Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE LIFE AND REIGN OF EDWARD I.

EDWARD I.
After the Engraving by Vertue, from the Statue at Carnarvon Castle.

THE LIFE AND REIGN
OF EDWARD I.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
“THE GREATEST OF THE PLANTAGENETS.”

Pactum Serva.
SEELEY, JACKSON, & HALLIDAY, FLEET STREET,
LONDON. MDCCCLXXII.

London:
Printed by Simmons & Botten,
Shoe Lane, E.C.

PREFACE.

The volume entitled “The Greatest of the Plantagenets,” was correctly described in its title‐page, as “an Historical Sketch.” Nothing more than this was contemplated by the writer. The compilation was made among the manuscripts of the British Museum, in the leisure mornings of one spring and summer; and so soon as a fair copy had been taken, it was handed to the printer. The work was regarded as little else than a contribution towards an accurate review of what is both the most interesting and the most neglected period of our English history.

Its reception exceeded by far the author’s anticipations. Very naturally—it might be said, quite inevitably—many of those who admitted the general truth of the narrative, were ready to charge the writer with “partisanship,” and with taking a “one‐sided vie” of the question. It is not easy to see how this could have been avoided. A great literary authority has said, that the first requisite for a good biography is, that the writer should be possessed with an honest enthusiasm for his subject. And in the present case his chief object was to protest against what he deemed to be injustice. It was his sincere belief, that for about a century past an erroneous estimate of this great king’s character had been commonly presented to the English people. He endeavoured to show that this had been the case; to explain the causes, and to lead men’s minds to what he deemed to be the truth. Such a task could hardly be performed without giving large opportunity to an objector to exclaim, “You write in a partisan spirit.”

When a new view of any passage in history is presented, many fair and honourable men, while they yield to the force of evidence, cannot help feeling some reluctance—some dislike to the sudden change of belief which is asked of them. Such men will often be found to object to the manner in which their old opinion has been assailed, even while they admit that that opinion was erroneous, and can no longer be maintained.

So, in this case, even those who advanced this charge of partisanship were generally ready to concede, that an altered view of Edward’s character had been not only propounded, but in a great measure established. Thus the Dean of Chichester, Dr. Hook, while he “differs widely from some of the author’s conclusions,” admits that “his argument is always worthy of attention,” and describes the volume as one in which “everything that can be advanced in favour of Edward is powerfully stated.”[1] So, too, the Oxford Chichelean Professor of History (Mr. Montagu Burrows), speaks of the book as “a bold, and on the whole, successful attempt to reclaim for him; who is perhaps the only sovereign of England since the Conquest who has a right to the title of ‘Great,’—that position of which he has been deprived for more than a century.”[2] And Sir Edward Creasy calls it “an earnest, elaborate, and eloquent defence of Edward I. against all the imputations that have been made upon him;” and adds, “my frequent references to this volume will show how much I value it.”[3]

The success, then, of the author’s attempt to rectify a prevalent error, has been clear and indisputable. All that he proposed to do has been done—the estimate of this great king’s character which prevailed a dozen years ago, has been considerably elevated—the justice which the writer claimed for him is now almost universally conceded.

But a desire is expressed by most of these critics—and it is a natural and laudable desire—that, as a result of the whole, a history, in the ordinary sense, of this great sovereign, and of the remarkable period in which he lived, might be given to the British public. The writer has entirely sympathized with this desire, and he has waited several years in earnest expectation of the appearance of some such work. Nothing of the kind, however, has yet been given to the world; nor is there any announcement of such a purpose. It seems to him, therefore, that it is in some sort his duty to review his former work; to consider how far it is justly chargeable with “partisanship,” and to reduce it, so far as he is able, to the proper form and proportions of a permanent history.

He feels the more impelled to attempt this, from an increasing conviction that not the sovereign only, but the time in which he lived and reigned, alike present to the mind of the dispassionate student, a subject meriting and richly repaying a careful examination. The chief features of the period in which this prince was born, and in which he lived, are more remarkable than even that union of great qualities by which he himself was distinguished.

This fact—the unusual concurrence of many symptoms of advance and of excellence at that period—has already been noticed by more than one writer. Lord Macaulay said: “It was during the thirteenth century that the great English people was formed. Then first appeared with distinctness that Constitution which has ever since preserved its identity; then it was that the House of Commons, the archetype of all the representative assemblies which now meet, held its first sittings; then it was that the Common Law rose to the dignity of a science; then, that our most ancient colleges and halls were founded; and then was formed a language, in force, in richness, and in aptitude inferior to the tongue of Greece alone.” Another writer adds, that “it was this age of all ages, to which every Englishman ought to look back with the deepest reverence. In this thirteenth century our Constitution, our laws, and our language, all assumed a form which left nothing for future ages to do, but to improve the detail.”

This language is strong, and yet it does not fully describe the fact. The union of solid and real advance with more ornamental characteristics is very remarkable. It is true, as the writers whom we have just cited observe, that this thirteenth century—the life‐time of Edward the First—saw the rise into existence of the English people, of the English language, and of the English constitution; but there were also several other appearances which were stranger than these. The realm had been, for many years, almost destitute of a settled government; it had suffered from something nearly approaching to anarchy. The Norman dukes who domineered over it only vouchsafed to their province of England an occasional visit; often manifesting very little care for it. Richard I., out of a reign of nine years, spent only a few months in this island. His successor was the worst king that England ever saw, and did his utmost to plunge the realm into ruin and absolute confusion.

It fills us, therefore, with wonder, to observe that so soon as these two pernicious rulers had departed, and the land was left in the hands of a weak and incompetent, but well‐meaning youth, symptoms of revival of all kinds became perceptible. Not only did the English people and the English language come to light in this realm, but mind, and intellect, and taste all uprose together. “It is curious,” says Lord Campbell, “that in this turbulent reign (of Henry III.) there should have been given to the world the best treatise upon law of which England could boast, until the appearance of Blackstone’s Commentaries. For comprehensiveness, for lucid arrangement, for logical precision, this author, Henry de Bracton, was unrivalled for many ages.”[4] Nor did this great lawyer stand alone. The same period gave us Roger Bacon, and, with him, Antony Beck and Chancellor Burnel, two of the greatest statesmen that England has ever known.

In the fine arts, also, England, though not yet rid of tumult and civil war, made equal or still greater advances. Henry really valued the arts; his wife was a cultivator and a patroness of poetry, and he himself resolved to raise, at Westminster, a new and splendid shrine for the remains of the last of the Saxon kings; ornamenting it, also, with pictures of great Saxon achievements. This royal taste for architecture was in accordance with the popular feeling. It was in the latter half of this century that Westminster Abbey, the old St. Paul’s, the Temple church, and the cathedrals of Salisbury and Norwich were built, while during the same period, the churches of Lincoln, Ely, Ripon, Exeter, and Wells, all received important enlargement. Nor was Edward himself, though a soldier and a statesman, at all indifferent to these matters. He raised in Westminster Abbey two monuments to his father and his consort, of which an eminent critic of our own day says: “Few figures can surpass, in simplicity and beauty, the effigy of queen Eleanor, and those on the crosses erected to her memory are almost equally fine.”[5]

The last words remind us, naturally, of another comparison. The king of England, in A.D. 1290, lost his dearly‐loved consort; and he paid to her memory every tribute of affection and of sorrow that he could conceive, or that could be suggested to him. Her funeral “presented one of the most striking spectacles that England ever witnessed.”[6] And he then strove to perpetuate that memory by monumental works, both within the Abbey and in twelve other places. In our own day we have witnessed a similar bereavement. We have been conscious, too, of the existence of a sorrow as deep and as enduring as that of the Plantagenet king. But have we, with all the wealth and all the refinement of this nineteenth century, been able to exceed, or even to equal, those outward and permanent expressions of sorrow which king Edward conceived and compassed in the earliest days of the English people and kingdom?

A consummate judge of these matters has truly said that “The reign of Edward I. is the period of the most perfect and beautiful Gothic buildings, when English art attained to the highest eminence it has ever yet reached.”[7] And do we not all know, as a simple matter of fact, that if we, after a lapse of six hundred years, wish to raise a building of more than ordinary beauty, we are compelled to have recourse to the noble works which were achieved in the days of Edward I.? there being within our reach no purer or loftier models.

The age, then, in which this great monarch lived was a very extraordinary age. To ascribe its singular fruitfulness in every department of human excellence to his influence, would be altogether irrational and absurd. He himself was only one fact or feature among many. But it crowns the whole edifice with singular grace, to find—in the days which produced a Bracton and a Roger Bacon, a statesman like Burnel, a divine like Grosstête—the throne filled by a man like Edward, whose first thought was of uprightness,[8] whose mind was a “legislative mind,”[9] and who wrestled and fought his way through a period of no common difficulty and trouble, with such “cleanness of hands” as to leave him, at last, one of the noblest examples that it is possible to adduce, of a ruler “fearing God and working righteousness.”

Those who are acquainted with the former publication will recognize in the present, whole pages, sometimes whole chapters, which merely reproduce what had been therein said. Perhaps one third of the book is thus composed. Wherever a passage of plain and simple narrative, disputed by no one, occurred, there seemed to be no good reason for merely putting it into new phraseology. But all the more important and controverted questions have been reconsidered, and the chapters which concern them almost entirely rewritten.

The portrait which faces the title‐page is given because there seems good reason to think that it is, substantially, a true representation. England possessed, as we have said, in the days of Edward, good sculptors as well as good architects; and it is tolerably certain, that the artist employed to erect at Carnarvon a statue of the king, would be a man competent to execute that work in a creditable manner. It is true that at the present moment, the hand of time has nearly destroyed every feature. But a century and a half ago, the statue was, doubtless, in a better condition. An artist accustomed to detect, with a practised eye, not only what was, but what had been, might gather from the brow, from the mouth, from the chin, and from the general contour, a tolerably accurate idea of the general portraiture. George Vertue, in his researches for the illustration of Rapin’s history, visited Carnarvon, believed that he gained from the statue a just idea of what Edward had been, and brought away a drawing of it, which he carefully engraved. From that portrait the present frontispiece has been taken.

CONTENTS.

THE
LIFE AND REIGN OF EDWARD I.

I.
BIRTH AND EARLY YEARS.

On the night of June 17–18, 1239, Queen Eleanor, the consort of Henry III., presented her husband with a son, who was born in the Palace of Westminster, and who was instantly, says the old chronicler, named by the king, “Edward, after the glorious king and confessor, whose body rests in the church of St. Peter,” immediately adjoining. The event was greeted by the nobles and by the people of London with great manifestations of joy: by the citizens more especially, because the young prince was born among them. The streets of the city were illuminated at night with large lanterns, and music and dancing marked it as a day of general rejoicing.

Such a birth was a new thing, in those days, to Englishmen. They had passed nearly two centuries under the dominion of the dukes of Normandy, whose home was in France, and whose sojourns in England were merely visits paid to a conquered territory. During the later years, indeed, of that Norman tyranny, two or three of its princes, though still deeming themselves Normans, had first seen the light on English ground;[10] but now, by his own choice, the reigning king had ordained that his eldest son should receive his birth in the metropolis of his kingdom, and had named him after the lamented and venerated “Confessor,” the last of the Saxon sovereigns. All this was gratifying to the Anglo‐Saxon mind, and how it was received and felt we can discern in a chronicle of the period, which gladly accepts and records the birth of an English or Anglo‐Saxon prince, narrating that, “on the 14th day of the calends of July (June 18), Eleanor, queen of England, gave birth to her eldest son, Edward; whose father was Henry, whose father was John, whose father was Henry, whose mother was Matilda the empress, whose mother was Matilda, queen of England, whose mother was Margaret, queen of Scotland, whose father was Edward, whose father was Edmund Ironside, who was the son of Ethelred, who was the son of Edgar, who was the son of Edmund, who was the son of Edward the Elder, who was the son of Alfred.”[11]

In this manner the chronicler, who doubtless gave utterance to a common feeling among Englishmen, manages to drop out of view almost entirely the Norman dukes, who had overrun and subjugated the land for more than one hundred and fifty years, and whose yoke had been felt to be indeed an iron one. Among those sovereigns there had been some men of talent and prowess, and one or two of good and upright intentions; but the general character of their rule had been hard and despotic. “The people were oppressed; they rebelled, were subdued, and oppressed again.

After a few years they sank in despair, and yielded to the indignities of a small body of strangers without resistance. The very name of Englishman was turned into a reproach; their language, and even the character in which it was written, were rejected as barbarous. During a hundred years, none of their race were raised to any dignity in the State or the Church.”[12] The old “Saxon Chronicle” tells us how the Norman soldiers “filled the land with castles,—forcing the poor people to toil in their erection; and then, when these fortresses were built, they filled them with devils and wicked men. They took those whom they supposed to have any goods, and shut them up, and inflicted on them unutterable tortures.”

The dawn of a better state of things was seen, when, in 1204, under the weakest and worst of all these alien despots, Normandy was separated from England. To the Norman knights who had settled upon their English possessions acquired by the sword, this separation must have seemed a dire calamity, but to Englishmen it was the reverse. England rose once more to the rank of an independent kingdom. Her sovereigns, Norman dukes no longer, must henceforward be really kings of England if they would be anything; and thus Henry III., born at Winchester, and living all his life in England, came to feel for the land and the people far differently from any of his progenitors. He was a prince, too, who, with many faults, had some real virtues. He was kind‐hearted and liberal. He was, too, the first of his race who knew by experience the value of home affections. From the Conqueror downwards, all the Norman kings had been men of license, and their households the abodes of jealousy, hatred, heart‐burnings, and conspiracies. Henry III. was a faithful husband and an affectionate father; and he owed it to these virtues that, after many errors and many follies, he descended at last into a quiet and not unhonoured grave. The first of all the Conqueror’s descendants to feel himself merely “king of England,” he was the first, also, to desire to gain the good will of the English people, and the first to stand before them as one knowing the value and the duties of an English home. Henry had married a woman of talent, one who stands high in mental rank among English queens. One of our old chroniclers speaks of her as

“The erle’s daughter of Provence; the fairest May of life:

Her name is Helianore, of gentle nurture;

Beyond the seas there was none such creature.”

A poem from her pen is said to be preserved in the Royal library of Turin; and it is in this reign that we first hear of a poet laureate in England. It was probably from his consort, to whom he was all his life devotedly attached, that Henry learned that fondness for the arts and that cultivated taste which are often discernible in his proceedings. Painting and architecture, as well as poetry, always interested him. Over the Confessor’s tomb he resolved to raise a noble edifice; and to that resolve we owe the Abbey Church of Westminster. Several of our finest ecclesiastical buildings were commenced about this time, and it is now that the Norman style of architecture disappears, and the early English comes in its room. Both the Temple Church, and the great cathedral of St. Paul which perished in the fire of London, were upreared in Henry’s reign. There can be no doubt that his liberal and often lavish expenditure on objects of this kind was one among the various causes of that long series of pecuniary troubles and embarrassments, which brought upon him all the chief disasters of his reign. Thus, in passing through Paris in 1255, Henry thought that it became him to give a banquet to the French king and his nobles, at which banquet twenty‐five dukes, twelve bishops, and eighteen countesses, with a host of illustrious knights, were present; and the next day he sent to his distinguished guests, at their dwellings, “rich cups, gold clasps, silken belts, and other princely presents.” And very naturally, the chronicler next tells us that he landed at Dover oppressed with a burden of debt, which he himself described as “horrible to think of.” Then followed exactions, forced loans, and applications to a “great council” for aid;—mutual reproaches, disputes, and at last a civil war.

But we must return to our subject—the earlier years of Henry’s distinguished son. Edward’s childhood appears to have been spent principally at Windsor. In his third year, 1242, we find an order in these terms: “Pay out of our treasury, to Hugh Giffard and William Brun, £200, for the support of Edward our son, and the attendants residing with him at our castle of Windsor.”[13] Four years later, Matthew Paris notices the death of this Hugh Giffard, whom he calls “a nobleman of the household, and preceptor to the princes.” In the following year, prince Edward was seized with a dangerous illness, and the king wrote to all the religious houses near London, requesting their prayers for his recovery.

Of Hugh Giffard’s successor we find no record; but as the prince’s education now became a matter of importance, we may be sure that a competent instructor was provided. Two very able men are found in habits of friendship with him through life, and it is probable that one or both of them had a share in his early training. Robert Burnel was the prince’s chaplain and private secretary, and he and Anthony Beck accompanied Edward in his expedition to Palestine, and were named executors in the will made at Acre, in 1271, after the attempt on his life. Burnel afterwards became chancellor and bishop of Bath and Wells, and Anthony Beck received the bishopric of Durham. But whoever it was that gave to Edward’s mind its earliest bent and bias, he has a right to our sincere respect and gratitude.

High and noble principles, both of religion and morals, are exhibited in every act and word of his after life. He was at all times devout; frequent in pilgrimages, religious retirements, and similar observances, and fond of using scripture language and citing scripture precedents: yet there was nothing of the monk or the ascetic about him. Throughout his life he was pre‐eminently a man of action, but in every action recollections of duty and principles of rectitude were always perceptible.

Young Edward begins now to be spoken of as a youth of fine stature, often described as “Edward with the flaxen hair.” The king showed great fondness for him, and evidently felt a natural pride in his son. Long before the youth could be competent for such a post, he endeavoured to make him the lieutenant or governor of Gascony, and involved himself in quarrels both with his brother Richard the earl of Cornwall, and with earl Simon, by these attempts. He was at last obliged to go over to Gascony to arrange these quarrels, which had arisen from his own imprudence; and we read of his embarkation at Portsmouth on the 6th of August, 1253, when we are told “the prince, after his father had kissed and wept over him at parting, stood sobbing on the shore, and would not leave it so long as a sail could be seen.” The deep and ardent affection which subsisted in both father and son, is visible in many other incidents of the following twenty years, and it constitutes an important feature in Edward’s character.

