DISGUISES ASSUMED BY, OR IN BEHALF OF, ROYALTY.
Disguise of Achilles--Of Ulysses--Of Codrus--Fiction employed
by Numa Pompilius--King Alfred disguised in the Swineherd’s
Cottage--His Visit, as a Harper, to the Danish Camp--Richard
Cœur de Lion takes the Garb of a Pilgrim--He is discovered
and imprisoned--Disguises and Escape of Mary, Queen of
Scots--Escape of Charles the Second, after the Battle of
Worcester--Of Stanislaus from Dantzic--Of Prince Charles
Edward from Scotland--Peter the Great takes the Dress of a
Ship Carpenter--His Visit to England--Anecdote of his Conduct
to a Dutch Skipper--Stratagem of the Princess Ulrica of
Prussia--Pleasant Deception practised by Catherine the Second
of Russia--Joan of Arc--Her early Life--Discovers the King when
first introduced at Court--She compels the English to raise
the Siege of Orleans--Joan leads the King to be crowned at
Rheims--She is taken Prisoner--Base and barbarous Conduct of her
Enemies--She is burned at Rouen--The Devil of Woodstock--Annoying
Pranks played by it--Explanation of the Mystery--Fair Rosamond.
“Uneasy lies the head which wears a crown,” are the emphatic words of
Shakspeare; and that a penalty of no light sorrow is often attached to
the pomp and grandeur of royalty, is a fact which receives confirmation
from the earliest traditionary accounts we have of the histories of
kings and princes.[8]
To avoid the dangers inseparable from war; or, during war, to overpower
an enemy by guile, as well as by force of arms; or, in political
troubles, to seek a temporary concealment; have been occasionally the
objects of men celebrated in after-times as heroes, and as examples
worthy and proper to be followed by such as aimed at future conquest or
greatness.
Thetis, knowing that her son Achilles was doomed to perish, if he
went to the Trojan war, privately sent him, it is said, to the court
of Lycomedes, where he was disguised in a female dress; but, as Troy
could not be taken without him, Ulysses went to the same court in the
habit of a merchant, and exposed jewels and arms for sale. Achilles,
neglecting the jewels, generally more attractive to female eyes, and
displaying a certain skill in handling the weapons, inadvertently
discovered his sex, and, challenged by Ulysses, was obliged to go to
the war, in which he ultimately perished. The truth of this story
cannot perhaps be safely asserted, especially as the introduction of
the goddess Thetis is evidently poetical; but the tradition of it
and the two following are quoted, to show that such impostures and
concealments were not considered derogatory to the courage or good
conduct of the greatest heroes of antiquity; and it is also probable
that such facts, stripped of their poetical dress, did really take
place.
Ulysses had pretended to be insane, that he might not be obliged to
leave his beloved Penelope; and had yoked a horse and bull together,
ploughing the sea-shore, where he sowed salt instead of corn. This
dissimulation was discovered by Palamedes, who placed Telemachus, the
infant son of Ulysses, before the plough, and thus convinced the world
that the father was not mad; as he turned the plough from the furrow,
to avoid injuring his son.
Codrus, the last king of Athens, from a nobler motive concealed his
dignity, and saved his country, by sacrificing his own life; for,
when the Heraclidæ made war against Athens, the Delphian oracle
was consulted about the event: the Pythoness declared, that the
Peloponnesians would be victorious, provided they did not kill the
Athenian king. This response being promulgated, Codrus, in the heroic
spirit of the age, determined to sacrifice his own life for the benefit
of his country. Disguising himself, therefore, as a peasant, he went
to the outpost of the enemy, and, seeking an occasion to quarrel, he
was killed. When the real quality of the person slain became known,
the Heraclidæ, believing their fate sealed if they remained, quickly
retreated to their own country.
Numa Pompilius, at the death of Romulus, was unanimously elected
king of Rome, and accepted the office after the repeated and earnest
solicitations of the senate and people. Not, like Romulus, fond of
war and military expeditions, he applied himself to tame the ferocity
of his subjects, by inculcating a reverence for the deity. He had the
discretion to see that, if he could bring them to the belief that
he was aided by higher powers, his own regulations would be better
attended to. He, therefore, encouraged the report which was spread, of
his paying regular visits to the goddess-nymph Egeria; and he made use
of her name to give sanction to the laws and institutions which he had
introduced, and he informed the Romans that the safety of the empire
depended upon the preservation of the sacred ancyle, or shield, which
it was generally believed had dropped from heaven.
