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Adventures of a Donkey. Translated from the French.
Great Deeds in English History.
Grimm’s German Tales. (Selected.)
Andersen’s Danish Tales. (Selected.)
Great Englishmen. Short Lives for Young Children.
Great Irishmen. Short Lives for Young Children.
Life of Columbus. By S. Crompton.

Standard IV.

Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
Swiss Family Robinson. (Abridged.)
Parables from Nature. (Selected.) By Mrs. Gatty.
Great Englishwomen. Short Lives.
Great Scotsmen. Short Lives.
The Children of the New Forest. By Captain Marryat, R.N. (Abridged.)
Edgeworth’s Tales. (A Selection.)
Lyrical Poetry. Selected by D. Monro.
The Talisman. By Sir Walter Scott. (Abridged.)

Standard V.

The Story of Little Nell. By Charles Dickens. (Abridged.)
Settlers in Canada. By Captain Marryat, R.N. (Abridged.) New Edition.
Masterman Ready. By Captain Marryat, R.N. (Abridged.) New Edition.
Gulliver’s Travels. (Abridged.)
Robinson Crusoe. (Abridged.) New Edition.
Poor Jack. By Captain Marryat, R.N. (Abridged.)
Arabian Nights.

Standards VI. and VII.

Woodstock. By Sir Walter Scott. (Abridged.)
Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott. (Abridged.)
Oliver Twist. By Charles Dickens. (Abridged.)
The Vicar of Wakefield. (Abridged.)
Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare. (Selected.)
Southey’s Life of Nelson. (Abridged.)
Sir Roger de Coverley and other Essays, from the “Spectator.”
Tales of the Coast. By J. Runciman.

LONDON: GEORGE BELL AND SONS.

GREAT ENGLISHWOMEN.

GREAT ENGLISHWOMEN

AN HISTORICAL READING BOOK
FOR SCHOOLS

BY

M. B. SYNGE
AUTHOR OF “GREAT ENGLISHMEN,” ETC.

LONDON
GEORGE BELL AND SONS
1907

The following collection of short lives has been compiled as a companion volume to the “Great Englishmen,” which has already met with approval in schools. It is hoped that this will be found no less useful.

CONTENTS.

GREAT ENGLISHWOMEN.

QUEEN BERTHA (died 606).

Bertha, our first Christian queen, lived a very quiet, uneventful life; history does not record her sayings, nor does it tell us that she performed any great public acts; she made no special mark on the world at large. But by her good example to others, by her gentle influence on those around her, she stands out as the one bright light shining from out the thick darkness of those heathen days.

She was the only child of the king of Paris, but there is more to say about her grandmother Radigund than about either her father or mother; for Bertha had been taught to love the name of Radigund from a little child.

Radigund was the wife of a king of part of France. This king had taken her prisoner with her little brother in a war, but, finding her very beautiful and of royal blood, he adopted her. As she was a heathen, he had her baptized, and then had her taught till she was old enough to become his wife. Then poor Radigund was very unhappy; the king her husband was stern, rough, and cruel, though he loved her very much, and she escaped unknown to a distant convent. With her own hands she cut off her long and beautiful hair, and leaving her royal dress and jewels, she threw on the cloak of a nun. At last the king discovered her, repented of his harshness toward her, and gave her a large estate, on which she built a convent, and devoted her time to study. It was she who made the convent rules herself, she who gave advice to those who needed it, encouraged the timid, urged on the slothful, and spoke tenderly to those in trouble.

Radigund brought up her son, Bertha’s father, to love the classics and old writings, and he became a wise and good king. So when he had a child of his own, he determined that she should be brought up in a convent, away from the world, as he had been. We do not know where Bertha was taught (it may have been under her grandmother Radigund), and we hear nothing more of her till history tells us that Ethelbert, the king of Kent, married the gentle Bertha, daughter of the king of Paris.

Now Ethelbert was a young Saxon king, who had taken part in governing from the age of sixteen; his friends and servants all looked up to him and were ready to share his dangers and his triumphs. The kings and princes of England at this early time were always trying to increase their domains, and Ethelbert was no exception. The kings were all very jealous of one another, so Ethelbert thought it would be better to look for help outside England. So he visited the king of Paris, to ask his advice on the subject. There he met Bertha, and was greatly attracted by the good and beautiful princess. The king of Paris for his part liked the brave boy-king of Kent, and was pleased with the idea of a marriage between him and his daughter Bertha. But in 567 he died suddenly, and Bertha went to live with her uncle, who now became king of Paris.

Now her uncle would not hear of her proposed marriage with the king of Kent, because Bertha was a Christian and Ethelbert a heathen. But Ethelbert loved Bertha very much, and he said if he might marry her, he would allow her to keep her Christian religion, and also to bring over a Christian bishop with her. So the uncle consented, and the Princess Bertha was sent over in great state and honour to the unknown land, to become the queen of Kent.

Her new home was a castle in the town of Canterbury, a palace where the kings of Kent always lived. For it was a splendid hall where the king and queen entertained their friends, and where dancing to the pipe and harp often went on. The queen had a bower in the garden, where she could play the lute and ply the shuttle, and she loved to wander in the gardens with the ladies of the court and watch the flowers growing.

Happy years followed Bertha’s marriage; a little son and daughter came to wake up the old castle with their merry voices. They had curious Saxon names, but the little girl was always called “Tata,” which means lively, because she was such a bright little child.

On a hill beyond Canterbury stood the little church of St. Martin, which had been restored for the queen’s use, and there she went daily, while Ethelbert prayed to his idols in a pagan temple near. Bertha longed for him to become a Christian and to convert the heathen men of Kent, but although he was a good king, anxious to improve the laws and the people, he liked to remain as he was and as his fathers had been before him. At last Bertha’s wish was to be fulfilled.

Now some poor little Saxon children had been stolen away from their homes and taken all the way to Rome as slaves. There they were put out in the market-place to be bought by the people. They were very fair, with blue eyes, light hair, white skins and rosy cheeks, and very different to the Roman children, who were dark.

While the children were there a priest passed by.

“From what country do these slaves come,” he asked.

“They are Angles,” answered the slave-dealer.

“Not Angles, but Angels,” replied the priest, with pity in his voice, “with faces so angel-like.”

Then he asked more about them and their country, and when he heard it was a heathen country, a longing came over him to go and teach the people to be Christians. When the Romans chose him for their bishop, or, as they called him, their Pope or Father, he remembered the little heathen slaves from the heathen land, and he chose a man called Augustine and forty monks to go over to England and teach the people better things.

As Augustine passed through France, he heard that Queen Bertha was already a Christian, and the news made him very hopeful. So he and the monks landed on the Isle of Thanet off Kent, and sent a message to Ethelbert to say they were there and would like to see the king. And a few days after Ethelbert and Bertha went to the Isle of Thanet to meet Augustine and his men. They wore monks’ dress: loose black gowns, with wide sleeves and hood, and their heads were closely shaven on the top. The king and queen sat on the ground and watched the long array of monks coming nearer, while the words of their litany became more and more distinct. At the king’s command they sat down, while Augustine stood and talked to the king about leaving his idols and letting his subjects become Christians.

“Your words are fair,” answered the king, “but they are new and of doubtful meaning.” Then he went on to say, that though he could not give up his old customs suddenly, yet he would allow Augustine to preach to his people; he would give them a house to dwell in and food to eat, and he hoped their mission might succeed. So the little band marched into the heathen city of Canterbury singing as they went. The people were greatly attracted by their teaching, their simple way of living, their plain food, and gentle manners. Augustine and the monks used to go to Queen Bertha’s little church of St. Martin, and pray, sing, preach, and baptize the people, who soon came promising to give up praying to their idols and to become Christians.

At last, one day the King Ethelbert came to the little church on the hill to be baptized, and you may imagine Bertha’s joy as the king of Kent was led to St. Martin’s Church, never more to enter his little pagan temple. Then many followed his example, and before the end of the year ten thousand Saxons were baptized. The king saw what good work these men were doing, and that St. Martin’s Church was not large enough for all, so he told the people to build and repair churches all over his land.

Now Augustine could not preach to all these many people, and he wanted to make new priests to help him. But this he could not do till he was made a bishop himself. So he went to an archbishop in the south of France, and was made a bishop with the Pope’s leave. Very soon after he was made Archbishop of Canterbury, and ever since his time there has been an Archbishop of Canterbury, who is not only head of all the clergy, but the highest subject in the queen’s realm. Augustine was allowed to ordain twelve bishops to work under him, and to send to York a very trusty bishop, who might ordain twelve more.

Now the old Britons or Welsh were, many of them, already Christians, and Augustine and Ethelbert thought it would be a good plan to make friends with the Welsh bishops. So they all met under a great oak on the border land, but unhappily the Welsh bishops could not agree with them; for, although they were Christians, they did not do everything as Augustine had been used to do at Rome. So they could not help in preaching to the heathen, and Augustine went home again. He began to repair an old church in Canterbury, which is the present Canterbury Cathedral.

He died in 605, and the last time we hear of Queen Bertha is at the opening of a great monastery dedicated to St. Augustine. The king and queen and their son took part in the solemn meeting.

About the rest of Queen Bertha’s life history is silent. Her death is supposed to have taken place the same year, but we have no record of the event. She died as quietly as she had lived, leaving us little more to know her by than her influence on the times in which she lived. She was buried in a church named after St. Peter and St. Paul, in a corner called St. Martin’s porch, beside St. Augustine, and twelve years later King Ethelbert was laid beside her.

MAUDE THE GOOD (1080-1118).

“Maude, the good queen;” “Dame Maude, a kind woman and true;” “The good queen Maude;” “Queen Maude, that’s right well loved England through.” When these are the terms used by the people of her time there is little need to say more about her character.

