Edward assembled a Parliament, which cut short all objections to the

line of York by declaring that the three last kings of the line of

Lancaster were intruders, and the grants they had made were of course

reversed, in order to raise a fund for laying in a large supply of new

loyalty.

Poor Henry, to whom peace and quietness were necessary, would have been

very well satisfied to retire into private life, had not his impetuous

wife, the tremendous Margaret, dragged him about with her at the head

of a few proscribed and desperate nobles. Shortness of cash cramped

the efforts of this impetuous female, who ran over to France, with the

intention of begging and borrowing from all her relatives. The Duke of

Brittany gave her a trifle, but Louis the Eleventh pleaded poverty, and

even produced his books to show that he had not a penny beyond what

he required for his own necessities. When, however, she talked of

surrendering Calais, he produced twenty thousand crowns, which he had

probably put by in an old stocking, and lent her the sum, with a couple

of thousand men, under Peter de Brezé.

With this assistance Margaret burst into the northern counties, and,

pushing poor Henry before her wherever she went, thrust him through

the gates of a small series of castles which she had taken by surprise.

These were soon taken back again, and Margaret, being obliged to fly,

lost all her borrowed money in a storm at sea, which washed all her

property in one direction and herself in another. After a few minor

transactions, the 15th of May, 1464, was rendered famous by the battle

of Hexham, at which the hiding or tanning of the Lancastrians was so

complete, that Hexham tan is to this day a leading article of commerce.

Margaret escaped to her father's court, but poor Henry, after wandering

about the moors of Lancashire, had found his way to Yorkshire, where he

had gone out to dine at Waddington Hall, when a treacherous servant, or

a traitor waiter, delivered him up to his enemies. The unhappy Henry was

turned into the Tower, which, under all the circumstances, was the best

place for him.

Edward, now adopting the sentiment of the vocalist, who, wishing to

introduce a tender song in the character of a hero, modulates into a

softer feeling by exclaiming, "Farewell, glory; welcome, love," resolved

on paying those devotions to the fair which a necessity for encountering

the brave had hitherto rendered impossible. He had intended to marry

some foreign princess, and Warwick had engaged him to a young lady named

Bona, daughter of the Duke of Savoy and sister to the Queen of France;

but the king denied that he had ever given instructions to sue, and

declined being bound by the act of his solicitor, who had solicited for

him the hand of the fair princess. The truth was, that his majesty had

formed other views, or, rather, other views had been formed for him

by an old match-making mother, who exhibited all those manoeuvring

qualities which constitute, in the present day, the art of getting a

daughter off to the best advantage.

[Illustration; 318]

The king, while hunting at Stony Stratford, pursuing a stag, came

suddenly upon a pretty dear, who literally staggered him. The young

lady was the widow of Sir Thomas Gray, and the daughter of Jacquetta of

Luxemburg by her second husband, Sir Richard Woodville, afterwards Earl

of Rivers. There is not the smallest doubt that Lady Gray and her mamma

had arranged together this accidental interview. The young lady,

who seems to have been a finished pupil in the school of flirtation,

entreated the king to reverse the attainder passed on her late husband,

to which Edward replied, that "he must be as stonyhearted as Stony

Stratford itself if he could refuse her anything." This rubbish ripened

into a real offer of marriage, which was, of course, accepted, and Lady

Gray was crowned Queen of England in the year following.

Warwick was rather nettled at being, as he said, "made a fool of" by

his royal master, and grew particularly jealous of the influence of the

king's wife, who got off her five unmarried sisters upon the heirs of as

many dukes or earls. He intrigued with the king's brother, the Duke of

Clarence, and both of them, being denounced as traitors, were obliged to

go abroad upon an order to travel. They visited France, where King Louis

not only supplied them with board and lodging, but put Warwick in the

way of a negotiation with Queen Margaret, which, it was thought, would

be advantageous to all parties. It was arranged that another push

should be made to push Henry on to the throne, but, as Warwick never

did business for nothing, he stipulated for the marriage of his daughter

with the queen's son, Edward.

Having reduced everything to writing, Warwick took his standard out

of his portmanteau for the purpose of planting it, and on the 13th of

September, 1479, he landed at Plymouth with a select but sturdy party of

malcontents. The people, whose motto was, "Anything for a change," were

soon persuaded to join in a cry of "Long live King Henry," and he was

taken out of the Tower for the purpose of being dragged about as a

puppet to give a sort of legitimacy to Warwick's projects. This nobleman

had got the name of the king-maker from a knack he had of manufacturing

the royal article with a rapidity truly astonishing. He could coin a

sovereign to order with a dispatch that the mint itself might fairly

be jealous of. He could provide a new king at the shortest notice, like

those victuallers who profess to have "dinners always ready;" and

Edward having got into "very low cut," Henry was "just up" as the latest

novelty from the _cuisine_ of the ingenious Warwick.

When Edward saw what was going on he thought it high time for himself to

be going off, and, with a few adherents who had not a change of linen in

their trunks nor a penny in their purses, he got into a ship bound for

Holland. The king himself had no money to pay his passage, and

offered the captain, says Comines, "a gown lined with martens," as

a remuneration for his services. Edward fled to Burgundy, where he

persuaded the duke to advance a trifle in the way of ships, money, and

men, with which the ousted monarch landed at Ravenspur. On his first

arrival the people held back, saying, "Oh, here's the old business over

again. We've had enough of this," and employing other expressions of

discouragement. He, however, declared he had no intention of unsettling

anything or anybody--except his bills, which remained unsettled as a

matter of course--and was allowed to enter the capital, where he was

once more proclaimed sovereign. It is an old commercial principle in

this country, that debt is a sign of prosperity, and Edward's success

has been attributed to the fact of his owing vast sums to the London

merchants. They were, of course, interested in the well-being of their

debtor, and the hypothesis was thus proved to be true, that he who is

worse off is in a better position than he who is well-to-do, and the man

whose circumstances are tolerably straight, is not so eligibly situated

as the individual whose affairs are materially straightened. Edward,

though not in clover, was obliged to be in the field, for Warwick fell

upon his rear with alarming vehemence. They fought at Barnet on the 14th

of April, 1471, in the midst of a mist, when poor Warwick was not

only lost in the fog, but many of his friends were killed, and Edward

obtained a decisive victory. The particulars of this battle have never

been very accurately given, for the fog and the old chroniclers were

almost equally dense; and between them the affair is involved in much

obscurity.

[Illustration: 320]

It is easier to quell sixty thousand men than to subdue one troublesome

woman, and Queen Margaret still gave "a deal of trouble" to the

conqueror. She, however, ultimately fell into his hands, together with

her son--one of the "rising generation" of that time--who, on being

asked by Edward what he meant by entering the realm in arms,

replied pertly, "I came to preserve my father's crown and my own

inheritance."--"Did you, indeed, you young jackanapes?" cried Edward,

"then take that," and he flicked the boy's nose with the thumb of a

large gauntlet. The child set up a piercing yell, but this was not the

worst of it, for some attendants, excited by the brutal example of their

master, gave the lad a blow or two, which finished him.

Edward returned to town, and sent Henry, with his queen, to the Tower,

from which the latter was ransomed by her relatives; but the former

having no friends to buy him off or bail him out, remained in custody.

He died a few weeks after his committal, and his death is attributed to

the Duke of Gloucester, who from the peculiar conformation of his back,

had shoulders broad enough to bear all the stray crimes for which no

other owner may have been forthcoming. Accordingly, every piece of

iniquity that can be traced to no one in particular, is usually added to

Gloucester's huge catalogue of delinquencies.

The Lancastrians were now regularly down, and every opportunity was

taken for hitting them. Some were driven into exile, others were got rid

of by more decided means, and a few, whose talents were worth saving,

got purchased at a valuation, more or less fair, by the now Government.

Sir John Fortescue, the Chief Justice to Henry the Sixth and the

greatest lawyer of his time, was sold in this disreputable manner; for

the judges of those days, unlike the pure occupants of the bench in our

own, were as saleable as railway shares, and had their regular market

price for anyone by whom such an investment was desired.

The prosperity of the House of York was now only marred by a quarrel

between the Dukes of Gloucester and Clarence. The latter had married

Warwick's eldest daughter, and claimed the whole property of his

father-in-law, of which Gloucester naturally wanted a slice, and he

struck up to Anne, a younger daughter, in order to derive some claim to

a share of the family fortune. Clarence, anxious to baffle his

brother, sent the young lady out to service as a cook, in London, when

Gloucester--disguised probably as a policeman--found her out, and ran

away with her.

[Illustration: 321]

He won her by alleging his heart to be incessantly on the beat, and by

promising her the advantages of a superior station. He lodged her in the

then rural lane of St. Martin's, and the king ultimately arranged the

difference between his brothers by assigning a handsome portion to Lady

Anne, and leaving Clarence to take the rest; while the widowed Countess

of Warwick, who had brought all the money into the family, was obliged

to leave it there, without touching it, for she got nothing.

