THE MANGROVE, (Rhizophora manglier.)

THE trees of this tribe are peculiar to the shores of the oceans and large rivers of the tropics, where they form dense forests, reaching almost to the waters. The Mangrove is a tree about fifty feet in hight, and its mode of growth is very singular, resembling that of the banian, or Indian fig. The tree is only found in marshy places: its branches, after growing for some time in the usual manner, suddenly bend downwards and grow towards the earth; as soon as they reach the moist soil, they take root, and thus each branch forms a stem capable of supporting itself without dependence on the parent tree; in this manner one tree will, in course of time, form a complete grove. The forests thus formed by an assemblage of Mangrove trees are almost impenetrable, and in addition to the difficulties offered by the thickness of their growth, their recesses are the favourite haunts of myriads of musquitoes, sufficient to deter the most enduring from the attempt to explore them. An innumerable quantity of birds, chiefly aquatic, take shelter under their branches, while the shallow pools which abound among them form the lurking places of thousands of crabs and of aquatic insects. These amphibious forests are at times inundated by the sea, and on the retreat of the water, numerous oysters and other shell-fish are found adhering to the trees. So that, although the difficulty of penetrating these thick shades is very great, the enterprising sportsman is tolerably sure of being well rewarded for the dangers he has to undergo by an abundance

of game.

A singular fact is attached to the history of the Mangrove, namely, the germination of the seeds while they are yet attached to the branches of the tree; these afterwards fall and take root in the ground.

The wood of the Mangrove is good for little else

There are as many as four or five species of the Mangrove, whose native countries are the warmer parts of the New World, and the coast of Malabar in the East Indies.

THE regard to the general rules of morality is what is properly called a sense of duty; a principal of the greatest consequence in human life, and the only principle by which the bulk of mankind are capable of directing their actions. There is scarce any man who, by discipline, education, and example, may not be impressed with a regard to these general rules of conduct, as to act upon almost every occasion with tolerable decency, and through the whole of his life, avoid a tolerable degree of blame. Without this sacred regard to the general rules of morality, there is no man whose conduct can be much depended upon. It is this which constitutes the most essential difference between a man of principle and honour, and a worthless fellow. The one adheres on all occasions, steadily and resolutely to his maxims, and preserves through the whole of his life, one even tenour of conduct. The other acts variously and accidentally, as humour, inclination, or interest, chance to be uppermost.-ADAM SMITH.

THE willow which bends to the tempest, often escapes better than the oak which resists it; and so, in great calamities, their elasticity and presence of mind sooner than those of a it sometimes happens, that light and frivolous spirits recover loftier character.--SIR WALTER SCOTT.

YOUTH is the time of enterprise and hope; having yet no occasion of comparing our force with any opposing power. imagine that obstruction and impediment will give way we naturally form presumptions in our own favour, and before us. The first repulses rather inflame vehemence than teach prudence; a brave and generous mind is long before it suspects its own weakness, or submits to sap the difficulties which it expected to subdue by storm. Before disappointments have enforced the dictates of philosophy, we believe it in our power to shorten the interval between delays of brooding industry, and fancy that by increasing the first cause and the last effect; we laugh at the timorous the fire we can, at pleasure, accelerate the projection. JOHNSON.

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CONFINEMENT OF THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH IN THE TOWER-HER REMOVAL TO WOODSTOCK.

In our last paper upon this subject we related how, immediately upon the breaking out of Sir Thomas Wyat's rebellion in February, 1554, the Princess Elizabeth was arrested in her house at Ashridge, by the orders of Queen Mary, and brought up to London with as much speed as was compatible with her delicate state of health. When the princess reached Whitehall, she was shut up a close prisoner, under the charge of the chamberlain and vice-chamberlain, without being permitted to hold communication with any one, for nearly a fortnight. On the Friday before Palm-Sunday, Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester, and nineteen others of the council, came from the Queen, and charged her with being privy to Wyat's conspiracy, alleging that she was concerned with the Carews, and other gentlemen in the west. The princess positively denied the accusation, and steadily asserted her innocence; but her visitors informed her that it was the Queen's will and pleasure that she should go to the Tower, while the matter underwent examination. Elizabeth was terrified at the idea of being sent to so "notorious and doleful a place;" she again asserted her innocence, and desired the councillors to intercede with her sister on her behalf. VOL. XII.

But they assured her that there was no remedy, and departed.

