 The most momentous result of the Wars of the Roses was the destruction of the old nobility, and the great increase in the power of the Crown, which grew so wealthy on the plunder of confiscated estates that Parliament could safely be ignored. This condition of affairs enabled the Tudor monarchs to turn the English sovereignty into a despotism that endured for a century. Henry VII, 1485-1509, the first of the Tudors strengthened his claim to the throne by marrying Elizabeth of York, daughter of Edward IV, and thus united the two houses of York and Lancaster. He passed many useful laws, promoted commerce and industry, and lessened the power of the nobles. He was succeeded by Henry VIII, 1509-1547, and never did Prince ascend the throne under more favourable circumstances. He was eighteen years of age, handsome, accomplished, and beloved by his people. He developed, however, into a merciless tyrant, but Parliament and people submitted to the powerful Tudor will with hardly a protest. The most important event of his reign was the separation of England from the Church of Rome, a separation occasioned by the refusal of the Pope, Clement VII, to annul his marriage with Catherine of Aragon, aunt of the Emperor Charles V of Spain. By the act of supremacy, passed by Parliament in 1534, the king was made the protector and only supreme head of the Church of England. Soon after the monasteries were suppressed, and their wide domains scattered among the king's favourites, creating a new aristocracy. One notable characteristic of the VIII Henry was his variability. Of his three great ministers, Wolsey, Moore, and Thomas Cromwell, the first died in disgrace, the last two were executed. Henry was six times married to Catherine of Aragon, divorced, Anna Bolane, beheaded, Jane Seymour died, Anne of Cleves, divorced, Catherine Howard, beheaded, and Catherine Parr, who outlived him. THE WORLD'S STORY Volume 9, England, edited by Eva March Tappin, Section 61, The Imposter Who Claimed the Crown of Henry VII, 1488 through 1499, by Charles Dickens. There were several insurrections against the rule of Henry, and at different times two young men appeared who claimed the throne. The story of one of these, named Perkin Warbrek, is told in the following selection, the editor. All of a sudden they appeared at Cork, in a vessel arriving from Portugal, a young man of excellent abilities, a very handsome appearance and most winning manners, who declared himself to be Richard, Duke of York, the second son of King Edward IV. Oh, said some, even of these ready Irish believers! But surely that young prince was murdered by his uncle in the tower! It is supposed so, said the engaging young man. And my brother was killed in that gloomy prison, but I escaped. It don't matter how, at present, and have been wandering about the world for seven long years. This explanation, being quite satisfactory to members of the Irish people, they began again to shout and to hurrah and to drink his health, and to make the noisy and thirsty demonstrations all over again. Then the big chieftain in Dublin began to look out for another coronation, and another young king to be carried home on his back. Now, King Henry, being then on bad terms with France, the French king, Charles VIII, saw that, by pretending to believe in the handsome young man, he could trouble his enemy sorely. So he invited him over to the French court, and appointed him a bodyguard, and treated him in all respects as if he really were the Duke of York. Peace, however, being soon concluded between the two kings. The pretended Duke was turned adrift, and wandered for protection to the Duchess of Burgundy. She, after feigning to inquire into the reality of his claims, declared him to be the very picture of her dear departed brother, gave him a bodyguard, at her court, of thirty halberd heirs, and called him by the sounding name of the White Rose of England. The leading members of the White Rose Party in England sent over an agent named Sir Robert Clifford, to ascertain whether the White Rose's claims were good. The king also sent over his agents to inquire into the Rose's history. The White Roses declared the young man to be really the Duke of York. The king declared him to be Perkin Warbeck, the son of a merchant of the city of Tornay, who had acquired his knowledge of England, its language and manners from the English merchants, who traded in Flanders, it was also stated by the royal agents that he had been in the service of Lady Brompton, the wife of an exiled English nobleman, and that the Duchess of Burgundy had caused him to be trained and taught expressly for this deception. The king then required the Archduke Philip, who was the sovereign, Burgundy, to banish this new pretender, or to deliver him up, but as the Archduke replied that he could not control the Duchess in her own land, the king, in revenge, took the market of English claw away from Antwerp, and prevented all commercial intercourse between the two countries. He also, by arts and bribes, prevailed on Sir Robert Clifford to betray his employers, and he, denouncing several famous English noblemen as being secretly the friends of Perkin Warbeck, the king had three of the foremost executed at once. Whether he pardoned the remainder, because they were poor, I do not know. But it is only too probable that he refused to pardon one famous nobleman, against whom the same Clifford soon afterwards informed separately, because he was rich. This was no other than Sir William Stanley, who had saved the king's life at the battle of Bosworth Field. It is very doubtful whether his treason amounted to much more than his having said that. If he were sure the young man was the Duke of York, he would not take arms against him. Whatever he had done in, he admitted, like an honourable spirit. And he lost his head for it, and the covetous king gained all his wealth. Perkin Warbeck kept quiet for three years. But as the Flemmings began to complain heavily of the loss of their trade by the stoppage of the Ant Warp market on his account, and as it was not unlikely that they might even go so far as to take his life, or give him up, he found it necessary to do something. Accordingly, he made a desperate sally and landed, with only a few hundred men, on the coast of deal. But he was soon glad to get back to the place from whence he came, for the country people rose against his followers, killed a great many, and took a hundred and fifty prisoners, who were all driven to London, tied together with ropes, like a team of cattle. Every one of them was hanged on some part or other of the seashore, in order that if any more men should come over with Perkin Warbeck, they might see the bodies as a warning before they landed. Then the wary king, by making a treaty of commerce with the Flemmings, drove Perkin Warbeck out of the country, and by, completely gaining over the Irish to his side, deprived him of that asylum too. He wandered away to Scotland and told his story at that court. King James IV of Scotland, who was no friend to King Henry, and had no reason to be, for King Henry had bribed his Scotch lords to betray him more than once, but had never succeeded in his plots, gave him a great reception, called him his cousin, and gave him in marriage the Lady Catherine Gordon, a beautiful and charming creature related to the royal house of Stuart. Counted by the successful reappearance of the pretender, the king still undermined, and bought, and bribed, and kept his doings, and Perkin Warbeck's story in the dark, when he might, one would imagine, have rendered the matter clear to all England. But for all of this bribing of the Scotch lords at the Scotch King's court, he could not procure the pretender to be delivered up to him. James, though not very particular in many respects, would not betray him, and the ever-busy Duchess of Burgundy so provided him with arms, and good soldiers, and with money besides, that he had soon a little army of fifteen hundred men of various nations. With these, and aided by the Scotch King in person, he crossed the border into England, and made a proclamation to the people, in which he called the king Henry Tudor, offered large rewards to any who should take or distress him, and announced himself King Richard, the fourth, come to receive the homage of his faithful subjects. His faithful subjects, however, cared nothing for him, and hated his faithful troops, who, being of different nations, quarreled also among themselves. Worse than this, if worse were possible, they began to plunder the country, upon which the White Rose said that he would rather lose his rights than gain them through the miseries of the English people. The Scottish King made a jest of his scruples, but they and their whole forts went back again without fighting a battle. The worst consequence of this attempt was that a rising took place among the people of Cornwall, who considered themselves too heavily taxed, to meet the charges of the expected war. Stimulated by Flammock, a lawyer and Joseph a blacksmith, and joined by Lord Oddly, and some other country gentlemen, they marched on all the way to Detford Bridge, where they fought to battle with the king's army. They were defeated, though the Cornishmen fought with great bravery, and the Lord was beheaded, and the lawyer and the blacksmith were hanged, drawn, and quartered. The rest were pardoned. The king, who believed every man to be as avaricious as himself, and thought that money could settle anything, allowed them to make bargains for their liberty with the soldiers who had taken them. Time wore back, doomed to wander up and down, and never to find rest anywhere. A sad fate, almost a sufficient punishment for an imposter, which he seems in time to have believed himself, lost his Scottish refuge, through a truce being made between the two kings, and found himself once more without a country, before him in which he could lay his head. But James always honourable, and true to him, alike when he melted down his plate, and even the great gold chain he had been used to wear, to pay soldiers in his cause, and now, when that cause was lost and hopeless, did not conclude the treaty until he had safely departed out of the Scottish dominions. He and his beautiful wife, who was faithful to him under all reverses, and left her state and home to follow his poor fortunes, were put aboard a ship with everything necessary for their comfort and protection, and sailed for Ireland. But the Irish people had had enough of counterfeit earls of Warwick and Dukes of York, for one while and would give the white rose no aid. So the white rose encircled by thorns indeed, resolved to go with his beautiful wife to Cornwall as a forlorn resource, and see what might be made of the Cornishmen, who had risen so valiantly a little while before, and who had fought so bravely at Depford Bridge. To Whitson Bay in Cornwall, accordingly, came Perk and Warbeck and his wife, and a lovely lady he shut up for safety in the castle of St. Michael's Mountain, and then marched into Devonshire at the head of three thousand Cornishmen. These were increased to six thousand by the time of his arrival in Exeter, but there the people made a stout resistance, and he went on to Taunton, where he came in sight of the King's army. The stout Cornishmen, although they were few in number and badly armed, were so bold that they never thought of retreating, but bravely looked forward to a battle on the morrow. Unhappily for them, the man who was possessed of so many engaging qualities, and who attracted so many people to his side when he had nothing else with which to tempt them, was not as brave as they. In the night when the two armies lay opposite to each other, he mounted a swift horse and fled. When morning dawned, the poor confiding Cornishmen, discovering that they had no leader, surrendered to the King's power. Some of them were hanged, and the rest were pardoned, and went miserably home. Before the