In December, 1542, Mary Stuart, daughter of James V. of Scotland, then
seven days old, succeeded to the throne of a kingdom rent by religious
and political factions, and suffering from the consequences of a
disastrous war with England.
The union of Scotland to England had ever been a favorite project with
English sovereigns, and the present seemed to Henry VIII. a favorable
opportunity for peaceably effecting it. He lost no time, therefore, in
proposing a match between the infant queen and his own son, Edward.
His proposal found little favor; the haughty nobles could not endure
to see their country become a mere province of England; and the queen
mother and her religious advisers feared for the security of the
Catholic religion. Henry might, however, have ultimately succeeded,
had he acted with prudence. But he sought to terrify the Scots into
submission; and those who succeeded to the government of England upon
his death, which happened soon after, persisted in the same policy. An
army was sent into Scotland, to ravage the country and pillage the
towns and villages. This mode of wooing did not suit the temper of the
Scots; and an end was soon put to all hopes by the negotiation of a
marriage treaty between the queen and Francis, the infant dauphin of
France. In pursuance of this treaty, Mary, then in her sixth year, was
sent to France to be educated. She was at first placed in a convent
with the king's daughters, where she made a rapid progress in all the
accomplishments they attempted to teach her. Here her enthusiastic
disposition was so strongly impressed with religious feelings, and she
evinced such a fondness for a cloistered life, that it was thought
proper to remove her to the gayer scenes of the court--a change which
cost her torrents of tears. The fashion for learning prevailed at
this time, and Mary profited by it. Her instructors were the most
eminent men of the time; Buchanan taught her Latin; Pasquier
instructed her in history; Ronsard, the most famous of the early
French poets, cultivated her taste for poetry: they found her not only
a willing but an able pupil. Other accomplishments were not neglected;
she sung, and played on the lute and the virginals; she rode on
horseback fearlessly, yet with feminine grace; her dancing was always
admired; and we are assured that in the Spanish minuet she was
equalled only by her aunt, the beautiful Anne of Este, and no lady of
the court could eclipse her in a galliarde. Her beauty and the
charming expression of her countenance were such, that, as a
contemporary asserts, "no one could look upon her without loving her."
When her mother came over to visit her in 1550, she burst into tears
of joy, and congratulated herself on her daughter's capacity and
loveliness. Soon after Mary's marriage to Francis, in 1558, Elizabeth
ascended the English throne; the pope, and the French and Spanish
courts, refused to acknowledge her; and Mary, undisputably the next
heir, was compelled by the commands of her father-in-law to assume the
title and arms of queen of England--a measure of unforeseen but fatal
consequences to her, as it added fresh fuel to the fires of envy,
jealousy, and hatred, which the personal advantages of Mary had
already excited in the bosom of her vain and vindictive rival.
[Illustration: MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, AT WINFIELD CASTLE.]
In 1558, Francis and Mary were crowned king and queen of France.
Francis survived this event but a few months. He was far inferior to
his wife, both in personal and mental accomplishments; he was of
sickly constitution, and very reserved; but he had an affectionate and
kind disposition. He was not a man to call forth the deepest and most
passionate feelings of such a heart as Mary's; but she ever treated
him with tenderness and most respectful attention. She is described by
an eye-witness as a "sorrowful widow," and lamented her husband
sincerely.
The happiness of Mary's life was now at an end. She was a stranger in
the land of which she had so recently been crowned queen. In the queen
mother, the ambitious Catherine de Medicis, who now ruled France in
the name of her son Charles IX., Mary had an inveterate foe. In the
reign of Francis they had been rivals for power, when the charms of
the wife had triumphed over the authority of the mother. There was
another wound which had long rankled in the vindictive bosom of
Catherine. In the artlessness of youth, Mary had once boasted of her
own descent from a "hundred kings," which was supposed to reflect on
the mercantile lineage of the daughter of the Medicis. She now took
her revenge. By the most studied slights she sought to mortify Mary,
who first retired to Rheims. Here she was waited on by a deputation
from her own nobles, who invited her, in terms which amounted to a
command, to return to her native country.
