THE END.
What lovely form, in deepest gloom
Of prison cave, awaits her doom?--
* * * * *
'Tis Scotia's basely-injured Queen;
'Tis she who, cherished, would have been
The loveliest, brightest, richest gem
In Caledonia's diadem,--
A gem too polished, pure and bright
For Scotia's sons, in Scotia's night,
When evil man and evil times
Were stained in basest, blackest crimes.--
_The Royal Exile._
On Tuesday, the 7th of February (1587), the Earls of Kent and
Shrewsbury, who had been appointed to conduct the execution of the
Scottish queen, arrived at Fotheringay. Towards evening they sent her
word that they wished to see her on urgent business. She had gone to
bed, but, on hearing their message, she rose and prepared to receive
them. Shrewsbury and Kent entered, accompanied by Beale, clerk of the
Council, and the two keepers, Paulet and Drury. Shrewsbury, who in his
heart sympathized with the helpless queen, performed the unpleasant duty
imposed upon him by announcing to her the purpose of their visit, and
requesting her to listen to the sentence which Beale was about to read.
When Beale had finished reading, Mary thanked them for the welcome news.
"I have long looked for this," she said, "and have expected it day by
day for eighteen years. Unworthy though I think myself, I am by the
grace of God a Queen born and a Queen anointed, a near relative of the
Queen (of England), grand-daughter of King Henry VII., and I have had
the honour to be Queen of France, but, in all my life I have had only
sorrow." In answer to their urgent requests that she should accept of
the religious services of the Dean of Peterborough, and renounce her
former "abominations," she assured them that all their efforts to
persuade her in that matter were useless. "Having lived till now in the
true faith," she said, "this is not the time to change, but on the
contrary, it is the very moment when it is most needful that I should
remain firm and constant, as I intend to do." Turning from the
profitless religious discussion on which Kent seemed disposed to linger,
she enquired when she should die. "To-morrow morning at eight o'clock,"
was Shrewsbury's reply.
Short indeed was the notice, but Mary betrayed no sign of alarm. The
lords shortly after retired, and she was left alone to prepare for the
closing scene in the painful tragedy of her life. She was denied the
assistance of a priest--a last act of cruelty for which no excuse can be
offered.
The little family of her faithful servants who had shared with her the
weary years of captivity, were disconsolate. She alone was bright and
joyful. "Well," she said, "let supper be hastened, so that I may put my
affairs in order. My children, it is now no time to weep; that is
useless; what do you now fear? You should rather rejoice to see me on
such a good road to being delivered from the many evils and afflictions
which have so long been my portion." During supper she turned to her
physician, Bourgoin, with a bright countenance, and said:--"Did you
remark what Lord Kent said in his interview with me? He said that my
life would have been the death of their religion, and that my death will
be its life. Oh, how happy these words make me............ They told me
that I was to die because I had plotted against the Queen, and here is
Lord Kent sent to me to convert me, and what does he tell me?--that I am
to die on account of my religion."
When the light repast was finished, her attendants gathered around her
on their knees, implored her to forgive them whatever offences they had
committed against her. "With all my heart, my children," she fervently
answered, "even as I pray you to forgive me any injustice or harshness
of which I may have been guilty towards you."
Her unselfishness, which was one of the strongest features of her
character, showed itself to the last. No one would have thought it was
she who had to die next morning. She was administering comfort, not
seeking it. In all her life she had never abandoned a friend, nor
forgotten a good turn; nor did she now. The night was already well
advanced, and she began parcelling out gifts of money and jewellery for
her attendants and friends. Late in the night she wrote a short letter
to her chaplain, Preau, who was detained in another part of the Castle
and denied admittance to her presence.
"I have," she wrote, "been attacked to-day concerning my religion, and
urged to receive consolation from the heretics. You will hear from
Bourgoin and others that I, at least, faithfully made protestation for
my faith, in which I wish to die. I requested to have you, in order
that I might make my confession and receive my Sacrament, which was
cruelly refused me, as well as leave for my body to be removed and the
power of making a free will, or writing anything except what shall pass
through their hands and be subject to the good pleasure of their
mistress. In default of that, I confess in general the gravity of my
sins, as I had intended to do to you in particular, begging you in the
name of God to pray and watch with me this night in satisfaction for my
sins, and to send me your absolution and pardon for the things in which
I have offended you. I shall try to see you in their presence, as they
have allowed me to see the steward,[#] and if I am allowed, I shall ask
the blessing on my knees before all.
[#] Melville, the steward here referred to, and Preau had been separated
from Mary three weeks before. Melville was permitted to meet his
mistress on her way to the scaffold. Preau was denied even this.
"Advise me as to the most appropriate prayers, for this night and
to-morrow morning, as the time is short and I have no leisure to write;
but I will recommend you, as well as the others, and especially your
benefices will be spared to you, and I will recommend you to the king.
I have no more time. Tell me in writing of all that you shall think
best for the good of my soul. I shall send you a last little token."
"At two hours after midnight," she wrote a letter to the King of France,
and then, worn out with the anxieties and labours of the last twelve
hours, laid down to rest. But her women attendants, who watched closely
by her bedside, assure us that, though she lay calm and motionless with
her hands crossed on her breast, her lips continued to move in prayer,
and a joyful expression occasionally rested on her countenance.
