BOOK V. FROM THE ACCESSION OF HENRY THE SEVENTH TO THE END OF THE REIGN

OF ELIZABETH.

CHAPTER THE FIRST. HENRY THE SEVENTH.

[Illustration: 347]

THOUGH Henry had got the crown upon his head, he did not feel quite

sure of being able to keep it there, for he knew there was nothing so

difficult to balance on the top of a human pole as a regal diadem.

He felt that what had been won by the sword must be sustained by that

dangerous weapon, though he was not insensible to the fact that edged

tools are frequently hurtful to the hand that uses them. He became

jealous of Edward Plan-tagenet, a boy of fifteen, the heir of the Duke

of York, and grandson of Warwick, the king-maker. This un-happy lad was

sent to the Tower, lest his superior right might prove mightier than the

might which Henry had displayed on the field of Bosworth.

The Princess Elizabeth, daughter of the Queen Dowager, who was known by

the humbler name of Mrs. E. Woodville, was let out of prison, to which

she had been consigned by Richard the Third, who kept her closely under

lock and key from the moment when he found it impossible to unite her to

him in wedlock.

Henry came up to London five days after the battle of Bosworth, and was

met at Hornsey by the Lord Mayor and Aldermen, all dressed in violet,

which caused the new king to exclaim, "Ha! gentlemen, you wish me to

take a hint. Your privileges shall be, like yourselves, in-violate!" He

then proceeded in a close chariot to St. Paul's, where he deposited his

three standards; and it has been suggested, that the celebrated Standard

at Cornhill was one of those alluded to. The festivities in London

were so numerous at the accession, that the city became crowded to

suffocation, and the "sweating sickness," which will be remembered as

Stanley's old complaint, broke out among the inhabitants.

[Illustration: 358]

When it had abated Henry began to think about his coronation, and

he took an early dinner at Lambeth with the Archbishop of

Canterbury--Thomas Bourchier--to talk the matter over. The king and the

prelate soon came to terms over their chop for the performance of the

ceremony, which took place on the 30th of October, 1485, in the usual

style of elegance. The good archbishop was an old and experienced hand:

for he had crowned Richard the Third only two years before, and indeed

the system of the prelate was, to ask no questions that he might hear no

falsehoods; but he was always ready to perform a coronation for anyone

who could find his own crown, and pay the fees that were usual.

A Parliament was now summoned, but when the Commons came together,

it turned out that several of them had been attainted and outlawed in

previous reigns without the attainders having been since reversed, and

Henry himself was in the same doubtful predicament. The opinion of the

judges was required in this disagreeable dilemma, but the intention in

consulting them was only to get these accommodating interpreters of the

law to twist it into a shape that would meet existing contingencies.

With the usual pliability of the judges of those days, the parties whose

opinion was asked gave it in favour of the strongest side, and Henry's

having got the crown was declared to have cured all deficiencies of

title. The Commons were obliged to have bills passed to reverse their

attainders, but the king, like one of those patent fire-places which

are advertised to consume their own smoke, was alleged to have cured the

defects of his own title by the bare fact of his having got possession

of the royal dignity.

Having settled all matters concerning his claim to the throne, he began

to think about his intended wife, Elizabeth. "I beg your pardon for

keeping you waiting," said he to Miss Woodville; "but, really I have

been detained by other engagements." The young lady, who had sometimes

feared that her case was one of breach of promise, was glad to disguise

her real annoyance, and saying that "It did not at all signify," she

prepared for the much retarded nuptials. They were solemnised on

the 18th of January, 1486, and they were no sooner over than Henry

exclaimed, "Now, Madam, recollect I have married you, but have not

married your family." This uncourteous speech had reference to old Mrs.

Woodville, who had already written to know what her new son-in-law

would do for her. "I will not have her in the house," roared Henry, with

savage earnestness; but he settled a small annuity upon her, which he

enabled himself to pay by pocketing the whole of her dower.

The queen became anxious for her coronation, as any woman might

reasonably be; but Henry put her off day after day, by exclaiming,

"Don't be in a hurry; there's time enough for that nonsense." In

this heartless manner he succeeded in adjourning the pageant for an

indefinite period.

Henry's new project was to get up his popularity by a tour in the

provinces. Happening to put up at Lincoln, he heard that Lord Lovel,

with Humphrey and Thomas Stafford "had gone with dangerous intentions no

man knew whither." They had much better have remained where they were;

for Lord Lovel, after collecting a large body of insurgents, found

himself quite unable to pay their wages, and at once disbanded them. He

flew into Flanders; but the two Staffords were taken in the very act of

concocting an insurrection, for which Humphrey, the elder, was hanged,

while Thomas, on account of his youth, was pardoned.

Henry arrived on the 26th of April, 1486, at York, where Richard the

Third, though killed on Bosworth Field, was still living in some of

the people's memories. The marking-ink, in which the tyrant's name was

written on their hearts, being by no means indelible, Henry determined

to sponge it out as quickly as possible. He tried soft soap upon some

and golden ointment upon others; both of which specifics had so much

effect that in less than a month the city rang with cries of "Long live

King Henry!"

On the 20th of September, the Court newsman of the day announced the

interesting fact that the happiness of the king's domestic circle had

been increased by the birth of a son; or, rather, the royal circle had

been turned into a triangle by the arrival of an infant heir, who was

named Arthur.

We must now request the reader to throw the luggage of his imagination

on board the boat, and accompany us to Ireland, where, on landing, we

will introduce him, ideally, to a priest and a boy who have just arrived

in Dublin. The priest describes his young charge as Edward Plantagenet,

Earl of Warwick, which will astonish us not a little, inasmuch as our

friend, the reader, will remember that we left the little fellow not

long ago a close prisoner in the Tower. How he got out is the question

which we first ask ourselves, which we answer by intimating, that he did

not get out at all, but he was only "a boy dressed up" to represent the

young earl, and he played his part so well that many believed his story

to be genuine. He had studied the character he represented, and had got

by heart all the adventures of the young prince, together with a fund

of anecdote that appeared quite inexhaustible. The juvenile impostor

scarcely spoke a sentence that did not begin with "When I was a prisoner

in the Tower," which made everyone believe that he had really been an

inmate of that gloomy jail; and the trick succeeded to a miracle.

The urchin was proclaimed as Edward the Sixth, King of England and

France and Lord of Ireland; for such was the credulity of the Hibernians

that they believed every word of the tale that had been told to them.

[Illustration: 360]

Henry, desirous of exposing the fraud, had the real Plantagenet taken

out of the Tower, for exhibition in the London streets; but the Irish

declared that the real thing was a mere imposition, and the mock duke

the genuine article. They, in fact, illustrated that instructive fable,

in which an actor, having been applauded for his imitation of a pig, was

succeeded by a rival who went the whole hog and concealed in the folds

of his dress a rear brute, whoso squeak was pronounced very far

less natural than that of the original representative of the porcine

character.

Henry becoming a little alarmed at these proceedings, began rushing into

the extremes of levity and severity; now pardoning a host of political

offenders, and the next day, packing off the Queen Dowager--marked

"Carriage paid, with care,"--to the monks at Bermondsey. Lambert Simnel,

for so the impostor was called, held out as long as he could, and even

got up, by subscription, one coronation during the season; but

upon Henry's taking measures to chastise him he soon shrunk into

insignificance. After a battle at Stoke, the pretender and his friend,

the priest, were taken into custody, when the latter was handed over

to the church for trial, and the former received a contemptuous pardon,

including the place of scullion, to wash up the dishes and run for the

beer in the royal household. He was at once placed in the kitchen, where

his perquisites, probably in the way of kitchen stuff, enabled him to

save a little money, and, in order to better himself, he subsequently

sought and obtained the office of superintendent of the poultry yard,

under the imposing title of the king's falconer. The priest, his tutor,

seems to have dropped down one of those gratings of the past which lead

to the common sewer of obscurity, in which it is quite impossible to

follow him. We hear of him last looking through the bars of a prison,

where he was left till called for, and, as nobody ever called, he never

seems to have emerged from his captivity.

The friends of the house of York now became clamorous at the treatment

of the Queen Elizabeth, who had been kept in obscurity, and had urged

"that little matter of the coronation" over and over again upon the

attention of her selfish husband. "How you bother!" he would sometimes

exclaim to his unhappy consort, whom he would endeavour to quiet by

the philosophical inquiry of "What are the odds, so long as you're

happy?"--a question which, as Elizabeth was not happy, she found some

difficulty in answering. At length, one morning at breakfast, he said

sulkily, "Well, I suppose I shall never have any peace till that affair

comes off;" and the necessary orders for the coronation of the queen

were immediately given. Henry himself behaved in a very ungentlemanly

manner during the entire ceremony, for he viewed it from behind a

screen, * which was afterwards brought into the hall, to enable him to

sit at his ease out of sight, and take occasional peeps at the dinner.

He had refused to honour the proceedings with his presence, having

declared the ceremony to be "slow," and alleged the impossibility of his

sitting it out after having once suffered the infliction.

It was at about this period of the reign of Henry the Seventh that the

court of Star Chamber was established; and though it, ultimately, **

"became odious by the tyrannical exercise of its powers," its intentions

were originally as honourable as the most scrupulous of its suitors

could have desired. It was founded in consequence of the inefficiency

of the ordinary tribunals to do complete justice in criminal matters and

other offences of an extraordinary and dangerous character, *** and to

supply a sort of criminal equity--if we may be allowed the term--which

should reach the offences of great men, whom the inferior judges and

juries of the ordinary tribunals might have been afraid to visit with

their merited punishment.

* The old chroniclers affirm that he looked on "from behind

a lattice." A modern authority has it that the king looked

on at the dinner from behind a lettuce--spelt lattice--and

had a magnificent salad before him during the proceedings.

** _Vide_ the valuable work on the Equitable Jurisdiction of

the Court of Chancery» comprising its Rise, Progress, and

Final Establishment. By George Spence, Esq., Q.C. Vol. i.,

p. 350.

*** Ditto, p. 351.

It has been suggested with some plausibility that the court of Star

Chamber derived its name from the decorations of the room in which

it was held, though it is, perhaps, a more ingenious supposition of

a modern authority that the word "Star" was applied to the court

in question because within its walls justice was administered in a

twinkling. It might, with as much reason, be suggested that the name had

reference to the constellation of legal talent of which the tribunal was

composed; for those stars of the first magnitude--the Lord Chancellor,

the Lord Treasurer, the Lord Privy Seal, and the President of the

Council, were all of them judges of the court.

