conscientious nature of Theresa found even the severities of this lonely
life not sufficiently hard, and attaining to a position of influence in
the order she obtained permission from the Pope in 1562 to found a new
order which should be even more strict in its rules, and therefore, so
she believed, more helpful. Thus was founded the Order of Barefooted
Carmelites, a body of priests and nuns, who have in their peculiar way
accomplished very much for charity, gentleness, and self-help in the
world, and whose schools and convents have been instituted in all parts
of the earth.
Theresa de Cepeda died in 1582, greatly beloved and revered for her
strict but gentle life, her great and helpful charities, and her sincere
desire to benefit her fellow-men. After her death, so great was the
respect paid her that she was canonized, as it is called: that is,
lifted up as an example of great goodness to the world; and she is
to-day known and honored among devout Roman Catholics as St. Theresa of
Avila.
Whatever we may think of the peculiar way in which her life was spent;
however we may regard the story of her troubles with her conscience, her
understanding of what she deemed her duty, and her sinking of what might
have been a happy and joyous life in the solitude and severity of a
convent, we cannot but think of her as one who wished to do right, and
who desired above all else to benefit the world in which she lived and
labored. Her story is that of a most extraordinary and remarkable woman,
who devoted her life to what she deemed the thing demanded of her.
Could we not, all of us, profitably attempt to live in something like a
kindred spirit to that helpful and unselfish one that actuated this girl
of the Spanish sierras?
“Here and there is born a Saint Theresa,” says George Eliot, “foundress
of nothing, whose loving heart-beats and sobs after an unattained
goodness tremble off and are dispersed among hindrances, instead of
centring in some long-recognizable deed.”
But if a girl or boy, desiring to do right, will disregard the
hindrances, and not simply sit and sob after an unattained goodness--if,
instead, they will but do the duty nearest at hand manfully and
well, the reward will come in something even more desirable than a
“long-recognizable deed.” It will come in the very self-gratification
that will at last follow every act of courtesy, of friendliness, and
of self-denial, and such a life will be of more real value to the world
than all the deeds of all the crusaders, or than even the stern and
austere charities of a Saint Theresa.
ELIZABETH OF TUDOR: THE GIRL OF THE HERTFORD MANOR.
(Afterward Queen Elizabeth of England; the “Good Queen Bess.”) A.D.
1548.
The iron-shod hoofs of the big gray courser rang sharply on the
frozen ground, as, beneath the creaking boughs of the long-armed oaks,
Launcelot Crue, the Lord Protector’s fleetest courser-man, galloped
across the Hertford fells or hills, and reined up his horse within the
great gates of Hatfield manor-house.
“From the Lord Protector,” he said; and Master Avery Mitchell, the
feodary,(1) who had been closely watching for this same courser-man
for several anxious hours, took from his hands a scroll, on which was
inscribed:
(1) An old English term for the guardian of “certain wards of the
state,”--young persons under guardianship of the government.
“To Avery Mitchell, feodary of the Wards in Herts, at Halfield House.
From the Lord Protector, THESE:”
And next, the courser-man, in secrecy, unscrewed one of the bullion
buttons on his buff jerkin, and taking from it a scrap of paper, handed
this also to the watchful feodary. Then, his mission ended, he repaired
to the buttery to satisfy his lusty English appetite with a big dish
of pasty, followed by ale and “wardens” (as certain hard pears, used
chiefly for cooking, were called in those days), while the cautious
Avery Mitchell, unrolling the scrap of paper, read:
“In secrecy, THESE: Under guise of mummers place a half-score good men
and true in your Yule-tide maskyng. Well armed and safely conditioned.
They will be there who shall command. Look for the green dragon of
Wantley. On your allegiance. This from ye wit who.”
Scarcely had the feodary read, re-read, and then destroyed this secret
and singular missive, when the “Ho! hollo!” of Her Grace the Princess’
outriders rang on the crisp December air, and there galloped up to the
broad doorway of the manor-house, a gayly costumed train of lords and
ladies, with huntsmen and falconers and yeomen following on behind.
Central in the group, flushed with her hard gallop through the wintry
air, a young girl of fifteen, tall and trim in figure, sat her horse
with the easy grace of a practised and confident rider. Her long velvet
habit was deeply edged with fur, and both kirtle and head-gear were of
a rich purple tinge, while from beneath the latter just peeped a heavy
coil of sunny, golden hair. Her face was fresh and fair, as should be
that of any young girl of fifteen, but its expression was rather that of
high spirits and of heedless and impetuous moods than of simple maidenly
beauty.
