CHAPTER VI.

DISGUISES ASSUMED BY, OR IN BEHALF OF, ROYALTY.

Disguise of Achilles--Of Ulysses--Of Codrus--Fiction employed by Numa Pompilius--King Alfred disguised in the Swineherd’s Cottage--His Visit, as a Harper, to the Danish Camp--Richard Cœur de Lion takes the Garb of a Pilgrim--He is discovered and imprisoned--Disguises and Escape of Mary, Queen of Scots--Escape of Charles the Second, after the Battle of Worcester--Of Stanislaus from Dantzic--Of Prince Charles Edward from Scotland--Peter the Great takes the Dress of a Ship Carpenter--His Visit to England--Anecdote of his Conduct to a Dutch Skipper--Stratagem of the Princess Ulrica of Prussia--Pleasant Deception practised by Catherine the Second of Russia--Joan of Arc--Her early Life--Discovers the King when first introduced at Court--She compels the English to raise the Siege of Orleans--Joan leads the King to be crowned at Rheims--She is taken Prisoner--Base and barbarous Conduct of her Enemies--She is burned at Rouen--The Devil of Woodstock--Annoying Pranks played by it--Explanation of the Mystery--Fair Rosamond.

“Uneasy lies the head which wears a crown,” are the emphatic words of Shakspeare; and that a penalty of no light sorrow is often attached to the pomp and grandeur of royalty, is a fact which receives confirmation from the earliest traditionary accounts we have of the histories of kings and princes.[8]

To avoid the dangers inseparable from war; or, during war, to overpower an enemy by guile, as well as by force of arms; or, in political troubles, to seek a temporary concealment; have been occasionally the objects of men celebrated in after-times as heroes, and as examples worthy and proper to be followed by such as aimed at future conquest or greatness.

Thetis, knowing that her son Achilles was doomed to perish, if he went to the Trojan war, privately sent him, it is said, to the court of Lycomedes, where he was disguised in a female dress; but, as Troy could not be taken without him, Ulysses went to the same court in the habit of a merchant, and exposed jewels and arms for sale. Achilles, neglecting the jewels, generally more attractive to female eyes, and displaying a certain skill in handling the weapons, inadvertently discovered his sex, and, challenged by Ulysses, was obliged to go to the war, in which he ultimately perished. The truth of this story cannot perhaps be safely asserted, especially as the introduction of the goddess Thetis is evidently poetical; but the tradition of it and the two following are quoted, to show that such impostures and concealments were not considered derogatory to the courage or good conduct of the greatest heroes of antiquity; and it is also probable that such facts, stripped of their poetical dress, did really take place.

Ulysses had pretended to be insane, that he might not be obliged to leave his beloved Penelope; and had yoked a horse and bull together, ploughing the sea-shore, where he sowed salt instead of corn. This dissimulation was discovered by Palamedes, who placed Telemachus, the infant son of Ulysses, before the plough, and thus convinced the world that the father was not mad; as he turned the plough from the furrow, to avoid injuring his son.

Codrus, the last king of Athens, from a nobler motive concealed his dignity, and saved his country, by sacrificing his own life; for, when the Heraclidæ made war against Athens, the Delphian oracle was consulted about the event: the Pythoness declared, that the Peloponnesians would be victorious, provided they did not kill the Athenian king. This response being promulgated, Codrus, in the heroic spirit of the age, determined to sacrifice his own life for the benefit of his country. Disguising himself, therefore, as a peasant, he went to the outpost of the enemy, and, seeking an occasion to quarrel, he was killed. When the real quality of the person slain became known, the Heraclidæ, believing their fate sealed if they remained, quickly retreated to their own country.

Numa Pompilius, at the death of Romulus, was unanimously elected king of Rome, and accepted the office after the repeated and earnest solicitations of the senate and people. Not, like Romulus, fond of war and military expeditions, he applied himself to tame the ferocity of his subjects, by inculcating a reverence for the deity. He had the discretion to see that, if he could bring them to the belief that he was aided by higher powers, his own regulations would be better attended to. He, therefore, encouraged the report which was spread, of his paying regular visits to the goddess-nymph Egeria; and he made use of her name to give sanction to the laws and institutions which he had introduced, and he informed the Romans that the safety of the empire depended upon the preservation of the sacred ancyle, or shield, which it was generally believed had dropped from heaven.