About an hour afterwards, the Lord Treasurer, the Bishop of Winchester, the Lord Steward, and the Earl of Sussex, entered with a guard, and removed all the servants of Elizabeth, substituting others of the Queen's; and there were stationed "an hundred of Northern soldiers in white coats, watching and warding about the garden all that night; a great fire being made in the midst of the hall, and two certain lords watching there also, with their band and company."

Upon Saturday following, (says Holinshed, that is on the next day,) two lords of the council, (the one was the Earl of Sussex, the other shall be nameless,) came and certified her grace that forthwith she must go unto the Tower, the barge being prepared for her, and the tide now ready which tarrieth for nobody. In heavy mood, her Grace requested the lords that she might tarry another tide, trusting that the next would be better and more comfortable. But one of the lords replied that neither tide nor time was to be delaied. And when her Grace requested that she might be suffered to write to the Queen's Majesty, he answered that he durst not permit that: adding, that in his judgment, it would rather hurt than profit her Grace in so doing. But the other lord, more courteous and favourable, (who was the Earl of Sussex,) kneeling down, said she should have liberty to write, and as a true man, he

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would deliver it to the Queen's Highness, and bring an answer of the same whatsoever came thereof. Whereupon she wrote the following letter:

To the Queen.

If any ever did try this olde saynge, that a kinge's worde was more than another man's othe, I most humbly beseche your Majesty to verefie it in me, and to remember your last promis and my last demande, that I be not condemned without answer and due profe; wiche it seems that now I am, for that without cause provid I am by your Counsel frome you commanded to go unto the Tower; a place more wonted for a false traitor than a true subject. Wiche, thogth I knowe I deserve it not, yet in the face of al this realme aperes that it is provid; wiche I pray God I may dy the shamefullist dethe that ever any died, afore I may mene any suche thinge: and to this present hower I protest afor God, (who shal juge my trueth whatsoever malice shal devis,) that I never practised, consiled, nor consented to any thinge that migth be prejudicial to your Person any way, or daungerous to the State by any mene. And therfor I humbly beseche your Majestie to let me answer afore your selfe, and not suffer me to trust to your Counselors; yea and that afore I go to the Tower, if it be possible; if not afore I be further condemned. Howbeit, I trust assuredly, your Highnes wyl give me leve to do it afor I go; for that thus shamfully I may not be cried out on as now I shal be; yea, and without cause. Let consciens move your Hithness to take some bettar way with me than to make me be condemned in al men's sigth afor my desert knowen. Also I most humbly beseche your Higthness to pardon this my boldnes, wiche innocency procures me to do togither with hope of your natural kindnes wiche I trust wyl not se me cast away without desert; wiche what it is I wold desire no more of God but that you

truly knewe. Wiche thinge I thinke and beleve you shal never by report knowe, unless by yourselfe you here. I have harde in my time of many cast away, for want of comminge to the presence of their Prince: and in late days I harde my Lorde of Sommerset say, that if his brother had bine sufferd to speke with him he had never sufferd; but the perswasions wer made to him so gret that he was brogth in belefe that he could not live safely if the Admiral lived; and that made him give his consent to his dethe. Thogth thes parsons are not to be compared to your Majestie, yet I pray God, as ivel perswations perswade not one sistar again the other; and al for that the have harde false report and not harkene to the trueth knowin. Therfor ons again kniling with humbleness of my hart, bicause I am not sufferd to bow the knees of my body, I humbly crave to speke with your Higthnis: wiche I wolde not he so bold to desier if I knewe not my self most clere as I knowe my selfe most tru. And as for the traitor Wiat, he migth paravantur writ me a lettar; but on my faithe I never receved any from him. And as for the copie of my lettar sent to the Frenche kinge, I pray God confounde me eternally if ever I sent him worde, message, token, or lettar by any menes; and to this my truith I will stande in to my dethe.

Your Highnes most faithful subject that hathe bien from the beginninge and wylbe to my ende, ELIZABETH.

I humbly crave but only one worde of answer from your selfe.

The princess was taken to the Tower on the following day. As that happened to be Palm Sunday, an order was issued throughout London, with the view of enabling her removal to be effected with more privacy, that every one should keep his church and carry his palm. Besides the two lords and the guards, there went with her three of the queen's gentlewomen, three of her own, her gentleman usher, and two grooms of her chamber. In passing London Bridge the whole party narrowly escaped with their lives, in consequence of the great fall of the water. On reaching the Tower the barge was directed to the dismal eutrance, known by the name of the Traitor's Gate. Elizabeth felt strongly the indignity thus put upon her, and would have refused to land, but that one of the lords, whose name Holinshed has withheld, plainly told her that she should not choose. It rained at the

time, and the same lord offered her his cloak, but, "putting it back with her hand with a good dash," she stepped forth, and as she set her foot upon the stair exclaimed, "Here landeth as true a subject, being a prisoner, as ever landed at these stairs, and before thee, O God, I speak it, having none other friend than thee."

