At that moment, supper being served, she seated herself at table with

her women as usual, the other servants standing or coming and going, her

doctor waiting on her at table as he was accustomed since her steward

had been taken from her. She ate no more nor less than usual, speaking,

throughout supper, of the Earl of Kent, and of the way in which he

betrayed himself with respect to religion, by his insisting on wanting

to give the queen a pastor instead of a priest. "Happily," she added,

laughing, "one more skilful than he was needed to change me". Meanwhile

Bourgoin was weeping behind the queen, for he was thinking that he was

serving her for the last time, and that she who was eating, talking, and

laughing thus, next day at the same hour would be but a cold and

insensible corpse.

When the meal was over, the queen sent for all her servants; then;

before the table was cleared of anything, she poured out a cup of wine,

rose and drank to their health, asking them if they would not drink to

her salvation. Then she had a glass given to each one: all kneeled down,

and all, says the account from which we borrow these details, drank,

mingling their tears with the wine, and asking pardon of the queen for

any wrongs they had done her. The queen granted it heartily, and asked

them to do as much for her, and to forget her impatient ways, which she

begged them to put down to her imprisonment. Then, having given them a

long discourse, in which she explained to them their duties to God, and

exhorted them to persevere in the Catholic faith, she begged them, after

her death, to live together in peace and charity, forgetting all the

petty quarrels and disputes which they had had among one another in the

past.

This speech ended, the queen rose from table, and desired to go into her

wardrobe-room, to see the clothes and jewels she wished to dispose of;

but Bourgoin observed that it would be better to have all these separate

objects brought into her chamber; that there would be a double advantage

in this, she would be less tired for one thing, and the English would

not see them for another. This last reason decided her, and while the

servants were supping, she had brought into her ante-room, first of all,

all her robes, and took the inventory from her wardrobe attendant, and

began to write in the margin beside each item the name of the person it

was to be given to. Directly, and as fast as she did it, that person to

whom it was given took it and put it aside. As for the things which were

too personal to her to be thus bestowed, she ordered that they should be

sold, and that the purchase-money should be used for her servants’

travelling expenses, when they returned to their own countries, well

knowing how great the cost would be and that no one would have

sufficient means. This memorandum finished, she signed it, and gave it

as a discharge to her wardrobe attendant.

Then, that done, she went into her room, where had been brought her

rings, her jewels, and her most valuable belongings; inspected them all,

one after the other, down to the very least; and distributed them as she

had done her robes, so that, present or absent, everyone had something.

Then she furthermore gave, to her most faithful people, the jewels she

intended for the king and queen of France, for the king her son, for the

queen-mother, for Messieurs de Guise and de Lorraine, without forgetting

in this distribution any prince or princess among her relatives. She

desired, besides, that each should keep the things then in his care,

giving her linen to the young lady who looked after it, her silk

embroideries to her who took charge of them, her silver plate to her

butler, and so on with the rest.

Then, as they were asking her for a discharge, "It is useless," said

she; "you owe an account to me only, and to-morrow, therefore, you will

no longer owe it to anyone"; but, as they pointed out that the king her

son could claim from them, "You are right," said she; and she gave them

what they asked.

That done, and having no hope left of being visited by her confessor,

she wrote him this letter:

"I have been tormented all this day on account of my religion, and urged

to receive the consolations of a heretic: you will learn, through

Bourgoin and the others, that everything they could say on this matter

has been useless, that I have faithfully made protestation of the faith

in which I wish to die. I requested that you should be allowed to

receive my confession and to give me the sacrament, which has been

cruelly refused, as well as the removal of my body, and the power to

make my will freely; so that I cannot write anything except through

their hands, and with the good pleasure of their mistress. For want of

seeing you, then, I confess to you my sins in general, as I should have

done in particular, begging you, in God’s name, to watch and pray this

night with me, for the remission of my sins, and to send me your

absolution and forgiveness for all the wrongs I have done you. I shall

try to see you in their presence, as they permitted it to my steward;

and if it is allowed, before all, and on my knees, I shall ask your

blessing. Send me the best prayers you know for this night and for

to-morrow morning; for the time is short, and I have not the leisure to

write; but be calm, I shall recommend you like the rest of my servants,

and your benefices above all will be secured to you. Farewell, for I

have not much more time. Send to me in writing everything you can find,

best for my salvation, in prayers and exhortations, I send you my last

little ring."