A new cause of difficulty now occurred between Mary and Elizabeth. The
heads of the reformed religious party in Scotland, called the "Lords
of the Congregation," had negotiated a treaty with Elizabeth, one of
the terms of which was a renunciation, on the part of Mary, of all
claims to the crown of England forever. This Mary refused to ratify,
and replied to the crafty ministers of her rival with a spirit,
intelligence, and firmness, extraordinary in a girl of eighteen. At
the same time, she was courteous and gentle, and apologized for the
assumption of the title and arms of queen of England, which, at the
death of her husband, she had renounced. Attempts had been made to
excite the fears of her Protestant subjects, which she thus set at
rest: "I will be plain with you; the religion I profess I take to be
the most acceptable to God; and indeed I neither know nor desire any
other. I have been brought up in this religion, and who might credit
me in any thing if I should show myself light in this case? I am none
of those who change their religion every year; but I mean to constrain
none of my subjects, though I could wish they were all as I am; and I
trust they shall have no support to constrain me."
Having at length resolved to return home, Mary sent to demand of
Elizabeth a free passage; it was a mere point of courtesy and
etiquette, but it was refused. The English ambassador sought in vain
to justify his mistress's conduct; it arose from exasperated jealousy,
and was inexcusable and mean, as well as discourteous.
It was with grief almost amounting to despair that Mary left the
scenes of her early attachments, and of all her pleasures. Accustomed
to the refinement of the court of France, she reflected with a degree
of horror on the barbarism of her own country, and the turbulence of
the people. She stood upon the deck of the vessel which bore her,
gazing through her tears on the receding shores. "Farewell, France!"
she would exclaim from time to time; "farewell, beloved country, which
I shall never more behold!" When night came on, she caused a bed to be
spread on the deck, and wept herself to sleep.
By the favor of a thick fog, Mary escaped the fleet which Elizabeth
had sent out to intercept her, and landed at Leith. With sensations of
terror and sadness she entered her capital; and they may well be
excused. The poverty of the country formed a striking contrast with
the fertile plains of France. The weather was wet and "dolorous;" and
a serenade of bagpipes, with which the populace hailed her, seems to
have greatly disconcerted her polished attendants. But Mary herself
took every thing in good part, and, after a while, she so far
recovered her gayety, that the masques and dancing, the "fiddling" and
"uncomely skipping," gave great offence to John Knox and the rest of
the grave reformers, who inveighed against such practices from the
pulpit; and the former, with a violence and rudeness altogether
unmanly, personally upbraided her, so as to make her weep. In one
brought up in "joyousness," such austerity could not fail to excite
disgust, and a stronger clinging to the more kind and genial doctrines
of her own faith. But she made no retaliation; she sought, on the
contrary, to win the affection of all her subjects, and to introduce
happiness and prosperity, as well as a more refined civilization, into
her country. Her life for a few years was tranquil. She gave four or
five hours every day to state affairs; she was wont to have her
embroidery frame placed in the room where the council met, and while
she plied the needle, she joined in the discussions, displaying in her
own opinions and suggestions a vigor of mind and quickness which
astonished the statesmen around her. At other times she applied to
study. She brought a great many books with her to Scotland, and the
first artificial globes that had ever been seen there. She was fond of
music, and maintained a band of minstrels. Her other amusements were
hawking, hunting, dancing, and walking in the open air. She was fond
of gardening; she had brought from France a little sycamore plant,
which she planted in the gardens of Holyrood, and tended with care;
and from this parent stem arose the beautiful groves which are now met
with in Scotland. She excelled at the game of chess, and delighted in
the allegorical representations, so much in fashion in her day, by the
name of "masques."
Though Mary could not but feel some resentment at the injurious
treatment which she received from Elizabeth, yet she sought to
conciliate her, and there was a great exhibition of courtesy and
compliment, and "sisterly" affection, between them. Mary even
consulted Elizabeth about her marriage. But that sovereign, with a
littleness almost inconceivable, could not bear that others should
enjoy any happiness of which she herself was debarred, and her own
subjects could in no way more surely incur her displeasure than by
marriage. She now sought to delay that of Mary. She proposed to her a
most unworthy match, and, when this, as it was intended it should be,
was rejected, offered objections to all which were proposed by Mary.
At length, the suggestions of a powerful party seconding his own
ambitious wishes, Henry Darnley entered the lists to obtain her favor.