In 1475 Edward began to form ambitious projects with regard to France,

and sent off to Louis the Eleventh one of those claims for the crown

which some of the preceding kings of England had been in the habit of

forwarding. The letter was written in terms of marvellous politeness,

and Louis having read it, desired the herald who brought it to step

into the next room, where he was treated with great affability. Louis

complimented the letter-carrier in the most fulsome manner, recommending

him to advise his master to withdraw his claim as futile and ridiculous.

"Bless you, he don't mind me," was the modest reply of the herald;

but Louis remarked that the words of such a sensible fellow must have

considerable weight, and slipped three hundred crowns into his pouch,

with a wink of intense significance. The herald was regularly taken

aback, and his bewilderment increased when his majesty, observing, "Dear

me, what a shabby cloak you've got on," ordered three hundred yards of

crimson velvet to be cut off from the best piece in the royal wardrobe.

Garter--for such was the herald's rank--promised to do the very best he

could; for the velvet had softened him down, or smoothed him over, to

the side of Louis.

Edward nevertheless made extensive preparations to smash the French

king, and strained every nerve to get the sinews of war, which he did

by insinuating himself into the favour of his people. He emptied

their pockets with considerable grace, and was the first to give the

attractive name of Benevolences to those grants which were mercilessly

extracted from the Parliament. Edward and Louis, though hating each

other with the utmost cordiality, thought it prudent to negotiate--the

former from mercenary motives, and the latter for the sake of peace and

quiet. An interview was at last agreed upon, to take place at the bridge

of Picquigny, near Amiens, across which a partition of railings had

been thrown, to prevent treachery on either side. Louis came first, and

looked through the bars, when Edward tripped gracefully up to the

other side, bowing to within a foot of the ground, and paying a few

commonplace compliments. Louis invited Edward to Paris, they shook hands

through the bars, and the English king received a sordid bribe through

the grating, "which," says the incorrigible Comines, "was exceedingly

grating to the feelings of some of his nobles."

Several cruelties disgraced the latter part of Edward's reign; and one

of the worst of his enormities was his treatment of Stacey and Burdett,

two officers of the household of the Duke of Clarence. Stacey was

accused of having dealings with the devil; but if he had, it was

only the printer's devil; for Stacey was a priest of the order of

Whitefriars, and learned in the typographic art, which had recently been

discovered. No proof unfavourable to Stacey could be produced, but he

was put to the torture by being made to set up night and day, which made

him curse the author of his misery. Thomas Burdett, another gentleman

of Clarence's household, was tried as an accomplice to Stacey, and these

unfortunate men, having had their heads cut off, "died," according to

the Chroniclers, "protesting their innocence." Clarence himself was the

next victim, and on the 16th of January, 1478, he was brought to the bar

of the House of Lords on a charge of having dealings with conjurors. It

seems hard, in these days, when tricks of magic are exceedingly

popular, that a person suspected of conjuring should be pursued with

the vengeance of the law; and the hardship of the affair is particularly

great in the case of Clarence, who was never known to make a

plum-pudding in his hat, or perform any other of the ingenious tricks

which have gained money and fame for the wizards of the present era. The

unfortunate duke met all the charges against him with a flat denial, but

he was found guilty, and sentence of death was passed upon him, on the

7th of February, 1478. His execution was never publicly carried out, and

rumour has accordingly been left to run riot among the thousand ways in

which Clarence might have undergone his capital punishment. The usual

mode of accounting for his death is by the suggestion, that his brothers

left the matter to his own choice, and that he preferred drowning in a

butt of Malmsey wine to any other fatal penalty. The only objection

to this arrangement appears to be that which occurred to an excellent

English king of modern times, when he wondered how the apple got into

the dumpling. However capacious the butt may have been in which Clarence

desired to be drowned, it is obvious that he never could have entered

the cask through its only aperture, the bunghole. When we witness the

marvel of an individual getting into a quart-bottle, we shall begin

to have faith in the story that Clarence met his death in the manner

alluded to. If the wine was already in the cask before Clarence was

immersed, there could have been no admission, even on business, except

through the bunghole, and it is not likely that the vessel could have

been empty before the duke took his place for the purpose of undergoing

a vinous shower-bath.

Edward led for some time a life of luxury, which was now and then

disturbed by wars with Scotland, though he never thought it worth his

while to take the field in person, but always got his big brother,

Richard Duke of Gloucester, to fight for him. Matters nevertheless took

a fresh turn when the Duke of Albany, brother of James the Third, came

over and declared he was entitled to the Scotch throne in preference to

his elder relative. "I mean to swear he is illegitimate," said Albany,

and he offered to give up Berwick to Edward, on condition of an army

being lent to depose the reigning sovereign. A marriage with one of the

English king's daughters was also proposed by Albany, who "thought it

right to mention that he had two wives already;" but he did not seem

to anticipate any objection on that account. Albany and Gloucester were

successful in most of their joint undertakings, but they did not fight

very frequently, for a treaty was soon concluded. Until this arrangement

was carried out, Albany made every warlike demonstration, and produced

a wholesome terror by the exhibition of a tremendous piece of artillery,

familiarly known to us in these days as a cannon of the period. Its

chief peculiarity was its aptitude--according to the engravings we have

seen of it--for carrying cannon-balls considerably larger than the

mouth of the piece itself, for we have often feasted our eyes upon very

interesting pictures of a cannon-ball issuing from a cannon not half the

circumference of the projected missile.

[Illustration: 324]

Whether it is that in those days expanding ammunition was provided,

which increased in bulk twofold after leaving the cannon's mouth, we

are unable to say at this period; but the illuminations of the time

undoubtedly present this striking phenomenon. The dust of ages lies

unfortunately on many of our facts, and though we might, it is true,

take up a duster and wipe the dust of ages off, there is a pleasure in

the imaginative which the actual could never realise.

Edward having been duped by his allies in France, on some matters almost

of a private character, took the deception so much to heart, that he put

himself into a violent passion, and died of it with wondrous rapidity.

Instead of a raging fever, he caught the fever of rage, and died on the

6th of April, 1483, in the forty-first year of his age, and twenty-first

of his reign. The assassination of sovereigns was then so common, that

Edward the Fourth lay in state for some days, to show that he had not

come to his death by any but fair means, for he was a king that merited

severe treatment, at least as much as some of his predecessors; and it

was, therefore, presumed that he might have come in for his share of

that fatal violence which it was usual to bestow on kings in the early

and middle periods of our history. In concluding our account of this

reign, we may, perhaps, be expected to give a character of Edward the

Fourth; but, _ex nihilo nihil fit_, and upon this principle we are

unable to furnish a character for one who had lost in the lapse, or

rather in the lap of time, whatever he may once have possessed of that

important article.

CHAPTER THE SIXTH. EDWARD THE FIFTH.

[Illustration; 325]

HAD the crown been always adapted to the head on which it devolves, the

diadem would have been in very reduced circumstances when it descended

on the baby brow of the fifth Edward. Almost bonneted by a bauble

considerably too large for his head, and falling over his eyes, it was

impossible that the boy-king could enjoy otherwise than a very poor

look-out on his accession to the sovereignty. He had been on a visit to

his maternal uncle, the Earl of Rivers, at Ludlow Castle, but he was

now placed under the protection of his paternal uncle, Richard, Duke of

Gloucester, as a sort of apprentice to learn the business of government.

Richard, who was at the head of an army in Scotland at his brother's

death, marched with six hundred men to a _maison de deuil_, where he

insisted on having ready-made mourning for his followers. The astonished

tradesman, exclaiming, in the language of one of our modern poets,

"Five minutes' time is all we ask

To execute the mournful task,"

prepared at once the melancholy outfit. Richard led his adherents to

York, where a funeral service was performed, and the troops, looking

like so many mutes, completely dumbfounded the populace. Their conduct

and their clothes combined--for their designs seemed to be as dark and

mysterious as their habits--obtained for these soldiers the unenviable

name of the black-guards of the Duke of Gloucester.

Richard's next care was to swear loyalty and fealty to his young

nephew--which went far towards proving the absence of both; for those

who wish a little of anything to go a great way, generally make the

utmost possible display of it. Notwithstanding the continued show of

attachment evinced by the uncle for the nephew, it soon began to be

noticed that Richard was a good deal like a snowball, for he picked up

adherents wherever he moved; and as he went rolling about the country,

he soon swelled into a formidable size with the band that encircled him.

He, however, calmed suspicion by declaring that he was only collecting

supernumeraries for his nephew's coronation. The fact is, that Richard

was all the time plotting with that discontented fellow Buckingham, the

well-known malcontent, of whom it has been justly said that he liked

nothing nor nobody.

