HENRY WHITE

The King sat moody and silent, biting his nails, as was his wont. He would come to no decision. He asked for proofs, and none was forthcoming, except some idle gossip of the streets and the foolish threats of a few hot-headed Huguenots. Charles had learned to love the admiral: could he believe that the gentle Coligny and that Rochefoucault, the companion of his rough sports, were guilty of this meditated plot? He desired to be the king of France—of Huguenots and Catholics alike—not a king of party. Catherine, in her despair, employed her last argument. She whispered in his ear, "Perhaps, sire, you are afraid." As if struck by an arrow, he started from his chair. Raving like a madman, he bade them hold their tongues, and with fearful oaths exclaimed: "Kill the admiral, if you like, but kill all the Huguenots with him—all—all—all—so that not one be left to reproach me hereafter. See to it at once—at once; do you hear?" And he dashed furiously out of the closet, leaving the conspirators aghast at his violence.

But there was no time to be lost; the King might change his mind; the Huguenots might get wind of the plot. The murderous scheme must be carried out that very night, and accordingly the Duke of Guise was summoned to the Louvre. And now the different parts of the tragedy were arranged, Guise undertaking, on the strength of his popularity with the Parisian mob, to lead them to the work of blood. We may also imagine him begging as a favor the privilege of despatching the admiral in retaliation for his father's murder. The city was parted into districts, each of which was assigned to some trusty officer, Marshal Tavannes having the general superintendence of the military arrangements. The conspirators now separated, intending to meet again at ten o'clock. Guise went into the city, where he communicated his plans to such of the mob leaders as could be trusted. He told them of a bloody conspiracy among the Huguenot chiefs to destroy the King and the royal family and extirpate Catholicism; that a renewal of war was inevitable, but it was better that war should come in the streets of Paris than in the open field, for the leaders would thus be far more effectually punished and their followers crushed. He affirmed that letters had been intercepted in which the admiral had sought the aid of German reiters and Swiss pikemen, and that Montmorency was approaching with twenty-five thousand men to burn the city, as the Huguenots had often threatened. And, as if to give color to this idle story, a small body of cavalry had been seen from the walls in the early part of the day.

Such arguments and such falsehoods were admirably adapted to his hearers, who swore to carry out the Duke's orders with secrecy and despatch. "It is the will of our lord the King," continued Henry of Guise, "that every good citizen should take up arms to purge the city of that rebel Coligny and his heretical followers. The signal will be given by the great bell of the Palace of Justice. Then let every true Catholic tie a white band on his arm and put a white cross in his cap, and begin the vengeance of God." Finding upon inquiry that Le Charron, the provost of the merchants, was too weak and tender-hearted for the work before him, the Duke suggested that the municipality should temporarily confer his power on the ex-provost Marcel, a man of very different stamp.

About four in the afternoon Anjou rode through the crowded streets in company with his bastard brother Angoulême. He watched the aspect of the populace, and let fall a few insidious expressions in no degree calculated to quiet the turbulent passions of the citizens. One account says he distributed money, which is not probable, his afternoon ride being merely a sort of reconnaissance. The journals of the Hôtel de Ville still attest the anxiety of the court—of Catherine and her fellow-conspirator—that the massacre should be sweeping and complete. "Very late in the evening"—it must have been after dark, for the King went to lie down at eight, and did not rise until ten—the provost was sent for. At the Louvre he found Charles, the Queen-mother, and the Duke of Anjou, with other princes and nobles, among whom we may safely include Guise, De Retz, and Tavannes. The King now repeated to him the story of the Huguenot plot which had already been whispered abroad by Guise of Anjou, and bade him shut the gates of the city, so that no one could pass in or out, and take possession of the keys. He was also to draw up all the boats on the river bank and chain them together, to remove the ferry, to muster under arms the able-bodied men of each ward under their proper officers, and hold them in readiness at the usual mustering-places to receive the orders of his majesty. The city artillery, which does not appear to have been as formidable as the word would imply, was to be stationed at the Grève to protect the Hôtel de Ville or for any other duty required of it. With these instructions the provost returned to the Hôtel de Ville, where he spent great part of the night in preparing the necessary orders, which were issued "very early the next morning." There is reason for believing that these measures were simply precautions in case the Huguenots should resist and a bloody struggle should have to be fought in the streets of their capital. The municipality certainly took no part in the earlier massacres, whatever they may have done later. Tavannes complains of the "want of zeal" in some of the citizens, and Brantome admits that "it was necessary to threaten to hang some of the laggards."

That evening the King had supped in public, and, the hours being much earlier than with us, the time was probably between six and seven. The courtiers admitted to witness the meal appear to have been as numerous as ever, Huguenots as well as Catholics, victims and executioners. Charles, who retired before eight o'clock, kept Francis, Count of La Rochefoucault, with him for some time, as if unwilling to part with him. "Do not go," he said; "it is late. We will sit and talk all night."

"Excuse me, sire, I am tired and sleepy."

"You must stay; you can sleep with my valets." But as Charles was rather too fond of rough practical jokes, the Count still declined, and went away, suspecting no evil, to pay his usual evening visit to the Dowager Princess of Condé. He must have remained some time in her apartments, for it was past twelve o'clock when he went to bid Navarre good-night. As he was leaving the palace a man stopped him at the foot of the stairs and whispered in his ear. When the stranger left. La Rochefoucault bade Mergey, one of his suite, to whom we are indebted for these particulars, return and tell Henry that Guise and Nevers were about the city. During Mergey's brief absence something more appears to have been told the Count, for he returned upstairs with Nancay, captain of the guard, who, lifting the tapestry which closed the entrance to Navarre's antechamber, looked for some time at the gentlemen within, playing at cards or dice, others talking. At last he said: "Gentlemen, if any one of you wishes to retire, you must do so at once, for we are going to shut the gates." No one moved, as it would appear, for at Charles' express desire, it is said—which is scarcely probable—these Huguenot gentlemen had gathered round the King of Navarre to protect him against any outrage of the Guises. In the court-yard Mergey found the guard under arms. "M. Rambouillet, who loved me," he continues, "was sitting by the wicket as I passed out. He took my hand, and with a piteous look said: 'Adieu, Mergey; adieu, my friend,' not daring to say more, as he told me afterward."

Coligny's hotel had been crowded all day by visitors; the Queen of Navarre had paid him a visit, and most of the gentlemen in Paris, Catholic as well as Huguenot, had gone to express their sympathy. For the Frenchman is a gallant enemy and respects brave men; and the foul attempt upon the admiral, whom they had so often encountered on the battle-field, was felt as a personal injury. A council had been held that day, at which the propriety of removing in a body from Paris and carrying the admiral with them had again been discussed. Navarre and Condé opposed the proposition, and it was finally resolved to petition to the King "to order all the Guisians out of Paris, because they had too much sway with the people of the town." One Bouchavannnes, a traitor, was among them, greedily listening to every word, which he reported to Anjou, strengthening him in his determination to make a clean sweep that very night.

As the evening came on, the admiral's visitors took their leave. Teligny, his son-in-law, was the last to quit his bedside. To the question whether the admiral would like any of them to keep watch in his house during the night, he answered, says the contemporary biographer, "that it was labor more than needed, and gave them thanks with very loving words." It was after midnight when Teligny and Guerchy departed, leaving Ambrose Paré and Pastor Merlin with the wounded man. There were besides in the house two of his gentlemen, Cornaton, afterward his biographer, and La Bonne; his squire Yolet, five Switzers belonging to the King of Navarre's guard, and about as many domestic servants. It was the last night on earth for all except two of that household.

It is strange that the arrangements in the city, which must have been attended with no little commotion, did not rouse the suspicion of the Huguenots. Probably, in their blind confidence, they trusted implicitly in the King's word that these movements of arms and artillery, these postings of guards and midnight musters, were intended to keep the Guisian faction in order. There is a story that some gentlemen, aroused by the measured tread of the soldiers and the glare of torches—for no lamps then lit up the streets of Paris—went outdoors and asked what it meant. Receiving an unsatisfactory reply, they proceeded to the Louvre, where they found the outer court filled with armed men, who, seeing them without the white cross and the scarf, abused them as "accursed Huguenots," whose turn would come next. One of them who replied to this insolent threat, was immediately run through with a spear. This, if the incident be true, occurred about one o'clock on Sunday morning, August 24th, the festival of St. Bartholomew.

Shortly after midnight the Queen-mother rose and went to the King's chamber, attended only by one lady, the Duchess of Nemours, whose thirst for revenge was to be satisfied at last. She found Charles pacing the room in one of those fits of passion which he at times assumed to conceal his infirmity of purpose. At one moment he swore he would raise the Huguenots and call them to protect their sovereign's life as well as their own. Then he burst out into violent imprecations against his brother Anjou, who had entered the room but did not dare say a word. Presently the other conspirators arrived—Guise, Nevers, Birague, De Retz, and Tavannes. Catherine alone ventured to interpose, and, in a tone of sternness well calculated to impress the mind of her weak son, she declared that there was now no turning back: "It is too late to retreat, even were it possible. We must cut off the rotten limb, hurt it ever so much; if you delay, you will lose the finest opportunity God ever gave man of getting rid of his enemies at a blow." And then, as if struck with compassion for the fate of her victims, she repeated in a low tone—as if talking to herself—the words of a famous Italian preacher, which she had often been heard to quote before: "E la pieta lor ser crudele, e la crudelta lor ser pietosa" ("Mercy would be cruel to them, and cruelty merciful"). Catherine's resolution again prevailed over the King's weakness, and, the final orders being given, the Duke of Guise quitted the Louvre, followed by two companies of arquebusiers and the whole of Anjou's guard.

As soon as Guise had left, the chief criminals—each afraid to lose sight of the other, each needing the presence of the other to keep his courage up—went to a room adjoining the tennis-court overlooking the Place Bassecour. Of all the party—Charles, Catherine, Anjou, and De Retz—Charles was the least guilty and the most to be pitied. They went to the window, anxiously listening for the signal that the work of death had begun. Their consciences, no less than their impatience, made it impossible for them to sit calmly within the palace. Anjou's narrative continues: "While we were pondering over the events and the consequences of such a mighty enterprise, of which, to tell the truth, we had not thought much until then, we heard a pistol shot. The sound produced such an effect upon all three of us that it confounded our senses and deprived us of judgment. We were smitten with terror and apprehension of the great disorders about to be perpetrated." Catherine, who was a timid woman, adds Tavannes, would willingly have recalled her orders, and with that intent hastily despatched a gentleman to the Duke of Guise expressly desiring him to return and attempt nothing against the admiral. "It is too late," was the answer brought back; "the admiral is dead"—a statement at variance with other accounts. "Thereupon," continues Anjou, "we returned to our former deliberations, and let things take their course."

Between three and four in the morning the noise of horses and measured tramp of foot-soldiers broke the silence of the narrow street in which Coligny lay wounded. It was the murderers seeking their victims: they were Henry of Guise with his uncle the Duke of Aumale, the bastard of Angoulême, and the Duke of Nevers, with other foreigners, Italian and Swiss, namely, Fesinghi (or Tosinghi) and his nephew Antonio, Captain Petrucci, Captain Studer of Winkelbach with his soldiers, Martin Koch of Freyberg, Conrad Burg, Leonard Grunenfelder of Glaris, and Carl Dianowitz, surnamed Behm (the Bohemian?). There were, besides, one Captain Attin, in the household of Aumale, and Sarlabous, a renegade Huguenot and commandant of Havre. It is well to record the names even of these obscure individuals who stained their hands in the best blood of France. De Cosseins, too, was there with his guard, some of whom he posted with their arquebuses opposite the windows of Coligny's hotel, that none might escape.

Presently there was a loud knock at the outer gate—"Open in the King's name." La Bonne, imagining it to be a message from the Louvre, hastened with the keys, withdrew the bolt, and was immediately butchered by the assassins who rushed into the house. The alarmed domestics ran half awake to see what was the uproar: some were killed outright, others escaped upstairs, closing the door at the foot and placing some furniture against it. This feeble barrier was soon broken down, and the Swiss who had attempted to resist were shot. The tumult woke Coligny from his slumbers, and divining what it meant—that Guise had made an attack on the house—he was lifted from his bed, and, folding his robe-de-chambre round him, sat down prepared to meet his fate. Cornaton entering the room at this moment, Ambrose Pare asked him what was the meaning of the noise. Turning to his beloved master he replied: "Sir, it is God calling us to himself. They have broken into the house, and we can do nothing."

"I have been long prepared to die," said the admiral. "But you must all flee for your lives, if it be not too late; you cannot save me. I commit my soul to God's mercy." They obeyed him, but only two succeeded in making their way over the roofs. Pastor Merlin lay hid for three days in a loft, where he was fed by a hen, that every morning laid an egg within his reach.

Pare and Coligny were left alone—Coligny looking as calm and collected as if no danger impended. After a brief interval of suspense the door was dashed open, and Cosseins, wearing a corselet and brandishing a bloody sword in his hand, entered the room, followed by Behm, Sarlabous, and others; a party of Anjou's Swiss guard, in their tricolored uniform of black, white, and green, keeping in the rear. Expecting resistance, the ruffians were for a moment staggered at seeing only two unarmed men. But his brutal instincts rapidly regaining the mastery, Behm stepped forward, and pointing his sword at Coligny's breast asked, "Are you not the admiral?"

"I am, but, young man, you should respect my gray hairs, and not attack a wounded man. Yet what matters it? You cannot shorten my life except by God's permission." The German soldier, uttering a blasphemous oath, plunged his sword into the admiral's breast.

Others in the room struck him also, Behm repeating his blows until the admiral fell to the floor. The murderer now ran to the window and shouted into the court-yard, "It is all over." Henry of Guise, who had been impatiently ordering his creatures to make haste, was not satisfied. "Monsieur d'Angoulême will not believe it unless he sees him," returned the Duke. Behm raised the body from the ground, and dragged it to the window to throw it out; but life was not quite extinct, and the admiral placed his foot against the wall, faintly resisting the attempt. "Is it so, old fox?" exclaimed the murderer, who drew his dagger and stabbed him several times. Then, assisted by Sarlabous, he threw the body down. It was hardly to be recognized. The bastard of Angoulême—the chevalier as he is called in some of the narratives—wiped the blood from the face of the corpse. "Yes, it is he; I know him well," said Guise, kicking the body as he spoke. "Well done, my men," he continued, "we have made a good beginning. Forward—by the King's command." He mounted his horse and rode out of the court-yard, followed by Nevers, who cynically exclaimed as he looked at the body, "Sic transit gloria mundi." Tosinghi took the chain of gold—the insignia of his office—from the admiral's neck, and Petrucci, a gentleman in the train of the Duke of Nevers, cut off the head and carried it away carefully to the Louvre. Of all who were found in the house, not one was spared except Ambrose Paré, who was escorted in safety to the palace by a detachment of Anjou's guard.

Coligny's headless trunk was left for some hours where it fell, until it became the sport of rabble children, who dragged it all round Paris. They tried to burn it, but did little more than scorch and blacken the remains, which were first thrown into the river, and then taken out again "as unworthy to be food for fish," says Claude Haton. In accordance with the old sentence of the Paris Parliament, it was dragged by the hangman to the common gallows at Montfaucon, and there hanged up by the heels. All the court went to gratify their eyes with the sight, and Charles, unconsciously imitating the language of Vitellius, said, as he drew near the offensive corpse, "The smell of a dead enemy is always sweet." The body was left hanging for a fortnight or more, after which it was privily taken down by the admiral's cousin, Marshal Montmorency, and it now rests, after many removals, in a wall among the ruins of his hereditary castle of Chatillon-sur-Loing. What became of the head no one knows.

When Guise left the admiral's corpse lying in the court-yard, he went to the adjoining house, in which Teligny lived. All the inmates were killed, but he escaped by the roof. Twice he fell into the hands of the enemy, and twice he was spared; he perished at last by the sword of a man who knew not his amiable and inoffensive character. His neighbor La Rochefoucault was perhaps more fortunate in his fate. He had hardly fallen asleep when he was disturbed by the noise in the street. He heard shouts and the sound of many footsteps; and scarcely awake and utterly unsuspicious, he went to his bedroom door at the first summons in the King's name. He seems to have thought that Charles, indulging in one of his usual mad frolics, had come to punish him as he had punished others, like schoolboys. He opened the door and fell dead across the threshold, pierced by a dozen weapons.

