes, muddy though they be, would have made you out no workman. yet perchance i shall have cause not to be sorry for their laxity this once. if it be that you are the man to serve me, i shall think you god-sent to my hand, for god he knows 'twas little like i should find in mine own palace a man not known there, and whom it should not seem possible i might ever have talked withal! even had i sent for such an one, or had him brought to the palace for secret audience, there had needs been more trace left of my meeting him than there need be of my meeting you." hal perceived not why so absolute a monarch need conduct any matter darkly, or hide traces of her hand in it; but he said nothing, save that, if it might fall his happy lot to serve her, the gift from god would be to himself. as for the queen, she had already made up her mind that he should serve her. it must be he, or no one. she had come to the garden from her privy council, with a certain secret act in her mind, an act possible to her if the right agent could be found; but in despair of finding in the given time such an agent,--one through whom her own instigation of the act could never be traced by the smallest circumstance. here, as if indeed dropped from heaven, was a possible agent having that most needed, least expected, qualification. there need not remain the slightest credible evidence of his present interview with her. this qualification found so unexpectedly, without being sought, she was willing to risk that the young player possessed the other requisites, uncommon though they were. she believed he was loyal and chivalrous; therefore he would be as likely to keep her secret, at any hazard to himself, as to serve her with all zeal and with as much skill as he could command. by seeming to hold back her decision as to whether he might do her errand, she but gave that errand the more importance, and whetted his ambition to serve her in it. "there is much to be said," replied the queen, "and small time to say it in. 'tis already some minutes since i left my people without the hedge and came into this alley. they will presently think i am long meditating alone. they must not know i have seen you, or that you were here. so we must needs speak swiftly and quietly. as for those carpenters, who are all that know of your presence here. i have thrown that fellow into so great a fear, he and his mates will keep silence. now heed. my privy council hath evidence of a certain gentleman's part in the conspiracy of your friends who abetted the lord essex. 'tis evidence positive enough, and plenty enough, to take off his head, or twenty heads an he had them. he hath not the slightest knowledge that he is betrayed. 'tis very like he sits at home, in the country, thinking himself secure, while the warrant is being writ for his arrest. the pursuivant to execute the warrant is to set out with men this afternoon. so much delay have i contrived to cause." "delay, your majesty?" echoed hal, thinking he might have wrongly heard. "delay," repeated elizabeth, using for her extraordinary disclosures a quite ordinary tone. "i have delayed this messenger of the council for time to plan how the gentleman may escape before the arrest can be made." she waited a moment, till hal's look passed back from surprise to careful attention. "you wonder that a queen, who may command all, should use secret means in such a matter. you wonder that i did not put my prohibition, at the outset, on proceedings against this gentleman. or that i do not now order them stopped, by my sovereign right. or that i do not openly pardon him, now or later. you do not see, young sir, that sometimes a monarch, though all-powerful, may have reason to sanction or even command a thing, yet have deep-hidden reason why the thing should be undone." hal bowed. he had little knowledge, or curiosity, regarding the mysteries of state affairs, and easily believed that the general weal might be promoted by the queen's outwardly authorizing a subject's arrest, and then secretly compassing his escape. and yet he might have known that a tudor's motives in interfering with the natural course of justice were more likely to be private than public, and that a tudor's circumstances must be unusual indeed to call for clandestine means, rather than an arbitrary mandate, for such interference. it was not till long afterward that, by putting two and two together, he formed the theory which it is perhaps as well to set forth now, at the opening of our history. the essex conspiracy was not against the person or supremacy of the queen, but against her existing government, which the plotters hoped to set aside by making her temporarily a prisoner and forcing her decrees. they avowed the greatest devotion to her majesty's self. as a woman, she had little or no reason for bitter feelings against them. but the safety of the realm required that the principals should suffer. yet she might have pardoned her beloved essex, had she received the ring he sent her in claim of the promise of which it was the pledge.[17] but thinking him too proud even to ask the mercy he might have had of her, she let him die. as for his chief satellites, there were some for whom she cared nothing, some against whom there were old scores, and who might as well be dead or imprisoned as not, even were public policy out of the question. southampton, for one, had offended her by marrying, and had later been a cause of sharp passages between her and essex. but as to this mysterious gentleman, of whom she spoke to master marryott? he was one of those who had contrived to get safe away from london, and who felicitated themselves that there existed no trace of their connection with the plot, but against whom evidence had eventually arisen in private testimony before the council. of these men, it was decided by the council to make at least one capital example, and this particular gentleman was chosen, for his being a catholic as well as a conspirator. now the fact seems to have been that elizabeth, the woman, had softer recollections of this gentleman than elizabeth, the queen, was fain to acknowledge to third parties. he was not alone in this circumstance, but he differed from essex and other favored gentlemen in several particulars. being a catholic, he was not of the court. once, many years before this march day, the queen, while hunting, sought refuge at his house from a sudden storm. she prolonged her stay on pretexts, and then kept him in attendance during one of her journeyings. her association with him was conducted with unusual concealment. it was not violently broken off, nor carried on to satiety and natural death. it was merely interrupted and never resumed. thus it remained sweet in her memory, took on the soft, idealizing tones that time gives, and was now cherished in her heart as an experience apart from, and more precious than, all other such. it was the one serene, perfect love-poem of her life. the others had been stormy, and mixed with a great deal of prose. this one might have been written by mr. edmund spenser. and it was the dearer to her for its being a secret. no one had ever known of it but a tight-mouthed old manservant and a faithful maid of honor, the former now infirm, the latter dead. she could not endure to mar this, her pet romance, by letting its hero die when it was in her power to save him. she had never put forth her hand, nor had he asked her to do so, to shield him from the smaller persecutions to which his religion had exposed him from neighbors and judges and county officers, and which had forced him to live most of the time an exile in france. but death was another matter, a catastrophe she liked not to think of as overtaking him through operations she could control; and this was none the less true though she had no hope of ever meeting him again. moreover, this lover had upon her affection one claim that others had forfeited: he had never married.[18] that alone entitled him at this time, in her eyes, to a consideration not merited by essex or southampton. and, again, her fortitude had been so drawn upon in consigning essex to the block, that she had not sufficient left to tolerate the sacrifice of this other sharer of her heart. now that fortitude had been greatly, though tacitly, admired by the lords to whom she wished to appear the embodiment of regal firmness, and she could not bring herself to confess to them that it was exhausted, or unequal to the next demand upon it. more than ever, in these later days, she desired to appear strong against her inner feelings, or indeed to appear quite above such inner feelings as she had too often shown toward her favorite gentlemen. that she, the virgin queen, leader of her people, conqueress of the great armada, had entertained such feelings in the past, and been so foolish as to disclose them, was the greater reason why she now, when about to leave her final impression upon history, should seem proof against them. to refuse her sanction to the council's decision concerning this gentleman, when there was twofold political reason for that decision, and no political reason to interpose against it, would open the doors upon her secret. and she was as loath to expose her tenderly recollected love to be even suspected or guessed at, such was the ideal and sacred character it had taken in years of covert memory, as she was to be thought still prone to her old weakness. as for awaiting events and eventually saving the man by a pardon, such a course, in view of her having sanctioned the council's choice of him as an example, would disclose her as false to the council, and capricious beyond precedent, and would betray her secret as well.[19] so here was one case in which she dared not arbitrarily oppose the council's proceeding, though her old lover's arrest meant his conviction, as sure as verdict was ever decided ere judge and jury sat,--as verdicts usually were in the treason trials of that blessed reign. for her peace as a woman, she must prevent that arrest. for her reputation as a queen, she must seem to favor it, and the prevention must be secret. one weakness, the vanity of strength and resolution, required that the indulgence of another weakness, undue tenderness of heart toward a particular object, should be covert. the queen's right hand must not know what the woman's left hand did. to get time for a plan, as she told hal, she had requested that the pursuivant's men, while in quest of the gentleman, might bear letters to certain justices in his neighborhood; the preparation of these letters would delay, for a few hours, the departure of the warrant. for her purpose she needed a man of courage, adroitness, and celerity; one who would be loyal to the secret reposed in him alone; one so out of court circles, so far from access to or by herself, that if he ever should betray her part in his mission none would believe him; a man who would take it on faith, as hal really did, that deep state reasons dictated the nullification, secretly, of a proceeding granted openly,--for this strong queen would not have even the necessary confidant, any more than the lords of the council, suspect this weak woman. "the man who is my servant in this," went on the queen, "must seem to act entirely for himself, not for me. there must be no evidence of his having served me; so he will never receive the credit of this mission for his sovereign, save in that sovereign's thoughts alone." "where else should he seek it, your majesty?" replied hal, brought to this degree of unselfish chivalry by the influence of her presence. "where else, truly?" echoed the queen, with a faint smile. "and he must never look to me for protection, should he find himself in danger of prison or death, in consequence of this service. indeed, if pressure move him to say 'twas i commissioned him, i shall declare it a lie of malice or of deep design, meant to injure me." "your majesty shall not be put to that shift, an i be your happy choice for the business," said hal, thrilling more and more devotedly to the task as it appeared the more perilous and rewardless. "you will be required to go from london," continued the queen, forgetting her pretence that he was not yet certainly her choice for the errand, "and to give your friends good reason for your absence." "'twill be easy," replied the player. "our company goes travelling next week. i can find necessity for preceding them. one master crowe can play my parts till i fall in with them again." "even this gentleman," resumed the queen, after a moment's thought, and a consultation with pride and prudence, "must not know whom you obey in saving him. your knowledge of his danger must seem to have come through spy work, or treachery in the palace, and your zeal for his safety must appear to spring from your friendship for the essex party. the gentleman's mansion is near welwyn, in hertfordshire. he is a knight, one sir valentine fleetwood." hal suppressed a cry. "why, then," he said, "i can truly appear to act for myself in saving him. he is my friend, my benefactor; his father saved my grandfather's life in the days of papistry. i shall not be put to the invention of false reasons for saving sir valentine. there is reason enough in friendship and gratitude. i knew not he was back in england." "that is well," said elizabeth, checking a too hearty manifestation of her pleasure at the coincidence. "now hear what you shall do. the pursuivant who is to apprehend him will ride forth this afternoon at about three o' the clock, with a body of men. you must set out earlier, arrive at fleetwood house before them, warn sir valentine that they are coming, persuade him to fly, whether he will or no, and in every possible manner aid and hasten his safe departure from the country." hal bowed. his look betrayed some disappointment, as if the business were neither as difficult nor as dangerous as he had looked for. the queen smiled. "you think it a tame and simple matter," she said. "a mere business of fast riding 'twixt london and welwyn, and thence to a seaport. but allow for the unexpected, young sir, which usually befalleth! suppose impediments hinder you, as they hinder many on shorter journeys. or suppose sir valentine be not at home when you arrive, and require seeking lest he by chance fall in with the pursuivant ere you meet him. suppose he be not of a mind to fly the country, but doubt your warning, or choose to stay and risk trial rather than invite outlawry and confiscation. suppose, in aiding him, you encounter the pursuivant and his men.[20] 'twill be your duty to resist them to the utmost, even with your life. and should you be overcome and taken, you know what are the penalties of resisting officers on the queen's business, and of giving aid to her enemies. this business will make you as much a traitor, by statute, as sir valentine himself. remember, if you be taken i shall not interfere in your behalf. it shall be that i know naught of you, and that i hold your act an impudent treason against myself, and call for your lawful death. so think not 'tis some holiday riding i send you on; and go not lightly as 'twere a-maying. be ready for grave dangers and obstructions. look to't ye be not taken! perchance your own safety may yet lie in other countries for a time, ere all is done. look for the unexpected, i tell you." "i shall be heedful, your majesty. i crave your pardon,--'tis shame i must confess it,--there will be horses to obtain, and other matters; i lack means--" "by god's light, 'tis well i came by a purse-full this morning, and forgetfully bore it with me, having much on my mind," said elizabeth, detaching a purse from her girdle and handing it to hal. "i'm not wont of late to go so strong in purse.[21] pour these yellow pieces into your pocket--no need to count--and leave but two or three to make some noise withal." when hal had obeyed her, she took back the purse and replaced it at her girdle. "use what you need in the necessary costs; supply sir valentine an he require money, and let the rest be payment to yourself. nay, 'twill be small enough, god's name! yet i see no more reward for you--until all be smoothly done, and time hath passed, and you may find new access to me in other circumstance. then i shall remember, and find way of favoring you." hal thereupon had vague, distant visions of himself as a gentleman pensioner, and as a knight, and as otherwise great; but he said only: "the trust you place in me is bounteous reward, your majesty!" to which her majesty replied: "bid yon carpenter lead you from the garden by private ways, that you may pass out as you entered, in the guise of a workman. lose no time, thenceforth,--and god bless thee, lad!" hal was in the seventh heaven. she had actually thee'd him! and now she held out her hand, which he, on his knees, touched with reverential lips. it was a shapely, beautiful hand, even to the last of the queen's days; and a shapely, beautiful thing it was to remain in hal's mental vision to the last of his. in a kind of dream he stepped back, bowing, to the alley's end. when he raised his eyes, the queen had turned, and was speeding toward the other end of the alley. a march wind was following her, between the high hedgerows, disturbing two or three tiny twigs that had lain in the frozen path.[22] at that moment hal counted his life a small thing save where it might serve her; while she, who had read him through in five minutes, was thanking her stars for the miraculous timely advent of an agent so peculiarly suited to so peculiar a service,--a youth of some worldly experience, yet with all those chivalrous illusions which make him the greedier of a task as it is the more dangerous, the more zealous in it as it offers the less material reward. the romantic sophistries that youth cherishes may be turned to great use by those who know how to employ them. indeed, may not the virtue of loyalty and blind devotion have been an invention of ingenious rulers, for their own convenience? may not that of woman-worship be an invention of subtly clever women themselves, when women were wisely content with being worshipped, and were not ambitious of being elbowed and pushed about in the world's business; when they were satisfied to be the divinities, not the competitors, of men? elizabeth knew that this player's head, heart, and hand were now all hers for the service engaged; and that by entrusting him with a large amount in gold, in advance, she but increased his sense of obligation to perform her errand without failing in a single point. as he passed charing cross and proceeded eastward through the strand, hal became aware of the pains caused by his sleeping outdoors in march weather, and of the headache from last night's wine. in his interview with the queen, he had been unconscious of these. but he foresaw sufficient bodily activity to rid himself of them, with the aid of a copious warming draught and of a breakfast. he obtained the warming draught at the first tavern within temple bar, which was none other than the devil. a drawer recognized him, despite the 'prentice's coat and cap,--no one who knew master marryott could be much surprised at his having got into any possible strange attire in some nocturnal prank,--and notified the landlord, who thereupon restored to hal the rapier taken away the previous night. from the devil tavern, hal went to three or four shops farther in fleet street, and when he emerged from the last of these he wore a dull green cloth cloak, brown-lined, over his brown velvet doublet; a featherless brown hat of ample brim on his head, and high riding-boots to cover the nether part of his brown silk trunk-hose. he had already looked his errand in the face, and made some plan for dealing with it. as he would be no match for a band of highway robbers, should he fall in with such between london and welwyn, he must have at least one stout attendant. fortunately. paul's walk, the place in which to obtain either man or woman for any service or purpose whatever, lay in his way to his lodging, where he must go before leaving london. he hastened through ludgate, with never a glance at the prisoners whining through the iron grates their appeals for charity; and into paul's churchyard, and strode through the southern entrance of the mighty cathedral, making at once for the middle aisle. it was the fashionable hour for the paul's walkers,--about noon,--and the hubbub of a vast crowd went up to the lofty arches overhead. the great minster walk, with its column on which advertisements were hung, its column around which serving-men stood waiting to be hired, its other particular spots given over by custom to particular purposes, was to london at midday what the interior of the exchange was by candle-light,--a veritable place of lounging, gossiping, promenading, trading, begging, pimping, pocket-picking, purse-cutting, everything. hal threaded a swift way through the moving, chattering, multi-colored crowd, with an alert eye for the manner of man he wanted. suddenly he felt a pull at his elbow; and turned instantly to behold a dismal attempt at gaiety on the large-boned red face of captain bottle. beneath his forced grin, old kit was in sadly sorry countenance, which made his attire look more poor and ragged than usual. "what, old heart!" cried kit. "thou'rt alive, eh? bones of mary, i thought thee swallowed up by some black night-walking dragon in cow lane this morning!" "we were together last night, i think," said hal, not with positive certainty. "together, i' faith, till by my cursing and hard breathing i killed in mine ears the sound of thy steps, so i could not follow thee. ah, hal, there was the foul fiend's hand in the separating of us! for, being alone, and sitting down to rest me in the street, without newgate, what should happen but i should fall asleep, and my purse be cut ere i waked? old kit hath not e'en a piece of metal left, to mimic the sound of coin withal!" old kit's look was so blue at this that hal knew he was truly penniless, though whether the loss of his money had been as he related it, was a question for which hal had no answer. the captain's eyes were already inclining toward that part of hal's costume where his money was commonly bestowed. "this evil town is plainly too much for thy rustical innocence, kit," said hal. "you need a country change. come with me for a few days. don't stare. i have private business, and require a man like thee. there's meat, drink, and beds in it, while it lasts; some fighting maybe, and perchance a residue of money when costs are paid. if there be, we shall divide equally. wilt follow me?" "to the other side of the round world, boy! and though old kit be something of a liar and guzzler, and a little of a cheater and boaster, thou'lt find him as faithful as a dog, and as companionable a rascal as ever lived!" "then take this money, and buy me two horses in smithfield, all equipped; and meet me with them at two o'clock, in st. john's street, close without the bar. but first get thyself dinner, and a warm cloak to thy back. haste, old dog o' war! there will be swift going for us, maybe, ere many suns set!" the two left st. paul's together by the north door. bottle going on northward toward the newgate,[23] hal turning eastward toward st. helen's, where he would refresh himself with a bath and food, and tell mr. shakespeare of news given him by a court scrivener in drunken confidence; of an imperative obligation to go and warn a friend in danger; of money won in dicing; of a willingness to resign his parts to gil crowe, and of his intention to rejoin the players at the first opportunity, wherever they might be. as he turned out bishopsgate street, he thought how clear his way lay before him, and smiled with benignant superiority to his simple task. and then suddenly, causing his smile to fade a little, came back to him the words of the queen, "allow for the unexpected, young sir, which usually befalleth!" chapter iv. the unexpected. "the affair cries haste. and speed must answer it."--_othello_. at two o'clock that afternoon,--it was tuesday, the third day of march,--master marryott and capt. christopher bottle rode northward from smithfield bars, in somewhat different aspect and mood from those in which they had gone through their adventure in the same neighborhood the previous night. they were well mounted; for kit bottle was not the man to be gulled by the jinglers of the smithfield horse-market, and knew, too well for his own good reputation, how to detect every trick by which the jockeys palmed off their jades on buyers who judged only by appearances. they were fitly armed, too; for hal, before rejoining the captain, had procured pistols as reinforcements to his rapier and dagger, and kit had so far exceeded instructions as to do likewise. the captain as yet knew not what hal's mission was, and he was too true a soldier to exhibit any curiosity, if he felt any. but there was always a possibility of use for weapons, in travelling in those days; even on the much-frequented road from london to st. albans ("as common as the way between st. albans and london," said poins, of doll tearsheet), in which thoroughfare, until he should turn out beyond barnet. hal's course lay. it was a highway that, not far out of london, became like all other roads of the time narrow and rutty, often a mere ditch below the level of the fields, woods, or commons, at either side; rarely flanked, as in later times, by hedges, walls, or fences of any kind; passing by fewer houses, and through smaller villages, than it is now easy to imagine its doing. on this, as on every english road, most passenger travel was by horseback or afoot, although the great, had their coaches, crude and slow-moving. most transportation of goods was by pack-horse, the carriers going in numerous company for safety; though huge, lumbering, covered stage-wagons had already appeared on certain chief highways, with a record of something like two miles an hour. the royal post for the bearing of letters was in a primitive and uncertain state. travelling by post was unknown, in the later sense of the term: such as it was, it was a luxury of the great, who had obvious means of arranging for relays of horses; and of state messengers, who might press horses for the queen's service. when ordinary men were in haste, and needed fresh horses, they might buy them, or trade for them, or hire them from carriers, or from stable-keepers where such existed. but the two animals obtained by bottle in smithfield, though neither as shapely nor as small as spanish jennets, were quite sufficient for the immediate purpose,--the bearing of their riders, without stop, to welwyn. islington and highgate were passed without incident, and hal, while soothed in his anxiety to perform his mission without a hitch, began to think again that the business was too easy to be interesting. as a young gentleman of twenty-two who had read "the faerie queen" for the romance and not for the allegory, he would have liked some opportunity to play the fighting knight in service of his queen. on finchley common he looked well about, half in dread, half in hope; whereupon captain bottle, as taking up a subject apropos, began to discourse upon highway robbers. from considering the possibilities of a present encounter with them, he fell to discussing their profession in a business light. "an there must be vile laws to ruin gentlemen withal, and hard peace to take the bread out of true soldiers' mouths, beshrew me but bold robbing on the highway is choicer business than a parson's, or a lawyer's, or a lackey's in some great house, or even coney-catching in the taverns! when i was put to it to get my beef and clary one way or another, i stayed in london, thinking to keep up my purse by teaching fence; but 'tis an overcrowded vocation, and the rogues that can chatter the most italian take all the cream. so old kit must needs betake himself to a gentlemanly kind of gull-catching, never using the false dice till the true went against him, look you; nor bullying a winner out of the stakes when they could be had peaceably; and always working alone, disdaining to fellow with rascally gangs. but often i have sighed that i did not as rumney did,--he that was mine ancient in the campaigns in spain and ireland. when the nation waxed womanish, and would have no more of war, rumney, for love of the country, took to the highways, and i have heard he hath thrived well about sherwood forest and toward yorkshire. 