Gloucester arrived at Northampton on the 22nd of April, 1483, about the

same time that Rivers and Gray had "tooled" the baby-king by easy stages

as far as Stony Stratford. The two lords came to Northampton to salute

Richard, who asked them to supper at his hotel, when Buckingham dropped

in and joined the party. The four noblemen passed the evening together

very pleasantly, for the song, the sentiment, the joke and the jug,

the pitcher and the pun, were passed about until long after midnight.

Stretchers for two were in readiness, to take home Gray, who looked

dreadfully blue, and Rivers, who was half-seas over, while the two

dukes, who had kept tolerably sober, remained in secret debate, for they

did

"Not go home till morning,

Till daylight did appear."

On the morrow, the whole party started off, apparently very good

friends, towards Stony Stratford, to meet the young king, who was

immediately grasped by his uncle Gloucester.

The royal infant naturally gave a sort of squeak at the too affectionate

clutch of his uncle, who, pretending to think that Gray and Rivers

had alienated the boy's affection from himself, ordered them both into

arrest, when Gloucester and Buckingham fell obsequiously on their knees

before the child, whom they saluted as their sovereign. Their first care

was to ascertain who were his favourites, for the purpose of getting rid

of them. Two of the royal servants, Sir Thomas Vaughan and Sir Richard

Hawse, were dismissed not only without a month's warning, but, as

they were sent off to prison at once, "suiting themselves with other

situations" was utterly impossible. Young Edward was kept as a kind of

prisoner, and Elizabeth, his mother, when she heard the news, set off

to Westminster, with her second son and the five young ladies--her

daughters--after her. The queen-mother had no party in London, and her

arrival with her quintette of girls created no sensation.

In a few days young Edward entered the city, but more as a captive than

as a king, and lodgings were immediately taken for him in the Tower,

where he was to be boarded, and, alas! done for by his loving uncle.

Gloucester was named protector to the youthful sovereign, and moved

to No. 1, Crosby Place, Bishopsgate (the number on the door), where,

instead of behaving himself like a gentleman "living private," he held

councils, while Hastings, who began to doubt the duke's loyalty, gave a

series of opposition parties in the Tower. At one of these, Richard, who

had never received a card of invitation, walked in, and voted himself

into the chair with the most consummate impudence. In vain did Hastings

intimate that it was a private room, or that Gloucester must have

mistaken the house for there he sat, exclaiming, "Oh no, not at all,"

begging the company to make themselves at home, as he fully meant to

do. He was particularly facetious to the Bishop of Ely, asking after his

garden in Holborn, and proposing to the prelate to send for a plate of

strawberries.

[Illustration: 327]

These were soon brought, and Richard indulged in "potations pottle deep"

of strawberries and cream, declaring all the while that the fruit was

capital, and that of all wind instruments there was none he liked to

have a blow out upon so much as the hautboy. The Protector having

gone away for a short time, returned in a very ill humour, with his

countenance looking exceedingly sour, as if the strawberries he had

eaten had disagreed with him and the cream had curdled. He gave his

lips several severe bites, and altogether appeared exceedingly snappish.

Presently he asked what those persons deserved who had compassed or

imagined his destruction. Hastings observed, "Why, that is so completely

out of my compass that I can scarcely guess, but I don't mind saying

off-hand that death is the least punishment they merit." The Protector

declared his brother's wife--meaning the queen--and Mrs. Shore had

between them twisted his body, which would, indeed, have been doing him

a very bad turn; and, pulling up his sleeve, he exhibited his left arm,

declaring there was something not at all right about it. The council

agreed that the limb was a good deal damaged, and Hastings added that

"_if_ Mrs. Shore and the queen had really had a hand in Richard's arm,

they certainly deserved grievous punishment."

"What!" roared the Protector, "do you answer me with 'ifs'? I tell you

they have, and no mistake." Whereupon he banged his fist down upon the

table with tremendous violence, giving himself as well as Hastings a

frightful rap on the knuckles. Thereupon a door opened, and "men in

harness came rushing in," according to More, and, being in harness,

they proceeded to fix the saddle on the right horse immediately. The

Protector exclaimed "I arrest thee, traitor," and pointed to Hastings,

who cried out "Eh! What! Oh! Pooh! Stuff! You're joking! Arrest me? What

have I done? Fiddlestick!" To pursue the elegant description given by

More, we must add that "another let fly at Stanley," who bobbed down his

head and crawled under the table.

[Illustration: 328]

The officers, after some trouble, pulled him out by the leg--having

first drawn off his boot in a futile attempt to secure him--and carried

him away in custody. Richard then had another turn at Hastings, who was

in a sort of hysterical humour, at one moment treating the matter as a

joke, and at another not knowing exactly what to make of it. "You may

laugh," at length roared Richard, "but I'll tell you what it is, my Lord

Hastings, I've ordered my dinner to be ready by the time I get home,

but by St. Paul I'll not touch a mouthful--and I own I'm deuced

hungry--until I've seen your head."

Hastings replied that such a condition was easily fulfilled, and

thrusting his head into Richard's face exclaimed "There, my lord, you've

seen my head, so now go home as soon as you like, and get your dinner."

The Protector pushing him aside, expressed contempt for the paltry

quibble, and amended the affidavit by inserting the word "off" after the

word "head," and exclaiming "I'll see Hastings' head off before I

touch a bit of dinner." Hastings was seized, and the purveyors for the

Protector soon brought him the _avant goût_ which he had required as a

provocative to his appetite. Richard's violence had thus come suddenly

to a head, and Earl Rivers, with Sir Thomas Vaughan and Sir Richard

Hawse, were executed on the same day at Pontefract.

A few days after these executions, Richard went to the sanctuary at

Westminster, arm-in-arm with the Archbishop of Canterbury, and called

for the little Duke of York, who, they said, would be wanted for the

coronation. Consent was somewhat unwillingly given, and Richard having

got the child away, made him a prisoner in the Tower. An affecting

anecdote is told of the ruse that was resorted to by Gloucester and

his friend, the archbishop, to entrap their juvenile victim into going

quietly with them towards the gloomy scene of his destined captivity.

They lured him on from place to place by pretending that they were

going to treat him to some wonderful show, and they took all sorts

of roundabout ways to prevent him from suspecting the point they were

really driving at. When the poor child was becoming tired of his walk,

and surrounding objects had lost the attraction of novelty, he began

crying after his mamma, with that filial force which is peculiar to the

earliest period of infancy. Gloucester began to fear they should get

a mob after them, if, as he savagely expressed himself, "the brat

continued to howl," and the little fellow was promised, for the purpose

of "stopping his mouth," that he should see his mother immediately.

After walking him nearly off his little legs through back streets and

alleys, they brought him out upon Tower Hill, and Richard, no longer

disguising the fact that he was acting the part of the cruel uncle,

snatched up in his arms the trembling child, who presently found himself

in one of the gloomy apartments of the Tower.

Richard's next artifice was to practise the "moral dodge," which seldom

fails to tell upon an indiscriminating multitude. Jane Shore, who had

been seduced by the late king, was fixed upon as a mark for plunder and

persecution by Richard, who first robbed the poor woman of all she had

and then sent her to prison. He professed to be so shocked at some of

the incidents of her past life, that, as a moral agent or acting member

of society for the suppression of vice, he could not allow her to

escape without some heavy punishment. She was proceeded against in the

Ecclesiastical Courts, and ordered to walk about London with a lighted

rushlight in her hand and wearing nothing but a pair of sheets or a

counterpane. The Hammersmith Ghost and Spring-heeled Jack are the only

legitimate successors of Jane Shore in this remarkable proceeding,

and might have cited her case as a precedent for their own unlawful

practices.

Richard also entered into an arrangement with Doctor Shaw, a

popular preacher, who was to preach down, or, as it was then called,

depreachiate the two young princes. The Reverend Doctor then threw a

doubt on their legitimacy, and declared their late father Edward was

not a bit like his reputed father, the Duke of York, and pulling out two

enormous caricatures from under his gown he asked the crowd whether

any likeness could be traced between them. "Instead of the eyes," he

exclaimed, "being as like as two peas, these eyes are not even as like

as two gooseberries!" He then asked his hearers to compare notes by

comparing the noses of the two portraits he held in his hand; ana,

pointing to the picture of Richard, Duke of York, he reminded them

that the bridge of the nose was exactly like that of Richard, Duke of

Gloucester. "There, my friends," he roared, "there is a bridge that I

think there is no possibility of getting over!" The allusion created a

laugh, but no conviction; and the failure was rendered more annoying by

the Protector not arriving in time, as had been previously arranged,

to enable Dr. Shaw to point out the striking likeness. By some mistake

Richard missed the cue for his entrance, and did not come in until the

comparison had passed, when upon Shaw endeavouring to recur to it,

the trick was so obvious that the people only stared at each other, or

passed their right thumbs significantly over their left shoulders. The

Protector vented his disappointment and anger on the preacher, whom he

denounced as an old meddler who did not know what he was talking about,

and Doctor Shaw sneaked off, amid derision, shouts of "Pshaw! Pshaw!"

and the jeers of the populace.

