|Newspaper Title||The Queenslander (Brisbane, Qld. : 1866 - 1939)|
|Trove Title||Her Majesty's Tower|
The Storyteller. Her Majesty's Tower.
To QUEEN VICTORIA, THESE STUDIES IN HER MAJESTY'S TOWER ARE DEDICATED BY EXPRESS PERMISSION. PREFACE.
BY WILLIAM HEPWORTH DIXON.
TWENTY years ago I wrote some chapters on the Tower—especially on the human interests which cling around it; and since that time I have noted, with care, such passages in either
the State Papers or printed books as threw light into the cells onoe occupied by the heroes and heroines of English story. This volume—a book of identifications—is the fruit of this long-con tinued search. In the labor of reading and deciphering the State Papers, for the purposes of this work, I stand indebted to her Majesty's Deputy-keeper of the Records, Mr. T. Duffus Hardy, to an extent which no words of mine can adequately express. 6 St. James'-terrace, New Year's Day, 1869.
Chapter I. THE PILE. Half-a-mile below London Bridge, on ground which was once a bluff, commanding the Thames from St. Saviour's Creek to St. Olave's Wharf, stands the tower; a mass of ramparts, walls, and gates, the most ancient and most poetic pile in Europe. Seen from the hill outside, the Tower appears to be white with age and wrinkled by remorse. The home of our stoutest kings, the grave of our noblest knights, the scene of our gayest revels, the field of our darkest crimes, that edifice speaks at once to the eye and to the soul. Gray keep, green tree, black gate, and frowning battle ment, stand out, apart from all objects far and near them, menacing, picturesque, enchaining; working on the senses like a spell; and calling us away from our daily mood into a world of romance, like that which we find painted in light and shadow on Shakspeare's page. Looking at the Tower as either a prison, a palace, or a court, picture, poetry, and drama crowd upon the mind ; and. if the fancy dwells most frequently on the state prison, this is because the soul is more readily kindled by a human in terest than fired by an archaic and official fact. For one man who would care to see the room in which a council met or a court was held, a hundred men would like to see the chamber in which Lady Jane Grey was lodged, the cell in which Sir Walter Raleigh wrote, the tower from which Sir John Oldcaetle escaped. Who would not like to stand for a moment by those steps on which Ann Boleyn knelt; pause by that slit in the wall through which Arthur De la Pole gazed; and linger, if he could, in that room in which Cranmer, Latimer, and Ridley, searched the New Testament together ? The Tower has an attraction for us akin to that of the house in which we were born, the school in which we were trained. Go where we may, that grim old edifice on the Pool goes with us; a part of all we know, and of all we are. Put seas between us and the Thames, this Tower will cling to us, like a thing of life. It colors Shakspeare's page. It casts a momentary gloom over Bacon's story. Many of our books were written in its vaults; the Duke of Orleans' "Poesies," Raleigh's "Historie of the World," Eliot's "Monarchy of Man," and Penn's "No Cross, no Crown." Even as to length of days, the Tower has no rival among palaces and prisons ; its origin, like that of the Iliad, that of the Sphinx, that of the Newton Stone, being lost in the nebulous ages, long before our definite history took shape. Old writers date it from the days of Ceesar ; a legend taken up by Shakespeare and the poets, in favor of which the name of Caesar's tower remains In popular use to this very day. A Roman wall can even yet be traced near some parts of the ditch. The Tower is mentioned in the Saxon Chronicle, in a way not incompatible with the fact of a Saxon stronghold having stood upon this spot. The buildings as we have them now in block and plan were commenced by William the Conqueror; and the series of apartments in Casar's tower, —hall, gallery, council-chamber, chapel,—were built in the early Norman reigns, and used as a royal residence by all our Norman kings. What can Europe show to compare against such a tale ? Set against the Tower of London—with its eight hundred year of historic life, its nineteen hundred years of traditional fame—all other palaces and prisons appear like things of an hour. The oldest bit of palace in Europe, that of the west front of the Burg in Vienna, is of the time of Henry the Third. The Kremlin in Moscow, the Doge's Palazzo in Venice, are of the fourteenth century. The Seraglio in Stamboul was built by Mohammed the Second. The oldest part of the Vatican was commenced by Borgia, whose name it beans. The old Louvre was commenced in the reign of Henry the Eighth ; the Tuileries in that of Elizabeth. In the time of our Civil War Versailles was yet a swamp. Sans Souci and the Escorial belong to the eighteenth century. The Serail of Jerusalem is a Turkish edifice. The palaces of Athens, of Cairo, of Tehran, are all of modern date. Neither can the prisons which remain in fact as well as iv history and drama—with the one exception of St. Angelo in Rome—compare against the Tower. The Bastile is gone ; the Bargello has become a museum ; the Piombi are removed from the Doge's roof. Vincennes, Spandau, Spilberg, Magdeburg, are all modern in comparison with a gaol from which Ralph Flambard escaped so long ago as the year 1100, the date of the First Crusade.
