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Ilya Tolstoy - "Reminiscences of Tolstoy"

Joseph E. Badger, Jr. - "The Lost City"

Owen Wister - "Padre Ignacio"

Roger Ascham - "The Scholemaster"

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Self-willed and thoughtless--even rude and hoydenish--we may
think her in these days of gentler manners and more guarded
speech. But those were less refined and cultured times than these
in which we live; and the rough, uncurbed nature of "Kinge Henrye
the viii. of Most Famous Memorye," as the old chronicles term the
"bluff King Hal," reappeared to a noticeable extent in the person
of his second child, the daughter of ill-fated Anne Boleyn --"my
ladye's grace" the Princess Elizabeth of England.

And yet we should be readier to excuse this impetuous young
princess of three hundred years ago than were even her associates
and enemies. For enemies she had, poor child, envious and
vindictive ones, who sought to work her harm. Varied and unhappy
had her young life already been. Born amid splendid hopes, in the
royal palace of Greenwich; called Elizabeth after that
grandmother, the fair heiress of the House of York, whose
marriage to a prince of the House of Lancaster had ended the long
and cruel War or the Roses; she had been welcomed with the peal
of bells and the boom of cannon, and christened with all the
regal ceremonial of King Henry's regal court. Then, when scarcely
three years old, disgraced by the wicked murder of her mother,
cast off and repudiated by her brutal father, and only received
again to favor at the christening of her baby brother, passing
her childish days in grim old castles and a wicked court, --she
found herself, at thirteen, fatherless as well as motherless, and
at fifteen cast on her own resources, the sport of men's
ambitions and of conspirators' schemes. To-day the girl of
fifteen, tenderly reared, shielded from trouble by a mother's
watchful love and a father's loving care, can know but little of
the dangers that compassed this princess of England, the Lady
Elizabeth. Deliberately separated from her younger brother, the
king, by his unwise and selfish counsellors, hated by her elder
sister, the Lady Mary, as the daughter of the woman who had made
HER mother's life so miserable, she was, even in her manor-home
of Hatfield, where she should have been most secure, in still
greater jeopardy. For this same Lord Seymour of Sudleye, who was
at once Lord High Admiral of England, uncle to the king, and
brother of Somerset the Lord Protector, had by fair promises and
lavish gifts bound to his purpose this defenceless girl's only
protectors, Master Parry, her cofferer, or steward, and Mistress
Katherine Ashley, her governess. And that purpose was to force
the young princess into a marriage with himself, so as to help
his schemes of treason against the Lord Protector, and get into
his own hands the care of the boy king and the government of the
realm. It was a bold plot, and, if unsuccessful, meant attainder
and death for high treason; but Seymour, ambitious, reckless, and
unprincipled, thought only of his own desires, and cared little
for the possible ruin into which he was dragging the unsuspecting
and orphaned daughter of the king who had been his ready friend
and patron.

So matters stood at the period of our store, on the eve of the
Christmas festivities of 1548, as, on, the arm of her boy escort,
Sir Robert Dudley, gentleman usher at King Edward's court, and,
years after, the famous Earl of Leicester of Queen Elizabeth's
day, the royal maiden entered the hall of Hatfield House. And,
within the great hall, she was greeted by Master Parry, her
cofferer, Master Runyon, her yeoman of the robes, and Master
Mitchell, the feodary. Then, with a low obeisance, the feodary
presented her the scroll which had been brought him, post-haste,
by Launcelot Crue, the courser-man.

"What, good Master Avery," exclaimed Elizabeth, as she ran her
eye over the scroll, "you to be Lord of Misrule and Master of the
Revels! And by my Lord of Somerset's own appointing? I am right
glad to learn it."

And this is what she read:

Imprimis[1]: I give leave to Avery Mitchell, feodary, gentleman,
to be Lord of Misrule of all good orders, at the Manor of
Hatfield, during the twelve days of Yule-tide. And, also, I give
free leave to the said Avery Mitchell to command all and every
person or persons whatsoever, as well servants as others, to be
at his command whensoever be shall sound his trumpet or music,
and to do him good service, as though I were present myself, at
their perils. I give full power and authority to his lordship to
break all locks, bolts, bars, doors, and latches to come at all
those who presume to disobey his lordship's commands. God save
the King. SOMERSET."


[1] A Latin term signifying "in the first place," or "to commence
with," and used as the opening of legal or official directions.