On the following Tuesday Richard got his friend Buckingham to go down to

Guildhall to give him a regular good puff, at a meeting of the citizens.

Buckingham's speech was listened to with a deal of apathy, and there

were numerous cries of "Cut it short," responded to with a faint shout

of "Hear him out," and an occasional ejaculation of "Now then, stupid!"

Buckingham persevered, and at the close of his address somebody threw

up a bonnet, exclaiming "Long live King Richard!" The bonnet belonged

evidently to a person of straw, and excited little more than ridicule.

The speech of Buckingham to the citizens assembled in Guildhall, was

a rare specimen of the eloquence of humbug; and it evidently formed a

model for the discourses sent forth by auctioneers from the rostrum at

a later period, The whole system, indeed, pursued by the Duke of

Buckingham on the memorable occasion of his putting up the claim of

Richard to the suffrages of the bystanders, was evidently in accordance

with that by which bad lots are frequently got off at the highest

prices.

When there was a faint snout of "Long live King Richard," from a

solitary individual, Buckingham adroitly multiplied the exclamation by

declaring that he heard it "in two places," though he knew perfectly

well that a solitary puffer, in his own employ, had been the only one

who raised a shout for Gloucester. "What shall I say for Richard?" he

lustily vociferated. "Look at him, gentlemen, before you bid. There's

nothing spurious about _him_. Come, gentlemen, give me a bidding." At

this juncture, one of the duke's touters cried out, from the bottom of

the hall, "I'll bid a crown," and a slight titter arising, Buckingham

took advantage of the circumstance to assert, that "a crown was bid for

Richard in several places at once;" whereupon the tyrant was said to

have been accepted at that price, and the business of the day concluded.

[Illustration: 331]

On the next day a deputation was got up to wait on Richard at his

lodgings, when he at first declined seeing them. His servant returned

to say the gentleman particularly wished an interview, and Gloucester

desired they might be shown up, when Buckingham and a few of the

deputation were admitted to his presence. They handed him a paper,

inviting and pressing him to accept the crown; but he observed, with

assumed modesty, "that if he had it, he really should not know what to

do with it."

"Clap it on your head, of course," said Buckingham; and, suiting the

action to the word, he thrust the bauble on the brow of his friend,

observing, "Upon my honour, he looks well in it, don't he, Shaw?" and he

turned to the Lord Mayor for approval. Richard, however, shook his head,

and remarked that "he could not think of it;" when Buckingham, by

a happy turn, suggested that "they had thought of it for him, and

therefore, he might as well do it first and think of it afterwards."

"But the little princes," remarked Richard, "whom I love bo much." This

caused Buckingham to say, in the name of all present, that "they had

determined not to have the little princes at any price." Upon this,

Gloucester replied, "that he must meet the wishes of the people, and if

they must have him, they must, but he, really, had a good deal rather

not;" when, amid a quantity of significant winking on all sides, an end

was put to the conference.

This scene was enacted on the 24th of June, 1483, which was the last day

of the nominal reign of the fifth Edward. It is impossible to give any

character of this unfortunate king, whose sovereignty was almost limited

to the walls of his own nursery. He might sometimes have played at

sitting on a throne and holding a sceptre in his hand, but he never

exercised the smallest power. He may, upon one or two occasions, have

been allowed to dissolve Parliament; but it was only in the form of the

cake so called, which he might, perhaps, be permitted to dissolve by the

force of suction.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH. RICHARD THE THIRD.

[Illustration: 332]

RICHARD, on coming to the throne, rushed into Westminster Hall, and took

his seat on a sort of marble slab or mantel-piece, between the great

Lord Howard and the Duke of Suffolk. The precious trio looked like a set

of chimney ornaments, of which Richard formed the centre. He declared

that he commenced his reign in that place, because it had been once a

judgment-seat, and he was anxious to administer justice to his people.

Ten days after, on the 6th of July, he was crowned in Westminster Abbey,

and to prevent any murmurs at his usurpation, he was lavish of gifts,

promotion and bribery. The Duke of Norfolk, the celebrated jockey

mentioned by Shakspeare, who had put Richard in training for the throne,

became Earl Marshal, and his son was created Earl of Surrey, in honour,

perhaps, of the surreptitious manner in which the crown had been

obtained for his master Richard. The Archbishop of York and the Bishop

of Ely were set at liberty, "which caused them to dance with joy,"

according to one of the chroniclers, though we cannot imagine a pair

of prelates indulging in Terpsichorean diversions on their release from

prison.

In the course of the summer, Richard made a royal progress, and was

enthusiastically received, though it is believed that much of

the enthusiasm was got up by frequent rehearsals with a set of

supernumeraries, who were sent on before from town to town, to give

a reception to the new sovereign. If Richard was expected to arrive

anywhere at two, the populace would be called at one, to run through--in

rehearsal--the cheers and gestures of satisfaction that were required to

give brilliance to the usurper's entry. When he arrived at York, a wish

was expressed by the inhabitants to see a coronation; and though the

ceremony had already been performed in London, it was announced that the

spectacle would be repeated, "by particular desire of several families

of distinction."

While Richard's starring expedition was most successful in the

provinces, things in London were by no means looking up, for

conspiracies were being formed to release the two young princes from the

Tower. The usurper, not relishing these proceedings, sent a certain John

Green--whose unsuspecting innocence has made viridity synonymous with

stupidity ever since--as the bearer of a message, the purport of

which he was wholly unconscious of. It was addressed to Sir Thomas

Brackenbury, the governor of the Tower, requesting him to put to death

the two royal children, by smothering them--in onions, or anything else

that might be found convenient. Brackenbury refused the commission,

not so much out of regard to the little princes as from fear on his

own account, and he sent back the monosyllable "No" as an answer to the

sovereign. Green, who knew not the purport of the message, returned with

the curt reply, and upon his reiterating "No" as all he was desired to

say, Richard angrily desired him "not to show his nose again at court

for a considerable period." The tyrant was not, however, to be daunted,

and he called his Master of the Horse, Sir James Tyrrel, whom he desired

to go and lock every door in the Tower, and put the keys in his pocket.

One night in August, Tyrrel took with him a fellow named Miles Forrest,

a professional assassin, and John Dighton, an amateur, a big, broad,

square, and strong knave, who, notwithstanding his squareness, was

living on the cross for a long period. The precious trio went together

to the Tower, and Tyrrel waiting at the door, Miles Forrest entered with

John Dighton, who jointly smothered the children in the bedclothes.

Dighton and Forrest entered with savage earnestness into this horrible

transaction, and conducted themselves after the cruel fashion of a clown

and pantaloon in a pantomime when an infant falls into their formidable

clutches. Dighton danced on the bed, while Forrest flung himself across

it with fearful vehemence. Tyrrel, who was standing outside, acted the

part of an undertaker in this truly black job, and buried the princes at

the foot of the staircase.

Various accounts have been given of this atrocious deed, and

antiquarians have quarrelled about the form of the bed the princes used

to sleep upon. Some declare it was a turn-up, in which the children were

suddenly inclosed; whilst others affirm that the princes had the thread

of their existence cut on that useful form of bedstead familiarly

known as the scissors. Thus, to use the language of the philosopher, a

feather-bed and pillows were made to bolster up the title of Richard,

who from his artifice was exceedingly likely to have recourse to such

a downy expedient. We may be excused for adding from the same high

authority we have taken the liberty to quote, that this assassination on

a palliasse was an act that nothing could palliate.

[Illustration: 334]

Richard, by whom the outward decencies of life were very scrupulously

observed, in order to make up for the inward deficiencies of his mind,

determined to go into mourning for the young princes and repaired to

the same _maison de deuil_ which he had honoured with his patronage on

a former occasion, when requiring the "trapping of woe" for himself and

his retainers on the death of his dear brother.

Another competitor now appeared for the crown, in the person of Henry

Tudor, Esquire, commonly called the Earl of Richmond, who came with a

drawn sword in his hand and a pedigree already drawn up in his pocket.

He was considered to represent the line of Lancaster by right of his

mother, who was a great-granddaughter of John of Gaunt, whose extreme

tallness proved him to be a worthy scion of the house to which the

title of Lanky-shire--as it then might have been spelled--was obviously

appropriate. In order to strengthen Richmond's party and give him a

spice of Yorkism, a marriage was proposed with Elizabeth, of York, on

the same principle that beef is sometimes cut with a hammy knife to give

it a flavour. Richmond was joined by several nobles hitherto favourable

to Richard, and even Buckingham, who had been indebted to him for wealth

and office, suddenly turned against him. When Richard heard the news

he put a price on the heads of all the leaders of the insurrection;

and Buckingham's head, though a very empty one, was ticketed at a

considerable figure.

Henry, Earl of Richmond, appeared with a fleet off Devonshire, but

finding no one on the coast to meet him, he sailed back to St. Malo.

