Though a mere child was on the throne, the atrocities committed at

Smithfield, in the burning of what were called heretics, went on as

briskly as ever, the fires being stirred by Cranmer and Ridley in the

most savage manner. Mary, the king's eldest sister, gave considerable

trouble by insisting on the celebration of mass in her own household;

and, though told by the council she mustn't, the truly feminine reply

that "she should see if she shouldn't," and that "she would, though;

they'd see if she wouldn't," was all that she condescended to say in

answer to the requisition.

Somerset, since his liberation, had been still hanging about the Court,

and had apparently become reconciled to Warwick, whose eldest son,

Lord Lisle, had been married to Lady Ann, one of the daughters of

the ex-Protector. Nevertheless, on Friday, the 16th of October, 1551,

Somerset found himself once more in the "lock-up," on a charge of

treason. He was accused of an intention to run about London crying out

"Liberty! Liberty!" and, if that had not succeeded, he was to have gone

to the Isle of Wight to try on the same game in that direction. If that

had not succeeded there is no knowing what he would have done; but at

all events, orders were sent to the Tower to set a watch upon the Great

Seal, because Somerset wanted to run away with it. If he had made off

with the seal, he might, perhaps, have taken the watch also; but this

did not occur to the council. His trial took place at Westminster, on

the 1st of December, 1551, at the sittings after Michaelmas term, when

he denied everything, and was found guilty of just enough to get a

judgment--with speedy execution--against him. His politeness was quite

marvellous, for he thanked the Lords who had tried him, ana he threw

as much grace as he could into the bow he was compelled to make on

submitting his head to the axe of the executioner. "This," says Fox, on

the authority of a nobleman who was present, "came off on Friday,

the 22nd of January, 1552," and it is a curious fact, that of every

execution that occurred in his reign the boy king had preserved the

heads in his private journal.

Warwick, who had got himself promoted to the dukedom of Northumberland,

seemed desirous of making government a business for the benefit of

himself and family. He took the motto of "anything for peace and quiet,"

though he had blamed his predecessor, Somerset, for having done the same

thing, and he bought off the hostility of France and Scotland by selling

Boulogne regularly up, placing a carpet on the lighthouse, dividing the

upper and lower town into lots, declaring that he wanted money down on

the nail, and to hit the right one on the head he must resort to the

hammer. He made excellent marriages for his children, and allied his

son, Guildford Dudley, with the royal family of France by wedding him

to Lady Jane Grey, a daughter of a son of the old original Mary Tudor of

France, to whose descendants the English crown would fall in the event

of a failure of a more direct succession.

The young King Edward, who had not yet passed through the ordinary

routine of infantile complaints, now took the measles--or, rather, the

measles took him--and he had scarcely recovered from this complaint when

the small-pox placed him under indentures which seemed much too strong

to be cancelled within any reasonable period. He was serving his time to

this malady, when another latent illness that had hitherto been playing

at hide-and-seek, set up a cry of "whoop," and his youthful majesty

was in for the whooping-cough. Northumberland, taking advantage of the

king's weak state, advised him not to leave the crown to his big and

bigoted sister Mary. "True," said Edward, "but how about poor little

Bet?"

"Why, she," replied the Protector, "is very little better." With such

weak sophistry as this, he persuaded the poor invalid king to draw up a

settlement of the crown on Lady Jane Grey, and the judges, with all

the law officers, were summoned to approve the document. Sir Edward

Montague, the Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, with Sir Thomas

Bromley, one of his _puisnes_, came accompanied by the attorney and

solicitor-generals, to say that the deed was illegal, and that they,

one and all, would have nothing to do with it. Upon this, Northumberland

rushed into the room, called Montague a traitor, * banged the door,

threatened to bang the judges, and offered to fight in his shirt-sleeves

any one of them.

* Burnet he had studied the business of the mint; but it may

fairly be replied, that merely looking at the process of

coining does not make a sovereign. He is said to have known

all the harbours in Scotland, England and France, with the

amount of water they were capable of containing--and though

this may prove the depth of his research, it is no

particular mark of his ability. He took notes of everything

he heard; but as sovereigns hear a great deal of thorough

trash, the collection must have been rather tedious and

elaborate than instructive or entertaining.

[Illustration: 444]

He declared that if they could not see the deed in its proper light, he

would pretty soon beat it into them, and he was squaring up to the poor

_puisne_ with an evident intention for mischief, when the judges offered

to take the papers home and reconsider them.

The next day, they were again sent for, when, finding Northumberland as

pugilistic as ever, and hand in glove with the king, the chief justice

consented to the deed; and the _puisne_, on being approached by

Northumberland in an attitude of menace, was glad to stammer out, "I

am of the same opinion," as rapidly as he could give the words their

utterance. The judges were promised that the deeds should be ratified by

Parliament, and that they should be pardoned if they had done wrong;

for otherwise, from the fists of Northumberland to the hands of the

legislature, might have been analogous to getting out of the frying-pan

into the fire.

All this row in the palace of an invalid produced the effect that might

have been expected, for the poor boy died a day or two afterwards. A

pugilistic encounter between a duke and a judge, was somewhat too much

of a stimulant for a child in Edward's weak state, and his physicians

having given him up, he was turned over to the treatment of a female

quack, who finished him. She did the business on the 6th of July, 1533,

when he sunk under a complication of evils, among which his medical

attendant was undoubtedly the greatest. He had lived fifteen years,

eight months, and twenty-two days, having been upon the throne six years

and a half; affording a curious instance of a reign in which the part of

the sovereign was so insignificant that it might just as well have been

omitted.

This little fellow had been greatly eulogised for his talents, as shown

in his journal; but on looking at this juvenile production we regret to

say that we could not go the length of our old friend the evening paper,

in stating that it is "a very remarkable production." He mentioned

certain dinners and suppers with evident gusto, and alludes to the

return of the sweating sickness, but misses the obvious point, that

he hopes that it will not prove so perverse as to begin sweating

sovereigns. Some of the historians of his reign allege that if we are

to judge young Edward by the laws passed in his reign, there is no great

deal to be said for him. Beggars were declared to be the slaves of those

who apprehended them, and iron collars were permitted to be put about

the throats of the latter; but this was too much for the pride of the

stiff-necked people of England, and the law was repealed, within two or

three years of its having been enacted.

There is no doubt that he was a most amiable little fellow, as docile

as a lamb, if indeed his gentleness did not amount to absolute

sheepishness. His flatterers say that he could speak five languages, and

had a taste for music and physic, in the latter of which predilections

we are quite unable to sympathise. We should have said he was a nice

child but for the peculiarity to which we have just made allusion. As

a quiet young gentleman at a preparatory school kept by ladies, Master

Edward Tudor would have done credit no doubt to the establishment in

which he might have been placed; but we would as soon select a sovereign

from a seminary at once, and take him from the bread-and-butter to the

throne, as see the spirt of the monarchy diluted in milk-and-water, and

the sceptre dwindling down into a king's pattern spoon.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH. MARY.

Northumberland having got the deed appointing his daughter-in-law the

Lady Jane Grey to the throne, began to get rather nervous as to the

effect of making known to the people such a preposterous arrangement. He

was afraid to advertise the king's death, and walked about the palace at

Greenwich, biting his nails, thinking what he should do, or shut himself

up in a small apartment, which, from the colour of its walls, was known

as the brown study. He subsequently sent for the Lord Mayor of London,

half a dozen aldermen, and a dozen citizens, to whom he communicated,

one at a time, but always in a whisper, the decease of the sovereign.

"Mind you don't tell," was the precautionary observation he made to

each; and a will was then produced, in which the boy-king had appointed

Lady Jane Grey his successor. The cockneys expressed their readiness to

swear allegiance to the lady, if it was "all right;" and Northumberland

pledged his honour as a peer, that he would make it so. This happened

on the 1st of July, and two days afterwards Lady Jane was forwarded

by water to the Tower of London, some of the corporation, who had been

gained over by her father-in-law, rowing in the same boat with her.

After her safe arrival, the death of King Edward was publicly announced,

and Lady Jane Grey was proclaimed amid very slight applause, accompanied

by murmurs of the name of Mary. Poor Jane was sadly _genée_ by the

position into which she was thrust, for she was a quiet, unaspiring,

lovely creature, whose only fault seems to have been that she read Plato

in the original Greek, * which appears to us the very alpha and omega of

absurdity.

* Roger Ascham.

In the meantime, Mary, whose sanguinary disposition, and love for

cutting off heads in her father's style, fully entitled her to the name

of the "chip of the old block," was raising friends to resist the

views of Northumberland. Mary, whose Catholic predilections were known,

promised those who were favourable to the Reformation, that she would

make no change in the religion fixed by Edward; and thus, though she was

understood to have mass celebrated at home, she silenced the scruples of

the masses. The proclamation of Lady Jane Grey had been contrived at a

packed meeting of the council, on the 10th of July; but it is said

that a vintner's lad--or more probably a boy going round with the

beer--entered a protest--possibly through an open window--to the

arrangement. A policeman was instantly sent after him, and he was at

once set in the pillory, where the tops of his ears paid the penalty of

a juvenile offence, which he would not have committed had he arrived

at the years of discretion. This little incident, trifling as it was,

showed that there was a feeling abroad unfavourable to the elevation of

Jane; for the pot-boy is always an authority on the subject of public

measures. His opportunities of listening to the discussions of the

people are great; and though he may hear much frothy declamation, as

well as witness a vast tendency to half-and-half principles, in the

course of his experience, he is nevertheless capable of judging, to a

considerable extent, of the feelings of the multitude.

Northumberland, seeing that opinion was taking a powerful turn in Mary's

favour, became fearfully perplexed, and hearing that an adverse force

was being collected, came to the resolution that "somebody" must go and

oppose the enemy. Who that "somebody" should be, was a very puzzling

question, for Northumberland did not like the business himself, and was

afraid to trust anyone else with a matter of so much consequence. At

length he offered the task to Suffolk, the father of Lady Jane Grey; but

that young lady began to cry very bitterly at the idea of her poor

papa, who was "wholly unaccustomed to public fighting," being sent into

battle. Whether it was an arrangement between father and daughter it

is impossible to say; but it was well known that Suffolk was not over

valorous, and even if he did not "cry off," Lady Jane did so for him,

by keeping up a constant cry until they found her father a substitute.

Northumberland, perceiving that Suffolk had made up his mind not to go,

was looking about him for somebody else, when a general interrogatory

of, "Why don't he go himself?" seemed to suggest itself to the council.

With a reluctance that indicated the feelings in his mind of "Well, I

suppose I must," he started off with a small army, which experienced a

cold reception in its progress, and the silence of the spectators

giving them the air of mutes, invested with the dolefulness of a funeral

procession the march of the troops as far as Bury.

