first nuptials, Mary's claims on the succession had seemed to perish in his words; for if the King and Queen had never been man and wife, their daughter had no legal rights of birth. She was no other than a child of shame. Yet Henry had been slow to act on what appeared to be a consequence of his second match; for if his daughter were degraded by a sentence of illegitimacy, he might chance to have no heir at all. The King was fond of Mary, and until another child was born, he wished to keep the question of her rights intact. But when the second girl was born, Mary was asked to yield her rank and her pretensions to the crown. Flashing into Tudor wrath, she turned on the unlucky messenger. She was the King's daughter, and the kingdom's heir. 'It is her Spanish,blood!' sighed Henry, turning from his obstinate child. By calling his new infant Mary (from the Virgin, on whose festival she was born), this unbending girl would be, not only plainly, but insultingly, cast aside. Yet neither King nor Queen was capable of such an act. Another name was sought. The King's mother, and the Queen's mother, had each been called Elizabeth, and it was finally arranged that the infant princess should bear through life the same name as Elizabeth the Good.

4. At the royal christening an attempt was made, as usual, to reconcile conflicting parties in a gracious rite. The Duchess of Norfolk bore the child, and Lady Mary Howard bore the chrysom. Essex

carried the gilt basin, Exeter the wax taper, Dorset the salt. Norfolk and Suffolk walked on either side of the infant. Wiltshire and Derby touched the train. Rochford, Hussey, and two of Norfolk's brothers, held the canopy. Two aged widows, both of kin to the royal babe, the dowager Duchess of Norfolk and the dowager Marchioness of Dorset, were selected for Elizabeth's godmothers. Cranmer had the glory of being her godfather. Stokesley, Bishop of London, aided by a crowd of prelates, deans, and abbots, sang the mass and sprinkled holy water on the child. Greenwich had seldom seen a braver sight. The streets were hung with tapestry and strewed with rushes, and the Grey Friars' Church was brightened into festive look. An elegant silver font replaced the ancient stone of Canterbury. Cups, rings, and balls of the most costly workmanship were laid beside the infant's feet. 'Long life be to Elizabeth, the high and mighty Princess of England!' cried the king-of-arms. Peers and peeresses bore the infant back, through lines of blaring trumpeters, to the Queen's apartments. Gentlemen and citizens filled the streets, the quays, and courtyards, shouting and shaking hands, and making merry over that auspicious day. Norfolk and Suffolk came into the street, and told the Lord Mayor and aldermen, in the King's name, that his Grace desired to thank them heartily, and to beg they would come into his cellar and drink a bumper of his wine. Mayor and aldermen streamed into

the royal cellars, quaffed the King's good wine, and then pulled back to town, through lusty crowds of men, and vessels dressed in flags, and steeples musical with bells.

5. A new day had dawned on England in that infant's birth. Elizabeth was a daughter of light, in whom the children of light had all a portion and a blessing. In her, the new learning and the new order seemed established. Under the impulse of her advent, Cranmer was able to carry through a hostile house of bishops his motion for preparing and publishing an English Bible. Cranmer took up the several parts of Tyndale's work, and asked the bishops to revise them for the public use. Tyndale remained at Antwerp, under the protection of her laws, but books composed by him were now admitted into London with the greatest ease. A copy of his Obedience of a Christian Man and how a Christian Ruler ought to Govern, was prepared for Elizabeth, as a text-book for the future Queen.

VOL. IV.

CHAPTER V.

MOTHER AND CHILD.

1534.

1. YET under all this show of freedom, light, and gladness, lurked, as Chapuys saw, a menace for the mother and her child. The King was worried and depressed. Once more his hope was baffled and his blood was soured. For nine years he had waited restively for a son. For that expected son he had sacrificed the partner of his youth, the daughter of his heart. What had he gained by all these years of toil, these acts of sacrifice? Another hapless girl! Henry was no longer young and generous. He was forty-two. His health was bad. A sore was opening in his leg, and his physicians feared he might not live another year. Yet he had no one to succeed him on the throne whose titles were beyond dispute! In his disordered temper he was apt to throw the blame on every one, and the abuse he poured on doctors, sorcerers, astrologers and witches, might be turned on Anne herself. Anne had no physical beauty to enchant his eye. She was no longer fresh with youth; nor had the pallor of her skin improved with

time. A fairer face might easily be found; and if the King, inflamed by disappointed hopes at home, and maddened by political plots abroad, should be again induced to seek new combinations,' there were plenty of willing hands, besides those of Chapuys, to help him in removing Anne.

2. Mary, queen-duchess, was no more, but she had left in Suffolk's charge, with an appeal to Henry's brotherly affection, her two daughters, Lady Frances Brandon and Lady Elinor Brandon. Henry had never ceased to love his sister, even when she was labouring to prevent his match with Anne, and her decease at Westhorpe Hall, in banishment and protest, stirred a dangerous tumult in his veins.

Some

3. The situation was as simple as it turned out tragic. Should the Queen retain her seat, these Brandons would be pushed aside by a new race of Boleyns, and the issue of the queen-duchess would sink into the same position as the Courtneys and the Poles. To Suffolk, therefore, and to all his kindred and connexions, a fight against the reigning Queen was nothing less than a contention for the crown. baser passions also moved the Duke. Anne had foiled him more than once.. In every tussle he had come off worst; his charges having been disproved, and he, as false accuser, driven from court in shame. Blood had been shed in the affair-a kinsman's blood-which cried to him for vengeance. Yet the passion of revenge was not so strong within him as the passion of avarice. Suffolk wanted money, and