Buckingham, who ought to have been on the look-out, was blundering

about the right bank of the Severn, which he was unable to cross in

consequence of the rains, when his army, finding themselves short

of rations, declined continuing such a very irrational enterprise.

Buckingham was left without a man, except his own servant--a fellow

of the name of Banister--upon whose fidelity he threw himself. He soon

found that he had been leaning upon a fragile prop, for this Banister

broke down and betrayed his miserable master. Buckingham was accordingly

captured, and sneakingly solicited an interview with Richard the Third,

who, on hearing of his being taken, coolly drew on his glove and roared

with a stentorian voice, "Off with his head!--so much for Buckingham!"

Richard now came to town, and summoned a Parliament, which was

exceedingly complaisant; declaring him the lawful sovereign, by birth,

by election, by coronation, by consecration, and by inheritance. Thus

the usual attempt was made to make up by quantity for the deficiency as

to quality in the title of the usurper, and the Princedom of Wales was

settled on his boy Edward. Attainders were dealt out pretty freely among

Richard's opponents, who were pronounced traitors in the usual form,

which was kept to be filled up with the name of the unsuccessful party;

while oaths of loyalty were always to be had--in blank--for the use of

that numerous class which followed the crown with the fidelity of

the needle to the pole,--the pole being the head that happened to be

wearing--_pro tem_.--the precious bauble.

Richard, being afraid that Richmond would gain strength by the project

of marriage with Elizabeth of York, determined on marrying the young

lady himself; an idea which both herself and her intriguing old

mother most indelicately jumped at. The king being already married,

difficulties arose, but it was proposed to poison Lady Anne, which,

as quack medicines had not been yet invented, was a somewhat difficult

process. There was no specific then in existence for curing every

disease, or the matter might have been arranged at once; nor had the

fatal art of punning become known, or Richard might have placed the

author of the triple _jeu de mot_ in attendance upon the Lady Anne, to

be, in time, the death of her. The quarrelsome and cat-like disposition

of this unhappy female may account for the tenacity of life which

she exhibited; and the young Elizabeth kept continually writing up to

inquire why the queen took so much time in dying. It was now the middle

of February, 1484, and Lady Anne was still alive; but her obstinacy was

soon cured by her husband, and in the course of March she was got rid

of. Richard immediately opened to his friends and admirers his scheme

for marrying Elizabeth; but they strongly opposed it, and he then

pretended that he had never meant anything of the sort, but that the

minx--for as such he stigmatised the young lady--had for some time

persisted in setting her cap at him.

[Illustration: 336]

Henry was now preparing to make a descent upon England, when Richard

did all he could to damage him by proclamations, in which Richmond

was alluded to as "one Tudor," and his adherents were stigmatised as

cut-throats and extortioners. Had this been the fact, it was certainly

a case of pot pitching into kettle; and the usurping saucepan poured

out its sauce with wondrous prodigality. Numerous were the expedients

resorted to for the purpose of damaging the cause of Henry Tudor.

Descriptions of his person were issued, and the people were warned

against admitting to their confidence the individual of whom a

caricature representation, or rather mis-representation, was sent

abroad, to give an unfavourable idea of Richmond's exterior. Among

other schemes to obtain popularity, Richard affected the character of a

practical man, and personally attended to the administration of justice

in a few cases, where, having no interest of his own to serve, he gave

somewhat fair decisions.

His efforts were now directed to putting the country in a state of

defence, and he sent his friends to the coast to bear the brunt of the

first attack, while he smuggled himself up pretty comfortably in the

middle of a large army in the centre of the kingdom. Several of his

friends betrayed him, while others sent excuses on the score of ill

health, and Stanley apologised in a coarse note, declaring he was

confined to his bed by "a sweating sickness." Richard merely muttered,

"Oh! indeed, and I suppose he sends me a wet blanket to prove the fact;"

but he, nevertheless, ordered Stanley to be closely looked after. Henry

landed at Milford Haven on the 7th of August, 1484, with about five

thousand men, and on the 21st of the month the two armies met in a

field near Bosworth. There a battle was fought, of which Shakespeare

has furnished a series of pictures, which, on the stage, attempts are

frequently made to realise. The contest, according to this authority,

appears to have been carried on amid a mysterious flourish of drums and

trumpets, to which soldiers, on both sides, kept running to and fro,

without doing any serious mischief. Richmond's people, to the extent

of about ten, then encountered about an equal number of Richard's

adherents, and striking together, harmlessly, the tips of some long

pikes, the two parties became huddled together, and retired in the same

direction, apparently to talk the matter over and effect a compromise.

The field then seems to have become perfectly clear, when Richard ran

across it, fearfully out of breath, fencing with a foil at nothing, and

calling loudly for a horse in exchange for his kingdom, though there

was not such a thing as a quadruped to be had for love or money. He then

seems to have shouted lustily for Richmond, and to have asserted that

he had already killed him five different times, from which it is to be

inferred that the crafty Henry had no less than half a dozen suits of

armour all made alike to mislead his antagonist. Richard then rushed

away, with a hop, skip and jump, after some imaginary foe; and Richmond

occupied the field; when Richard, happening to come back, they

stood looking at each other for several seconds. We may account

for Gloucester's temporary absence by referring to the historical

authorities, for he had probably chosen the interval in question to make

Sir John Cheney bite the dust, a most unpleasant process for Sir John,

who must have ground his teeth horribly with a mouthful of gravel.

The two competitors for the throne then stood upon their guard, and a

beautiful fencing-match ensued, to which there were no witnesses. A few

complimentary speeches were exchanged between some of the home thrusts,

and the combatants occasionally paused to take an artistical view of

each other's gallant bearing. Business is, however, business in the long

run, which, in this instance, ended in Richard being run through by the

victorious Richmond. The soldiers of the latter, who appear to have been

waiting behind a hedge to watch in whose favour fortune might turn,

ran forward at the triumph of their master being complete, and formed

a picture round him, while Stanley, taking the battered crown which

Richard had worn in battle, placed it--in its smashed state looking

like a gilt-edged opera hat--on the head of Richmond. The manner in

which Stanley became possessed of the ill-used bauble is quite in

accordance with the dramatic colouring that tinges and tinfoils this

beautiful period of our history. It is said that an old soldier kicked

against something in an adjacent field, and began actually playing at

football with the regal diadem. Placing his foot inside the rim, he sent

it flying into the air, when a ray of sunshine, lighting on one of the

jewels, revealed to him that it was no ordinary plaything he had got

hold of. Running with it as fast as he could to Stanley, the honest

fellow placed it in his lordship's hands, with a cry of "See what I have

found!" after the manner of the pantaloon under similar circumstances

in a pantomime. Stanley was about to put it in his pocket, when another

noble roared out, "Oh, I'll tell!" and a cry of "Somebody coming!" being

raised, the diadem was ingeniously dropped on to the head of Richmond.

The crown was fearfully scrunched by the numerous heavy blows its wearer

had received, and Henry the Seventh, taking it off for a moment to

push it a little into shape, exclaimed--half mournfully, half

jocularly--"Well, well, to the punishment of the usurper this indenture

witnesseth." The Duke of Norfolk--our old friend the jockey--shared his

master's fate, or rather had a similar fate all to himself, though as he

received the fatal crack, he expressed a wish that he might be allowed

to split the difference.

The fierce and interesting battle we are now speaking of was one of

those short but sharp transactions, which leave their marks no less upon

posterity than upon the heads and helmets of the warriors engaged in the

fearful contest. The great importance of the event deserves something

more than the prosaic narrative in which we have recorded it; and having

sent our boy to the Pierian spring with a pitcher, for the purpose of

getting it filled with the source of inspiration, we proceed to attempt

a poetical account of the Battle of Bos-worth. The celebrated Mr. Thomas

Babington Macaulay has, we acknowledge, kindled our poetic fire, by his

"Lays of Ancient Rome;" and our imagination having been once set in a

blaze it must needs continue to burn, unless, by blowing out our brains,

we put a suicidal extinguisher on the flame. Philosophy, however,

teaches us that "_L'ame est un feu qu'il faut nourrir_" (Voltaire) and

_alere flammam_ is a suggestion so familiar to our youth, that we do not

scruple to throw an entire scuttle of the coals of encouragement upon

the incipient flame of our poetic genius. We know that poetry is often

an idle pursuit, and that he is generally lazy who addicts himself to

the composition of lays, but the Battle of Bosworth Field is an event

which fully deserves to have poetical justice done to it. Following

the example of the illustrious model, whose style we consider it no

humility, but rather an audacity, to imitate, we will suppose the

recital to be made some time after the event has occurred, and we

will imagine some veteran stage manager giving directions for, or

superintending the rehearsal of, a grand dramatic representation of one

of the grandest and--if we may be allowed the privilege of a literary

smasher in coming a word--the dramaticest battles in English history.

"Ho! trumpets, sound a note or two!

Ho! prompter, clear the stage!

A chord, there, in the orchestra:

The battle we must wage.