“Tilly-vally, my lord,” she cried, dropping her bridle-rein into the
hands of a waiting groom, “‘t was my race to-day, was it not? Odds fish,
man!” she cried out sharply to the attendant groom; “be ye easier with
Roland’s bridle there. One beast of his gentle mettle were worth a score
of clumsy varlets like to you! Well, said I not right, my Lord Admiral;
is not the race fairly mine, I ask?” and, careless in act as in speech,
she gave the Lord Admiral’s horse, as she spoke, so sharp a cut with her
riding whip as to make the big brute rear in sudden surprise, and
almost unhorse its rider, while an unchecked laugh came from its fair
tormentor.
“Good faith, Mistress,” answered Sir Thomas Seymour, the Lord High
Admiral, gracefully swallowing his exclamation of surprise, “your
ladyship hath fairly won, and, sure, hath no call to punish both myself
and my good Selim here by such unwarranted chastisement. Will your grace
dismount?”
And, vaulting from his seat, he gallantly extended his hand to help the
young girl from her horse; while, on the same instant, another in her
train, a handsome young fellow of the girl’s own age, knelt on the
frozen ground and held her stirrup.
But this independent young maid would have none of their courtesies.
Ignoring the outstretched hands of both the man and boy, she sprang
lightly from her horse, and, as she did so, with a sly and sudden push
of her dainty foot, she sent the kneeling lad sprawling backward, while
her merry peal of laughter rang out as an accompaniment to his downfall.
“Without your help, my lords--without your help, so please you both,”
she cried. “Why, Dudley,” she exclaimed, in mock surprise, as she threw
a look over her shoulder at the prostrate boy, “are you there? Beshrew
me, though, you do look like one, of goodman Roger’s Dorking cocks in
the poultry yonder, so red and ruffled of feather do you seem. There,
see now, I do repent me of my discourtesy. You, Sir Robert, shall squire
me to the hall, and Lord Seymour must even content himself with playing
the gallant to good Mistress Ashley”; and, leaning on the arm of the
now pacified Dudley, the self-willed girl tripped lightly up the
entrance-steps.
Self-willed and thoughtless--even rude and hoydenish--we may think her
in these days of gentler manners and more guarded speech. But those were
less refined and cultured times than these in which we live; and
the rough, uncurbed nature of “Kinge Henrye the viii. of Most Famous
Memorye,” as the old chronicles term the “bluff King Hal,” reappeared to
a noticeable extent in the person of his second child, the daughter
of ill-fated Anne Boleyn--“my ladye’s grace” the Princess Elizabeth of
England.
And yet we should be readier to excuse this impetuous young princess of
three hundred years ago than were even her associates and enemies. For
enemies she had, poor child, envious and vindictive ones, who sought to
work her harm. Varied and unhappy had her young life already been. Born
amid splendid hopes, in the royal palace of Greenwich; called Elizabeth
after that grandmother, the fair heiress of the House of York, whose
marriage to a prince of the House of Lancaster had ended the long and
cruel War or the Roses; she had been welcomed with the peal of bells and
the boom of cannon, and christened with all the regal ceremonial of King
Henry’s regal court. Then, when scarcely three years old, disgraced by
the wicked murder of her mother, cast off and repudiated by her brutal
father, and only received again to favor at the christening of her baby
brother, passing her childish days in grim old castles and a wicked
court,--she found herself, at thirteen, fatherless as well as
motherless, and at fifteen cast on her own resources, the sport of men’s
ambitions and of conspirators’ schemes. To-day the girl of fifteen,
tenderly reared, shielded from trouble by a mother’s watchful love and a
father’s loving care, can know but little of the dangers that compassed
this princess of England, the Lady Elizabeth. Deliberately separated
from her younger brother, the king, by his unwise and selfish
counsellors, hated by her elder sister, the Lady Mary, as the daughter
of the woman who had made HER mother’s life so miserable, she was, even
in her manor-home of Hatfield, where she should have been most secure,
in still greater jeopardy. For this same Lord Seymour of Sudleye, who
was at once Lord High Admiral of England, uncle to the king, and brother
of Somerset the Lord Protector, had by fair promises and lavish gifts
bound to his purpose this defenceless girl’s only protectors, Master
Parry, her cofferer, or steward, and Mistress Katherine Ashley, her
governess. And that purpose was to force the young princess into a
marriage with himself, so as to help his schemes of treason against the
Lord Protector, and get into his own hands the care of the boy king and
the government of the realm. It was a bold plot, and, if unsuccessful,
meant attainder and death for high treason; but Seymour, ambitious,
reckless, and unprincipled, thought only of his own desires, and cared
little for the possible ruin into which he was dragging the unsuspecting
and orphaned daughter of the king who had been his ready friend and
patron.
