established code of belief, particularly in the article of the real presence; and, notwithstanding the weakness of her sex and age, she was thrown into prison, and accused of heresy. In this situation, with courage far beyond what might be expected, she employed her time in composing prayers and discourses, and vindicating the truth of her opinions. The chancellor Wriothesly, who was much attached to the catholic party, was sent to examine her with regard to her abettors at court; but she maintained the utmost secrecy, and would accuse none. In consequence of this contumacy, as it was called, the poor young lady was put to the torture; but she still continued resolute, and her silence testified her contempt of their petty cruelties. The chancellor, therefore, became outrageous, and ordered the lieutenant of the Tower, who executed this punishment, to stretch the rack still harder; which he refusing to do, and, though menaced, still persisting in a refusal, the chancellor, intoxicated with religious zeal, grasped the cord himself, and drew it so violently that the woman's body was almost torn asunder. But her constancy was greater than the barbarity of her persecutors; so that, finding no other method to subdue her, she was condemned to be burned alive. She received this sentence with a transport of joy, as a release from a state of the greatest pain to the greatest felicity. As her joints had been dislocated by the rack, so that she could not stand, she was carried to the place of execution in a chair. Together with her were brought Nicholas Belenian, a priest, John Lascelles, of the king's household, and John Adams, a tailor, who had all been condemned for the same crime. They were tied to the stake; and in that dreadful situation informed, that if they would recant, their lives would be spared. But they refused a life that was to be gained

by such prostitution; and they saw with tranquillity the executioner kindle the flames which consumed them.

From this indiscriminate severity the queen was not herself entirely secure. She had for some time attended the king in his indisposition, and endeavoured to sooth him by her arts and assiduity. His favourite topic of conversation was theology; and Catharine, who was tinctured with the spirit of the times, would now and then enter into a debate with him upon many speculative tenets that were then in agitation between the Catholics and Lutherans. Henry, highly provoked that she should presume to differ from him, made complaints of her obstinacy to Gardiner, who gladly laid hold of the opportunity to inflame the quarrel. Even articles of impeachment were drawn up against her, which were brought to the king by the chancellor to be signed; but, in returning home, he happened to drop the paper. It was very lucky for the queen that the person who found it was in her interest: it was immediately carried to her, and the contents soon made her sensible of the danger to which she was exposed. In this exigency, she was resolved to work upon the king; and paying him her customary visit, he led her as usual. to the subject of theology, which at first she seemed to decline, but in which she afterwards engaged, as if merely to gratify his inclinations. In the course of her conversation, however, she gave him to know, that her whole aim in talking was to receive his instructions, and not to controvert them; that it was not for her to set her opinions in opposition to those which served to direct the nation; but she alleged, she could not help trying every art that could induce the king to exert that eloquence which served, for the time, to mitigate his bodily pain. Henry seemed charmed at this discovery;

"And is it so, sweetheart?" cried he: "then we are perfect friends again." Just after this reconciliation, the chancellor made his appearance, with forty pursuivants at his heels, prepared to take the queen into custody. But the king advanced to meet him, and seemed to expostulate with him in the severest terms. The queen could overhear the terms, knave, fool, and beast, which he very liberally bestowed upon that magistrate, and his being ordered to depart. When he was gone, she interposed in his defence; but the king could not help saying, "Poor soul! you know not how little entitled this man is to your good offices." Thenceforth the queen was careful not to offend Henry's humour by contradiction: she was contented to suffer the divines to dispute, and the executioner to destroy. The fires accordingly were kindled against the heretics of both sides, as usual; during which dreadful exhibitions, the king would frequently assemble the houses of parliament, and harangue them with florid orations, in which he would aver, that never prince had a greater affection for his people, nor ever people had a greater affection for their king. In every pause of these extraordinary orations, some of his creatures, near his person, would begin to applaud; and this was followed by loud acclamations from the rest of the audience.

But though his health was declining apace, yet his implacable cruelties were not the less frequent. His resentments were diffused indiscriminately to all: at one time a protestant, and at another a catholic, were the objects of his severity. The duke of Norfolk, and his son the earl of Surrey, were the last that felt the injustice of the tyrant's groundless suspicions. The duke was a nobleman who had served the king with talents and fidelity: his son was a young man of the most promising hopes, who excelled in every accomplishment

that became a scholar, a courtier, and a soldier. He excelled in all the military exercises which were then in request: he encouraged the fine arts by his practice and example; and it is remarkable, that he was the first who brought our language, in his poetical pieces, to any degree of refinement. He celebrated the fair Ge

raldina in all his sonnets, and maintained her superior beauty in all places of public contention. These qualifications, however, were no safeguard to him against Henry's suspicions: he had dropped some expressions of resentment against the king's ministers, upon being displaced from the government of Boulogne; and the whole family had become obnoxious from the late incontinence of Catharine Howard, the queen, who was executed. From these motives, therefore, private orders were given to arrest the father and son; and accordingly they were arrested both on the same day, and confined in the Tower. Surrey being a commoner, his trial was the more expeditious; and as to proofs, there were many informers base enough to betray the intimacies of private confidence, and all the connections of blood. The duchess dowager of Richmond, Surrey's own sister, enlisted herself among the number of his accusers; and Sir Richard Southwell also, his most intimate friend, charged him with infidelity to the king. It would seem that, at this dreary period, there was neither faith nor honour to be found in all the nation. Surrey denied the charge, and challenged his accuser to single combat. This favour was refused him and it was alleged, that he had quartered the arms of Edward the Confessor on his escutcheon, which alone was suf ficient to convict him of aspiring to the crown. To this he could make no reply: and indeed any answer would have been needless; for neither parliaments nor juries, during this reign, seemed to be guided by any

other proofs than the will of the crown. This young nobleman was, therefore, condemned for high-treason, notwithstanding his eloquent and spirited defence; and the sentence was soon after executed upon him on Tower-hill. In the mean time the duke endeavoured to mollify the king by letters and submissions; but the monster's hard heart was rarely subject to tender impressions. As soon as the parliament re-assembled, a bill of attainder was found against the duke, as it was thought he could not so easily have been convicted on a fair hearing by his peers. The only crime that his accusers could allege against him was, that he had once said that the king was sickly, and could not hold out long; and that the kingdom was likely to be torn between the contending parties of different persuasions. Cranmer, though engaged for many years in an opposite party to Norfolk, and though he had received many and great injuries from him, would have no hand in so unjust a prosecution; but retired to his seat at Croydon. However, the death warrant was made out, and immediately sent to the lieutenant of the Tower. The duke prepared for death, as the following morning was to be his last; but an event of greater consequence to the kingdom intervened, and prevented his execution.

The king had been for some time approaching fast towards his end; and for several days all those about his person plainly saw that his speedy death was inevitable. The disorder in his leg was now grown extremely painful; and this, added to his monstrous corpulency, which rendered him unable to stir, made him more furious than a chained lion. He had ever been stern and severe; he was now outrageous. In this state he had continued for near four years before his death, the terror of all, and the tormentor of himself: his courtiers having no inclination to make an enemy of him, as they