Life of Mary Queen of Scots Volume II Part 5

Elizabeth's Attorney-General opened the pleadings. He began by referring to the act of Parliament, in which it was made capital to be the person _for_ whom any design was undertaken against the life of the Queen. He then described the late conspiracy, and attempted to establish Mary's connexion with it, by producing copies of letters which, he alleged, she had written to Babington himself and several of his accomplices. To these having added letters from Babington to her, and the declarations and confessions which had been extorted from her secretaries, he a.s.serted that the case was made out, and wound up his speech with a laboured display of legal knowledge and forensic oratory.

Mary was now called upon for her defence; and she entered on it with composure and dignity. She denied all connexion with Babington's conspiracy, in so far as he entertained any designs injurious to Elizabeth's safety or the welfare of her kingdom;--she allowed that the letters which he was said to have addressed to her might be genuine, but it had not been proved that she ever received them;--she maintained that her own letters were all garbled or fabricated;[191] that as to the confessions of her secretaries, they had been extorted by fear, and were therefore not to be credited; but that, if they were in any particulars true, these particulars must have been disclosed at the expense of the oath of fidelity they had come under to her when they entered her service, and that men who would perjure themselves in one instance were not to be trusted in any;--she objected besides that they had not been confronted with her according to an express law enacted in the thirteenth year of Elizabeth's reign "that no one should be arraigned for intending the destruction of the Prince's life, but by the testimony and oath of two lawful witnesses, _to be produced face to face before him_;"--she maintained, that even supposing she were to allow the authenticity of many of the papers adduced against her, they would not prove her guilty of any crime; for she was surely doing no wrong, if, after a calamitous captivity of nineteen years, in which she had lost forever her youth, her health, and her happiness, she made one last effort to regain the liberty of which she had been so unfairly robbed; but that as to scheming against the life of the Queen her sister, it was an infamy she abh.o.r.ed;--"I would disdain," said she "to purchase all that is most valuable on earth by the a.s.sasination of the meanest of the human race; and worn out, as I now am, with cares and sufferings, the prospect of a crown is not so inviting that I should ruin my soul in order to obtain it. Neither am I a stranger to the feelings of humanity, nor unacquainted with the duties of religion, and it is my nature to be more inclined to the devotion of Esther, than to the sword of Judith. If ever I have given consent by my words, or even by my thoughts, to any attempt against the life of the Queen of England, far from declining the judgment of men, I shall not even pray for the mercy of G.o.d."[192]

Elizabeth's advocates were not a little surprised at the eloquent and able manner in which Mary conducted her defence. They had expected to have every thing their own way, and to gain an easy victory over one unacquainted with the forms of legal procedure, and unable to cope with their own professional talents. But they were disappointed and baffled; and in order to maintain their ground even plausibly, they were obliged to protract the proceedings for two whole days. Nor, after all, did the Commissioners venture to p.r.o.nounce judgment, but adjourned the court to the Star-Chamber at Westminster, where they knew that Mary would not be present, and where, consequently, they would have no opposition to fear.[193] On the 25th of October, they a.s.sembled there, and having again examined the Secretaries, Naw and Curl, who appear to have been persons of little fidelity or constancy, and who confirmed their former declarations, a unanimous judgment was delivered, that "Mary, commonly called Queen of Scots and dowager of France, was accessary to Babington's conspiracy, and had compa.s.sed and imagined divers matters within the realm of England, tending to the hurt, death, and destruction of the royal person of Elizabeth, in opposition to the statute framed for her protection."[194]

Elizabeth ordered this verdict to be laid before her Parliament, which a.s.sembled a few days afterwards; and, at Walsingham's instigation, its legality was not only confirmed, but the Lord Chancellor was sent up with an address to the Queen, in which, after stating their conviction that her security was incompatible with Mary's life, they requested that she would give the sentence effect, by ordering her immediate execution. Elizabeth, though conscious that, if her personal safety had been endangered, she had herself to blame, was rejoiced at the opportunity at length afforded her, for gratifying her long cherished hatred. She affected, however, to be greatly perplexed how to act. She declared that, if she were not afraid of endangering the welfare of her people, she would freely pardon Mary for all her treasonable practices, and she beseeched the House to endeavour to discover some less severe method of procedure. The Parliament, as she expected, replied firmly, that they could not recommend any more lenient measure; and in the pedantic language of the day, called to Elizabeth's remembrance the examples of G.o.d's vengeance upon Saul for sparing Agag, and on Ahab for sparing Benhadad. Elizabeth still affected to be irresolute; and indeed it was not unlikely that she was so in reality; for, though anxious to have Mary removed, she was not so hardened and insane as not to know, that however it might be sanctioned by the world, murder was as criminal and as contrary to the unchanging code of moral justice, when commanded by a Queen, as when perpetrated by a peasant. She desired that her Parliament should be content for the present "with an answer without an answer." "If I should say, that I will not do what you request, I might say perhaps more than I intend; and if I should say I will do it, I might plunge myself into as much inconvenience as you endeavour to preserve me from." All this manoeuvring was for the purpose of conveying to the nation an impression of her extreme sensibility, and generous hesitation.