Born in 1080, she was christened Edith, but as her name was changed to Maude or Matilda, on her marriage, out of compliment to the mother of Henry I., we will call her Maude throughout. Her mother was Margaret, the gentle Queen of Scotland, her father the well-known Malcolm, of whom Shakspere has written, a mighty king, but a man who could neither read nor write.

When Maude was quite a little girl, she was sent with her sister Mary to live with her aunt Christina, the Abbess of Romsey. Now, although she had no intention of making Maude a nun, her aunt compelled her to wear the nun’s veil; this made the little girl not only very unhappy, but angry, and, whenever her aunt’s back was turned, Maude tore the veil from her head and trampled upon it. One day her father came to the abbey to see his daughters, and he saw Maude wearing the nun’s veil. He was very angry, and, tearing it off her head, he declared that his fair-haired Maude should never be a nun, but that she was to marry Count Alan. It is probable that Malcolm took his two children back to Scotland with him, for the next mention of Maude is beside her mother’s death-bed.

Malcolm had invaded England for the fifth time, when he was slain, together with his eldest son Edward. This was heavy news for Prince Edgar to break to his mother.

“How fares it with the king and my Edward?” asked the dying queen, as her son Edgar entered the room. The young prince was silent, but his sad face spoke more than words.

“I know all—I know all,” sobbed his mother; “but speak the worst.”

“Then your husband and son are both slain!” replied Edgar.

The widowed queen lifted up her hands and eyes to heaven and prayed, and, as the last words were uttered, she died.

Then Maude and Mary were sent back to their aunt Christina to complete their education.

While they were there, the news suddenly burst upon England that William Rufus, the Red King, had been shot by an arrow while hunting in the New Forest, and that his brother Henry intended to be King of England, as Robert the elder brother was away fighting in the Holy Land. Henry said, if the people would only make him king, he would do everything they wished; and, when they at last consented, he pleased them all by marrying Maude, the daughter of good Queen Margaret, and descended from Alfred the Great, whose memory all England loved.

At first Christina the abbess refused to allow her niece to marry the king, and, knowing what a bad man Henry was, Maude refused too. But at last, commanded by her brother Edgar, urged by the people, entreated by the king, she consented. So they were married on November 11th, in 1100, and Archbishop Anselm preached a very celebrated sermon to the crowds who had come to see the royal wedding. Then Maude was crowned Queen of England, to the joy of the people.

She was very kind to the poor and to all around her; every day in Lent she went barefoot, clothed in haircloth, to wash the feet of the poorest people, after the custom of her mother. She had hospitals built, new roads made, and bridges over the rivers.

One day she was riding on horseback through a ford on the river Lea, with her train of attendants. The river was flooded, and the current sweeping along so fast, that they were in danger of perishing, and out of gratitude for her life, Queen Maude caused the first arched bridge ever known in England to be built.

In 1102, a little son was born, and named William, after his grandfather William the Conqueror.

Now Robert, the Duke of Normandy, Henry’s elder brother, had returned from his wars in the Holy Land, and finding it useless to try and assert his rights in England, he settled in Normandy. But he was very idle; he had spent all his money; it is even said that he had to lie in bed sometimes, for want of clothes to put on, and the Norman people were so unhappy, that they sent for Henry to come and help them. So leaving his wife Maude to govern England, Henry took an army to Normandy, and a battle was fought in which Duke Robert and his little son were taken prisoners.

It was just forty years after the battle of Hastings; then the Normans came over and conquered the English; now the English went over, and Normandy was conquered. Of course Henry had to spend a good deal of time over there, to reform laws and make peace, but Queen Maude was quite capable of reigning in England, and keeping the people peaceful and happy.

In the summer of 1109 Henry returned to England, and kept court in great splendour at the new palace at Windsor. His little daughter Matilda was just five years old, when the Emperor of Germany, a man of forty-five, begged to be allowed to marry her. The proposal was eagerly accepted by her father, for the union would secure peace between Germany and England, so the little princess was solemnly married. The child could not stand under the weight of jewels with which she was adorned as bride, and had to be carried; she was allowed to live with her mother in England till she was twelve, when she was sent over in great state to her royal husband.

When Prince William was twelve, he was taken over to Normandy, for the Norman barons to swear fealty to him and acknowledge him as their future king. But he was never their king, because he was drowned when he was only eighteen.

A revolt in Normandy to set Robert’s little son upon the throne, took Henry and his son away from England again, and the queen was left alone. She was in failing health, and Henry returned to spend Christmas with her, but he could not stay long. He had left Prince William as a pledge that he would return; so he left the queen, and they never met again. Maude lived on in her palace at Westminster, very lonely in heart, although she was surrounded with all the splendour of royalty; her two children were gone, her husband was across the sea. Her only pleasure lay in caring for the poor around her, and making them happy. For five months she lived on in her solitude, and in May, 1118, she died, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. She was spared the blow of hearing that her only boy, Prince William, was drowned in the White Ship crossing over to England; spared the misery of knowing that her daughter Matilda, left a widow at twenty-one, was obliged to fight for the crown of England, and spared witnessing the bitter grief of her husband Henry, who, after the loss of his son, never “smiled again.”

ELEANOR OF AQUITAINE (1122-1204).

Eleanor of Aquitaine, the wife of Henry II., has been handed down to us by popular tradition, as a tyrannical woman, with a great many bad faults and very few good traits of character. This is not entirely the case. Although her early life was marked by wild and reckless freaks, and though we must blame her for helping her sons against their father, yet we must recognize her, as one whose masterful power in ruling the kingdom kept the country at peace, whose last years were marked by very merciful acts, who never spared herself any trouble for her son, even when bowed down with fourscore years—as a great and illustrious woman.

Her energy from early youth to old age was unrivalled; at the age of twenty-five, she went on a crusade, dressed as a pilgrim, with her husband; at the age of seventy she had the energy to go to Italy with a wife for her son, and to Germany with the ransom she had raised to release him from prison.

Eleanor was born in 1122, in Aquitaine, a dukedom in the south-west corner of France. Count William, her father, was a good prince, and so beloved by his people, that when he died, fighting in the Holy Land, he was remembered as “St. William.” He died when Eleanor was ten, and her grandfather undertook to provide for her future welfare. He called together his barons, and made them acknowledge Eleanor as his heiress, and further agree to a proposal that Eleanor should marry the future King of France, Louis, and thus unite the north of France with the south.

So it came to pass that, when Eleanor was fifteen, she was married with great pomp, for her grandfather had been one of the most powerful princes in Europe. Then her grandfather left her, laid down his robes, and went off to Spain, where he soon after died. After their marriage, Louis and Eleanor were summoned to the death bed of Louis VI.

“Remember, royalty is a public trust,” were his last words to the future king and queen, and on them the words made a lasting impression.

The new Queen of France was very beautiful; moreover she was musical, and composed songs and poetry; she could read and write, then a rare accomplishment, and was adored by her southern subjects, who always welcomed her with joy, and mourned her absence, when she was obliged to return to her court at Paris.

Now it was at this time that St. Bernard was preaching about the Crusades, and the king and queen with all their court went to hear him. He had to preach in the market-place, as no cathedral would hold the crowds that went to listen. Now the king,—urged by Eleanor,—had already been to war in France, and in course of war he had ruthlessly set fire to a cathedral, in which 1,300 people had taken refuge; all had perished, and the king, stirred by St. Bernard, resolved to atone for this heartless deed by going to the Holy Land to fight. Eleanor declared that she would go too, so, dressed as a “gay and courtly pilgrim,” and mounted on horseback, she accompanied Louis to the Crusade. But it was not a success. It led to disagreement between Louis and Eleanor, and on their return they obtained a divorce, and Eleanor went back to her own country.

Six weeks after she married Henry, Duke of Normandy, the future King of England. Louis was very angry, because now Aquitaine was united to Normandy; both would soon be joined to England, and Louis foresaw dangerous enemies.

In 1154 Henry became King of England, and he and Eleanor went over to be crowned. Everything looked bright before them; the queen rode by the king’s side into Winchester, and the handsome and brave young Henry with his beautiful wife called forth shouts of joy from the English people.

Soon after her marriage, one day, in the grounds of Woodstock, Eleanor saw the king walking with the end of a ball of silk caught on his spur. Knowing it was not her silk, her suspicions were aroused, and, without letting him see, she took up the ball of silk, and the king walking on, the silk unwound, and the queen traced him to a maze in the park, where he disappeared. Thus runs the story.

Soon after this, the king left Woodstock for a long journey; the queen, remembering the silk, then searched the grounds, and found a low door half hidden by the thicket. She opened it, and went down along a path underground, which at length led out to a lodge in a remote part of the forest, and here in a bower Eleanor found a very beautiful lady busily engaged in work. This was the fair Rosamond, and she could now account for the silk on her husband’s spur. Eleanor was very angry, and it has been said that she poisoned her rival. Rosamond, however, retired to a convent, where she lived for the rest of her life.

The king was very often obliged to be in France to look after his vast possessions, but he always left Eleanor to rule in his absence, and she governed well and wisely. But the people in her duchy in the south of France did not like her to leave them so much, and at last they broke into open revolt, and would not be pacified till Eleanor went with her third son Richard to govern them for a time.

Now Henry had four sons, Henry, Richard, Geoffrey, and John, who was ten years younger than his brother Geoffrey. The two eldest, Henry and Richard, had, while quite little boys, been married to two daughters of the King of France, by which Henry hoped to keep peace with France.

Geoffrey was to marry the heiress of Brittany, so by this means the King of England possessed more of France than King Louis himself.

Henry and his little wife Margaret had been sent to Thomas à Becket, the Chancellor, to be educated and brought up in a way befitting the future king and queen of England. The children loved Becket, and when in after years Henry and Margaret were summoned to be crowned—in the lifetime of the king—by the Archbishop of York, Margaret refused to appear, because the guardian of her youth, Becket, was not to perform the coronation.

