BOOK IV. THE PERIOD FROM THE ACCESSION OF HENRY THE FOURTH TO THE END OF

THE REIGN OF RICHARD THE THIRD, A.D. 1399--1485.

CHAPTER THE FIRST. HENRY THE FOURTH, SURNAMED BOLINGBROKE.

[Illustration: 240]

THE wily Henry had now got the whip hand of his enemies, and had

grasped the reins of government. He ascended the throne on the 30th of

September, 1399, and began to avail himself at once of the patronage at

his disposal by filling up, as fast as he could, all vacant offices. His

pretext for this speed was to prevent justice from being delayed, to the

grievance of his people; and by pretending there was no time to elect a

new Parliament, he continued the old one, which was in a state of utter

subservience to his own purposes. At the meeting of the Legislative

Assembly, which took place on the 6th of October, Thomas Arundel, the

Archbishop of Canterbury, made "the speech of the day," which was a

powerful panegyric on the new sovereign. There is no doubt that the

whole oration was a paid-for puff, of which the primacy was the price,

for the prelate had been restored by Henry to the archiepiscopacy, out

of which Richard had hurried him.

The new candidate for the crown gave three reasons for claiming it; but

when a person gives three reasons for anything, it is probable they

are all bad, for if one were good the other two would be, of course,

superfluous. He declared his triple right to be founded, first on

conquest, which was the right of the ruffian who, having knocked a man

on the head, steals his purse and runs off with it; secondly, from being

the heir, which he was not; and thirdly, from the crown having been

resigned to him, which it certainly had been, when the resigning party

was under duress, and when his acts were not legally binding. Upon these

claims he asked the opinion of Parliament, which, having been cleverly

packed by Arundel and his whippers-in, of course pronounced unanimously

in Henry's favour. Upon this he vaulted nimbly on to the steps of the

throne, and, pausing before he took his seat, he cried out in a loud

voice, "Do you mean what you say?" when the _claqueurs_ raised such a

round of applause, that, whispering to one of his supporters "It's

all right," he flung himself on to the regal ottoman. Another round of

applause from the privileged orders secured the success of the farce,

and the usual puffing announcements appeared in due course, intimating

the unanimous approbation of a house crowded to suffocation. This had

been certainly the case, for the packing was so complete as to stifle

every breath of free discussion.

A week's adjournment took place, to prepare for the coronation, which

came off on the 13th of October in a style of splendour which Froissart

has painted gorgeously with his six-pound brush, and which we will

attempt to pick out with our own slender camel's-hair. On the Saturday

before the coronation, forty-six squires, who were to be made knights,

took each a bath, and had, in fact, a regular good Saturday night's

wash, so that they might be nice and clean to receive the honour

designed for them. On Sunday morning, after church, they were knighted

by the king, who gave them all new coats, a proof that their wardrobes

could not have been in a very flourishing condition. After dinner, his

majesty returned to Westminster, bareheaded, with nothing on, according

to Froissart, * but a pair of gaiters and a German jacket. The streets

of London were decorated with tapestry as he passed, and there were nine

fountains in Cheapside running with white and red wine, though we think

our informant has been drawing rather copiously upon his own imagination

for the generous liquor. The cavalcade comprised, according to the

same authority, six thousand horse; but again we are of opinion that

Froissart must have found some mare's nest from which to supply a stud

of such wondrous magnitude. The king took a bath on the same night, in

order, perhaps, to wash out the port wine stains that might have fallen

upon him while passing the fountains. "Call me early, if you're

waking," were the king's last words to his valet, and in the morning the

coronation procession started for the Abbey of Westminster. Henry walked

under a blue silk canopy supported on silver staves, with golden bells

at each corner, and carried by four burgesses of Dover, who claimed it

as their right, for the loyalty of the Dover people was in those days

inspired only by the hope of a perquisite. The king might have got wet

through to the skin before they would have held a canopy over him, had

it not been for the value of the silver staves and golden bells, which

became their property for the trouble of porterage. On each side were

the sword of Mercy and the sword of Justice, though these articles must

have been more for ornament than for use in those days of regal cruelty

and oppression.

* Vol. ii, p. 699, edition 1842

Coronation of Henry the Fourth (from the best Authorities):

At nine o'clock the king entered the Abbey, in the middle of which a

platform, covered with scarlet cloth, had been erected; so that the

proceedings might be visible from all corners of the Abbey. He seated

himself on the throne, and was looking remarkably well, being in full

regal costume, with the exception of the crown, which the Archbishop

of Canterbury proposed to invest him with. The people, on being asked

whether the ceremony should be performed, of course shouted "Aye,"

for they had come to see a coronation and were not likely to

deprive themselves of the spectacle by becoming, at the last moment,

hypercritical of the new king's merits. We cannot say we positively know

there was no "No," but the "Ayes" unquestionably had it; and Henry was

at once taken off the throne to be stripped to his shirt, which, in

the middle of the month of October, could not have been very agreeable

treatment. After saturating him in oil, they put upon his head a bonnet,

and then proceeded to dress him up as a priest, adding a pair of spurs

and the sword of justice. While his majesty was in this motley costume,

the Archbishop of Canterbury, clutching off the bonnet from the royal

head, placed upon it the crown of Saint Edward.

[Illustration: 242]

Henry was not sorry when these harassing ceremonies were at an end, and

having left the Abbey to dress, returned to the Hall to dinner. Wine

continued to play, like ginger-beer, from the fountain; but the jets

were of the same paltry description as that which throws up about a

pint a day in the Temple. We confess that we are extremely sceptical in

reference to all allegations of wine having been laid on in the public

streets, particularly in those days, when there were neither turncocks

to turn it on, nor pipes through which to carry it. Even with our

present admirable system of waterworks, we should be astonished at an

arrangement that would allow us to draw our wine from the wood in the

pavement of Cheapside, or take it fresh from the pipe as it rolled with

all its might through the main of the New River. Whether the liquid

could be really laid on may be doubtful, but that it would not be

worth drinking cannot admit of a question. Under the most favourable

circumstances, our metropolitan fountains could only be made to run

with that negative stuff to which the name of negus has been most

appropriately given. Let us, however, resume our account of the

ceremonial, from which, with our heads full of the wine sprinkled

gratuitously over the people, we have been led to deviate.

[Illustration: 245]

Dinner was served for the coronation party in excellent style, but

before it was half over it was varied by an _entrée_ of the most

extraordinary and novel character. It was after the second course that a

courser came prancing in, with a knight of the name of Dymock mounted on

the top of the animal. The expression of Henry's astonished countenance

gave an extra _plat_, in the shape of calf's head surprised, at the top

of the royal table. The wonder of Henry was somewhat abated when the

knight put into the royal hand a written offer to fight any knight

or gentleman who would maintain that the new king was not a lawful

sovereign. The challenge was read six times over, but nobody came

forward to accept it; and indeed it was nearly impossible, for care had

been taken to exclude all persons likely to prove troublesome, as it

was very desirable on the occasion of a coronation to keep the thing

respectable. The champion was then presented with "something to drink,"

in a golden goblet, and pocketed the _poculum_ as a perquisite.

Thus passed off the coronation of Henry the Fourth, which is still

further remarkable for a story told about the oil used in anointing

the head of the new monarch. This precious precursor of all the

multitudinous mixtures to which ingenuity and gullibility have since

given their heads, was contained in a flask said to have been presented

by a good hermit to Henry Duke of Lancaster, the grandson of Henry the

Third, who gave it to somebody else, until it came, unspilt, into the

possession of Henry of Bolingbroke. We confess we reject the oil, with

which our critical acidity refuses to coalesce, and we would almost as

soon believe the assertion that it was a flask of salad oil sent from

the Holy Land by the famous Saladin.

The day after the ceremony, or as soon after as the disarrangement

caused by the preparations for the coronation could be set to rights,

the Parliament resumed its sittings. The terrible turncoatery of the

last few years gave rise to fearful recriminations in the House of

Lords, and the terms "liar" and "traitor" flew from every corner of the

building. At one time, forty gauntlets were thrown on the floor at

the same moment, as pledges of battle, but there was as little of the

_fortiter in re_ as of the _suaviter in modo_, and the gloves not

being picked up became, of course, the perquisites of the Parliamentary

charwoman. Some wholesome acts were passed during the session, but the

chief object of the new king was to plant himself firmly on the throne

of England. A slip from the parent trunk was grafted on to the Dukedom

of Cornwall, and the Principality of Wales, to both of which Henry's

eldest son was nominated. No act of settlement of the crown was

introduced, for his majesty wisely thought, that it would only have

proclaimed the weakness of his title had he made any attempt to bolster

it. Had the question of legitimacy been tried, the young Earl of March

would have turned out to be many steps nearer the throne than Henry,

who, however, laughed at his claims, and the old saying of "as mad as

a March hare," was quoted by a parasite, to prove the insanity of

regarding March as a fit heir to the throne of England. Besides,

the little fellow was a mere child, and was, of course, a minor

consideration in a country which had a natural dread of a long regal

minority. "A boy of eight or nine," said one of the philosophers of the

day, "cannot sit upon the throne, without bringing the kingdom into a

state of sixes and sevens." It was, however, to strengthen the presumed

legitimacy of his family that Henry got his son created Prince of Wales,

and though the circumstance is said to have weighed but as a feather in

the scales, the Prince of Wales's feathers must always go for something

in the balance.

Richard, who was still in custody, was kept continually moving about

from castle to castle, like a spring van in town or country, until a few

of the lords devised the plan of murdering Henry and restoring the late

king, just by way of novelty. A tournament was got up, to which the

king was politely asked, and the words, "Tilting at two. An answer will

oblige," might be found in the corner of the invitation card. Henry "had

much pleasure in accepting" the proposal to join the jousting party, but

having received an intimation from the Earl of Rutland, his cousin and

one of the conspirators, his majesty did not attend the _soirée_. The

intention was to have hustled him and killed him on the spot, but he did

not come, and the jousting was, of necessity, carried on for some time

by the traitors at the expense of each other. At length, as the day wore

on, they began to think it exceedingly odd that Henry had not arrived,

when suspecting they had been betrayed, they determined to make for

Windsor, where they knew the king had been passing his Christmas

holidays. He had, however, received timely warning, and had left for

London, so that the conspirators were utterly baffled.