* The right of npubliahing "Her Majesty'*Tower" baa been purchased by the proprieton of The Qtitetulander.
Standing on Tower Hill, looking down on the dark lines of wall—picking out keep and turret, bastion and ballium, chapel and belfry—the jewel house, the armoury, the mounts, the casemates, the open leads—tie Bye-ward gate, the Belfry, the Bloody tower—the whole edifice seems alive with story ; the story of a nation's highest splen dor, its deepest misery, and its darkest, shame. The soil beneath your feet is richer in blood than many a great battle-field; for out upon thin sod has been poured, from generation to generation, a stream of the noblest life in our land. Should you have come to this spot alone, in the early day, when the Tower] is noisy with martial doings, you may haply catch, in the hum which rises from the ditch and issues from the wall below you—broken by roll of drum, by blast of bugle, by tramp of soldiers—some echoes, as it were, of a far-off time ; some hints of a May day revel; of a state exeoution; of a royal entry. You may catch some sound which recalls the thrum of a queen's virginal, the cry of a victim on the rack, the laughter of a bridal feast. For all these sights and sounds —the dance of love and the dance of death—are part of that gay and tragic memory which clings around the Tower. From the reign of Stephen down to that of Henry of Richmond, Caesar's tower (the great Norman keep, now called the White tower) was a main part of the royal palace; and for that large interval of time the story of the White tower is in some sort that of our English society as well as of our English kings. Here were kept the royal wardrobe and the royal jewels; and hither came with their goodly wares, the tiremen, the goldsmiths, the chasers and em* broiderers, from Flanders, Italy, and Almaigne. Close by were the Mint, the lions' dens, the old archery-grounds, the Court of King's Bench, the Court of Common Pleas, the Queen's Gardens, the royal banqueting-hall; so that art and trade, science and manners, literature and law, sport and politics, find themselves equally at home. Two great architects designed the main parts of the Tower:—Gundulf the Weeper and Henry the Builder; one a poor Norman monk, the other a great English king. Gundulf, a Benedictine friar, had, for that age, seen a great deal of the world; for he had not only lived in Rouen and Caen, but had travelled intheEask Familiarwith the glories of Saracenic art, no less than with the Norman simplicities of Bee, St. Oven, and St Etienne; a pupil of Lan franc, a friend of Anselm ; he had been employed in the monastery of Bee to marshal, with the eye of an artist, all the pictorial ceremonies of his church. But he was chiefly known in that convent as a weeper. No monk at Bee could cry so often and so much as Gundulf. He could weep with those who wept; nay, he could weep with those who sported; for his tears welled forth from what seemed to be an unfailing source. As the, price of his exile from Bee, Gundulf received the crozier of Rochester, in which city he rebuilt the cathedral, and perhaps designed the castle, since the great keep on the Medway has a sister's likeness to the great keep on the Thames. His works in London were—the White tower, the first St. Peter's church, and the old barbican, afterwards known as the Hall tower, and now used as the Jewel house. The cost of these works was great; the dis content caused by them was sore. Ralph, Bishop of Durham, the able and rapacious minister who had to raise the money, was hated and reviled by the Commons, with peculiar bitterness of heart and phrase. He was called Flambard, or Fire brand. He was represented as a devouring lion. Still the gieat edifice grew up ; and Gundulf, who lived to the age of fourscore, saw his great keep completed from basement to battlement. Henry the Third, a prince of epical fancies, as Corffe, Conway, Beaumaris, and many other fine poems in stone attest, not only spent much of his time in the Tower, but much of his money in adding to its beauty and strength. Adam de Lamburn was his master mason; but Henry was his own chief clerk of the works. The Water gate, the embanked wharf, the Cradle tower, the Lantern, which he made his bedroom and private closet, the Galleyman tower, and the first wall, appear to have been his gifts. But the prince who did so much for Westminster Abbey, not content with giving stone and piles to the home in which he dwelt, enriched the chambers with frescoes and sculpture, the chapels with carving and glass ; making St. John's chapel in the White tower splendid with saints, St Peter's church on the Tower Green musical with bells. In the Hall tower, from which a passage led through the Great hall into the King's bedroom in the Lantern, he built a tiny chapel for his private use a chapel which served for the devotion of his successors until Henry the Sixth was stabbed to death before the cross. Sparing neither skill nor gold to make the great fortress wortfcy of his art, he sent to Purbeck for marble, and to Caen for stone. The dabs of limd, the spawls of flint, the layers of brick, which deface the walls and towers in too many places, are of either earlier or later times. The marble shafts, the noble groins, the delicate traceries, are Henry's work. Traitor's gate, one of the noblest arches in the world, was built by him; in short, nearly all that is purest in art is traceable to his reign. Edward the First may be added, at a dis tance, to the list of builders. In his reign the original church of St. Peter fell into ruin ; the wrecks were carted away, and the present edifice was built. The bill of costs for clearingthe ground is still extant in Fetter-lane. Twelve men, who were paid twopence a-day wages, were employed on the work for twenty dayß. The cost of pulling down the old ohapel was forty-six shillings and eight pence ; that of digging foundations for the new chapel forty shillings. The chapel has suffered from wardens and lieutenants ; yet the shell is of very fine Norman work. From the days of Henry the Builder down to those of Henry of Richmond, the Tower, as the strongest place in the south of England, was by turns the magnificent home and the miserable gaol of all our princeß. Here Richard the Second held his court, and gave up his crown. Here Henry the Sixth wrs murdered. Here the Duke of Clarence was drowned in wine. Here King Edward and the Duke of York were slain by command of Richard. Here Margaret of Salisbury suffered her tragic fate. Henry of Richmond kept his royal state in the Tower,- receiving his ambassadors, counting his
angola, making presents to his bride, Elisabeth of York. Among other gifts to that lady o» her nuptial day was a Royal Book of verse, composed by a prisoner in the keep.