'twas my choice of a town life hindered me being his captain on the road as i had been in the wars. i hear he calleth himself captain now! though he puts his head oftener into the noose than i, and runs more risk of sword and pistol, his work is the worthier of a soldier and gentleman for that. yet i do not call rumney gentleman, neither! a marvellous scurvy rogue! but no coward. would that thy business might take us so far as we should fall in with the rascal! i should well like to drink a gallon of sack with the rascally cur, in memory of old times, or to stab him in the paunch for a trick he did me about a woman in the low countries!" finchley common was crossed without threat of danger, the only rogues met being of the swindling, begging, feigning, pilfering order, all promptly recognized and classified by the experienced captain. nor did whetston or barnet or hatfield, or the intervening country, yield any event, save that a clock struck six, and the day--gray enough at best--was on the wane when they passed through hatfield. they had made but five miles an hour, the road, though frozen, being uneven and difficult, and hal assuming that the pursuivant, ignorant of a plan to forewarn sir valentine, would not greatly hasten. he relied on the hour's start he had taken out of london, and he saved his horses to meet any demand for speed that might suddenly arise. at the worst, if the officer and his men came up behind him, he could increase his pace and outride them to welwyn. and thus it was that he let no northbound riders pass him, and that when such riders, of whatever aspect, appeared in the distant rear, he spurred forward sufficiently to leave them out of sight. on the hill, two or three miles beyond hatfield, he stopped and looked back over the lower country, but could make out no group of horsemen in the gathering darkness. his destination was now near at hand, and he was still unsettled between opposite feelings,--satisfaction that his errand seemed certain of accomplishment, regret that there seemed no prospect of narrow work by which he might a little distinguish himself in his own eyes. the last few miles he rode in silence, bottle having ceased prattling and become meditative under the influence of nightfall. it was seven o'clock when they rode across the brook into close view of welwyn church at the left of the road, and a few minutes later when they drew up before the wall in front of fleetwood house,--of which hal knew the location, through visits in former years,--and began to pound on the barred gate with their weapons, and to call "ho, within!" the mansion beyond the wall was a timbered one, its gables backed by trees. it had no park, and its wall enclosed also a small orchard at the rear, and a smaller courtyard at the front. at one side of the gate was a porter's lodge, but this was at present vacant, or surely the knocking on the wooden gate would have brought forth its occupant. it seemed as if the house was deserted, and hal had a sudden inward sense of unexpected obstacle, perhaps insuperable, in his way. his heart beat a little more rapidly, until kit, having ridden to where he could see the side of the house, reported a light in the side window of a rear chamber. hal thereupon increased his hallooing, with some thought of what might occur if the pursuivants should come up ere he got admission. at length there appeared a moving nebula of light amidst the darkness over the yard; it approached the gate; steps were heard on the walk within; finally a little wicket was opened in the gate, and a long, bearded, sour face was visible in the light of a lanthorn held up by its owner. "who is it disturbeth the night in this manner?" asked a nasal voice, in a tone of complaint and reproof. "'tis i, master underhill," spoke hal, from his horse, "master harry marryott, sir valentine's friend. i must see sir valentine without a moment's delay," and he started to dismount. "i know not if thou canst see sir valentine without delay, or at all whatsoever," replied the man of dismal countenance. his face had the crow's feet and the imprinted frown of his fifty years, and there was some gray on his bare head. "not see him!" blurted out hal. "what the devil--open me the gate this instant or i'll teach thee a lesson! dost hear, anthony?" "yield not to thy wrath nor call upon the foul fiend, master marryott," said anthony, severely. "i shall go decently and in order, and learn if thou mayst be admitted." and he leisurely closed the wicket to return to the house. hal could scarce contain himself for anger. being now afoot he called after the man, and hammered on the gate, but with no effect of recalling or hastening him. "a snivelling puritan, or i'm a counterfeit soldier!" observed kit bottle, in a tone of contempt and detestation.[24] "ay," said hal, "and all the worse whiner because, out of inherited ties, he serveth a catholic master. the old groaner,--that he should put me to this delay when sir valentine's life is at stake!" this was hal's first intimation to kit of the real nature of his business. the captain received it without comment, merely asking if he should dismount. "no," said hal, tying his own horse to the gate; "but when i am admitted, ride you back to the village, and listen for the sound of hoofs from the direction of london; if you hear such, come swiftly back, hallooing at the top of thy voice, and get off thy horse, and hold him ready for another to mount in thy stead. a hundred curses on that tony underhill! he hath been sir valentine's steward so long, he dareth any impertinence. and yet he never stayed me at the gate before! and his grave look when he said he knew not if i might see sir valentine! 'twas a more solemn face than even he is wont to wear. holy mary! can it be that they are here already,--that they have come before me?" "an it be men in quest of sir valentine, you mean," said kit, who was of quick divination, "where be their horses? they would scarce stable them, and make a visit. nor would all be so quiet and dark." "and yet he looked as something were amiss," replied hal, but partly reassured. the faint mist of light appeared again, the deliberate steps were heard, and this time the gate was unbarred and slowly drawn a little space open. in the lanthorn's light was seen the spare, tall figure that went with the long, gloomy face. "i will conduct thee to sir valentine," said anthony. hal stepped forward with an exclamation of relief and pleasure, and kit bottle instantly started his horse back toward the village. hal followed the puritan steward through a porched doorway, across a hall, up a staircase that ascended athwart the rear, and thence along a corridor, to the last door on the side toward the back of the house. anthony softly opened this door. hal entered a chamber lighted by two candles on a table, and containing in one corner a large high-posted bed. on the table, among other things, lay an ivory crucifix. a plainly dressed gentleman sat on a chair between the table and the bed. to this gentleman, without casting a look at his face, hal bowed respectfully, and began, "i thank god, sir valentine--" "nay, sir," answered the gentleman, quietly, as if to prevent some mistake; and hal, looking up, perceived that this was not sir valentine, but a pale, watchful-looking man, with fiery eyes; while a voice, strangely weakened, came from the bed: "thou'rt welcome, harry." "what!" cried hal, striding to the bed. "sir valentine, goest thou to bed so early?" "ay," replied sir valentine, motionless on his back, "and have been abed these two days, with promise from my good physician here of getting up some six days hence or so." "thou'lt not move for another week, at least, sir valentine," said the physician, the gentleman whom hal first addressed. "'tis a sword wound got in a quarrel, harry," explained sir valentine, feebly, and paused, out of breath, looking for a reply. but hal stood startled and speechless. not move for a week, and the state officer likely to arrive in an hour! "and in every possible manner aid and hasten his departure from the country," her majesty had said; and hal had taken her money, and by his promise, by her trust in him, by every consideration that went to the making of a gentleman, a man of honor, or an honest servant, stood bound to carry out her wish. the errand was not to be so simple, after all. chapter v. the player proves himself a gentleman. "warrants and pursuivants! away! warrants and pursuivants!"--_the wise woman of hogsdon._ sir valentine fleetwood was a thin man, with regular features and sunken cheeks, his usually sallow face now flushed with fever. his full round beard was gray, but there were yet streaks of black in his flowing hair. "sir valentine," hal began, suppressing his excitement, "there is private news i must make known to you instantly." and he cast a look at the doctor, who frowned, and at anthony, who remained motionless near the door, with his lanthorn still in hand, as if expecting that he should soon have to escort hal out again. "sir valentine is not in a condition to hear--" broke in the doctor, in a voice of no loudness, but of much latent authority. "but this is of the gravest import--" interrupted hal, and was himself interrupted by sir valentine, who had gathered breath for speech. "nay, harry, it may wait. i am in no mind for business." "but it requireth immediate action," said hal, who would have told the news itself, but that he desired first the absence of the doctor and the steward. "then 'twill serve nothing to be told," said sir valentine, lapsing into his former weakness, and with a slight shade of annoyance upon his face. "as thou see'st, boy, i am in no state for action. a plague upon the leg, i can't stir it half an inch." "but--" cried harry. the physician rose, and anthony, with an outraged look, took a deprecatory step toward harry. "no more, young sir!" quoth the physician, imperatively. "sir valentine's life--" "but that is what i have come to speak of," replied hal, in some dudgeon. "zounds, sir, do you know what you hinder? there are concerns you wot not of!" "tut, master marryott," said sir valentine. "as for my life, 'tis best in the doctor's hands; and for concerns, i have none now but my recovery. not for myself, the blessed mary knoweth! but for others' sakes, in another land. oh, to think i should be drawn into an unwilling quarrel, and get this plagued hurt! and mine opponent--hast heard yet how mr. hazlehurst fares, anthony?" "no, your honor," said the puritan; but he let his glance fall to the floor as he spoke, and seemed to suffer an inward groan as of self-reproach. sir valentine could not see him for the bed-curtains. "tis a lesson to shun disputes, boy," said sir valentine, to hal. "here were my old neighbor's son, young mr. hazlehurst, and myself, bare acquaintances, 'tis true, but wishing each other no harm. and two days ago, meeting where the roads crossed, and a foolish question of right of way occurring, he must sputter out hot words at me, and i must chide him as becometh an elder man; and ere i think of consequences, his sword is out, and i have much to do to defend myself! and the end is, each is carried off by servants, with blood flowing; my wound in the groin, his somewhere in the breast. i would fain know how he lies toward recovery! you should have taken pains to inquire, anthony." "sir valentine," said the physician, "thou art talking too much. master marryott, you see how things stand. if you bear sir valentine friendship, you have no choice but to go away, sith you have paid your respects. he would have it that you be admitted. pray, abuse not his courtesy." "but, sir, that which i must tell him concerns--" "i'll hear naught that concerns myself," said sir valentine, with the childish stubbornness of illness. "tell me of thine own self, harry. 'tis years since i saw thee last, and in that time i've had no word of thee. didst go to london, and stay there? my letter, it seems, availed thee nothing. how livest thou? what is thy place in the world?" hal decided to throw the physician and anthony off guard by coming at his news indirectly. so he answered sir valentine: "i am a stage player." sir valentine opened eyes and mouth in amazement; he gasped and stared. "a stage player!" he echoed, horrified. "thy father's son a stage player! a marryott a stage player! sir, sir, you have fallen low! blessed mary, what are the times? a gentleman turn stage player!" old anthony had drawn back from hal, vastly scandalized, his eyes raised heavenward as if for divine protection from contamination; and the physician gazed, in a kind of passionless curiosity. "a stage player," said hal, firmly, having taken his resolution, "may prove himself still a gentleman. he may have a gentleman's sense of old friendship shown, and a gentleman's honesty to repay it, as i have when i come to save thee from the privy council's men riding hither to arrest thee for high treason! and a gentleman's authority, as i have when i bid this doctor and this anthony to aid thy escape, and betray or hinder it not, on pain of deeper wounds than thine!" and hal, having drawn his sword, stood with his back to the doorway. sir valentine himself was the first to speak; he did so with quiet gravity: "art quite sure of this, harry?" "quite, sir valentine. we stage players consort with possessors of state secrets, now and then. the warrant for thy apprehension was signed this day. a council's pursuivant was to leave london at three o'clock, with men to assure thy seizure. i, bearing in mind my family's debt to thine, and mine own to thee, started at two, to give thee warning. more than that, i swear to save thee. this arrest, look you, means thy death; from what i heard, i perceive thy doom is prearranged; thy trial is to be a pretence." "i can believe that!" said sir valentine, with a grim smile. "'tis not my fault that these two have been let into the secret," said hal, indicating the physician and anthony. "and it shall not be to sir valentine's disadvantage, sir, speaking for myself," said the physician. "his honor knows whether i may be trusted," said anthony, swelling with haughty consciousness of his fidelity, as if to outdo the physician, toward whom his looks were always oblique and of a covert antipathy. "i know ye are my friends," said sir valentine. "i could have spoken for you. but what is to be done? 'tis true i cannot move. think it no whimsy of the doctor's, harry. blessed mary, send heaven to my help! think not, harry, 'tis for myself i moan. thou knowest not how my matters stand abroad. there are those awaiting me in france, dependent on me--" "and to france we must send you safe, sir valentine!" said harry. "you could not be supported on horseback, i suppose?" the physician looked amazed at the very suggestion, and sir valentine smiled gloomily and shook his head. "or in a coach, an one were to be had?" hal went on. "'twould be the death of him in two miles," said the physician. "moreover, where is a coach to be got in time?" "is there no hiding-place near, to which you might be carried?" asked hal, of sir valentine, knowing how most catholic houses were provided in those days. sir valentine exchanged looks with the physician and anthony, then glanced toward the wall of the chamber, and answered: "there is a space 'twixt yon panelling and the outer woodwork of the house. it hath air through hidden openings to the cracked plaster without; and is close to the chimney, for warmth. in a hasty search it would be passed over,--there is good proof of that. but this pursuivant, not finding me, would sound every foot of wall in the house. he would, eventually, detect the hollowness of the panelling there, and the looseness of the boards that hide the entrance. or, if he did not that, he and his men would rouse the county, and occupy the house in expectation of my secret return; they would learn of my quarrel and wound, and would know i must be hid somewhere near. while they remained in the house, searching the neighborhood with sheriff's and magistrate's men, keeping watch on every one, how should i be supplied and cared for in that hole? it would soon become, not my hiding-place, but my grave,--for which 'tis truly of the right dimensions!" "but if, not finding you in the first search, they should suppose you gone elsewhere?" said hal, for sheer need of offering some hope, however wild. "why, they would still make the house the centre of their search, as i said." "but if they were made to believe you had fled afar?" "they would soon learn of my wound. it hath been bruited about the neighborhood. they would know it made far flight impossible." "but can they learn how bad thy wound is? might it not be a harmless scratch?" "it might, for all the neighborhood knoweth of it," put in anthony; and the physician nodded. "then, if they had reason to think you far fled?" pursued hal. "why," replied sir valentine, "some of them would go to make far hunt; others would wait for my possible return, and to search the house for papers. and the constables and officers of the shire would be put on the watch for me." "need the search for papers lead to the discovery of yon hiding-place?" "no. the searchers would find papers in my study to reward a search, though none to harm any but myself. the other gentlemen concerned are beyond earthly harm." "but," quoth hal, the vaguest outlines of a plan beginning to take shape before him, "were the pursuivant, on arriving at your gate, to be checked by certain news that you had fled in a particular direction, would he not hasten off forthwith on your track, with all his men? would he take time for present search or occupancy of your house, or demand upon constable's or sheriff's men? and if your track were kept ever in view before him, would he not continue upon it to the end? and suppose some of his men were left posted in thy house. these would be few, three or four at most, seeing that the main force were close upon thy trail. these three or four would not look for thy return; they would look for thy taking by their comrades first. they would keep no vigil, and being without their leader,--who would head the pursuing party,--they would rest content with small search for papers; they would rather be industrious in searching thy wine-cellar and pantry. thus you could be covertly attended from this chamber, by nurse or doctor, acquainted with the house. and when you were able to move, these men, being small in force, might be overpowered; or, being careless, they might be eluded. and thus you might pass out of the house by night, and into a coach got ready by the doctor, and so to the sea; and the men in thy house none the wiser, and those upon thy false track still chasing farther away." "harry, harry," said sir valentine, in a kindly but hopeless tone, "thou speak'st dreams, boy!" "ne'ertheless," said hal, "is't not as i say, an the false chase were once contrived?" "why," put in the physician, "that is true enough. send me away the pursuivant and most of his men, and let those who stay think sir valentine thus pursued, and i'll warrant the looking to sir valentine's wants, and his removal in nine days or so. nine days he will need, not an hour less; and yet another day, to make sure; that is ten. but should the pursuers on the false chase discover their mistake, and return ere ten days be gone, all were lost. e'en suppose they could be tricked by some misguidance at the gate, which is not conceivable, they'd not go long on their vain hunt without tangible track to follow. why, master marryott, they'd come speeding back in two hours!" "but if a man rode ahead, and left tangible track, by being seen and noted in the taverns and highways? he need but keep up the chase, by not being caught; the pursuivant may be trusted to pick up all traces left of his travels. these messengers of the council are skilled in tracing men, when there are men to leave traces." "what wild prating is this?" cried sir valentine, somewhat impatiently. "i know thou mean'st kindly, harry, but thy plan is made of moonshine. let a man, or a hundred men, ride forth and leave traces, what shall make these officers think the man is i?" "they shall see him leave thy gate in flight when they come up. and, as for his leading them a chase, he will be on one of thy horses, an there be time to make one ready, otherwise on mine,--in either case, on a fresher horse than theirs. so he shall outride them at the first dash, and then, one way and another, lead them farther and farther, day after day." "but, man, man! wilder and wilder!" exclaimed sir valentine, as if he thought himself trifled with. "know you not their leader will be one that is well acquainted with my face?" "so much the better," cried hal; "for then he will take oath it is you he sees departing!" "i he sees departing?" echoed sir valentine, and began to look at hal apprehensively, as if in suspicion of madness, a suspicion in which the physician and anthony seemed to join. "i departing, when i am in yon narrow hole between timbers? i departing, when i am hurt beyond power of motion, as their leader will doubtless learn at the village ale-house, on inquiring if i be at home." "yes, sir," said hal, "he shall think it is you, and the more so if he have heard of your wound. for, in the lanthorn's light, as he comes in seeing distance, he shall perceive that you sit your horse as a lame man doth. and that thy head is stiffly perched, thy shoulders drawn back, in the manner peculiar to them. and that thy left elbow is thrust out as is its wont. and that thy hat, as usual, shades thy brow thus. but more than all else, sir, that thy face is of little breadth, thy beard gray and round, as they have been these many years." and hal, having realized in attitude each previous point in his description, took from his pocket the false beard that had lain there since the first performance of "hamlet," and tying it on his face, which he had thinned by drawing in his cheeks, stood transformed into the living semblance of sir valentine fleetwood. chapter vi. and the gentleman proves himself a player. "let the world think me a bad counterfeit, if i cannot give him the slip at an instant."--_every man in his humor._ there was a moment's silence in the chamber. then-"play-acting!" muttered anthony, with a dark frown, followed by an upturning of the eyes. "thou'lt pass, my son!" said the physician, his eyes alight with approval and new-found hope. "truly, i think he will, sir valentine,--with a touch of the scissors to shape his beard more like!" and he took up from the table a pair of scissors, doubtless used in cutting bandages for the wounded man, and striding toward master marryott, applied them with careful dexterity. "behold," said he, when he had finished. "thou'lt surely fool them in the lanthorn's light and the haste. by close work thou mightst truly lead them off in the night, but in daylight the falseness of thy beard may easily be seen, for the strings 'tis tied withal." "but the officers shall not see my face after the starting. i'll not stay near enough to them for that. 'tis by word of innkeepers and townspeople and country-folk, of my passage through the country, that i shall be traced. and mark: save to officers that keep note of catholics, sir valentine is scarce known ten miles hence, so much hath he lived abroad. and i'm not known out of london and oxfordshire. so who's to set the pursuers right?" "but what then?" said the physician. "those same innkeepers and such can but report the passage of a man with a false beard, at best. more like, they will cause thy detention as a questionable person, till the council's men come up to thee. either way, the pursuivant will see the trick, and speed hotfoot back to this house." "why, look you," said hal, "early in the morning i will hastily enter some inn, my face muffled as for cold. there, in a private chamber, i will take off the beard, and come forth as if i had but shaved. and so report will remain of me, that i came bearded and departed shaven; and the men in pursuit will take this very shaving as a means of disguise. they'll be the more convinced i'm the man." "ay, but there you risk their losing trace of you; for the absence of the beard will show your youth, and make you at odds with their description of you." "why, the loss of a beard will sometimes give an elder man a look of youth. and the same companion shall ride with me,--he that now keeps watch without. by the description of him as my attendant, 'twill be known i am the gentleman that rode from fleetwood house. and to make my trace the more certain, let a second accompany me,--one of sir valentine's servants that live here constantly and are better known than their master is. and he shall also guide me on the roads hereabouts, in my first dash from the gates; for, look you, there will be fleet riding for an hour or two!" "thou hearest, sir valentine," said the physician, turning to the wounded gentleman. "ay," replied the knight, "and being weak of breath, have waited for a breach to put my word in. 