On their arrival at Windsor, they hastened to surprise the Castle; but

the greatest surprise was for themselves, when they heard of the escape

of their intended victim. Henry had rushed up to town to issue writs

against every one of the traitors, who ran away in all directions before

he had time to return to Windsor. Some of them attempted to proclaim

King Richard in every town they passed through; but they might as well

have proclaimed Old King Cole, or any other merry old soul, for they

only got laughed at and slaughtered by the inhabitants. Poor Richard was

also a sufferer by his injudicious friends, for it was agreed that he

would become an intolerable nuisance if he should serve as a point for

the rebels to rally round. It was therefore thought advisable to have

him abated, and according to the chroniclers of the day, who confess

they know nothing about it, he was either starved or murdered. The

condition of Richard's young wife, Isabella, a girl of eleven, the

daughter of King Charles of France, was exceedingly deplorable. She had

brought a large fortune to her husband, and upon his death, her father

wished her to be restored to the bosom, and her money to the pockets,

of her family. The young lady was promised by an early boat; but Charles

insisted that she should be allowed to bring her dowry back with her.

Henry, who had spent at least half of it, declined this proposal, and

her papa, who had an eye to the cash, would not receive her without,

so that she really seemed on the point of becoming a shuttlecock tossed

between two immense battledores in the shape of Dover and Calais. Every

kind of paltry excuse was set up to avoid payment of the demand, and the

English pretended to find upon their books an old claim for the ransom

of the French King, John, who had been taken by Edward the Third, and

had never been duly settled for. This plea of set-off was overruled

on demurrer by the French, who kept reiterating their applications for

Richard's widow and her dowry, with a threat of ulterior proceedings

if the demand was not speedily complied with. At length Henry agreed to

restore her like a toad, "with all her precious jewels in her head."

Her old father received her with the exclamation of "Oh, you duck of

diamonds," in allusion, no doubt, to the valuable brilliants she carried

about her; and there is every reason to believe that had her teeth been

literally pearls, the king would have made copious extracts from the

choice collection.

Henry now began to consider the best means for making himself popular,

and after thinking it well over he came to the conclusion that a war

would be a nice little excitement, of which he might reap the benefit.

Upon looking about him for an eligible object of attack, Scotland

seemed to be the most inviting; for Robert, the actual king, was old and

helpless, while his eldest son David, Earl of Bothsay, was a drunken,

dissipated, reckless, but rather clever personage. He had quarrelled

with his uncle the Duke of Albey, who had acted as regent during the

illness of the king, and who was himself a remorseless ruffian; so that

the Scotch royal family consisted of a dotard, a drunkard, and a bully.

Henry, though he wanted a war, wished to get it without paying for it,

to prevent the odium he might incur by taxing the people. He therefore

tried the old plan of feudal service, by calling upon all persons

enjoying fees or pensions to join him in arms at York, under pain of

forfeiture. The lay lords were ordered to come at their own charge with

their retainers, but the result afforded a strong proof of the fact that

a thing is never worth having if it is not worth paying for. Those who

came in arms were fearfully out at elbows; and amid the owners of fees

with their retainers, was perhaps some unhappy Templar, with his one fee

and one retainer, urged by an ordinary motion of course, to appear in

the great cause of the king _versus_ Bruce, Rothsay and others.

Henry began boldly with a writ of summons directed to Robert, greeting,

and ordering him to come to Edinburgh to make submission. The Earl

of Rothsay entered an appearance for his father; a declaration of war

ensued on Henry's part, when Rothsay, without putting in a plea, took

issue at once, and threw himself upon the country. Henry, not expecting

the action to come off so speedily, was but ill prepared, and after

making a vain attempt at a fight--in the course of which he tried all

his earls and failed on every count--he retired from the contest.

He endeavoured, nevertheless, to make the best of it, and observed

pleasantly to his followers, "Well, gentlemen, I told you we were sure

to beat, and so we will yet. Come, let us beat a retreat; that is

better than not beating anything." Thus ended, in a pitiable and

most humiliating pun, a campaign commenced in pride, confidence, and

insolence.

While Henry was fooling away his time and resources in the North,

a little matter in the West was growing into a very formidable

insurrection. Owen Glendower, esquire, a Welsh gentleman "learned in

the law," who had held a place in the household of Richard the Second,

perhaps as standing counsel, became involved in a dispute about some

property with Lord Grey de Ruthyn. Mr. Glendower petitioned the

Lords, who rejected his suit, which so irritated him that he instantly

exchanged the pen for the sword, the forensic gown for the coat of mail,

and dashing his wig violently on the floor, ordered a helmet to fit the

head and the box hitherto devoted to peaceful horse-hair.

In the course of his legal studies he had learned something of the art

of making out a title, and he immediately set to work to prove himself

the lineal descendant of the native Welsh princes. By drawing upon fact

for some portions, and his imagination for the remainder, he contrived

to get up an excellent draft abstract, which he endorsed with the words

"Principality op Wales. Grey Ruthyn _ats_ self;" and adding the usual

formula of "Mr. O. Glendower, to settle and advise, 2 _Guas_.; Clerk,

2s. 6d.;" he placed it among his papers. The Welsh peasants set him

down as a magician at the least, and the barrister had no difficulty in

placing himself in a little brief authority over them.

Assisted by his clerk the trusty Thomson, Mr. Owen Glendower armed

himself for the contest upon which he had determined to enter; and the

learned gentleman, who had never used any weapon more formidable than a

file, upon which he had occasionally impaled a declaration, now girded

on the sword, and prepared to listen to the war-trumpet as the only

summons to which he would henceforth pay attention. Taking the somewhat

professional motto of "deeds not words," he sallied forth, as he boldly

declared, for the purpose of subjecting all his opponents to special

damage.

[Illustration: 249]

He collected a small band, and made an attack on the property of Grey

de Buthyn, for which the king had Mr. Glendower's name published in

the next batch of outlaws. Irritated by this indignity, the learned

gentleman declared himself sovereign of Wales, observing with much

quaintness, "One may as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, and

why not for a Welsh rabbit?" Henry at once marched in pursuit, but the

barrister was cautious enough to avoid an action, and led his antagonist

all over the Welsh circuit, by which he continually put off the day of

trial. Henry, who had a variety of other little matters to attend to,

was compelled to allow the cause of himself _versus_ Glendower to stand

over to an indefinite period.

Among the businesses getting into arrear at home, was an absurd

declaration of war by Walleran of Luxemburgh, the Count of Ligny and St.

Pol, who had married a sister of the deposed Richard, and was suddenly

seized with a fit of fraterno-legal or brotherly-in-lawly affection,

and began to talk of avenging his unfortunate relative. In spite of the

recommendations of his best friends, who all urged him "not to make a

fool of himself," he insisted on going to sea, where a fate a good deal

like that of the three wise men of Gotham appeared to threaten him.

Conspiracies now sprung up on every side, and a rumour was spread, that

Richard was alive in Scotland, and was coming presently to England at

the head of a large army, to play old Harry with Henry's adherents.

Never was a cry of "Bogey" more utterly futile than this assertion, for

Richard was really dead, though it suited a certain party of malcontents

to resuscitate him for their own purposes. Henry was exceedingly angry

at the rumour, and every now and then cut off some half-dozen heads,

as a punishment for running about with a false tale, but there was no

checking the evil.

At length an army came from Scotland, but Richard was not with it,

and the Scotch no longer kept up the delusion, but, like the detected

impostor who confessed "It is a swindle, and now do your worst," they

acknowledged the hoax they had been previously practising. The Scotch

proved mischievous, but impotent; and Henry was not far from the truth

when in one of his remonstrances he remarked, "You are doing yourselves

no good, nor me either." They were defeated at Nisbet Moor by the

English, under the command of a disaffected Scot, the old Earl of March,

who was piqued at his daughter Elizabeth having been jilted by the Earl

of Bothsay, to whom she had been affianced. The Earl of Bothsay had

made another, and let us hope, a better match, so that the action

fought at Nisbet Moor was, as far as the Earl of March was concerned, in

reality an action for a breach of promise of marriage. Young Bothsay had

united himself to Miss Mariell Douglas, the daughter of old Douglas who

had his child the husband--that was for his child the husband--that was

to have been--of Earl March's daughter that was, but had also

obtained for himself a grant of the estates of the father of Rothsay's

ex-intended. Douglas, with ten thousand men at his heels, hurried to

take possession, and they soon carried sword and fire--but we believe

it was fire without coals--to Newcastle. Having completely sacked this

important city--but mark I there were in those days no coals to sack--he

returned laden with plunder, towards the Tweed, for which way he went,

was--like Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee--a matter of pure indifference.

The Duke of Northumberland, aided by his son, the persevering Percy,

surnamed Hotspur, with the indignant March, had got an army in the rear,

when Douglas, seeing a good position between the two forces, called

Homildon Hill, was the first to take possession of it. Harry Percy was

about to charge up the hill, when the Earl of March, seizing his bridle,

backed him cleverly into the ranks, and advised him to begin the battle

with his archers. The advice was taken; they shot up the hill, and

success was the upshot. Every arrow told with terrific effect upon the

Scotch, who presented a phalanx of targets, and the stalwart troopers

became at length so perforated with darts, that they looked like so many

fillets of veal, skewered through and through by the enemy. Douglas was

wounded in so many places, that he resembled a porcupine rather than a

Scottish chief, and he was taken into custody, regularly trussed like a

chicken prepared for roasting. Among his fellow-prisoners were the Earls

of Moray and Angus, who had tried daughter that was, but had also in

vain to escape; but neither did Moray nor Angus reach their own quarters

in time to escape the grasp of the enemy.

The battle of Homildon Hill, which we have thus faintly described, was

fought on the 14th of September, 1402, while Henry himself was much

less profitably occupied in hunting up his learned friend, or rather

his knowing opponent, Owen Glendower. The lawyer-like cunning of this

gentleman carried him triumphantly through all his engagements;

and though good cause might have been shown against it, yet, by his

cleverness and tact in Wales, he was nearly successful in getting his

rule made absolute.