So matters stood at the period of our store, on the eve of the Christmas
festivities of 1548, as, on, the arm of her boy escort, Sir Robert
Dudley, gentleman usher at King Edward’s court, and, years after, the
famous Earl of Leicester of Queen Elizabeth’s day, the royal maiden
entered the hall of Hatfield House. And, within the great hall, she was
greeted by Master Parry, her cofferer, Master Runyon, her yeoman of the
robes, and Master Mitchell, the feodary. Then, with a low obeisance, the
feodary presented her the scroll which had been brought him, post-haste,
by Launcelot Crue, the courser-man.
“What, good Master Avery,” exclaimed Elizabeth, as she ran her eye over
the scroll, “you to be Lord of Misrule and Master of the Revels! And by
my Lord of Somerset’s own appointing? I am right glad to learn it.”
And this is what she read:
Imprimis(1): I give leave to Avery Mitchell, feodary, gentleman, to be
Lord of Misrule of all good orders, at the Manor of Hatfield, during the
twelve days of Yule-tide. And, also, I give free leave to the said Avery
Mitchell to command all and every person or persons whatsoever, as well
servants as others, to be at his command whensoever be shall sound his
trumpet or music, and to do him good service, as though I were present
myself, at their perils. I give full power and authority to his lordship
to break all locks, bolts, bars, doors, and latches to come at all
those who presume to disobey his lordship’s commands. God save the King.
“SOMERSET.”
(1) A Latin term signifying “in the first place,” or “to commence with,”
and used as the opening of legal or official directions.
It was Christmas Eve. The great hall of Hatfield House gleamed with
the light of many candles that flashed upon the sconce and armor and
polished floor. Holly and mistletoe, rosemary and bay, and all the
decorations of an old-time English Christmas were tastefully arranged.
A burst of laughter ran through the hall, as through the ample doorway,
and down the broad stair, trooped the Motley train of the Lord of
Misrule to open the Christmas revels. A fierce and ferocious-looking
fellow was he, with his great green mustache and his ogre-like face. His
dress was a gorgeous parti-colored jerkin and half-hose, trunks, ruff,
slouch-boots of Cordova leather, and high befeathered steeple hat. His
long staff, topped with a fool’s head, cap, and bells, rang loudly on
the floor, as, preceded by his diminutive but pompous page, he led his
train around and around the great hall, lustily singing the chorus:
“Like prince and king he leads the ring;
Right merrily we go. Sing hey-trix, trim-go-trix,
Under the mistletoe!”
A menagerie let loose, or the most dyspeptic of after-dinner dreams,
could not be more bewildering than was this motley train of the Lord
of Misrule. Giants and dwarfs, dragons and griffins, hobby-horses and
goblins, Robin Hood and the Grand Turk, bears and boars and fantastic
animals that never had a name, boys and girls, men and women, in every
imaginable costume and device--around and around the hall they went,
still ringing out the chorus:
“Sing hey-trix, trim-go-trix,
Under the mistletoe!”
Then, standing in the centre of his court, the Lord of Misrule bade
his herald declare that from Christmas Eve to Twelfth Night he was
Lord Supreme; that, with his magic art, he transformed all there into
children, and charged them, on their fealty to act only as such. “I
absolve them all from wisdom,” he said; “I bid them be just wise enough
to make fools of themselves, and do decree that none shall sit apart in
pride and eke in self-sufficiency to laugh at others”; and then the fun
commenced.
Off in stately Whitehall, in the palace of the boy king, her brother,
the revels were grander and showier; but to the young Elizabeth, not yet
skilled in all the stiffness of the royal court, the Yule-tide feast
at Hatfield House brought pleasure enough; and so, seated at her
holly-trimmed virginal--that great-great-grandfather of the piano
of to-day,--she, whose rare skill as a musician has come down to us,
would--when wearied with her “prankes and japes”--“tap through” some
fitting Christmas carol, or that older lay of the Yule-tide “Mumming”:
To shorten winter’s sadness see where the folks with gladness Disguised,
are all a-coming, right wantonly a-mumming,
Fa-la!