King pursued Perkin Warbeck to the sanctuary of Bolo, in the New Forest, where it was soon known that he had taken refuge, he sent a body of horsemen to St. Michael's Mount to seize his wife. She was soon taken and brought as a captive before the King. But she was so beautiful and so good, and so devoted to the man in whom she believed that the King regarded her with compassion, treated her with great respect, and placed her at court near the Queen's person. And many years after, Perkin Warbeck was no more, and when his strange story had become like a nursery tale, she was called the White Rose by the people in remembrance of her beauty. The sanctuary at Bolia was soon surrounded by the King's men, and the King, pursuing his usual dark artful ways, sent pretended friends to Perkin Warbeck to persuade him to come out and surrender himself. This he soon did, the King having taken a good look at the man of whom he had heard so much, from behind a screen, directed him to be well-mounted and to ride behind him at a little distance, guarded but not bound in any way. So they entered London with the King's favorite show, a procession and some of the people hooted as the pretender rode slowly through the streets to the tower, but the greater part were quiet, and very curious to see him. From the tower he was taken to the palace at Westminster, and there lodged like a gentleman, though closely watched. He was examined every now and then as to his imposture, but the King was so secret in all he did that even then he gave it a consequence which it cannot be supposed to have in itself deserved. At last Perkin Warbeck ran away, and took refuge in another sanctuary near Richmond in Surrey. From this he was again persuaded to deliver himself up. In being conveyed to London he stood in the stocks for a whole day, outside Westminster Hall, and there read a paper purporting to be his full confession, and relating his history as the King's agents had originally described it. He was then shut up in the tower again, in the company of the Earl of Warwick, who had now been there for fourteen years, ever since his removal out of Yorkshire, except when the King had had him at court, and had shown him to the people to prove the imposture of the Bigger's Boy. It is but too probable, when we consider the crafty character of Henry VII, that these two were brought together for a cruel purpose. A plot was soon discovered between them and the Keepers, to murder the Governor, get possession of the keys, and proclaim Perkin Warbeck as King Richard IV, that there was some such plot is likely, that they were tempted into it is at least as likely, that the unfortunate Earl of Warwick, last male of the Plantagenet line, was too in use to the world, and too ignorant, and simple to know much about it, whatever it was is perfectly certain, and that it was the King's interest to get rid of him is no less so. He was beheaded on Tower Hill, and Perkin Warbeck was hanged at Tyburn. End of Section 61. The Funeral of Elizabeth of York, wife of Henry VII's 1503 by Agnes Strickland. When the news of Elizabeth's disease spread through the city, the utmost sorrow was manifested among all ranks of her subjects. The bells of St. Paul's told this molly, and were answered by those of every church and religious house in the metropolis or its neighborhood. Meantime, the Queen was embalmed at the Tower, for this purpose were allowed sixty Elves of Holland clothes, Elbrod, likewise Gums, Balms, Spices, Sweet Wine, and Vax, with which being seared, the King's plumber closed her in lead, with an epitaph likewise in lead showing who and what she was. The hole was chested in boards, covered with black velvet, with a cross of white damask. The day after the Queen's demise, Sunday, February the 12th, her corpse was removed from the chamber where she died, to the chapel within the Tower, under the steps of which then reposed, unknown to all, the bodies of the Queen's two murdered brothers, Edward V, and Richard Duke of York. More different was the order of their sister's royal obsequies, to that dark and silent hour, when the trembling old priest, who had belonged to this very chapel, raised the princely victims from their unconsecrated lair, and deposited them secretly, within its hallowed verge. Could the ladies and officers of arms, who watched around the corpse of their royal mistress in St. Mary's Chapel, within the Tower, during the long nights which preceded her funeral, have known how near was the mysterious resting place of her murdered brothers. Many a glance of alarm would have fathomed the beautiful arches, and many a start of terror would have told, when the wintry wind from the Thames waved the black draperies which hung around. The Tower Chapel was on this occasion, what the French call a chapelle ardente. The windows were railed about with burning lights, and a lighted hearse stood in the choir of the chapel. In this hearse was deposited the royal corpse, which was carried by persons of the highest rank, with a canopy borne over it by four knights, followed by Lady Elizabeth Stafford, and all the maids of honour, and the Queen's household, two and two, dressed in their plainest gowns, or according to another journal, in the saddest and simplest attire they had, was threaded, canker chiefs hanging down, and tied under their chins. The Princess Catherine, led by her brother-in-law, the Earl of Sore, then entered the chapel, and took her place at the head of the corpse. A true mourner was she, for she had lost her best friend and only protectess. When mass was done, and offerings made, the Princess retired. During the watch of the night, an officer at arms said in a loud voice, a patterned nostre for the soul of the Queen at every cury elation, and an oremus before the collect. On the twelfth day after the Queen's death, mass was said in the chapel early in the morning. Then the corpse was put in a carriage covered with black velvet, with a cross of white cloth of gold, very well fringed, and an image exactly representing the Queen was placed in a chair above in her rich robes of state, her very rich crown on her head, her hair about her shoulders, her scepter in her right hand, her fingers well garnished with rings and precious stones, and on every end of the chair sat a gentlewoman, usher kneeling on the coffin, which was in this manner drawn by six horses, trapped with black velvet from the tower to Westminster. On the four horses rode two chariot men, and on the four others four henchmen in black gowns. On the horses were lozenges with the Queen's escutcheons, by every horse walked a person in a mourning hood. At each corner of the chair was a banner of our Lady of the Assumption, of the Salutation, and of the Nativity, to show the Queen died in child bed. Next eight polfries saddled with black velvet, bearing eight ladies of honour, who rode singly after the corpse and their slopes and mantles. Every horse led by a man on foot, bare-headed, but in a mourning gown, followed by many lords. The Lord Mayor and Citizens, all in mourning, brought up their ear, and at every door in the city a person stood bearing a torch. Infant church and cheapside were stationed groups of 37 virgins. The number corresponding was the Queen's age, all dressed in white, wearing chaplets of white and green, and bearing lighted tapers. From Mark Lane to Temple Bar alone were five thousand torches, besides lights burning before all the parish churches, while processions of religious persons singing anthems and bearing crosses met the royal corpse from every fraternity in the city. The Earl of Derby, the Queen's old friend, led a procession of nobles, who met the funeral at Temple Bar. The abbots of Mestmenster and Bermond say, in black coops and bearing censors, met and sensed the corpse, and then proceeded it to the churchyard of St. Margaret Westminster. Here the body was removed from the car and carried into the abbey. It was placed on a grand hearse streaming with banners and banneryls, and covered with a close of majesty. The valence fringed and wrought with the Queen's motto, humble and reverent, and garnished with her arms. All the ladies and lords in attendance retired to the Queen's great chamber in Westminster Palace to supper. In the night, ladies, squires and heralds watched the body in the abbey. The next morning the remains of Elizabeth were committed to the grave. Her sister Catherine attended as chief mourner. The Queen's ladies offered thirty-seven poles, first kissing them, and then laying them on the body. Four of these poles were presented by her sisters, who were all present as mourners. A funeral sermon was preached by Fitz James, Bishop of Rochester, from the text in job. Miserimini me, Miserimini me, saltembos amicii me, qui amannus dominii te tigit me. Footnote. Have pity, have pity on me, my friends, for the hand of God has touched me. End footnote. These words, he said, he spake in the name of England, on account of the great loss the country had sustained of that virtuous Queen, her noble son, the Prince Arthur, and the Archbishop of Canterbury. The poles were then removed from the coffin. The Queen's effigy placed on St Edward's shrine, and the ladies quitted the abbey. The prelates, with the King's chaplains, approached the hearse, and the grave was hallowed by the Bishop of London. After the usual rites, the body was placed in it. End of Section 62. Section 63 of England. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by April 6090, California, United States of America. The World's Story, Volume 9, England, edited by Eva March-Tappan. Section 63. The Field of the Cloth of Gold, 1520, by Gustave Mason. Henry VIII of England was a powerful king, and both the German Emperor, Charles V, and the French Sovereign, Francis I, were anxious to secure his influence and aid. In May 1420, Charles went to England to visit Henry, and Francis invited Henry to visit him during the following month. Calle was then in the hands of England, and the meeting of the two kings was held on a plane between the English castle and one belonging to the French. The dress and entertainment were so magnificent that this plane was afterwards called the Field of the Cloth of Gold, the editor. The courtiers who attended the two sovereigns felt bound to almost rival them in sumptuousness. In so much, says the contemporary Martin du Belet, that many bore thither their mills, their forests, and their meadows on their backs. Henry VIII had employed 1,100 workmen, the most skillful of Flanders and Holland, in building a quadrangular palace of wood, 128 feet long every way. On one side of the entrance gate was a fountain, covered with gilding, and surmounted by a statue of Bacchus, round which there flowed through subterranean pipes all sorts of wines, and which bore in letters of gold the inscription, make good cheer who will. And on the other side a column supported by four lions was surmounted by a statue of Cupid, armed with bow and arrows. Opposite the palace was erected a huge figure of a savage wearing the arms of his race, with this inscription chosen by Henry VIII. He whom I back wins! The frontage was covered outside with canvas, painted to represent freestone, and the inside was hung with rich tapestries. Francis I, emolious of equaling his royal neighbor in magnificence, had ordered to be erected close to Ardors, in immense tint, upheld in the middle by a colossal pole, firmly fixed in the ground, and with pegs encorded all around it. Outside the tent, in the shape of a dome, was covered with cloth of gold, and inside it represented a sphere with a ground of blue velvet and studded with stars like the firmament. At each angle of the large tent there was a small one equally richly decorated, but before the two submarines exchanged visits in the midst of all these magnificent preparations, there arose a violent hurricane which tore up the pegs and split the cordage of the French tent, scattered them over