When the messenger returned from the Duke of Guise with the answer that it was "too late," Catherine, fearing that such disobedience to the royal commands might incense the King and awaken him to a sense of all the horrors that were about to be perpetrated in his name, privately gave orders to anticipate the hour. Instead of waiting until the matin bell should ring out from the old clock tower of the Palace of Justice, she directed the signal to be given from the nearer belfry of St. Germain l'Auxerrois. As the harsh sound rang through the air of that warm summer night, it was caught up and echoed from tower to tower, rousing all Paris from their slumbers.

Immediately from every quarter of that ancient city uprose a tumult as of hell. The clanging of bells, the crashing doors, the rush of armed men, the musket-shots, the shrieks of their victims, and high over all the yells of the mob, fiercer and more pitiless than hungry wolves—made such an uproar that the stoutest hearts shrank appalled, and the sanest appear to have lost their reason. Women unsexed, men wanting but the strength of the wild beast, children without a single charm of youth or innocence, crowded the streets where rising day still struggled with the glare of a thousand torches. They smelt the odor of blood, and, thirsting to indulge their passions for once with impunity, committed horrors that have become the marvel of history.

Within the walls of the Louvre, within the hearing of Charles and his mother, if not actually within their sight, one of the foulest scenes of this detestable tragedy was enacted. At daybreak, says Queen Margaret of Navarre, her husband rose to go and play tennis, with a determination to be present at the King's lever, and demand justice for the assault on the admiral. He left his apartment, accompanied by the Huguenot gentlemen who had kept watch around him during the night. At the foot of the stairs he was arrested, while the gentlemen with him were disarmed, apparently without any attempt at resistance. A list of them had been carefully drawn up, which the sire D'O, quartermaster of the guards, read out. As each man answered his name, he stepped into the court-yard, where he had to make his way through a double line of Swiss mercenaries. Sword, spear, and halberd made short work of them, and two hundred, according to Davila, of the best blood of France soon lay a ghastly pile beneath the windows of the palace. Charles, it is said, looked on coldly at the horrid deed, the victims appealing in vain to his mercy. Among the gentlemen they murdered were two who had been boldest in their language to the King not many hours before—Segur, Baron of Pardaillan, and Armand de Clermont, Baron of Pilles, who with stentorian voices called upon the King to be true to his word. De Pilles took off his rich cloak and offered it to someone whom he recognized: "Here is a present from the hand of De Pilles, basely and traitorously murdered."

"I am not the man you take me for," said the other, refusing the cloak. The Swiss plundered their victims as they fell, and, pointing to the heap of half-naked bodies, described them to the spectators as the men who had conspired to kill the King and all the royal family in their sleep, and make France a republic. But more disgraceful than even this massacre was the conduct of some of the ladies in Catherine's train, of her "flying squadron," who, later in the day, inspected and laughed at the corpses as they lay stripped in the court-yard, being especially curious about the body of Soubise, from whom his wife had sought to be divorced on the ground of nullity of marriage.

A few gentlemen succeeded in escaping from this slaughter. Margaret, "seeing it was daylight," and imagining the danger past of which her sister had told her, fell asleep. But her slumbers were soon rudely broken. "An hour later," she continues, "I was awoke by a man knocking at the door and calling, 'Navarre! Navarre!' The nurse, thinking it was my husband, ran and opened it. It was a gentleman named Léran, who had received a sword-cut in the elbow and a spear-thrust in the arm; four soldiers were pursuing him, and they all rushed into my chamber after him. Wishing to save his life, he threw himself upon my bed. Finding myself clasped in his arms, I got out on the other side; he followed me, still clinging to me. I did not know the man, and could not tell whether he came to insult me or whether the soldiers were after him or me. We both shouted out, being equally frightened. At last, by God's mercy, Captain de Nançay of the guards came in, and, seeing me in this condition, could not help laughing, although commiserating me. Severely reprimanding the soldiers for their indiscretion, he turned them out of the room, and granted me the life of the poor man who still clung to me. I made him lie down and had his wounds dressed in my closet until he was quite cured. While changing my night-dress, which was all covered with blood, the captain told me what had happened, and assured me that my husband was with the King and quite unharmed. He then conducted me to the room of my sister of Lorraine, which I reached more dead than alive. As I entered the anteroom, the doors of which were open, a gentleman named Bourse, running from the soldiers who pursued him, was pierced by a halberd three paces from me. I fell almost fainting into Captain de Nançay's arms, imagining the same thrust had pierced us both. Being somewhat recovered, I entered the little room where my sister slept. While there De Moissans, my husband's first gentleman, and Armagnac, his first valet-de-chambre, came and begged me to save their lives. I went and threw myself at the feet of the King and the Queen—my mother—to ask the favor, which they at last granted me."

When Captain de Nançay arrived so opportunely, he was leaving the King's chamber, whither he had conducted Henry of Navarre and the Prince of Condé. The tumult and excitement had worked Charles up to such a pitch of fury that the lives of the princes were hardly safe. But they were gentlemen, and their first words were to reproach the King for his breach of faith. Charles bade them be silent—"Messe ou mort"—("Apostatize or die"). Henry demanded time to consider; while the Prince boldly declared that he would not change his religion: "With God's help it is my intention to remain firm in my profession." Charles, exasperated still more by this opposition to his will, angrily walked up and down the room, and swore that if they did not change in three days he would have their heads. They were then dismissed, but kept close prisoners within the palace.

The houses in which the Huguenots lodged, having been registered, were easily known. The soldiers burst into them, killing all they found, without regard to age or sex, and if any escaped to the roof they were shot down like pigeons. Daylight served to facilitate a work that was too foul even for the blackest midnight. Restraint of every kind was thrown aside, and while the men were the victims of bigoted fury, the women were exposed to violence unutterable. As if the popular frenzy needed excitement, Marshal Tavannes, the military director of this deed of treachery, rode through the streets with dripping sword, shouting: "Kill! Kill! Bloodletting is as good in August as in May." One would charitably hope that this was the language of excitement, and that in his calmer moods he would have repented of his share in the massacre. But he was consistent to the last. On his death-bed he made a general confession of his sins, in which he did not mention the day of St. Bartholomew; and when his son expressed surprise at the omission, he observed, "I look upon that as a meritorious action, which ought to atone for all the sins of my life."

The massacre soon exceeded the bounds upon which Charles and his mother had calculated. They were willing enough that the Huguenots should be murdered; but the murderers might not always be able to draw the line between orthodoxy and heresy. Things were fast getting beyond all control; the thirst for plunder was even keener than the thirst for blood. And it is certain that among the many ignoble motives by which Charles was induced to permit the massacre, was the hope of enriching himself and paying his debts out of the property of the murdered Huguenots. Nor were Anjou and others insensible to the charms of heretical property. Hence we find the provost of Paris remonstrating with the King about "the pillaging of the houses and the murders in the streets by the guards and others in the service of his majesty and the princes." Charles, in reply, bade the magistrates "mount their horses, and with all the force of the city put an end to such irregularities, and remain on the watch day and night." Another proclamation, countersigned by Nevers, was issued about five in the afternoon, commanding the people to lay down the arms which they had taken up "that day by the King's orders," and to leave the streets to the soldiers only—as if implying that they alone were to kill and plunder.

The massacre, commenced on Sunday, was continued through that and the two following days. Capilupi tells us, with wonderful simplicity, "that it was a holiday, and therefore the people could more conveniently find leisure to kill and plunder." It is impossible to assign to each day its task of blood; in all but a few exceptional cases, we know merely that the victims perished in the general slaughter. Writing in the midst of the carnage, probably not later than noon on the 24th, the nuncio Salviati says: "The whole city is in arms; the houses of the Huguenots have been forced with great loss of life, and sacked by the populace with incredible avidity. Many a man to-night will have his horses and his carriage, and will eat and drink off plate, who had never dreamed of it in his life before. In order that matters may not go too far, and to prevent the revolting disorders occasioned by the insolence of the mob, a proclamation has just been issued, declaring that there shall be three hours in the day during which it shall be unlawful to rob and kill; and the order is observed, though not universally. You can see nothing in the streets but white crosses in the hats and caps of everyone you meet, which has a fine effect!" The nuncio says nothing of the streets encumbered with bleeding corpses, nothing of the cart-loads of bodies conveyed to the Seine, and then flung into the river, "so that not only were all the waters in it turned to blood, but so many corpses grounded on the bank of the little island of Louvre that the air became infected with the smell of corruption." The living, tied hand and foot, were thrown off the bridges. One man—probably a rag-gatherer—brought two little children in his creel, and tossed them into the water as carelessly as if they had been blind kittens. An infant, yet unable to walk, had a cord tied round its neck, and was dragged through the streets by a troop of children nine or ten years old. Another played with the beard and smiled in the face of the man who carried him; but the innocent caress exasperated instead of softened the ruffian, who stabbed the child, and with an oath threw it into the Seine. Among the earliest victims was the wife of the King's plumassier. The murderers broke into her house on the Notre-Dame bridge, about four in the morning, stabbed her, and flung her still breathing into the river. She clung for some time to the wooden piles of the bridge, and was killed at last with stones, her body remaining for four days entangled by her long hair among the woodwork. The story goes that her husband's corpse, being thrown over, fell against hers and set it free, both floating away together down the stream. Madeleine Briçonnet, the widow of Theobald of Yverni, disguised herself as a woman of the people, so that she might save her life, but was betrayed by the fine petticoat which hung below her coarse gown. As she would not recant, she was allowed a few moments' prayer, and then tossed into the water. Her son-in-law, the marquis Renel, escaping in his shirt, was chased by the murderers to the bank of the river, where he succeeded in unfastening a boat. He would have got away altogether but for his cousin Bussy d'Amboise, who shot him down with a pistol. One Keny, who had been stabbed and flung into the Seine, was revived by the reaction of the cold water. Feeble as he was he swam to a boat and clung to it, but was quickly pursued. One hand was soon cut off with a hatchet, and as he still continued to steer the boat down the stream, he was "quieted" by a musket-shot. One Puviaut, or Pluviaut, who met with a similar fate, became the subject of a ballad.

Captain Moneins had been put into a safe hiding-place by his friend Fervacques, who went and begged the King to spare the life of the fugitive. Charles not only refused, but ordered him to kill Moneins if he desired to save his own life. Fervacques would not stain his own hands, but made his friend's hiding-place known.

Brion, governor of the young Marquis of Conti, the Prince of Condé's brother, snatched the child from his bed, and, without stopping to dress him, was hurrying away to a place of safety, when the boy was torn from his arms, and he himself murdered before the eyes of his pupil. We are told that the child "cried and begged they would save his tutor's life."

The houses on the bridge of Notre-Dame, inhabited principally by Protestants, were witnesses to many a scene of cruelty. All the inmates of one house were massacred, except a little girl, who was dipped stark naked in the blood of her father and mother and threatened to be served like them if she turned Huguenot. The Protestant booksellers and printers were particularly sought after. Spire Niquet was burned over a slow fire made out of his own books, and thrown lifeless, but not dead, into the river. Oudin Petit fell a victim to the covetousness of his son-in-law, who was a Catholic bookseller. Rene Bianchi, the Queen's perfumer, is reported to have killed with his own hands a young man, a cripple, who had already displayed much skill in goldsmith's work. This is the only man whose death the King lamented, "because of his excellent workmanship, for his shop was entirely stripped."

Mezeray writes that seven hundred or eight hundred people had taken refuge in the prisons, hoping they would be safe "under the wings of Justice"; but the officers selected for this work had brought them into the fitly named "Valley of Misery," and there beat them to death with clubs and threw their bodies into the river. The Venetian ambassador corroborates this story, adding that they were murdered in batches of ten. Where all were cruel, some few persons distinguished themselves by especial ferocity. A gold-beater, named Crozier, one of those prison-murderers, bared his sinewy arm and boasted of having killed four thousand persons with his own hands. Another man—for the sake of human nature we would fain wish him to be the same—affirmed that unaided he had "despatched" eighty Huguenots in one day. He would eat his food with hands dripping with gore, declaring "that it was an honor to him, because it was the blood of heretics." On Tuesday a butcher, Crozier's comrade, boasted to the King that he had killed one hundred fifty the night before. Coconnas, one of the mignons of Anjou, prided himself on having ransomed from the populace as many as thirty Huguenots, for the pleasure of making them abjure, and then killing them with his own hand, after he had "secured them for hell."

About seven o'clock the King was at one of the windows of his palace, enjoying the air of that beautiful August morning, when he was startled by shouts of "Kill, kill!" They were raised by a body of guards, who were firing with much more noise than execution at a number of Huguenots who had crossed the river—"to seek the King's protection," says one account; "to help the King against the Guises," says another. Charles, who had just been telling his mother that "the weather seemed to rejoice at the slaughter of the Huguenots," felt all his savage instincts kindle at the sight. He had hunted wild beasts; now he would hunt men, and, calling for an arquebuse, he fired at the fugitives, who were fortunately out of range. Some modern writers deny this fact, on the ground that the balcony from which Charles is said to have fired was not built until after 1572. Were this true, it would only show that tradition had misplaced the locality. Brantome expressly says the King fired on the Huguenots—not from a balcony, but—"from his bedroom window." Marshal Tesse heard the story, according to Voltaire, from the man who loaded the arquebuse. Henault, in his Abrégé chronologique, mentions it with a "dit-on" and it is significant that the passage is suppressed in Latin editions. Simon Goulart, in his contemporary narrative, uses the same words of caution.

Not many of the Huguenot gentlemen escaped from the toils so skilfully drawn round them on that fatal Saturday night: yet there were a few. The Count of Montgomery—the same who was the innocent cause of the death of Henry II—got away safe, having been forewarned by a friend who swam across the river to him. Guise set off in hot pursuit, and would probably have caught him up had he not been waiting for the keys of the city gate. Some sixty gentlemen, also, lodging near him in the Faubourg St. Germain, were the companions of his flight.

Sully, afterward the famous minister of Henry IV, had a narrow escape. He was in his twelfth year, and had gone to Paris in the train of Joan of Navarre for the purpose of continuing his studies. "About three after midnight," he says, "I was awoke by the ringing of bells and the confused cries of the populace. My governor, St. Julian, with my valet-de-chambre, went out to know the cause; and I never heard of them afterward. They, no doubt, were among the first sacrificed to the public fury. I continued alone in my chamber, dressing myself, when in a few moments my landlord entered, pale and in the most utmost consternation. He was of the Reformed religion, and, having learned what was the matter, had consented to go to mass to save his life and preserve his house from being pillaged. He came to persuade me to do the same and to take me with him. I did not think proper to follow him, but resolved to try if I could gain the College of Burgundy, where I had studied; though the great distance between the house in which I then was and the college made the attempt very dangerous. Having disguised myself in a scholar's gown, I put a large prayer-book under my arm, and went into the street. I was seized with horror inexpressible at the sight of the furious murderers, running from all parts, forcing open the houses, and shouting out: 'Kill, kill! Massacre the Huguenots!' The blood which I saw shed before my eyes, redoubled my terror. I fell into the midst of a body of guards, who stopped and questioned me, and were beginning to use me ill, when, happily for me, the book that I carried was perceived and served me for a passport. Twice after this I fell into the same danger, from which I extricated myself with the same good-fortune. At last I arrived at the College of Burgundy, where a danger still greater than any that I had yet met with awaited me. The porter having twice refused me entrance, I continued standing in the midst of the street, at the mercy of the savage murderers, whose number increased every moment, and who were evidently seeking for their prey, when it came into my head to ask for La Faye, the principal of the college, a good man, by whom I was tenderly beloved. The porter, prevailed upon by some small pieces of money which I put in his hand, admitted me; and my friend carried me to his apartment, where two inhuman priests whom I heard mention 'Sicilian Vespers,' wanted to force me from him, that they might cut me in pieces, saying the order was, not to spare even infants at the breast. All the good man could do was to conduct me privately to a distant chamber, where he locked me up. Here I was confined three days, uncertain of my destiny, and saw no one but a servant of my friend's, who came from time to time to bring me provisions."

Not until the second day does there appear to have been any remorse or pity for the horrors inflicted upon the wretched Huguenots. Elizabeth of Austria, the young Queen who hoped shortly to become a mother, interceded for Condé, and so great was her agitation and distress that her "features were quite disfigured by the tears she had shed night and day." And, the Duke of Alençon, a youth of by no means lovable character, "wept much," we are told, "over the fate of those brave captains and soldiers." For this tenderness he was so bitterly reproached by Charles and his mother that he was forced to keep out of their sight. Alençon was partial to Coligny, and when there was found among the admiral's papers a report in which he condemned appanages, the grants usually given by the crown to the younger members of the royal family, Catherine exultingly showed it to him—"See what a fine friend he was to you."