Henry, when in Gascony, had an object in view beyond the adjustment of the existing differences. He sent two of his confidential servants, the bishop of Bath and John Mansel his minister, into Spain, to propose to king Alfonso the Wise a marriage between Alfonso’s young sister Eleanor and his son Edward. By this marriage certain claims which the Spanish king had, or was supposed to have, on Gascony, were to be adjusted; such claims being made over to Eleanor as a kind of dowry. A treaty on this basis was made, sealed with gold, and brought over to England, where it is now preserved among our ancient records.

The Castilian monarch, however, with the stateliness and dignity of his nation, claimed that Edward “should be sent to him, that he might examine into his skill and knowledge, and confer knighthood upon him.” The queen of England resolved to visit Alfonso with her son, and personally to assist at the betrothal. She reached Burgos, with the young Edward, on the 5th of August, 1254. Alfonso was pleased and satisfied, and we know, from the after history, that the two persons most interested in the question became sincerely attached to each other. Throughout a wedded life of six‐and‐thirty years, we observe the prince and princess scarcely ever separated. When Edward goes to Palestine, Eleanor accompanies him; when a painful operation is to be performed, she can only by force be removed from the apartment. Wherever he journeys she is ever by his side: when fever seizes her, he is her faithful attendant; and when at last the tomb must receive her, he will give her such honours and follow her with such grief, as few women of the most exalted rank or character have ever been the occasion of.

The prince and princess reached England in the autumn of 1255, and took up their abode in the palace of the Savoy. In the following year, Edward’s sister, the young queen of Scotland, paid them a visit, and the palace of Woodstock became the scene of royal festivity;—Oxford and all the neighbouring villages being filled with distinguished guests.

The king had professed to give his son, on his marriage, the government of Gascony and of Ireland, and the earldom of Chester, guaranteeing to him a revenue of 15,000 marks, or £10,000, which would be equal to £150,000 in the present day. But with these great revenues still larger expenses accrued. In 1257, the Welsh, always unruly, made an inroad into the English counties on the border, and the king, when appealed to, threw upon Edward the task of restoring order. The prince was obliged to borrow of his uncle, the earl of Cornwall, a sum of 4000 marks, and he began to organize a military force. But the Welsh, who were fond of marauding expeditions into England, were too numerous to be kept in order by a few hundred horsemen; and the prince began to understand by painful experience, how unsatisfactory and how injurious to both countries was the existing state of the relations between Wales and England.

We shall not dwell upon the last eighteen years of Henry’s reign—years of trouble, disgrace, dissension, and civil war. The young prince took just that part in these painful transactions which might have been expected of him. He was sincerely attached to his father; he was also a firm supporter and assertor of the royal rights; but his ruling principle through life was an inflexible adherence to rectitude;—a resolve to do justice alike to all men.

Hence he could not approve or maintain many of his father’s proceedings. As early as the period at which we have arrived, differences arose between the father and the son on these questions. Henry had professed to make his son the lieutenant or governor of Gascony. Yet the king’s officers still continued to seize, for the king’s use, quantities of wine at Bordeaux. The Gascons appealed to the prince, and he went to the king to claim redress for them. He told his father plainly that he would not tolerate such proceedings. “The king,” says the chronicler, “with a sigh exclaimed, ‘My own flesh and blood assail me; the times of my grandfather, whose children fought against him, are returning!’” But the prince felt assured of the justice of the cause he had espoused; he was firm, and Henry was compelled to promise that these acts of oppression should cease.

This same sort of struggle between the rights of the people and the assumed privileges or encroachments of the crown, now began to grow into a serious and prolonged strife in England. One historian remarks, that “It was not that Henry was by inclination a vicious man; he had received strong religious impressions; though fond of parade, he avoided every scandalous excess; and his charity to the poor and attention to public worship were deservedly admired. But his judgment was weak, and his will, it must be added, was often at the command of others.”

He had also the disadvantage of committing faults and falling into errors, in the presence of one who was well qualified to take advantage of both.

Simon de Montfort was one of the greatest among the great Norman knights of that age. It has been well said of this remarkable class of men, that “The ideal perfection of the knight‐errant was to wander from land to land in quest of renown; to gain earldoms, kingdoms, nay, empires, by the sword, and to sit down a settler on his acquisitions, without looking back on the land which gave him life. Every soil was his country; and he was indifferent to feelings and prejudices which promote in others patriotic attachments.”[14]

The earls Simon de Montfort, grandfather, father and son, were pre‐eminently soldiers of this class. In 1165 Simon the Bald obtained in marriage a daughter of Blanchmaines, earl of Leicester, and his son and grandson always put forward a claim to that earldom. The son of Simon the Bald went to France, took up the crusade against the Albigenses, and died count of Toulouse. One of his sons, calling himself “earl of Leicester,” came to England and gained, some said clandestinely, the affections of the princess Eleanor, daughter of king John, and sister of Henry III. Thus connected with the royal family, we find him, all through the middle portion of this century, either trusted and employed by the king, or else heading a combination of the barons against him. He became at last a popular leader, admired and sometimes almost idolized by the people; and when he died, he was held by them to have been a martyr to their cause. We are scarcely able to form a decided opinion of his whole character. Some of his later acts are not reconcilable with the obligations of loyalty to his sovereign, who was also, by marriage, his relation; but we must admit that the difficulties of his position were considerable. The most favourable feature in the case is, that this great soldier seems to have possessed and valued the friendship of Grosstête, “holy bishop Robert,” who is, perhaps, the purest and brightest character presented to us in the records of that day.

Up to a certain point the prince concurred with the discontented faction among the barons, and with earl Simon their leader, whose consort was his aunt. But, as we might have anticipated, when their plans and purposes began to border upon treason, Edward, whose affection for his father never varied, soon withdrew from their society. “The Barons’ war,” as it has been called, lasted from 1258 to 1265. “A concilium,” held in London in the first of these years, led to a much larger and more important assembly at Oxford about Midsummer. The barons came to that city with great numbers of armed retainers, and forced from the king an assent to “the provisions of Oxford,” which did, in effect, put the royal authority “into commission,” or share it with a selected number of great lords. The prince, we are told, “being brought to it with great difficulty, at last submitted himself to the ordinance and provision of the barons.” He saw, we cannot doubt, the degradation of the royal authority which was implied in those provisions; but he saw no available way of escape. He consented, therefore, though unwillingly; but a pledge once given was, with him, a solid reality.

Through life, the motto which, doubtless by his own command, was afterwards inscribed upon his tomb, was his constant rule: Pactum serva. Having entered into an engagement, he would adhere to it. Accordingly, we find that in 1259 the poor king was alarmed by rumours that the prince and the barons were confederating for his dethronement. One chronicler tells us that certain evil advisers created distrust between the father and the son; and that when the prince would have vindicated himself, the king exclaimed, “Let him not approach me, for if I were to see him, I should not be able to help kissing him.”[15] Such was the affection which had always existed between the two.

But again we find, about a year later, that the uprightness of the prince, and his adherence to his engagements, created a new difference between Henry and his son. Matthew of Westminster tells us, that “Edward, receiving full information concerning the king’s vain counsels and counsellors, became enraged against the latter, and withdrew himself from his father’s sight, and in all good faith declared his adherence to the barons, in conformity with his oath. The king shut himself up with his evil advisers in the Tower, and Edward remaining outside with the barons, things assumed a threatening aspect.”

Two years of fluctuating prospects and of great trouble followed. But Edward began to see, on the part of earl Simon, designs which he could not possibly approve or tolerate. The earl, on one occasion, actually threatened Windsor Castle; and when the prince agreed to meet him at Kingston to confer upon the position of affairs, the earl “was too circumspect to allow him to get into Windsor again.” He “detained the prince” until, to regain his liberty, he consented to surrender the royal fortress to the earl.

Such proceedings as this must have alienated the prince from earl Simon and the barons; and at last, in 1263, it was agreed that all questions should be submitted to king Louis of France (St. Louis), to whose decision all parties bound themselves to conform. At the commencement of 1264, Louis held a great court, and heard the arguments on both sides; and then, by his final sentence on the 23rd of January, he “annulled and made void the provisions of Oxford,” and discharged all persons from any obligations to the same.

At last, then, the prince was morally and legally at liberty. The obligation by which he had so long felt bound was at an end; but earl Simon and the discontented barons refused to abide by their engagement. They had sworn that “whatsoever the king of France should ordain concerning the matters in dispute they would faithfully observe,” but when the decision was against them, they refused to submit to it. From this moment Edward takes his place by his father’s side. Hostilities commenced in April, 1264, and in May a battle was fought at Lewes. The prince defeated the forces opposed to him, but earl Simon broke up and dispersed the centre and left wing of the royal army, and forced the king to shut himself up in the Priory of Lewes. Edward, to extricate his father, agreed to terms; and for a time both the king and the prince were in a sort of honourable captivity, attended everywhere by earl Simon, who now acted in the king’s name, and did, in almost every matter, merely what he pleased.[16]

This state of things lasted about a year, when at last the prince escaped from the guards whom earl Simon had placed around him, was joined by the earl of Gloucester and Roger Mortimer, and once more raised the royal standard. At Evesham, in August, 1265, the final struggle took place. Earl Simon, seven lords of his party, and one hundred and sixty knights, perished, and “the Barons’ war” was ended. A year or two was required to restore tranquillity; but during the rest of Henry’s life, which lasted seven years longer, the realm was for the most part at peace.

A parliament was held at Marlborough in 1267, for the settlement of questions arising out of the civil war. And now, seeing the country again in tranquillity, Edward listened to the earnest entreaties of Louis of France, and consented to accompany him on the last great Crusade.

He embarked at Portsmouth in the spring of 1270, accompanied by his faithful Eleanor. The princess was with him when, at Acre, his life was attempted by an assassin. The romantic story of her extraction of the poison from the wound with her own lips, is not found in authentic history; but one chronicler narrates how, when a painful operation became necessary, the surgeon requested Edward’s brother and the lord de Vesci to carry the princess away;“so she was carried out, weeping and crying aloud.”

The support of the French army failing him, Edward quitted Palestine in July, 1272, and at Sicily he met the news of his father’s death and of his own accession to the crown of England. The king of Sicily was surprised at the grief which these news excited—a grief more poignant and more visible than that caused by an earlier despatch which mentioned the death of one of Edward’s children. The prince made the natural reply, that other children might replace the one which he had lost, but that he never could have another father. The warm and sincere affection which always subsisted between these two very different men, is proved by incidents which meet us at every turn; and our estimate of king Henry’s character is considerably raised by the fervour and the permanence of his son’s attachment to him.

Of Edward’s own character we have already seen something. In two chief characteristics, it is fully developed long before he reaches the royal dignity. He was in a more than ordinary degree a man who could love, and who was beloved. His father, his mother, his wife, his friends, were the objects of his unvarying attachment. This feature of his life is constantly apparent.

But he was also a man of honour and of integrity. He looked, in all matters, more to the question of right than to that of expediency. Born to wear a crown, he was careful to do nothing to diminish the royal dignity; but not even for the maintenance of his father’s privileges, would he do that which he did not believe to be just and right; and, above all things, the one principle, Pactum serva, was never to be departed from. A prince’s word, once given, must be held sacred. One other feature in his character is noted by the historians of his day. He was of an irascible temper, easily excited to anger; but his anger might be as quickly calmed as it was aroused. Walsingham tells us how, on one occasion, the prince was amusing himself with his hawks, and one of the lords in attendance overlooked a falcon which had made a stoop on a duck among the willows. The prince spoke sharply to him, and the other answered, with some pertness, that “he was glad the river was between them.” In a moment Edward had plunged into the stream, and was urging his horse up the opposite bank, in pursuit of the offender. But the attendant, knowing with whom he had to deal, flung off his cap, bared his neck, and threw himself on the prince’s mercy. Edward’s wrath was gone in a moment, he sheathed his weapon, gave instant forgiveness, and the two rode home in perfect amity together.

In like manner, while engaged in the pacification of the country after “the Barons’ war,” he found, in a forest in Hampshire, a noted captain of free‐lances, one Adam Gordon, or Gourdon, whose deeds made him the terror of all the country round. The prince sought him out, and met with him one evening when he and his followers were returning to their fastnesses. Edward at once singled Gordon out, and engaged him in single combat. Both being skilled in arms, and of tried valour, the contest was an arduous one. At last Gordon was wounded, and yielded himself. Edward respected his valour and his knightly prowess, received his submission, had his wounds attended to, took him into his favour, and presented him that night to his mother, the queen, at Guildford Castle. Gordon proved faithful, and remained long attached to Edward’s service.

A similar clemency marked all Edward’s proceedings. To “seek his grace” was always to find it. The few exceptions, in his whole life, are those of men who had “broken covenant,” and proved false and treacherous after confidence had been placed in them. Even Hume, generally unfriendly to Edward, is obliged to confess of the pacification which followed the victory of Evesham, that “The clemency of this victory is remarkable. No blood was shed on the scaffold; no attainders, except of the Montfort family, were carried into execution.”

And if we examine his conduct through life with an unprejudiced eye, we shall find this attribute of clemency—a very uncommon one in those days—distinctly perceptible in all his proceedings. A firm and resolute and warm‐tempered man, he could sometimes punish; but his general rule of conduct was once expressed by himself in a hasty exclamation: “May pardon him! Why, I will do that for a dog, if he seeks my grace!”

II.
ACCESSION TO THE THRONE—EDWARD’S EARLIEST PROCEEDINGS.

The death of Henry III. took place in Westminster on the 16th of November, 1272, and he was buried on the 20th, in front of the great altar in that noble church, on the uprearing of which he had lavished so much treasure. At the close of the funeral, earl Warenne, the earl of Gloucester, and all the chief of the clergy and laity there present, went forward to the high altar, and swore fealty to king Edward. Three guardians or regents immediately entered upon the government of the realm—namely Edmund, the king’s cousin, son of the late earl of Cornwall, brother of Henry III.; Walter, the archbishop of York; and Gilbert, earl of Gloucester. No difficulty of any kind appears to have occurred; the submission of all classes was entire; and we may assume that a regular correspondence was at once established between the regents and the king. We find him showing no signs of haste, but remaining abroad until sundry matters of importance were arranged, and then taking his journey homewards with royal state and deliberation.

He was in Sicily when the tidings of his father’s death reached him. Before his visit to the pope had terminated, he was known throughout Italy to be king of England; and as he proceeded homewards through Northern Italy, he met with a royal reception in many of the cities; the people coming forth to receive him with processions, and blowing of trumpets, and acclamations of “Long live king Edward.” At Chalons a grand tournament had been prepared for him; which, however, was not without sinister design; “the Burgundians bargaining over their wine‐cups, for some days before, for the horses and armour of the English knights, whom they confidently reckoned on overcoming.”[17] The English, however, were not overcome. The gigantic count of Chalons, failing to dismount Edward, tried, by main force, to pull him from his horse; but he was thrown to the ground, chastised, and made to give up his sword. Ill blood and exasperation arose; the English had to fight their way out of the town; and the tournament was remembered as “the little battle of Chalons.”

Edward next visited the king of France, and did homage for his French possessions. Passing into Gascony, he found it needful to subdue and bring into subjection a fractious noble, Gaston de Bierne. Thence he proceeded to the courts of the countess of Limousin and the countess of Flanders, with each of whom he had business to transact. At last, in July, 1274, he set his face towards England, landing on the 2nd of August at Dover. The two great earls, Warenne and Gloucester, were awaiting his arrival, and he became, in turn, the guest of each, at their castles of Reigate and Tunbridge. Meantime, preparations were making for his immediate coronation; and, on the 19th, this ceremony took place. In the abbey‐church of Westminster Edward and Eleanor were crowned king and queen of England by Robert Kilwardby, archbishop of Canterbury. There were present, besides all the great men of the realm, Edward’s two brothers by marriage—Alexander, king of Scotland, and John, duke of Bretagne—with their consorts, the sisters of the king. On the following day, king Alexander of Scotland paid his accustomed homage.[18]

The ceremony was attended with many circumstances of rejoicing and exhibitions of munificence. While the nobles and citizens made the conduits flow with wine and the streets gleam with tapestry, scattering silver in handfuls, the princes showed a royal liberality. King Alexander of Scotland, “when the king was seated on his throne, came to do him worship, and with him an hundred knights, mounted and accoutered; and when they had lighted off their horses, they let the horses go, and they that could catch them, had them for their own behoof. And after these came Sir Edmund, the king’s brother, and with him the earl of Gloucester; and after them the earl of Pembroke and the earl Warenne, and each of these led an hundred knights, who, when they alighted, let their horses go, and they that could take them had them to their liking.”

The feast was a right royal one. We shall find, throughout Edward’s reign, that none ever practised a truer or a wiser economy. His habits were simple and plain, his household well regulated. A friend once expressed wonder at the plainness of his dress. His answer was, “And what good, think you, would fine clothes do me?” But he well understood his royal estate and office. When he had to come before the people as their king, his doings were always kingly. The coronation‐banquet was a noble one. New buildings were erected in the court‐yard of Westminster, to accommodate the guests; and the provision made shows how numerous these guests must have been. The details are still preserved, and we find that the principal items were—“380 oxen, 430 sheep, 450 pigs, 18 wild boars, 278 flitches, and nearly 20,000 fowls.” Such a prodigious supply was not provided for one day’s festival; the feast was prolonged through a whole fortnight. Edward’s friends and chief counsellors, such as Anthony Beck and Robert Burnel, were churchmen; and we find, in every part of his personal history, frequent reference to Old Testament precedents. In the present instance they seem to have followed a notable example—“At that time Solomon held a feast fourteen days.”—1 Kings viii. 65.

And now Edward was on his throne,—was dwelling in his palace, ruling over the people of England. The work before him was an arduous one; his chief advisers were men suited to the times; and his own strength of purpose, sagacity, and perseverance were precisely what the land needed at that peculiar juncture.

England had long been in a state of extreme disorder, and it required a clear head and a strong right arm, to bring it into a condition of health, and comfort, and security.