Directly she had written this letter the queen began to make her will,

and at a stroke, with her pen running on and almost without lifting it

from the paper, she wrote two large sheets, containing several

paragraphs, in which no one was forgotten, present as absent,

distributing the little she had with scrupulous fairness, and still more

according to need than according to service. The executors she chose

were: the Duke of Guise, her first cousin; the Archbishop of Glasgow,

her ambassador; the Bishop of Ross, her chaplain in chief; and M. du

Ruysseau, her chancellor, all four certainly very worthy of the charge,

the first from his authority; the two bishops by piety and conscience,

and the last by his knowledge of affairs. Her will finished, she wrote

this letter to the King of France:

SIR MY BROTHER-IN-LAW,—Having, by God’s permission and for my sins, I

believe, thrown myself into the arms of this queen, my cousin, where I

have had much to endure for more than twenty years, I am by her and by

her Parliament finally condemned to death; and having asked for my

papers, taken from me, to make my will, I have not been able to obtain

anything to serve me, not even permission to write my last wishes

freely, nor leave that after my death my body should be transported, as

was my dearest desire, into your kingdom, where I had had the honour of

being queen, your sister and your ally. To-day, after dinner, without

more respect, my sentence has been declared to me, to be executed

to-morrow, like a criminal, at eight o’clock in the morning. I have not

the leisure to give you a full account of what has occurred; but if it

please you to believe my doctor and these others my distressed servants,

you will hear the truth, and that, thanks to God, I despise death, which

I protest I receive innocent of every crime, even if I were their

subject, which I never was. But my faith in the Catholic religion and my

claims to the crown of England are the real causes for my condemnation,

and yet they will not allow me to say that it is for religion I die, for

my religion kills theirs; and that is so true, that they have taken my

chaplain from me, who, although a prisoner in the same castle, may not

come either to console me, or to give me the holy sacrament of the

eucharist; but, on the contrary, they have made me urgent entreaties to

receive the consolations of their minister whom they have brought for

this purpose. He who will bring you this letter, and the rest of my

servants, who are your subjects for the most part, will bear you witness

of the way in which I shall have performed my last act. Now it remains

to me to implore you, as a most Christian king, as my brother-in-law, as

my ancient ally, and one who has so often done me the honour to protest

your friendship for me, to give proof of this friendship, in your virtue

and your charity, by helping me in that of which I cannot without you

discharge my conscience—that is to say, in rewarding my good distressed

servants, by giving them their dues; then, in having prayers made to God

for a queen who has been called most Christian, and who dies a Catholic

and deprived of all her goods. As to my son, I commend him to you as

much as he shall deserve, for I cannot answer for him; but as to my

servants, I commend them with clasped hands. I have taken the liberty of

sending you two rare stones good for the health, hoping that yours may

be perfect during a long life; you will receive them as coming from your

very affectionate sister-in-law, at the point of death and giving proof

of her, good disposition towards you.

"I shall commend my servants to you in a memorandum, and will order you,

for the good of my soul, for whose salvation it will be employed, to pay

me a portion of what you owe me, if it please you, and I conjure you for

the honour of Jesus, to whom I shall pray to-morrow at my death, that

you leave me the wherewithal to found a mass and to perform the

necessary charities.

"This Wednesday, two hours after midnight—Your affectionate and good

sister, "MARY, R...."