'tis all madness, this ye talk of! e'en were't possible. i should let no man risk life for me as this young gentleman offereth. why, lad, they'd catch thee, of a surety--" "i make question of that, sir valentine," quoth hal. "some time or other, they would," said the knight. "and thou knowest the penalty of aiding the escape of one accused of treason! the act itself is treason." "and what if i have already incurred penalties as grievous, on mine own account? and what if i have some running away to do, for myself? may not one flight suffice for both? while i lead these men on a false chase from thee, i but put distance 'twixt myself and danger," said hal, with less regard for truth than for leading sir valentine into his plans. "what, harry?" cried sir valentine. "is it true? but still, thou'rt yet in good way to make thine own escape. to wait for these officers, and to keep them at thy tail, will doubly imperil thee. thou shalt not multiply thine own danger for me,--by mary, thou shalt not!" "but i mean not to be caught, sir valentine. have i no skill, no hardihood? shall youth serve nothing, and strong arms, and hard legs? i will elude them, i swear! but first i will keep them on my tail time enough for thy removal. ten days, the doctor said. an i lead off these fellows a five days' ride from fleetwood house, straight north toward scotland, and then drop them, 'twill take five days for them to ride back. and there, of but five days' work on my part, come the ten days' delay thou needest!" "but thou canst not do it, harry," persisted sir valentine, while the physician silently paced the floor in thought, and the puritan looked on with outward indifference. "why, bethink you! to escape thy pursuers, and yet not to let them lose trace of thee; to outride them ever, yet never ride too far away from them; to elude them, yet not to drop them; this for five days, and then to break off the track and leave them baffled, at the last! tis impossible!" "'tis a glorious kind of sport, sir valentine!" cried hal, his eyes aglow. "'tis a game worth playing! nay, 'tis a stage play, wherein i undertake to act the part of sir valentine fleetwood in flight and disguise! ods-body, i shall prove i am a player! thou shalt not refuse, sir valentine! do as thou wilt, i am for the gate, and when the officers come up, the devil seize me an i do not lead them off again!" "sir valentine doth not refuse," cried the physician, who had manifestly made up his mind. "thou need'st fresh horses? anthony shall fetch them to the gate. and one of sir valentine's known servants, to show the road and leave the better trace? anthony shall go. continual residence here, in his master's absence, hath made him as well known for sir valentine's man as sir valentine is little known for anthony's master. on your way to the stable. anthony, send mary hither, and john. they shall help me house sir valentine yonder, with store of food and drink. straight north toward scotland, sayest thou, master marryott? the right road for thy wild-goose chase. we shall do our part, my son. only gain us the ten days." and the physician strode to the side of the chamber, put aside some faded hangings, and began to loosen a section of the panelling. anthony, frowning haughtily at the physician's giving him orders, looked inquiringly at sir valentine. "but, my good father," began the knight, addressing the physician. hal shot a glance of discovery at the latter. my father! this "doctor" was a doctor of other than the body, then! hal had wondered to see a physician of such mien and manner in this country place, and had thought he might have been summoned from london. but now all was clear. he was a popish priest, disguised in ordinary habit, to escape the severity of the elizabethan statutes; though, doubtless, he knew enough of surgery and medicine for the treatment of sir valentine's wound. "there is no time for talk, my son," said this doctor, interrupting sir valentine. "remember those in france. and let anthony do as i said." "thou hast heard, anthony," said the knight, compliantly, after a moment's reflection. "lead out the horses--" "three, sir valentine," put in hal, to whom time was beginning to appear extremely precious, "as anthony is to go with us. i shall leave my two for thy use." "and take money, anthony," went on sir valentine, while the priest continued to open the way to the secret closet. "i have money, sir," said hal. "but anthony shall take some,--the half of what is in the chest, anthony. the rest will serve me to france, an this plan indeed be not madness." "you have sure ways of going to france, i doubt not," said hal to sir valentine. "ay," said the knight, with a smiling side glance at the busy priest, "we have made that voyage when ports were e'en closer watched than now. and hear this, anthony, before you go,--anthony will show thee, harry, how to make for france on thine own account, if indeed thou dost ride free of these messengers. and he will tell thee where in paris i am to be found. when we meet there,--the saints intercede that we may!--i shall have a way of thanking thee, perchance. go, anthony!" the servant left the room, with a glumness belonging rather to a general habit of surly disapproval than to any particular objection to the task before him. "this house and land," sir valentine went on, "will be confiscate, of course, and myself outlawed. but thou see'st how this estate hath fallen, harry. i keep here but two servants besides anthony, where once i kept twenty. but in all these years i have built up some means of living, across the narrow seas; and thou shalt not want in france. harry!" "think not of me, but of thyself, sir valentine. i'd best leave thee now, and hasten anthony with the horses. i can find him by his lanthorn's light. we have lost much time." but sir valentine would embrace him ere he left, as well as a man so wounded might; and the knight, touched with gratitude, wept as the youth bent over him. hal then turned to take swift leave of the priest, who had now caused a dark hole to gape in the wooden panelling. the latter, at this, took up a cloak from a chair, detached hal's own shorter cloak, and put the other over the youth's shoulders, saying: "'tis sir valentine's own cloak, and more befitting the part thou hast to play, master actor! take my blessing, and the saints watch over thee!" with no more ado, hal hastened from the room, and down to the hall, where anthony, bearing the lanthorn, was ordering the two other servants to their master's chamber. hal held his cloak over his face till they were gone up the stairs; then he bade anthony show him quickly to the stables, adding: "as for the money, if you must obey orders, you may get it while i am saddling the horses." the steward gave a grunt, and led the way out to the stables, where he indicated the three best horses. he then returned to the house, leaving the lanthorn; but presently reappeared, in time to help hal with the horses, and to receive at the same time the player's explicit directions for the conduct of matters on the arrival of the officers. the two men then led the horses to the front gate, where anthony tied a pair of them, that he might take hal's london horse to the stable. master marryott mounted and rode toward the village to acquaint captain bottle with what was to be done. on perceiving kit's stalwart figure, black against the dim night, hal called out to him to follow back to the mansion. while the two were covering the distance thereto, hal briefly put the soldier in possession of what it was needful for the latter to know. anthony had now returned from the stable, and the lanthorn revealed hal's transformation, which the captain viewed with critical approval while transferring himself from his tired horse to one of the fresh ones. "and the puritan rides with us?" queried bottle, while anthony was gone with the second horse to the stable. "sad company, sad company! an the dull rogue sermon me upon the sins of the flesh, i'll knock in his teeth to shut up his throat withal! well, well! this mixing in matters of state maketh strange bedfellows. i mind me once--lend ear. hal! hoofs yonder, or i'm an owl else!" hal listened. yes, horses were crossing the wooden bridge of the brook on the londonward side of the village. "should these be the men?" whispered hal in a low voice. "they come slowly." "who else should be on the road at this hour?" replied kit. "they know not any reason for haste." "a red murrain on that puritan, then!" said hal. "what holds him so long at the stable? all is lost, without his lanthorn. i'll ride in and fetch him." "nay, they must use time enough in coming hither. hark! they have halted in the village. mayhap they must needs ask the way to fleetwood house." "'tis well, then. they will learn of sir valentine's hurt." there was then a very trying time of silence and waiting, during which hal's heart beat somewhat as it had beaten in the tiring-room before the performance of "hamlet." "hear them again," he said at last, through his teeth. "and that rascal puritan--" "save thy breath! here he comes." anthony indeed now appeared with the light, crossing the yard with longer strides than he had previously taken; he, too, had heard the approaching horses. "into thy saddle, dog!" muttered hal. "and a plague on thee for thy slowness! now do as i bid, or i'll give thee a bellyful of steel!" the steward having got on horseback, hal led the way back into the yard. the three then wheeled about, and stood just within the now wide-open gate. anthony at hal's right and bearing the lanthorn in his left hand, kit at hal's left. hal measured with his ears the constantly decreasing distance of the hoof-beats on the hard road, as they advanced at a steady walking pace. through the silence came the sound of a far-off clock striking eight, and then of the approaching horsemen talking to one another in low tones. at last hal said, "now!" and rode forth into the road, which was here of exceptional width. the three, riding abreast, turned toward london, as if intending to ride southward. had they continued, they would soon have met the approaching horsemen face to face. but suddenly hal, as if he now for the first time discovered the presence of newcomers, stopped short, as did also his two attendants. anthony, in pretence of enabling the make-believe sir valentine to perceive who the horsemen were, held the lanthorn up, a little to the right and rear of hal's body, so that it revealed his attitude and left his face in shadow. leaning forward, as in pain, yet with head stiffly set, shoulders forced back, hat low on brow, left elbow thrust out, and beard well outlined against the light, hal peered anxiously into the gloom. out of that gloom there came, after a startled exclamation and a hush of low voices, the clear greeting: "give you good even, sir valentine!" hal uttered a swift order to his men. anthony instantly wheeled around, to take the lead, and rode northward. hal did likewise, and was immediately followed by captain bottle. as soon as hal made sure that kit had turned, he called to the steward ahead to make speed; and a moment later the three were galloping over the frozen road at the devil's gait. "halt! in the queen's name!" rang out of the darkness behind, in the voice that had been heard before. "go to hell, roger barnet!" shouted back kit bottle, to hal's astonishment. "you know him?" queried hal, as the horses flew onward. "yes, and a taker of traitors he is, sure enough!" growled kit through the night. "a very hell-hound, at a man's heels! hear him cursing, back yonder, for his pistol will not go off! they have whipped up; the whole pack is on the scent!" "good!" cried hal. "sir valentine and the priest will have plain sailing. the chase is begun, old kit! five days of this, and the hounds must neither lose nor catch us! ods-body, the puritan's lanthorn is out! i hope he knows the road in the dark!" chapter vii. mistress anne hazlehurst. "i have got the start; but ere the goal, 'twill ask both brain and art." --_the english traveller._ manifestly the puritan knew the road, and manifestly it was known to the horses, also; for without decrease of swiftness the few black objects at the roadside--indistinct blurs against the less black stretches of night-sky--seemed to race back toward the men in pursuit. soon the riders had a wood at their right, a park at their left. then there was perforce a slowing up, for a hill had to be ascended. but by this time the enemy was left almost out of ear-shot. hal, knowing his party to be the more freshly mounted, took heed to make no further gain at present. while in the vicinity of fleetwood house, the chase must be so close that the officers would not for a moment drop it to consider some other course of action. as long as they were at his heels, and saw imminent possibility of taking him, it was not probable that they would separate for the purpose of searching sir valentine's house, or of causing proclamation to be sent broadcast by which port wardens might be put on guard, or of taking time to seek the aid of shire officers, justices, and constables. it was not for himself that hal had most to fear a hue and cry of the country, for by keeping ahead of the officers by whom that hue and cry must be evoked, he should keep ahead of the hue and cry itself; but such a raising of the country would direct to fleetwood house an attention which might hinder sir valentine's eventual removal. once the pursuers were drawn into another county, hal might gain over them sufficient time for his own rest and refreshment, and for his necessary changes of horse. when committed to the hunt by several hours' hard riding, the officers, for their own reputation, would be less likely to abandon it for a return to fleetwood house; and though, as the hunt should develop into a long and toilsome business, they would surely take time to enlist local authorities in it, those authorities would not be of hertfordshire, and their eyes would be turned toward hal himself, not toward fleetwood house. "tell me more of this barnet," said hal to captain bottle, as the three fugitives rode up a second hill. the sound of the pursuers, galloping across the level stretch between the two heights, came with faint distinctness to the ears of the pursued, in intervals of the noise made by their own horses,--noise of breathing, snorting, treading the rough earth, and clashing against the loose stones that lay in the ditch-like road. "why, he is a chaser of men by choice," answered kit. "i knew him years agone, in sir francis walsingham's day. beshrew me if he is ever happy without a warrant in his pouch. i'm a bottle-ale rascal an he hath not carried the signature of the secretary of state over more miles than any other man! a silent, unsocial rogue! when i knew him first, he was one of walsingham's men; and so was i, i' faith! we chased down some of the babington conspirators together,--that was fifteen years ago. for, look you, this raising of the country against a traitor is well enough, when he is a gentleman of note, that openly gathers his followers and fortifies his house and has not to be hunted out like a hare. but when traitors are subtle fellows that flee and disguise themselves, these loutish constables' knaves, that watch for hunted men in front of ale-houses, are sad servants of the state, god wot!--and i have seen with these eyes a letter to that effect, from lord burleigh to sir francis, when this same barnet and i were a-hunting the babington rascals."[25] "then this barnet is like to keep on our track?" interrogated hal. "yea, that he is! 'tis meat and drink to the rogue, this man-hunting! he takes a pride in it, and used to boast he had never yet lost his game. and never did he, to my knowledge, but once, and that was my doing, which was the cause of our falling out. when sir francis walsingham died, we remained in service as pursuivants--to attend the orders of the council and the high commission. that was a fat trade! great takings, rare purse-filling! old kit had no need of playing coney-catcher in those days! we would be sent to bring people up to london, to prison, and 'twas our right to charge them what we pleased for service and accommodation; and when they could not pay, it went hard with them. well, roger barnet and i disagreed once about dividing the money we meant to squeeze out of a gloucestershire gentleman, that some lord his neighbor had got a council's order against, for having troubled his lordship with a lawful suit in the courts. rather than take the worse of it from roger barnet, i got up when he was asleep, at the inn we were staying overnight, and set the gentleman free. roger would have killed me the next day, had he been as good a swordsman as he is a man-hunter. but, as it was, he had to be content with my losing so fat a service. for he was in favor with mr. beal, the clerk of the council, and might have made things hard for me but that i took forthwith to the wars." "god look to it he may not have chance of making things hard for thee in this business!" said hal. "why, one thing is sure," replied kit, "he will stick to our heels the longer for my being of the party. 'twould warm his heart to pay off old scores. he'll perchance think 'twas i that got word of sir valentine's danger and brought warning. and, certes, he finds me aiding an accused traitor, which brings me, too, under the treason statutes. 'twould be a sweet morsel to roger barnet to carry me back prisoner to london! an thy plan be to keep roger on our track, 'tis well i made myself known by word of mouth, as i did. though, for that matter, i say it again, roger is not the dog to quit any scent, let him once lay his nose to the earth." ahead rode the puritan, in a silence as of sullenness, his figure more clearly drawn against the night as hal's eyes were the better accustomed to the darkness. hal now spoke so that both anthony and kit might hear, saying: "my men, ye are to plant it in your minds that i am sir valentine fleetwood, none other; but ye will seem to wish to hide from people that i am he. hence ye will call me by some other name, it matters not what; and the better 'twill be an ye blunder in that name, and disagree in it from time to time. the more then will it appear that i, sir valentine, am trying to pass myself off as another. but sometimes seem to forget, and call me sir valentine, and then hastily correct yourselves as if ye had spoke incautiously." "the lie be on your own head, though my mouth be forced to speak it," replied anthony underhill, dismally. "willingly," said hal; and kit bottle put in: "an the weight be too heavy on thy head, master marryott, let old kit bear some of it. ods-body, some folk be overfearful of damnation!" anthony muttered something about scoffers, and rode on without further speech. so they traversed a hamlet, then a plain, then more hills and another sleeping village. varying their pace as the exigencies of the road required, they were imitated in this--as they could hear--by barnet's party. the narrowness of the highway, which hereabouts ran for a good distance between lines of wooden fence, compelled them to ride in single file. they had been on the road an hour, perhaps, and made about five miles, so that they were probably a mile from stevenage, when anthony called back to hal: "there be riders in front, sir, coming toward us." "so my ears tell me," said hal, after a moment's listening. "who the devil can be abroad at this hour? i hope we suffer no delay in passing them." barnet's men were now a half mile behind, evidently nursing the powers of their horses for a timely dash. a stoppage of any kind might nip hal's fine project in the bud. hence it was with anxiety that he strained his eyes forward. the newcomers were approaching at a fast walk. one of them, the foremost, was carrying a light. as they drew nearer, riding one behind another, they took a side of the road, the more speedily to pass. but the leader, as he came opposite anthony underhill, and saw the puritan's face in the feeble light, instantly pulled up, and called out to one behind in a kind of surprise: "here's sir valentine's steward, anthony underhill!" "give ye good even, dickon, and let us pass," said anthony, sourly; for the other had quickly turned his horse crosswise so as to block most of the narrow road. "is that thy master i see yonder?" he asked, holding his light toward hal, who had promptly ridden up abreast of anthony. "what is that to you, fellow?" cried hal. "'tis something to me!" called out a voice behind the fellow,--a voice that startled hal, for it was a woman's. "are you sir valentine?" "who wishes to know?" inquired hal, putting some courtesy into the speech. "i do--anne hazlehurst!" was the quick answer. and the light-bearer having made room for her, she rode forward. hazlehurst! where, hal asked himself, had he recently heard that name? "well, are you sir valentine?" she demanded, impatiently. "i do not deny it," said hal. "then here's for you,--slayer of my brother!" she cried, and struck him full in the face with the flat of a sword she had held beneath her cloak. in doing this she thrust her hooded head more into the lanthorn's light, and hal recalled two things at the same instant,--the name hazlehurst as that of the gentleman with whom sir valentine had fought, and the woman's face as that with which he, master marryott, had fallen in love at the theatre during the play of "hamlet." chapter viii. "a devil of a woman." "from all such devils, good lord, deliver us!"--_the taming of the shrew._ "and now, my men, upon him!" cried mistress hazlehurst, backing to make room in which her followers might obey. these followers tried to push forward; the horses crowded one another, and there ensued much huddling and confusion. but the lantern-bearer, holding his light and his bridle in one hand, caught mr. marryott's bridle with the other. hal struck this hand down with one of his pistols, which were not prepared for firing. he then drew his sword, with a gesture that threw hesitation into the ranks of his opposers. "madam," he cried, in no very gentle tone, "may i know what is your purpose in this?" "'tis to prevent your flight," she called back, promptly. "the officers of justice are slow; i shall see that you forestall them not." for a moment hal, thinking only of the officers behind him, wondered if she could have heard of the council's intention, and whether it was to the royal messengers that she alluded. "what have officers of justice to do with me?" he asked. "to call you to account for the killing of my brother!" sir valentine's fight, in which wounds had been given on both sides, again recurred to hal's mind. "your brother is dead, then?" he inquired. "i am but now from his funeral!" was her answer. in that case, hal deduced, her brother must have died two days before, that is to say, on the very day of the fight. the news must have come belated to the sister, for she had been at the performance of "hamlet," yesterday. and here was explanation of her departure from the theatre in the midst of the play. the summons to her dead brother's side had followed her to the playhouse, and there overtaken her. afterward, hal found these inferences to be correct. for a second or two of mutual inaction, he marvelled at the strange ways of circumstance which had brought this woman, whom he had yesterday admired in the crowded london playhouse, to confront him in such odd relations on this lonely, night-hidden road in hertfordshire. but a sound that a turn of the wind brought--the sound of roger barnet's men riding nearer--sharpened him to the necessity of immediate action against this sudden hindrance. yet he felt loath to go from this woman. go he must, however, though even at the possible cost of violence to her people. the puritan retained his place at marryott's side. kit bottle was close behind, and with horse already half turned so that he might face barnet's men should they come up too soon; he had drawn his sword, and was quietly making ready his pistols. "madam," said hal, decisively, "i did not kill your brother. now, by your favor, i will pass, for i am in some haste." "what!" she cried. "did you lie just now, when you said you were sir valentine fleetwood?" now, hal might tell her that he was not sir valentine; but, doubtless, she would not believe him; and thus the situation would not be changed. and, on the other hand, if she should believe him, so much the worse,--she would then bend her energies toward the hindrance of the real sir valentine; would ride on toward fleetwood house, be met and questioned by roger barnet, and set him right, or at least cause him to send a party back to fleetwood house to investigate. so hal's purpose would be speedily frustrated. his only course was to let her think him really the man he was impersonating; indeed that course would make but another step in the continued deception of roger barnet, and hal was bound to take such steps--not avoid them--for the next five days. "mistress hazlehurst," replied hal, taking a kind of furtive joy in using her name upon his lips for the first time, "i do not deny that i am sir valentine fleetwood; but i did not kill your brother. i wish you heaven's blessing and a good night, for i am going on!" with that he started his horse forward. "take him!" she shouted to her men. "ye shall pay for it an he escape!" the threat had effect. the attendants crowded upon hal, some with swords drawn, some with clubs upraised; so that his horse, after a few steps, reared wildly upon its haunches, and sought a way out of the press. "back, dogs!" commanded marryott, striking right and left with sword and pistol. there were cries of pain from men and horses; the men wielded their weapons as best they could; but a way was somehow opened. mistress hazlehurst herself was forced against the fence at the roadside, one of her followers--a slender, agile youth--skilfully interposing his horse and body between her and the crush. she would have pressed into the midst of the blows and of the rearing beasts, had not this servant restrained her horse by means which she, in her excitement, did not perceive. but she continued calling out orders, in a loud, wrathful voice. as hal opened way, anthony and bottle followed close, preventing the enemy from closing in upon his rear. the puritan used a short sword with a business-like deliberation and care, and with no word or other vocal sign than a kind of solemnly approbative grunt as he thrust. bottle, who rode last, handled his long rapier with great swiftness and potency, in all directions, swearing all the while; and finally let off his two pistols, one after the other, at two men who hung with persistence upon hal's flanks, while hal was forcing the last opposition in front. one of these two fell wounded or dead, the other was thrown by his maddened horse; and finally the three fugitives were free of the mass of men and beasts that had barred the way. one of the horses was clattering down the road ahead, without a rider. hal informed himself by a single glance that anthony and kit were free and able, and then, with an "on we go!" he spurred after the riderless horse toward stevenage. "after him, you knaves!" screamed mistress hazlehurst, in a transport of baffled rage; but her servants, some unhorsed, some with broken heads or pierced bodies, one with a pistol wound in his side, and the rest endeavoring to get the horses under control, were quite heedless of her cries. "a sad plight to leave a lady in!" said hal, who had heard her futile order. he and his two men were now riding at a gallop, to regain lost advantage. "a devil of a woman!" quoth captain bottle, in a tone of mere comment, void of any feeling save, perhaps, a little admiration. "why did she not know me, either as sir valentine, or as not being sir valentine?" asked hal, calling ahead to anthony, who had resumed his place in front. "she hath dwelt most time in london with a city kinswoman," was the answer, "and sir valentine hath lived usually in france since she was born." "'tis well master barnet knew sir valentine better, or knew him well enough to take me for him in my disguise," said hal. "trust roger barnet to know every papist in the kingdom," called out kit bottle, "and to know every one else that's like to give occasion for his services. it is a pride of his to know the english papists whereever they be. roger is often on the continent, look you. he is the privy council's longest finger!" "tell me of this mistress hazlehurst," said hal to the puritan, to whose side he now rode up. "is't true she is the sister of the gentleman sir valentine fought?" "his only sister," returned anthony. "his only close kin. she is now heiress to the hazlehurst estate, and just old enough to be free of wardship." "a strong love she must have borne her brother, to fly straight from his funeral to see him avenged!" "nay, i know not any great love betwixt 'em. they could not live in the same house, or in the same county, for their wrangles--being both of an ungodly violence. 