Northumberland had no sooner turned his back on the council than they

turned their backs on him, by proclaiming Mary as Queen of England;

and on a party being sent to besiege the Tower, Lady Jane Grey, by

the advice of her own papa, resigned all pretensions to the sovereign

dignity. Suffolk not only evinced no disposition to defend his

daughter's claims, but turning his sword into a steel-pen, hastened to

sign the decrees that were being issued in the name of Mary.

Poor Northumberland, who was waiting for succours which never came, and

who was accordingly being victimised by the expenses of his soldiers,

who acted as suckers of a different kind, heard of what had taken place

in London, and having fallen back upon Cambridge, sent for a herald, or

town crier, with whom he bargained for the proclamation of Mary, at the

market-place. It has been atrociously hinted, by an old offender, whose

family we spare by the suppression of his name, that Northumberland took

this humiliating course in the hope that Mary would be molli-fied. He

had scarcely finished the proceeding we have described, when he received

a sharp letter from the council in London, desiring him to disband his

army; but looking round, he perceived that it had disbanded itself, for

all his followers had deserted him. They had, in fact, gone over to the

other side, with a canting recantation of their opinions, and a whining

declaration that they never should have thought of taking arms against

their lawful queen "had not Northumberland made them do it." The unhappy

duke himself was hanging about the streets of Cambridge the next day,

not knowing whether to give himself up or "run for it," when the Earl of

Arundel, coming up and tapping him on the shoulder, observed, "You must

come along with me--you're my prisoner." Northumberland burst into a

loud bellow, fell upon his knees, and begged for his life; but Arundel,

contemptuously desiring an underling to "bring him along," lodged the

captive in the Tower. Poor Lady Jane, whose representations of the part

of queen had been limited to ten days, was already locked up, and,

in fact, the State prison was full to overflowing of her unfortunate

partisans. Her father, the Duke of Suffolk, obtained his pardon on the

31st of July, through Mary, who, on the 3rd of August, 1553, made

her triumphant entry into London, accompanied by her little sister,

afterwards the great Elizabeth. On the 18th of the same month,

Northumberland, his eldest son John, Earl of Warwick, and two or three

others, were brought to trial at Westminster Hall, when they pleaded

the general issue; but the chief prisoner, finding it useless to throw

himself upon the country, threw himself on the floor, asking, in the

most abject terms, for mercy. This prostration was of no avail, for

sentence of death was speedily passed upon him; the sycophant Suffolk

(Lady Jane Grey's own father) being one of the judges who presided at

the trial. The Earl of Warwick behaved with more spirit than his parent,

and upon hearing that he was to die as a traitor, which would involve

the confiscation of his property, he coolly requested that his

unfortunate creditors might not be victimised. "Don't pay me off,

without paying them off, also," were the chivalrous words of the young

nobleman. The Marquis of Northampton, when called upon for his defence,

said that he had been out with the hounds and engaged in field sports

while the conspiracy was going on, so that he had been quite upon

another scent; but this availed nothing for the sly old fox, who was

immediately found guilty. Sir John Gates, as well as Sir Henry

Gates, both of whom were fearfully unhinged, were also condemned; and

Northumberland made a long penitential speech from the scaffold when, as

if caught by the example, Sir John Gates opened out with extraordinary

eloquence. Poor Gates having been brought to a close by a hint from

the headsman, the axe and the curtain fell together upon this fearful

tragedy.

Mary soon began to show her papist predilections, and after making

Gardiner Chancellor, she proceeded to establish a most rigorous

censorship of the press, like a person who, having evil designs, is

anxious to get the watch-dog muzzled as speedily as possible. She

prohibited all persons from speaking against her, for a time; but

putting a prohibition on the press is like throwing coals on a volcano,

which gets smothered for a while, but is sure to burst out with a

stronger light on account of the attempt to extinguish it.

The fanaticism of Mary is said to have been caused by the wretchedness

of her early life, during which a brutal father was continually

threatening to chop off her head or make a nun of her. That unnatural

parent was one of those monsters to whom it seems marvellous that

children were ever given at all, for he could never appreciate the

blessings they were calculated to afford, and he was for ever engaged

in trying to mar their happiness. The stock from which she came was,

however, so abominably bad, that there is nothing surprising in her

cruelty; for when children happen to go wrong, it may be taken as a

general rule that they get from their birth one half, and from their

bringing-up the other half, of their iniquity. Mary proved herself a

worthy descendant of a most unworthy sire, and turned the State prisons

at once into warehouses for storing up the fuel of future martyrdom.

Cranmer, Latimer, and others were stored away with this view, while

the queen herself prepared for a coronation of unusual pageantry at

Westminster.

The calm and philosophical Anne of Cleves--who will be remembered as

the queen that Henry refused to have at any price--was a visitor to the

show, and came to it in the same "fly" with the Princess Elizabeth. The

latter, as sister to the queen, carried the crown in the procession, and

was complaining of its weight in a whisper--for she was always flirting

with somebody--to Noailles, the French Ambassador. "Be patient," replied

the polite Parisian; "it will be lighter when it is on your head;" and

an interchange of winks proved that the illusion was understood by the

future sovereign of England. A parliament was assembled in less than

a week, and the legislature that had lately been in favour of

protestantism to the fullest extent, now relapsed into all the forms of

popery. Both Houses opened with the celebration of mass, and Taylor, the

Bishop of Lincoln, who objected to such flagrant apostacy, was fairly

kicked downstairs, like a bill thrown out of the Upper House, where

tergiversation was the order of the day throughout the session. Another

bishop, of the name of Harley, the low comedian of the episcopal bench,

whom Burnet calls a "drie dogge," was also ejected for exhibiting the

same honourable consistency; but Harley restored the good nature of the

House by throwing a little humour into his forced exit.

A convocation of the clergy was shortly afterwards held, to get rid of

the Reformation as far as it had gone, and bring catholicism back again.

Some of the bishops conformed to the new regulations laid down for them;

but some few, who happened to be married, found that though shaking

off an opinion was easy enough, getting rid of a wife was far more

difficult. The celibacy of the clergy was, of course, insisted upon; but

Holgate, Archbishop of York, however happy he might have been never to

have linked himself with Mrs. Holgate at all, soon discovered that a

divorce from that good lady was not so easily accomplished as talked

about. Several bishops who had got entangled in the connubial noose,

were nearly finding it a halter for their necks, inasmuch as they were

all deprived of their sees, and some even of their lives, for having

committed the offence of matrimony. An attempt was made to save them, by

urging that the punishment accompanied the crime, and that it was hard

to make those suffer who must already have endured a great deal; but the

plea was not allowed to prevail, and deprivation was inflicted on all as

an equal punishment. Several of the bishops conformed; and it has been

said, in extenuation of their weakness, that their insincerity was not

in changing from Protestant to Catholic, but had consisted in

their originally veering round against their wills from Catholic to

Protestant. It matters little whether, in turning from popery to the

Reformation, they had been robbing Peter to pay Paul, or whether, in

changing once more, they were guilty of some additional cheat, in order

to restore what they had taken from Peter; but it is not to be denied,

that on one occasion or the other they had been guilty of gross

apostacy.

On the 13th of November, 1553, Cranmer, Lady Jane Grey, her husband Lord

Guildford Dudley, and his brother Ambrose Dudley, were all condemned to

die as traitors, by judges many of whom were the very people who had set

on poor Jane to play the game, in which she had never taken the smallest

interest. After sentence had been passed, execution was stayed. But

Cranmer had no sooner been let out upon the charge of treason, than it

was found on searching the office there was something else against him,

whereupon he was taken and locked up once more upon an accusation of

heresy. Lady Jane Grey had the freedom of the Tower presented to her

in the shape of a permission to walk about the gardens, while Guildford

Dudley and Ambrose were granted a few moderate indulgences--amounting,

perhaps, to a set of skittles, a bat, trap and ball, or a couple of

hockey-sticks.

This moderation was, however, accompanied by other acts of cruelty; and

poor Judge Hales, who had really done nothing but refuse to change his

religion, was, though he had stoutly defended the title of the queen,

thrown into prison. The poor fellow went out of his mind, and though he

was liberated, he had got so fearfully impressed with the idea of being

burnt, that he thought to make himself fire-proof by running into the

water; but it was so deep, and he stayed there so very long, that he

unfortunately drowned himself.

Mary, who had been disappointed of several husbands--for nobody who saw

her would think of having her--now resolved to make use of her position

as Queen of England to draw some unhappy victim into a marriage.

Comparatively old, exceedingly hard, and totally void of all the milk of

human kindness, she was naturally very inflammable, and she had already

fallen in love with young Ned Courtenay, a son of the Marquis of

Exeter; but the predilection of that young gentleman for her half-sister

Elizabeth had somewhat cooled the ardour of Mary, who found it was

useless to set her cap at the young Earl of Devon, which was the title

she had restored to the courteous Courtenay.

The project of a marriage continued to fill the head of the queen, but

as it was evident there would be "nobody coming to marry her," and,

indeed, "nobody coming to woo," unless she looked out pretty sharply

for herself, she threw aside all scruples of delicacy, and began to

advertise through the medium of her ambassadors. The Emperor Charles of

Spain had been affianced to her thirty years ago, and though she

might once have been accustomed to sing "Charlie's my darling," in

her youthful days, that prince had, long ago, grown old enough to know

better than to marry her. He nevertheless thought she might be a good

match for his son Philip, or rather that the latter might be a match for

the lady, inasmuch as the Spanish prince was crafty, cruel, and bigoted.

Mary made a last effort to get a husband of her own choice by sending a

proposal to Cardinal Pole, who would have nothing to do with her. Thus,

even her indelicate eagerness to rush to the pole did not secure her

election, and she was obliged to take Philip "for better, for worse," or

rather for worse, for want of a better.

When the Commons heard of her intention they respectfully recommended

her to wed an Englishman, but the idea that it was necessary for Mary to

"first catch the Englishman" does not seem to have occurred to them.

She announced her intention of marrying Philip partly out of old

associations, but the oldness of the association was all on her own

side, for the gentleman was young in comparison to the lady. It was

not to be expected that Philip would make what he might justly have

considered an "alarming sacrifice" without some equivalent, and it was

agreed that he should have the honour and title of King of England,

though he was not to interfere in the government. In case Mary survived

him, he was to settle upon her £60,000 a year, but as he always

flattered himself that he should, as he said, "see the old girl out," he

looked upon this arrangement as merely nominal.

The English people had in those days, as they still have in these, an

objection to Spanish marriages, and one Sir Thomas Wyatt, who had been

in Spain, gave such a fearful picture of Philip, that the people of

Kent, learning to regard him as something between "Old Bogie" and

"Spring-heeled Jack," resolved to oppose his landing. Wyatt collected a

considerable force at Rochester and marched upon London, when taking the

first to the left, then the second to the right, they found themselves

masters of Southwark. He had intended to give battle in Bermondsey, and

put a cannon at the corner of the street, but it did not go off so well

as he expected. In the meantime the queen's forces began pouring upon

him some of the juice of the grape, from the Tower, and intimating to

his followers that it might affect their heads, he withdrew as far as

Kingston. His object was to march upon London by the other road, and he

got about as far as Hammersmith when an accident happened to his largest

buss, or blunderbuss--as he called his heaviest gun--and he wasted

several hours in getting it, once more, upon its wheels again. By

daylight he had got as far as Hyde Park, when he found that the royal

forces were in the inclosure of St. James's, waiting to receive him, and

having a large reserve in the hollow that now forms the reservoir.