"I know not how far he may have been my friend," replied the Duke, "but the advice he gave me was very good."

If Mezeray is to be trusted, Charles broke down on the second day of the massacre. Since Saturday he had been in a state of extraordinary excitement, more like madness than sanity, and at last his mind gave way under the pressure. To his surgeon, Ambrose Paré, who kept at his side all through these dreadful hours, he said: "I do not know what ails me. For these two or three days past, both mind and body have been quite upset. I burn with fever; all around me grin pale blood-stained faces. Ah! Ambrose, if they had but spared the weak and innocent." A change, indeed, had come over him; be became more restless than ever, his looks savage, his buffoonery coarser and more boisterous. "Ne mai poteva pigliar requie" says Sigismond Cavalli. Like Macbeth, he had murdered sleep. "I saw the King on my return from Rochelle," says Brantome, "and found him entirely changed. His features had lost all the gentleness [douceur] usually visible in them."

"About a week after the massacre," says a contemporary, "a number of crows flew croaking round and settled on the Louvre. The noise they made drew everybody out to see them, and the superstitious women infected the King with their own timidity. That very night Charles had not been in bed two hours when he jumped up and called for the King of Navarre, to listen to a horrible tumult in the air; shrieks, groans, yells, mingled with blasphemous oaths and threats, just as they were heard on the night of the massacre. The sound returned seven successive nights, precisely at the same hour." Juvenal des Ursins tells the story rather differently. "On August 31st I supped at the Louvre with Madame de Fiesque. As the day was very hot we went down into the garden and sat in an arbor by the river. Suddenly the air was filled with a horrible noise of tumultuous voices and groans, mingled with cries of rage and madness. We could not move for terror; we turned pale and were unable to speak. The noise lasted for half an hour, and was heard by the King, who was so terrified that he could not sleep the rest of the night." As for Catherine; knowing that strong emotions would spoil her digestion and impair her good looks, she kept up her spirits. "For my part," she said, "there are only six of them on my conscience;" which is a lie, for when she ordered the tocsin to be rung, she must have foreseen the horrors—perhaps not all the horrors—that would ensue.

ISAAC D'ISRAELI

An original document now lying before me, the autograph letter of Charles IX, will prove that that unparalleled massacre, called by the world religious, was, in the French cabinet, considered merely as political; one of those revolting state expedients which a pretended instant necessity has too often inflicted on that part of a nation which, like the under-current, subterraneously works its way, and runs counter to the great stream, till the critical moment arrives when one or the other must cease.

The massacre began on St. Bartholomew Day, in August, 1572, lasted in France during seven days; that awful event interrupted the correspondence of our court with that of France. A long silence ensued; the one did not dare tell the tale which the other could not listen to. But sovereigns know how to convert a mere domestic event into a political expedient. Charles IX, on the birth of a daughter, sent over an ambassador extraordinary to request Elizabeth to stand as sponsor; by this the French monarch obtained a double purpose; it served to renew his interrupted intercourse with the silent Queen, and alarmed the French Protestants by abating their hopes, which long rested on the aid of the English Queen.

The following letter, dated February 8, 1573, is addressed by the King to La Motte Fénelon, his resident ambassador at London. The King in this letter minutely details a confidential intercourse with his mother, Catherine de' Medici, who, perhaps, may have dictated this letter to the secretary, although signed by the King with his own hand. Such minute particulars could only have been known to herself. The Earl of Wolchester (Worcester) was now taking departure, having come to Paris on the baptism of the princess; and accompanied by Walsingham, our resident ambassador, after taking leave of Charles, had the following interview with Catherine de' Medici. An interview with the young monarch was usually concluded by a separate audience with his mother, who probably was still the directress of his councils.

After Catherine de' Medici had assured the Earl of Worcester of her great affection for the Queen of England, and the King's strict intention to preserve it, she took this opportunity of inquiring of the Earl of Worcester the cause of the Queen his mistress' marked coolness toward them. The narrative becomes now dramatic.

"On this, Walsingham, who always kept close by the side of the Count [Earl of Worcester], here took on himself to answer, acknowledging that the said Count had indeed been charged to speak on this head; and he then addressed some words in English to Worcester. And afterward the Count gave to my lady and mother to understand that the Queen his mistress had been waiting for an answer on two articles; the one concerning religion, and the other for an interview.

"In regard to what has occurred these latter days, that he must have seen how it happened by the fault of the chiefs of those who remained here; for when the late admiral was treacherously wounded at Notre Dame, he knew the affliction it threw us into—fearful that it might have occasioned great troubles in this kingdom—and the diligence we used to verify judicially whence it proceeded; and the verification was nearly finished, when they were so forgetful as to raise a conspiracy, to attempt the lives of myself, my lady and mother, and my brothers, and endanger the whole state; which was the cause that to avoid this I was compelled, to my very great regret, to permit what had happened in Paris; but as he had witnessed, I gave orders to stop, as soon as possible, this fury of the people, and place everyone on repose. On this, the Sieur Walsingham replied to my lady and mother that the exercise of the said religion had been interdicted in this kingdom. To which she also answered that this had not been done but for a good and holy purpose; namely, that the fury of the Catholic people might the sooner be allayed, who else had been reminded of the past calamities, and would again have been let loose against those of the said religion had they continued to preach in this kingdom. Also should these once more fix on any chiefs, which I will prevent as much as possible, giving him clearly and pointedly to understand that what is done here is much the same as what has been done and is now practised by the Queen his mistress in her kingdom. For she permits the exercise but of one religion, although there are many of her people who are of another; and having also during her reign punished those of her subjects whom she found seditious and rebellious. It is true this has been done by the laws, but I, indeed, could not act in the same manner; for finding myself in such imminent peril, and the conspiracy raised against me and mine and my kingdom ready to be executed, I had no time to arraign and try in open justice as much as I wished, but was constrained, to my very great regret, to strike the blow [lascher la main] in what has been done in this city."

This letter of Charles IX, however, does not here conclude. "My lady and mother" plainly acquaints the Earl of Worcester and Sir Francis Walsingham that her son had never interfered between their mistress and her subjects, and in return expects the same favor although, by accounts they had received from England, many ships were arming to assist their rebels at La Rochelle. "My lady and mother" advances another step, and declares that Elizabeth by treaty is bound to assist her son against his rebellious subjects; and they expect, at least, that Elizabeth will not only stop these armaments in all her ports, but exemplarily punish the offenders. I resume the letter.

"And on hearing this, the said Walsingham changed color, and appeared somewhat astonished, as my lady and mother well perceived by his face; and on this he requested the Count of Worcester to mention the order which he knew the Queen his mistress had issued to prevent these people from assisting those of La Rochelle; but that in England, so numerous were the seamen and others who gained their livelihood by maritime affairs, and who would starve without the entire freedom of the seas, that it was impossible to interdict them."

Such is the first letter on English affairs which Charles IX despatched to his ambassador, after an awful silence of six months, during which time La Motte Fénelon was not admitted into the presence of Elizabeth. The apology for the massacre of St. Bartholomew comes from the King himself, and contains several remarkable expressions, which are at least divested of that style of bigotry and exultation we might have expected: on the contrary, this sanguinary and inconsiderate young monarch, as he is represented, writes in a subdued and sorrowing tone, lamenting his hard necessity, regretting he could not have recourse to the laws, and appealing to others for his efforts to check the fury of the people, which he himself had let loose. Catherine de' Medici, who had governed from the tender age of eleven years, when he ascended the throne, might unquestionably have persuaded him that a conspiracy was on the point of explosion. Charles IX died young, and his character is unfavorably viewed by the historians. In the voluminous correspondence which I have examined, could we judge by state letters of the character of him who subscribes them, we must form a very different notion; they are so prolix and so earnest that one might conceive they were dictated by the young monarch himself!

JNO. RUDD

Popular error has done more injury to the memory of Catherine de' Medici than to that of any other woman famous in history. To understand Catherine, and the part she played on the stage of French politics, her training and the position she held must be understood. It is one thing to look upon her on the obverse as wholly without heart, a trafficker in human life, a ghoul who smiled with complacency on the victims of her hate, and another to look on the reverse of the medal. The Massacre of St. Bartholomew is pointed to as a crime—a religious crime. But is this true? It may not have been an act in accordance with twentieth-century morality, but bad, horrible indeed as it was, were there not extenuating circumstances attending it—looked upon in the light of that age? To Catherine de' Medici—perhaps justly—has been given the credit—or infamy, if you will—of its conception and execution.

"Historians are privileged liars"—this is a truism as valid to-day as when expressed by its brilliant creator. The throne of France was saved by Catherine de' Medici, the royal power was maintained by her under such difficulties as few rulers would have withstood. She is painted by Catholic and Protestant writers alike as standing without the gates of the Louvre, the morning after the massacre, and there gloating over the bodies of the slain lying about the palace entrance.

Apart from her political duty, as she understood it, and which meant the upholding of the monarchy, Catherine was a true woman; kind to her suite, faithful to her friends. She had none of the weaknesses of her sex; she lived chaste amid the debauchery of the most licentious court in Europe. The losses to art caused by the destructive Calvinists she replaced by erecting noble buildings and beautifying Paris. But she had the sense of royalty developed to the utmost; she defended it to the extreme. In France the opposition was always Protestant. It was her enemy, the enemy of the crown, the arch-enemy of France. It is laid to her charge that she coquetted with the Huguenots, whom she afterward slew. This there is no denying; she had but her craft with which to oppose the Guise faction, the various court cliques, and the Huguenots themselves.

An expert at the game, she played one piece against another, skilfully avoiding the checkmate. Pawns might be lost, bishops fall to her hand, knights be unhorsed, but her king was secured. She could only triumph by cunning.

A state cannot be governed by the same rule of morality as that which should govern individual conduct; it is impossible that it should be so. Professor Saintsbury says: "Every cool-headed student of history and ethics will admit that it was precisely the abuse of the principle at this time, and by the persons of whom Catherine de' Medici, if not the most blamable, has had the most blame put on her, that brought the principle itself into discredit."[1]

Casimir Périer, the noted French statesman, wrote, "All power is a permanent conspiracy." This is as true to-day in republican America as it was at that time in monarchical France. And it was not religion, as such, that led to the horrible scenes of that fatal August 24th; it was a move in the game of politics. Protestantism spelt republicanism; to one raised as Catherine had been, taught her life through by bitter experience, any means available, any course adopted, was righteous if it answered the purpose of saving the realm.

Research into this period will amply repay the explorer with enlarged ideas of its meaning and its issues. Of the Queen-mother "naught extenuate nor aught set down in malice." Catherine compares more than favorably with Marie de' Medici, whom history has painted in brighter hue. Bigotry has blasted the name of one who for her time was at least the equal of any ruler in Europe.

HEROIC AGE OF THE NETHERLANDS

SIEGE OF LEYDEN

A.D. 1573

THOMAS HENRY DYER

Soon after the capture of Mons, Alva went to Brussels and left the conduct of the war to his son, Frederick de Toledo. Zutphen and Naarden successively yielded to Frederick's arms, and became the scenes of the most detestable violence. Alva ordered his son not to leave a single man alive in Zutphen, and to burn down all the houses—commands which were almost literally obeyed. The treatment of Naarden was still more revolting. The town had capitulated, and Don Julian Romero, an officer of Don Frederick's, had pledged his word that the lives and property of the inhabitants should be respected. Romero then entered the town with some five hundred musketeers, for whom the citizens provided a sumptuous feast; and he summoned the inhabitants to assemble in the Gast Huis Church, then used as a town hall. More than five hundred of them had entered the church when a priest, suddenly rushing in, bade them prepare for death. Scarcely had the announcement been made when a band of Spanish soldiers entered and, after discharging a volley into the defenceless crowd, attacked them sword in hand. The church was then fired and the dead and dying consumed together.

But these cruelties only steeled the Hollanders to a more obstinate resistance; nor must it be concealed that in these plusquam civilia bella, where civil hatred was still further embittered by sectarian malignancy, the Dutch sometimes displayed as much savageness as their adversaries. Thus, during the struggle in Zealand, a surgeon at Veer cut out the heart of a Spanish prisoner, and, fixing it on the prow of a vessel, invited his fellow-townsmen to fix their teeth in it, an invitation with which many complied.

The war was continued during the winter (1572-1573). In December the Spaniards marched to attack a fleet frozen up near Amsterdam. It was defended by a body of Dutch musketeers on skates, who, by the superior skill of their evolutions, drove the enemy back and killed great numbers of them. In consequence of this extraordinary combat, Alva ordered seven thousand pairs of skates, and directed his soldiers to be instructed in their use. Siege was then laid to Haarlem, which town, warned by the fate of Zutphen and Naarden, made a defence that astonished all Europe. A corps of three hundred respectable women, armed with musket, sword, and dagger, and led by Kenan Hasselaer, a widow lady of distinguished family, about forty-seven years of age, enrolled themselves among its defenders, and partook in some of the most fiercely contested actions. Battles took place upon Haarlem Lake, on which the Prince of Orange had more than a hundred sail of various kinds; till at length Bossu, whose vessels were larger, though less numerous, entirely defeated the Hollanders, and swept the lake in triumph (May 28, 1573). The siege had lasted seven months, and Frederick de Toledo, who had lost a great part of his army by hunger, cold, and pestilence, was inclined to abandon the enterprise; but he was kept to it by the threats of his father, and on the 12th of July Haarlem surrendered. Don Frederick had written a letter solemnly assuring the besieged that no punishment should be inflicted except on those who deserved it in the opinion of the citizens themselves, yet he was in possession of strict orders from his father to put to death the whole garrison, except the Germans, and also to execute a large number of the inhabitants. Between two and three thousand were slaughtered; three hundred were drowned in the lake tied by twos back to back.

The resistance of Haarlem and other places determined Alva to try what might be done by an affectation of clemency; and on the 26th of July he issued a proclamation in which Philip was compared to a hen gathering its chickens under the parental wing. But in the same breath his subjects were admonished not to excite his rage, cruelty, and fury, and they were threatened that if his gracious offers of mercy were neglected, his majesty would strip bare and utterly depopulate the land, and cause it to be again inhabited by strangers. So ludicrous a specimen of paternal love was not calculated to excite much confidence in the breasts of the Hollanders, and Alkmaar, the next town to which Don Frederick laid siege, though defended only by eight hundred soldiers and thirteen hundred citizens against sixteen thousand veterans, also resolved to hold out to the last extremity. Enraged at this contempt of what he called his clemency, at Haarlem, Alva resolved to make Alkmaar an example of his cruelty, and he wrote to Philip that everyone in it should be put to the sword. But the inhabitants made a heroic defence and repulsed the besiegers in many a bloody assault; till at length the superstitious Spaniards, believing that the place was defended by the devil, whom they thought that the Protestants worshipped, refused to mount to the attack, suffering themselves rather to be run through the body by their officers; and Don Frederick, finding from an intercepted letter that the Prince of Orange contemplated cutting the dikes and flooding the country, in order to prevent the place from being surrendered, raised the siege (October 8th) after it had lasted seven weeks.

About this time William published his Epistle in the form of supplication to his Royal Majesty of Spain, from the Prince of Orange and States of Holland and Zealand, which produced a profound impression. It demanded that the privileges of the country should be restored, and insisted on the recall of the Duke of Alva, whose atrocities were vigorously described and condemned. Orange, as stadtholder, was now acting as the King's representative in Holland, and gave all his orders in Philip's name. He had recently turned Calvinist, and in October publicly joined the Church at Dort. It was reserved for the two greatest princes of the age to alleviate by their apostasy, which, however, approached more nearly than the orthodoxy of their adversaries, the spirit of true Christianity, the evils inflicted on society by a consistent but bloody-minded and intolerant bigotry.

The siege of Alkmaar was one of the last acts under Alva's auspices in the Netherlands, and formed a fitting termination to his career. He had himself solicited to be recalled, and in December, 1573, he was superseded by Don Luis de Requesens, Grand Commander of St. Jago. In fact, Philip had found this war of extermination too expensive for his exhausted treasury. Alva boasted on his journey back that he had caused eighteen thousand six hundred Netherlanders to be executed. He was well received by Philip, but soon after his return was imprisoned along with his son, Don Frederick; the latter for having seduced a maid of honor, his father for recommending him not to marry his victim. Alva was, however, subsequently released to undertake the conquest of Portugal.

