THE END
AS one writes these two simple words “The End” across the heading of
this final chapter, one is reminded to pause and reflect upon them.
The end—of what? Of a brief but splendid pageant—of a heavy burden of
sorrow—of a life of resolute, indomitable pride?
_Respice finem_—Consider the end. Surely, of all who have attained to
high places, or have longed after them, Anne Hyde should have taken for
her own this motto, should have read and marked and inwardly digested
it.
And yet, would it have availed anything? Does it ever avail?
When our eyes are dazzled by the light that for the moment seems
all-pervading, they cannot see the shadows that lie beyond, nor would
they even if they could.
Here, then, we look on at the removal of a figure, concrete enough in
her own time and to her own contemporaries, but to us curiously elusive,
even visionary. It is strange, because for one occupying the position
she did for ten years of English history, Anne, Duchess of York, had
left personally a very slight impression on that position. The place
that knew her was so soon content to know her no more, the gap she left
was so quickly filled.
It is not to her but to her children that we must look for any
consideration of her life as important. No doubt in the early days in
Flanders Edward Hyde watched the unfolding of his daughter’s keen
intelligence with hope and confidence as a factor in her future. It was
afterwards that her “vaulting ambition” was destined to “o’erleap
itself,” and so weigh her down under “the burthen of an honour into
which she was not born.”
It does not need much reflection to point the moral here, it is obvious
enough and sorrowful enough.
During the summer of the year 1670, the same year which saw the Duchess
of York’s conversion to the Church of Rome, the King’s only remaining
sister, the Duchesse d’Orléans, paid what proved to be her last and also
her most momentous visit to her native country, a visit that might have
been fraught with such disastrous consequences to England. It is not
quite apparent whether Henrietta herself fully appreciated all that her
mission entailed—the mission she accepted so light-heartedly at the
hands of her magnificent brother-in-law, the French king. She had never
displayed any great aptitude for diplomacy, nor indeed much interest in
such questions, but had been content to float on the surface of life
like an airy butterfly, a creature of sun and shower. This being so, it
was a very easy task indeed for Louis to use her as his tool and
complaisant go-between. Madame and her elder brother, we know, loved
each other very deeply; he—Louis XIV.—probably loved nobody at all, at
least this is the conclusion which seems forced upon us, therefore he
stood in the far stronger position. Madame believed, as it was easy to
make her believe, that in carrying out King Louis’ instructions she was
doing great things for France; that for her sake Charles II. must agree
to proposals of which possibly she did not fully grasp the magnitude,
but which tended to place England under the heel of her neighbour. It
must also be here borne in mind that Henrietta was to all intents and
purposes a Frenchwoman. She had been brought up from infancy in France,
and that country commanded all her sympathies and prejudices. Most
likely she regarded England as an alien country, which had slain her
father and driven her family into exile for years, and which would be
all the better for drastic treatment, if it happened to be inflicted.
Moreover, it was the excuse for a welcome excursion, a visit to her
brothers, a short respite from the society of Monsieur, which was now
always an infliction, a fact which can scarcely be wondered at.
Therefore Madame started on her journey in high spirits, in consonance
with the season of summer which was just now flinging its gifts over the
earth and shedding beauty in its path, the beauty of serene skies, of
waving grass, of radiant flowers.
This visit of Madame’s was, it is true, to be but a flying one. She was
not even to come to London at all, and a plea was put forth for this
marked abstention which carries us back to the year of the Restoration,
and her mother’s bitter attitude towards the marriage of the Duke of
York. It seemed very evident that even now, at the distance of ten years
after that marriage, the haughty Stuart princess could not bring herself
to meet her English sister-in-law on equal terms. It was clearly
impossible, so we are told, that Madame should now come to London, “for
she will not yeild ye place to ye Dutchesse of Yorke, nor can it be
allowed that the Dutchesse of York should yeild it unto her.”[260] It
was the question fought for years before, to be revived anew, it is hard
to see why, on this occasion. However, on consideration a compromise was
finally arranged by certain wise counsellors, the method adopted being
that of transferring the place of meeting to Dover, where, fortunately,
it seemed that matters of precedence might, in a measure, be
conveniently waived, to the satisfaction of all parties therein
concerned. It was furthermore settled for the nonce by the decision that
the Duchess of York should yield the “pas” to Madame in “this Kingdome,”
because it was remembered that the Duke of Orleans had always taken care
to give it to his cousin the Duke of York when in France.