Another reason why Elizabeth did not choose to be over-precipitate, was her fear of giving any deadly offence to foreign courts. She ordered the sentence against Mary to be published both throughout her own kingdom and abroad, and she waited anxiously to observe the sensation which it should create, and the steps that might be taken in consequence. She need not, however, have given herself much uneasiness upon this score. Henry III. of France had never been more than a very lukewarm advocate for the Queen of Scots, and the remonstrances he occasionally made in her behalf, were rather for the sake of appearances, than because he was anxious that they should be successful. On the present occasion, startled by the imminence of his cousin's danger, he seems to have been a little more in earnest, and ordered his amba.s.sador to make as forcible a representation as possible against the iniquitous severity that was intended. But Elizabeth knew that his rage would evaporate in words, and paid little attention to the harangue. In Scotland, the young King, James, was surrounded by ministers who had sold themselves to England, and Elizabeth was well aware, that though he might bark, he dared not bite. Besides, the sentiments regarding his mother, which had been carefully instilled into him from his earliest years, were not such as were likely to inspire him with any decided wish to protect and avenge her. He had been constantly surrounded by her deadliest enemies, and the lesson which Buchanan taught him daily, was a lesson of hatred towards his only surviving parent. His succession also to the English crown, greatly depended on the friendship of Elizabeth; and she was able, in consequence, to maintain an ascendancy over him, which he dared not venture to resist. He was not, however, so entirely dest.i.tute of all ordinary filial sentiments as to consent to remain a quiet spectator of his mother's execution. "His opinion is,"

said his worthless minion the Master of Gray, "that it cannot stand with his honour to be a consenter to take his mother's life, but he does not care how strictly she be kept; and is content that all her old knavish servants should be hanged."[195] To prevent if possible a catastrophe which "did not stand with his honour," he sent the Master of Gray and Sir Robert Melville as his amba.s.sadors to London, to press his objections upon the attention of Elizabeth. The latter was true to the cause in which he had been sent, and his remonstrances were vigorous and sincere. But Gray, wishing to curry favour with Elizabeth, a.s.sured her that she had no cause to fear the King's resentment, for he was of an irresolute character and timid disposition, and that whatever might happen, he would never think of embroiling himself in a disastrous war with England. Elizabeth listened with evident satisfaction to these artful insinuations; and desired her minister Walsingham, to inform the Scottish monarch, that Mary's doom was already fixed by the decision of the nation, and that his mistress the Queen had it not in her power to save her. James received this intelligence with grief, but not with the spirit that became the only child of Mary Stuart. Instead of putting himself at the head of an army, and marching into the heart of England, he was contented to communicate his mother's unfortunate condition to his subjects, and order prayers to be said for her in all the churches,--"that it might please G.o.d to enlighten her with the light of his truth, and to protect her from the danger which was hanging over her."

In the mean time, messengers had been sent to the Queen of Scots, to report to her the sentence of the Commissioners, and to prepare her for the consequences which might be expected to follow. So far from receiving the news with dismay, Mary solemnly raised her hands to heaven, and thanked G.o.d that she was so soon to be relieved from her troubles. They were not yet, however, at a close; and even during the short remainder of her life, she was to be still further insulted. Her keepers, Sir Amias Paulet and Sir Drue Drury, refused any longer to treat her with the reverence and respect due to her rank and s.e.x. The canopy of state, which she had always ordered to be put up in her apartment wherever she went, was taken down, and every badge of royalty removed. It was intimated to her, that she was no longer to be regarded as a Princess, but as a criminal; and the persons who came into her presence stood before her without uncovering their heads, or paying her any obeisance. The attendance of a Catholic priest was refused, and an Episcopalian bishop sent in his stead, to point out and correct the errors of her ways. Mary bore all these indignities with a calm spirit, which rose superior to them, and which proved their unworthiness, by bringing them into contrast with her own elevation of mind. "In despite of your Sovereign and her subservient judges," said she, "I will die a Queen. My royal character is indelible, and I will surrender it with my spirit to the Almighty G.o.d, from whom I received it, and to whom my honour and my innocence are fully known."[196] In December 1586, she wrote her last letter to Elizabeth; and though from an unfriended prisoner to an envied and powerful Sovereign, it evinces so much magnanimity and calm consciousness of mental serenity, that it is impossible to peruse it, without confessing Elizabeth's inferiority, and Mary's triumph. It was couched in the following terms:

"Madam, I thank G.o.d from the bottom of my heart, that, by the sentence which has been pa.s.sed against me, he is about to put an end to my tedious pilgrimage. I would not wish it prolonged, though it were in my power, having had enough of time to experience its bitterness. I write at present only to make three last requests which, as I can expect no favour from your implacable ministers, I should wish to owe to your Majesty, and to no other. _First_, as in England, I cannot hope to be buried according to the solemnities of the Catholic church, (the religion of the ancient Kings, your ancestors and mine, being now changed,) and as in Scotland they have already violated the ashes of my progenitors, I have to request, that, as soon as my enemies have bathed their hands in my innocent blood, my domestics may be allowed to inter my body in some consecrated ground; and, above all, that they may be permitted to carry it to France, where the bones of the Queen, my most honoured mother, repose. Thus, that poor frame, which has never enjoyed repose so long as it has been joined to my soul, may find it at last when they will be separated. _Second_, as I dread the tyranny of the harsh men, to whose power you have abandoned me, I entreat your Majesty that I may not be executed in secret, but in the presence of my servants and other persons, who may bear testimony of my faith and fidelity to the true church, and guard the last hours of my life, and my last sighs from the false rumours which my adversaries may spread abroad. _Third_, I request that my domestics, who have served me through so much misery, and with so much constancy, may be allowed to retire without molestation wherever they choose, to enjoy for the remainder of their lives the small legacies which my poverty has enabled me to bequeath to them. I conjure you, Madam, by the blood of Jesus Christ, by our consanguinity, by the memory of Henry VII., our common father, and by the royal t.i.tle which I carry with me to death, not to refuse me those reasonable demands, but to a.s.sure me, by a letter under your own hand, that you will comply with them; and I shall then die as I have lived, your affectionate sister and prisoner, MARY, Queen of Scots."[197]

Whether Elizabeth ever answered this letter, does not appear; but it produced so little effect, that epistles from her to Sir Amias Paulet still exist, which prove that, in her anxiety to avoid taking upon herself the responsibility of Mary's death, she wished to have her privately a.s.sa.s.sinated or poisoned. Paulet, however, though a harsh and violent man, positively refused to sanction so nefarious a scheme. Yet in the very act of instigating murder, Elizabeth could close her eyes against her own iniquity, and affect indignation at the alleged offences of another.[198]

But perceiving at length, that no alternative remained, she ordered her secretary Davidson to bring her the warrant for Mary's execution, and after perusing it, she deliberately affixed her signature. She then desired him to carry it to Walsingham, saying, with an ironical smile, and in a "merry tone," that she feared he would die of grief when he saw it.

