The first shock over, Jane bore her reverse of fortune with the utmost
patience and resignation, uttering no complaints, but making, in the
language of Fuller, “misery itself amiable by her pious behaviour.”
She then reaped the full benefit of the religious education she had
received, and her time was wholly passed in meditation, prayer, or
profound study. Her demeanour was gentle and calm—graver and more
thoughtful than it had been, but by no means cast down. If she had not
regained her cheer-.fulness, she had fully recovered her composure; and
the warder, Partridge, in whose habitation she was confined in the first
instance, described her “as looking more like a queen than when she sat
upon the throne.”
In this way, some days were spent, when word was brought her by an
attendant, that a chamber had been prepared for her in the Brick Tower,
and that a guard was without to conduct her to it. She received the
intimation with composure, and immediately rose to obey it, requesting
only that her books might be sent after her. The attendant, whose eyes
were blinded with tears, promised to fulfil her wishes. On going forth,
she found an officer and the three gigantic warders waiting to escort
her to her prison. The party moved forward in silence, and at a slow
pace. While crossing the Green, she perceived another group advancing
towards her, and as it drew nearer, she found it was her husband
attended by a guard. Uttering a loud cry, she would have rushed and
thrown herself into his arms, if she had not been prevented by the
officer. Dudley, whose eyes had been bent on the ground, heard the cry,
and immediately knew by whom it was uttered. He made a movement similar
to that of Jane, but like her he was checked by his attendants. So
deeply, however, were the guards on either side moved by the anguish of
the unfortunate pair, that, although expressly enjoined to the contrary,
they suffered them to approach and embrace each other. The meeting drew
tears from all eyes that beheld it; and the susceptible heart of Magog
was so touched, that he had much ado to hide his grief. From the few
hasty words she was able to exchange with her husband, Jane learnt that
his prison had been changed, and that an order had been issued for his
removal from the Beauchamp to the Bowyer Tower.
“Every dungeon in the Tower,” he said, “is filled with our friends and
partisans. Your father, the Duke of Suffolk, is confined in the Martin
Tower. And I have been just removed from the Beauchamp Tower to make
room for my father, the Duke of Northumberland, my two brothers, Ambrose
and Robert, and their faithful followers, Sir John Gates, Sir Henry
Gates, and Sir Thomas Palmer.”
“Alas!” cried Jane, “we are all equally culpable, and must all suffer
alike. But we shall be speedily released.”
“On the scaffold,” rejoined Dudley, bitterly.
“Ay, on the scaffold,” repeated Jane. “And I trust though the remainder
of our mortal life may be separated, that we shall meet above to part no
more. Pray for this, my dear lord. It is my own constant prayer. And it
is my firm reliance upon it that enables me to endure the agony of this
meeting, which otherwise would kill me.”
“I will strive to do so, Jane,” replied her husband. “But I still cling
to life and hope.”
“Divest yourself of these vain desires, my Lord,” cried Jane, earnestly,
“and turn your thoughts from earth to heaven. There indeed we shall
inherit an everlasting kingdom, undisturbed by misery and calamity.”
“Madam,” said the officer, advancing; “I grieve to abridge this short
meeting. But my duty admits of no alternative. You must follow me.”
“It is well, sir,” she replied—“Farewell, dear Dudley. My prayers shall
be for you.”
“And mine for you, dear Jane,” replied her husband, pressing her to his
bosom—“Heaven grant me your patience and resignation!”
“Amen!” she fervently ejaculated. And with another embrace, they parted.
For a short distance the two escorts walked close together, during which
the afflicted pair kept their eyes fondly fixed on each other. After
passing the north-west corner of the White Tower, Lord Guilford’s
attendants took a straight-forward course, while Jane’s guards proceeded
to the right. Still but a short distance intervened between them, until
Jane beheld her husband disappear beneath the low-arched entrance of the
Bowyer Tower. A convulsive movement passed over her frame; but the next
moment she was apparently as calm as ever, and followed the officer into
the structure destined for her reception.