In 1172, after the murder of Becket, Henry and Margaret were again crowned, and soon after went to the French court to Louis. Now, though they had been crowned, Henry and Margaret could take no share in the government till the king’s death, but Louis stirred up his young son-in-law to rebel against this rule.

At his father’s death Henry was to have England, Normandy, Anjou, Maine, and Touraine; Richard, Aquitaine and Poitou; and Geoffrey, Brittany. Eleanor encouraged Henry to rebel against his father. “I advise you, king, beware of your wife and sons,” were words addressed to Henry, with a warning to look after Aquitaine.

One night the king and his son stopped to sleep a night at Chimon; in the night Henry escaped and fled to the French king, where a few days after he was joined by Richard and Geoffrey. Queen Eleanor attempted to join them, but she was seized—dressed in men’s clothes—escaping to the French court, and soon after Henry came over to fetch her and take her back to England, where he kept her as a sort of prisoner, safely guarded in her palace at Winchester, for many years.

Then there was peace for a time. Richard, the darling of his imprisoned mother, was the first to renew the war. On being told to do homage to young Henry for Aquitaine, he refused; whereupon Henry and Geoffrey marched against him. But peace was made. Nevertheless, the people of Aquitaine were more enraged than ever. In their eyes Eleanor was their chief, and Henry had no power over them, except through her and by affectionate treatment of her. Now she was in prison,—Eleanor, the princess of their old stock,—the princess born among them, brought up in their midst.

“Daughter of Aquitaine,” sang the troubadours, “thou hast been torn from thy country and led into a strange land. Return, poor prisoner, return to thy faithful cities, if thou canst; if thou canst not, weep and cry, ‘Alas, how long is my exile!’ Raise thy voice like a trumpet, that thy sons may hear thee; for the day is at hand when thy sons shall deliver thee, and then thou shalt see thy native land again!”

In 1183 young Henry the heir died. When he found he could not live much longer, he sent for his father to implore forgiveness for his wrongdoings. Henry, who had always loved his son, forgave him readily, and the prince—almost passionate in his sorrow—died on sackcloth and ashes as an atonement for his sins.

The following year there was a solemn peace-making between Henry and his three sons. Eleanor was released from her prison to be present, and “peace and final concord” was established. Soon after Geoffrey was killed, and the King of France at once invited Richard to his court. The oft-repeated risings and rebellions of Henry’s sons were making his last days very unhappy. He longed to make peace with Richard, but he could not. The people of the South were against him, his vassals were even forsaking him for Richard. A list was brought of those who had left him; he ordered the names to be read. The first name on the list was John. The king leapt from his bed in agony.

“Is it true,” he cried, “that John, the child of my heart, the best beloved of all my sons, has forsaken me?”

He looked at the name, as if to make sure there was no mistake; then, turning his face to the wall, he groaned: “Now let everything go as it will; I care no more for myself, nor for the world.”

Richard’s first act as King of England was to release his mother from her captivity, and make her Queen Regent of England. She made a royal progress through England, releasing prisoners throughout the country to pray “for the soul of Henry II.,” pardoning offences against the crown, making the forest laws easier, and restoring to their families those who had been put in prison for disobeying them.

Her long captivity and sorrow for her two dead sons had softened her character, and the latter part of her life was kinder, more merciful, and, therefore, more powerful than the former. When Richard had settled a dower on her, she went back to France. Soon after Richard joined the King of France to go to the crusade, leaving a regent to govern England, and that regent was not his brother John. John felt the slight, but waited till Richard had gone before he put in his claims.

Eleanor’s next step was to go to Spain to fetch Berengaria, the beautiful daughter of the King of Navarre, and take her to Richard, who had fallen in love with her some years before. The royal ladies set off from the court of Navarre together, crossed the Pyrenees, and went to Naples, where they found ships, and crossed to Messina, where Richard met them.

Now Eleanor had several reasons for taking this long journey to Messina. There was a question who should succeed Richard as King of England, and it was therefore important he should have an heir. Geoffrey’s son Arthur was the rightful heir, as matters stood, but Eleanor hated Arthur and Arthur’s mother, and was anxious to prevent his ever being king. Again, England was not in a happy state, and Eleanor wanted to talk to Richard about it.

Richard left matters entirely in his mother’s hands, and Eleanor returned to England. It required all her efforts to keep the country at peace; it was she who conferred with the barons, she who at last prevailed over her youngest unruly son to remain quiet. After a time came the joyful news that Richard had started for home, but it was followed by the tidings that he had been taken prisoner. Then came a letter from Richard:

“Richard, King of England, to his esteemed lady and dearest mother Eleanor, by the same grace Queen of England, health and all happiness, which a devoted son can wish for his mother. In the first place to God, and afterward to your serene highness, sweetest mother, we send our utmost thanks, although we cannot render enough for the faithfulness which you keep for us, and the faithful care and diligence which you spend so devotedly for the peace and defence of our countries.”

Then he tells her that if a ransom can be raised, he will receive his freedom. Eleanor at once held a meeting of the barons, and ordered a tax to be made, and the ransom raised. Then she herself set out for Germany with the ransom, and received back her son Richard.

When John heard through the King of France that Richard was returning, he fled. Then Eleanor and Richard held a council, and decreed that if John did not appear in forty days all his English estates should be forfeited. Then John threw himself at his brother’s feet, and implored forgiveness. Richard was loth to forgive, but Eleanor begged him not to refuse, and he always obeyed her.

“I forgive him,” he cried, “and I hope I shall as easily forget his injuries as he will forget my pardon.”

In 1199 Richard died, leaving the kingdom to John. It was due mostly to Eleanor’s influence that Arthur was set aside, and John appointed to reign. But many of the French people hated John, and wanted Arthur to reign over them, and Arthur and his friends marched against a French town where his grandmother Eleanor was staying. On hearing of his mother’s danger, John, with unwonted energy, marched to the rescue, and Arthur was taken as prisoner to the castle of Rouen. From this time he disappeared. Some say his uncle drowned him; tradition gives a tragic history of how his eyes were burnt out by Hubert. Our poet Shakspere represents him as throwing himself from a high wall and being killed, but we do not know what the truth really is. Then Eleanor retired to Fonteraux, where she died at the age of eighty-two.

With his mother’s death John lost all fear and shame, and relapsed into depths of wickedness. Sorrow and adversity had taught Eleanor many a stern lesson, and few women have lived to a more honourable old age than “Eleanor, beloved of God and man,” as the monks of Canterbury used to address her.

PHILIPPA OF HAINAULT (1313-1369).

Philippa, afterwards Queen of Edward III. of England, was born in the province of Hainault in Belgium, in 1313. Her mother, the Countess of Hainault, was a wise and good woman, devoted to her husband and her four little daughters, of whom Philippa was the second. Her uncle, Sir John, was a very powerful man, and fought for England when Edward was king. Now, on one of their many visits abroad, the young Prince Edward and his mother came to Hainault, and stayed at Count William’s house.

The story runs, that the future King of England took a great fancy to Count William’s daughter Philippa, who was about his own age. They had long talks together, and spent a very happy fortnight, and the pretty little Philippa missed her companion very much when he and his mother were obliged to return to England.

On the death of Edward II., his son Edward was crowned king, and it was thought advisable for him to marry. Now it so happened that it would be to the benefit of England to have the Flemings as allies; for the people there were ready to help Edward against the French, and to trade with England; so “a daughter of William of Hainault” was to be selected for the young king. A bishop was accordingly sent over to choose which daughter should be queen.

Happily for both parties, he chose the tall and pretty Philippa, who started joyfully for England to marry the young king. She received a hearty welcome, and, with her uncle and numerous attendants, went up to York, where Edward and she were married in the winter of 1328, at the ages of fifteen and sixteen. Then they went for the summer to the beautiful palace of Woodstock, while Edward’s mother, and Mortimer, a bad and tyrannical man, governed the kingdom.

It was at Woodstock, in 1330, that Philippa’s first son was born, the future hero, the Black Prince. To celebrate his birth, a grand tournament was held in London, and a tower was erected and filled with seats, so that the queen and all her ladies might see it. But they had scarcely taken their seats, when, with a crash, the boarding gave way, and all fell to the ground. No one was hurt, but all were very much frightened. When the young king saw the peril of his wife, he flew into a violent passion, and vowed that all the careless carpenters should be put to death. But the gentle Philippa, still trembling from the effects of her fall, threw herself on her knees before him, and pleaded for pardon so hard, that Edward forgave the men.

When Edward was seventeen, he determined to govern the kingdom for himself, and throw off the restraints of his mother and Mortimer, so he shut his mother up in a castle, and Mortimer was sent to the Tower, and sentenced to die, as he deserved. Then Edward began to reform many abuses; many good laws were made, and trade was encouraged with other nations. Philippa, too, knew how well the people in her own country wove wool, so she sent for some of them to come and teach the English. First she made a little colony of weavers at Norwich, and had them taught, often going herself to look after them, and encourage their work.

During all the early part of his reign Edward was fighting in Scotland, and Philippa went with him whenever she could. Once Edward had been up in Scotland, and had arranged that Philippa should meet him at Durham. Having welcomed him and supped at the priory, she retired to bed. Scarcely had she undressed, when the monks came to her door in a great state of excitement, to say that it was against rules for any lady—even a queen—to sleep at their priory. Queen Philippa was very much distressed, and, not waiting to dress, fled in her nightgown to the castle close by, where she was allowed to pass the night in peace.

Up to this time Philippa’s father had supplied Edward with money to carry on war with Scotland; on his death Edward became so poor that he had to pawn the queen’s crown in Germany. Soon after the English people sent their woollen manufactures to Germany, and, instead of receiving money, so the story says, they redeemed their queen’s crown.