King Alfred, during the unsettled times of the Saxon heptarchy, is
an example of a reverse of fortune successfully overcome by temporary
disguise and concealment. Striving with the Danes for the possession
of his own country, he was worsted, and compelled to provide for his
safety by flying to a small island in Somersetshire, in the midst of
marshes. This little oasis in the desert afterwards obtained the name
of Ethelingey, or Prince’s Island. From a swineherd who resided there
the king received shelter, and under his roof he remained for months.
It happened one day that the swain’s wife placed some loaves on the
hearth to be baked. The king was at the moment sitting by the fire,
trimming his arrows. The woman, who was ignorant of his rank, said to
him, “Turn thou those loaves, that they burn not; for I know that thou
art a great eater.” Alfred, whose thoughts and time were otherwise
engaged, neglected this injunction, and the good woman, finding on her
return the cakes all burnt, rated the king very severely; upbraiding
him that, though he was so negligent in watching her warm cakes, he
always seemed very well pleased to eat them. Alfred, it is said,
subsequently munificently rewarded the peasant, whose name was Denulf,
recommended him to apply himself to letters, and afterwards made him
Bishop of Winchester.
Some fugitives of Alfred’s party, at length, coming to the same
place, recognised him, and remained with him, forming the nucleus of
his future army. After six months passed in this retreat, he sought
to surprise the main army of the Northmen, which was still encamped
in Wiltshire. But, before striking any blow, he resolved to inspect
the camp of the enemy in person. His early predilection for Saxon
poetry and music qualified him to assume another disguise, that of a
harper, and in this character he went to the Danish camp. His harp and
singing excited notice; he was admitted to the king’s table, heard
his conversation with his generals, and contemplated their position
unsuspected. He then returned to his own troops in safety, and, taking
advantage of his knowledge of the place, conducted them to the most
unguarded quarter of the enemy’s camp, who were soon put to flight
with great slaughter. This success paved the way for his ultimately
regaining his crown and kingdom. Such is the story which has been
handed down to us by some writers; but it was unknown to Asser, the
biographer and contemporary of Alfred, and its truth is more than
doubtful.
Richard Cœur de Lion, at the close of those chivalrous adventures which
made his name so renowned in the crusades, having left the Holy Land,
on his way home, sailed to Corfu. On his arrival at that island, he
hired three coasting vessels to carry him and his suite to Ragusa and
Zara. Aware of the danger to which he was exposed from the animosity
and machinations of his enemies, he concealed his dignity under the
name of Hugh the Merchant. The beards and hair of Richard and his
companions had grown long from neglect, and they wore the garments
of pilgrims. Driven by a storm on the Istrian coast, they landed
between Venice and Aquileia, and proceeded towards Goritz, where it
was necessary to solicit passports from the governor. He happened to
be Maynard, the nephew of that Conrad who was stabbed in the streets
of Tyre, and whose death was maliciously ascribed to Richard. Richard
had purchased three rubies from a merchant at Pisa, and one of them
was fixed in a gold ring. Consulting his native liberality, rather
than remembering his assumed character, Richard sent this ring as a
present to the governor, when he asked his protection. Startled at the
value of the gift, Maynard asked who were the persons that wished for
passports. He was answered that they were pilgrims from Jerusalem; but
the man who sent the ring was Hugh the Merchant. “This is not the gift
of a merchant, but of a prince,” said he, still contemplating the ring:
“this must be King Richard;” and he returned a courteous but evasive
answer.
Richard felt that, in a country where he had so many bitter enemies,
suspicion was equivalent to discovery, and that, if he remained, his
safety was compromised. He quitted therefore his party, and by the
assistance of a German youth, as his guide, travelled three days and
nights without food. Pressed at last by hunger, he rested near Vienna,
where his enemy the Duke of Austria then was. A second incautious
liberality again excited suspicion; and he was obliged to remain in a
cottage whilst the youth procured necessaries for him. Richard supplied
his messenger with so much money, that the ostentatious display of it
in the market by the youth excited curiosity. On his next visit to the
market he was seized, and put to the torture, by which he was compelled
to reveal the name and asylum of the king. The Duke surrounded the
cottage with his soldiers, who called on Richard to surrender, but the
monarch refused to yield to any one but to the Duke himself. A cruel
imprisonment followed his arrest, but he was at last restored to his
kingdom.
The romantic story of his favourite Blondel, seeking him throughout
Europe in the disguise of a minstrel, and discovering his prison, by
singing his favourite air under the walls of it, is believed to have no
other foundation than the lay of some sentimental troubadour.
The beautiful and unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots excited a romantic
interest and affection in her immediate followers, which has scarcely
diminished at this distance of time; and in the attempt to escape
from her evil fortune, in which she was strenuously aided by those
followers, she was more than once obliged to assume a disguise to
impose on the ever-wakeful vigilance of her enemies.
