tongues, and I know not how the world may construe this circumstance.
Both your honour and station require that this presumtuous knave suffer
the penalty of his crime in its utmost rigour. What would the world say
else? Why, it would have suspicions that ought not for an instant to be
associated with the name of Mary Stuart."
"But you will not have his life taken, brother?" said Mary, in a gentle
tone--subdued by the thoughts of the severe doom that threatened the
unfortunate gentleman, and placing her hand affectionately on the earl's
arm as she spoke. "Can ye not banish him forth of the realm, or imprison
him--anything short of death, which, methinks, would be, after all, hard
measure for the offence?"
"You have reasons, doubtless, madam," said the earl, coldly and bluntly,
"for this tenderness."
"I have," said Mary, indignantly; "but not, my lord, such as you would
seem to insinuate. My reasons are, humanity and a feeling of compassion
for the misguided and unhappy youth."
"Chatelard shall have such mercy, madam, as your Majesty's Privy Council
may deem him deserving of," replied the earl, turning round on his heel,
and quitting the apartment.
On leaving the presence of the queen, the Earl of Murray retired to his
own chamber where he was shortly after, waited upon by Choisseul, who
had been for some time watching his return.
"Ha, Choisseul art there?" said the earl, with an unusual expression of
satisfaction on his countenance, on the former's entrance. "Thou hast
done well, friend: I found matters exactly as you stated, and am obliged
by the promptness and accuracy of your information."
"Vere happy, my lor', I am serve to your satisfaction," replied
Choisseul, bowing low. "I vas vatch Monsieur Chatelard as vone cat shall
vatch vone leetle mice, and did caught him at las."
"You did well, Choisseul, and shall be suitably recompensed. Dost know
how the fellow came here, and when?"
"He did come in vone leetle barque, my lor' from over de riviere, on de
todder side opposite."
"Ah, so!" said the earl. "Well, you may now retire, Choisseul. To-morrow
I shall see to your reward."
Choisseul bowed, and withdrew.
When he had retired, the earl sat down to a small writing table, and,
late as the hour was, began writing with great assiduity--an employment
at which he continued until he had written eight or ten different
letters, each of considerable length. These were addressed to various
members of the Queen's Privy Council in Edinburgh, and to some of the
law officers of the crown. They were all nearly copies of each other,
and contained an account of Chatelard's conduct, with a charge to the
several parties addressed to repair to St. Andrews on the second day
following, for the purpose of holding a court on the offender, and
awarding him such punishment as the case might seem to demand.
On the day succeeding that on which the occurrence just related took
place, the queen and her retinue proceeded to St. Andrews, whither the
prisoner Chatelard was also carried; and, on the next again, the
unfortunate gentleman was brought to trial, the scene of which was an
apartment in the Castle of St Andrews, which had been hastily prepared
for the occasion. In the centre of this apartment was placed a large
oblong oaken table, covered with crimson velvet, and surrounded by a
circle of high-backed chairs, with cushions covered with the same
material. These were subsequently occupied by eight or ten persons of
the Privy Council, including Mary's secretary of state, Maitland of
Lethington, who sat at one end of the table. At the opposite end sat the
Earl of Murray; the prisoner occupying a place in the centre at one of
the sides. During the investigation which followed into the offence of
Chatelard, the Earl of Murray made repeated indirect attempts to lead
him to make statements prejudicial to the queen; urging him, with a show
of candour and pretended regard for justice, to inform the court of
anything and everything which he thought might be available in his
defence, without regard to the rank or condition of those whom such
statements might implicate. This language was too plain to be
misunderstood. Every one present perceived that it conveyed a pointed
allusion to the queen. Chatelard, amongst the rest, felt that it did so,
and indignantly repelled the insinuation.