Henry's next annoyance was an impertinent letter from a former friend

and "sworn brother," the Duke of Orleans, uncle of Isabella, the widow

of the late king, and the acknowledged "female in distress," whom it

was fashionable for the "recognised heroes" of that day to talk about

avenging. The letter of the Duke of Orleans was a mixture of ferocity

and facetiousness; it deplored the inactivity prevailing in the military

market, and offered to do a little business with Henry, either in

"lances, battle-axes, swords, or daggers." He sneeringly repudiated

"bodkins, hooks, points, bearded darts, razors, and needles," as if

Henry had been in the habit of arming himself with the fittings of

a work-box or a dressing-case. An answer was returned in the same

sarcastic strain, and an angry correspondence ensued, in which the

parties gave each other the lie, offered to meet in single combat, and

indeed entered into a short but sharp wordy war, which was followed by

no more serious consequences.

Northumbarland, who had struck for the defence of his country, now

struck for his wages, which were unsatisfactory, and several other

patriotic noblemen insisted on more liberal terms for their allegiance.

Henry having resisted the extortion, gave, of course, great offence to

his faithful adherents, who veered, at once, clean round to the scale of

the king's enemies. In those days the principles of great men seemed

to go upon a pivot, and Northumberland's swivel was evidently in fine

working order on the occasion to which we have alluded. Scroop, the

Archbishop of York, who might well have been called the Unscrupulous,

advised that Henry should be treated as a wrongful heir, and that the

young Earl of March should be rallied round, as the rightful heir, by

the dissatisfied nobles. They sent a retaining fee to Owen Glendower,

and marked upon his brief "With you the Earl of Northumberland and Henry

Percy," and appointed a consultation at an early period. Earl Douglas

was released from custody without payment of costs, on condition of his

leaving the rebels, and O. Glendower, Esquire, married the daughter of

his prisoner, Mortimer, the young Earl of March's uncle.

The conspirators having consulted, determined to proceed, and though

Northumberland himself was kept at home by indisposition, Hotspur

marched to meet Glendower. That learned gentleman, who had probably not

received his "refresher," did not come, but young Percy, nevertheless,

sent to Henry a written notice of trial. The king proposed referring

it to arbitration, but the offer was treated with contempt; and he then

rejoined that he had no time to waste in writing, but he would, "by dint

of sword and fierce battle." prove their quarrel was false and feigned,

"whereupon," as the lawyers have it, "issue was joined." Each army

consisted of about fourteen thousand men, and on the morning of the 21st

of July, 1403, both being full of confidence, began sounding their horns

or blowing their own trumpets. Hotspur and Douglas led the first charge

with irresistible vigour, and one or two gentlemen who had carried their

loyalty so far as to wear the royal arms as a dodge, while the king

fought in plain clothes, paid with their lives the penalty of their

fidelity. Henry of Monmouth, the young Prince of Wales, got several

slaps in the face, and once or twice exclaimed, in the Norman-French

of the period, "Oh, _Mon mouth!_" but he nevertheless continued to the

last, showing his teeth to the enemy. Douglas and Hotspur were not ably

supported, and the latter was struck by an arrow shot at random, while

Douglas, losing command over his head, took to his heels, and becoming

positively flighty in his flight, fell over a precipice. This was his

downfall, but not his death, for he was picked up and made prisoner. Old

Percy, who had been absent from ill-health, but had now got much

better from his illness, was marching to join the insurgents with a

considerable force, and had paused on the road to take his medicine,

when he was met by a messenger, who, glancing at the physic, exclaimed,

"Ah! my lord, I've got a blacker dose than that for you!" With this, he

administered two pills in the shape of two separate announcements of the

deaths of Hotspur and Worcester, the son and brother of the earl, who,

bidding "Good morning" to his retainers, all of whom he dismissed, shut

himself up in the castle of Warkworth. The king soon routed him out,

when Northumberland, like an old sycophant as he was, pretended that

Hotspur had acted against his advice, for the venerable humbug, though

eager enough to share in his son's success, was meanly anxious

to repudiate him in his misfortunes. By this paltry proceeding,

Northumberland was allowed to get off cheap, and even to win

commiseration as the victim of the imprudence of his heir, though the

fact was that the latter had been completely sacrificed to his parent's

selfishness. In the year 1404, the old cry of "Dick's alive" was

renewed, and some people even went so far as to say that they had

recently walked and talked with the deposed King Richard. The rumour ran

that he was living in Scotland, and one Serle, an old servant, went over

to recognise his majesty, but found in his place the court jester, who

bore some resemblance to the unfortunate sovereign. Serle, however,

determined on playing his cards to the best advantage, and thought it

a good speculation to play the fool off in place of the king, a trick

which was for a time successful. The buffoon humoured the joke, which

was a sorry one for its author, who was executed as a traitor, and

it might be as well if the same justice were dealt out to similar

delinquents in the present day, for indifferent jokes are the madness of

few for the gain of nobody.

Henry was now frightfully embarrassed by the quantity of bills pouring

in upon him for carrying on the war in Wales, and every day brought him

a fresh account which he had never expected. Even the musicians made

a claim, and the king, running his eye down a long list of items,

including a drum, a ditto, a ditto, a flute half a day, a pandean pipe,

_et caetera, et caetera_, exclaimed mournfully to his treasurer, "Alas!

I fear I cannot manage to pay the piper." In fact, the claims on account

of the war left him no peace, and he proposed taking a quantity of the

property of the church to settle with his creditors.

This proposition raised a perfect flame amongst the whole body of the

clergy. The Archbishop of Canterbury instantly took fire, while the

inferior members of the church were fearfully put out, and cold water

being thrown on the attempt, it was soon extinguished. Fighting was

still the business that Henry had on hand, for as fast as one of his

foes was down, another was ready to come on with fresh vigour. Old

Northumberland could not keep quiet, but Owen Glendower was perhaps the

most troublesome of all the king's enemies. The rapidity of the learned

gentleman's motions kept the other side constantly employed, for he

never hesitated to change the venue, or resort to a set-off, when he

wished to baffle his antagonists. At length, lack of funds, and its

customary concomitant, the loss of friends, compelled him not only

to stay proceedings, but to keep out of the way to avoid his heavy

responsibilities. He is supposed to have been engaged for years in a

protracted game at hide and seek, living at the homes of his daughters

and friends, but disguised always in a shepherd's plaid, to prevent

the servants from knowing him. What became of him was never known, and,

unfortunately for the historian, there were in those days no registrars

of either births, deaths, or marriages. Some say that Owen Glendower

ended his days at Mornington, but they might as well say Mornington

Crescent; and the place of his interment is no less doubtful, for where

he was buried is now buried in obscurity.

There is a tradition that his tomb is in the Cathedral of Bangor, but

this story is of little value to anyone except to the Bangor beadle, who

makes an occasional sixpence by calling the attention of visitors to a

spot which he, and Common Rumour, between them, have dignified with the

title of the tomb of Owen Glendower. We all know the character which

Common Rumour bears for an habitual violation of truth; and we are

afraid that if she is no better than she should be, the Bangor beadle is

not so good as he ought to be.

Henry was fortunate in overcoming his enemies, but his treatment of them

was frequently cruel in the extreme. Poor old Robert, the nominal king

of Scotland, was driven about from abbey to abbey, but had no sooner got

comfortably settled in one, than a cry of "Here he is! we've got him!"

drove him to take refuge in another. At last he hid himself in the

Isle of Bute, where he is supposed to have remained to the close of his

existence, and it is certain that he never addressed to the Isle of Bute

the celebrated apostrophe, "Isle of Beauty, Fare thee well!" His eldest

son Rothsay was imprisoned in the castle of Falkland (March, 1402), into

which it is supposed he was pitched with a pitcher, containing about a

pint of water, and furnished by a crusty gaoler, with a piece of

crust. Even this miserable diet is said to have been very irregularly

administered, and was of course insufficient for an able-bodied young

man like Rothsay. He was treated like a pauper under the new Poor-law,

and is believed to have died of inanition; for though the chronicles of

that day attributed his death to starvation, the chronicle of our day

prefers a genteeler term. The king of Scotland's second son, James, had

been shipped by his father for France, to be out of the way, when the

vessel was seized by the crews of some English cruisers.

Robert died of grief at the loss of young James, whom he called his

precious jewel of a gem, and the little fellow, though a prisoner, was

lodged and boarded in comfort, allowed masters, and instructed in all

the usual branches of a sound education.

Constitutional liberty had in previous reigns taken very irregular hops,

skips, and jumps; but, during the reign of Henry, it began taking rapid

strides. During the latter part of his life the tranquillity of his own

country gave him the power to lend out his soldiers to fight the battles

of others; but it never paid him, for though there was a good deal owing

to him, he was unable to get the money. His second son, the Duke of

Clarence, had landed in Normandy with a large army, but finding that

he could not get a penny to pay his troops, he began to insist on a

settlement. He was insultingly told that he was not wanted and might

take his army back again, but he soon brought the people to their senses

by a little prompt pillage. The matter was arranged, and the Duke

of Orleans brought all the ready money he could raise as the first

instalment to the headquarters of the English. It is doubtful whether

the payments were regularly kept up, but every possible precaution was

taken that bail or bills could afford.

Henry's reign was now drawing to a close, and he became exceedingly

sentimental in the latter years of his existence. He had discovered the

hollowness of the human heart, together with its propensity for wearing

a mask, and the keen perception of this perpetual fancy-dress ball of

the finest feelings, rendered him gloomy, solitary, and suspicious. He

was also in a wretched state of health, for nothing agreed with him, and

he agreed with nobody. He became jealous of the popularity of his son,

whom he declared to be everything that was bad, though the after life of

the young man gave the perfect lie to the paternal libel. Many anecdotes

are related of the low freaks of Henry and his companions, who seem to

have been the terror of the police and the people. If we are to believe

all that is said concerning them, we should look upon the Prince

of Wales and his associates as the foes to that great engine of

civilisation the street-door knocker, and the determined enemies to

enlightenment by the agency of public lamps.

