THE CONCLUSION.
Time rolled on, and the gay and pleasure-loving king passed through
one decade after another of his career, until at length he came to be
over fifty years of age. His health was firm, and his mental powers
vigorous. He looked forward to many years of strength and activity yet
to come, and thus, though he had passed the meridian of his life, he
made no preparations to change the pursuits and habits in which he had
indulged himself in his early years.
He died suddenly at last, at the age of fifty-four. His death was
almost as sudden as that of his father, though in a widely different
way. The circumstances of his last sickness have strongly attracted
the attention of mankind, on account of the manner in which the dying
king was affected, at last, by remorse at the recollection of his life
of reckless pleasure and sin, and of the acts to which this remorse
led him upon his dying bed. The vices and crimes of monarchs, like
those of other men, may be distinguished into two great types,
characterized by the feelings of heart in which they take their origin.
Some of these crimes arise from the malignant passions of the soul,
others from the irregular and perverted action of the feelings of
kindness and affection. The errors and follies of Charles, ending at
last, as they did, in the most atrocious sins, were of the latter
class. It was in feelings of kindness and good will toward friends of
his own sex that originated that spirit of favoritism, so unworthy of
a monarch, which he so often evinced; and even his irregular and
unhallowed attachments of another kind seem to have been not wholly
selfish and sensual. The course of conduct which he pursued through
the whole course of his life toward his female companions, evinced,
in many instances, a sincere attachment to them, and an honest desire
to promote their welfare; and in all the wild recklessness of his life
of pleasure and vice, there was seen coming out continually into view
the influence of some conscientious sense of duty, and of a desire to
promote the happiness of those around him, and to do justice to all.
These principle were, indeed, too feeble to withstand the temptations
by which they were assailed on every side; still, they did not cease
to exist, and occasions were continually occurring when they succeeded
in making their persuasions heard. In a word, King Charles's errors
and sins, atrocious and inexcusable as they were, sprang from
ill-regulated and perverted feelings of love and good will, and not
from selfishness and hate; from the kindly, and not from the malignant
propensities of the soul. It is very doubtful whether this is really
any palliation of them, but, at any rate, mankind generally regard it
so, judging very leniently, as they always do, the sins and crimes
which have such an origin.
It is probable that Charles derived whatever moral principle and
sensitiveness of conscience that he possessed from the influence of
his mother in his early years. She was a faithful and devoted Catholic;
she honestly and firmly believed that the rites and usages of the
Catholic Church were divinely ordained, and that a careful and honest
conformity to them was the only way to please God and to prepare for
heaven. She did all in her power to bring up her children in this
faith, and in the high moral and religious principles of conduct which
were, in her mind, indissolubly connected with it. She derived this
spirit, in her turn, from _her_ mother, Mary de Medici, who was one
of the most extraordinary characters of ancient or modern times. When
Henrietta Maria was married to Charles I. and went to England, this
Mary de Medici, her mother, wrote her a letter of counsel and of
farewell, which we recommend to our readers' careful perusal. It is
true, we go back to the third generation from the hero of this story
to reach the document, but it illustrates so well the manner in which
maternal influence passes down from age to age, and throws so much
light on the strange scenes which occurred at Charles's death, and is,
moreover, so intrinsically excellent, that it well merits the
digression.
_The queen-mother, Mary de Medici, to the young Queen of England,
Henrietta Maria_.
1625, June 25.
MY DAUGHTER,--You separate from me, I can not separate myself from
you. I retain you in heart and memory and would that this paper could
serve for an eternal memorial to you of what I am; it would then supply
my place, and speak for me to you, when I can no longer speak for
myself. I give you it with my last adieu in quitting you, to impress
it the more on your mind, and give it to you written with my own hand,
in order that it may be the more dear to you, and that it may have
more authority with you in all that regards your conduct toward God,
the king your husband, his subjects, your domestics, and yourself. I
tell you here sincerely, as in the last hour of our converse, all I
should say to you in the last hour of my existence, if you should be
near me then. I consider, to my great regret, that such can never be,
and that the separation now taking place between you and me for a long
time, is too probably an anticipation of that which is to be forever
in this world.
On this earth you have only God for a father; but, as he is eternal,
you can never lose him. It is he who sustains your existence and life;
it is he who has given you to a great king; it is he who, at this time,
places a crown on your brow, and will establish you in England, where
you ought to believe that he requires your service, and there he means
to effect your salvation. Remember, my child, every day of your life,
that he is your God, who has put you on earth intending you for heaven,
who has created you for himself and for his glory.