It is well-known that this celebrated beauty, through the political,
as well, as it is believed, the personal jealousy of Queen Elizabeth,
was imprisoned in Lochleven Castle, situated in the midst of a lake,
which being thus cut off from all communication with the surrounding
country, was thought sufficiently secure, for the purposes of safe
custody. But her beauty, and pitiable misfortunes, rendered her an
object of compassion to many about her, and several attempts were made
to rescue her from her rigorous confinement.
Mary had one day nearly succeeded in making her escape from the castle,
disguised as a laundress. She had actually seated herself in the boat,
when she was betrayed by inadvertently raising to her cheek a hand
of snowy whiteness; her beauty in this instance, as in many others,
proving the greatest source of her misery.
William Douglas, soon after, had the address to steal the keys of
the gates, from the hall in which Sir William Douglas his father,
and his mother, were sitting at supper. The queen, apprised of the
circumstance, once more descended to the edge of the lake, where a
boat was waiting, and having entered it, her maid assisted in rowing;
as they approached the shore, William Douglas flung the keys into the
lake. Having quitted the boat, the queen mounted a palfrey, and rode
to Middry, the residence of Lord Seaton, where she was surrounded by
her friends. She did not, however, long enjoy this respite from her
misfortunes, the defeat of her army, at the fatal battle of Langside,
in 1568, consigning her to a long and barbarous imprisonment, and,
ultimately, to the scaffold.
History records few princes who have been compelled to assume such a
series of disguises, or met with such hair-breadth escapes, as fell
to the lot of Charles the Second, after his overthrow at Worcester,
which apparently crushed for ever the hopes of the royalist party. By
the victors no means were left untried to seize upon his person, and
had not the fidelity of his followers been even more than equal to the
animosity of his enemies, he must undoubtedly have fallen a victim.
A reward of a thousand pounds was offered for his apprehension, the
formidable terrors of a traitor’s death were fulminated against all who
should dare to shelter him, the country was scoured in all directions
by numerous parties, and the magistrates were enjoined to arrest
every unknown individual, and to keep a vigilant eye on the seaports.
All, however, was to no purpose; his flight remained untraceable, his
fate was involved in profound mystery, and it at length began to be
supposed that he had perished obscurely by the hands of the peasantry.
Forty-four days elapsed before the republicans received the unwelcome
news that he not only still lived, but that he had eluded their
pursuit, and gained a secure asylum in France.
On the night which followed the decisive defeat at Worcester, the
Earl of Derby recommended Boscobel House to the prince, as a place
of refuge, and at an early hour in the morning Charles reached
Whiteladies, twenty-five miles off. There the prince retired to assume
his first disguise; his hair was closely cropped, his face and hands
were discoloured, his clothes changed for those of a labourer, and a
wood-bill was put into his hand, that he might personate a woodman.
Under the escort of two peasants named Pendrel, he reached Madely,
where he remained concealed till night, when he again sought his way to
Boscobel. Here he found Colonel Careless, who was acquainted with every
place of concealment in the country, and by his persuasions Charles
consented to pass the day with him, amid the branches of a lofty oak,
from which they occasionally saw the republican soldiers in search of
them.
Night relieved them, and they returned to a concealment in the house.
From thence Charles got to Mosely the following day on horseback,
and there assumed the character of a servant; for the daughter of
Colonel Lane, of Bentley, had a pass, to visit her aunt near Bristol,
and Charles departed on horseback with his _mistress_ behind him. On
stopping for the night, he was indulged with a separate chamber under
the pretence of indisposition, but he was recognised on the following
morning by the butler, who, being honoured by the royal confidence,
endeavoured to repay it with his services. No ship being found at
Bristol, it was resolved that Charles should remove to Trent, near
Sherburn, and at Lyme a ship was hired to transport a nobleman and
his _servant_, Lord Wilmot and Charles, to the coast of France. But
again disappointment attended them. They then rode to Bridport, and in
the inn the ostler challenged Charles, as an old acquaintance whom he
had known at Mr. Potter’s of Exeter. The fact was, Charles had lodged
there during the civil war. He had sufficient presence of mind to avail
himself of this partial mistake, and said, “I once lived with Mr.
Potter, but, as I have no time now, we will renew our acquaintance on
my return to London, over a pot of beer.”
A second ship was at length procured by Colonel Phillips at
Southampton, but of this resource Charles was deprived by its being
seized for the transport of troops to Jersey: a collier was, however,
soon after found at Shoreham, and Charles hastened to Brighton, where
he supped with the master of the vessel, who also recognised him,
having known him when, as Prince of Wales, he commanded the royal
fleet in 1648. The sailor, however, faithfully set him ashore, on the
following evening, at Fecamp, in Normandy, where all his perils ended.