Footnote 260:
“Verney Memoirs.”
So, this point being finally decided, the King and his brother set out
for Dover, there to meet their sister, and they were followed thither
later by the Queen and the Duchess of York.
All the town proceeded there as well; that is, everybody who was
anybody. The wits and the beaux, the beauties of the Court, “the King’s
musicke” and the Duke’s players, “all the bravery that could be got on
such a sudden,”[261] grave statesmen and people who had nothing grave
about them, besides those who went frankly for amusement and no more.
The Dover road, the most famous road in the kingdom, which had known
through the far-back centuries the possessors of the most honoured names
passing in long procession to and fro, which had seen the victors and
vanquished of the hundred years’ war, was alive with travellers of all
conditions. Coaches, horsemen, pack-horses, waggons with provisions,
waggons with fine clothes, tramping beggars, itinerant musicians, broken
soldiers ready for any fray or wrangling for a groat. It was a
seventeenth-century Canterbury pilgrimage which yet lacked a Chaucer for
its worthy chronicler.
Footnote 261:
“Verney Memoirs.”
Although Monsieur could not be said to display at this time any
overweening attachment to his wife, he apparently entirely disapproved
of this visit to England, the real object of which was concealed from
him, as he could not be trusted with any matter of importance, and it
was afterwards remembered that he said to some of his intimate friends
that he did not think the Duchess would live very long. Moreover an
astrologer is reported to have said that he (d’Orléans) would have
several wives, which prophecy was probably highly agreeable to him. He
accompanied Henrietta for part of her journey, however, joining her
before Dunkirk, from which port she embarked on the 24th May.[262] It is
pleasant to record that when Madame did meet the despised sister-in-law
at Dover, she was kind to her, in spite of the difficulty as to
precedence before noticed.[263]
Footnote 262:
Madame—Julia Cartwright (Mrs Ady).
Footnote 263:
_Ibid._
Many plans of pleasure were set on foot, possibly to divert attention
from the political business which was the real reason for Madame’s
visit.
One day King Charles took his sister for an expedition to Canterbury,
where they saw a ballet and comedy, and were entertained at a collation
in the hall of St Augustine’s Abbey. Other diversions followed in due
course, helped by the radiant summer season which shed its own influence
on such merry meetings.[264]
Footnote 264:
_Ibid._
To many it was, no doubt, a halcyon time. The pomp and splendour, the
sparkle and gaiety of Whitehall were transferred to the ancient castle
on the beetling white cliff for the moment, and the centre and core of
everything, the chief luminary among many stars, was the fair princess
whose short life, even now drawing swiftly to its close, had known such
strange vicissitudes. Cradled in the very vortex of civil strife during
Essex’s siege of Exeter; brought up as a child, for a time, at any rate,
in grinding poverty, when she shared her mother’s dreary life of exile;
then, in early youth, the supreme jewel of the most brilliant Court in
Europe, its splendid king at her feet, she was now, though none could
have foreseen it, at the very threshold of her mysterious doom. Only a
few days in England, a few happy days to be remembered hereafter fondly
and regretfully by those who saw her then, and, her mission fulfilled,
the mission which, as has been said, she possibly did not fully
comprehend, Madame set sail on her return.[265] For the last time, if
either could have known it, she bade farewell to the brother whose
affection for her was perhaps the strongest and purest feeling of his
cynical, careless, insouciant nature. The letters he wrote to her
testify to this fact, invested as they are with a charm all their own,
and endorsed with a certain pathos, for “my deare, deare sister.” This
final parting off Dover was a sorrowful one to both. The King and the
Duke of York sailed for some distance with their sister before they
could summon resolution to tear themselves away, and when the moment of