'twas her brother's unrighteous proneness to anger that forced the brawl on sir valentine. 'twas that heathenish quarrelsomeness, some say, that kept mr. hazlehurst a bachelor. 'tis a wonder the evil spirit of wrath in him brought him not sooner to his death. he fought many duels,--not hereabouts, where men were careful against provoking him, but in france, where he lived much. 'twas there, indeed, that he and sir valentine best knew each other." "and yet this sister must have loved him. women are not commonly so active toward punishing a brother's slayer," insisted hal. "why," replied anthony, "methinks this woman is a hothead that must needs do with her own hands what, if she were another woman, she would only wish done. 'tis a pride of family that moveth her to look to the avenging of her brother's death. a blow at him she conceiveth to be a blow at herself, the two being of same name and blood. this sister and brother have ever been more quick, one to resent an affront against the other from a third person, than they have been slow to affront each other. i am not wont to speak in the language of the lost, or to apply the name of the arch-enemy to them that bear god's image; but, indeed, as far as a headstrong will and violent ways are diabolical, yon profane man spoke aptly when he named mistress anne a devil of a woman!" "all's one for that," said hal, curtly. "but, certes, as far as a matchless face and a voice of music are angelical, i speak as aptly when i name this mistress anne an angel of a woman! it went against me to leave her in the road thus, in a huddle of bleeding servants and runaway horses." "tis a huddle that will block the way for roger barnet a while," put in captain bottle. "doubtless he and his men have ridden up to her by now," replied marryott. "i'd fain see what is occurring betwixt them." then lapsing into silence. hal and his two attendants rode on, passing through slumbering stevenage, and continuing uninterruptedly northward. barnet's party had indeed come up to mistress hazlehurst's, and the scene now occurring between them was one destined to have a strange conclusion. anne's followers,--raw serving men without the skill or decision to have used rightly their numerical superiority over the three fugitives,--all were more or less hurt, except two,--the slight one who had personally shielded her, and the lantern-bearer, who had been taken out of the fray by the intractability of his horse. not only was her escort useless for any immediate pursuit of the supposed sir valentine, but the condition of its members required of her, as their mistress and leader, an instant looking to. the necessity of this forbade her own mad impulse to ride unaided after the man who had escaped her, and whom she was the more passionately enraged against because of his victory over her and of his treatment of her servants. nothing could have been more vexatious than the situation into which she had been brought; and she was bitterly chafing at her defeat, while forcing herself to consider steps for the proper care of her injured servants, when barnet's troop came clattering up the road. mistress hazlehurst's horses, except the runaway, had now been got under command; some of her men, merely bruised in body or head, stood holding them; others, worse hurt, lay groaning at the roadside, whither she had ordered their comrades to drag them. anne herself sat her horse in the middle of the road, the little fellow, still mounted, at her left hand. such was the group that caused barnet and his men to pull up their horses to an abrupt halt. peering forward, with eyes now habituated to the darkness, the royal pursuivant swiftly inspected the figures before him, perceived that sir valentine and his two attendants were not of them, wondered what a woman was doing at the head of such a party, dismissed that question as none of his business, and called out: "madam, a gentleman hath passed you, with two men. did he keep the road to stevenage, or turn out yonder?" "sir valentine fleetwood, mean you?" asked anne, with sudden eagerness. "the same. way to pass, please you. and answer." roger barnet was a man of middle height; bodily, of a good thickness and great solidity; a man with a bold, square face, a frown, cold eyes, a short black beard; a keeper of his own counsel, a man of the fewest possible words, and those gruffly spoken. anne, because her mind was working upon other matter, took no offence at his sharp, discourteous, mandatory style of addressing her. without heeding his demand for way, she said: "sir valentine hath indeed passed! see how he dealt with my servants when i tried to stay him! are you magistrate's men?" "i am a messenger of the queen," said barnet, deigning an answer because, on looking more closely at her horses, a certain idea had come to him. "in pursuit of sir valentine?" she asked. "with a warrant for his apprehension," was the reply. "what! for my brother's death? hath her majesty heard--" "for high treason; and if these be your horses, in the queen's name--" but mistress hazlehurst cut short his speech, in turn. "high treason!" she cried, with jubilation; and this thought flashed through her mind: that if taken for high treason, her enemy, a catholic of long residence in france, was a doomed man; whereas a judicial investigation of his quarrel with her brother might absolve sir valentine from guilt or blame. true, the state's revenge for an offence against itself would not, as such, be her revenge for an offence against her family, and would not in itself afford her the triumph she craved; but sir valentine was in a way to escape the state's revenge; she might be an instrument to effect his capture; in being that, she would find her own revenge. she could then truly say to her enemy, "but for me you might be free; of my work, done in retaliation for killing my brother, shall come your death; and so our blood, as much as the crown, is avenged." all this, never expressed in detail, but conceived in entirety during the time of a breath, was in her mind as she went on: "god's light, he shall be caught, then! he went toward stevenage. i will ride with you!" "nay, madam, there are enough of us. but your horses are fresher than ours. i take some of yours, in the queen's name, and leave mine in your charge." and he forthwith dismounted, ordering his men to do likewise. but ere he made another movement, his hand happening to seek his pouch, he uttered an oath, and exclaimed: "the queen's letters! there's delay! they must be delivered to-night. madam, know you where sir william crashaw's house is? and mr. richard brewby's?" "both are down the first road to the right." "then down the first road to the right i must go, and let sir valentine fleetwood gain time while i am about it. which is your best horse, mistress? and one of your men shall guide me to those gentlemen's houses." and, resigning his horse to a follower, he strode into the midst of the hazlehurst group. "but why lose this time, sir?" said anne. "let my man himself bear these letters." "when i am charged with letters," replied roger barnet, "they pass not from me save into the hands for which they are intended. i shall carry these letters, and catch this traitor. by your leave, i take this horse--and this--and this. get off, fellow! hudsdon, bring my saddle, and saddle me this beast. change horses, the rest of you." "but will you not send men after this traitor, while you bear the letters?" queried anne, making no protest against the pressing of her horses into the queen's service,--a procedure in which no attempt was made to include the horse she herself was on. barnet gave a grunt of laughter, to which he added the words, "my men go with me!" perhaps he dared not trust his men out of his sight, perhaps he wished no one but himself to have the credit of taking the fugitive, perhaps he needed the protection of his complete force against possible attack. "but, man," cried anne, sharply, "you will lose track of sir valentine! you will take two hours, carrying those letters!" "why, mistress," replied barnet, as the change of horses from one party to the other went rapidly on, "will not people in farmhouses and villages hear his three horses pass?" though he assumed a voice of confidence, there was yet in it a tone betraying that he shared her fears. "he ought to be followed while he is yet scarce out of hearing," said anne, "and overtaken, and hindered one way or another till you catch up." barnet cast a gloomy look at her, as if pained at the mention of a course so excellent, but in the present case so impossible. "my horse is the best in the county," she went on. "i can catch him,--hang me if i cannot! i can delay him, too, if there be any way under heaven to do so! dickon, look to thy wounded fellows! see them taken home, and show this gentleman the way to sir william crashaw's and mr. brewby's. come, francis!"--this to the small attendant who kept always near her--"god be praised, you are well-mounted, too!" and she turned her horse's head toward stevenage. "but, mistress anne," cried dickon, in dismay, "you will be robbed--killed! ride not without company!" "let go, dickon, and do as i bid! i shall ride so fast, the fiend himself cannot catch me, till i fall in with that traitor; and then i shall have him and his men for company till this officer come up to him. master messenger, for mine own reasons i promise to impede sir valentine; to be a burden, a weight, and a chain upon him, holding him back by all means i can devise, till you bear your letters and o'ertake him. dickon, heed my orders! follow me. francis! ods-daggers, must i be a milksop, and afraid o' nights, because i wasn't born to wear hose instead of petticoats?" and having by this time got her horse clear of the group in the road, she made off toward stevenage, followed by her mounted page. francis. "it may turn out well for us that sir valentine fleetwood happened to kill her brother," was the only comment of roger barnet, as he mounted the horse his man hudsdon had newly saddled. he had seen much and many, in his time, and was not surprised at anything, especially if it bore the shape of a woman. chapter ix. the first day of the flight. "that wench is stark mad, or wonderful froward."--_the taming of the shrew._ the object of this double chase, master marryott, rode on with his two men, through the night, beyond stevenage, at what pace it seemed best to maintain. the slowness, incredible to a bicyclist or horseman who to-day follows the same route, was all the greater for the darkness; but slowness had good cause without darkness. english horse-breeding had not yet shown or sought great results in speed. an elizabethan steed would make a strange showing on a twentieth century race-track; for the special product of those days was neither horses nor machines, but men. and such as the horses were, what were the roads they had to traverse! when a horse put his foot down, the chances were that it would land in a deep rut, or slide crunching down the hardened ridge at the side thereof, or find lodgment in a soggy puddle, or sink deep into soft earth, or fall, like certain of the scriptural seed, upon stony places. it is no wonder, then, that on a certain occasion, when queen elizabeth was particularly impatient for a swift answer to a letter she caused sent to the keepers of mary stuart, the messenger's time from london to fotheringay and back was at the rate of less than sixty miles a day. as for travel upon wheels, an example thereof will occur later in this narrative. but there was in those days one compensatory circumstance to fugitives flying with a rapidity then thought the greatest attainable: if they could not fly any faster, neither could their pursuers. the night journey of our three riders continued in silence. as no sound of other horses now came from behind or from anywhere else, and as the objects passed in the darkness were but as indistinct figures in thick ink against a ground of watered ink. hal's senses naturally turned inward, and mainly upon what was then foremost in the landscape of his mind. this was the face of mistress anne hazlehurst; and the more he gazed upon the image thereof, the more he sighed at having to increase the distance between himself and the reality. his reluctance to going from the neighborhood of her was none the less for the matter-of-fact promptness with which he did go therefrom. the face was no less a magnet to him for that he so readily and steadily resisted its drawing powers. those drawing powers would, of course, by the very nature of magnets, decrease as he went farther from their source; but as yet they were marvellously strong. such is the charm exerted upon impressionable youth by a pair of puzzling eyes, a mysterious expression, a piquant contour, allied to beauty. all the effect of his first sight of that face was revived, and eked to greater magnitude by his strange confrontation with her, proud and wrathful in the poor lantern rays that fell intermittently and shiftingly upon her in the dark road. he wondered what would be her subsequent proceedings that night; tried to form a mental panorama of her conduct regarding her wounded servants; of her actions now that she saw her design upset, the tenor of her life necessarily affected by this new catastrophe to her household. he pitied her, as he thought of the confused and difficult situation into which she had been so suddenly plunged. and then he came to consider what must be her feelings toward himself. looking upon him as her brother's slayer, she must view him with both hate and horror. his violent treatment of her servants would augment the former feeling to a very madness of impotent wrath. yet it was not hal marryott that she hated,--it was the make-believe sir valentine fleetwood; not the player, but the part he played. still, a dislike of a character assumed by an actor often refuses to separate the actor from the character; moreover, she must necessarily hate him, should she ever come to know him, for having assumed that part,--for being, indeed, the aider of her enemy against herself. hal registered one determination: should the uncertain future--now of a most exceeding uncertainty in his case--bring him in his own person into the horizon of this woman, he would take care she should not know he had played this part. what had passed between them should be blotted out; should be as if indeed sir valentine, not hal marryott, had escaped her in the road. and hal bethought himself of one gain that the encounter had yielded him: it had acquainted him with the name and place of the previously unknown beauty. some day, when he should have gone through with all this business, he might indeed seek her. when he should have gone through with this business? the uncertain future came back to his thoughts. what would be the outcome of this strange flight? so strange, that if he should tell his friends in london of it, they would laugh at the tale as at a wild fiction. fool a trained man-hunter, a royal messenger grown old in catching people for the council, and fool him by such a device as hal had employed! act a part in real life, even for a moment, to the complete deception of the spectator intended to be duped! to be sure, dick tarleton had done so, when he pretended in an inn at sandwich to be a seminary priest, in order to be arrested and have the officers pay his score and take him to london, where, being known, he was sure to be discharged. but dick tarleton was a great comedian, and had essayed to represent no certain identifiable seminary priest; whereas master marryott, who had dared impersonate a particular known man, was but a novice at acting. but hal soon perceived this fact: that playing a part on the stage and playing a part in real life are two vastly different matters. a great actor of the first may be a great failure in the second, and the worst stage player may, under sufficient stress, fill an assumed character deceptively in real life. the spectator in a theatre expects to see a character pretended, and knows that what he sees is make-believe, not real. a spectator in real life, chosen to be duped, expects no such thing, and is therefore ready to take a pretence for what it purports to be. whatever may occur eventually to undeceive him, he is in proper mind for deception at first contact with the pretence. and the very unlikelihood of such an attempt as hal's, the very seeming impossibility of its success, was reason for roger barnet's not having suspected it. these thoughts now occurred to hal for the first time. should he succeed in his novel adventure, he might congratulate himself upon the achievement, not of a great feat of stage-playing, indeed, though to his stage training he owed his quick perception and imitation of sir valentine's chief physical peculiarities, but of a singular and daring act, in which he both actually and figuratively played a part. but was he destined to succeed? was roger barnet still upon his track? or was he fleeing from nothing, leaving a track for nobody to follow? well, he must trust to those at fleetwood house to keep sir valentine's actual whereabouts from discovery, and to barnet's skill in picking up the trace that a fugitive _must_ leave, willy-nilly. but what if fate, so fond of playing tricks on mortals, should conceive the whim of covering up the track of this one fugitive who desired his track to be seen? hal cast away this thought. he must proceed, confidently, though in blindness as to what was doing behind him. at present, silence was there; no sound of far-off horse-hoofs. but this might be attributed to barnet's interruption by anne's party; to measures for procuring fresh horses, and to the necessary delivery of the letters of which the queen had told him. and so, fleeing from cold darkness and the unknown into cold darkness and the unknown, deep in his thoughts, and trusting to his star. master marryott rode on through baldock and toward biggleswade. kit bottle presently called his attention to their having passed out of hertfordshire into bedfordshire. the captain had been hard put to it for a fellow talker. his remarks to hal had elicited only absent monosyllables or silence. at last, with a gulp as of choking down an antipathy, he had ridden forward to anthony and tried conversation with that person. master underhill listened as one swallows by compulsion a disagreeable dose, and gave brief, surly answers. kit touched with perfect freedom upon the other's most private concerns, not deeming that a despised dissenter had a right to the ordinary immunities. "marry, i know not which astoundeth me the more," said the soldier; "that a papist should keep a puritan in's household, or that the puritan should serve the papist!" anthony was for a moment silent, as if to ignore the impudent speech; but then, in a manner of resignation, as if confession and apology were part of his proper punishment, he said, with a lofty kind of humility: "the case no more astoundeth you than it reproacheth me. it biteth my conscience day and night, and hath done so this many a year. daily i resolve me to quit the service of them that cherish the gauds and idolatries of papistry. but the flesh is weak; i was born in sir valentine's household, and i could not find strength to wrench me from it." "ay," said kit, "no doubt it hath been in its way a fat stewardship, though the estate be decreased. the master being so oft abroad, and all left to your hands, i'll warrant there have been plump takings, for balm to the bites o' conscience." "i perceive you are a flippant railer; but you touch me not. what should they of no religion understand of the bites of conscience?" "no religion! go to, man! though i be a soldier, and of a free life, look you, i've practised more religions than your ignorance wots of; and every one of them better than your scurvy, hang-dog, vinegar-faced non conformity! nay, i have been puritan, too, when it served my turn, in the days when i was of walsingham's men. he had precisian leanings, and so had the clerk o' the council. mr. beal. but you are an ingrate, to fatten on a good service, yet call it a reproach!" "fatten!" echoed the puritan, glancing down at his spare frame. "mayhap it hath been a good service formerly, by comparison with its having this night made me partaker in a five days' lie, abettor of a piece of play-acting, and associate of a scurrilous soldier!" with which anthony underhill quickened his horse so as to move from the captain's side; whereupon kit, too amazed for timely outward resentment, lapsed into silent meditation. they rode through biggleswade. fatigue was now telling on them. hal's latest sleep had been that of the previous morning, in the cold open air of whitehall garden,--an age ago it seemed! kit's most recent slumbers, taken even earlier, had been, doubtless, in equally comfortless circumstances. hal learned, by a question, that anthony had passed yesternight in bed, warm and sober. so hal decided that when the three should stop at dawn for rest, food, change of horses, and the removal of the false beard, himself and kit should attempt an hour's repose while anthony should watch. the puritan should be one of the sleepers, kit the watcher, at the second halt. hal planned and announced all details for assuring an immediate flight on the distant advent of the pursuers. a system of brief stops and of alternate watches could be employed throughout the whole flight without loss of advantage, for barnet also would have to make similar delays for rest, food, and the changing or baiting of horses. on wore the night. they passed through eaton socon, and continued northward instead of turning into st. neots at the right. they took notice here, as they had taken at previous forkings of the road, that there were houses at or near the junction,--houses in which uneasy slumberers would be awakened by their passing and heed which way their horses went. roger barnet would have but to ride up noisily, and, perchance, pound and call at a house or two, to bring these persons to windows with word of what they had heard. hal marvelled as he thought of it the more, how the nature of things will let no man traverse this world, or any part of it, without leaving trace of his passage. he saw in this material fact an image of life itself, and in the night silence, broken only by the clatter of his horses and by some far-off dog's bark or cock's crow, he had many new thoughts. so he rode into huntingdonshire, and presently, as the pallor of dawn began to blanch the ashen sky, he passed kimbolton, whose castle now seemed a chill death-place for poor catherine of aragon; and, four miles farther on, he drew up, in the dim early light, before the inn at catworth magna, and set kit bawling lustily for the landlord. a blinking hostler came from the stable yard, and the beefy-looking host from the inn door, at the same time. but the travellers would not get off their mounts until they were assured of obtaining fresh ones. captain bottle did the talking. the new horses were brought out to the green before the inn. kit dismounted and examined them, then struck a bargain with the innkeeper for their use, dragging the latter's slow wits to a decision by main force. this done, hal leaped to the ground, called for a room fronting on the green, a speedy breakfast served therein, a razor and shaving materials taken thither, and some oat-cakes and ale brought out to anthony, who should stay with the horses. hal then strode up and down the green, while anthony ate and kit and the hostler transferred the saddles and bridles. he kept well muffled about the face with his cloak, in such manner as at once to display his beard and yet conceal the evidence of its falseness. the new horses ready, anthony mounted one, and, under pretence of exercising them, moved off with them toward the direction whence barnet would eventually come. hal, to forestall hindrance in case of a necessarily hasty departure, handed the innkeeper gold enough to cover all charges he might incur, and was shown, with kit, to a small, bare-walled, wainscoted, plastered, slope-roofed room up-stairs. he threw open the casement toward the green, and promptly fell upon the eggs, fish, and beer that were by this time served upon a board set on stools instead of on trestles. finishing simultaneously with kit, hal took off his false beard, strewed its severed tufts over the floor, and then submitted his face, which had a few days' natural growth of stubble, to a razor wielded by the captain. after this operation, the two stretched themselves upon the bed, in their clothes, their heads toward the open window. a dream of endless riding, varied by regularly renewed charges against a wall of plunging horses that invariably fled away to intervene again, and by the alternate menacings and mockings of a beautiful face, culminated in a clamorous tumult like the shouting of a multitude. hal sprang up. bottle was bounding from the bed at the same instant. the sound was only the steadily repeated, "halloo, halloo!" of anthony underhill beneath the open window. hal looked out. the puritan sat his horse on the green, holding the other two animals at his either side, all heads pointed northward. on seeing hal, he beckoned and was silent. hal and kit rushed to the passage, thence down the stairs, and through the entrance-way, to horse. the landlord, called forth by anthony's hullabaloo, stared at them in wonder. hal returned his gaze, that an impression of the newly shaven face might remain well fixed in the host's mind; and then jerked rein for a start. neither hal nor kit had yet taken time to look for the cause of anthony's alarm. as they galloped away from the inn, hal heard the patter of horses coming up from the south. he turned in his saddle, expecting to see roger barnet and his crew in full chase. but the horses were only two in number, and on them were mistress hazlehurst, in a crimson cloak and hood, and the page in green who had attended her at the theatre. hal's heart bounded with sudden pleasure. as he gazed back at her, he caught himself smiling. she saw him, noted his two companions, and seemed to be in doubt. the landlord was still before the inn. she reined up, and spoke to him. hal could see the innkeeper presently, while answering her, put his hand to his chin. "good!" thought hal; "he is telling her that, though i depart smooth-faced, i arrived bearded." the next moment, she and the page were riding after the three fugitives. without decreasing his pace, hal asked anthony: "was it she only that you saw coming? are barnet's men behind?" "'twas she only. but she is enough to raise the country on us!" "think you that is her purpose?" "ay," replied anthony. "she hath heard of the treason matter from the pursuivant, and hath shot off, like bolt from bow, to denounce you. 