King Alfred, during the unsettled times of the Saxon heptarchy, is an example of a reverse of fortune successfully overcome by temporary disguise and concealment. Striving with the Danes for the possession of his own country, he was worsted, and compelled to provide for his safety by flying to a small island in Somersetshire, in the midst of marshes. This little oasis in the desert afterwards obtained the name of Ethelingey, or Prince’s Island. From a swineherd who resided there the king received shelter, and under his roof he remained for months. It happened one day that the swain’s wife placed some loaves on the hearth to be baked. The king was at the moment sitting by the fire, trimming his arrows. The woman, who was ignorant of his rank, said to him, “Turn thou those loaves, that they burn not; for I know that thou art a great eater.” Alfred, whose thoughts and time were otherwise engaged, neglected this injunction, and the good woman, finding on her return the cakes all burnt, rated the king very severely; upbraiding him that, though he was so negligent in watching her warm cakes, he always seemed very well pleased to eat them. Alfred, it is said, subsequently munificently rewarded the peasant, whose name was Denulf, recommended him to apply himself to letters, and afterwards made him Bishop of Winchester.

Some fugitives of Alfred’s party, at length, coming to the same place, recognised him, and remained with him, forming the nucleus of his future army. After six months passed in this retreat, he sought to surprise the main army of the Northmen, which was still encamped in Wiltshire. But, before striking any blow, he resolved to inspect the camp of the enemy in person. His early predilection for Saxon poetry and music qualified him to assume another disguise, that of a harper, and in this character he went to the Danish camp. His harp and singing excited notice; he was admitted to the king’s table, heard his conversation with his generals, and contemplated their position unsuspected. He then returned to his own troops in safety, and, taking advantage of his knowledge of the place, conducted them to the most unguarded quarter of the enemy’s camp, who were soon put to flight with great slaughter. This success paved the way for his ultimately regaining his crown and kingdom. Such is the story which has been handed down to us by some writers; but it was unknown to Asser, the biographer and contemporary of Alfred, and its truth is more than doubtful.

Richard Cœur de Lion, at the close of those chivalrous adventures which made his name so renowned in the crusades, having left the Holy Land, on his way home, sailed to Corfu. On his arrival at that island, he hired three coasting vessels to carry him and his suite to Ragusa and Zara. Aware of the danger to which he was exposed from the animosity and machinations of his enemies, he concealed his dignity under the name of Hugh the Merchant. The beards and hair of Richard and his companions had grown long from neglect, and they wore the garments of pilgrims. Driven by a storm on the Istrian coast, they landed between Venice and Aquileia, and proceeded towards Goritz, where it was necessary to solicit passports from the governor. He happened to be Maynard, the nephew of that Conrad who was stabbed in the streets of Tyre, and whose death was maliciously ascribed to Richard. Richard had purchased three rubies from a merchant at Pisa, and one of them was fixed in a gold ring. Consulting his native liberality, rather than remembering his assumed character, Richard sent this ring as a present to the governor, when he asked his protection. Startled at the value of the gift, Maynard asked who were the persons that wished for passports. He was answered that they were pilgrims from Jerusalem; but the man who sent the ring was Hugh the Merchant. “This is not the gift of a merchant, but of a prince,” said he, still contemplating the ring: “this must be King Richard;” and he returned a courteous but evasive answer.

Richard felt that, in a country where he had so many bitter enemies, suspicion was equivalent to discovery, and that, if he remained, his safety was compromised. He quitted therefore his party, and by the assistance of a German youth, as his guide, travelled three days and nights without food. Pressed at last by hunger, he rested near Vienna, where his enemy the Duke of Austria then was. A second incautious liberality again excited suspicion; and he was obliged to remain in a cottage whilst the youth procured necessaries for him. Richard supplied his messenger with so much money, that the ostentatious display of it in the market by the youth excited curiosity. On his next visit to the market he was seized, and put to the torture, by which he was compelled to reveal the name and asylum of the king. The Duke surrounded the cottage with his soldiers, who called on Richard to surrender, but the monarch refused to yield to any one but to the Duke himself. A cruel imprisonment followed his arrest, but he was at last restored to his kingdom.

The romantic story of his favourite Blondel, seeking him throughout Europe in the disguise of a minstrel, and discovering his prison, by singing his favourite air under the walls of it, is believed to have no other foundation than the lay of some sentimental troubadour.

The beautiful and unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots excited a romantic interest and affection in her immediate followers, which has scarcely diminished at this distance of time; and in the attempt to escape from her evil fortune, in which she was strenuously aided by those followers, she was more than once obliged to assume a disguise to impose on the ever-wakeful vigilance of her enemies.