One change of vast moment, indeed, had been effected in the course of the protracted reign which had just ended. From the time of William until the end of the reign of John, during one hundred and fifty years, the people had felt that they were under the yoke of alien lords. The Normans, men of iron, people of another land, and who spoke another language, ruled over them; but the half‐century of Henry’s reign gradually lightened, and at last removed the weight of this oppression.

The two races, Saxon and Norman, began to know a real amalgamation. In the eleventh and twelfth centuries, “those Saxon swine” was the usual appellation employed by a Norman knight when speaking of the people of the land; and, “Do you take me for an Englishman?” his form of indignant disclaimer. In the thirteenth, we find both Normans and Saxons agreed in a league to expel “all foreigners.” And thus it was that, at last, “in the thirteenth century, the great English people was formed.”[19] A nation more warlike and more enterprising than the Saxons, and more fond of home life and of personal liberty than the Normans, gradually appeared. It was in Henry’s reign that the English tongue, and the English desire for laws suited for free men, began to be seen and heard: but that weak though well‐meaning sovereign was not a leader or a ruler who could direct his subjects in such a path as this.

The order and the governance of law scarcely existed in Henry’s reign. When the sovereign needed corn or wine, or any other commodity, his usual course was to seize it. On one occasion he angrily asked of his earl marshal, “Cannot I send and seize your corn, and thresh and sell it?” “And cannot I send you the heads of the threshers?” was the earl’s angry reply.

One of the judges, accused of corrupt practices, came to court to defend himself, attended by armed friends, one of whom offered wager of battle. The king, exceedingly enraged, publicly declared, that “if any one would kill Henry of Bath, (the judge,) he should have pardon for the crime!” When even the bench of justice was thus occupied by violent and corrupt men, it is no wonder that we hear that “the whole county of Hampshire swarmed with felons and murderers,” or to find that “the king himself was obliged to hold a court of justice at Winchester, trying and sentencing the offenders, many of whom were wealthy, and some of them his own servants.”

Several years after this, we find one of the greatest nobles in the land setting an example of disorder. Matthew Paris narrates how, “in consequence of some hasty words which passed between them, John de Warenne, earl of Surrey, slew with his own hand, in Westminster Hall, Alan de la Zouch, the king’s justiciary.” Probably, had Henry been at that time without assistance, this outrage, committed by so potent a nobleman, would have escaped retribution; but the prince was now at his right hand. Collecting a sufficient force, Edward pursued the earl to Reigate, besieged his castle, brought him to London a prisoner, tried him, and only spared his life, after much deliberation, in consideration of an enormous fine, equal to £100,000 of our present money.

Nor was violence, even of the extremest kind, a privilege of the nobles only. In July, 1263, during the excitement of “the Barons’ war,” queen Eleanor desired to leave her residence in the Tower of London, and to remove to Windsor Castle; but as her barge approached London Bridge, she found that it was occupied by a crowd of earl Simon’s adherents, who assailed her with cries of the grossest abuse, among which, “Drown the witch!” was one of the mildest. Huge stones, as well as all kinds of filth, were hurled at the barge, and the queen was glad to accept of the protection of the mayor, who conveyed her to the house of the bishop of London. Not many months after, when a body of these Londoners took part in the battle of Lewes, prince Edward rejoiced to avenge these insults, and to drive them in confusion at the spear’s point off the field.

But more than ten years had passed since these calamitous times, and most of those years had been spent in peace. No voices but those of acclamation now greeted Edward and his queen in their progress through the metropolis; and we may easily believe, without any violent stretch of the imagination, that among the London citizens who partook of the coronation‐banquet in 1274, there were many who, in the rawness of their youth, had crowded London Bridge to cast stones at Edward’s mother, and had fled before his vehement charge on the downs at Lewes in 1264.

Such was the realm of England, and such was its state and condition, over which Edward was now called to rule. It needed such a regulator, such an organizer; and he, perhaps, could hardly have found anywhere a better raw material out of which to build up a nation.

To him, in some measure, we owe the production and the formation of the men who fought and conquered at Crécy, Poictiers, and Agincourt; but we should be lothe to indicate this as his chief glory. We deem the work performed in his reign in establishing law, and in giving England a free legislature, to have been far more noble, far more glorious, than the achievement of brilliant but barren victories on distant battle‐fields.

England needed, most of all, at that peculiar conjuncture, precisely what, in Edward, God gave to her, “a legislative mind.” The king seems to have entirely appreciated the necessities and the difficulties of his position; and to have applied himself to the great task, of bringing everything into order, and of establishing the dominion of wise and equitable laws.

At the same time we must not forget, that such a work, and one embracing such a variety of details, could not have been performed by any single mind or single hand. Edward must have been aided by one or more of the most sound and competent of advisers. We cannot doubt that in Robert Burnel he had found such an assistant. And it is, perhaps, the best proof of the perfect unity and harmony which always existed between the king and his wise and able chancellor, that we find it difficult to separate the one from the other. We cannot tell when the king himself speaks, and when we are listening to his chancellor. We find, indeed, sometimes, language so evidently personal, as to make us feel that it must have been the king’s own; but at other times we seem to hear the great lawyer, the jurist, who is fitly interpreting his master’s will. Take, for instance, that noble opening of Edward’s reign, which we find in the preamble of the first statute of his first parliament:—

“Because our lord the king hath great desire to redress the state of the realm in such things as require amendment, for the common profit of the holy church and of the realm; and because the state of the holy church hath been evil kept, and the people otherwise entreated than they ought to be; and the peace less kept, and the laws less used, and offenders less punished than they ought to be—the king hath ordained by his council, and by the assent of archbishops, bishops, earls, barons, and all the commonalty of the realm, these acts under written, which he intendeth to be necessary and profitable to the whole realm.”

We cannot doubt that this high and kingly purpose was truly Edward’s; but we may with equal reason believe, that this right royal declaration came immediately from the pen of Robert Burnel.

There is, however, another feature of this reign which ought never to be overlooked. To frame good laws is a great merit in a ruler; but it is a still higher merit to devise and to create a legislature. And this is, in fact, the principal achievement of this sagacious and high‐minded sovereign.

Until his time the nation, at least for centuries, had known no such thing as a law‐making, still less a representative, body. Under the Norman kings, from A.D. 1066 to 1216, every now and then, “great councils” were held. The military despot who sat upon the throne, often found it convenient and necessary to summon together his barons, the great captains of his Norman soldiery, to ask an aid or contribution from them. But nothing like the construction of a law is ever heard of in these assemblies. At last, towards the end of the reign of John, “Magna Charta” is extracted from him; but this is not so much a statute as a treaty, dictated at the sword’s point by his armed barons.

Then followed the fifty‐six years of Henry’s reign. In the first forty years of this reign, several “great councils” were held, usually, as in Norman times, to consult about “granting the king an aid.” Once in 1236, we find “The provisions of Merton,” which commences “It was provided in the court of our lord the king.” In the same year we find a “royal ordinance” concerning Ireland; and twenty years later, in 1256, “a provision for leap year,” also a “royal ordinance.”

About this time the chroniclers begin to borrow the term “parliament” from France, and we hear that “a parliament was held at Oxford,” at which the barons dictated to the king certain “provisions,” which were afterwards cancelled and set aside by king Louis of France.

Seven years after this, earl Simon, in the king’s name, summonses a meeting in Westminster, and, as many of the nobles kept aloof from him, so that only five earls and seventeen barons were called to this “concilium,” he orders the sheriffs to send knights from the counties, and burgesses from certain towns, so as to form a sufficiently numerous body. But the earl’s object was merely to dictate certain terms to the king. No such thought as that of a legislature—an assembly for agreeing upon necessary laws—is anywhere to be perceived.

After the death of earl Simon, we hear of “a concilium” at Kenilworth; which, like earl Simon’s parliament, is only a council for agreeing upon certain terms, between the king on the one part and the barons on the other. These terms are embodied in “the Dictum of Kenilworth.”

But at last the realm is quieted; king Henry is once more at peace upon his throne, and his son, now arrived at the full manhood of his twenty‐eighth year, is naturally the guide as well as the protector of his weak though well‐meaning father. And now, in the year 1267, all enemies and all perils having vanished, and the king and the prince being left to their own free will, we hear, doubtless from Edward’s lips, words, which for two centuries at least, had never been used in this realm of England. The first document we possess, bearing the name of a “Statute,” is “the Statute of Marlborough,” and of this, the opening sentences run thus:—

“Our lord the king, providing for the better estate of his realm of England, and for the more speedy ministration of justice, as belongeth to the office of a king; the more discreet men of the realm being called together, as well of the higher as of the lower degree; it was provided, agreed, and ordained,” etc.

Here we have the first rough sketch or outline of what we now call “the British Constitution.” This constitution, we are often told, was wrung from the unwilling hands of successive sovereigns by the urgent demands of the people, in times of royal exigency. With respect to some later details, this may be true; but not less true is it, that the main and general outline was freely given to the people by the “legislative mind” of Edward, aided by his great chancellor, Robert Burnel.

Four hundred years after Edward’s day we had a philosopher in England, John Locke, who had read and pondered much, and who explained to us that the very nature of a civilized and free society is “to have a standing rule to live by, common to every one of that society, and made by the legislative power erected in it.” The very object, he adds, “of civil society is to authorize a legislature to make laws for us, as the public good shall require.” These principles, as we have said, arose in John Locke’s mind, in the course of study and cogitation. But several centuries before this, the same thoughts had occurred to an English prince, to whom “study,” as we understand the word, was impossible, and who must have owed these conclusions, in a large measure, to that sagacity and true nobility of soul with which God had endowed him. Yet we ought not to overlook the fact, that in Edward’s youth one of the earliest of our great lawyers, Bracton, had thus written:—

“The king ought not to be subject to man, but to God, and to the law; for the law maketh the king. Let the king, therefore, render to the law what the law hath invested in him with regard to others, dominion and power; for he is not truly king where will and pleasure rule, and not the law.” And again, “The king also hath a superior, namely, God, and also the law, by which he was made a king.”

Just while Edward was rising into early manhood, did this great lawyer appear, and the probability surely approaches to something like a certainty, that Robert Burnel had been a student of Bracton’s writings, had felt the truth and force of the above words, and had made the young prince acquainted with those invaluable pages.

Edward’s coronation had taken place in August. His four years’ absence on the Continent must have occasioned an accumulation of matters needing regulation; his castles and palaces, his forests and royal domains, would require to be visited and brought into order. A new state of things must be established. We see immediately an important change in the “Exchequer Issues.” In Henry’s reign, we read: “To Humphrey de Rohan, earl of Hereford, £120 for 50 casks of wine, taken from him by Imbert Pugeis (a soldier), for the king’s use.” “To Gerard de Bosco, a merchant of Bordeaux, 70 marks, for 20 casks of wine taken from him for the queen’s use.” But on Edward’s accession these seizures disappear, and the entries run thus, “To Raymund de Alemaunt, of Bordeaux, £46 13s. for 20 casks of wine, purchased from him, for the king’s use, by Gregory de Rokesle and Matthew de Columbius, the king’s butlers.”

The royal revenues and the royal expenditure were now, for the first time for a century, to be brought into order and under proper regulation. Christmas would naturally approach, long before all this business could be despatched, and it is not surprising that, however he may have desired it, Edward found it impossible to convene his first parliament earlier than the February of 1275.

In that month—the same which, in modern times, has been found the most suitable and convenient, did this first of English parliaments assemble.[20] And when the clerk, sitting at the chancellor Burnel’s feet, took pen in hand to record its proceedings, his entry ran in the following terms:—

“These be the acts of king Edward, made at Westminster, at the first parliament‐general after his coronation; by his council, and by the assent of archbishops, bishops, earls, barons, and all the commonalty of the realm, thither summoned.”

Here we find, set forth rather more fully, the same idea and purpose which we had seen expressed at Marlborough in 1267;—a legislature, a council summoned for the purpose of making and establishing laws; which council was not to consist of great barons only, or of barons and prelates only, but, “of the lower as well as of the higher degree,” of “bishops, earls, barons, and all the commonalty of the realm.”

This idea was, as yet, but vaguely expressed. In Edward’s after years we shall see it more fully worked out, until the whole British Constitution rises to completeness under his creative hand. In this first attempt he merely recognizes the principle that the “lower degree as well as the higher” ought to be present,—ought to be consulted. What “the commonalty of the realm, hither summoned,” may mean, we cannot now define with any certainty. The most probable view of the matter is, that the London corporation, then fully existing and on the spot, was invited to represent “the commonalty of the realm,” and did appear, doubtless with awe and reverence, as a portion of the first parliament, the first real legislature, that had been assembled in England in Anglo‐Norman times.

But what was the work which this first “parliament of England” had to do? And the answer to this question reveals to us the real greatness of Edward’s wise counsellor. Robert Burnel, who had accompanied his master to Palestine, and who had, at Acre, been named one of his executors, seems to have been despatched to England, when the king, on his homeward journey, was delayed by business in Gascony and in Flanders. We find him in England, acting as one of the regents or guardians of the realm, several months before the king landed at Dover. He, doubtless, possessed his master’s entire confidence, maintained a regular correspondence with him, and was fully occupied in bringing all things into order, before Edward himself appeared at Dover. To some such mind as this we owe it, that so soon as the king had landed, and had conferred on two of his greatest nobles the honour of a visit while passing from the coast to London, he found, on reaching the metropolis, the whole ceremony of the coronation, with its great banquet and rejoicings, only awaiting his arrival. Can we see there assembled, awaiting the king’s arrival, the king of Scotland, the duke of Bretagne, all the nobles of the land, with their countless retinues; can we remark the new buildings prepared, and the vast provision for the banquet, and all these and many other preparations, all concentrating to one point, and all involving a large expenditure—without acknowledging that in bringing such a variety of affairs to a ripeness on a day before appointed, there is visible the mind of a man of vast ability? All, at last, is in readiness. The king arrives at Dover, passes on with kingly state and deliberation to the castle of his greatest subject, the earl of Gloucester; then to Reigate, to earl Warenne’s,—then to the metropolis, and to his own palace of Westminster. He rests apparently but a single night, and then proceeds from his palace into the abbey, and is at once crowned king. And his very first act, after thus taking his rightful place, is, to make his trusted friend and most able counsellor, Robert Burnel, the chancellor of England.

To this great man, we doubtless owe that noble production, the “Statute of Westminster.” In the five or six months which intervened before the meeting of parliament; while the king was examining and regulating the condition of his castles, palaces, establishments, and household, his chancellor, looking forward to the great event which was to follow immediately after Christmas, was occupied, we may safely assert, with the preparation of the work of legislation; a work then to be commenced, but never afterwards to be discontinued in this realm.

Parliaments, such as we now possess, were new things in England. The “concilium,” or great council, which we find in Anglo‐Norman history, was a gathering of earls, barons, and prelates, for the decision, usually, of a simple question—most generally, of granting an aid to the king. All through the long reign of Henry III., the idea that it was necessary occasionally to meet for the purpose of making laws, never once appears in any record. Of course parliaments holding protracted sittings, for weeks or months together, were wholly unthought of. Provision for the residence and maintenance of the prelates and barons would have been difficult. All that was contemplated was, one meeting, to do one thing and then to separate. Very naturally, therefore, Chancellor Burnel, while he had discovered the need of several laws on different subjects, combined his various reforms in one great statute. Lord Campbell observes that, “The ‘Statute of Westminster’ deserves the name of a code, rather than an act of parliament. Its object was, to correct abuses, to supply defects, and to remodel the administration of justice.” * * * “It protects the property of the church from violence and spoliation; it provides for the freedom of popular elections; it contains a strong declaration to enforce the enactments of ‘Magna Charta’ against excessive fines; it enumerates and corrects the great abuses of tenure, particularly with regard to the marriage of wards; it regulates the levying of tolls; it corrects and restrains the power of the king’s escheator, and other officers under the crown; it amends the criminal law; it embraces the subject of procedure, both in civil and criminal matters, introducing many regulations with a view to render it cheaper, more simple, and more expeditious.”

This great measure was in fact the beginning of English legislation. Up to this period, for centuries, the law of England had been a mere tradition, an unwritten collection of rules and principles, handed down from one generation to another, and deposited in the minds and memories of the judges and students of law. Recollections and traditions of Saxon laws, confirmed in “Magna Charta,” doubtless constituted its substance. Such a traditionary code is now of great value, under the name of “common law,” because it is expounded in books, and administered by judges of known integrity. But in the days of which we are speaking, books, i.e., manuscripts, were rare and of great price, and the judges, as a rule, were corruptible. Hence, Burnel, having observed and learned what provisions were chiefly needed, began, in this first of parliaments, to apply the remedy of written and authoritative law. A legislative system, worked by a new power; a real legislature, meeting usually every year, but in some years twice or thrice, began now to be known in England. This legislature, under Edward’s watchful eye, was enlarged and strengthened from time to time, until, before his reign had closed, we find it closely resembling the parliament of our own day—consisting, in 1304, of “the prelates, nine earls, ninety‐four barons, the knights of the shire, and the burgesses sent by 159 towns.”

In the great “Statute of Westminster”—the beginning of our English Statute law—there is one provision which, if the mind dwells upon it, suggests many inquiries. It runs thus:—

“And because elections ought to be free, the king commandeth, upon great forfeiture (i.e., penalties), that no man by force of arms, nor by malice nor menacing, shall disturb (or hinder) any to make free election.”

Almost six hundred years after, in the parliament now sitting, serious and prolonged inquiries have been entered into, as to how “elections can be free,” and how to provide that neither “by force of arms, nor by menace” shall any be hindered from making a free choice or election. Thus, after so many centuries of parliamentary legislation, we find ourselves again trying to effect that which Edward and his great chancellor commanded in the very first law that they placed upon our statute‐book.

But does not the question naturally arise, “What were these elections which Robert Burnel thus saw to need protective legislation?” After all the violence and disorders of such reigns as those of Stephen, Richard, and John, the idea of “a free election” seems a strange one to have existed in this realm of England.

Yet elections there must have been, of two kinds. The Londoners had preserved from days long preceding the Conquest, their “hustings,” both name and thing, and one of the laws in use in the days of Edward the Confessor, fixes the time for holding these meetings.

