Chapter 8

It is the evening of the 20th of February 1437. James and his nobles and ladies are seated at table till deep into the night, engaged in chess, music, and song. Athole, like another Judas, has supped with them, and gone out at a late hour. A tremendous knocking is heard at the gate. It is the Highland prophetess, who, having followed the monarch to Perth, is seeking to force her way into the room. The King tells her, through his usher, that he cannot receive her to-night, but will hear her tidings to-morrow. She retires reluctantly, murmuring that they will for ever rue their refusal to admit her into the royal presence. About an hour after this, James calls for the _Voidee_, or parting-cup, and the company disperse. Sir Robert Stewart, the chamberlain, who is in the confidence of the conspirators, is the last to retire, having previously destroyed the locks and removed the bars of the doors of the royal bed- chamber and the outer room adjoining. The King is standing before the fire, in his night-gown and slippers, and talking gaily with the Queen and her ladies, when torches are seen flashing up from the garden, and the clash of arms and the sound of angry voices is heard from below. A sense of the dread reality bursts on them in an instant. The Queen and the ladies run to secure the door of the chamber, while James, seizing the tongs, wrenches up one of the boards of the floor and takes refuge in a vault beneath. This was wont to have an opening to the outer court, but it had unfortunately been built up of late by his own orders. There, under the replaced boards, cowers the King, while the Queen and her women seek to barricade the door. One brave young lady, Catherine Douglas, thrusts her beautiful arm into the staple from which the bolt had been removed. It is broken in a moment, and she sinks back, to bear, with her descendants--a family well known in Scotland--the name of _Barlass_ ever since. The murderers, who had previously killed in the passage one Walter Straiton, a page, rush in, with naked swords, wounding the ladies, striking, and well-nigh killing the Queen, and crying, with frantic imprecations, 'This is but a woman! Where is James?' Finding him not in the chamber, they leave it, and disperse through the neighbouring apartments in search.

James, who had become wearied of his immurement, and thought the assassins were gone, calls now on one of the ladies to aid him in coming out of his place of concealment. But while this is being effected, one of the murderers returns. The cry, 'Found, found,' rings through the halls; and after a violent but unarmed resistance, the King is, with circumstances of horrible barbarity, first mangled, then run through the body, and then despatched with daggers. In vain he offers half his kingdom for his life; and when he seeks a confessor from Grahame, the ruffian replies, 'Thou shalt have no confessor but this sword.' It is satisfactory to know that the Queen made her escape, and that the criminals were punished, although the tortures they endured are such as human nature shrinks from conceiving, and history with a shudder records.

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We turn with pleasure from King James's life and death to his poetry, although there is so little of it that a sentence or two will suffice. 'The King's Quhair' is a poem conceived very much in the spirit, and written in the style of Chaucer, whose works were favourites with James. There is the same sympathy with nature, and the same perception of _its_ relation to and unconscious sympathy with human feelings, and the same luscious richness in the description, alike of the early beauties of spring and of youthful feminine loveliness, although this seems more natural in the young poet James than in the sexagenarian author of 'The Canterbury Tales.' There is nothing even in Chaucer we think finer than the picture of Lady Jane Beaufort in the garden, particularly in the lines--

'Or are ye god Cupidis own princess, And comen are ye to loose me out of band? Or are ye very Nature the goddess, That have depainted with your heavenly hand This garden full of flowers as they stand?'

Or where, picturing his mistress, he cries--

'And above all this there was, well I wot, Beauty enough to make a world to dote.'

Or where, describing a ruby on her bosom, he says--

'That as a spark of low[1] so wantonly Seemed burning upon her white throat.'

[1] 'Low:' fire.

Besides this precious little poem, King James is believed by some to have written several poems on Scottish subjects, such as 'Christis Kirk on the Green,' 'Peblis to the Play,' &c., but his claim to these is uncertain. The first describes the mingled merrymaking and contest common in the old rude marriages of Scotland, and, whether by James or not, is full of burly, picturesque force.

Take the Miller--

'The Miller was of manly make, To meet him was no mowes.[1] There durst not tensome there him take, So cowed he their powes.[2] The bushment whole about him brake, And bicker'd him with bows. Then traitorously behind his back They hack'd him on the boughs Behind that day.'

Or look at the following ill-paired pair--

'Of all these maidens mild as mead, Was none so jimp as Gillie. As any rose her rude[3] was red-- Her lire[4] like any lillie. But yellow, yellow was her head, And she of love so silly; Though all her kin had sworn her dead, She would have none but Willie, Alone that day.