He was possessed of every external accomplishment, being remarkably
tall, handsome, agreeable, and "well instructed in all comely
exercises." His mother, "a very wise and discreet matron," Rizzio, and
others, familiar with the queen's tastes, instructed him in the best
methods of being agreeable to her. He affected a great degree of
refinement, and a fondness for music and poetry. The queen, deceived
and captivated, made choice of him for her husband--a choice which at
the time seemed most proper and eligible; for he was a Protestant, and
next heir, after herself, to the English throne. They were married in
1565. For a short time Mary thought herself happy. In the first
effusions of her passion, she lavished upon her husband every mark of
love, and of distinction, even to conferring upon him the title of
king of Scotland. But her tenderness and attentions were all thrown
away, and, instead of respect and gratitude, she met with brutality
and insolence. Violent, fickle, insolent, ungrateful, and addicted to
the lowest pleasures, he was incapable of all true sentiments of love
and tenderness. Love, for a time, blinded Mary's reason, and she made
excuses for his faults; but, as his true temper and character became
more known to her, she treated him with more reserve, and refused some
of his unreasonable demands. Irritated, Darnley sought for some one in
the confidence of the queen upon whom he might wreak his vengeance.
There was at the court a young Italian, named Rizzio, who has already
been mentioned as forwarding Darnley's suit. He had come to Scotland
in the train of the ambassador of Savoy: the three pages, or
songsters, who used to sing trios before Mary, wanted a bass, and
Rizzio was appointed. Being not only a scientific musician, but a good
penman, well acquainted with French and Italian, supple and
intelligent, Rizzio contrived to make himself generally useful, and
was, in 1564, appointed French secretary to the queen. Some designing
nobles, jealous of the favor enjoyed by this foreigner, and likewise
desirous of effecting a permanent breach between Darnley and the
queen, persuaded him that Rizzio was the author of the queen's
displeasure, and engaged him in a plot to murder him, which was thus
carried into execution. As Mary was sitting at supper, attended by
Rizzio, and a few other of the officials of her court, Darnley entered
by a private passage which communicated directly with his own
apartments, and, casting his arms fondly round her waist, seated
himself by her side. A minute had scarcely elapsed, when Ruthven, in
complete armor, rushed in. He had just risen from a sick bed; his
features were sunken, his voice hollow, and his whole appearance
haggard and terrible. Mary started up in affright, and bade him
begone; but ere the words were uttered, torches gleamed in the outer
room, a confused noise of voices and weapons was heard, and the other
conspirators rushed in. Ruthven now drew his dagger, and calling out
that their business was with Rizzio, endeavored to seize him; while
this miserable victim, springing behind the queen, clung by her gown,
and besought her protection. All was now uproar and confusion; the
tables and lights were thrown down. Mary earnestly entreated them to
have mercy, but in vain. Whilst one of the band held a pistol to her
breast, the victim, already wounded and bleeding, was torn from her
knees, and dragged through her bed-chamber to the door of the presence
chamber, where he was finally despatched. Fifty-six wounds were found
in the body, and the king's dagger was left sticking in it, to show,
as was afterwards alleged, that he had sanctioned the murder. Ruthven,
faint from sickness, and reeking from the scene of blood, staggered
into the queen's cabinet, where Mary still stood distracted, and in
terror of her life. Here he threw himself upon a seat, called for a
cup of wine, and plunged a new dagger into the heart of the queen, by
declaring that her husband had advised the whole. Mary was kept the
whole night locked up, alone, in the room in which this terrible scene
had been enacted. The next day Darnley visited her, and she, ignorant
of the extent of his guilt, employed all her eloquence to induce him
to desert the desperate men with whom he was leagued. He consented,
and they fled together to Dunbar.
A new actor must now be brought upon the stage--the ambitious,
dissolute, and daring Bothwell. He was the head of one of the most
ancient and powerful families in the kingdom, and, in all the plots
and intrigues, he had ever remained faithful to the interests of the
queen; it was natural, therefore, that he should stand high in her
favor. It was chiefly through his active exertions that she now
effected her escape; and she soon found herself at the head of a body
of men, chiefly his clansmen, sufficiently powerful to bring the
murderers of Rizzio to punishment. It is a striking instance of her
clemency, that only two persons were executed for this crime.