Of all these recommendations, the will and the letters, the queen at

once had copies made which she signed, so that, if some should be seized

by the English, the others might reach their destination. Bourgoin

pointed out to her that she was wrong to be in such a hurry to close

them, and that perhaps in two or three hours she would remember that she

had left something out. But the queen paid no attention, saying she was

sure she had not forgotten anything, and that if she had, she had only

time now to pray and to look to her conscience. So she shut up all the

several articles in the drawers of a piece of furniture and gave the key

to Bourgoin; then sending for a foot-bath, in which she stayed for about

ten minutes, she lay down in bed, where she was not seen to sleep, but

constantly to repeat prayers or to remain in meditation.

Towards four o’clock in the morning, the queen, who was accustomed,

after evening prayers, to have the story of some male or female saint

read aloud to her, did not wish to depart from this habit, and, after

having hesitated among several for this solemn occasion, she chose the

greatest sinner of all, the penitent thief, saying humbly—

"If, great sinner as he was, he has yet sinned less than I, I desire to

beg of him, in remembrance of the passion of Jesus Christ; to, have pity

on me in the hour of my death, as Our Lord had pity on him."

Then, when the reading was over, she had all her handkerchiefs brought,

and chose the finest, which was of delicate cambric all embroidered in

gold, to bandage her eyes with.

At daybreak, reflecting that she had only two hours to live, she rose

and began dressing, but before she had finished, Bourgoin came into her

room, and, afraid lest the absent servants might murmur against the

queen, if by chance they were discontented at the will, and might accuse

those who had been present of having taken away from their share to add

to their own, he begged Mary to send for them all and to read it in

their presence; to which Mary agreed, and consented to do so at once.

All the servants were then summoned, and the queen read her testament,

saying that it was done of her own free, full and entire will, written

and signed with her own hand, and that accordingly she begged those

present to give all the help in their power in seeing it carried out

without change or omission; then, having read it over, and having

received a promise from all, she gave it to Bourgoin, charging him to

send it to M. de Guise, her chief executor, and at the same time to

forward her letters to the king and her principal papers and

memorandums: after this, she had the casket brought in which she had put

the purses which we mentioned before; she opened them one after another,

and seeing by the ticket within for whom each was intended, she

distributed them with her own hand, none of the recipients being aware

of their contents. These gifts varied from twenty to three hundred

crowns; and to these sums she added seven hundred livres for the poor,

namely, two hundred for the poor of England and five hundred for the

poor of France; then she gave to each man in her suite two rose nobles

to be distributed in alms for her sake, and finally one hundred and

fifty crowns to Bourgoin to be divided among them all when they should

separate; and thus twenty-six or twenty-seven people had money legacies.

The queen performed all this with great composure and calmness, with no

apparent change of countenance; so that it seemed as if she were only

preparing for a journey or change of dwelling; then she again bade her

servants farewell, consoling them and exhorting them to live in peace,

all this while finishing dressing as well and as elegantly as she could.

Her toilet ended, the queen went from her reception-room to her

ante-room, where there was an altar set up and arranged, at which,

before he had been taken from her, her chaplain used to say mass; and

kneeling on the steps, surrounded by all her servants, she began the

communion prayers, and when they were ended, drawing from a golden box a

host consecrated by Pius V, which she had always scrupulously preserved

for the occasion of her death, she told Bourgoin to take it, and, as he

was the senior, to take the priest’s place, old age being holy and

sacred; and in this manner in spite of all the precautions taken to

deprive her of it, the queen received the holy sacrament of the

eucharist.

This pious ceremony ended, Bourgoin told the queen that in her will she

had forgotten three people—Mesdemoiselles Beauregard, de Montbrun, and

her chaplain. The queen was greatly astonished at this oversight, which

was quite involuntary, and, taking back her will, she wrote her wishes

with respect to them in the first empty margin; then she kneeled down

again in prayer; but after a moment, as she suffered too much in this

position, she rose, and Bourgoin having had brought her a little bread

and wine, she ate and drank, and when she had finished, gave him her

hand and thanked him for having been present to help her at her last

meal as he was accustomed; and feeling stronger, she kneeled down and

began to pray again.