In 1340, a fourth son was born to Philippa at Ghent, and called John of Gaunt—Gaunt being the old English way of saying Ghent.

Now Edward had entered on a war with France, which had made him poorer than ever. Again the queen’s crowns and jewels were pawned, and Edward was getting into so much trouble, that one night he took his wife and baby, and with a few trusty servants crossed to England secretly. The ship was small, the weather cold, the wind was high, and at times their lives were in great danger. However, about midnight they arrived at the Tower in London, to find it unguarded and only occupied by the three royal children and nurses. Edward was in a fury, and had it not been for the gentle Philippa at his side, the guards on their return would have come off very badly. Not only was Queen Philippa a faithful wife, always ready to calm Edward’s fits of passion and to encourage the industry of the country, but now we find her ruling his kingdom for him and leading his army to battle.

In 1346, Philippa said farewell to her husband and to the Black Prince, the darling of her heart, who at sixteen was off to the French war with his father. She and Lionel, a child of eight, were left to govern England.

But no sooner had Edward gone, than the King of Scotland invaded England. Philippa did not spend long in wondering what was to be done—she went quickly to Newcastle, where she awaited the English army. When the King of Scotland heard she was there, he sent to say that he was ready to fight! Philippa sent back word, that she was ready too; adding, “My barons will risk their lives for the realm of my lord the king!”

The queen’s army drew up at Neville’s Cross, and Philippa, on a white charger, so runs the story, was among them. She begged them to do their duty, and to defend the honour of the king; then leaving them to the protection of God, she rode away. She would not stop to fight; her nature was too womanly to stay and see the carnage which was going to take place; she had done all a great queen could do by cheering and encouraging her men; now she would go and pray for victory while the battle raged.

When she heard it was over, she mounted her white horse and rode again to the battle-field, where she heard that not only had a victory been won, but the King of Scotland had been taken prisoner. He was taken on a tall black war-horse through the streets of London, and put in the Tower. The next day Philippa sailed for Calais, and her royal husband held a grand court to welcome his victorious queen. The terrible siege of Calais was going on; the French had defended it bravely, till at last they were so much reduced by famine that they were obliged to surrender. Everything was eaten, even the cats, dogs, and horses; there was no corn, no wine, and the unhappy people were fast dying.

So the governor of Calais came to ask Edward on what terms they could surrender. Edward was very angry at having been kept waiting so long, and refused to spare the people unless the six chief men of Calais would come out bareheaded and bare-footed, with ropes round their necks and the keys of Calais in their hands, ready to die for the rest of the people. The governor returned sad and sick at heart, and calling the people together he gave them the king’s message. There was silence for a moment among the feeble few. Then the hero Eustace de St. Pierre cried:

“Oh! never be it said,
That the loyal hearts of Calais
To die could be afraid!

I will be the first, I will willingly give myself up to the mercy of the King of England.” Then five others followed his brave example, and the willing captives came before the angry king. They knelt and pleaded for mercy. But in vain. In vain the lords around him begged him to restrain his anger,—he only thundered:

“Strike off their heads, each man of them shall die; I will have it so!”

Then gentle Philippa stepped forth and knelt at the feet of her royal husband:

“My loving lord and husband,” she cried, “I have crossed the stormy sea with great peril to come to you—I have been faithful to you all our wedded life—do not deny my request, but, as a proof of your love to me, grant me the lives of these six men!”

The king looked at her in silence, “Lady, I would you had not been here,” he cried at last, “I cannot refuse you, do as you please with them.”

Then Philippa joyously arose, took the men, fed them, clothed them, and sent them back to their wives, friends, and children.

Soon after Philippa and Edward returned to England. The same year a terrible disease called the Black Death broke out in England, and Philippa’s second daughter, a girl of fifteen, died of it. She was just going to marry the Infant Pedro of Spain, and had crossed to France, where he was to meet her, when she was taken very ill with the plague, and died in a few hours. And on the very day appointed for her wedding the little princess was buried.

In 1357, the Black Prince returned to England after his victories of Crecy and Poitiers, and proudly presented his royal prisoner King John to his mother, as well as John’s little son, a boy of fourteen, who had fought to the end by his father’s side, and had been at last captured terribly wounded. The first day, when at dinner with the king and queen and his captive father, the boy started up, and boxed the servant’s ears for serving Edward, King of England, before his father John, King of France.

Philippa, instead of being angry, only smiled at the boy’s spirit, and she treated him as one of her own sons as long as he remained with her.

The following year Philippa, her husband, and four sons went to France, leaving Thomas, a child of five, guardian of the kingdom. There she saw her eldest son married.

She did not live to see the sad change which made the last years of her son’s life so unhappy; she did not live to see her husband, with a mind once so mighty, sink into helpless old age, but she died in 1369, at Windsor.

When she was dying, she called the king: “We have, my husband, enjoyed our long union in peace and happiness, but before we are for ever parted in this world, I entreat you will grant me three requests.”

“Lady, name them,” answered Edward, “they shall be granted.”

“My lord,” she whispered, “I beg you will pay all the merchants I have engaged for their wares; I beseech you to fulfil any gifts or legacies I have made to churches and my servants; and when it shall please God to call you hence, that you will lie by my side in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey.”

She ceased speaking. The king was in tears. “Lady,” he said, “all this shall be done.” And Philippa the queen died.

MARGARET OF ANJOU (1429-1480).

Margaret had a difficult part to play in the history of England; married to a weak king, who preferred founding colleges to governing a kingdom, she had to take the reins of government into her own hands. With the interest of her only son at heart, she refused to stand by and see the kingdom snatched from her husband and son; wrath roused her to energy. So far she may have been right, but she was led on to hard-hearted cruelty; love for her son made her bloodthirsty; and when both her husband and son were slain, the woman, once beautiful and strong, was left to go back friendless to her native land, ruined, miserable.

Margaret of Anjou was born in one of the grandest castles in Lorraine in 1429. Her father, René of Anjou, was taken prisoner fighting for his country, when Margaret, the youngest of his four little children, was but a baby.

“Alas!” cried the mother, clasping her little golden-haired Margaret to her bosom, “Where is René, my lord? He is taken—he is slain!”

The four children of the captive prince were very beautiful, and the bards loved to sing of them, and follow them in crowds, and scatter flowers in their path.

When Margaret was but six, it was arranged that she should marry Henry VI., the young King of England, in order to make peace between the two countries.

When her father, René, was released, Margaret went to live in Italy with her father and mother; she inherited her father’s taste for learning and love of art. “There was no princess in Christendom more accomplished than my lady Margaret of Anjou,” said a writer of these times.

The news of her charms, beauty, talent and courage reached Henry’s ears in England, and he sent for a portrait of the princess. The picture delighted him, and it ended in a truce being signed between the two countries, and Margaret starting for England to marry King Henry. The parting with her uncle, Charles VII. of France, was very affecting; sobs stifled his voice; the young queen could only reply by a torrent of tears, as they parted, never to meet again. It was harder still to part with her father, for “never was a princess more deeply loved in the bosom of her own family.” Neither father nor daughter could speak, but each turned their different ways, with full hearts.

The people pressed in crowds to look at Margaret when she was married, for “England had never seen a queen more worthy of a throne than Margaret of Anjou.”

Now King Henry shrank from the toils and cares of governing the kingdom; he gave himself up to the learning of the country, and all branches of study; so that Margaret found the government of England left almost entirely in her hands. She tried to make the people turn their attention to manufactures and trade, but England was not in a state for peace; the men who had fought at Agincourt thirty years before, and the future soldiers of St. Albans, were not willing to till the soil or weave their clothes. A rebellion led by Jack Cade excited them more, and in 1455 all were ready to take up arms and fight.

Now the cause of war was this: Margaret had no children, and the question was, who should succeed when Henry died. The Earl of Somerset said he was the heir, but the Duke of York thought he had a better right to the throne. This was the beginning of the “Wars of the Roses,” as they were called, for the friends of York wore a white rose, the friends of Somerset a red rose.

Now while they were still debating who should be the future king, a little son was born to Margaret. King Henry had been very ill with a sort of madness, and did not know about the birth of his son, till one day Queen Margaret came to him, bringing the baby with her. The king was delighted.

“What is his name?” he cried.

“Edward,” answered the queen. Then Henry “lifted up his hands and thanked God.”

Still the Duke of York was not satisfied; for he was very jealous of Somerset, who ruled the kingdom when the king was ill. In 1455 Somerset was killed at the battle of St. Albans, and York became very powerful, and still went on fighting, because he wanted to be king.

At last the poor king himself was taken prisoner, and led bareheaded into London, while Queen Margaret and her infant boy fled to a Welsh castle. The next news the queen heard was, that it had been decided, when Henry died, his little son Edward should not succeed him, but the Duke of York should reign.

When Margaret the queen heard this, she was roused to energy. Why should not her son reign when his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather had reigned before him? Among the rocky wilds of Wales she wandered, trying to collect trusty followers, and rouse the nation to fight for her husband and son.

Her youth, beauty, courage, and love for her little child touched the people; they not only gave themselves, but got some of the Scotch people to help too, and Margaret was able to unfurl the banner of the Red Rose at Wakefield, almost before the Yorkists knew she was there. Then a terrible battle was fought, and the Duke of York was slain. His head was cut off, crowned with a paper crown, and taken on a pole to Margaret.

“Madame, your war is done; here is your king’s ransom,” cried one of her nobles.

At the ghastly sight Margaret shuddered and turned pale; then a revengeful look of pleasure passed over her face, as she laughed long and strangely, and commanded the head of her foe to be placed over the gates of York, ordered another earl to be beheaded, and pushed on to London.