Henry I., a son of the Conqueror, again recognizes the London hustings and the folk‐motes; and he grants the citizens the right of electing and appointing a sheriff of Middlesex. And in various charters and other records we find traces of elections frequently occurring in the city of London. These elections, too, were liable, as now, to be disturbed by force of arms and menaces. Several of the great barons and prelates had their palaces or castles in or near the city. Baynard’s Castle, in the days of king John, was the stronghold of Robert Fitzwalter, castellan of the city, who doubtless lacked neither the will nor the power greatly “to disturb free elections.” Mobs, too, were frequent and unruly in those days. Fitz‐Albert, called Longbeard, in 1196, had more than fifty thousand of the people at his command, and at last fortified himself in Bow Church, whence he was taken and executed. Still more recently, indeed, just about the time of the holding this parliament of Westminster, a feud broke out in the city, concerning the election of a mayor. The candidate properly chosen was Philip le Taylour, but the mob insisted on having Walter Harvey. The king was obliged to interfere, and to appoint a custos of the city until an election of mayor could be well and properly holden. This fact, occurring very shortly after Edward’s arrival and coronation, of itself explains the insertion of this clause in the statute. Doubtless, also, the elections of “knights of the shire,” an institution which dates from the two preceding reigns, would give occasion to many disorders. The great men of a county would often attempt to carry the election “by force of arms;” the populace would resist;“menacing” would be heard on both sides; and complaints would reach the ear of the king and his chancellor. Now both Edward and his great minister were upright and honourable men. Being therefore engaged in the great work of establishing the dominion of wise and equal laws, they insert in this statute, which, as Lord Campbell says, “rather deserves the name of a code,” this brief but pithy declaration: “And because elections ought to be free, the king commandeth, under great penalties, that no man disturb such elections, either by menaces or by force of arms.”

One other curious circumstance connected with this first parliament of England deserves a mention. Edward always regarded himself as the rightful champion and protector of his people in all just quarrels. The countess of Flanders, in Henry’s old age, had taken the violent course, upon some quarrel, of confiscating all English property in the warehouses of Flanders. Edward on his way home heard of this, and sent immediate orders to stop the export of wool; thus reducing the manufactories of Flanders to a state of paralysis. He then met the son of the countess and concluded a treaty, by which the English merchants received full restitution. This settlement of the quarrel was received in England with great satisfaction, and the parliament of Westminster at once granted to the king a customs’ duty of half a mark on every sack of wool exported, and a mark on every bale of leather. These duties were recorded, in the spirit in which Edward always acted, as “granted by the archbishops, bishops, earls, barons, and communitates of the kingdom of England.” Always and on all occasions does the king associate with himself in public acts, “the commonalty of the realm, the lowest as well as the highest.”

III.
THE FIRST SEVEN YEARS.

The key‐note struck by Bracton seems never to have ceased vibrating in the minds of Edward and his chancellor. “Let the king render to the law, what the law hath invested in him with regard to others, dominion and power.” “The king hath a superior—namely, God—and also the law, by which he was made a king.” Duty, the pressure of moral obligation, is as constantly present in Edward’s mind as, six centuries after, it was in the mind of Arthur Wellesley. We have seen it recognized at Marlborough, in 1267, in his father’s day, when the Statute so named is thus prefaced—“Our lord the king, providing for the better estate of this realm, and for the more speedy administration of justice, as belongeth to the office of a king,” etc. We find it again in the opening of the Westminster Statute—“Because our lord the king hath great desire to redress the state of the realm, in such things as require amendment.” And a little later, in the “Statutes of Gloucester,” we hear the same strain—“The king, providing for the amendment of his realm, and for the fuller administration of justice, as the good of the kingly office requireth,” etc.

Thus, from time to time, we hear from Edward’s lips the frank confession, “I hold an office, and that office has its duties; let me look to it that those duties are rightly discharged.” He proceeds, after the great “Parliament of Westminster, 1275,” to enter in earnest on the important work of regulation, organization, and the removal of abuses and disorders. Just as the owner of a large estate, on coming into full possession after a long minority, sets to work, if he rightly comprehends his position, first to examine and then to regulate every portion of his inheritance, so does Edward give the earlier years of his reign to a similar though larger work. He shows his consciousness that the weakness of a long period of misrule had filled the land with disorders, and that “the kingly office requireth” that he should, in a variety of particulars, introduce new laws and a purer administration. He had seen and regretted, in his father’s reign, the fearful weakening of the royal authority which accompanied a system of pecuniary improvidence. At once, therefore, without waiting for the assembling of his parliament, he issued a royal commission to inquire into, and ascertain, the royalties and revenues appertaining to the crown, the state and particulars of the crown‐lands, with the names of the tenants and the terms of their tenure.[21] He rightly judged that on this point—the regulation of the royal revenues—largely depended the just fulfilment of “the office of a king.” He soon made himself acquainted with the extent and particulars of his possessions; and so well were these administered, throughout his whole reign, that his applications to parliament were few, and always based upon public grounds,—the acknowledged requirements of the state. Yet he was never wanting in a truly royal munificence; exhibiting liberality on all fitting occasions, and a never‐ceasing kindness to the poor.

In the course of these investigations, touching the royalties and revenues belonging to the crown, it would naturally happen that legal questions and doubts would arise, as to the respective boundaries of possessions belonging to the crown, and those belonging to the great barons who had received grants from former sovereigns. The king soon came to the conclusion that, rightly to define these limits, it would be necessary to refer, in all cases, to the original grants. He issued, therefore, after the lapse of two or three years, which the first investigation must have required, another order or commission, that all parties who were in possession of any estates of doubtful title, should lay their grants or charters before the judges, that their validity might be ascertained by competent authority.

In taking this step, Edward was actuated by those motives of frankness and rectitude which were never absent from his mind. He evidently thought that the same sort of investigation to which he had submitted the rights of the crown might fairly be applied to the grants under it; but he soon found that he was likely to involve himself in a serious peril. During such disorderly times as those of Stephen and John, many of the great barons had seized upon estates, the owners of which had perished in the field or on the scaffold. Those great proprietors would very naturally shrink from any sort of legal examination or inquiry. They would have been prompt to combine in a league of resistance to any such investigation. One of the greatest of them, the earl of Surrey, John de Warenne, who had fought at Edward’s side at Lewes, and had entertained him in 1274 at Reigate, on his landing,—took an early and a very peremptory position of resistance. He doubtless was one of the first to whom the royal commissioners addressed their inquiries. His answer was that of a rough, bold, and impetuous soldier. He unsheathed an ancient sword, exclaiming, “It was by this that my forefathers won these lands, and it is by this that I mean to maintain my title.”

Edward was wise, as well as frank and noble. A little reflection would enable him to perceive, that if he pressed his demand upon this irascible and powerful soldier‐baron, he might soon discover that there were hundreds of other land‐owners who felt a sympathy with the earl, and that thus he might be engaged in a strife of a very serious character. His object and his motives had been pure, but prudence evidently dictated a moderate and cautious course. The resistance of this great earl materially affected the whole inquiry. The intended investigation was, for a time at least, suspended. On this, as well as in two or three other passages of his life, Edward showed that even when his first determination had been just and reasonable, he could exercise a thoughtful self‐control—that he knew how to waive his rights, when prudence so counselled, as well as how to assert them on all fitting occasions.[22]

One of the chief matters, however, on which Edward had evidently set his heart, was that of bringing the relations of England and Wales into a better condition. It was on the Welsh border that the first years of his public life had been spent. As early as in his eighteenth year, his father had given him the charge of “the Welsh Marches;” and he had had the grief of witnessing, again and again, inroads of the Welsh into Cheshire and Herefordshire, in which maraudings whole districts were desolated, and the poor English farmers of those counties reduced to beggary. Matthew Paris says: “The Welsh carried fire and slaughter into the border counties. They gave themselves up to incendiarism and pillage, till they had reduced the whole border to an uninhabitable desert.” Edward had seen these things with pain and with resentment, and he had evidently resolved to bring the relations of the two countries into a more satisfactory state.

It has suited the purposes of those who wished to represent Edward as an ambitious and designing man, to assume, throughout, that Edward’s object, from the beginning, was the conquest of Wales. But the facts of the case, if patiently examined, tell a very different tale. They rather justify our old chronicler Fabyan’s description of him. Writing more than three hundred years ago, and conveying down to us the old English belief and tradition, he says: “This prince was slow to all manner of strife, discreet and wise, and true of his worde.” And, assuredly, the plain facts of this Welsh controversy justify entirely Fabyan’s words.

That Llewellyn owed homage to Edward as his superior lord—just as Edward, for his French possessions, owed homage to the king of France—has never been questioned. Llewellyn himself never denied the obligation. Yet, at Edward’s coronation, while the king of Scotland was present and paid his homage, there was no attendance, either personally or by deputy, of the prince of Snowdon.

The Welsh prince pleaded, in excuse, that there was so much enmity between him and some of the lords of the Marches, that he could not safely visit London. Edward met these excuses with forbearance, and even offered to take a journey to Shrewsbury to receive the homage there. But Llewellyn still raised new difficulties. Had Edward been the ambitious and designing man that he is often represented, he might now, without further parley, have peremptorily summoned Llewellyn, and on his non‐appearance, might have declared him contumacious, and his fief a forfeiture. Such had been the course taken by Philip of France, when in 1202 he summoned John, pronounced him contumacious, and at once took possession of Normandy.

Edward’s course was equally clear. There was nothing to prevent the immediate annexation of Wales, except the single let or hindrance of the English king’s conscientiousness. But Edward would take no hasty or violent step. He reserved the question for his parliament, and at one of the sessions of 1275 it was decided that the Welsh prince should be summoned a third time, and that now the king should even go to Chester to meet him; that being the nearest point to Llewellyn’s home.

“Slow to all manner of strife” was written on all these proceedings. Edward knew well that there were precedents in abundance which would have justified him in declaring the Welsh prince a rebel, and in entering into possession of his fief. He was also, we cannot doubt, fully alive to the great advantage which would result from the union of the two countries.

He earnestly desired to terminate the wretched border‐warfare which had so long continued. But a leading principle of his whole life was, a constant respect for the rights of others. Again and again shall we meet with this rule of conduct in his after‐life. In the present case he remitted to Llewellyn not only the summons to appear at Chester, which the parliament had directed to be sent, but also a safe‐conduct for his coming, abiding, and return—a guarantee which the Welshman might know would be strictly fulfilled. But Llewellyn now raised his demands. He would give no attendance until the king should send to him, as hostages, his own son, the chancellor of England, and the earl of Gloucester!—a demand which the old chronicler justly terms “an insolent one,” and which must have been intended to terminate the negociation.

About this time Eleanor de Montfort, Llewellyn’s intended bride, was met with at sea, and brought into Bristol by an English vessel. As the prince was in contumacy, Edward ordered that the young Eleanor should be conveyed to Windsor, there to remain in the queen’s charge until the dispute between England and Wales had been terminated. But the year 1276 had now opened, and parliaments were held, in the course of that year, at Westminster and at Winchester. A fifth and a sixth summons had been remitted to the prince of Snowdon. Some of the bishops now offered to mediate, and they were allowed to send the archdeacon of Canterbury into Wales, personally to confer with Llewellyn. But the Welsh prince merely advanced new claims; requiring now guarantees from two prelates, and from four of the greatest earls in the realm.

The English parliament finally, on the 12th of November, 1276, declared Llewellyn contumacious, and recommended that the military tenants of the crown should be summoned in the spring for the invasion of Wales. Meanwhile the archbishop made one more attempt at mediation, writing to the Welsh prince an earnest but fruitless letter. Another parliament was held, in which “a twelfth” was granted to the king for the expenses of the war. In the spring the royal forces began to assemble, and Roger Mortimer was appointed to the command. The chief men of South Wales sent in their submission, and were “received to the king’s grace.” David and Roderick, brothers to Llewellyn, joined the king, and were honourably received by him. Meanwhile, Llewellyn believed that his mountain‐heights were inaccessible, and that he could never be brought to submission. Edward, however, was a different sort of leader from his father, who in 1257 had led an expedition into Wales, and had miserably failed. With the skill and foresight of a general, Edward had prepared a naval force, which sailed from the Cinque Ports, made a descent upon Anglesea, and took possession of that island. Llewellyn was now enclosed, and it was easy to prevent all supplies from reaching him. He remained obstinate for several weeks; but as the winter drew on he saw the probability of ultimate starvation, and asked for terms of surrender.

Again we see that Edward was not that ruthless and ambitious man which he is often represented. The Welsh prince had been formally declared contumacious, and the forfeiture of his fief was the ordinary penalty. There was no way of escape for him; Edward had only to maintain his blockade, and the surrender and banishment of the Welsh prince, and the entire conquest of the principality, were inevitable and close at hand.

But Edward’s guiding principle in all such cases was that which we have already cited from his own lips, “May show mercy!—why, I will do that for a dog, if he seeks my grace!” Llewellyn had no sooner asked for mercy than it was granted to him. His offence had been great; to make war upon a superior lord was treason; and the king showed his sense of the offence by imposing hard conditions of peace.

Llewellyn must pay a fine of 50,000 marks for the heavy expenses he had caused the king; must cede to England the four “cantreds” lying between Chester and the Conway; must hold Anglesea of the king at an annual rent of 2000 marks; must do homage to the king, and deliver ten hostages for his fidelity. This was a just sentence, and Edward merely vindicated the majesty of the law by pronouncing it; but the natural generosity of his mind very quickly cancelled the hardest of the conditions. The very next day the fine was remitted. Soon after the rent to be paid for Anglesea was cancelled, and the ten hostages returned. And now that the Welsh prince had submitted, all was grace and favour on Edward’s part. The young Eleanor de Montfort, who had been detained in the queen’s household, was sent for, and in Worcester Cathedral, in the presence of the king and queen, Llewellyn received his bride. In another respect, the king conferred on the Welsh prince a very substantial benefit. David, Llewellyn’s brother, had often been at variance with him. On one occasion the two brothers met on the battle‐field, and David was taken prisoner. To remove David from Wales was to confer on Llewellyn a favour of a very important kind. The king took this hostile brother with him to England, gave him £1000 a year in land (equal to £15,000 a year at the present time), and married him to an earl’s daughter. “Thus,” says Lingard, “Edward flattered himself that what he had begun by force he had completed by kindness. To Llewellyn he had behaved rather with the affection of a friend than the severity of an enemy, and his letters to that prince breathe a spirit of moderation which does honour to his heart. To David he had been a bounteous protector. He had granted him the honour of knighthood, extensive estates in both countries, and the hand of the daughter of the earl of Derby.”

Surely the prejudice must be of an extraordinary kind which can see in this first war in Wales, and in the manner in which it was terminated, any signs of an ambitious or overreaching disposition in the conqueror. He had voluntarily given away an opportunity of making Wales his own; he had preferred to endeavour to make the two Welsh princes his friends, by heaping kindnesses and benefits upon them.

The marriage of Llewellyn and Eleanor took place on the 3rd of October, 1278, and the bride and bridegroom spent the following Christmas with the king and queen at Westminster. As this year was the seventh of Edward’s reign, and affords an opportunity of a pause in the story, we will briefly notice, before we close the chapter, a few events which occurred at various intervals between the coronation in 1275 and the Welsh prince’s marriage in 1278.

In the autumn of 1276, to encourage his nobility and gentry in the practices and usages of chivalry, the king held in Cheapside a grand tournament, when such an assemblage of young nobles and gallant knights was seen as England had never before witnessed.

In Advent, 1278, the king and queen were present at the consecration of the new cathedral of Norwich. This ancient church had been destroyed by fire in a riot towards the close of king Henry’s reign, and nearly seven years had been occupied in its restoration. A great gathering of prelates, earls, and barons attended Edward and Eleanor on occasion of this ceremony. A few weeks later, on Easter Sunday, the king and queen visited the renowned abbey of Glastonbury, where they remained several days. On the Wednesday of Easter week there was a solemn opening, in the king’s presence, of the tomb which was deemed to be that of king Arthur. Edward deposited in the tomb, which was immediately reclosed, a record of his visit and inspection.

In the autumn, this revival of the memories and traditions of the famous British king bore fruit in an attempt, on the part of Roger Mortimer, to imitate the far‐famed “Round Table.” In Kenilworth castle, the king and queen were entertained for ten successive days, while a hundred knights and their ladies graced the tournament in the morning and the feast in the afternoon. The loyal host was greeted, before Edward had departed, with the title of “earl of March.”

The remaining history of these three or four years is of a less pleasing character. It is evident, from the records of the first seven years of this reign, that foremost among all the disorders and grievances of the time, stood the extortions of the Jews. Again and again do we meet with inquiries and regulations intended to check these evil practices. Florence of Worcester tells us, under the date of 1275, that “the Jews throughout the realm were forbidden to lend money on usury; but were in future to gain their living by commerce, under the same rules and laws as Christian merchants. They were also ordered to pay to the king an annual capitation‐tax of threepence for each person.”

But we see various tokens of the uneasiness caused by the extortions of these people. In October, 1274, only two months after his coronation, we find Edward issuing an order concerning the Jews; in December, 1276, another; in May, 1277, a third; and in July, 1278, a fourth. All these mandates, we may be assured, were framed by his great chancellor—a man of a just and upright purpose. But it appears as if these restraints placed upon the open practice of usury, drove the Jews to secret devices of a still more nefarious kind. In the seventh year of Edward’s reign the deteriorated state of the coinage had grown to be an intolerable evil. “The nation,” says Carte, “had suffered for some time from the clipping of the coin; which had raised the price of all the necessaries of life, and had almost ruined its foreign commerce. The king saw the necessity of a great reform in this direction, and his measures were such as we might have expected from the decision which marked his character. To have merely ordered a new coinage, while these nefarious practices went on, would have been useless. The first thing to be done was to strike a blow at those who were depraving the coin—a blow which should inspire terror and crush the evil at once and for ever. On one evening in November, 1276, the houses of all the Jewish money‐changers were visited and their private chambers searched. On a second evening all the goldsmiths received a similar visitation. Large sums of clipped money were found, with the tools and implements used in these evil works.” The criminals thus detected and apprehended were very numerous. A Special Commission was issued for the trial of these malefactors; and its sittings, commencing after the Christmas holidays, were continued until Lent, and were resumed after Easter. Between two and three hundred were convicted and sent to execution, most of whom were Jews.[23] A terrible example was necessary to eradicate so serious an evil. When this severe check had been given to this sort of crime, immediate measures were taken for the issue of a new coinage. Exchanges were opened in various places, at which the old coin was taken in at its value, and new money issued. “Edward,” says Rapin, “is supposed to be the first king that perfectly fixed the standard of our coin.”