We must not, however, detain the reader any longer in a dull court

of law, for we find ourselves served, in imagination, with a writ

of _Habeas Corpus_, commanding us to bring him up for the purpose of

inquiring by what right we hold him in the disagreeable duress of dry

legal detail.

In returning to Henry, we find him offering to act as mediator between

Charles of France and the Duke of Bretagne, when, like every meddler

in the disputes of others, he is unable to emerge from the position in

which he has placed himself without that nasal tweak which is the due

reward of impertinence. The taxes he was obliged to impose for the

purpose of interference, undertaken, as he alleged, to curb the ambition

of the French court, were very exorbitant, and particularly so on

account of Henry's avarice, which induced him to put about ten per

cent, of every levy into his own pocket. The people were, of course,

dissatisfied, and the harshness used in collecting the subsidy irritated

them so much in the north, that they took their change out of the

unfortunate Duke of Northumberland, whom they killed, because he had the

ill-luck to be employed in the invidious office of tax-gatherer.

In 1490 Parliament liberally granted some more money to carry on the war

with France, but Henry pocketed the cash, and sent some priests to try

and compromise the matter with the enemy. It was not until four years

afterwards, in the course of 1494, that he really went to work against

the French, but he contrived to make it pay him exceedingly well, for he

not only grabbed the subsidies voted for the purpose, but he converted

them into so much clear profit, by getting his knights and nobles to

bear their own expenses out of their own pockets. He kindly gave them

permission to sell their estates without the ordinary fines, and many a

gallant fellow sold himself completely up, in the hope of indemnifying

himself by what he should be able to take from the French in battle.

Henry had, however, completely humbugged his gallant knights and nobles,

for he never intended them to have the chance of gaining anything in

France by conquest, and had, in fact, settled the whole matter at a very

early period. He had made up his mind not to spend more than he could

help, and had been putting away the subsidies in a couple of huge

portmanteaus, which served him for coffers. Under the pretence of doing

something, he passed over with his army to France, and "sat down" before

Boulogne; but his sitting down proved that he had no intention of making

any stand, and a truce was very soon agreed upon. Two treaties were

drawn up, one of which was to be made public, for the purpose of

misleading the people, and the other was a private transaction between

the two sovereigns. The first only stipulated for peace, but the second

secured the sum of £149,000 to be paid by instalments to Henry, who must

have been under the necessity of ordering another coffer to receive the

additional wealth that was thus poured in upon him.

New troubles were, however, commencing to disturb the mind of the

king, who received one morning, at breakfast, a despatch announcing

the arrival, at the Cove of Cork, of another pretender to the Crown

of England. "There seems to be no end to these vagabonds," he mentally

exclaimed, as he read the document announcing that a handsome young

man had been giving himself out as Richard, Duke of York, second son of

Edward the Fourth, and legitimate heir to the monarchy. "Pooh, pooh!"

ejaculated Henry; "the fellow was disposed of in the Tower long ago."

But on perusing further, he found that the young man had met this

objection by alleging that he had escaped, and had been for seven years

a wanderer. It was exceedingly improbable that the royal youth had been

so long upon the tramp, but his story was not very rigidly criticised

by Henry's enemies. The wanderer introduced himself to the Duchess of

Burgundy, who, after some enquiry, pronounced him to be genuine, and

embraced him as the undoubted son of her dear brother Edward. She gave

him the poetical name of the White Rose of England, but Henry, knowing

that "the rose by any other name" would _not_ "smell as sweet" in the

nostrils of the English, gave out that the "White Rose" was a Jew boy of

the name of Peterkin or Perkin Warbeck. It was further alleged that the

lad had been recently a footman in the family of Lady Brompton, with

whom he had been travelling. Peterkin was materially damaged in public

opinion by getting the character of a mere "flunkey," and he was afraid

to do more than hover about the coast without venturing to effect a

landing. Though Henry had held the pretender up to ridicule, Perkin

Warbeck's opposition was in reality no joke, and the king bribed a few

of the party to betray their colleagues. Several were at once informed

against, among whom were the two Ratcliffes, who denied their guilt in

the usual Ratcliffe highway; but their repudiation had no effect, for

one of them was at once beheaded. Sir William Stanley, a very old

friend of the Richmond family, whose brother, Lord Stanley, had put

the battered crown on Henry's brow in the field of Bosworth, became an

object of suspicion; and thinking he should get off by a confession,

he acknowledged everything he had been guilty of, with a supplement

containing a catalogue of offences he had never committed. Thus, by

denying too much for confession and owning enough for condemnation, he

fell between two stools, one of which was the stool of repentance, and

lost his head at the moment he fancied he was upon a safe footing.

The party of Perkin Warbeck being discouraged by these events, and the

people of Flanders having grown tired of the pretender's long visit, he

felt that "now or never" was the time for his descent on England.

The White Rose having torn himself away by the force of sheer pluck,

attempted to transplant himself to the coast of Deal, but he found

a Kentish knight ready to repel the Rose, and by a cry of "Go it, my

tulips!" encouraging his followers to resist all oppression.

The White Bose and his companions mournfully took their leaves, and as

many as could escape returned with press of sail to Flanders. Henry sent

a vote of thanks to the men of Kent, with a promise of gold, but the

remittance never came to hand from that day to the present.

Mr. P. Warbeck was now becoming such a nuisance in Flanders, that he was

told he must really suit himself with another situation immediately. He

tried Ireland, but the dry announcement of "no such person known" was

almost the only answer to his overtures. As a last resource, and a proof

of the desperate nature of his fortune, he actually threw himself upon

the generosity of the Scotch, which was almost as hopeless as running

his head against a stone wall; but as it was just possible that Perkin

Warbeck might be turned to profitable account against England, the

Scotch opened their hearts--where there is never any admission except

on business--to the adventurous wanderer. James the Third, king of

Scotland, chiefly out of spite to Henry, not only received Perkin as

the genuine Duke of York, but married him to Lady Catherine Gordon, the

lovely and accomplished daughter of the Earl of Huntley, a relative of

the royal house of Stuart. An agreement was drawn up between James of

Scotland, of the one part, and Perkin Warbeck, of the other, by virtue

of which Perkin was to be pitchforked on to the English throne, and

was to make over the town of Berwick-on-Tweed--when he got it--as an

acknowledgment to King James for his valuable services. After some

little delay, the Scotch crossed the border to enforce Perkin's demand;

but when that individual arrived in England, he found himself so

thoroughly snubbed that he sneaked back again.

Notwithstanding the utter failure of this enterprise, which had cost

Henry not a penny to resist, he sent in a bill as long as his arm for

the equipment of his army. The people who had not been called upon to

strike a single blow, and always liked to have, what they called "their

whack for their money," were enraged at being asked to pay for a battle

that had never happened. The men of Cornwall were particularly angry at

having to give any of their tin, and came up to Blackheath, under Lord

Audley, whose inexperience was so great that he might have furnished

the original for the sign of the "Green Man," which so long remained the

distinguishing feature of the neighbourhood. The battle of Blackheath

was fought on the 22nd of June, 1497, with a good deal of superfluous

strength on one side, and consummate bad management on the other. On

the side of the insurgents, one Flammock or Flummock, an attorney, was

a principal leader, but he would gladly have taken out a summons to stay

proceedings, had such practice been allowable. It is probable that this

"gentleman one, &c." had been persuaded by some noble client who had

an interest in the fight to appear as his attorney in this memorable

action.

Henry having gained every advantage in his recent transactions was

desirous of completing his arrangements, by purchasing Warbeck, if

anyone could be found base enough to sell that unfortunate individual.

James of Scotland was too honourable for such a shameful bargain, though

he was greatly embarrassed in assisting Warbeck, for whom he had melted

down his plate--an act worthy of the most fiddle-headed spoon--besides

raising money on a gold chain he used to wear, and to which he was so

attached, that he compared it to

"Linked sweetness long drawn out,"

as he drew it forth from his pocket to put it into the hands of the

pawnbroker.

It was now intimated to Perkin Warbeck that he "had better go," for his

presence had become exceedingly costly and embarrassing. "I've nothing

more for you, my good man," were the considerate words of James as he

despatched his guest to seek his fortune elsewhere, attended by a

few trusty retainers, who stuck to him "through thick and thin," an

attachment which, as he could hardly pay his own way, must have been

very embarrassing. His wife's fidelity to him in his ill-fortune was a

beautiful as well as a gratifying fact, for she had, really, seen

much better days, and the sacrifices she made in sharing the fate of a

Pretender "out of luck" was quite undeniable.

Perkin Warbeck made first for Cork in the hope of raising the Irish, but

as he could not raise the Spanish, the former would have nothing to

do with him. He next tried Cornwall, and marching inland he soon found

himself at the head of a party of discontented ragamuffins, who happened

to be ready for a row, without any ulterior views of a very definite

character. He called himself Richard the Fourth, and penetrated into

England as far as Taunton Dean, where Henry's forces had already

collected.

[Illustration: 365]

Warbeck was admirable in all his preliminary arrangements, and it was

"quite a picture" to see him reviewing his troops; but picture as he

was, the idea of fighting put him into such a fright, that he always

lost his colour. He was first-rate on parade, but quite unequal to the

business of a battle, and, indeed, to use an illustration founded on

a fact of our own times, he would have been invaluable in the Astley's

version of Waterloo, though utterly contemptible in the original

performance of that tremendous action.

No sooner had Perkin Warbeck ascertained the propinquity of the enemy

than he recommended that his forces should all go to bed in good time to

be fresh for action early in the morning. Having first ascertained that

all were asleep, he stole off to the stable, saddled his horse, and

having mounted the poor brute, stuck spurs into its side until

he reached the sanctuary of Beaulieu in the New Forest. When this

disgraceful desertion of their leader was discovered the rebels set up

a piteous howl and threw themselves on the mercy of Henry, who ordered

some to hang, and sent others to starve, by dismissing them without food

or clothing. Lady Catherine Gordon, alias Mrs. P. Warbeck, who had been

sojourning for safety at St. Michael's Mount in Cornwall, was brought

before the king, who, touched by her beauty and her tears, experienced

in his heart that truly English sentiment which declares, that "the man

who would basely injure a lovely woman in distress, is unworthy of the

name of a--a--British officer." He therefore sent her on a visit to the

queen, who paid every attention to the fallen heroine.