Requesens, the new Governor, had been vice-admiral to Don John of Austria, had distinguished himself at the battle of Lepanto, and had subsequently governed the Milanese with reputation. He was mild and just and more liberal than the generality of Spaniards, though inferior to Alva in military talent. He attempted immediately after his arrival in the Netherlands to bring about a peace through the mediation of St. Aldegonde, but Orange was too suspicious to enter into it. Requesens put down robbery and murder, but he was neither able to abrogate the Council of Blood nor to alleviate the oppressive taxes. Philip had selected him as governor of the Netherlands, as a pledge of the more conciliatory policy which he had thought it prudent to adopt; yet Requesens' hands were tied up with such injunctions as rendered all conciliation hopeless, and he was instructed to bring forward no measures which had not for their basis the maintenance of the King's absolute authority and the prohibition of all worship except the Roman Catholic.

The Gueux de Mer were at this time most troublesome to the Spaniards, as their small vessels enabled them to penetrate up the rivers and canals. A naval action had been fought (October 11, 1573) on the Zuyder Zee between Count Bossu, who had collected a considerable fleet at Amsterdam, and the patriot admiral Dirkzoon, in which Bossu was completely defeated and taken prisoner. One of the first acts of Requesens was to send a fleet under Sancho Davila, Julian Romero, and Admiral Glimes to the relief of Middelburg, which had been besieged by the patriots upward of eighteen months and was now reduced to the last extremity. Orange visited the Zealand fleet under the command of Louis Boissot (January 20, 1574), and an action ensued a few days later, in which the Spaniards were completely beaten. Requesens himself beheld the action from the lofty dike of Schakerloo, where he stood all day in a drenching rain; and Romero, who had escaped by jumping out of a porthole, swam ashore and landed at the very feet of the Grand Commander. The Hollanders and Zealanders were now masters of the coast, but the Spaniards still held their ground in the interior of Holland. After raising the siege of Alkmaar, they had invested Leyden and cut off all communication between the Dutch cities.

The efforts of the patriots were less fortunate on land, where they were no match for the Spanish generals and their veteran troops. It had been arranged that Louis of Nassau should march out of Germany with an army of newly levied recruits and form a junction with his brother William, who was at Bommel on the Waal. Toward the end of February, 1574, Louis encamped within four miles of Maestricht, with the design of taking that town; but finding that he could not accomplish this object, and having suffered some losses, he marched down the right bank of the Meuse to join his brother. When, however, he arrived at Mook, a village on the Meuse a few miles south of Nimwegen, he found himself intercepted by the Spaniards under Davila, who, having outmarched him on the opposite bank, had crossed the river at a lower point on a bridge of boats, and placed himself directly in his path. There was now no alternative but to fight, and battle was delivered on the following day on the heath of Mook, when fortune declared against the patriots. The gallant Louis, seeing that the day was lost, put himself at the head of a little band of troopers, and, accompanied by his brother Henry, and Duke Christopher, son of the Elector Palatine Frederick III, made a desperate charge in which they all perished, and were never heard of more. The only effect of Louis' invasion was to cause the Spaniards to raise the siege of Leyden; before which place, however, they afterward again sat down (May 26th).

The defence of Leyden formed a worthy parallel to that of Haarlem and Alkmaar, and acquired for the garrison and the inhabitants the respect and admiration of all Europe. A modern historian has aptly observed that this was the heroic age of Protestantism. Never have the virtues which spring from true patriotism and sincere religious conviction been more strikingly developed and displayed. Leyden was defended by John van der Does, Lord of Nordwyck, a gentleman of distinguished family, but still more distinguished by his learning and genius, and his Latin poetry published under the name of Joannes Douza. The garrison of Leyden was small, and it relied for its defence chiefly on the exertions of the inhabitants. The revictualling of the city had been neglected after the raising of the first siege, and at the end of June it became necessary to put the inhabitants on short allowance; yet they held out more than three months longer. Orange, whose head-quarters were at Delft and Rotterdam, had no means of relieving Leyden except by breaking down the dikes on the Meuse and the Yssel, and thus flooding the country, a step which would involve the destruction of the growing crops, besides other extraordinary expenses; yet he succeeded in obtaining the consent of the Dutch States to this extreme and desperate measure. On the 3d of August he superintended in person the rupture of the dikes on the Yssel; at the same time the sluices of Rotterdam and Schiedam were opened; the flood began to pour over the land, while the citizens of Leyden watched with anxious eyes from the tower of Hengist the rising of the waters.

A flotilla of two hundred flat-bottomed vessels had been provided, stored with provisions, and manned by two thousand five hundred veterans under the command of Boissot. But unexpected obstacles arose. Fresh dikes appeared above the water, and had to be cut through amid the resistance of the Spaniards. Twice the waters receded under the influence of the east wind, and left the fleet aground; twice it was floated again, as if by a providential interposition, by violent gales from the north and west, which accumulated on the coast the waters of the ocean. Meanwhile the besieged were suffering all the extremities of famine; the most disgusting garbage was used for food, and caused a pestilence which carried off thousands. In this extremity a number of the citizens surrounded the burgomaster, Adrian van der Werf, demanding with loud threats and clamors that he should either provide them with food or surrender the city to the enemy. To these menaces Adrian calmly replied, "I have taken an oath that I will never put myself or my fellow-citizens in the power of the cruel and perfidious Spaniards, and I will rather die than violate it." Then drawing his sword he offered it to the surrounding crowd and bade them plunge it in his bosom and devour his flesh if such an action could relieve them from their direful necessity. This extraordinary address filled the people with amazement and admiration and inspired them with a new courage. Their constancy was soon rewarded with deliverance. On the night of October 1st a fresh gale set in from the northwest; the ocean rushed furiously through the ruined dikes; the fleet had soon two feet of water, and sailed on their onward course amid storm and darkness. They had still to contend with the vessels of the enemy, and a naval battle was fought amid the boughs of orchards and the chimney-stacks of houses. But this was the last attempt at resistance on the part of the Spaniards. Appalled both by the constancy of their adversaries and by the rising flood, which was gradually driving them into a narrow circle, the Spaniards abandoned the two remaining forts of Zoetermonde and Lammen, which still stood between the fleet and the city. From the latter they fled in alarm at the noise of the falling of a large portion of the town walls which had been thrown down by the waters, and which in the darkness they luckily mistook for some operation of their adversaries; otherwise they might easily have entered and captured Leyden. The fleet of Boissot approached the city on the morning of October 3d. After the pangs of hunger were relieved the whole population repaired to church to return thanks to the Almighty for their deliverance. On October 4th another providential gale from the northeast assisted in clearing off the water from the land. In commemoration of this remarkable defence, and as a reward for the heroism of the citizens, was founded the University of Leyden, as well as a ten days' annual fair, free from all tolls and taxes. During this siege the Gueux had been again successful at sea. On May 30th Boissot defeated between Lilloo and Kalloo a Spanish fleet, took the admiral and three ships, and chased the rest into Antwerp.

The bankrupt state of Philip II's exchequer, and the reverses which his arms had sustained, induced him to accept in the following year the proffered mediation of the emperor Maximilian, which he had before arrogantly rejected, and a congress was held at Breda from March till June, 1575. But the insurgents were suspicious, and Philip was inflexible; he could not be induced to dismiss his Spanish troops, to allow the meeting of the States-General, or to admit the slightest toleration in matters of religion; and the contest was therefore renewed with more fury than ever. The situation of the patriots became very critical when the enemy, by occupying the islands of Duyveland and Schouwen, cut off the communication between Holland and Zealand, especially as all hope of succor from England had expired. Toward the close of the year envoys were despatched to solicit the aid of Elizabeth, and to offer her, under certain conditions, the sovereignty of Holland and Zealand. Requesens sent Champagny to counteract these negotiations, which ended in nothing. The English Queen was afraid of provoking the power of Spain, and could not even be induced to grant the Hollanders a loan. The attitude assumed at that time by the Duke of Alençon in France also prevented them from entering into any negotiations with that Prince.

In these trying circumstances William the Silent displayed the greatest firmness and courage. It was now that he is said to have contemplated abandoning Holland and seeking with its inhabitants a home in the New World, having first restored the country to its ancient state of a waste of waters, a thought, however, which he probably never seriously entertained, though he may have given utterance to it in a moment of irritation or despondency. On June 12, 1575, William had married Charlotte de Bourbon, daughter of the Duke of Montpensier. The Prince's second wife, Anne of Saxony, had turned out a drunken, violent character, and at length an intrigue which she formed with John Rubens, an exiled magistrate of Antwerp, and father of the celebrated painter, justified William in divorcing her. She subsequently became insane. Charlotte de Bourbon had been brought up a Calvinist, but at a later period, her father having joined the party of the persecutors, she took refuge with the Elector Palatine, and it was under these circumstances that she received the addresses of the Prince of Orange.

The unexpected death of Requesens, who expired of a fever, March 5, 1576, after a few days' illness, threw the government into confusion. Philip II had given Requesens a carte blanche to name his successor, but the nature of his illness had prevented him from filling it up. The government, therefore, devolved to the council of state, the members of which were at variance with one another; but Philip found himself obliged to intrust it ad interim with the administration till a successor to Requesens could be appointed. Count Mansfeld was made commander-in-chief, but was totally unable to restrain the licentious soldiery. The Spaniards, whose pay was in arrear, had now lost all discipline. After the raising of the siege of Leyden they had beset Utrecht and pillaged and maltreated the inhabitants, till Valdez contrived to furnish their pay. No sooner had Requesens expired than they broke into open mutiny and acted as if they were entire masters of the country. After wandering about some time and threatening Brussels, they seized and plundered Alost, where they established themselves; and they were soon after joined by the Walloon and German troops. To repress their violence, the council of state restored to the Netherlands the arms of which they had been deprived, and called upon them by a proclamation to repress force by force, but these citizen-soldiers were dispersed with great slaughter by the disciplined troops in various rencounters. Ghent, Utrecht, Valenciennes, Maestricht were taken and plundered by the mutineers; and at last the storm fell upon Antwerp, which the Spaniards entered early in November, and sacked during three days. More than a thousand houses were burnt, eight thousand citizens are said to have been slain, and enormous sums in ready money were plundered. The whole damage was estimated at twenty-four million florins. The horrible excesses committed in this sack procured for it the name of the "Spanish Fury."

The government was at this period conducted in the name of the State of Brabant. On September 5th De Hèze, a young Brabant gentleman who was in secret intelligence with the Prince of Orange, had, at the head of five hundred soldiers, entered the palace where the council of state was assembled, and seized and imprisoned the members. William, taking advantage of the alarm created at Brussels by the sack of Antwerp, persuaded the provisional government to summon the States-General, although such a course was at direct variance with the commands of the King. To this assembly all the provinces except Luxemburg sent deputies. The nobles of the southern provinces, although they viewed the Prince of Orange with suspicion, feeling that there was no security for them so long as the Spanish troops remained in possession of Ghent, sought his assistance in expelling them, which William consented to grant only on condition that an alliance should be effected between the northern and the southern, or Catholic, provinces of the Netherlands. This proposal was agreed to, and toward the end of September Orange sent several thousand men from Zealand to Ghent, at whose approach the Spaniards, who had valorously defended themselves for two months under the conduct of the wife of their absent general, Mondragon, surrendered and evacuated the citadel. The proposed alliance was now converted into a formal union, by the treaty called the Pacification of Ghent, signed November 8, 1576, by which it was agreed, without waiting for the sanction of Philip, whose authority, however, was nominally recognized, to renew the edict of banishment against the Spanish troops, to procure the suspension of the decrees against the Protestant religion, to summon the States-General of the northern and southern provinces, according to the model of the assembly which had received the abdication of Charles V, to provide for the toleration and practice of the Protestant religion in Holland and Zealand, together with other provisions of a similar character. About the same time with the Pacification of Ghent, all Zealand, with the exception of the island of Tholen, was recovered from the Spaniards.

SEARCH FOR THE NORTHWEST PASSAGE BY FROBISHER

A.D. 1576

GEORGE BEST

Which thing being well considered and familiarly known to our General, Captain Frobisher, as well for that he is thoroughly furnished of the knowledge of the sphere and all other skills appertaining to the art of navigation, as also for the confirmation he hath of the same by many years' experience both by sea and land; and being persuaded of a new and nearer passage to Cataya[1] than by Cabo de Buona Sperança, which the Portugals yearly use, he began first with himself to devise, and then with his friends to confer, and laid a plain plot unto them that that voyage was not only possible by the northwest, but also, he could prove, easy to be performed. And further, he determined and resolved with himself to go make full proof thereof, and to accomplish or bring true certificate of the truth, or else never to return again; knowing this to be the only thing of the world that was left yet undone, whereby a notable mind might be made famous and fortunate.

But although his will were great to perform this notable voyage,[2] whereof he had conceived in his mind a great hope by sundry sure reasons and secret intelligence, which here, for sundry causes, I leave untouched; yet he wanted altogether means and ability to set forward and perform the same. Long time he conferred with his private friends of these secrets, and made also many offers for the performing of the same in effect unto sundry merchants of our country, above fifteen years before he attempted the same, as by good witness shall well appear, albeit some evil-willers, which challenge to themselves the fruits of other men's labors, have greatly injured him in the reports of the same, saying that they have been the first authors of that action, and that they have learned him the way, which themselves as yet have never gone. But perceiving that hardly he was hearkened unto of the merchants, which never regard virtue without sure, certain, and present gains, he repaired to the court, from whence, as from the fountain of our common wealth, all good causes have their chief increase and maintenance, and there laid open to many great estates and learned men the plot and sum of his device. And among many honorable minds which favored his honest and commendable enterprise, he was specially bound and beholding to the Right Honorable Ambrose Dudley, Earl of Warwick, whose favorable mind and good disposition hath always been ready to countenance and advance all honest actions, with the authors and executers of the same. And so by means of my lord his honorable countenance he received some comfort of his cause, and by little and little, with no small expense and pain, brought his cause to some perfection, and had drawn together so many adventurers and such sums of money as might well defray a reasonable charge to furnish himself to sea withal.

He prepared two small barks of twenty and five-and-twenty ton apiece, wherein he intended to accomplish his pretended voyage. Wherefore, being furnished with the aforesaid two barks, and one small pinnace of ten ton burden, having therein victuals and other necessaries for twelve months' provision, he departed upon the said voyage from Blackwall, the 15. of June,[3] Anno Domini 1576.

One of the barks wherein he went was named the Gabriel, and the other the Michael; and, sailing northwest from England upon the 11. of July he had sight of an high and ragged land, which he judged to be Frisland,[4] whereof some authors have made mention; but durst not approach the same by reason of the great store of ice that lay alongst the coast, and the great mists that troubled them not a little. Not far from thence he lost company of his small pinnace, which by means of the great storm he supposed to be swallowed up of the sea; wherein he lost only four men. Also the other bark, named the Michael, mistrusting the matter, conveyed themselves privily away from him, and returned home, with great report that he was cast away.

The worthy captain, notwithstanding these discomforts, although his mast was sprung and his topmast blown overboard with extreme foul weather, continued his course toward the northwest, knowing that the sea at length must needs have an ending and that some land should have a beginning that way; and determined therefore at the least to bring true proof what land and sea the same might be so far to the northwestward, beyond any that man hath heretofore discovered. And the 20. of July he had sight of an high land, which he called "Queen Elizabeth's Foreland,"[5] after her majesty's name. And sailing more northerly alongst that coast, he descried another foreland,[6] with a great gut, bay, or passage, dividing as it were two main lands or continents asunder. There he met with store of exceeding great ice all this coast along, and, coveting still to continue his course to the northward, was always by contrary wind detained overthwart these straits, and could not get beyond.

Within few days after, he perceived the ice to be well consumed and gone, either there engulfed in by some swift currents or indrafts, carried more to the southward of the same straits, or else conveyed some other way; wherefore he determined to make proof of this place, to see how far that gut had continuance, and whether he might carry himself through the same into some open sea on the back side, whereof he conceived no small hope; and so entered the same the one-and-twentieth of July, and passed above fifty leagues therein, as he reported, having upon either hand a great main or continent. And that land upon his right hand as he sailed westward he judged to be the continent of Asia, and there to be divided from the firm of America, which lieth upon the left hand over against the same.

This place he named after his name, "Frobisher's Straits,"[7] like as Magellanus at the southwest end of the world, having discovered the passage to the South Sea, where America is divided from the continent of that land, which lieth under the south pole, and called the same straits "Magellan's Straits."

