Scotos Bello." Only one of them, the Treatise
on the Christian Life, alluded to above, is in
existence.

There is one other form of literature which
this big monarch seems to have cultivated,
that, requires a moment's notice. The Defender
of the Faith condescended to dally awhile with
the Muses, perhaps as a relaxation from his
grave theological studies. Unhappily, only one
result of these dallyings has survived for our
benefit. This sonnet, as it is called, was
composed, as we are told, by the king " when he
conceived love for Anna Bulleign." " And
hereof," says the old chronicler from whom
we quote, " I entertain no doubt of the author;
for if I had no better reason than the rhyme, it
were sufficient to think that no other than such
a king could write such a sonnet." What this
sly gentleman may mean by this very doubtful
remark the reader must decide for himself after
perusal of the lines.

The eagle's force subdues eache byrd that flyes—
   What metal can resyst the flaminge fyre?
Doth not the sunne dazle the cleareste eyes,
   And melte the ice, and make the froste retyre?
The hardest stones are peircede thro' wyth tools;
The wysest are, with princes, made but fools.

The unhappy lady to whom this brilliant
effusion was addressed comes next in the list
of royal authors. Some of her letters and
addresses to her merciless lord have survived, and
are sufficiently well known. There are passages
in all of these which are infinitely pathetic, as
when she says: " From a private station you
have raised me to that of a countess; from a
countess you have made me a queen; you can
now only raise me one step higher—to be a
saint in heaven." The tone of all that she says
is so womanly, gentle, and resigned that one
would almost have thought the inaccessible
heart of Henry the Eighth might have been
touched by the sight of such unresisting
helplessness. Here are a couple of specimen verses,
said, with some doubt, to have been written by
Anne Boleyn. They are at least sad enough to
be genuine:

      Defiled is my name full sore,
         Through cruel spyte and false report,
      That I may say for evermore,
         Farewell, my joy! adewe, comfórt!
      For wrongfully ye judge of me,
         Unto my fame a mortall wounde.
      Say what ye lyst, it will not be—
         Ye seek for that cannot be found.

      O death! rocke me on sleepe!
         Bring me on quiet reste!
      Let passe my verye guiltless goste,
         Out of my carefull brest:
      Toll on the passinge bell
      Ringe out the dolefull knell
      Let the sounde my dethe tell
                     For I must dye;
                     There is no remedy,
                     For now I dye.

A better right than Anne Boleyn's to the title
of author seems to have been established by
another of the numerous wives of our Defender
of the Faith. The learned and astute Katherine
Parr has left a long list of literary productions
almost all of which are of a religious nature.
Perhaps her literary piety was assumed by
Katherine with the idea that it might prove a
bond of union between her and her dangerous
husband. For in all things this discreet lady
seems to have sought to ingratiate herself with
the grisly tyrant, flattering and cajoling him
as women often do when they fall into
unscrupulous hands. " Thanks," she writes in
the introduction to one of her published books,
"bee given unto the Lorde that hath now sent
us suche a godly and learned king in these latter
days to reign over us, that with the vertue and
force of God's wurde hath taken away the
vailes and mists of errors, and brougt us to the
knowledge of the trueth by the lighte of God's
wurde." .... " But our Moyses, and most
godly wise governor and king, hath delivered
us out of the captivitie and bondage of Pharao.
I meane by this Moyses, Kyng Henry the
Eight! my moste soverayne favourable lord and
husband." Adroit flattery this, surely, and
proving the woman who used it to have been
a wise one, if not entirely sincere and above-
board.

The list of works attributed to Katherine
Parr is too long for quotation. Among them
are: Prayers and Meditations; Queen Katherine
Parr's Lamentation of a Sinner; A Latin
Epistle to the Lady Mary, entreating Her to
let the Translation of Erasmus's Paraphrase on
the New Testament be published in her
Highness's name.

The concluding words of the last quoted title
page furnishes a clue to the origin of treatises,
expositions, letters, and other compositions
set down by the chroniclers as the bonâ fide
productions of those royal gentlemen and ladies
who have striven to excel in literature. In
the case of Edward the Sixth, which comes
next before us chronologically, this way out of
an otherwise great difficulty suggests itself at
once. Numerous and erudite compositions are
given by common report to this young prince,
which it is difficult to conceive, were executed
by an inexperienced boy, however naturally
gifted. One of the first works attributed to
him is a comedy, of all things, not, indeed, a
comedy according to our modern acceptation
of the term, but something more resembling
the ancient mysteries; of which it has been
said that " all the subjects were religious,
all the conduct farcical." Besides this
imputed comedy, Edward wrote with his own
hand—the manuscript still existing—The Sum
of a Conference with the Lord Admiral. He
was the author, moreover, of A Method for
the Proceedings in the Council, of King
Edward the Sixth's own Arguments against the
Papal Supremacy, and two books said to have
been written before he was twelve years of age
—L'Encontre des Abus du Monde, and a
translation into French of several passages of
Scripture. Nor are these somewhat severe
exercises all. Several Epistles and Orations, both
in Greek and Latin, are ascribed to the boy by
his many historians and biographers, besides a