Three months after the murder, she gave birth to a son, afterwards
James I. of England; at whose christening Elizabeth stood godmother,
notwithstanding her envious and repining exclamation, that "the queen
of Scots should be mother of a fair son, while she was only a barren
stock." Even this joyous event could not dispel the melancholy of
Mary, who now suffered so much from the conduct of Darnley as often to
be seen in tears, and was frequently heard to wish herself dead. The
lords of her council urged a divorce, but she would not listen to
this. "I will that you do nothing," said she, "by which any spot may
be laid on my honor or conscience; but wait till God, of his goodness,
shall put a remedy to it." Finding the queen immovable on this point,
Bothwell, who had now conceived the ambitious project of succeeding
to his place, resolved to murder Darnley, who was just recovering from
the smallpox, and was lodged, for the benefit of fresh air, at a house
called the Kirk-of-field, near Edinburgh. His illness and lonely
situation touched the tender heart of Mary. She visited him
constantly, and bestowed on him the kindest attentions. She brought
her band of musicians to amuse him. She seldom left him during the
day, and usually passed the night in the house. But on Sunday, the 9th
of February, on taking leave of him for the night, she went to the
palace of Holyrood, to be present at the marriage of two of her
servants. While engaged in these festivities, the house in which her
husband slept was blown up, and his lifeless body was found in a
garden at some distance. Every thing pointed to Bothwell as the author
of this crime; but he, after a trial had before a jury composed of the
first noblemen of the kingdom, was acquitted.
Bothwell's next object was to marry the queen; and the steps he took
for this purpose were too extraordinary, and apparently unnecessary,
to have had her connivance. We are told that, as she was returning to
Edinburgh, she was met by Bothwell at the head of a large body of
retainers, who forcibly dispersed her small retinue, and carried her
to Dunbar Castle. He then procured the signatures of a large number of
the most distinguished of the nobles and ecclesiastics to a bond
recommending him to the queen as a most fit and proper husband, and
binding themselves to consider as a common enemy whoever should oppose
the marriage. Armed with this document, strengthened by a vote of the
council, Bothwell brought the queen to Edinburgh, and there the
marriage was solemnized.
The month which Mary passed with Bothwell after the marriage, was the
most miserable of her miserable life. He treated her with such
indignity, that a day did not pass in which "he did not cause her to
shed abundance of salt tears." Those very lords, who had recommended
the marriage, now made it a pretext for rebellion. Both parties took
up arms, and met at Carberry Hill. Mary here adopted an unexpected and
decisive step. She offered to the rebels to dismiss Bothwell, and
place herself in their hands, if they would be answerable for her
safety, and return to their allegiance. Her terms were accepted;
Bothwell was persuaded by her to leave the field. They never met
again; and thus in less than a month this union was virtually ended.
Mary was soon committed as a prisoner to Lochleven Castle, a fortress
in the midst of a lake, to the immediate custody of Lady Margaret
Douglas, a woman of harsh and unfeeling temper, and who had
personal motives for irritation against her. Cut off from all
intercourse with those in whom she had confidence, and harassed by
daily ill usage, her enemies trusted that her spirit would at
length be broken, and that she would submit to any terms which
should promise relief. Accordingly, after some weeks, she was visited
by a deputation of the rebels, who demanded her signature to a paper
declaring her own incapacity to govern, and abdicating the throne
in favor of her son. Upon her refusal to make this humiliating
declaration, Lindsay, the fiercest of the confederates, rudely
seized her hand with his own gauntleted palm, and, with threats of
instant death in case of non-compliance, compelled her to set her
signature to the deed; she, in a paroxysm of tears, calling on all
present to witness that she did so through her fear for her life, and
therefore that the act was not valid.
Bothwell, meanwhile, after wandering from place to place, now lurking
among his vassals, now seeking refuge with his friends, at length
fled, with a single ship, towards Norway. Falling in with a vessel of
that country, richly laden, he attacked it, but was himself taken, and
carried to Norway, where for ten years he languished in captivity;
till, by melancholy and despair deprived of reason, unpitied and
unassisted, he ended his wretched life in a dungeon. A declaration
addressed to the king of Denmark, in which he gives a succinct account
of all the transactions in which he was engaged in Scotland, is yet
preserved in the library of the king of Sweden. In it he completely
exonerates Mary from having the slightest concern in the murder of
Darnley; and again, before his death, when confessing his own share in
it, he solemnly acquits her of all pre-knowledge of the crime.
