him than he can ever have deemed possible. It matters little to us now
what was his real motive in raising it, even if it were possible to
point to any one unmixed motive which inspired him. For us it is enough
that the chapel stands, and though we need not, with Fabyan the
chronicler, wax enthusiastic over "the excellent wysdome, sugared
eloquence, wonderfull dyscression, the exceedynge treasure and rychesse
innumerabyll" of this silent, almost gloomy king, let us with the same
chronicler "remember his beautyfull buildyngs and his liberell
endowments at Westminster, and pray that he may attain that celestyall
mansion whych he and all trew Christen soules are inheritors unto, the
whyche God hym graunt."
[Illustration: CHAPEL OF HENRY VII.]
*CHAPTER X*
*THE ABBEY AND THE REFORMATION*
A few months after the death and burial of Henry VII., another royal
funeral took place in this beautiful chapel of the Tudors, the funeral
of his mother, Margaret, the "venerable lady," whose influence was
far-reaching, and whose holiness had won for her such universal love and
reverence.
"It would fill a volume to recount her good deeds," says her biographer,
and he goes on to tell how she lived a life of prayer and simplicity,
being a member of no leas than five religious houses; how she herself
waited on the poor, the sick, the dying, and how she freely gave of her
wealth for the encouragement of learning. "Her ears were spent in
hearing the word of God, her tongue was occupied in prayer, her feet in
visiting holy places, her hands in giving alms." She provided an
almshouse for poor women near Westminster Abbey, and another at
Hatfield, and besides founding schools and colleges, she maintained many
poor scholars at her own expense. She also translated many works in the
English tongue. It was in Westminster that she desired to be buried,
and she made many gifts to the place which her son was so richly
beautifying, stipulating in return that prayers should always be said
here for herself and all her family. She was destined to outlive son,
daughter-in-law, and grandson, and it was not till 1509 that her useful
life of close on three-score years and ten came to an end, and she
passed peacefully away, "the almoner of God, the friend of the poor, the
supporter of true religion, the patroness of learning, the comforter of
the sorrowing, the beloved of all." As you stand by her monument in the
south aisle of Henry VII.'s Chapel, look at her strong, noble face,
beautiful in its calm old age, her hands clasped in prayer as was their
wont; and while you are lost in wonder at the skill of the sculptor,
probably Torrigiano, I think you will realise something of the goodness
and purity of Margaret Richmond, which this sleeping figure makes so
vivid, and will understand how "every one that knew her loved her, for
everything she said or did became her." It was well for her that she
did not live long enough to see her clever imperious grandson seeking to
destroy so many of the things which she had loved and guarded.
Henry VIII. came to the throne with splendid opportunities. He was
gifted far above the average: his manners were genial and taking; he
could talk many languages; he was devoted to sport, a good musician, an
admirable wrestler; fond of amusement, but fond also of more serious
things; and the people were prepared to love their King Hal, for he was
in every way a contrast to his father, who had never won their
affections. Henry was a strong man, who resolved to be no puppet in the
hands of any party or minister. Yet it was his will which ruined his
character, for it was a will entirely bent on gaining its own ends,
unchecked by any sense of duty, untouched by any appeal to high or noble
motives. What he desired he must have, and all that stood in his way
must be swept aside: he would spare no one who thwarted him; nothing
weighed in the balance against the gratification of his own whims and
fancies.
