Did the Legate, as is by some writers maintained, attempt, though unsuccessfully, to repress, or did he, as Mr. Froude asserts, comfort and stimulate these fiery zealots. We are afraid that the evidence for the latter alternative is incontrovertible; nor is it weakened by our previous knowledge of Pole's character. He who in Henry's reign could preach the right of invasion, who embraced and spread abroad every whisper that reached him; who upheld the justice of excommunication, whom for his rashness the Emperor dreaded, whom even the Pope was compelled to check in his passionate course, was not the man to sheath the sword or unstring the bow when his enemies were in the toils. As legate he was supreme in church matters; no spiritual court could sit unsanctioned by him; he was the Queen's sole adviser. We have evidence that Philip, to whom the savour of roasted heretics was afterwards, if not then, grateful; that Renard, whom none will charge with leaning to the Protestant side, tried to warn Mary against the consequences of persecution; nay, that even Gardiner, after having satisfied the first cravings of his hunger, was not unwilling to stay his hand. Pole, then, and Mary, must divide the blame; and since his word was law to her in all things, it seems an inevitable consequence that he uttered no word in favour of relaxation or even prudence.

If the reader still doubt, we refer him to Pole's letter to Cranmer; and if that be not written in the spirit of Saul of Tarsus, 'breathing out threatenings and slaughter,' we know not what evidence will convince him. We might send him

to Pole's writings in general for further proofs of the temper of the man; to Archbishop Parker's direct testimony against him; to the documentary evidence collected by Strype and Burnet. There is indeed, against Pole, a cloud of witnesses; in his favour there is nothing more convincing than sentimental prejudice. Over the victims of the Marian persecution we pass in silence. Their trials, their patience and faith, have been recorded by innumerable pens, and are drawn by Mr. Froude with simple yet picturesque force. He describes them without any of the virus of Protestantism; he regards them from a national rather than a theological point of view. We will pause for a moment only on the results of this disastrous reign.

During the four years of persecution two hundred and eighty-eight persons were burnt alive; the number of those who perished in prison is unknown. Substantial citizens fled from London as from a pest-house, or were haled from 'Change or their shops into dungeons; and the loss of property incurred by their flight or arrest was estimated at £300,000-equivalent to a million of our present money. The country suffered little less than the capital. The Swiss and German cities received a population of English exiles, awaiting until this tyranny should be overpast, and crying in their daily petitions the cry of the elder martyrs, 'How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge our blood.' The spirit of the nation sank; strange births and omens were reported. He 'that travelled through the land found the people strangely fantasied

Possessed with rumours, full of idle dreams,

Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear.'

Calais was lost; trade fled from our shores; and had the Queen survived a few months longer, or had she borne a son to Philip, the Inquisition would have been established, and England would have been as Holland, having an Alva

entrenched in the Tower, and a Granvelle presiding in Westminster Hall.

Though not among the principal actors on the stage during these two reigns, the Princess Elizabeth is the most interesting character at the period which we have thus cursorily surveyed. Nor does the interest in her proceed merely from our knowledge of her reign. She was the cynosure of all eyes as soon as Edward began to sicken, and after Mary's brief popularity passed away. On her as the next heir to the crown, as endangered by her nearness to it; as a true daughter of the land, having in her veins no drop of Spanish blood; as a youthful, accomplished, and handsome woman; as one that might reconcile the old with the new faith, or at least maintain religion as Henry had fashioned and bequeathed it the hopes of the nation centred. Nor did her danger and her helplessness for a season less endear her to the people. At one time rumours were abroad that she would pass, an unwilling bride, to the arms of a foreign prince; at another, that she, like her ill-fated mother, would be brought to the block. Nor could it be kept hidden, though few dared to pry between the doors of the Council chamber, that she was subjected to frequent and strict interrogatories by men who thirsted for her blood. Little that is authentic may have transpired of such scenes, but that little sufficed to show that the young princess possessed courage, wit, and discretion in no ordinary measure, and already gave promise of those royal virtues which shed present and perpetual honour on her reign.

In after-life she may well have regarded her preservation during these fearful times as miraculous. Her sister loved her not, could hardly be expected to love her. Was she not the child of the ac

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cursed Boleyn-the fons et origo malorum? did not the heretics yearn for her death and for Elizabeth's succession? might not her hand uplift the schismatical, and press down the catholic church? Jane Grey was a puny rival in comparison with Elizabeth, if once the Reformers inscribed her name on their banners. Nor were these the only sources of Mary's jealousy and Elizabeth's peril. To Mary she seemed to bear a charmed life.

Even her familiar friends and counsellors, even her idol, Philip, thwarted her wherever Elizabeth was concerned. Calm in demeanour, cautious in speech, keen of inward eye, a skilful pilot in her own extremity, Elizabeth answered the wise after their wisdom, baffled the cunning by her astuteness, and, so far as was outwardly visible, blended the wisdom of the serpent with the innocence of the dove-a lion's heart in a maiden's bosom.