'tis her method of vengeance." "'tis like a woman--of a certain kind," commented kit bottle, who had taken in the situation as promptly as the others had. "'tis like a hazlehurst," said anthony. "well," said master marryott, for a pretext, "'tis doubtless as you say; but i desire assurance. it may serve us to know her intentions. she cannot harm us here." (they were now out of the village.) "though she would raise hell's own hue and cry about us, she might halloo her loudest, none would hear at this part of the road. we shall wait for her." anthony cast a keen glance at hal, and kit bottle thrust his tongue in his cheek and looked away,--manifestations at which hal could only turn red and wish that either of the two had given some open cause for rebuke. he was determined, however; the temptation to play with fire in the shape of a beautiful woman was too alluring, the danger apparently too little. so the three horses dropped to a walk, and presently the two that followed were at their heels. hal looked back as she came on, to see if she still carried the sword she had used on the previous night; but he saw no sign of it about her. in fact, she had given it to francis, who bore at his girdle a poniard also. "mistress, you travel ill-protected," was hal's speech of greeting. "so my brother must have done when he met you last," was her prompt and defiant answer. she let her horse drop into the gait of hal's, and made no move to go from his side. the puritan resumed his place at the head, and francis, in order to be immediately behind his mistress, fell in with kit bottle. in this order the party of five proceeded northward, their horses walking. "i did not harm your brother," reiterated marryott, with a sigh. "i perceive," she replied, ironically, "you are not the man that hurt my brother. you have made of yourself another man, by giving yourself another face! god 'a' mercy, the world is dull, indeed, an it is to be fooled with a scrape of a razor! you should have bought the silence of mine host yonder, methinks! and changed your company, altered your attitude, rid yourself of the stiffness from the wound my brother gave you, and washed your face of the welt my sword left! you have a good barber, sir valentine; he hath shaved a score of years from your face; he hath renewed your youth as if with water from that fountain men tell of, in america!" "the loss of a long-worn beard indeed giveth some men a strange look of youth," assented hal, as if humoring her spirit of bitter derision against himself. he was glad of her conviction that he could look youthful and yet be the middle-aged sir valentine. "'twas so in the case of an uncle of mine," she said, curtly, "which the more hindereth your imposing on me with a face of five and twenty." "five and twenty?" echoed hal, involuntarily, surprised that he should appear even so old. but a moment's reflection told him that his age must be increased in appearance by the assumed stiffness of his attitude; by the frown and the labial rigidity he partly simulated, partly had acquired since yesterday; by the gauntness and pallor, both due to nervous tension and to lack of sleep and food. he was indeed an older man than the "laertes" of two days ago, and not to be recognized as the same, for in the play he had worn a mustache and an air little like his present thoughtful mien. "and i'll warrant this new face will serve you little to throw them off that are coming yonder," she went on, indicating the rearward road by a slight backward toss of the head. "certain riders from london, mean you?" said hal. "by your leave, madam, sith you be in their secrets, i would fain know how far behind us they ride?" "not so far but they will be at your heels ere this day's sun grow tired of shining." "ay, truly? they will do swift riding, then!" "mayhap 'twill come of their swift riding," she replied, taunted by his courteous, almost sugary, tone. "and mayhap, of your meeting hindrance!" "prithee, what should put hindrance in my way?" he inquired, with a most annoying pretence of polite surprise and curiosity. "i will!" she cried. "i have run after you for that purpose!" "god's light, say you so? and what will you do to hinder me?" "i know not yet," she answered, with high serenity. "but i shall find a way." "no doubt you will choose the simplest way," said hal. "what is that, i pray you?" she asked, quickly. but hal merely smiled. she followed his glance, however, which rested upon a gabled country-house far across the open field at their right, and she read his thought. "nay," she said, her chin elevated haughtily, "i disdain help. 'tis my humor to be alone the means of throwing you into the hands that bring the warrant for you. nor shall i lose sight of you time enough to seek rustic officers and set them on you." "you are wise in that," said hal; "for, indeed, if you took but time to cry out against me to some passing wayfarer, i and my men would be up-tails-and-away in a twinkling. for my own interest, i tell you this; sith i'd fain not have you do aught to deprive me of your company as fellow traveller." she colored with indignation at this compliment, and hal, thereby reminded that she saw in him her brother's slayer, and sensible how much affront lay in the speech in the circumstances, reddened as deeply. if he could but find a way, without making her doubt that he was sir valentine, of convincing her that he had not been her brother's opponent! he had thought vaguely that, by his reiterated denials of a hand in the killing, he might finally implant in her mind the impression that, though he was sir valentine, he had not given the mortal thrust; that there was some mystery about the fight, to be explained in time. but he now perceived that if such an idea could be rooted into her mind, its effect must be to make her drop the chase and go back to sir valentine's neighborhood. there she might find conclusive evidence of sir valentine's responsibility for her brother's death, and make upon fleetwood house some kind of invasion that would endanger the real sir valentine. moreover, hal took a keen, though disturbed, joy in her presence, despite the bar of bloodshed that in her mind existed between them; and though to retain that joy he must let her continue in that supposition, he elected to retain it at the price. after a pause, during which she acquired the coolness of voice to answer hal's thoughtlessly offensive words, she said: "i pray god to hasten the hour when i shall be your fellow traveller toward london!" "an roger barnet, with his warrant of the council, were left out, i should pray god to be your fellow traveller anywhere!" was hal's reply,--and again he had to curse his heedlessness, as again he saw how odious to her was the truth that had slipped so readily out of him. "you rode fast, else you had not overtaken me," he said, in hope of changing her thoughts. "and having overtaken you, i shall not lose you," she answered. "and you have not slept nor eaten! marry, you must be weary and faint, mistress!" "neither too weary nor too faint to dog you to your undoing," she said, resolutely throwing off all air of fatigue. "and you risked the dangers of the road. ods-death, if you had fallen in with robbers!" "that danger is past," she said. "henceforth, till the officers be with us, i shall go in your company, and the appearance of you and your men will be my guard against robbers." "nay, an you were threatened, i and my men would offer more than mere appearance in your protection, i do assure you!" "be that as it may," she answered, coldly. "appearance would serve. i take protection of you while i have need of it, and not as a favor or a courtesy, but as a right--" "from a gentleman to a lady, yes," put in hal. "from an enemy," she went on, ignoring his interruption, "sith it be a practice in war to avail oneself of the enemy without scruple, in all ways possible!" hal sighed. he would rather let his protection be accepted otherwise. but he inwardly valued her unconscious tribute to the gentlemanhood she divined in him,--the tribute apparent in her taking for granted that he would act her protector even on a journey in which her declared object was to hold him back for the death he was flying from. there were such gentlemen in those days; and there have been such women as anne--women who will avail themselves of the generosity of men they are seeking to destroy--in all days. he was glad of the assurance received from her that roger barnet was still on his track. thus far, all was going well. if this woman, from pride or caprice or a strange jealousy of keeping her vengeance all to herself, did indeed think to impede him by other and more exclusive means than public denunciation or hue and cry, he felt that he had little to fear from her. to put her declaration to the test, he held the horses down to an easy gait in passing through the next villages, though he was ready to spur forward at a sign; but she indicated no thought of starting an outcry. she kept her eyes averted in deep thought. hal would have given much to read what was passing within that shapely head. without doubt, she was intent upon some plan for making a gift of him to his pursuers, some device for achieving that revenge which she craved as a solitary feast, and which she was not willing to owe to any one but herself. what design was she forming? hal imagined she could not be very expert in designs. a crafty nature would not have declared war openly, as her proud and impulsive heart had bade her do. he admired her for that frankness, for that unconscious superiority to underhand fighting. it showed a noble, masterful soul, and matched well her imperious beauty. they rode through clapton and deane. her fatigue became more and more evident, though pride and resolution battled hard against it. her only food during the forenoon was some cold ham she got at a country inn in northamptonshire, at which hal paused to bait the horses. they proceeded into rutlandshire. before entering glaiston she swayed upon her side-saddle, but instantly recovered herself. at manton she was shivering,--the day was indeed a cold one, though the sun had come out at eight o'clock, but she had not shivered so before. "we shall have dinner and a rest at oakham," said master marryott, softly. "'tis but three miles ahead." "all's one, three miles or thirty!" she answered. as they stopped before an inn at the farther end of oakham,--an inn chosen by hal for its situation favorable to hasty flight northward,--the clocks in the town were sounding noon; noon of wednesday. march 4, 1601; noon of the long first day of the hoped-for five days' flight. chapter x. the locked door. "when i was at home, i was in a better place: but travellers must be content." --_as you like it._ before alighting from her horse, mistress hazlehurst waited to see what her enemy should do. the enemy's first proceedings were similar to those taken upon his arrival at catworth magna. that is to say, through the expeditious offices of captain bottle, new horses were placed ready before the inn, ere the party dismounted from the tired ones; dinner and a room were bespoken; and all possible charges were forestalled by advance payment. anne imitated this whole arrangement precisely, causing no little wonder on the part of the inn people, that she should give her orders independently, though they were exactly like those of the three men with whom she and her page were manifestly travelling. it was mentally set down by the shrewd ones that here were man and wife, or brother and sister, not on speaking terms, yet obliged to perform a journey together. hal remained outside the inn with anthony, till bottle should ride back to keep watch. anne stood near him, not irresolute, but to observe his actions. refreshed with a stirrup-cup and some cakes, bottle soon rode off, with two led horses. perceiving the object of this movement, anne dismissed the captain from her observation, that she might concentrate it upon the supposed sir valentine. as her boy francis was in no less need of food and sleep than herself, she gave a coin to one of the hostlers, with orders to walk her horses up and down before the inn till she should come for them. hal counted on her fatigue to reinforce her proud determination that she would not resort to the local authorities against him. yet he would not go to his chamber ere she went to hers. deducing this from his actions--for no speech passed between them while they tarried before the inn--and being indeed well-nigh too exhausted to stand, she finally called for a servant to show her to her room. francis followed her, to wait upon her at dinner and then to lie on a bench outside her door. hal watched her into the entrance-hall of the inn. at the foot of the stairs leading to the upper floor, she stopped, handed a piece of money to the attendant, and spoke a few words in a low tone. the fellow glanced toward the inn porch in which hal was standing, and nodded obedience. hal inferred that she was engaging to be notified instantly in case of his departure. a moment later hal beckoned anthony to follow, and went, under the guidance of the landlady herself, up to his own room. as he turned from the stair-head into the upper passage, he saw a door close, which he divined to be that of his fair enemy. a moment later an inn servant appeared with a bench, and placed it outside this door. on reaching his own room, in the same passage, hal noticed that this bench, on which francis was to rest, stood in view of his own door, and also--by way of the stairs--of the entrance-hall below. he smiled at the precautions taken by the foe. examining his room, he saw that it had the required window overlooking the front inn yard and the road beyond. immediately beneath this window was the sloping roof of the inn porch. having opened the casement, and moved the bed's head near it, hal turned to the dinner that a servant was placing on a small trestle-table, for which there was ample free space in the chamber. the english inns of those days were indeed commodious, and those in the country towns were better than those in london. hosts took pride in their tapestry, furniture, bedding, plate, and glasses. some of the inns in the greater towns and roads had room for three hundred guests with their horses and servants. noblemen travelled with great retinues, and carried furniture with them. it was a golden age of inns,--though, to be sure, the servants were in many cases in league with highway robbers, to whom they gave information of the wealth, destinations, routes, and times of setting forth of well-furnished guests. the inn at which hal now refreshed himself, in oakham, was not of the large or celebrated ones. he had his own reasons for resorting to small and obscure hostelries. yet he found the dinner good, the ale of the best, and, after that, the bed extremely comfortable, even though he lay in his clothes, with his hand on his sword-hilt. he had flung himself down, immediately after dinner, not waiting for the platters and cups to be taken away. anthony, who had been as a table-fellow sour and monosyllabic, but by no means abstemious, for all his puritanism, was as prompt as hal to avail himself of the comfort of the bed. his appreciation was soon evinced by a loud snoring, whose sturdy nasality seemed of a piece with his canting, rebuking manner of speech when he allowed himself to be lured into conversation. there was in his snore a rhythmic wrestling and protesting, as of jacob with the angel, or a preacher against satan, that befitted well his righteous non-conformity. from this thought--for which he wondered that he could find place when his situation provided so much other matter for meditation--hal's mind lapsed into the incoherent visions of slumber, and soon deep sleep was upon him. hal had arranged that kit bottle should return to the inn and call him, after four hours, in the event of no appearance of the pursuit. when hal awoke with a start, therefore, and yet heard no such hallooing as anthony had given at catworth, he supposed that kit must have summoned him by a less alarming cry. his head shot out of the window, but he beheld no kit. turning to anthony, he saw that the puritan had just opened his eyes. "didst hear anything?" queried hal. "not sith i awoke," was the answer. "yet meseems in my sleep there was a loud grating sound and a terrific crash." "in our dreams we multiply the sounds that touch our ears," said hal. "it must have been a sound of omen, to have waked us both. so let us think of a small grating sound--" at that instant his eyes alighted on the door. he would have sworn a key had been in that door, though he had not locked it before sleeping. he had noticed the key for its great size and rustiness. but no key was there now, at least on the inside. hal strode from the bed, and tried the door. it was locked. "how now?" quoth he. "some one has robbed us of our key, and used it on the wrong side of the door!" "i warrant it should be no far seeking to find that some one," growled anthony, rising to his feet. "ay," said hal, "'tis just the shallow, childish stop-nobody thing a woman would do, and think she hath played a fine trick! come, anthony,"--hal spoke the puritan's name not superciliously now, for he was beginning to like a fellow who could toil forward so uncomplainingly through fatigue and danger, yet make such full use of comforts when they fell to him,--"i see captain bottle riding hither, at a walk. that means 'tis four o'clock, though master barnet hath not yet shown his face. we must be taking horse again." and he dropped out of the window to the porch roof, let himself down a corner-post, and stood in the inn yard. anne's horses were still there. as soon as anthony was beside him, hal stepped into the entrance-passage. at the stair-foot stood mistress hazlehurst, her back to the door, giving some swift and excited commands to her page, francis, who was ready to ride. she turned to see who had entered the inn. on perceiving it was hal, and that his face wore an involuntary quizzical smile, she caught her breath, and became the very picture of defeat and self-discovered foolishness. "have you seen aught of a key i lost?" said hal, ere he thought. "i need it to unlock my door and get out of my room, as i am in some haste!" she turned deep crimson at the jest; her eyes shot a glance of fire, her lips closed tight; and, without a word, she glided past him, and out to her horses. he saw in her look a new sense of the insufficiency of easy and obvious means, and a resolution to rise to the needs of her purpose. "her eyes are opened," mused hal, following her and francis to the yard. "her next step is like to be more considerable!" meeting kit and the horses just within the inn yard gate, hal and anthony mounted. anne and her page were prompt to follow their example. with courtesy, hal held back his horses for her to precede him out to the road. a minute afterward the five riders, so strangely brought into a single group, were pushing northward in the cold, waning afternoon. she had slept some, and was the better for the food she had taken. yet this riding was manifestly a wearier business than it could have been at the time of her setting out. it was a chilly business, too, for march had begun to turn out very january-like, and was steadily becoming more so. the look of dogged endurance that mingled on her face with the new resolution there, continually touched hal's tender and pitying side. his countenance as continually showed his feelings, and she perceived them with deep and ill-concealed resentment. but she at last attained a degree of stolid iciness at which she remained. it imposed upon hal, riding at her side, a silence that became the harder to break as it became the less bearable. and the further she tried to put herself out of his pity, the greater his pity grew, for the effort she was required to make. the more his admiration increased, too; and if pity is ever akin to love, it is certainly so when united to admiration. her determination had not the mannish mien, nor her dislike the acrid, ill-bred aspect that would have repelled; they were of the womanly and high-born character that made them rather pique and allure. partly to provoke her feelings to some change of phase, partly to elicit relief from the impassiveness in which she had sought refuge, partly for the cruel pleasure sometimes inexplicably found in torturing the tender and beautiful,--a pleasure followed by penitence as keen,--he made two or three delicate jests about the locked door; these were received with momentary glints of rage from her dark eyes, succeeded by coldness more freezing than before. the silence created--and diffused--by her enveloped the whole party, making the ride even more bleak than it was already from the wintry day and the loneliness of the road. it was bad weather for travelling, less by reason of the present cold than of the signs of impending storm. "there is snow in the air," growled anthony underhill to himself, as if he smelled it. of the country through which they passed, the most was open, only the pasture-land and the grounds pertaining immediately to gentlemen's houses being fenced. enclosures were a new thing in those days, defended by the raisers of sheep and cattle, bewailed by the farmers who tilled the soil. where the road did not run between woods or over wild moors, it gave views of far-off sheep-cotes, of mills, and here and there of distant castle-towers, or the gables of some squire's rambling manor-house; or it passed through straggling villages, each with a central green having a may-pole and an open pool. but most human life was indoors upon this evening of belated winter; still and brown was the landscape. once, soon after they had passed from rutlandshire into leicestershire, a burst of yokelish laughter struck their ears from among some trees, like a sudden ray of light and warmth in a cold, dead world. it came from some yeomen's sons who were destroying the eggs of birds of prey. the population of melton mowbray was housed and at supper, as they rode through that town in the early dusk without stop. on into nottinghamshire they went; and at last, checked alike by darkness and by weariness, they came to a halt before a little, low, wobbly-looking wood-and-plaster inn at the junction of the nottingham road with the cross-road to newark. chapter xi. wine and song. "he's in the third degree of drink; he's drowned."--_twelfth night._ the inn people coming forth with a light, hal made similar arrangements to those effected at his two previous stopping-places, with this difference, that he himself was to watch for two hours, and then be succeeded by anthony. anne could not exactly repeat her precautions taken at oakham, for hal procured the only available fresh horses before she applied for any; nor could she arrange that her own horses should be held in readiness before the inn. she caused them, however, to be fed and kept in an unlocked shed, from which her page might speedily take them out; and she was successful in bespeaking information in case of the enemy's departure. though hal left her sight in riding back to keep watch, she now knew that he would not flee without calling his attendants, nor could he continue his flight in either practicable direction--toward nottingham or toward newark--without passing the inn. so she went to her room--one of the few with which the low upper story of the house was provided--in confident mind, stationing francis on a bench where he might, in a state of half slumber, watch the door of kit and anthony. as for the window of the room taken by these two, it was not far from her own, and by keeping the latter open she counted upon hearing any exit made through the former. she lay down, and dozed wakefully. hal's watch was without event. as he moved up and down the silent road with his horses, he continued to ask himself whether she might yet have formed a plan of action against him; and from this question he fell to considering what plan might be possible. he tried to devise one for her, but could invent none that he saw himself unable to defeat. he returned to the inn at the end of his two hours, and summoned anthony by a whistle previously agreed upon. anthony came down by the stairs, and went silently on guard. hal, who had not yet eaten, now entered the inn with a ready appetite for the supper he had previously ordered. as he stepped from the outer wind into the passage, he noticed that the door was open which led thence to the inn parlor. just within that door stood a figure. he glanced at it. by the light of the candles farther in the room, he saw that it was mistress hazlehurst. "sir," she said to him, in a dry tone, which, as also her face, she tried to rob of all expression save that of ordinary, indifferent civility, "i learn you bespoke supper to be sent to your room. i am having mine own served here. we have full understanding of each other's intent. there is open warfare between us. yet while we be fellow travellers, each set upon the other's defeat, meseems we should as well comport ourselves as fellow travellers till one win the other's undoing. though writ down in blood as bitter foes, in birth we are equal, and our lands are neighbor. so i do offer that we sup together, as becometh people of civility upon the same journey, though enemies they be to the death." to this proposal, so congenial with his inclinations, what could master marryott do but forthwith assent, too dazzled by the prospect to torture his brain for a likely motive on her part? with a "right readily, mistress!" he hastened to give the necessary orders, and then entered the parlor, which had no occupant but mistress anne. the last tippler of the night had sought his bed. at one side of the low room was a fire in a wide hearth. at another side, beneath a deep, long, horizontal window was a table, on which some dishes were already set. the floor was covered with stale rushes. there were no hangings on the besmoked, plastered, timbered walls. the poor candles shed a wavering light. this was no mermaid tavern, indeed. yet hal felt mightily, dangerously comfortable here. he opened a casement a little, that he might hear any alarm from anthony, and then he sat down at the table, opposite anne. he saw that francis, who seemed of wire, and proof against fatigue and lack of sleep, stood ready to wait upon his mistress. he saw, too, that her wine was placed on a rude kind of sideboard, to be served from thence each time a sip might be wanted, as in the private houses of gentlefolk. when a tapster came, sleepy and muttering to himself, with hal's wine, master marryott ordered it put as the lady's was; and then mistress hazlehurst proposed, in the manner she had used before, that the inn servant be dismissed and francis wait upon them both. "it is but fair repayment," she added, "for the protection i receive upon the road by the presence of your men." hal was nothing loath. he would not show suspicion, if he felt any, at being invited to be left alone with his enemy and her servant. francis was but a slip of a boy,--and yet, in his tirelessness, his reposeful manner, his discreet look, the closeness of his mouth, there was sufficient of the undisclosed, of the possibly latent, to put a wise man on his guard. hal kept a corner of his eye upon the page, therefore, while with the rest of it he studied the fine face and graceful motions--motions the more effective for being few--of the page's mistress. the early part of the meal went in silence, francis attending to the dishes and serving the wine noiselessly, with neither haste nor tardiness. hal saw in the looks of both lady and page the reviving effects of a short sleep and of cold water. anne ate, not as if hungry, but as if providing against possible exposure and fasting. that francis might not have to depart unfed, she bade him partake of certain dishes as he bore them from before her. he contrived to do this, and yet to see that master marryott never wanted for wine. and, indeed, master marryott, warmed, comforted, made to see things rosily, put into mood of rare good-feeling and admiration, kept francis busy and busier between the sideboard and the wine-cup at hal's hand. finally, the page, when he should have taken the flagon back to the sideboard, set it down on the table, that he might thereafter fill the cup without even the loss of time involved in traversing the rush-covered floor. was this the boy's own happy thought, or was it in obedience to a meaning glance from his mistress? hal did not query himself on this point; he had observed no meaning glance. he was entering the seventh heaven of wine; it seemed the most natural thing in the world that he should find the flagon constantly at his elbow. and suddenly this silence, so long maintained, appeared absurd, unaccountable. god-'a'-mercy! why should people sit tongue-tied in this manner? wherefore he spoke: "truly 'twas well thought on that we might use civil courtesy between us, enemies though you will have us! 