Walsingham sent the warrant to the Chancellor, who affixed the Great Seal to it, and despatched it by Beal, with a commission to the Earls of Shrewsbury, Kent, Derby, and others, to see it put in execution. Davidson was afterwards made the victim of Elizabeth's artifice,--who, to complete the solemn farce she had been playing, pretended he had obeyed her orders too quickly, and doomed him in consequence to perpetual imprisonment.[199]

CHAPTER XII.

MARY'S DEATH, AND CHARACTER.

On the 7th of February 1587, the Earls, who had been commissioned to superintend Mary's execution, arrived at Fotheringay. After dining together, they sent to inform the Queen, that they desired to speak with her. Mary was not well, and in bed; but as she was given to understand that it was an affair of moment, she rose, and received them in her own chamber. Her six waiting maids, together with her physician, her surgeon, and apothecary, and four or five male servants, were in attendance. The Earl of Shrewsbury, and the others a.s.sociated with him, standing before her respectfully, with their heads uncovered, communicated, as gently as possible, the disagreeable duty with which they had been intrusted. Beal was then desired to read the warrant for Mary's execution, to which she listened patiently; and making the sign of the cross, she said, that though she was sorry it came from Elizabeth, she had long been expecting the mandate for her death, and was not unprepared to die. "For many years," she added, "I have lived in continual affliction, unable to do good to myself or to those who are dear to me;--and as I shall depart innocent of the crime which has been laid to my charge, I cannot see why I should shrink from the prospect of immortality." She then laid her hand on the New Testament, and solemnly protested that she had never either devised, compa.s.sed, or consented to the death of the Queen of England. The Earl of Kent, with more zeal than wisdom, objected to the validity of this protestation, because it was made on a Catholic version of the Bible; but Mary replied, that it was the version, in the truth of which she believed, and that her oath should be therefore only the less liable to suspicion.

She was advised to hold some G.o.dly conversation with the Dean of Peterborough, whom they had brought with them to console her; but she declined the offer, declaring that she would die in the faith in which she had lived, and beseeching them to allow her to see her Catholic Confessor, who had been for some time debarred her presence. This however they in their turn positively refused.[200]

Other topics were introduced, and casually discussed. Before leaving the world, Mary felt a natural curiosity to be informed upon several subjects of public interest, which, though connected with herself, and generally known, had not penetrated the walls of her prison. She asked if no foreign princes had interfered in her behalf,--if her secretaries were still alive,--if it was intended to punish them as well as her,--if they brought no letters from Elizabeth or others,--and above all, if her son, the King of Scotland, was well, and had evinced any interest in the fate of a mother who had always loved and never wronged him. Being satisfied upon these points, she proceeded to inquire when her execution was to take place? Shrewsbury replied, that it was fixed for the next morning at eight. She appeared startled and agitated for a few minutes, saying that it was more sudden than she had antic.i.p.ated, and that she had yet to make her will, which she had hitherto deferred, in the expectation that the papers and letters which had been forcibly taken from her, would be restored. She soon, however, regained her self-possession; and informing the Commissioners that she desired to be left alone to make her preparations, she dismissed them for the night.

During the whole of this scene, astonishment, indignation, and grief, overwhelmed her attendants, all of whom were devoted to her. As soon as the Earls and their retinue retired, they gave full vent to their feelings, and Mary herself was the only one who remained calm and undisturbed. Bourgoine, her physician, loudly exclaimed against the iniquitous precipitancy with which she was to be hurried out of existence.

More than a few hours' notice was allowed, he said, to the very meanest criminal; and to limit a Princess, with numerous connections both at home and abroad, to so brief a s.p.a.ce, was a degree of rigour which no guilt could authorize. Mary told him, that she must submit with resignation to her fate, and learn to regard it as the will of G.o.d. She then requested her attendants to kneel with her, and she prayed fervently for some time in the midst of them. Afterwards, while supper was preparing, she employed herself in putting all the money she had by her into separate purses, and affixed to each, with her own hand, the name of the person for whom she intended it. At supper, though she sat down to table, she eat little. Her mind, however, was in perfect composure; and during the repast, though she spoke little, placid smiles were frequently observed to pa.s.s over her countenance. The calm magnanimity of their mistress, only increased the distress of her servants. They saw her sitting amongst them in her usual health, and, with almost more than her usual cheerfulness, partaking of the viands that were set before her; yet they knew that it was the last meal at which they should ever be present together; and that the interchange of affectionate service upon their part, and of condescending attention and endearing gentleness on her's, which had linked them to her for so many years, was now about to terminate for ever. Far from attempting to offer her consolation, they were unable to discover any for themselves. As soon as the melancholy meal was over, Mary desired that a cup of wine should be given to her; and putting it to her lips, drank to the health of each of her attendants by name. She requested that they would pledge her in like manner; and each, falling on his knee, and mingling tears with the wine, drank to her, asking pardon at the same time, for all the faults he had ever committed. In the true spirit of Christian humility, she not only willingly forgave them, but asked their pardon also, if she had ever forgotten her duty towards them. She beseeched them to continue constant to their religion, and to live in peace and charity together, and with all men. The inventory of her wardrobe and furniture was then brought to her; and she wrote in the margin, opposite each article, the name of the person to whom she wished it should be given. She did the same with her rings, jewels, and all her most valuable trinkets; and there was not one of her friends or servants, either present or absent, to whom she forgot to leave a memorial.[201]