The late king, your father, has already passed away; there remains no
more of him but a little dust and ashes, hidden from our eyes. One of
your brothers has already been taken from us even in his infancy; God
withdrew him at his own good pleasure. He has retained you in the world
in order to load you with his benefits; but, as he has given you the
utmost felicity, it behooves you to render him the utmost gratitude.
It is but just that your duties are augmented in proportion as the
benefits and favors you receive are signal. Take heed of abusing them.
Think well that the grandeur, goodness, and justice of God are infinite,
and employ all the strength of your mind in adoring his supreme
puissance, in loving his inviolable goodness; and fear his rigorous
equity, which will make all responsible who are unworthy of his benefits.
Receive, my child, these instructions of my lips; begin and finish
every day in your oratory, [Footnote: An oratory is a little closet
furnished appropriately for prayer and other exercises of devotion.]
with good thoughts and, in your prayers, ask resolution to conduct
your life according to the laws of God, and not according to the
vanities of this world, which is for all of us but a moment, in which
we are suspended over eternity, which we shall pass either in the
paradise of God, or in hell with the malign spirits who work evil.
Remember that you are daughter of the Church by baptism, and that this
is, indeed, the first and highest rank which you have or ever will
have, since it is this which will give you entrance into heaven; your
other dignities, coming as they do from the earth, will not go further
than the earth; but those which you derive from heaven will ascend
again to their source, and carry you with them there. Render thanks
to heaven each day, to God who has made you a Christian; estimate this
first of benefits as it deserves, and consider all that you owe to the
labors and precious blood of Jesus our Savior; it ought to be paid for
by our sufferings, and even by our blood, if he requires it. Offer
your soul and your life to him who has created you by his puissance,
and redeemed you by his goodness and mercy. Pray to him, and pray
incessantly to preserve you by the inestimable gift of his grace, and
that it may please him that you sooner lose your life than renounce
him. You are the descendant of St. Louis. I would recall to you, in
this my last adieu, the same instruction that he received from his
mother, Queen Blanche, who said to him often 'that she would rather
see him die than to live so as to offend God, in whom we move, and who
is the end of our being'. It was with such precepts that he commenced
his holy career; it was this that rendered him worthy of employing his
life and reign for the good of the faith and the exaltation of the
Church. Be, after his example, firm and zealous for religion, which
you have been taught, for the defense of which he, your royal and holy
ancestor, exposed his life, and died faithful to him among the infidels.
Never listen to, or suffer to be said in your presence, aught in
contradiction to your belief in God and his only Son, your Lord and
Redeemer. I entreat the Holy Virgin, whose name you bear, to deign to
be the mother of your soul, and in honor of her who is mother of our
Lord and Savior, I bid you adieu again and many times.
I now devote you to God forever and ever; it is what I desire for you
from the very depth of my heart.
Your very good and affectionate mother, MARIA.
From Amiens, the 10th of June, 1625.
The devout sense of responsibility to Almighty God, and the spirit of
submission and obedience to his will, which this letter breathes,
descended from the grandmother to the mother, and were even instilled,
in some degree, into the heart of the son. They remained, however,
latent and dormant through the long years of the monarch's life of
frivolity and sin, but they revived and reasserted their dominion when
the end came.
The dying scene opened upon the king's vision in a very abrupt and
sudden manner. He had been somewhat unwell during a certain day in
February, when he was about fifty-four years of age. His illness,
however, did not interrupt the ordinary orgies and carousals of his
palace. It was Sunday. In the evening a very gay assembly was convened
in the apartments, engaged in deep gaming, and other dissolute and
vicious pleasures. The king mingled in these scenes, though he
complained of being unwell. His head was giddy--his appetite was
gone--his walk was unsteady. When the party broke up at midnight, he
went into one of the neighboring apartments, and they prepared for him
some light and simple food suitable for a sick man, but he could not
take it. He retired to his bed, but he passed a restless and uneasy
night. He arose, however, the next morning, and attempted to dress
himself, but before he finished the work he was suddenly struck by
that grim and terrible messenger and coadjutor of death--apoplexy--as
by a blow. Stunned by the stroke, he staggered and fell.