The battle commenced with a noisy overture, consisting of the firing of

cannons, loaded only with powder, and doing no harm to anybody. Wyatt's

followers had dwindled very materially as he came into town; several of

his soldiers having discovered, at Kew, it was not their "cue to fight,"

and others experiencing at Turaham Green, sufficient to turn 'em pale,

and turn 'em back, at the very thought of meeting the enemy. Wyatt was

nevertheless undaunted, and rushed upon the enemy, who, falling quietly

back, let him regularly in among the troops, with the full intention of

never letting him out again. Without looking behind, he charged, at full

gallop, along Charing Cross, and continuing his furious career up the

Strand, pulled up, at last, at Ludgate Hill, which he found closed

against him. Finding no sympathy among the citizens he attempted to

back out, and had got as far as the Temple, where, strange to say,

his opponents gave him no law, and the unhappy old Pump, being at last

caught in Pump Court, surrendered to Sir Maurice Berkeley.

[Illustration: 452]

Poor Wyatt was soon afterwards condemned to death, and executed, as well

as about four hundred of his followers, but several were brought with

ropes round their necks before the queen, who permitted them to find in

the halter a loop-hole for escape, by an humble prayer for pardon.

Mary, exceedingly angry at the attempt to shake her throne, vented her

animosity on her little sister Elizabeth, who was brought on a litter

to London, though she was so ill that the journey might have killed her,

had not youth, a good constitution, and some stout porters carried her

through the dangerous ordeal. She was accused of having been a party to

Wyatt's rebellion, and was taken to the Tower, though not without

giving a good deal of trouble to the proper officer, for she insisted

on sitting down every now and then upon a stone step in the yard, though

the rain was falling heavily.

Mary, whose reign may be considered as the original "reign of

terror"--though the brutality that distinguished it was confined to

a few, while in the French edition the whole nation thirsted for

blood--who exercised _en détail_ the cruelties that France subsequently

practised _en gros_, sentenced to death, in rapid rotation, all who

did not quite agree with her. The unfortunate Lady Jane Grey and her

husband, Lord Guildford Dudley, were both executed on the same day, and,

indeed, the victims were so numerous that we should be inclined to say,

"for further particulars see small bills," if we thought that any of the

true bills found against the parties were still extant.

A curious commentary on the value of trial by jury was furnished about

this time by the extraordinary case of Sir Nicholas Throgmorton--the

father of Throgmorton Street, and friend of Sir Thomas Wyatt--who, after

making his defence, obtained, to the surprise of everybody, a verdict

of acquittal. Sir Thomas Bromley, the chief justice, began to cough

and "hem!" and "ha!" as if there must be some mistake, and as though

he would have said, "Gentlemen of the jury, do you know what you are

doing?" The twelve honest men replied that it was "all right," they

"knew what they were about," and persisted in their decision, until the

chief justice, who thought every jury box ought to be a packing-case,

hinted that the matter was one in which the Crown was interested, and

that the Crown would stand no nonsense. The jurymen being still firm,

they were hurried off to prison, and were only released upon paying

enormous fines--which proved, at least, that the Government set a

tremendous price upon their honesty.

On the 19th of July, 1554, Philip landed at Southampton on his way to

fulfil his marriage contract with Mary; but he had taken the precaution

to send on before him the Count of Egmont, who was intended to be

mistaken for his master, and thus serve as a sort of pilot engine,

in case of any collision with the populace. The expedient was very

necessary, for the pilot engine--we mean Egmont--got some very hard

knocks from several old buffers with whom he came in contact, and

Philip, seeing the kind of reception he might expect, came, accompanied

by a very long train, by way of escort, to his new station. On the 25th

of the same month he was married to the queen, at Winchester, and

the pair, whom we must call, by courtesy, "the happy couple," came to

London, where a series of festivities, including the rapid descent of

Il Diavolo. Somebody along a rope from the top of St. Paul's, * had been

prepared in honour of the Royal marriage.

* A fact. See Stowe.

[Illustration: 453]

The object of Philip in marrying Mary had been simply the crown, and his

conduct, if not his words, very plainly told her so. Her fondness for

him became quite a bore, particularly when he found that she could not

get Parliament to agree to the projects he made her propose for his own

aggrandisement. She had not long been the wife of Philip when an attack

of dropsy was added to her other interesting points, and her heartless

husband made her a butt--or, as Strype says, a water-butt--for his

unfeeling ridicule. In order to obtain a little popularity, Philip

made his wife release Elizabeth, and Courtenay, Earl of Devon, from the

Tower, as well as a few other favourites of the public; but the people

never took to the husband of the queen, while the quarrels between the

Spanish and the English were perpetual. On New-Year's Day, 1555, there

was a row among them at Westminster, when a Spanish friar got into the

Abbey, and pulled away at the alarum with tremendous fury. He frightened

the city almost into fits, and, for thus trifling with the rope, Philip

doomed him to the halter, in order to gratify the people, who by no

means chimed in with this extraordinary freak of bell-ringing.

The year 1555 was signalised by the revival of all the statutes against

heretics, and the Protestants were kept burning night and day, in the

neighbourhood of Smithfield. We will not dwell longer than necessary

upon this disgraceful portion of our national annals. Among many

distinguished persons who suffered death were Ridley, Latimer, and

Cranmer, who all exhibited firmness worthy of a better fate, and it

is said of Cranmer that he put his right hand into the fire first, for

having, some time before, signed some documents of recantation, in the

nope of saving his life at the expense of his consistency. In three

years about three hundred individuals perished at the stake, through

refusing to put their characters at stake by vacillation in the moment

of danger.

After the death of Cranmer, Cardinal Pole was installed in the see of

Canterbury, for Mary's rage against the Protestants was extreme, and she

hoped that the fires of Smithfield would be kept alive by that exalted

prelate, though in expecting to stir them up with the long Pole she was

somewhat disappointed, for the new archbishop was rather moderate than

otherwise in his ecclesiastical policy.

The queen's object was to control England in the war between France and

Spain, but Pole, even at the risk of becoming in his turn a scaffold

Pole, resisted the royal will to the extent of his power. The fact is

that Philip, who had never married for love, was determined to be as

plain with his wife as she was plain to him, and told her that unless

he could make the union profitable, he should make a slipknot of the

nuptial tie, and get away from it altogether. Alarmed at the prospect of

being left "a lone woman" on the throne, she sought and found a

pretext for declaring a war against France by getting up one of those

confessions which in those days a judicious use of the torture could

always procure at a few hours' notice.

Some unhappy agitators were detected in a small conspiracy, when the

fact or falsehood of their having been encouraged by Henry of France

was, after the intense application of the screw, regularly screwed out

of them. They were made to fabricate stories to suit the purposes of the

queen, and indeed their invention was literally put to the rack by

the cruelties to which they were subjected. War against France was now

declared, but the revenue was in such a miserable state that Mary was

obliged to beg, borrow and steal in every direction for the necessary

funds to commence hostilities. Having at last got together an army

of ten thousand men, she found that the troops must be fed, and she

accordingly seized all the corn she could find, threatening at the same

time to thrash the owners like their own wheat if they had the impudence

to ask for the value of the stolen property.

The well-known impolicy of interfering in other people's quarrels was

powerfully illustrated by the fate of the English interposition in the

dispute between France and Spain, for after a few trifling advantages,

one of which was the taking of Ham before breakfast by Philip himself,

England sustained a loss, which was at that time regarded as one of the

most serious character. Valour, under the guise of the great Duke of

Guise, wrested Calais from its masters, and restored it to the French,

whose hearts rebounded with boundless joy at the acquisition of this

valuable fortress.

The exchequer was reduced to such a beggarly condition by the expenses

of the late unfortunate war, that the queen, who never called upon her

Parliament unless she wanted something, was compelled to summon the

Commons. With their usual squeezability they permitted to flow into the

public coffers sufficient to keep the royal head above water; and

one Copley, who ventured a few words by way of remonstrance, was

pusillanimously committed to that custody from which the old English

expression of "cowardy cowardy custard" (_query_, custod.) has been

supposed to derive its origin.

Part of the produce of the recent subsidy was laid out in ships, and

as the ships came to no good, it was said at the time that this

appropriation of the money was very like making ducks and drakes of it.

The fleet, after passing over the bosom of the ocean, came to Brest, but

the breastworks were so strong, that the British force had not the heart

to make an attack upon them. Some miscellaneous pillage was perpetrated

in the neighbourhood by the English who nevertheless came off second

best; and Philip, who was getting rather tired of the business, was

willing to treat with a view to a treaty.

While thinking how he should retire from foreign hostilities, he

received from England tidings that held out the certain prospect of

domestic peace, for he got the news of the death of his wife Mary.

Miserable and middle-aged, detested and dropsical, this wretched woman

was tormented by every kind of reflection, from that presented by the

mirror of her own mind, to the dismal prospect shadowed forth in her

own looking-glass. She had lost Calais; but, as the audacious Strype

has boldly suggested, she might have become callous to that, had she not

known the fearful fact, that her husband Philip declared he had had his

fill of double cursedness, and intended to try in Spain what a timely

return to single blessedness might do for him.

[Illustration: 456]

All these troubles proved, like herself, unbearable, and on the 17th of

November, 1558, she expired, after a short and yet too long a reign

of five years, four months, and eleven days. She had reached the

forty-third year of her age, and must have made the most of her time, in

one way at least; for no woman of her age had obtained so much odium of

a durable quality, as she in her comparatively short life had acquired.

If we were to draw a faithful character of this princess, we need do

nothing more than upset our inkstand over our paper, and cause the

saturated manuscript to be transferred to our pages in one enormous

black blot; for we are sure that no printer's type could furnish a type

of the person whom we have the horribly black job of handing down--or

rather knocking down--to posterity. Those indefatigable readers who

are desirous of having the appropriate epithets which Mary's character

deserves, are requested to take down the dictionary, and having selected

from it all the adjectives expressive of badness that the language

contains, place them in a string or a series of strings, before the name

of Mary.

To look for her virtues would require the aid of one of those solar

microscopes which give visibility to the merest atom, and the particle,

if even discovered, might be deposited in the mental eye without its

being susceptible of anything having entered it. She seems to have

possessed some sincerity; but this only gave a certain degree of

vigour to her evil propensities. She was perhaps susceptible of some

attachments, but so is a boa constrictor, though few would conceive it

a privilege to be held in the firm embraces of that paragon of tenacity

towards those with whose fate it happens to twine itself. She had a

certain vigour of mind, just as a tiger has a certain vigour of spring,

a parallel the force of which her victims very frequently experienced.