Equal dangers have been encountered by a few other princes, in flying
from their foes. The escape of King Stanislas Lecszinski, from Dantzic,
in 1734, was accomplished under circumstances of extraordinary
difficulty. The city was closely invested, all its immediate vicinity
was inundated by the Vistula, and the whole of the surrounding country
was in the hands of inveterate enemies, who were on the watch, and
eager to seize him. The night before the fortress capitulated, he
quitted it, disguised, in a boat, accompanied by some peasants, and one
of his generals. The night was spent in vain attempts to find the bed
of the river, and the dawn compelled him to seek a precarious shelter
in a hut within sight of the Russians. In the evening they departed,
and at midnight the general and two peasants proceeded to search for a
practicable route, leaving the king with only two peasants, of whose
fidelity he was doubtful. The general did not return. Again Stanislas
was obliged to take refuge in a hut, where he was every moment in dread
of being discovered by the Cossacks. The Cossacks did, in reality,
enter the house, but they left it without being aware that he was in
it. At night, with his guides, he made a painful march, for some miles,
through boggy ground, into which he often sank knee deep. On reaching
the Vistula, where he had expected to find a boat, it was gone, and he
had to make his way back through the marsh. At the house where he now
arrived, he was instantly recognised; but the owner was friendly, and
promised to provide him with a boat. While the king was waiting, he
was joined by one of the peasants who had accompanied the general, who
informed him that the Cossacks were searching for him in every part of
the neighbourhood. The boat was at length procured, and the king set
out to embark; but his guides were so much frightened by seeing the
fires of the enemy’s flying camps on all sides, that they refused to
proceed. It was only by a great exertion of firmness on his part that
they were prevailed on to move forward. At length they reached the
boat. The king wished to force on the finder of it a handful of gold,
but the noble-spirited peasant could hardly be prevailed on to accept
even a couple of ducats. Landing at a village to hire or purchase a
vehicle, Stanislas was in the utmost danger of being discovered, in
consequence of the drunkenness of his guides. He succeeded, however, in
reaching the Nogat, on the other side of which he would be in safety.
But here again his hopes were on the point of being wrecked by the
stupid obstinacy of his companions, who insisted on his going round by
Marienburgh, to cross the bridge there; a measure which would have been
fatal. Stanislas peremptorily refused to consent to this mad scheme;
and he was lucky enough to procure a boat, by means of which he was
conveyed to the Prussian territory, where he met with a hospitable
reception.
More protracted sufferings were experienced by the Pretender, Prince
Charles Edward, after the battle of Culloden. Pursued by numerous foes,
some of whom were rendered inveterate by their political feelings,
while others were stimulated by the enormous reward of thirty thousand
pounds which was offered for his apprehension, he was, for six months,
in hourly expectation of falling into their hands. He was hunted by
land and water, from island to island, from cave to cave, and from
the abode of one partisan to that of another, with a perseverance
which nothing but his own presence of mind, and the fidelity of his
followers, could have rendered ineffectual. During the hot chase to
which he was exposed, he was subjected to privations of the severest
kind; hunger, thirst, exposure to the elements, and incessant fatigue.
Among his many disguises was the dress of a female. It seems that
he now and then forgot the demeanour which belonged to his garb. On
one occasion, in crossing a stream, he held up his petticoats so
indelicately high, that his conductor expressed fear that suspicion
would be excited; upon which the prince went to the opposite extreme,
and allowed his clothes to float on the water, till he was reminded
that this also might draw attention to him. The battle of Culloden was
fought on the 16th of April, and it was not till the 19th of September
that Charles Edward was at last rescued from the perils which environed
him, by the arrival of two French vessels, in one of which he embarked
for France. Even in the last scene of his adventures danger threatened
him; for the British fleet was then cruising off the French coast, and
he actually sailed through it in his way to Morlaix, but was hidden
from it by a thick fog.
One of the most meritorious disguises ever put on by a monarch, as it
had its origin solely in good intentions and anxiety for the welfare of
his subjects, is described in the history of Peter the Great, czar of
Muscovy; who, though his education was defective, was endowed with a
strong mind, and felt how much was still to be acquired before he could
realize the vast projects which he was eager to execute. To counteract
the formidable power of the Strelitzes, who were far more inclined
to dispute than obey the commands of their superiors, he resolved to
introduce a new discipline, and to reorganize his army; and, in order
to set the example of subordination, he himself entered as a private in
one of his corps, which was disciplined in the German manner. In this
corps he gradually rose to command by his services, and by sharing the
toils and privations of the military life.
In 1695, he laid siege to Azoff; but the enterprise failed from a
want of shipping to block the harbour: this circumstance, among
others, forced on his attention the necessity of improving his navy.