Anecdotes are told of their being brought before the Chief Justice

Gascoigne, the Denman, Pollock, or Wilde of his day, who took cognizance

of a case, which would induce either of these learned and upright

individuals to exclaim to a complainant: "You must not come here, sir;

we don't sit here to decide upon the merits of street rows," Gascoigne,

who was a chief justice and a police magistrate all in one--like

an article of furniture intended for both a bedstead and a chest of

drawers, but offering the accommodation of neither--Gascoigne committed

to prison some of the prince's associates. The learned judge, setting

a precedent that might be followed with advantage in the present day,

inflicted imprisonment, instead of a fine, on those to whom the latter

would have been no punishment. The Prince of Wales, on hearing of the

incarceration of his companions, rushed into court, demanding a _habeas

corpus_, and drew his sword upon the judge when asked for a case

in point. Judge Gascoigne ordered the usher to take the prince into

custody, and the officer of the court having hesitated, young Henry,

politely exclaiming, "I'm your prisoner, sir," surrendered without

a murmur. When the king heard the anecdote, he became mawkishly

sentimental, exclaiming, "Happy the monarch to have such a good judge

for a justice, and happy the father to have a son so ready to yield to

legal authority." If the latter is really a subject for congratulation,

what happiness the police reports of each day ought to afford to

those parents who have had sons confined in the station-house for

intoxication, by whom the penalty of five shillings has been paid with

alacrity. We can fancy the respectable sire of some youth who has

formed the subject of a case at Bow Street, and who has submitted to

the decision of the Bench; we can imagine the parent exclaiming, with

enthusiasm, "Happy the Englishman to have such a magistrate to enforce

the law, and such a son to yield obedience to its orders." Another

anecdote is told of the amiable feeling existing between the sovereign

and his heir, which we insert without vouching for its truth, though it

is not by any means improbable. The king was ill in bed, and the Prince

of Wales was sitting up with him in the temporary capacity of nurse. The

son, however, seemed to be rather waiting for his father's death, than

hoping for the prolongation of his life, and the king, having gone off

into a fit, the prince, instead of calling for assistance, or giving any

aid himself, heartlessly took the opportunity to see how he should look

in the crown, which always hung on a peg in the royal bed-chamber. Young

Henry was figuring away before a cheval glass, with the regal bauble on

his head, and was exclaiming "Just the thing, upon my honour," when

the elder Henry, happening to recover, sat up in his bed, and saw the

conduct of his offspring. "Hallo," cried the king, "who gave you leave

to put that on? I think you might have left it alone till I've done with

it!"

[Illustration: 256]

The prince muttered some excuse, which was not long needed, for on the

23rd of March, 1413, Henry the Fourth died, in the forty-seventh year

of his age, and the fourteenth of his reign. The character of Henry

the Fourth may be told in a few words, and the fewer the better for

his reputation, inasmuch as it is impossible to furnish him with that

passport to posterity with which it would give us pleasure to present

the whole of our English sovereigns. Other historians have puffed him,

but the only puffing we can promise him is a regular blowing up. He was

cautious how he gave offence to his subjects, but this was less out

of regard to their interests than care for his own. He knew that the

hostility existing towards him among the nobles, on account of his

usurpation, could only be counteracted by obtaining the support of the

people. He therefore refrained from irritating the latter by taxing them

heavily for his wars, but he never scrupled to help himself to the goods

of the former whenever his exigencies required. The only difference

between him and some of his predecessors in the practice of extortion

and robbery, is in the fact that while others plundered principally the

people, Henry the Fourth thought it better worth his while to plunder

the nobles. Some of our predecessors have praised his prudence, which

was unquestionably great; for never was a king more cunning in his

attempts to preserve the crown he had unjustly acquired. He was not

wantonly barbarous in the treatment of his enemies when he got them

into his power, and, in this respect, his conduct presents an honourable

contrast to that of the sanguinary monsters who committed the greatest

crimes to surmount the smallest obstacles. He did not seek to stop the

merest breath of disaffection by the most monstrous murders, nor to

rid himself of the annoyance of suspicion by incurring the guilt of

slaughtering the suspected. His treatment of his predecessor, Richard,

and one or two others, who are yet unaccounted for, and returned

"missing" in the balance-sheet of history, must always leave a blot, or,

rather, a shower of blots, throwing a piebald aspect upon the character

of Henry. Among the distinguished individuals who shed lustre on a reign

which derived no brilliance from the sovereign himself, are the poets

Chaucer and Gower, as well as William Wickham, and Richard Whittington,

the Lord Mayor of London. We have been at some pains to trace the story

of the latter, in the hope of being able to find accommodation for his

cat in the pages of history. We regret to say that our task has ended in

the melancholy conviction that the cat of Whittington must make one in

that imaginary family which comprises the puss in boots of the Marquis

of Carabas, the rats and lizards of Cinderella, and the chickens of

Mother Carey.

Among the distinctions to which this reign is entitled, we must not

omit to mention that it was the first in which the practice prevailed of

burning what were called heretics. Had this circumstance occurred to

us before we commenced the character of Henry, we think we might have

spared ourselves the trouble of writing it. The burning of heretics

ought, of itself, to brand his name with infamy.

CHAPTER THE SECOND. HENRY THE FIFTH, SURNAMED OF MONMOUTH.

Henry the Fifth, on coming to the throne, pursued the policy of

conciliation; but it so happened that his first act of magnanimity was

bestowed in a quarter where it could do no good and excite no gratitude.

The act in question, for which he has been greatly praised, was the

removal of the body of Richard the Second from an obscure tomb in the

Friars' Church, at Langley, to a place beside his first wife, the good

Queen Anne, in the Abbey of Westminster. Had Richard the Second been

aware of the honour reserved for him after his death, he might probably

have requested the advance of a small instalment during his lifetime,

when it would have been of some use to him. The greatest magnificence

that can be lavished on a tomb will scarcely compensate for an hour's

confinement within the dreariness of a prison. Had Richard been living,

there would have been some magnanimity in restoring him to his proper

position, but giving to his remains the honours due to sovereignty

was only a confession on the part of Henry that he and his father

had usurped the crown of one who, being dead, could no longer claim

retribution for his injuries. It was a mockery to pretend to uphold

the deposed king by the agency of an upholsterer, and the funeral was

nothing more than another black job added to the many that had already

arisen out of the treatment of poor Richard.

The release of the Earl of March from captivity, and the restoration

of the son of Hotspur to the honours of the Percies, were acts of more

decided liberality; but, if we are to believe the gossip of the period,

these two young gentlemen were a pair of spoons, wholly incapable of

making a stir of any kind. The Earl of March was, it is true, a spoon

of the king's pattern, for he was a scion of a royal stock, but he

nevertheless had enough of the fiddle-head about him to make it certain

that he could be played upon, or let down a peg when occasion required.

From the wildness of Henry's life during his Welsh princedom, it was

expected that his career as king would have been a series of practical

jokes upon his officers of state and his subjects in general. He had,

when a young man, "scrupled not," according to Hume, "to accompany

his riotous associates in attacking the passengers in the streets and

highways, and despoiling them of their goods; and he found an amusement

in the incidents which the tears and regret of these defenceless people

produced on such occasions." It was feared, therefore, that he would

have continued to riot in runaway knocks, not only at the doors,

but upon the heads of the public. Happily, he disappointed these

expectations, for from the moment of his ascending the throne, he became

exceedingly well conducted and highly respectable. He did not exactly

cut his old friends, but told them plainly that they must reform if they

desired to retain the acquaintance of their sovereign. He stated plainly

that it would not do for the king of England to be figuring at fancy

balls, and kicking his heels about at casinos, as in former times, for

he was now no longer a man about town, but the sovereign of a powerful

country. Poor Gascoigne, the Chief Justice, had approached the royal

presence with fear and trembling, fully expecting to be paid off without

any pension for having committed Henry, when Prince of Wales, but, to

the surprise of everyone, the king commended the judge for his firmness,

and advised him, in the words of the song--

"To do the same thing, were he in the same place,"

should he, the king, be placed to-morrow in another similar position.

In the first year of the new reign a commotion sprung up, which first

developed itself in a violent fit of seditious bill-sticking. In the

course of a night, some party succeeded in getting out an "effective

poster," announcing the readiness of "a hundred thousand men to assert

their right by force of arms, if needful." What those rights were the

placards did not state, and probably this would have been the very last

subject that the hundred thousand men would have proceeded to think

about. They were supposed to have been instigated by the Lollards, one

of whom, Sir John Oldcastle, their leader, was sent for by the king to

have a little talk, in the course of which the wrongs of the Lollards

might perchance be hit upon. Sir John Oldcastle, who was one of the old

school, found plenty to say, but he never could find anyone to listen

patiently to his rigmaroles. Henry the Fifth was obliged to cut the old

gentleman short by hinting that the statute _de heretico comburendo_ was

in force, and Sir John, who had been about to fire up, cooled down very

decidedly on hearing the allusion. Henry, finding nothing could be done

with Oldcastle, who was as sturdy and obstinate as his name would seem

to imply, turned him over to Archbishop Arundel. The prelate undertook

to bring Sir John to his senses, but the junction could not be effected,

for the objects were really too remote to be easily brought together.

A writ was issued, but Oldcastle kept the proper officer at bay, and

assailed him not only with obstructive missiles, but with derisive

ridicule. At length, a military force was sent out to take the Oldcastle

by storm, when Sir John unwillingly surrendered. Though taken, he

refused to be shaken in his obstinate resolves, and he pleaded two whole

days before his judges, in the hope of wearing them out and inducing

them to stay the proceedings, rather than subject themselves to

the fearful blow of his excessive long-windedness. He was, however,

condemned, but the king granted a respite of fifty days, during which

the old fellow either contrived or was allowed to escape from the Tower;

and the probability is, that the gaolers had instructions to wink, in

the event of his being seen to pass the portals of his prison.