farewell could no longer be delayed, the King held Henrietta long in his
arms, embracing her again and again, while she clung to him, weeping
passionately.[266] Alas for them! Only a week or two are to pass, and
she, the beloved princess, the English rose, as she might well be
termed, is cut down in her prime of beauty. The sombre picture of that
scene unveils itself before us, dark and portentous. Out of the agonised
death chamber at St Cloud comes the great Bossuet, who has borne the
Last Sacraments to the dying girl, and exhorted her to the very end. As
he sweeps past the shrinking, horror-struck crowd without, he surveys
them with unsparing contempt, but his funeral sermon in the Chapel Royal
rings down the centuries: “O nuit désastreuse, O nuit effroyable, où
retentit tout-à-coup comme un éclat de tonnerre, cette étonnante
nouvelle: Madame se meurt! Madame est morte!”[267] The suspicion of
poison always raised in those days on the occasion of an unexpected
death may be unfounded in this case; we cannot tell, but the attendant
circumstances were sad and ominous enough without that. The crass
stupidity of the doctors, the callous indifference of Monsieur, the
decorous sorrow of King Louis—once it would have been something more—all
make up the setting of a grim tragedy, only relieved by the courage and
resignation of Henrietta herself.[268] Over in England there was deep
and bitter grief at the news: Charles himself broke down into passionate
tears, but after a while the memory of Madame remained only as a fair
dream in the recollection of those who had known her. Nevertheless she
had performed the work which King Louis had given her to do in England,
and the secret treaty was concluded.[269]
Footnote 265:
“Histoire de Madame Henriette d’Angleterre,” par Marie de la Vergne,
Comtesse de la Fayette. “Madame étoit revenue d’Angleterre avec toute
la gloire et le plaisir que peut donner un voyage causé par l’amitié
et suivi d’un bon succés dans les affaires.”
Footnote 266:
“Charles II. and his Court.” A. G. A. Brett.
Footnote 267:
“Madame de Brinvilliers.” Hugh Stokes.
Footnote 268:
“Histoire de Madame Henriette d’Angleterre,” par Dame Marie de la
Vergne, Comtesse de la Fayette, 1742. “Dieu aveugloit les Médecins
. . . on la voyoit dans des souffrances cruelles, sans néanmoins
qu’elle parût agitée. . . . Le Roi voyant que selon les apparences il
n’y avoit rien a esperer, lui dit adieu en pleurant.”
Footnote 269:
“Histoire de Madame Henriette d’Angleterre,” par Marie de la Vergne,
Comtesse de la Fayette. “Elle se voyoit à vingt-six ans le lien des
deux plus grands Rois de ce siècle . . . . Le plaisir et la
considération que donnent les affaires se joignent en elle aux
agrémens que donnent la jeunesse et la beauté.”
Charles was, when expedient, to profess the Roman Communion; he was to
join France, when so required, in a war against the United Provinces,
and for these services he would receive two million livres, and six
thousand men in case of any insurrection at home. Here, then, was the
kernel of the matter. Money was always lacking, the hunger for it
altogether unsated; even the portion of Zealand which was promised out
of the future conquest of the Dutch was little in comparison, and the
English King might have been induced to make further promises for a
corresponding amount of hard cash.
The tragic death of the Duchess of Orleans was also destined at the time
to affect the family of her brother the Duke of York in quite another
direction.
[Illustration:
HENRIETTA, DUCHESS OF ORLEANS
]
Duchess Anne has been accused, among other failings, of the unlovely
propensity of eating too much, and this habit was certainly inherited by
her younger daughter and namesake.[270] Whether from this, or from some
other cause, the Lady Anne of York very early contracted a weakness of
the eyes, a complaint, moreover, which lasted to the end of her life.
For the cure of this disorder the parents had taken the precaution of
sending the child to France, to the care of her grandmother the
queen-mother, who was then at Colombes.
Footnote 270:
“Lives of the Queens of England.” Agnes Strickland.