But the people of London would not admit her, and very soon after Edward, son of the Duke of York, was proclaimed king. Seeing the south was against her, Margaret, with her husband and son, fled north to gain help. Many of Somerset’s friends joined her, and things were looking brighter, when a large body of Yorkists defeated her array at Hexham. Seized with terror for the safety of her boy, Margaret fled on foot to a forest near, alone and unprotected. There she wandered about with the young prince in unbeaten tracks, weary and anxious. It was growing dark, when, by the light of the moon, Margaret observed a robber of gigantic size coming towards her, sword in hand. The child Edward clung to his mother in terror—but Margaret showed no fear; she took Edward, and thrusting him forward, said, “Behold the son of Henry your king, and save him!”

Struck with the loveliness of the child, the loneliness and courage of the mother, the robber of Hexham knelt down, and dropping his sword, promised to help them, for he was on the king’s side. Then taking the little prince in his arms, he led them to a cave in the forest where he lived, and took care of them till it was safe for them to escape to Scotland, and from thence to France.

There tidings reached her of Henry’s fate; he had been betrayed into the enemy’s hands, and shut up in the Tower of London.

For many years Margaret and her son lived in France, until the tide once more turned in their favour. The Earl of Warwick, who had fought against Henry and Margaret, now turned round, and offered to help the exiled queen and her son to win back the kingdom. It was some time before the haughty queen could make up her mind to forgive him, but the future of her son was very dear to her, and at last she sent him pardoned to England, where he raised an army and surprised the king, who had to flee for his life.

Meanwhile Margaret and her son were trying to cross to England, but time after time they were driven back by wind and storm, and when they did arrive, it was only to learn that King Edward had returned, gained a victory, that Warwick was slain, and the king again put into prison.

When Margaret heard this crushing news, she fell to the ground in a stupor of despair, for all hope seemed gone. At last her son roused her, he told her that he himself would go and fight, and they started again for Wales, collecting supporters as they went. But King Edward’s army met them at Tewkesbury, and a terrible battle took place. Margaret watched it; she saw the battle was going against them; she saw her only son in the thick of it, and it was with difficulty she was kept from rushing into it herself. At last she was carried away insensible, and the next thing she heard was that the battle was lost, her son Edward slain!

Love for her boy seemed the only tender part of Margaret’s nature, and she was overwhelmed with motherly grief. A few days after, she was taken captive to the Tower, and at midnight on that same day King Henry, her husband, was put to death.

King René’s love for his daughter never failed; he had sympathized with her in all her troubles, shed bitter tears when her son was killed and the kingdom wrenched away, and now he gave up half his own kingdom to ransom the daughter he loved so well.

So Margaret returned to her native land, to her father’s home—no longer the beautiful, powerful Queen of England, with spirit to do and to dare, with courage to face any foe; but a desolate, unhappy woman, with all spirit crushed out of her, with no courage left ever to face the world again. Hardened by oft-repeated failure and stormy conflicts, she wandered listlessly about the gardens and galleries of her father’s castle, going over and over the sorrows of her past life, her eyes dim and red from continual weeping, caring for nothing. Her father died in 1480, and Margaret did not live long after. She seldom left her retreat to see anyone, and at last, worn out with trouble and sorrow, she died on August 25th, at the age of fifty-one.

THE LADY MARGARET (1441-1509).

Margaret Beaufort, or the Lady Margaret, was the mother of Henry VII., and an ancestor of Queen Victoria. She was by far the greatest woman of her day. “It would fill a volume to recount her good deeds,” says a writer of the times. Full of pity and love for the poor, she devoted herself as well to help on the learning of the richer classes; she was a mother to the young students of the Colleges, always ready to forgive injuries done her, ready to work when there was work to be done, and “All England at her death had cause of weeping,” writes a bishop who knew her very well.

She was born on the last day of May, 1441, at a large manor in Bedfordshire. Her father was of royal blood, being grandson to John of Gaunt, a son of Edward III. and Philippa of Hainault, about whom you have heard. The child Margaret was named after her mother. At an early age she learnt to read, and, what was considered a rare accomplishment in those days, to write; she was fond of French, and knew a little Latin, but not much, and she often complained in later life because she had not learnt more. Her needlework was beautiful, and it is said that James I., whenever he passed, stopped to see the work done by the fingers of his great-grandmother. There is still a carpet to be seen worked entirely by her. When she grew a little older, she learnt about medicine and sickness, and in later life we find her devoting a part of each day to dressing the wounds of poor people and helping to ease their suffering.

When she was only nine, the Duke of Suffolk, a great man in England, wished her to marry his son John, for he knew she would some day be very rich; but the King of England, Henry VI., wanted the little heiress to marry his brother Edmund Tudor, Earl of Richmond. The little girl did not know what to do. The night before her fate was to be decided, she lay awake, thinking and praying, when suddenly, at about four in the morning, “one appeared unto her arrayed like a bishop, and naming Edmund, told her to marry him,” and not the other. The child told her vision to her mother, and soon after she was betrothed to the Earl of Richmond, and when she was fifteen they were married. They went to live in a Welsh castle, but only for a short time. They had not been married two years, when the Earl of Richmond died, leaving Margaret a widow at sixteen. She mourned for him very deeply, but the birth of a little son, the future Henry VII. of England, occupied all her time and thoughts; for he was so delicate and fragile a baby, that it was a question whether he would live or die.

Now the Wars of the Roses were raging in England. Margaret’s uncle, the Duke of Somerset, had been killed at the battle of St. Albans, and she thought it safest to stay quietly in Wales, taking no part in the war. Still, it was a trying time for the young mother, closely related to the fighting parties, listening breathlessly from day to day for news of the victories and losses, watching over the interests of her infant son, the young Earl of Richmond. When he was but a few years old, his mother presented him to the king, Henry VI., his great uncle. Henry solemnly blessed the child, and placing his hands on the young earl’s head, said: “This pretty boy will wear the garland in peace, for which we so sinfully contend,”—words treasured by the young mother and remembered in after years.

In 1459 the Lady Margaret married the Earl of Stafford, great-great-grandson of Edward III. and Philippa, and she still lived on in Wales.

Margaret taught her son Henry a good deal herself; the boy was growing up sad and serious and thoughtful, fond of his books, fond of rugged Wales, and as was but natural devoted to his young mother.

The battle of Tewkesbury and accession of Edward IV. made it unsafe for him to remain in England; so with his uncle he went to France, where he stayed for some time.

Separation from her son was a great trial to the Lady Margaret, and her thoughts were constantly with her exiled child.

It was her habit to get up at five in the morning, and pass five hours in prayer. Ten o’clock was the dinner hour in those days, and the rest of the day she devoted to helping the poor around her and to translating French into English, so that those who did not know French might be able to read the English translation. Printing was hardly known in England, so she had to copy out all her writings herself.

In 1482 her second husband died, and not long after she married Lord Stanley, a great friend of the king, Edward V., by which means she hoped to forward her son’s cause in England. At the coronation of Richard, the Lady Margaret and her husband were present; for we hear that the Lady Margaret was sent “ten yards of scarlet for her livery, a long gown made of crimson velvet with cloth of gold and another of blue velvet;” she walked just behind the queen and held up her train, a fact which showed she was in royal favour then. But not for long. Besides being a usurper and murderer, Richard III. was a bad king, and the people wanted to depose him, and set on the throne Margaret Beaufort’s son, Henry Tudor.

It was proposed that he should marry Elizabeth, daughter of the late king; then all the friends of the Red Rose and the White Rose would join together, and overthrow Richard. Richard heard of the plot, the Lady Margaret was accused of high treason, and it was only by reason of her husband’s favour with the king that her life was spared. At last, in 1485, Henry came over from France, went to Wales, collected an army, defeated and slew Richard at Bosworth. Now Lord Stanley had come to the battle with Richard, but just as the battle was going to begin, he took all his men, and went over to Henry’s side.

The battle began. Richard fought like a lion, determined to conquer; he knew that Richmond was but a youth, who had never fought before, not even “trained up in arms.” To kill the young Henry was his own aim and object.

“I think there be six Richmonds in the field;
Five have I slain to-day instead of him!”

are the words which Shakspere puts into his mouth, as the king is again unhorsed. But his enemies were too strong for him. When the battle was over, Richard III. was found dead upon the field of Bosworth, and Lord Stanley, taking the crown which the king had worn in battle, placed it upon the head of Henry, now King of England.

Then came the meeting with his mother. “Tell me,” he had said before the battle, when Lord Stanley had come to fight for him and was wishing him victory and fortune, “tell me, how fares our loving mother?” and Stanley had answered, “I bless thee from thy mother, who prays continually for Richmond’s good.” Now mother and son met again; they had not seen one another for fourteen long years, years of the deepest anxiety to both. Margaret had parted from him as a serious and thoughtful boy—“a little peevish boy,” Shakspere calls him; she met him again as a hero, the King of England. One of Henry’s first acts as king was to restore to his mother the lands and titles which Richard had taken away from her.

Then Henry married the rightful heiress of the throne—Elizabeth, daughter of Edward IV., and England was once more at peace. A grand coronation took place, and this is what we hear of Margaret. “When the king her son was crowned, in all that great triumph and glory she wept marvellously.”

The Lady Margaret loved her daughter-in-law very tenderly, and Elizabeth the queen was always pleased to have her at court. But she did not give herself up to the pleasures and comforts of court life; her work lay in another direction. At one of her large country houses she made a plan to keep twelve poor people, giving them lodging, meat, drink, and clothing, visiting them when she could, and waiting on them herself.

She was the highest lady in England after the queen, but she never thought any service too menial for her, any duty too humble for her to perform. One of her manor-houses she had already given up to a poor clergyman in Devonshire, who had many weary miles to walk from his own house to his church, and was thankful to have a home nearer to his work.