Oldcastle, or Lord Cobham, as he was also called, had no sooner got out

of prison than he rushed into the flames of sedition, and illustrated by

his conduct the process of a leap from the frying-pan into the fire.

He appointed a meeting of his followers at Eltham for the purpose

of surprising Henry, but the king observing the moves of the knight

determined if possible to avoid being check-mated. His majesty repaired

to Westminster, when Cobham, changing his tactics, fixed upon St.

Giles's Fields as the place of rendezvous. The king thought to himself

"Now we've got them there we'll keep them there," and shut the gates of

the city. This was on the feast of the Epiphany, or Twelfth Pay,

1414, and in the evening the Lord Mayor of London arrested several

disreputable Twelfth-night characters. On the next day, a little after

midnight, Henry went forth expecting to find twenty-five thousand men

assembled in St. Giles's Fields, but he met only eighty Lollards lolling

about, expecting Sir John Oldcastle. Several of them were hanged on

the charge of having intended to destroy king, lords, commons, church,

state, and all the other sundries of which the constitution is composed,

and to turn England into a federal republic, with Sir John Oldcastle as

president.

[Illustration: 260]

The idea of eighty enthusiasts meeting in a field near London to slice

their country into republics, and make a bonfire of the crown, the

sceptre, the throne, and the other appointments of royalty, is really

too ridiculous to be entertained, though it is almost funny enough to

be entertaining. Such, nevertheless, was the alarm the Lollards had

inspired, that everyone suspected of Lollardism was condemned to forfeit

his head first and his goods afterwards, though after taking a man in

execution it was rather superfluous cruelty to take his property by the

same process. Life, however, was held of so little account in those

days that there was considered to be no such capital fun as capital

punishment.

Henry had scarcely worn the English crown for a year, when, in the

spirit of an old clothesman, who delights in a plurality of hats, he

thought the crown of France might furnish a graceful supplement to his

own head-dress. He therefore sent in his claim to the French diadem,

making out a title in right of Edward the Third's wife, who had no right

at all, or if she had, it is clear that Henry the Fifth had no right to

the lady, whose heir was Edward Mortimer. France was in a wretched state

when Henry put in his claim; for Paris was in one of its revolutionary

fits, and intrigue was rampant in the royal family. The dauphin, Louis,

was continually fighting with his mother, and insulting his father,

while the Duke of Orleans and his cousin the Duke of Burgundy were

perpetually quarrelling. Each had his partisans, and those belonging

to the latter were in the habit of declaring that an Orleans

plum--alluding, of course, to the duke's vast fortune--was preferable

to an entire dozen of Burgundy. In the meantime Paris was infested by a

band of assassins, professing to be the friends of liberty, and wearing

white hoods, which they forced on to everybody's head; and this act was

no doubt the origin of the expression with reference to the hoodwinking

of the people.

Before proceeding to arm, Henry proposed a compromise. He demanded two

millions in cash, and King Charles's daughter, Catharine, in marriage.

The latter offered the lady in full, but only a moiety of the money.

This arrangement was scornfully rejected, and Henry held a council on

the 17th of April, 1415, at which he announced his determination to go

"over the water to Charley." Having resolved upon what to do, the next

question was how to do it; and the first difficulty that occurred was

the refusal of his soldiers to stir a step without an advance of three

months' wages. He first tried the Parliament, and got a good supply,

which was further increased by borrowing from or robbing his subjects.

Even this would not do, and recourse was had to the common but

disgraceful practice of unpicking the crown, for the purpose of sending

the jewels to the pawnbroker's. A trusty officer was despatched to

deposit with one of the king's relatives a brilliant, in the name of

Bolinbroke. The news of the preparations being made in England, spread

terror in France, for the distant roaring of the British Lion came

across the main, with portentous fury. The French King, Charles, was

utterly useless in the emergency--for he was a wretched imbecile--and

several artful attempts were made to get rid of his authority. Every now

and then he was made the subject of a commission of lunacy, as a pretext

for placing power in the dauphin's hands; and that undutiful son, having

turned his mother out of doors, seized the contents of the treasury,

which made him at once master of the capital. At one time, while the

pusillanimous Charles was lying at Arras, an attempt was made to burn

him out, by setting fire to his lodgings; but, having all the essential

qualities of a perfect pump, he does not appear to have been of a

combustible nature. He certainly was not of a very fiery disposition,

and his enemies declared that he owed his escape from the flames to his

being utterly incapable of enlightenment. Such was the king of France,

and such the feeling entertained towards him by the majority of

his subjects, when the English sovereign resolved on his aggressive

enterprise.

Henry left London on the 18th of June, 1415, and proceeded to

Winchester, where he was met by another offer of a compromise. This

he refused, and rudely pushing the deputation aside, he pressed on

to Southampton. Here his fleet awaited him, but receiving news of a

conspiracy to take his life he, instead of putting off to sea, put

off his departure. Sir Thomas Grey, the Lord Scroop, and the Earl of

Cambridge were all in the plot; and the two latter having claimed the

privilege of being tried by their peers, took very little by their

motion, for they were condemned by a vote of wondrous unanimity. Having

heard the heads of the treason, Henry cut off the heads of the traitors,

and embarked, on the 10th of August, on board his ship the "Trinity."

The scene on the Southampton pier was animated and brilliant when the

sovereign placed his foot upon the plank leading to the vessel that was

to conduct him to the shores of his enemies.

[Illustration: 262]

Gentle breezes were in attendance to waft him on his way, and Neptune,

who is sometimes ruffled on these occasions, presented an even calmness

that it was quite delightful to contemplate. An enthusiastic crowd on

the shore burst forth into occasional cheers, which were succeeded now

and then by the faint sob of some sentimental trooper, taking leave of

the fond maid whose heart--and last quarter's wages--he was carrying

away with him. The civic authorities were, of course, active in

their demonstrations of loyalty on this occasion; and the Mayor of

Southampton, in backing to make one of his sycophantic bows, sent one of

the attendants fairly over the bows of the vessel. With this exception,

no accident or mischance marked the embarkation of Henry, which seemed

to proceed under the most favourable auspices.

His fleet consisted of more than a thousand vessels, and some swans

having come to look at it, he declared this little mark of cygnal

attention to be a capital omen. We must request the reader to bear

in mind, that though all the authorities justify us in announcing one

thousand as the number of the ships constituting Henry's fleet, we

should not advise anyone to believe the statement, who has not had an

opportunity of counting the vessels. Either the ships in those days were

very small, or Southampton harbour has been fearfully contracted by

the contractors who have since undertaken to widen it. We have been

accustomed to place implicit faith in the rule of arithmetic, that

"a thousand into one won't go!" nor do we feel disposed to alter our

impression in favour of a thousand of Henry's ships being able to go

into Southampton harbour. We suspect that a hundred would have been

nearer the mark, for posterity is greatly in the habit of putting on an

O, and really believing there is nothing in it.

Whatever the numerical strength of Henry's fleet may have been, it is

certain that he entered the mouth of the Seine, which made no attempt

to show its teeth, and he landed on the 13th of August, three miles from

Harfleur, without any resistance. He severely deprecated all excesses

against the peaceful inhabitants, but he nevertheless besieged the

fortress of Harfleur with tremendous energy; so that his conduct towards

the natives was a good deal like that of the individual who knocked

another downstairs with numerous apologies for being under the painful

necessity of doing so.

The siege was under the conduct of "Master Giles," the Wellington of the

period. Master Giles must have been somewhat of a bungler, for he

was not successful until he had lost nearly all his men, and been

six-and-thirty days routing out the garrison. Even then the foe

surrendered through being too ill to fight, rather than from having

got much the worst of it. Henry's army was also reduced to a pack of

invalids, and his ships were turned into infirmaries for his soldiers.

Though the troops were wretchedly indisposed, Henry himself was only

sick of doing nothing, and he accordingly sent a challenge by a friend

to the dauphin of France, inviting him to a single combat.

The feelings of Louis were not in correspondence with those of the

English king, whose invitation to a hostile _tête-d-téte_ was never

answered. The friend sent by Henry was not by any means the sort of

person to tempt the representative of Young France to a hostile meeting.

[Illustration: 265]

The bearer of the challenge was, in fact, a walking pattern of what the

dauphin might expect to become in the event of his engaging in a duel.

A countenance which looked more like a mug that had been cracked and

riveted in twenty places, was the letter of recommendation presented by

Henry's second. As the friend was evidently not a man to take a denial,

Henry? (Louis) contented himself with scratching off a few hieroglyphics

on a sheet of paper--to make believe that he was writing a note--and

hastily seizing an envelope, he sealed and delivered the delusive

missive. Henry's friend went away satisfied, with the full conviction

that he was taking back an acceptance of his master's challenge, but

when the communication came to be opened, the English king was indignant

at the hoax that had been played upon him.

Finding himself foiled in an attempt to settle his dispute by single

combat, Henry called over the muster-roll of his troops, which presented

a frightful number of vacancies since the making up of his last

army list. He had lost several hands from his first foot, and he was

compelled to say to his adjutant, "Really, if we go on at this rate

we shall be compelled to notify that _Nobody_ is promoted _vice_

_Everybody_, killed, or retired."

His entire force having dwindled down to the mere shadow of its former

self, he was advised to get home as speedily as possible. "No," he

replied, "I have no notion of coming all this way for nothing, and I

shall see a little more of this good land of France before I go back

again." The army, which was nearly all under the doctor's hands, seemed,

upon being drawn up in marching order, far fitter to go to bed than

to go to battle. Every regiment required medical regimen, and when

the soldiers should have been sitting with their feet in hot water

and comforters round their throats, they were required, with a callous

indifference to their state of health, to march towards Calais.