"I have none," he said, "to accuse but myself; nothing to blame but my
own folly. Folly, did I say?" went on the fearless enthusiast; "it was
no folly--it was love, love, love--all-powerful love--love for her, the
noblest, the loveliest of created beings, for whom I could die ten
thousand deaths. It was love for her who has been to me the breath of
life, the light of mine eyes, the idol of my heart; around which were
entwined all the feelings and susceptibilities of my nature, even as the
ivy entwines the tree--the constant theme of my dreams by night; the
sole subject of my thoughts by day. It has been hinted to me that I may
blame freely, where to blame may serve me. But whom shall I blame? Not
her, surely, who is the object of my idolatry--my sun, moon, and
stars--my heaven, my soul, my existence. Not her, surely; for she is
faultless as the unborn babe, pure and spotless as the snow-wreath in
the hollow of the mountain. Who shall maintain the contrary fies in his
throat, and is a foul-mouthed, villanous slanderer."
Here the enthusiastic and somewhat incoherent speaker was abruptly
interrupted by Maitland of Lethington, who, rising to his feet, and
resting his hands on the low table around which Chatelard's judges were
seated, said, looking at the prisoner--
"Friend, ye must speak to your defence, if ye would speak at all. This
that you have said is nothing to the purpose; and you cannot be
permitted to take up the time of this court with such rhapsodies as
these, that make not for any point of your accusation. Think ye not so,
my lords?" he added, glancing around the table.
Several nods of assent spoke acquiescence. When Maitland had concluded--
"I have done, then, my lords," said Chatelard, bowing, and seating
himself. "I have no more to say."
A short conversation now took place amongst the prisoner's judges, when
sentence of death was unanimously agreed to, and he was ordered to be
beheaded on the following day, the 22d of February, 1563.
On the rising of the court, the Earl of Murray repaired to the queen,
and informed her of the doom awarded against Chatelard. Mary was greatly
affected by the intelligence. She burst into tears, exclaiming--
"Oh, unhappy, thrice unhappy, countenance! thou hast been given me for a
curse, instead of a blessing--the ruin of these who love me best--that,
by inspiring a silly passion, at once dangerous and worthless, will not
permit one to remain near me in the character of friend! My lord, my
lord," she continued, in great agitation, "can you not, will you not
save the unhappy young man? I beseech thee, I implore thee, by the ties
of consanguinity that connect us, by the duty ye owe to me as thy
sovereign, to spare his life!"
"You know not what you ask, madam," replied Murray, stalking up and down
the apartment. "How can his life be spared consistently with your
honour? Save him, and you will set a thousand slanderous tongues
a-wagging. It may not, must not, be."
Mary herself could not deny the force of this remark, and, finding she
had nothing to oppose to it, she flung herself into a chair, and again
burst into tears. In this condition the earl left her, to give orders
respecting the execution of Chatelard on the following day, and to put
another proceeding in train for obtaining that result which he had aimed
at on the trial of the unfortunate young man. Sending again for
Choisseul--
"Friend," he said, on that person's entering the apartment, "I wish
another small piece of service at your hands."
Choisseul bowed, and expressed his readiness to do anything he might be
required to do.
"I vas proud to discharge all de drops of my blood in your service, my
lor'," said the knave, with a profound obeisance.
The earl carelessly nodded approbation.
"To-night, then, Choisseul," he went on, "you will repair to the dungeon
in which Chatelard is confined. You will see him as a friend. You
understand me?"
"Ah, well, my lor', vere well."
"Just so. Well, then, you will hint to him that you have reason to
believe he might yet save his life by confessing a participation in his
guilt on the part of the queen. You may add, though not as from me, of
course, that I have no doubt of his having been encouraged to those
liberties for which his life is forfeited; and you may say that you know
I feel for him, and would readily procure his pardon, if he would only
give me a reasonable ground or pretext for doing so, by showing that
there were _others_ equally in fault with him. Do you entirely
understand me, Choisseul?"
"Entirely, my lor'," replied the latter; "bright, clear, as noonday at
the sun."