It is well-known that this celebrated beauty, through the political, as well, as it is believed, the personal jealousy of Queen Elizabeth, was imprisoned in Lochleven Castle, situated in the midst of a lake, which being thus cut off from all communication with the surrounding country, was thought sufficiently secure, for the purposes of safe custody. But her beauty, and pitiable misfortunes, rendered her an object of compassion to many about her, and several attempts were made to rescue her from her rigorous confinement.

Mary had one day nearly succeeded in making her escape from the castle, disguised as a laundress. She had actually seated herself in the boat, when she was betrayed by inadvertently raising to her cheek a hand of snowy whiteness; her beauty in this instance, as in many others, proving the greatest source of her misery.

William Douglas, soon after, had the address to steal the keys of the gates, from the hall in which Sir William Douglas his father, and his mother, were sitting at supper. The queen, apprised of the circumstance, once more descended to the edge of the lake, where a boat was waiting, and having entered it, her maid assisted in rowing; as they approached the shore, William Douglas flung the keys into the lake. Having quitted the boat, the queen mounted a palfrey, and rode to Middry, the residence of Lord Seaton, where she was surrounded by her friends. She did not, however, long enjoy this respite from her misfortunes, the defeat of her army, at the fatal battle of Langside, in 1568, consigning her to a long and barbarous imprisonment, and, ultimately, to the scaffold.

History records few princes who have been compelled to assume such a series of disguises, or met with such hair-breadth escapes, as fell to the lot of Charles the Second, after his overthrow at Worcester, which apparently crushed for ever the hopes of the royalist party. By the victors no means were left untried to seize upon his person, and had not the fidelity of his followers been even more than equal to the animosity of his enemies, he must undoubtedly have fallen a victim. A reward of a thousand pounds was offered for his apprehension, the formidable terrors of a traitor’s death were fulminated against all who should dare to shelter him, the country was scoured in all directions by numerous parties, and the magistrates were enjoined to arrest every unknown individual, and to keep a vigilant eye on the seaports. All, however, was to no purpose; his flight remained untraceable, his fate was involved in profound mystery, and it at length began to be supposed that he had perished obscurely by the hands of the peasantry. Forty-four days elapsed before the republicans received the unwelcome news that he not only still lived, but that he had eluded their pursuit, and gained a secure asylum in France.

On the night which followed the decisive defeat at Worcester, the Earl of Derby recommended Boscobel House to the prince, as a place of refuge, and at an early hour in the morning Charles reached Whiteladies, twenty-five miles off. There the prince retired to assume his first disguise; his hair was closely cropped, his face and hands were discoloured, his clothes changed for those of a labourer, and a wood-bill was put into his hand, that he might personate a woodman. Under the escort of two peasants named Pendrel, he reached Madely, where he remained concealed till night, when he again sought his way to Boscobel. Here he found Colonel Careless, who was acquainted with every place of concealment in the country, and by his persuasions Charles consented to pass the day with him, amid the branches of a lofty oak, from which they occasionally saw the republican soldiers in search of them.

Night relieved them, and they returned to a concealment in the house. From thence Charles got to Mosely the following day on horseback, and there assumed the character of a servant; for the daughter of Colonel Lane, of Bentley, had a pass, to visit her aunt near Bristol, and Charles departed on horseback with his _mistress_ behind him. On stopping for the night, he was indulged with a separate chamber under the pretence of indisposition, but he was recognised on the following morning by the butler, who, being honoured by the royal confidence, endeavoured to repay it with his services. No ship being found at Bristol, it was resolved that Charles should remove to Trent, near Sherburn, and at Lyme a ship was hired to transport a nobleman and his _servant_, Lord Wilmot and Charles, to the coast of France. But again disappointment attended them. They then rode to Bridport, and in the inn the ostler challenged Charles, as an old acquaintance whom he had known at Mr. Potter’s of Exeter. The fact was, Charles had lodged there during the civil war. He had sufficient presence of mind to avail himself of this partial mistake, and said, “I once lived with Mr. Potter, but, as I have no time now, we will renew our acquaintance on my return to London, over a pot of beer.”

A second ship was at length procured by Colonel Phillips at Southampton, but of this resource Charles was deprived by its being seized for the transport of troops to Jersey: a collier was, however, soon after found at Shoreham, and Charles hastened to Brighton, where he supped with the master of the vessel, who also recognised him, having known him when, as Prince of Wales, he commanded the royal fleet in 1648. The sailor, however, faithfully set him ashore, on the following evening, at Fecamp, in Normandy, where all his perils ended.