The dreadful paroxysm of insensibility and seeming death in a case of
apoplexy is supposed to be occasioned by a pressure of blood upon the
brain, and the remedy, according to the practice of those days, was
to bleed the patient immediately to relieve this pressure, and to
blister or cauterize the head, to excite a high external action as a
means of subduing the disease within. It was the law of England that
such violent remedies could not be resorted to in the case of the
sovereign without authority previously obtained from the council. They
were guilty of high treason who should presume to do so. This was a
case, however, which admitted of no delay. The attendants put their
own lives at hazard to serve that of the king. They bled him with a
penknife, and heated the iron for the cautery. The alarm was spread
throughout the palace, producing universal confusion. The queen was
summoned, and came as soon as possible to the scene. She found her
husband sitting senseless in a chair, a basin of blood by his side,
his countenance death-like and ghastly, while some of the attendants
were attempting to force the locked jaws apart, that they might
administer a potion, and others were applying a red hot iron to the
patient's head, in a desperate endeavor to arouse and bring back again
into action the benumbed and stupefied sensibilities. Queen Catharine
was so shocked by the horrid spectacle that she sank down in a fit of
fainting and convulsions, and was borne immediately away back to her
own apartment.
In two hours the patient's suspended faculties began to return. He
looked wildly about him, and asked for the queen. They sent for her.
She was not able to come. She was, however, so far restored as to be
able to send a message and an apology, saying that she was very glad
to hear that he was better, and was much concerned that she could not
come to see him; she also added, that for whatever she had done in the
course of her life to displease him, she now asked his pardon, and
hoped he would forgive her. The attendants communicated this message
to the king. "Poor lady!" said Charles, "she beg my pardon! I am sure
I beg hers, with all my heart."
Apoplexy fulfills the dread behest of its terrible master Death by
dealing its blow once with a fatal energy, and then retiring from the
field, leaving the stunned and senseless patient to recover in some
degree from the first effect of the stroke, but only to sink down and
die at last under the permanent and irretrievable injuries which almost
invariably follow.
Things took this course in the case of Charles. He revived from the
stupor and insensibility of the first attack, and lay afterward for
several days upon his bed, wandering in mind, helpless in body, full
of restlessness and pain, and yet conscious of his condition. He saw,
dimly and obscurely indeed, but yet with awful certainty, that his
ties to earth had been suddenly sundered, and that there only remained
to him now a brief and troubled interval of mental bewilderment and
bodily distress, to last for a few more hours or days, and then he
must appear before that dread tribunal where his last account was to
be rendered; and the vast work of preparation for the solemn judgment
was yet to be made. How was this to be done?
Of course, the great palace of Whitehall, where the royal patient was
lying, was all in confusion. Attendants were hurrying to and fro.
Councils of physicians were deliberating in solemn assemblies on the
case, and ordaining prescriptions with the formality which royal
etiquette required. The courtiers were thunderstruck and confounded
at the prospect of the total revolution which was about to ensue, and
in which all their hopes and prospects might be totally ruined. James,
the Duke of York, seeing himself about to be suddenly summoned to the
throne, was full of eager interest in the preliminary arrangements to
secure his safe and ready accession. He was engaged night and day in
selecting officers, signing documents, and stationing guards. Catharine
mourned in her own sick chamber the approaching blow, which was to
separate her forever from her husband, deprive her of her consequence
and her rank, and consign her, for the rest of her days to the pains
and sorrows, and the dreadful solitude of heart which pertains to
widowhood. The king's other female intimates, too, of whom there were
three still remaining in his court and in his palace, were distracted
with real grief. They may have loved him sincerely; they certainly
gave every indication of true affection for him in this his hour of
extremity. They could not appear at his bedside except at sudden and
stolen interviews, which were quickly terminated by their being required
to withdraw; but they hovered near with anxious inquiries, or else
mourned in their apartments with bitter grief. Without the palace the
effects were scarcely less decisive. The tidings spread every where
throughout the kingdom, arresting universal attention, and awakening
an anxiety so widely diffused and so intense as almost to amount to
a terror. A Catholic monarch was about to ascend the throne, and no
one knew what national calamities were impending.
In the mean time, the dying monarch lay helpless upon his bed, in the
alcove of his apartment, distressed and wretched. To look back upon
the past filled him with remorse, and the dread futurity, now close
at hand, was full of images of terror and dismay. He thought of his
wife, and of the now utterly irreparable injuries which he had done
her. He thought of his other intimates and their numerous children,
and of the condition in which they would be left by his death. If he
had been more entirely sensual and selfish in his attachments, he would
have suffered less; but he could not dismiss these now wretched
participators in his sins from his mind. He could do very little now
to promote their future welfare, or to atone for the injury which he
had done them; but his anxiety to do so, as well as his utter
helplessness in accomplishing his desire, was evinced by his saying,
in his last charge to his brother James, just before he died, that he
hoped he would be kind to his children, and especially not let poor
Nelly starve. [Footnote: Eleanor Gwyn. She was an actress when Charles
first became acquainted with her.]