Henrietta Maria, however, died there on 10th September 1669,[271] to the
deep grief of Madame her daughter, to whose family her young niece was
next transferred; and she remained with her for many months. Anne was
still at St Cloud at the time of her aunt’s sudden and tragic death, but
the small English princess became, on this event, a somewhat
inconvenient visitor in the disorganised household of Monsieur. She was
therefore sent back to England, after spending a considerable time in
France, a visit which was kept more or less a secret at home, on account
of the strong prejudices which existed in England against all French
influences. The experiment does not seem to have materially benefited
the child’s health, but at any rate back she came. Her parents
despatched Colonel Villiers and his wife to bring home their little
daughter, and the pair accordingly embarked at Rye for Dieppe on 2nd
July, thereafter reaching the former port on their return journey on the
23rd of the same month, but whether the weather was unfavourable or not,
the party did not land on English shore till the 28th.[272] There is a
piece of information which reads oddly in the light of subsequent
events: “Lady Anne was presented on her departure from France with a
pair of bracelets set with great diamonds, valued at ten thousand
crowns, by the French King.” One can fancy the child bridling over her
magnificent ornaments, and thinking how kind and splendid was the
stately, gracious King, with the long, dark eyes and perfect manner, who
clasped them on her chubby wrists as if she were a woman grown.
Footnote 271:
Madame—Julia Cartwright (Mrs Ady). Macpherson’s “Original Papers.”
Footnote 272:
“Calendar of Domestic State Papers.” 27th June 1670: “Their Royal
Highnesses have sent Col. Villiers and his lady to France to fetch
their daughter.” Colonel Villiers was of the Duke’s bedchamber, and
his wife governess to the children.
Neither he nor any one else could have foreseen the fierce struggle of
forty years later, when the old feud would be revived, when the armies
of each were to be face to face on many a stricken field, when Blenheim
and Malplaquet and Ramilies were to bear a bitter significance in French
ears, and when the splendid Roi Soleil of these early days of glory
would perforce veil his lofty crest before the stubborn, invincible
troops of the little stolid English cousin.
It was in the August following Madame’s aforesaid visit to England that
the Duchess of York wrote the paper setting forth the reasons for her
change of faith which has been previously given, but already it appears
that her health was declining. She had never really recovered from the
birth of her son Edgar,[273] as far back as 1667, and she gradually
became the victim of a complication of disorders. Probably the unwieldy
size of which her contemporaries speak was merely one symptom of failing
health, as she was only thirty-three. But the malady to which she
finally succumbed was the terrible scourge of cancer, which strangely
enough was destined many years later to carry off her successor, Mary of
Modena.[274]
Footnote 273:
“Lives of Queens of England,” Agnes Strickland. “Royalty Restored,” J.
F. Molloy. “She was ill for fifteen months.”
Footnote 274:
Burnet’s “History of My Own Time,” edit. 1766. “A long decay of health
came to a quicker crisis. All on a sudden she fell in agony of death.”
Some time during this year James himself was seriously ill.
All through the autumn months of 1670 and the succeeding winter she was
ailing, often seriously, but her indomitable will upheld her to the very
end. She was, there is no doubt, brave and resolute, and through her
“long decay of nature” she contained herself with silent courage, for
she was never given to confide in those about her.
Early in the winter a general suspicion of her new religious opinions
began to be circulated. She rejected the services of her chaplains[275]
without, however, giving any explanation of this conduct, further than
the state of her health “and business,” and it was in the month of
December, some months, therefore, after her actual reception into the
Roman communion, that the King spoke, as we have seen, on this subject
to the Duke of York.
Footnote 275:
“Life of James II.,” Rev. J. S. Clarke, from original Stuart MSS. in
Carlton House, 1816. “During all her indisposition of which she dyed
she had not prayers said to her by any of the chaplains.”
Burnet says that the latter had by this time himself seceded, though not
formally, from the Anglican Church,[276] before his wife did so, and
that she had “entered into discourse with his priests.” But who these
could be is not apparent, and the story is improbable on that account.