[Illustration: 366]

The next thing to be done was to rout Perkin Warbeck out of the hole

into which cowardice had driven him. Henry was unwilling to disturb the

sanctuary, but he sent his agents to parley with Perkin, who, finding

himself regularly hemmed in, thought it better to come out on the best

terms he could, and he accordingly emerged on the promise of a pardon.

Henry was anxious to get a peep at the individual who had caused so much

trouble, but thought it _infra dig._ to admit the rebel into the royal

presence. The king, therefore, reverted to his old practice of getting

behind a screen, an article he must have carried about with him wherever

he went, that he might, unseen, indulge his curiosity. This paltry

practice should have obtained for him the name of Peeping Harry, for

we find him, at more than one period of his reign, skulking behind

a screen, in the most ignoble manner. Perkin was made to ride up to

London, behind Henry, at a little distance, and on getting to town he

was sent on horseback through Cheapside and Cornhill, as a show for the

citizens. There were the usual demonstrations of popular criticism on

this occasion, and there is no doubt that amid the gibes and scoffs

addressed to the captive the significant interrogatory of "Who ran away

from Taunton Dean?" was not forgotten.

After taking a turn to the Tower and back for the accommodation of the

inhabitants at the East End, who desired to be gratified with a sight of

the Pretender, Perkin was lodged in the palace at Westminster, where a

good deal of liberty seems to have been allowed him. He however chose to

run away, and being caught again, he was made to stand in the stocks a

whole day before the door of Westminster Hall, where he was made to read

a written confession, which was interrupted by an occasional egg in

his eye, or cabbage leaf over his mouth, for such are the voluntary

contributions which a British public has always been ready to offer to

helpless impotence.

[Illustration: 368]

The next day the same ceremony with the same accessories was repeated at

Cheapside, in order to give the East End an opportunity of enjoying the

sport which the West End had already revelled in. Perkin Warbeck was

then committed to the Tower, where he and the unfortunate Earl of

Warwick became what may be termed fast friends, for they were bound

tightly together in the same prison. Warbeck, who was in every sense

of the word an accomplished swindler, succeeded in winning the good

opinion, not only of his fellow captive but of the keepers of the jail,

three of whom, it is said, had actually undertaken to murder Sir John

Digby, the governor, for the sake of getting hold of the keys, and

releasing the two captives. It was now evident that Warbeck would never

be quiet, and Henry, feeling him to be a troublesome fellow, determined

to get rid of him. On the 16th of November, 1499, Warbeck was arraigned

at Westminster Hall, and being found guilty as a matter of course, was

executed on the 23rd of the same month at Tyburn, where, cowardly to the

last, he asked the forgiveness of the king, even on the scaffold.

Walpole, in his "Historic Doubts"--a work that throws everything into

uncertainty and settles nothing--gives it as his opinion that Perkin

Warbeck was really the Duke of York; but had Walpole been able to tell

"a sheep's head from a carrot," he would never have been guilty of

such a piece of confounding and confounded blundering. We who give no

encouragement whatever to Historic Doubts are tolerably sure that Perkin

Warbeck was merely a fashionable swindler, for he had none of that

personal courage or true dignity which would have redeemed his imposture

from the character of mere quackery. He contrived to ruin poor Warwick,

or at all events to hasten his destruction by implicating him in a

conspiracy, which of his own accord he never would have dreamed of.

When put upon his trial, the hapless earl--who, though only twenty-nine

years of age, was from long seclusion in a state of second childhood,

if indeed he had ever got out of his first--confessed with piteous

simplicity all that had been alleged against him. He was beheaded on

Tower Hill the 24th * of November, 1499; and it was said that his death

was the most merciful that could be conceived, for in losing his head

he was deprived of that which he never knew how to use, and of the

possession of which he did not at any time seem sensible. Warbeck's

widow continued to go by the name of the White Rose, when Sir Mathew

Cradoc, thinking it a pity that she should be "left blooming alone,"

offered to graft her on his family tree, and the White Rose consented to

this arrangement.

* Hume says the 21st. Another authority says the 28th. It is

not with a mere wish to "split the difference" that we adopt

the medium date of the 24th, but we have good reasons for

stating that to be the exact day, and Mr. Charles

Macfarlane, in his admirable "Cabinet History of England"

has likewise named the 24th of November as the precise time

of Warwick's execution.

Henry had long been anxious to marry his daughter Margaret to James of

Scotland, and he sent a cunning bishop, most appropriately named Fox,

to act the part of a match-maker. The sly old dog brought the matter so

cleverly about that the marriage was agreed upon, and this union led to

the peaceful union of the two countries about a century afterwards.

The young lady got but a small portion from her stingy father, and her

husband made a settlement upon her of £2000 a year, but he got her to

accept a paltry compromise. The meanness of the arrangements may be

judged of by the ridiculous fact that King James and his young bride

rode into Edinburgh on the same palfrey.

Henry's eldest son, Arthur Prince of Wales, had been already married

to Catherine, fourth daughter of Ferdinand of Spain, who promised

two hundred thousand crowns, half of which he paid down, as a wedding

portion. The young husband died soon after, and Ferdinand naturally

asked for his money and his child back again. The English king had

pocketed the greater part of the cash, which he was not only quite

unwilling to refund, but he had serious thoughts of proceeding for

the balance of his daughter-in-law's dowry. He therefore consented

to affiance her to his second son, Henry, in compliance with the only

condition upon which Ferdinand agreed to waive his claim to the cash

already in hand, and he even promised to pay the rest of the portion at

his "earliest convenience."

Henry himself, or as we may call him for the sake of distinction, the

"old gentleman," had lately lost his wife, and he went at once into the

matrimonial market to see whether there was anything upon which it might

be safe to speculate. He however wanted to conduct his operations with

such extraordinary profit to himself that nothing seemed to tempt his

avarice. His ruling passion was for "cash down," and to obtain this

he fleeced his subjects most unmercifully, though he employed the

disreputable firm of Empson and Dudley to collect the amount of the

various extortions he was continually practising. These two men were

little better than swindlers, though as lawyers they adhered to the

rules of law, and indeed they kept a rabble always in the house to sit

as jurymen. They had trials in their own office, and would often ring

the bell to order up a jury from downstairs, just as anyone in the

present day would order up his dinner. Dudley got the name of the Leech,

from his power of drawing, and indeed he would have got the blood out of

a blood-stone if the opportunity had been afforded him. *

* Empson has been described by Hume as a man of "mean birth

and brutal temper," who of course, did all the bullying of

this disreputable firm, while Dudley, who was "better born,

better educated, and better bred," acted in the capacity of

what may be termed the decoy duck of the concern; or, in

other words, the latter snared the game which the former

savagely butchered.

Henry had now but one formidable enemy left, in the person of young

Edmund de la Pole, the nephew of Edward the Fourth, and son and heir to

the Duke of Suffolk. This turbulent individual renewed the cry in favour

of the "White Rose," which was said by a wag of the day to be raised on

a pole, after the fashion of the frozen-out gardeners.

Suffolk soon had the mortification of finding that he had not the

suffrages of the people, for the rush to the Pole was anything but

encouraging. "Ye Pole theyreforre," says Comines, "dydde cutte his sty

eke," and became a penniless fugitive in Flanders. He was ultimately

surrendered by Philip, the archduke, who had received Suffolk as a

visitor, but gave him up with a lot of sundries he was transferring to

Henry, who promised to spare the prisoner's life, and did so, though he

left word in his will that his successor had better kill the earl, as he

would otherwise prove troublesome.

In the course of the year 1509, Henry's health became very indifferent,

and he had repeated attacks of the gout, every one of which put him in

ill-humour with himself in particular, and the world in general. Every

fresh twinge was paid with interest upon one or more of his unfortunate

subjects; and when he got very bad he would be most indiscriminate in

his cruelty. He fixed upon a poor old alderman named Harris, who died of

sheer vexation at his ill-treatment before his indictment came on; and

at this remote period we hope we shall not be accused of injuring the

feelings of any of the posterity of poor Harris by saying, that he was

literally harassed to death through the unkindness of his sovereign.

During his illness Henry would do justice occasionally between man and

man, but a favourable turn in his malady, a quiet night, or a refreshing

nap, would bury all his good resolutions in oblivion. At length on the

night of the 21st of April, 1509, he died at Richmond, leaving behind

him a will in which he bequeathed to his son and heir the delightful

task of repairing all his father's errors.

However easy it may be for an executor to pay the pecuniary debts of a

testator with plenty of assets in hand, the moral responsibilities which

have been left unsatisfied, are not so soon provided for. It is true

that a good son frequently makes atonement to society for the mischief

done by a bad parent; but this, though it strikes a sort of balance with

the world, does not prevent the father from being still held accountable

for his deficiencies.

Henry died in the fifty-third year of his age, and had he lived a day

longer, he would have reigned twenty-three years and eight months, or as

Cocker has it, in the simplicity of his heart, "had he been alive in

the year 1700, he would have reigned upwards of two centuries." Our

business, however, is not with what he might have done, but what he

actually did, and we therefore record the fact, that he died on the 21st

of April, 1509, and was buried in the magnificent chapel of Westminster

Abbey, which he built, and which is called after him to this very day

and hour that we now write upon. *

* A quarter to one, A.M., April 13th, 1847.

It is often the most painful part of our labours to give characters of

some of the sovereigns who pass under our review in the course of

this history. To those who have only known Henry the Seventh as the

chivalrous and high-minded prince that fought so gallantly with Richard

the Third on the field of Bosworth, it will be distressing to hear that

the Richmond of their dramatic recollections is nothing like a true

portrait of the actual character. At all events, if he had virtues

in his youth they were not made to wear, they became sufficiently

threadbare to be seen be seen through.

Even his ambition seems to have been little more than a medium he had

adopted for gratifying his avarice, and it is now pretty clear that he

rather wanted the crown for what it was worth in a pecuniary point of

view, than for the honourable gratification which power when rightly

used is capable of conferring on its possessor. Hume tells us that

"Henry loved peace without fearing war," which is true enough; for

war afforded him a pretext for raising money, while peace, which he

generally managed to arrange, gave him an opportunity of pocketing the

cash he had collected. War, therefore, was never formidable to him, for

he usually manoeuvred to keep out of it; but he made the rumour of it

serve as an excuse for taxing his people. He was decidedly clever as

a practical man, though exceedingly unprincipled, but several salutary

laws were passed in his reign; one of the best of which was an act

allowing the poor to sue _in forma pauperis_. Considering how often the

law reduces its suitors to poverty, it is only fair that those who are

brought to such a condition should still be allowed to go on, for it

is like ruining a man and then turning him out of doors to say that the

courts shall be closed against such as are penniless.