Troubled and distressed with these thoughts, and still more anxious
and wretched at the prospect of his own approaching summons before the
bar of God, the fallen monarch lay upon his dying bed, earnestly
desiring, but not daring to ask for, the only possible relief which
was now left to him, the privilege of seeking refuge in the religious
hopes and consolations which his mother, in years now long gone by,
had vainly attempted to teach him to love. The way of salvation through
the ministrations and observances of the Catholic service was the only
way of salvation that he could possibly see. It is true that he had
been all his life a Protestant, but Protestantism was to him only a
_political_ faith, it had nothing to do with moral accountability or
preparation for heaven. The spiritual views of acceptance with God by
simple personal penitence and faith in the atoning sacrifice of his
Son, which lie at the foundation of the system of the Church of England,
he never conceived of. The Church of England was to him a mere empty
form; it was the service of the ancient Catholic faith, disrobed of
its sanctions, despoiled of its authority, and deprived of all its
spirit and soul. It was the mere idle form of godless and heartless
men of the world, empty and vain. It had answered his purpose as a
part of the pageantry of state during his life of pomp and pleasure,
but it seemed a mockery to him now, as a means of leading his wretched
and ruined soul to a reconciliation with his Maker. Every thing that
was sincere, and earnest, and truly devout, in the duties of piety
were associated in his mind with the memory of his mother; and as death
drew nigh, he longed to return to her fold, and to have a priest, who
was clothed with the authority to which her spirit had been accustomed
to bow, come and be the mediator between himself and his Maker, and
secure and confirm the reconciliation.
But how could this be done? It was worse than treason to aid or abet
the tainting of the soul of an English Protestant king with the
abominations of popery. The king knew this very well, and was aware
that if he were to make his wishes known, whoever should assist him
in attaining the object of his desire would hazard his life by the
act. Knowing, too, in what abhorrence the Catholic faith was held, he
naturally shrank from avowing his convictions; and thus deterred by
the difficulties which surrounded him, he gave himself up to despair,
and let the hours move silently on which were drawing him so rapidly
toward the grave. There were, among the other attendants and courtiers
who crowded around his bedside, several high dignitaries of the Church.
At one time five bishops were in his chamber. They proposed repeatedly
that the king should partake of the sacrament. This was a customary
rite to be performed upon the dying, it being considered the symbol
and seal of a final reconciliation with God and preparation for heaven.
Whenever the proposal was made, the king declined or evaded it. He
said he was "too weak," or "not now," or "there will be time enough
yet;" and thus day after day moved on.
In the mean time, the anxious and unhappy queen had so far recovered
that she came to see the king, and was often at his bedside, watching
his symptoms and mourning over his approaching fate. These interviews
were, however, all public, for the large apartment in which the king
was lying was always full. There were ladies of the court, too, who
claimed the privilege which royal etiquette accorded them of always
accompanying the queen on these visits to the bedside of her dying
husband. She could say nothing in private; and then, besides, her
agitation and distress were so extreme, that she was incapable of any
thing like calm and considerate action.
Among the favorite intimates of the king, perhaps the most prominent
was the Duchess of Portsmouth. The king himself had raised her to that
rank. She was a French girl, who came over, originally, from the
Continent with a party of visitors from the French court. Her beauty,
her wit, and her accomplishments soon made her a great favorite with
the king, and for many years of his life she had exerted an unbounded
and a guilty influence over him. She was a Catholic. Though not allowed
to come to his bedside, she remained in her apartment overwhelmed with
grief at the approaching death of her lover, and, strange as it may
seem, she was earnestly desirous to obtain for him the spiritual succors
which, as a Catholic, she considered essential to his dying in peace.
After repeated and vain endeavors made in other ways to accomplish her
object, she at length sent for the French ambassador to come to her
rooms from the king's chamber, and urged him to do something to save
the dying sinner's soul. "He is in heart a Catholic," said she. "I am
sure he wishes to receive the Catholic sacraments. I can not do any
thing, and the Duke of York is so full of business and excitement that
he does not think of it. But something must be done."