These duties being discharged, Mary sat down to her desk to arrange her papers, to finish her will, and to write several letters. She previously sent to her confessor, who, though in the Castle, was not allowed to see her, entreating that he would spend the night in praying for her, and that he would inform her what parts of Scripture he considered most suited for her perusal at this juncture. She then drew up her last will and testament; and without ever lifting her pen from the paper, or stopping at intervals to think, she covered two large sheets with close writing, forgetting nothing of any moment, and expressing herself with all that precision and clearness which distinguished her style in the very happiest moments of her life. She named as her four executors, the Duke of Guise, her cousin-german; the Archbishop of Glasgow, her amba.s.sador in France; Lesley, Bishop of Ross; and Monsieur de Ruysseau, her Chancellor. She next wrote a letter to her brother-in-law, the King of France, in which she apologized for not being able to enter into her affairs at greater length, as she had only an hour or two to live, and had not been informed till that day after dinner that she was to be executed next morning. "Thanks be unto G.o.d, however," she added, "I have no terror at the idea of death, and solemnly declare to you, that I meet it innocent of every crime. The bearer of this letter, and my other servants, will recount to you how I comported myself in my last moments." The letter concluded with earnest entreaties, that her faithful followers should be protected and rewarded.

Her anxiety on their account, at such a moment, indicated all that amiable generosity of disposition, which was one of the leading features of Mary's character.[202] About two in the morning, she sealed up all her papers and said she would now think no more of the affairs of this world, but would spend the rest of her time in prayer and commune with her own conscience.

She went to bed for some hours; but she did not sleep. Her lips were observed in continual motion, and her hands were frequently folded and lifted up towards Heaven.[203]

On the morning of Wednesday the 8th of February, Mary rose with the break of day; and her domestics, who had watched and wept all night immediately gathered round her. She told them that she had made her will, and requested that they would see it safely deposited in the hands of her executors. She likewise beseeched them not to separate until they had carried her body to France; and she placed a sum of money in the hands of her physician to defray the expenses of the journey. Her earnest desire was, to be buried either in the Church of St Dennis, in Paris, beside her first husband Francis, or at Rheims, in the tomb which contained the remains of her mother. She expressed a wish too, that, besides her friends and servants, a number of poor people and children from different hospitals should be present at her funeral, clothed in mourning at her expense, and each, according to the Catholic custom, carrying in his hand a lighted taper.[204]

She now renewed her devotions, and was in the midst of them, with her servants praying and weeping round her, when a messenger from the Commissioners knocked at the door, to announce that all was ready. She requested a little longer time to finish her prayers, which was granted.

As soon as she desired the door to be opened, the Sheriff, carrying in his hand the white wand of office, entered to conduct her to the place of execution. Her servants crowded round her, and insisted on being allowed to accompany her to the scaffold. But contrary orders having been given by Elizabeth, they were told that she must proceed alone. Against a piece of such arbitrary cruelty they remonstrated loudly, but in vain; for as soon as Mary pa.s.sed into the gallery, the door was closed, and believing that they were separated from her forever, the shrieks of the women and the scarcely less audible lamentations of the men were heard in distant parts of the castle.

At the foot of the staircase leading down to the hall below, Mary was met by the Earls of Kent and Shrewsbury; and she was allowed to stop to take farewell of Sir Andrew Melvil, the master of her household, whom her keepers had not allowed to come into her presence for some time before.

With tears in his eyes, Melvil knelt before her, kissed her hand, and declared that it was the heaviest hour of his life. Mary a.s.sured him, that it was not so to her. "I now feel, my good Melvil," said she, "that all this world is vanity. When you speak of me hereafter, mention that I died firm in my faith, willing to forgive my enemies, conscious that I had never disgraced Scotland my native country, and rejoicing in the thought that I had always been true to France, the land of my happiest years. Tell my son," she added, and when she named her only child of whom she had been so proud in his infancy, but in whom all her hopes had been so fatally blasted, her feelings for the first time overpowered her, and a flood of tears flowed from her eyes,--"tell my son that I thought of him in my last moments, and that I have never yielded, either by word or deed, to aught that might lead to his prejudice; desire him to preserve the memory of his unfortunate parent, and may he be a thousand times more happy and more prosperous than she has been."

Before taking leave of Melvil, Mary turned to the Commissioners and told them, that her three last requests were, that her secretary Curl, whom she blamed less for his treachery than Naw, should not be punished; that her servants should have free permission to depart to France; and that some of them should be allowed to come down from the apartments above to see her die. The Earls answered, that they believed the two former of these requests would be granted; but that they could not concede the last, alleging, as their excuse, that the affliction of her attendants would only add to the severity of her sufferings. But Mary was resolved that some of her own people should witness her last moments. "I will not submit to the indignity," she said, "of permitting my body to fall into the hands of strangers. You are the servants of a maiden Queen, and she herself, were she here, would yield to the dictates of humanity, and permit some of those who have been so long faithful to me to a.s.sist me at my death.

Remember, too, that I am cousin to your mistress, and the descendant of Henry VII.; I am the Dowager of France, and the anointed Queen of Scotland." Ashamed of any further opposition, the Earls allowed her to name four male and two female attendants, whom they sent for, and permitted to remain beside her for the short time she had yet to live.[205]

The same hall in which the trial had taken place, was prepared for the execution. At the upper end was the scaffold, covered with black cloth, and elevated about two feet from the floor. A chair was placed on it for the Queen of Scots. On one side of the block stood two executioners, and on the other, the Earls of Kent and Shrewsbury; Beal and the Sheriff were immediately behind. The scaffold was railed off from the rest of the hall, in which Sir Amias Paulet with a body of guards, the other Commissioners, and some gentlemen of the neighbourhood, amounting altogether to about two hundred persons, were a.s.sembled. Mary entered leaning on the arm of her physician, while Sir Andrew Melvil carried the train of her robe. She was in full dress, and looked as if she were about to hold a drawing-room, not to lay her head beneath the axe. She wore a gown of black silk, bordered with crimson velvet, over which was a satin mantle; a long veil of white c.r.a.pe, stiffened with wire, and edged with rich lace, hung down almost to the ground; round her neck was suspended an ivory crucifix; and the beads which the Catholics use in their prayers, were fastened to her girdle. The symmetry of her fine figure had long been destroyed by her sedentary life; and years of care had left many a trace on her beautiful features. But the dignity of the Queen was still apparent; and the calm grace of mental serenity imparted to her countenance at least some share of its former loveliness. With a composed and steady step she pa.s.sed through the hall, and ascended the scaffold,--and as she listened unmoved, whilst Beal read aloud the warrant for her death, even the myrmidons of Elizabeth looked upon her with admiration.[206]