The journey began on the 6th of October, when the French king and the

dauphin had a large force at Rouen, while the Constable of France was

in front of the English, with an army consisting of the very pick of

Picardy. In passing through Normandy Henry met with no opposition, but

his movements were watched by a large force, which kept continually

cutting off stragglers, or in military language, clipping the wings of

his army. Those who lingered in the rear, or, as it were hung out behind

like a piece of a pocket-handkerchief protruding from the skirts of the

main body, were cut off with merciless alacrity. The English continued

to be dreadfully ill, and were proper subjects for the _Hotel des

Invalides_, but they nevertheless pursued their march with indomitable

courage. In crossing the river Bresle, beyond Dieppe, they made a

decided splash; but the garrison of Eu interrupted them in their cold

bath, though with very little effect, for the French leader was killed

and his followers were driven back to the ramparts. On reaching the

Somme the English army found both banks so strongly fortified, that had

they resorted to the most desperate hazard, or played any other reckless

game, breaking the banks would have been impossible.

Henry consulted with his friends as to the best means of getting across,

but nothing was suggested, except to tunnel under the banks and dive

along the bottom of the stream; but this was objected to for divers

reasons. Henry kept marching up the left bank of the river, in the hope

of finding a favourable opportunity to dash across; but every attempt

terminated in making ducks and drakes of his brave soldiers. Wherever a

chance appeared to present itself he tried it, but without success, for

the river had been filled with stakes, though the extent of the stakes

did not prevent him from carrying on the game as long as possible. At

length, on reaching Nesle he hit the right nail on the head, for running

across a temporary bridge near the spot, he found the accommodation

passable.

The Constable of France, on hearing what had occurred, retired to St.

Pol, like a poltroon, and sent heralds to Henry, advising him to avoid a

battle, for the French fully intended to give it him. The constable then

fell back upon Agincourt, in which direction the English army prepared

to follow him. On the 24th of October, Henry and his soldiers came in

sight of the enemy's outposts, and their columns served as advertising

columns to indicate their position. During the night it is said that

the English played on their trumpets, so that the whole neighbourhood

resounded with the noise; but as they were all very tired, and had gone

to sleep, it is probable that the only music heard by the inhabitants

emanated from the nasal organs of the slumbering soldiers. By the French

the night was passed in noise and revelry; but the English were

chiefly absorbed in repose, or occupied in making their last wills

and testaments. These were far more suitable employments than the

performance of those concerted pieces which would only have disconcerted

the plans of their leaders.

The moon, which on that occasion was up all night, enabled the English

officers to ascertain the quality of the ground that the French

occupied. The constable stuck the royal banner into the middle of the

Calais road, an achievement which the muddy nature of the soil, rendered

softer by the drizzly rain, prevented from being at all difficult. The

French took the usual means of counteracting the effect of external wet

by internal soaking. "Every man," says the chronicler, "dydde drynke

lyke a fyshe," though the simile does not hold, for we never yet found

one of the finny tribe who was given to the sort of liquor that the

French were imbibing before Agincourt. They passed round the cup so

rapidly that, what with the clayey nature of the soil and the whirl

of excitement into which their heads were thrown, they found it almost

impossible to preserve their respective equilibria. They floundered

about in the most disgraceful manner, and there was "many a slip 'twixt

the cup and the lip" on that memorable occasion. In addition to the

excesses of the table, they availed themselves of the resources of the

multiplication table, by calculating the amount of ransoms they should

receive for the English king and the great barons, whom they made sure

of capturing. Thus, in the agreeable but delusive occupation of turning

their imaginations into poultry-yards, and stocking them with ideal

chickens that were never destined to be hatched, did the French pass the

night before the battle. Still, there was a melancholy mixed with the

mirth in the minds of many, who, in the midst of the general counting

of the phantom pullets, found sad thoughts to brood over. It so happened

that there were scarcely any musical instruments among the French, and

their horses, it was remarked, never once neighed during the night,

which was thought to be ominous of bad, for if a dismal foreboding

intruded, there was not even an animal to say "neigh" to it. Some of

the older and more experienced officers were seized with gloomy

anticipations, but they were either coughed, laughed, or clamoured down;

and when the veteran Duke of Berri ventured to allude to Poictiers, on

which occasion the French had been equally sanguine, he was tauntingly

nicknamed the Blackberry for his sombre sentiments. To add to the

discomfort of the troops, there was a deficiency of hay and straw for

the use of the cavalry. The piece of ground where the horses had been

taken in to bait was a perfect pool, in which the poor creatures could

be watered, it is true, but could not enjoy any other refreshment. The

earth had proved itself indeed a toper, according to the song, and had

moistened its clay to such a degree that everyone who came in contact

with it found himself placed on a most uncomfortable footing. However

resolved the French might have been to make a stand on the day of

battle, it was impossible for them to make any stand at all on the night

preceding it.

At early dawn Henry got up in excellent spirits, and declared himself

ready to answer the communication of the French constable, which he had

received some time before, advising him to treat or retreat, and which

had hitherto remained unresponded to. A movement of astonishment was

evinced by his followers at the announcement of the English king's

intention to reply to the message he had received, but when he said, "I

shall trouble him with three lines, which may extend to three columns,"

and proceeded to divide his army into that form, the gallant soldiers

understood and cheered his meaning. The archers were placed in front,

and every one of them had at least four strings to his bow, in the shape

of a billhook, a hatchet, a hammer, and a long thick stake, in addition

to his stock of arrows.

Having made these preparations, Henry mounted a little grey pony and

reviewed his army. He wore his best Sunday helmet of polished steel,

which had received, expressly for the occasion, an extra leathering, and

on the top of that he wore a crown of gold richly set with jewels. In

this headgear he presented such a dazzling spectacle to the enemy, that

it would have been almost as difficult to take an aim at the sun itself

as at the blazing and brilliant English leader. As he rode from rank

to rank, he had an encouraging word for every soldier; and his familiar

"Ha, Briggs," to one; his cheerful "What, Jones, is that you, my boy?"

to another; and his invigorating "Up, Smith, and at 'em!" to a third,

contributed greatly to increase the confidence of his men and strengthen

their attachment to their general. "As for me," he said, "you'll have

to pay no ransom for me, as I've fully made up my mind to die or to

conquer."

[Illustration: 268]

On passing one of the divisions, he heard Walter Hungerford--the

original proprietor of Hungerford Stairs--regretting there were not more

of them. "What do we want with more?" êxclaimed Henry. "I would not have

an _extra_ man if you would give him me. If we are to fall, the fewer

the better, and if we are to conquer, I would not have one pair of

additional hands to pick a single leaf of our laurels." The French were

at least six to one of the English, but the former were horridly out of

condition on the night before the battle. They wore long coats of steel

down to their knees, which gave them the look of animated meat screens,

and the armour they carried on their legs served to complete the

resemblance. "They wore a quantity of harness on the upper part of their

bodies," says M. Nicolas, but he does not tell us whether the harness

consisted of horse collars, which by being grinned through would have

enabled them to advance towards the foe with a smiling aspect. The

ground was remarkably soft, and the French troops being exceedingly

heavy, they kept sticking in the mud at every step, while the ensigns,

who had the additional weight of their flags, got planted in the ground

like a row of standards. The horses were up to their knees in no time,

and when they attempted to pull up they found the operation quite

impossible. Henry had declared he would roll the enemy in the dust, but

the wet had laid all the dust, and he must have rolled them in the

mud if he had rolled them in anything. The French are said by a recent

historian * to have been suffering under a "moral vertigo," but as

the vertigo had been brought on by drinking on the previous night, the

morality of the "vertigo" will bear questioning. They had got themselves

into a field between two woods, where they had no room to "deploy," and

they were tumbling over each other like a pack of cards, or a regiment

of tin soldiers. Though they had imbibed a large quantity of wine and

spirits, the rain, which fell in torrents, only added water to what they

had drunk, and threw them into what is technically termed a "groggy"

condition. Henry compared them to so many tumblers of rum-and-water,

so comical was their appearance as they fell about in a state of soaked

stupidity. To increase their confusion, the Constable of France was

unable to keep order, for several young sprigs of French nobility were

all tendering their advice, and thus there were not only cooks enough to

spoil the broth, but to make a regular hash of it.

* Macfarlane. Cabinet History, vol. v., p. 21.

At length, about the hour of noon, Henry gave the word to begin by

exclaiming "Banners, advance!" and at the same moment Sir Thomas

Erpingham, a grey old knight, who appears to have been a kind of

military pantaloon, threw his truncheon into the air with true

pantomimic activity. "Now, strike!" exclaimed the veteran, as he

performed this piece of buffoonery, and followed it up with the words

"Go it!" "At 'em again!" "Serve 'em right!" and "Give it 'em!" The

French fought bravely, and Messire Clignet, of Brabant, charged with

twelve hundred horse, exclaiming "Mountjoye, St. Denis!" when down

he fell, on the soft and slippery ground, like a horse on the wooden

pavement. Everywhere the French cavalry cut the most eccentric capers;

and even when there was an opportunity of advancing, the advantage

seemed to slip from under them, for the ground was as bad as ground

glass to stand upon. The English archers rushed among the steel-clad

knights, who were as stiff as so many pokers--though not one of them

could stir--and they were thus caught in their own steel traps, or

trappings. The Constable of France was killed, and the flower of the

French chivalry was nipped in the bud, or, rather, experienced a blow of

a fatal character.

"This is a very hard case, indeed," roared one of the victims, as he

pointed to his suit of steel, which rendered him incapable of fighting

or running away, though he was quite ready for either. But the hardest

part of all was the softness of the ground, into which the French kept

sinking so rapidly that they might as well have fought on the Goodwin

Sands as on the field of Agincourt. The weight of their armour caused

them to disappear every now and then, like the Light of All Nations, on

the spot we have just named, and an old French warrior--one of the heavy

fathers of that day--was seen to subside so completely in the mud, that

in a few minutes he had left only his hair apparent. The English, who

were lightly clad, kept up wonderfully under the fatigues of the day,

and some of them performed prodigies of valour. Henry himself seems to

have acquitted himself in a Style quite worthy of Shaw, or Pshaw, the

Life Guardsman. His majesty was charged by a band of eighteen knights,

whom it is said he overcame, but it is much more likely that finding

themselves ready to sink into the earth, they were compelled to knock

under.