Chapter 11. INNER WARD AND OUTER WARD. The Tower was divided into two main parts— an Inner Ward and an Outer Ward; the first part being bounded by the old wall, crowned by twelve mural towers; the second part being bounded by the soil which fringed the slopes leading down into the ditch. A man who would read aright the many curious passages in our history of which the State Prison is the scene, must bear this fact of the two wards constantly in his mind. The Inner Ward, planned and partly built by the Monk of Bee, was the original fortress; of which the defending ditch lay under the ballium walL It contained the keep, the royal galleries and rooms, the Mint, the Jewel house, the Wardrobe, the Queen's garden, St. Peter's Church, the open'green, the Constable's tower, the Briok tower, in which the Master of the Ordnance lived, the Great hall, quarters for the archers and bowmen, and, in later days, the Lieutenant's house. This ward was flanked and covered by twelve strong works, built on the wall, and forming part of it; the Beauchamp tower, the Belfry, the Garden tower (now famous as the Bloody tower), the Hall tower, the Lan tern, the Salt tower, the Broad Arrow tower, the Constable tower, the Martin tower, the Briok tower, the Flint tower, the Bowyer tower, and the Develin tower; all of which may be oon aidered, more or less, as defensive works ; even the Lantern, which had a vault for prisoners on the ground, a royal bed-chamber on the main floor, a guard-room for archers and balisters in the upper story, and a round turret over these for the burning lights. Only one gateway pierced the wall; a narrow and embattled outlet near the Water gate, passing under the strong block house, now the Bloody tower, into Water-lane. The road springs upward by the main guard; a rise of one in ten ; so as to give the men inside a vast advantage in a push of pikes. This Inner Ward was the royal quarter. The Outer Ward, which owed its plan and most of its execution to Henry the Third, lay between the ballium and the outer scarp of the ditch, with a protected passage into the Thames. It contained some lanes and streets below the wall, and works which overlooked the wharf. In this ward stood the Middle tower, the Bye-ward tower, the Water gate, the Cradle tower, the Well tower, the Galleyman tower, the Iron Gate tower, Brass Mount, Legge Mount, and the covered ways. Into it opened the Hall tower, afterwards called the Record tower, now known as the Jewel house. Close by the Hall tower stood the Great Hall, the doors of which opened into this outer court. Spanning the ditch, towards the Thames, stood the Water gate, a fine structure; built by Henry the Builder, which folk called St. Thomas' tower, after our Saxon saint Under this building sprang the wide arch, through which the tides flowed in and out from the river and the ditch; the water way known as Traitor's gate. This Outer Ward was the folk's quarter. To the Inner Ward, common folk had no right of access, and they were rarely allowed to enjoy as a privilege that which they could not claim as a right. This Inner Ward was the King's castle, his palace, his garrison, his ward robe, his treasury. Here, under charge of a trusty officer, he kept the royal jewels, secreted from every eye, except on a coronation day. Here rose his keep, with the dungeons in which he could chain his foes. Here stood his private chapel, and not far from it his private block. No man ever dreamt of contesting the Song's right to do what he pleased in this quarter: and thus, an execution within these lines was re garded by the world outside as little better than a private murder. Into the Outer Ward, the Commons had always claimed a right of entry, and something more than a right of entry ; that is to say, free access, guarded by possession of the outer gates and towers. The right of entry was enforced on stated occasions, with an observance whioh is highly comic. Baron and citizen—that is to say, alder man and commoner—met in Barking Church, on Tower Hill, whence they sent six sage men of their body into the Tower to ask leave for a deputation