This, as has already been intimated, was the Brick Tower, the next
turret on the east of the Bowyer Tower. The upper story, which is of
brick—whence its name—was erected in the reign of Edward the Fourth, or
Richard the Third: the basement story is of stone, and of much greater
antiquity.
Entering a narrow passage, she was ushered by the officer into a small
room, which he informed her was prepared for her reception. Everything
that circumstances would admit appeared to have been done to lessen the
rigour of her confinement. The stone walls were hung with arras; and
much of the furniture a carved oak table, and velvet-covered scats,
placed in the deep embrasures of the windows—had been brought from
Jane’s late chamber in the palace.
“This seat, said the officer, pointing to a curiously-carved chair, *
was used by Queen Anne Boleyn during her imprisonment. I had it brought
hither for your ladyship’s accommodation.”
“I thank you for your consideration, sir,” replied Jane; “it will serve
to support one as unhappy as that ill-fated princess.” Having inquired
whether she had any further commands with which it was possible for
him to comply, and being answered in the negative, the officer took his
departure, and Jane was left alone.
0171
Alone! the thought struck chill to her heart. She was now a solitary
captive. She heard the door of her prison bolted—she examined its stone
walls, partly concealed by the tapestry—she glanced at its iron-barred
windows, and her courage forsook her. She had no bosom to lean upon—no
ear to which she could impart her sorrows. Her husband, though not far
from her, was, like her a prisoner. She pictured him in his solitary
room—and she would have given worlds to be near him—if only for a few
moments. The thought occasioned her so much anguish, that she burst
into tears, and for some time was a prey to despair. She then knelt
down beside the chair, and burying her face in her clasped hands, prayed
deeply and fervently for support through her trial. And she prayed not
in vain. She soon afterwards arose tranquil and refreshed.
* This curious piece of furniture, authenticated to have
belonged to the unfortunate queen above-named, is now in the
possession of Mr. Cottenham, the architect, of Waterloo
Road.
0172
III.-HOW SIMON RENARD ASCENDED TO THE ROOF OF THE WHITE TOWER; AND OF
THE GOODLY PROSPECT HE BEHELD THEREFROM.
The night of Queen Mary’s entrance into the Tower was spent by Simon
Renard, the Duke of Norfolk, Gardiner (the new Lord Chancellor),
Courtenay, Arundel, Pembroke, and other noble and honourable persons
composing her council, in framing a public declaration of her religious
opinions, to be proclaimed on the morrow, and in deliberating on other
mighty matters connected with the establishment of her government.
Throughout this consultation, when any difference of opinion arose,
the matter was invariably deferred to the judgment of the imperial
ambassador, whose decision was regarded as final; and as he was looked
upon as the chief instrument in crushing the late rebellion, so it was
supposed he could, by his sagacity and influence, establish Mary upon
her throne.
It was late when the council separated, and instead of returning to his
apartments in the palace, Renard, fevered and wearied by the protracted
discussion at which he had assisted, preferred refreshing himself by
a stroll in the open air. Accordingly, he proceeded to the green, and
began to pace backwards and forwards, at a brisk pace, between the
lieutenant’s lodgings and the chapel. He continued this exercise for
nearly an hour, pondering upon recent events, and revolving future
schemes within his plotting brain, when just as day was breaking, and
the hoary walls of the White Tower began to reveal themselves in all
their grandeur, he perceived a man, armed with a caliver, advancing
to meet him. Renard stood still, and throwing his ample cloak over his
shoulder, awaited the new comers approach. It proved to be a warder,
who, having seen him as he was going his rounds, at first supposed he
had some ill designs in view, but finding out his mistake, as he drew
nearer and recognised the Spanish ambassador, with whose person he was
familiar, he was about to withdraw, when Renard called him back and
demanded his name.
“I am called Gervase Winwike, worshipful sir,” readied the man, “and am
one of the senior warders of the Tower.
“Whither are you going, friend?” inquired Renard. “To the summit of the
White Tower,” answered Winwike; “to see that the sentinels are at their
posts.”
“Is it inconsistent with your duty to take me with you?” asked the
ambassador.