Another important and useful measure of Henry's reign was that by which

the nobility and gentry could alienate their estates, or cut mouth

an occupant of the throne of England off the tail, which limited

everything to the head of a family. This apparently liberal act was

passed for the benefit of the king himself, who wished his nobles to be

able to sell everything they had got for the sake of paying the expenses

of the wars, which otherwise must have been prosecuted partly out of

Henry's own pocket. He owed more to fortune than to his own merit, and

even the conspiracies that were got up against him from time to time

helped to sustain him in his high position, as the shuttlecock is kept

in a state of elevation by constant blows from the battledore.

CHAPTER THE SECOND. HENRY THE EIGHTH.

[Illustration: 372]

HENRY the EIGHTH, only surviving son and successor of Henry the Seventh,

took to his father's crown and sceptre on the 22nd of April, 1509,

amid general rejoicing, for he was an exceedingly gentlemanly youth of

eighteen when he came to the throne, of which his parent had recently

been but a bearish occupant. If young Harry had never lived to play old

Harry, his popularity might have survived him, for the people had become

disgusted with the conduct of his father, and there never was a finer

chance for a young man than that which offered itself to the new

sovereign.

Nothing could exceed the grossness of the adulation which was poured out

upon him at his accession, and the perfection of the art of puffing in

England may, perhaps, be ascribed to this period of our history. His

countenance was likened to that of Apollo--a falsehood for which, in his

features, no apology can be found; his chest was declared to be that

of Mars, though it was evidently his pa's, for in early youth his

resemblance to his father was remarkable. Clemency was declared to be

seated on his ample forehead, equity was pronounced to be balancing

itself on the bridge of his nose, intelligence was recognised lurking

in ambush among his bushy hair; and even Erasmus attributes to him the

acuteness of the needle, with other intellectual qualities of an exalted

character. *

* We are indebted to Mr. Tytler, who is generally correct to

a tittle, for these interesting particulars.--See his "Life

of Henry the Eighth," p. 16 of the 2nd edition.

It is sad to reflect that the philosopher, when he takes the paintbrush

in hand to dash off the portrait of a king, is apt to become a mere

parasite, and will not abstain from staining his own character by

daubing with false colours the canvas of history. Thus, even Erasmus

used hues his friends would be glad to erase, and has covered over the

black spots in Henry's character with that pink of perfection which

makes _couleur de rose_ of everything. It is not to be wondered at, that

in setting out upon the voyage of government, Henry received "one turn

a-head"--if we may be allowed a nautical expression--while the engines

of flattery were at work on all sides of him. It is to be regretted, for

the sake of himself as well as for the good of his subjects, that truth

was not at hand to give him that friendly "shove astern" which has saved

many from precipitating themselves on the rocks that always lie in the

course of greatness and power.

As if determined to begin as he intended to go on, Henry looked out at

once for a wife, and, considering how often he was destined to undergo

the marriage ceremony in the course of his reign, it was as well that he

should lose no time in commencing the career that lay before him. In

his first matrimonial adventure he appears to have let others choose for

him, instead of making a selection for himself, and Catherine of Aragon,

the widow of his elder brother Arthur, was pointed out to him as an

eligible _parti_ for nuptial purposes.

This marriage was strongly recommended by the political faculty as a

saving of expense, for the lady would have been entitled to a large

pension as widow of Prince Arthur, and her friends in Spain, had she

been returned upon their hands, would have wanted to know something

about the 150,000 crowns she had received as a marriage portion. Of

course, the whole of it was gone, and it was thought that Henry would

be killing a whole covey of birds with one stone if he would consent to

take her as his wife, inasmuch as he would thus extinguish her claims to

a pension, and prevent any awkward questions being asked in Spain as to

the portion she had brought with her to England. Henry, feeling a sort

of intuitive consciousness that he should have plenty of opportunities

to select a wife for himself, agreed to take, as a beginning, the one

that had been chosen for him by others, and accordingly, on the 3rd of

June, 1509, the lady, who was eight years older than himself, became his

wife, at Greenwich. The royal couple were not destined to roll down the

hill together in after life, whatever they may have done on the day of

their union, which was doubtless marked by all those sports of which the

locality was susceptible. Catherine, though a little _passée_,

looked exceedingly well, for, in order to render her appearance more

attractive, she was dressed in white, and "all Greenwich," says Lord

Herbert, "did not, on that day, contain a daintier dish of whitebait

than the Lady of Aragon." The royal pair were crowned on the 24th

of June, 1509, being exactly three weeks after marriage, up to which

period, at least, there was no indication of that Bluebeardism which

subsequently broke out with so much fury in the royal character.

Henry had on his accession thrown himself into the arms of his

grandmother, the old Countess of Richmond, upon whose advice he acted in

the selection of his ministers. The old lady died in the same month in

which her grandson was married and crowned, at the respectable age of

sixty-eight; and it is a curious fact that she had been married three

times, so that in his multiplicity of wives, Henry the Eighth may

be said to have simply improved upon the example set him by his

grandmother. *

* Her friend and counsellor, Jack Fisher, Bishop of

Rochester, says of her, that "a reddy witte she had to

conceive all thyngs, albeit they were ryghte derke."

[Illustration: 374]

The first political act of Henry the Eighth's reign, was to lay

the heads of Empson and Dudley upon the scaffold. These rapacious

extortioners had been the tools of his father's avarice, but had

contrived to feather their own nests tolerably well; and Henry kept them

in prison for the purpose of getting out of them the wealth they had

acquired by their rapacity. He detained them in the Tower a whole year

before he beheaded them, and continued to squeeze out of them everything

they possessed, for he was one of those who never threw an orange away

without thoroughly sucking it. Having drained it at length completely

dry by about the 17th of August, 1510, he, on that day--to pursue the

allegory of the orange--declined allowing them any quarter, but sent

them to Tower Hill, where execution was done upon both of them.

Henry finding everything going smoothly in England, fell into the common

error of those who having every comfort at home must needs look abroad

for the elements of discord. He entered into a league against Louis

the Twelfth of France, in favour of Pope Julius the Second and his

father-in-law, Ferdinand of Aragon; but the latter kept helping himself

to large slices of territory, and made use of his allies for the purpose

of furthering his own interests. Henry's troops were therefore compelled

to play an ignoble part, being cooped up in a French town, while the

other soldiers overran Navarre, and appropriated everything they could

lay their hands upon. Amazed at their moderate success upon land they

attempted to retrieve themselves by a sea-fight, but the ruler was not

then found by which Britannia subsequently learned to rule the waves,

and the French fleet escaping into Brest, found shelter in their

country's bosom.

In 1513, Henry being anxious to obtain ascendency over the seas,

appointed Sir Edward Howard, one of the sons of the Earl of Surrey,

to accomplish the grand object. Howard was so exceedingly confident of

success that he sent a private note requesting the king to come and

see how beautifully he (Howard) would "spifflicate"--for such was the

word--the presumptuous enemy. Henry by no means relished the invitation,

and replied to it by desiring Howard to "mind his own business" as

admiral. This nettled the naval commander, who, during the engagement,

jumped into one of the enemy's ships, and could not jump back again;

while Sir John Wallop, upon whom he had relied, exhibited little of

that usefulness which his name seems to indicate. Poor Howard was,

accordingly, killed; and Henry, flattered by his parasites, came to the

resolution that no good would be done till he himself set out for France

at the head of an army.

In a few days he arrived off Boulogne, where he instructed the artillery

to make as much noise as they could with their guns, in order that he

might intimidate the foe, and encourage himself by the roaring of his

own cannon. His object was undoubtedly to insinuate to the enemy, "We

are coming in tremendous force, and so you had better keep out of the

way for fear of accidents."

Henry, who had various other great guns on board besides his artillery,

was accompanied by Thomas Wolsey, his almoner, lately risen into favour,

together with the celebrated Bishop Fox, and a number of courtiers. He

passed his time very pleasantly at Calais for about three months, when

he heard that the celebrated Bayard--the _chevalier sans peur et sans

reproche_--was moving forward. The English king bounded on to his horse

with the elasticity of indiarubber, and advanced at the head of fifteen

thousand men--Bishop Fox, with characteristic cunning, keeping in the

rear, and Wolsey following the Fox at a prudent distance.

Twelve hundred French approached under the cover of a regular English

fog, which with a most anti-national spirit favoured the enemies of the

country to which it owed its origin. Bayard would have commenced

an attack, but he was overruled by some of his companions; and Henry,

thinking the foe afraid to "come on," sat himself down in a pavilion

made of silk damask, foolishly believing that the art of the upholsterer

could uphold the dignity of a sovereign.

[Illustration: 376]

Thus he sat, like the proprietor of a gingerbread stall at a fair, until

a terrific shower came on, and the silk streamers were streaming with

wet, and the satin chairs could no longer be sat-in with comfort or

convenience. The tent was turned literally inside out by the wind, like

an umbrella in a storm, and Henry was glad to exchange his gaudy booth

for a substantial wooden caravan, that was speedily knocked together

for his reception. Though the two armies did not fight they commenced

operations by mining and countermining, but instead of making

receptacles for gunpowder, they were only making gutters for the

rain, which took advantage of every opening. The Count of Angoulême

(afterwards Francis the First) now arrived at headquarters, and scoured

the country, which he was the better able to do from the quantity of

water which had fallen on many parts of it.

Henry now received a visit from the Emperor Maximilian, and the English

king made the most magnificent preparations for the interview;

he equipped himself and some of his nobles in gold and silver

tissue--though it was said the latter wore a tissue of falsehoods, for

their finery was all sham--and he borrowed every bit of jewellery in his

camp for his own personal bedizenment. He had a garniture of garnets

in his hat, and even his watch, a tremendous turnip, had a diamond,

weighing several carats, on its face, while a magnificent ruby matched

with the rubicundity of his forehead, over which the gem was gracefully

disposed. The nobles were sprinkled all over with paste, and looked

effective enough at the price which Henry had given for their

embellishment. Maximilian, who was in mourning, presented a dismal

contrast to all this finery, for he wore nothing but a suit of serge,

which, however, turned out for more serviceable than the fancy costume

of Henry and his courtiers. The rain came on so furiously that unless

the silks were washing silks they must have been fearfully damaged

by the wet, while the running of the hues one into the other, caused

Henry's party to come off with--in one sense--flying colours. It was

at length determined to make an attack upon the French, and the Emperor

Maximilian having got his old serge doublet trimmed up with a red cross,

and pinned an artificial flower in his hat, directed the operations

of the English. The French cavalry began pretty well; but whether

Maximilian looked so great a guy as to terrify the horses, or through

any other cause, it is certain that a panic ran through the ranks,

and they commenced a retreat at full gallop, using their spurs with

tremendous vehemence.