Each of the years which had passed since Edward’s landing at Dover, had witnessed the assembling of a parliament. The year 1275 saw the first of these gatherings which assumed that name, and which placed upon the statute‐book of England the “Statute of Westminster.” In October of the same year a second meeting of the same kind took place, at which the Welsh controversy was discussed. In 1276 a parliament assembled in Westminster, another at Winchester, and, towards the end of the year, a third was held in Westminster. In the sessions held this year, 1276, three new statutes were passed—that of Bigamy, that on the Office of Coroner, and one concerning Justices. In the next year, 1277, parliament was again convened, to grant the king an aid. Throughout the Welsh controversy, as well as on all the other “hard questions” of his reign, we see the king constantly resorting to the advice of his parliament. The maxim which he avowed in a public document several years after this, seems to have governed his thoughts and actions from the very beginning of his reign—that “what concerns all, should be by all approved.”

In the year 1278, the war with Wales having terminated, the king visited Worcester to witness the celebration of the nuptials of Llewellyn and young Eleanor de Montfort. He then held a parliament in the neighbouring city of Gloucester, at which the important “Statutes of Gloucester” were placed upon our statute‐book. One or two of our historians have described this reign, as if the ratification of the Great Charter and of the Charter of the Forests had been wrung from the king with great difficulty, and in the hour of his necessity. But for such a representation there is no foundation whatever. In 1276, being in a state of peace and of great popular esteem, the king issued, entirely of his own accord, a proclamation for the observance of the Charter of Liberties, and the Charter of the Forests.

At the same time we see in his whole conduct abundant signs of a feeling that these documents belonged to the past; and that his office was to open to the realm and people of England views of constitutional liberty, of which no mere observance of Magna Charta, in its largest interpretation, could ever have given them any idea.

IV.
MIDDLE PERIOD OF EDWARD’S LIFE.
A.D. 1279–1290.

The prime or maturity of Edward’s life was spent in works of quiet usefulness. The rebellion and reduction of Wales formed, indeed, an apparent exception; but the period of actual hostility on this occasion was very short. Edward was forced by the sudden outbreak of Llewellyn and David, to draw the sword; but it was returned to its scabbard in a very few weeks. Prejudiced historians have delighted in describing this sovereign as a man who, like the great Corsican of the beginning of the present century, was ever plotting some new acquisition; ever coveting his neighbour’s possessions. But in the actual records of his reign, we see him, from his fortieth to his fifty‐second year, dwelling in peace, and “thinking no evil.” The only instance in which we find him in the battle‐field is just ‘the exception which proves the rule.’ He took arms because he was assailed; because his enemy had left him no option.

His fortieth year, the eighth of his reign, was distinguished in the way in which he best loved to distinguish it—by a great act of wise and useful legislation. Doubtless we owe its authorship mainly to the counsel and the legislative skill of Robert Burnel; but we must not refuse to the king the possession of that sagacious patriotism which we shall continue to discern in his actions long after that valued counsellor had been removed from his side.

The king and his chancellor were doubtless religious men. No Wiclif, no Latimer, had yet appeared; the twilight of the mediæval times was all the light they had to guide them. But we find Edward, without any asceticism, often giving days and weeks to religious exercises. His chancellor was a bishop, but he had been a statesman and a legislator before he became a bishop, and a statesman and a legislator he remained still. Both of these clear‐sighted and sagacious men saw the perilous operation of the mediæval doctrine of Purgatory, and of the assumed power of the priesthood to open and shut the doors of that fearful abode. Month after month, and year after year, estates were constantly passing into the hands of the Church, for the supposed benefit of departed souls. The king himself could not throw off this belief, nor abstain from following in the practice which was universal in his day. When his beloved Eleanor was taken from him, we instantly hear of various manors given to the priests of Westminster for a long succession of masses to be said for the benefit of the poor queen’s soul. And we may be sure that a delusion which ruled over so powerful a mind as the king’s, was universal among his people, and that no man who had really loved his lost wife or parents would be backward in showing his solicitude by such donations of land or money as he could afford, “for their soul’s benefit.“ As the Church was thus constantly receiving and never restoring, it seemed inevitable that in process of time it must become the sole landlord in the realm.

Hume tells us of one period when the clergy held one‐third of the lands of the kingdom; and it is easy to perceive that had no Reformation occurred—had no violent redistribution taken place—that course of continual addition and accumulation must have left, by this time, very few estates in England in lay hands. The king saw this tendency, and he desired to check it. But he would not wrong the Church by any act of tyranny. He himself shared in the ordinary belief, and, as we have just said, when his queen was taken from him, he gave, like other men, large estates “for the good of her soul.” But, while he questioned not the right of men in full possession of their faculties thus to deal with their own property, he saw an evident and a perilous abuse, grafted on this general belief and practice. Men in their latest hours—men, whose minds were clouded or prostrated by disease—bequeathed, they scarce knew what, out of sheer terror, or, in some cases, at the demand or dictation of some priest, who was zealous for “the good of holy Church.” In all probability, Edward had heard the complaints of disinherited wives or children, who found their hereditary possessions suddenly wrested from them, and who knew that the expiring parent who had, they were told, so willed, was, for hours or days before his departure, scarcely conscious of the meaning of his own words or actions. Here, then, without interfering with the main question—the usual and generally admitted theory—was an evident and a very serious abuse.

A parliament was held in Westminster, in November, 1279, at which a great statute was passed—the far‐famed law of Mortmain. It must have been passed in the presence and by the consent—apparent at least—of many prelates, whose desires “for the good of holy Church” it contravened. But the ascendancy of such a mind and will as that of Edward,—the legislative authority of the great chancellor, and the support, doubtless, of the earls and barons by whom the king was surrounded, prevailed; and the Church was compelled to submit to this limitation. Henceforth no man should be allowed “with dying hands“ to will away his possessions “to holy Church.” All such bequests were declared to be illegal and void. No more necessary statute could have been passed; and from that day to this—from 1279 to 1870—all England has honoured the name of the wise sovereign who devised and established the law of Mortmain.

Soon after this, Edward, finding all things at peace at home, paid a short visit to the continent. The death of the queen of Castile transferred to her daughter Eleanor, Edward’s consort, the county of Ponthieu; and to obtain seizin of this territory, and to do homage for it, he visited the king of France at Amiens, where, however, his stay was but short. He brought back with him to England some fine jasper stones, which became part of the costly monument he was raising in the church of Westminster to the memory of the king his father. Not long after his return he found it necessary to repress some of the lofty pretensions of “holy Church.” John Peckham, who had succeeded Kilwardby in the see of Canterbury, had convened a synod at Reading, in which various canons were adopted, tending to separate ecclesiastics and ecclesiastical property from the laity and their possessions, and to exempt them from the operation of the statute and common law. These attempts, fostered by such churchmen as Dunstan and A’Becket, had long been perplexing all the governments of Christendom. We shall meet with them, again and again, throughout this king’s reign. But Edward was both clear‐sighted and resolute, and we cannot doubt that his chancellor, though himself a prelate, supported him. The archbishop was at once called before a council, and commanded to revoke and cancel all canons which assumed or pretended to set aside the laws and ordinances of the realm.

Ireland began now to claim a share in the king’s attention, and we may reasonably regret that the affairs of Wales soon drew his thoughts another way. The fame of the enlightened legislation now going on in England had probably reached Ireland; for a petition was sent over to the king that they might be allowed the benefit of the English laws. They tendered, as a customary fine, or ”benevolence,” the sum of 8000 marks for the enjoyment of this privilege. Edward’s disposition must have been, to comply at once with this request; but we shall find him, through his whole life, abstaining from all arbitrary or sudden decisions, and referring all public questions to his council or parliament. He wrote, therefore, to Robert de Clifford, chief justiciary of Ireland, desiring that steps might be taken to comply with the prayer of the petition. Some sort of an assembly or parliament was convened for the consideration of the question. But arbitrary power always finds some advocates, for there are never wanting persons who can turn it to their own advantage. The chief men in Ireland raised objections, and succeeded in postponing compliance with the king’s wishes. Edward wrote a second time, in displeasure, ordering another council or parliament to be convened. But Wales now began to claim his attention, and the opponents of a wise and just policy in Ireland succeeded in their policy of procrastination.

The Principality had now remained at peace for more than four years. But there were various reasons for Welsh discontent. The king had established his authority on the border, and had put an end to those plundering inroads which had troubled the English frontier for many preceding years. To be thus kept in check would naturally vex and annoy the half‐civilized tribes who had delighted, for half a century past, in burning and ravaging the farms and hamlets of the English frontier. “Edward,” says Carte, “had thrown his newly‐acquired territory into districts, had appointed sheriffs, and sent judges to administer justice. These things were not agreeable to the Welsh. They did not like counties or hundreds, courts or juries, or any institution, however beneficial, that was derived from England;—in fact, being used to a roving, disorderly, and plundering sort of life, they did not care to be kept in order.” Both Llewellyn and David had also private grievances. The elder brother had a suit against Griffith Gwenwynn for some lands, and he was summoned to the hearing of the cause at Montgomery, which he deemed a great indignity. David was sued by one Venables, before the chief justice of Chester, touching the villages of Hope and Eston. Irritated by these proceedings, the two brothers made up their quarrel, and on Palm Sunday in March, 1282, David surprised the castle of Hawarden, seizing Roger de Clifford in his bed, wounding him, and carrying him off a prisoner, while several of the English garrison were put to the sword. The news of this sudden outbreak was carried to the king, who was keeping Easter at Devizes. Other messengers soon followed with the intelligence that Llewellyn had joined his brother, that the castles of Flint and Rhuddlan were besieged, and that the Welsh were rising in every quarter. Edward sent off immediately all the force he had with him to the relief of the besieged castles, and issued orders for the rendezvous of his military tenants at Worcester on the 17th of May. Before that time he had himself moved forward, and finding the insurrection to be growing general, he gave orders for a larger levy than he had at first intended; ordering his tenants to meet him at Rhuddlan on the 2nd of August. Llewellyn and his brother retired on his approach, taking refuge in the fastnesses of Snowdon. The king took the same precaution as in 1277, by sending a fleet to occupy Anglesea, which island at once submitted, and the possession of which enclosed Llewellyn on every side. Meanwhile, the archbishop of Canterbury visited the Welsh prince and tried to bring him to submission, but all attempts of the kind were fruitless. Llewellyn handed in a list of grievances, which were just such as might have been anticipated. “The four cantreds” between Chester and Conway, formerly the scene of continual strife, had now been ceded, by the treaty of 1277, to Edward, and the English laws had been established there. These laws were distasteful to the Welsh. By their own laws, such offences as murder or arson might be withdrawn from the courts by a payment to the chief lord of a fine of five pounds; but the English judges hanged such offenders. No doubt, some provocation had been given, some injuries inflicted, on both sides. But Llewellyn, who had twice been Edward’s guest at Westminster, ought to have appealed to him for redress of any positive wrong. He might have known that it was not the king’s habit to justify ill‐doing. But the Welsh preferred to draw the sword, and now, when the archbishop strove to mediate, he found them obstinate and unbending.

At the outset of the war Edward had stormed and taken Hope Castle, had relieved Flint and Rhuddlan, and had driven Llewellyn back into the recesses of Snowdon. In November the English met with a disaster at the Menai Straits. They had constructed a bridge of boats, and a sudden attack of the Welsh, who rushed down with loud cries, created a panic; a rush was made for the bridge, it gave way, and thirteen knights and about two hundred men were lost in the waters.

Elated at this success, Llewellyn thought that as the bridge was destroyed, Snowdon was now safe for the winter, and he moved down into Cardiganshire, intending to rally and succour his friends in South Wales. Here, on the 10th of December, near Builth in Radnorshire, he came in contact with a party of the English, and one of them, Adam Francton, ran him through with a spear, in ignorance of his person or quality. After lying in the field some time, his body was searched, and his private signet and certain papers made his person known. His head was cut off and sent to the king, who, according to the custom of the period, ordered it to be sent to London and set up over the gate of the Tower.

The death of their prince seems to have so discouraged the Welsh that all opposition ceased, and Edward took quiet possession of the forfeited principality. From that day forward, England and Wales became one;—subject to the same laws and ruled over by the same government. “This incorporation,” says Mr. Sharon Turner, “was an unquestionable blessing to Wales. That country ceased to be the theatre of homicide and distress, and began to imitate the English habits. It was at once divided into counties, placed under sheriffs, and admitted to a participation in the more important of the English institutions.”

The wretched beginner of this second Welsh controversy, David of Snowdon, contrived, for several months, to lead the life of an outlaw, and to evade the search of his pursuers. This unyielding contumacy completed his ruin. Had he frankly and immediately submitted to the conqueror, and besought mercy, all that we know of Edward assures us that his life, at least, would have been spared. But he remained an outlaw, and obdurate; until, after a concealment of several months, some of his own people seized and surrendered him. Then, when no choice remained, and when submission had no merit, he entreated to see the king. But Edward doubted the propriety of granting forgiveness, and therefore refused to allow him an interview.

No one who has read the history of the ten or twelve succeeding reigns can doubt that such an offender as this David would, at any time in the fourteenth or fifteenth centuries, been quickly taken before some convenient tribunal and sent to the scaffold. He was an English subject; he had accepted wealth and honour at Edward’s hands, and had then requited his benefactor by raising a rebellion and causing a civil war. At no period of our history, even in the gentle reign of Victoria, could such acts have escaped the highest degree of punishment.

But Edward, while he showed, throughout, his sense of the gravity of David’s offence, never inflicted punishment in haste or in a passionate spirit. It is also a remarkable feature of his character that, though a man of unusual firmness and decision, and fitted above most men to act on his own judgment, he never found himself in the presence of any question of gravity, without instantly desiring to have it discussed in a council or parliament, or by conference with others. David’s guilt and the gravity of his offence were abundantly evident, but the question of the extent of his punishment Edward desired to leave with some legal tribunal. He resolved to remit the whole subject to the decision of a parliament, and to summon that parliament to meet in Shrewsbury in October, 1283;—David having been given up to him in the course of June.

This “parliament of Shrewsbury” was one of a novel kind. It had two new features, and it seems to have held its sittings by adjournment, in two different places. Edward desired that the case of David should be considered and decided in a council. This was the first object of the assembling of that parliament. But his chancellor had seen the necessity of a new statute on commercial questions, and the framing of this statute formed the next matter for consideration.

As the first question would be a trial on which life or death depended, the king summoned no prelates to this parliament; probably feeling that in the discussion of such matters it was desirable that the clergy should take no part. The second subject to be brought under discussion was one relating to trade and commerce, and the king saw in it an opportunity of giving more form and substance than heretofore to that idea which had never been absent from his mind,—that, in a well‐constituted parliament, “the lower as well as the higher estate” should be represented.

We have already said that we cannot doubt that, in the first parliament of Westminster, some citizens, under the name of “the commonalty of the realm,” were present; but we find no record of any formal summoning of burgesses or borough‐representatives. Now, however, the chancellor had a particular statute, relating to trade, to bring forward, and now, therefore, he could advise the king to summon, from the city of London and from twenty other great towns, from each two representatives, “de sapientioribus et aptioribus,” for the consideration and discussion of the said statute. Here we have the real commencement of the borough representation of England. Let Simon de Montfort have all the merit which can justly be attributed to him, for having, in 1265, called to a council in Westminster some burgesses or borough‐representatives:—that fact must always be taken with two qualifications: first, that earl Simon needed these borough‐representatives to fill the empty benches, only five earls and seventeen barons attending at his call; and secondly, that that council was not what we now understand by the term, a “parliament,”—no legislation being attempted in it.

Some historians have been too ready to assume or assert, on all occasions, that our free constitution has been won by the repeated struggles of the people, who succeeded in wresting from their sovereigns one privilege after another. The whole course of Edward’s government clears him from any imputation of this kind. At the opening of his political life, when he stood as a victorious leader at the head of an army, we find him again and again asserting the principle, that in a well‐constituted parliament all classes should be represented; and now, when he orders these writs to be issued for the summoning of forty‐two borough representatives to Shrewsbury, it is wholly of his own free will, and without the slightest “pressure of circumstances,” that he acts. His chancellor feels the want of a new law for the regulation of commerce, and at once the idea seems to occur, and is forthwith acted upon, “Let all the principal towns, where the merchants and traders dwell—let them send representatives to this parliament, and let the new statute be passed with their help and in their presence.”

The parliament of Shrewsbury met on the 30th of September, 1283, in that town. The business to be done consisted, first, of a criminal trial, and, secondly, of a statute on commercial matters. No prelates, as we have said, were summoned. To bring them from many distant places to Shrewsbury would have imposed upon them much trouble and expense, and for no fitting end. The persons summoned were—eleven earls, ninety‐nine barons, two knights for each county, and two citizens from each of twenty‐one great towns; and the writs themselves expressed, with all Edward’s usual frankness, the purpose and the desire with which he called together this, the first complete parliament, though still in outline, that England ever saw. They remind the barons, knights, and citizens that they had seen “how Llewellyn and David his brother, spurning the obligations of fidelity into which they had entered, had, more treacherously than usual, suddenly set fire to villages, slain some of the inhabitants, burnt others, and shut up others in prison, savagely shedding innocent blood.” The king desires those to whom the writs were directed to come to Shrewsbury on the day indicated, “there to determine what ought to be done with the said David, whom we received when an exile, nourished when an orphan, and enriched out of our own lands, placing him among the nobles of our court.” “We charge you, therefore,” the king concludes, “to meet us at Shrewsbury, on the day after the feast of St. Michael, to confer upon this and upon other matters.”