Footnote 276:
Burnet’s “History of My Own Time.” (Supplement.) “He [the Duke of
York] was bred to believe a mysterious sort of Real Presence in the
Sacrament so that he thought he made no great step when he believed
Transubstantiation, and there was infused in him very early a great
reverence for the Church and a great submission to it; this was done
on design to possess him with prejudice against Presbytery.”
And so we come to the last act of a brief drama, when the curtain was to
ring down for good. Much had been woven into that fabric, the warp of
sorrow and the woof of joy, but the gilded strands were parting asunder
now, and there would be no knitting together of them any more.
The autumn after Madame’s untimely death passed over, and in the midst
of the growing rumours that the Duchess of York was tending towards
Rome, there arose another whisper to the effect that her bodily state
was daily growing more and more precarious. Margaret Blagge, as we know,
waited on her with tender and unswerving devotion, sorrowfully
recognising the lonely and forlorn condition of the proud princess who
had achieved so much—and so little.[277] Still, to their chagrin, the
chaplains were held at arm’s length by Morley’s once docile and obedient
pupil, and the Court wondered and discussed the question with growing
relish and excitement.[278] Christmas came and went, but for one at
least there could have been little question of the revelry belonging to
the season. The month of March drew on to its close, and Anne must have
been feeling at any rate somewhat better, for on the 30th we find her
dining at Lord Burlington’s house in Piccadilly and enjoying the good
cheer there provided for her (poor Anne!), for she “dined heartily,” but
after her return home she was taken suddenly and alarmingly ill. It is
possible, from the contemporary evidence, that the immediate attack was
some form of internal inflammation, but at any rate the gravity of the
situation was at once realised.[279] She had spent, as was her custom,
some three-quarters of an hour “att her own accustomed devotions,” but
in this extremity it seems that she did call for her chaplain, Dr
Turner. After a night of agony her director, Blandford, Bishop of
Worcester, to whose spiritual care Morley on his own retirement had
committed her, was also sent for, but of what really took place during
the next few hours the accounts given present many discrepancies. Over
from Whitehall came Queen Catherine, timid, gentle and compassionate,
and Burnet declares that as she arrived before the bishop, and would not
leave the sick room, the latter lacked sufficient courage and presence
of mind to begin prayers, and only “spoke little and fearfully.”
Footnote 277:
“Life of Mrs Godolphin.” John Evelyn, edit. by E. W. Harcourt, 1888.
Footnote 278:
Macpherson’s “Original Papers,” 1772.
Footnote 279:
Arlington, writing to the English Ambassador in Spain, said she was
afflicted with a complication of disorders.
In the ante-room without, the Duke of York had awaited the bishop, and
there alone with him confided to his ears the secret so long concealed.
His wife, he said, had been reconciled to the Church of Rome, and had
entreated of him, that if any bishops should come to her in her
extremity, they would not disturb her with controversy.[280]
Footnote 280:
“Memoirs of the Court of England during the Reign of the Stuarts,”
John Heneage Jesse. “Life of James II.,” Rev. J. S. Clarke, from
original Stuart MSS. in Carlton House, 1816. “During all her great
indisposition of which she dyed, she had not prayers said to her by
either of the chaplains.”
Blandford can scarcely have been surprised at the announcement,
considering the surmises which had for so long been afloat, and the
manner in which he himself and his colleagues had been kept at a
distance, but he collected himself to answer gravely and
compassionately. He said that he believed the Duchess, in spite of what
had occurred, to be in the fair way of salvation, seeing she had not
changed her religion for any hope of worldly gain nor advantage, but
from honest conviction. After these words, with the Duke’s permission,
the bishop passed quietly into the stately, beautiful room, where amid
the pomp of royalty, with brocaded curtains round her bed, the flicker
of wax lights in silver sconces only throwing the figures of the Gobelin
hangings on the walls into darker relief, lay Duchess Anne. By her side
sat Catherine the Queen, the golden beads of her rosary slipping one by
one through her shaking fingers, tears slowly stealing down her
cheeks.[281] Beyond stood Lady Cranmer, and leaning over the dying
woman, ready with the draught for the fevered lips, was Margaret Blagge,
her beautiful face alight with infinite love and pity. Bishop Blandford
drew near, and stood for a moment silent. Then as Anne’s dark eyes,
unclosing, met his, he said gently but distinctly:
“I hope you continue still in truth?”