'tis like the exchange of gentleness 'twixt our noblest soldiers and those of spain, in times of truce, or even in the breathing moments 'tween sword-thrusts. truly, courtesy sweeteneth all transactions, even those of enmity and warfare! 'tis like this wine that giveth a soft and pleasing hue, as of its own color, to all one sees and hears when one has drunk of it. taste it, madam, i pray. your glass hath not been once refilled. nay, an you spare the wine so, i shall say you but half act upon your own offer!" she drank what remained in her cup, and let francis fill it again. "no doubt the ladies of france drink more wine than we of england," she said, as if at the same time to account for his importunity and her moderation. he perceived the allusion to sir valentine's long residence in france, and was put on his guard against betraying himself. he ought to have taken more into mind that she regarded him as her brother's slayer, and that her tone was strangely urbane for such regarding, even though courtesy had been agreed upon. but by this time he had too much wine in. he had long since exhausted the contents of his own flagon, and was now being served from hers. "the ladies of france," he replied, "are none the better of the ladies of england for that." "i have heard there is a certain facility and grace in them, that we lack," she answered, having noticed that he drank at the end of each speech he made. "it may be," he said, "but 'tis the facility and grace of the cat, with claws and teeth at the back of it." he had to speak of french ladies entirely from hearsay. "for softness, united with strength and candor, for amplitude and warmth of heart, commend me to the english ladies." euphuism was still the fashion, and people of breeding had the knack of conversing offhand in sentences that would now seem studied. the cup-lifting that followed this remark was accompanied by so direct a look at her that she could not but know for which particular english lady the compliment was intended. she gave no outward sign of anger. "the french excel us in their wine, at least," she replied, sipping from her cup as if to demonstrate the sincerity of her words,--an action that instantly moved master hal to further and deeper potations. [illustration: "she gave no outward sign of anger."] "why, i should be an ingrate to gainsay that," said he. "tis indeed matter for thanks that we, sitting by night in this lone country ale-house,--'tis little better,--with the march wind howling wolf-like without, may imbibe, and cheer our souls with, the sunlight that hath fallen in past years upon french hillsides. but we should be churls to despise the vineyards of spain or italy, either! or the rhenish, that hath gladdened so many a heart and begot so many a song! lovest thou music, madam?" she kept a startled silence for a moment, at a loss how to receive the change from "you" to "thou" in his style of addressing her. in truth the familiarity was on his part unpremeditated and innocent. but, for another reason than that, she speedily decided to overlook it, and she answered, in words that gave hal a sudden thrill, for they were those of one of master shakespeare's own comedies, often played by the company: "the man that hath no music in himself. nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils." she paused here, as if struck with the thought that the speech might not be known to the catholic knight. "'tis lorenzo's speech in 'the merchant,'" said hal, quite ecstatic. "i--" he caught himself in time to avoid saying, "know the part by heart, having studied it in hope of some-day playing it," and added, instead, "saw the comedy in london when 'twas first played, and a friend sent me a book of it last year, that he bought in paul's churchyard. thou'st seen the play, i ween." "and read it," she answered, this time filling his glass herself, for francis had stolen from the room with a flagon in quest of more wine at the bar. "know'st thou the full speech," said he, "beginning, 'how sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank'?" without waiting for an answer, and being now in the vinous rage for reciting, he went on through the scene to its interruption by the entrance of portia and nerissa. it was nothing wonderful, in those days, that a gentleman should speak verse well; yet she viewed him with some astonishment, in which was a first faint touch of regret that circumstance made this man, in whom otherwise she might find certain admirable qualities, irrevocably her foe, to become inevitably her victim. this regret she instantly put from her, and set herself the more to plying him with wine. "i'll warrant thou hast music at the end of thy tongue, and of thy fingers also," said hal. "would there were an instrument here! heavenly must be the offspring, when such hands wed string of lute, or key of virginal! but thy lips are here. wilt sing? all are abed. i prithee, a song!" "nay, 'twere better you should sing," she answered, by way of evading a course of importunities, and seeing that he was in ripe mood for compliance. "willingly, an thou'lt engage to sing in thy turn," he replied. she gave her promise, thinking she would not have to keep it; for when a gentleman in wine becomes vocally inclined, he is apt to go on like a wound-up clock till he be stopped, or till he run down into slumber. so hal began, with shakespeare's "o mistress mine, where are you roaming?" as a song whose line, "that can sing both high and low," was appropriate to their recent subject. and this led naturally to the song "it was a lover and his lass," which in turn called up ben jonson's song on a kiss, from the masque of "cynthia's revels." then something gave a convivial shift to hal's thoughts, and he offered king henry viii.'s "pastime with good company," from which he went to the old drinking song from "gammer gurton's needle." mistress hazlehurst, having perceived that singing hindered his drinking, though each lapse between songs was filled with a hasty draught, was now willing enough to keep her promise; and she made bold to remind him of it. he was quite eager to hear her, though it should require silence on his own part. she sang shakespeare's "when icicles hang by the wall," in a low and melodious voice, of much beauty in a limited range,--a voice of the same quality as her ordinary speaking tones. seeing that hal, who gazed in admiration, broke his own inaction by constant applications to the flagon, which the clever francis had succeeded in filling at the bar, she followed this song immediately with "blow, blow, thou winter wind." hal was now ready to volunteer with "under the greenwood tree," but she cut him short, and drove him to repeated uses of the cup, by starting john heywood's song of "the green willow," which she selected as suiting her purpose by reason of its great length. when this was at last finished, hal, who had been regarding her steadily with eyes that sometimes blinked for drowsiness, opened his mouth to put in practice a compliment he had for some minutes been meditating,--that of singing "who is sylvia?" in such manner as should imply that mistress hazlehurst embodied all the excellences of her who "excelled each mortal thing upon the dull earth dwelling." she silenced him at the outset by taking up heywood's "be merry, friends," at which, despite how much he admired her face and was thrilled by her voice, he sat back in resignation; for the old song she had this time hit upon was as nearly endless as it was monotonous. hal's nurse had many times droned him to sleep with it, in his infancy. and now its somnolent effect was as great as ever. save for her voice, in the unvarying rhythm of the countless four-line stanzas marked by the refrain. "be merry, friends!" at the end of each, and for a frequent moan or whine of the wind without, the utmost stillness reigned. francis had effaced himself on a high-backed seat in a dark corner of the fireplace. the candles burned dimly for want of snuffing, and they were just so far from hal's arm that, in his drowsy state, it was too great an effort to reach them. indeed, it had now become too great an effort to draw the wine flagon toward him. his brain swam a little. he sat back limp in his oaken settle, his head fell more and more heavily toward his breast. things became vaguer and vaguer before him; the face from whose lips the soporific melody proceeded was blended more and more with the ambient shadows. his eyelids closed. she continued the song more softly, a triumphant light slowly increasing in her eyes. at last her voice was still. the supposed sir valentine moved not, lifted not his head, opened not his eyes. only his regular breathing, the heavy breathing of vinous stupor, was heard in the room. mistress hazlehurst rose without noise. "he will not be in riding mood for ten hours to come," she said, quietly, to francis. "an his men waken him, he'll be for calling them hard names, and off to sleep again! god-'a'-mercy, what an ocean of wine hath he swallowed in three short hours! come. francis, we may sleep with ease of mind to-night. he is stayed beyond even the will to go on. and i thank heaven, for i am well-nigh as drowsy, and as loath to ride in this weather, as he must be!" it was sleepily indeed that she stepped, with as little sound as could be, over the crackling rushes to the door. to keep her enemy in the drinking mood, and to dissemble her purpose, she had taken an unusual quantity of wine herself. ladies did not drink as much in elizabeth's outwardly decent reign as they came to drink a few years later, under scottish jeames, when, if sir john harrington lied not in 1606, those of the court did "abandon their sobriety" and were "seen to roll about in intoxication." and mistress hazlehurst was the last woman in the world to violate the prevalent seemliness under the virgin queen. but she had sipped enough to augment the languor induced by her recent exertions. she put a hand upon the door-post to support herself as she approached it. there was a wild, swift beating of horses' hoofs on the road outside; an abrupt stoppage just before the inn; a shrill whistle, and this shout from anthony underhill: "what, ho! halloo, halloo!" hal raised his head, and looked drowsily around with blinking eyes. there was a noise overhead of a heavy tread,--that of captain bottle, responding to the alarm. in a trice old kit was heard clearing the stairs at a bound, and then seen dashing through the passage and out into the darkness. he had unbarred the outer door with a single movement. hal stared inquiringly at mistress hazlehurst. her eyes had a glow of confident expectation. that was her blunder. her look told him all,--that she had supped with him, sung for him, incited him to drink, in order that he might be unfit for flight or action. he sprang to his feet, clapped on his hat, threw off his tipsiness with one backward jerk of the shoulders; was himself again, with clear eyes and strong, steady limbs. "to horse, madam, if you would still ride with us!" he cried. "i have some thirty miles or so to go to-night!" and he strode past her, and out after kit bottle. "'tis barnet's men, methinks, by the sound of the horses yonder," said anthony, composedly, pointing southward, as hal rose into the saddle. hal looked back toward the open door of the inn. in a moment anne came out with francis, who ran at once to the shed wherein her horses were. in the doorway between parlor and passage she had undergone a moment of sickening chagrin. not only had she failed ridiculously a second time, but she must now abandon her clutch upon her enemy, or face with him that thirty miles of night ride in biting weather! francis looked at her for commands. she tightened her lips again, imitated hal's own motion of casting away lassitude, drew her cloak close around her, put up her hood, and hastened out to the windy night. hal made great stir with his horses before moving off, that the inn people might be awakened and some of them note which road he took. this precaution, used for the benefit of roger barnet, gave anne time to join hal's party. when the pursuivant and his fellows rode up, soon afterward, on half dead horses, that stumbled before the inn, the fugitives were well forward on the nottingham road. it was a bitter, black night. "fellow travellers still!" quoth master marryott, to the dark figure that rode galloping, with flying cloak, beside him. "and shall be till i see you caught, though i must ride sleepless till i drop!" was the reply. chapter xii. the constable of clown. "i am a wise fellow; and, which is more, an officer; ... and one that knows the law, go to."--_much ado about nothing._ it was one hour after midnight, when the fellow travellers left the lone inn near the newark cross-road. they had arrived there at eight o'clock in the evening. during their stay, hal had obtained no sleep but that which he had taken at the table, and which had lasted but a few minutes. anne had slept perhaps an hour before going down to the parlor. the reader will remember the fatigued condition in which both had come to the inn. their next rest could not be had until a long and hard ride should achieve for them a probable gain of some hours over the horsemen whom anthony underhill had heard. for this gain, hal counted on the fact that barnet's horses, more recently ridden, could not be as fresh as his own, and on barnet's constant necessity of pausing at each branching of the road, to make inquiries. such were the conditions under which the second full day of the flight began. it was now a time for drawing on that reserved energy which manifests itself only in seasons of strait. hal was aware, from past experience, of this stored-up stock of endurance, that serves its possessor on occasions of extremity. to anne, its existence within her must have come as a new disclosure. hal, as a man of gentle rearing, had for her a man's compassion for a woman to whom this discovery is made by hardship undergone for the first time. and yet, so does human nature abound in apparent contradictions, he had a kind of satisfaction, almost gleeful, at the toils she had brought upon herself by attempting to overreach him. for, had she used in sleep the time she had spent in that attempt, had she not taken sufficient of the wine to enervate herself somewhat, she would now have been in fresh vigor for the wearing ride before her. the riders had a slight check at nottingham, owing to a difference of opinion between master marryott and the watch, as to the propriety of their passing through the town at such an hour of the night. hal was in instant readiness for any outcry on the part of mistress hazlehurst. but he looked so resolute, kit bottle so formidable, anthony underhill so rigid with latent fighting force, that anne doubtless saw little to be gained from a conflict between her enemy and the unaided dotards of the night watch. a gold piece, to reinforce a story explaining their early riding, proved the magic opener it commonly proves, and obtained a lantern from one of the watchmen, as well; and the fugitives rode free, northward into sherwood forest. it was lone riding, and toilsome, through the green-wood where robin hood and his outlaws had made merry, and past newstead abbey; and would have been next to impossible but for the lantern, with which the puritan lighted up a few inches of the tree-roofed road ahead. dawn found them near mansfield, through which town they soon after passed without stay, and proceeded into derbyshire. at seven o'clock, having covered twenty-nine miles in the six hours since their last setting out, and all but kit bottle being ready to fall from their saddles, they stopped before a humble hostelry at scardiff. they could get but one fresh horse here. bottle took this one, upon which to ride back to a suitable spot for watching the road behind. the others of the party had to be content with giving their nearly used-up animals what rest might be had in saddle and bridle, and under a penthouse roof at one end of the inn. hal, before entering the inn, bought the vigilance of a hostler toward keeping his horses in readiness for further going, and against any attempt on anne's part, through francis, to disable them while he slept; though, indeed, he saw little likelihood of her employing such means, both she and her page being in the utmost need of immediate sleep; and she unable to purchase treachery of the inn folk, for, as he observed when she paid the hostess in advance, her purse was now sadly fallen away. hal foresaw, from this last circumstance, two things: a certainty of her resorting soon to desperate measures against him, and an opportunity for his chivalry to display itself in an offer to pay her charges while she continued with deadly purpose to accompany him. as hal was about to follow anne into the house, he was greeted by a pleasant-eyed old fellow who had been sitting on a bench by the door, with a mug of ale at his side; an old fellow whose frieze jacket and breeches proclaimed a yeoman, and whose presence on the outer bench on so cold a morning betokened a lively curiosity as to the doings of his fellow-men. "god save your worship!" said he, in a mild little voice, rising and bowing with great respect for gentility. "i dare say your honor hasna' fell in with the rascals, on your worship's travels?" seeing but a rustical officiousness and news hunger in this speech, hal paused, and asked: "what rascals, goodman?" "them that ha' pestered travellers, and householders, too, so bad of late, on roads hereabout. marry, 'tis well to go in plenty company, when robbers ride in such number together! they make parlous wayfaring for gentlefolk, your worship!" "you mean that a band of highway robbers, more than common bold, hath been in the neighborhood?" "ay, and i would any man might say the rogues were yet out of it! they have terrified constables, and the justices sleep over the matter, and the sheriff hath his affairs elsewhere; so god look after honest travellers, say i, sir!" "you say well," replied marryott, casting a glance at anne, who also had stopped to listen to the countryman's words. she took from hal's countenance a sense of the further obligation she must needs be under for his protection, now that a particular known danger was at hand; but this sense only moved her to the inward resolve of ending alike that obligation and their northward travel, by some supreme effort to entrap him. he read her thought in her face, and his look defied her. she hastened to her room, he to his; she, attended by francis, he by anthony underhill. marryott and anthony soon despatched the scant meal brought to their chamber. before placing himself for sleep, harry looked into the passage. the boy francis was at his customary post outside his mistress's door. hal and the puritan were asleep before eight o'clock. at ten, hal awoke. after he had glanced out of the window, and seen no one about the inn, something--he knew not what--impelled him to take another view of the passage. he did so; and this time he beheld no francis. he awakened anthony, and the two stepped softly into the passage. they stood for an instant before mistress hazlehurst's door, but heard no sound from within. down-stairs they went, surveying the public room of the house as they passed out to the open air. the room was empty. they hastened to the shed where the horses were. the horses were now but two,--marryott's and anthony's. those of mistress hazlehurst and her page were gone. with hal's quick feeling of alarm, there came also a chilling sense of sudden loneliness. a void seemed to have opened around him. "the devil!" was all that he could say. "she cannot have given up, and gone back," volunteered anthony. "she would have had to pass your man bottle, and he would have ridden hither to tell you she was stirring." "ay, 'tis plain enough she hath not fled southward, where kit keeps watch for barnet's men. she hath ridden forward! ho, john ostler, a murrain on you!" cried hal. "the lady--whither hath she gone, and when? speak out, or 'twill fare hard with you!" "'twas but your own two beasts your honor bade me guard," said the hostler, coming from the stables. "as for the lady, her and the lad went that way, an hour since or so!" and the fellow pointed northward. "haste, anthony!" muttered hal, untying his own horse. "ride yonder for kit bottle, and then you and he gallop after me! she hath gone to raise the country ahead of us! failure of other means hath pushed her to belie her declaration." "a woman's declaration needeth little pushing, to be o'erthrown," commented anthony, sagely, as he mounted. "tut, knave, 'tis a woman's privilege to renounce her word!" replied master marryott, sharply, having already leaped to saddle. "it may be so; i know not," said anthony, with sour indifference; and the two made for the road together. "well, see that kit and you follow speedily, while i fly forward to stay that lady, lest we be caught 'twixt barnet's men behind us, and a hue and cry in front!" whereupon, without more ado, hal spurred his horse in the direction that anne had taken, while anthony turned southward in quest of bottle. as hal sped along, he did not dare confess which of the two motives more fed his anxious impatience: solicitude for his own cause, or fear that anne might meet danger on the road,--for he recalled what the countryman had told him of highway robbers infesting the neighborhood. he put four miles behind him, neither winning glimpse of her nor being overtaken by kit and anthony. seeking naught in the forward distance but her figure--now so distinct in his imagination, so painfully absent from his real vision,--he paid no heed, until he had galloped into the very midst of it, to a numerous crowd of heavy-shod countrymen that lined both sides of the road at the entrance to the village of clown. so impetuous had been hal's forward movement, so complete the possession of his mind by the one image, that he had seen this village assemblage with dull eyes, and with no sense of its possibly having anything to do with himself; yet it was just such a gathering that he ought to have expected, and against which he ought to have been on his guard. not until it closed about him, not until a huge loutish fellow caught the rein of his suddenly impeded horse, and a pair of rustics drew across the road--from a side lane--a clumsy covered coach that wholly blocked the way, and a little old man on the edge of the crowd brandished a rusty bill and called out in a squeaky voice, "surrender!" did hal realize that he had ridden right into the hands of a force hastily gathered by the village constable to waylay and take him prisoner. hal clapped hand to sword-hilt, and surveyed the crowd with a sweeping glance. the constable had evidently brought out every able-bodied man in the near neighborhood. three or four were armed with long bills, hooked and pointed, like that borne by the constable himself. others carried stout staves. emboldened by the example of the giant who had seized hal's rein, the clowns pressed close around his horse. ere hal could draw sword, his wrist was caught in the iron grasp of one of the giant's great brown paws. two other burly villagers laid hold of his pistols. with his free hand, hal tried to back his horse out of the press, but was prevented both by the throng behind and by the big fellow's gripe of the rein. marryott thereupon flashed out his dagger, and essayed to use it upon the hand that imprisoned his wrist. but his arm was caught, in the elbow crook, by the hook of a bill that a yeoman wielded in the nick of time. the next instant, a heavy blow from a stave struck the dagger from hal's hand. his legs were seized, and he was a captured man. all this had