His fondness, however, for naval architecture is dated from 1691,
when accidentally taking notice of a decayed sloop near Moscow, and
being told that it was of foreign construction, and able to sail to
windward, he caused it to be repaired by a Dutch shipwright, and was
highly delighted to observe its manœuvres, which he afterwards learned
to regulate himself. Perhaps the most interesting and extraordinary
circumstance in the history of mankind, is, that the despotic monarch
of a mighty dominion should descend from his throne, and travel
as a private person, in the train of his own ambassador sent to
Holland. When Peter arrived there, he first took up his abode in the
Admiralty at Amsterdam, and afterwards enrolled himself among the
ship-carpenters, and went to the village of Sardam, where he wrought as
a common carpenter and blacksmith, with unusual assiduity, under the
name of Master Peter. He was clad and fed as his fellow-workmen, for he
would not allow of vain distinctions.
The next year he passed over to England, where, in four months, he
completed his knowledge of ship building. After receiving every mark
of respect from William the Third, he left this country accompanied by
several English ship-builders and carpenters, whom he employed with
great liberality, in his naval dock-yards, and he is said to have
subsequently written several pieces on naval affairs.
John Evelyn, the author of the Sylva, gives rather a curious account of
the emperor in his Diary: he writes “1698, January. The czar of Muscovy
being come to England, and having a mind to see the building of ships,
hired my house at Say’s Court, and made it his court and palace, new
furnished for him by the king.”
Whilst the czar was in his house, Mr. Evelyn’s servant thus wrote to
him: “There is a house full of people, and right nasty. The czar lies
next your library, and dines in the parlour next your study. He dines
at ten o’clock and six at night, is very seldom at home a whole day,
very often in the king’s yard, or by water, dressed in several dresses.
The king is expected here this day; the best parlour is pretty clean
for him to be entertained in. The king pays for all he has.”
Such a noble mind, employed in the acquisition of knowledge, for the
benefit of his country and his people, may well be pardoned for any
deficiencies in the accomplishments or embellishments of life.
In Carr’s Tour round the Baltic is related an anecdote of the czar’s
partiality towards those connected with maritime affairs. A Dutch
skipper hearing that Petersburg was building, and that the emperor had
a great passion for ships and commerce, resolved to try his fortune
there, and accordingly arrived with the first merchant vessel that ever
sailed on the Neva, and was the bearer of a letter of introduction to
the captain of the port from a friend of his in Holland, requesting him
to use his interest to procure a freight for him. Peter the Great was
working like a common labourer in the Admiralty as the galliot passed,
and saluted with two or three small guns. The emperor was uncommonly
delighted, and having been informed of the Dutchman’s business, he
resolved to have some frolic with him, and accordingly commanded the
port-captain to see the skipper as soon as he landed, and direct him
to the emperor, as a merchant just settled there, which character he
intended to personate. Peter repaired to his original cottage on the
Neva, with his empress, who, to humour the plan, dressed herself in
a plain bourgeois habit, such as suited the wife of a merchant. The
Dutchman was introduced to the emperor, who received him with great
kindness, and they sat and ate bread and cheese, and smoked together
for some time, during which the Dutchman’s eye examined the room,
and began to think that one who lived in so mean a place could be of
no service to him: presently the empress entered, when the skipper
addressed her, by observing that he had brought her a cheese, a much
better one than she had ever tasted, for which, affecting an awkward
manner, she thanked him. Being much pleased with her appearance, he
took from his coat a piece of linen, and begged her acceptance of it
for shifts. “Oh,” exclaimed the emperor, taking the pipe from his
mouth, “Kate, you will now be as fine and proud as an empress.” This
was followed by the stranger begging to have a kiss, which she coyly
indulged him in. At this moment Prince Menzikof, the favourite and
minister of Peter the Great, covered with all his orders, stood before
the emperor uncovered. The skipper began to stare with amazement,
whilst Peter, making private signs, induced the prince to retire. The
astonished Dutchman said “Why, you appear to have great acquaintance
here.” “Yes,” replied Peter, “and so may you, if you stay here but ten
days; there are plenty of such needy noblemen as the one you saw; they
are always in debt and very glad to borrow money; but beware of these
fellows, and do not be dazzled by their stars and garters, and such
trumpery.” This advice put the Dutchman more at his ease, who smoked
and drank very cheerfully, and had made his bargain with the imperial
merchant for a cargo, when the officer of the guard entered to receive
orders, and stood with profound respect, addressing Peter by the title
of Imperial Majesty. The Dutchman sprang from his chair, and fell on
his knees, imploring forgiveness for the liberties he had been taking.