We have dealt freely with Mr. Froude's volumes; extracting liberally from them or paraphrasing their contents. We have passed over many chapters entirely, skimmed others, and imperfectly represented all. But both the interest of the subject and the execution of the work need no herald; it will command, because it deserves success. In the reign of Elizabeth he will have a yet fairer field for his narrative, than either Henry or his two immediate successors have afforded him, and emerging from the iron age which ushered in and advanced the Reformation to the purer regions of Elizabeth's day, he may repeat the congratulation of the Florentine, when himself emerging from central gloom, he

RACE was not alone in her re

GRACE

morse; both Rex and his mother had uneasy consciences. Mrs. Leslie, though she felt clear as to having acted wisely, could not forget that the punishment was falling heavily on the least guilty of the offenders. When her anger was passed she felt that it was so. It might be expedient and necessary that Rex should not suffer, but it did seem hard that Grace should pay by darkened prospects and an altered career, for an inconsiderate, foolish act, which perhaps was more another's than her own, and at any rate was the fruit of a moment's folly. There was something heartless, too, in sending away this poor little friendless creature out into the world alone, all the more so if she were in disgrace. She chose to go, certainly, but why? Mrs. Leslie blushed to herself when she remembered that it was her accusation, perhaps a false one, that was driving her away. If Rex's heedless self-indulgence had brought about a perplexing domestic entanglement, was it not cowardly and wrong to solve the difficulty at the expense of the one of all the party who was starting in life at the greatest disadvantage, and to whom any additional obstacle must prove of the most momentous importance? On the other hand, she was resolved at all hazards to carry through the scheme of Rex's marriage, for which she had hoped so ardently, and which she now felt more than ever to be the only chance of keeping him out of harm's way for the future. He had been so steady since his engagement, and seemed to find the quiet home life of the Rectory so entirely congenial, that she had well nigh lost sight of another and less agreeable phase of his character. But the scene which she had just witnessed assured her that his purpose was as infirm, his passion as vehement, his desire of

gratification as reckless as ever. It was fortunate that his attachment to Ella still lasted on, and Mrs. Leslie clung desperately to this last resource. This was the lever by which his moral nature might be moved; this gone, and his mother saw failure, disappointment, disgrace, hanging like dark clouds over his future. Rex would never be safe alone; he would repent, and re-repent, and die the same, and Mrs. Leslie shuddered at the prospect of the renewed anxieties and heart-aches which seemed to be opening upon her, should the chief good influence of his life be suddenly withdrawn. Her one important object was to keep the matter as little talked about as possible. Grace's sudden departure would of course excite curiosity, and its reason be guessed at; but no one need know the precise truth about it. Rachel especially was to be kept in the dark; she was certain to be inconveniently absurd and romantic in a matter where romance had to make way for practical expediency. Very likely she would take Grace's part against her brother, and raise a hundred difficulties in the way of her quiet dismissal. Mrs. Leslie knew that there was an element of injustice in the case which Rachel would never forgive, and which in her hands would be exaggerated into very undue importance. Perhaps, too, as she had never been ardent in her admiration for Ella, she might incline her brother in the direction least conformable to his mother's wishes, and would certainly not scruple to urge him to break off his match, if she once had a suspicion that the most scrupulous honour demanded such a sacrifice. She would bid him to question his own heart more strictly than Mrs. Leslie thought might just now be entirely advisable. The position was certainly an embarrassing one; it would be diffi

cult to tell just enough, without letting the rest escape; Rachel's inferences would be so quick, her inquiries so pressing, her feeling so vehement; Mrs. Leslie found that she dreaded an interview with her daughter more and more, and determined at last upon sending a note the first thing in the morning, in which the disagreeable intelligence might be safely announced, and the dangers of any conversation on the subject judiciously avoided.

Accordingly the ultimatum was despatched, and Rachel on awaking found it lying by her pillow's side. She read it through twice before its full meaning broke upon her. Something, it said, had occurred which made it seem best for Grace to go away; Grace felt so, and had herself decided upon the time. Rachel must trust her mother, and be content to let the matter rest there; if there was a mystery, it was not for mystery's sake, but because Mrs. Leslie had decided that the subject was one about which it could only do harm to talk. Rachel was not to think that anything very dreadful had happened, or that any one was much to blame, but only that it had seemed well to act decidedly at once. Lastly, Mrs. Leslie entreated that no mention of the matter might be made for the future, either to herself or to any one else. Grace had come unexpectedly, and stayed a few weeks, and might now naturally enough, when their party was breaking up, go on to her original destination. Her visit had been a very pleasant little episode, and everybody must feel an interest in her, Mrs. Leslie as much as any one; and the best way that they could all show their affection was by acquiescing in the present arrangement without further discus

sion.