The royal victim rose early in the morning, and attired herself in her
most costly garments.[#] Then she called together her little household,
gave to each the present she had prepared the night before, and with
comforting words bade them farewell. "I beg you all," she said, "to
assist at my death, and to testify to my unalterable devotion to my
religion. Be ye witnesses of my last acts and my last words." This
done, she retired to her oratory to pray. At eight o'clock the sheriff
interrupted her devotions, announcing that the hour had come. The Queen
promptly answered the summons, and, although suffering from a rheumatism
which prevented her from walking without support, she strove to disguise
her suffering and to march to death with as firm a step as possible. At
the foot of the stairs leading down from her apartments, her old servant
Melville awaited his mistress, and, on her approach, threw himself on
his knees before her, and wept. "Ah, madame," he said, "unhappy me,
what man on earth was ever before the messenger of so important sorrow
and heaviness as I shall be, when I shall report that my good and
gracious Queen and Mistress is beheaded in England."
[#] "Her robes--the only ones she had reserved of former
splendours--were such as were then worn by queens-dowager. The skirt and
bodice of black satin were worn over a petticoat of russet-brown velvet;
while the long regal mantle, also of black satin, embroidered with gold
and trimmed with fur, had long hanging sleeves and a train. The Queen's
head-dress was of white crape, from which fell a long veil of the same
delicate material, edged with lace. Round her neck she wore a chain of
scented beads with a cross, and at her waist a golden rosary." (_The
Tragedy of Fotheringay_, by Hon. Mrs. Maxwell Scott.)
"Not so," replied the Queen; "to-day, good Melville, thou seest the end
of Mary Stewart's miseries, that should rejoice thee. Thou knowest that
this world is but vanity and misery. Be the bearer of this news, that I
die a Catholic, firm in my religion, a faithful Scotchwoman and a true
Frenchwoman. God forgive those who have sought my death." She advanced
unmoved through the hall in which the scaffold stood, carrying in her
uplifted hand a large ivory crucifix. After encountering much
opposition, she succeeded in obtaining permission for her two women,
Jane Kennedy and Elizabeth Curle, to assist her until she should be
disrobed for the execution.
Having mounted the scaffold, she seated herself on a low stool covered
with black, while the warrant of execution was being read. When it was
finished, she signed herself with the sign of the Cross and (as an eye
witness says), "She looked upon the assembly with a joyous countenance,
her beauty more apparent than ever, a bright colour in her face." Mr.
Fletcher, Dean of Peterborough, then approached the scaffold railing and
began to address her. But she paid no heed to him, except to inform him
that he need not trouble himself further, for she was settled in her
religion. On the contrary, as if indifferent to what was being said and
done around her, she glided from the stool on which she sat, and
kneeling down prayed aloud for the afflicted Church of Christ, for her
son, for Queen Elizabeth, "that she might prosper and serve God aright,"
for her enemies who had long sought her blood; finally, kissing the
crucifix, which she held in her hand, she begged that Jesus, whose arms
were there extended on the cross, would receive her into the arms of his
mercy. Her prayer ended, the executioners began to disrobe her. At
this point her women, no longer able to control their feelings, broke
into lamentations, but she embracing them, prayed them not to cry, or
she would be obliged to send them away. Turning to where her
men-servants stood, a short distance from the scaffold, she crossed them
with her hands and bade them farewell.
All being now ready, she embraced her women, saying, "Adieu for the last
time,--Adieu, au revoir," and then requested them to withdraw from the
scaffold.
Seated on the black stool, her eyes bandaged, and the crucifix raised in
her hands, she prays aloud, "My God, I have hoped in thee, I give back
my soul into Thy hands." The executioners lead her to the block; Lord
Shrewsbury lifts up his wand; a deep silence falls upon the hall as the
axe trembles in the air, and is broken only by the last words of Mary
Stewart as she awaits the deadly blow,--"Into Thy hands, O Lord, I
commend my spirit."
"The neck is bared--the blow is struck--the soul is passed away,
The bright, the beautiful, is now--a bleeding piece of clay."
The executioner taking up the head, according to custom, and exposing it
to the gaze of the people, cried out, "God save the Queen." "So perish
all the Queen's enemies," added the Dean of Peterborough; "such be the
end of all the Queen's and the Gospel's enemies," remarked the Earl of
Kent. But even that hostile assembly was melted to tears, and scarcely
a voice was heard to answer, "Amen."
The body of the Scottish Queen, notwithstanding her dying request that
it be consigned to the care of her servants and by them borne away to
France and laid beside that of her mother, was detained for six months
in Fotheringay Castle. It was then removed, by order of Elizabeth, to
the Cathedral of Peterborough, a few miles distant, and laid in a vault
opposite the tomb of another noble victim of Tudor tyranny, the
blameless Catherine of Arragon. Twenty-five years later her son, King
James, who had in the meantime succeeded to the throne of England, in
partial reparation for his former neglects, removed her remains to
Westminster Abbey, and caused a beautiful monument, with a marble effigy
of the Queen in a recumbent position, to be erected over them, in the
south aisle of Henry the Seventh's chapel.
No more need be added to this brief review of Mary Stewart's history.
The opinions set forth and defended in the above pages will not be
received by all, for the leading events of her life will continue to be
interpreted very generally according to theories conceived by party
zeal, before the historical evidence bearing on them has been examined.
I do not pretend that I myself have approached the study of her life
without prejudice. Say what we will, where party spirit has run high,
our feelings are always enlisted before our judgment has been moved.
This, however, should be borne in mind: the prejudices of a writer
cannot destroy the force of the evidence with which he supports his
contention; and, whithersoever my sympathies may tend, I have
endeavoured to give my reasons--the intelligent reader will judge of
their value--why I refuse to believe that Mary was the paramour of
Bothwell and a party to the murder of her husband, and why I maintain
that her conviction, on the charge of having sanctioned the projected
murder of Queen Elizabeth, was unjust.