Before this parliament, then, was David of Snowdon impeached.“He was tried,” says the chronicle of Dunstable, “by the whole baronage of England.” It is quite clear that Edward desired that others, and not himself, should decide upon the fate of the unhappy man. He appears to have retired to his chancellor’s residence of Acton Burnel, and to have taken no part in these proceedings. The trial was entered upon, and, according to the custom of those days, the criminal was arraigned for several crimes, and for each crime a distinct punishment was ordered. As a traitor to the king, David was to be drawn to the place of execution; as the murderer of certain knights in Hawarden Castle, he was to be hanged; having sacrilegiously committed these crimes on Palm Sunday, he was to be disembowelled; and having conspired the death of the king in various places, he was to be quartered.[24]

This sentence, deliberately passed, was carried into effect, and many have been the exclamations of modern writers at its cruelty. One of the most moderate of these critics condemns Edward for “permitting his nobles and lawyers to devise and carry into effect such a barbarous sentence.” In like manner is he censured for ordering Llewellyn’s head to be set up over the gate of the Tower.

Such writers forget that a man must be judged, not by the ideas or usages of other times, but by those of the age in which he has been brought up and has lived. In our day, the thought of setting up a gory head over Temple Bar would horrify all men. But when the last rebellion was suppressed in England, little more than a century ago, the government of which lords Hardwicke and Chatham were members, beheaded men on Kennington Common, and sent their heads to Carlisle, to be set up over the castle‐gates. Johnson and Goldsmith, Cowper and Whitfield, were accustomed to see human heads on Temple‐Bar as they passed up and down Fleet Street.

The mutilation of the criminal’s body is another feature of the case which shocks our modern notions, but it was a prevalent custom of those times. In 1238, before Edward was born, a man was found lurking in the palace, who confessed that his object was to kill the king. He had been guilty of no overt act, yet for this treasonable design he was sentenced first to be dragged asunder by horses, then to be beheaded, and his body to be divided into three parts, to be exposed in three cities.

Nor were these mutilations ordered in criminal cases only. Robert Bruce, like many others, ordered his heart to be taken out after his death and carried to the Holy Land. Edward himself, if ever a man loved a wife, dearly loved his Eleanor. Yet, on her death, he ordered her heart to be interred in the church of the Black Friars, her bowels in Lincoln Minster, and the rest of her body in Westminster Abbey. Such were the habits and modes of feeling when a king could sleep in the open air on the night before a battle; when the gory head of an earl was thought a fitting present for a noble lady; and when even friendly sports often ended in slaughter.

“Sir Patrick Graham, a Scottish knight, having arrived from Paris, was invited to supper; and in the midst of the feast, an English knight turning to him, courteously asked him to run with him three courses. Next morning in the first course, Graham struck the English knight through the harness with a mortal wound, so that he died on the spot. Such were the fierce pastimes of those days.”[25]

The sentence passed on David, then, and the exposure of Llewellyn’s head, were merely the ordinary modes of procedure in those times; and would no more strike Edward as cruel, than like sentences inflicted on the adherents of the Stuarts seemed cruel to the kings and statesmen of the last century. Hume, however, tries to exaggerate the fact in the case of David, by styling him “a sovereign prince.” This, however, is a fiction. Llewellyn did not die childless, and David was, neither in law nor in fact, his successor. And even had David been the next heir, there was no succession for him. Llewellyn, as vassal to the English crown, had committed treason, had forfeited his fief, and the superior lord was entering into possession. David was nothing more than an English lord; and as a subject to Edward he had been guilty of open treason—treason against a sovereign who had been his benefactor. The justice of his sentence was altogether unimpeachable; the manner of his execution was merely conformable to the customs of those times. Both sentence and execution were dictated by the parliament, the king being merely an assenting party.

This, however, does not quite end the history of the two Welsh princes. Edward was ever a merciful and compassionate king, and having allowed justice to have its course with regard to the principal criminals, he did not forget that they both had children. We find a letter written by him on the 11th of November, 1283, to the prior and prioress of Alvingham, in the following terms:—

“Albeit, if we should turn our mind to past events, and should regard somewhat closely the deserts of certain persons, we should scarcely be bound to succour the children of Llewellyn, prince of Wales, or of David his brother, whose perfidy is fresh in the memory of all; nevertheless having the fear of God before our eyes, and compassionating their sex and age, lest perchance the innocent and unconscious should seem to pay the penalties of the crimes of the impious—we, from regard to charity, have thought fit in wholesome sort to make provision for them. Wherefore, being persuaded of your devotion, and specially considering the conversation of your order, we beseech you, brethren, that you admit to your order, and the habit of your house, any one or more of the said children of Llewellyn and David his brother, whom we shall name to you; and that you intimate to us what you shall think fit to do in this matter, before the feast of the Nativity next ensuing. Given under our private seal at Ludlow, on the 11th day of November.”

Of the result of the application to the priory of Alvingham we find no record. But in the tenth year of Edward II. we find Wenciliana, a daughter of Llewellyn, spoken of as a nun of Sempringham; and we find her, also, receiving a pension of £20 a year (equal to £300 in the present day). Peter Langtoft speaks of her as personally known to him, and he mentions her death in June, 1337. He also mentions “her cousin Gladous, daughter of David,” who was a nun at Sixille house, and who died in 1336. Evidently, “the innocent” were not left to suffer.

The first portion of the business allotted to the parliament of Shrewsbury had now been gone through; but the second remained. And, whether it was that the scene of an execution was not thought suitable for festivity, or that the chancellor wished to exhibit a noble hospitality, we cannot decide, but a removal of the parliament evidently took place. We find it sitting on the 12th of October, at Acton Burnel, the chancellor’s home; and there was passed the Statute of Merchants, denominated by Lord Campbell “that famous law,” “that most admirable statute.” It doubtless had cost the chancellor much thought, and he probably wished to connect his name with it. Accordingly it is sometimes called “the Statute of Acton Burnel.”

So ended the year 1283; but the king had still a great work before him—a work of the kind in which he most delighted. Wales had been finally and entirely united to England; but it was still in an almost barbarous condition. The whole country was a scene of wildness and disorder, and Edward knew well that the first step in the regeneration of a country (so far as human government can regenerate it), is the establishment of just and well‐considered laws. To this work, therefore, he immediately addressed himself. He did not, however, proceed as many would have done, by rashly ordaining that the laws of England should be henceforth the laws of Wales. He saw the necessity for first acquainting himself with the whole subject. “He was at great pains to gain a perfect knowledge of its ancient constitution and laws, and of the manners of its inhabitants.”

With this view, he issued a commission to the bishop of St. David’s and some others, to investigate these matters in the most careful manner. No fewer than one hundred and seventy‐two intelligent persons were examined upon oath by these commissioners, who, upon this evidence, framed a report. Having thus obtained the necessary information, Edward held a parliament on the 24th of May, 1284, at Rhuddlan, in Flintshire, at which the “Statutes of Wales” were passed. The preamble to these statutes runs as follows:—

“The Divine Providence having now, of its favour, wholly transferred to our dominion the land of Wales, with its inhabitants, heretofore subject to us in feudal right, all obstacles ceasing; and having annexed and united the same unto the crown of the aforesaid realm, as a member of the same body; we therefore, under the Divine Will, being desirous that our aforesaid land should be governed with due order, to the honour and praise of God, and of holy Church, and the advancement of justice; and that the people of those lands who have submitted themselves to our will should be protected in security, under fixed laws and customs, have caused to be rehearsed before us and the nobles of our realm, the laws and customs in those parts hitherto in use; which, having fully understood, we have, by the advice of the said nobles, abolished some of them, some we have allowed, and some we have corrected; and we have commanded and ordained certain others to be added thereto.”

It is in deeds and words like these that we see Edward in his real character. It was in such works that, in his hours of free choice, he always preferred to employ himself. Legislation—the taking care “that the people of these lands should be protected in security, under fixed laws and customs,” “as becometh the office of a king:” this was his chosen employment. War might sometimes, as in the case of Wales, be forced upon him; but whenever it was so forced, “slowe to strife” was a rule which marked his every action.

He saw the necessity for a considerable stay in Wales for the thorough pacification and regulation of the country. He began at once the erection of the noble castle of Carnarvon. This work occupied several years. In 1283 queen Eleanor kept her court in Rhuddlan Castle, but in 1284, a portion of the castle at Carnarvon being completed, she removed thither, and on the 25th of April she gave birth, in a chamber of the Eagle Tower, which is still shown, to a prince—afterwards king Edward II. The king was at this time at Rhuddlan Castle, engaged in affairs of state. A Welsh gentleman, named Griffith Lloyd, was announced, who brought him the intelligence of the birth of a prince. Edward, in great joy, knighted Lloyd on the spot, making him a grant of lands. He soon hastened to Carnarvon to see his Eleanor and her son; and when a few days had elapsed, he was able to present to the Welsh chiefs “a prince born in Wales, and who could not speak a word of English.”

He had now remained in Wales for more than two years, and the great work of union, and the establishment of peace, and the reign of law, seemed to be solidly advancing. At Newyn, in Carnarvonshire, in the summer of 1284, Edward held a grand tournament, with the usual festivities. Here were assembled, says Matthew of Westminster, “the great body of the knights of England, with many foreign nobles.” So splendid a spectacle was, at least, calculated to show the chiefs and gentry of Wales that the nation with which they had been incorporated was no mean one, and that the sovereign they had gained was a chief of might and power.

So ended the king’s transactions in Wales in 1282, 1283, and 1284, and in the autumn of the latter year he proceeded slowly through Cardiganshire and Glamorganshire, reaching Bristol before the end of the year, and celebrating Christmas in that city.

So ends the brief history of the union of Wales with England. This war had been forced upon Edward, who evidently had no option in the matter. It was soon ended, and a single criminal—he who had caused the war—was the only victim claimed by the scaffold. The king’s slowness and long deliberation show also that, could any reasonable plea for mercy have been found, even David himself would have been spared. A rather severe judge of Edward’s whole career, says, of the annexation: “Never was conquest more merciful.”[26] Yet some of the Scottish historians, while they endeavour to assume an air of impartiality when they speak of Edward’s Scottish controversies, are eager to create a prejudice against him by giving the darkest complexion to his acts in Wales. Thus Hume, in narrating this portion of Edward’s career, calmly tells us that “The king, sensible that nothing kept alive the ideas of military valour and of ancient glory so much as the traditional poetry of the people, which, assisted by the power of music and the jollity of festivals, made a deep impression on the minds of the youth, gathered together all the Welsh bards, and, from a barbarous but not absurd policy, ordered them to be put to death.” And Gray, accepting the fiction as a fact, clothed it in noble verse, and his ode beginning “Ruin seize thee, ruthless king,” fixed the alleged crime in the memory of every school‐boy and school‐girl in the realm.

And yet the whole charge was a mere calumny. These bards, who were said to have been extirpated, continued to sing and to write in such sort that “Mr. Owen Jones, in forming a collection of their productions, after the time of Edward, had to transcribe between fifty and sixty quarto volumes”; and “the work of transcription,” said Sir Richard Hoare, “was not even then completed.”[27]

A later Scottish historian than Hume—Sir James Mackintosh—admits the falsity of the charge. He says, “The massacre of the bards is an act of cruelty imputed to Edward without evidence, and it is inconsistent with his spirit, which was not infected by wanton ferocity.”

Such an act as this slaughter, had it ever been committed, would have been nothing less than atrocious. But if so, what are we to say of a writer who coolly ascribes it to a king whom he dislikes, knowing that he is asserting it “without evidence,” and in the teeth of such a practical refutation as Sir Richard Hoare has pointed out?

England was now again at peace, and with the assured prospect that the strife which had so long infested her western border was at last permanently ended. “The conquest of Wales,” says Rapin, “and the universal esteem in which the king was held among his subjects, produced in England a profound tranquillity.” Hence, as several questions of importance called Edward abroad, he began, about this time, to prepare for a visit of some length to various parts of the continent.

A singular application had been made to him while engaged in the affairs of Wales. Two princes—Peter of Aragon and Charles of Anjou—had each advanced a claim to the crown of Sicily. An appeal to arms appeared inevitable, when it was suggested by Charles, and agreed to by Peter, that they should decide the question by single combat. Arrangements were seriously made; twelve commissioners were appointed on each side, and these twenty‐four drew up articles, which were afterwards ratified by both the princes. It was agreed that the combat should take place at Bourdeaux, whither the combatants were to repair on a certain day appointed, each to be accompanied by one hundred knights. But as all parties agreed in regarding Edward as standing at the head of the chivalry of Europe, it was made an essential point in the agreement that he should act as the umpire, and that the combat should take place in his presence.

These two princes had regarded Edward, evidently, as one of the same race with him of “the lion heart,” who would, no doubt, have delighted in such a scheme. They thought of the English king as a man known to be “mighty in arms,” and who had taken part in most of the great tournaments of his time. But they had overlooked, or not understood, that this was only the inferior part of his character; and that his nobler aspect was his wisdom, his statesmanlike sagacity, and, what a modern historian calls, “his legislative mind.” The proposal, when made to Edward, only struck him as being eminently absurd. He was fond of martial sports and deeds of chivalry, but he had never dreamed that the affairs of the world could be carried on by tournaments. Questions concerning kingly rights and disputed successions were handled by him in courts and parliaments, on the ground of truth, and justice, and established law, with a deliberateness which disregarded the lapse of months and years. To leave such matters to be decided by, perchance, the possession of the strongest horse or the toughest spear, was not to be for a moment thought of. His instant reply was, “that if he were to gain by it both the kingdoms of Aragon and Sicily, he would not appoint the field of battle, or suffer the two princes to fight in any place within his dominions, nor in any other place, if it were in his power to hinder it.” But he accompanied his refusal with offers of friendly mediation, which were afterwards carried into effect.

This frank and decided negative frustrated the whole plan, and Edward was soon requested to undertake a more pacific arrangement. In fact, throughout this whole affair, this sovereign of the mediæval times seems to have acted much as any modern king of sense and proper feeling would now act. To understand distinctly how great a superiority this implied over the prejudices and habits of thought of his own time, we should recal to mind the fact that, more than two centuries after Edward’s day, two such monarchs as Charles V. and Francis I. actually contemplated, for a considerable time, a settlement of their disputes by this same absurd method of a royal combat! In truth, in this, as in many other passages of his life, Edward evinced the possession, as it were by intuition, of all the practical wisdom which the experience of nearly six centuries has given to the public men of our own day.

The king had now returned from Wales, and had received an urgent invitation from Philip of France to visit him at Amiens, in order that they might consult on the subject of this dispute. He accordingly set out on this journey, and had reached Canterbury, on his way to Dover, when tidings reached him of the illness of his mother, queen Eleanor of Provence, at the convent of Ambresbury, in Wiltshire. A messenger was immediately despatched to Amiens, with a letter of apology, and Edward forthwith turned his steps towards the west. On her recovery the king paid a religious visit to the abbey of St. Edmund’s‐bury, and spent a part of the season of Lent in this retreat.

On the 25th of March, 1285, a parliament was held at Westminster, at which the “Statutes of Westminster II.” were adopted. “These statutes,” says Delolme, “are the foundations of much of the law of the land, as it now stands.” “They were framed,” says Lord Campbell, “in a spirit of enlightened legislation, and admirably accommodated the law to the changed circumstances of the social system; which ought to be the object of every wise legislator.”

In October, another parliament was held at Winchester, at which the “Statute of Winchester” was passed. This important enactment established an effective system of “watch and ward,” for the protection of life and property; which, from the laxity prevalent through all the previous reign, had come to be greatly needed.

Two other parliaments appear to have been held in Westminster, in February and May, 1286;—in fact, it seems to have been Edward’s desire to hold, whenever practicable, three or four such meetings in each year. Now, as he very seldom, in the first twenty years of his reign, had any occasion to ask his people for money, his object in thus frequently meeting his parliament must have been that of a frank and unrestrained interchange of thought and feeling as to public affairs. This was a characteristic feature of the king’s mind. Weak sovereigns and hesitating statesmen always fear a parliament, and are eager for its separation and departure. But Edward knew nothing of fear, and he had one of the most transparent of minds. Even when vehemently thwarted and opposed, as by archbishop Winchelsey and earls Bigod and Bohun, his first thought generally was to send for his opponents to come to him, for that “the king wished to have a private colloquium with them.” In the present case there was no quarrel or difference of opinion; but, in all probability, the chief matter for discussion was the king’s intended visit to the continent, and the measures to be adopted for carrying on the government in his absence.

Not until the summer of that year was he able to take his departure. On the 24th of June, 1286, he embarked, accompanied by his queen, and attended by a splendid train of bishops, earls, barons, and knights. He was received with due honour by king Philip, and was conducted to St. Germain’s, where he remained for several weeks. Many important questions required to be discussed by these two potent sovereigns. There were various claims, some of which had been long undecided, on the part of the crown of England, on Normandy, Limousin, Saintonge, etc.; there was homage to be paid for possessions in France, to king Philip; and there was the difficult question, in which Edward had consented to act as umpire between the houses of Aragon and Anjou, touching the crown of Sicily.

The various questions arising out of the disputed territory in Normandy, Limousin, Saintonge, etc., occupied much time. France, now strong and at peace, felt no disposition to relinquish one foot of territory. On this point Philip was immoveable; and Edward, though equally warlike with his grandson, the victor of Crécy, felt none of the ambitious longings of Edward III. for conquests in France, nor any desire for such barren honours as those of Agincourt or Poictiers. He brought the various topics of discussion to a peaceful settlement; accepting an annual payment in lieu of some territory which Philip was unwilling to relinquish, and gaining, on the other hand, a concession of the right of appeal as regarded Gascony.