Mary now, in her distress, found assistance from an unexpected
quarter. Her misfortunes, and gentle resignation under them, excited
the pity and sympathy of the _little William Douglas_, a boy of
fifteen, a son of her jailer; and he resolved to undertake her
deliverance. The first attempt failed. The queen had succeeded in
leaving the castle in the disguise of a laundress, and was already
seated in the boat, to cross the lake, when she betrayed herself by
raising her hand. The beauty and extreme whiteness of that hand
discovered her at once, and she was carried back to her chamber in
tears and bitterness of heart. The next attempt was more successful,
and she reached Hamilton in safety. Many nobles of the highest
distinction hastened to offer their support, and, in three days after
leaving Lochleven, she was at the head of six thousand men, devoted to
her cause.
The other party made haste to assemble their forces. At their head was
Murray, a half-brother of the queen--a man whom she had loaded with
benefits and honors, and to whom she had twice granted life, when
condemned for treason. He now acted as regent, in the minority of the
infant prince, whom the confederates assumed to be king. The hostile
bands met at Langside. From a neighboring hill, Mary viewed a conflict
on which her fate depended. She beheld--with what anguish of heart may
be imagined--the fortune of the day turn against her; she saw her
faithful friends cut to pieces, taken prisoners, or flying before the
victorious Murray. When all was lost, her general, Lord Herries, came
up to her, seized her bridle, and turned her horse's head from the
dismal scene. With a few adherents she fled southwards; nor did she
repose till she reached Dundrennan, sixty miles from the field of
battle. There Mary, trusting in Elizabeth's recent professions of
friendship, took the fatal resolution of throwing herself upon the
compassion and protection of the English queen. As she approached the
boundary, her resolution faltered; the coming evils seemed to cast
their shadows before; but those which awaited her, if she remained,
were certain, and she crossed the small stream which formed the
parting line.
Mary was at this time in her twenty-sixth year; in the very prime of
existence, in the full bloom of beauty and health, when a dark pall
was spread over her life. Thenceforward her history presents one
painful picture of monotonous suffering on the one hand, and of
meanness, treachery, and cruelty, on the other. With relentless
cruelty, her rival kept her in perpetual bonds; the only changes were
from prison to prison, and from one harsh keeper to another; from the
gleam of delusive hope to the blackness of succeeding disappointment.
As soon as she entered England, Mary addressed a letter to Elizabeth,
in which she painted in glowing colors the wrongs she had endured, and
implored the sympathy and assistance of her "good sister." A generous
and magnanimous sovereign would not have hesitated as to the answer to
be made to such an appeal. But Elizabeth deliberated; she consulted
her counsel; the object of long years of hatred was in her power; one
whose very existence was an outrage upon her personal vanity; her
malicious feelings of envy and jealousy got the mastery, and Mary's
detention as a prisoner was resolved on. Still, however, a show of
decency was to be preserved. Noblemen of suitable rank were sent to
receive her, carrying with them letters from their sovereign filled
with prostituted expressions of condolence and sympathy. At the same
time, orders were given that Mary should not be allowed to leave the
kingdom. To Mary's demand of a formal interview, Elizabeth replied,
that the honor must, with whatever reluctance, be denied to her, lest
the imputation under which she labored of being accessory to the
murder of Darnley should bring a stain upon her own reputation; but
that, whenever she should clear herself of this, she should receive
assistance commensurate with her distress, and a reception suitable to
her dignity. By this pretence was Mary entangled in a treacherous
snare. Confiding in her professions of friendship, she agreed to
submit her cause to Elizabeth, and to produce to her such proofs as
would convince her of her innocence, and of the malice and falsehood
of her enemies. Elizabeth had now accomplished her end: she became the
umpire between Mary and her rebellious subjects, and had it wholly in
her power to protract and to involve the proceedings in endless mazes;
having, at the same time, a pretext for keeping Mary at a distance
from her court, and for withholding from her all assistance.