Footnote 281:
Burnet’s “History of His Own Time.”
Possibly only the one word reached her failing senses, but she answered
brokenly with Pilate’s question:
“What is truth?”
“And then,” so the chronicle continues, “her agony increasing, she
repeated the word ‘Truth, truth, truth’ often.”[282] In that wild March
morning, when the wind beat and clamoured round the ancient palace of
the kings, those hoarse whispers fell awfully on the ears of the
watchers, though most likely she herself was unconscious of them. Of her
own kindred only her younger brother, Lord Rochester, came to bid her
his last farewell, refusing to believe in her change of faith, but the
elder, Cornbury, unable to forgive her apostasy, remained away. Of her
sister Frances there is at this time no record.
Footnote 282:
Burnet further says that the Queen stayed in the room of the Duchess
to prevent the prayers of the Church of England being read, but this
is improbable.
But she who lay there was past all such things now, and the presence or
absence of kinsfolk was alike of little matter.
Blandford “made her a short Christian exhortation suitable to the
condition she was in, and so departed.”[283]
Footnote 283:
“Memoirs of the Court of England under the Reign of the Stuarts.” J.
H. Jesse.
Perhaps she received the last rites of Rome from Father Hunt, the
Franciscan, who a few months back had admitted her into that fold, but
even this is uncertain.[284] Another authority declares that there was
“noe Preest,” but that Father Howard and Father Patrick, who had come to
St James’s in attendance on the Queen,[285] were waiting in the
ante-room without, and they were probably praying for the parting soul.
Footnote 284:
James himself declares: “She died with great resignation, having
received all the Sacraments of the Catholic Church.”
Footnote 285:
“Verney Memoirs.” Sir William Denton to Sir Ralph Verney.
Out of consideration for the King’s wishes, and in deference to public
opinion, the Duke of York, to whom it is impossible to deny some amount
of sympathy in this supreme moment, and the difficult part he had to
play, sent for the Bishop of Oxford, though by the time the latter
arrived, the Duchess was already unconscious.
But in the interval there had been a last appeal, not indeed of
controversy, but of human affection, a spark from the fading embers of
the old, half extinguished fire, the love which had dared and risked so
much in other days. From the ante-room where throughout those dark hours
he had perforce to interview one and another, English bishop and Roman
priest, courtier and emissary of state, to answer inquiry, to dictate
fitting replies, James came quietly in once more, and mounting the dais,
stood looking down on the face which had once—yes, once—been so dear to
him, the face for which he had braved his mother’s wrath, his brother’s
arguments, the scorn of his followers. Anne’s eyes were closed, the long
dark tresses tangled over the laced pillow. The world was slipping
silently away, or rather it was she who was drifting out upon the waves
of death. The long-drawn breaths were growing fainter. A great longing
came over him, a longing for at least a final recognition—a word, a
look. He stooped over her, and spoke in hushed, unsteady accents from
dry lips.
“Dame, doe ye knowe me?”
There was no reply at once, and he repeated the appeal more than once
before, seemingly, it reached the deafened ears and failing
comprehension. At last she collected herself.
With much strivings she said faintly “Aye.” After a little respite she
took a little courage, and with what vehemency and tenderness she could,
she said: “Duke, Duke, death is terrible—death is very terrible!”[286]
Footnote 286:
“Verney Memoirs.” Dr Denton to Sir Ralph Verney: “By ye best and
truest intelligence she did not dy a Papalina, but she made no
profession or confession either way.” _Cf._ “Sir John Reresby:
Memoirs,” ed. 1734: “This day dyed Anne, Duchess of York, with her
last breath declaring herself a Papist.”