“Whilst youthful sports are lasting, to feasting turn our fasting:
With revels and with wassails make grief and care our vassals,
Fa-la!”
The Yule-log had been noisily dragged in “to the firing,” and as the
big sparks raced up the wide chimney, the boar’s head and the tankard
of sack, the great Christmas candle and the Christmas pie, were escorted
around the room to the flourish of trumpets and welcoming shouts; the
Lord of Misrule, with a wave of his staff, was about to give the order
for all to unmask, when suddenly there appeared in the circle a new
character--a great green dragon, as fierce and ferocious as well could
be, from his pasteboard jaws to his curling canvas tail. The green
dragon of Wantley! Terrified urchins backed hastily away from his
horrible jaws, and the Lord of Misrule gave a sudden and visible start.
The dragon himself, scarce waiting for the surprise to subside, waved
his paw for silence, and said, in a hollow, pasteboardy voice:
“Most noble Lord of Misrule, before your feast commences and the masks
are doff’d, may we not as that which should give good appetite to
all,--with your lordship’s permit and that of my lady’s grace,--tell
each some wonder-filling tale as suits the goodly time of Yule? Here
be stout maskers can tell us strange tales of fairies and goblins,
or, perchance, of the foreign folk with whom they have trafficked in
Calicute and Affrica, Barbaria, Perew, and other diverse lands and
countries over-sea. And after they have ended, then will I essay a tale
that shall cap them all, so past belief shall it appear.”
The close of the dragon’s speech, of course, made them all the more
curious; and the Lady Elizabeth did but speak for all when she said: “I
pray you, good Sir Dragon, let us have your tale first. We have had enow
of Barbaria and Perew. If that yours may be so wondrous, let us hear it
even now, and then may we decide.”
“As your lady’s grace wishes,” said the dragon. “But methinks when you
have heard me through, you would that it had been the last or else not
told at all.”
“Your lordship of Misrule and my lady’s grace must know,” began the
dragon, “that my story, though a short, is a startling one. Once on a
time there lived a king, who, though but a boy, did, by God’s grace,
in talent, industry, perseverance, and knowledge, surpass both his own
years and the belief of men. And because he was good and gentle alike
and conditioned beyond the measure of his years, he was the greater prey
to the wicked wiles of traitorous men. And one such, high in the king’s
court, thought to work him ill; and to carry out his ends did wantonly
awaken seditious and rebellious intent even among the king’s kith
and kin, whom lie traitorously sought to wed,--his royal and younger
sister,--nay, start’ not my lady’s grace!” exclaimed the dragon quickly,
as Elizabeth turned upon him a look of sudden and haughty surprise. “All
is known! And this is the ending of my wondrous tale. My Lord Seymour
of Sudleye is this day taken for high treason and haled(1) to the Tower.
They of your own household are held as accomplice to the Lord Admiral’s
wicked intent, and you, Lady Elizabeth Tudor, are by order of the
council to be restrained in prison wards in this your manor of Hatfield
until such time as the king’s Majesty and the honorable council shall
decide. This on your allegiance!”
(1) Haled--dragged, forcibly conveyed.
The cry of terror that the dragon’s words awoke, died into silence as
the Lady Elizabeth rose to her feet, flushed with anger.
“Is this a fable or the posy of a ring, Sir Dragon?” she said, sharply.
“Do you come to try or tempt me, or is this perchance but some part of
my Lord of Misrule’s Yule-tide mumming? ‘Sblood, sir; only cravens sneak
behind masks to strike and threaten. Have off your disguise, if you be
a true man; or, by my word as Princess of England, he shall bitterly rue
the day who dares to befool the daughter of Henry Tudor!”
“As you will, then, my lady,” said the dragon. “Do you doubt me now?”
and, tearing off his pasteboard wrapping, he stood disclosed before
them all as the grim Sir Robert Trywhitt, chief examiner of the Lord
Protector’s council. “Move not at your peril,” he said, as a stir in the
throng seemed to indicate the presence of some brave spirits who would
have shielded their young princess. “Master Feodary, bid your varlets
stand to their arms.”
And at a word from Master Avery Mitchell, late Lord of Misrule, there
flashed from beneath the cloaks of certain tall figures on the circle’s
edge the halberds of the guard. The surprise was complete. The Lady
Elizabeth was a prisoner in her own manor-house, and the Yule-tide
revels had reached a sudden and sorry ending.