After he had passed sixty leagues into this aforesaid strait, he went ashore, and found signs where fire had been made. He saw mighty deer, that seemed to be mankind, which ran at him; and hardly he escaped with his life in a narrow way, where he was fain to use defence and policy to save his life. In this place he saw and perceived sundry tokens of the peoples resorting thither. And being ashore upon the top of a hill, he perceived a number of small things fleeting in the sea afar off, which he supposed to be porpoises, or seals, or some kind of strange fish; but coming nearer, he discovered them to be men in small boats made of leather. And before he could descend down from the hill, certain of those people had almost cut off his boat from him, having stolen secretly behind the rocks for that purpose; where he speedily hastened to his boat, and bent himself to his halberd, and narrowly escaped the danger, and saved his boat.

Afterward he had sundry conferences with them, and they came aboard his ship, and brought him salmon and raw flesh and fish, and greedily devoured the same before our men's faces. And to show their agility, they tried many masteries upon the ropes of the ship after our mariners' fashion, and appeared to be very strong of their arms and nimble of their bodies. They exchanged coats of seals' and bears' skins, and such like, with our men, and received bells, looking-glasses, and other toys in recompense thereof again. After great courtesy and many meetings, our mariners, contrary to their captain's direction, began more easily to trust them; and five of our men going ashore were by them intercepted with their boat, and were never since heard of to this day again; so that the captain being destitute of boat, bark, and all company, had scarcely sufficient number to conduct back his bark again.

He could now neither convey himself ashore to rescue his men, if he had been able, for want of a boat; and again the subtle traitors were so wary, as they would after that never come within our men's danger. The captain, notwithstanding, desirous of bringing some token from thence of his being there, was greatly discontented that he had not before apprehended some of them; and, therefore, to deceive the deceivers, he wrought a pretty policy. For knowing well how they greatly delighted in our toys, and specially in bells, he rang a pretty loud bell, making signs that he would give him the same who would come and fetch it. And because they would not come within his danger for fear, he flung one bell unto them, which of purpose he threw short, that it might fall into the sea and be lost. And to make them more greedy of the matter he rang a louder bell, so that in the end one of them came near the ship side to receive the bell. Which when he thought to take at the captain's hand, he was thereby taken himself; for the captain, being readily provided, let the bell fall, and caught the man fast, and plucked him with main force, boat and all, into his bark out of the sea. Whereupon, when he found himself in captivity, for very choler and disdain he bit his tongue in twain within his mouth; notwithstanding, he died not thereof, but lived until he came in England, and then he died of cold which he had taken at sea.

Now with this new prey, which was a sufficient witness of the captain's far and tedious travel toward the unknown parts of the world, as did well appear by this strange infidel, whose like was never seen, read, nor heard of before, and whose language was neither known nor understood of any, the said Captain Frobisher returned homeward, and arrived in England, in Harwich, the second of October following, and thence came to London, 1576, where he was highly commended of all men for his great and notable attempt, but specially famous for the great hope he brought of the passage to Cataya.

And it is especially to be remembered that at their first arrival in those parts there lay so great store of ice all the coast along, so thick together, that hardly his boat could pass unto the shore. At length, after divers attempts, he commanded his company, if by any possible means they could get ashore, to bring him whatsoever thing they could first find, whether it were living or dead, stock or stone, in token of Christian possession, which thereby he took in behalf of the Queen's most excellent majesty, thinking that thereby he might justify the having and enjoying of the same things that grew in these unknown parts.

Some of his company brought flowers, some green grass; and one brought a piece of black stone, much like to a sea coal in color, which by the weight seemed to be some kind of metal or mineral. This was a thing of no account in the judgment of the captain at first sight; and yet for novelty it was kept, in respect of the place from whence it came. After his arrival in London, being demanded of sundry his friends what thing he had brought them home out of that country, he had nothing left to present them withal but a piece of this black stone. And it fortuned a gentlewoman, one of the adventurer's wives, to have a piece thereof, which by chance she threw and burned in the fire, so long that at the length being taken forth, and quenched in a little vinegar, it glistened with a bright marquesite of gold. Whereupon the matter being called in some question, it was brought to certain gold-finers in London to make assay thereof, who gave out that it held gold, and that very richly for the quantity.[8] Afterward the same gold-finers promised great matters thereof if there were any store to be found, and offered themselves to adventure for the searching of those parts from whence the same was brought. Some that had great hope of the matter sought secretly to have a lease at her majesty's hands of those places, whereby to enjoy the mass of so great a public profit unto their own private gains.

In conclusion, the hope of more of the same gold ore to be found kindled a greater opinion in the hearts of many to advance the voyage again. Whereupon preparation was made for a new voyage against the year following, and the captain more specially directed by commission for the searching more of this gold ore than for the searching any further discovery of the passage. And being well accompanied with divers resolute and forward gentlemen, her majesty then lying at the Right Honorable the Lord of Warwick's house, in Essex, he came to take his leave; and kissing her highness' hands, with gracious countenance and comfortable words departed toward his charge.

BUILDING OF THE FIRST THEATRE IN ENGLAND

A.D. 1576

KARL MANTZIUS

At the date of Shakespeare's birth, 1564, no permanent theatre as yet existed in England. But there had long existed a class of professional actors, descended partly from the mystery and the miracle-playing artisans of the Middle Ages, partly from the strolling players, equilibrists, jugglers, and jesters. Professional Italian actors, players of the commedia dell' arte, who in the sixteenth century spread their gay and varied art all over Europe, also supplied English players with that touch of professional technique in which their somewhat vacillating and half-amateurish arts were still wanting.

While, however, as far as France is concerned, the Italian influence must strike everybody who studies the stage history of the country, the evidence of a fertilization of English scenic art by the commedia dell' arte is scanty. Yet I think it is sufficient to deserve more attention than has hitherto been bestowed upon it.

In any case there is sufficient evidence to prove that Italian professional actors penetrated into England and exercised their art there.

In January, 1577, an Italian comedian came to London with his company. The English called him Drousiano, but his real name was Drousiano Martinelli, the same who, with his brother Tristano, visited the court of Philip II, and there is no reason to suppose that he was either the first or the last of his countrymen who tried to carry off English gold from merry London. The typical Italian masks are quite well known to the authors of that period. Thus Thomas Heywood mentions all these doctors, zanies, pantaloons, and harlequins, in which the French, and still more the Italians, distinguished themselves. In Kyd's Spanish Tragedy, and in Ben Jonson's The Case is Altered, mention is made of the Italian improvised comedy, and a few of the well-known types of character in the dramatic literature of the time bear distinct traces of having been influenced by Italian masks, e.g., Ralph Roister Doister in Udall's comedy of that name; as well as the splendid Captain Bobadill and his no less amusing companion, Captain Tucca, in Ben Jonson's Every Man in his Humour and The Poetaster, all of which are reproductions of the typical capitano.

However, it is not these literary testimonies that I consider the most striking evidence of the influence of Italian professional technique on English professional actors. It is a remarkable discovery made by the highly esteemed Shakespearean archaeologist, Edmund Malone, about a century ago, in Dulwich College, that mine of ancient English dramatic research, founded by the actor Edward Alleyn.

Among the notes left by the old pawnbroker and theatrical manager, Henslowe, and the various papers, letters, parts, accounts, etc., of his son-in-law, the famous and very wealthy actor Alleyn, among these rare documents, to which we owe a great part of our knowledge of the Shakespearean stage, Malone found four remarkable card-board tables, on which the plots of as many plays were put down, together with the names of the persons represented, their entrances and exits, cues for music, sonnets, etc.

According to Collier's description, these tables—one of which only is preserved, the three others having disappeared through the carelessness and disorder which at that time prevailed in the Dulwich treasury—were about fifteen inches in length and nine in breadth. They were divided into two columns, and between these, toward the top of the table, there was a square hole for hanging it up on a hook or some such thing. They bore the following titles:

1. The Plotte of the Deade Man's Fortune.
2. The Plotte of the First Parte of Tamar Cain.
3. The Plotte of Frederick and Basilea.
4. The Plotte of the Second Parte of the Seven Deadlie Sinns.

The last-mentioned play is known for certain to have been composed by the excellent comic actor, Richard Tarlton. Gabriel Harvey, the astrologist, and the implacable antagonist of Thomas Nash, tells us in his letters how Tarlton himself in Oxford invited him to see his celebrated play on The Seven Deadly Sins; Harvey asked him which of the seven was his own deadly sin, and he instantly replied, "By G——, the sinne of other gentlemen, lechery."

Tarlton died in the year 1588, and some of the other plays, especially The Dead Man's Fortune, are considered to be a good deal older than his. They belong, therefore, to an early period of the English Renaissance stage.

These four tables caused considerable trouble to Malone and his contemporary Steevens, as well as to later investigators, as they are without equals in the archæology of the English stage. If these men had known that such tables, containing the plot of the piece which was acted at the time, were always hung upon the stage of the Italian commedia dell' arte in order to assist the memory of the improvising actors, they would have seen instantly that their essential historical importance to us consists in their showing by documentary evidence how the early Elizabethan scenic art in its outer form was influenced and improved by the Italians.

The fact that one of the principal characters in the oldest scenario, The Dead Man's Fortune, bears the name of "Panteloun" further confirms this supposition.

This is not the place to investigate how far the English were influenced by Italian professional dramatic art. At any rate, the English national character differed too much from the Italian to allow it to receive more than an outward and formal stamp. And even this superficial effect is much less significant in England than in France. Still, we are certainly not mistaken in assuming that it helped to strengthen English dramatic art, which already possessed no small amount of power; and we may take it for granted that about the time of Shakespeare's birth London possessed a socially and professionally organized class of actors, in spite of the fact that they did not yet possess a theatre of their own.

Before proper theatres were built, and after the time of the great mysteries, the actors found a refuge for their art chiefly in the inns, those splendid and expensive old public-houses which convey to our minds the idea of old-fashioned and picturesque comfort; where the nobility and clergy sought their quarters in winter, and where the carriers unloaded their goods in the large square yards, which were surrounded on all sides by the walls of the inn. On these walls there were galleries running all round, supported by wooden pillars and with steep picturesque ladders running up to them.

It was in these yards of the Cross Keys in Gracechurch Street, of The Bull in Bishopsgate Street, La Belle Sauvage on Ludgate Hill, or the Tabbard Inn in Southwark that the actors set up their stages. Perhaps it was this very circumstance that became one of the indirect reasons why they finally were obliged to build a house for themselves.

Certainly the inns offered advantages to the actors; they were meeting-places for the public, frequented by lords and other persons of distinction; probably the companies paid next to nothing for the use of them. In themselves they afforded good room for the audience, with a natural pit for ordinary people in the yard, and with more comfortable "boxes" for the more distinguished part of the audience on the surrounding balconies and at the windows facing the yard.

On the other hand, these inn-theatres had their drawbacks. In the first place, the actors were not on their own ground, and so, after all, they were only tolerated. Secondly, it must have been very difficult for them to keep to regular prices, and especially to secure the payment of the entrance fee, as they had probably to collect the money during or after the performance, thus depending on the liberality of the public for their remuneration. And finally, worst of all, they were led into quarrels with the lord mayor and with the citizens.

Indeed, it is not unlikely that these performances in the inns caused a good deal of noise and disturbance in the quarters where they took place, and that the joyous, but by no means refined or quiet, "pit," when going home, excited by one of Tarlton's jigs and by the strong ale of the inn, was not animated by very respectful feelings toward their sour Puritan fellow-citizens, who were scandalized as they watched "merry London" crowding past their windows. Nor is it improbable that these anything but respectful feelings vented themselves in some of the coarse expressions in which the plays of those times abound, where Puritanism, the sworn enemy, is concerned; "this barbarous sect," as it is called by a modern English author, "from whose inherited and contagious tyranny this nation is as yet but imperfectly released."

It is certain, at any rate, that the Puritan citizens entertained a deep and sincere hatred of anything connected with plays and actors, and if it had been in their power to do what they liked, the world would once for all have been relieved of such pernicious and wicked vagabonds as William Shakespeare, Christopher Marlowe, and Ben Jonson.

Fortunately, however, this power did not lie with the Puritans only.

Luckily, this sect, which like a malicious growth seemed to have gathered to itself all the stubbornness, insensibility, and rude obstinacy of the nation, was counterbalanced by a refined and intellectual nobility, which was inspired by the new artistic and philosophical thought of the Renaissance, and seemed to foresee, if not fully to recognize, what a mine of poetry the English theatre of those times was destined to be. Thanks to men like Sir Francis Walsingham, Lords Leicester, Nottingham, Strange, and Sussex, the drama resisted for a time the violent and unwearied attacks of the Puritans. Most fortunately for the actors also, Queen Elizabeth, as well as her successors, James I and Charles I, was fond of plays and favorably inclined toward their performers.

Elizabeth rendered a great service to the actors by placing them under the patronage of the nobility. The municipal authorities, who were frequently Puritan, considered neither dramatic art nor dramatic poetry as an acceptable means of livelihood; consequently, those who cultivated these noble arts easily exposed themselves to being treated as "masterless men," unless they could give a reference to some distinguished aristocratic name.

The Queen ordered by law—in a statute which has often been misunderstood—"that all common players of interludes wandering abroad, other than players of interludes belonging to any baron of this realme, or any other honorable personage of greater degree, to be authorized to play under the hand and seale of arms of such baron or personage, shall be adjudged and deemed rogues and vagabonds"; in other words, the Queen urged all actors, for their own sakes, to place themselves under the patronage of some nobleman, in order to protect them against the persecution of the Puritan citizens.

But even such mighty protection could not entirely shield them, and it was this very power of the London corporation to injure the actors that caused the establishment of the first London theatre.

In the year 1572 the plague broke out in London; it killed many thousands of people, and kept recurring at certain intervals during the next twenty or thirty years, carrying horror and death with it. Under these circumstances all dramatic performances were prohibited for a time in London, a precaution which was reasonable enough, as the dense crowding of people might have helped to spread the disease. But the magistrate seems to have caught eagerly at this opportunity of interfering.

In Harrison's Description of England the event is reported as follows: "Plaies are banished for a time out of London, lest the resort unto them should ingender a plague, or rather disperse it, being already begonne. Would to God these comon plaies were exiled for altogether as seminaries of impiety, and their theatres pulled downe as no better than houses of baudrie. It is an evident token of a wicked time when plaiers wexe so rich that they can build suche houses. As moche I wish also to our comon beare baitinges used on the Sabaothe daies."

We cannot help noticing the predilection of the Puritans for the coarse bear-fights, which in their opinion were only displeasing to God when performed on a Sabbath, whereas the playhouses at any time were no better than the "ill-famed stews" in Southwark. It cannot be denied, however, that under the prevailing circumstances it was quite right that the playhouses should be temporarily forbidden.

But the sudden and unwarranted expulsion of all dramatic performances from the precincts of London a few years later, 1575, cannot be accounted for otherwise than by the increasing popularity which these plays enjoyed among the non-Puritan public, and the envy with which the clergy saw the people crowding much more to the places where actors interpreted the rising poets than to those where the preachers themselves enunciated their gloomy doctrine.

In the year 1574 the actor James Burbage, with four other actors, all belonging to the retinue of the Earl of Leicester, had received permission from the Queen to perform all kinds of plays anywhere in England, "for the recreation of her beloved subjects as well as for her own comfort and pleasure, if it should please her to see them."

Perhaps it was a counter-move on the part of the Puritan community when the lord mayor and the corporation in the following year straightway forbade all plays within the precincts of the town. If so, it proved a failure. James Burbage resolutely hired a liberty outside the city, and here, in 1576, on the premises of an ancient Roman Catholic priory, he built the first English playhouse, which he named "The Theatre."

In the following year The Theatre gained an ally in "The Curtain," which was built in the same neighborhood, both, of course, causing great indignation among the Puritans. In 1577, the year after the first playhouse had been erected, there appeared a furious pamphlet, by John Northbrooke, against "dicing, dancing, plays and interludes as well as other idle pastimes."

No doubt all possible means were taken to have plays forbidden and the playhouses pulled down, but though the attack of the Black Army never ceased for a moment, the Puritans did not succeed in getting the better of the theatres till the year 1642, when they acquired political power through the civil war; and, fortunately for the part of mankind which appreciates art, this precious flower of culture, one of the richest and most remarkable periods in the life of dramatic art, had developed into full bloom before the outbreak of the war.