occurred in short time, during the plunging of hal's horse and the shouting of the crowd. it had been a vastly different matter from the night encounter with mistress hazlehurst's servants. these yokels of clown, assembled in large number, led by the parish hercules, bearing the homely weapons to which they were used, opposing afoot and by daylight a solitary mounted man to whom their attack was a complete surprise, were a force from whom defeat was no disgrace. yet never did master marryott know keener rage, humiliation, and self-reproach --self-reproach for his heedless precipitancy, and his having ridden on without his two men--than when he found himself captive to these rustics; save when, a moment later, his glance met an open casement of an ale-house at one side of the road, and he saw anne hazlehurst! her look was one of triumph; her smile like that with which he had greeted her after the incident of the locked door at oakham. and, for the space of that moment, he hated her. "sir valentine fleetwood," cried the constable, in his senile squeak, pushing his way with a sudden access of pomposity from his place at the crowd's edge, "i apprehend you for high treason, and charge you to get down from your horse and come peaceably to the justice's house." "justice's house!" cried hal, most wrathfully. "of what do you prate, old fool? what have i to do with scurvy, rustical justices?" "to justice loudwight's, your honor," replied the constable, suddenly tamed by hal's high and mighty tone. "in good sooth, his house is pleasant lodging, even for a knight, or lord either, and his table and wine--" "devil take justice loudwight's table and wine, and a black murrain take yourself!" broke in hal, from his horse. "give me my weapons, and let me pass! what foolery is this, you rogue, to hinder one of her majesty's subjects travelling on weighty business?" "nay, sir, i know my duty, and mr. loudwight shall judge. i must hold you till he come back from chesterfield, whither he hath gone to--" "i care not wherefore mr. loudwight hath gone to chesterfield, or if every other country wight in derbyshire hath gone to visit the foul fiend! nor can i tarry for their coming back," quoth hal, truly enough, for such tarrying meant his detention for the arrival of roger barnet. "let me pass on, or this place shall rue this day!" "i be the constable, and i know my duty, and i must apprehend all flying traitors, whether they be traitors or no, which is a matter for my betters in the law to give judgment on." the constable's manner showed a desire to prove himself an authoritative personage, in the eyes of the community and of mistress hazlehurst. he was a quailing old fellow, who pretended boldness; a simple soul, who affected shrewdness. "know your duty, say you?" quoth hal. "were that so, you would know a constable may not hold a gentleman without a warrant. where is your writ?" "talk not of warrants! i'll have warrants enough when justice loudwight cometh home. though i have no warrant yet, i have information," and the constable glanced at the window from which anne looked down at the scene. hal thought of the surely fatal consequences of his remaining in custody till either justice loudwight should come home or roger barnet arrive. his heart sank. true, kit bottle and anthony underhill might appear at any moment; but their two swords, unaided by his own, would scarce avail against the whole village toward effecting a rescue. he pondered a second; then spoke thus: "look you, master constable! you have information. well, information is but information. mine affairs so press me onward that i may not wait to be judged of your mr. loudwight. hear you, therefore, the charge against me, and mine answer to't. while the justice is away, is not the constable the main pillar of the law? and shall not a constable judge of information that cometh to him first? ods-light, 'tis a pretty pass when one may say this-and-that into the ears of a constable, and bid him act upon it as 'twere heaven's truth! hath he no mind of his own, by which he may judge of information? if he have authority to receive information, hath he not authority to receive denial of it, and to render opinion 'twixt the two?" the constable, flattered and magnified--he knew not exactly why--by hal's words and mien, expanded and looked profound; then answered, with a sage, approving nod: "there is much law and equity in what you say, sir!" quick to improve the situation, hal instantly added: "then face me with your informer, master constable, and judge lawfully between us!" "bring this worshipful prisoner before me!" commanded the constable, addressing the giant and the others in possession of hal's horse, legs, and weapons; and thereupon walked, with great authority, into the ale-house. hal was promptly pulled from his saddle, and led after him. the constabulary presence established itself behind a table at one side of the public room. the giant and another fellow held hal, while a third tied his hands behind with a rope. the villagery crowded into the room, pushing hal almost against the constable's table. but, after a moment, the crowd parted; for anne hazlehurst, having witnessed the course of events from her window, had come down-stairs without being summoned, and she now moved forward to hal's side, closely followed by francis. meanwhile, at the constable's order, a gawkish stripling, whose looks betokened an underdone pedagogue, took a seat at the table's end, with writing materials which the officer of the peace had commanded from the ale-house keeper in order to give an imposing legal aspect to the proceedings. "now, sir," began the constable, with his best copy of a judicial frown, "there is here to be examined a question of whether this offender be in truth a pursued traitor--" "pardon me, master constable," objected hal. "sith it is questionable whether i be that traitor. i may not yet be called an offender." "sir," replied the constable, taking on severity from the presence of anne, "leave these matters to them that stand for the laws. offender you are, and that's certain, having done offence in that you did resist apprehension." "nay, if i be the pursued traitor i am charged with being," said hal, "then might that apprehension have been proper, and i might stand guilty of resistance; but if i be no such traitor, the apprehension was but the molesting of a true subject of the queen, and my resistance was but a self-defence, and the offence was of them that stayed me." the constable began to fear he was in deep waters; so cleared his throat for time, and at last proceeded: "there is much can be said thereon, and if it be exhibited that there was resistance, then be sure justice will be rendered. if it be proven you are no traitor, then perhaps it shall follow that there was no resistance. but yet i say not so for certain. what is your name, sir?" before hal could answer, mistress hazlehurst put in: "his name is sir valentine fleetwood, and he is flying from a warrant--" "write down sir valentine fleetwood," said the constable, in an undertone, to the youth with quill, ink-horn, and paper. "write down no such name!" cried hal. "write down harry marryott, gentleman, of the lord chamberlain's company of players!" and hal faced anne, with a look of defiance. ere any one could speak, he went on, "this lady, whom i take to be your informer, will confess that, if i be not sir valentine fleetwood, i am not the person she doth accuse." during the silence of the assemblage, anne regarded hal with a contemptuous smile, as if she thought his device to escape detention as shallow and foolish as had been her own first attempt to hinder him. "what name shall i put down?" asked the puzzled scribe, of the constable. "write sir valentine fleetwood!" repeated anne, peremptorily. "this gentleman's sorry shift to evade you, master constable, is scarce worthy of his birth." "write down sir valentine fleetwood," ordered the constable. "is not this the examination of sir valentine fleetwood, and whose name else--?" "if it be the examination of sir valentine fleetwood," interrupted hal, "then 'tis not my examination, and i demand of you my liberty forthwith; for i do not acknowledge that name! i warn you, constable!" taken aback by hal's threatening tone, the constable looked irresolute, and glanced from hal to anne and back again. mistress hazlehurst opened her eyes in a mixture of amazement and alarm, as if it might indeed be possible that her enemy's device should have effect upon this ignorant rustic. she took the supposed sir valentine's denial of that name to be a pitiful lie, employed on the spur of the moment. it was not less important to hal that she should so take it, than it was that the constable should receive it as truth; and he now had to wear toward the officer a manner of veracity, and toward anne the mien of a ready and brazen liar. this could not but make her loathe him the more, and it went against him to assume it. but in his mind he could hear the steady hoof-beats of roger barnet's horses coming up from the south, and so he must stick firmly to the truth which made him in her eyes a liar. her momentary look of alarm died away as the constable continued to gaze in stupid indecision. she waited for others to speak; she had no interest in hastening matters; her hopes were served by every minute of delay. but hal's case was the reverse. "well, man," he said, to the slow-thinking constable. "i am here to answer to any charge made against me in mine own name. if you have aught to say concerning mr. harry marryott, of the lord chamberlain's players, set it forth, for i am in haste. i swear to you, by god's name, and on the cross of my sword if yon fellow hand it back to me, that i am not sir valentine fleetwood, and that there is no warrant for my apprehension!" "perjurer!" cried anne, with scorn and indignation. "nay, madam," quoth the constable, somewhat impressed by hal's declaration, "an oath is an oath. there be the laws of evidence--" "then hear my oath!" she broke in. "i swear, before god, this gentleman is he that the royal officers are in pursuit of, with proper warrant,--as you shall soon know, when they come hither!" the constable sat in bewilderment; frowned, gulped, and hemmed; gazed at hal, at anne, at the table before him, and into the open mouth of the lean clerk, who waited for something to write down. at last he squeaked: "'tis but oath against oath--a fair balance." "then take the oath of my page," said anne, quickly, drawing francis forward. "he will swear this is the gentleman of whom i told you." "that i do," quoth francis, sturdily, "upon this cross!" and he held aloft his dagger-hilt. the constable heaved a great sigh of relief, and looked upon hal with an eased countenance. "the weight of evidence convicts you, sir," he said. "let the name of sir valentine fleetwood be taken down, and then his oath, and then the names of these two swearers, and their two oaths--" "stay a moment, master constable!" cried hal, his eye suddenly caught by the dismounting of two men from horseback, outside the ale-house window, which had been opened to let fresh air in upon the crowd. "there be other oaths to take down! ho. kit bottle, and anthony, tie your horses and come hither! nay, gripe not your swords! let there be no breach of the peace. but hasten in!" the general attention fell upon the newcomers, who had ridden hotly. with a dauntless air kit bottle strode through the crowd, handling men roughly to make a way, and followed close by anthony. "what a murrain hath befallen--?" kit was beginning; but hal stopped him with: "no time for words! captain bottle, you and worthy master underhill, testify to this officer my name, the name half london knows me by as a player of the lord chamberlain's company! this lady will have it i am one sir valentine fleetwood. speak my true name, therefore, upon your oath." hal had said enough to inform both kit and anthony what name was wanted on this occasion, and the captain instantly answered: "i will swear to this officer--an thou call'st him such--and maintain it with my sword against any man in england, that thou art no sir valentine fleetwood, but art master harry marryott, and none other, of the lord chamberlain's servants!" "'tis the simple truth," said anthony underhill, glowering coldly upon the constable. "i will take oath thereto." the constable held up three fingers of one hand, on hal's side, and two fingers of the other hand, on anne's side, and said to her: "mistress, here be three oaths against two; thou'rt clearly outsworn!" "perjurers!" said anne, facing master marryott and his men. "nay, nay, madam!" quoth the constable, becoming severe on the victorious side. "an there be charge of perjury in the case, look to thyself! since these three have sworn truly, it followeth that thy two oaths be false oaths!" "rascal!" cried hal. "do you dare accuse this lady of false swearing?" "why, why, surely your three oaths be true--" "true they are, and see you to't my horse and weapons be rendered up to me straightways! but this lady swore what she thought true. she had good reason for so thinking, and village rogues would best use fair words to her!" he cast a side-glance at anne, as he finished speaking; but at that instant she turned her back upon him, and went from the room, as swiftly as the crowd could let her. hal, perforce, stayed to be unbound by the rustics that had held him. at the further orders of the constable, who speedily dwindled into obsequious nothingness under the swaggering disdain of captain bottle, hal's weapons were restored to him. when he went out to the road, he found his horse ready, with kit's and anthony's. the huge coach, recently used by the rustics to obstruct the way, had been moved back into the lane. hal remarked aloud upon this, as he made ready to mount. "ay, your worship," said a villager, who had overheard him, "we opened the way again, when the lady rode off a minute ago." "the lady!" cried hal, and exchanged a blank look with kit and anthony. he had lost sight of her, while being released and repossessed of his weapons. "a plague on my dull wits!" he added, for the ears of his two men alone. "she hath gone to try the same game in the next parish, and fortune will scarce favor me with such another choice organ of the law as this constable!" meanwhile, in the ale-house, the constable, after some meditation, called for ale to be brought to the table at which he had been sitting, and said, thoughtfully, to his ally of the pen and ink-horn: "thou mayst tear what thou hast taken down of the examination, william." and william, muddled by participation in the recent rush of events, absently tore to pieces his sheet of paper, on which he had written nothing. chapter xiii. the prisoner in the coach. "it smites my heart to deal ungently with thee, lady."--_the fair immured._ "she is like to find some magistrate of knowledge and resources next time!" continued hal, alluding to anne. "well, there's naught to do but ride after her!" "but what then?" put in kit. "what shall hinder her from crying out?" hal, just mounted, happened to glance at the coach in the lane. he had, in one moment, a swift series of thoughts. "would that a dozen horses were to be had!" quoth he. "why, now," said kit, "here come a score of horses, but with men upon their backs." hal turned a startled look southward. no, the riders were not barnet's men; they rode together in too great disorder. something impelled hal to wait their coming up. in a few minutes it could be seen that they were a diverse company, some bravely dressed, some raggedly, some in both bravery and rags at once. some had reckless faces, some uneasy, some stealthy, some sheepish. their leader, a tall man, who would have been handsome but for his low brow and an inequality between the two halves of his visage, looked a mixture of insolent boldness and knavish servility. "why, god's body!" ejaculated kit bottle, with sudden astonishment and gladness. "'tis that same rascal, the very rogue himself, and none else! i had thought we might fall in with him hereabouts!" "of whom speak you?" asked hal, curtly. "of that villain rumney,--mine old comrade that turned robber; him i once told you of. ho. rumney, thou counterfeit captain! well met, thou rogue, says kit bottle!" and while the one "captain" rode out to welcome the other, hal remembered what the yeoman at scardiff had told him of the highway robbers; he scanned the villainous faces of these men, and was thankful in his heart that anne hazlehurst had not ridden their way; and then he thought of her on the road ahead, and looked again at the coach, and at the horses of the newcomers. by the time the two former companions in arms had finished their first salutations, hal had formed his plan. he called kit back to him, and said: "if thy friend hath a mind to put himself and his company in my service for three days, there shall be fair pay forthcoming." "i know not how rumney will take to honest service," replied kit, doubtfully. "but leave the handling of the matter to me--and the fixing of the pay, too." and he rode back to the robber captain, who with his band had remained awaiting kit's return at the place where they had stopped, some distance from hal and anthony. the villagers, now joined by the constable himself, stood gaping before the ale-house, exchanging a curious inspection with the questionable-looking newcomers. kit and captain rumney whispered together for a long time, gravely and mysteriously. rumney was at first of a frowning and holding-off disposition; looked askance at hal several times, and shook his head skeptically, as if he could see no advantage in what was proposed. kit, as his face and gestures showed, waxed eloquent and urgent. there were moments when wrathful looks and words passed between the two, and old matters were raked up, and recriminations cast. but in the end, rumney showed a yielding countenance, and kit came back to hal in triumph. the rate of hire being within hal's limits, the robber captain rode up, at kit's motion, and was introduced to hal as to sir valentine fleetwood. hal, on viewing this new ally more closely, mentally set him down as good for two or three days' fidelity if tactfully dealt with. rumney, on his part, looked hal over searchingly, with half closed gray eyes, as if to see what might be made out of him. the rascal had a fawning manner that might become insolent, or threatening, or cruel, upon the least occasion. rumney now went back to his men, and briefly acquainted them with what he had done,--a disclosure whose only outward effect was to make them gaze with a little more interest at master marryott. at this time, hal was questioning the constable regarding the coach. he learned that, when bogged in mire during a prolonged rain, it had been abandoned by its former owners, who had taken to horseback and left it with the ale-house keeper in lieu of other payment of a large score run up while they were storm-stayed. hal promptly bought it from the landlord, with what harness belonged to it, and with all the carriers' gear that remained about the stables. at hal's order, rumney now had his men hitch their horses to the great vehicle, and thereupon remount, so that the animals might serve at once to bear and to draw. master marryott put kit bottle in charge of the robbers and the coach, with instructions to follow at the best possible speed, and then spurred off, with anthony underhill, in hope of overtaking mistress hazlehurst. it was his intention to catch her if he could do so without entering any inhabited place or putting himself at risk of a second capture. should he find himself approaching any such place or risk, he would wait for, or return to, kit and the robbers. with his so greatly augmented force of fighting men, he could overawe or rout such a crowd as he had met at clown; and, should the necessity arise, he might even offer a hopeful resistance to roger barnet's party. but against a general hue and cry, or an effectual marshalling of magistrate's officers and servants, either or both of which anne might cause in front of him, he could not long contend. hence the speed at which he now urged his horse in pursuit of her. he had ridden seven miles from clown, and met with no impediment in any of the intermediate hamlets,--a fact which convinced him that she would not again rely on such inferior agents of the law as she had first fallen in with,--when at a sharp turn of the road he suddenly came in sight of her. she and her page were at a standstill, she mounted, he afoot. it was a miry place, sheltered by trees and thickets from the drying effect of sun and the freezing effect of wind; and francis stood in deep mud, examining the stone-bruised forefoot of her horse. "this is good fortune, madam!" cried hal, his eyes sparkling as well with the pleasure of seeing her as with relief of mind. "if it be so, enjoy it while you may," she answered, scorning his elation, "my hindrance here is but for a time." "i know it well, madam," replied hal, courteously; "for i, myself, have provided for your going forward." "_you_ have provided?" she said, regarding him with astonishment. "yes, mistress; for look you: if i thought to send you anywhere under escort, i could not afford what escort i might trust, or trust what escort i might afford. if i left you here, without escort, you would be in danger from rogues and vagabonds of the road, and you would be free to raise the country about me,--as you tried yonder, and rode on to try again. if i committed you to the hospitality of gentlefolk hereabouts, you would have that same freedom. even though you gave up your design against me, and would start back for hertfordshire or elsewhere--" "no fear of that!" she said, defiantly. "if there were hope of it," hal went on, "your safety, and another reason, would forbid my allowing it." the other reason, which he dared not tell her, was this: if permitted to return southward, she might meet roger barnet and incidentally give such description of hal as would beget a doubt whether, after all, the right man was being chased. "therefore," concluded hal, who had so opened his mind to her for his own justification, "it behoveth me to take you with me." "to _take_ me!" said she, with the emphasis of both query and correction on the verb. "as a prisoner," added hal, quietly. she looked at him as a queen might look at a madman. "i your prisoner!" she said. "by god's light, never!" "my prisoner," said hal, gently, "now and for three days to come. anthony, look to the boy, and to his horse tied yonder; and follow this lady and me into the woods, that we may wait my men without scrutiny of passing travellers. madam, be so good, i pray you, to ride betwixt yon thickets." "that i will not!" cried anne, with eyes afire. hal waited for one drawing of his breath; then rode to her side, grasped her bridle, and led her unwilling horse after him through the fairly clear way that he had pointed out. she showed herself too amazed for action, and made no resistance with her hands; but if looks could have smitten, master marryott would have found himself sorely belabored. hal stopped in the woods, within easy hearing distance of the road. anthony, having lifted the small page to his own saddle-bow, disarmed him of weapons, and taken the other horse in leading, came after. when the little group was finally stationary among the trees and underbrush, anne's face betrayed some falling away of defiance. she looked around in a kind of momentary panic, as if she would leap from her horse, and flee afoot. but on every side she saw but dark pools, damp earth, moist roots, and brush. she gave a shiver, and stayed in her saddle. "have no fear, mistress," said hal. "no harm will come to you. while you go yieldingly, no hand shall touch you; and in any case, no hand but mine own, which is a gentleman's." "would you dare use force?" she cried, somewhat huskily, her eyes--half threatening, half intimidated--turned full upon him. "if i must," said he, meeting her gaze with outward calmness. she dropped her glance, and was silent. anthony now placed francis on the latter's own horse, but kept a stern eye upon him, and a firm hand upon his bridle. the four sat perfectly still, save for the restless movements of their shivering horses, in the chill and sombre forest. no one was heard to pass in the road. "for what are you waiting?" asked anne, after awhile. "for my men to come up, with the coach you are to occupy," hal replied. she answered him with a look of surprise, but said nothing. after a weary length, the tread of many horses and the noise of cumbrous wheels was heard from the uneven and miry road. hal, retaining anne's bridle, and motioning anthony to follow, led the short but toilsome ride back to the highway. the strange crew, headed by kit bottle and captain rumney, came into view around the turn. losing no time for greetings, hal ordered the men to ride on at their best pace to a dryer part of the road, that the coach might not become fixed in the mire. this was done, the robbers looking with some curiosity at anne as they passed. hal and his immediate party followed. at an open place, where the earth was hard, he called a halt; then dismounted, and led anne's horse close to the coach. the vehicle was as crude as may be supposed when it is remembered that the use of coaches in england was then scarce thirty-five years old. it was springless, heavy of wheel, and with a cover having the entrance-opening at the side. an occupant of it, unless he sat by this opening, was concealed from view; and his cries, if he made any, might be drowned by the various noises of the creaking and rumbling vehicle, the heavily harnessed horses, and the boisterous escort. once an inmate of this moving prison, anne might try in vain to communicate with the outside world through which her captors might convey her.