His first request was peremptory: he must have money forthwith for his journey to London, and the crown jewels of England must be immediately forwarded for the use of his homely wife. The Council ventured to ignore the latter. They thought he would hurry to London to attend the funeral of Elizabeth--seeing she had herself named him as her successor. "Give not my crown to a _rascal_!" she had said with her dying breath; "My cousin of Scotland is a _king_!" It was not to be supposed, however, that he would hasten his movements to honour "the defunct Queen," as he called her (seeing she had cut off his mother's head), so he dawdled on the way, hunting, feasting, and discovering the charms of "Theobald's" in Hertfordshire, where he afterwards spent so much of his royal time. All the way, in season and out of season, he would indulge in the oft-repeated words, "I am the King," as if to reassure himself of the fact and recall his powers and privileges. Casting about for opportunities to use them, his eye fell upon a petty thief, a cut-purse who had stolen some trifling coin from a courtier, had confessed his guilt, and begged for mercy. James had the man hanged without legal trial, and when some cringing follower suggested that this procedure was irregular, had exclaimed, "God's wounds! I make what likes me law and gospel." (His oath--and each one of England's sovereigns had his own favourite profanity--was a little milder than Elizabeth's "God's death" and stronger than previous kings' "God's blood," "God's eyes," etc.) "God's wounds," stammered King James, "I make what likes me law and gospel!" He also made what liked him knights and lords. Shutting his eyes, which could never endure the sight of a naked blade (and good reason!), he laid the knight-conferring sword on shoulders which might well tingle under the accolade, seeing how narrowly eyes escaped being put out, and ears cut off. He bestowed this distinction upon nearly every person he met during his journey. By the time he set foot in his palace of Whitehall, he had knighted two hundred individuals, without respect to distinction of merit or station. Before he had been three months a king, he had bestowed the hitherto highly esteemed honour of knighthood upon seven hundred. It seemed to be a relief to his feelings, immediately after a tedious oration or ceremony, to create twenty or more knights. Nor was he chary even of the honour of the English peerage, which Elizabeth had held at so high a value. He presently added sixty-two names to the list of peers. By that same token those of us who hunger for noble descent are very shy of the strawberry leaves that grew in James the First's time, and diligently seek for those that flourished under the smiles of earlier potentates. [Illustration: King James I.]