of citizens to see the king, and free access for all people to the courts of law. These six sage persons were to beg that the king, ac cording to custom, would forbid bis guards either to close the gates or to keep watch over them, while the citizens were coming and going; it being wrong in itself and againßt their freedom, they alleged, for anyone to keep guard over the gates and doors of the Tower, save such of then own people as they should appoint to that duty. On this request being granted by the king, the six messengers would return to their fellows in Barking Church, report what they had done, and send the citizen guard to their posts. Then would the Commons elect from their body three men of mature age, moderate opinions, and cautious speech, to act as presenters. The rules by which they acted were rather strict. The sheriff and beadles were to be decently clothed and shod, since it was laid down that no man Bhould come before the king either in dirty rags or without his Bhoes. Their followers were to be trim and spruce; their capes and cloaks laid aside ; their coats and overcoats put on. No man was to go with them into the presence who had sore eyes; no man was to join them who had weak legs. Mayor, alderman, sheriff, cryer, everyone going into tiie Tower on public duty, wns to have his hair cut short and his face newly shaved. The object of these rules was to guard the right of access to the courts of justice ; the Court of King's Bench and the Court of Common Pleas. Where were these courts of justice held 1 No writer on the Tower has sought to find the true localities of these great tribunals. Tet the Bites are clearly enough described in our ancient writs, hundreds of which may be found in Fetter-lane. One court stood in the royal quarter, another court stood in the folk's quarter. The King's Bench was held in a room which the writs describe as the Lesser Hall, lying under the east turret of the keep. The Common Pleas
were held in a place which the writs describe as the Great hall by the river ; a hall now gone, but of which the identification ia quite as sure. If stood by the Hall tower, to which it lent a name, and into which it led. A view of the Tower in the Royal Book of verse shows that this Great Hall was a Gothic edifice, in the style of Henry the Third. Many a dark scene in the history of our public liberties and our private manners grows suddenly luminous when we bear these facts in mind: that the Tower consisted of two parts— an inner court and an outer court; that the Court of King's Bench was held in the royal quarter, the Court of Common Pleas in the folk's quarter; that the people had free access to the outer court, and only to the outer court. The Hall tower, in which Henry the Third had built a chapel for his private use, being an outer work, with doors and windows opening on the. rampart and Water-lane, could not be used as a prison for men of a dangerous class. A feeble prince, like Henry the Sixth, who Bhrank from state and power, may have enjoyed a mild de tention in the hall now Bparkling with the crown jewels; for he was softly kept; and this tower was in his day a part of the royal palace. Old traditions make "»*f room his cage ; the scene of his pious meditations; and of his deliberate murder by the Duke of Gloucester. After Henry's death, if not before, this tower was used as a paper office; for which purpose, as a hall adjoining the Court of Common Fleas, and opening into the folk's quarter, it was well adapted. Hence it came to be known as the Record tower. On the wall above Water-lane Btood the two signal towers, the Belfry and the Lantern ; each surmounted by a turret; of use to vessels coming up the Thames. On the first swung a bell; on the second burned a light.