Their cause was desperate, it was neck or nothing with many; but as they

became immersed in the soil by degrees, it was neck first, and nothing

shortly afterwards. The Duke of Alençon made a momentary effort to be

vigorous, in spite of his steel petticoats, and gave Henry a blow on the

head that broke off a bit of the crown which he had been wearing over

his helmet. This _embarras des chapeaux_, or inconvenient superfluity of

hats, was a weakness Henry was subject to, and there was no harm in his

being made to pay for it. The Duke of Alençon had no sooner broken the

king's crown than he received a fracture in his own, which proved fatal.

The battle was now over, and the English began to secure prisoners,

taking from each captive his cap, or hat, but it is to be presumed

giving a ticket to each, by which all would get back their own helmets.

Henry having taken it into his head that the battle was going to

be renewed, ordered the prisoners to be killed; but he afterwards

apologised for his mistake, though posterity has never been satisfied

with the excuse he offered. As far as we have been able to learn the

particulars of this atrocious blunder, it arose in the following manner.

The priests of the English army--with a sort of instinctive tendency

to taking care of themselves--were sitting amongst the baggage. Henry,

hearing a noise among the reverend gentlemen, looked round, and found

them apparently threatened with an attack from what he thought was

a hostile force, but which turned out to be a few peasants, who were

scrambling with the priests for a share of the luggage. This

attempted appropriation of church property was resisted by a vigorous

ecclesiastical clamour, which led Henry to believe there had been a

rally among the foe, and that the priests were giving the signal. Had

he been aware that they were crying out before they were hurt, there is

every reason to believe that he would not have issued the mandate which

has so much compromised his otherwise fair average character. The French

loss at the battle of Agincourt was quite incredible, but not a bit the

less historical on that account, for if history were to reject all that

cannot be believed its dimensions would be fearfully crippled.

[Illustration: 271]

The English, sinking under the weight of their booty, as well as the mud

on their boots, marched towards Calais. Henry's army was reduced almost

to a skeleton, but he used to say jocosely, that with that skeleton key

he would find an opening anywhere. Though rich in conquest, he was

short of cash, and as England was always the place for getting money,

he determined on hastening thither. The people received him with

enthusiasm, and at Dover they rushed into the sea to carry him on shore,

so that he literally came in on the shoulders of the people. Proud of

this popular pickaback, he made a speech amid the general waving of

hats, which was responded to by the gentle waving of the ocean. The

tide, however, began to rise, when Henry cut short the proceedings of

the meeting between himself and his subjects by exclaiming, "But on, my

friends, to the shore, for this is not the place for dry discussion."

On his way up to town each city vied with the other in loyalty.

Rochester contended with Canterbury, Chatham struggled with Gravesend,

and Blackheath entered into a single combat with Green-wich; Deptford

ran itself into debt, which it retains nominally to this day; and

the Bricklayers presented their arms to Henry as he passed into the

metropolis. In London he was met by the Lords and Commons, the mayor,

aldermen, and citizens; but the sweetest music was that made by the wine

as it poured down the streets, and caught a guttural sound as it turned

in£o the gutters. Many a bottle of fine old crusted port was mulled by

being thrown into the thoroughfare, and though it might have been

good enough to have spoken for itself, it ran itself down through the

highways with much energy. Nor was this enthusiasm confined to hollow

words, for all the supplies which the king requested were freely voted

him. It was only for Henry to ask and have, at this auspicious moment;

and if, like some children, he had cried for the moon, it is not

unlikely that his subjects, in the excess of their loyalty, would have

promised to give it him.

In the spring of the year 1416, London was enlivened by a visit from the

Emperor Sigismund. He imparted considerable gaiety to the season, and

his entry into the city gave occasion for a general holiday. His object

was to endeavour to effect a coalition between the two rival popes, and

to get the kings of France and England to make it up if possible. He

was followed by some French ambassadors who marred the harmony of the

procession by looking daggers at the English nobles. Occasionally they

proceeded from glances to gibes, which naturally led to pushes, that

were only prevented from coming to blows by the sudden turning round of

the emperor whenever he heard a disturbance going on amongst those who

followed him.

During Sigismund's stay in town, the French besieged Harfleur, which was

guarded by the Earl of Dorset and a most unhealthy garrison. Toothache,

elephantiasis, and sciatica, had so reduced the spirit of the English

force that the Duke of Bedford, the king's brother, was sent to aid

the Earl of Dorset, and the poor old pump was grateful for this timely

succour. Bedford having put matters quite straight, returned to England,

and Henry proposed a run over to Calais with his imperial visitor,

Sigismund. Here a sort of Congress was held at which Henry made

himself so popular, that his rights to the French throne were partially

recognised. France was at this juncture in a very unpromising condition,

for the royal family did nothing but quarrel and murder one another's

favourites. Isabella, the queen, lived in hostility with the king, who

arrested several of his wife's servants, and had one of them, whose name

was Bois-Bourdon, sewn up in a leather-bag and thrown into the Seine,

from which the notion of giving a servant the sack, on the occasion of

his getting his discharge, no doubt takes its origin.

The Dauphin John having died, he was succeeded by his brother Charles,

a boy of sixteen, who was continually fighting with his own mother, and

getting a good deal the worst of it. This state of things tempted Henry

to bring an army into France in August, 1417, when, after the surrender

of a few smaller places, he took Caen by assault, or rather by a good

Caen pepper. In the ensuing year he undertook several sieges at once,

and played with his artillery upon Cherbourg, Damfront, Lonviers, and

Pont de l'Arohe as easily as the musician who plays simultaneously on

six different instruments. His next important undertaking was the siege

of Rouen, before which he sat down, and having looked at it through his

glass, he made up his mind that starving it out was the only method of

taking it. The inhabitants held out for some time on their provisions,

but these being exhausted, they began to devour all sorts of trash,

that was never intended for culinary purposes. _Soupe au shoe_ became

a common dish, and though for a brief period they had mutton chop _en

papillotes_ they were at last reduced to the _papillotes_ without the

meat, but with their tremendous twists they of course could not be

expected to make a satisfactory meal off curl-papers. They accordingly

surrendered, and Henry, on the 16th of January, 1419, entered Rouen,

where ambassadors from the various factions in France were sent to him.

He was, however, quite open to all, but decidedly influenced by none,

and had a polite word for each, but a wink for those in his confidence,

as he administered the blarney to the various legates. At length it

was agreed that he should have an interview with the king and queen of

France and the Duke of Burgundy.

The French sovereign was not presentable when the day came, for

excessive indulgence in wine had reduced him to a state from which all

the soda-water in the world could not, at that moment, have recovered

him. Henry, therefore, met the queen, who was attended by her lovely

daughter, the Princess Catherine, and her cousin of Burgundy, while the

English king was supported by his brothers, Clarence and Gloucester. The

meeting was exceedingly ceremonious, and was conducted a good deal

in the style of a medley dance, comprising the minuet, the figure

_Pastorale_ in the first set of quadrilles, and Sir Roger de Coverley.

At a signal announced by the striking up of some music, Henry advanced

first, performing as it were the _cavalier seul_, when the Princess

Catherine and the queen, with the Duke of Burgundy between them, also

advanced, until all met in the centre. Henry bowed to the queen, and

took her hand, and then did the same with the Princess Catherine, a

movement resembling the celebrated _chaine des dames_--and Burgundy

fell in gracefully with what was going on by an occasional _balancez_ to

complete the action of the second couple.

This was the first occasion upon which Henry had seen his intended

bride, and whether in earnest or in sham he appeared to be at once

struck by her surpassing beauty. He enacted the lover at first sight

with a vigour that would have secured him a livelihood as a walking

gentleman, had he lived in our own time, and been dependent for support

on his theatrical abilities.

[Illustration: 274]

The whole day was spent in formalities, and Henry sat opposite to the

princess till the close of the interview, looking unutterable, things,

for she was so far off that it would have been vain to have uttered

anything. In two days afterwards Henry and the queen paid each other a

second formal visit; but the English king looked in vain for the young

lady, who like a true _coquette_, seems to have kept away for the

purpose of increasing the impatience of her lover. Her mother, with the

tact of an old matchmaker, tried to get the best possible terms

from Henry; but with all his affection, he would not stir from his

resolution, to insist on having the possession of Normandy and a few

other perquisites as the young lady's dowry.

The French queen pretended to take time to consider his proposal, and

seven formal interviews were held; but all of them were of so dull,

stately, and slow a character, that no progress was made at any one

of them. The fact is, that Henry was being humbugged, and if he had

suspected as much during the seven first meetings, he was convinced of

it at that, which should have been the eighth, for on going to keep his

appointment he found neither the queen, the duke, the princess, nor any

of the attendants of either of them. All ceremony was at an end, the

diplomatic _quadrille_ parties were broken up, and Henry, disgusted at

having been made to dance attendance for nothing at all, became so angry

that his brain began to reel on its own account, and he set off to his

own quarters in a _galop_. He ascertained the truth to be, that the

queen and Burgundy had made it up with the dauphin, whom they had gone

to join, and the precious trio having sworn eternal friendship to each

other, added a clause to the affidavit for the purpose of swearing

eternal hatred to all Englishmen.

Tired of kicking his heels about to no purpose, Henry determined on

practising some entirely new steps; the first of which was to advance

upon Pontoise and _chassez_ the inhabitants. He then pushed on towards

Paris, when Burgundy, fearful of a _rencontre_, retired from St. Denis,

where he had taken up his position. Henry again offered to treat, but in

sending in the particulars of his demand he added Pontoise to the list

of places he should require to be transferred to his possession.

The alliance between the dauphin and the Duke of Burgundy was as hollow

as the hollow beech tree rendered famous by a series of single knocks

at the hands, or, rather, at the beak, of the woodpecker. After a little

negotiation, and a great deal of treachery, Burgundy, in spite of the

warnings of several of his servants, was induced to visit the dauphin at

Montereau. The duke went unarmed, on the assurance that he should return

unharmed, and instead of his helmet he wore a velvet cap, which one

of his attendants declared was a wonderful proof of soft-headedness.

