CORONATION OF ANNE BOLEYN. 203 stay no longer, into a Presence where, nevertheless, we know that all is well for all of us and therefore for her. But let us not cloud her short-lived sunshine with the shadow of the future. She went on in her loveliness, the peeresses following in their carriages, with the royal guards in the rear. In Fenchurch street she was met by the children of the city schools; and at the corner of Grace-church-street a masterpiece had been prepared, of the pseudo-classic art then so fashionable, by the merchants of Styll-yard. A Mount Parnassus had been constructed, and a Helicon fountain upon it playing into a basin with four jets of Rhenish wine. On the top of the mountain sat Apollo, with Calliope at his feet, and on either side the remaining Muses, holding lutes or harps, and singing each of them some posy or epigram in praise of the Queen, which was presented, after it had been sung, written in letters of gold. From Grace-church-street the procession passed to Leadenhall, where there was a spectacle in better taste, of an old English Catholic kind, quaint perhaps and forced, but truly and even beautifully emblematic. There was again a "little mountain,” which was hung with red and white roses; a gold ring was placed on the summit, on which, as the Queen appeared, a white falcon was made to descend as out of the sky; "and then incontinent came down an Angel with great melody, and set a close crown of gold upon the falcon's head and in the same pageant sat St. Anne with all her issue beneath her; and Mary Cleophas with her four children, of the which children one made a goodly oration to the Queen." With such "pretty conceits," at that time the honest tokens of an English welcome, the new Queen was received by the citizens of London. These scenes must be multiplied by the number of the streets, where some fresh fancy met her at every turn. To preserve the festivities from flagging, every fountain and conduit within the walls ran all day with wine; the bells of every steeple were ringing; children lay in wait with songs, and ladies with posies, in which all the resources of fantastic extravagance were exhausted : and thus in an unbroken triumph she passed under Temple-Bar, down the Strand by Charing Cross to Westminster Hall. The King was not with her throughout the day; nor did he intend to be with her in any part of the ceremony. She was to reign without a rival, the undisputed sovereign of the hour. Saturday being passed in showing herself to the people, she retired for the night to the King's manor-house at Westminster, where she slept. On the following morning, between eight and nine o'clock, she returned to the hall, where the Lord Mayor, the city council, and the peers were again assembled, and took her place on the high dais at the top of the stairs, under the cloth of state; while the bishops, the abbots, and the monks of the abbey formed in the area. A railed way had been laid with carpets across Palace-yard and the Sanctuary to the abbey-gates; and when all was ready, preceded by the peers in their robes of Parliament, the Knights of the Garter in the dress of their order, she swept out under her canopy, the bishops and the monks "solemnly singing." She was dressed in purple velvet furred with ermine, her hair escaping loose, as she usually wore it, under a wreath of diamonds. On entering the abbey, she was led to the coronation chair, where she sat while the train fell into their places, and the preliminaries of the ceremonial were dispatched. Then she was conducted up to the high altar, and anointed Queen of England; and she received from the hands of Cranmer, fresh come in haste from Dunstable, with the last words of his sentence upon Catharine scarcely cold upon his lips, the golden sceptre, and St. Edward's crown. Did any twinge of remorse, any pang of painful recollection, pierce at that moment the incense of glory which she was inhaling? Did any vision flit across her of the sad mourning figure which once had stood where she was standing, now desolate, neglected, sinking into the darkening twilight of a life cut short by sorrow? Who can tell? At such a time, that figure would have weighed heavily upon a noble mind; and a wise mind would have been taught by the thought of it, that, although life be fleeting as a dream, it is long enough to experience strange vicissitudes of fortune. But Anne Boleyn was not noble and was not wise; too probably she felt nothing but the delicious, all-absorbing, all-intoxicating present; and, if that plain, suffering face presented itself to her memory at all, we may fear that it was rather as a foil to her own surpassing loveliness. Two years later, she was able to exult over Catharine's death: she is not likely to have thought of her with gentler feelings in the first glow and flush of triumph. JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE: 1818 PUBLIC IMPROVEMENTS. 