'She scorn'd Jock, and scripped at him, And murgeon'd him with mocks-- He would have loved her--she would not let him, For all his yellow locks. He cherisht her--she bade go chat him-- She counted him not two clocks. So shamefully his short jack[5] set him, His legs were like two rocks, Or rungs that day.'

[1] 'Mowes:' joke. [2] 'Powes:' heads. [3] 'Rude:' complexion. [4] 'Lire:' flesh, skill. [5] 'Jack:' jacket.

Our readers will perceive the resemblance, both in spirit and in form of verse, between this old poem and the 'Holy Fair,' and other productions of Burns.

James, cut off in the prime of life, may almost be called the abortive Alfred of Scotland. Had he lived, he might have made important contributions to her literature as well as laws, and given her a standing among the nations of Europe, which it took long ages, and even an incorporation with England, to secure. As it is, he stands high on the list of royal authors, and of those kings who, whether authors or not, have felt that nations cannot live on bread alone, and who have sought their intellectual culture as an object not inferior to their physical comfort. It is not, perhaps, too much to say, that no man or woman of genius has sate either on the Scotch or English throne since, except Cromwell, to whom, however, the term 'genius,' in its common sense, seems ludicrously inadequate. James V. had some of the erratic qualities of the poetic tribe, but his claim to the songs--such as the 'Gaberlunzie Man'--which go under his name, is exceedingly doubtful. James VI. was a pedant, without being a scholar--a rhymester, not a poet. Of the rest we need not speak. Seldom has the sceptre become an Aaron's rod, and flourished with the buds and blossoms of song. In our annals there has been one, and but one 'Royal Poet.'

THE KING THUS DESCRIBES THE APPEARANCE OF HIS MISTRESS, WHEN HE FIRST SAW HER FROM A WINDOW OF HIS PRISON AT WINDSOR.

X.

The longe dayes and the nightes eke, I would bewail my fortune in this wise, For which, against distress comfort to seek, My custom was, on mornes, for to rise Early as day: O happy exercise! By thee came I to joy out of torment; But now to purpose of my first intent.

XI.

Bewailing in my chamber, thus alone, Despaired of all joy and remedy, For-tired of my thought, and woe begone; And to the window 'gan I walk in hye,[1] To see the world and folk that went forby; As for the time (though I of mirthis food Might have no more) to look it did me good.

XII.

Now was there made fast by the toweris wall A garden fair; and in the corners set An herbere[2] green; with wandis long and small Railed about, and so with trees set Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet, That life was none [a] walking there forby That might within scarce any wight espy.

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XIV.

And on the smalle greene twistis [3] sat The little sweete nightingale, and sung, So loud and clear the hymnis consecrate Of love's use, now soft, now loud among,[4] That all the gardens and the wallis rung Right of their song; and on the couple next Of their sweet harmony, and lo the text.

XV.

Worship, O ye that lovers be, this May! For of your bliss the calends are begun; And sing with us, 'Away! winter, away! Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun; Awake for shame that have your heavens won; And amorously lift up your heades all, Thank love that list you to his mercy call.

* * * * *

XXI.

And therewith cast I down mine eye again, Where as I saw walking under the tower, Full secretly new comen to her pleyne,[5] The fairest and the freshest younge flower That e'er I saw (methought) before that hour For which sudden abate [6] anon astert [7] The blood of all my body to my heart.

* * * * *

XXVII.

Of her array the form if I shall write, Toward her golden hair, and rich attire, In fret-wise couched with pearlis white, And greate balas[8] lemyng[9] as the fire; With many an emerald and fair sapphire, And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue, Of plumes parted red, and white, and blue.

* * * * *

XXIX.

About her neck, white as the fair amaille,[10] A goodly chain of small orfeverie,[11] Whereby there hang a ruby without fail Like to a heart yshapen verily, That as a spark of lowe[12] so wantonly Seemed burning upon her white throat; Now if there was good, perdie God it wrote.

XXX.

And for to walk that freshe Maye's morrow, A hook she had upon her tissue white, That goodlier had not been seen toforrow,[13] As I suppose, and girt she, was a lite[14] Thus halfling[15] loose for haste; to such delight It was to see her youth in goodlihead, That for rudeness to speak thereof I dread.

XXXI.

In her was youth, beauty with humble port, Bounty, richess, and womanly feature: (God better wot than my pen can report) Wisdom, largess, estate, and cunning[16] sure,

* * * * *

In word, in deed, in shape and countenance, That nature might no more her child advance.