Equal dangers have been encountered by a few other princes, in flying from their foes. The escape of King Stanislas Lecszinski, from Dantzic, in 1734, was accomplished under circumstances of extraordinary difficulty. The city was closely invested, all its immediate vicinity was inundated by the Vistula, and the whole of the surrounding country was in the hands of inveterate enemies, who were on the watch, and eager to seize him. The night before the fortress capitulated, he quitted it, disguised, in a boat, accompanied by some peasants, and one of his generals. The night was spent in vain attempts to find the bed of the river, and the dawn compelled him to seek a precarious shelter in a hut within sight of the Russians. In the evening they departed, and at midnight the general and two peasants proceeded to search for a practicable route, leaving the king with only two peasants, of whose fidelity he was doubtful. The general did not return. Again Stanislas was obliged to take refuge in a hut, where he was every moment in dread of being discovered by the Cossacks. The Cossacks did, in reality, enter the house, but they left it without being aware that he was in it. At night, with his guides, he made a painful march, for some miles, through boggy ground, into which he often sank knee deep. On reaching the Vistula, where he had expected to find a boat, it was gone, and he had to make his way back through the marsh. At the house where he now arrived, he was instantly recognised; but the owner was friendly, and promised to provide him with a boat. While the king was waiting, he was joined by one of the peasants who had accompanied the general, who informed him that the Cossacks were searching for him in every part of the neighbourhood. The boat was at length procured, and the king set out to embark; but his guides were so much frightened by seeing the fires of the enemy’s flying camps on all sides, that they refused to proceed. It was only by a great exertion of firmness on his part that they were prevailed on to move forward. At length they reached the boat. The king wished to force on the finder of it a handful of gold, but the noble-spirited peasant could hardly be prevailed on to accept even a couple of ducats. Landing at a village to hire or purchase a vehicle, Stanislas was in the utmost danger of being discovered, in consequence of the drunkenness of his guides. He succeeded, however, in reaching the Nogat, on the other side of which he would be in safety. But here again his hopes were on the point of being wrecked by the stupid obstinacy of his companions, who insisted on his going round by Marienburgh, to cross the bridge there; a measure which would have been fatal. Stanislas peremptorily refused to consent to this mad scheme; and he was lucky enough to procure a boat, by means of which he was conveyed to the Prussian territory, where he met with a hospitable reception.

More protracted sufferings were experienced by the Pretender, Prince Charles Edward, after the battle of Culloden. Pursued by numerous foes, some of whom were rendered inveterate by their political feelings, while others were stimulated by the enormous reward of thirty thousand pounds which was offered for his apprehension, he was, for six months, in hourly expectation of falling into their hands. He was hunted by land and water, from island to island, from cave to cave, and from the abode of one partisan to that of another, with a perseverance which nothing but his own presence of mind, and the fidelity of his followers, could have rendered ineffectual. During the hot chase to which he was exposed, he was subjected to privations of the severest kind; hunger, thirst, exposure to the elements, and incessant fatigue. Among his many disguises was the dress of a female. It seems that he now and then forgot the demeanour which belonged to his garb. On one occasion, in crossing a stream, he held up his petticoats so indelicately high, that his conductor expressed fear that suspicion would be excited; upon which the prince went to the opposite extreme, and allowed his clothes to float on the water, till he was reminded that this also might draw attention to him. The battle of Culloden was fought on the 16th of April, and it was not till the 19th of September that Charles Edward was at last rescued from the perils which environed him, by the arrival of two French vessels, in one of which he embarked for France. Even in the last scene of his adventures danger threatened him; for the British fleet was then cruising off the French coast, and he actually sailed through it in his way to Morlaix, but was hidden from it by a thick fog.

One of the most meritorious disguises ever put on by a monarch, as it had its origin solely in good intentions and anxiety for the welfare of his subjects, is described in the history of Peter the Great, czar of Muscovy; who, though his education was defective, was endowed with a strong mind, and felt how much was still to be acquired before he could realize the vast projects which he was eager to execute. To counteract the formidable power of the Strelitzes, who were far more inclined to dispute than obey the commands of their superiors, he resolved to introduce a new discipline, and to reorganize his army; and, in order to set the example of subordination, he himself entered as a private in one of his corps, which was disciplined in the German manner. In this corps he gradually rose to command by his services, and by sharing the toils and privations of the military life.