Chapter 111. THE WHABF. Tubkiho through a sally-port in the Bye-ward gate, you orou the south arm of the ditch, and come out on the Wharf; a Btrip of strand in front of the fortress, won from the river, and kept in ita place by masonry and piles. This wharf, the work of Henry the Builder, ifl one of the wonders of his reign ; for the whole strip of earth had to be seised from the Thames, and covered from the daily ravage of its tides. At this bend of the river the scour is hard, the roll enormous. Piles had to be driven into the mud and silt; nibble had to be driven in between these piles; and then the whole maw united with fronts and bars of atone. All Adam de Lamburn's skill was taxed to resist the weight of water, yet keep the sluioes open by which he fed the ditch. Most of all this was the case when the King began to build a new barbican athwart the sluice. This work, of which the proper name was for many ages the Water gate, commands the only outlet from the Tower into the Thames; spanning the ditoh and sweeping the wharf, both to the left and right. So soon as the wharf was taken from the river-bed, this work became essential to the defensive line. London folk felt none of the King's pride in the construction of this great wharf and bar bican. In fact, these wvk» were in the last degree unpopular, and on news of any mishap occurring to them the Commons went almost mad with joy. Once they sent to the King a formal complaint against these works. Henry assured his people that the wharf and Water gate would not harm their city. Still the citizens felt sore. Then, on St George's night (1240), while the people were at prayer, the Water gate and wall fell down, no man knew why. No doubt the tides were high that spring, and the soft silt of the river gave way beneath the wash. Anyhow theyfelL Henry, too great a builder to despair, began again ; this time with a better plan ; yet on the selfsame night of the ensuing year his barbican crashed down into the river, one mass of stones. A monk of St Alban's, who tells the tale, asserts that a priest who was passing near the fortress saw the spirit of an archbishop, dressed in his robes, holding a oross,and attended by the spirit of a clerk, gazing sternly on these new works. As the priest came up, the figure spake to the masons, * Why build ye these ?" As he spake, he Btruck the walls sharply with the holy cross, on which they reeled and sank into the river, leaving a wreath of smoke behind. The priest was too much seared to accost the more potent spirit; but he turned to the humble clerk, and asked him the Archbishop'B name. " St. Thomas the Martyr," said the shade. The priest, growing bolder, asked him why the Martyr had done this deed ? " St. Thomas," said the spirit, "by birth a citizen, mislikes these works, because they are raised in scorn, and against the public right. For this cause he has thrown them down beyond the tyrant's power to restore them." But the shade was not strong enough to scare the King. Twelve thousand marks hadheen spent on that heap of ruinß ; yet the barbican being necessary to his wharf, the builder, on the morrow of bis second mishap, was again at work, clearing away the rubbish, driving in the piles, and laying in a deeper bed the foundation stones. This time his work waß done so well that the walls of his gateway have never shrunk, and are as firm to-day as the earth on which they stand. The ghoatinformed the priest that the two most popular Baints in our calandar, the Confessor and the Martyr, had undertaken to make war upon theße walls. " Had they been built," said the Bhade, " for the defence of London, and in order to find food for masons and joiners, they might have been borne ; but they are built against the poor citizens ; and if St. Thomas had not de stroyed them, the Confesßor would have swept them away." The names- of these popular saints still cling to the Water gate. One of the rooms, fitted up as an oratory, and having a piscina still perfect, is called the Confessor's Chapel; and the barbican itself, instead of bearing its official name of Water gate, is only known as St. Thomas' tower. The whole wharf, twelve huadred feet in length, lay open to the Thameß, except a patch of ground at the lower end, near the Iron gate, leading towards the hospital of St. Catharine the virgin, where a few shedß and magazines were built at an early date. Except these sheds, the wharf was clear. When cannon came into use.