Beal having finished, the Dean of Peterborough presented himself at the foot of the scaffold, and with more zeal than humanity, addressed Mary on the subject of her religion. She mildly told him, that as she had been born, so she was resolved to die, a Catholic, and requested that he would not annoy her any longer with useless reasonings. But finding that he would not be persuaded to desist, she turned away from him, and falling on her knees, prayed fervently aloud,--repeating, in particular, many pa.s.sages from the Psalms. She prayed for her own soul, and that G.o.d would send his Holy Spirit to comfort her in the agony of death; she prayed for all good monarchs, for the Queen of England, for the King her son, for her friends, and for all her enemies. She spoke with a degree of earnest vehemence, and occasional strength of gesticulation, which deeply affected all who heard her. She held a small crucifix in her hands, which were clasped, and raised to Heaven; and at intervals a convulsive sob choked her voice. As soon as her prayers were ended, she prepared to lay her head on the block. Her two female attendants, as they a.s.sisted her to remove her veil and head-dress, trembled so violently that they were hardly able to stand. Mary gently reproved them,--"Be not thus overcome," she said; "I am happy to leave the world, and you also ought to be happy to see me die so willingly." As she bared her neck, she took from around it a cross of gold, which she wished to give to Jane Kennedy; but the executioner, with brutal coa.r.s.eness, objected, alleging that it was one of his perquisites.

"My good friend," said Mary, "she will pay you much more than its value;"

but his only answer was, to s.n.a.t.c.h it rudely from her hand. She turned from him, to p.r.o.nounce a parting benediction on all her servants, to kiss them, and bid them affectionately farewell. Being now ready, she desired Jane Kennedy to bind her eyes with a rich handkerchief, bordered with gold, which she had brought with her for the purpose; and laying her head upon the block, her last words were,--"O Lord, in thee I have hoped, and into thy hands I commit my spirit." The executioner, either from a want of skill, or from agitation, or because the axe he used was blunt, struck three blows before he separated her head from her body. His comrade then lifted the head by the hair, (which, falling in disorder, was observed to be quite grey), and called out, "G.o.d save Elizabeth, Queen of England!"

The Earl of Kent added, "Thus perish all her enemies;"--but, overpowered by the solemnity and horror of the scene, none were able to respond, "Amen!"[207]

Mary's remains were immediately taken from her servants, who wished to pay them the last sad offices of affection, and were carried into an adjoining apartment, where a piece of old green baize, taken from a billiard-table, was thrown over that form which had once lived in the light of a nation's eyes. It lay thus for some time; but was at length ordered to be embalmed, and buried, with royal pomp, in the Cathedral at Peterborough,--a vulgar artifice used by Elizabeth to stifle the gnawing remorse of her own conscience, and make an empty atonement for her cruelty. Twenty-five years afterwards, James VI. wishing to perform an act of tardy justice to the memory of his mother, ordered her remains to be removed from Peterborough to Henry VII.'s Chapel, in Westminster Abbey. A splendid monument was there erected, adorned with an inscription, which, if it spoke truth, James must have blushed with shame and indignation whenever he thought of his mother's fate.

Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, died in the forty-fifth year of her age. If the events of her life have been faithfully recorded in the preceding pages, the estimate which is to be formed of her character cannot be a matter of much doubt. To great natural endowments,--to feelings const.i.tutionally warm,--and to a disposition spontaneously excellent, were added all the advantages which education could confer or wealth purchase.

That she was one of the most accomplished and talented women of the age, even her enemies allow. But talents do not always insure success, nor accomplishments command happiness; and by few persons in the whole range of history was this truth more fatally experienced than by Mary Stuart. At first sight, her life and fate seem almost a paradox. That one upon whom most of the common goods of fortune had been heaped with so lavish a hand,--one who was born to the enjoyment of all the rank and splendour which earth possesses,--one whose personal charms and fascinations obtained for her an empire over the heart, more lasting and honourable than that which her birth gave her over a nation,--that even she should have lived to lament that she had ever beheld the light of day, is one of those striking examples of the uncertainty of all human calculations regarding happiness, which, while it inspires the commonest mind with wonder, teaches a deeper lesson of philosophy to the wisely reflective.

Circ.u.mstances are not so much the slaves of men, as men are of circ.u.mstances. Mary lived at an age, and in a country, which only rendered her risk the greater the more exalted her station. In France, where civilization had made more progress, she might perhaps have avoided the evils which overtook her at home; but in Scotland, a Princess possessing the refinement of a foreign court, and though with a large proportion of the virtues and captivations of her s.e.x, not entirely dest.i.tute of some of its weaknesses, could hardly expect to cope with the turbulent spirit, the fanatical enthusiasm, the semi-barbarous prejudices of the times, without finding her own virtues immerged in the crowd of contending interests, and the vortex of fierce pa.s.sions that surrounded her.

Mary's failings, almost without an exception, "leant to virtue's side."