You will remember that he was not the eldest son of Henry VII. His
brother Arthur, Prince of Wales, had died in 1501, a few months after he
had married Katherine, the Infanta of Spain, and chiefly because the
idea was at first strongly opposed, Henry made up his mind to marry his
widowed sister-in-law. When he came to the throne, he at once carried
out his will in this matter, and brushed aside all the objections that
were raised on account of the close relationship existing between the
two. The marriage took place at Greenwich, and the double coronation
followed at Westminster on Midsummer Day in the year 1509, "amid all the
rejoicings in the world." Katherine made a beautiful queen, dressed in
white with cloth of gold, her long hair hanging down to her feet, and
little dreamt any of those who cheered her on her way of all that was to
spring out of that marriage, for Henry seemed to be the most devoted of
husbands. In 1511 their son was born, and had such an elaborate
christening that he took a cold from which he never recovered. "His
soul returned to among the Holy Innocents of God," says a Westminster
manuscript, and we are told how "the queen made much lamentation, but by
the king's persuasion she was at last comforted." The baby prince was
certainly buried in the Abbey, though exactly where is unknown. But his
death, unimportant as it must have seemed at the moment to those who
took part in the funeral, had in reality a deep significance. Henry was
incapable of loving any one for long, and as he began to grow weary of
Katherine, he made it a grievance that her other child was a daughter
and not a son. Furthermore, he argued to himself that he had done wrong
in marrying his brother's widow, so that the death of his son was the
sign of God's wrath, and then he began to devise how he could dissolve
his marriage with her, to wed instead her fascinating maid of honour,
Anne Boleyn. Only the Pope could grant him the divorce that he desired,
and accordingly Henry sent his all-powerful favourite, Wolsey, to Rome
to get this consent. But the Pope, much as he feared Henry, feared the
Emperor Charles V., the nephew of Queen Katherine, much more, and
Wolsey, on his side, was anxious not to offend the Pope, as his ambition
was to succeed him, so it all ended in his going back to Henry without
having the desired permission. Henry was furious, and Wolsey,
disgraced, died broken-hearted. The king's next step was to defy the
Pope, and to send round to all the ministers in Europe, asking them
whether in their opinion his marriage with Katherine had been a legal
one. But their answer in almost every case was the opposite answer to
what Henry had determined on, and their opposition only increased his
determination, till at last, urged thereto by Thomas Cromwell, Wolsey's
successor in his favour, he took the bold step of declaring that he
himself was the head of the Church in England, the defender of the
faith, and that therefore the Pope had no power to forbid the divorce.
He was clever enough to know that for many a long day the independent
spirit of the English nation had rebelled against the power of the Pope
in the land; that the revival of learning had set men thinking for
themselves; that the teaching of Luther and the other reformers had
prepared the way for a great change in England, and that he could count
on his Parliament to support him in declaring himself supreme head of
the Church in this land. Thus whilst pretending to cleanse and purify
the Church, and reform the many errors which had crept in, Henry really
was true to his general policy of sweeping out of the way any obstacle
to his wishes. The Pope had opposed him, so from henceforward he would
deprive the Pope of all authority in England. He divorced Katherine,
and married Anne Boleyn, while those few men who refused to go against
their conscience by declaring the king to be in the right on this
question of his marriage, when they felt him to be in the wrong, did so
at the cost of their lives.
But the king had not yet finished with the Pope; urged thereto by
Cromwell, who earned for himself the name "The Hammer of the Monks," he
proceeded to attack all the monasteries and religious houses in England,
and there were many hundreds of them, which were under the immediate
jurisdiction of Rome. To these religious houses England owed no small
debt of gratitude: the monks had been teachers, scholars, chroniclers,
architects, carvers, painters, translators, and illuminators; they had
nursed the sick, they had relieved the needy; they had been the great
employers of labour, the tillers of the soil, and, untouched by the ebb
and flow of the tide outside, they had gone quietly on with their daily
round of work and prayer, keeping their lights ever burning before the
altar to signify that their house was "always watchynge to God." But,
as they became rich and powerful, they fell away from their high ideals;
the threefold vow of poverty, obedience, and purity ceased to sanctify
their lives; luxury took the place of plain, frugal living; the monks no
longer laboured with their own hands, but kept great retinues of
servants, and the money that should have been spent for the glory of God
and the church was squandered in extravagant living. The abbots were
under no control save that of Rome, and Rome was far away, so that there
was no power from outside to correct, to reform, and to purify.