In a sermon of 1578 we read the following bitter and deep-drawn sigh by the clergyman John Stockwood: "Wyll not a fylthye playe wyth the blast of a trumpette sooner call thyther a thousande than an houres tolling of a bell bring to the sermon a hundred?—nay, even heere in the Citie, without it be at this place and some other certaine ordinarie audience, where shall you finde a reasonable company?—whereas, if you resort to the Theatre, The Curtayne, and other places of playes in the Citie, you shall on the Lord's Day have these places, with many other that I cannot reckon, so full as possible they can throng."

That the bold defiance with which James Burbage and the other actors met the lord mayor and the corporation should prove so successful lay almost in the nature of things. The prohibition of plays within the bounds of the city of London did not mean that they were looked upon with animosity by the people, but merely that a majority of the corporation was unfriendly to them. It was soon shown that, though the wise city fathers could easily forbid the actors to perform their plays in London, they could not prevent the enthusiastic public from walking in crowds a mile out of town in order to see such performances, especially as people were quite accustomed to the journey. Burbage, who was a business-like man, had chosen his ground quite close to the public places, where the Londoners practised their open-air sports and amused themselves with tennis and football, stone-throwing, cock fights, and archery.

Although Burbage called his new building "The Theatre," the title was not intended to mean the theatre par excellence, for the word "theatre" was not then commonly used to denote a building in which dramatic representations were performed. It is more probable that he thought he had succeeded in choosing an elegant name with a certain suggestion of the old classics, which was euphonious and not quite common.

The usual name for a theatre was the playhouse, a house intended for all kinds of games and sport, such as fencing, bear-fights, bull-fights, jigs, morris-dances, and pantomimes, as well as for dramatic performances.

It cannot be sufficiently emphasized that the theatrical entertainments of those times were something more or less literary; anyhow, something quite apart from the dramatic performances of the present day. They were meant to satisfy mixed desires in the nation; but, besides satisfying its craving for beautiful, picturesque language, fine spectacles, and merry jests, they also gratified its desire for the display of physical strength, for shallow rhyming tricks and competitions, graceful exercises of the body, indeed for all that might be included under the notion of sport and give opportunity for betting.

Therefore, the plays, properly so called, alternated with fights between animals, in which bears and bulls were baited by great blood-thirsty bulldogs, or with fencing-matches fought by celebrated English and foreign fencing-masters, with rope-dancing, acrobatic tricks, and boxing. Even the serious performances ended with a more or less absurd jig, in which the clown sang endless songs about the events of the day, and danced interminable morris-dances.

Shakespeare and his contemporaries, whose works are now reckoned among the first literature—so much so that they are scarcely read any longer—at the time of which we are speaking were nothing but practical playwrights, and Shakespeare was so far from dreaming that the time would come when his plays would be counted among the most precious treasures of posterity that, as we know, he did not even take the trouble to have a printed edition of his works published.

The many fighting-scenes in the plays of the time, in Shakespeare's among the rest, the wrestling-match in As You Like It, the duel between Macduff and Macbeth, the fencing-scene between Hamlet and Laertes, no doubt afforded opportunities for magnificent displays of skill in the use of arms and in physical exercises, and we may be sure that the spectators followed those scenes with an interest which was perhaps more of a sporting than of a literary nature.

It was according to a well-calculated plan, therefore, that the elder Burbage erected his playhouse north of the city, in Finsbury Fields, where from ancient times the people had been accustomed to see and practise military exercises and other sports, and where the soldiers were still in the habit of practising archery and musketry.

And it was with equally sound calculation that he gave the theatre its particular form, which remained essentially the same in all the playhouses of the Shakespearean period.

Before the establishment of the permanent theatres there had long existed amphitheatres for the performance of fights between animals, the so-called "rings." These rings—the auditorium as well as the arena—were open all round, and the seats, like those of the ancient Greek theatre, were placed according to the natural formation of the ground.

Burbage retained the circular amphitheatrical form; being a joiner as well as an actor and manager, he was no doubt his own architect in his new theatrical enterprise.

But instead of the roofless, open-air auditorium, he constructed a covered circular wooden building with stories or galleries, which was made so as to contain a number of boxes for the distinguished and well-paying public, and which entirely enclosed the open, uncovered arena, which, as it recalled the inn-yards, was called the "yard," or afterward, perhaps on account of the high pitlike construction surrounding it, the "pit," whence the poorest and humblest spectators enjoyed the performances.

Finally, he built a covered "tire-house"—or "tiring-house," as it was called in those times—for the actors, a place in which also all the requisites and the so-called "properties" were kept. This tiring-house stood within the circle, and its roof towered up above the auditorium.

From the tiring-house the stage—a simple wooden platform resting on rams—was pushed forward, and it might be removed when the arena was to be used for fights between animals, etc., instead of dramatic performances.

By this reform of the building—a reform which became epoch-making to the whole Shakespearean period—James Burbage obtained a threefold advantage: more comfortable seats for the more distinguished portion of the audience, where they were sheltered from wind and weather; the use of the house both for plays and the baiting of animals; and the power to oblige the public to pay their admission at certain doors of his building, which spared him the unpleasant and unsafe collection of money from spectators, who might not always be very willing to pay.

But this result was not obtained without considerable expense.

Though we are not so fortunate as to possess a drawing of the outside or inside of The Theatre, about the shape of which, therefore, we must partly draw our conclusions from analogy with other playhouses, we are comparatively well informed as to its outward history till it was pulled down, in 1598-1599.

Thus we know that the enterprise cost James Burbage six hundred sixty-six pounds thirteen shillings fourpence, a considerable sum in those days, which would be equal to about eightfold that amount in our own time.

This money Burbage borrowed of his father-in-law, John Braynes, to whom he had to pay high interest, and it represented only the cost of the building itself, for he did not buy the ground on which it stood. This ground belonged to one Giles Allen, and in the contract between him and Burbage it was settled, among other points, that if, in the course of the first ten years after the drawing up of the lease, Burbage spent a sum of two hundred pounds or more on the building, he should have a right to remove it after the expiration of the lease.

The lease was drawn up in the year 1576, for a period of twenty-one years. In spite of many pecuniary difficulties, which the heavy rent and high interest naturally entailed on Burbage—who for some time even seems to have been obliged to mortgage his entire property—and innumerable annoyances from the Puritans, Burbage succeeded in keeping his theatre above water till the expiration of the lease and till his own death, which occurred in 1597.

But before this date he had been negotiating with the proprietor, Giles Allen, about a prolongation of the lease. Allen, who was evidently as grasping as he was difficult to deal with, and who may not unjustly be suspected of having been an instrument in the hands of the Puritan authorities, had caused him a good deal of trouble in the course of years. On seeing how people crowded to the theatre, he had tried, for one thing, to press Burbage for a higher rent, and partly for religious, partly for moral reasons, had threatened to forbid the running of a playhouse on his property. The negotiations about the new lease had not come to an end when the elder Burbage died, and left his two sons, Cuthbert, who was a bookseller, and Richard, who was the leading actor of his time, not only burdened with the playhouse, the long lease of which had expired, but opposed by a proprietor with whom it was impossible to come to terms, and by a magistrate who was more eager than ever to deal a blow at the playhouses.

In the same year, when the two brothers took on The Theatre, the lord mayor of London actually succeeded in inducing the privy council to issue an order of suppression against it and other playhouses. The order begins as follows: "Her Majestie being informed that there are verie greate disorders committed in the common playhouses both by lewd matters that are handled on the stages, and by resorte and confluence of bad people, hathe given direction that not onlie no playes shall be used within London or about the Citty, or in any public place, during this tyme of sommer, but that all those playhouses that are erected and built only for suche purposes shall be plucked downe, namelie The Curtayne and The Theatre nere to Shorditch, or any other within that county."

It is not known whether the order was withdrawn or whether the disregard of it was winked at—the court very likely was not particularly inclined to see the sentence or condemnation carried out. At all events, neither The Curtain nor The Theatre was pulled down at the time. But the order shows how much power the Puritans possessed, and what difficulties the brothers Burbage had to contend with.

They seem, however, to have inherited their father's resolute character. Since it seemed quite impossible to come to terms with the grasping proprietor, Allen, the brothers were sensible enough to avail themselves of the clause in the now expired lease, which permitted them to pull down and remove the buildings they had erected on the premises, in case they had spent at least two hundred pounds on them during the first ten years. This sum had been much exceeded at the time, and one day, to the great consternation and anger of the astonished Giles Allen, they simply removed The Theatre.

One of the paragraphs in the account of the subsequent lawsuit between Allen and the Burbages gives a very vivid idea of this remarkable removal. Allen accuses Cuthbert Burbage of "unlawfully combininge and confederatinge himselfe with the sayd Richard Burbage, and one Peter Streat, William Smyth and divers other persons, to the number of twelve, to your subject unknowne, did aboute the eight and twentyth daye of December in the one and fortyth yeere of your Highnes raygne (1598) ryotouslye assemble themselves together, and then and there armed themselves with dyvers and manye unlawfull and offensive weapons, as, namelye, swordes, daggers, billes, axes, and such like, and so armed, did then repayre unto the sayd Theatre, and then and there, armed as aforesayd, in verye ryotous, outragious and forcyble manner, and contrarye to the lawes of your highnes realme, attempted to pull down the sayd Theatre, whereupon divers of your subjectes, servauntes, and farmers, there goinge aboute in peaceable manner to procure them to desist from that their unlawfull enterpryse, they the sayd ryotous persons aforesayd notwithstanding procured then therein with greate vyolence, not only then and there forcyblye and ryotouslye resisting your subjectes, servauntes, and farmers, but also then and there pulling, breaking, and throwing downe the sayd Theatre in verye outragious, violent, and riotous sort, to the great disturbance and terrefyeing not onlye of your subjectes sayd servauntes and farmers, but of divers others of your Majesties loving subjectes there neere inhabitinge; and having so done, did then alsoe in most forcible and ryotous manner take and carrye away from thence all the wood and timber thereof, unto the Bancksyde in the parishe of St. Marye Overyes, and there erected a newe playehouse with the sayd timber and wood."

Such was the end of the first short-lived London playhouse. But the new house, which was built out of its materials on the "Bankside," was the celebrated "Globe," the name of which is inseparably connected with that of Shakespeare.

As we said above, James Burbage, the creator of The Theatre, belonged to the company which played under the patronage of Lord Leicester, and therefore went under the name of "Lord Leicester's Servants" or "Men." The four other actors, who in 1574 received a royal license to act from Queen Elizabeth, were John Perkin, John Lanham, William Jonson, and Robert Wilson.

While James Burbage was no doubt the leader of the company, Robert Wilson is supposed to have been its chief actor, at all events of comic parts, and he was the only one among the five who was also a dramatic author. Under his name, but after his death, Cuthbert Burbage published, in 1594, The Prophecy of the Cobbler; and among anonymous plays the following are ascribed to him: Fair Eve, The Miller's Daughter from Manchester, The Three Ladies of London, etc.

Most likely some of Wilson's plays were acted in The Theatre. With this exception the internal history of this playhouse is rather obscure, and very little is known of its répertoire. A few titles may be found in contemporary literature, such as The Blacksmith's Daughter, mentioned by the Puritan Gosson in his School of Abuse, as "containing the treachery of Turks, the honorable bounty of a noble mind, the shining of virtue in distress," The Conspiracy of Catilina, Cæsar and Pompey, and The Play about the Fabians.

All these must have belonged to the earliest répertoire of The Theatre, for Gosson's School of Abuse appeared in 1579.

It is of more interest that Thomas Lodge mentions the original pre-Shakespearean Hamlet as having been acted in The Theatre. He speaks of one who "looks as pale as the visard of the ghost which cries so miserably at The Theatre, like an oister-wife, 'Hamlet revenge.'"

The same company, originally "Lord Leicester's Servants," continued to act in The Theatre till it was pulled down. But the company several times changed its patron and consequently its name. In 1588 Lord Leicester died, and after his death Ferdinando Stanley, Lord Strange, became the patron of the company; till 1592, therefore, the actors were called "Lord Strange's Men." But in 1592 Lord Strange was created earl of Derby; consequently the troupe became for two years "The Earl of Derby's Men." In 1594 the Earl of Derby died, and Henry Carey, first Lord Hunsdon and lord chamberlain, undertook to become patron of the company, which, therefore, adopted the name of "The Lord Chamberlain's Servants." The son of Lord Hunsdon, George Carey, second Lord Hunsdon, after his father's death (in 1596) also inherited the patronage of the actors, and for almost a year they had to content themselves with being called "Lord Hunsdon's Men," until Lord Hunsdon became lord chamberlain, like his father, and allowed the company to resume the title of "The Lord Chamberlain's Servants," 1597. This name the actors retained until the accession of King James, in 1603, after which they were promoted to the title of "The King's Players"; this title put them in the first rank, which, indeed, they had long held in reality, and which they kept till the suppression of the playhouses in 1642.

It is no slight task for one who desires to study theatrical affairs in the time of Shakespeare, to make himself acquainted with the varying names of the companies of actors; but without such knowledge it would be very difficult to pursue the thread of the history even of the leading companies.

About the year 1590 our company received an addition in the person of a young man, who was not only a skilled and useful actor, but who also possessed the accomplishment of being able to adapt older plays to the taste of the times, and even proved to have the gift of writing tolerably good plays himself, though older and jealous colleagues might hint at their not being altogether original. This young man, whose capacities became of no slight use to the company and The Theatre, was named William Shakespeare.

At this time the leading actors of The Theatre were the great tragedian Richard Burbage, who was then quite a young man, Henry Condell, and John Heminge, who continued to be the mainstays of the company. There was also the clown, Augustine Phillips, an excellent comic actor of the old school. These four became the most intimate friends of Shakespeare, and to Condell and Heminge posterity owes special gratitude, since it was they who, after the death of Shakespeare, undertook the publication of the first printed collection of his plays.

It is impossible to decide definitely which of Shakespeare's plays belonged to the repertoire of The Theatre. It is probable that his first plays, Love's Labor Lost, The Comedy of Errors, The Two Gentlemen of Verona, and his first tragedy, Romeo and Juliet, saw the light on this stage between 1589 and 1591. Afterward, between 1594 and 1597, these were possibly increased by A Midsummer Night's Dream, Richard the Second, King John, The Merchant of Venice, and Henry IV.

The repertoire of The Theatre also included the so-called "jigs," merry after-plays, mostly consisting of songs and dances, with frequent allusions to the events of the day, sneering at the Puritans, the magistrates, and other enemies of the playhouses.

It has been briefly mentioned above that not long after the establishment of The Theatre—at the latest in the following year—this playhouse gained a companion in The Curtain, which thus became the second of its kind in London.

The two playhouses were very close to each other, but for this very reason it seems natural to suppose that they were rather meant to support than to rival each other. They were like a kind of double-barrelled gun directed against the corporation, and they seem, indeed, to an equal extent, to have roused the anger of the Puritans, for they are generally mentioned together in the Puritan pamphlets directed against playhouses and all other wickedness.

However, the history of The Curtain is almost unknown to us. While we know a good deal about the outward circumstances of The Theatre on account of the constant troubles which the Burbage family had to endure from the proprietor of the ground and the municipal authorities, and of the subsequent lawsuit, the reports we find about The Curtain are extremely meagre. We know neither when nor by whom it was built nor when it was pulled down.

By a mistake which is natural enough, its name has been connected with the front curtain of the stage. We shall see later that no such curtain existed in the time of Shakespeare, and we do not know that the background draperies of that period had the fixed name of "curtain."

Anyhow, the possibility of this derivation is absolutely excluded by the fact that the spot on which the second London playhouse was built, for some unknown reason, bore the name of "Curtayne Close." So the playhouse was simply named after the spot on which it was built.