They arose partly from too enthusiastic a temperament, and partly from a want of experience. Although she lived forty-four years and two months, it ought to be remembered that she was just twenty-five when she came into England, and that all the most important events of her history happened between sixteen and twenty-five. With feelings whose strength kept pace with the unsuspicious generosity of her nature, Mary was one who, in an especial manner, stood in need of experience, to teach what the world calls wisdom. The great ma.s.s of mankind, endowed with no finer susceptibilities, and influenced by no hidden impulses of soul or sense, fall into the common track naturally and easily. But they whom heaven has either cursed or blessed with minds, over which external circ.u.mstances exercise a deeper sway, whose fancies are more vivid, and whose impressions are more acute, require the aid of time to clip the wings of imagination,--to cast a soberer shade over the glowing pictures of hope,--and to teach the art of reducing an ideal standard of felicity and virtue, to one less romantic, but more practical. Had she continued longer in public life, there is every probability that the world would have been forced to own, without a dissenting voice, the talent which Mary possessed. In youth, genius is often indicated only by eccentricity and imprudence; but its errors are errors of judgment, which have their origin in an exuberance of sensibility. The sentiments of the heart have burst forth into precocious blossom long before the reasoning faculties have reached maturity. Her youth was Mary's chief misfortune, or rather it was the source from which most of her misfortunes sprung. She judged of mankind not as they were, but as she wished them to be. Conscious of the sincerity of her own character, and the affectionate nature of her own dispositions, she formed attachments too rashly, and trusted too indiscriminately. She often found, when it was too late, that she had been deceived; and the consequence was, that she became diffident of her own judgment, and anxious to be guided by that of others. Here again, however, she fell into an opposite extreme. In yielding, on her return to Scotland, so implicitly to the counsels of Murray, she did what few queens, young and flattered as she had been, would have done, and what, had she been older, or more experienced, she ought not to have done.

But the highest degree of excellence, both in the material and the moral world, arises out of the skilful combination of many discordant elements.

Time must be allowed them to settle down into an harmonious arrangement; and time is all that is required. Before the age of five-and-twenty, it is not to be supposed that Mary's character had acquired that strength and stability which it would afterwards have attained. Nor was it desirable that it should; for an old head upon youthful shoulders is contrary to nature, and the anomaly frequently ends with a youthful head upon old shoulders. Mary was young--she was beautiful--she was admired--she was a woman; and to expect to have found, in the spring-time of her life, the undeviating consistency, and the cool calculations of riper years, would have been to imagine her that "faultless monster whom the world ne'er saw." But, considering the situation in which she was placed--the persons by whom she was surrounded--the stormy temper of the age--the pious and deep-rooted prejudices of her subjects against the creed which she professed--the restless jealousy of the Sovereign who reigned over the neighbouring and more powerful country of England--the unfortunate though not precipitate marriage with Lord Darnley,--it may be very safely asked, where there is to be found an example of so much moderation, prudence, and success, in one so recently introduced to the arduous cares of government?

Had Mary been vain, headstrong, opinionative, and bigotted, she would never have yielded, as she did, to the current of popular opinion which then ran so tumultuously;--she would never have condescended to expostulate with Knox,--she would never have been ruled by Murray,--she would never have so easily forgiven injuries and stifled resentments. She was in truth only too facile. She submitted too tamely to the insolence of Knox; she was too diffident of herself, and too willing to be swayed by Murray; she was too ready to pardon those who had given her the justest cause of offence; she was too candid and open, too distrustful of her own capacity, too gentle, too generous, and too engaging.

But if her faults consisted only in an excess of amiable qualities, or in those strong feelings which, though properly directed, were not always properly proportioned, the question naturally occurs, why the Queen of Scots should have suffered so much misery? "To say that she was always unfortunate," observes Robertson, "will not account for that long and almost uninterrupted succession of calamities which befel her; we must likewise add, that she was often imprudent." Here the historian first mistates the fact, and then draws an inference from that mistatement. No "long and uninterrupted succession of calamities" befel Mary. She experienced an almost unparalleled reverse of fortune, but that reverse was sudden and complete. She sunk at once from a queen into a captive,--from power to weakness,--from splendor to obscurity. So long as she was permitted to be the arbitress of her own fortune, she met and overcame every difficulty; but when lawless and ambitious men wove their web around her, she was caught in it, and could never again escape from its meshes. Had she stumbled on from one calamity to another, continuing all the while a free agent, Robertson's remark would have been just. But such was not her case;--the morning saw her a queen, and the evening found her a captive. The blow was as sudden as it was decisive; and her future life was an ineffectual struggle to escape from the chains which had been thrown round her in a moment, and which pressed her irresistibly to the ground. A calamity which no foresight could antic.i.p.ate, or prudence avert, may overtake the wisest and the best; and such to Mary was the murder of Darnley, and Bothwell's subsequent treason and violence. If to these be added the scarcely less iniquitous conduct of Elizabeth, the treachery of Morton, the craftiness of Murray, and the disastrous defeat at Langside, it needs no research or ingenuity to discover, that her miseries were not of her own making.

Should a still more comprehensive view of this subject be taken, and the whole life of the Queen of Scots reviewed, from her birth to her death, it will be found that, however great her advantages, they were almost always counterbalanced by some evil, which necessarily attended or sprung out of them. She was a queen when only a few months old; but she was also an orphan. She was destined, from her earliest childhood, to be the wife of the future monarch of France; but she was, in consequence, taken away from her native country, and the arms of her mother. The power and talents of her uncles of Guise were constantly exerted in her behalf; but she shared, therefore, in the hatred and jealousy in which they were held by a numerous party, both at home and abroad. Her residence and education, at the Court of Henry II., insured the refinement of her manners and the cultivation of her mind; but it excited the suspicions and the fears of the people of Scotland. She was beautiful even to a proverb; but her beauty obtained for her as much envy as praise. She possessed the heart of her husband Francis; but she only felt his loss the more acutely. She returned to her own kingdom as the Queen-dowager of France; but her power and her pretensions made the English dread, and did not prevent her heretical subjects from openly braving, her authority. She married Darnley in the hopes of brightening her prospects, and securing her happiness; but he was the main cause of overclouding the one, and destroying the other.