Gradually, too, the monasteries had lost their hold over the people;
resting on their past, they made no effort to keep pace with the
present; they bitterly opposed any education save that which they held
in their own hands; they resented progress and enlightenment; they were
no longer centres of light and learning; their fire had burnt out,
quenched by covetousness, by wrong-doing and by luxurious living.
Cromwell saw in them an opportunity which Henry was all too ready to
grasp. A Commission was formed to visit and report on the universities
and all religious houses; and when the visitors had finished their work,
which they had done carefully and thoroughly, they laid their verdict
before the House of Commons in the famous Black Book, which was
destroyed some years later by order of Queen Mary. Much of what it
contained is therefore lost to us, but as the Commons, who sat,
remember, in the Chapter-Room at Westminster, heard clause after clause
read out, which told, with a few honourable exceptions, a terrible story
against the monasteries, they could not restrain themselves, and over
and over again shouts of "Down with the monks" rang through the vaulted
building. Generally speaking, the largest of the monasteries had come
well out of the inquiry, and Parliament therefore began by only
dissolving the smaller houses, at the same time ordering that the lands
and incomes of these latter should be handed over to the king, as head
of the Church, to be spent in the "high and true interests of religion."
Certainly the Commons had none but high motives in passing this Act, and
never dreamt of a general dissolution, or the appropriation of all that
immense wealth for anything but religious or educational purposes. They
had not realised Henry's greed, "which no religion could moderate, or
the force of his will, against which nothing, however sacred, seemed
able to stand."
The monks at Westminster naturally heard very quickly all the
particulars of the deliberations which had taken place inside the
Chapter-Room. How they must have lingered about the cloisters that day;
how eagerly and excitedly must they have talked during those hours when
talking was allowed, wondering in what way all these things would end;
how they must have speculated as to their own future, and that of the
few other large monasteries in which the Commissioners had declared that
"thanks be to God, religion had been right well kept and observed."
They had not long to wait.
A general order issued shortly afterwards, ordering the removal of all
shrines, images, and relics, made it clear that Henry and his ministers
had other ideas beyond the reformation of religious houses; and the
monks, who gauged the character of the king, hastily moved the body of
St. Edward to some sacred spot, that, at least, this holy possession of
the Abbey might not be lost to it. They managed, too, to hide some of
the treasures which beautified Edward's shrine, but much of the gold and
many of the jewels became the property of the king. Altogether nearly
800 monasteries fell into the hands of Henry, and without any
compunction he appropriated their lands and their wealth, giving away to
his favourites of the moment what he did not desire to keep for himself.
Inside the religious houses the greatest excitement prevailed, and much
diversity of opinion; for some there were among the abbots and monks who
were prepared to lose their lives rather than willingly surrender
themselves to the king's will, while others, more the children of this
world than the children of light, deemed that by submission could they
best hope to save something in this overwhelming deluge.
At Westminster, under Abbot Benson, the monks chose a prudent course,
the abbot being one, as an old writer severely remarks, "whose
conscience was not likely to stand in his way on any occasion," and in
the January of 1540 the Abbey with all its wealth was voluntarily handed
over to the king.
Partly perhaps on account of this absolute submission, but much more
because even Henry had still reverence for a place which was peculiarly
royal in all its associations, Westminster was in some degree saved.
The old order indeed was destined to pass away; its wealth was to be a
thing of the past, save for the wealth of beauty in sculptured stone
which could not easily be taken from it, and which still remained
unrivalled even when all the gold and jewels and plate excepting a
silver pot, two gilt cups, three hearse clothes, twelve cushions and
some other clothes, had been carried away to satisfy greedy courtiers,
"leaving the place very bare."