“By no means,” rejoined the warder. “I shall feel honoured by your
presence. We shall reach the roof just at sunrise, and the view from
thence, on a fine clear morning like the present, is magnificent beyond
compare, and will amply repay your worship for climbing up so many steps
as you will have to scale to obtain it.”
“Let us make what haste we can, then,” said Renard, “I am impatient to
behold it.”
Thus exhorted, Winwike led the way to the north-west turret of the
ancient structure, before a door in which a sentinel was stationed, who,
on receiving the pass-word, lowered his halbert, and suffered them
to enter. They were now within a small circular chamber, from which a
flight of spiral stone steps ascended. Followed by Renard, the
warder commenced the ascent. Light was admitted at intervals through
loop-holes, gradually diminishing in width as they approached the
exterior of the walls, and serving to reveal their immense thickness.
As they mounted, Winwike pointed out to his companion the entrance of a
passage communicating with the Council-chamber. Renard was much struck
with the substantial and beautiful masonry of the turret; but being
anxious to gain the roof as soon as possible, he urged his companion to
quicken his pace, and they soon arrived at an arched door, which Winwike
threw open, and they stepped upon the roof..
Springing upon the platform, Renard was about to rush to the
battlements, when Winwike offered to lead him to the best point of view.
As he followed his conductor towards the southwest angle, Renard cast
his eye over the roof. Cannon were placed on the raised platform, while
armed men were stationed at twenty paces distant from each other. In the
centre of the building stood a tall staff, from which floated the royal
banner.
Depositing his caliver against the wall of the turret, Winwike told his
companion to look around. Renard obeyed, and a glorious panorama met
his gaze. Immediately beneath him lay the fortress, with its chain of
flowers—its ramparts—its fortifications—its bridges, and its broad
deep moat. Beyond was spread out old and picturesque London, with its
numerous steeples, above which rose the massive tower of St. Paul’s. A
little on the left was old London Bridge, covered with out-houses—the
noise of the falling water, and the mills, being distinctly audible
where they stood. Nearer, was the river glittering in the sunbeams, and
filled with a forest of masts. Renard contemplated this prospect for
some time in silent admiration.
“There you behold the Tower of London,” said Winwike, pointing
downwards.
“And there I read the history of England,” replied Renard.
“If it is written in those towers it is a dark and bloody history,”
replied the warder—“and yet your worship says truly. The building on
which we stand, and those around us, are the best chronicles of our
country. I can recount to your worship their foundation, and the chief
events that have happened within them, if you are disposed to listen to
me.”
“Proceed then,” replied Renard, “and when I have had enough I will
interrupt you.”
0176
0178
IV.—OF THE TOWER OF LONDON; ITS ANTIQUITY AND FOUNDATION; ITS MAGNITUDE
AND EXTENT; ITS KEEP, PALACE, GARDENS, FORTIFICATIONS, DUNGEONS,
AND CHAPELS; ITS WALLS, BULWARKS, AND MOAT; ITS ROYAL INMATES; ITS
CONSTABLES, JAILORS, WARDERS, AND OTHER OFFICERS; ITS PRISONERS,
EXECUTIONS, AND SECRET MURDERS.
In 1078, (for, instead of following the warder’s narrative to Simon
Renard, it appears advisable in this place to offer a slight sketch of
the renowned fortress, under consideration, especially as such a course
will allow of its history being brought down to a later period than
could otherwise be accomplished,) the Tower of London was founded
by William the Conqueror, who appointed Gundulph, Bishop of Exeter,
principal overseer of the work. By this prelate, who seems to have been
a good specimen of the church militant, and who, during the progress of
his operations, was lodged in the house, of Edmere, a burgess of London,
a part of the city wall, adjoining the northern banks of the Thames,
which had been much injured by the incursions of the tide, was taken
down, and a “great square tower,” since called the White Tower, erected
on its site.