And yet, once again, under this false accusation, did the hot spirit of
the Tudors flame in the face and speech of the Princess Elizabeth.
“Sir Robert Trywhitt,” cried the brave young girl, “these be but lying
rumors that do go against my honor and my fealty. God knoweth they be
shameful slanders, sir; for the which, besides the desire I have to see
the King’s Majesty, I pray you let me also be brought straight before
the court that I may disprove these perjured tongues.”
But her appeal was not granted. For months she was kept close prisoner
at Hatfield House, subject daily to most rigid cross-examination by Sir
Robert Trywhitt for the purpose of implicating her if possible in the
Lord Admiral’s plot. But all in vain; and at last even Sir Robert gave
up the attempt, and wrote to the council that “the Lady Elizabeth hath a
good wit, and nothing is gotten of her but by great policy.”
Lord Seymour of Sudleye, was beheaded for treason on Tower Hill, and
others, implicated in his plots, were variously punished; but even
“great policy” cannot squeeze a lie out of the truth, and Elizabeth was
finally declared free of the stain of treason.
Experience, which is a hard teacher, often brings to light the best that
is in us. It was so in this case. For, as one writer says: “The long and
harassing ordeal disclosed the splendid courage, the reticence, the rare
discretion, which were to carry the Princess through many an awful peril
in the years to come. Probably no event of her early girlhood went so
far toward making a woman of Elizabeth as did this miserable affair.”
Within ten years thereafter the Lady Elizabeth ascended the throne
of England. Those ten years covered many strange events, many varying
fortunes--the death of her brother, the boy King Edward, the sad tragedy
of Lady Jane Grey, Wyatt’s rebellion, the tanner’s revolt, and all the
long horror of the reign of “Bloody Mary.” You may read of all this in
history, and may see how, through it all, the young princess grew still
more firm of will, more self-reliant, wise, and strong, developing all
those peculiar qualities that helped to make her England’s greatest
queen, and one of the most wonderful women in history. But through
all her long and most historic life,--a life of over seventy years,
forty-five of which were passed as England’s queen,--scarce any incident
made so lasting an impression upon her as when, in Hatfield House, the
first shock of the false charge of treason fell upon the thoughtless
girl of fifteen in the midst of the Christmas revels.
CHRISTINA OF SWEDEN: THE GIRL OF THE NORTHERN FIORDS.
A.D. 1636.
There were tears and trouble in Stockholm; there was sorrow in
every house and hamlet in Sweden; there was consternation throughout
Protestant Europe. Gustavus Adolphus was dead! The “Lion of the North”
had fallen on the bloody and victorious field of Lutzen, and only a very
small girl of six stood as the representative of Sweden’s royalty.
The States of Sweden--that is, the representatives of the different
sections and peoples of the kingdom--gathered in haste within the
Riddarhaus, or Hall of Assembly, in Stockholm. There was much anxious
controversy over the situation. The nation was in desperate strait, and
some were for one thing and some were for another. There was even talk
of making the government a republic, like the state of Venice; and the
supporters of the king of Poland, cousin to the dead King Gustavus,
openly advocated his claim to the throne.
But the Grand Chancellor, Axel Oxenstiern, one of Sweden’s greatest
statesmen, acted promptly.
“Let there be no talk between us,” he said, “of Venetian republics or
of Polish kings. We have but one king--the daughter of the immortal
Gustavus!”
Then up spoke one of the leading representatives of the peasant class,
Lars Larsson, the deputy from the western fiords.
“Who is this daughter of Gustavus?” he demanded. “How do we know this
is no trick of yours, Axel Oxenstiern? How do we know that King Gustavus
has a daughter? We have never seen her.”
“You shall see her at once,” replied the Chancellor; and leaving the
Hall for an instant, he returned speedily, leading a little girl by
the hand. With a sudden movement he lifted her to the seat of the high
silver throne that could only be occupied by the kings of Sweden.
“Swedes, behold your king!”
Lars Larsson, the deputy, pressed close to the throne on which the small
figure perched silent, yet with a defiant little look upon her face.
“She hath the face of the Grand Gustavus,” he said. “Look, brothers, the
nose, the eyes, the very brows are his.”
“Aye,” said Oxenstiern; “and she is a soldier’s daughter. I myself did
see her, when scarce three years old, clap her tiny hands and laugh
aloud when the guns of Calmar fortress thundered a salute. ‘She
must learn to bear it,’ said Gustavus our king; ‘she is a soldier’s
daughter.’”