To save appearances, a conference was appointed to be held at York,
at which, in presence of her representatives, the several parties
should make known their causes of complaint. Murray appeared in
person, and accused Mary of participating in the murder of her
husband, and of other monstrous crimes; of all which were offered as
testimony certain letters purporting to have been written by her to
Bothwell. By her command, her commissioners repelled the accusation
with horror, and pronounced the letters to be base forgeries, and,
at the same time, accused Murray and his confederates of treason and
scandal against their sovereign. As was predetermined, the conference
ended without coming to any decision; and, as Murray was permitted
to return to Scotland, Mary required that she should be set at
liberty. In answer, it was intimated that if she would confirm the
forced abdication, and would renounce her throne and country, she
should be permitted to reside in quiet and privacy in England. "The
eyes of Europe," replied Mary, "are upon me; and, were I thus
tamely to yield to my adversaries, I should be pronouncing my own
condemnation. A thousand times rather would I submit to death than
inflict this stain upon my honor. The last words I speak shall be
those of the queen of Scotland." Refusing her liberty upon these
disgraceful terms, she remained a captive.
Great fears were entertained of the power of Mary's charms over those
who were suffered to approach her. "If I might give advice," writes
one of Elizabeth's statesmen, when on a visit to her, "there should
very few subjects of this land have access to a conference with this
lady; for, besides that she is a goodly personage,--and yet, in truth,
not comparable to our sovereign,--she hath withal an alluring grace, a
pretty Scotch speech, and a searching wit, clouded with mildness." The
advice contained in this letter was too acceptable not to be followed,
and every succeeding year found Mary reduced in society, in comforts,
and health. The latter, which had heretofore caused her no anxiety,
gradually gave way before want of exercise and the dampness of the
prisons in which she was confined; and she came to suffer from
constant pain in her side, rheumatism, and weakness of limbs--a state
of suffering and disease which was aggravated by the penuriousness of
Elizabeth, which would not permit to her even the accommodation which
that comparatively rude age afforded.
Her principal occupation was needle-work, and her amusement reading
and composition; she retained her early love of literature, and it was
now, next to her religious feelings and hopes, her best resource. The
unvarying mildness and saint-like patience with which Mary endured her
captivity are the more remarkable, if we remember that she was
disinclined to sedentary amusements, and by nature and habit fond of
walking, riding, gardening, and all exercises in the open air. Her
gentleness, therefore, under a restraint so heart-wearing, is a proof
of singular sweetness of temper and strength of mind, if not of a
clear and tranquil conscience.
But, if the situation of Mary was melancholy, that of her persecutor
was not to be envied. Plot succeeded plot, having for ostensible
object the relief of Mary. In fact, while she existed, Elizabeth was
stretched on the rack of fear and suspicion. In vain did she seek to
implicate Mary in these traitorous projects; Mary freely acknowledged
that she should seize with eagerness any means of deliverance from a
hateful captivity; but, as to being privy to any plot against the life
or throne of the queen, this she constantly and strenuously denied. At
last, a subservient Parliament were induced to pass a most infamous
law, which declared that not only the conspirators themselves, but
those in whose cause they conspired, however innocent, or ignorant of
their purpose, should equally suffer the penalties of treason.
Occasion was soon made for bringing Mary to trial under this law. The
arrival of the commissioners charged with the duty was a surprise to
her; a public trial was an indignity wholly unexpected, and she
protested against it. "I came," said she, "into the kingdom an
independent sovereign, to ask the queen's assistance, not to subject
myself to her authority. Nor is my spirit so broken by past
misfortunes, or intimidated by present dangers, as to stoop to any
thing unbecoming the dignity of a crowned head, or that will disgrace
the ancestors from whom I am descended, and the son to whom I shall
leave the throne. If I must be tried, princes only can be my peers.
Since my arrival in this country, I have been uniformly confined as a
prisoner. Its laws never afforded me any protection. Let them not be
perverted, in order to take away my life." But a second time was she
entrapped by the plausible argument that, by avoiding a trial, she was
an enemy to her own reputation. Solicitous for the vindication of her
honor, she submitted to an inquiry, the result of which had been
predetermined; for those who had made the law for an express purpose,
would not scruple to apply it. Notwithstanding a defence which was
characterized by the same vigor and dignity of mind, and the acuteness
of intellect which she had displayed when in possession of youth,
health, and power, a sentence universally acknowledged to be unjust
and iniquitous was pronounced against her.
The news of this outrage excited horror and indignation throughout
Europe, and at length roused James to attempt something in behalf of
his mother. He sent ambassadors to the various sovereigns of Europe,
calling upon them to join with him in this the common cause of
princes. He wrote to Elizabeth, threatening her with the vengeance
which, as a sovereign and as a son, he was bound in honor and in duty
to inflict. But Elizabeth was deaf to the reproaches and menaces by
which she was from all sides assailed. It is true that, when a servile
Parliament besought her to have the sentence executed, she, with an
affectation of clemency, besought them to spare her the pain of
imbruing her hands in the blood of a queen and near kinswoman, and to
consider if the public safety might not otherwise be provided for. But
her real meaning was well understood, and the lords and commons
repeated the request, without fear of offending by their importunity.