Some writers have assigned an earlier date to this edifice, ascribing
its origin to the great Roman invader of our shores, whence it has been
sometimes denominated Cæsar’s Tower; and the hypothesis is supposed
to be confirmed by Fitz Stephens, a monkish historian of the period of
Henry the Second, who states, that “the city of London hath in the east
a very great and most strong Palatine Tower, whose turrets and walls do
rise from a deep foundation, the mortar thereof being tempered with the
blood of beasts.” On this authority, Dr. Stukeley has introduced a fort,
which he terms the Arx Palatina, in his plan of Londinium Augusta. But,
though it is not improbable that some Roman military station may have
stood on the spot now occupied by the White Tower,—certain coins and
other antiquities having been found by the workmen in sinking the
foundations of the Ordnance Office in 1777,—it is certain that no part
of the present structure was erected by Julius Cæsar; nor can he, with
propriety, be termed the founder of the Tower of London. As to its
designation, that amounts to little, since, as has been shrewdly
remarked by M. Dulaure, in his description of the Grand Châtelet at
Paris—“every old building, the origin of which is buried in obscurity,
is attributed to Cæsar or the devil.”
Fourteen years afterwards, in the reign of William Rufus, who, according
to Henry of Huntingdon, “pilled and shaved the people with tribute,
especially about the Tower of London,” the White Tower was greatly
damaged by a violent storm, which, among other ravages, carried off the
roof of Bow Church, and levelled above six hundred habitations with the
ground. It was subsequently repaired, and an additional tower built on
the south side near the river.
Strengthened by Geoffrey de Magnaville, Earl of Essex, and fourth
constable of the fortress, who defended it against the usurper Stephen,
but was, nevertheless, eventually compelled to surrender it; repaired in
1155, by Thomas à Becket, then Chancellor to Henry the Second; greatly
extended and enlarged in 1190, the second year of the reign of Richard
Cour de Lion, by William Longchamp, Bishop of Ely and Chancellor of the
realm, who, encroaching to some distance upon Tower Hill, and breaking
down the city wall as far as the first gate called the postern,
surrounded it with high embattled walls of stone, and a broad deep
ditch, thinking, as Stowe observes, “to have environed it with the river
Thames;”—the Tower of London was finished by Henry the Third, who,
in spite of the remonstrances of the citizens, and other supernatural
warnings, if credit is to be attached to the statement of Matthew of
Paris, completely fortified it.
A gate and bulwark having been erected on the west of the Tower, we are
told by the old chronicler above-mentioned, “that they were shaken as
it had been with an earthquake and fell down, which the king again
commanded to be built in better sort, which was done. And yet, again,
in the year 1241, the said wall and bulwarks that were newly builded,
whereon the king had bestowed more than twelve thousand marks, were
irrecoverably quite thrown down as before; for the which chance the
citizens of London were nothing sorry, for they were threatened, that
the said wall and bulwarks were builded, to the end, that if any of them
would contend for the liberties of the city, they might be imprisoned.
And that many might be laid in divers prisons, many lodgings were made,
that no one should speak with another.” These remarkable accidents (if
accidents they were,) were attributed by the popular superstition of the
times, to the miraculous interference of Thomas à Becket, the guardian
saint of the Londoners.
By the same monarch the storehouse was strengthened and repaired, and
the keep or citadel whitened, (whence probably it derived its name, as
it was afterwards styled in Edward the Third’s reign “La Blanche
Tour”) as appears by the following order still preserved in the Tower
Rolls:—“We command you to repair the garner within the said tower, and
well amend it throughout, wherever needed. And also concerning all
the leaden gutters of the Great Tower, from the top of the said tower,
through which the rain water must fall down, to lengthen them, and make
them come down even to the ground; so that the wall of the said tower,
lately whitened anew, may by no means decay, nor easily break out, by
reason of the rain water dropping down. But to make upon the said towers
alures of good and strong timber, and throughout to be well leaded; by
which people might see even to the foot of the said tower, and better to
go up and down, if need be.” Further orders were given in this reign
for the beautifying and fitting up the chapels of Saint John and Saint
Peter, as already mentioned in the account of those structures.