they were laid along the ground, as well as trained on the walls and mural towers.» Three accents marked, as it were, the river front—the Queen's stair, the Water way, and the Galleyman stair. The Queen's stair, the landing place of royal princes, and of auoh great persons as came to the tower on state affairs, lay beneath the Bye-ward gate and the Belfry, having a passage into the fortress by a bridge and pos tern, through the Bye-ward tower into Water' lane. The Water way was that cutting through the bank which passed under St. Thomaa' tower to the flight of steps in Water-lane ; the en trance popularly known as Traitor's gate. \ The Galleyman stair lay under the Cradle tower, by which there was a private entrance into; the royal quarter. This stair was not much used; except when the services of Traitor's gate were out of order. Then prisoners who could not' enter by the approach of honor were landed at the Galleyman stair. , Lying open to the river and to the Btreeta; the 'wharf was a promenade, a place of traffic ;and of recreation, to which folk resorted on high days and fair days. Men who loved sights were pretty sure to find something worth seeing at either the Queen's stair or Traitor's gate. All personages coming to the Tower in honor were landed at the Queen's Btair; all personages coming in disgrace were pushed through the Traitor's gate. Now, a royal barge, with a queen on board, was going forth in her bravery of gold and pennons; now a Lieutenant's boat, re turning with a culprit in the stern, a headsman standing at his side, holding in his band the fatal axe. Standing on the bank, now busy with a new life, these pictures of an old time start into being like a mystio writing on the wall. Two of these scenes come back with warm rich coloring to the inner eye. Now:—it is London in the reign of that Henry the Builder, who loved to adorn the fortress in which he dwelt 'Whose barge is moored at yon stair, with the royal arms? What men are those with tabard and clarion * Who is that proud and beautiful woman, her lair face fired with rage, who steps into her galley, but whose foot appears to scorn the plank on which it treads ? She is the Queen ; wife of the great builder ; Elinor of Provence, called by her minstrels Elinor la Belle. A poetess, a friend of singers, a lover of musio, she is said to have brought song and art into the English : court from her native land. The first of our ? laureates came in her train. She has flushed the palace with jest and joust, with tinkle of citherns, with clang of horns. But the Queen has faults, for which her gracious talent and her peerless beauty fail to atone. Her greed is high, her anger ruthless. Her court is filled with an Outcry of merchants who have been mulcted of queen-geld, a wrangle of friars who have been robbed by her' kith and kin, a roar of tiremen and jewellers clamorous for their debts, a murmur of knights and barons protesting against her loans, a clatter of poor Jews objecting to be spoiled. Despite her gifts of birth and wit, Elinor la Belle is the most unpopular princess in the world. She has been living at the Tower, which her husband loves ; but she feels that her palace is a kind of gaol ; she wishes to get away, and she has sent for her barge and watermen, hoping to escape from her people and to breathe the free air of her Windsor home. Will the Commons let her go ? Proudly her barge puts oft The tabards bend and the clarions blare. But the Commons, who wait her coming on London Bridge, dispute her passage and drive her back with curses, crying, "Drown the witch i Drown the witch!" Unable to pass the bridge, Elinor has to turn her keel, and, with passionate rage in her heart, to find her way back. Her son, the young and fiery Edward, never forgets this insult to his mother ; by-and-by he wfll seek revenge for it on Lewes field ; and by mad pursuit of his revenge, he will lose the great fight and imperil his father's crown. Again:—it is London in the reign of Bluff King Hal—the husband of two fair wives. The river is alive with boats ; the air is white with smoke; the sun overhead is burning with golden May. Thousands on thousands of spectators dot the banks ; for to-day a bride is coming home to the King, the beauty of whose face seta old men's fancies and young men's eyes agog. On the wharf, near the Queen'B stair, stands a burly figure'; tall beyond common men; broad in chest and strong in limb ; dressed in a doublet of gold and crimson, a cap and plume, shoes with rosettes and diamonds, a hanger by his side, a George upon his breast. It is the King, Burrounded by dukes and earls, awaiting the arrival of a barge, in I the midst of blaring trumpets and exploding sakers. A procession sweeps along; stealing up from Greenwich, with plashing oars and merry strains ; fifty great boats, with a host of wherries on their flanks ; a vessel firing guns in front, and a long arreaeof craft behind. From the first barge lands the Lord Mayor ; from the second trips the bride ; from the rest stream out the picturesque City Companies. Cannons roar, and bells fling out, a welcome to the Queen ; for this is not simply a great day in the story of one lovely woman, but a great day in the Btory of English life. Now is the morning time of a new era; for on this bright May— The gospel light first shlues from Boleyn's eyes, and men go mad with hopes of things which are yet to come. The-King catches that fair young bride in his arms, kisses her soft cheek, and bears her in, through the Bye-ward tower. The picture fades from view, and presently re appears. Ib it the same ? The Queen—the stair— the barge—the crowd of men—all these are here. Yet the picture is not the same. No burly Henry stands by the stair; no gunß disturb the sky; no blast of trumpets greet* the royal barge; no train of aldermen and masters waits upon the Queen. The lovely face looks older by a dozen years; yet scarcely three have passed since that fair form was clasped in the King's arms, kissed, and carried by the bridge. This time she ia a prisoner, charged with having done suoh things as pen cannot write; thiugß which would be treason, not to her lord only, but to her womanhood, and to the King of kings. When Bhe alight* on the Queen'a Btair, she turns to Sir William Kingston, Constable of the' Tower, and auks, " Must I go into a dungeon ?"
"No, madam," says the Constable ; "you will lie in the same room which you occupied before." She falls on her knees. "It is too good for me," she cries ; and then weeps for a long time, lying on the oold stones, with all the people standing by in tears. She begs to have the sacrament in her own room, that she may pray with a pure heart;-saying she is free from sin, and that she is, and has always been, the King's true wedded wife. " Shall I die without justice f" she enquires. "Madam," says Kingston, "thepoorest subject would have justice.' 7 The lady only laughs a feeble laugh. Other, and not less tragic, scenes drew crowds to the Water-way from the Thames. Beneath this arch has moved a long procession of our proudest peers, our fairest women, our bravest soldiers, our wittiest poets—Buckingham and Strafford ; Lady Jane Grey, the Princess Elizabeth; William Wallace, David Bruce; Surrey, Raleigh—names in which the splendor, poetry, and sentiment of our national story are y"^»lnn>d, Most of them left it, high in rank and rich in life, to return, by the same dark passage, in a few brief hours, poorer than the beggars who stood shivering on the bank ; in the eyes of the law, and in the words of their fellows, already dead. From this gateway went the barge of that Duke of Buckingham, the rival of Wolaey, the last permanent High Constable of England, Buckingham had not dreamed that an offence so slight as his could bring into the dust so proud a head ; for his offence was nothing ; some silly words which he had bandied lightly in the Rose, a City tavern, about the young king's journey into France. He oould not see that his head was struck because it moved so high; nay, his proud boast that if his enemies sent him to the Tower, ten thousand friends would storm the walls to set him free, was perhaps the occasion of his falL When sentence of death was given, he marched back to his barge, where Sir Thomas Lovel, then Constable, stood ready to hand him to the seat of honor. " Nay," said the Duke to Lovel, " not