the ground, and forced Francis I to take up his quarters in an old castle near Ardors, when the two kings, chief counselors Cardinal Woolsey on one side and Admiral Bonnevy on the other, had regulated the formalities on the 7th of June 1520. Francis I and Henry VIII set out on their way at the same hour and at the same pace, for their meeting in the Valley of Ardors, where a tent had been prepared for them. As they drew near, some slight anxiety was manifested by the escort of the King of England, amongst whom a belief prevailed that that of the King of France was more numerous, but it was soon perceived to be nothing of the sort. The two kings mounted upon fine horses and superbly dressed, advanced toward each other, and Henry VIII's horse stumbled, which his servants did not like. The two kings saluted each other with easy grace, exchanged embraces without getting off their horses, dismounted and preceded arm in arm to the tent where Woolsey and Bonnevy were awaiting them. My dear brother and cousin immediately said Francis with his easy grace, I am come a long way and not without trouble to see you in person. I hope that you hold me for such as I am, ready to give you aid with the kingdoms and lordships that are in my power. Henry, with a somewhat cold reserve, replied, It is not your kingdoms or your diverse possessions that I regard, but the soundness and the loyal observance of the promises set down in the treaties between you and me. My eyes never beheld a prince who could be dear to my heart, and I have crossed the seas at the extreme boundary of my kingdom to come and see you. The two kings entered the tent and signed a treaty whereby the Dauphin of France was to marry Princess Mary, only daughter at that time of Henry VIII, to whom Francis I undertook to pay annually a sum of one hundred thousand levers, two million eight hundred thousand francs, or one hundred and twelve thousand pound, in the money of our day, until the marriage was celebrated, which would not be for some time yet, as the English princess was only four years old. The two kings took wine together according to custom, and reciprocally presented the members of their courts. The same Francis, the French king, says Henry VIII's favourite chronicler, Edward Hall, who was there, is a goodly prince, stately of countenance, merry of chair, brunegue colored, great eyes, high nose, big lip, fair breasted, and, shoulders, small legs, and long feet. Titian's portrait gives a loftier and more agreeable idea of Francis I. When the two kings proceeded to sign in their tent, the treaty they had just concluded. The King of England, according to Florenges, Memoise, himself took up the articles and began to read them. When he had read those relating to the King of France, who was to have the priority, and came to speak of himself, he got as far as I, Henry King. He would have said of France and England. But he left out the title as far as France was concerned, and said to King Francis, I will not put it in as you are here, for I should lie. And he said only I, Henry King of England, but as Monsieur Minette very properly says, if he omitted the title in his reading, he left it in the treaty itself and shortly afterwards was ambitious to render it a reality when he invaded France and wished to reign over it. After the diplomatic stipulations were concluded, the royal meeting was prolonged for 16 days, which were employed in turnies, jousts, and all manner of festivals. The personal communication of the two kings was regulated with all the precautions of official mistrust and restraint. And when the King of England went to Ards to see the Queen of France, the King of France had to go to Guine's to see the Queen of England. For the two kings were hostages for one another. The King of France, who was not a suspicious man, says Florenges, was mighty vexed at their being so little confidence in one another. He got up one morning very early, which is not his habit, took to gentlemen and a page. The first three he could find mounted his horse and went to visit the King of England at the castle of Guine's. When he came on took to the castle bridge, all the English were mighty astonished. As he rode amongst them, the King gaily called upon them to surrender to him and asked them the way to the chamber of the King his brother. The witch was pointed out to him by the governor of Guine's, who said to him, Sir, he is not awake. But King Francis passed on all the same, went up to the said chamber, knocked at the door, awoke the King of England and walked in. Never was man more dumbfounded than King Henry, who said to King Francis, Brother, you have done me a better turn than ever man did to another, and you show me the great trust I ought to have in you. I yield myself your prisoner from this moment, and I proffer you my parole. He undid from his neck a collar worth fifteen thousand angels, and begged the King of France to take it and wear it to that very day for his prisoner's sake. And lo! the King, who wished to do him in the same turn, had brought with him a bracelet which was worth more than thirty thousand angels, and begged him to wear it for his sake, which thing he did, and the King of France put what had been given him on his neck. Thereupon the King of England was minded to get up, and the King of France said that he should have no other chamber attended but himself, and he warmed his shirt and handed it to him when he was up. The King of France made up his mind to go back, not withstanding that the King of England would have kept him to dinner, but inasmuch as there was to be jousting after dinner, he mounted his horse and went back to Ardors. He met many good folk who were coming to meet him. Amongst the rest, the adventurer, a name given to Floranges himself, who said to him, my dear master, you are mad to have done what you have done. I'm very glad to see you back here, and devil take him who counseled you. Whereupon the King said that never a soul had counseled him, and that he knew well that there was not a soul in his kingdom who would have so counseled him, and then he began to tell what he had done at the said genes, and so returned, conversing to Ardors, for it was not far. Then began the jousts, which lasted a week, and were wondrous fine, both a foot and a horseback. After all these pastimes, the King of France and the King of England retired to a pavilion, where they drank together. And there the King of England took the King of France by the collar and said to him, Brother, I should like to wrestle with you. And gave him a feint or two. And the King of France, who is a mighty good wrestler, gave him a turn and threw him on the ground. And the King of England would have had yet another trial, but all that was broken off, and it was time to go to supper. After this they had yet three or four jousts and banquets, and then they took leave of one another with the greatest possible peace between the princes and princesses. That done, the King of England returned to genes, and the King of France to France, and it was not without giving great gifts at parting, one to another. End of section 63. This recording is in the public domain. by Sir John Gilbert English painter 1817 to 1897. Painting page 450. Cardinal Wolsey devoted himself for many years to carrying out every wish of his master Henry VIII. As a reward, Wolsey was made Archbishop and then Lord Chancellor and finally Cardinal. He lived in a beautiful palace with the richest of carpets and silken tapestries. It is said that he had 500 servants, and that some of them wore heavy chains of gold and garments of satin and velvet as if they were noblemen. Cavendish thus describes the cardinals going forth from his house. He would issue out to them apparald all in red in the habit of a cardinal with a tippet of sable about his neck. Holding in his hand a very fair orange, whereof the meat or substance within was taken out and filled up again with the part of a sponge wherein was vinegar or other confections against the pestilent airs the which he commonly smelt when passing among the press, or else when he was pestered by many suitors. Then his gentleman ushers cried out and said, O my lords and masters, on before, make way for my lord's grace, and thus he passed down from his chamber through the hall. In the illustration two church men perceived the cardinal bearing crosses, while behind them walks a noble carrying the cardinal's hat. All about are poor people kneeling to present petitions for one thing or another. One of them a guard is trying to restrain, but she knows well the kindness of the great man to the poor, and she pays no heed to the hand on her shoulder. At the left is borne the pitter of silver which typifies the cardinal's position as a pitter of the church. End of section 64. This recording is in the public domain. Section 65 of England. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sonia as the narrator. Jim Lark as Wolsey. And Alan Mapstone as Thomas Cromwell. The World Story Volume 9, England. Edited by Eva March Teppen. Section 65. The Fall of Cardinal Wolsey. 1529. By William Shakespeare. When Henry VIII became bent upon annulling his marriage with Catherine and taking Anne Bullen for his queen, he demanded that his minister, Cardinal Wolsey, should win permission from the Pope. This was impossible, and the great minister fell into disgrace. He was deprived of wealth and office, and only his death prevented his being executed as a traitor. The editor. The tender leaves of hopes. Tomorrow blossoms and bears his blushing honors thick upon him. The third day comes a frost, a killing frost. And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely his greatness is a ripening, nips his root, and then he falls, as I do. I have ventured like little wanton boys that swim on bladders this many summers in a sea of glory, but far beyond my depth my high-blown pride at length broke under me, and now has left me weary and old with service to the mercy of a rude stream that must forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world I hate ye. I feel my heart new opened. Oh, how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors. There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, that sweet aspect of princes and their ruin, more pangs and fears than wars or women have. And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, never to hope again. And the Cromwell, and stands amazed. Why, how now, Cromwell? I have no power to speak, sir. What? Amazed at my misfortunes, can thy spirit wonder a great man should decline? Nay, and you weep, I am fallen indeed. How does your grace? Why, well, never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. I know myself now, and I feel within me a peace above all earthly dignities, still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me. I humbly thank his grace. And from these shoulders, these ruined pillars, out of pity, taken aload with synchonavy, too much honor. Oh, tis a burden, Cromwell, tis a burden too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven. I'm glad your grace has made the right use of it. I hope I have. I am able now, me thinks, out of a fortitude of soul, I feel, to endure more miseries and greater far than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. What news abroad? The heaviest and the worst is your displeasure with the king. God bless him. The next is that Sir Thomas Moore is chosen Lord Chancellor in your place. That's somewhat sudden, but he's a learned man. May he continue long in his heinous favor and do justice for true sake and his conscience, that his bones, when he has run his course and sleeps and blessings, may have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on him. What more? That Krammer is returned with welcome? Installed Lord Archbishop of Canterbury? That's news indeed. Last, that the Lady Anne, whom the king hath in secrecy long married, this day was viewed in open as his queen going to chapel, and the voice is now only about her coronation. There was the weight that pulled me down. Oh, Kramwell, the king has gone beyond me. All my glories in that one woman I have lost forever. No sun shall ever usher forth mine honors, or guild again the noble troops that waited upon my smiles. Go get thee from me, Kramwell. I am a poor fallen man unworthy now to be thy lord and master. Seek the king. That sun, I pray, may never set. I have told him what and how true thou art. He will advance thee. Some little memory of me will stir him. I know his noble nature, not to let thy hopeful service perish too. Good Kramwell, neglect him not. Make use now, and provide for thine own future safety. Oh, my lord, must I then leave you? Must I need forgo so good, so noble, and so true a master? Bear witness all that have not art so iron, with what sorrow Kramwell leaves his lord? The king shall have my service, but my prayers forever and forever shall be yours. Kramwell, I did not think to shed a tear in all my miseries, but thou hast forced me out of thy honest grief to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes, and thus far hear me, Kramwell, and when I am forgotten as I shall be and sleep in dull cold marble, where it no mention of me more must be heard of, say I taught thee. Say, Woolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, and sounded all the depths and shoals of honor, found thee away out of his wreck to rise in. A sure and safe one, though thy master misted. Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. Kramwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition. By that sin fell the angels. How can man then, the image of his maker, hope to win by it? Love thyself last, cherish those hearts, that hate thee, corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace to silence and via tongues. Be just, and fear not. Let all the ends, thou aim stat, be thy countries, thy gods, and truths. Then if thou false, though Kramwell, thou false, a blessed martyr. Serve the king and prithee, lead me in. There take an inventory of all I have to the last penny, tis the kings. My robe and my integrity to heaven is all I dare now call mine own. O Kramwell, Kramwell, had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age have left me naked to mine enemies. The Trial of Sir Thomas More, 1535 by Anne Manning Rathbone Sir Thomas More, who had succeeded Woolsey as Chancellor, did not approve of Henry's separation from the Catholic Church and refused to acknowledge him as the head of the Church in England. For this he was brought to trial on the charge of treason. The following selection is taken from the supposed journal of Moore's daughter, the editor. By reason of Will's minding to be present at the Trial, which, for the concourse of spectators, demanded his early attendance, he committed the care of May with Bass to Dancy, who got his places to see father on his way from the tower to Westminster Hall. We could not come at him for the crowd, but clambered on a bench to gaze our very hearts away after him, as he went by, sallow, thin, gray-haired, yet in mean not a wit cast down, wrapped in a coarse woolen gown and leaning on a staff, which unwanted support when best marked she hid her eyes on my shoulder and wept sore. But soon looked up again, though her eyes were so blinded I think she could not see him. His face was calm but grave as he came up, but just as he passed he caught the eye of someone in the crowd and smiled in his old frank way. Then glanced up, towards the window, with the bright look he hath so oft cast to me at my casement, but saw us not. I could not help crying father, but he heard me not. Perchance was so best. I would not have had his face cloud at the site of poor Bessie's tears. Will tells me the indictment was the longest ever heard, on four counts. First, his opinion on the king's marriage. Second, his writing sundry letters to the Bishop of Rochester, counseling him to hold out. Third, refusing to acknowledge his grace's supremacy. Fourth, his positive denial of it, and thereby willing to deprive the king of his dignity and title. When the reading of this was over, the Lord Chancellor saith, You see how grievously you have offended the king his grace. But and yet he is so merciful, as that if ye will lay aside your obstinacy and change your opinion, we hope ye may yet obtain pardon. Father makes answer, and at the sound of his dear voice all men hold their breaths. Most noble lords, I have great cause to thank your honors for this your courtesy, but I pray Almighty God I may continue in the mind I am in through his grace until death. They could not make good their accusation against him. To his only on the last count he could be made out a traitor, and proof of it they had none. How could they have? He should have been acquitted out of hand, stead of which his bitter enemy, my Lord Chancellor, called on him for his defense. Will say there was a general murmur or sigh round through the court. Father, however, answered at the bidding by beginning to express his hope that the effect of long imprisonment might not have been such upon his mind and body as to impair his power of rightly meeting all the charges against him. When, turning faint with long standing, he staggered and loosed hold of his staff, whereon he was accorded a seat. T'was but a moment's weakness of the body, and he then proceeded, frankly, to avow his having always opposed the king's marriage to his grace himself, which he was so far from thinking high treason, that he should rather have deemed it treachery to have withholden his opinion from his sovereign king when solicited by him for his counsel. His letters to the good bishop he proved to have been harmless. Touching his declining to give his opinion when asked, concerning the supremacy, he alleged there could be no transgression in holding his peace thereon, God only being cognizant of our thoughts. Nay, interposed with the Attorney General, your silence was the token of a malicious mind. I had always understood, answers Father, that silence stood for consent. Qu'etachet, consentieri videtior, which made sundry smile. On the last charge he protested he had never spoken word against the law unto any man. The jury are about to acquit him, when upstarts the Solicitor General, offers himself as witness for the crown, is sworn, and gives evidence of his dialogue with Father in the tower, falsely adding, like a liar as he is, that on his saying no parliament could make a law that God should not be God, Father had enjoined, no more could they make the king supreme head of the church. I marveled the ground, opened not at his feet. Father briskly made answer. If I were a man of my lords, who regarded not an oath, you know well I needed not stand now at this bar. And if the oath which you, Mr. Rich, have just taken be true, then I pray I may never see God in the face. In good truth, Mr. Rich, I am more sorry for your perjury than my peril. You and I once dwelt long together in one parish. Your manner of life and conversation from your youth up were familiar to me, and it paineth me to tell ye were ever held very light of your tongue, a great dicer and gamester, and not of any commendable fame, either there or in the temple, the inn to which ye have belonged. Is it credible, therefore, to your lordships, that the secrets of my conscience touching the oath, which I never would reveal after the statute once made, either to the king's grace himself, nor to any of you, my honorable lords, I should have thus lightly blurted out in private parley with Mr. Rich? In short, the villain made not good his point. Nevertheless, the issue of this black day was a forehand fixed. My lord, oddly, was primed with a virulent and venomous speech. The jury retired and presently returned with a verdict of guilty, for they knew what the king's grace would have him do in that case. Up starts, my lord, oddly, commences pronouncing judgment when, My lord, says, Father, in my time the custom in these cases was ever to ask the prisoner before sentence, whether he could give any reason why judgment should not proceed against him. My lord, in some confusion, puts the question. And then came the frightful sentence. Yes, yes, my soul, I know. There were saints of old saunasunder, men of whom the world was not worthy. Then he spake unto them his mind, and bade his judges and accusers farewell, hoping that like as St. Paul was present and consenting unto St. Stephen's death, and yet both were now holy saints in heaven, so he and they might speedily meet there, joint heirs of airlesting salvation. Meantime poor Bess and Cecily, spent with grief and long waiting, were forced to be carried home by Heron, or ever father returned to his prison. Was less feeling or more strength of body enabled me to bide at the tower wharf with Dancy, God knoweth. They brought him back by water. My poor sisters must have passed him. The first thing I saw was the axe, turned with its edge towards him, my first note of his sentence. I forced my way through the crowd. Someone laid a cold hand on my arm, to his poor Paterson, so changed I hardly knew him, where the rosary of gooseberries he kept running through his fingers. He saith, Bide your time, Mistress Meg, when he comes past I'll make a passage for you. Oh, brother, brother, what held thee to refuse the oath? I've taken it. In another moment, now Mistress, now, and flinging his arms right and left, made a breach, through which I darted, fearless of Bills and Halberds, and did cast my arms about father's neck. He cries, my Meg, and hugs me to him, as though our very souls should grow together. He saith, Bless thee, bless thee, enough, enough, my child, what me need to weep and break my heart. Remember, though I die innocent, to his not without the will of God, who could have turned mine enemies' hearts ift were best. Therefore, possess your soul and patience. Kiss them all for me, thus and thus. So gave me back into Dancy's arms, the guards about him all weeping, but I could not lose sight of him for ever. So, after a minute's pause, did make a second rush, break away from Dancy, clave to father again, and again they had pity on me, and made pause while I hung upon his neck. This time there were large drops standing on his deer-brow, and the big tears were swelling into his eyes. He whispered, Meg, for Christ's sake, don't unman me. Thou wilt not deny my last request. I said, oh, no, and it once loosened my arms. God's blessing be with you, he saith, with a last kiss. I could not help crying, my father, my father. The chariot of Israel and the horseman thereof. He vehemently whispers, pointing upwards, with so passionate a regard, that I look up, almost expecting a beatific vision. And when I turn about again, he's gone. And I have no more sense nor life till I find myself again in my own chamber, my sisters chafing my hands. July 5th. All's over now. They've done their worst, and yet I live. There were women could stand beneath the cross, the Maccabee's mother. Yes, my soul, yes, I know. Not but unpardoned sin. The chariot of Israel. 6. Dr. Clement hath been with us. Sayeth he went up as Blythe as a bridegroom to be clothed upon with immortality. Rupert stood it all out. Perfect love casteth out fear. So did his. 17. My most precious treasure is this dear billet, writ with a coal. The last thing he set his hand to, wherein he sayeth, I never liked your manner towards me better than when you kissed me last. 19. They have let us bury his poor mangled trunk. But as sure as there's a sun in heaven, I'll have his head before another sun hath risen too. Footnote. It was the custom to expose on London Bridge the heads of those who had been executed for treason. End of footnote. If wise men won't speed me, I'll incontent me with a fool. I do think men, for the most part, be cowards in their hearts. Moral cowards. Here and there we find one like Father and like Socrates and like this one and that one. I mind not their names just now. But in the main, we think if they lack the moral courage of women. Maybe I'm unjust to them just now, being crossed. 