Your gallant supers marshal out--

Yes, I must see them all;

The rather lean, the very stout,

The under-sized, the tall:

The Yorkites in the centre,

Lancastrians in the rear,

Not yet the staff must enter--

The stage, I charge ye, clear

Those warriors in the green-room

Must have an extra drill;

Where's Richard's gilt-tipp'd baton?

They charged it in the bill.

Those ensigns with the banners

Must stand the other way,

Or else how is it possible

The white rose to display?"

Thus spoke the old stage manager,

The day before the night Richard and

Richmond on the field Of Bosworth had to fight.

And thus the light-heel'd call-boy

Upon that day began

To read of properties a list--

'Twas thus the items ran

"Four dozen shields of cardboard,

With paper newly gilt,

Six dozen goodly swords, and one

With practicable hilt;

The practicable hilt, of course,

Must be adroitly plann'd,

That when 'tis struck with mod'rate force,

'Twill break in Richard's hand.

Eight banners--four with roses white,

And four with roses red--

Six halberds, and a canopy

To hang o'er Richard's head;

A sofa for the tyrant's tent,

An ironing-board at back,

Whereon the ghosts may safely stand,

Who come his dreams to rack;

A lamp suspended in the air

By an invis'ble wire,

And--for the ghosts to vanish in--

Two ounces of blue fire."

Thus spoke the gallant call-boy,

The boy of many fights;

Who'd seen a battle often fought

Fifty successive nights.

The moment now approaches,

The interval is short,

Before the fearful battle

Of Bosworth must be fought;

Now Richmond's gallant soldiers

Are waiting at the wing,

Expecting soon that destiny

Its prompter's bell will ring;

Now at the entrance opposite

The troops of Richard stand,

Two dozen stalwart veterans--

A small but gallant band.

Hark I at the sound of trumpets,

They raise a hearty cheer,

Their voices have obtained their force

From recent draughts of beer.

Their leader, the false Richard,

Is lying in his tent,

But ghosts to fret and worry him

Are to his bedside sent.

Convulsively he kicks and starts,

He cannot have repose,

A guilty conscience breaks his rest,

By tugging at his toes.

A gentleman in mourning,

With visage very black,

When the tent curtain draws aside,

Is standing at the back;

And then a woman--stately,

But pale as are the dead--

Stood, in the darkness of the night,

To scold him in his bed.

There came they, and there preached they,

In most lugubrious way

Delivering curtain lectures

Until the east was grey;

Or rather, till the prompter,

Who has the proper cue,

Had quite consumed his quantity

Of fire, so bright and blue.

The conscience-stricken Richard

Now kicks with greater force,

Bears up, and plunges from his couch,

Insisting on a horse;

When, hearing from the village cock

A blithe and early scream,

He straightway recollects himself,

And finds it all a dream.

Now, on each side, the leaders

Long for the battle's heat,

But, by some luckless accident,

The armies never meet;

We hear them both alternately

Talking extremely large,

But never find them, hand to hand,

Mixed in the deadly charge.

"March on, my friends!" cries Richmond,

"True tigers let us be;

Advance your standards, draw your swords--

On, friends, and follow me!"

'Tis true, they follow him indeed,

But then, the way they go

Is just the way they're not at all

Likely to meet the foe.

So Richard, with his "soul in arms,"

Is "eager for the fray,"

But, with a hop, a skip, and jump,

Runs off--the other way.

He's to the stable gone, perchance,

Forgetting, in his flurry,

He has kept waiting all this time

His clever cob, White Surrey.

The brute is "saddled for the field,"

But never gains the spot,

For on his way Death knocks him down

In one--the common--lot.

[Illustration: 342]

Richard, a momentary pang

At the bereavement feels;

But, being thrown upon his hands,

Starts briskly to his heels.

And now the angry tyrant

Perambulates the field,

Calling on each ideal foe

To fight him or to yield.

"What, ho!" he cries, "Young Richmond!

But, 'mid the noise of drums,

Young Richmond doesn't hear him--

At least he never comes.

Now louder, and still louder,

Rise from the darken'd field

The braying of the trumpets.

The clang of sword and shields

But shame upon both armies!

For, if the truth be known,

'Tis not each other's shields they smite--

The clang is all their own;

For six of Richmond's people

Are standing in a row

(Behind the scenes), and with their swords

They give their shields a blow.

Wild shouts of "Follow, follow!"

Are raised in murmuring strain,

To represent the slayer's rage,

The anguish of the slain.

But now, in stem reality,

The battle seems to rage;

For Catesby comes to tell the world

How fiercely they engage.

He gives a grand description,

And says the feud runs high:

We won't suppose that such a man

Would stoop to tell a lie.

He says the valiant king "enacts

More wonders than a man; "

In fact, is doing what he can't,

Instead of what he can.

That all on foot the tyrant fights,

Seeks Bichmond, and will follow him

Into the very "throat of Death"--

No wonder Death should swallow him!

Now meeting on a sudden,

Each going the opposite way,

Richard and Richmond both advance,

Their valour to display.

Says Richard, "Now for one of us,

Or both, the time is come."

Says Bichmond, "Till I've settled this,

By Jove, I won't go home."

One, two, strikes Richard with his foil,

When Richmond, getting fierce,

Repeats three, four, and on they go,

With parry, quatre, and tierce.

Till suddenly the tyrant

Is brought unto a stand;

His weapon snaps itself in twain,

The hilt is in his hand.

The gen'rous Richmond turns aside,

Till someone at the wing

Another weapon to the foe

Good-naturedly doth fling.

Richard advances with a rush;

Richmond in turn retires;

Their weapons, every time they meet,

Flash with electric fires.

Posterity, that occupies

Box, gallery, and pit,

Applauds the pair alternately,

As each one makes a hit.

Now "Bravo, Richmond!" is the cry,

Till Richard plants a blow

With good effect, when to his side

Round the spectators go.

As fickle still as when at first,

The nation, undecided,

Was 'twixt the Roses White and Red

Alternately divided,

So does the modern audience

Incline, with favour strongest,

To him who in the contest seems

Likely to last the longest.

Then harsher sounds the trumpet,

And deeper rolls the drum,

Till both have had enough of it,

When Richard must succumb.

Flatly he falls upon the ground,

Declaring, when he's down,

He envies Bichmond nothing else,

Except the vast renown

Which he has certainly acquired

By being made to yield

Himself, that had been hitherto

The master of the field.

And then the soldiers, who have stood

Some distance from the fray,

Bush in to take their portion of

The glory of the day.

And men with banners in their hands,

At eighteen-pence a night,

Some with red roses on the flags,

And some with roses white,

By shaking them together,

The colours gently blend,

And the Battle of the Roses

Is for ever at an end.

[Illustration: 347]

The Battle of Bosworth Field terminated the War of the Roses, or rather

brought the roses into full blow, and cut off some of the flower of the

English nobility. Richmond was proclaimed king on the field, as Henry

the Seventh; and as the soldiers formed themselves into a _tableau_ the

curtain descended on the tragedy of the War between the Houses of York

and Lancaster.

Richard had reigned a couple of years and a couple of months when he

received his _quietus_ on the field of Bosworth. If ever there was a

king of England whose name was bad enough to hang him, this unfortunate

dog has a reputation which would suspend him on every lamp-post in

Christendom. The odium attaching to his policy has been visited on

his person, and it has been asserted that the latter was not straight

because the former was crooked. His right shoulder is said by Rouse,

who hated him, to have been higher than his left; but this apparent

deformity may have arisen from the party having taken a one-sided view

of him. His stature was small; but in the case of one who never stood

very high in the opinion of the public, it was physically impossible

for the fact to be otherwise. Walpole, in his very ingenious "Historic

Doubts," has tried to get rid of Richard's high hump, but the operation

has not been successful, in the opinion of any impartial umpire.

Imagination, that tyrant which has such a strange method of treating its

subjects, has had perhaps more to do than Nature in placing an enormous

burden on Richard's shoulders. His features were decidedly good-looking;

but on the converse of the principle that "handsome is as handsome

does," the tyrant Gloucester has been regarded as one of those who "ugly

was that handsome didn't."

It is a remarkable fact that Richard the Third during his short reign

received no subsidy from Parliament, though we must not suppose that

he ruled the kingdom gratuitously; for, on the contrary, his income was

ample and munificent. He got it in the shape of tonnage and poundage

upon all sorts of goods, and when money was not to be had he took

property to the full value of the claim he had upon it. The result was

that his treasury became a good deal like an old curiosity shop, a

coal shed, or a dealer's in marine stores, for anything that came in

Richard's way was perfectly acceptable. The principle of poundage was

applied to everything, even in quantities less than a pound, and he

would, even on a few ounces of sugar, sack his share of the saccharine.