One of the fugitives, a venerable marshal, broke his baton in beating

a retreat over the back of his charger; and Bayard, who had refused to

run, seeing the baton of his comrade broken, exclaimed, "Ha! he has cut

his stick!" which afterwards became a by-word to describe the act of a

fugitive. The illustrious _chevalier sans peur et sans reproche_ became

a prisoner, but thoroughly enjoyed the joke of his countrymen having run

away, and laughingly called it the battle of the spurs, from the energy

with which they had plunged their rowels into the flanks of their

chargers.

A meeting between Bayard, Maximilian, and Henry, has been described very

graphically in the _Histoire de Bon Chevalier_; * and it appears

from this authority that the two latter bantered their prisoner in a

somewhat uncourteous manner. Bayard contended that he had become captive

by a voluntary surrender; upon which the emperor and the king burst

out into a fit of rude laughter, as if they would have said, "That's a

capital joke;" but Bayard protested that he might have got away had he

chosen to run for it. They only replied to him by saying "Well, well,

my fine fellow, we've got you, and it matters little whether you

took yourself into custody or now else you came here; but here you

unquestionably are, and there's an end of the discussion."

* Vol. ii., p. 80.

After taking Tournay, where he held a number of tournaments, and which

was actually sacrificed by the inhabitants for the sake of a bad pun

*--worse even than the accidental one in the text--Henry returned to

England, and arrived on the 24th of October, 1513, at Richmond.

Thus ended the expedition to France; but important events had been

happening at home, for the Earl of Surrey had been chevying the Scotch

over the Cheviot Hills, and at last fought them at Flodden, where James

the Fourth unfortunately fell; and the English queen, making a parcel of

his coat, hat, and gloves, sent them to Henry as a proof of the dressing

the Scotch had experienced.

It had been intended to resume the war with France, but Louis the

Twelfth suggested a compromise, by which he married Mary, the sister

of the English king, and Mary thus had the honour of mollifying the

asperity of the feelings that the two monarchs had hitherto indulged.

We have already mentioned the name of Wolsey, who accompanied Henry

abroad in the capacity of almoner; and it is now time that we give some

particulars of a person who played one of the most important parts in

the drama of history.

Thomas Wolsey was born at Ipswich, in March, 1471, of humble parents;

but the popular story of his father having been a butcher is probably

a fable, to which the fact of his having had a stake in the country has

perhaps given some likelihood. It is doubtful whether he was brought up

to the block, though he might have been obliged to give his head to

it at a later period of his life, when he incurred his master's

displeasure. It has been said that Wolsey senior could not have been

a butcher, because he left money to his son by will; but business must

have been bad indeed if he could not bequeath a couple of legacies of

thirteen-and-fourpence each, with one of six-and-sevenpence, and

another of eleven shillings, in addition to a sura of ten marks, which

constitute altogether the entire amount of cash that was actually

disposed of by the old gentleman to his wife, his son, and his

executors, ** If the elder Wolsey was really a butcher, it is certain

that he had not a sharper blade in his establishment than his son Tom,

who was sent early to school, and having proceeded to the University of

Oxford, got on so well as to acquire the name of the Boy Bachelor. He

soon became a fellow, and was one of the cleverest young fellows in the

college, where he was intrusted to educate the three sons of the Duke

of Dorset. In this capacity, by the application of a great deal of

flattery--or, as some would have termed it, Dorset Butter--while at

home with the young gentlemen for the Christmas holidays, he got the

patronage of their noble father, who presented him with the rectory of

Lymington. Here he is said to have disgraced himself by getting into

a row at a fair, but we can scarcely believe that the clergyman of the

parish would have forgotten himself so far as to give his love of gaiety

full swing, and allow him to carry absurdity to the height which such a

proceeding seems to indicate. He could not have very far compromised his

character, or he would not have been employed by Henry the Seventh, on

delicate and important missions which a parson fresh from "the fun

of the fair" would never have been allowed to execute. Some of his

detractors have broadly asserted that Wolsey was inebriated, and fled

in shame from his cure, but we really believe that he was never at

any period of his life intoxicated with anything but ambition, which

undoubtedly is quicker in turning the head than the strongest juice that

ever dropped from the ripest juniper. Fox, the Bishop of Winchester,

strongly recommended Wolsey to Henry the Eighth, who, already knowing

something of the young man, made him King's Almoner; and on taking

Tournay, in France, hesitated whether he should burn it down, or make

Wolsey its bishop. The latter of the two evils fell upon the town, which

was placed under the ambitious churchman's ecclesiastical cognizance.

He rose rapidly to the sees of Lincoln and York, became Lord High

Chancellor of England, and, on the 7th of September, 1515, received his

crowning honour, in the hat of a cardinal.

* The pun alluded to was couched in these words, which were

used by the Citizens:--"_Que Tournay n'avoit jamais tourné

ni encore ne tournerait_."

** His will was published by Dr. Fiddes, from the Registry,

at Norwich.

We must now put Wolsey by for a little bit, though we shall have to

bring him out again and again, for we must not keep others waiting by

lingering too long in the accomplished churchman's company. We left the

Princess Mary just married to Louis the Twelfth, though her heart had

long been given to Charles Brandon, Viscount Lisle, who retained the

principal of her affections, though the French king got for a time the

interest. He however enjoyed it for only two months when he died, and

Brandon, the remainder-man, became the tenant in possession, by marrying

Mary after three months' widowhood. Henry was at first very angry with

the match, but the young couple rushing into his presence like two

repentant lovers in a farce, and Wolsey interceding with all the air of

the "smart servant," the king was persuaded to give that cheapest of all

donations--his blessing.

[Illustration; 380]

Brandon's good sense and modesty went some way in reconciling Henry,

for Viscount Lisle never presumed upon his connection with the family of

royalty. He did not talk continually of "My brother-in-law the king," as

he might have done; but he took the following motto, in which there is

a strong indication of his "knowing his place," and being determined on

keeping it.

Cloth of gold do not despise,

Though thou be match'd with cloth of frize;

Cloth of frize be not too bold,

Though thou be match'd with cloth of gold. *

* "Granger's Biog. Hist.," vol. iv. p. 82.

Francis the First had succeeded to the French throne and the Archduke

Charles of Austria had come in for the whole of the Spanish monarchy

by the death of his maternal grandfather, Ferdinand of Aragon. He was

a maternal grandfather in a double sense, for he had grown very old

womanish, and the adjective maternal was by no means inappropriate.

Francis and Charles became competitors for the empire just vacant by the

death of Maximilian, and the countenance of Henry was eagerly sought by

both of the disputants. Henry had formerly hoped to have been himself a

successful candidate, but finding he had no chance, he wrote to Charles,

saying he "wished he might get it," which were the genuine sentiments

no doubt of the English sovereign. The election fell upon Charles,

and Francis affected to take the consequence as if it had been of no

consequence at all, though it was clearly otherwise.

The election for the rank and dignity of Emperor was one of the most

disgracefully corrupt proceedings that was ever witnessed, even in the

palmiest days of the boroughmongering system in England, some centuries

afterwards. The candidates were Francis the First of France, Charles

the Fifth, king of Castile, Henry the Eighth of England, and the Elector

Frederic of Saxony. The bribery was on a scale of vastness never

before heard of, and it is said that Charles scattered his--or

his people's--money among the independent electors with frightful

prodigality. The electors of Cologne, which was not then in such good

odour as might have been expected from the pleasant purity of its _Eau_,

pocketed no less than 200,000 crowns; but the mother of Francis the

First declared, that "the electors, among them all, had not received

from the king, her son, more than 100,000 crowns," * so that the loss

of his election is very easily accounted for. Francis, nevertheless,

imagined he had secured five electors out of the seven; but those

worthies, who were dishonestly receiving bribes from both parties at

once, eventually gave to Charles, who paid them best, the benefit of

their suffrages. Poor Saxony, expecting in a contest with such powerful

opponents that he might get "double milled," resigned in favour of

Charles; and Henry, whose committee had been sitting to conduct his

election, until it was clear there would be nothing to conduct, threw

his influence into the same scale.

* Ellis's Letters, vol. i. p. 155.

On the 28th of June, 1519, the polling commenced, and each elector as

he came up to give his vote was, no doubt, received with the shouts and

salutations that are usual on all similar occasions. When the Elector

of Cologne appeared to plump for Charles, after having quite as

plumply promised his support to Francis, the jeers of the populace were

tremendous, and an egg was even thrown for the purpose of egging on

the crowd to acts of violence. The unprincipled elector looked

contemptuously on the oval missile, as if he would have said that he

did not care about submitting to the yolk, after the extensive "shelling

out" that had already taken place for his benefit.

The countenance of Henry was still the object of both their wishes, and

Francis asked the English king for an interview, which was arranged to

take place in France in the ensuing summer. Upon the appointment having

been made, Charles ran over to England, to be the first to get Henry's

ear, and seeing Wolsey's influence, did his utmost to win over that wary

individual. The latter secretly aspired to the papal chair, and it

may perhaps be said that his origin is proved to have been that of a

butcher's son, because he began to look at everything with a pope's eye,

and hoped to eat his mutton in the Vatican. Such frivolous reasoning

is so unworthy the dignity of history, that we reject it at once, and

confine ourselves to the simple fact, that the triple crown of Rome was

always running in or about the head of the ambitious churchman.

[Illustration: frontispiece]

The time now drew near for Henry to meet Francis the First, who,

thinking to flatter Wolsey, requested that the management of the

gorgeous scene might be left entirely to the taste of the cardinal.

Wolsey's reputation as a getter-up of spectacles was exceedingly

well deserved, for even when at home, he lived in a style of gorgeous

magnificence. Every apartment in his house at Hampton was a set scene of

itself, with decorations and properties of the most costly character.