Peter, laughing heartily, raised him up and made him kiss the empress’s
hand, presented him with fifteen hundred rubles, gave him a freight,
and ordered that his vessel, as long as her timbers remained together,
should be permitted to enter all the Russian ports free of duty. This
privilege made the rapid fortune of the owner.
The marriage of Ulrica, sister of Frederick the Great, with Adolphus
Frederick of Sweden, was the fruit of a stratagem, rather unfairly
played off on her sister. The court and senate of Sweden sent an
ambassador _incognito_ to Berlin, to watch and report upon the
characters and dispositions of Frederick’s two unmarried sisters,
Ulrica and Amelia; the former of whom had the reputation of being very
haughty, crafty, satirical, and capricious; and the Swedish court had
already nearly determined in favour of Amelia, who was remarkable for
the attraction of her person and sweetness of her mind. The mission
of the ambassador was soon buzzed abroad, and Amelia was overwhelmed
with misery, on account of her insuperable objection to renounce the
tenets of Calvin for those of Luther. In this state of wretchedness
she implored the assistance of her sister’s councils, to prevent an
union so repugnant to her happiness. The wary Ulrica advised her to
assume the most insolent and repulsive deportment to every one, in
the presence of the Swedish ambassador, which advice she followed,
whilst Ulrica put on all those amiable qualities which her sister
had provisionally laid aside: every one, ignorant of the cause, was
astonished at the change; and the ambassador informed his court that
fame had completely reversed their reciprocal good and bad qualities.
Ulrica was consequently preferred, and mounted the throne of Sweden.
At the village of Zarsko-Zelo, at which is situated the most
magnificent of the imperial country palaces in Russia, there were no
inns, but the hospitality of Mr. Bush, the English gardener, prevented
that inconvenience from being felt by visiters properly introduced to
him. When Joseph II., Emperor of Germany, to whom every appearance of
show was disgusting, expressed his intention of visiting Catherine
II., she offered him apartments in her palace, which he declined. Her
Majesty, well knowing his dislike to parade, had Mr. Bush’s house
fitted up as an inn, with the sign of a Catherine wheel, below which
appeared in German characters “The Falkenstein Arms;” Falkenstein being
the name which the emperor assumed. His Majesty knew nothing of the
ingenious and attentive deception, till after he had quitted Russia.
When the emperor once went to Moscow, he is said to have preceded the
royal carriages as an avant-coureur, in order to avoid the obnoxious
pomp and ceremony which an acknowledgment of his rank would have
awakened.
About the year 1428, there arose in France, in the person of Joan
of Arc, commonly called the Maid of Orleans, a heroine, who by
her enthusiasm stimulated the French to resist the domination of
the English. She appears to have been simple, chaste, modest, and
inoffensive. During her youth, she was frequently seen kneeling
devoutly in a corner of her village church: piety, indeed, seems to
have produced its elevating effects on her mind, and to it may be
ascribed the largest portion of her success. There was, in truth,
nothing about her brief but brilliant day of public action which
looked like wilful imposture in herself. We must therefore suppose
she was practised upon by others, or that her young and enthusiastic
imagination, by being continually worked upon, became afflicted with a
permanent, though partial, derangement; a species of madness which is
not uncommon. The latter supposition is supported by her own language;
she declared that, at the age of thirteen, she had been instructed, by
a voice from God, how to govern herself, and that she saw St. Michael
several times, who ordered her to be a good girl; and that God would
assist her, and that she must go to the succour of the king of France.
Before she became a public character, she used to amuse herself with
her companions in running, and fighting with a kind of lance, and also
on horseback; which accounted for her subsequent excellent management
of weapons, and skill in riding.
There was a popular tradition, that France was to be delivered by a
virgin from the borders of Lorraine. This might have suggested or
assisted her pretensions; and, having once fixed popular attention, and
excited popular interest, public feeling both supported and carried her
to the completion of her wishes.
Joan, when first presented at court, is said to have known the
king, who was standing promiscuously among the nobles, and to have
revealed to him a secret unknown to any one else. It has been very
much canvassed what this secret could be; but, it seems the Chevalier
de Boissy, who was a favourite of Charles the Seventh during their
youth, and was at that time his bedfellow, was in possession of it.
Charles told him that he had one day prayed, without utterance, that
Heaven would defend his right; Joan reminded him of this prayer. Such
an incident leads to a suspicion that some persons near the king, and
acquainted with his private thoughts, were secretly instructing the
maid of Orleans, and practising, by these means, on the credulity of
the nation. But of still more consequence did her assumptions prove to
the English, who, under the administration of the Duke of Bedford,
were masters at that time of the capital and almost all the northern
provinces of France. During her interview with the French king,
Joan, in the name of the Supreme Being, offered to raise the siege
of Orleans, and to conduct him to Rheims, to be there crowned and
anointed; and she demanded, as the instrument of her future victories,
a particular sword, which was kept in the church of St. Catherine of
Fierbois, and which, though she had never seen it, she described by all
its marks, and by the place in which it had long lain neglected.