She was freed, by his death, from the wayward caprices of his ill-governed temper; but she escaped from one yoke only to be forced into another a thousand times worse. She loved her brother, and loaded him with favours; but he repaid them by placing himself upon her throne, and chasing her from the country. She escaped into England; but there she met with reproaches instead of a.s.sistance, a prison instead of an asylum, a mortal enemy instead of a sister, an axe and a scaffold instead of sympathy and protection.[208]

Mary's misfortunes, therefore, may be safely a.s.serted not to have been the result of her imprudence or her errors. But justice is not satisfied with this merely negative praise. The Queen of Scots was one who needed only to have been prosperous, to be in the eyes of the world all that was great and good. And though the narrow-minded are only too ready, at all times, to triumph over the fallen, and to fancy, that where there is misery there is also guilt, they must nevertheless own, that there are some whose character only rises the higher, the more it is tried. If, on the one hand, the temptations to which Mary was exposed be duly considered,--her youth,--the prejudices of her education,--and the designing ministers by whom she was surrounded;--and, on the other, her conduct towards the Reformers, towards her enemies, towards her friends, towards all her subjects,--the deliberate judgment of calm impartiality, not of hasty enthusiasm, must be, that ill.u.s.trious as her birth and rank were, she possessed virtues and talents which not only made her independent of the former, but raised her above them. In her better days, the vivacity and sweetness of her manners, her openness, her candour, her generosity, her polished wit, her extensive information, her cultivated taste, her easy affability, her powers of conversation, her native dignity and grace, were all conspicuous, though too little appreciated by the less refined frequenters of the Scottish Court. Nor did she appear to less advantage in the season of calamity. On the contrary, she had an opportunity of displaying in adversity a fort.i.tude and n.o.bility of soul, which she herself might not have known that she possessed, had she been always prosperous. Her piety and her constancy became more apparent in a prison than on a throne; and of none could it be said more truly than of her,--"_ponderibus virtus innata resist.i.t_." In the glory of victory and the pride of success, it is easy for a conquering monarch to float down the stream of popularity; but it is a far more arduous task to gain a victory over the natural weaknesses of one's own nature, and, in the midst of sufferings, to triumph over one's enemies. Mary did this; and was a thousand times more to be envied, when kneeling at her solitary devotions in the Castle of Fotheringhay, than Elizabeth surrounded with all the heartless splendor of Hampton Court. As she laid her head upon the block, the dying graces threw upon her their last smiles; and the sublime serenity of her death was an argument in her favour, the force of which must be confessed by incredulity itself. Mary was not destined to obtain the crown of England, but she gained instead the crown of martyrdom.[209]

"Many of us," said the Archbishop of Bruges, who was appointed to preach Mary's funeral sermon in the church of Notre Dame at Paris, "Many of us have seen in this very place the Queen whom we now deplore, on her bridal morning and in her royal robes, so resplendent with jewels, that they shone like the light of day, or like her own beauty, which was more resplendent still. Nothing was to be discovered around or within but embroidered hangings, and cloth of gold, and precious tapestry, and couches and thrones occupied by kings and queens, and princes and n.o.bles, who had come from all parts to be present at the festival. In the palace were magnificent banquets, and pageants, and masquerades; in the streets and squares, joustings, tournaments, and processions. It seemed as if the overwhelming brilliancy of our age was destined to surpa.s.s the richest pomp of every preceding age,--even the times when Greece and Rome were in all their splendor. A brief s.p.a.ce has pa.s.sed away like a cloud, and we have seen _her_ a captive whom we saw in triumph,--a prisoner, who set the prisoners free,--poor, who gave away so liberally,--disdained, who was the fountain of honour. We have seen _her_, who was a two-fold Queen, in the hands of a common executioner, and that fair form, which graced the nuptial couch of the greatest monarch in Christendom, dishonoured on a scaffold. We have seen that loveliness, which was one of the wonders of the world, broken down by long captivity, and at length effaced by an ignominious death. If this fatal reverse teaches the uncertainty and vanity of all human things, the patience and incomparable fort.i.tude of the Queen we have lost, also teach a more profitable lesson, and afford a salutary consolation. Every new calamity gave her an opportunity of gaining a new victory, and of evincing new proofs of her piety and constancy. It seems certain, indeed, that Providence made her affliction conspicuous, only to make her virtue more conspicuous. Others leave to their successors the care of building monuments, to preserve their name from oblivion; but the life and death of this lady are her monument.

Marble, and bra.s.s, and iron decay, or are devoured by rust; but in no age, however long the world may endure, will the memory of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, and Dowager of France, cease to be cherished with affection and admiration."[210]

AN EXAMINATION OF THE LETTERS, SONNETS, AND OTHER WRITINGS, ADDUCED IN EVIDENCE AGAINST MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.

O place and greatness! millions of false eyes Are stuck upon thee! Volumes of report Run with these false and most contrarious guests Upon thy doings! Thousand 'scapes of wit Make thee the father of their idle dream, And rack thee in their fancies.---- SHAKESPEARE.

Considering the very opposite opinions which have been long entertained, regarding the character and conduct of the Queen of Scots, no memoirs of her life would be complete, that did not contain some examination of the evidence upon which they who believe her guilty princ.i.p.ally rest their conviction. This evidence consists of eight Letters, eleven Love-Sonnets, and one Marriage Contract, all alleged to have been written in the Queen's own hand, and addressed to the Earl of Bothwell. In corroboration of these, another Contract, said to have been written by the Earl of Huntly, and signed by the Queen; and the Confessions and Depositions of some of the persons who were known to be implicated in Bothwell's guilt, were likewise produced. Of the Letters, two were supposed to have been written from Glasgow, at the time Mary went thither to visit Darnley when he was ill, and are intended to prove her criminal connection with Bothwell; two or three from the Kirk-of-Field, for the purpose of facilitating the arrangements regarding the murder; and the rest after that event, and before her abduction, to show that the whole scheme of the pretended ravishment was preconcerted between them. The precise time at which it is pretended the Sonnets were composed, does not appear; but expressions in them prove, that it must have been posterior to the Queen's residence at Dunbar. The Contract of Marriage, in Mary's own hand, though without date, must have been written very soon after Darnley's death, and contained a promise never to marry any one but Bothwell. The Contract, said to be in Huntly's hand, was dated at Seton, the 5th of April 1567, eight weeks after Darnley's death, a week before Bothwell's trial and acquittal, and three weeks before he was divorced from his first wife. The Confessions and Depositions are various, but only in one or two of them is any allusion made to Mary. The Letters, Sonnets, and Contracts, were said to have been discovered in a small gilt coffer, which the Earl of Bothwell left in the Castle of Edinburgh, in the custody of Sir James Balfour, at the time he fled from Edinburgh to Borthwick, about a month after his marriage, and shortly before the affair at Carberry Hill. After his discomfiture there, he is stated to have sent his servant, Dalgleish, into Edinburgh from Dunbar, to demand the coffer from Balfour. Sir James, it was said, delivered it up, but at the same time gave intimation to the Earl of Morton, who seized Dalgleish, and made himself master of the box and its contents. The Letters and Sonnets, which were written in French, were afterwards all translated into Scotch, and three into Latin.