As long as The Theatre stood close beside it, the two companies shared almost the same fate. We have seen that in 1597 an order was issued to pull down both playhouses; this order, however, was never carried out. But after the removal of The Theatre to Bankside, The Curtain seems to have gone its own way. The actors, on the whole, were not afraid of pleading their cause from the stage, and of retorting on the attacks of their assailants by lashing them with the whip of caricature, and it seems that those of The Curtain had gone a little too far in their Aristophanic parodies of their worthy fellow-citizens and chief magistrate; for in May, 1601, the justices of the peace for the county of Middlesex received the following admonition from the privy council: "We doo understand that certaine players that used to recyte their playes at the Curtaine in Moorefeilds, do represent upon the stage in their interludes the persons of some gent of good desert and quality that are yet alive under obscure manner, but yet in such sorte that all the hearers may take notice both of the matter and the persons that are meant thereby. This beinge a thinge verye unfitte, offensive and contrary, to such direction as have been heretofore taken, that no plaies should be openly shewed but such as were first perused and allowed, and that minister no occasion of offence or scandall, wee do hereby require you that you do forthwith forbidd those players to whomsoever they appertaine that do play at the Curtaine in Moorefeildes to represent any such play, and that you will examine them who made that play and to shew the same unto you, and as you in your discrecions shall thincke the same unfitte to be publiquely shewed to forbidd them from henceforth to play the same eyther privately or publiquely; and if upon veiwe of the said play you shall finde the subject so odious and inconvenient as is informed, wee require you to take bond of the chiefest of them to aunswere their rashe and indiscreete dealing before us."

We know nothing of the result of this prosecution, but we may be allowed to assume that it did not result in very severe measures. We seem to read a certain concealed sympathy in the writ of the great lords, and we cannot help suspecting that it was the Puritan citizens who felt themselves hit and who brought the complaint. If the lords had been the butt of the mockery, no doubt the proceeding of the actors would have appeared to them much worse than "rashe and indiscreete."

Until the Globe theatre was built, the Burbages most likely possessed a share in The Curtain. At any rate, their company used that building alternately with their own; no doubt, for instance, during the period between the pulling down of The Theatre and the building of the Globe. During this period they played (as "The Lord Chamberlain's Men"), among other things, no less famous a piece than Ben Jonson's Every Man in His Humour, which, according to old tradition, was accepted on the recommendation of Shakespeare, after having been put aside contemptuously by the other leading actors. This splendid play had an enormous success. Of Shakespeare's plays, Much Ado about Nothing and The Second Part of King Henry IV were acted.

There is scarcely any reason for assuming, with Halliwell-Phillipps and Ordish, that the first performance of Henry V took place at The Curtain. At the appearance of this play, in 1599, the Globe theatre was built, and we cannot doubt that it was here that this popular play saw the light. So the frequently mentioned "wooden O" in the prologue does not allude to The Curtain, but to the Globe.

The outward shape of The Curtain we must imagine to have been, like that of The Theatre, circular, and unroofed in the centre. It is generally supposed to have been somewhat smaller than Burbage's first theatre.

The last period of the existence of The Curtain is enveloped in obscurity. But there is no reason to suppose that it did not continue to exist till all playhouses were put down, during the civil war, 1642-1647. If The Curtain was preserved as long as that, its life was longer than that of any other playhouse of the Shakespearean period.

COSSACK CONQUEST OF SIBERIA

A.D. 1581

NIKOLAI M. KARAMZIN[1]

Among the enterprising leaders of the Cossacks at this time were Iermak Timofeif, John Koltzo—condemned to death by the Czar—James Mikhailoff, Necetas Pan, and Matthew Meschteriak, all noted for their rare intrepidity. The Stroganoffs, having heard of the terror inspired by their audacity among peaceful travellers, as well as amid the nomad tribes of the neighborhood, proposed an honorable service to these five brave men. On April 6, 1579, they sent them presents, accompanied by a letter in which they urged them to quit an occupation unworthy of Christian soldiers, to leave the class of brigands, and to become warriors of the White Czar, the monarch of Muscovy; to seek, in fine, dangers exempt from dishonor, by making peace with God and Russia. "We have," they added, "lands and fortresses, but few soldiers; come and defend great Perm and the Christian countries of the North." At these propositions Iermak and his companions shed tears of emotion. The hope of effacing their disgrace by glorious deeds, by services rendered to the State, the idea of exchanging the title of audacious brigands for that of brave defenders of their country, caused a keen sensibility in these men, uncouth, if you will, but with hearts still susceptible of remorse. Unfurling their standard on the bank of the Volga, they made an appeal to their comrades, and assembled five hundred fifty bold partisans, at the head of whom they arrived, burning with zeal, in the presence of the Stroganoffs, who received them with joy, as the annalist relates. The desires of the former, the promises of the latter, were realized. The Cossack leaders became the bucklers of the Christian country. The infidels trembled at the aspect of death which met them wherever they dared to show themselves. Indeed, on July 22, 1581, the Cossacks completely overthrew the mirza Begouly, who at the head of seven hundred Vogulitches and Ostiaks, had ravaged the colonies founded upon the Silva and the Tchusovaya. This success was the forerunner of more considerable advantages.

The Stroganoffs had in view not merely the defence of their cities, in calling the Cossacks to their service. When they had sufficiently tested the courage and fidelity of these warriors, and had learned the talent and boldness of Iermak Timofeif, their principal leader—of obscure origin, the annals say, but illustrious by his greatness of soul—they formed a troop especially composed of Tartars subject to Russia, of Lithuanians and of Germans, ransomed from captivity among the Nogais, for the latter brought, as a matter of custom in their encampments, the prisoners whom they made in war, as mercenaries of the Czar. In fine, after having made provisions of arms and of food, the Stroganoffs openly announced an expedition, which, under the orders of Iermak, should have Siberia for its objective point. The number of fighting men amounted to eight hundred forty, all animated with zeal and transported with joy. Some dreamed of honor, others thought of the spoils. The hope of meriting their pardon by the Czar inflamed the Cossacks, and the German or Polish captives, who sighed for liberty, considering Siberia the road to their fatherland. Iermak began by organizing his little army. He named the hetmans, subaltern officers, and appointed the brave John Koltzo as second in command. Long-boats were laden with munitions of war and food, light artillery and long arquebuses. He procured guides, interpreters, priests, had prayers said, and received the final instructions of the Stroganoffs. The latter were conceived in the following terms: "Go in peace to scour the country of Siberia and put to flight the impious Kutchum." After having taken the oath of valor and chastity, Iermak set out, on September 1, 1581, at the sound of warlike trumpets, on the Tchusovaya, and directed his march toward the Ural Mountains, preparing himself for great activity, without counting upon any assistance. This expedition was even made without the knowledge of the Czar, for the Stroganoffs, who had obtained the grant of the countries situated on the other side of the chain of rocky mountains, thought themselves able to dispense with soliciting of the Czar a new sanction for their important enterprise. We shall see that Ivan did not share this opinion.

At the moment when the states of Kutchum were to become the conquest of the Russian Pizarro—as redoubtable for the savages as he of Spain, but less terrible for humanity—the Prince of Pelim with the Vogulitches, the Ostiaks, the Siberian Tartars, and the Bashkirs made a sudden irruption upon the borders of the Kama. He destroyed the Russian colonies near Tcherdin, Ussolie, as well as many other new fortresses of the Stroganoffs, and put to death or dragged into captivity a great number of Christians who were deprived of defenders. But at the news of the march of the Cossacks against Siberia he left our frontiers to fly to the defence of his own states.

The crime of these depredations was laid to the Stroganoffs. Upon a report of Basile Pilepitsin, Governor of Tcherdin, Ivan wrote him that he was either unable on unwilling to look after the frontiers. "You have taken upon yourself," he added, "to recall proscribed Cossacks, true bandits, whom you have sent to make war upon Siberia. This enterprise, suited to irritate the Prince of Pelim and the sultan Kutchum, is a treason worthy of the last punishment! I command you to cause Iermak and his companions to start without delay for Perm and Ussolie on the Kama, where they may be able to efface their faults by forcing the Ostiaks and the Vogulitches to submission. You may retain at the most one hundred Cossacks for the security of your little towns. In case you shall not execute my commands to the letter, if in the future Perm has still to suffer the attacks of the Prince of Pelim or of the Sultan of Siberia, I shall overwhelm you with the weight of my disgrace and I shall have all those traitors of Cossacks hanged." This menacing despatch made the Stroganoffs tremble. Nevertheless, a brilliant, unexpected success justified their enterprise and changed into favor the wrath of their sovereign.

In beginning the story of the exploits of Iermak we shall at first say that, like everything that is extraordinary, they have made a strong impression upon the imagination of the vulgar, and have given birth to many fables, which are confused in the traditions with the real facts. Under the title of "annals" they have led the historians themselves into error. It is thus, for instance, that some hundreds of warriors, led by Iermak, have been metamorphosed into an army, and, like the soldiers of Cortés or Pizarro, have been counted as thousands. The months became years. A somewhat difficult navigation appeared marvellous. Leaving at one side the fabulous assertions we shall, for the principal facts, base our statements upon official documents and on the most truthful contemporaneous account of a conquest which was, indeed, of a most surprising character.

In the first place, the Cossacks ascended, for four days, the course of the Tchusovaya, rapid and sown with rocks, as far as the chain of the Ural Mountains. The two following days, in the shadow of the masses of stone with which the interior of these mountains is covered, they reached, by means of the river Serebrennaia, the passage called the "Route of Siberia." There they stopped, and, ignorant of what might next happen to them, they constructed for their safety a kind of redoubt to which they gave the name of kokui. They had so far found only deserts and a small number of inhabitants. Then they moved, towing their small crafts as far as the river of Iaravle. These places are, even to this day, marked by the monuments of Iermak; rocks, caverns, remains of fortifications, bear his name. It is asserted that the big boats abandoned by him between the Serebrennaia and the Barantcha are not, in our time, entirely decayed, and that lofty trees shade their ruins, half reduced to dust. By the Iaravle and the Taghil the Cossacks, reaching the Tura, which waters one of the provinces of the empire of Siberia, for the first time drew the sword of conquerors. At the place where the city of Turinsk now stands there then existed a little town, the domain of the prince Yepantcha. He commanded a large number of Tartars and Vogulitches, and received these audacious strangers with a hail of arrows, shot from the banks of the river, at the place where is seen the present village of Usseninovo; but, frightened by a discharge of artillery, he forthwith took flight. Iermak caused the town to be destroyed, of which the name alone remains, for the residents still give to Turinsk the name "Town of Yepantcha." The camps and villages situated along the Tura were devastated.

The Cossack leaders having taken, at the mouth of the Tavda, an officer of Kutchum's, named Tausak, he, desirous of saving his life, communicated to them important information regarding the country. As the price of his frankness, his liberty was given him, and he hastened to announce to his master that the predictions of the soothsayers of Siberia were being realized, for according to some accounts these pretended sorcerers had for a long time proclaimed the near and inevitable downfall of this state by an invasion of Christians. Tausak spoke of the Cossacks as wonderful men and invincible heroes, lancing fire and thunder which penetrate through the cuirasses. Nevertheless, Kutchum, although deprived of sight, had a strong soul. He made ready to defend his country and his faith with courage. He at once gathered all his subjects, made his nephew Mahmetkul enter the campaign at the head of a large force of cavalry, and he himself threw up fortifications on the bank of the Irtisch, at the foot of the Tchuvache mountain, thus closing to the Cossacks the road to Isker.

The conquest of Siberia resembles, in more than one regard, that of Mexico and Peru. Here, also, it was a handful of men who, by means of fire-arms, put to flight thousands of soldiers armed with arrows or javelins. For the Moguls, like the Tartars of the North, were ignorant of the use of gunpowder, and toward the end of the sixteenth century they still used the arms employed in the time of Genghis. Each one of Iermak's warriors faced a crowd of the enemy. If his bullet only killed one of them, the frightful detonation of his gun put to flight twenty or thirty. In the first combat, held on the bank of the Tobol, at a place called Babassan, Iermak, under shelter of intrenchments, checked by some discharges of musketry the impetuosity of ten thousand men of Mahmetkul's cavalry, who rushed forward to crush him. He at once attacks them himself, carries off a complete victory, and, opened, as far as the mouth of the Tobol, a route whose perils were not yet all dissipated. Indeed, from the height of the steep banks of the river called Dolojai-Yar the natives poured a shower of arrows on the boats of the Cossacks.

Another less important affair took place sixteen versts from Irtysh, in a country governed by a tribal chief named Karatcha, situated on the shore of a lake which up to to-day bears the name of this intimate counsellor of the sovereign of Siberia. Iermak having made himself master of the enemy's camp, found rich booty there, consisting of provisions of all kinds, as well as a large number of tuns of honey, intended for the consumption of the sovereign.

The third combat, on the Irtysh, was bloody, and stubbornly fought. It cost some companions of Iermak their lives, and served to prove how dear even to barbarians is the independence of their fatherland; for the defenders of Siberia displayed resolution and intrepidity. Nevertheless, they yielded the victory to the Russians toward the end of the day, awaiting a new battle, and without losing either courage or hope. The blind Kutchum left the fortifications in order to camp upon the Tchuvache mountain. Mahmetkul was intrusted with the guard of the intrenchments, and the Cossacks, who the same evening captured the little town of Atik-Murza, dared not take repose for fear of an attack.

Already the troops of Iermak were visibly diminished. Some Cossacks had been killed and many wounded, and amid constant fatigues a great number of them had no strength nor valor left. The leaders profited by this night of unrest to hold a council on the course to take, and in this consultation the voice of the weaklings was heard.

"We have satiated our vengeance," they said. "It is time to turn back. New combats will be dangerous for us, since very soon we shall be unable to conquer any more for lack of fighters."

"Brothers," answered the leaders, "there is left only one road for us, and that is the one in the front of us. The rivers are already covered with ice. In turning our backs, we shall perish amid the snows. And if we were fortunate enough to get home to Russia, we should arrive there with the tarnish of perjury, for we have pledged ourselves to conquer Kutchum or to blot out our faults by a generous death. We have lived long with a dishonored reputation. Let us know how to die after having acquired a glorious one! It is God who awards the victory, and often to the weaker, blessed be his name!"

"Amen!" responded the troop. At the first rays of the sun the Cossacks hurled themselves on the intrenchments through a cloud of arrows, crying, "God is for us!" The enemy themselves threw down their palisades at three different points. The Siberians rushed out sabre or lance in hand, and engaged in a hand-to-hand conflict which was disadvantageous for the warriors of Iermak, who were too inferior in numbers. Men fell on all sides: but the Cossacks, Germans, and Poles formed an unshakable wall, loaded their guns in good order, and, by a sustained attack, thinned the ranks of the enemy, whom they drove toward their intrenchments. Iermak and Koltzo, at the first line, accomplished prodigies of valor, repeating in a loud voice, "God is for us!" while the blind Kutchum, placed upon the mountain, in the midst of his imams and his mollahs, invoked Mahomet for the salvation of his true believers.

Happily for the Russians, Mahmetkul, being wounded, was obliged to quit the fight, and the mirzas carried him in a skiff to the other bank of the Irtysh. At this news, consternation spread throughout the hostile army. Deprived of its leader it despaired of victory. The Ostiak princes take flight. They are followed by the Tartars. And Kutchum, learning that the Christian banners are already floating over the intrenchments, seeks his safety in the deserts of Ischim, having hardly had time to remove a part of his treasure from his capital city. This general and bloody battle decided the domination of the Russians from the chain of Ural Mountains to the shores of the Obi and the Tobol. It cost the Cossacks one hundred seven of their bravest warriors, and up to the present day prayers for the repose of their souls are offered in the Cathedral of Tobolsk.

On October 27th Iermak, already illustrious for history, after returning thanks to heaven, made his triumphant entry into the town of Isker, or Sibir, situated on an elevation on the bank of the Irtysh. It was defended on one side by intrenchments and a deep moat; on the other, by a triple rampart. According to the annalist, the conquerers found immense riches in gold, silver, Asiatic cloth of gold, precious stones, furs, and so forth, which they shared among themselves like brothers. The town was entirely deserted. These warriors, who had just conquered a kingdom, did not see a single inhabitant here. They glutted themselves with gold and sables, and lacked for food. Nevertheless, three days later, they saw the Ostiaks arrive, led by their prince Bohar, who came to bring them presents and provisions, to take the oath of fidelity, and to ask for mercy and protection. Soon there also appeared a great number of Tartars with their women and children. They were accorded a gracious reception by Iermak. He quieted them and let them return to their camps, after demanding from them a small tribute.

This man, recently the leader of a band of brigands, who had just showed himself to be an intrepid hero and a skilful captain, likewise employed his extraordinary genius in matters relating to administration and to military discipline. He inspired rude and savage peoples with an extreme confidence in a new power. He succeeded by a just severity in curbing his turbulent companions-in-arms, so that they dared not practise any vexations in a country conquered by their boldness and through a thousand dangers, at the extremity of the world. It is related that the inflexible Iermak, managing the Christian warriors in the combats, treated them with rigor for the least fault, and that he punished disobedience and fornication equally with death. He not only exacted complete submission from his whole troop, but also purity of soul, in order to render himself agreeable to the master of the earth and to the Master of heaven, persuaded that God would accord him the victory with a small number of virtuous warriors, rather than with a large number of hardened sinners. "His Cossacks," says the annalist of Tobolsk, "led a chaste life, on the march as well as during their stay in the capital of Siberia. Their battles were followed by prayer." But they were not yet at the end of their dangers.