An assembly of grave doctors and theologians cautiously examined
Joan’s mission, and pronounced it undoubtedly supernatural. She was
sent to the parliament and interrogated before that assembly; and the
presidents and counsellors, who had come persuaded of her imposture,
went away convinced of her inspiration. All the English affected to
speak with derision of the maid, and of her heavenly commission; and
said that the French king was now reduced to a sorry pass, when he had
recourse to such ridiculous expedients; but they felt their imagination
secretly struck with the vehement persuasion which prevailed in all
around them; and waited with anxious expectation for the issue of these
extraordinary preparations.
The inhabitants of Orleans now believed themselves invincible under
her influence; and the Count of Dunois himself, perceiving such an
alteration both in friends and foes, consented that the next convoy,
which was to march in a few days, should enter by the side of Beausse,
where the English were most numerous. The convoy approached; no sign of
resistance appeared in the besiegers; it passed without interruption
between the redoubts of the English, and a dead silence and
astonishment reigned among those troops which were formerly so elated
with victory. The siege of Orleans was speedily raised, the English
army being unable to continue its operations.
The raising of the siege was one part of the maid’s promise to
Charles; the crowning him at Rheims was the other; and she now
vehemently insisted that he should set out on that enterprise. Rheims
lay in a distant quarter of the kingdom, and was then in the hands of
a victorious enemy; the whole road which led to it was also occupied
by their garrisons; and no man could be so sanguine as to imagine that
such an attempt could so soon come within the bounds of possibility.
Charles, however, resolved to follow the exhortations of his warlike
prophetess, and to lead his army upon this promising adventure. He
set out for Rheims at the head of twelve thousand men. Troyes opened
its gates to him, Chalons imitated the example, Rheims sent him a
deputation with its keys, and he scarcely perceived, as he passed
along, that he was marching through an enemy’s country. The ceremony
was performed with the holy oil, which a pigeon had brought to King
Clovis from heaven on the first establishment of the French monarchy.
The maid of Orleans stood by his side, in complete armour, displaying
the sacred banner. The people shouted with the most unfeigned joy, on
viewing such a complication of wonders. The inclinations of men swaying
their belief, no one doubted of the inspirations and prophetic spirit
of the maid; the real and undoubted facts brought credit to every
exaggeration; for no fiction could be more wonderful than the events
which were known to be true.
The maid was soon after taken prisoner by the Burgundians, while
she was heading a sally upon the quarters of John of Luxembourg.
The service of _Te Deum_ was publicly celebrated, on this fortunate
event, at Paris. The Duke of Bedford fancied that, by her captivity,
he should again recover his former ascendency over France; and, to
make the most of the present advantage, he purchased the captive from
John of Luxembourg, and instituted a prosecution against her. The
Bishop of Beauvais, a man wholly devoted to the English interests,
presented a petition against Joan, and desired to have her tried by
an ecclesiastical court, for sorcery, impiety, idolatry, and magic.
The university of Paris was so mean as to join in the same request.
In the issue, she was condemned for all the crimes of which she had
been accused, aggravated by heresy; her revelations were declared to
be inventions of the devil to delude the people; and she was sentenced
to be delivered over to the secular arm. Her spirit gave way to the
terrors of that punishment to which she was sentenced, and she publicly
declared herself ready to recant; she acknowledged the illusion of
those revelations which the church had rejected, and promised never
more to maintain them. Her sentence was then mitigated; she was
condemned to perpetual imprisonment, and to be fed during life on bread
and water.
But the barbarous vengeance of Joan’s enemies was not satisfied
with this victory. Suspecting that the female dress which she now
consented to wear was disagreeable to her, they purposely placed in her
apartment a suit of men’s apparel, and watched for the effects of that
temptation upon her. On the sight of a dress in which she had acquired
so much renown, and which she once believed she wore by the particular
appointment of Heaven, all her former ideas and passions revived, and
she ventured in her solitude to clothe herself again in the forbidden
garments. Her insidious enemies caught her in that situation; her
fault was interpreted to be no less than a relapse into heresy. No
recantation would now suffice; no pardon could be granted her; she was
condemned to be burnt in the market-place of Rouen; and the infamous
sentence was accordingly executed.