It was Christmas Eve. The great hall of Hatfield House gleamed
with the light of many candles that flashed upon the sconce and
armor and polished floor. Holly and mistletoe, rosemary and bay,
and all the decorations of an old-time English Christmas were
tastefully arranged. A burst of laughter ran through the hall, as
through the ample doorway, and down the broad stair, trooped the
Motley train of the Lord of Misrule to open the Christmas revels.
A fierce and ferocious-looking fellow was he, with his great
green mustache and his ogre-like face. His dress was a gorgeous
parti-colored jerkin and half-hose, trunks, ruff, slouch-boots of
Cordova leather, and high befeathered steeple hat. His long
staff, topped with a fool's head, cap, and bells, rang loudly on
the floor, as, preceded by his diminutive but pompous page, he
led his train around and around the great hall, lustily singing
the chorus:

"Like prince and king he leads the ring;
Right merrily we go. Sing hey-trix, trim-go-trix,
Under the mistletoe!"


A menagerie let loose, or the most dyspeptic of after-dinner
dreams, could not be more bewildering than was this motley train
of the Lord of Misrule. Giants and dwarfs, dragons and griffins,
hobby-horses and goblins, Robin Hood and the Grand Turk, bears
and boars and fantastic animals that never had a name, boys and
girls, men and women, in every imaginable costume and
device--around and around the hall they went, still ringing out
the chorus:

"Sing hey-trix, trim-go-trix,
Under the mistletoe!"


Then, standing in the centre of his court, the Lord of Misrule
bade his herald declare that from Christmas Eve to Twelfth Night
he was Lord Supreme; that, with his magic art, he transformed all
there into children, and charged them, on their fealty to act
only as such. "I absolve them all from wisdom," he said; "I bid
them be just wise enough to make fools of themselves, and do
decree that none shall sit apart in pride and eke in
self-sufficiency to laugh at others"; and then the fun commenced.

Off in stately Whitehall, in the palace of the boy king, her
brother, the revels were grander and showier; but to the young
Elizabeth, not yet skilled in all the stiffness of the royal
court, the Yule-tide feast at Hatfield House brought pleasure
enough; and so, seated at her holly-trimmed virginal--that
great-great-grandfather of the piano of to-day,--she, whose rare
skill as a musician has come down to us, would--when wearied with
her "prankes and japes"--"tap through" some fitting Christmas
carol, or that older lay of the Yule-tide "Mumming":

To shorten winter's sadness see where the folks with gladness
Disguised, are all a-coming, right wantonly a-mumming,
Fa-la!
"Whilst youthful sports are lasting, to feasting turn our
fasting:
With revels and with wassails make grief and care our vassals,
Fa-la!"

The Yule-log had been noisily dragged in "to the firing," and as
the big sparks raced up the wide chimney, the boar's head and the
tankard of sack, the great Christmas candle and the Christmas
pie, were escorted around the room to the flourish of trumpets
and welcoming shouts; the Lord of Misrule, with a wave of his
staff, was about to give the order for all to unmask, when
suddenly there appeared in the circle a new character--a great
green dragon, as fierce and ferocious as well could be, from his
pasteboard jaws to his curling canvas tail. The green dragon of
Wantley! Terrified urchins backed hastily away from his horrible
jaws, and the Lord of Misrule gave a sudden and visible start.
The dragon himself, scarce waiting for the surprise to subside,
waved his paw for silence, and said, in a hollow, pasteboardy
voice:

"Most noble Lord of Misrule, before your feast commences and the
masks are doff'd, may we not as that which should give good
appetite to all,--with your lordship's permit and that of my
lady's grace,--tell each some wonder-filling tale as suits the
goodly time of Yule? Here be stout maskers can tell us strange
tales of fairies and goblins, or, perchance, of the foreign folk
with whom they have trafficked in Calicute and Affrica, Barbaria,
Perew, and other diverse lands and countries over-sea. And after
they have ended, then will I essay a tale that shall cap them
all, so past belief shall it appear."

The close of the dragon's speech, of course, made them all the
more curious; and the Lady Elizabeth did but speak for all when
she said: "I pray you, good Sir Dragon, let us have your tale
first. We have had enow of Barbaria and Perew. If that yours may
be so wondrous, let us hear it even now, and then may we decide."

"As your lady's grace wishes," said the dragon. "But methinks
when you have heard me through, you would that it had been the
last or else not told at all."