If he required it for his own use he never scrupled to intercept the

housewife on her way from the butcher's and cut off the chump from the

end of the chop; nor did he hesitate, when he felt disposed, to lop the

very lollipop in the hands of the schoolboy. This principle of allowing

poundage to the king was in the highest degree inconvenient. It rendered

the meat-safe a misnomer, inasmuch as it was never safe from royal

rapacity.

It has been said of Richard, that he would have been well qualified to

reign, had he been legally entitled to the throne; or, in other words,

that he would have been a good ruler if he had not been a bad sovereign.

To us this seems to savour of the old anomaly--a distinction without a

difference. He certainly carried humbug to the highest possible point,

for he exhibited it upon the throne, which serves as a platform to make

either vice or virtue--as the case may be--conspicuous.

The trick by which he obtained possession of his nephew, the young King

Edward, whose liberty was likely to prove a stumbling-block in Richard's

own path to the throne, is remarkable for its cunning, and for the

intimate knowledge it displayed of the juvenile character. Proceeding to

the residence of the baby monarch's mamma, he began asking after "little

Ned" with apparently the most affectionate interest. He had previously

provided himself with a lot of sweetstuff as he came along, for it was

his deep design to intoxicate with brandy-balls the head of the infant

sovereign. "Where is the little fellow?" inquired Richard, who would

take no excuse for his nephew not being produced, but declared that

being in no hurry, he could wait the convenience of the nursery

authorities. Finding further opposition useless, Elizabeth reluctantly

ordered the boy to be brought down, when Richard asked him "Whether

he would like to go with Uncle Dick?" and got favourable answers by

surreptitiously cramming the child's mouth with lollipops.

[Illustration: 349]

Whenever the little fellow was about to say "He would rather stay with

his mamma," the Protector called his attention (aside) to a squib or

brandy-ball, and York consented at last to go with his uncle. "Oh!

I thought you would," cried the wily duke, as he clutched his little

nephew up and jogged with him to the Tower. Such was the artful scheme

by which the tyrant originally got possession of the subsequent victim

of avuncular cruelty. It has been urged in extenuation of his cruel

murder of the little princes, that their deaths were a necessary

sequel to those of Hastings and others; but it would have been a poor

consolation to the victims had they known that they were only killed by

way of supplement. We cannot think that any portion of the catalogue

of Richard's crimes should be printed in colours less black because

it formed a continuation or an appendix to his atrocities; nor can we

excuse Part II. of a horribly bad work because Part I. has rendered it

unavoidable.

It is urged by those writers who have defended him, that the crimes he

committed were only those necessary to secure the crown; but this is no

better plea than that of the highwayman who knocks a traveller on the

head because the blow is necessary to the convenient picking of the

victim's pockets. Richard's crimes might have been palliated in some

trifling degree, had they been essential to the recovery of his own

rights, but the case is different when his sanguinary career was only

pursued that he might get hold of that which did not belong to him. It

is true he was ambitious; but if a thief is ambitious of possessing our

set of six silver tea-spoons, we are not to excuse him because he knocks

us down and stuns us, as a necessary preliminary to the transfer of the

property from our own to our assailant's possession. The palliators of

Richard's atrocities declare that he could do justice in matters where

his own interest was not concerned; but this fact, by proving that he

knew better, is in fact an aggravation of the faults he was habitually

guilty of. It has been insinuated that when he had got all he wanted,

he might have improved, but that by killing him after he had come to the

throne, his contemporaries gave him no chance of becoming respectable.

It must be clear to every reasonable mind that the result, even had it

been satisfactory, would never have been worth the cost of obtaining it,

and that in tolerating Richard's pranks, on the chance of his becoming

eventually a good king, his subjects might well have exclaimed _le jeu

n'en vaut pas la chandelle_. In the _vexata questio_ of the cause of the

death of the princes, the guilt has usually been attributed to Richard,

because he reaped the largest benefit from their decease; but this

horrible doctrine would imply that a tenant for life is usually murdered

by the remainder-man, and that the enjoyer of the interest of Bank

Stock is frequently cut off by the reversioner who is entitled to the

principal. We admit there is a strong case against Richard upon other

more reasonable evidence: and thus from the magisterial bench of History

do we commit him to take his trial, and be impartially judged by the

whole of his countrymen.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH. NATIONAL INDUSTRY.

Let us now turn from the turmoil of war, and apply our eye-glass to the

pursuits of peace; for, having been surfeited for the present with royal

rapacity, it will be refreshing to take a glance at national industry.

London was at a very early period famous for the abundance of its wool,

and it has been ingeniously suggested that the great quantity of wool

may account for a sort of natural shyness or sheepishness among our

fellow-countrymen.

The Bill of Exchange was a luxury introduced in the beginning of the

thirteenth century, for the accommodation of our forefathers, who had

learned the value of a good name, and perhaps occasionally experienced

the inconveniences of a bad one.

There is nothing very interesting in the history of Commerce until the

time of Whittington, whose cat, we have already said, was a fabulous

animal, though it has taken its place by the side of the British Lion

in our English annals. We are inclined to believe that there is some

analogy between these two brutes, and that both are meant to be the

types respectively of our political and commercial prosperity. We have

sometimes thought that the British Lion, from its plurality of lives,

ought rather to be called the British Cat, especially from its readiness

to come to the scratch when the altar or the throne may seem to be in

jeopardy. Whatever may be the exact nature of the beast, it is certainly

a very highly-trained and somewhat harmless animal, for any statesman

may place his head in the British Lion's mouth, and remove it again

without suffering the slightest injury. The creature will roar loudly

enough and show an ample expanse of jaw, but it is frequently _vox

et praterea nihil_ with the noisy brute, whose grumbling is often

indicative of his extreme emptiness.

Whittington was certainly three times Lord Mayor of London, and we

find him "doing a bill" for Henry the Fourth to the tune of a thousand

pounds, and taking the subsidy on wool--out of which the sovereign

generally fleeced the people--as collateral security.

In the reign of Henry the Fifth considerable advance was made in the art

of ship-building, though from the pictures of the period it would seem

that the craft exhibited very little of the workman's cunning. One of

the ships of war of the fifteenth century, described in the Harleian

MS., has all the appearance of a raft constructed of a few planks, with

a sort of sentry-box at one end for the accommodation of the steersman.

In the larger vessels the entire crew will be found always crowding the

deck in a dense mass; for the rules against taking more than the number

were not enforced, and an ancient ship, like a modern carpet bag, was

never so full but something additional could be always crammed into it.

In this age commerce was so highly respectable that even kings carried

it on; and the highest ecclesiastics were in business for themselves as

tradesmen of the humblest character. Matthew Paris tells us of an abbot

of St. Alban's who did a good deal in the fish line, under the name of

William of Trumpington.

[Illustration: 352]

His chief transactions were in Yarmouth herrings, and the worthy abbot

undertook to put upon every breakfast table as good a bloater as money

could procure, at a very moderate figure. The benevolent dignitary had

come to the conclusion that the cure of herrings would pay him better

than the cure of souls, and he accordingly added the former lucrative

branch to the latter employment, with a pompous declaration that the two

might be considered analogous. This habit among the churchmen, of making

all fish that came to their net, was by no means popular and it was said

in a lampoon of the day, that the (chap. viii.) next thing to be done

would be the conversion of a prebendal stall into an oyster stall.

Among the other disreputable sources of revenue to which the

ecclesiastics devoted themselves we must not omit to mention smuggling,

which they carried on to an alarming extent in wool; for after going

wool-gathering in all directions, they padded themselves with it and

stuffed it under their gowns for the purpose of eluding the Customs'

regulations, to which the article was subjected.

Edward the Fourth was a true tradesman at heart, and, had he been a

general dealer instead of a king, he would have been quite in his proper

station. Nature had fitted him for the counter, though Fortune had

placed him on the throne; but even in his commercial transactions he

was guilty of acts that were quite unworthy of the high character of the

British tradesman. The butt of Malmsey in which he caused his brother to

be drowned was, it is believed, actually sold as a full fruity wine with

"plenty of body in it," after poor Clarence had been in soak till

death relieved him from his drenching. Edward the Fourth had also the

disagreeable habit of enriching himself by money which he borrowed from

the merchants, and never thought proper to return to them himself;

but if he paid them at all, he, by laying on taxes, took it out of the

people. It was also a fraudulent propensity of some of our early kings,

to depreciate the coin of the realm, and Edward the Third managed to

squeeze two hundred and seventy pennies, instead of two hundred and

forty, out of a pound, which enabled him to put the odd half-crown into

his own pocket. Henry the Fourth carried the sweating process still

further, by diluting a pound into thirty shillings, a trick he excused

by alleging the scarcity of money; though the expedient was as bad as

that of the housewife who, when the strength of the tea was gone, filled

up the pot with water for the purpose of making more of it. Edward the

Fourth, considering that his predecessors had not subjected the pound to

all the compound division of which it was capable, smashed it into four

hundred pennies, which was certainly proving that he could make a pound

go as far as anyone.