The ambassador went in pursuit of the Duke of York. He took him aside,
and with great caution and secrecy suggested the subject. "You are
right," said the duke, "and there is no time to lose." The duke went
to the king's chamber. The English clergymen had just been offering
the king the sacrament once more, and he had declined it again. James
asked them to retire from the alcove, as he wished to speak privately
to his majesty. They did so, supposing that he wished to communicate
with him on some business of state.
"Sire," said the duke to his dying brother, "you decline the sacraments
of the Protestant Church, will you receive those of the Catholic?"
The countenance of the dying man evinced a faint though immediate
expression of returning animation and pleasure at this suggestion.
"Yes," said he, "I would give every thing in the world to see a priest."
"I will bring you one," said James.
"Do," said the king, "for God's sake, do; but shall you not expose
yourself to danger by it?"
"I will bring you one, though it cost me my life," replied the duke.
This conversation was held in a whisper, to prevent its being overheard
by the various groups in the room. The duke afterward said that he had
to repeat his words several times to make the king comprehend them,
his sense of hearing having obviously begun to fail.
There was great difficulty in procuring a priest. The French and Spanish
priests about the court, who were attached to the service of the
ambassadors and of the queen, excused themselves on various pretexts.
They were, in fact, afraid of the consequences to themselves which
might follow from an act so strictly prohibited by law. At last an
English priest was found. His name was Huddleston. He had, at one time,
concealed the king in his house during his adventures and wanderings
after the battle of Worcester. On account of this service, he had been
protected by the government of the king, ever since that time, from
the pains and penalties which had driven most of the Catholic priests
from the kingdom.
They sent for Father Huddleston to come to the palace. He arrived about
seven o'clock in the evening. They disguised him with a wig and cassock,
which was the usual dress of a clergyman of the Church of England. As
the illegal ceremony about to be performed required the most absolute
secrecy, it became necessary to remove all the company from the room.
The duke accordingly informed them that the king wished to be alone
for a short period, and he therefore requested that they would withdraw
into the ante-room. When they had done so, Father Huddleston was brought
in by a little door near the head of the bed, which opened directly
into the alcove where the bed was laid. There was a narrow space or
alley by the side of the bed, within the alcove, called the _ruelle_;
[Footnote: _Ruelle_ is a French word, meaning little street or alley.
This way to the bed was the one so often referred to in the histories
of those times by the phrase "the back stairs".] with this the private
door communicated directly, and the party attending the priest,
entering, stationed themselves there, to perform in secrecy and danger
the last solemn rites of Catholic preparation for heaven. It was an
extraordinary scene; the mighty monarch of a mighty realm, hiding from
the vigilance of his own laws, that he might steal an opportunity to
escape the consequences of having violated the laws of heaven.
They performed over the now helpless monarch the rites which the
Catholic Church prescribes for the salvation of the dying sinner. These
rites, though empty and unmeaning ceremonies to those who have no
religious faith in them, are full of the most profound impressiveness
and solemnity for those who have. The priest, having laid aside his
Protestant disguise, administered the sacrament of the mass, which
was, according to the Catholic views, a true and actual re-enacting
of the sacrifice of Christ, to inure to the special benefit of the
individual soul for which it was offered. The priest then received the
penitent's confession of sin, expressed in a faint and feeble assent
to the words of contrition which the Church prescribes, and this was
followed by a pardon--a true and actual pardon, as the sinner supposed,
granted and declared by a commissioner fully empowered by authority
from heaven both to grant and declare it. Then came the "extreme
unction", or, in other words, the last anointing, in which a little
consecrated oil was touched to the eyelids, the lips, the ears, and
the hands, as a symbol and a seal of the final purification and
sanctification of the senses, which had been through life the means
and instruments of sin. The extreme unction is the last rite. This
being performed, the dying Catholic feels that all is well. His sins
have been atoned for and forgiven, and he has himself been purified
and sanctified, soul and body. The services in Charles's case occupied
three quarters of an hour, and then the doors were opened and the
attendants and company were admitted again.
The night passed on, and though the king's mind was relieved, he
suffered much bodily agony. In the morning, when he perceived that it
was light, he asked the attendants to open the curtains, that he might
see the sun for the last time. It gave him but a momentary pleasure,
for he was restless and in great suffering. Some pains which he endured
increased so much that it was decided to bleed him. The operation
relieved the suffering, but exhausted the sufferer's strength so that
he soon lost the power of speech, and lay afterward helpless and almost
insensible, longing for the relief which now nothing but death could
bring him. This continued till about noon, when he ceased to breathe.
THE END.