"Your lordship of Misrule and my lady's grace must know," began
the dragon, "that my story, though a short, is a startling one.
Once on a time there lived a king, who, though but a boy, did, by
God's grace, in talent, industry, perseverance, and knowledge,
surpass both his own years and the belief of men. And because he
was good and gentle alike and conditioned beyond the measure of
his years, he was the greater prey to the wicked wiles of
traitorous men. And one such, high in the king's court, thought
to work him ill; and to carry out his ends did wantonly awaken
seditious and rebellious intent even among the king's kith and
kin, whom lie traitorously sought to wed,--his royal and younger
sister,--nay, start' not my lady's grace!" exclaimed the dragon
quickly, as Elizabeth turned upon him a look of sudden and
haughty surprise. "All is known! And this is the ending of my
wondrous tale. My Lord Seymour of Sudleye is this day taken for
high treason and haled[1] to the Tower. They of your own
household are held as accomplice to the Lord Admiral's wicked
intent, and you, Lady Elizabeth Tudor, are by order of the
council to be restrained in prison wards in this your manor of
Hatfield until such time as the king's Majesty and the honorable
council shall decide. This on your allegiance!"

[1] Haled--dragged, forcibly conveyed.


The cry of terror that the dragon's words awoke, died into
silence as the Lady Elizabeth rose to her feet, flushed with
anger.

"Is this a fable or the posy of a ring, Sir Dragon?" she said,
sharply. "Do you come to try or tempt me, or is this perchance
but some part of my Lord of Misrule's Yule-tide mumming? 'Sblood,
sir; only cravens sneak behind masks to strike and threaten. Have
off your disguise, if you be a true man; or, by my word as
Princess of England, he shall bitterly rue the day who dares to
befool the daughter of Henry Tudor!"

"As you will, then, my lady," said the dragon. "Do you doubt me
now?" and, tearing off his pasteboard wrapping, he stood
disclosed before them all as the grim Sir Robert Trywhitt, chief
examiner of the Lord Protector's council. "Move not at your
peril," he said, as a stir in the throng seemed to indicate the
presence of some brave spirits who would have shielded their
young princess. "Master Feodary, bid your varlets stand to their
arms."

And at a word from Master Avery Mitchell, late Lord of Misrule,
there flashed from beneath the cloaks of certain tall figures on
the circle's edge the halberds of the guard. The surprise was
complete. The Lady Elizabeth was a prisoner in her own
manor-house, and the Yule-tide revels had reached a sudden and
sorry ending.

And yet, once again, under this false accusation, did the hot
spirit of the Tudors flame in the face and speech of the Princess
Elizabeth.

"Sir Robert Trywhitt," cried the brave young girl, "these be but
lying rumors that do go against my honor and my fealty. God
knoweth they be shameful slanders, sir; for the which, besides
the desire I have to see the King's Majesty, I pray you let me
also be brought straight before the court that I may disprove
these perjured tongues."

But her appeal was not granted. For months she was kept close
prisoner at Hatfield House, subject daily to most rigid
cross-examination by Sir Robert Trywhitt for the purpose of
implicating her if possible in the Lord Admiral's plot. But all
in vain; and at last even Sir Robert gave up the attempt, and
wrote to the council that "the Lady Elizabeth hath a good wit,
and nothing is gotten of her but by great policy."

Lord Seymour of Sudleye, was beheaded for treason on Tower Hill,
and others, implicated in his plots, were variously punished; but
even "great policy" cannot squeeze a lie out of the truth, and
Elizabeth was finally declared free of the stain of treason.

Experience, which is a hard teacher, often brings to light the
best that is in us. It was so in this case. For, as one writer
says: "The long and harassing ordeal disclosed the splendid
courage, the reticence, the rare discretion, which were to carry
the Princess through many an awful peril in the years to come.
Probably no event of her early girlhood went so far toward making
a woman of Elizabeth as did this miserable affair."

Within ten years thereafter the Lady Elizabeth ascended the
throne of England. Those ten years covered many strange events,
many varying fortunes--the death of her brother, the boy King
Edward, the sad tragedy of Lady Jane Grey, Wyatt's rebellion, the
tanner's revolt, and all the long horror of the reign of "Bloody
Mary." You may read of all this in history, and may see how,
through it all, the young princess grew still more firm of will,
more self-reliant, wise, and strong, developing all those
peculiar qualities that helped to make her England's greatest
queen, and one of the most wonderful women in history. But
through all her long and most historic life,--a life of over
seventy years, forty-five of which were passed as England's
queen,--scarce any incident made so lasting an impression upon
her as when, in Hatfield House, the first shock of the false
charge of treason fell upon the thoughtless girl of fifteen in
the midst of the Christmas revels.



CHRISTINA OF SWEDEN:

THE GIRL OF THE NORTHERN FIORDS.

A.D. 1636.