205 PUBLIC IMPROVEMENTS. WHAT are possessions? To an individual, the stores of his own heart and mind pre-eminently. His truth and valour are among the first. His contentedness, or his resignation, may be put next. Then his sense of beauty, surely a possession of great moment to him. Then all those mixed possessions which result from the social affections, great possessions, unspeakable delights, much greater than the gift last mentioned in the former class, but held on more uncertain tenure. Lastly, what are generally called possessions. However often we have heard of the vanity, uncertainty, and vexation that beset these last, we must not let this repetition deaden our minds to the fact. Now, national possessions must be estimated by the same gradation that we have applied to individual possessions. If we consider national luxury, we shall see how small a part it may add to national happiness. Men of deserved renown, and peerless women, have lived upon what we should now call the coarsest fare, and paced the rushes in their rooms with as high, or as contented thoughts, as their better-fed and better-clothed descendants can boast of. Man is limited in this direction; I mean in the things that concern his personal gratification: but, when you come to the higher enjoyments, the expansive power both in him and them is greater. As Keats says, A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. What, then, are a nation's possessions? The great words that have been said in it; the great deeds that have been done in it ; the great buildings and the great works of art that have been made in it. A man says a noble saying: it is a possession, first to his own race, then to mankind. A people get a noble building built for them it is an honour to them, also a daily delight and instruction. It perishes. The remembrance of it is still a possession. If it was indeed pre-eminent, there will be more pleasure in thinking of it than in being with others of inferior order and design. On the other hand, a thing of ugliness is potent for evil. It de : forms the taste of the thoughtless: it frets the man who knows how bad it is it is a disgrace to the nation who raised it; an example and an occasion for more monstrosities. If it is a great building in a great city, thousands of people pass it daily, and are the worse for it, or at least not the better. It must be done away with. Next to the folly of doing a bad thing is that of fearing to undo it. We must not look at what it has cost, but at what it is. Millions may be spent upon some foolish device which will not the more make it into a possession, but only a more noticeable detriment. It must not be supposed that works of art are the only, or the chief, public improvements needed in any country. Wherever men congregate, the elements become scarce. The supply of air, light, and water is then a matter of the highest public importance; and the magnificent utilitarianism of the Romans should precede the nice sense of beauty of the Greeks. Or rather, the former should be worked out in the latter. Sanitary improvements, like most good works, may be made to fulfil many of the best human objects. Charity, social order, conveniency of living, and the love of the Beautiful may all be furthered by such improvements. A people are seldom so well employed as when, not suffering their attention to be absorbed by foreign quarrels and domestic broils, they bethink themselves of winning back those blessings of Nature which assemblages of men mostly vitiate, exclude, or destroy. To return to works of art. In this the genius of the people is to be heeded. There may have been, there may be, nations requiring to be diverted from the love of art to stern labour and industrial conquests. But certainly it is not so with the Anglo-Saxon race, or with the Northern races generally. Money may enslave them; logic may enslave them; art never will. The chief men, therefore, in these races will do well sometimes to contend against the popular current, and to convince their people that there are other sources of delight, and other objects worthy of human endeavour, than severe money-getting or mere material successes of any kind. In fine, the substantial improvement, and even the embellishment of towns is a work which both the central and local governing bodies in a country should keep a steady hand upon. It especially concerns them. What are they there for, but to do that which individuals cannot do? It concerns them, too, as it tells upon the health, morals, education, and refined pleasures of the ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 207 people they govern. In doing it, they should avoid pedantry, parsimony, and favouritism; and their mode of action should be large, considerate, and foreseeing. Large; inasmuch as they must not easily be contented with the second-best in any of their projects. Considerate; inasmuch as they have to think what their people need most, not what will make most show. And therefore they should be contented, for instance, at their work going on under ground for a time, or in by-ways, if needful; the best charity in public works, as in private, being often that which courts least notice. Lastly, their works should be with foresight; recollecting that cities grow up about us, like young people, before we are aware of it. SIR ARTHUR HELPS: 1818-1875. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 1 THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 2 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 3 Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 4 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 5 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, |