Now while the Wars of the Roses had been going on, William Caxton, having learnt the art of printing, had set up a press in London. Margaret Beaufort was one of his first zealous supporters, and to her he dedicated one of his first printed books. But the name of the Lady Margaret is perhaps best known at Cambridge; for it was there, in 1505, that she founded two colleges, which still exist. One, under the name of “God’s house,” had been founded by Henry VI., but it never flourished, and when the Lady Margaret heard what a state it was in, she refounded it with the title of “Christ’s College.” The college was to hold a master, twelve fellows, and forty-seven scholars, and the countess framed all the rules for them herself. The scholars were to have a certain small sum of money a year for their clothes, which were to be bought at a neighbouring fair; they were not to keep any dogs or birds, and were only to be allowed cards at Christmas time. The Lady Margaret took great interest in the college; one day, when it was but partly built, she went to see it. Looking out of a window, she saw the dean punishing a “faulty scholar.” Her heart was moved to pity, and she cried out, “gently, gently,” thinking it better rather to lessen his punishment than to ask pardon for him altogether.

In 1506, the king and his mother both visited Cambridge to see the beautiful chapel of King’s College, which was nearly finished.

She did not live to see St. John’s Hospital completely founded (though she obtained consent to have it made into a college), or King’s College finished, but her arms are over the gates of the college, her crest and coronet in the window of the hall; still her name is mentioned every year with the other founders of colleges, and her name is given to buildings and societies and clubs.

In 1509, Henry VII. died, leaving Margaret, “our dearest and most entirely beloved mother,” as he calls her, to choose councillors for her grandson Henry, a boy of eighteen.

At last her strong health began to fail; she had survived parents, husbands, and her only son, but when those around her saw she could not live “it pierced their hearts like a spear.”

“And specially when they saw she must needs depart from them, and they should forgo so gentle a mistress, so tender a lady, then wept they all marvellously, wept her ladies and kinswomen, to whom she was full kind, wept her poor gentlewomen whom she had loved so tenderly before, wept her chaplains and priests, wept her other true and faithful servants.”

She died on June 29th, 1509.

She was buried in Westminster Abbey, in a part called Henry VII.’s Chapel, and a tomb of black marble was erected to her memory. On the top lies a figure of the Lady Margaret in her coronet and robes of state; her head rests on cushions, her feet are supported by a fawn. It is one of the most beautiful monuments in the Abbey, and if you ever go there, look at it and remember the Lady Margaret’s life and work.

MARGARET ROPER (1501?-1544).

Margaret Roper, daughter of Sir Thomas More, was born on July 10th, in London. She was the eldest of four children, and she was her father’s favourite. She was like him in face and figure; her memory was very good, her sense of humour keen, her love for her father intense and brave.

When Margaret, or Meg, as her father loved to call her, was only six, her mother died, and very soon after her father married a widow, not for the sake of her youth or beauty, but to look after his four little children and manage his household. Such a household, too. Before he went to his work every morning Thomas More set each their appointed task, his wife included; no one was ever idle, no wrangling went on, no angry words were ever heard about the house; the most menial offices were regarded as honourable work, the humblest duties were labours of love. This was the atmosphere in which Margaret’s childhood was spent; no wonder she was loved for her gentle ways and sweet disposition; with the long quiet mornings and fixed studies, no wonder she became a learned and clever woman.

Each member of the family had a pet, and Thomas More said: “No child or servant of mine hath liberty to adopt a pet, which he is too lazy to attend to himself. To neglect giving them food at proper times entails a disgrace, of which every one of them would be ashamed.”

There is a story told about Margaret Roper, which will show what rigid discipline she was taught as a child, though the story rests on very slight foundation.

One night her stepmother had been churning for a long time, but the butter would not come; so she sent for Meg and her two sisters, and told them to churn till the butter came, even if they sat up all night, as she had no more time, and she could not have so much good cream wasted. They churned, but the butter would not come; they said “Chevy Chase” from beginning to end to pass the time; they chanted the 119th Psalm through. At last they began to repeat Latin; then they heard the buttermilk separating and splashing in earnest, and at midnight, when poor little Daisy, one of the sisters, had fallen asleep on the dresser, Meg succeeded in making the butter come.

Meg’s father—now raised to the rank of Sir Thomas More for his valued services to the king, Henry VIII.—was often away from home for many months together, and Meg used to miss him dreadfully. He had risen to be Speaker in the House of Commons, and his wit and learning were most popular at court. The king would often come to Chelsea and walk round the garden, his arm round the neck of Sir Thomas More, discussing some important matter, to which he wished his favourite’s consent. But Sir Thomas did not agree with the king in many things, and he refused to act against his conscience even to win the royal favour. Thus a coolness sprang up between them, which afterwards led to the execution of Sir Thomas More.

At the age of twenty-four Margaret married Will Roper, more to please her father than herself. He was a good fellow, and had studied hard to please Margaret, and helped her father in much of his work. Margaret would have preferred to study and write, rather than marry, but her father convinced her that “one may spend a life in dreaming over Plato, and yet go out of it without leaving the world a whit better for having made part of it,” and her father’s word was law with Margaret. Her father’s departure to Woodstock, the king’s court, was a source of grief to Margaret. Two nights after he left, the household was aroused by shouts of “Fire! fire!” Everybody got up, and it was found that part of the Chelsea house was burnt, though all its inmates escaped uninjured.

In 1530 Sir Thomas More was made Lord Chancellor, but this high post he only held for two years; he refused to sanction Henry’s marriage with Ann Boleyn, together with several other things, and resigned the Great Seal in August, 1532.

A great load was taken off his mind, and his spirits returned, but not for long. The storm was about to burst. Threatening visits and letters alarmed the family, and at last the blow came.

Sir Thomas More had refused to take the oath of Supremacy, that is to say, he refused to acknowledge Henry VIII. as Head of the Church, and he was summoned to Lambeth to give his reasons. It was with a heavy heart that he took the boat to Lambeth, for he was leaving home for the last time, and he seemed to know it. The days when he was gone seemed long and lonely to his daughter Margaret. He refused to take the oath against his conscience, and was sent to the Tower. There Meg used to visit him, and he told her not to fret for him at home; he explained to her his innocence, his reasons for refusing to take the oath, and told her he was happy.

In 1535 he was called to trial at Westminster, and crowds collected to see him pass from the Tower; even his children found it difficult to catch a glimpse of him. Margaret, we hear, climbed on a bench, and gazed her “very heart away,” as he went by, so thin and worn, wrapt in a coarse woollen gown, and leaning on a staff, for he was weak from long confinement; his face was calm and grave.

The trial lasted many hours, and Margaret waited on through that long day by the Tower wharf till he passed back. The moment she saw him, she knew the terrible sentence was “Guilty!” She pressed her way through the dense crowd, and, regardless of the men who surrounded him with axes and halberds, she flung her arms round his neck, crying, “My father! Oh, my father!”

“My Meg!” sobbed More.

He could bear the outward disgrace of the king and nation, he could stand without shrinking to hear the sentence of death passed upon him, but this passionate, tender love utterly broke his brave spirit and shook his firm courage.

“Enough, enough, my child! what, mean ye to weep, and break my heart?”

Even the guards were touched by this overwhelming scene, and many turned away to hide a falling tear. She tore herself away, but only to go a few steps; she could not lose sight of that dear face for ever; she must hear him speak once more to her. Again, with choking sobs and blinding tears, she laid her head on his shoulder. This time tears were standing in her father’s eyes as he whispered:—“Meg, for Christ’s sake! don’t unman me.” Then he kissed her, and with a last bitter cry of “Oh, father! father!” she parted from him for ever, and the crowd moved on.

With a piece of coal Sir Thomas More wrote a few loving words to his daughter, and on July 5 he was executed, and his head put upon a pole on London Bridge as an example to others who disobeyed the king’s orders. Then Margaret’s love showed itself in all its most courageous strength.

Soon after midnight she arose, dressed herself, and walked quickly down to the river, where she found boatmen to row her to London Bridge.

“The faithful daughter cannot brook the summer sun should rise
Upon the poor defenceless head, grey hair, and lifeless eyes.
A boat shoots up beneath the bridge at dead of night, and there,
When all the world arose next day, the useless pole was bare.”

The head of Sir Thomas More was gone, no longer open to the ridicule of crowds, to the triumph of the king’s party, to bear witness to his friends a monarch’s infidelity—but safe in the keeping of Margaret Roper.

After the death of Sir Thomas More, his family were driven from their Chelsea home, and Margaret was for a time imprisoned. She died nine years after her father, and the dear and honoured head that the faithful daughter had dared her life to save was buried with her in the Roper vault at Canterbury.

LADY JANE GREY (1537-1554).

Lady Jane Grey was born in a beautiful palace half hidden by masses of old trees, called Bradgate Hall, in Leicestershire, in the year 1537. Most of the old hall is now a ruin, but a tower still stands in which the villagers still declare that Lady Jane was born. Her father, Henry Grey, Marquis of Dorset, was one of the king’s most powerful noblemen; her mother, Lady Frances Brandon, was a niece of the king, Henry VIII. Jane was the eldest of three daughters; Katharine, her next sister, was two years younger, and therefore her companion in lessons and play. Mary was much younger. The grounds about Bradgate Hall, and the winding trout-stream about which the children played, may still be seen around the ruined palace; but much as little Jane loved the open air and the flowers that grew around, yet she was still fonder of her books.