By her own command, Davison, the secretary, brought to her the
death-warrant, and she subscribed it with no relenting symptoms. She
was still, however, solicitous to preserve appearances, and let fall
intimations which might stimulate some of her officers to extricate
her from her dilemma. It was an honor to the nation that no assassin
could be found. Paulet, though harsh in temper, and brutal, at times,
in the discharge of what he conceived to be his duty, rejected with
disdain a proposal of this nature; declaring that, though the queen
might dispose of his life at her pleasure, he would not stain his
honor, or cover his memory with infamy. Upon which Elizabeth called
him a _dainty_ and _precise_ fellow, who promised much, but performed
nothing.
At length the privy council determined to take upon themselves the
responsibility of sending off the warrant for the execution. On the
7th of February, 1587, the Earls of Kent and Shrewsbury, being
admitted to Mary's presence, informed her that their mistress,
Elizabeth, being overcome by the importunity of her subjects, had
given orders for her execution. She listened unmoved to the reading of
the warrant, and on its conclusion she bowed her head, and, making the
sign of the cross, thanked her gracious God that this welcome news had
at last come; declaring how happy she should be to leave a world where
she could be of no use, and had suffered such continued affliction.
After expressing her delight and her gratitude to God for the
privilege of sealing, by her death, the testimony she had so often
borne in behalf of her church, she went on to speak of her past
suffering. Born a queen, the daughter of a king, the cousin of the
queen of England, the granddaughter of Henry VII., once queen of
France, and now queen-dowager of that kingdom,--and yet what had all
this availed her? She then spoke of her love for England; of the
desire she had ever felt to obtain the friendship of its queen; of the
ignominy and injustice with which she had, notwithstanding, been
treated; imprisoned contrary to all faith and treaties; kept a captive
for nineteen years; and "at last," said she, laying her hand on the
New Testament, "condemned by a tribunal which had no power over me,
for a crime of which I here solemnly declare I am innocent. I have
neither invented, nor consented to, nor pursued, any conspiracy for
the death of the queen of England." The Earl of Kent here hastily
interrupted her, declaring that the Scriptures on which she had sworn
were false, and the Roman Catholic version. "It is the translation
which I believe," answered Mary. "Does your lordship think my oath
would be better, if I swore on your translation, which I disbelieve?"
She then requested to be allowed the services of her chaplain, whom
she had not for some time been permitted to see. But the request was
denied; the Earl of Kent, however, an intolerant bigot, after a long
theological discourse, offered her the services of his own Protestant
chaplain. Mary bore this stroke of cruelty with meekness, but declined
the proffered services. She inquired at what time she was to die.
"To-morrow, at eight," was the reply; and the earls then left the
room. On their departure, Mary called her women, and bade them hasten
supper, that she might have time to arrange her affairs. "Come, come,
Jane Kennedy," said she, "cease your weeping, and be busy. Did I not
warn you, my children, that it would come to this? and now, blessed be
God, it has come, and fear and sorrow are at an end. Weep not, but
rejoice rather that your poor mistress is so near the end of her
troubles. Dry your tears, then, and let us pray together." Some time
was spent in her devotions; she then supped with cheerfulness. She
next distributed various articles from her wardrobe among her
attendants, with a kind expression for each. She then wrote her last
will, which is still extant, and consists of four pages, closely
written, in a neat, firm hand. Not one person was forgotten who had
any claims on her gratitude or her remembrance. She also wrote several
letters; but these, it is said, are blotted with her tears. It was her
custom to have her women read to her, at night, a portion of the
"Lives of the Saints;" and this last night she would not omit it, but
made Jane Kennedy select a portion. She chose the life entitled the
"Good Thief," which treats of that beautiful and affecting example of
dying faith and divine compassion. "Alas!" said Mary, "he was indeed a
very great sinner, but not so great as I am. May my Savior, in memory
of His passion, have mercy on me, as he had on him!"