There were tears and trouble in Stockholm; there was sorrow in
every house and hamlet in Sweden; there was consternation
throughout Protestant Europe. Gustavus Adolphus was dead! The
"Lion of the North" had fallen on the bloody and victorious field
of Lutzen, and only a very small girl of six stood as the
representative of Sweden's royalty.

The States of Sweden--that is, the representatives of the
different sections and peoples of the kingdom--gathered in haste
within the Riddarhaus, or Hall of Assembly, in Stockholm. There
was much anxious controversy over the situation. The nation was
in desperate strait, and some were for one thing and some were
for another. There was even talk of making the government a
republic, like the state of Venice; and the supporters of the
king of Poland, cousin to the dead King Gustavus, openly
advocated his claim to the throne.

But the Grand Chancellor, Axel Oxenstiern, one of Sweden's
greatest statesmen, acted promptly.

"Let there be no talk between us," he said, "of Venetian
republics or of Polish kings. We have but one king--the daughter
of the immortal Gustavus!"

Then up spoke one of the leading representatives of the peasant
class, Lars Larsson, the deputy from the western fiords.

"Who is this daughter of Gustavus?" he demanded. "How do we know
this is no trick of yours, Axel Oxenstiern? How do we know that
King Gustavus has a daughter? We have never seen her."

"You shall see her at once," replied the Chancellor; and leaving
the Hall for an instant, he returned speedily, leading a little
girl by the hand. With a sudden movement he lifted her to the
seat of the high silver throne that could only be occupied by the
kings of Sweden.

"Swedes, behold your king!"

Lars Larsson, the deputy, pressed close to the throne on which
the small figure perched silent, yet with a defiant little look
upon her face.

"She hath the face of the Grand Gustavus," he said. "Look,
brothers, the nose, the eyes, the very brows are his."

"Aye," said Oxenstiern; "and she is a soldier's daughter. I
myself did see her, when scarce three years old, clap her tiny
hands and laugh aloud when the guns of Calmar fortress thundered
a salute. 'She must learn to bear it,' said Gustavus our king;
'she is a soldier's daughter.' "

"Hail, Christina!" shouted the assembly, won by the proud bearing
of the little girl and by her likeness to her valiant father. "We
will have her and only her for our queen!"

"Better yet, brothers," cried Lars Larsson, now her most loyal
supporter; "she sits upon the throne of the kings; let her be
proclaimed King of Sweden."

And so it was done. And with their wavering loyalty kindled into
a sudden flame, the States of Sweden "gave a mighty shout" and
cried as one man, "Hail, Christina, King of Sweden!"

There was strong objection in Sweden to the rule of a woman; and
the education of this little girl was rather that of a prince
than of a princess. She was taught to ride and to shoot, to hunt
and to fence, to undertake all of a boy's exercises, and to
endure all a boy's privations. She could bring down a hare, at
the first shot, from the back of a galloping horse; she could
outride the most expert huntsman in her train.

So she grew from childhood into girlhood, and at thirteen was as
bold and fearless, as wilful and self-possessed as any young
fellow of twenty-one. But besides all this she was a wonderful
scholar; indeed, she would be accounted remarkable even in these
days of bright girl-graduates. At thirteen she was a thorough
Greek scholar; she was learned in mathematics and astronomy, the
classics, history, and philosophy; and she acquired of her own
accord German, Italian, Spanish, and French.

Altogether, this girl Queen of the North was as strange a
compound of scholar and hoyden, pride and carelessness, ambition
and indifference, culture and rudeness, as ever, before her time
or since, were combined in the nature of a girl of thirteen. And
it is thus that our story finds her.

One raw October morning in the year 1639, there was stir and
excitement at the palace in Stockholm. A courier had arrived
bearing important dispatches to the Council of Regents which
governed Sweden during the minority of the Queen, and there was
no one to officially meet him.

Closely following the lackey who received him, the courier strode
into the council-room of the palace. But the council-room was
vacant.

It was not a very elegant apartment, this council-room of the
palace of the kings of Sweden. Although a royal apartment, its
appearance was ample proof that the art of decoration was as yet
unknown in Sweden. The room was untidy and disordered; the
council-table was strewn with the ungathered litter of the last
day's council, and even the remains of a coarse lunch mingled
with all this clutter. The uncomfortable-looking chairs all were
out of place, and above the table was a sort of temporary canopy
to prevent the dust and spiders' webs upon the ceiling from
dropping upon the councillors.

The courier gave a sneering look upon this evidence that the
refinement and culture which marked at least the palaces and
castles of other European countries were as yet little considered
in Sweden. Then, important and impatient, he turned to the
attendant. "Well," he said, "and is there none here to receive my
dispatches? They call for--houf! so! what manners are these?"