The loss of Calais was, perhaps, one of the most important events of

Mary's reign! and it is said to have had such an effect upon her, that

she declared, when she died the word Calais would be found engraved upon

her heart: though we are quite sure, that if the word had been found

at all, it would not have presented itself as an engraving, but as a

lithograph. For two hundred years the town had been in the possession of

the English, and it was through a miserable economy in cutting down the

garrison during the winter months, and trying to work the thing at

a reduced expense, that the whole concern fell into the power of the

enemy. This paltry system proved, of course, unprofitable in the end;

for when the Duke of Guise made his attack, those points that required

two or three stout fellows to defend them, were left to the fatal

imbecility of "a man and a boy,"--a couple never yet known to heartily

co-operate. It is the unhappy blunder of a man and a boy being left to

pull together as unsympathetically as an elephant and an ass, that

has impeded the progress of so many of our public works; and it was,

unquestionably, the trial of the "man and boy" system at Calais during

the winter months, that, in the early part of 1558, caused the loss of

the city. The English had been in the habit of trusting during the cold

weather to the snow, and the overflowing of the marshes, to keep out the

French; but the Duke of Guise was not afraid of getting his feet wet,

and besides, as he wittily observed, "I can always rely on the strength

of my pumps to keep the water out." He ultimately made a resolute

splash, and, though often up to his middle in mud, he drove the English

clean out of the citadel.

It may be worth while to mention, that Mary's reign was the first in

which friendly relations with Russia were established, through some

English traders who found themselves, or rather lost themselves,

at Archangel, in the course of a wild-goose search for a north-east

passage. The Czar, after asking them what they were doing there, and

telling them they had come fearfully out of their way, received them

very kindly; but it does not seem that any north-east passage, beyond

the old court which used to lead from Holbora Hill to Clerkenwell, was

at that time discovered.

Few, if any, salutary laws were passed in her reign, though a bad one

was repealed, which had ruined the wool trade, by prohibiting any one

from making wool who had not served seven years' apprenticeship. There

was of course a great cry and very little wool in consequence of this

absurd enactment, which was so decidedly impolitic that we can give Mary

very little credit for having done away with it.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH. ELIZABETH.

[Illustration: 458]

THE death of Mary was concealed for some hours, since it is only bad

news that will travel very fast; but when the truth did come to be

generally known, the joy which burst out on all sides took the more

decent form of exultation at the accession of the new sovereign.

Elizabeth, Betsy, Bessy, or Bess as she has been indiscriminately

called, was at Hatfield when her sister died, and she soon moved to

London, escorted by one of those patriotic mobs which are always ready

to hoot and halloo for any distance the last new sovereign.

On the 15th of January, 1559, the queen was crowned at Westminster

Abbey, but during the ceremony she was compelled to remain bare-headed

for a considerable time, as on account of her suspected Protestant

predilections, not one of the bishops would invest her with the diadem.

In vain did she give appealing looks to the entire bench, until at last

a decided ogle took effect on Oglethorpe, the Bishop of Carlisle, who,

snatching up the bauble with a shout of "Here goes!" boldly bonneted the

royal maiden.

On the 25th of the same month a Parliament assembled, when Cecil and Sir

Nicholas Bacon made their _débuts_ on the treasury benches. Cecil was

chief secretary, or key of the Cabinet, while Bacon was great seal, with

instructions to keep continually on the watch in the capacity of Keeper.

The first act of the Parliament was to restore many of the laws

of religion existing in Edward's reign, and an attempt was made to

reinstate such clergymen as had been deprived on account of marriage;

but Elizabeth, who began to show anti-matrimonial opinions at the very

beginning of her reign, would not accede to such an arrangement. Early

in the session the Parliament tried its hand at royal match-making by

carrying up an address to the queen, recommending her to take a husband;

but in a somewhat rudish tone she expressed at once her horror at "the

fellows," and her determination to have nothing to do with them. Her

sincerity was soon put to the test by a direct offer from Philip,

her late sister's husband; but a playful "go along with you," and a

coquettish "a-done, do!" were the utmost words of encouragement he could

manage no extract from her.

Parliament broke up on the 8th of May, and on the 15th the bishops and

other churchmen of note were summoned to take the oath of conformity

to the new statutes. Much to the credit of their consistency they all

refused, with the exception of one Kitchen, the bishop of Llandaff, a

low fellow, whose name implies his origin. This Kitchen had acquired the

rotatory motion of the roasting-jack, as well as a fondness for sops

in the pan, for he had been twirling round and having a finger in the

ecclesiastical pie since the year 1545, from which time to that of

Elizabeth he had, through all changes, stuck to his bishopric. The

clergy, who had refused to conform to the Protestant religion, were

on the whole gently dealt with, some being exported to Spain amid the

luggage of the Spanish ambassador, and a few being quartered upon their

successors in England. Most of the inferior clergy seemed to have been

made of Kitchen-stuff, that is to say, they appeared to be composed of

much the same material as the Bishop Kitchen we have named, and were at

all events alive to the necessity of keeping the pot boiling, for out of

9400 persons holding benefices, there were scarcely more than a hundred,

exclusive of the fifteen bishops, who quitted their preferments rather

than change their religion.

We must now look at Scotland, of which the celebrated Mary was queen

when she was suddenly called to France to share the throne which had

devolved upon her husband, Francis the Second, or rather upon which he

had devolved by the death of his father, Henry. This somewhat elderly

gentleman had been playing the fool in a tilting match, which was rather

_infra dig._ at his time of life, and ended in his receiving a dig in

the eye from a broken lance, which ultimately closed in death both the

wounded and its companion optic. In the absence of Mary from Scotland,

Elizabeth did her utmost to advance the Protestant cause in that

country, and dealt out some heavy blows through the medium of the

celebrated Knox against the Catholics. Mary's mamma, who had remained at

home to keep house as it were in her daughter's absence, did not

exactly like what was passing, particularly when she found that English

emissaries were continually passing to and fro, for the purpose of

bribing the Scotch, whose "itching palm" has always been a national

characteristic that we decline accounting for. The English were bent

on getting the French out of Scotland, but the task was as difficult

as expelling the fleas from a hay mattress in which they have once got

embedded. After a good deal of desultory fighting, the Queen Regent was

worried out of her life, and she was no sooner gone, than some of her

most devoted adherents were off like shots to draw up a treaty with the

enemy. Peace was proclaimed, and the French Governor of Leith gave the

besiegers a dinner, at which salted horse was the only animal food,

for there was not even a saddle of mutton to make the horse go off

with effect at this truly horsepitable banquet. By the treaty mutual

indemnities were exchanged, oblivion of the past was determined upon at

Leith, which on that occasion became a veritable Lethe. Elizabeth had

two or three flags in Scotland surrendered to her, but religion, which

was the ostensible cause of the whole dispute, was permitted to stand

over as an open question.

It was not to be expected that such a capital match as the Queen of

England would fail to be the subject of several flames, and an old beau,

in the person of Eric, now the king of Sweden, together with two or

three other suitors, royal as well as noble, sent in the most tender

tenders for the hand of Elizabeth. Like a true coquette, she gave

encouragement to all, and even some seedy adventurers among her own

subjects were induced to strike up to her.

Mary, who, as great-niece of Henry the Eighth, had in the first instance

assumed the arms and title of Queen of England, a measure almost as

futile as if Snooks of Surrey should assume the arms and title of

Seringapatam, relinquished her nominal pretensions upon the death of her

husband, which happened on the 5th of December, 1560. Mary had become

so habituated to the splendid formalities of the French Court, that, on

returning to Scotland, the substantial barrenness of that bleak country

completely disgusted her. Tears, it is said, came into her eyes when she

saw the wretched ponies that were about to convey herself and her ladies

from the waterside to Holy-rood, while the saddles, made of wood,

gave her such a series of bumpers at parting, that she declared the

impression made by her reception would never be forgotten.

Mary, who had been born and bred a Catholic, was, of course, anxious for

the privilege of following her own religion; but her Scotch subjects,

who claimed liberty of conscience for themselves, practised upon their

unfortunate sovereign the most brutal and intolerant tyranny. She

was insulted on her way to mass, her indulgence in the most harmless

amusements was savagely condemned, and she was continually exposed to

the hardest raps from Knox, who undertook the task of converting her.

This vulgar, but zealous, and no doubt sincere personage endeavoured to

effect his purpose by coarse abuse, and always spoke of his queen from

the pulpit as Jezebel. In vain did Mary endeavour to quiet her turbulent

and libellous assailant by offering him private audiences, but, as if

nothing short of mob popularity would answer his purpose, he rudely

declined her invitation, telling her it was her duty to come to him, and

continued to make the pulpit the medium of the most malignant assaults

on his sovereign. However honest and upright the intentions of Knox may

have been, his brutal manner of telling his home truths deprived them

of much of their influence; and Knox made very few effective hits in the

course of his noisy and vituperative career as a Presbyterian reformer.

Elizabeth saw with unamiable pleasure that her rival, Mary, was having

what, very figuratively speaking, may be termed a nice time of it. The

English queen busily occupied herself in feathering her own nest in

a variety of ways, and, among other measures, she called in all the

debased coin; for, as she sometimes said, with a sneer at poor Mary,

"I have a great objection to light sovereigns." She filled her arsenals

with arms, and had quite a conservatory of grape at the Tower, while, by

way of putting the country into a state of defence, she resorted to the

very odd expedient of reviewing the militia. She improved the arts of

making gunpowder and casting cannon, so that, as she used to say, "every

brave brick in my army may have a supply of mortar, with which, in the

hour of battle, he may cement the interests of my empire."

[Illustration: 461]

The increase of the navy occupied her special care, and she laid the

foundation of that glorious system which has given immortality to our

naval hornpipes ana made our enemies dance at the balls given by our

British seamen. It was to Elizabeth we owe the origin of that

enthusiasm which induces "honest Jack," as he facetiously calls himself,

to spend all his wages in a week, and to conclude a rapid series of

lighthearted freaks as the helplessly inebriated fare of a metropolitan

cab or the equally inanimate inmate of a London station-house. The

interior of Elibabeth's Court was a scene of petty rivalries and

jealousies, for she was surrounded with various suitors, and though she

gave encouragement to nearly all, the valuable precept, "_Ne sutor ultra

crepidam_," seems never to have escaped her memory. She would treat them

with easy familiarity, such as thumping their backs and patting their

cheeks; but if any of them ventured upon tiring to get on with her at

the same slapping pace, she would administer a rap of the knuckles that

at once discouraged them from trying their hands at a renewal of such

familiarity.