so now. When I came to Westminster I was Lord High Constable and Duke of Buckingham; now I am but poor Edward Stafford." Landed at the Temple stair, he was marched along Fleet-etreet, through St Paul's Churchyard, and by way of Cheep to the Tower; the axe borne before him all the way; Sir William Sandys holding him by the right arm, Sir Nicholas Vaux by the left A band of Augustine friars stood praying round the block; and when bis head had fallen into the dust they bore bis remains to St. Austin's Church. On these steps, too, beneath this Water-gate, Elisabeth, then a young fair girl, with gentle, feminine face and golden hair, was landed Dy her jealous sister's servants. The day was Sunday— Palm Sunday—with a oold March rain coming down, and splashing the stones with mud. She could not land without soiling her feet and clothes, and for a moment she refused to leave her barge. Sir John Gage, the Constable, and bis guards, Btood by to receive her. " Are all these harnessed men for me ?" she asked. " No, madam," said Sir John. "Yea," she replied, " I know it is so." Then she stood up in her boat and leaped on shore. As she set foot on the stone' steps, she exclaimed, in a spirit prouder than her looks—for in her youth she had none of that leonine beauty of her later* years—" Here landeth as true a subject, being a prisoner, as ever landed at these stairs; and before Thee, 0 God, I speak it." Perhaps she was thinking of her mother, who had landed on the neighboring wharf. Anne had fallen on her knees on these cold stones, and here had called on God to help her, as she was not guilty of the things of which Bhe stood accused. In those two attitudes of appeal one reads the nature of these two proud and gentle women, each oalling Heaven to witness her inneoence of crime— Elizabeth defiant, erect; Anne suppliant, on her knees. [TO BE CONTINUED.]
A Warning to Bathers.—Some important medical evidence was givenreoently at an inquest in Bristol on the body of Herbert Gtorge Knight, aged thirteen, who was found dead in a swim* ming bath. The boy's father said he had never had a fit in his life, and was very healthy. The manager of the baths said when the boy was dis covered in the water the crown of his head was just above the surface, and he was standing in a stooping position with his face under water. At the point where he was the water was only three feet four inches deep, while his height was. four feet nine inches.—Thomas Richards, bath attendant, said the temperature of the water was 75°. — Mr. George Gardiner said he used the ÜBual restoratives for a quarter of an hour, but without effect He was of opinion that death was not caused by drowning; it was a case of epilepsy. The deceased mußt have eaten heartily just before he had entered the water, or at least had not given his food sufficient time to digest. He had thrown up a large quantity of food, and when got out of the water his mouth and throat were full. It was a very serious thing for persons to enter the water after meals, as it was attended with the greatest danger to the safety of the bather, and that faot could not be too widely known. It was simply owing to that that the deceased had lost his life. It was exceed ingly dangerous for any person to enter the water within two hours of a meaL—The verdict was in accordance with the medical evidence. A Fire in the Reab.—At the Centennial celebration of one of our New England towns the chairman called upon " Our esteemed fellow citizen, Colonel Boozer," to make a few remarks. The colonel, who was pretty heavily loaded, " commenced firing " after the following style :— " Feller-ci'zens, er hundred years 'go th' Injuns were thicker'n— —' round here ." - Here one of tho committee, noticing the colonel's condi tion, shook bis head as a bint for more elegant language, which the speaker construed into a denial of his assertion, and turning fiercely on bis adviser continued : " Tell ye they were— thicker'n flies 'round m'lasses cask. Why, a man couldn't go out to weed his garden 'hout gettin' the seat of his breeches stuck full of arrers ." Here, amid a general roar, the colonel was persuaded to pospone the remainder of his speech.