Quitting the court of France so soon as these discussions were concluded, Edward passed on to Bourdeaux, where many things required his presence and his decision. But the chief affair which had brought him to the continent remained now to be adjusted; and, like many similar questions referred to the decision of a third party, it opened a nearly interminable controversy. The two chiefs, the king of Aragon and the count of Anjou, were equally unworthy of Edward’s solicitude. He found it very difficult to effect any arrangement, and a task still more hopeless to induce them to keep their engagements when made. Like the English barons in 1263, who agreed to refer their dispute with Henry III. to the arbitration of Louis of France, meaning to abide by his decision only so far as suited their own purposes,—the two combatants in the present case could in no way be made to carry out their own pledges, or to submit to the decision which they had professed to desire. Edward succeeded at last in making a treaty which restored the prince of Salerno, Charles’s son, to his liberty; but as soon as he had returned home, the two rivals treated the rest of their engagements with mutual disregard.

The king and queen landed at Dover in August, 1289, and Edward’s first acts were of a religious nature. He had experienced, while abroad, deliverances of a more than ordinary kind. For several weeks he had suffered from a dangerous illness, from which, however, he had now entirely recovered. And on one occasion, while at Bourdeaux, a flash of lightning entering the room in which he and the queen were sitting, killed two of the attendants, while the king and his consort remained untouched. We have already stated that, after the manner of those times, Edward was a most religious king. Very naturally, therefore, his first thought on landing was to pay a visit to the abbey of St. Edmund’s‐bury, there to perform “the vows made while he was in trouble.”

But his presence, and his strong right arm, were soon demanded by various public necessities. His absence had naturally tended to give opportunity for lawless practices, both among the higher and the lower classes. The excellent “Statute of Winchester,” made not long before his departure to the continent, had been scarcely brought into operation. Bands of outlaws concealed themselves in the forests, and waylaid travellers. Often they proceeded to still greater lengths. During a fair held at Boston in Lincolnshire, Thomas Chamberlain, a man of some note, had set fire to the town, hoping, with his associates, to take advantage of the confusion and to pillage the place. He himself was taken and hanged, but none of his accomplices were discovered. And the root of these disorders lay deep, and in a quarter which ought to have been beyond suspicion. The judges of the land were corrupt, and for bribes would release the robber and the murderer. The archbishop of Canterbury, who probably greeted the king on his landing, acquainted him with these disorders, and made known to him their secret cause. Edward lost no time in acting with his accustomed energy and vigour.

On the 13th of October, the king celebrated the feast of St. Edward, and on the same day obeyed the injunctions of the prophet (Isa. lviii. 6) by issuing a proclamation, that all persons who had been aggrieved or oppressed by the judges or other ministers should come before him at the ensuing parliament, and exhibit their complaints. The result showed that the people put their trust in the king, and felt assured that his promise would be kept. A fearful case was established against the judges; and the chancellor, Burnel, whose whole course commands our respect, “brought forward very serious charges against those high functionaries for taking bribes and altering the records.” All except two—John de Metingham and Elias de Bokingham—were convicted. The chief baron Stratton was fined 34,000 marks; the chief justice of the king’s bench, 7000 marks; the master of the rolls, 1000 marks; while Weyland, the chief justice of the common pleas, who was the greatest delinquent, fled to the convent of the Friars Minor at Bury St. Edmunds, where he took sanctuary. The king, when informed of this, sent a knight with a guard, not to violate the sanctuary, but to blockade it till the judge should surrender. After holding out for two months, Weyland submitted, and petitioned for leave to abjure the realm. This, which involved the forfeiture of all his goods, was granted to him; and his property, when taken possession of, was found to amount to 100,000 marks—“an almost incredible sum,” says Blackstone, being, indeed, equal to about one million sterling at the present day. Nothing could more fully establish the guilt of the accused judge, or more strikingly show the enormous extent to which his criminal practices had been carried.

“These sentences,” says lord Campbell, “had on the whole a very salutary effect.” The example was a terrible one; yet in our own day we have seen heavier sentences, such as transportation or penal servitude, inflicted for lighter offences. The king, however, immediately added a new precaution, by ordering that, in future, every judge on his appointment should take an oath to accept no gift or gratuity from any one.

Another class of offenders was about the same time brought under the notice of the king and his parliament. Dr. Henry says, “The Jews seem to have taken occasion, from the king’s absence and the venality of the judges, to push their exactions to a greater length than ever; and the cry against them was now become so vehement and universal, that the parliament which assembled at Westminster on the 12th of January, 1290, came to a resolution to banish the whole race out of the kingdom.”

Rapin adds, “The king was unable any longer to protect them without disobliging the parliament. They had enjoyed various privileges, such as synagogues in London, a sort of high priest, and judges of their own nation to decide on their own differences. These advantages they lost by not being able to curb their insatiable greediness of enriching themselves by unlawful means, such as usury, adulteration of the coin, and the like.” Another writer cites a complaint of their exactions, which shows that they were in the habit of requiring from forty to sixty‐five per cent. for the use of money; a system which would naturally and very quickly be felt to be intolerable.

Hence their entire expulsion was resolved upon, and ordered. It was not an act of “religious intolerance,” but a result of popular indignation. In effecting this, the impatient exultation of the people led them in some cases to actual ill treatment of the Jews. The sailors of a ship in which some of them had embarked placed them upon a sandbank at low water, and left them to be drowned. The king ordered the perpetrators of this crime to be brought to trial, and on their conviction capital punishment followed.

In a parliament held on the 8th of July, 1290, “several important statutes were made;” and gradually, but constantly, the idea of legislation by a parliament took root, grew, and became fixed in the English mind. The writs for this parliament command the sheriffs to send from their respective counties two or three knights, with full powers, “ad consulendum et consentiendum his quæ comites, barones et proceres, tum duxerint concordanda.”[28] When assembled, it placed upon the statute‐book the statutes “de Consultatione,” “de Quo Warranto,” “Quia Emptores,” and those of “Westminster III.”

In the spring and summer of this year, 1290, queen Eleanor had the satisfaction of witnessing the marriage of two of her daughters. The princess Joanna, born at Acre, and now in her eighteenth year, was united on the last day of April, in the monastery of St. John, Clerkenwell, to Gilbert de Clare, earl of Gloucester, the most powerful peer in England; and on the 9th of July, in Westminster Abbey, Margaret, the queen’s third daughter, was married to John, duke of Brabant. One of the young princesses, Mary, had in the preceding year followed the example of her grandmother, Eleanor of Provence, and had taken the veil in the convent of Ambresbury, where the old queen had long resided.

Of the frank and cordial manners of the court, and of the harmony subsisting between the king and his consort, we catch a few indications from the remaining records. Thus we find that on Easter Monday, 1290, seven of the queen’s ladies of honour invaded the king’s private chamber to perform the feat customary on that holiday,[29] of “heaving” or lifting the monarch in his chair; and from their hands he was only released on paying a fine of forty shillings to each, to be set at liberty. On another occasion, while the king and his attendants were saddling and mounting for the chase at Fingringhoe in Essex, the king espies Matilda of Waltham, his laundress, among the lookers‐on in the court‐yard. He merrily proposes a wager of a fleet horse, probably with the queen, that Matilda cannot ride with them, and be in at the death of the stag. The wager is accepted; Matilda starts and wins, and Edward has to ransom his horse for forty shillings.

On the marriage of the king’s daughter, Margaret, to the duke of Brabant, as many as four hundred and twenty‐six minstrels were present, and the bridegroom distributed among them an hundred pounds. Some entries about this period shows the king’s quick irascibility. On one occasion we note an expense incurred in repairing a crown or coronet which he had thrown behind the fire. And on the princess’s wedding‐day, an esquire, or gentleman of the court, had irritated the king by some supposed neglect or misbehaviour, and received from him a stroke on the head with a wand. But the offender was able to show the king that he had been hasty and, perhaps, unjust. Most princes would probably have been content with an expression of regret; but Edward was warm and hearty, alike in reproof or in retractation. Finding that he had done his attendant a wrong, he at once fined himself twenty marks, equal to about two hundred pounds of our present money, which sum was duly paid to the aggrieved party, and charged in the king’s wardrobe account. Gifts of various kinds were constantly issuing from Edward’s hands. In one year, 1286, the new year’s gift to queen Eleanor was a cup of gold, worth £23 6s. 8d.; and in another, a pitcher of gold, enamelled and set with precious stones.

But all this mutual and well‐placed affection was now to find the common termination of all earthly enjoyments. That happy and entire union which had subsisted for nearly five‐and‐thirty years was drawing to a close. The king and queen, after taking leave of their daughter Margaret, now duchess of Brabant, left their palace in Westminster for the midland counties. Edward had given directions for a parliament to be summoned to meet at Clipston, a royal palace in Sherwood Forest; and in the interim, he hoped to enjoy his favourite recreation of the chase. He also began to receive, about this time, frequent applications from Scotland, and he probably meant to go northward on that business. The queen, as usual, was with him, or near him; but while he was moving about during September, she seems to have remained at Hardby, near Lincoln. We find by mention of her physicians, and of medicine purchased for her at Lincoln, that she had an illness of some duration. It is described as a lingering disease, or slow fever. Hardby was a manor belonging to a family of the name of Weston, and we observe a sir John Weston in the queen’s service. The house was probably placed by the family at the queen’s disposal, as a quieter place for a sick person than the palace of Clipston, where the parliament was about to assemble.

It is usually said that Edward was on his road to Scotland, the queen slowly following him, and that she was taken ill on the journey, and died before he could return to her. But it has been recently shown that he remained in the vicinity of Hardby during the whole of her illness.[30] The parliament was held at Clipston—the king being present at the end of October, and it sat until the second week in November, when he returned to the sick room. We find him at Hardby from the 20th to the 28th of November, on which day the queen died.[31]

For two or three days silence reigns at Hardby. There is an entire cessation of all public business; as if the powerful mind of the king had been, for the moment, utterly prostrated. But, after this pause, we find the widowed monarch at Lincoln, where he doubtless went to issue his orders for the funeral. And all the measures he took with reference to this object and to the matters which followed, and which were connected with it, give proof of the depth of his feeling for his departed consort. It has been said, with great truth, that “this funeral procession was one of the most striking spectacles that England has ever witnessed.”[32]

About ten days were occupied in the sad and solemn journey from Lincolnshire to Westminster, the king and his relatives following the body the whole way. When the procession approached a town which was to furnish a resting‐place, it halted until the ecclesiastics of the place approached with their procession, to bear the body to its temporary abode, before the high altar in the principal church. These halting‐places were afterwards made the site of crosses, richly sculptured, and intended to remind passengers in all future times of the good queen’s last journey. These crosses were raised at Lincoln, Grantham, Stamford, Geddington, Northampton, Stony Stratford, Woburn, Dunstable, St. Alban’s, Waltham, West Cheap, and Charing.

The body of the departed queen, as it entered one of these towns, was met by the monks and clergy of the place, who, receiving and conveying it to its temporary resting‐place, kept watch over it all night long, with mournful chants and unceasing prayers. It was thus slowly brought to the neighbourhood of London, and here, apparently, the king left the procession by night and entered the metropolis, in order that he might meet the body at the head of the nobility and of all the dignified clergy of London and Westminster, on its approach to its last resting‐place. Some of those then present would be able to recal to memory the day when, five‐and‐thirty years before, they had accompanied king Henry and the rejoicing citizens of London to meet the young Eleanor, then for the first time approaching their city as the prince’s bride.

We have already alluded to the manner of the disposal of the queen’s remains. It is most probable that it was chiefly in accordance with Eleanor’s own desire. One portion was deposited in Lincoln cathedral; another in the church of the Black Friars in London; but the body itself was conveyed to Westminster, and placed near to the tomb of king Henry, which was even then hardly completed. It is needless to add that the funeral rites were in accordance with all the rest of this solemnly‐magnificent ceremony; “cum summâ omnium reverentiâ et honore.”

The king remained at Westminster for about a week after the interment; doubtless he was chiefly occupied in giving directions for the extraordinary honours which were yet to be paid to the memory of his departed consort. He then retired to Ashridge, a house of “Bons Hommes,” recently founded by his uncle, the earl of Cornwall, which enjoyed the reputation of possessing “a few drops of the precious blood of Jesus.” This may have been a principal reason for the selection of this spot by the king, who himself reckoned among his most valued treasures “two pieces of the rock of Calvary, which had been presented to him by one Robert Ailward, a pilgrim.”

Edward remained at Ashridge until the 26th of January, 1291, a long retirement for a man of such active energy. He then went to Evesham, or Eynsham, and from thence to Ambresbury, where his mother resided, and where he would also meet his daughter Mary. The spring opens before we find him actively engaged in public business, and there are many proofs that he never ceased to lament his beloved Eleanor. Assuredly the measures he adopted during the next two years to do honour to her memory, were of a kind which, for munificence and persevering thoughtfulness, have very seldom been equalled.

The twelve crosses, which were apparently the first thought that occurred to him, constituted in themselves a princely monument. There are records still extant of no less than £650 17s. 5d. paid for the work done on that erected at Charing, a sum equal to £10,000 of our money. The cross at West Cheap cost £300; that at Waltham, £95; that at St. Alban’s, £113. But it is probable that the statues were supplied by a different artist. We are surely within the mark when we reckon that a sum equal to £30,000 or £40,000 of our present money was expended on these mementoes.

A splendid tomb was placed in the minster at Lincoln; another, in the form of a chapel, was raised in the church of the Black Friars in London. The principal sepulchral monument, however, was naturally allotted to Westminster Abbey. There the best artist that could be procured was employed to form in metal a recumbent effigy of the queen, placed appropriately on a richly‐ornamented tomb. The cost of the tomb is not recorded, but we find entries of as much as £113 6s. 8d., equal to about £1700 of our present money, paid to the artist employed on queen Eleanor and king Henry’s effigies. A distinct payment also appears of a smaller sum for the erection of a workshop, in which these two statues were fabricated.

But the chief work still remained to be done. Edward had noble and splendid conceptions of princely works and long‐enduring memorials, but his sagacious and reflecting mind could not rest satisfied with works in stone or works in metal. The almost universal belief of the church in England in those days, even “holy bishop Robert” not dissenting, was, that prayers and alms especially directed to the welfare of a departed soul had a beneficial effect upon that soul in the intermediate state.

This opinion, when compared with the teaching of Holy Scripture at the time of the Reformation, was found to be delusive; but in the thirteenth century it had not even been questioned. Edward’s care, therefore, for the well‐being of his beloved Eleanor in the invisible world soon began to manifest itself. While at Ashridge, and himself engaged in continual prayers for his departed consort, he found time to write a very earnest and pathetic letter to the abbot of Clugny, one of the most famous monasteries in Europe, entreating the prayers of that fraternity for her, “whom living he had dearly loved, and whom, though dead, he should never cease to love.” And such a request was, doubtless, accompanied by a princely offering. But in his own realm Edward could be more definite and elaborate.

At Hardby a chantry was founded, and another at Elynton; and on the first and second anniversaries of the queen’s death we find mention of various religious services and of large distributions of alms. But the principal provision was naturally reserved for Westminster. In his gifts to the abbey church for perpetual prayers and alms on behalf of the departed queen, “the king was quite profuse.” He gave to this church the manors of Knoll, Arden’s Grafton, and Langdon, Warwickshire, with other lands in the same county; and the manors of Bidbrook in Essex, Westerham in Kent, and Turweston in Bucks, for a perpetual commemoration. Special services of the most solemn kind were provided for, and seven score poor persons were to have charity. The charter for these gifts was dated in October, 1292, showing that neither the lapse of time nor the distractions of the momentous Scottish controversy could withdraw his mind from this earnest and settled purpose.

Edward, however, was well versed in the Old Testament scriptures, and he remembered Isaiah’s warnings against religious ceremonies without justice or charity. On the anniversaries of his consort’s death, we often remark the occurrence of large distributions of alms. But another thing is also noticeable. The queen had enjoyed from her husband’s affection large landed possessions. Her stewards or bailiffs might have wronged or oppressed her tenants. We know not what proclamation may have been made, or invitation given, calling upon all who had any complaint to offer, to come forward; but it seems quite clear, that some such proclamation must have been issued; for the records are very numerous, in the next year or two, of the investigation of such complaints. And a fixed and honest purpose to do justice to all parties is evident in all these transactions.

The sorrow felt for queen Eleanor’s death was, apparently, general and sincere. Her name is connected with no political contention or intrigue; and she seems to have made no enemies. Rishanger, writing at the time of her death, styles her “this most saintly woman and queen;” and adds, somewhat hyperbolically, that she was like “a pillar that supported the whole state.” Walsingham, who wrote in the next age, described her more intelligibly, as “a woman pious, modest, pitiful, benevolent to all.” He adds, that “the sorrowful, everywhere, so far as her dignity allowed, she consoled, and those who were at variance she delighted to reconcile.” But her best eulogium is found in her consort’s grief. His penetration and sagacity, his native nobleness of soul would have rendered it impossible for him to love a mean and unworthy object. But his affection for her was not a mere youthful passion. It was after a companionship of five‐and‐thirty years that he gave his testimony to her worth; and that testimony was one which few women indeed in the whole world’s history have ever received or have ever merited.

V.
RETROSPECTIVE VIEW.

The autumn of the year 1290 was a solemn epoch in this great king’s life. In this autumn died his beloved Eleanor; in this autumn died, also, “the maiden of Norway,” the young queen of Scotland, whose death ushered in so many troubles.