Some time passed without news of Kutchum, and the Cossack leaders, with no inquietude, gave themselves up to the pleasures of the chase in the neighborhood of the town. But Kutchum had drawn near, in spite of his wound, Mahmetkul had already remounted his horse, and on December 5th he unexpectedly fell on twenty Russians fishing in the Lake of Abalak, and massacred them all. As soon as Iermak heard of this surprise, he rushed in pursuit of the enemy, overtook them near Abalak, at the place where the borough town of Chamehin now stands, attacked and dispersed them. Then, having removed the bodies of his companions-in-arms, he buried them, with military honors, on the cope of Sauskan, near Isker, in the old cemetery of the Khans. The intensity of the cold, the dangerous snowstorms, the short winter days of these northern countries, did not permit him to think of new enterprises of any importance before the return of spring. While waiting, the peaceful submission of two princes of the Vogulitches, Ichberdei and Suklem, served soon to expand the possessions of the Cossacks. The first had his domains beyond the marsh of Eskalbin, on the banks of the Kuda or the Tavda. The second lived in the vicinity of Tobolsk. Both voluntarily offered to pay the yassak, or tribute in sable-skins, and took the oath of allegiance to Russia. Ichberdei was able to secure the special friendship of the Cossacks, to whom he gave his services as counsellor and guide in the unknown places.

So the affairs of internal administration, the collecting of tribute, hunting and fishing, the returns from which were indispensable in a country without architecture, occupied Iermak until the month of April. Then a mirza informed him that the bold Mahmetkul had again approached the Irtysh and encamped near Vagai with a small band. The occasion was favorable; but in order to exterminate this indefatigable enemy, secrecy and celerity were more necessary than force. Consequently the Cossack leaders, having chosen sixty of their braves, furtively approached the camp of the Tartars, cut the throats of many in their sleep, took Mahmetkul prisoner, and led him in triumph to Isker. This capture caused Iermak great joy, for he was rid of an enemy full of audacity and courage, whom he might consider as an important hostage in his relations with the fugitive Kutchum. Although Mahmetkul was covered with the blood of Iermak's brothers-in-arms, the latter, abjuring all idea of personal vengeance, treated him with flattering consideration, while yet holding him under close watch. As Iermak already had his spies in the distant sections of Isker, he learned that Kutchum, struck with the reverses of Mahmetkul, was wandering in the deserts beyond the Ischim. This usurper was about to be attacked by Seidek—son of Bekbulat, Prince of Siberia, one of his victims—who was marching against him with numerous bands of Usbeks. Upon another side he found himself weakened by the defection of the mirza Karatcha, who, abandoning him in his misfortune, had drawn away a great part of his troops, and was getting ready to encamp in the country of Lym, near a large lake, above the junction of the Tara with the Irtysh. The news was of the nature to cause a lively satisfaction to the leader of the Cossacks, whose new enterprises were to be favored by the weakness of the principal enemy of Russia, as well as by the approach of spring.

Iermak, leaving a part of his troop at Isker, embarked with the other part on the Irtysh, which he descended, navigating toward the north. The tribes of the neighborhood already recognized his power, so that he advanced without obstacles as far as the mouth of the Armidzianka, where he was stopped by Tartars who were still independent, and who, ensconced in a fortress, refused to surrender. The fortress was taken by assault, and the Cossack leaders shot or hanged the principal authors of an obstinacy dangerous for the Russians. Terrified, the rest of the inhabitants swore submission and fidelity to Russia, kissing a sabre dipped in blood. The present cantons of Ratzin, Karbin, and Turtass dared oppose no resistance. Farther on began the encampments of the Ostiaks and the Vogules of the Kuda. There, on the steep bank of the Irtysh their prince Demian, who had taken refuge in a fort with two thousand warriors ready to fight, rejected all Icrmak's propositions. According to the report of the annalist: "This little town possessed within its walls a golden idol which was supposed to have been brought from ancient Russia at the epoch when she embraced Christianity. The Ostiaks kept it in a vase filled with water which they drank to revive their courage. The Cossack leaders, having driven away the besieged forces with their artillery, entered the town, but they could not discover this precious idol."

The conquerers now continued their navigation. They perceived a crowd of soothsayers who were offering a sacrifice to their famous idol of Ratscha, conjuring it to save them from these terrible strangers. The idol remained mute, the Russians advanced with their "thunder," and the frightened soothsayers ran to hide themselves in the thickness of the forests. It is there that the colony of Ratscha is found to-day, above the Demiansk. Farther on in the canton of Tzingal, at the place where the Irtysh, contracted by the mountains, precipitates its rapid course, a multitude of armed men awaited the Cossacks. But a discharge of musketry put them to flight, and the Cossacks took the little town of Nazym, where they found only women and children, stricken with terror and awaiting death. Iermak treated them with so much kindness that their fathers and husbands did not delay in coming to find him with a tribute.

After reducing the cantons of Tarkhan to submission, the Cossacks entered the country of the most considerable of the Ostiak princes, named Samar. Allied with eight hundred other little princes, he was waiting for the Russians with firmness, in order to decide, by a battle, the lot of all the ancient country of Yugorie. Samar boasted of his courage and of his strength, but he forgot prudence, for he, his army and his guards, were plunged in sleep when at the hour of dawn the Cossacks attacked his camp. Awakened by the tumult, he rose, seized his arms, and fell, shot to death at the first volley. In an instant his troops dispersed, and the inhabitants agreed to pay tribute to Russia. Already Iermak had reached the shore of the Obi, an important river, concerning the course of which the ancient Novgorodians had some notions, but whose source and mouth, according to the Muscovite travellers of 1567, were hidden in unknown regions. Master of Nazym, principal town of the Ostiaks, and of many other fortresses, having in his power the Prince of Siberia, Iermak had to deplore the loss of one of his brave companions-in-arms, the hetman Necetas Pan, killed in an assault with some of the most intrepid Cossacks.

He did not desire to penetrate farther into a country which only presented frozen deserts to him, places of desolation where during the summer the burning rays of the sun hardly warmed the surface of immense marshes covered with moss, and where bogs, hardened by the frost and strewed with the bones of mammoths, presented the aspect of a vast cemetery. Iermak appointed Alatscha, an Ostiak prince, as chief of the tribes of the Obi. Then he again took the road of the capital of Siberia, treated as a conqueror and a sovereign by his tributaries. He was received everywhere with demonstrations of absolute submission, as a redoubtable warrior endowed with a supernatural strength of soul. To the sound of warlike music, the Cossacks ascended the rivers. They disembarked clad in their finest raiment in order to astonish the inhabitants by their riches. Having thus assured the domination of Russia from Berezoff to Tobol, Iermak, satisfied and tranquil, arrived safely at Isker.

Then only he announced to the Stroganoffs that with the aid of God he had been able to conquer the Sultan, had taken his capital, his states, his nephew, and had made his people take the oath of allegiance to Russia. At the same time he wrote to the Czar that his poor Cossacks, proscribed, troubled in conscience and given up to repentance, had braved death to reunite a vast state to Russia, in the name of Christ and of their great monarch, for ages upon ages and for as long a time as it might please God to prolong the existence of the universe. "They awaited," he added, "the orders of the Russian waywodes, to whom they were ready to deliver over the kingdom of Siberia, without any sort of condition, disposed to die for glory or upon a scaffold, according as it should please God and their master." Charged with this missive, the second of the leaders, John Koltzo, first companion of Iermak in the combats and in the councils, departed for Moscow, where he had been condemned to severe punishment as a state criminal, without fearing the solemn decree which threatened his life.

Here we anticipate a question which seems natural enough. In announcing so late his successes to the Stroganoffs, did not Iermak, influenced by the easy conquest of Siberia, think, as some historians suppose, of reigning independently over that country? Although conqueror, his forces were diminishing every day, and was not the need of aid the only and true motive for his bearing toward Ivan? But how can it be imagined that this prudent leader should not have foreseen, at the beginning of his expedition, that a handful of rash men, abandoned by Russia, would in three or four years have been annihilated by battles or diseases; that in a rigorous climate they would succumb amid deserts and thick forests, impenetrable refuges of a savage and fierce population, whom fire-arms only could force to pay tribute to strangers? It is more probable that, not having been an eye-witness of the facts, the annalist established upon hypothesis the order in which they succeeded each other. Perhaps Iermak feared to boast too soon of his success, desiring, above all, to achieve the conquest of Siberia, which he thought he had done in driving Kutchum into the deserts and in establishing the limits of the Muscovite empire on the banks of the Obi.

Transported with joy at the news they had just received from the hetmans, the Stroganoffs set out at once for Moscow, eager to communicate to the Czar all the details of this glorious enterprise. They urged him to finish the reduction of Siberia, simple private citizens like themselves not possessing the means to preserve so vast a conquest. The envoys of Iermak, John Koltzo and his companions, also appeared before the Prince to offer him the realm of Siberia, as well as the precious furs of sables, black foxes, and castors.

These were, since a long time, the first transports of joy in gloomy Moscow. The Czar and the nation seemed to wake up. At court, on the great square, was repeated with intoxication, "God has sent a new empire to Russia!" Bells were rung, solemn thanks were returned to heaven, as at the epoch of Kazan and of Astrakhan, the happy time of the Czar's youth! Rumor exaggerated the glory of this conquest.

There was no talk but of huge armies destroyed by the Cossacks, of a great number of peoples subjected by their valor, of the immense riches which they had found. In a word, Siberia seemed to have fallen from the sky for the Russians, and, to set off still further Iermak's success, it was forgotten that from time immemorial this country had been known to the Russians. The disgrace of the Cossacks gave place to honors. John Koltzo, bowing his head in humility before the Czar and the boyars, heard nothing but expressions of good-will, and of praise for his conduct and the name of valiant warrior. Greatly moved, he kissed the hand of the Czar, who caused to be given to him, as well as to the other envoys of Siberia, silver, cloth, and stuffs of value. Ivan immediately sent to Iermak Prince Simeon Bolkovsky and the officer John Glukoff with five hundred strelitz (infantry). He authorized John Koltzo to raise volunteers to go and establish himself in the new countries of Tobol, and ordered the Bishop of Vologda to send ten priests thither for the purpose of celebrating divine service. Prince Bolkovsky was ordered to take, in the spring, the boats of the Stroganoffs and embark on the Tchusovaya (river), to follow the traces of the hero of Siberia. These illustrious citizens, the real authors of this important acquisition to Russia, yielded it to the state. But in recompense, and as a reward for their services and their zeal, Ivan made to Simeon Bolkovsky a concession of two borough towns, the Great and Little Sol, on the Volga. Maxime and Necetas obtained the privilege of carrying on commerce in all their cities without paying any tax or duty.

While awaiting good news from Russia, the conquerors of Siberia did not give themselves up to a sterile repose. They advanced by the Tavda as far as the country of the Vogulitches, and near the mouth of that river where the Tartar princes Labutan and Petschenieg held sway. In a bloody engagement Iermak put them to flight on the shores of a lake; and the annalist reports that at his time many human bones were still to be seen there. But the timid inhabitants of the cantons of Koschutz and of Tabarin paid the tribute demanded by the Cossack leader without a murmur. These peaceful savages lived in an absolute independence, having neither princes nor chiefs. They only gave their respect to certain rich men, whose wisdom was generally recognized, and took them as judges in their quarrels. They yielded an equal esteem to some pretended soothsayers. One of these, gazing upon Iermak with a holy terror, predicted long glory for him, but kept silence about his approaching death. Here fable creates new giants among the dwarfs of Vogulie, who are scarcely two archines in height. According to one of these stories, the Russians saw with surprise, near the town of Tabarin, a giant two fathoms tall, who seized a dozen men at a time and smothered them in his arms. Not being able to take him alive, they killed him with gunshots.

On the whole, the relation of this latter expedition is not very authentic, and is only found in the supplement to the Chronicles of Siberia. One may also read there that, after having reached the marshes and forests of Pelim, dispersed the Vogulitches, and made numerous prisoners, Iermak sought to gather from the latter certain information regarding the roads which lead from the banks of the Upper Tavda to Perm, across a chain of rocky mountains, in order to discover a less dangerous and less difficult communication with Russia, but that it was impossible to open a road in deserts swampy in summer and buried under deep snows in winter. Iermak succeeded in increasing the number of his tributaries, and in extending his domains as far as the shore of Sosva, in the ancient country of Yugorie. He had enclosed in their limits the country of Kondinie, little known up to that time, although long placed among the titles of the Muscovite sovereigns. He then returned to the capital of Siberia, where he awaited the recompense of his glorious works.

John Koltzo had arrived at Isker, charged with the bounties of the Czar, followed by Prince Bolkovsky with his warriors. The former gave rich presents to the leaders as well as to the soldiers. He was the bearer, for Iermak, of two cuirasses, a cup of silver, and a cloak which the Czar had worn himself. In a letter full of goodness, Ivan announced to the Cossacks his entire forgetfulness of their faults and the eternal recognition of Russia for their important services. He affirmed that he appointed Iermak prince of Siberia, commanding him to administer and govern that country, as he had already done up to that time; to establish order there, and, in fine, to consolidate there the supreme power of the Czar. On their side, the Cossacks rendered honors to the waywodes of Ivan as well as to all the strelitz. They made them presents of sables and treated them with all the luxury which their position permitted, preparing together for new enterprises. However, this happiness of Iermak and his companions was not of long duration; we touch upon the beginning of their reverses.

In the first place, a fearful scurvy showed itself among the troops, a disease common to those who arrive in cold and damp climates, in savage and almost uninhabited countries. The strelitz were attacked first. Soon it was communicated to the Cossacks, many of whom lost their strength and their life. Next, winter brought a great dearth of food. The excessive cold, tempests, snow-storms, hindered the hunting and fishing as well as the arrival of grain from the neighboring encampments, some inhabitants of which occupied themselves with a poorly productive agriculture. Famine began to be felt; disease made progress and continually took off many victims, among whom was Prince Bolkovsky. They gave him an honorable funeral at Isker. The general weakness seized the heart of Iermak also. He feared not death, long accustomed to brave it, but he was afflicted with the idea of losing his conquest, of betraying the hopes of the Czar and of Russia. Happily this calamity ceased with spring. The atmospheric heat helped the cure of the diseases, and convoys of provisions restored plenty among the Russians. Then Iermak made Prince Mahmetkul start for Moscow, announcing to the Czar that, while all was going on well in Siberia, yet he asked immediately for more considerable aids than the first, in order to preserve his conquests and to be able to make new ones. Mahmetkul, faithful observer of the law of Mahomet, served afterward in the Russian armies.

Iermak resolved to intimidate his enemies and to guarantee his safety for the future. To this effect, although he had but a feeble troop left, he undertook to pursue Karatcha, ascending the Irtysh in order to extend the possessions of Russia toward the east. He overthrew Prince Beghiche and captured his city, of which the ruins may still be seen on the shores of a sinuous lake, near the mouth of the Vogai. He made himself master of all the country which stretches as far as the Ischim, terrifying by his vengeance those who dared resist him, and sparing those who lay down their arms. In the country of Sargaty there lived an illustrious old man, a former Tartar chief, a hereditary judge of all the tribes since the first khan of Siberia. He made the act of submission as well as Prince Etichai, who governed the city of Tehend. The latter, bearing tribute to Iermak, presented his young daughter, betrothed to the son of Kutchum. But the hetman, a rigid observer of the laws of chastity, sent the young girl home. Near the mouth of the Ischim, a bloody quarrel arose between the soldiers of Iermak and the wild inhabitants of that wretched country, in which five brave Cossacks lost their lives. Their memory is still celebrated in the melancholy songs of Siberia. The little town of Tachatkan also fell into the power of the Russians. Their chief did not judge it advisable to attack a more important place, founded by Kutchum, on the banks of the lake Aussaklu. He penetrated as far as the shore of Chische, where the deserts begin; imposed tributes on this new conquest, and returned to take to Isker the spoils which were to be his last trophies.

FIRST COLONY OF ENGLAND BEYOND SEAS

A.D. 1583

MOSES HARVEY