While quite young her father engaged a master to come and teach his children, and Jane learnt very quickly. Greek, Latin, and French were her great delight; she could sing, play, sew, and write very clearly. With all this she was very sweet in temper, truthful, and beautiful to look at. The queen, Katharine Parr, Henry VIII.’s sixth and last wife, took a great fancy to the little girl. She was a clever and learned woman herself, and begged Lady Frances Brandon to allow Jane to live with her at court, promising to see that her lessons were still carried on. So at the early age of nine we find Jane attending on the queen, and carrying her candles before her. This was by no means an easy feat to perform, as the little candle-bearer had to walk backwards with the lighted candles. The child did not know, and happy for her that she did not, that she was looked upon by the court as the heiress to the throne of England, and that the queen was trying to fit her for the difficult post she was destined to fill.

When Jane was but ten years old, the king, Henry VIII., died, and his son Edward, a poor sickly boy, the same age as the Lady Jane, was made king.

Soon after, Katharine Parr died, and the little girl walked as chief mourner at her funeral, her long black train being held up by a young nobleman.

After this, the most natural thing would have been for Jane to go home to her mother at Bradgate; but her father and mother thought more of worldly advance than of their child’s happiness. They agreed to let her go to Lord Seymour, a scheming and plotting man, who wished to bring about a marriage between the poor little Lady Jane and the young king, Edward VI., who was her cousin. At first Jane’s parents pretended—for it was but pretence—that they wished to keep her at home, but when Lord Seymour gave them £500 they consented, for the sake of this contemptible sum of money, to let him take away their pretty little girl to teach her first, and then to marry her to a king. But this never came to pass, for the following year Seymour was taken to the Tower and beheaded in a horrible way, and his little ward was sent home. Her parents were bitterly disappointed; they treated her coldly, even cruelly, and her only happiness was in her lessons.

One day Roger Ascham, Princess Elizabeth’s clever master, came to stay at Bradgate. Passing through the park he saw that the members of the household were hunting, but where was the Lady Jane? She was in her own room, he was told. Thither he went, and found her busily reading a Greek book by Plato. “Why was she not hunting in the park?” he asked, with some surprise.

“I wis,” answered the child of fourteen, looking up with a bright smile, “all their sport in the park is but a shadow to that pleasure I find in Plato; they do not know, alas! what true pleasure means!”

Then they had a long talk, and the Lady Jane told Roger Ascham how she loved her books and lessons, and how thankful she was for her kind master. For she was never happy with her father and mother; they were sharp and severe with her, and whether she talked or kept silent, sat or stood, sewed or played, it was sure to be wrong. They laughed at her, scolded her, often even pinched and nipped her, till she longed for her lesson hour, when she could go back to her gentle teacher. There the time passed so quickly, and he was so good to her, and when lessons were over she would often cry, because everything else was “so full of great trouble and fear.”

The gentle and clever girl was greatly beloved; her master was duly proud of his young pupil, whose knowledge of languages was quite wonderful, and surprised many an older scholar than himself. Greek was her favourite study, and the last letter she ever wrote was written to her sister Katharine on a blank leaf in her Greek Testament.

Lady Jane Grey spent the Christmas of 1551 with the Princess Mary, with whom the family were on very friendly terms. But the cold weather and the long winter walks she had to take injured her health, and she became very ill. Her slow recovery gave her plenty of time for work, and long letters still exist in Greek and Latin that she wrote to Roger Ascham, and also to many foreign students, who thought very highly of the noble Lady Jane.

Up to this time friendship had existed between Princess Mary, who was a Roman Catholic, and Lady Jane. One day Mary gave her a rich dress. Lady Jane did not care to wear bright colours, as she always dressed in the Puritan style.

“What shall I do with it?” she asked.

“Marry, wear it, to be sure,” replied Mary.

But this Lady Jane refused to do, even to win favour with the princess.

This offended Mary. She had heard rumours, too, that Lady Jane, being a Protestant, was likely to succeed Edward VI., instead of herself, and thus the Lady Jane slowly dropped out of favour at court.

Lady Jane’s father now occupied a high post; he had become Duke of Suffolk by the death of two elder brothers, and helped the Duke of Northumberland to govern England till the young king, Edward, should be old enough to govern for himself. But Edward instead of growing better grew worse; always delicate, an attack of measles left him worse, and he could not get rid of a bad cough. When the dukes found he was not likely to live long, they began to scheme for his successor. Of course Suffolk wanted his daughter to be queen; of course Northumberland wanted his son to be king; so they agreed that Suffolk’s daughter, Lady Jane, should marry Northumberland’s son, Guildford Dudley, and reign as king and queen of England.

The poor young king, Edward, was weak and ill, and his strong Protectors could easily make him say that his Protestant cousin, Lady Jane, and her husband, Guildford Dudley, should succeed him, instead of his sisters Elizabeth or Mary.

Guildford was tall and very handsome; he was his father’s pride and darling; but when Lady Jane was told that he was to be her husband, she was very angry, and refused to marry him. In vain her father urged her, and told her the king himself had ordered the marriage.

“And do you mean to disobey the king as well as your father?” he asked harshly.

We are told that he had recourse to blows at last; anyhow, the poor Lady Jane was too unhappy to hold out any longer; her life could not be much more miserable than it was, and she gave her consent at last.

On a summer day, Whitsunday, 1553, when Edward the king was lying at the point of death, Lady Jane Grey was married to Guildford Dudley, and very soon after she was told by her mother-in-law suddenly off-hand, that she must hold herself in readiness at any moment to be crowned Queen of England! For a moment Lady Jane was stunned, almost stupefied, till the utter misery of her position slowly dawned upon her. She was to take the throne from the Princess Mary, who was the rightful queen, and reign over a people who would look on her as a usurper instead of pitying her as a helpless woman. The future weighed heavily on her mind; she became very ill, and was taken to Chelsea, to the house of her father-in-law, for change of air, there to await the king’s death.

Late on one summer afternoon, the summons came for her to go at once to Sion House, whether well or ill. A barge was at the door to convey her up the river. What a long two hours it seemed to Lady Jane till the barge arrived at Sion House! She found the hall empty, but no sooner had she arrived than the two Protectors, her father and Northumberland, her mother and mother-in-law, and many dukes and earls entered, all bending low before her. Her cheeks grew hot, her heart beat fast. She understood everything. The young king was dead. She was Queen of England. A long speech was made, and all present swore to protect and serve her as queen, but it was all too much for the Lady Jane, already ill and unhappy. She tottered and fell to the ground, weeping bitterly; there she lay as one dead, her face white as marble, her eyes closed. When she came to herself she raised herself on to her knees, and prayed that, if to succeed to the throne were her duty and right, she might govern the realm of England well and justly.

Very early next morning, still weary from the excitement of the former night, the queen and her attendants came down the Thames in barges, and landed near the Great Hall of the Tower. Then a long procession was formed. Guildford Dudley walked beside his royal wife, cap in hand, bowing to the ground whenever she spoke. Crowds lined the way, and knelt as she passed to be crowned their queen; little did they know how gladly she would have changed her lot with any of her poorer subjects if she could. Her life grew more unhappy; she could not sleep; she fainted often while talking to her council.

One day she heard that her father, the Duke of Suffolk, was going to march against the Princess Mary, who had been proclaimed queen in many parts of England; but she was so alarmed at being left alone with the Dudleys, and wept so bitterly, that he consented to stay with her, and let Northumberland go instead. But he met with no success. There were no shouts of “God save Queen Jane!” no one cried “God speed ye!” He found that Mary’s party was growing rapidly in strength, and that she had been proclaimed queen everywhere but in London itself.

The news fell heavily on the queen; sleep forsook her entirely; the long nights were “full of great trouble and fear,” though she knew the Tower was barred and locked. At last the blow came. One day the queen had promised to stand godmother to a child; not being well enough to go she sent her attendant. The attendant was not gone long, but on her return she found officers in possession of the room, the royal canopy down, and was told that “Jane Grey was a prisoner for high treason.” Thus from the state apartments she followed her to the prison rooms of the Tower.

She was still in the Tower, no longer a queen, but a prisoner; her nobles had deserted her, her subjects had risen up against her, her father and mother were gone, and her husband was separated from her.

On October 1st, 1553, Mary was crowned queen amid the cheers of the people; and the Duke of Suffolk, father of the late queen, was one of the first to acknowledge Mary as Queen of England.

The following month Lady Jane and her husband were accused of high treason; they pleaded guilty to the charge, and sentence of death was passed upon them. Husband and wife looked on one another for the last time, and Lady Jane was taken back to the Tower, there to await her death. A dismal Christmas passed, and the new year of 1554, which was to see so many bloody deeds, opened.

Queen Mary was forced somewhat against her will to sign the death warrant, and “Guildford Dudley and his wife” were informed that February 12th was the day fixed for their execution. Still, if Lady Jane would change her religion, become a Roman Catholic, and obey Mary, she might have her liberty and her life; but this she refused to do—rather death than that.

Guildford Dudley was the first to die; he had begged for a last interview, a last kiss from his wife, and it had been granted by the queen, but Lady Jane refused, saying it would be too much for them, and unnerve her completely. So she stood at the Tower window, and waved him a silent farewell, sobbing, “Oh, Guildford, Guildford!” An hour afterwards she was led forth for execution; she walked with a firm and steady step, and addressed to the crowd a few touching words, which drew forth heartfelt sympathy for the courageous and noble woman who was going to die. She said a psalm, her eyes were bound, she forgave willingly the man who was about to cut off her head, and in a few moments her unhappy life was ended.

PRINCESS ELIZABETH (1596-1662).

Elizabeth, eldest daughter of James I., was one of the most heroic women of her time; first an English princess, then a foreign queen, and lastly almost a beggar in a strange land, she always managed to be bright, and to cheer those around her, when she could.

She was born in August, 1596, in a Scotch palace, and as she was the first daughter of the Scotch king, a regular establishment of nurses, rockers, and attendants was provided for her; she was given everything that could make her happy, supplied with costly dolls, and dressed in velvet or plush.