While Rachel was slowly recovering from the disagreeable surprise which so unexpected a communication was likely to produce, Grace was busied with the last preparations for her intended journey. It was fortunate for her that she had not too much leisure

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to think, and that the excitement of the occasion and the necessity for action came as a welcome relief to the gloomy reflections, the fears and regrets, the shame and remorse, that had seemed so overwhelming a burthen through the sleepless hours of the night. Her brain seemed still reeling from the sudden shock of yesterday's catastrophe. Those soft tender words, that loving kiss, the terrible interview that followed-each scene rushing so quickly upon another, with its own crowd of sentiments and associations, and each by force of contrast intensifying all the rest, had stirred the lowest depths of her nature, and still kept her whole being in a tumult of excitement. A great gap lay between this morning and all the past; the charmed weeks that had Hoated by so dreamily, so enchantingly the ready hospitality, the delicate sympathy-the watchful kindness that had made her life of late so smooth,-all seemed to belong to a world that was no longer her own. She was disgraced, and disgrace was ruin. The fair edifice of memory, lately so bright, was shattered to its very foundations, and crumbling into blackened ruins, disfigured, blasted. A dreary future stretched away before her: this was her first essay at independent life, and ended thus soon in shameful failure. When again would fortune provide_her with such another home? How doubly delightful it all looked now-how hard to have lost it allhow wretched to have deserved to lose it!

Grace glided down the stairs, where they had lingered so often wishing merry good-nights. In the hall lay the cloaks, tossed carelessly down at the end of yesterday's expedition; there hung the long string of seaweed which the children had brought home in triumph, still fresh-yes-for it was only yesterday-and yet what centuries between then and now. What glad companions then and tender friends. How solitary today. Outside how charming the garden looked, steaming in the

bright morning sun-the deep shadows falling across the glistening turf and smooth walks-the old gardener at work just as if nothing had happened-further away, a group of sailors spreading out their nets to dry, and filling the still morning air with the cries that seemed so pleasantly familiar-wellloaded fishing-boats dropping lazily shorewards-beyond, the bay, and a packet steaming noisily away into the horizon-everywhere peace and comfort, and the blessed routine of a happy life, except for her. And for her all the chains which link the several parts of existence together suddenly snapped. Everything seemed to mock her! Is it not so? When one's inner life is in some tumult, and the mind sorely perplexed-when one's thoughts are tempest-driven, does not the outer world, going on its way with its accustomed serenity, seem to add a sting, and act as a bright background to bring out the sharp outline of one's disasters, and aggravate the horror of the picture by the dismal contrast? We cannot fancy, in such a case, how we ever came to wish for a change, how it was we ever wearied of the precious life that is now overclouded. What would we not give for one more of its many old ordinary days. We held them so cheap; and now, if begging and praying could but win us one more, but one more, now that we know that they have passed away for ever!

Rachel meanwhile seemed more and more overpowered by the shock which her mother's unlookedfor announcement had given her; its complete surprise, its studied vagueness, the certainty that some terrible misadventure lay beneath, the stern decisiveness that spoke in every sentence,-each added to the horror of the whole; and her nature shrank before it, and was bowed down to the very dust with distress and humiliation. brightness seemed suddenly to have faded out of her life; a dark, overshadowing cloud had crept across the summer sky; she felt that some evil thing had been amongst them;

The

she was haunted by an indistinct consciousness of neighbouring crime; the innocence and joyousness of their old life; the accustomed luxury of intercourse, unembarrassed and unconstrained; the effortless simplicity of confidence and love, seemed to have been mortally wounded by a mystery, which all should agree not to explore, and a topic of conversation to which no allusion must for the future be made. It was in vain to try to acquiesce in the tantalizing deception, half light, half shade, in which at present the matter rested: they might be silent about it; but who could check the uneasy searchings of inquisitiveness, the hurried flights of imagination, all the rebellious struggles of outraged nature against an artificial oblivion? who was the wrong-doer, who had so silently, yet so effectually, brought about this unexplained catastrophe? whose was the ruthless hand that had struck this cruel, jarring discord into the prevailing harmony? Rachel turned first to her brothers, and dismissed the supposition in an instant. For months past she had never thought of Rex, except as betrothed to Ella, and as thoroughly sincere, if not very demonstrative, in his devotion. Robert was too transparently good and simple to allow of the possibility of his offending in the slightest degree against the severest code of honour, delicacy, or sentiment. Was it and the hot blood dyed Rachel's cheek deep red as the conviction flashed upon herwas it the man whom she had been so nearly loving, whose offence, or whose readiness to offend, was the occasion of their present trouble? Could it be that the subtle attraction of affinity, which in spite of herself had drawn her daily closer to Wynne, was a mere delusion? Were treachery and hypocrisy to be added to the other shameful elements of the story? Rachel bit her lip with vexation, and the hot tears gathered in her eyes as she recalled the times in which the accidents of conversation or the routine of life had seemed to betray them into the avowal of common