The voice, so greatly beloved in the past, if not in the present, had
for the moment summoned her back, but if it was only to utter those last
most pitiful words, it surely had been better speechless. The breathing
grew shorter—stopped.
Then silence—and so vanished away Anne Hyde.
Margaret Blagge, who as we know had nursed her “with extraordinary
sedulity” and had stood by her to the last, has set down this sorrowful,
awestruck record: “The Duchess dead, a princess honoured in power, had
much witt, much money, much esteeme. She was full of unspeakable
torture, and died (poore creature) in doubt of her religion, without the
Sacrament or divine by her side, like a poore wretch. None remembered
her after one weeke, none sorry for her; she was tost and flung about
and every one did what they would with that stately carcase.”[287]
Footnote 287:
“Life of Mrs Godolphin,” by John Evelyn, edit, by E. W. Harcourt,
1888.
This irreverent and revolting neglect must be ascribed to the ill
conduct of the servants and apothecaries, who according to custom were
responsible. Neither the Duke himself nor the ladies of the Duchess can
be blamed, for they would at once have left the room.
The foregoing testimony, by the way, would seem to establish the fact
that Anne did not receive the consolations of religion from any priest;
and for the rest, Margaret’s words “none sorry for her” are borne out by
those of Burnet, who says she “died little beloved. Haughtiness gained
many enemies” and her “change of religion made her friends think her
death a blessing at that time.”
It is a dreary epitaph to place on the tomb of Anne, Duchess of York.
Alas for her! The goodly fruit which her aspiring hand had plucked so
eagerly had long ago turned to ashes in her very grasp, and she had
drained to the utmost dregs the cup of disillusion. And thus we leave
her, as all must be left, to the infinite mercy of God.
She died on Friday, 31st March 1671, in the thirty-fourth year of her
age. On the Sunday following, her body, being embalmed, was privately
buried in the vault of Mary Queen of Scots, in Henry the Seventh’s
Chapel of Westminster Abbey.[288]
Footnote 288:
“Memoirs of the Court of England during the Reign of the Stuarts.”
John Heneage Jesse.
Her little son Edgar, Duke of Cambridge, the last of her boys, followed
her on the 8th of June succeeding, and thus of her eight children only
Mary and Anne, both destined to be successively Queens of England,
survived their childhood.
In the memoirs of his own life, written years subsequently, James II.
paid a full and generous tribute of respect to the memory of his first
wife, though, as we have seen, the early, passionate, imperious love had
so soon died out.
Long afterwards, in the grey, weary days of exile at St Germain, when
there remained to him only the luckless heir to a vanished inheritance
and the winsome child Louisa, whom he called with such sad significance
his “douce consolatrice,” the thoughts of the banished King must
sometimes at least have travelled back to the storied past, to the days
of his strenuous if stormy youth, to his English wife, to the fair
little brood of children, of whom but two lived on to become the Goneril
and Regan of this later Lear.
When his time came, and he, too, lay down to die in the hunting palace
of King Louis, the last Stuart king was laid to his rest, unburied, in
the Church of the English Benedictines in Paris, in the vain, pathetic
hope that some day he might yet repose among his kindred in the England
he loved so well.
In the mad upheaval of the French Revolution ninety years later, his
bones, like those of the great lines of Valois and Bourbon, were cast
out in dishonour, and no man knows the place of his sepulture; but Nan
Hyde sleeps undisturbed in Westminster, among the kings to whose company
the passion of a prince had raised her.
THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH
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● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that:
was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_);
was in bold by is enclosed by “equal” signs (=bold=).
○ The use of a caret (^) before a letter, or letters, shows that the
following letter or letters was intended to be a superscript, as
in S^t Bartholomew or 10^{th} Century.
○ Superscripts are used to indicate numbers raised to a power. In
this plain text document, they are represented by characters like
this: “P^3” or “10^{18}”, i.e. P cubed or 10 to the 18th power.
○ Variables in formulæ sometimes use subscripts, which look like
this: “A_{0}”. This would be read “A sub 0”.