"So, then, return to me when you have seen Chatelard, and let me know
the result," said the earl.
Choisseul once more withdrew, to perform the treacherous and knavish
part assigned him. About midnight he sought the dungeon of the unhappy
gentleman, and, having been admitted by the guards, found him busily
employed in writing; the indulgence of a lamp, with pen, ink, and paper,
having, at his most earnest request, been afforded him. Indeed, these
were more readily and willingly given than he was aware of. They were
given in the hope that he would commit something to writing which,
without his intending it, might compromise the character of the queen.
But in this her enemies were disappointed.
On Choisseul's entering Chatelard's dungeon, the latter, as we have
already said, was busily engaged in writing. He was inditing a last
farewell to the queen in verse. On this employment he was so intent,
that he did not observe, or at least pay any attention to, the entrance
of Choisseul, but continued writing on till he had completed his task,
which now, however, occupied only a very few minutes. On finishing--
"'Tis done," he said, and threw down his pen with violence on the table.
"These are the last notes of the harp of Chatelard. Ha, Choisseul!" he
immediately added, and only now for the first time seeming conscious of
that person's presence; "I am glad to see you, my countryman. This is
kind. I thought there were none in this strange land to care for me. But
they shall see, Choisseul," he added, proudly, "how a Frenchman and a
poet can die. That is, boldly and bravely. He were no true poet whose
soul was not elevated above the fear of death. I said, my friend," he
went on, after a momentary pause, and sighing deeply as he spoke, "that
I thought there were none in this land to care for me, or to sorrow for
me--and perhaps it is so; but there is one, Choisseul, whom I would not
willingly believe indifferent to my fate. She surely, much as I have
offended her, will say, 'Poor Chatelard!' Nay, methinks I see a tear
standing in that peerless eye, when she recalls the memory of her
departed poet. That--that, Choisseul," said the unhappy captive, with an
enthusiasm which even the near approach of death had not been able to
abate--"that would be something worth dying for!"
Choisseul smiled.
"You hold your life lightly, indeed, Chatelard," he said, speaking in
his native language, "if you think its loss compensated by a woman's
tear."
"Ah, Choisseul, but such a woman!" exclaimed Chatelard.
"Well, well," replied the former, again smiling; "but you can have no
doubt that _she_ at least will regret your death. _She_ loved you too
well not to deplore your fate."
"Did she?" exclaimed Chatelard, eagerly, and with such a look of inquiry
and doubt as greatly disappointed the asserter. "You know who I mean,
then; but how know ye that which you have just now said? Assure me that
ye speak true, Choisseul, and I shall die happy."
"Ah, bah! you know it yourself, my friend, better than I," replied the
latter. "No use in concealing it now," he added, with an intelligent
look.
"Concealing what, sir?" said Chatelard, in a tone of mingled surprise
and displeasure.
"Why, the affection the queen entertained for you," replied Choisseul.
"We all know, my friend, you would not have done what you did, had she
not encouraged your addresses. And I'll tell you what, Chatelard," he
went on, "I have reason to believe that your life would yet be spared,
if you would only show that this was so."
"Ah, I understand you," said Chatelard, with suppressed passion. "If I
will accuse the queen--if I will put her in the power of her
enemies--her enemies will be obliged to me. In other words, I may save
my life by sacrificing her reputation; and it would be little matter
whether what I said should be true or not. Is it not so, Choisseul?"
Then, without waiting for an answer--"Villain, devil that thou art," he
exclaimed, now suddenly giving full swing to the passion that had been
raised within him, "how hast thou dared to come to me with such an
infamous proposal as this? Didst think, most dastardly knave, that my
soul was as mean as thine own? Begone, begone, ruffian! Thy presence,
thy breath, pollutes my dungeon more than the fetid damps that exhale
from its walls--more than the noxious reptiles that crawl on its floor.
Begone! begone, I say!" And he seized the now trembling caitiff by the
throat, and dashed him against the door of the cell, with a violence
that instantly brought in the guards who were stationed on the outside.