Though not blinded by the adulation of her courtiers, she was very

nearly becoming so by the small-pox, against which, however, a good

constitution was happily pitted. On her recovery, the Parliament fearing

the explosion that might have ensued had she popped off without a

successor having been named, entreated her either to marry, or appoint

some lady or gentleman to fill the throne in the event of there being a

vacancy. With a good deal of that old traditional feeling imputed to

the anonymous dog in the very indefinite manger, who was unwilling to

relinquish to others what he was unable personally to enjoy, Elizabeth

was very reluctant to say who should come after her as queen, but she

held out a vague prospect that her marriage would not be impossible, in

the event of any very eligible offer happening to present itself. This

indirect advertisement of her hand was at once answered by the Duke

of Wurtemburg, a small German, whose pretensions were contemptuously

pooh-pooh'd I and indeed every post brought letters from various single

men of prepossessing appearance, gentlemanly manners, and amiable

disposition, who were anxious to take this somewhat unusual method of

placing their hands and hearts at the service of the Queen of England.

In the very largest field there will generally be one or two favourites,

and in Elizabeth's good books the names of Robert Dudley, Earl of

Leicester, and Ratcliffe, Earl of Sussex, stood so high, that there

might have been even betting upon both, with a shade or two, perhaps, in

the former's favour.

Mary of Scotland was less indifferent on the subject of marriage than

the English queen, and, indeed, the former went so seriously into

the matrimonial market, as to consult the latter on the subject of

a judicious selection. Apparently with the intention of throwing the

matter back, Elizabeth offered her own favourite, Dudley, Earl of

Leicester, as a husband for Mary; but on the latter, after recovering

from her surprise, exclaiming, "Well, I don't mind," the virgin Queen of

England, mentally responding, "Oh! yes! I dare say," backed out of her

proposition. The Earl of Leicester was one of those good-looking scamps

who used, in the last century, to go by the name of "pretty fellows,"

but in our own more enlightened age, would obtain no gentler appellation

than "pretty scoundrels." The virtuous Elizabeth liked to have him

about her on account of his good looks, but if the homely proverb, that

"handsome is as handsome does," had prevailed he would have been thought

as little ornamental in person, as in mind he was deformed and hideous.

Notwithstanding the pattern of propriety as which the virgin Queen of

England has been, by some historians, extolled, she gave encouragement

to Leicester, whom she knew to be a married man, until, by murdering

his wife, he removed that slight barrier to the accomplishment of his

ambitious wishes. He reported that his unfortunate lady had tumbled down

stairs, but this was a daring flight of a guilty imagination, and

there is little doubt that while staying in the house of her husband's

servant, Foster, he forced her either over the balustrade, or got rid of

her by some other means of equal violence.

Poor Mary, who was really in need of a protector, becoming impatient at

the delay in choosing her a husband, at length selected one for herself,

in the person of her cousin, Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley. This young

nobleman was a mere lad in age, but a perfect ladder in height, for

he was very tall, and very thin, so that if he could offer Mary no

substantial support, he was, at all events, a person she might look

up to, as may be said, familiarly, "at a stretch," in cases of great

emergency.

[Illustration: 463]

He was the son of Henry the Eighth's sister's daughter's second husband,

and was accordingly the next heir but one to the English throne, if

anyone could be called an heir at all in those days, when might overcame

right in a manner somewhat unceremonious.

Darnley, though showy in appearance, was in reality a fool, and it might

be said that instead of having been born with a silver spoon in his

mouth, he was in himself the embodiment of that auspicious article.

Though exceedingly tall, he was tremendously shallow, and before he

had been married two months, he acted with so much insolence, that

Mary could scarcely get a servant to stay with her. His own father, old

Lennox, who had got a snug place in the household, packed up his box at

a moment's notice, declaring he would not stop, and the wretched royal

spoon found in the glass the only pursuit with which his habits were

congenial.

Though neglectful of his young and lovely wife, he claimed the bad

husband's privilege of being jealous of the attentions of others, and

Signor David Rizzio, the first and only tenor at the Scotch Court, soon

furnished ground for Darnley's suspicions of Mary's fidelity. Rizzio had

come over in the suite of the ambassador of Savoy, as a professor of the

spinette, and a teacher of foreign languages. In his vocal capacity he

attended evening parties, and having been introduced at Court, his airs

soon wafted him into the favour of his sovereign. His knowledge of the

French language caused him to be promoted to the vacant post of French

secretary to the queen, when an outcry was raised because a Scotchman

was not appointed to the office, though not a soul among the natives had

any pretensions to understanding the language in which the services of

a secretary were required. Many of them maintained that their

broken Scotch would have been an excellent substitute for Rizzio's

unintelligible gibberish, and the nobles used to make faces at him,

shoulder him, or taunt him as a base-born fiddler even in the presence

of his sovereign.

The ill-used musician, who understood scarcely a word of the insulting

language that was addressed to him, happening to catch the sound of the

word fiddle, gallantly declared that he would be found _toujours fidèle_

to the royal lady who had honoured him by her favour. There seems to be

good reason for doubt whether the scandalous stories concerning Mary and

her French secretary were true, and as in duty bound we give the benefit

of the doubt to the accused parties. Poor Rizzio had, however, become

such an object of hatred to the people about the Court, that one

evening, as he sat at the side-table taking his supper, as he always

did when the queen was present, a party of armed men, headed by Darnley

himself, rushed into the chamber where the Duchess of Argyle and

Erskine, the Governor of Holyrood, were also present. Rizzio had

probably been favouring the company with a song or songs, and was

whetting his whistle, with a view perhaps to farther melody, when he

was brutally desired to "come out of that" by the ruffian Ruthven, whose

_gout_ for murder was so excessive that he had left a sick bed to take a

part in the sanguinary business. To make a long and painful story short,

Rizzio was savagely butchered as he clung to the skirts of Mary's dress

in a vain hope to find shelter under petticoat influence. For having

caused the death of Rizzio, Mary never forgave Darnley, who took to

drink, in the hope of drowning care; but an evil conscience seems to

be supplied with corks, which carry it up to the surface of the deepest

bowl in which an attempt was ever made to get rid of it.

On the 19th of June, 1566, there appeared, among the births of the

day, the announcement of "Mary, Queen of Scots, of a son and heir, at

Holyrood." The infant was James the Sixth of Scotland, and subsequently

the first of England, who was not a Jem remarkable for any particular

brilliancy. It had previously been arranged that Elizabeth should stand

godmother to the firstborn of Mary, and intelligence of the interesting

event was therefore conveyed to the English queen by special express

through that diligent overland male, the faithful Melville. Elizabeth

was having a romp after a supper at Greenwich when the news arrived, and

was in the midst of a furious fandango, when Cecil whispered something

in her ear which struck her all of a heap, and caused her to leave her

fandango unfinished. Speedily, however, regaining her composure, she

gave the ambassador something for himself, and charged him with the

usual infantine presents for her royal godson.

The question of a successor to Elizabeth now turned up again with

increased interest since the birth of little James; but Elizabeth,

becoming irritable and ill-humoured, declared she was looking out for a

husband, and intended to have an heir of her own, which would put an end

to all the airs and graces which other people were exhibiting.

When the Commons grew more urgent on the point, she became angry in

the extreme, for the subject must have been rather a delicate one with

Elizabeth, who was growing every day a less eligible match, and might

not perhaps have succeeded in finding a husband equal in point of

station to an alliance with the Queen of England.

CHAPTER THE NINTH. ELIZABETH (CONTINUED).

Mary and her husband were leading the life familiarly known as cat and

dog; but the cat was in this instance getting rather the best of it.

She would not allow him to be present at the christening party given in

honour of their little son, and he was never permitted to hold the baby,

or enjoy any of those privileges of paternity which are rather honorary

than agreeable to the individual by whom they are exercised. In ordering

a dinner or forming a Cabinet his wishes were equally disregarded, and

if he happened to have objected to a particular dish he was very likely

to be told there was nothing else in the house; while Murray, Bothwell,

and Huntley, whom he hated, were appointed to the ministry. It was

at length determined to get him entirely out of the way; and, as he

happened to have taken the small-pox, it was agreed that he should sleep

out, on account of the baby, who, though very soon cowed in his alter

life, had not undergone the process of vaccination, for the simple

reason that Dr. Jenner had not invented it. Darnley had consequently

a bed at a lonely house called the Kirk-a-field, where he was taken in

only that he might be the more effectually done for by his enemies.

An explosion was heard in the middle of the night, and on the next

morning the house was found in ruins, with Darnley doubled up under a

tree at some considerable distance. It was reported that lightning had

been the cause of the event; but it is not likely that lightning would

have known how to conduct itself with such precision as to have carried

Darnley out of a three-pair of stairs window, and lay him down at

a considerable distance from the house, without breaking a bone, or

inflicting a bruise of any description whatever. There is every ground

for suspicion that Bothwell and his colleagues were instrumental to

Darnley's death; but in order to throw dust--or gold dust--in the public

eye, they offered a reward of £2,000 for the murderers. This liberality

was cheap enough, for they knew they could not be called upon to pay any

reward, they being themselves the parties for whom they advertised.

A paper war was nevertheless commenced upon the walls, in which the

murderers were advertised for on one side, and pointed out by name upon

the other, when fresh rewards were offered, and the bill-stickers warned

to beware of the libel they were helping to disseminate. At length, such

a stir was created, that, on the 12th of April, 1567, Bothwell was

put upon his trial, when by some wilful negligence the counsel for

the prosecution had no brief, and was of coarse unable to offer any

evidence. The accused was accordingly acquitted, and the ends of Justice

were defeated in a manner that sometimes prevails in our own day, by an

omission to instruct counsel; which seems to be a failing that may at

least claim the merit of antiquity.

Though Bothwell was not to be executed for his crime, he was destined to

be married; which, next to the capital penalty, was perhaps the highest

he could pay, particularly as Mary, who had already seen out a couple of

husbands and a favourite, was the lady destined for his future partner.

Bothwell had the audacity to give a supper at a tavern in Edinburgh,

at the close of the session of Parliament--an entertainment somewhat

similar to our ministerial whitebait arrangement at Blackwall--when he

drew from his pocket a recommendation of himself as a fitting husband

for the Queen of Scotland. Eight bishops, nine earls, and seven lords,

most of whom were under the influence of toddy, which turned them into

toadies of Bothwell, affixed their names to the document; and armed

with this instrument, he, at the head of a thousand horse, effected the

forcible abduction of Mary on her way from Stirling Castle. An elopement

on such an extensive scale was something very unusual, even in those

days of extravagance, and it has been doubted whether it was with

Mary's own consent that Bothwell ran away with her. It is, however,

indisputable that after making him Duke of Orkney on the 12th of May,

she married him on the 15th, and a number of fresh raps from Knox

followed, as a matter of course, the imprudence she had been guilty of.

Her subjects took so much offence at this proceeding, that they rose

against her; and Bothwell, abandoning her to her fate by flying to

Denmark, left her to settle the matter as she could with her own people.