In 1695, he laid siege to Azoff; but the enterprise failed from a want of shipping to block the harbour: this circumstance, among others, forced on his attention the necessity of improving his navy. His fondness, however, for naval architecture is dated from 1691, when accidentally taking notice of a decayed sloop near Moscow, and being told that it was of foreign construction, and able to sail to windward, he caused it to be repaired by a Dutch shipwright, and was highly delighted to observe its manœuvres, which he afterwards learned to regulate himself. Perhaps the most interesting and extraordinary circumstance in the history of mankind, is, that the despotic monarch of a mighty dominion should descend from his throne, and travel as a private person, in the train of his own ambassador sent to Holland. When Peter arrived there, he first took up his abode in the Admiralty at Amsterdam, and afterwards enrolled himself among the ship-carpenters, and went to the village of Sardam, where he wrought as a common carpenter and blacksmith, with unusual assiduity, under the name of Master Peter. He was clad and fed as his fellow-workmen, for he would not allow of vain distinctions.

The next year he passed over to England, where, in four months, he completed his knowledge of ship building. After receiving every mark of respect from William the Third, he left this country accompanied by several English ship-builders and carpenters, whom he employed with great liberality, in his naval dock-yards, and he is said to have subsequently written several pieces on naval affairs.

John Evelyn, the author of the Sylva, gives rather a curious account of the emperor in his Diary: he writes “1698, January. The czar of Muscovy being come to England, and having a mind to see the building of ships, hired my house at Say’s Court, and made it his court and palace, new furnished for him by the king.”

Whilst the czar was in his house, Mr. Evelyn’s servant thus wrote to him: “There is a house full of people, and right nasty. The czar lies next your library, and dines in the parlour next your study. He dines at ten o’clock and six at night, is very seldom at home a whole day, very often in the king’s yard, or by water, dressed in several dresses. The king is expected here this day; the best parlour is pretty clean for him to be entertained in. The king pays for all he has.”

Such a noble mind, employed in the acquisition of knowledge, for the benefit of his country and his people, may well be pardoned for any deficiencies in the accomplishments or embellishments of life.

In Carr’s Tour round the Baltic is related an anecdote of the czar’s partiality towards those connected with maritime affairs. A Dutch skipper hearing that Petersburg was building, and that the emperor had a great passion for ships and commerce, resolved to try his fortune there, and accordingly arrived with the first merchant vessel that ever sailed on the Neva, and was the bearer of a letter of introduction to the captain of the port from a friend of his in Holland, requesting him to use his interest to procure a freight for him. Peter the Great was working like a common labourer in the Admiralty as the galliot passed, and saluted with two or three small guns. The emperor was uncommonly delighted, and having been informed of the Dutchman’s business, he resolved to have some frolic with him, and accordingly commanded the port-captain to see the skipper as soon as he landed, and direct him to the emperor, as a merchant just settled there, which character he intended to personate. Peter repaired to his original cottage on the Neva, with his empress, who, to humour the plan, dressed herself in a plain bourgeois habit, such as suited the wife of a merchant. The Dutchman was introduced to the emperor, who received him with great kindness, and they sat and ate bread and cheese, and smoked together for some time, during which the Dutchman’s eye examined the room, and began to think that one who lived in so mean a place could be of no service to him: presently the empress entered, when the skipper addressed her, by observing that he had brought her a cheese, a much better one than she had ever tasted, for which, affecting an awkward manner, she thanked him. Being much pleased with her appearance, he took from his coat a piece of linen, and begged her acceptance of it for shifts. “Oh,” exclaimed the emperor, taking the pipe from his mouth, “Kate, you will now be as fine and proud as an empress.” This was followed by the stranger begging to have a kiss, which she coyly indulged him in. At this moment Prince Menzikof, the favourite and minister of Peter the Great, covered with all his orders, stood before the emperor uncovered. The skipper began to stare with amazement, whilst Peter, making private signs, induced the prince to retire. The astonished Dutchman said “Why, you appear to have great acquaintance here.” “Yes,” replied Peter, “and so may you, if you stay here but ten days; there are plenty of such needy noblemen as the one you saw; they are always in debt and very glad to borrow money; but beware of these fellows, and do not be dazzled by their stars and garters, and such trumpery.” This advice put the Dutchman more at his ease, who smoked and drank very cheerfully, and had made his bargain with the imperial merchant for a cargo, when the officer of the guard entered to receive orders, and stood with profound respect, addressing Peter by the title of Imperial Majesty. The Dutchman sprang from his chair, and fell on his knees, imploring forgiveness for the liberties he had been taking. Peter, laughing heartily, raised him up and made him kiss the empress’s hand, presented him with fifteen hundred rubles, gave him a freight, and ordered that his vessel, as long as her timbers remained together, should be permitted to enter all the Russian ports free of duty. This privilege made the rapid fortune of the owner.