He kept eight hundred supernumeraries always about him as servants, "of

whom nine or ten were noblemen, fifteen knights, and forty esquires." *

Not contented with an ordinary chair, he always sat with a canopy over

his head, and he allowed no one to approach him except in a kneeling

attitude. His dress matched his furniture, for he wore a crimson

satin surtout, with hat and gloves of scarlet, and even his shoes

were silver-gilt--like a pair of electrotyped high-lows. His liveries

surpassed even those of the sheriffs of London; and his cook positively

wore satin or velvet, so that this functionary was dressed more daintily

and delicately than the most _recherché_ of his own dinners. Wolsey,

when he appeared in public, carried an orange, stuffed with scents,

in his hand; for he used to say affectedly that there was always an

exhalation from a vulgar crowd, which gave him the vapours.

* Fiddes' "Life of Wolsey," pp, 106,107.

The preparations for the interview between Francis and Henry having been

entrusted to such a master of all ceremonies as Cardinal Wolsey, could

not fail to be made on a scale of unprecedented grandeur; and the place

where the two monarchs met acquired the name of the "Field of the Cloth

of Gold," from the extreme gorgeousness of the scene in which they

acted. The arrangements were nearly complete, and Henry had removed to

Canterbury, for the convenience of the journey to France, when Charles

of Spain, being jealous of the anticipated meeting, ran over to the

Kentish coast, to say a few words to the English king before he left for

the Continent.

Charles was received in a most amicable manner, but happening to see the

late Queen Dowager of France, then Duchess of Suffolk, who might,

could, would, or should have been his own wife, he turned so spoony and

sentimental, that he could take no pleasure in the festivities prepared

for him. "No, thank you, none for me!" was his almost uniform answer

to every inquiry whether he would have a little of this, that, or the

other, that was placed before him. He lost first his spirits, then

his appetite, and ultimately his time, for he was fit neither for

négociation nor anything else during his stay in England. Having

remained four days, he went home with a "worm in the bud" of his

affections, and as he looked at the sea before him, he was overheard

muttering that he "should never get over it." His courtiers thought he

was alluding to the ocean but he was in reality soliloquising on the

loss of his heart, which he left behind him; but happily this is a sort

of parcel that can without much difficulty be recovered. On the day he

re-embarked for Flanders, Henry set sail for France, having only put off

his putting off out of compliment to his illustrious visitor.

A plot of ground between Guisnes and Ardres was fixed upon as the place

of meeting, and a temporary palace--of wood, covered with sailcloth--was

erected there, for the person and the _suite_ of the English sovereign.

Cunning workmen had painted the sacking at the top to look like square

stones; but it was sacking, nevertheless, as the inmates found out in

rainy weather. The walls glittered with jewels, like the gingerbread

stalls at a fair, and the tables groaned, or rather creaked, under

massive plate, which proves that the wood must have been rather green

which had been used in making the furniture. Francis, making up his

mind not to be outdone, got an enormous mast, and throwing an immense

rickcloth over the top, stuck it up umbrella-ways in the part of

the field he intended to occupy. A whirlwind having come on, the old

rickcloth got inflated with the height of its position, and was soon

carried away by the puffing it experienced. The whole apparatus took,

for a moment, the form of a balloon; and the workmen, seeing it was all

up, ran away just in time to avoid the consequences of a collapse, which

almost instantly happened. Francis was glad to find more substantial

lodgings in an old castle near the town of Ardres, where Wolsey speedily

paid him a morning visit. The cardinal, who had only intended to make a

short call; remained two days, in which he arranged an additional treaty

with the French king, who agreed to pay a large sum for the neutrality

of England in Continental matters, and "as to Scotland," said Francis,

"you and my mother shall settle that between you!"

"I?" exclaimed Louisa of Savoy, with surprise, "I don't know anything

about diplomatic affairs!" but the cardinal flattered the old lady that

she did; and by blandly remarking "he was positive that they should not

fall out," he persuaded her to join him in the arbitration, for he felt

pretty sure he should get the best of the bargain.

Business being concluded, Henry took out of his portmanteau a new dress

of silver damask, ribbed with cloth of gold, and in this splendid suit

of stripes he went forth to meet his brother Francis. The 7th of June,

1520, and the valley of Andren, were the time and place of their first

coming together, when, according to previous arrangement, they saluted

and embraced on horseback. Had one waited for the other to dismount

and advance, they might have been standing there to this day, but by a

clever act of equestrianism, they contrived to go through the form of

introduction on the backs of two highly-trained steeds, to the great

admiration of the circle in the midst of which they exhibited. Francis

spoke first, but confined himself to a commonplace observation on the

length of the distance he had come, and an allusion to the extent of his

possessions and power. Henry replied somewhat cleverly, that "the power

and possessions of Francis were matters quite secondary in importance to

Francis himself, whom he, Henry, had come a long way to see," and thus

contempt was adroitly blended with compliment. The royal couple then

dismounted, and took a turn arm-in-arm, as if in friendly conversation,

after which they went together into a tent and partook of a very

sumptuous banquet. Spice and wine were served out in great profusion,

in a spirit of liberality equivalent to that which dispenses "hot elder,

with a rusk included, a penny a glass," from many modern refectories.

There was plenty of a sort of stuff called "_ipocras_," given to the

people outside; but as we never tasted any "ipocras" and strongly

suspect that it is a decoction from ipecacuanha, we cannot answer for

the quality of the article in which the people "outside" were allowed to

luxuriate.

CHAPTER THE THIRD. HENRY THE EIGHTH (CONTINUED).

[Illustration: 386]

AFTER the banquet, the kings came out of the tent, and Hall, the English

annalist, got a near view of the French sovereign. Whether Hall had been

immersed too thoroughly in "ipocras" to allow of his taking a clear view

of matters in general, or from any other cause, it is certain that the

picture he gives of Francis the First is very unlike the portrait

which Titian has left to us. Hall makes the French king "highnosed and

big-lipped," with "great eyes and long feet," as if Hall saw everything

double while under the influence of "ipocras;" but Titian, by toning

down the nose, so as to make its bridge in conformity with the arches

of the eyebrows, has turned out a not unpleasing portrait of the great

original.

It had been previously announced that jousts would form part of the

festivities, and accordingly, on the 11th of June, these entertainments

began in a very spirited manner. The "braying" of trumpets made an

appropriate introduction to the sports, ana the overture was echoed

by braying of a more animated character. Each king fought five battles

every day, and, of course, came off victoriously in every one; for the

nobles and gentlemen of those times were most complacent in submitting

their heads as dummies to aid the amusements of royalty. The season of

the Field of the Cloth of Gold terminated with a fancy dress ball, in

which Henry made himself very conspicuous by the character and richness

of his disguises. The vastness of his wardrobe enabled him to astonish

everyone by the effectiveness of his "making-up" and two or three of his

masks were models of quaint ugliness.

At the end of a fortnight of foolery and feasting the two monarchs

separated, and the memorable meeting of the Field of the Cloth of Gold

passed from the hands of the costumier, the carpenter, and the cook,

into those of the historian. Its chief result was to beggar many of the

French and English nobles who had taken part in it, and gone to expense

they could not support to outdo each other in magnificence. Thus did

the Field of the Cloth of Gold prepare the way for a sort of threadbare

seediness, into which many belonging to both nations were plunged by

their having done themselves up in an insane attempt to outdo each

other.

Our account of the great meeting on the Field of the Cloth of Gold would

not be complete without the following anecdote. Francis rose very early

one morning, and made his way to the quarters of Henry, who was in bed

and fast asleep on the arrival of his illustrious visitor. The French

king shook the English monarch cordially by the whipcord tassel on the

top of his nightcap, when the latter, springing out of bed, responded to

the playful summons. "You see," said Francis, "I am up with the lark,"

to which Henry added, "And I am ready for the bird you have specified."

The English king then expressed himself much obliged for such a mark of

attention, and cast over the neck of Francis "a splendid collar,"

being, no doubt, the "false one" taken off on the night previous. It is

believed by some that Henry, not knowing the object of the intrusion,

collared the intruder at once; but the version of the story which we

have already given appears to be the more probable. Francis, in his

turn, clasped a bracelet on Henry's arm, or rather, according to

an ill-natured reading of the affair, one cuffed the other for the

collaring he had experienced. Henry rang his bell for his valet, but

Francis would not permit the attendance of any servant, but laid out

Henry's clean things with his own hand, taking in his shaving water,

putting out his highlows to be cleaned, and taking them in again. *

* The minuteness with which these particulars are detailed,

may cause a doubt of their veracity, but we refer the reader

to Mr. Fraser Tytler's "Life of Henry the Eighth," in p. 123

of which the anecdote we have given is fully recorded.

[Illustration; 387]

Henry, on his return from the Field of the Cloth of Gold, took

Gravelines in his way, and gave a look in upon Charles of Castile, who

saw him home as far as Calais. This far-seeing prince saw that Wolsey

had it all his own way with the English king, and the emperor took every

possible opportunity of trying to "come over" the proud prelate. Charles

promised his "vote and interest" to Wolsey, in the event of any vacancy

occurring in the papal chair, and gratified his avarice by making him

bishop of Placentia and Badajos.

Henry, after making a short stay at Calais, returned to Dover, and

reached London, without a penny in his pocket, for both he and his

courtiers were completely cleaned out by their recent extravagance.

On the king's arrival, Buckingham got himself into trouble by his

impertinent remarks on the expedition to France, and the dreadful waste

of money that it had occasioned. He particularly pointed his sarcasms

against Wolsey as the originator of all the expensive fooleries that

had been committed, and he took every opportunity of gain saying all

the fooleries that had been committed, and he took every opportunity

of occasion, Buckingham had been holding a basin for Henry to wash his

hands, when Wolsey, anxious to have a finger in everything belonging to

the king, plunged his paws into the same water. The duke, desirous of

administering a damper to the cardinal, spilt a quantity of the liquid

over his shoes, when Wolsey becoming angry, threatened to "set upon his

skirts," which meant in other words, that the cardinal would be down

upon him.

There is no doubt that Wolsey took every opportunity of damaging

Buckingham; but the duke himself was obnoxious to the king, and gave

particular offence by hiring a servant who had been a member of the

royal household. Buckingham had been leading the life of a country

gentleman, at what be modestly called his "little place" in

Gloucestershire, when he received an invitation to Court; and, foolishly

flattering himself that this little attention was shown to him on

account of his merits, he unsuspectingly obeyed the summons. When he

had proceeded some way on his journey, he found he was dodged by three

disagreeable looking fellows in block tin, who turned out to be members

of the king's body guard, and who were sure to be at his heels whenever

he looked round over his own shoulder.