The same monarch planted a grove, or orchard of “perie trees,” as they
are described in his mandate to Edward of Westminster, in the vicinity
of the Tower, and surrounded it with a wall of mud, afterwards replaced
by another of brick, in the reign of Edward the Fourth. He likewise
established a menagerie within the fortress, allotting a part of the
bulwark at the western entrance since called the Lions’ Tower, for the
reception of certain wild beasts, and as a lodging for their keeper. In
1235, the Emperor Frederick sent him three leopards, in allusion to his
scutcheon, on which three of those animals were emblazoned; and from
that time, down to a very recent date, a menagerie has been constantly
maintained within the Tower. To support it, Edward the Second commanded
the Sheriffs of London to pay the keeper of his lions sixpence a day for
their food, and three half-pence a-day for the man’s own diet, out of
the fee farm of the city.
Constant alterations and reparations wero made to the ramparts and
towers during subsequent reigns. Edward the Fourth encroached still
further on Tower Hill than his predecessors, and erected an outer
gate called the Bulwark Tower. In the fifth year of the reign of this
monarch, a scaffold and gallows having been erected on Tower Hill, the
citizens, ever jealous of their privileges and liberties, complained of
the step; and to appease them, a proclamation was made to the effect,
“that the erection, and setting up of the said gallows be not a
precedent or example thereby hereafter to be taken, in hurt, prejudice,
or derogation, of the franchises, liberties, and privileges of the
city.”
Richard the Third repaired the Tower, and Stow records a commission to
Thomas Daniel, directing him to seize for use within this realm, as many
masons, bricklayers, and other workmen, as should be thought necessary
for the expedition of the king’s works within the Tower. In the
twenty-third of Henry the Eighth, the whole of the fortress appears to
have undergone repair—a survey being taken of its different buildings,
which is is still preserved in the Chapter-house at Westminster. In the
second of Edward the Sixth, the following strange accident occurred, by
which one of the fortifications was destroyed. A Frenchman, lodged in
the Middle Tower, accidentally set fire to a barrel of gunpowder, which
blew up the structure, fortunately without damage to any other than the
luckless causer of it.
At the period of this chronicle, as at the present time, the Tower of
London comprehended within its walls a superficies of rather more than
twelve acres, and without the moat a circumference of three thousand
feet and upwards. Consisting of a citadel or keep, surrounded by an
inner and outer ward, it was approached on the west by an entrance
called the Bulwark Gate, which has long since disappeared. The second
entrance was formed by an embattled tower, called the Lion’s Gate,
conducting to a strong tower flanked with bastions, and defended by a
double portcullis, denominated the Middle Tower. The outworks adjoining
these towers, in which was kept the menagerie, were surrounded by a
smaller moat, communicating with the main ditch. A large drawbridge then
led to another portal, in all respects resembling that last described,
forming the principal entrance to the outer ward, and called the
By-ward or Gate Tower. The outer ward was defended by a strong line
of fortifications; and at the north-east corner stood a large circular
bastion, called the Mount.
The inner ward or ballium was defended by thirteen towers, connected by
an embattled stone wall about forty feet, high and twelve feet thick, on
the summit of which was a footway for the guard. Of these towers, three
were situated at the west, namely, the Bell, the Beauchamp and the
Devilin Towers; four at the north, the Flint, the Bowyer, the Brick, and
the Martin Towers; three at the east, the Constable, the Broad Arrow,
and Salt Towers; and three on the south, the Well, the Lanthorn, and the
Bloody Tower. The Flint Tower has almost disappeared; the Bowyer Tower
only retains its basement story; and the Brick Tower has been so much
modernized as to retain little of its pristine character. The Martin
Tower is now denominated the Jewel Tower, from the circumstance of its
being the depositary of the regalia. The Lanthorn Tower has been swept
away with the old palace.