20. I lay down, but my heart was waking. Soon after the first cock-crew, I heard a pebble cast against my lattice. Knew the signal. Rose, dressed, stole softly down and let myself out. I knew the touch of the poor fool's fingers. His teeth were chattering, twixt cold and fear. Yet he laughed beneath his breath as he caught my arm and dragged me after him, whispering, Fool and fair lady will cheat him yet. At the stairs lay a hurry with a couple of boatmen, and one of them, stepping up to me, cries, Alas for Ruth, Mistress Meg, what is it you do? Art mad to go on this errand? I said, I shall be mad if I go not and succeed, too. Put me in and push off. We went down the river quietly and now. At length reach London Bridge Stairs. Patterson, starting up, says, by Geology are, and springs a land and runneth up to the bridge. Anon returns and saith, now Mistress, all's ready. Readyer than you wist, come up quickly for the coast's clear. Hobson, for Twixt he, helps me forth, saying, God speed ye, Mistress, and I dared I would go with ye. Thought I, there be others in that case. Nor looked I up till beneath the bridge gate. When casting upward a fearsome look, I beheld the dark outline of the ghastly yet precious relic, and falling into a tremor did wring my hands and exclaim, Alas, Alas, that head hath lain full many a time in my lap. Would God, would God it lay there now? When, a sudden, I saw the pole tremble in sway towards me, and stretching forth my apron, I did, in an ecstasy of gladness, pity, and horror, catch its berth in as it fell. Patterson, shuddering, yet grinning, cries under his breath, Managed I not well, Mistress? Let's speed away with our theft, for fools and their treasures are soon parted. But I think not they'll follow hard after us neither, for there are well-wishers to us on the bridge. I'll put you in the boat and then say, God speed ye, lady, with your birthing. End of Section 66. This recording is in the public domain. Recording by Colleen McMahon. Section 67 of England. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Colleen McMahon. The World's Story, Volume 9, England. Edited by Eva March Tappin. Section 67. The Appeal of Anne Askew. 1546. By Luisa Mjölbak. Clara M. Mundt. Even after declaring himself Supreme Head of the Church in England, Henry VIII still claimed to be a Catholic, and retained the title of Defender of the Faith, which the Pope had given him in his earlier years. The result of this peculiar condition of things was that if a man was a Protestant and agreed with Luther, he might be burned as a heretic. While if he was a Mormon Catholic and acknowledged the Pope as the Head of the Church, he might be beheaded as a traitor. In the story from which the following scene is taken, Anne Askew, made of honor to the Queen, has burst into the royal presence to beg for mercy for several persons who are about to suffer death by fire. The Editor. Mercy, repeated the King. Mercy, and for whom? Who are they that they are putting to death down there? Tell me, forsooth my Lord Bishops, who are they that are led to the stake today? Who are they condemned? They are heretics who devote themselves to this new false doctrine which has come over to us from Germany, and who dare refuse to recognize the spiritual supremacy of our Lord and King, said Bishop Gardner. They are Roman Catholics who regard the Pope of Rome as the Chief Shepherd of the Church of Christ and will regard nobody but him as their Lord, said Bishop Cranmer. Ah, behold this young maiden accuses us of injustice, cried the King, and yet you say that not heretics alone are executed down there, but also Romanists. It appears to me then that we have justly and impartially, as always, punished only criminals and given over the guilty to justice. Oh, had you seen what I have seen, said Anne Askew, shuddering? Then would you collect all your vital energies for a single cry, for a single word, mercy? And that word would you shout out loud enough to reach you on frightful place of torture and horror. What saw you then, asked the King, smiling, Anne Askew had stood up, and her tall slender form now lifted itself like a lily between the somber forms of the bishops. Her eye was fixed and glaring, her noble and delicate features bore the expression of horror and dread. I saw, said she, a woman whom they were leading to execution, not a criminal but a noble lady, whose proud and lofty heart never harbored a thought of treason or disloyalty, but who, true to her faith and her convictions, would not forswear the God whom she served. As she passed through the crowd, it seemed as if a halo encompassed her head and covered her white hair with silvery rays, all bowed before her and the hardest natures wept over the unfortunate woman who had lived more than seventy years and yet was not allowed to die in her bed but was to be slaughtered to the glory of God and the King. But she smiled and graciously saluting the weeping and sobbing multitude. She advanced to the scaffold as if she were sending a throne to receive the homage of her people. Two years of imprisonment had blanched her cheek, but had not been able to destroy the fire of her eye or the strength of her mind, and seventy years had not bowed her neck or broken her spirit, proud and firm, she mounted the steps of the scaffold and once more saluted the people and cried aloud, I will pray to God for you. But as the headsmen approached and demanded that she should allow her hands to be bound and that she should kneel in order to lay her head upon the block, she refused and angrily pushed him away. Only traders and criminals lay their heads on the block, exclaimed she with a loud, thundering voice. There is no occasion for me to do so and I will not submit to your bloody laws as long as there is a breath in me. Take, then, my life if you can. And now began a scene which filled the hearts of the lookers on with fear and horror. The Countess flew like a hunted beast round and round the scaffold. Her white hair streamed in the wind. Her black grave clothes rustled around her like a dark cloud and behind her with uplifted acts came the headsmen in his fiery red dress. He, ever endeavoring to strike her with the falling acts, but she, ever trying by moving her head to and fro to evade the descending stroke. But at length her resistance became weaker. The blows of the acts reached her and stained her white hair hanging loose about her shoulders with crimson streaks. With a heart-rending cry she fell, fainting. Near her, exhausted also, sank down the headsmen, bathed in sweat. This horrible wild chase had lamed his arm and broken his strength. Panting and breathless, he was not able to drag this fainting, bleeding woman to the block or to lift up the acts to separate her noble head from the body. The crowd shrieked with distress and horror imploring and begging for mercy and even the Lord Chief Justice could not refrain from tears and he ordered the cruel work to be suspended until the Countess and the headsmen should have regained strength. For a living, not a dying person was to be executed, thus said the law. They made a pallet for the Countess on the scaffold and endeavored to restore her. Invigorating wine was supplied to the headsmen to renew his strength for the work of death and the crowd turned to the stakes which were prepared on both sides of the scaffold and at which four other martyrs were to be burnt. But I flew here like a hunted doe and now, King, I lie at your feet. There is still time. Pardon, King, pardon for the Countess of Somerset, the last of the Plantagenets. Pardon, Sire, pardon, repeated Catherine Parr, weeping and trembling as she clung to her husband's side. Pardon, repeated Archbishop Cranmer and a few of the courtiers re-echoed it in a timid and anxious whisper. The King's large, brilliant eyes glanced around the whole assembly with a quick, penetrating look. And you, my Lord Bishop Gardener, asked Tee in a cold, sarcastic tone, will you also ask for mercy, like all these weak-hearted souls here? The Lord our God is a jealous God, said Gardener solemnly, and it is written that God will punish the sinner unto the third and fourth generation. And what is written shall stand true, exclaimed the King in a voice of thunder, no mercy for evildoers, no pity for criminals. The acts must fall upon the head of the guilty, the flames shall consume the bodies of the criminals. Sire, think of your high vocation, exclaimed Anne Askew, in a tone of enthusiasm. Reflect what a glorious name you have assumed to yourself in this land. You call yourself the head of the church, and you want to rule and govern upon earth in God's stead. Exercise mercy, then, for you entitle yourself King by the grace of God. No, I do not call myself King by God's grace. I call myself King by God's wrath, exclaimed Henry as he raised his arm menacingly. It is my duty to send sinners to God. May he have mercy on them there above, if he will. I am the punishing judge, and I judge mercilessly, according to the law, without compassion. Let those whom I have condemned appeal to God, and may he have mercy upon them. I cannot do it, nor will I. Kings are here to punish, and they are like to God, not in his love, but in his avenging wrath. Woe then, woe to you, and to all of us, exclaimed Ann Askew. Woe to you, King Henry, if what you now say is the truth. Then are they right, these men who are bound to yonder stakes, when they brand you with the name of Tyrant. Then is the Bishop of Romerite, when he upbraids you as an apostate and degenerate son, and hurls his anathemas against you. Then you know not God, who is love and mercy. Then you are no disciple of the Savior, who has said, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you. Woe to you, King Henry, if matters are really so bad with you, if silence, unhappy woman, silence, exclaimed Catherine. And as she vehemently pushed away the furious girl, she grasped the king's hand and pressed it to her lips. Sire, whispered she, with intense earnestness, Sire, you told me just now that you love me. Prove it by pardoning this maiden, and having consideration for her impassioned excitement. Prove it by allowing me to lead Anne Askew to her room and enjoin silence upon her. But at this moment the king was wholly inaccessible to any other feelings than those of anger and delight in blood. He indignantly repelled Catherine, and without moving his sharp penetrating look from the young maiden, he said in a quick hollow tone, Let her alone, let her speak, let no one dare to interrupt her. Catherine, trembling with anxiety and inwardly hurt at the harsh manner of the king, retired with a sigh to the embrasure of one of the windows. Anne Askew had not noticed what was going on about her. She remained in that state of exaltation, which cares for no consequences, and which trembles before no danger. She would, at this moment, have gone to the stake with cheerful alacrity, and she almost longed for this blessed martyrdom. Speak, Anne Askew, speak, commanded the king. Tell me, do you know what the Countess, for whose pardon you are beseeching me, has done? Know you why those four men are sent to the stake? I do know, King Henry, by the wrath of God, said the maiden, with burning passionateness. I know why you have sent the noble Countess to the slaughterhouse, and why you exercise no mercy toward her. She is of noble, of royal blood, and cardinal pole is her son. You would punish the son through the mother, and because you cannot throttle the cardinal, you murder his mother. Oh, you are a very knowing child, cried the king, with an inhuman, ironical laugh. You know my most secret thoughts and my most hidden feelings. Without doubt you are a good papist, since the death of the popish Countess fills you with such heart-rending grief. Then