Having put up at Windsor for the night, he had no sooner been shown to

his bedroom than he saw the same three fellows loitering in the yard of

the inn he was stopping at. Once or twice, after occasion, Buckingham

retiring to rest, he looked out of his window and fancied he saw one

of the three knights crouching in a corner beneath his lattice, and

he called out to the figure to be off; but the approach of daylight

revealed to him the outline of an innocent water-butt, which he had

during the hours of darkness imperatively desired to quit the premises.

"I know you well," he cried several times to the tub, "and you had

better go at once;" but his expostulations were of course disregarded in

the quarter to which he was idly addressing them.

[Illustration; 389]

Declining to stop at Windsor, he determined to breakfast the next

morning at Egham; but he had no sooner entered the coffee-room than

he was insulted by one Thomas Ward, a creature of the Court, which

completely took away the appetite of the duke, of whom it was cruelly

said that he could eat neither egg nor ham in the hostel at Eg-ham. He

then rode on to Westminster, where he got into his barge and 'pulled

down with the tide as far as Greenwich, but stopped at Wolsey's house on

the way, and sent in his card to the cardinal, who sent out word that he

was indisposed, and declined seeing his visitor. "Umph," said the duke,

"I'm sorry to hear that, but I'll step in, and take a glass of wine,

if you've no objection!" After a good deal of whispering among Wolsey's

servants, Buckingham was shown into the cellar, where he took a draught

of wine from the wood; but finding no preparations made for him, he

changed colour--that is to say, he looked rather blue--and proceeded

on his journey. As he continued pulling along the river, a four-oared,

manned by yeomen of the guard, whose captain acted as coxswain, hailed

Buckingham in his barge, which was instantly boarded by the crew of the

cutter.

The duke having been towed ashore, was at once arrested, and marched in

custody down Thames Street, with a mob at his heels, all the way to the

Tower. There were a few cries of "Shame!" and other demonstrations of

disapproval, but the sympathy of the bystanders having evaporated in a

few yells and a mud shower of cabbage leaves, Buckingham was left in the

hands of his captors. On the 13th of May, 1521, Buckingham was brought

to trial on the charge of tempting Friar Hopkins to make traitorous

prophecies. This Hopkins was an old fortune-telling impostor, who had

predicted all sorts of good luck to poor Buckingham, none of which ever

fell to his lot; so that he had the double mortification of having been

cheated out of his cash, for promises that never came true, and being

punished for them just as much as if they had all been literally

verified. Buckingham defended himself with great courage; and on being

convicted as a traitor, he solemnly declared that he was "never none:"

an indignant mode of exculpation, in which grammar was sacrificed to

emphasis. He died, very courageously, on the 17th of May, 1521, and the

barbarous ceremony of his execution created the greatest disgust among

the populace.

Almost at the very moment that Henry was being guilty of the enormity

we have described, he was putting himself forward as the champion of

Religion. He professed the greatest horror of the errors and heresies

of Luther, whom, in a letter to Louis of Bavaria, he proposed to burn,

books and all, in an early bonfire. Finding that the great Reformer was

not to be thus made light of, Henry turned author, and by taking up the

pen, he, instead of consigning his antagonist to the flames, regularly

burnt his own fingers. There is no doubt that the royal scribbler had

been thoroughly well crammed for the task he undertook; and Leo the

Tenth having read the book, was good-natured enough to say, in the

language of our old friend the _Evening Paper_, that "it ought to be

on every gentleman's table." He published a sort of review of it in

a special bull, and made the remark, that the author might fairly be

called "The Defender of the Faith," a title which was not only adopted

by Henry himself, but has been held, to this very day, by all subsequent

English sovereigns.

Francis and Charles, the respective monarchs of France and Spain, had

all this time continued their bickering, and they at length agreed to

ask the arbitration of Henry. He declined interfering personally, but

sent Wolsey in his stead, and the cardinal arrived at Calais on the 30th

of July, 1521, with a magnificent retinue. His establishment consisted

of lords, bishops, doctors, knights, squires, and gentlemen in

crimson-velvet coats, with gold chains round their necks, which gave

to the whole party an aspect of exceeding flashiness. Wolsey,

notwithstanding the number and splendour of his followers, was at a very

trifling expense, for he billeted the whole party at Bruges upon the

unfortunate emperor, or rather upon his more unfortunate subjects, who

were ordered by their sovereign to find everything that was wanted

and put it all down to him in that doubtful document, the bill, which

between a potentate and his people seldom meets with settlement. Rations

of candles, wine, sugar *, were served out every evening to the whole of

Wolsey's suite, so that all who wanted it had the ingredients of grog,

while the candles enabled such as were so disposed to make a night of it.

[Illustration: 392]

After spending ten days in the enjoyment of every luxury, at the cost of

the contending parties, thus showing that he understood how to make the

very most of his position as an arbitrator, Wolsey suddenly declared

that he saw no chance of Charles and Francis being reconciled. The wily

cardinal, having been regularly got hold of by Charles, drew up a treaty

extremely favourable to the emperor, and even arranged that he should

marry Henry's daughter Mary, though the young lady had been previously

betrothed to the son of Francis.

This alteration in the domestic arrangements of the parties concerned

was simply declared to be "for the good of Christendom," ** and Henry

agreed to the plan with a nonchalant assurance that he really thought

it the best thing that could be done, for he did not see "how his said

affairs might have been better handled." *** Pope Leo the Tenth, who

was in league with Wolsey, the emperor, and Henry, in their joint

arrangements for smashing France, agreed to give the dispensation for

the proposed marriage; but Leo died before the nuptial treaty had been

ratified.

* Cavendish.

** Galt's "Life of Wolsey," book ii., p. 43.

***State Papers.

On the death of Leo the Tenth, Wolsey lost no time in offering himself

as a candidate for the vacant popedom. Secretary Pace was sent off at a

slapping pace to Rome, to see the members of the conclave, and solicit

their votes and interests for the English cardinal. Pace, however, seems

to have been too slow to be of any use, and Adrian, Cardinal of Tortosa,

who was put up almost in joke, and certainly to create a diversion

against Giulio de Medici, one of the other candidates, was returned by

a large majority. Wolsey's name does not appear to have been even

mentioned on the occasion, and Pace took no step to further his

employer's interests.

Francis having been thoroughly disgusted at the treatment he had

experienced, tried, in the first place, to win Henry back to his cause

by entreaties, and next by intimidation, in pursuance of which he

shabbily stopped the pension of the English sovereign. When two kings

fall out, their subjects are usually the sufferers; and accordingly, the

English in France and the French in England became the objects of royal

spitefulness. Francis stopped all the British vessels in his ports, and

arrested the merchants, while Henry took his revenge by imprisoning

the French ambassador and making a wholesale seizure of all property

belonging to Frenchmen. At length, the English monarch became so angry,

that he sent a challenge by the Clarencieux Herald, offering to fight

Francis in single combat, that each might have the satisfaction of a

gentleman; but whether one refused to go out, or the other drew in, we

are not aware, for we only know that the dispute did not end in a duel.

Doubts have been thrown upon the sincerity of Henry in thus inviting

Francis to a personal encounter, but there is every reason to believe

that, in the words of the _Bell's Life_ of the period, "the British Pet

meant business, though the Gallic Cock, having already won his spurs in

other quarters, was not disposed to place them in jeopardy." Henry, with

the customary determination of the English character had, no doubt, put

himself regularly into training for the event to come off, and it is not

unlikely that he may have frequently amused himself by a little practice

on the effigy of his intended antagonist. The skill he thus acquired in

planting his blows and putting in the necessary punishment at the proper

points would have been highly serviceable had he ever been allowed to

meet his man, and it is even said that a bottle of claret was placed in

the middle of the head of the figure, so that Henry might fully realise

the result of his sparring exercise. We know not how far we may put

faith in these ancient records, but we are justified in giving them to

the reader, who will separate, no doubt, the wholesome corn of fact from

the chaff of mere tradition.

[Illustration: 393]

In the meantime, Charles came over on a visit to his intended

father-in-law, and was introduced to his infant bride, who was a

child in arms, at his first interview. Henry and Charles indulged in

a succession of gaieties, for which neither possessed the means, and

Charles even borrowed money of Henry, while the latter made up the

deficiency by running into debt to a frightful extent with his own

people.

The king now began to find that he "must have cash," and he at once

applied to Wolsey to assist him in raising more money. On these

occasions Henry spoke in the most flattering manner to the cardinal,

calling him endearingly his "Linsey Wolsey," in a word, "his comforter."

The prelate readily entered into his master's views, but candidly

pointed out the difficulties of extracting anything more from the

London merchants. They had lately advanced £20,000 in a forced loan, and

it was determined to vary the demand upon them, by substituting direct

taxation for the empty form of borrowing. Wolsey ordered the mayor, the

aldermen, and the most substantial citizens of London to attend at his

chambers, * when he announced to them the fact that the sovereign was

hard up, and required pecuniary assistance. "What, again!" cried a voice

which the cardinal pretended not to hear, but proceeded to say that he

should require a return of the amount of their annual moneys from all

of them. This proposition was the origin of that income-tax with which

England has since been burdened; and the lovers of antiquity will feel

some consolation in the knowledge that they suffer under a grievance

which is hallowed by its ancient origin. There is to many a great

comfort in being victimised under venerable institutions, and there are

individuals who would rather be plundered in conformity with what are

termed time-honoured principles, than be fairly dealt with upon any new

system.

While, however, we are talking of the simpletons of the present day,

the dupes and victims of the period of Henry the Eighth are being kept

waiting in the presence of Wolsey. "Gentlemen," said the cardinal, "the

country is in danger, ana the king wants your hearts;" an announcement

which was received with cheers of assent, until it was followed up by a

declaration that he must also try the strength of their pockets. Murmurs

of dissent followed this intimation; but Wolsey went on boldly to say

that the king would only require one-tenth of what they had, and if they

could not live on the other nine-tenths, he did not know how they would

ever be satisfied. "How will his majesty take the contribution?" at

length exclaimed one of the aldermen. "In money, plate, or jewels,"

cried the cardinal; "but at any rate the thing must be done, and

therefore go about it." ** A promise was made that the money should

be repaid out of the first subsidy, which would have been a sort of

improvement upon the old practice of borrowing from Peter to pay

Paul, for it would have been picking Peter's two pockets at once, and

ransacking one under the pretext of replenishing the other.