The marriage of Ulrica, sister of Frederick the Great, with Adolphus Frederick of Sweden, was the fruit of a stratagem, rather unfairly played off on her sister. The court and senate of Sweden sent an ambassador _incognito_ to Berlin, to watch and report upon the characters and dispositions of Frederick’s two unmarried sisters, Ulrica and Amelia; the former of whom had the reputation of being very haughty, crafty, satirical, and capricious; and the Swedish court had already nearly determined in favour of Amelia, who was remarkable for the attraction of her person and sweetness of her mind. The mission of the ambassador was soon buzzed abroad, and Amelia was overwhelmed with misery, on account of her insuperable objection to renounce the tenets of Calvin for those of Luther. In this state of wretchedness she implored the assistance of her sister’s councils, to prevent an union so repugnant to her happiness. The wary Ulrica advised her to assume the most insolent and repulsive deportment to every one, in the presence of the Swedish ambassador, which advice she followed, whilst Ulrica put on all those amiable qualities which her sister had provisionally laid aside: every one, ignorant of the cause, was astonished at the change; and the ambassador informed his court that fame had completely reversed their reciprocal good and bad qualities. Ulrica was consequently preferred, and mounted the throne of Sweden.

At the village of Zarsko-Zelo, at which is situated the most magnificent of the imperial country palaces in Russia, there were no inns, but the hospitality of Mr. Bush, the English gardener, prevented that inconvenience from being felt by visiters properly introduced to him. When Joseph II., Emperor of Germany, to whom every appearance of show was disgusting, expressed his intention of visiting Catherine II., she offered him apartments in her palace, which he declined. Her Majesty, well knowing his dislike to parade, had Mr. Bush’s house fitted up as an inn, with the sign of a Catherine wheel, below which appeared in German characters “The Falkenstein Arms;” Falkenstein being the name which the emperor assumed. His Majesty knew nothing of the ingenious and attentive deception, till after he had quitted Russia. When the emperor once went to Moscow, he is said to have preceded the royal carriages as an avant-coureur, in order to avoid the obnoxious pomp and ceremony which an acknowledgment of his rank would have awakened.

About the year 1428, there arose in France, in the person of Joan of Arc, commonly called the Maid of Orleans, a heroine, who by her enthusiasm stimulated the French to resist the domination of the English. She appears to have been simple, chaste, modest, and inoffensive. During her youth, she was frequently seen kneeling devoutly in a corner of her village church: piety, indeed, seems to have produced its elevating effects on her mind, and to it may be ascribed the largest portion of her success. There was, in truth, nothing about her brief but brilliant day of public action which looked like wilful imposture in herself. We must therefore suppose she was practised upon by others, or that her young and enthusiastic imagination, by being continually worked upon, became afflicted with a permanent, though partial, derangement; a species of madness which is not uncommon. The latter supposition is supported by her own language; she declared that, at the age of thirteen, she had been instructed, by a voice from God, how to govern herself, and that she saw St. Michael several times, who ordered her to be a good girl; and that God would assist her, and that she must go to the succour of the king of France.

Before she became a public character, she used to amuse herself with her companions in running, and fighting with a kind of lance, and also on horseback; which accounted for her subsequent excellent management of weapons, and skill in riding.

There was a popular tradition, that France was to be delivered by a virgin from the borders of Lorraine. This might have suggested or assisted her pretensions; and, having once fixed popular attention, and excited popular interest, public feeling both supported and carried her to the completion of her wishes.

Joan, when first presented at court, is said to have known the king, who was standing promiscuously among the nobles, and to have revealed to him a secret unknown to any one else. It has been very much canvassed what this secret could be; but, it seems the Chevalier de Boissy, who was a favourite of Charles the Seventh during their youth, and was at that time his bedfellow, was in possession of it. Charles told him that he had one day prayed, without utterance, that Heaven would defend his right; Joan reminded him of this prayer. Such an incident leads to a suspicion that some persons near the king, and acquainted with his private thoughts, were secretly instructing the maid of Orleans, and practising, by these means, on the credulity of the nation. But of still more consequence did her assumptions prove to the English, who, under the administration of the Duke of Bedford, were masters at that time of the capital and almost all the northern provinces of France. During her interview with the French king, Joan, in the name of the Supreme Being, offered to raise the siege of Orleans, and to conduct him to Rheims, to be there crowned and anointed; and she demanded, as the instrument of her future victories, a particular sword, which was kept in the church of St. Catherine of Fierbois, and which, though she had never seen it, she described by all its marks, and by the place in which it had long lain neglected.