you must confess, at the least, that it is right to burn the four heretics. Heretics, exclaimed Anne enthusiastically, call you heretics, these noble men, who go gladly and boldly to death for their convictions and their faith? King Henry, King Henry, woe to you if these men are condemned as heretics. They alone are the faithful, they are the true servants of God. They have freed themselves from human supremacy, and as you would not recognize the pope, so they will not recognize you as head of the church. God alone, they say, is lord of the church and master of their consciences, and who can be presumptuous enough to call them criminals? I, exclaimed Henry VIII in a powerful tone, I dare do it. I say that they are heretics, and that I will destroy them, will tread them all beneath my feet, all of them, all who think as they do. I say that I will shed the blood of these criminals, and prepare for them torments at which human nature will shudder and quake. God will manifest himself by me in fire and blood. He has put the sword into my hand, and I will wield it for his glory. Like Saint George, I will tread the dragon of heresy beneath my feet, and haughtily raising his crimson face and rolling his great bloodshot eyes wildly around the circle. He continued, Hear this, all of you who are here assembled. No mercy for heretics, no pardon for papists. It is I, I alone, whom the Lord our God has chosen and blessed as his hangman and executioner. I am the high priest of his church, and he who dares deny me denies God, and he who is so presumptuous as to do reverence to any other head of the church, is a priest of Baal, and kneels to an idolatrous image. Kneel down, all of you, before me, and reverence in me God, whose earthly representative I am, and who reveals himself through me in his fearful and exalted majesty. Kneel down, for I am sole head of the church and high priest of our God, and as if at one below all knees bent, all those haughty cavaliers, those ladies sparkling with jewels and gold, even the two bishops and the queen fell upon the ground. The king gazed for a moment on this sight, and with radiant looks and a smile of triumph, his eyes ran over this assembly, consisting of the noblest of his kingdom, humbled before him. Suddenly they were fastened on Ann Askew. She alone had not bent her knee, but stood in the midst of the kneelers, proud and upright as the king himself. A dark cloud passed over the king's countenance. You obey not my command, asked he? She shook her curly head, and fixed on him a steady, piercing look. No, said she, like those over yonder whose last death-grown we even now hear, like them I say, to God alone is honour due, and he alone is Lord of his church. If you wish me to bend my knee before you as my king, I will do it, but I bound not to you as the head of the holy church. A murmur of surprise flew through the assembly, and every eye was turned with fear and amazement on this bold young girl, who confronted the king with a countenance smiling and glowing with enthusiasm. At a sign from Henry the kneelers arose, and awaited in breathless silence the terrible scene that was coming. A pause ensued. King Henry himself was struggling for breath, and needed a moment to collect himself. Not as though wrath and passion had deprived him of speech, he was neither wrathful nor passionate, and it was only joy that obstructed his breathing. The joy of having again found a victim, with which he might satisfy his desire for blood, on whose agony he might feast his eyes, whose dying sigh he might greedily inhale. The king was never more cheerful than when he had signed a death warrant, for then he was in full enjoyment of his greatness, as lured over the lives and deaths of millions of other men, and this feeling made him proud and happy, and fully conscious of his exalted position. Hence, as he now turned to Anne Askew, his countenance was calm and serene, and his voice friendly, almost tender. Anne Askew said he, Do you know that the words you have now spoken make you guilty of high treason? I know it, Sire, and you know what punishment awaits traders. Death, I know it. Death by fire, said the king, with perfect calmness and composure. A hollow murmur ran through the assembly. Only one voice dared give utterance to the word mercy. It was Catherine, the king's consort, who spoke this one word. She stepped forward, and was about to rush to the king, and once more implore his mercy and pity. But she felt herself gently held back. Archbishop Cranmer stood near her, regarding her with a serious and beseeching look. Compose yourself. Compose yourself, murmured he. You cannot save her. She is lost. Think of yourself, and of the pure and holy religion whose protectorous you are. Preserve yourself for your church and your companions in the faith. And must she die? asked Catherine, whose eyes filled with tears as she looked toward the poor young child, who was confronting the king with such a beautiful and innocent smile. Perhaps we may still save her, but this is not the moment for it. Any opposition now would only irritate the king the more, and he might cause the girl to be instantly thrown into the flames of the fires still burning yonder. So let us be silent. Yes, silence, murmured Catherine with a shudder, as she withdrew again to the embrasure of the window. Death by fire await you and ask you, repeated the king, no mercy for the traitorous who vilifies and scoffs at her king. End of Section 67. This recording is in the public domain. Recording by Colleen McMahon. According to the will of Henry VIII, his son Edward, was to succeed to the throne, and after him Edward's half-sisters, first Mary, then Elizabeth. Edward, 1547-1553, died at the age of 16. Before his death he had been persuaded by the protector, the Duke of Northumberland, that he had as good a right to bequeath the crown as his father had had, and that, in order to continue the protestant power in the land, he ought to leave it to Lady Jane Gray, great-granddaughter of Henry VII, who was a protestant, and who had married the protector's son. This Edward did. The result was that for twelve days Lady Jane Gray was queen. Then Mary got position of her father's throne, and not only Northumberland, but also Lady Jane and her husband were executed. Mary, the daughter of Catherine of Aragon, was a Catholic, and when she came to the throne, the laws against the power of the Pope in England were repealed, and those for the burning of people, whose religious belief differed from that of the sovereign, were revived. The whole land was eager that Mary should marry, but especially that she should choose an Englishman for her husband, but she had set her heart upon her cousin Philip of Spain. She was determined to marry him, and thus she did. To please Philip, Mary took part in a war between Spain and France. In this war she lost Calais, the one possession which England still held in France. When I die, declared the queen, Calais will be found written on my heart. Her reign ended in 1558, and Elizabeth, daughter of Anne Boleyn, ascended the throne. End of section 68. This recording is in the public domain. April 6090, California, United States of America. The World's Story Volume 9, England, edited by Eva March Tappin. Section 69, The Execution of the Twelve Days, Queen, 1554. By William Harrison Ainsworth. Monday, the 12th of February, 1554. The fatal day destined to terminate Jane's earthly sufferings. At length arrived. Accepting a couple of hours, which she was allowed to rest, at the urgent entreaty of her companion, she had passed the whole of the night in prayer. Angela kept watch over the lovely sleeper, and the effect produced by the contemplation of her features during this her last slumber was never afterwards effaced. The repose of an infant could not be more calm and holy. A celestial smile irradiated her countenance. Her lips moved as if in prayer. And, if good angels ever permitted to visit the dreams of those they love on earth, they hovered that night over the couch of Jane. Thinking at cruelty to disturb her from such a blissful state, Angela let an hour pass beyond the appointed time. But observing a change come over her countenance, seeing her bosom heave, and tears gather beneath her eyelashes, she touched her, and Jane instantly arose. Is it four o'clock? she inquired. It is just struck five, madam, replied Angela. I have disobeyed you for the first and last time. But you seemed so happy that I could not find it in my heart to awaken you. I was happy, replied Jane, for I dreamed that all was over without pain to me, and that my soul was born to regions of celestial bliss by a troop of angels who had hovered above the scaffold. It will be so, madam, replied Angela fervently. You will quit this earth immediately for heaven, where you will rejoin your husband in everlasting happiness. I trust so, replied Jane in an altered tone. But in that blessed place I searched in vain for him. Angela, you let me sleep too long or not long enough. You're pardoned, dearest madam, cried the other fearfully. Nay, you have given me no offence, returned Jane kindly. What I meant was that I had not time to find my husband. Oh, you will find him, dearest madam, returned Angela, doubt it not. Your prayers would wash out his offences, even if his own could not. I trust so, replied Jane, and I will now pray for him. And do you pray too? Jane then retired to the recess, and in the gloom for it was yet dark, continued her devotions until the clock struck seven. She then arose, and assisted by Angela, attired herself with great care. I pay more attention to the decoration of my body. Now I am about to part with it, she observed. Then I would do it, if it was to serve me longer. So joyful is the occasion to me that were I to consult my own feelings, I would put on my richest apparel to indicate my contentment of heart. I will not, however, so brave my fate, but array myself in these weeds. And she put on a gown of black velvet, without ornament of any kind, tying around her slender throat. So soon alas to be severed. A simple white falling collar. Her hair was left purposely unbraided, and was confined by a call of black velvet. As Angela performed those sad services she sobbed audibly. Nay, cheer thee, child, observed Jane. When I was clothed in the robes of royalty, and had the crown placed upon my brow. Nay, when arrayed, on my wedding day, I felt not half so joyful as now. Ah, madam! exclaimed Angela, in a paroxysm of grief. My condition is more pitiable than yours. You go to certain happiness, but I lose you. Only for a while, dear Angela, returned Jane. Comfort yourself with that thought. Let my fate be a warning to you. Be not dazzled by ambition. Had I not once yielded, I had never thus perished. Discharge your duty strictly to your eternal and your temporal rulers, and rest assured, we shall meet again, never too part. Your counsel shall be graven on my heart, madam, returned Angela, and oh, may my end be as happy as yours. Heaven grant it, ejaculated Jane fervently, and now, she added, as her toilet was ended, I'm ready to die. Will you not take some refreshment, madam? asked Angela. No, replied Jane, I have done with the body. The morning was damp and dark, a thought came on a little before daybreak, and Idris Link's shower of rain fell. This was succeeded by a thick mist, and the whole of the fortress was for a while enveloped in vapor. It brought to Jane's mind the day on which she was taken to trial, but a moral gloom likewise overspread the fortress. Everyone within it savored few enemies, and they were few indeed. Lamented Jane's approaching fate, her youth, her innocence, her piety, touched the sternest breast, and moved the pity even of her persecutors. All felt that morning as if some dire calamity was at hand, and instead of looking forward to the execution as an exciting spectacle, for so such revolting exhibitions were then considered, they wished it