A defenceless woman, and a female in distress, was of course impotent

against an army of raw Scotchmen--whose rawness is so excessive, that

they can very seldom be done--and Mary was consigned as a prisoner to

the island of Lochleven. It may be as well to dispose of Bothwell at

once, before we proceed; and, having traced him to Denmark, we meet

him picking up a scanty subsistence by doing what we are justified in

terming pirates' work in general. The badness of business or some other

cause ultimately turned his head, and we find him subsequently an inmate

of an asylum for lunatics. Here he took to writing confessions; but

some of them were so vague, and all of them so contradictory, that,

recollecting the horrid story-teller Bothwell was known to be, we are at

a loss to decide how much credit may be attached to his statements. If,

as a general rule, we may believe half what is said, we shall believe

nothing that Bothwell has told us; for he has himself contradicted

one half of his own story, and the other moiety must be struck off in

pursuance of the principle we have just been adverting to. The fact of

his death, not having come from his own mouth, may, however, be safely

relied upon.

While Mary was a prisoner at Lochleven, her subjects took advantage of

her helplessness to make her sign her own abdication, and settle the

crown on the head of her baby son, whose first caps had scarcely

been laid aside when they had to be replaced by the royal diadem. Her

half-brother, Murray, was appointed regent, and coming over to Scotland

he was crowned at Stirling, where all who declared themselves sterling

friends of poor Mary gave in their adherence to the new ruler.

There was staying with the governor of the prison a young hobble-dehoy

of the name of George Douglas, who, being on a visit to his brother,

was allowed the privilege of seeing the royal captive. Master George

Douglas, in natural accordance with the sentimentality peculiar to

seventeen, fell sheepishly in love with the handsome Mary. She gave some

encouragement to the gawky youth, but rather with the view of getting

him to aid her in an escape, than out of any regard to the over

sensitive stripling. Going to his brother's bedroom in the night, the

boy took the keys from the basket in which they were deposited, and

letting Mary out, he handed her to a skiff and took her for a row,

without thinking of the row his conduct was leading to.

[Illustration: 467]

When she reached the shore she was joined by several friends, and

marched, as the only lady among six thousand men, in the direction of

Dumbarton. Murray, however, was instantly on the alert, and meeting

her near Glasgow, he gave her such a routing, that she was glad to fly

anywhere she could, to get out of the way of his rough treatment. After

some little consideration she determined to make for England; and,

throwing herself and retinue into a fishing-smack, she sailed smack

for Workington, whence she resolved on walking to Carlisle, against the

advice of her followers.

Though Elizabeth had expressed some sympathy towards Mary in her

struggles, the English queen determined that her Scottish sister was

not a person that could be received at the Court of a virgin--and such

a virgin--sovereign. The unfortunate woman, who had come over for

protection as a fugitive, was at once made a prisoner, first at Carlisle

and then at Bolton, when she was virtually put upon her trial for the

purpose of ascertaining whether she was good enough to be visited by

that dragon of virtue, the chaste Elizabeth.

In order to inculpate the Queen of Scots, an old melodramatic incident,

that then perhaps had the merit of novelty, was resorted to by Murray,

who produced, towards the closing scene of the trial, a packet of

letters, by which it was pretended that Mary had furnished proofs of her

own share in the murder of her husband Darnley. It was not very likely

that, if guilty, she would have taken the trouble to commit the fact

to paper, or to leave the letters about; and it only wanted a dagger

wrapped in rag smeared over with red ochre, to complete the

melodramatic _dénouement_ that Murray seemed anxious to arrive at. These

"properties," if we may be allowed the expression, had an unfavourable

effect upon Mary's cause, and a delay having taken place in the

proceedings, Murray took advantage of it to offer to wash out the red

ochre from the retributive rag, and throw all the letters in the fire,

on condition of his being left to do as he pleased with the Scotch

regency. To this proposition Mary refused to accede, and defied him to

the proof of his charges, which were believed to be chiefly false; and

she retaliated upon him by accusing him of having been accessory to the

death of Darnley. As Elizabeth candidly acknowledged that she believed

neither, she at first thought of punishing both; but at length Murray

was furnished with means to return home, while poor Mary was conveyed

to Tutbury in the county of Stafford, where it does not appear that even

the old woman of Tutbury was allowed to be sometimes the companion of

her captivity.

The royal prisoner was now under the supervision of the Earl of

Shrewsbury, and was permitted, at last, to see a few visitors, several

of whom were smitten by the charms of one who, though become a little

passé, was, from the gentleness of her manners, always sure to be

popular. Norfolk was so much taken with her that he offered her his

hand, and promised to employ it in handing her on to the throne of

England. As there was still an obstacle to the marriage, outstanding in

the name of Bothwell, Mary could only consent, subject to that person's

approval. The piratical business in Denmark having become slack, he

was glad to take a small bonus to agree to a divorce, and an alliance

between Norfolk and Mary, Queen of Scots, was understood, in private

circles, to be one of the marriages in high life, which the season would

soon see solemnised. Unfortunately for the parties interested, Mary had

to send a remittance, in the year 1571, to some friends in Scotland, and

the post being either irregular or untrustworthy, she had despatched the

communication by hand, through one Banister, a confidential servant of

the Duke of Norfolk.

Banister, who was not in the secret, went gaping about with the letter

in his hand, and, thinking there was something mysterious about it, took

it to Lord Burleigh, whose significant shakes of the head have earned

him a note of admiration (!) in the pages of history. Burleigh, taking

the letter in his hand, and placing his fore-finger on the side of his

nose, began to wag his head from side to side, like the pendulum of a

clock, as if he would be up to the time of day, according to his usual

fashion; when, deliberately holding the letter up to the light, he, in

the most ungentlemanly manner, perused every word of it.

[Illustration: 469]

He ascertained that Norfolk and Mary were contriving to drive Elizabeth

from the throne, and the duke was accordingly brought to trial. The

stupidity of his servants completed his ruin, for his secretary, instead

of destroying the evidences of his master's guilt, had merely stowed

them away under the door mats, and stuffed them among the tiles, so that

the house from top to toe bore testimony to the guilt of its owner. He

was beheaded in 1752, Elizabeth declaring, as she always did when it was

too late, that she intended pardoning him, but that somehow or other her

royal clemency was not forthcoming until it was too late to be of any

use to its contemplated object.

The queen was urged by many of her admirers to get rid of Mary at once;

but, as a cat delights to play with a mouse, Elizabeth seemed to take

pleasure in exercising a feline influence over her unfortunate prisoner.

The Protestant cause had, about this time, been violently assailed in

France, and Elizabeth encouraged the departure of English volunteers to

aid the French Huguenots. Among the British auxiliary legion that went

forth on this expedition were, of course, a number of adventurers, but

one of them in particular, was destined to cut a conspicuous figure in

the history of his country. This was Walter Raleigh, who had been in

the habit of huzzaing at every royal progress, and keeping up a loyal

shouting at the side of the carriage of the queen, whenever he met it in

the public thoroughfares. In her visits to Greenwich, Raleigh was often

found waiting at the stairs to see her land, and on one occasion the

queen was about to set her foot in a puddle, when the adventurer, taking

off his cloak, converted it into a temporary square of carpeting, to

prevent Elizabeth from making a greater splash than she intended, on her

arrival at Greenwich. The cloak itself was of no particular value, and

a little water was more likely to freshen it up than to detract from

its already faded beauty; but the incident flattered the vanity of the

queen, and it is said that she never forgot the delicate attention that

Walter Raleigh had shown to her.

[Illustration: 470]

In the year 1571 a rumour got into circulation that a match was on the

_tapis_ between Mary and the Duke of Anjou, one of the brothers of

the French king; and though the report was unfounded, Elizabeth was so

jealous of anyone marrying anybody but herself, that she, for about the

twentieth time, threw herself into the European market, as an eligible

investment for any one who would venture upon a speculation of such a

very awful character. She sent over Walsingham as her ambassador, to see

what could be done; but the Duke of Anjou, after sufficient negotiation

to put an end to any match that might have been contemplated between

Mary and himself, had the firmness to decline the honour of an alliance

with Elizabeth. The aged angler next baited a hook for the young Duke

of Alençon, the boy brother of the Duke of Anjou, but the friends of the

child stepped in to prevent the sacrifice.

It was not long after the events we have described, that a conspiracy

to take Mary out of prison, and put Elizabeth out of the world, was by

accident discovered. One Babington, a man of ardent mind, was implicated

in this disgraceful affair, which was discovered by the dangerous and

irregular practice of thrusting letters through chinks in walls,--at a

time, however, when the post-office arrangements were not so complete as

to afford the comfort and convenience of a regular letterbox. Mary was

undeniably implicated in the plot, which was so clumsily carried on that

fourteen of the parties concerned were executed before she even knew

that the scheme had been detected. She was taking an airing on a

palfrey--one of those whose wretched trappings had made her think

"comparisons are indeed odious," as she thought of her riding excursions

in her dear France--when a messenger from the queen turned her horse's

head towards Fotheringay Castle, in Northamptonshire. Commissioners

were instantly sent down to try her for conspiracy, and on the 25th of

October, 1586, sentence was pronounced against her in the Star Chamber.

When Elizabeth heard the decision, she affected the utmost reluctance

to sign the warrant for Mary's execution; and, indeed, this reluctance

seems to have been somewhat sincere, for she wished the death of her

rival without any of the odium attaching to a share in an act of so much

cruelty. The English queen would have preferred that one of her subjects

should have anticipated the effect of a death-warrant, by taking the

life of Mary a little in advance; but no one was base or brutal enough

to further the obvious wishes of the female tyrant. The signing of the

warrant was performed amid sighs and tears, before Sir Robert Cary,

Dame Gary, and the little Carys, when some of the children thought they

recognised tears of sincerity falling from Elizabeth's eyes; but Mother

Cary's chickens we must not depend upon. After some months of delay and

duplicity, during which poor Mary was kept in a state of suspense

more cruel than death itself, the warrant was signed; but Elizabeth

endeavoured, as far as possible, to throw the blame on her ministers.

This only aggravates her conduct, for her being ashamed of it, shows she

was aware of its enormity, and that she did not consider herself to be

merely performing an act of straightforward duty, though a painful one,

in consigning to an ignominious death her sister sovereign. Mary was

executed on the 7th of February, 1587, in the forty-fifth year of her

age; and it is said that when the executioner held up her head by its

auburn locks, they came off in his hand, and the grey stubble underneath

proved too plainly that Mary had lived for many years a secret adherent

to wig principles.

CHAPTER THE TENTH. ELIZABETH (CONCLUDED).

A few weeks had elapsed after the execution of poor Mary, when an

ambassador, to palaver over the unfortunate queen's only son, James,

was sent to Scotland by Elizabeth. When the lad first heard the news he

began to roar like a calf, and quiver like an arrow. He vowed vengeance,

in a voice of soprano shrillness, and the homely figure of a storm in a

slop-basin was faithfully realised.

