have been saved. But Henry did not wish to save her. His love had
already grown cool, and when the physicians asked him whether they
should save the mother or the child, he replied, 'Save the child,
and let the mother die. I can get wives enough.' [Footnote: Burnet.]
Ah, my daughter, I hope you may not die such a natural death as Jane
Seymour did, for whom, as you say, the king mourned two years. But
after that period, something new, something altogether extraordinary
happened to the king. He fell in love with a picture, and because,
in his proud self-conceit, he was convinced that the fine picture
which Holbein had made of him, was not at all flattered, but
entirely true to nature, it did not occur to him that Holbein's
likeness of the Princess Anne of Cleves might be somewhat flattered,
and not altogether faithful. So the king fell in love with a
picture, and sent ambassadors to Germany to bring the original of
the portrait to England as his bride. He himself went to meet her at
Rochester, where she was to land. Ah, my child, I have witnessed
many queer and droll things in my eventful life, but the scene at
Rochester, however, is among my most spicy recollections. The king
was as enthusiastic as a poet, and deep in love as a youth of
twenty, and so began our romantic wedding-trip, on which Henry
disguised himself and took part in it, assuming the name of my
cousin. As the king's master of horse, I was honored with the
commission of carrying to the young queen the greeting of her ardent
husband, and begging her to receive the knight, who would deliver to
her a present from the king. She granted my request with a grin
which made visible a frightful row of yellow teeth. I opened the
door, and invited the king to enter. Ah, you ought to have witnessed
that scene! It is the only farcial passage in the bloody tragedy of
Henry's married life. You should have seen with what hasty
impatience the king rushed in, then suddenly, at the sight of her,