Burgundy, on coming into the presence of the heir to the throne

of France, bent his knee; when the President of Provence whispered

something in the dauphin's ear, and both began winking fearfully at a

man with a battle-axe. The man with the battle-axe gave a significant

nod, and dropped his weapon, as if by mistake, upon Burgundy; when the

Sire de Navailles, a friend of the duke, pointing to the fearful dent

the axe had made, exclaimed, "This is not a mere accident." This was

immediately obvious; for several others rushed upon poor Burgundy,

who devoted his last breath to exclaiming to the dauphin, "You are an

ass--ass--" for he died before he could get the word ass--ass--in.

Young Philip, the heir of Jean Sans-peur---or Jack Dreadnought, as we

should have translated this nickname of the Duke of Burgundy--succeeded

to his father's estates, as well as becoming residuary legatee of

the affections of most of his subjects. The dauphin's foul deed was

execrated on all sides; for though the state of morals was low at the

period of which we write, there was always a certain love of fair play

inherent in the human character. The younger Burgundy was in a state of

effervescence, and though he kept bottled up for a short time, his rage

soon spirted out with fearful vehemence. He entered into a coalition

with Henry, who stipulated for the hand of the Princess Catherine in

possession, with the crown of France in reversion, and a few other

trifling contingencies. In the year 1420, one day in the month of

April--probably the first--the imbecile Charles, guided by Queen

Isabella and the Duke of Burgundy, put his hand to the treaty. The

unhappy monarch was in his usual state, when a pen having been thrust

into his grasp, and while somebody held the document, somebody else

directed the motion of the royal fingers. The treaty thus became

disfigured by a series of scratches and blots which were declared to be

the king's signature. An appendix to this document contained a fulsome

panegyric on the English king, which wound up with a declaration of his

fitness to succeed to the French crown, because "he had a noble person

and a pleasing countenance." This shallow argument was intended to lead

to the conclusion that he would treat his subjects handsomely; or that,

at all events, should he ever reign over France, his rule would not be

without some very agreeable features.

In May of the same year--1420--Henry started for Troyes, where the

young Duke of Burgundy and the French royal family were sojourning.

The English king was all impatience to see his bride, and he found her

sitting with her papa and mamma in the church of St. Peter. They had

intended a little surprise for their illustrious visitor, and everything

being ready beforehand, he was affianced on the spot to the lovely

Catherine. They were regularly married. On the 2nd of June, and some

of the gay young nobles hoped there would be a series of balls, dinner

parties, and tournaments, in celebration of the wedding: Henry, however,

declared he would have "no fuss," but that those who wanted to show

their skill in jousting and tourneying might accompany him to Sens,

which he purposed besieging on the second day after his marriage. He

declined participating in the child's play of a tournament when there

was so much real work to be done, "and as to feasting," he exclaimed,

"let us give the people of Sens their whack, or, at all events, if we

are to have a good blow-out, it must be by blowing the enemy out of the

citadel." He proceeded at once with his beautiful bride from Troyes,

and soon reaching Sens, he in two days frightened the inhabitants out of

their Senses. They surrendered, and he then advanced to Montereau, which

he took by assault--or rather, as one of the merry old chroniclers

hath it, "which he took, not so much by assault as by a pepper." After

besieging a few other places in France, Henry, in conjunction with

Charles, the French king, made a triumphal entry into Paris. The

inhabitants of that city gave him an enthusiastic reception, for, like

the populace in every period, they were delighted at anything in the

shape of change, and paid the utmost respect to those from whom they had

experienced the greatest injury.

In January, 1421, Henry being very short of cash, determined on going

home to England, which was even in those days the most liberal paymaster

to popular favourites. Having with him a good-looking queen, his

reception in his own country was most gratifying, for the old clap-trap

about "lovely woman" was inherent from the earliest periods in the

English character. This fascinating female was crowned at Westminster

Abbey with tremendous pomp, and the happy couple went "starring it"

about the country in a royal progress immediately afterwards. Their

success in the provinces was immense; but their pleasant engagements in

their own country were soon brought to an end by the announcement that

France was still in a state of turbulence, requiring the immediate

presence of Henry in Paris.

Having warmed his subjects' hearts, he struck while the iron was hot,

and took an aim at their pockets. Parliament was in a capital humour,

and came out splendidly with pecuniary votes for a new expedition. He

left the queen at Windsor Castle, where she shortly after gave birth to

a son; and having landed a large but very miscellaneous army at Calais,

Henry marched to Paris, to reinforce the Duke of Exeter, who had been

left there as governor. The English were successful at all points, and

Queen Catherine having joined her husband, they held their court at the

Louvre, where they sat in their coronation robes, with their crowns on

their heads, as naturally as if they had formed a part of "the Royal

Family at Home" in Madame Tussaud's far-famed collection of wax-work.

In the midst of his victorious career in France, Henry had started off

to the relief of a town invested by the dauphin--an investment that was

profitable to nobody. The English king had reached Corbeil, when he

was taking suddenly ill, and throwing himself on a litter, he declared

himself to be literally tired out with his exertions. Having been taken

home to the neighbourhood of Vincennes, and put to bed, he summoned

his brother, the Duke of Bedford, and some other nobles, to whom he

recommended amity; but, above all, he advised them to continue the

alliance with Burgundy, whose habit of sticking to his friends has given

the name of Burgundy to the well-known pitch plaster. Having appointed

his brothers Gloucester and Bedford regents, the one for England and the

other for France, during the minority of his son, he seemed perfectly

resigned; but his attendants literally roared like a parcel of children,

so that he was compelled to tell them that crying would do no good to

anybody. He died on the 31st of August, 1422, aged thirty-four, having

reigned ten years with some credit to himself, and in full, as far as

conquest may be desirable, with advantage to his country.

On the death of a king, it had been usual for the attendants to rush

helter-skelter out of the room, and ransack the house of the deceased

monarch, while his successor generally made the best of his way down to

the treasury. Henry the Fifth was an exception to the rule, for he had

earned so much respect in his lifetime, that at his death there was

no indecorum, but a desire was manifested to give him the benefit of a

decent, and indeed a magnificent, funeral. When a king of England had

died abroad on previous occasions, his remains were seldom thought

worthy of the expense of carriage to his own country; but in this

instance no outlay was considered too extravagant to bestow on the

funeral procession of the sovereign. Hundreds of mutes followed, with

that mute solemnity which is the origin of their name: and on this

occasion there were hundreds of knights, all in the deepest mourning.

Several esquires had their armour black-leaded, and their plumes dyed in

ink, while the king of Scotland acted as chief mourner, and the widow of

the deceased sovereign came in at the end of the gloomy retinue. On its

arrival in England, when it drew near London, fifteen bishops popped on

their pontifical attire, and ran to meet it; while the abbots, taking

down their mitres from the hat-pegs in the halls of their houses,

sallied forth to join the sad procession. The remains of the king were

carried to Westminster Abbey, and consigned to the tomb with every token

of esteem, and the reverence it had been customary to show to the rising

sun alone, was on this occasion extended to the luminary that had just

set in unusual glory. The queen, desirous of evincing her affection for

such a prince, caused a silver-gilt statue as large as life to be placed

on the top of his monument. This piece of extravagance was, however,

before the invention of British Plate, or that "perfect substitute

for silver," which is a perfect substitute in everything but value,

strength, purity, appearance, and durability.

In painting the character of Henry the Fifth, the English historians

have used the most brilliant colours, while the French writers have

thrown in some shades of the most Indian-inky blackness. The former

have been lavish in the use of _couleur de rose_, while the latter

have selected the very darkest hues, and, indeed, produced a picture

resembling those dingy profiles which give a hard outline of the

features, but render it impossible for us to judge of the aspect or

complexion of the original. It is for us to look at both sides, like the

apparently inconsistent pendulum, which, by constantly oscillating from

right to left, becomes the instrument of furnishing a faithful record of

the time.

Henry the Fifth was devoted to the happiness of his people; but he had

sometimes an odd way of showing his attachment, by ill-using the few for

the satisfaction of the many. Thus, he persecuted the Lollards in the

most cruel manner, out of the purest condescension towards the clergy,

who had got up a clamour against the sect alluded to. This obliging

disposition may be carried too far, when it urges the commission of an

injustice to one party, in order to favour another, and the persecution

of the Lollards at the call of the clergy was a good deal like an

acquiescence in a cry of "throw him over" got up in the gallery of a

theatre, against some unfortunate who may have incurred the momentary

displeasure of a "generous British audience."

The military exploits of Henry the Fifth have been praised by English

historians, but the French writers have contrived to show that even

the battle of Agincourt was nothing more than a mistake, s like the one

which happened at Waterloo about four centuries afterwards.

"He ought to have been conquered at Agincourt," say the annalists of

France, but we are quite content that his conduct was not precisely what

it ought to have been--according to them--on this great occasion.

Some praise, has been given him for his tact in negotiating with the

Duke of Burgundy and the dauphin at the same time, but we must confess

that our notions of honour do not permit us to approve the act of

temporising with two parties for the purpose of joining that which might

prove to be the strongest. He was brave, beyond a doubt, but he was

cruel in the treatment of some of the prisoners who fell into his hands,

and we cannot give him the benefit of the presumption suggested by a

French historian, that if he hanged a quantity of unfortunate captives,

he had probably very good reasons of his own for doing so. *

* Pour les autres qui furent exécutés dans le même temps

j'en ignore les raisons, mais il est à présumer, &c., &c.--

Rapin, tom, iii, p. 504.

Among the other defects attributed to the character of Henry the Fifth

is a degree of shabbiness towards the people in his employ, whom he is

said to have paid very inadequately for their services. Considering,

however, that the liberality of kings is often practised at the expense

of the people, and that Henry was so crippled in his own means that the

crown jewels were, on one occasion, pawned, we have no right to blame

him for refusing to reward his soldiers with what could only have been

the proceeds of plunder.

In person Henry the Fifth was tall and majestic, but his neck was a

little too long, which may have given him that supercilious air for

which some of his biographers have censured him. In his social habits

he resembled the celebrated Mynheer Von Dunk, of antiintoxication

notoriety, for Henry "never got drunk," even with success, which is of

all things the most fatal to temperance.

CHAPTER THE THIRD. HENRY THE SIXTH, SURNAMED OF WINDSOR.

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