* Supposed to have been over the gateway of Inner Temple

Lane, where Henry and Wolsey shared the rooms now occupied

by their successors, Honey and Skelton the hairdressers.

** Hall, by the salient wit of More, who had a new joke for

every new star, and appropriate puns for all the planets. He

was the original author of that brilliant but ancient series

of pleasantries on the "milky whey," which have since become

so universally popular; and to him may perhaps be attributed

the venerable but not sufficiently appreciated remark, that

the music of the spheres must proceed from the band of

Orion.

Henry certainly had the knack of making his people's money go a great

way, for it went so far when it passed into his hands, that it never

came back again. The enormous sums he had extorted from the citizens

soon melted away in dinner parties, pageants, and other expenses, so

that he was at last, after a lapse of eight years, obliged to summon a

Parliament. It was opened in person by the king, and the Commons elected

Sir Thomas More as their speaker.

Sir Thomas More presented one of those rare unions of wisdom and waggery

which may occasionally be found, and he was often sent for to the palace

to make jokes for his sovereign. The king would often take him out on

the leads at night, where after scrambling through the cock-loft, and

getting out upon the tiles, Sir Thomas and his royal pupil would stand

for an hour at a time, conversing on the subject of astronomy.

The king and Wolsey congratulated each other on having got Tom More as

Speaker, for they thought he would act like one of themselves, and

that he would soon laugh the people out of all the money they might be

required to furnish. Henry and the cardinal foolishly imagined that the

man who sometimes made a joke could never be serious; but they found out

their mistake, for he proved himself an excellent man of business when

occasion required. Wolsey thought to produce an effect by attending the

House in person, and making a speech on that most unpromising topic the

"crisis," though it was not such a threadbare subject in those days

as in our own, when a "crisis" may almost be looked for as a quarterly

occurrence. Happily, if we are remarkable for our rapidity in getting

a "crisis" up, we have also a wonderful knack of putting it down again

with equal promptitude.

The speech of Wolsey was listened to without reply; for, every member

of the House considering the cardinal's intrusion a breach of privilege,

remained mute and motionless. Irritated by their silence, the crafty

churchman called up one of the members by name, and asked him for a

speech; but the call might just as well have been for a song, since the

individual indicated said nothing more than rise up and sit down again.

Finding it impossible to get a good word, or indeed any word at all from

the Commons, the cardinal lost his temper, and declared that, having

come from the king, he should certainly wait for an answer; but Tom

Moore, the Speaker--who, by-the-by, deserved the title, for he was the

only one that spoke--began to show his wit by saying that the fact was,

the Commons were too modest to open their mouths in the presence of so

great a personage. Wolsey withdrew in dudgeon, and after a few days'

debate, it was at length agreed to give the money that had been asked,

but to take five years to pay it in. Though Henry would no doubt have

been perfectly willing to make a sacrifice for ready money, and allow

a considerable discount on a cash transaction, his minister tried to

accelerate the mode of payment without offering any equivalent for a

restriction of the term of credit.

The autumn of the year 1525 was rendered remarkable by the confusion

into which the Londoners were thrown, in consequence of the

almanack-makers and astronomers having tried to give an impetus to their

trade by throwing into the market a parcel of very alarming prophecies.

It was predicted that the rains would be so tremendous as to convert the

whole wealth of the metropolis into floating capital; and the merchants,

fearing they might not be able to keep their heads above water, ran in

crowds to the suburbs. Several parted with everything they possessed,

and their foolish conduct in making their arrangements for being swamped

formed a precedent, no doubt, for a case of recent occurrence, in which

an individual of average income, having been led away by a prophecy

that the world had only two more years to run, invested the whole of his

property in the largest possible annuity he could procure for two years,

being under the firm impression that beyond that time neither he nor his

heirs, executors, or assigns would have the opportunity of enjoying a

farthing of any surplus. As the world did not keep the appointment that

had been made for it by the calculator of its final arrangements, he was

left without a penny when the time he had assigned for its duration

was up; and thus many had got rid of everything in 1525, under the

expectation that all their sorrows and possessions would be drowned in

the inundation that did--not happen.

During the time the panic prevailed, a few of the tradesmen and

artificers did their best to put it to a profitable account, and a

turner of the time, who was so clever at his business that he could turn

a penny out of anything, constructed several thousand pairs of stilts,

and, placing them in his window labelled "Stilts for the inundation," he

obtained numerous customers.

Wolsey's attention was suddenly called off from matters at home by a

fresh vacancy in the popedom, occasioned by the death of Adrian.

The English cardinal immediately despatched a letter to his royal

master, saying how unfit he was for the pontificate, when Henry,

instantly taking the hint, and saying to himself, "Oh! ah! exactly!

I see what Wolsey wants," wrote off strongly to Rome in favour of his

election. Powerful efforts were made to secure his return and push

him to the top of the poll, but though he got several votes, he was

completely beaten by Giulio de Medici, who was elected to the papal

chair by a very large majority. Wolsey bore his disappointment, to all

appearances, exceedingly well, but the probability is that he saw the

policy of keeping on good terms with the new pope, who made the cardinal

his legate for life, and granted him a bull empowering him to suppress

a number of monasteries, for the purpose of taking the money they

possessed to endow his own colleges.

[Illustration: 396]

Henry and Wolsey declared that the cash should be devoted to "putting

down" that "Monster Luther," as they sometimes called him, or that

"fellow Luther," as they spoke of him now and then, by way of change,

though his fellow did not exist at the period when the term was applied

to him. Among the many irons that Henry now had in the fire was an

Italian iron, with which he stood a pretty fair chance of burning his

fingers, for he had interfered in the disputes between Francis the First

of France and the Emperor Charles, who was at war in Italy. Francis had

laid himself down on the pavement before Pavia, resolved to leave

no stone unturned to place a curb on the foe and pave his own way to

victory. As he lay under the walls, the cream of the Imperial army was

poured down upon him with a savage violence that causes the blood to

curdle at the bare recital. Thoroughly soured in his hopes, Francis

plunged into the very thick of the Imperial cream, and beating around

him with his sword in all directions, reduced seven men, with his

own hand, to the inanimate condition of whipped syllabubs. His valour

availed him little, for he was removed--to adopt the spelling of the

period--in custardy. He was kept in captivity in Spain, at the

strong fortress of Pizzichitone, from which he wrote home to his

mother--probably for the means of replenishing his _sac de nuit_--and

concluded his note with the memorable words,"_Tout est perdu hors

l'honneur_," which, for the benefit of that portion of the public who

may have learnt their "French without a master," and have, consequently,

never mastered it at all, we translate into "All is lost, excepting

honour."

Francis being now completely down, Henry and Wolsey proposed to Charles

that they should combine in making the very most of the helpless

position of their prostrate enemy. Fortunately for the French king,

his two opponents were not only deficient in funds, but had begun to

quarrel; on the old principle, perhaps, that when Poverty stalks in at

the door, Love hops out at the window. The pay of Charles's forces had

fallen fearfully into arrear, and they declared they would no longer go

on fighting on half salaries. It was therefore determined to bring the

military season to a close; and the grand ballet of action, having

for its plot the invasion of France--of which Henry had drawn out the

scheme, and which was to have put forward the strength of a double

company, comprising a powerful combination of the English and Imperial

_troupe_--was postponed for an indefinite period.

Henry, who was ready to sell himself to either party, finding Charles

too poor to purchase him, offered himself without reserve to Francis.

Terms were soon arranged, by which Henry was to receive by instalments

two millions of crowns, with a permanent annuity when the chief sum was

paid off; and Wolsey was also handsomely provided for--at least in the

shape of promises. While the agreement was most solemnly ratified by

Francis himself and the chief of the French nobility, the Attorney and

Solicitor-General of France privately popped a protest on to the file,

in order that the king, who was particular about his honour, might not

have his scruples shocked should he subsequently feel disposed to

break his word and fly off from his agreement. He found considerable

difficulty in effecting his release without swearing to at least a dozen

things he never intended to perform, and when the document was brought

to him, full of concessions to Charles, he affixed his signature with

the indifference of a man putting his name to a bill, regardless of the

amount, which he does not mean to liquidate. He had no sooner got out

of custody, and found himself comfortably seated before his palace fire,

than Sir Thomas Cheney and Dr. Taylor walked in with a message from

Henry the Eighth, to congratulate Francis on his delivery. "If you'll

take my advice," said one of the visitors, at the same time handing his

card, with

Dr. Taylor,

_Jurist._

upon it, to give weight to his words, "you will pay no attention to the

liabilities you have entered into with regard to the Emperor."

"Indeed, Doctor, I don't mean to trouble myself upon the subject," was

the king's reply; "and in fact I have kept up a running accompaniment

of private protests to every obligation I have undertaken." Dr. Taylor

explained to him that he was on the safe side, for the bonds he had

given were bad in law, having been executed while the king was under

duress, and therefore not legally responsible. Thus did the chivalrous

Francis, who had written so nobly about having lost everything except

his honour, present an early instance, of which later times have

furnished so many, of the largest talkers being the smallest doers, or

perhaps rather the greatest dos in the universe.

We have now to relate a curious personal anecdote of Henry the Eighth,

which might have caused a considerable abridgment of his reign, much in

the same way that the want of strength in the bowl in which the three

wise men of Gotha went to sea, put a premature period to their little

history. * Henry, in his early manhood, was one day running after a

hawk, perhaps to put a little salt on its tail in the idle hope of

catching it. The bird was actively retreating before its royal pursuer,

and had just quitted a hedge by hopping the twig, when it traversed a

ditch on the other side, which Henry endeavoured to clear by the aid of

his leaping-pole. The attempt somehow failed, and the monarch pitching

on to his head in the soft mud, sunk into it as far as his neck, and

became planted with his legs in the air for several seconds. Happily

a footman named Edmund Moody--"You all know Tom Moody" though you may

never have heard of Edmund--came up at the instant and pulled the king

up from the ground by the roots--at least by the roots of his hair--with

wondrous promptitude. Had this accident proved fatal, Henry would have

been the first instance of a monarch losing his crown by being planted

instead of supplanted, which had been the fate of some that had preceded

him.

* "Three wise men of Gotha

Went to sea in a bowl;

Had the bowl been stronger

My story would have been longer."

--Old Nursery Ballad.

Though the fact is not stated, the inference clearly is,

that the "wise men" bowled themselves out of existence by

that rash proceeding.