An assembly of grave doctors and theologians cautiously examined Joan’s mission, and pronounced it undoubtedly supernatural. She was sent to the parliament and interrogated before that assembly; and the presidents and counsellors, who had come persuaded of her imposture, went away convinced of her inspiration. All the English affected to speak with derision of the maid, and of her heavenly commission; and said that the French king was now reduced to a sorry pass, when he had recourse to such ridiculous expedients; but they felt their imagination secretly struck with the vehement persuasion which prevailed in all around them; and waited with anxious expectation for the issue of these extraordinary preparations.

The inhabitants of Orleans now believed themselves invincible under her influence; and the Count of Dunois himself, perceiving such an alteration both in friends and foes, consented that the next convoy, which was to march in a few days, should enter by the side of Beausse, where the English were most numerous. The convoy approached; no sign of resistance appeared in the besiegers; it passed without interruption between the redoubts of the English, and a dead silence and astonishment reigned among those troops which were formerly so elated with victory. The siege of Orleans was speedily raised, the English army being unable to continue its operations.

The raising of the siege was one part of the maid’s promise to Charles; the crowning him at Rheims was the other; and she now vehemently insisted that he should set out on that enterprise. Rheims lay in a distant quarter of the kingdom, and was then in the hands of a victorious enemy; the whole road which led to it was also occupied by their garrisons; and no man could be so sanguine as to imagine that such an attempt could so soon come within the bounds of possibility. Charles, however, resolved to follow the exhortations of his warlike prophetess, and to lead his army upon this promising adventure. He set out for Rheims at the head of twelve thousand men. Troyes opened its gates to him, Chalons imitated the example, Rheims sent him a deputation with its keys, and he scarcely perceived, as he passed along, that he was marching through an enemy’s country. The ceremony was performed with the holy oil, which a pigeon had brought to King Clovis from heaven on the first establishment of the French monarchy. The maid of Orleans stood by his side, in complete armour, displaying the sacred banner. The people shouted with the most unfeigned joy, on viewing such a complication of wonders. The inclinations of men swaying their belief, no one doubted of the inspirations and prophetic spirit of the maid; the real and undoubted facts brought credit to every exaggeration; for no fiction could be more wonderful than the events which were known to be true.

The maid was soon after taken prisoner by the Burgundians, while she was heading a sally upon the quarters of John of Luxembourg. The service of _Te Deum_ was publicly celebrated, on this fortunate event, at Paris. The Duke of Bedford fancied that, by her captivity, he should again recover his former ascendency over France; and, to make the most of the present advantage, he purchased the captive from John of Luxembourg, and instituted a prosecution against her. The Bishop of Beauvais, a man wholly devoted to the English interests, presented a petition against Joan, and desired to have her tried by an ecclesiastical court, for sorcery, impiety, idolatry, and magic. The university of Paris was so mean as to join in the same request. In the issue, she was condemned for all the crimes of which she had been accused, aggravated by heresy; her revelations were declared to be inventions of the devil to delude the people; and she was sentenced to be delivered over to the secular arm. Her spirit gave way to the terrors of that punishment to which she was sentenced, and she publicly declared herself ready to recant; she acknowledged the illusion of those revelations which the church had rejected, and promised never more to maintain them. Her sentence was then mitigated; she was condemned to perpetual imprisonment, and to be fed during life on bread and water.

But the barbarous vengeance of Joan’s enemies was not satisfied with this victory. Suspecting that the female dress which she now consented to wear was disagreeable to her, they purposely placed in her apartment a suit of men’s apparel, and watched for the effects of that temptation upon her. On the sight of a dress in which she had acquired so much renown, and which she once believed she wore by the particular appointment of Heaven, all her former ideas and passions revived, and she ventured in her solitude to clothe herself again in the forbidden garments. Her insidious enemies caught her in that situation; her fault was interpreted to be no less than a relapse into heresy. No recantation would now suffice; no pardon could be granted her; she was condemned to be burnt in the market-place of Rouen; and the infamous sentence was accordingly executed.