Returning to the outer ward, the principal fortification on the south
was a large square structure, flanked at each angle by an embattled
tower. This building, denominated Saint Thomas’s, or Traitor’s Tower,
was erected across the moat, and masked a secret entrance from the
Thames, through which state prisoners, as has before been related,
were brought into the Tower. It still retains much of its original
appearance, and recals forcibly to the mind of the observer the dismal
scenes that have occurred beneath its low-browed arches. Further on the
east, in a line with Traitor’s Tower, and terminating a wing of the old
palace, stood the Cradle Tower. At the eastern angle of the outer ward
was a small fortification over-looking the moat, known as the Tower
leading to the Iron Gate. Beyond it a draw-bridge crossed the moat, and
led to the Iron Gate, a small portal protected by a tower, deriving its
name from the purpose for which it was erected.
At this point, on the patch of ground intervening between the moat and
the river, and forming the platform or wharf, stood a range of mean
habitations, occupied by the different artisans and workmen employed in
the fortress. At the south of the By-ward Tower, an arched and embattled
gateway opened upon a drawbridge which crossed the moat at this point.
Opposite this drawbridge were the main stairs leading to the edge of the
river. The whole of the fortress, it is scarcely necessary to repeat,
was (and still is) encompassed by a broad deep moat, of much greater
width at the sides next to Tower Hill and East Smithfield, than at the
south, and supplied with water from the Thames by the sluice beneath
Traitor’s Gate.
Having now made a general circuit of the fortress, we shall return to
the inner ballium, which is approached on the south by a noble gateway,
erected in the reign of Edward the Third. A fine specimen of the
architecture of the fourteenth century, this portal is vaulted with
groined arches adorned with exquisite tracery springing from grotesque
heads. At the period of this chronicle, it was defended at each end by
a massive gate clamped with iron, and a strong portcullis. The gate and
portcullis at the southern extremity still exist, but those at the
north have been removed. The structure above it was anciently called the
Garden Tower; but subsequently acquired the appellation of the Bloody
Tower, from having been the supposed scene of the murder of the youthful
princes, sons of Edward the Fourth, by the ruthless Duke of Gloucester,
afterwards Richard the Third. Without pausing to debate the truth of
this tragical occurrence, it may be sufficient to mention that tradition
assigns it to this building.
Proceeding along the ascent leading towards the green, and mounting a
flight of stone steps on the left, we arrive in front of the ancient
lodgings allotted to the lieutenant of the Tower. Chiefly constructed
of timber, and erected at the beginning of the sixteenth century, this
fabric has been so much altered, that it retains little of its original
character. In one of the rooms, called, from the circumstance, the
Council-chamber, the conspirators concerned in the Gunpowder Plot
were interrogated; and in memory of the event, a piece of sculpture,
inscribed with their names, and with those of the commissioners by whom
they were examined, has been placed against the walls.
Immediately behind the lieutenant’s lodgings stands the Bell Tower,—a
circular structure, surmounted by a small wooden turret containing the
alarm-bell of the fortress. Its walls are of great thickness, and light
is admitted through narrow loopholes. On the basement floor is a small
chamber, with deeply-recessed windows, and a vaulted roof of very
curious construction. This tower served as a place of imprisonment to
John Fisher, the martyred bishop of Rochester, beheaded on Tower Hill
for denying Henry the Eighth’s supremacy; and to the Princess Elizabeth,
who was confined within it by her sister, Queen Mary.
Traversing the green, some hundred and forty feet brings us to the
Beauchamp, or Cobham Tower, connected with the Bell Tower by means of
a footway on the top of the ballium wall. Erected in the reign of Henry
the Third, as were most of the smaller towers of the fortress, this
structure appears, from the numerous inscriptions, coats of arms, and
devices that crowd its walls, to have been the principal state-prison.
Every room, from roof to vault, is covered with melancholy memorials of
its illustrious and unfortunate occupants.
Over the fire-place in the principal chamber, (now used as a mess-room
by the officers of the garrison,) is the autograph of Philip Howard,
Earl of Arundel, beheaded in 1572, for aspiring to the hand of Mary
Queen of Scots. On the right of the fire-place, at the entrance of a
recess, are these words:—“Dolor Patientia vincitur. G. Gyfford. August
8, 1586.” Amongst others, for we can only give a few as a specimen of
the rest, is the following enigmatical inscription. It is preceded by
the date 1568, April 28, but is unaccompanied by any signature.