[1] 'Hye:' haste. [2] 'Herbere:' herbary, or garden of simples. [3] 'Twistis:' twigs. [4] 'Among:' promiscuously. [5] 'Pleyne:' sport. [6] 'Sudden abate:' unexpected accident. [7] 'Astert:' started back. [8] 'Balas:' rubies. [9] 'Lemyng:' burning. [10] 'Amaille:' enamel. [11] 'Orfeverie:' goldsmith's work. [12] 'Lowe:' fire. [13] 'Toforrow:' heretofore. [14] 'Lite:' a little. [15] 'Halfling:' half. [16] 'Cunning:' knowledge.

JOHN THE CHAPLAIN--THOMAS OCCLEVE.

The first of these is the only versifier that can be assigned to England in the reign of Henry IV. His name was John Walton, though he was generally known as _Johannes Capellanus_ or 'John the Chaplain.' He was canon of Oseney, and died sub-dean of York. He, in the year 1410, translated Boethius' famous treatise, 'De Consolatione Philosophiae,' into English verse. He is not known to have written anything original. --Thomas Occleve appeared in the reign of Henry V., about 1420. Like Chaucer and Gower, he was a student of municipal law, having attended Chester's Inn, which stood on the site of the present Somerset House; but although he trod in the footsteps of his celebrated predecessors, it was with far feebler powers. His original pieces are contemptible, both in subject and in execution. His best production is a translation of 'Egidius De Regimine Principum.' Warton, alluding to the period at which these writers appeared, has the following oft-quoted observations: --'I consider Chaucer as a genial day in an English spring. A brilliant sun enlivens the face of nature with an unusual lustre; the sudden appearance of cloudless skies, and the unexpected warmth of a tepid atmosphere, after the gloom and the inclemencies of a tedious winter, fill our hearts with the visionary prospect of a speedy summer, and we fondly anticipate a long continuance of gentle gales and vernal serenity. But winter returns with redoubled horrors; the clouds condense more formidably than before, and those tender buds and early blossoms which were called forth by the transient gleam of a temporary sunshine, are nipped by frosts and torn by tempests.' These sentences are, after all, rather pompous, and express, in the most verbose style of the _Rambler_, the simple fact, that after Chaucer's death the ground lay fallow, and that for a while in England (in Scotland it was otherwise) there were few poets, and little poetry.

JOHN LYDGATE.

This copious and versatile writer flourished in the reign of Henry VI. Warton affirms that he reached his highest point of eminence in 1430, although some of his poems had appeared before. He was a monk of the Benedictine Abbey at Bury, in Suffolk. He received his education at Oxford; and when it was finished, he travelled through France and Italy, mastering the languages and literature of both countries, and studying their poets, particularly Dante, Boccaccio, and Alain Chartier. When he returned, he opened a school in his monastery for teaching the sons of the nobility composition and the art of versification. His acquirements were, for the age, universal. He was a poet, a rhetorician, an astronomer, a mathematician, a public disputant, and a theologian. He was born in 1370, ordained sub-deacon in 1389, deacon in 1393, and priest in 1397. The time of his death is uncertain. His great patron was Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, to whom he complains sometimes of necessitous circumstances, which were, perhaps, produced by indulgence, since he confesses himself to be 'a lover of wine.'

The great merit of Lydgate is his versatility. This Warton has happily expressed in a few sentences, which we shall quote:--

'He moves with equal ease in every form of composition. His hymns and his ballads have the same degree of merit; and whether his subject be the life of a hermit or a hero, of Saint Austin or Guy, Earl of Warwick, ludicrous or legendary, religious or romantic, a history or an allegory, he writes with facility. His transitions were rapid, from works of the most serious and laborious kind, to sallies of levity and pieces of popular entertainment. His muse was of universal access; and he was not only the poet of his monastery, but of the world in general. If a disguising was intended by the Company of Goldsmiths, a mask before His Majesty at Eltham, a May game for the sheriffs and aldermen of London, a mumming before the Lord Mayor, a procession of pageants, from the "Creation," for the Festival of Corpus Christi, or a carol for the coronation, Lydgate was consulted, and gave the poetry.'

Lydgate is, so far as we know, the first British bard who wrote for hire. At the request of Whethamstede, the Abbot of St Alban's, he translated a 'Life of St Alban' from Latin into English rhymes, and received for the whole work one hundred shillings. His principal poems, all founded on the works of other authors, are the 'Fall of Princes,' the 'Siege of Thebes,' and the 'Destruction of Troy.' They are written in a diffuse and verbose style, but are generally clear in sense, and often very luxuriant in description. 'The London Lyckpenny' is a fugitive poem, in which the author describes himself coming up to town in search of legal redress for a wrong, and gives some curious particulars of the condition of that city in the early part of the fifteenth century.

CANACE, CONDEMNED TO DEATH BY HER FATHER AEOLUS, SENDS TO HER GUILTY BROTHER MACAREUS THE LAST TESTIMONY OF HER UNHAPPY PASSION.