The ambassador let him have his cry completely out, and then drawing

himself up with an air of some dignity, observed, "When you have left

off roaring, and can hear me speak, I will tell you the rights of it."

"Nobody has any right to murder my mamma," was the reply of the boy, who

again opened the sluices of his grief, and allowed the tears to irrigate

his face with a couple of meandering rivulets. At length, silence being

obtained, the ambassador declared that the amputation of Mary's head was

accidental as far as Elizabeth was concerned; but, "axe-i-dental, you

mean," was the bitter reply of her sobbing offspring. The messenger,

nevertheless, persisted that the Queen of England meant nothing by

signing the death-warrant; that, in fact, she had been "only in fun";

and as he wound up with the offer of an increased pension to James, the

heartless brat dried his eyes, with the observation that "What's done

can't be undone," and pocketed a quarter in advance of his enlarged

income. That Elizabeth had really been determined upon Mary's death, is

a point upon which our sagacious readers will require no enlightenment;

for to them the character of the royal catamountain--we use

the Johnsonian word, in preference to the old, familiar term of

catamaran--will be clear, from the gallons of midnight oil which we

have bestowed upon it. How to get rid of Mary was, in fact, a subject

of frequent deliberation between the English queen and her

creatures--pretty creatures they were--among whom Leicester and

Walsingham stood prominent. Leicester had proposed poison, while

Elizabeth suggested assassination; but the dagger and bowl, the emblems

of legitimate tragedy, were both laid aside for the farce of a trial.

When the sanguinary business was done, the chief actors in it threw the

blame upon the subordinates, and poor Mr. Secretary Davison was declared

by Elizabeth to have been the sole cause of the execution of the

Scottish queen, because he had assisted in executing the deed that

consigned her to the Scaffold. When Davison was accused of the act, he

went about exclaiming, "I! Well, that is the coolest!--'Pon my word!

What next?" But he soon found what was next, for he was committed to

prison, and fined £10,000, merely to give colour to the accusation.

When confidentially apprised of the cause of his detention, he went into

hysterics at the half-ridiculous, half-melancholy, idea of his being

impounded to give colour to a charge which was altogether false; and "It

only just cleans me out!--ruins me, by Jove!" was the touching remark

he made as he paid the entire fine imposed upon him, and quitted the

prison.

Philip of Spain was now becoming desirous of an attack upon England,

without having any definite views, beyond a desire for mischief, which

was inherent in his character. He had got together a very formidable

fleet, and Elizabeth taking alarm, tried all sorts of plans to check his

warlike purpose. One of the expedients of her ministers--and it was not

a bad one--was to throw discredit on a quantity of Philip's bills, in

the hope of his finding a difficulty in getting them discounted. Sir

Francis Drake was despatched to Cadiz with a fleet of thirty sail, and

Elizabeth having on his departure said to him, affectionately, "Go, and

do your best, Drake--there's a duck," he dashed into Cadiz Bay, knocked

down four castles, sunk a hundred ships--forecastles included--and going

home by the Tagus, took a large man-of-war from under the very nose of

the Marquis of Santa Cruz, and then made him a polite obeisance from the

bow of the vessel.

Philip did not relax in his preparations for invading England, and he

got together a very numerous fleet, by hiring vessels wherever he could,

and sending his emissaries to engage a whole squadron at a time, like

an individual, who, jumping into the first cab on a stand, desires the

whole rank to follow him. The Armada--for such it was called--became, of

course, rather numerous than select; but there is no doubt that if its

quality was queer, its quantity was most respectable.

The naval service of England had been so shabbily provided for, that

the British fleet did not exceed thirty-six sail of the line; though

by-the-by, as the authorities have just told us that Drake took or

demolished one hundred ships at Cadiz, there seems a slight error in

figures, which will occasionally happen in the best regulated histories.

As it was not known where the enemy was to land, the High Admiral, Lord

Howard of Effingham, was obliged to exclaim--"Now, gentlemen, spread

yourselves, spread yourselves!" as he ordered Drake, Hawkins, and

Frobisher to the command of their various detachments. The gallant

Drake took up his station at Ushant, as if he would have said "You

shan't!" to any foe who might have come to that point to effect a

landing. Hawkins cruised near the Scilly Islands to look out, as he

said, for the silly fellows who should come in his-way; and Lord

Henry Seymour cruised along the Flanders coast, while other captains

vigorously scoured the Chops of the Channel. It was expected that the

Spanish Armada would have come down the Thames, and perhaps amused

themselves with an excursion to Rosherville, which was strongly

fortified, as well as all the places on the river. The Boshervillians

threw themselves into the arms of their resident baron; and the peaceful

inhabitants of Sheerness prepared to fight, out of sheer necessity.

Catholics and Protestants vied with each other in eagerness to repel

the invader from their shores; and the gallant fellows living near the

Tower, declared in their blunt but expressive language, that "though the

foe might pass a Gravesend, outlive a Blackwall, or go in safety through

a Greenwich, he would most assuredly never survive a Wapping!"

The queen herself, having driven down in her tilbury to Tilbury Fort,

mounted a saddle-horse, and, flushed by her nautical enthusiasm, she

looked a very horse-marine as she cantered about upon, her steed in the

presence of her people. The Earls of Essex and Leicester having held

her rein, she majestically bridled up, and sent forth among the crowd

a volley of clap-traps, declaring she had come among them, as the song

says--

"To conquer, to conqu-e-e-er,

To co-o-onquer, or to boldly die-i-i-i-e."

At length it was determined by Philip that the Spanish Armada should set

out; and, as Strype pleasantly tells us, "a pretty set-out they made of

it." Poor Santa Cruz, the high admiral, made a most unlucky hit to begin

with, by falling ill and dying, when his second in command, the Duke of

Parma, followed his leader's example, with most inconvenient rapidity.

The chief command was given to the Duke of Medina Sidonia, "who was a

very good man, but a very bad sailor," * and knew so little of maritime

affairs, that he is reported to have sent to a dealer in marine stores

for an outfit. At length the _Invincible Armada_ was ready to put to

sea, and they succeeded in "shoving her off," on the 20th of May, 1588,

from the Tagus. The seas, which evidently had no notion of being ruled

by any but Britannia, turned turbulent under the Spanish usurpers, and

a generalising of the waves made it a toss-up whether Medina Sidonia

and his fleet would ride out the storm in safety. Four of the ships

were actually lost, and nearly all the rest dispersed, and when the high

admiral called upon his subordinate officers to be "calm and collected,"

he found that the storm had not allowed them to be either the one or the

other. Having got his forces together again, as well as he could,

the Spanish admiral made another start towards the English coast, and

appeared off the Lizard Point, with his fleet drawn up in the form of

a crescent, being seven miles from horn to horn, and presenting to the

enemy the horns of a dilemma. The English were on shore at Plymouth,

playing at bowls on the Hoe, and Drake, who was getting the better of

the game, declared he would play it out, for there was no hurry, as he

could beat his companions first, and the Spaniards afterwards. Having,

at length, taken to their vessels, the British watched the foe as they

came rolling in their heavy, lumbering ships up the channel. Their

guns were planted so high up that they shot entirely over the English

vessels, and into one another, while their unwieldy size rendering

them unmanageable, several of them being banged to bits by a series of

frightful collisions. To add to the confusion, one of the vessels took

fire, and was burnt, by an accident of the cook on board, who, it has

been ingeniously suggested, was trying to fry some of the celebrated

chops of the channel, "which," as Mrs. Markham says, in her very

excellent Abridgment, "you know, my little dears, you have all heard

talked about."

* _Vide_ George Cruikshank's renowned etching.

Another large vessel sprung her mast, another sprung a leak, a third

burst her binnacle, a fourth shivered her timbers, a fifth lost all her

fore part; and the crew were driven by stern necessity into the stem;

while on all sides, there prevailed the utmost confusion. Medina Sidonia

retired to the back yard of one of his ships, where he sat dejected and

alone, and after a good deal of skirmishing, in which the Spaniards got

the worst of it at all points of the compass, the duke made the best of

his way home again. He arrived at Santander about the end of September,

1588, with the mere skeleton of the force he had started with, and every

sailor he brought back was in himself a complete wreck of what he had

been when he quitted his own country. Thus ended the grand design of

invading England by means of the Spanish Armada, which, to say the

truth, did more mischief to itself than it sustained at the hands of

the enemy. Had a public meeting been held at the time to celebrate the

victory, we are sure that any English patriot might have proposed a vote

of thanks to the Armada, for the "able and impartial manner in which

it banged itself almost to pieces, with a total disregard of its own

interests, and to the incalculable advantage of England."

On the 4th of September, 1588, Leicester, the queen's favourite, died

on his way to Kenilworth; but Elizabeth never felt the loss, for she had

already effected a transfer of her affections to Robert Devereux, the

young Earl of Essex. Her grief at Leicester's death was so slight

that it did not prevent her from putting an execution into his house,

sweeping off all he had, under a bill of sale, and submitting it to the

public hammer in order to repay herself the sums she had advanced to him

in his lifetime. Essex was a mere boy, and the part of favourite to

a disagreeable ugly old woman like "our Bessy," was by no means a

sinecure. He was expected to appear at all times as the light comedian

of the Court, and was compelled to exercise flattery ana gallantry

towards a harridan who neither justified the one nor inspired the other.

He took the earliest opportunity of getting away from her for a short

time, by going to sea against her express orders; but he would have

braved anything for a respite from the society of the royal bore, whose

fondness had become odious to its object, though policy restrained him

from openly saying so. On his return home, he found himself almost cut

out of the queen's good graces by Sir Walter Raleigh, whose name we

have already mentioned as that of a young adventurer. Raleigh was a

distinguished navigator, which does not mean that he worked on the

cuttings of a railway; but that he belonged to a very humble line, is

a point there is not a doubt upon. His reputation rests chiefly on

the luggage he brought with him after one of his voyages, when some

potatoes, and a few ounces of tobacco crammed into his _sac de nuit_

were destined to hand him down to immortality. The most popular

vegetable the world ever saw, has put Raleigh into everybody's mouth;

and when we see the cloud rising from the cigar, our imagination may

trace, in the "smoke that so gracefully curls," the name of one whoso

renown cannot be whiffed away into the regions of oblivion.

The jealousy of Essex caused Raleigh to be sent into Ireland, where he

remained for years; and his long sojourn may account for the hold that

the potato had taken upon the affections of the Irish people.

His rival being thus summarily got rid of, Essex was left to make his

way with the "virgin queen," who was now verging on old age, and treated

her young favourite less as a subject than a son; for she had come to

that time of life when anything she could show in the shape of fondness

deserved the epithet of motherly. The boy was a fine one of his age,

being brave and good-looking; but Burleigh and other wise counsellors,

seeing that Essex made a fool of the queen, or rather, that she made

a fool of herself by her partiality for him, took a dislike to the

stripling. On one occasion, old Elizabeth getting kittenish and playful,

boxed the boy's ears, which tingled with the pain--for her hand had

become bony from age--when he laid his hand upon his sword, and was

thrown into disgrace, like a child who had been guilty of naughtiness.