During the time of the commonwealth, commissioners, appointed by Oliver
Cromwell, were sent to Woodstock for the purpose of surveying the royal
demesne; but they speedily found themselves obliged to quit it, in
consequence of the great alarm occasioned them by circumstances which
could only happen, as they supposed through the agency of means which
were considered in those days to be quite supernatural; though the
knowledge of later times creates a surprise at the credulity of the
commissioners being so easily worked upon by tricks, which would now be
regarded as almost beneath the capacity of a schoolboy. The Woodstock
devil is the name by which the supposed spirit is known.
The strange events which are the subject of this article, happened in
the months of October and November, 1649. The commissioners arrived
on October the 13th, taking up their residence in the king’s own
apartments, turning his dining-room into their wood-yard, and supplying
themselves with fuel from a famous oak, called the Royal Oak,[9] that
nothing might be left with the name of king about it.
The first supernatural appearance that disturbed the equanimity of
these worthy commissioners was that of a large black dog, which,
entering one of the rooms, overturned two or three chairs, and then
disappeared under a bed. The next day noises were heard overhead, as
of persons walking, though they knew that all the doors were locked.
The wood of the king’s oak was brought by parcels from the dining-room,
and thrown with great violence into the presence-chamber. Giles Sharpe,
their secretary, was active in attempting to discover the causes of
these disturbances, but his inquiries were unsuccessful. On unlocking
the door of the room, in the presence of the commissioners, the wood
was found all thrown about in different directions. The chairs were
tossed about, the papers torn, and the ink spilt; which mischief, it
was argued, could only have been perpetrated by one who must have
entered through the key-hole.
At night the beds of Giles Sharpe and two other servants were lifted
up, and let down violently, so as to throw them out; again, on the
nineteenth, when in bed, the candles were blown out, with a sulphureous
smell, and the trenchers of wood hurled about the room.
On the twentieth the commissioners themselves, when in bed, were
attacked with cruel blows, and the curtains drawn to and fro with
great violence. This sort of attack upon the peace and safety of the
commissioners was repeated almost every night. They were also assaulted
from without, for a vast number of stones and horses’ bones were thrown
through the windows, to the great risk of those within.
A servant, who was rash enough to draw his sword, perceived that
an invisible hand had hold of it too, which, pulling it from him,
struck him a violent blow on the head with the pommel of it. Dr. Plot
concludes his relation of this affair with observing, that “many of
the circumstances related are not reconcilable to juggling,” and he
adds, “all which being put together, perhaps may easily persuade some
man, otherwise inclined, to believe that immaterial beings might be
concerned in this business, provided the speculative theist be not
after all a practical atheist.”
“The Secret History of the good Devil of Woodstock,” a pamphlet
published not long after these events, unravelled these mysteries. It
appears that one Joe Collins, commonly called “Funny Joe,” was that
very devil. He hired himself as a servant to the commissioners, under
the name of Giles Sharpe, and by the help of two friends, an unknown
trap-door in the ceiling of the bedchamber, and a pound of gunpowder,
played all these amazing tricks.
The sudden extinguishing of the candles was contrived by inserting
gunpowder into the lower part of each candle, destined to explode at
a certain time. The great dog was no other than one that had whelped
in that room shortly before, and which made all that disturbance in
seeking her puppies, and which, when she had served his purpose, Giles
Sharpe let out, and then pretended to search for.
The circumstance that had most effect in driving the commissioners
from Woodstock was this:--they had formed a reserve of a part of
the premises to themselves, and having entered into a private
agreement among themselves, they hid the writing in the earth, under
the roots of an orange-tree, which grew in a tub in the corner of
the room. In the midst of dinner one day this earth took fire, and
burned violently with a blue flame, filling the room with a strong
sulphureous stench; the explanation of which phenomenon may be found
in modern books of experimental chemistry, under the head of “receipt
to make an earthquake.” This last attack so completely terrified the
commissioners, that, fearing the very devils from hell were rising
against them, they speedily took to flight.
So early as the reign of Henry the Second, Woodstock was famed for
being the residence of the beautiful Rosamond, and it is thus quaintly
described by Speed. “Henry the Second built an intricate labyrinth at
Woodstock, and therein he stowed this pearl of his esteem (Rosamond),
unto whose closet, for the inexplicate windings, none could approach
but the king, and those instructed by him. Notwithstanding, his jealous
queen, Eleanor, favoured by accident, thus discovered the privacy of
the favourite, for a clewe of silk having fallen from Rosamond’s lap,
as she sat to take the air, and was suddenly fleeing from the sight of
the searcher, the end of silk fastened to her foot; the clewe, still
unwinding, remained behind, which the queen followed up till she had
found what she sought, and upon Rosamond so bestowed her spleen, that
the gentle ladye lived not long after.”