The Sun.
London, England, 1861-03-30 00:00:00

THE SUN, LONDON, SATURDAY EVENING, MARCH r 30, 1861.

THIRD EDITION.

LITERATURE.

Ainsworth.

The Constable of the nwer. By W. Harrison

Bentley's Miscellany for April contains the con-
clusion of the First Book of this, the last, the most
elaborate, and the most gorgeous of all Mr. Ains-
worth's historical romances. By a singular coinci-
dence the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth
chapters of this first book, comprising within them
a magnificent and detailed account of the funeral
obsequies of King Henry Vlll.—have appeared
simultaneously with the performance of a precisely
similar ceremonial in the same identical scene,
namely, in Cardinal AVolsey's Mausoleum. The
interment there, within the last few days, of her
Royal Highness the Duchess of Kent having so
very recently concentrated public attention upon
the particular locality here referred to—the reader
of Mr. Ainsworth's brilliant description will follow
that romancist with peculiar interest at this moment
throughout his narrative—a narrative in which all
the pomps of the proud Tudor Court are opened
up to view as in one prolonged and sump-
tuous panorama. Speaking of this funereal
ceremony, our author says :—" By its unpre-
cedented splendour, his (Henry's) burial worthily
closed a reign which was one long pageant—
a pageant for the most part gorgeous ; sometimes
gloomy, tragical, and even awful ; but ever grand
and imposing." And he adds -" Luckily, ample
materials for accurate description are provided for
us, and we shall avail ourselves freely of them, in
order to present a full account of the most remark-
able Royal Family on record." Of these profoundly
interesting materials Mr. Ainsworth has availed
himself to admiration.

Mr. Ainsworth's record of the disposal of the
Royal corpse is as follows :

Embalmed by apothecaries and chirurgeons of greatest
skill in the art, wrapped in cerecloth of many folds, and in
an outer cover of cloth of vairy and velvet, bound with
cords of silk, the corpse of the puissant monarch was at
first laid out on the couch wherein he had expired, with a
scroll sewn on the breast containing his titles and the date
of his demise, written in large and small characters. The'
body was next cased in lead, and deposited in a second
coffin of oak, elaborately sculptured, and of enormous size.
Here is the novelist's description of the triumphal
chariot of death, and of the wondrous effigy of the
dead king, fashioned by some nameless " carveller,"
and painted, after a marvellously life-like fashion,
by Hans Holbein

Before the great hall door was drawn up a right noble
funeral chariot, whereunto were harnessed seven Flanders
horses of the largest size, wholly trapped in black velvet
down to the pasterns, each horse bearing four escutcheons
of the late king's arms, beaten in fine gold upon double
sarcenet, upon his trappings, and having a shaffron of the
king's arms on his head. The car was marvellous to behold.
It was of immense size, and its wheels, being thickly gilt,
looked as if made of burnished gold. The lower part of the
vehicle was hung with blue velvet, reaching to the ground
between the wheels; and the upper part consisted of a
stupendous canopy, supported by four pillars overlaid with
cloth of gold, the canopy being made of the same stuff,
and having in the midst of it a richly gilt dome. Within
the car was laid a thick mattress of cloth of gold and tissue
fringed with blue silk and gold.
Then was brought forward an object, considered the
grand triumph of the show, which excited wonder and
admiration in all who looked upon it. This was an effigy
of the departed monarch, beautifully sculptured in wood by
the most skilful carver of the day, and painted by a hand
no less cunning than that of Holbein himself. Bedecked
in Henry's own habiliments of cloth of gold and velvet,
enriched with precious stones of all kinds, this image had a
marvellous and life-like effect. In the right hand was
placed a golden sceptre, while the left sustained the orb of
the world with a cross. Upon the head was set a crown
imperial of inestimable value. Over the shoulders was the
collar of the Garter, and below the knee was the lesser
badge of the order as worn by the king himself in his life-
time. The attitude of the figure was noble and command-
ing, and exactly like that of the imperious monarch.
As the funeral procession is filing past the old gothic
cross at the village of Charing—long afterwards
and still the site of the noble equestrian statue
of the fifth Sovereign after Henry—our first Charles
—occurs the following ominous little incident :

At the foot of the noble Gothic cross a crowd of persons
had been collected from an early hour. Amongst them
was a tall Franciscan friar, who maintained a moody
silence, and who regarded the pageant with so much stern-
ness and scorn that many marvelled he should have come
thither to look upon it. When the ponderous funeral car,
after toiling its way up the ascent, came to the Cross, a
brief halt was called, and during this pause the tall monk
pressed forward, and throwing back his hood, so as fully to
display his austere and death-pale features, lighted up by
orbs blazing with insane light, stretched out his hand
towards the receptacle of the royal corpse, and exclaimed,
" In the plenitude of his power I rebuked for his sinfulness
the wicked king whom ye now bear to the tomb with all
this senseless pomp. Inspii ed from above, I lifted up my
voice, and told him, that as his life had been desperately
wicked, so his doom should be that of the worst of kings,
and dogs would lick his blood. And ere yet he shall be
laid in the tomb my words will come to pass."
At this juncture two pursuivants rode up and threatened
to brain the rash speaker with their maces, but some of the
crowd screened him from their rage.
" Strike him not !" criod an elderly man of decent ap-
pearance. "He is crazed. 'Tis the mad Franciscan,
Father Peto. Make way for him there I Let him pass I"
he added to those behind, who 'charitably complying, the
monk escaped uninjured.