On entering within the building, she expressed her surprise at finding the guards and warders drawn out in order; and being informed that it was the custom on the reception of prisoners, she desired that if it were so, for her cause they might be dismissed; "whereat the poor men kneeled down, and with one voice prayed God to preserve her, for which, on the next day they were all discharged." Proceeding a short distance she sat down on a stone and there rested herself. The lieutenant pressed her to rise out of the rain, but she answered, "Better sit here than in a worse place, for God knoweth whither you will bring me;" and turning to her gentleman usher, who was weeping, she rebuked him, saying, You ought rather to comfort than dismay me, especially for that I know my truth to be such, that no man shall have cause to weep for my sake." She then arose and was conducted to her prison.

"

Elizabeth's imprisonment in the Tower was of the most rigorous description. After she had been for some time closely confined, permission was granted, through the intercession of Lord Chandos, the lieutenant of the Tower, for her to walk in the queen's lodgings, in the presence, however, of the constable, the lieutenant, and three of the queen's ladies, and on condition that the windows should be shut. She was then indulged with walking in the queen's garden, for the sake of fresh air, but the shutters of all the windows which looked towards the garden were ordered to be kept close.

About the end of May Elizabeth was removed from the Tower, under the command of Sir Henry Bedingfield and Lord Williams of Thame, to the royal manor or palace at Woodstock. "The xx daye of May," says an old chronicle, the queene's sister, came out of the Tower, and toke my lady Elizabeth, her barge at the lower wharffe, and so to Richmond, and from thens unto Wyndsor, and so to Wodstoke." It was at Richmond that the princess rested the first night of her journey; she was there watched carefully by the soldiers, her own private attendants being prevented from having access to her. These measures of severity led the princess to suppose, that orders had been given to put her to death privately, when she called her servants together to take leave, she desired them to pray for her, "For this night," she added, "I think I must die." The servants broke into tears and lamentations, and the gentleman usher went down to the Lord Williams in the court, desiring him unfeignedly to show whether his lady and mistress that night were in danger of death, whereby himself and fellows might take such part as God would appoint. "Marry, God forbid," exclaimed Lord Williams, "that any such wickedness should be intended, which rather than it should be wrought, I and my men will die at her feet." On the second day she reached Windsor, where she was lodged in the dean's house, near St. George's Collegiate Chapel. She then passed to Lord Williams's seat at Ricot, in Oxfordshire, where she was "verie princelie- entertained, both of knights and ladies."

On arriving at Woodstock Elizabeth was lodged in the gatehouse of the palace, in an apartment which remained complete in the early part of the last century, with its original arched roof of Irish oak, curiously carved, and painted blue, with sprinklings

of gold ornaments, and which to the last retained the name of its illustrious captive. Holinshed mentions three lines which the princess wrote with a diamond on the glass of her window:

Much suspected by me,

Nothing proved can be,

Quoth ELIZABETH, prisoner.

The German, Hentzner, who travelled in England in 1598, has recorded a sonnet, written by her with a piece of charcoal on a window-shutter, to the following effect:

O, Fortune! how thy restless wavering state,
Hath fraught with cares my troubled wit!
Witness this present prison, whither fate
Hath borne me, and the joys I quit.
Thou causedest the guilty to be loosed
From bands, wherewith are innocents enclosed;
Causing the guiltless to be strait reserved,
And freeing those that death had well deserved;
But by her envy can be nothing wrought,
So God send to my foes all they have thought.
A.D. MDLV.

ELIZABETH, Prisoner.

In the Bodleian Library there is an English translation of St. Paul's Epistles, printed in the black letter, which the Princess Elizabeth used during her confinement at Woodstock; and on a blank leaf is the following paragraph, written with her own hand, and in the style characteristic of the age :-" I walke❘ many times into the pleasant fieldes of the Holye Scriptures, where I plucke up the goodliesome herbs of sentences by pruning, eate them by reading, chawe them by musing, and laie them up at length in the hie seate of memorie by gathering them together; that so having tasted the sweetness I maye the lesse perceave the bitterness of this miserable life." The covers of this book are of black silk, and the princess had amused herself with curiously working, or embossing, various devices and Latin inscriptions in gold twist. Elizabeth was strictly guarded during her stay at Woodstock, though she was sometimes allowed to walk in the gardens of the palace. In this situation no marvell," to use the words of Holinshed, "if the hearing upon a time out of her garden at Woodstocke, a certain milkmaide singing pleasantlie, wished herself to be a milkmaide as she was, saying that her case was better and life merrier." A fire broke out during the princess's imprisonment in the room under her room; it was promptly extinguished, and seems to have been the result of accident.