These, seeing how matters stood, hurried Choisseul out of the dungeon,
and again secured the door on its unfortunate inmate.
On leaving Chatelard, Choisseul repaired to the Earl of Murray, but with
infinitely less confidence in his looks and manner than on the former
occasion when his villany had been successful. To the earl he detailed
the particulars of his interview with Chatelard; not forgetting to
mention the rough treatment he had received from the infuriated poet.
"Then he'll confess nothing, Choisseul?" said Murray, when the former
had done speaking.
"Not anything at all, my lor'. Dere is no hope; for he make no more of
dying than I do of taking vone leetle pinch of snuff."
"Obstinate fool," exclaimed the earl, evidently chagrined and
disappointed. "Let him die, then! You may retire, Choisseul," he
abruptly added.
Choisseul obeyed.
"His execution, at any rate, shall be public," said the earl to himself,
when the latter had left him. "Perhaps he may make some confession on
the scaffold, and it will be well to have it amply testified."
On the following day, Chatelard was led out to execution, when his
gentleman-like appearance and noble bearing excited the utmost sympathy
of the crowd. On ascending the scaffold, he pulled a small volume from
his pocket, opened it, and read aloud, with great dignity and composure,
Ronsard's Hymn on Death. When he had done, he turned towards that part
of the Castle of St Andrew's where he supposed the queen to be, and,
kissing his hand, waved a graceful adieu, exclaiming--"Farewell,
loveliest and most cruel princess whom the world contains!"
Having uttered these words, he laid his head, with the utmost composure,
on the block. The axe of the executioner fell, and the high-souled,
accomplished, but enthusiastic Chatelard was no more.
CHRISTIE OF THE CLEEK.
Though the records of history and everyday experience teach us that
human nature, when pressed beyond certain limits by the force of stern
necessity, loses all trace of the lineaments of the lord of the
creation, and degenerates as far below the grade of brute existence as
it is, when not subjected to any such power, above it; yet it is
remarkable how determinedly mankind cling to a sceptical incredulity in
regard to those facts which derogate, in a very great degree, from the
dignity of the character of their species. The story of Christiecleek
has been considered by many as only fit for being, what it has been for
five hundred years, a nursery bugbear, and yet it is narrated by Winton,
one of the least credulous of historians, was attended by circumstances
rendering it highly probable at the time, and has been corroborated by
instances of _civilised_ cannabalism, produced by necessity, in cases of
shipwreck, of almost yearly occurrence.
The united powers of war and famine, which have so often poured forth
their fury on the devoted head of poor Scotland, at no time exhibited
greater malignity than in the beginning of the reign of David II. For
about fifty years, the country had scarcely ever enjoyed a year of
quiet--with, perhaps, the exception of a short period of the reign of
Bruce. Repeatedly swept from one end to the other by the invading armies
of the Edwards, carrying the sword and the faggot in every direction,
she was, on the very instant of the departure of the foreign foes (in
all cases starved out of a burned and devastated land), laid hold of by
the harpies of intestine wars. The strong resilient energies of the
country could have thrown off the effects of one attack, however severe
and however protracted; but a series of incursions of the same disease,
at intervals allowing of no time for recruiting her powers, produced a
political marasmus--a confirmed famine--one of the most dreadful evils,
including in itself all others, that ever was visited on mankind.
It would be difficult to draw a picture--because imagination falls short
of the powers of a proper portraiture--of the misery and desolation of
Scotland at the time we have mentioned. The land had got gradually out
of cultivation, and the herds of black cattle and sheep, on which the
people relied, in default of the productive powers of agriculture, had
been either driven into England, or consumed by the myriads of soldiers
of the English invading armies. Great numbers of the people, having
nothing wherewith to allay the pangs of hunger, though they had plenty
of money, quitted their country in despair, and took refuge in Flanders.