In speaking of the industry of the people, we may fairly allude to

what was regarded at the time as a great drag upon it in the shape of a

fearful increase of attorneys, who in 1455 had grown to such an extent

in Norfolk and Suffolk, that those places were literally swarming with

the black fraternity. In the city of Norwich the attorneys were so

plentiful that the evil began to correct itself, for they commenced

preying on each other, like the water-lion "Ya-ah! Macker--!"

water-tiger in the drop of stagnant fluid viewed through the solar

microscope. They were in the habit of attending markets and fairs where

they worked people up into bringing and defending actions against each

other, without the smallest legal ground for proceedings on either side.

A salutary statute cut down the exuberance of the attorneys by limiting

their numbers, and six were appointed as a necessary evil for Suffolk;

six as a standing nuisance in Norfolk; while two were apportioned under

the head of things that, as they "can't be cured must be endured," to

the city of Norwich. Such was the state of national industry up to the

period at which we have arrived in our history.

CHAPTER THE NINTH. OF THE MANNERS, CUSTOMS, AND CONDITION OF THE PEOPLE.

[Illustration: 353]

NOTWITHSTANDING that in a previous book we brought down the fashions and

furniture of our forefathers to the fourteenth century, in the present

chapter we shall have the pleasure of laying before our readers some

considerably later intelligence. We left our ancestors lying upon very

uncomfortable beds, but the year 1415 introduces us to some luxuries

in the way of curtains and counterpanes. The Duke of York set forth his

bedding in his will, which bears the date we have named, ana he seems to

have died worth some thousands of pounds--of superior goose feathers. At

a somewhat later period the sheet burst upon the page of history, and a

blank is supplied by the sudden appearance of the blanket.

It was about the same period that clocks with strings and weights began

to have a striking influence on the time, and Edward the Fourth used to

carry one about with him wherever he went, but we do not believe that

he wore it in a watchpocket, from which, instead of key and seals, there

hung a couple of weights and a pendulum.

Costume seems to have been curtailed of very little of its exuberant

absurdity in the reigns of Henry the Fourth and Fifth, though reform was

carried to extremes, for it cut off the surplus hair from the head, and

took away at least half a yard from the foot by relieving the shoes

of their long points, a fashion which had always been remarkable for

extreme pointlessness.

In the reign of Edward the Fourth there appears to have been a practice

prevalent of making a shift to go without a shirt, when those who had

such a thing to their backs were seized with a spirit of self-assertion,

and began to slash open their sleeves for the purpose of showing

their possession of that very useful article. The desire to prove the

plenteousness and perhaps also the _propreté_ of the under linen, led

to a further ripping up of other parts of the dress, and the fops of the

day began to outslash each other by opening the seams of their clothes

in the most unseemly fashion.

Richard the Third and his "cousin of Buckingham" were notorious for

their love of finery, and the term "buck," which is used at the present

day, is evidently an abbreviation of Buckingham, Richard, probably,

invented the Dicky or false front, which gave him the appearance of

having always a clean breast, though the fact is that he was reduced to

the expedient of wearing a false front, because the stains of guilt upon

his bosom were utterly indelible.

The appetite of the fifteenth century seems to have been uncommonly

good, for we find our ancestors eating four meals a day, beginning with

breakfast at seven, dinner at ten, supper at four, and a collation taken

in bed--oh, the cormorants!--between eight and nine in the evening.

The meal taken in bed may have consisted of a _blanquette de veau_,

or perhaps now and then a bolster pudding, while the ladies may have

indulged themselves with a _côtelette en papillotes_. Earl Percy and

his countess used to absorb between them a gallon of beer and a quart of

wine, and before being tucked up for the night would tuck in a loaf of

household bread, with other trifles to follow. A dinner in the days to

which we are reverting generally lasted three hours, but tumblers and

dancers were employed to amuse the feasters, so that a kind of caper

sauce was served out with every dish that came to table.

Nothing in the whole annals of ancient and modern gluttony can exceed

the dinner said to have been given by George Neville, the brother of

the King-maker, on his induction to the Archbishopric of York, in

the fifteenth century. It opened with a hundred and four oxen (_au

naturel_), six wild bulls (_a la ménagère_), three hundred and four

calves (_en surprise_), with innumerable _entrées_ of pigs, bucks,

stags, and roes, to an extent that is not only almost but quite

incredible.

The pictures of the period represent a very inconvenient mode of laying

the table, for we find a fish served up in a slop-basin, or rather laid

across the top of that article of china-ware, which was much too small

to admit the body of the animal. As far as we can discern the intention

of the artist, we fancy we recognise in one of his pictures of a feast a

duck lying on its back in a sort of sugar-basin or salt-cellar. This and

a kind of mustard-pot, with an empty plate and half of a dinner-roll,

may be said to constitute the entire provision made for a party of

seven, who are standing up huddled together on one side of the table, in

an existing representation of a dinner of the period.

The sports of the people were very numerous in the fifteenth century;

but if we may judge by the pictures we have seen of the games, there was

more labour than fun in the frolics of our forefathers. The contortions

into which they seem to have thrown themselves while playing at

bowls are quite painful to contemplate; and the well-known game of

quarter-staff consisted of a mutual battering of shins and skulls, with

a pole about six feet in length and some inches in circumference. Tennis

was introduced at this early date, and it is therefore erroneous to

assign its invention to Archbishop Tennison,--a report which has been

spread by some unprincipled person, whose career of crime commencing in

a pun has ended in a falsehood.

The professional fool was a highly respectable character in the middle

ages; and the court jester was a most influential personage, who was

allowed to criticise all the measures of the ministry. He was a sort of

supplementary premier; but, in later administrations--the present

always excepted--the office of fool has merged among the members of the

Government. It is a curious fact, that, judging from the portraits

which have been preserved, the fools seem to have been the most

sensible-looking persons of their own time; and the proverb, that "it

takes a wise man to make a fool," was, no doubt, continually

realised. The practical jokes of the jester were sometimes exceedingly

disagreeable, for they consisted chiefly of blows and buffets,

administered by a short wand, called a bauble, which he was in the habit

of carrying. It was all very well when the fool's sallies happened to be

taken in good part, but a witticism coming _mal-a-propos_, would often

prove no joke to the joker, who would get soundly thrashed' for his

impertinence. An ancient writer * describes the functions of a fool

to have consisted chiefly of "making mouths, dancing about the house,

leaping over the tables, outskipping men's heads, tripping up his

companions' heels," and indulging in other similar _facetio_, which,

though falling under the head of fun for the fool himself, might have

been death to the victims of his exuberant gaiety. His life must

have been one unbroken pantomime; though its last scene was seldom so

brilliant as those bowers of bliss and realms of delight in the island

of felicity, which owe their existence to the combined ingenuity of the

painter and the machinist.

* Lodge, author of the _Wit's Miserie_, 4to, 1599.

The spirit of chivalry had already begun to decline, or rather chivalry

had lost its spirit altogether, for when it once became diluted it took

very little time to evaporate. The few real combats that were fought

referred chiefly to judicial proceedings, in which points of law were

decided by the points of lances. The combatants probably thought they

might as well bleed each other as allow themselves to be bled by the

hands of the lawyers. The tournaments had dwindled down into the most

contemptible exhibitions, for the spears used were entirely headless,

and an encounter generally ended in the clashing together of a couple

of blunted swords or the flourishing in the air of a brace of huge

choppers, so that as the antagonists kept turning about, they might be

said to revolve round each others' axes.

Before concluding our chapter on the manners and customs of the

people at the date to which our history has arrived we may notice some

regulations for apparel, by which it was ordered, not only that every

man should cut his coat according to his cloth, but should select his

cloth according to the means he had of buying it. Apparel was not the

only thing with which the law interfered, but some Acts were

passed, fixing the rate of meals to be allowed to servants, and thus

ameliorating their condition. Articles of dress were subjected to the

most stringent legislation, and tailors were of necessity guided by

Parliamentary measures; carters and ploughmen were limited by law to a

blanket, so that the lightness of the restrictions permitted a looseness

of attire, which was highly convenient. Persons not of noble rank were

prohibited from wearing garments of undue brevity; and it was only those

of the highest standing to whom the shortest dresses were permitted.

It was in the period to which the present chapter refers, that English

pauperism first became the subject of legislation; and it was an

acknowledged principle, that the land must provide the poor with food

and shelter, for civilization had not yet required the suppression of

destitution by starvation and imprisonment.

We have now brought down our account of the condition of the people,

from the highest to the lowest, from the king on his throne to the

pauper on his parish, from the royal robber in the palace to the sturdy

beggar in the public thoroughfare. We have seen how England was torn

to pieces by the thorns belonging to the Roses, and how, after fighting

about the difference between white and red, the union of both taught

those who had been particular to a shade, the folly of observing so

much nicety. Future chapters must develop the influence which this union

produced, and will show the effect of that junction between the damask

and the cabbage roses, which had only been brought about by dyeing them

in the blood of so many Englishmen.