At the hour appointed, the sheriff entered her room, and proceeding to
the altar, where the queen was kneeling, informed her that all was
ready. She rose, and saying simply, "Let us go," proceeded towards the
door, on reaching which, her attendants were informed that they were
not to accompany her. A scene of the most distressing character now
took place; but they were at last torn from her, and locked up in
the apartment. Mary proceeded alone down the great staircase, at
the foot of which she was received by the two earls, who were
struck with the perfect tranquillity and unaffected grace with which
she met them. She was dressed in black satin, matronly but richly,
and with more studied care than she was commonly accustomed to
bestow. At the bottom of the staircase she was also met by her old
servant, Sir Andrew Melvil, waiting to take his last farewell.
Flinging himself on his knees, he bitterly lamented it should have
fallen to him to carry this heart-rending news to Scotland. "Weep
not," said she, "but rather rejoice, my good Melvil. Carry this
news with thee, that I die firm in my religion, true to Scotland,
true to France. May God, who can alone judge the thoughts and
actions of men, forgive those who have thirsted for my blood.
Remember me to my son; tell him I have done nothing that may
prejudice his kingdom." She then earnestly entreated that her women
might be permitted to be with her at her death; but the Earl of
Kent refused it, saying that they might be guilty of something
scandalous and superstitious, even to dipping their handkerchiefs in
her blood. But Mary plighted her word they should not offend in any
wise: "Surely, surely you will not deny me this last little
request; my poor girls wish only to see me die." As she said this,
a few tears were observed to fall, for the first time; and, after
some consultation, she was permitted to have two ladies and four
gentlemen beside her. Followed by these, she entered the great
hall, and seated herself on the raised platform, prepared for a
scaffold, with the same easy grace and dignity with which she would
have occupied her throne. The death-warrant was then read; but those
who were near could see, by the sweet and absent expression of her
countenance, that her thoughts were afar off.
The Earl of Kent next solicited her to join with him and the
Protestant chaplain in their devotions. But she declined, and,
kneeling apart, repeated a part of the penitential Psalms, and
afterwards continued her prayers aloud in English. By this time, the
chaplain had concluded; there was a deep silence, so that every word
was heard. It was impossible for any one to behold her at this moment
without being deeply affected--on her knees, her hands clasped and
raised to heaven, an expression of adoration and divine serenity
lighting up her features, and upon her lips the words of forgiveness
to her persecutors. Having finished, she cheerfully suffered herself
to be undressed by her women, gently admonishing them not to distress
her by their lamentations; putting her finger on her lips, and bidding
them remember that she had promised for them. On seeing the
executioner approach to offer his assistance, she smiled, and
playfully said, "that she had neither been used to such grooms of the
chamber, nor to undress before so many people." When all was ready,
she kissed her women, and, giving them her last blessing, she knelt
down and groped her way to the block,--for her eyes were bound,--and
laid her neck upon it without the slightest mark of trembling or
hesitation. Her last words were, "Into thy hands I commend my spirit,
for thou hast redeemed me, O Lord God of truth." At two strokes, her
head was severed from her body, and the executioner, holding it up,
called aloud, "God save the queen!" "So let all Queen Elizabeth's
enemies perish!" was the prayer of the chaplain; but the spectators
were dissolved in tears, and one deep voice alone answered, "Amen!" It
came from the Earl of Kent. On removing the body, and the clothes and
mantle which lay beside it, Mary's favorite little dog, which had
followed its mistress unperceived, was found nestling under them. No
entreaty could prevail on it to quit the spot; and it remained lying
beside the corpse, and stained in the blood, till forcibly carried
away by the attendants.
Elizabeth affected to receive the news of the death of her rival with
surprise and grief; she even carried her artifice to so barbarous a
length, as to render Davison, the secretary, and the innocent
instrument of her cruelty and dissimulation, the victim of her
perfidy. Under pretence that he had orders not to let the warrant go
out of his office, he was degraded, fined, imprisoned, and utterly
ruined. By this sacrifice, she hoped to appease the king of Scots,
whom the death of his mother had filled with grief and resentment,
which yielded, however, at length, to the necessities of his
situation. Having affected to admit the excuses of Elizabeth, and
to be satisfied with the sacrifice of Davison, he stifled his
indignation, and continued the semblance of amity with the English
court. Thus the death and sufferings of Mary remained unavenged,
while Elizabeth was suffered to reap the advantages of her malignity.