Those who had no money to pay their passage, left their homes, and
betook themselves to the woods, where, to appease their agonies, they
lay on the ground, and devoured, like the inhabitants of their sties,
the acorns and the nuts that had fallen from the trees. In the want of
these, the very branches were laid hold of and gnawed; and many poor
creatures were found lying dead, with the half-masticated boughs in
their clenched hands. The only remedial influence that was experienced,
was the growth of dysenteries and other intestine diseases, which,
produced by hunger and becoming epidemic, kindly swept off thousands who
would otherwise have died of protracted famine.
At a wild spot near the Grampian Hills, a number of destitute beings had
collected, for the purpose of catching deer (a few of which still
remained), to keep in the spark of life. They agreed to associate
together, and divide their prey, which was dressed in a mountain cave,
where they had assembled. Every morning they sallied forth, women and
all, on the dreadful errand of taking advantage of chance, in supplying
them with any species of wild animals that came in their way, to satisfy
the imperative demands of hunger. They got a few creatures at first,
consisting chiefly of hares and foxes, and occasionally wolves, as
ferocious and hungry as their captors; and such was the extremity to
which they were often reduced, that they sat down on the spot where the
animals were caught, divided the smoking limbs among their number, and
devoured them without any culinary preparation.
This supply very soon ceased--the animals in the neighbourhood having
either been consumed or frightened away to more inaccessible places. The
wretched beings, like others in their situation, had recourse to the
woods for acorns; but the time of the year had passed, and no nuts were
to be found. Weakness preyed on their limbs; and several of their
number, unable longer to go in search of food, which was nowhere to be
found, lay on the floor of the cavern in the agonies of a hunger which
their stronger companions, concerned for their own fate, would not
alleviate. All ties between the members of the association began to give
way before the despair of absolute famine. They ceased all personal
communication; silence, feeding on the morbid forms of misery called up
by diseased imaginations, reigned throughout the society of skeletons,
and hollow eyes, which spoke unutterable things, glanced through the
gloom of the cavern, where a glimmering fire, on which they had, for a
time, prepared the little meat they had procured, was still kept up, by
adding a few pieces of wood from the neighbouring forest. No notice was
taken of each other's agonies, nor could the groans which mixed and
sounded with a hollow noise through the dark recess, have been
distinguished by the ear of sympathy; an occasional scream from a female
sufferer who experienced a paroxysm of more than her ordinary agony, was
only capable of fixing the attention for an instant, till individual
pain laid hold again of the tortured feelings.
A person of the name of Andrew Christie, a butcher, originally from
Perth, had endeavoured, at first, to organise the society, with a view
to save himself and his fellow-sufferers. He was a strong, hardy man;
and, if any of the number could be said to retain a small portion of
self-command, in the midst of the horrible scene of suffering which
surrounded them, it was this man. He was still able to walk, though with
difficulty, and continued to feed the fire, going out occasionally and
seizing on grubs that were to be found about the mouth of the cavern.
The others were unable to follow his example, and even he latterly was
unfitted for his loathsome search. All were now nearly in the same
predicament: agony and despair reigned throughout, to the exclusion of a
single beam of hope of any one ever again visiting the haunts of man. At
Christie's side a woman ceased to groan; an intermission of agony was a
circumstance, and the only circumstance to be remarked. The thought
struck him she was dead; he laid his hand upon her mouth to be assured
of the fact; she was no more! The dead body was a talisman in the temple
of misery--in a short time, that body was gone!
The Rubicon of the strongest of natural prejudices was passed, with the
goading furies of hunger and despair behind. A prejudice overcome is an
acquisition of liberty, though it may be for evil. The death of the
woman had saved them all from death; but the efficacy of the salvation
would postpone a similar course of relief. Christie saw the predicament
of his friends, and proposed in the hollow, husky voice of starvation,
that one of their number should die by lot, and that then, having
recovered strength, they should proceed to the mountain pass and procure
victims.