He was soon recalled, and promising that he would "never do so any

more," he rapidly resumed his place in the favour of the royal dotard.

The death of Burleigh, on the 4th of August, 1598, for whom the

hurly-burly of politics had been too much, left the entire field to

Essex, and he made the most of it, by getting the appointment of Lord

Lieutenant of Ireland; from which he derived the double advantage of

advancing his own views and getting away from Elizabeth. He took with

him a considerable force, which he somehow or other frittered away

without doing any good whatever: and after losing several of his

soldiers by marching them completely off their legs, he determined that

he must have "a truce to such an unpleasant sort of thing," and entered

at once into a truce with the enemy. Elizabeth, who had calculated upon

his settling the Irish question at the point of the sword, was disgusted

at his failure, and desired him not to come home till he had subjected

his honour to thorough repair, and taken all the stains out of his

character. As he had no relish for the task imposed upon him, he

suddenly quitted his post, and hastening to England, arrived at

the palace covered with mud and dirt, for he had made a regular

steeple-chase of the latter part of his journey. Without going home to

change his boots, he rushed into the presence-chamber before the queen

was up, and, without asking any questions, he pushed his way to her

dressing room. He found her completely _en déshabille_, and started back

at finding her hair on a block before her, instead of on her head, for

she had got her wig in hand, and was trying to turn and twist it into

a becoming form, by means of powder, pomatum, tongs, combs, and

curl-papers. Startled by his sudden appearance, she hastened to put

herself to rights as well as she could, and was angry at the intrusion;

but as he fell at her feet, she contrived to cover the baldness of her

head, and then received him more affably. He had no sooner gone than she

began to reflect upon his presumption in having thus taken her unawares;

and when he returned, after going home to dress, she would have nothing

to say to him. He was desired to stay at home, and consider himself

a prisoner in his own house; but as the old crone had allowed so many

former familiarities, he was quite unprepared for the game of propriety

she was now practising. He went home and took to his bed, for it made

him perfectly sick to witness the sudden prudery of the queen, who

during his illness sent him a daily basin of broth from her own table.

She ordered eight eminent physicians to consult on his case; but this

calling in of a powerful medical force looks very much as if she had

been disposed to get rid of him, and preferred physic to law for once,

as a method of destruction. In spite of his eight doctors Essex got

better, and sent submissive messages, to which Elizabeth turned a deaf

ear; and Essex, by attributing her deafness to age, irritated her beyond

expression. He was told that he would find her unbending; when he at

once replied that he had found her bent nearly double, when he last had

the honour of seeing her, and he was glad to hear that royalty was once

more beginning to look up in England, by taking its proper position.

These remarks irritated Elizabeth beyond expression; and having brought

him before the privy council, she caused a sentence of banishment to

be inflicted upon him, which he sarcastically declared was agreeable

to him, as it would keep from him the sight of Elizabeth, whom he now

denominated his "old queene." Anxious to try the effect of intimidation

upon the nervous septuagenarian who now sat upon the throne, he entered

into a conspiracy with Scotland; but it was soon found out, and,

rushing with desperate fury into the streets, he tried to raise a mob by

addressing inflammatory speeches to the populace. The citizens looked

at him and listened to him, but shaking their heads, passed on, when he

soon found out that a solo movement unsupported by any concerted piece,

rendered him truly ridiculous. At length he was hurried off to the

Tower, and having been tried, he was condemned to die, though he fully

expected the palsied old creature who held the sceptre in her tremulous

hand, would, in a love-sick mood, decree his pardon.

It is said that in "happier days," when Essex had been in the habit of

striking "the light, the light, the light guitar," to the tinlike sound

of Elizabeth's voice, she had given him a ring, telling him if ever he

fell into disgrace, the return of that ring would obtain his pardon.

Elizabeth was from day to day listening to every knock, expecting the

identical ring, but it never came, and on the 25th of February, 1601,

he was actually beheaded. Elizabeth never held up her head again; but,

indeed, as she had long contracted a stoop from debility and old

age, there is nothing astonishing in the fact we have mentioned. The

spectacle of an old woman pining in love after a mere boy, was revolting

enough; but the fact is made doubly disgusting by the recollection

that she had herself caused the death of the object of her disreputable

dotage.

Some time after the execution of Essex, the Countess of Nottingham was

taken ill, and sending for Elizabeth confessed that the favourite had

given the ring before his death to be delivered to the queen, but that

it had been kept back for party purposes. The sovereign, who was shaking

in every limb from ambiguity and agitation, flew at the Countess of

Nottingham in her bed, seized her by the shoulder, and administered the

most violent cuffs that a female of seventy is capable of bestowing on

one who has offended her. "Take that--and that--and that--and that--and

that!"--was the cry of the queen, as she suited the action to the word

in every instance. The exertion was too much for the tottering fabric

of human frailty, who threw herself on the floor when she got to her own

room, and refusing to go to bed, rolled about for ten days on a pile of

cushions. Being asked to name her successor, she is said by some to have

specified James; while others maintain that she said nothing. When she

was too exhausted to oppose her attendants, they got her into bed, and

on the 24th of March, 1603, she died in the seventieth year of her age,

and forty-fifth of her reign.

Many people have a very natural objection to written characters, but we

feel compelled to give a written character of Queen Elizabeth; and we

are sorry to remark, that we can say very little that will be thought

complimentary. In person she was bony, coarse, muscular and masculine.

Her hair was red, but this she inherited from her father Henry, and thus

her red hair has been said, by that mountebank, Stiype, to have been

he-red-hair-tary at that time in the royal family. She endeavoured,

by the aid of dress, to make up for the unkindness of Nature; and she

surrounded herself with a quantity of hoops, which, as her figure was

rather tub-like, may be considered appropriate. She never gave away her

old clothes, and no less than three thousand dresses were found at her

death, the bodies of which, it is said, would have covered half London

at its then size, while the skirts would have covered all the outskirts.

Her portrait is always drawn with an enormous ruff round her neck, which

she adopted, it is believed, to hide the roughness of her chin, which

showed Nature to be her enemy, for it had bearded her frightfully.

She was exceedingly fond of visiting the houses of the nobility; but she

usually ruined all whom she honoured in this way, by the expense they

were put to in entertaining her. Lord Leicester, who had her staying

with him at Kenilworth, for a few days, nearly ruined himself in bears,

of which he took in a great quantity to bait for the amusement of his

sovereign.

In disposition, manners and appearance, there was nothing feminine or

graceful about Elizabeth; but Hume, who seems very fond of her, tells

us, that in weighing her, one ought to sink the female and think only of

the sovereign. We cannot, however, understand a person being at the

same time a good queen and a bad woman, unless the woman happens to be

somebody beside herself, when she is obviously unfit to be trusted with

the responsibility of government. Elizabeth had a certain amount of

talent; "for she had," says Hume, "both temper and capacity;" but

capacity seems to have belonged rather to the bony bulkiness of her

unfeminine form, than to the extent of her intellect.

Her private character was exceedingly disreputable; and her amorous

propensities, which seemed rather to increase with her old age, rendered

her disgusting to her contemporaries, as well as ridiculous in the eyes

of posterity. She was constantly in love with some stripling about the

Court, who, when he became _un peu passé_, was thrown aside for some

more juvenile admirer.

There can be no doubt that the admirable character of _Mrs. Skewton_,

if we may be allowed an irreverent allusion to fiction amidst the awful

solemnities of fact, is to be attributed to the extensive historical

research of Mr. Dickens, and his intimate acquaintance with the period

of the reign of Elizabeth. It may be admitted that she governed with

considerable firmness; but the praise, such as it is, of "coming it

exceedingly strong," is, after all, a most questionable compliment.

Several of the greatest names in science and literature shed a glory on

Elizabeth's reign; but the most magnificent sunshine, by falling on

a mean object, does not make the object itself in reality more

respectable. Bacon, Shakespeare, Spenser and others, are said to have

flourished at the time; but we have examined their autographs with

peculiar care, and have seen no symptoms of flourishing about any one of

them. To say they all wrote at the period would be true; but to say they

flourished is an exaggeration to which we will not lend ourselves.

The reign of Elizabeth was, at least, considerably in advance of our own

time in one respect, for it is remarkable for the passing of a Poor Law

which, unlike that of the present day, was founded on the principles of

humanity. This blot, however, will, we trust, be removed in time for a

sixth--though not quite quickly enough for a second, third, fourth or

fifth--edition of this work; for the Spirit of the Times has doomed the

Poor Law to perdition.

Theatres first came into vogue in Elizabeth's reign; and it is a fact at

which our sober reverence for the Swan of Avon takes considerable alarm,

that that ever-to-be-lamented bird was in the habit of exercising his

quills in the neighbourhood of the New Cut, at a concern called the

Globe, where the prices were only twopence to the pit, and one penny in

the gallery. The critics sat on the stage, and were furnished with pipes

and tobacco--a gentle intimation to them to "draw it mild" in their

notices of the performances. It is possible, that through the fumes

of the tobacco they got a bird's-eye view of the stage, which was

favourable to the performance of their critical duties. The audience

used to read, play at cards, smoke, and drink, before the performance

began; and perhaps, if the piece happened to be dull, they relieved it

by some of those pastimes even during its progress.

Smoking, which has since reached such universality that every man

one meets is a chimney, and every boy a flue, is known to have been

introduced by Raleigh, who, fearing; that his friends would rally him

on the propensity, used to indulge it in secret. One day some smoke was

seen to issue from his apartment, and the people about him, fearing he

was on fire, inundated him with buckets of water that put him out

very seriously, and determined him in future not to smoke the pipe of

privacy. The mode of living was not very luxurious in Elizabeth's reign,

for a glass of ale and a slice of bread formed the ordinary breakfast,

while brawn was an article of general consumption; and, as Elizabeth was

very fond of it, her great brawny arms are easily accounted for.

An attempt has been made to attribute various graces and accomplishments

to Elizabeth, which, even after attempting to enlarge our credulity, and

stir up our organ of veneration to its fullest extent, we are unable

to give her credit for. It is said that she played, sang, and danced

tolerably well, though her figure seems to give very weighty testimony

against her probable possession of the last of these accomplishments.

She admired dancing among her courtiers, and she is said to have

promoted Hatton for his terpsiohorean efforts, she having once seen him

practising his steps, when she declared that he held himself so well in

the first position, that she would elevate him to the first positions

soon as possible. Elizabeth, though profuse in her own indulgences, was

stingy in the extreme to others, and her accumulation of old clothes

proves a tenacity of bad habits, and a shabbiness towards her _femme

de chambre_, that are on a par with the other despicable points in her

character.