over. Many a prayer was breathed, for the speedy release of the sufferer, many a sigh heaved, many a groan uttered, and if ever soul was wapted to heaven by the fervent wishes of those on earth, Jane's was so. It was late before there were any signs of stir and bustle within the fortress. Even the soldiers gathered together reluctantly, and those who conversed spoke in whispers. Dudley, who it has been stated was imprisoned in the Beauchamp Tower, had passed the greater part of the night in devotion. But towards morning he became restless and uneasy, and unable to compose himself, resorted to the customary employment of captives in such cases, and with a nail which he found, carved his wife's name in two places on the walls of his prison. These inscriptions still remain. At nine o'clock the bell of the chapel began to toll, and an escort of Halbertiers and Arcbusiers drew up before the Beauchamp Tower, while Serb Thomas Bridges and Fekman entered the chamber of the prisoner, who received them with an unmoved countenance. Before you set out upon a journey from which you will never return my lord, said Fekinham, I would ask you for the last time, if any change has taken place in your religious sentiments, and whether you are yet alive to the welfare of your soul. Why not promise me pardon if I will recant on the scaffold, and silence me as you silenced the duke of my father by the axe? replied Dudley sternly. No, sir, I will have not to do with your false and idolatrous creed. I shall die a firm believer in the gospel and trust to be saved by it. Then perish, body and soul, replied Fekinham harshly, Sir Thomas Bridges, I commit him to your hands. Am I allowed no parting with my wife? demanded Dudley anxiously. You have parted with her forever, heretic and unbeliever, rejoined Fekinham. That speech will haunt your deathbed, sir, retorted Dudley sternly, and he turned to the lieutenant, and signified that he was ready. The first object that met Dudley's gaze, as he issued from his prison, was the scaffold on the green. He looked at it for a moment wistfully. It is for Lady Jane, observed the lieutenant. I know it, replied Dudley, in a voice of intense emotion. I thank you for letting me die first. You must thank the queen, my lord, returned Bridges. It was her order. Shall you see my wife, sir? demanded Dudley anxiously. The lieutenant answered in the affirmative. Tell her I will be with her on the scaffold, said Dudley. As he was about to set forward, a young man pushed through the lines of Halbedaires, and threw himself at his feet. It was Choll Mondelet. Dudley instantly raised and embraced him. At least I see one whom I love, he cried. My lord, this interruption must not be, observed the lieutenant. If you do not retire, he added to, Choll Mondelet, I shall place you in arrest. Farewell, my dear lord, cried the weeping Esquire, farewell. Farewell forever, said Dudley as Choll Mondelet, was forced back by the guard. The escort then moved forward, and the lieutenant accompanied the prisoner to the gateway of the middle tower, where he delivered him to the sheriffs and their officers, who were waiting there for him with a Franciscan friar, and then returned to fulfill his more painful duty. A vast crowd was collected on Tower Hill, and the strongest commiseration was expressed for Dudley, as he was led to the scaffold on which Magauer had already taken his station. On quitting the Beauchamp Tower, Fekkenham proceeded to Jane's prison. He found her on her knees, but she immediately arose. Is it time? she asked. It is, madam, to repent, replied Fekkenham sternly. A few minutes are all that now rebane to you of life. Nay, at this moment perhaps, your husband is called before his eternal judge. There is yet time. Do not perish like him in your sins. Heaven have mercy upon him! cried Jane, falling on her knees, and notwithstanding the importunities of the confessor, she continued in fervent prayer till the appearance of Sir Thomas Bridges. She instantly understood why he came, and rising prepared for departure, almost blinded by tears. Angela rendered her the last services she required. This done, the lieutenant, who was likewise greatly affected, begged some slight remembrance of her. I have nothing to give you but this book of prayers. Sir! she answered. But you shall have that, when I have done with it, and may it profit you. You will receive it, only to cast it into the flames, my son. remarked Fekkenham. On the contrary, I shall treasure it like a priceless gem, replied Bridges. You will find a prayer written in my own hand, said Jane, and again I say, may it profit you. Bridges then passed through the door, and Jane followed him. A band of halbed airs were without. At the sight of her, a deep in general sympathy was manifested. Not an eye was dry, and tears trickled down cheeks unaccustomed to such moisture. The melancholy train proceeded at a slow pace. Jane fixed her eyes upon the prayer-book, which she read aloud to drown the importunities of the confessor, who walked on her right, while Angela kept near her on the other side, and so they reached the grain. By this time the fog had cleared off, and the rain had ceased. But the atmosphere was humid, and the day lowering and gloomy. Very few spectators were assembled, for it required firm nerves to witness such a tragedy. A flock of carrion crows and ravens, attracted by their fearful instinct, wheeled around overhead, or settled on the branches of the barren leafless trees, and by their croaking added to the dismal character of the scene. The bell continued tolling all the time. The sole person upon the scaffold was Wolfeet. He was occupied in scattering straw near the block. Among the bystanders was Cerricault, leaning on his staff, and as Jane for a moment raised her eyes as she passed along, she perceived Roger Ascham. Her old preceptor had obeyed her, and she repaid him with a look of gratitude. By the lieutenants' directions she was conducted for a short time into the Beauchamp Tower, and here in Fecanham continued his persecutions, until a deep groan arose, as among those without, and an officer abruptly entered the room. Madam! said Sir Thomas Bridges. After the newcomer had delivered his message, we must set forth. Jane made a motion of assent, and the party issued from the Beauchamp Tower, in front of which a band of helmed heirs was drawn up. A wide open space was kept clear around the scaffold. Jane seemed unconscious of all that was passing. Proceeded by the lieutenant, who took his way toward the north of the scaffold, and attended on either side by Fecanham and Angela as before. She kept her eyes steadily fixed on her prayer-book. Arrived within a short distance of the fatal spot, she was startled by a scream from Angela, and looking up beheld four soldiers carrying a litter covered with a cloth, and advancing toward her. She knew it was the body of her husband, and unprepared for so terrible an encounter uttered a cry of horror. The bears of the litter passed on, and entered the port of the chapel. While this took place, Mogger, who had limped back as fast as he could after his bloody work on Tower Hill, only tearing a moment to exchange his axe, ascended the steps of the scaffold, and ordered Wolfit to get down. Sir Thomas Bridges, who was greatly shocked at what had just occurred, and would have prevented it if it had been possible, returned to Jane and offered her his assistance, but she did not require it. The force of the shock had passed away, and she firmly mounted the scaffold. When she was seen there, a groan of compassion arose from the spectators, and prayers were audibly uttered. She then advanced to the rail, and in a clear, distinct voice spoke as follows. I pray you all to bear me witness, that I die a true Christian woman, and that I look to be saved by no other means except the mercy of God, and the merits of the blood of his only Son, Jesus Christ. I confess when I knew the word of God I neglected it, and loved myself and the world, and therefore this punishment is a just return for my sins. But I thank God of His goodness, that He has given me time and respite to repent. And now, good people, while I'm alive, I pray you assist me with your prayers. Many fervent responses followed, and several of the bystanders imitated Jane's example. As, on the conclusion of her speech, she fell on her knees and recited the miseryre. At its close, Feckinham said in a loud voice, I ask you, madam, for the last time, will you repent? I pray you, sir, to desist, replied Jane Meekly. I am now at peace with all the world, and would die so. She then arose, and giving the prayer book to Angela said, When all is over, deliver this to the lieutenant. These, she said, taking off her gloves and collar, I give to you. And to me, cried Magger, advancing and prostrating himself before her according to custom. You give grace. And also my head, replied Jane, I forgive the heartily fellow, thou art my best friend. What ails you, madam? remarked the lieutenant, observing Jane suddenly start and tremble. Not much, she replied, but I thought I saw my husband pale and bleeding. Where? demanded the lieutenant, recalling Dudley's speech. There, near the block, replied Jane, I see the figure still, but it must be mere fantasy. Whatever his thoughts were, the lieutenant made no reply, and Jane turned to Angela, who now began, with trembling hands, to remove her attire, and was trying to take off her velvet robe when Magger offered to assist her, but was instantly repulsed. He then withdrew, and stationing himself by the block, assumed his hideous black mask, and shouldered his axe. Partially disrobed, Jane bowed her head, while Angela tied a kerchief over her eyes, and turned her long tresses over her head to be out of the way. Unable to control herself, she then turned aside and wept aloud. Jane moved forward in search of the block, but fearful of making a false step, felt for it with her hands, and cried, What shall I do? Where is it? Where is it? Sir Thomas Bridges took her hand and guided her to it. At this awful moment there was a slight movement in the crowd, some of whom pressed nearer the scaffold, and amongst others, Soracolt and Wolfit. The latter cut hold of the boards, to obtain a better view. Angela placed her hands before her eyes and would have suspended her being, if she could, and even Fecanham veiled his countenance with his robe. Sir Thomas Bridges gazed firmly on. By this time Jane had placed her head on the block, and her last words were, Lord into thy hands I commend my spirit. And the acts then fell, and one of the fairest and wisest heads that ever sat on human shoulders fell likewise. End of Section 69. This recording is in the public domain. Section 70 of England This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The World's Story Volume 9. England. Edited by Eva March-Tappen. Section 70. The Coming of Philips II. 1554. By William H. Prescott. On the 19th of July the fleets came to anchor in the port of Southampton. A number of barges were soon seen pushing off from the shore. One of which, protected by a rich awning, and superbly lined with clothes of gold, was manned by sailors whose dress of white and green intimated the royal livery. It was the queen's barge intended for Philip, while the other boats, all gaily ornamented, received his nobles and their retinues, the editor. The Spanish prince was welcomed on landing by a goodly company of English lords assembled to pay him their allegiance. The Earl of Arundel presented him, in the queen's name, with the splendid insignia of the Order of the Garter. Philip's dress, as usual, was of plain black velvet, with a beret cap ornamented after the fashion of the time, was gold chains. By Mary's orders, a spirited Andalusian genet had been provided for him, which the prince instantly mounted. He was a good rider, and pleased the people by his courtes bearing, and the graceful manor in which he managed his horse. The