Scarcely had she done so, than there was a knocking at the door: the

queen understood what was required of her; but as she had not finished

praying, she begged those who were come to fetch her to wait a moment,

and in a few minutes’ she would be ready.

The Earls of Kent and Shrewsbury, remembering the resistance she had

made when she had had to go down to the commissioners and appear before

the lawyers, mounted some guards in the ante-room where they were

waiting themselves, so that they could take her away by force if

necessary, should she refuse to come willingly, or should her servants

want to defend her; but it is untrue that the two barons entered her

room, as some have said. They only set foot there once, on the occasion

which we have related, when they came to apprise her of her sentence.

They waited some minutes, nevertheless, as the queen had begged them;

then, about eight o’clock, they knocked again, accompanied by the

guards; but to their great surprise the door was opened immediately, and

they found Mary on her knees in prayer. Upon this, Sir Thomas Andrew,

who was at the time sheriff of the county of Nottingham, entered alone,

a white wand in his hand, and as everyone stayed on their knees praying,

he crossed the room with a slow step and stood behind the queen: he

waited a moment there, and as Mary Stuart did not seem to see him—

"Madam," said he, "the earls have sent me to you."

At these words the queen turned round, and at once rising in the middle

of her prayer, "Let us go," she replied, and she made ready to follow

him; then Bourgoin, taking the cross of black wood with an ivory Christ

which was over the altar, said—

"Madam, would you not like to take this little cross?"

"Thank you for having reminded me," Mary answered; "I had intended to,

but I forgot". Then, giving it to Annibal Stewart, her footman, that he

might present it when she should ask for it, she began to move to the

door, and on account of the great pain in her limbs, leaning on

Bourgoin, who, as they drew near, suddenly let her go, saying—

"Madam, your Majesty knows if we love you, and all, such as we are, are

ready to obey you, should you command us to die for you; but I, I have

not the strength to lead you farther; besides, it is not becoming that

we, who should be defending you to the last drop of our blood, should

seem to be betraying you in giving you thus into the hands of these

infamous English."

"You are right, Bourgoin," said the queen; "moreover, my death would be

a sad sight for you, which I ought to spare your age and your

friendship. Mr. Sheriff," added she, "call someone to support me, for

you see that I cannot walk."

The sheriff bowed, and signed to two guards whom he had kept hidden

behind the door to lend him assistance in case the queen should resist,

to approach and support her; which they at once did; and Mary Stuart

went on her way, preceded and followed by her servants weeping and

wringing their hands. But at the second door other guards stopped them,

telling them they must go no farther. They all cried out against such a

prohibition: they said that for the nineteen years they had been shut up

with the queen they had always accompanied her wherever she went; that

it was frightful to deprive their mistress of their services at the last

moment, and that such an order had doubtless been given because they

wanted to practise some shocking cruelty on her, of which they desired

no witnesses. Bourgoin, who was at their head, seeing that he could

obtain nothing by threats or entreaties, asked to speak with the earls;

but this claim was not allowed either, and as the servants wanted to

pass by force, the soldiers repulsed them with blows of their

arquebuses; then, raising her voice—

"It is wrong of you to prevent my servants following me," said the

queen, "and I begin to think, like them, that you have some ill designs

upon me beyond my death."

The sheriff replied, "Madam, four of your servants are chosen to follow

you, and no more; when you have come down, they will be fetched, and

will rejoin you."

"What!" said the queen, "the four chosen persons cannot even follow me

now?"

"The order is thus given by the earls," answered the sheriff, "and, to

my great regret, madam, I can do nothing."

Then the queen turned to them, and taking the cross from Annibal

Stewart, and in her other hand her book of Hours and her handkerchief,

"My children," said she, "this is one more grief to add to our other

griefs; let us bear it like Christians, and offer this fresh sacrifice

to God."