[26] "mistress," said hal, with great respect, "be so gracious as to exchange your lame horse for the coach." and he offered his hand to assist her. "i will not stir!" she replied, to the additional curiosity of rumney and such of his men as could witness the scene by looking back from their horses. knowing how much slower must be his future progress, with this coach to be dragged along, and how much less he could afford to suffer delay, he forthwith abandoned words for acts. with all possible gentleness, but all necessary force, he deliberately grasped her foot and took it from the stirrup. he then directed kit bottle to dismount, and unfasten the saddle-girth of her horse. this done. hal drew the saddle down, on his side, until he could clasp her waist. he then had bottle lead her horse away, so that, the saddle sliding to the ground, she could not but set foot upon the earth. she held, however, to the bridle, until hal, by a steady compulsion, which he made as painless as possible, loosened her hands from it, one at a time. he had been in some slight fear of a more active resistance from her; but she proved herself of a dignity above that of women who bite and scratch. she was of too great a stateliness to put herself into ungraceful or vixenish attitudes. so she neither clawed nor pounded, though she would have struck with her dagger had hal not taken it from her in time. but she exerted all her strength in holding back from whatever motion he sought to compel from her. he saw that he should have difficulty in making her enter the coach. he had a rude, bench-like seat taken out of the vehicle, and placed beneath the opening, to serve as a step. as she would not budge, even to approach the carriage, he lifted her with both arms, carried her forward, and placed her in a standing position on the bench. he then paused for breath, still keeping one arm about her. commanding kit to hold the bench steady, hal stepped upon it, for the purpose of lifting her into the vehicle. he saw that she was taller by far than the opening through which she would have to pass, and saw, at the same moment, that she made herself rigid, so that, in forcing her into the coach, he might be put to the use of violence. he gathered strength for his final effort, and grasped her waist again. at this instant, he noticed an amused grin on the faces of some of rumney's ruffians, and was conscious that, perspiring and red-faced from his exertions, he doubtless made a somewhat ridiculous figure. perhaps this knowledge acted as a stimulant, and also made him a little less considerate toward his prisoner. he stiffened his muscles, changed her direction from the perpendicular to the oblique, and stepped up into the coach, her diagonal position permitting her admission, headforemost, through the opening. he then caused the seat to be returned, and placed her, full-length, upon it; and ordered francis to be put into the coach with her. his own horse being brought close to the opening. hal transferred himself to the saddle, his intention being to ride at the side of the coach wherever the width of the road should allow. anthony was to follow close behind him. captain bottle was sent forward to lead the caravan. anne's side-saddle was placed in the coach; her horse, being lame, was turned loose; that of francis was hitched, with the animals ridden by the robbers, to the vehicle. captain rumney was left to choose his own place, hal supposing he would elect to be near his old-time gossip, bottle. but rumney preferred to ride behind the coach. hal thereupon called to bottle to start, the robbers whipped their horses, the coach-wheels began to turn, and the flight was at last resumed. why should rumney have placed himself at the rear? hal wondered, and a vague misgiving entered his mind; nor was he reassured when, at a place where a hard heath permitted anthony to ride for a moment at hal's side, the puritan muttered to him: "saw'st thou the look of that robber captain when he first set eyes on the lady? i liked it not!" with which, anthony fell behind again to rumney's side. nor--now that he recalled that look, a greedy lighting up of wicked eyes--did hal himself like it, and the future seemed dubious. chapter xiv. how the page walked in his sleep. "i spy a black, suspicious, threatening cloud."--_henry vi., part iii._ master marryott had lost nearly two hours at clown, through his detention by the constable, his waiting to enlist the highway robbers, and his measures for putting the coach into service. and such was the badness of the road, that he had consumed more than an hour in covering, with alternate dashes and delays, the seven miles from clown to the place where he had overtaken anne. almost another hour had been used in awaiting the coming of the coach, and lodging the prisoner therein. it was, thus, between two and three in the afternoon when the northward journey was again taken up. hal, as he rode beside the coach, considered his situation with regard to his pursuer, roger barnet. the latter, arriving with tired horses at the scene of hal's wine-drinking, and thereafter compelled to stop often for traces of the fugitives, must have been as great a loser of time as hal had been; and this accounted for his non-appearance during either of the recent delays. but, by this time, he was probably not very far behind; and hereafter hal's rate of speed must be, by reason of the coach, considerably slower. the latter circumstance would offset, in barnet's favor, the two disadvantages under which he labored. moreover, upon learning at clown what company hal had reinforced himself with, the pursuivant would find the track easier, and hence speedier, to follow; the passage of so numerous and ill-looking a band being certain to attract more attention than would that of a party of three or five. but hal counted upon one likelihood for a compensating gain of a few hours,--the likelihood that barnet, to strengthen himself for possible conflict with hal's increased force, would tarry to augment his own troop with men from the neighborhood, and that, in his subsequent pursuit, as well as in this measure, his very reliance on his advantages would make him less strenuous for speed. cheering himself with the best probabilities, though not ignoring the worst, master marryott pressed steadily on, after the manner of the tortoise. when bad spots in the road appeared, kit bottle, at the head of the line, caused the robbers to whip up their horses; and if this did not avail to keep the coach from being stayed, hal had the men dismount and put their shoulders to the wheels. a grumbling dislike to this kind of service evinced itself, but captain rumney, flattered by the courteous way in which hal gave him the necessary orders for transmission, checked with peremptory looks the discontent. hal conceded a short stop, at a solitary tavern, for a refection of beer and barley-cakes. during this pause, and also while passing through villages, hal remained at the coach-opening, ready to close its curtain with his own hand, on the least occasion from the inmates. but anne and her page, whose flight from scardiff that morning had shortened their sleeping-time, were too languid for present effort. in attitudes best accommodated to the movements of the coach, they sat--or half reclined--with their backs against the side of the vehicle for support. with changeless face and lack-lustre eyes, anne viewed what of the passing country she could see through the opening; heedless whether hal's figure interrupted her vision or not; whether she passed habitations, or barren heath, or fields, or forest. yet she did not refuse the repast that hal handed into the coach, which, when resort was had to the lone tavern, he had caused to stop at some distance from the house. only once during the afternoon did he take the precaution of shutting the coach entrance; it was while passing through the considerable town of rotherham. night fell while the travellers were toilsomely penetrating further into the west riding of yorkshire. when at last hal gave the word to halt, they found themselves before a rude inn with numerous mean outbuildings, on a hill about six miles beyond rotherham. hal had now to provide, because of new conditions, somewhat otherwise than he had done at his previous stopping-places. anne and francis were to be closely guarded, a repressive hand held ready to check the least hostile act or communication. fresh horses could not be obtained in number equal to the company. ere he had ordered the halt, master marryott had formed his plans. at first it seemed that he might not unopposedly have his way with the frowsy-headed landlord who appeared in the doorway's light in response to his summons. but when the blinking host became aware of the numerousness of the company, and when captain rumney rode forward into the light, he instantly grew hospitable. evidently the captain and the innkeeper were old acquaintances, if not occasional partners in trade. so hal arranged a barter for what fresh horses were at the fellow's command; took lodgings for the night in the several outhouses, caused open fires to be made on the earthen floors therein, and ordered food and drink. he had the coach drawn into shelter, near one of the fires, and bedding placed in it, with other comforts from the inn. he then informed anne that she was to remain in her prison overnight; and he assigned to francis a sleeping-place on a pile of straw, within sword reach of where he himself intended to guard the curtained opening of the coach. anthony, on one of the fresh horses, should keep the usual watch for barnet's party. bottle, who had watched at scardiff, was to sleep in the stable-loft, as was also rumney, whose men were to occupy different outbuildings. no one was to remove his clothes, and, in case of alarm, all were to unite in hitching the horses, and to resume the flight. the horses themselves were placed in stalls, but in as forward a state of readiness as was compatible with their easy resting. it was made clear that, should any of these movements be interrupted or followed by attack from a pursuing party, all the resistance necessary was to be offered. the supper ordered was brought on wooden platters, and eaten in the light of the fires. hal, as before, served anne through the coach doorway, and she accepted the cakes and ale with neither reluctance nor thanks. but under her passiveness. hal saw no abandonment of her purpose. he saw, rather, a design to gather clearness of mind and strength of body, for the invention and execution of some plan not only possible to her restraint, but likely to be more effectual than any she had tried when free. when the company had supped, and the robbers could be heard snoring in the adjacent sheds, and francis lay in the troubled sleep of excessive fatigue, and the regular breathing of anne herself was audible through the coach curtain; when, in fine, every member of his strange caravan slept, save anthony watching at the hill's southeastern brow, master marryott sat upon a log, and gazed into the sputtering fire on the ground, and mused. he marvelled to think how many and diverse and cumbrous elements he had assembled to his hand, and undertaken to keep in motion, for what seemed so small a cause. to herd with robbers; to lavish the queen's money; to deceive a woman--the object of his love--so that he brought upon himself her hate meant for another; to carry off this woman by force, and put her to the utmost fatigue and risk; to wear out the bodies, and imperil the necks, of himself and so many others,--was it worth all this merely to create a fair opportunity--not a certainty--of escape for a frenchified english catholic, whose life was of no consequence to the country? hal laughed to think how unimportant and uninteresting was the man in whose behalf all these labors and discomforts were being undergone by so many people, some of whom were so much more useful and ornamental to the world. and yet he knew that the business _was_ worth the effort; worth all the toil and risk that he himself took, and that he imposed upon other people. it was worth all this, perhaps not that a life might be saved, but that a debt might be paid, a promise made good,--his debt of gratitude to sir valentine, his promise to the queen. it was worth any cost, that a gentleman should fulfil his obligations, however incurred. to an englishman of that time, moreover, it was worth a world of trouble, merely to please the queen. but what most and deepest moved hal forward, and made turning back impossible, was the demand in him for success on its own account, the intolerableness of failure in any deed that he might lay upon himself. manly souls daily strain great resources for small causes, or for no cause worth considering, for the reason that they cannot endure to fail in what they have, however thoughtlessly, undertaken. the man of mettle will not relinquish; he will die, but he will not let go. it is because the thing most necessary to him is his own applause; he will not forfeit that, though he must pay with his life to retain it. once his hand is to the plow, though he find too late that the field is barren, he will furrow that field through, or he will drop in his tracks; what concerns him is, not the reason or the reward, but the mere fact of success or failure in the self-assigned work. men show this in their sports; indeed, the game that heroes play with circumstance and destiny, for the mere sake of striving to win, is to them a sport of the keenest. "maybe it was not worth doing, but i told myself i would do it, and i did it!" hal fancied the deep elation that must attend those words, could he truly say them three days hence. about three hours after midnight he awoke his people, had the horses put to the coach, sent for anthony by one of the robbers,--a renegade london apprentice, tom cobble by name, whose face he liked for its bold frankness,--and rode forth with his company toward barnesley. they passed through this town in the early morning of friday. march 6th, the third day of the flight. though anne showed the utmost indifference to her surroundings. hal closed her curtain, as he had done at rotherham, until the open country was again reached. soon after this, mistress hazlehurst changed her place to the forward part of the coach, and her position so as to face the backward part. she could thus be seen by any one riding at the side of the coach's rear, and glancing obliquely through the opening. it was, at present, anthony underhill that benefited by this new arrangement. five miles after barnesley, master marryott ordered a halt for breakfast. as before, food was brought to the prisoners. the stop gave captain rumney an opportunity of peering in through the coach doorway. when, at nine o'clock, the journey was resumed. rumney, without a word, took the place behind marryott, formerly kept by anthony. "by your leave, sir," said the puritan, forced by this usurpation to drop behind the coach, "that is where i ride." "tut, man!" replied rumney, with an insolent pretence of carelessness; "what matters it?" "it matters to me that i ride where i have been commanded to," said the puritan, with quiet stubbornness, heading his horse to take the place from which he expected the other to fall out. "and it matters to me that i ride where i please to," retorted rumney, with a little less concealment of the ugliness within him. anthony frowned darkly, and looked at marryott, who had turned half around on his horse at the dispute. rumney regarded hal narrowly through half shut eyes, in which defiance lurked, ready to burst forth on provocation. hal read his man, choked down his feelings, considered that an open break was not yet to be afforded, and to make the matter in which he yielded seem a trifle, said, quietly: "my commands were too narrow, anthony. so that you ride behind me, one side of the road will do as well as another. the fault was mine, captain rumney." so anthony fell back without protest or complaint. he cast his look earthward, that it might not seem to reproach master marryott. and a bitter moment was it to master marryott, for his having had to fail of supporting his own man against this rascal outlaw. a moment of keener chagrin followed, when hal caught a swift glance of swaggering triumph--a crowing kind of half smile--that rumney sent to mistress hazlehurst, with whom he was now in line of vision. it seemed to say, "you see, mistress, what soft stuff this captor of yours shall prove in my hands?" and in anne's eyes, as hal clearly beheld, was the light of a new hope, as if she perceived in this robber a possible instrument or champion. but master marryott let none of his thoughts appear; he hardened his face to the impassibility of a mask, and seemed neither to suspect nor to fear anything; seemed, indeed, to feel himself above possibility of defeat or injury. he realized that here was a case where danger might be precipitated by any recognition of its existence. during the next six hours, he saw, though appeared not to heed, that anne kept her gaze fixed behind him, upon the robber captain. there was no appeal in her eyes, no promise, no overture to conspiracy; nothing but that intentional lack of definite expression, which makes such eyes the more fascinating, because the more mysterious. even savages like rumney are open to the witchery of the unfathomable in a pair of fine eyes. hal wondered how long the inevitable could be held off. he avoided conversation with rumney, did not even look back at him, lest pretext might be given for an outbreak. he was kept informed of the knave's exact whereabouts by the noise of the latter's horse, and, most of the time, by the direction of mistress hazlehurst's look. he had no fear of a sudden attack upon himself, for he knew that anthony underhill held the robber in as close a watch as mistress hazlehurst did. in mid-afternoon, the caravan stopped within three miles of halifax, for food and rest. master marryott stayed near the coach. rumney, too, hovered close; but as yet a kind of loutish bashfulness toward a woman of anne's haughtiness, rather than a fear of master marryott,--at least, so hal supposed,--checked him from any attempt to address her. marryott called kit bottle, and, while apparently viewing the surrounding country as if to plan their further route, talked with him in whispers: "thy friend rumney," said hal, "seems a cur as ready to jump at one's throat as to crawl at one's feet." "'twas lack of forethought, i'm afeard, to take up with the knave, where a woman was to be concerned," replied kit. "it was about a red and white piece of frailty that he dealt scurvily with me in the netherlands. were there no she in the case, we might trust him; he hath too great shyness of law officers, on his own account, to move toward selling us." "if he had a mind, now, to rescue this lady from us--" began hal. "'twould be a sorry rescue for the lady!" put in bottle. hal shuddered. "and yet she would throw herself into his hands, to escape ours, that she might be free to work me harm," said he. "an she think she would find freedom that way, she knows not rumney. if thine only care were to be no more troubled of her, thou couldst do little better than let rumney take her off thy hands." "i would kill thee, kit, if i knew not thou saidst that but to rally me! yet i will not grant it true, either. she might contrive to tame this rumney beast, and work us much harm. well, smile an thou wilt! thine age gives thee privileges with me, and i will confess 'tis her own safety most concerns me in this anxiety. sink this rumney in perdition!--why did i ever encumber us with him and his rascals?" "speaking of his rascals, now," said kit, "i have noticed some of them rather minded to heed your wishes than rumney's commands. there hath been wrangling in the gang." "there is one, methinks," assented hal, "that would rather take my orders than his leader's. 'tis the round-headed, sharp-eyed fellow, tom cobble. he is a runagate 'prentice from london, and seemeth to have more respect for town manners than for rumney's." "and there is a yeoman's son, john hatch, that rides near me," added kit. "he hath some remnant of honesty in him, or i mistake. and one ned moreton, who is of gentle blood and mislikes to be overborne by such carrion as rumney. and yon scare-faced, fat-paunched fellow, noll bunch they call him, hath been under-bailiff in a family that hath fled the country. i warrant he hath no taste for robbery; methinks he took to the road in sheer need of filling his stomach, and would give much to be free of his bad bargain. there be two or three more that might make choice of us, in a clash with their captain; but the rest are of the mangiest litter that was ever bred among two-legged creatures." "then win over quietly whom thou canst, kit. but let us have no clash till we must." rumney and his men looked almost meek while passing through halifax. and herein behold mankind's horror of singularity. in other towns these robbers had been under as much possibility of recognition and detention; but in those towns the result of their arrest would have been no worse than hanging, and was not hanging the usual, common, and natural ending of a thief? but in halifax there was that unique "gibbet law," under which thieves were beheaded by a machine something like the guillotine which another country and a later century were yet to produce. there was in such a death an isolation, from which a properly bred thief, brought up to regard the hempen rope as his due destiny, might well shrink. but the robbers could sleep with easy minds that night, for master marryott put halifax eight miles behind ere he rested. similar arrangements to those of the preceding night were made at the inn chosen as a stopping-place. the coach, furnished for comfortable repose, stood near a fire, under roof. hal, who thought that he had now mastered the art of living without sleep, set himself to keep guard again, by francis, near the coach doorway. it was anthony's night to share rumney's couch of straw; kit bottle's to watch for barnet's men. master marryott, sitting by the fire, was assailed by fears lest the pursuivant had abandoned the false chase. if not, it was strange, when the slow progress with the coach was considered, that he had not come in sight. hal reassured himself by accounting for this in more ways than one. barnet must have been detained long in recruiting men to join in the pursuit. he may have been hindered by lack of money, also, for he had left london without thought of further journey than to welwyn. he could press all necessary means into service, in the queen's name, as he went; but in doing this he must experience much delay that ready coin would have avoided. true, barnet would have learned at clown that the supposed sir valentine had named himself as a london player; but he would surely think this a lie, as mistress hazlehurst had thought it. a slight noise--something like a man yawning aloud, or moaning in sleep--turned marryott's musings into another channel. the sound had come from one of the other outhouses, probably that in which were captain rumney and anthony underhill. it put dark apprehensions into hal's mind, because of its resemblance to the groan a man might give if he were stabbed to death in slumber. suppose, thought he, this rumney were minded for treason and robbery. how could he better proceed, in order to avoid all stir, than to avail himself of the present separation of hal's party; to slay anthony first, while bottle was away on the watch; and thus have marryott and kit each in position to be dealt with single-handed? hal now saw the error of having anthony sleep out of his sight; for the puritan was one who watched while he watched, and slept while he slept. the present situation ought not to be continued a moment longer. yet how was hal to summon anthony? to awaken him by voice, one would have to raise such clamor as would alarm the robbers and perchance excite their leader's suspicions. a touch on the shoulder would accomplish the desired result quietly. might hal venture from his present post for the brief time necessary to his purpose? francis lay near the fire, his eyes closed, his respirations long and easy. the softer breathing of the prisoner in the coach was as deep and measured. hal stole noiselessly out, and made for the shed in which the puritan slept. anthony lay in his cloak, on a pile of hay, his back turned to that of rumney. the highway robber's eyes were closed; whether he slept or not, hal could not have told. but there was no doubt of the somnolent state of the puritan. a steady gentle shaking of his shoulder caused him to open his eyes. "come with me," whispered hal. the puritan rose, without a word, and followed from the one shed to the other, and to the fire by the coach. "'tis best you sleep in my sight, beside the lad," said marryott, turning toward the designated spot as he finished. in the same instant, he stared as if he saw a ghost, and then stifled an oath. francis was gone. hal looked about, but saw nothing human in range of the firelight. he hastened to the curtained opening of the coach. the same soft breathing--there could be no mistaking it--still came from within. "she is here, at least," hal said, quickly, to the somewhat mystified anthony. "but he hath flown on some errand of her plotting, depend on't! he must have feigned sleep, and followed me out. he can't be far, as yet. 'tis but a minute since. watch you by the coach!" with which order, master marryott seized a brand from the fire, and ran out again to the yard. but he had scarce cast a swift glance around the place, ere he saw francis coming out of the very shed from which hal himself had led anthony a few moments earlier. "what is this?" cried marryott, grasping the boy's arm, and thrusting the firebrand almost into his face. francis stared vacantly for an instant, then gave a start, blinked, and looked at hal as if for the first time conscious of what was going on. "what's afoot, you knave?" said hal, squeezing the page's arm. "what deviltry are you about, following me from your bed, hiding in the darkness while i pass, and going to yonder shed? you bore some message from your mistress to master rumney. i'll warrant! confess, or 'twill go ill!" "i know not where i've been, or what done," replied the boy, coolly. "i walk in my sleep, sir." hal searchingly inspected the lad's countenance, but it did not flinch. pondering deeply, he then led the way back to his fire, and commanded the page to lie down. francis readily obeyed. bidding the puzzled but unquestioning puritan sleep beside the boy, hal soon lost himself in his thoughts,--lost himself so far that it did not occur to him to step now and then to the door and look out into the night; else he might presently have seen a dark figure move stealthily from outhouse to outhouse as if in search of something. it would then have appeared that captain rumney, also, was given to walking in his sleep. chapter xv. treachery. "god pless you, aunchient pistol! you scurvy, lousy knave, god pless you!"--_henry v._ "here is the snow thou hast foretold," said master marryott to anthony underhill, as the cavalcade set out, three hours after midnight. "and a plague of wind," put in captain rumney, with a good humor in which marryott smelt some purpose of cultivating confidence. the riders wrapped themselves in their cloaks, and muffled their necks to keep out the pelting flakes. the night being at its darkest, the snow was more "perceptible to feeling" than "to sight," save where it flew and eddied in the light of a torch carried by bottle at the head of the line, and of a lanthorn that hal had caused to be attached to the rear of the coach. between these two dim centres of radiance, the horsemen shivered and grumbled unseen, and cursed their steeds, and wished red murrains and black plagues, and poxes of no designated color, upon the weather. they passed through keighley about dawn. two miles further on, they stopped at an isolated house for breakfast. as marryott opened the coach curtain (it had been closed against the whirling snow), to conv