But Henry converted the building into a cathedral, giving it a bishop, a
dean, prebendaries, minor canons, all these offices with the exception
of the Bishopric being filled by the monks belonging to the
establishment. The Bishop, Thirleby, was ordered to make the abbot's
house his palace; Abbot Benson, now Dean, took up his residence in
humble quarters, and all the old glory of the monastery departed for
ever, while Henry was quite L60,000 a year richer in our money. Those of
the monks for whom no place could be found under the new system were
pensioned off, and many of the buildings, such as the refectory and the
smaller dormitory, no longer needed for the cowled figures who for so
many generations had used them, were pulled down or put to fresh uses.
Nor was the monastery the only part of Westminster which fell from its
greatness. Earlier in the reign of Henry a fire had destroyed much of
the old Palace, and the king, who cared but little for it, set his heart
on York House close by, at Whitehall, once the London house of the
Bishops of York, afterwards the residence of Wolsey.
The Cardinal lived in state; indeed Westminster was but a humble
dwelling compared to this magnificent palace, and on his disgrace, Henry
took possession of it. For more than a hundred and fifty years it was
the royal palace, with fine courts, halls and chambers, its own chapel
and offices, its bowling-green, tent yard, cock-pit, and tennis courts,
and meanwhile the gabled, sculptured Westminster Palace, the home of
Saxon, Norman, and Plantagenet kings, fell to pieces. For us, both are
now but phantom palaces, with hardly a trace of either remaining to
recall the glories of the past.
But in the story of the Abbey, this change from Westminster to Whitehall
had more than a passing effect; from henceforth the old intimate
association between the Palace and Abbey ceased to exist, and Henry thus
broke one more link with the traditions of his ancestors. Not even the
chapel of his father, now no longer called the Lady Chapel, but instead
St. Saviour's Chapel, had any attractions for one in whose nature
reverent affection for old associations was entirely absent, and at his
own desire, Henry was buried at Windsor, by his "true and loving wife,
Jane Seymour," who had kept in his good graces by giving him a son, and
then dying before he had time to grow weary of her. Of all his wives,
only the plain and placid Anne of Cleves was buried in the Abbey, on the
south side of the Altar, and "she had but half a monument," says Fuller,
though her funeral was an elaborate one, by order of Mary, who was then
queen.
King Edward VI., just ten years old, succeeded his father; and the
members of his council, especially his uncle, the Duke of Somerset,
strongly in favour of the Reformed Church, were determined that the Pope
should not win back any of his old authority. In this, all the thinking
people were of their opinion, but some of the poor people, who had
formerly received much in charity from the monks, were very bitter, and
there was more than one rebellion in favour of the monasteries. However,
these were put down, and the reformers went on with their work. Edward
was crowned as Head of the Church in England, and, for the first time, a
Bible, translated into the English tongue, was set in his hands at the
coronation service. For only within the last ten years had the Bible
been read to the people in a language they could understand, and you
will remember how first Wycliffe, and then Tyndale, had failed in their
attempts to place this book in the hands of all, that all might read and
learn of God's teachings, by the light of the understanding which God
had given them. Two years after the coronation a Prayer-Book was
published, also in English, not exactly the same Prayer-Book as we use
now, for as time went on the spirit of the people changed in favour of a
still simpler service than that which found favour with the early
reformers in England, and in the reign of Charles II. a revised
Prayer-Book was issued, as in the reign of James I. our present
translation of the Bible was authorised. But it was in Edward's reign
that an English Bible and Prayer-Book first found their way into the
Abbey.
The plan of having a Bishop at Westminster does not seem to have
succeeded. Thirleby was removed to Norwich, and Richard Cox became the
Dean. But he remained in the simple quarters, near the Little Cloister,
which had been assigned to Dean Boston, and the Abbot's house passed
into the possession of a layman for the time being. Protector Somerset
had certainly no feeling of veneration for the grand old pile of
buildings. Not only did he put the Abbey under the Bishop of London,
and insist on cart-loads of stone, which once had formed part of the
solid monastery buildings, being used for his own palace, Somerset
House, but of the few lands which still remained to the Abbey, he took
some and made them over to St. Paul's, from time immemorial the rival of
Westminster. You have often heard the saying "robbing Peter to pay
Paul;" now you know its origin. And as if to cut off every possible
association with the past, the House of Commons moved from the Chapter
House to St. Stephen's Chapel, part of the old Westminster Palace, and
there met until the great fire in 1834, after which the present Houses
of Parliament were built.