During the time of the commonwealth, commissioners, appointed by Oliver Cromwell, were sent to Woodstock for the purpose of surveying the royal demesne; but they speedily found themselves obliged to quit it, in consequence of the great alarm occasioned them by circumstances which could only happen, as they supposed through the agency of means which were considered in those days to be quite supernatural; though the knowledge of later times creates a surprise at the credulity of the commissioners being so easily worked upon by tricks, which would now be regarded as almost beneath the capacity of a schoolboy. The Woodstock devil is the name by which the supposed spirit is known.

The strange events which are the subject of this article, happened in the months of October and November, 1649. The commissioners arrived on October the 13th, taking up their residence in the king’s own apartments, turning his dining-room into their wood-yard, and supplying themselves with fuel from a famous oak, called the Royal Oak,[9] that nothing might be left with the name of king about it.

The first supernatural appearance that disturbed the equanimity of these worthy commissioners was that of a large black dog, which, entering one of the rooms, overturned two or three chairs, and then disappeared under a bed. The next day noises were heard overhead, as of persons walking, though they knew that all the doors were locked. The wood of the king’s oak was brought by parcels from the dining-room, and thrown with great violence into the presence-chamber. Giles Sharpe, their secretary, was active in attempting to discover the causes of these disturbances, but his inquiries were unsuccessful. On unlocking the door of the room, in the presence of the commissioners, the wood was found all thrown about in different directions. The chairs were tossed about, the papers torn, and the ink spilt; which mischief, it was argued, could only have been perpetrated by one who must have entered through the key-hole.

At night the beds of Giles Sharpe and two other servants were lifted up, and let down violently, so as to throw them out; again, on the nineteenth, when in bed, the candles were blown out, with a sulphureous smell, and the trenchers of wood hurled about the room.

On the twentieth the commissioners themselves, when in bed, were attacked with cruel blows, and the curtains drawn to and fro with great violence. This sort of attack upon the peace and safety of the commissioners was repeated almost every night. They were also assaulted from without, for a vast number of stones and horses’ bones were thrown through the windows, to the great risk of those within.

A servant, who was rash enough to draw his sword, perceived that an invisible hand had hold of it too, which, pulling it from him, struck him a violent blow on the head with the pommel of it. Dr. Plot concludes his relation of this affair with observing, that “many of the circumstances related are not reconcilable to juggling,” and he adds, “all which being put together, perhaps may easily persuade some man, otherwise inclined, to believe that immaterial beings might be concerned in this business, provided the speculative theist be not after all a practical atheist.”

“The Secret History of the good Devil of Woodstock,” a pamphlet published not long after these events, unravelled these mysteries. It appears that one Joe Collins, commonly called “Funny Joe,” was that very devil. He hired himself as a servant to the commissioners, under the name of Giles Sharpe, and by the help of two friends, an unknown trap-door in the ceiling of the bedchamber, and a pound of gunpowder, played all these amazing tricks.

The sudden extinguishing of the candles was contrived by inserting gunpowder into the lower part of each candle, destined to explode at a certain time. The great dog was no other than one that had whelped in that room shortly before, and which made all that disturbance in seeking her puppies, and which, when she had served his purpose, Giles Sharpe let out, and then pretended to search for.

The circumstance that had most effect in driving the commissioners from Woodstock was this:--they had formed a reserve of a part of the premises to themselves, and having entered into a private agreement among themselves, they hid the writing in the earth, under the roots of an orange-tree, which grew in a tub in the corner of the room. In the midst of dinner one day this earth took fire, and burned violently with a blue flame, filling the room with a strong sulphureous stench; the explanation of which phenomenon may be found in modern books of experimental chemistry, under the head of “receipt to make an earthquake.” This last attack so completely terrified the commissioners, that, fearing the very devils from hell were rising against them, they speedily took to flight.

So early as the reign of Henry the Second, Woodstock was famed for being the residence of the beautiful Rosamond, and it is thus quaintly described by Speed. “Henry the Second built an intricate labyrinth at Woodstock, and therein he stowed this pearl of his esteem (Rosamond), unto whose closet, for the inexplicate windings, none could approach but the king, and those instructed by him. Notwithstanding, his jealous queen, Eleanor, favoured by accident, thus discovered the privacy of the favourite, for a clewe of silk having fallen from Rosamond’s lap, as she sat to take the air, and was suddenly fleeing from the sight of the searcher, the end of silk fastened to her foot; the clewe, still unwinding, remained behind, which the queen followed up till she had found what she sought, and upon Rosamond so bestowed her spleen, that the gentle ladye lived not long after.”