royal procession then moved forward to the ancient church of the Holy Rood, where mass was set, and thanks were offered up for their prosperous voyage. Philip, after this, repaired to the quarters assigned to him during his stay in the town. They were sumptuously fitted up, and the walls of the principal apartment hung with Arras, commemorating the doings of the royal polemic Henry the Eighth. Among other inscriptions in honour of him might be seen one, proclaiming him Head of the Church and Defender of the Faith, words which, as they were probably in Latin, could not have been lost on the Spaniards. The news in Philip's Landing was received in London with every demonstration of joy. Guns were fired, bells were rung, processions were made to the churches, bonfires were lighted in all the principal streets, tables were spread in the squares, laden with good cheer, and wine and ale flowed freely as water for all comers. In short, the city gave itself up to a general jubilee, as if it were celebrating some victorious monarch returned to his dominions, and not the man whose name had lately been the object of such general a secretion. Mary gave instant orders that the nobles of her court should hold themselves in readiness to accompany her to Winchester, where she was to receive the prince, and on the 21st of July she made her entry in great state into that capital, and established her residence at the Episcopal Palace. During the few days that Philip stayed at Southampton, he rode constantly abroad and showed himself frequently to the people. The information he had received before his voyage, or the state of public feeling, had suggested to him some natural apprehensions for his safety. He seems to have resolved, from the first, therefore, to adopt such a condescending, and indeed affable demeanor, as would disarm the jealousy of the English, and if possible conciliate their goodwill. In this he appears to have been very successful, although some of the more haughty of the aristocracy did take exception at his neglecting to raise his cap to them, that he should have imposed the degree of restraint, which he seems to have done on the indulgence of his natural disposition, is good proof of the strengths of his apprehensions. The favor which Philip showed the English gave umbrage to his own nobles. They were still more disgusted by the rigid interpretation of one of the marriage articles, by which some hundreds of their attendants were prohibited, as foreigners from landing, or after landing, were compelled to re-embark and return to Spain. Where never Philip went abroad he was accompanied by Englishmen. He was served by Englishmen at his meals. He breakfasted and dined in public, a thing but little to his taste. He drunk health after the manner of the English, and encouraged his Spanish followers to imitate his example, as he quaffed the strong ale of the country. On the twenty-third of the month, the Earl of Pembroke arrived, was a brilliant company of two hundred mountain gentlemen, to escort the prince to Winchester. He was attended moreover by a body of English archers, whose tunics of yellow clothes, striped with bars of red velvet, displayed the gaudy-colored livery of the house of Aragon. The day was unpropitious. The rain fell heavily in such torrents as might have cooled the enthusiasm of a more ardent lover than Philip. But he was too gallant a cavalier to be downed by the elements. The distance not great in itself was to be traveled on horseback, the usual mode of convenience at that time, when roads were scarcely practical for carriages. Philip and his retinue had not proceeded far, when they were encountered by a cavalier, riding at full speed, and bringing with him a ring, which Mary had sent her lover, was the request that he would not expose himself to the weather, but postpone his departure to the following day. The prince, not understanding the messenger, who spoke in English, and suspecting that it was intended by Mary to warn him of some danger in his path, instantly drew up by the roadside, and took counsel with Alva and Egmont as to what was to be done. One of the courtiers, who perceived his embarrassment, rode up and acquainted the prince with the real pervert of the message. Relieved of his alarm, Philip no longer hesitated, but with his red-felled cloak rubbed closely about him, and a broad beaver slouched over his eyes, manfully pushed forward, in spite of the tempest. As he advanced, his retinue received continual accessions from the neighbouring gentry and urminary, until it amounted to some thousands before he reached Winchester. It was late in the afternoon, when the cavalcade, soiled with travel and sorely drenched with rain, arrived before the gates of the city. The mayor and alderman, dressed in the robes of scarlet, came to welcome the prince, and presenting the keys of the city, conducted him to his quarters. That evening Philip had his first interview with Mary. It was private, and he was taken to her residence by the chancellor, gardener Bishop of Winchester. The royal pair passed an hour or more together, and as Mary spoke the Castilian fluently, the interview must have been spared much of the embarrassment that would otherwise have attended it. On the following day the parties met in public. Philip was attended by the principal person of the suit of both sexes, and as the procession, making a goodly show, passed through the streets on foot, the minstrelcy played before them till they reached the royal residence. The reception room was the great hall of the palace. Mary, stepping forward to receive her best roast, saluted him with a loving kiss before all the company. She then conducted him to a sort of throne, where she took her seat by his side under a stately canopy. They remained there for an hour or more, conversing together, while the courtiers had leisure to become acquainted with one another, and to find ample food doubtless for future criticism in the peculiarities of national costume and manners. Notwithstanding the Spanish blood in Mary's veins, the higher circles of Spain and England had personally almost as little intercourse with one another at that period, as England and Japan have it present. Footnote. This was written in 1855 and footnote. The ensuing day, the festival of Saint James, the patron saint of Spain, was the one appointed for the marriage. Philip exchanged his usual simple dress for the bridal vestments provided for him by his mistress. They were of spotless white, as the reporter is careful to inform us. Satin and cloth of gold, thickly powdered with pearls and precious stones. Around his neck he wore the superb color of the golden fleece, the famous Burgundian order, while the brilliant ribbon below his knee served as the badge of the no less illustrious order of the garter. He went on foot to the cathedral, attended by all his nobles, vying with one another in the ostentatious splendor of their retinues. Half an hour elapsed before Philip was joined by the queen at the entrance of the cathedral. Mary was surrounded by the lords and ladies of her court. Her dress, of white satin and cloth of gold, like his own, was studded and fringed with diamonds of inestimable price. Some of them doubtless the gift of Philip, which he had sent to her by the hands of the Prince of Apolly, soon after his landing. Her bright red slippers and her mantle of black velvet formed a contrast to the rest of her apparel and for a bridal costume would hardly suit the taste of the present day. The royal party then moved up the nave of the cathedral and were received in the choir by the Bishop of Winchester, supported by the great prelates of the English Church. The greatest of all, Cranmar, the primate of all England, was absent in disgrace and a prisoner. Philip and Mary took their seats under a royal canopy with an altar between them. The queen was surrounded by the ladies of the court, whose beauty, says an Italian writer, acquired additional lustre by contrast with the shadowy complexions of the south. The ales and spacious galleries were crowded with spectators of every degree, drawn together from the most distant quarters to witness the ceremony. The silence was broken by Figueroa, one of the Imperial Council, who read aloud an instrument of the Emperor Charles V. It stated that this marriage had been of his own seeking, and he was desirous that his beloved son should enter into it in a manner suitable to his own expectations and the dignity of his illustrious consort. He therefore resigned to him his entire right and sovereignty over the kingdom of Naples and the Duchy of Milan. The rank of the parties would thus be equal and Mary, instead of giving her hand to a subject, would wed a sovereign like herself. Some embarrassment occurred as to the person who should give the queen away, a part of the ceremony not provided for her. After a brief conference it was removed by the Marquis of Winchester and the Earl of Pembroke and Derby, who took it on themselves to give her way in the name of the whole realm, at which the multitude raised a shout that made the old walls of the cathedral ring again. The marriage service was then concluded by the Bishop of Winchester. Philip and Mary resumed their seats and mass was performed, when the bridegroom rising gave his consort the kiss of peace according to the custom of the time. The whole ceremony occupied nearly four hours. At the close of it Philip, taking Mary by the hand, led her from the church. The royal couple were followed by the long train of prelates and nobles and were preceded by the earls of Pembroke and Derby, each bearing a loft, a naked sword, the symbol of sovereignty. The effect of the spectacle was heightened by the various costumes of the two nations, the richly tinted and picturized dresses of the Spaniards and the solid magnificence of the English and Flemings mingling together in gay confusion. The glittering procession moved slowly on to the blithe sounds of festal music, while the air was rent with the loyal acclamations of the populace, delighted as usual with the splendor of the pageant. In the great hall of the Episcopal Palace, Assumptuous Banquet was prepared for the whole company. At one end of the apartment was a daze, on which, under a superb canopy, a table was set for the king and queen, and the third seat was added for Bishop Gardiner, the only one of the great lords who was admitted to the distinction of dining with royalty. Below the daze the tables were set on either side, through the whole length of the hall, for the English and Spanish nobles, all arranged, at perilous point of etiquette, with due regard to their relative rank. The royal table was covered with dishes of gold, a spacious buffet rising to the height of eight stages, or shelves, and filled with a profusion of golden silver vessels, somewhat ostentatiously displayed the magnificence of the prelate, or of his sovereign. Yet this ostentation was rather Spanish than English, and was one of the forms in which the Castilian grandee loved to display his opulence. At the bottom of the hall was an orchestra occupied by a band of excellent performers, who enlivened their past by their music. But the most interesting part of the show was that of the Winchester boys, some of whom were permitted to enter the presence, and reciting Latin, their epithalamiums in honour of the royal nobles, for which they received a handsome garden from the queen. After the banquet came the ball, at which we are to take an old English authority. The Spaniards were greatly out of countenance when they saw the English so far excel them. This seems somewhat strange, considering that dancing is, and always has been, the national pastime of Spain. Dancing is to the Spaniard what music is to the Italian, the very condition of his social existence. It did not continue late on the present occasion, and at the temperate hour of nine the bridal festivities closed for the evening. End of section 17