But with the death of Edward, who had reigned seven years, and the
defeat of the Protestant party, who had tried to set Lady Jane Grey on
the throne, there came a flicker of prosperity to the Abbey, a dim
reflection, as it were, of its bygone greatness. For Queen Mary was a
devout Roman Catholic, and so soon as it lay in her power, she dissolved
the chapter or cathedral body, restored the monastery, and gave the post
of Abbot to Fakenham, who was "a person of learning, good-natured, and
very charitable to the poor."
Edward was buried at Westminster, close to his grandfather, Henry VII.,
and underneath the altar of Torrigiano, of which I have already told
you, so that the last Roman Catholic and the first really Protestant
king of England lay side by side, under the same exquisite roof, a
striking commentary on the fact that the Reformation was not a complete
wrench with the past, but a transition from old to new according to the
unchangeable law of progress.
Mary was crowned on October 10, and on the coronation morning she
journeyed in the royal barge from Whitehall to the private waterstairs
of old Westminster Palace, and from thence went into the Parliament
chamber, where she robed. Blue cloth covered the ground all the way
from Westminster Hall to the choir in the Abbey, but here the altar
blazed with cloth of gold, and rich covers hung all around, while the
floor was strewn with fresh rushes, a quaint contrast to everything
else. The Archbishops of Canterbury and York and the Bishop of London
were already in the Tower as prisoners, so it was Gardiner, Bishop of
Winchester, who met the queen and performed the service, at which there
was much dismay among the people, for they said it had ever boded ill
for England when the Archbishop did not crown the sovereign. The old
coronation service with its full ceremonial was used, and the queen was
very devout, kneeling long in silent prayer.
Four days later, the queen again rode to the Abbey, this time to open
her Parliament. But the occasion did not pass by without some
disturbances, for some who refused to kneel while the Mass was being
celebrated were turned out by force.
The restoration of her religion was the object dearer than all others to
Mary's heart, and her unfaltering belief that in so doing she was
working the will of God, added to her passionate enthusiasm for her
faith, are the only excuses we can plead for her, when we shudder at the
cruel persecutions which made England a land of terror during the next
few years. Here it is only necessary to say that, as always,
persecution purified and strengthened the very cause it was destined to
destroy, and Mary, during her five years' reign, made her people hate
her so bitterly, that nothing but her death prevented a general
rebellion.
She died a wretched, lonely woman, conscious of her utter failure.
"My oppressed heart is pierced by many wounds," she said bitterly at the
last.
Her funeral took place with much state, but the only real mourners were
the priests and monks, who feared for their own fate. Mary had
entreated that she might not be buried in royal array. Her crown had
brought her no happiness, she said, and she did not wish to be
encumbered by it now. Behind her coffin rode her ladies, with black
trains so long that they swept the ground. Mass was said before the
High Altar for the last time, while Fakenham, the last Abbot of
Westminster, as he himself well knew, preached a great sermon on the
dead queen, and, in a voice trembling with deep feeling, told how she
was too good for earth, a veritable angel, who had found the realm
poisoned with heresy, and had purged it.
But his words found no echo in the heart of those around, and the
funeral ended in a scene of disorder, for the people had no respect for
the dead, and plucked down all the hangings and draperies, while the
Archbishop of York, "in the midst of the hurly-burly, pronounced that a
collation was prepared," whereupon the lords, ladies, and knights, with
the bishops and Abbot Fakenham, hurried to another part of the building
for dinner.
And no monument was erected to the memory of her who was the last queen
of the old faith to be buried in the Abbey.
*CHAPTER XI*
*IN THE CHAPEL OF HENRY VII.*