Out of her swoone when she did abraid,[1] Knowing no mean but death in her distress, To her brother full piteously she said, 'Cause of my sorrow, root of my heaviness, That whilom were the source of my gladness, When both our joys by will were so disposed, Under one key our hearts to be enclosed.--

* * * * *

This is mine end, I may it not astart;[2] O brother mine, there is no more to say; Lowly beseeching with mine whole heart For to remember specially, I pray, If it befall my little son to dey[3] That thou mayst after some mind on us have, Suffer us both be buried in one grave. I hold him strictly 'tween my armes twain, Thou and Nature laid on me this charge; He, guiltless, muste with me suffer pain, And, since thou art at freedom and at large, Let kindness oure love not so discharge, But have a mind, wherever that thou be, Once on a day upon my child and me. On thee and me dependeth the trespace Touching our guilt and our great offence, But, welaway! most angelic of face Our childe, young in his pure innocence, Shall against right suffer death's violence, Tender of limbs, God wot, full guilteless The goodly fair, that lieth here speechless.

A mouth he has, but wordes hath he none; Cannot complain, alas! for none outrage: Nor grutcheth[4] not, but lies here all alone Still as a lamb, most meek of his visage. What heart of steel could do to him damage, Or suffer him die, beholding the mannere And look benign of his twain even clear.'--

* * * * *

Writing her letter, awhapped[5] all in drede, In her right hand her pen began to quake, And a sharp sword to make her hearte bleed, In her left hand her father hath her take, And most her sorrow was for her childe's sake, Upon whose face in her barme[6] sleeping Full many a tear she wept in complaining. After all this so as she stood and quoke, Her child beholding mid of her paines' smart, Without abode the sharpe sword she took, And rove herselfe even to the heart; Her child fell down, which mighte not astart, Having no help to succour him nor save, But in her blood theself began to bathe.

[1] 'Abraid:' awake. [2] 'Astart:' escape. [3] 'Dey:' die. [4] 'Grutcheth:' murmureth. [5] 'Awhapped:' confounded. [6] 'Barme:' lap.

THE LONDON LYCKPENNY.

Within the hall, neither rich nor yet poor Would do for me ought, although I should die: Which seeing, I gat me out of the door, Where Flemings began on me for to cry, 'Master, what will you copen[1] or buy? Fine felt hats? or spectacles to read? Lay down your silver, and here you may speed.

Then to Westminster gate I presently went, When the sun was at high prime: Cooks to me they took good intent,[2] And proffered me bread, with ale and wine, Ribs of beef, both fat and full fine; A fair cloth they 'gan for to spread, But, wanting money, I might not be sped.

Then unto London I did me hie, Of all the land it beareth the price; 'Hot peascods!' one began to cry, 'Strawberry ripe, and cherries in the rise!'[3] One bade me come near and buy some spice; Pepper, and saffron they 'gan me beed;[4] But, for lack of money, I might not speed.

Then to the Cheap I 'gan me drawn, Where much people I saw for to stand; One offered me velvet, silk, and lawn, Another he taketh me by the hand, 'Here is Paris thread, the finest in the land!' I never was used to such things, indeed; And, wanting money, I might not speed.

Then went I forth by London Stone, Throughout all Canwick Street: Drapers much cloth me offered anon; Then comes me one cried 'Hot sheep's feet;' One cried mackerel, rushes green, another 'gan greet,[5] One bade me buy a hood to cover my head; But, for want of money, I might not be sped.

Then I hied me unto East-Cheap, One cries ribs of beef, and many a pie; Pewter pots they clattered on a heap; There was harp, pipe, and minstrelsy; Yea by cock! nay by cock! some began cry; Some sung of Jenkin and Julian for their meed; But, for lack of money, I might not speed.

Then into Cornhill anon I yode,[6] Where was much stolen gear among; I saw where hung mine owne hood, That I had lost among the throng; To buy my own hood I thought it wrong: I knew it well, as I did my creed; But, for lack of money, I could not speed.

The taverner took me by the sleeve, 'Sir,' saith he, 'will you our wine assay?' I answered, 'That can not much me grieve, A penny can do no more than it may;' I drank a pint, and for it did pay; Yet, sore a-hungered from thence I yede,[7] And, wanting money, I could not speed.

[1] 'Copen:' _koopen_(Flem.) to buy. [2] 'Took good intent:' took notice; paid attention. [3] 'In the rise:' on the branch. [4] 'Beed:' offer. [5] 'Greet:' cry. [6] 'Yode:' went. [7] 'Yede:' went.

HARDING, KAY, &c.