and fall the victims of its alternating fortunes.  And what if into an unsteady heart and brain, intoxicated with splendour, the outward chaos should find its way, converting the poor silly soul into an image of the same confusion,—­if conscience should be deposed from her high place, and the Pandora box be broken loose of passions and sensualities and follies; and at length there be nothing left of all which man or woman ought to value, save hope of God’s forgiveness.

Three short years have yet to pass, and again, on a summer morning, Queen Anne Boleyn will leave the Tower of London—­not radiant then with beauty on a gay errand of coronation, but a poor wandering ghost, on a sad tragic errand, from which she will never more return, passing away out of an earth where she may stay no longer, into a presence where, nevertheless, we know that all is well—­for all of us—­and therefore for her.

But let us not cloud her shortlived sunshine with the shadow of the future.  She went on in her loveliness, the peeresses following in their carriages, with the royal guard in their rear.  In Fenchurch Street she was met by the children of the city schools; and at the corner of Gracechurch Street a masterpiece had been prepared of the pseudo-classic art, then so fashionable, by the merchants of the Styll Yard.  A Mount Parnassus had been constructed, and a Helicon fountain upon it playing into a basin with four jets of Rhenish wine.  On the top of the mountain sat Apollo with Calliope at his feet, and on either side the remaining Muses, holding lutes or harps, and singing each of them some “posy” or epigram in praise of the queen, which was presented, after it had been sung, written in letters of gold.

From Gracechurch Street, the procession passed to Leadenhall, where there was a spectacle in better taste, of the old English Catholic kind, quaint perhaps and forced, but truly and even beautifully emblematic.  There was again a “little mountain,” which was hung with red and white roses; a gold ring was placed on the summit, on which, as the queen appeared, a white falcon was made to “descend as out of the sky”—­“and then incontinent came down an angel with great melody, and set a close crown of gold upon the falcon’s head; and in the same pageant sat Saint Anne with all her issue beneath her; and Mary Cleophas with her four children, of the which children one made a goodly oration to the queen, of the fruitfulness of St. Anne, trusting that like fruit should come of her."[436]

With such “pretty conceits,” at that time the honest tokens of an English welcome, the new queen was received by the citizens of London.  These scenes must be multiplied by the number of the streets, where some fresh fancy met her at every turn.  To preserve the festivities from flagging, every fountain and conduit within the walls ran all day with wine; the bells of every steeple were ringing; children lay in wait with song, and ladies with posies, in which all the resources of fantastic extravagance were exhausted; and thus in an unbroken triumph—­and to outward appearance received with the warmest affection—­she passed under Temple Bar, down the Strand by Charing Cross to Westminster Hall.  The king was not with her throughout the day; nor did he intend to be with her in any part of the ceremony.  She was to reign without a rival, the undisputed sovereign of the hour.