When Elizabeth was only seven, her godmother, the Queen of England, died, and James I., her father, went to England to be crowned king, thus uniting the two countries of Scotland and England. Elizabeth and her elder brother Henry went with their father and mother, and all were received with great joy in England. The children only stayed at court three weeks, when they were sent to an old abbey in the country with tutors and governesses. Here they were very happy; they played about the lovely grounds round the abbey, rode and hunted, breathed the free country air, and learnt their lessons in large spacious rooms. Elizabeth could write very well even at seven, and whenever her brother was away, she wrote him charming little letters between lines ruled in red ink. When she was nine Gunpowder Plot was discovered.

“I can easily enter by the gate yonder, and with the aid of a dozen men carry off the princess, while the rest catch her attendants,” were words heard by the children one day while playing near the high road. It was clear she must be taken away at once.

“No, I can never leave my dear Henry,” cried the child, when told they must part, and so tightly did she cling to him, that it was with difficulty her arms were unclasped.

Soon after this a suite of rooms were fitted up for her at court, and there for a short time she enjoyed the splendours of court life. But when only fourteen, little more than a child, a husband was chosen for her from a foreign country. Frederick, the future Elector Palatine, was only sixteen himself, when he was sent for to come over to England and marry the Princess Elizabeth.

The whole family were assembled to welcome him when he arrived.

Elizabeth stood by her brother Henry on a raised platform, her eyes fixed on the ground, while Frederick with a firm step and beaming face walked up the long hall. When he reached the king and queen, Elizabeth looked up to see a dark handsome boy with a pleasant face and manly figure. He bowed very low and kissed her hand, and apologized in broken English for appearing in his travelling clothes and not in court dress.

The month before her marriage her brother Henry was seized with a severe fever, and it soon became evident that he could not live. Elizabeth was in despair, she refused to obey the order not to enter the sick room of her beloved brother, and one evening she stole away from the festivities of the court, disguised herself, and hurried eagerly to him, but only to be sent back by the watchful attendants, who were more anxious for her safety than pitiful of her sisterly love. “Do not be so cruel. Take me to him, if only for a minute.” There was a hungry, yearning look in her brown eyes, the tears rolled down her cheeks, and it was hard to refuse such a request. But the guards were firm.

“Oh, where is my dear sister?” were Henry’s last words. This was the first great sorrow in Elizabeth’s life, and the beginning of the darker days in store for her, which were to bring out all the courage of her womanly nature.

On St. Valentine’s Day, 1613, the wedding took place. Prince Frederick was dressed in cloth of silver embroidered with diamonds; his bride wore cloth of silver too, shining with pearls and diamonds, and her long and beautiful hair hung over her shoulders to her waist.

After a few months of English festivities the young couple made their way to their new home at Heidelberg, where they were received with great joy.

Now Frederick was, by his father’s death, Elector Palatine, that is, he ruled over part of Germany under the Emperor. The Emperor had made a cousin of his King of Bohemia, but that cousin was a Roman Catholic, and the people of Bohemia did not like him, so they dethroned him, and sent to Frederick to ask him to come to help them and be their king. It was a critical position for Frederick; he saw it might, and probably would, lead to war; his mother begged him to refuse, but his wife Elizabeth would not hear of such a thing. The sparkle of a crown glittered before her eyes; she trusted Frederick to keep peace and reign well over the people who had chosen him as king. “I had rather feed on a dry crust at a king’s table than feed on dainties at that of an elector!” cried Elizabeth. Thirty years later she knew what it was to eat a dry crust, but not at a king’s table.

So Frederick consented to become King of Bohemia, and he, Elizabeth, and their three little children left their beautiful Heidelberg home to be crowned king and queen. Great were the rejoicings; bells rang, bonfires were lit, cheers of “Long live King Frederick!” echoed through the air, while those who were near enough kissed the hem of the new queen’s robes, for Elizabeth had already won their hearts; she ordered bread and wine to be given to all who came to the castle, and by her goodness and generosity won the name of “Queen of Hearts.” But their position of King and Queen of Bohemia was not secure; jealousy began to show itself in the princes round them, and Frederick felt that at any moment the threatened storm might burst. He had been growing more and more unpopular, and at last war was declared.

The more critical Frederick’s position, the firmer grew Elizabeth.

“I persuaded you to be crowned king, I was with you in those happy and joyous days, I will stand by you in trouble,” she said, and not only said, but did. She sent away her children, only keeping Prince Rupert, a baby of but a year old. The first battle was lost, and in anguish Frederick hastened to his wife, begging her to escape at once. But she would not leave him. If he would come, she would go; if not, they would stay together. His subjects begged their king to stand firm; they reminded him of his oath to guard his kingdom to the last; a raid on the enemy might yet turn the scale. But where his wife’s life was in danger, Frederick refused to stay, and together they escaped from their kingdom. Still relying on help from England, they hoped on, and Frederick again joined the army. Leaving behind her a baby of a month old and her other children, Elizabeth again followed her husband, knowing that she alone could cheer him and keep up his spirits. Once more she travelled through parts of the country where, only six years ago, she had been welcomed as a happy bride; now she wandered an outcast and an exile, with but the empty title of queen to make up for the loss of a home, country, friends. When Heidelberg, their lovely home, fell into the hands of the enemy, Elizabeth cried piteously, “My poor Heidelberg taken! Oh! God visits us very severely; the misery of these poor people distresses me sadly!”

Still the war, known as the Thirty Years’ War, went on, and Frederick was often away for many months together.

In 1629, a terrible grief befell Elizabeth in the death of her eldest son Henry. He was in a yacht with his father one day, when a large vessel bore down upon them, and struck them; the yacht filled with water, and in a moment sank. All on board perished save King Frederick.

“Save me, father, save me!” was the drowning cry of the boy, but all efforts to save him were in vain, and the distracted father had but to go back, and break the news to his wife. The mother’s grief was so violent, that she became very ill, but when she found how heartbroken Frederick was with the thought that he was saved and his boy drowned, she roused herself to comfort him.

Things were looking brighter; a new hero had come to the aid of the unhappy king, when his troubled life was suddenly ended. A bad fever set in, and as he was weak and anxious it took deadly hold on him. His last effort was a letter to his wife. “Can I but live to see you once again, I shall die content,” he wrote—but they did not meet.

The blow fell heavily on Elizabeth; for three days she neither ate, drank, slept, nor shed a single tear. She could hardly realize that all hope of regaining the kingdom was gone, and that he whom she had loved so devotedly through the twenty years of her married life was dead. Her comfort was in her children; her second son Rupert was specially dear to her. While still a boy, the future hero of Edgehill and Marston Moor distinguished himself by fighting to get back his father’s rights; a wild, reckless youth, he was taken prisoner fighting for his father’s cause rather than give up, or flee, as his elder brother had done. When in prison he managed to scribble a few words of comfort to his mother, assuring her he was well, and would come back to her as soon as he was released.

When the sudden news arrived that Elizabeth’s brother Charles had been executed, and Cromwell made Protector of the kingdom, Prince Rupert, the daring royalist, was one of the first to offer himself to the future Charles II. to help to regain the kingdom.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth was almost penniless. “Next week I shall have no meat to eat, and this week, if there be no money found, I shall have neither meat, nor bread, nor candles,” she wrote piteously to her son Charles. Rupert would have given her his last crust, but Charles, Elector Palatine, refused to supply her wants.

At last the exiled queen made up her mind to return to England, and end her days in the land of her childhood.

Sophia, her youngest child, was married, and lived with her husband, the Prince of Hanover, in his own country. She was a beautiful and clever woman, and constantly went back to see her mother, and cheer her solitude. Sophia’s son was George I. of England, from whom is descended Queen Victoria. She and Prince Rupert came to bid farewell to their mother before she left their land for ever.

What a different return to England; no crowds lined the coast, no shouts resounded from the citizens as on her departure, forty years before, as a happy young bride. When the widowed queen stepped on English soil, her heart revived. She had lived to see Charles II., her nephew, restored to the throne of England—her son restored to the Palatinate. Craven, her faithful friend, took her to his home, but she did not live long. The passionate love of her son Rupert, the wild and daring royalist, comforted her to the end, and “Prince Rupert of the Rhine” was the only one of her many children who followed her to the grave. She was buried by night at Westminster. While the long torchlight procession moved up the Abbey, a fierce gale raged; some thought it was a foreboding of future troubles to England; some thought it was like the troubled life of the Bohemian Queen; the faithful Craven bowed his head, and thanked God that his lady was beyond the wild storms of the world.

LADY RACHEL RUSSELL (1636-1723).

England was in a troubled state when Lady Rachel Russell was born.

Charles I. was king, but the people were not happy under his rule. England became divided into two parties—some for him, and some against him. Among the king’s firmest and most staunch supporters was the Earl of Southampton, Rachel Russell’s father. He was a loyal Englishman, and when affairs came to a crisis, and civil war broke out—though he saw what must be the result—he stuck to his king, and fought manfully for him. He married a French lady of noble birth, and had two daughters, Elizabeth and Rachel.

When Rachel was yet a baby, her mother died. She never had much education, perhaps because her father was a great deal away, and she had no mother to watch over it; perhaps because the country was in too disturbed a state for any progress in learning; and the result is, that her letters are full of mistakes in spelling. She must have heard a great deal about politics as a child; for her father took his seat in the Long Parliament when his little daughter was only six; she must have heard him talk of the battle of Edgehill and the bravery of Prince Rupert; she must have heard about Oliver Cromwell; and when she was thirteen, all England rang with the news that Charles the king was beheaded. Her father was one of those faithful four, who, on that snowy winter day, bore the coffin of the king to the royal tomb at Windsor. Then he took his family away into Hampshire, while Oliver Cromwell was at the head of the English government.

When she was seventeen, her father chose her a husband in Lord Vaughan.