Halcyon skies had for a whole quarter of a century gilded Edward’s course and prospects; but a few weeks sufficed to end the sunshine of his prosperous career. From the battle of Evesham, in 1265, to the death of his queen, and the opening of the Scottish controversy in 1290, his life had been one of great enjoyment, great harmony, and great usefulness. “Held in universal esteem at home,” and “famous throughout the world” for wisdom and valour, his lot might be regarded as one of no common prosperity. But this sad year, 1290, ended all this happiness. Clouds and storms arose, and though brief intervals of calm occurred, we find a king who was “slow to all manner of strife,” compelled in his fifty‐seventh year to don his armour and mount his horse, and set forth to meet a Scottish inroad, and from that time forth until his death in 1307, almost in every year we find him, in whom the infirmities of age must have begun to make themselves felt, in harness and in the saddle, sleeping at night by his horse’s side on the bare heath, working with his men in the laborious siege of a fortress, and encountering, all the time, what to such a man was by far more painful—treachery from professed friends, and from his foes, perpetual simulations of submission, followed by constant treasons and breaches of covenant, the moment the sword was lifted from their throat. We open, in this sad year, the second volume of Edward’s reign, but before we close the first, let us glance for a few moments at the past, and try once more to rectify the widespread error, or rather the constant misrepresentation, which shows to us this great king as, by choice, a man of war; when he was, more than most other sovereigns, a man of peace.

One of the ablest, and generally one of the fairest of our modern historians, thus commences his account of Edward’s reign:—“Laying aside his disputes with his neighbours as a French prince, his active and splendid reign may be considered as an attempt to subject the whole island of Great Britain to his sway.”[33] And a few pages later we are told that “his ambition tainted all his acts,” and again, that “a conqueror is a perpetual plotter against the safety of all nations.” And another justly‐esteemed writer, Mr. Sharon Turner, tells us that “The reign of Edward was that of a prince whose sedate judgment and active talents advanced the civilization and power of his country. It may be considered under four heads—his incorporation of Wales, his wars in Scotland, his foreign treaties, and his internal reforms.”

Thus both these writers, and with them a multitude of smaller note, agree in describing Edward as a man of ambition, a man covetous of his neighbour’s possessions, a conqueror, “perpetually plotting” against the safety of others. Now, our quarrel with this view is not merely that it is inaccurate or imperfect, but that it is diametrically opposed to all the principal facts of the case, calling white black and black white, and representing a sovereign as ambitious and unscrupulous, whose real character was that he was scrupulously conscientious;—“as careful in performing his obligations as in exacting his rights,”[34] or, again, to cite the old chronicler,

“Slowe to all manner of strife;

Discreet and wise, and true of his worde.”

Such writers as those we have cited place before their readers a king who, from his very accession, coveted and “plotted against” both Wales and Scotland. To this we oppose the indubitable facts, that when Llewellyn withheld his homage, Edward, instead of proceeding to extremities, was patient and forbearing, sent him summons after summons, offered to go to Shrewsbury or to Chester to meet him, and waited, in all, two whole years before he took up arms. And, again, that when Llewellyn was reduced to extremities, and might have been banished and Wales annexed, Edward granted him peace the moment he asked it, replaced him in his seat, attended his marriage, and did all he could to make him his friend. The war which led to Llewellyn’s chance‐medley death, and to the annexation, was a war made by Llewellyn and David, not by the English king.

As for Scotland, the conquest of which is placed in the fore‐front of Edward’s ambitious designs, it is surely enough to say that he ascended the throne in 1272, and that during more than eighteen years he never stirred one step or moved a finger against the honour and independence of Scotland. In 1290 the Scottish throne became vacant, and he was clamorously besought, for years, by all the chief men in Scotland to interfere. Yet, instead of seizing the opportunity, he stood aloof, went, at last, cautiously into the question, and in November, 1292, adjudged the throne to Baliol.

Four more years elapsed without the slightest move on Edward’s part against Scotland. But in 1296, the twenty‐fourth year of Edward’s reign, the Scotch joined with his enemy, the king of France, and invaded England. And then, and not before, being in his fifty‐seventh year, did the king enter Scotland, a country which, we are now assured, he had been coveting and “plotting against” for a whole quarter of a century. We say, then, once more, that these constant representations of Edward, which we find in a multitude of historians, great and small, exhibiting him as an ambitious man, a conqueror, a “designing man,” constantly “plotting against the safety of his neighbours,” constitute, on the whole, one of the most extraordinary instances of literary injustice and wrong that is to be found in all British history.

Let us look for a moment at the actual results, the real facts, of these eighteen years. Surely a period of this length, extending from the thirty‐third to the fifty‐first year of Edward’s life, might be expected to show his real character, the true bent of his mind. A conqueror, an ambitious man, is not likely to waste the whole prime of his life in peaceful inactivity, and only to exhibit his cupidity and unscrupulousness when grey hairs were beginning to show themselves. The victors of Crécy and of Agincourt followed no such course. What Edward really was, he showed in these eighteen years. The conquest of Wales, the only interruption of an otherwise peaceful course, was, as we have shown, forced upon him. He had no choice in the matter. The Welsh princes would not have peace. But, with this one exception, what was the character of this protracted period—the whole prime of Edward’s life?

It was that of constant, careful, sedulous improvement. No department of the government was exempt from his thoughtful scrutiny. The revenues of the crown were carefully examined, and their economical employment provided for. In place of “seizures” for the king’s use, we now find “purchases.” The household expenses were placed on a proper footing. The king could exhibit royal splendour when public occasions called for it; but the general rule of his expenditure was that of frugality. A modern writer observes, that “his household as king was both well‐regulated and economical. We have a record of his expenses while residing at Langley, Bucks, in Lent, 1290.” This, of course, was not a season of festivity; but we find that “in the first week his expenses were £7 10s. 4½d; in the second, £5 19s. 0½d.; and in the third, £5 12s. 2½d.[35] Now, bearing in mind the habits and usages of that time,[36] when the regulated price of a lamb was sixpence, and of a goose, fourpence, we shall see at a glance that this expenditure for a king, in retirement during the season of Lent, was both liberal and economical. It contrasts forcibly with the reckless extravagance of his father Henry, and of his still more wasteful son, the second Edward. Henry, after his royal festivities at Bourdeaux and Paris in 1254, returned home burdened with debts, which he himself described as “horrible to think of.” And the younger Edward, when just commencing life, seems to have been accustomed to spend as much daily as we have just seen his father spend weekly! We have a record of his household expenses for three days in 1293, when he was staying in a country residence. On Thursday his expenses amounted to £7 4s. 5d., on Friday, to £6 8s. 1d., and on Saturday, to £6 4s.; being at the rate of about £46 per week. The expenditure of his household in that year amounted to £3,846 7s. 6d., which at the present rate of money would be equal to more than £50,000 per annum. That such habits in youth should lead to a reign of discomfort, closing on dishonour, is not to be wondered at.

Edward I., however, though economical, was no lover of money. On fitting occasions his expenditure was royal. His coronation banquet was one of unusual splendour and liberality. His Round Table celebrations must have been very costly. Fond of hunting, his stables must have occasioned a considerable outlay. His presents were magnificent, his charities were very large. The entries under this head, in his “Wardrobe Accounts,” were numerous, and must have reached an aggregate, in each year, of large amount. One of the chronicles of the day makes this brief allusion to his charities:—

“King Edward, turning aside to the northern parts, celebrated Easter at Newcastle, where he distributed great abundance of oblations in the monasteries, and gave large alms to the people; insomuch that many men not poor did not blush to pretend themselves so, being allured by so great a liberality.”[37]

On the first anniversary of his consort’s death, besides great and costly solemnities at Westminster, the Black Friars in London, and at Lincoln, we find mention made of many other places—Haverfordwest, Burgh, Haverleigh, Somerton, Lindhurst, Ledes, and Langley—where the day was observed with especial rites, and the distribution of alms. All this was done at the king’s expense, and sums varying from £19 to £30 were given to each place. But £30 in those days was nearly equal to £500 at the present day.

On the second anniversary, besides many other celebrations, alms were distributed to the prisoners in Newgate, to the hospitals of St. Giles, St. James, St. Thomas, St. Mary, and St. Bartholomew, in London, and also to the seven houses of Friars’ mendicants in the same city.

Edward reformed the coin of the realm. He strove to restore purity to the administration of justice. By many stringent regulations he tried to abolish usury, which had grown to be an enormous evil.

It is in his reign that we first find an annual account of the public revenue and expenditure.[38] So admirably were the finances of the government administered, that in all these eighteen years, 1272–1290, we find only four applications to the people for an “aid”—a vote of taxes for the expenditure of the crown; and each of these is for a declared and special purpose.

In his fourth year, the second after his coronation, he asked and obtained a fifteenth, to clear off his remaining liabilities on account of his expedition to the Holy Land—a work deemed, in those days, to be a public duty.

In his fifth year, he asked for a twelfth, to provide for the expenses of the anticipated war with Wales.

In his eleventh year, the war in Wales having broken out a second time, he obtained a thirtieth from the laity and a twentieth from the clergy.

And in his eighteenth year, having returned from a prolonged visit to Gascony and other parts, where he had incurred many expenses, he asked and obtained a fifteenth.

These four small levies are all that Edward required during the first eighteen years of his reign. And the termination, for ever, of the destructive warfare on the borders of Wales, which had so long laid waste several counties of England, was far more than an abundant compensation to his people. Had he never been assailed by others, the rest of his reign might have passed over without any further demands upon his subjects. Had not Philip of France endeavoured to deprive him of Gascony, while the Scotch, in reckless violation of their recent oaths, allied themselves to France and invaded England; there is no reason to suppose that any burdens would have been laid upon the people, or that the earls of Norfolk and Hereford would have found any opportunity for their resistance or their “patriotism.”

But the chief glory of his reign was, that he saw and appreciated that great public necessity—the want of good laws, and of a constitutional legislature for their consideration and enactment. We have already cited, but must here repeat, his first avowal, made as early as in the year 1267, of what he deemed to be the true office, the first duty of a king. Speaking in his father’s name, he said,—

“Our lord the king, providing for the better estate of his realm of England, and for the more speedy administration of justice, as belongeth to the office of a king; the more discreet men of the realm being called together, as well of the higher as of the lower degree; it was provided, agreed, and ordained,” etc.

Here we have, before he had ascended the throne, but at a time when he assuredly governed the vessel of the State, a brief but pithy outline of the constitution of England; and that outline it was the effort, the business of his life to fill up. With a vigorous hand he applied himself to the work of establishing a system of wise laws, and of improving the administration of justice. His sagacious and active mind penetrated and pervaded every department. And hence it is, that, in the judgment of all competent historians, the thirteenth century is the starting‐point of the history of England. A writer of the Elizabethan age[39] repeatedly notices with admiration, “his noble industry,” his “unceasing labours”; and this praise is justified by the recorded facts. In former reigns, foreign contests, and the suppressions of rebellion, or the enjoyment of hunting, filled up the reigns of the Norman kings. But Edward lived for England. In the former reigns, a brief charter had sometimes been extorted from the king; and in Henry’s long reign our Statute‐Book commences, with six ordinances, made in the course of fifty‐six years. But so soon as Edward ascends the throne, legislation of the highest order at once begins. Crowned in 1274, in 1275 we have the “Statute of Westminster,” “a code, rather than an act of parliament.” In 1276, the statutes on Coroners and on Bigamy. Occupied with Wales for one year, in 1278 we have the “Statute of Gloucester;” in 1279, the great “Statute of Mortmain.” Once more Wales claimed his attention; but in 1283 was passed “the famous statute” de Mercatoribus. In 1284, followed the “Statutes of Wales.” In 1285, the second “Statutes of Westminster;” and subsequently, the “Statute of Winchester.” He was then abroad for three years; but on his return, we have, immediately, the statutes “Quo Warranto,” “Quia Emptores,” and “Westminster III.” Thus it is evident that Edward deemed, most wisely and justly, that the establishment of good and wholesome laws was his primary duty.

A hasty observer might remark that the quantity of this legislation was not large, and that a statute or two in a year might be reckoned a slow rate of production. But the answer to this is obvious. The work of legislation was but newly undertaken, and those who had addressed themselves to it were prudently cautious. Some of these statutes, too, were large and comprehensive measures, well deserving a prolonged and careful consideration. But this brings us to a distinct and separate question—the character and value of Edward’s legislation. And this is the most wonderful feature in the whole case; for the quality of this legislation is probably unparalleled. Who is a higher authority on such matters than Sir Edward Coke?—and he, describing Edward’s laws, says:—

“All the statutes made in the reign of this king may justly be styled establishments; because they are more constant, standing, and durable laws, than have been made ever since. Justly, therefore, may this king be called, our Justinian.”

Fifty years after Sir Edward Coke, lived the great and good Sir Matthew Hale, who, in describing the growth of the common law of England, says of this reign:—

“Never did the laws, in any one age, receive so great and sudden an advancement. Nay, I may safely say, that all the ages since his time have not done so much, in reference to the orderly settling and establishing the distributive justice of this kingdom, as he did in the short compass of his single reign.” He adds: “Upon the whole, it appears, that the very scheme, mould, and model, of the common law, as it was rectified and set in order by this king, so in a great measure it has continued the same, through all succeeding ages to this day. So that the mark or epocha we are to take for the true starting of the law of England, what it is, is to be considered, stated, and estimated, from what this king left it. Before his time it was, in a great measure, rude and unpolished; while, on the other hand, as it was thus polished and ordered by him, so it has remained hitherto, without any great or considerable alteration.”

It would be easy to enlarge on this subject, but we are limiting ourselves to an outline. Sir William Blackstone thus describes this remarkable period of legislation:—

“Edward established, confirmed, and settled the great charter and the charter of forests.

“He gave a mortal wound to the encroachments of the pope and his clergy, by limiting and establishing the bounds of ecclesiastical jurisdiction; and by obliging the ordinary, to whom the goods of intestates at that time belonged, to discharge the debts of the deceased.

“He defined the limits of the several temporal courts of the highest jurisdiction, the king’s‐bench, common‐pleas, and exchequer, so that they might not interfere with each other’s proper business.

“He settled the boundaries of the inferior courts, in counties, hundred, and manors.

“He secured the property of the subject, by abolishing all arbitrary taxes and talliages levied without consent of parliament.

“He guarded the common justice of the kingdom from abuses, by giving up the royal prerogative of sending mandates to interfere in private causes.

“He settled the forms, solemnities, and effect of fines levied in the court of common‐pleas.

“He first established a repository for the public records of the kingdom.

“He improved upon the laws of king Alfred, by that great and orderly method of watch and ward, established by the statute of Winchester.

“He settled and reformed many abuses incident to tenures, by the statute of Quia emptores.

“He instituted a speedier way for the recovery of debts, by granting executions, not only upon goods and chattels, but also upon lands, by writ of elegit; a signal benefit to a trading people.

“He effectually provided for the recovery of advowsons as temporal rights.

“He closed the great gulf in which all the landed property of the kingdom was in danger of being swallowed, by his reiterated statutes of Mortmain.

“I might continue,” adds Sir William, “this catalogue much further; but, upon the whole, we may observe that the very scheme and model of the administration of common justice, between party and party, was entirely settled by this king.”

Legislation, then, and not military aggrandisement, was the work to which Edward gave himself; and to liken him to Justinian does him much less than justice. The Roman emperor lived at the close of a long period, during which Rome had abounded in laws, and in which the laws had grown too complex and voluminous. His merit is, that he collected and arranged them into a code. Edward’s position was wholly different. He was born at a period when England, then rising into the position of a nation, found itself without written laws and without a legislature; and he set himself to work, with clearness of vision and with largeness of heart, to supply both these wants. In the first of these merits he does not stand alone. Other rulers have seen the need of laws, and have set themselves to supply that need. But too often they have wished that the work should be theirs, the power theirs, and the merit theirs also. Now it is Edward’s peculiar glory that, from the very opening of his public life, he seemed to have seen and adopted the great truth which lies at the foundation of all “constitutions,” that “what concerns all should be by all approved,” and that “common perils should be met by remedies prescribed in common.” These words fell from him in 1295, but the sentiment contained in them is discernible in every step of his whole career.

It is this, then, and not any supposed “attempt to subject the whole island to his sway,” which constitutes the chief feature, the principal merit of Edward’s reign. To be a conqueror, although indeed this kind of conquest—the bringing one island under one government—would be the wisest and the best; to be a conqueror would be but an ordinary and very common sort of merit. The organ of “acquisitiveness” is possessed by a great many of the human race. Edward’s true glory lay, not in his desire to take, but in his willingness to give. When he went forth, “mighty in arms,” it was, in every case, because his foes left him no choice,—because to remain at peace would have been dishonour. But his peaceful conquests, his legislative victories, were entirely his own. Here we see his own mind and will. From his first accession to power, until the latest hour of his reign, two great objects were constantly present to his mind. He saw that the realm required, and ought to have, a parliament, consisting not only of prelates and lords, but of “all the commonalty of the realm, thither summoned;” and next, that a chief function and office of this parliament should be to deliberate upon proposals laid before it, which should become, when assented to, statutes of the realm.

It is the enunciation of these two principles which constitutes the real glory of king Edward’s reign. That enunciation was his own voluntary act, and its sincerity was proved by all the measures of his subsequent career. His life was devoted to the working out of this great theory. His first statute, in its preamble, gives a bold and fearless sketch of a free legislature; and, before he died, he had gathered around him, as elected members of that legislature, the representatives of all the most populous towns of his realm of England.

Justly then does the writer whom we have already cited, a contemporary of Spenser and of Shakespeare, describe this king as one “in whom we see the value of wisdom, kingly powers, and noble industry,” one who “was a fatherly king to his people; employing all his life, care, and labour to benefit and nourish the commonwealth”—one, in fine, “in whom the good government and commonwealth of England had their chief foundation.”[40]

VI.
SCOTTISH AFFAIRS—THE ARBITRATION—THE WAR.
A.D. 1291–1296.

The year 1290, as we have already observed, was the disastrous one which ended Edward’s peaceful career, and involved him, without any purpose or desire of his own, in troubles and strife for the rest of his days. The death of a young princess, at a distance of five hundred miles from Edward’s dominions, involved the northern part of the island in troubles which he alone had power to quell. His interposition, earnestly and loudly called for, became, apparently, inevitable. But, when once engaged in the attempt, there seemed no option left him in any of the after‐proceedings. Step followed step, by absolute necessity, until the annexation of the Scottish realm became the natural and unavoidable close; and in this way, without having any alternative, he became an object of enmity to almost every Scotchman, and drew down on his memory in after times, the bitter and unjust animadversions of a long series of prejudiced historians.