What manners indeed! The courier might well ask this. For, plump
against him, as he spoke, dashed, first a girl and then a boy who
had darted from somewhere into the council-chamber. Too absorbed
in their own concerns to notice who, if any one, was in the room,
they had run against and very nearly upset the astonished bearer
of dispatches. Still more astonished was he, when the girl, using
his body as a barrier against her pursuer, danced and dodged
around him to avoid being caught by her pursuer--a fine-looking
young lad of about her own age--Karl Gustav, her cousin. The
scandalized bearer of dispatches to the Swedish Council of
Regents shook himself free from the girl's strong grasp and
seizing her by the shoulder, demanded, sternly:

"How now, young mistress! Is this seemly conduct toward a
stranger and an imperial courier?"

The girl now for the first time noticed the presence of a
stranger. Too excited in her mad dash into the room to
distinguish him from one of the palace servants, she only learned
the truth by the courier's harsh words. A sudden change came over
her. She drew herself up haughtily and said to the attendant:

"And who is this officious stranger, Klas?

The tone and manner of the question again surprised the courier,
and he looked at the speaker, amazed. What he saw was an
attractive young girl of thirteen, short of stature, with bright
hazel eyes, a vivacious face, now almost stern in its expression
of pride and haughtiness. A man's fur cap rested upon the mass of
tangled light-brown hair which, tied imperfectly with a simple
knot of ribbon, fell down upon her neck. Her short dress of plain
gray stuff hung loosely about a rather trim figure; and a black
scarf, carelessly tied, encircled her neck. In short, he saw a
rather pretty, carelessly dressed, healthy, and just now very
haughty-looking young girl, who seemed more like a boy in speech
and manners,--and one who needed to be disciplined and curbed.

Again the question came: "Who is this man, and what seeks he
here, Klas? I ask."

" 'T is a courier with dispatches for the council, Madam,"
replied the man.

"Give me the dispatches," said the girl; "I will attend to them."

"You, indeed!" The courier laughed grimly. "The dispatches from
the Emperor of Germany are for no hairbrained maid to handle.
These are to be delivered to the Council of Regents alone."

"I will have naught of councils or regents, Sir Courier, save
when it pleases me," said the girl, tapping the floor with an
angry foot. "Give me the dispatches, I say,--I am the King of
Sweden!"

"You--a girl--king?" was all that the astonished courier could
stammer out. Then, as the real facts dawned upon him, he knelt at
the feet of the young queen and presented his dispatches.

"Withdraw, sir!" said Christina, taking the papers from his hand
with but the scant courtesy of a nod; "we will read these and
return a suitable answer to your master."

The courier withdrew, still dazed at this strange turn of
affairs; and Christina, leaning carelessly against the
council-table, opened the dispatches.

Suddenly she burst into a merry but scarcely lady-like laugh.
"Ha, ha, ha! this is too rare a joke, Karl," she cried. "Lord
Chancellor, Mathias, Torstenson!" she exclaimed, as these members
of her council entered the apartment, "what think you? Here come
dispatches from the Emperor of Germany begging that you, my
council, shall consider the wisdom of wedding me to his son and
thereby closing the war! His son, indeed! Ferdinand the Craven!"

"And yet, Madam," suggested the wise Oxenstiern, "it is a matter
that should not lightly be cast aside. In time you must needs be
married. The constitution of the kingdom doth oblige you to."

"Oblige!" and the young girl turned upon the gray-headed
chancellor almost savagely. "Oblige! and who, Sir Chancellor,
upon earth shall OBLIGE me to do so, if I do it not of mine own
will? Say not OBLIGE to me."

This was vigorous language for a girl of scarce fourteen; but it
was "Christina's way," one with which both the Council and the
people soon grew familiar. It was the Vasa[1] nature in her, and
it was always prominent in this spirited young girl--the last
descendant of that masterful house.

[1] Vasa was the family name of her father and the ancient king
of Sweden.


But now the young Prince Karl Gustavus had something to say.

"Ah, cousin mine," and he laid a strong though boyish hand upon
the young girl's arm. "What need for couriers or dispatches that
speak of suitors for your hand? Am not I to be your husband? From
babyhood you have so promised me."

Christina again broke into a loud and merry laugh.

"Hark to the little burgomaster,"[1] she cried; "much travel hath
made him, I do fear me, soft in heart and head. Childish
promises, Karl. Let such things be forgotten now. You are to be a
soldier--I, a queen."

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