Anxious to put beyond a doubt, either the forgery or the authenticity of these writings, numerous authors have exercised their ingenuity and talents, in a most minute and laborious examination, not only of their leading features, but of every line, and almost of every word. It would seem, however, not to be necessary, in so far as the great interests of truth are concerned, to descend to such microscopic investigation, and tedious verbal criticism, as have extended pages into volumes, and rendered confused and tiresome, disquisitions which might otherwise have been simple and interesting. If Mary's innocence is to be established, it must not be by the discovery of petty inconsistencies, or trifling inaccuracies. If her guilt is to be proved, the impartial reader is not to be satisfied with vague suspicions or ingenious suggestions, but must have a body of evidence set before him, which, if it does not amount to actual demonstration, contains a circ.u.mstantial strength equally calculated to convince.

It may be observed, at the outset, that unless the conclusions, to which these writings would lead, be corroborated by the established facts of History, it cannot be expected that a great deal of weight will be attached to them. Besides, it must not be forgotten, that as the originals have been lost, it is by means of translations alone that their alleged contents are known to the world. Upon their authority, Mary is accused of having first committed adultery, and then murder. Whatever opinion may have been formed of her from her behaviour during the rest of her existence,--however gentle her dispositions may have appeared,--however strong her sense of the distinction between right and wrong,--however constant her religious principles,--however wise her government,--however excellent the culture of her mind,--if the letters are to be credited, the whole was either hypocrisy from beginning to end, or, (overcome by some sudden impulse,) a year of gross criminality was introduced into the very middle of a well spent life. If she made so rapid a descent into a career of vice, she as rapidly rose again; and rea.s.suming the character she had laid aside, lived and died with the purity of a saint, and the fort.i.tude of a martyr. It cannot therefore be upon slight grounds that evidence so fatal to her reputation is to be admitted; and there will be little necessity to engage in minute cavilling, or to enter upon points of minor importance, if, by a distinct statement of some of the leading arguments against its authenticity, the whole shall be made to appear nugatory, improbable, and unent.i.tled to credit.

The evidences naturally divide themselves into the two heads of _external_ and _internal_; and, without further preface, it will be best to consider these in succession.

THE EXTERNAL EVIDENCES.--It was on the 20th of June 1567, that Dalgleish was seized, with the box and writings. The official account given by Buchanan is,--"That in the Castle of Edinburgh there was left by the Earl Bothwell, before his flying away, and was sent for by one George Dalgleish, his servant, who was taken by the Earl of Morton, a small gilt coffer, not fully a foot long, being garnished in sundry places with the Roman letter F, under a king's crown, wherein were certain letters and writings well known, and by oaths, to be affirmed to have been written with the Queen of Scots own hand, to the Earl of Bothwell."[211] The question to be decided is, whether these letters and writings are genuine, or whether they can be proved to be fabrications? That the latter is the correct conclusion, appears on the following grounds.

_First_, The conduct of Murray, Morton, and others of the Scottish n.o.bility, on various occasions, proves that ambition was the ruling pa.s.sion of their lives. Murray's iniquitous extermination of the Gordons in 1562, the influence he afterwards exercised in Mary's councils, and his unjustifiable opposition to her marriage with Darnley, carried even the length of open rebellion, ill.u.s.trate his character no less clearly, than the share he had in the murder of Rizzio, and his proceedings after the meeting at Carberry Hill, do that of Morton. A train of events, arising out of the audacious machinations of Bothwell, placed Mary at the disposal of men thus devoted to the attainment of power. Yielding to their irresistible desire to secure its possession, they first imprisoned, and then dethroned their sovereign. She escaped from their hands, and, though driven from the country, threatened to return with foreign aid, to place herself at the head of her own party, which was still powerful, and to force from them their usurped authority. The urgency of the case called for a bold and decisive remedy. If Mary could prove, as there was no doubt she could, that, according to all the facts yet before the world, she had suffered severely and unjustly, they must either fall upon some means to vindicate their own actions, or be ruined for ever. Nothing would more naturally suggest itself than the expedient they adopted. The circ.u.mstance of Mary having been actually married to the man who murdered her former husband, opened a door to the very worst suspicions; and if they could artfully conceal the events which led to the marriage, and which not only justified it, but made it a matter of necessity, they hoped still to retain possession of the government. They were aware, indeed, that by their own proclamations and acts of council, they had acknowledged Mary's innocence, and pointed out the real cause of her connection with Bothwell; and it was now not enough, after they had involved themselves in deeper responsibility, merely to retract their former allegations. They were called upon to show _why_ they departed from them;--they were called upon to prove, that when they first imprisoned her, though they confessed the Queen was innocent, they were now satisfied she was guilty. There was a positive necessity for the appearance of the letters; and if they had not been fortunately discovered, just at the proper time, Murray and his colleagues must either have had recourse to some other expedient, or have consented to Mary's restoration, and their own disgrace.