it is

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At a very early period Woodstock was a royal residence, and as late as the reign of Charles the First, all our kings were in the habit of occasionally taking up their abode here. The palace, or manorhouse, was besieged by the Parliamentarians in the grand rebellion; and after being stoutly defended for some time by an officer of great skill and devoted loyalty, it sustained much damage, and was surrendered by commissioners from the king. In 1649 commissioners were assembled here by order of the Rump Parliament, for the purpose of surveying the royal property. They made the king's bedchamber their kitchen, the council-hall they converted into a brewhouse, and in the dining-room they collected, for the use of their fires, logs sawn from a noble tree, which had long flourished in the park under the name of the King's Oak.

But their triumph was soon interrupted by circumstances which filled that credulous age with wonder, and afforded an apt subject of laughter to the era which succeeded. Frightful noises assailed their ears in the night; dreadful phantasms glided before their eyes; nor were their sight and hearing alone rendered subject to terrific visitations; many round blows were given; their bed-clothes were torn in fragments, and sundry noxious ingredients were discharged on their amazed foreheads. The populace digni

fied the nocturnal operator with the name of the Just Devil of Woodstock. It afterwards appeared that the whole was contrived by the ingenuity of an adroit and humourous royalist, named Joe Collins, who had procured the situation of secretary to the commissioners, for the purpose of imposing on their credulity. When the jest was discovered, Collins was styled the Merry Devil of Woodstock.

The furniture was soon afterwards sold, and the buildings portioned by Cromwell or his agents, among three persons. Two of these about 1652, pulled down their portions for the sake of the stone; the portion of the third, which consisted of the gatehouse in which the Princess Elizabeth was imprisoned, and some adjoining ruinous buildings was left standing. At a subsequent period this gatehouse was converted into a dwelling, by John Lord Lovelace, who was captain of the band of pensioners to William the Third; and here that nobleman resided

for many years. The adjoining ruins were standing sometime afterwards; and there were persons living towards the close of the last century, who could remember a noble porch and some walls of the hall, the walls and magnificent windows of the chapel, several turrets at proper distances, and who could trace out many of the apartments. While Blenheim palace was building, Sir John Vanbrugh laid out 20007. in keeping up the ruins of Woodstock. But the Lord Treasurer Godolphin afterwards observing to Sarah the Duchess of Marlborough, that a pile of ruins in the front of so fine a seat was an unseemly object, all the old buildings, including the Princess Elizabeth's gatehouse, were entirely demolished and

removed. Our engraving contains a view of the "Princess Elizabeth's Chamber," and its adjoining ruins, originally taken in 1714, a few years before their destruction.

CONNEXION BETWEEN THE SOUL AND BODY.

SCARCELY can I conceive even to myself, this union between my body and my soul. How is it that I bear upon me the stamp of the Divinity, and that at the same time I grovel in the dust? Is my body in health, it wars against me. Is it sick, I languish with it in sympathy. It is at once a companion that I love, and an enemy that I dread. It is a prison, that frightens me, a partner with whom I dwell. If I weaken it by excess, I become incapable of anything noble; if I indulge it, or treat it with too much consideration, it revolts, and my slave escapes me. It fastens me to the earth by ties I cannot break; and prevents me from taking my upward flight to God for which end alone I was created. It is an enemy that I love, a treacherous friend whom it is my duty to distrust. To fear and yet to love! At once what union and what discord! For what end, with what secret motive, is it that man has been thus organized? Is it not that God has seen it fit by this means to humble our pride, which may otherwise have carried us to the height of disdaining even our Creator, in the thought that being derived from the same fount of being, we might be permitted to regard ourselves as on terms of equality with Him? It is then to recall us incessantly to the sense of our entire dependence on him, that God has reduced our bodies to this state of frailty, which exposes it to perpetual combats; balancing our nobleness by our baseness; holding us in suspense between death and immortality, according to the affection which inclines us to the body or the soul; so that, if the excellences of our souls should inspire us with pride, the imperfections inseparable from our bodies may bring us back to humility.-St. GREGORY; Book of the Fathers.