The literal fulfilment of this appalling prediction
during the course of the ensuing midnight is thus
described with all that force of language Harrison
Ainsworth knows full well how to use so pictu-
resquely

HENRY'S CORPSE AND THE BLOODHOUNDS.

Constant watch was kept about the body, and the guard
was relieved every hour. But, notwithstanding the vigi-
lance exercised, a singular incident took place,which we shall
proceed to relate.
A little before midnight it came to the turn of the three
gigantic warders to take their station beside the body, and
as the elder brother stood on the left of the hearse, leaning
on his enormous halberd, he remarked that a dark stream
had issued from beneath the pall covering the coffin, and
was slowly trickling down the scutcheoned side of the cata-
falque. Horror-stricken at the sight, he remained gazing
at this ensanguined current until some drops had fallen
upon the ground. He then uttered an exclamation, which
quickly brought his brothers to him.
" What alarms the., Og ?" cried the two giants.
" Look there !" said the other. "'Tie the king's blood.
The coffin has burst."

"No doubt of it !" exclaimed Gog. "'Tis a terrible mis-
chance—but we cannot be blamed for it." .

"A truce with such folly !" cried Magog. "'Tis the
rough roads between this and Brentford, which shook the
car so sorely, that are in fault, and not we I But what is
to be done ? Methinks the alarm ought to be given to the
grand master."
" Ay," replied On; "but the flow of blood increases.
We ought to stay it."
"How can that be done ?" cried Gog. Can we mend the
bursten coffin ?" _ _ _

"Others may if we cannot," cried Og. "No time must
be lost in obtaining aid. These fearful stains must be effaced
ale the bearers come to-morrow."

Without more ado he hurried towards the great western
door of the church, and was followed by his brothers, who
scorned quite bewildered by the occurrence. But they had
scarcely reached the door, when they were suddenly
arrested by a fierce barking, as of hounds, apparently pro-
ceeding from the choir.
Appalled by the sound, they instantly stopped, and,
turning round, beheld a spectacle that transfixed them with
horror. Within the barriers, and close beside the coffin on
the side of the catafalque down which the loathly current
had flowed, stood a tall, dark figure, which, under the cir-
cumstances, they might well be excused for deeming un-
earthly. With this swart figure were two large coal-black
hounds of Saint Hubert's breed, with eyes that, in the
imagination of the giants, glowed like carbuncles. En-
couraged by their master, these hounds were rending the
blood-stained cover of the catafalque with their teeth.
"'Tis Satan in person 1" exclaimed Magog. " But I
will face him, and check those hell-hounds in their infer-
nal work."
" I will go with thee," said Og. "I fear neither man nor
demon."
"Nay, I will not be left behind," said Gog, accompany-
ing them.
But, notwithstanding their vaunted courage. they ad-
vanced with caution, and ere they gained the entrance of
the choir the dark figure had come forth with his houndr,
which stood savagely growling beside him. They then
perceived that the fancied infernal being was a monk with
his hood drawn closely over his grim and ghastly features.
Stretching out his hands towards them, the monk ex-
claimed, in tones that thrilled his hearers with new terror,
"My words have come to pass. Henry sold himself to
work wickedness, and I warned him of his doom as Elijah
the Tishbite warned Ahab. The judgment of Ahab hath
come upon him. On the self-same spot where Catherine
Howard knelt before her removal to the Tower, dogs have
licked the wife•slayer's blood—even his blood 1"
Before the giants recovered sufficiently from their stupe-
faction to make an attempt to stay him, Father Pete, with
his hounds, effected a retreat by a lateral door, through
which it is to be presumed he had entered the church.

As may be readily understood from these extracts,
the " Constable of the Tower" continues to fulfil our
happiest expectations.

The Worn Wedding Ring and other Poems. By
W. C. Bennett, Bvo., pp. 186. Chapman and

Hall.
The mere title of this charming volume is a poem
in itself. And it is a poem not merely in name,
for it is written by one of the very few who have
proved to the world in these days that they can
write poetry. Mr. Bennett's name upon a title-
page is pleasant greeting ; it comes to us as an
agreeable augury and a right welcome word of
introduction. Who that ever read his Baby May
and his other exquisite little poems upon children,
but will turn with an almost tearful gladness to
hail the advent yet again of one whose hand has
played not upon the tinckling artificial lyre of a
mere poetaster, but upon that noblest lyre of the
tree poets among men, the reader'4own thrilling
and responsive heartstrings ? Assuredly, there is
not one living English critic, not the most capti-
ous or the most purblind of our race but will hail
as true poet and true man that gentle hearted
singer whose voice—trembling the while with
tenderest emotion—sang the lovely little ditty
about Baby's Shoes. It may be, as some, we ob-
serve, have objected, that the root-idea of the
first metrical effusion in this new collection of
poems by Mr. Bennett—the one giving its
daintily suggestive title to the volume—may
be found already in no less of an old
familiar favourite than the Scotch ballad
warbled in the quavering accents of age by some
nameless gudewife to her white headed joy " Sohn