At these words sobs and cries burst forth on all sides: the unhappy

servants fell on their knees, and while some rolled on the ground,

tearing their hair, others kissed her hands, her knees, and the hem of

her gown, begging her forgiveness for every possible fault, calling her

their mother and bidding her farewell. Finding, no doubt, that this

scene was lasting too long, the sheriff made a sign, and the soldiers

pushed the men and women back into the room and shut the door on them;

still, fast as was the door, the queen none the less heard their cries

and lamentations, which seemed, in spite of the guards, as if they would

accompany her to the scaffold.

At the stair-head, the queen found Andrew Melville awaiting her: he was

the Master of her Household, who had been secluded from her for some

time, and who was at last permitted to see her once more to say

farewell. The queen, hastening her steps, approached him, and kneeling

down to receive his blessing, which he gave her, weeping—

"Melville," said she, without rising, and addressing him as "thou" for

the first time, "as thou hast been an honest servant to me, be the same

to my son: seek him out directly after my death, and tell him of it in

every detail; tell him that I wish him well, and that I beseech God to

send him His Holy Spirit."

"Madam," replied Melville, "this is certainly the saddest message with

which a man can be charged: no matter, I shall faithfully fulfil it, I

swear to you."

"What sayest thou, Melville?" responded the queen, rising; "and what

better news canst thou bear, on the contrary, than that I am delivered

from all my ills? Tell him that he should rejoice, since the sufferings

of Mary Stuart are at an end; tell him that I die a Catholic, constant

in my religion, faithful to Scotland and France, and that I forgive

those who put me to death. Tell him that I have always desired the union

of England and Scotland; tell him, finally, that I have done nothing

injurious to his kingdom, to his honour, or to his rights. And thus,

good Melville, till we meet again in heaven."

Then, leaning on the old man, whose face was bathed in tears, she

descended the staircase, at the foot of which she found the two earls,

Sir Henry Talbot, Lord Shrewsbury’s son, Amyas Paulet, Drue Drury,

Robert Beale, and many gentlemen of the neighbourhood: the queen,

advancing towards them without pride, but without humility, complained

that her servants had been refused permission to follow her, and asked

that it should be granted. The lords conferred together; and a moment

after the Earl of Kent inquired which ones she desired to have, saying

she might be allowed six. So the queen chose from among the men

Bourgoin, Gordon, Gervais, and Didier; and from the women Jeanne Kennedy

and Elspeth Curle, the ones she preferred to all, though the latter was

sister to the secretary who had betrayed her. But here arose a fresh

difficulty, the earls saying that this permission did not extend to

women, women not being used to be present at such sights, and when they

were, usually upsetting everyone with cries and lamentations, and, as

soon as the decapitation was over, rushing to the scaffold to staunch

the blood with their handkerchiefs—a most unseemly proceeding.

"My lords," then said the queen, "I answer and promise for my servants,

that they will not do any of the things your honours fear. Alas! poor

people! they would be very glad to bid me farewell; and I hope that your

mistress, being a maiden queen, and accordingly sensitive for the honour

of women, has not given you such strict orders that you are unable to

grant me the little I ask; so much the more," added she in a profoundly

mournful tone, "that my rank should be taken into consideration; for

indeed I am your queen’s cousin, granddaughter of Henry VII, Queen

Dowager of France and crowned Queen of Scotland."

The lords consulted together for another moment, and granted her

demands. Accordingly, two guards went up immediately to fetch the chosen

individuals.

The queen then moved on to the great hall, leaning on two of Sir Amyas

Paulet’s gentlemen, accompanied and followed by the earls and lords, the

sheriff walking before her, and Andrew Melville bearing her train. Her

dress, as carefully chosen as possible, as we have said, consisted of a

coif of fine cambric, trimmed with lace, with a lace veil thrown back

and falling to the ground behind. She wore a cloak of black stamped

satin lined with black taffetas and trimmed in front with sable, with a

long train and sleeves hanging to the ground; the buttons were of jet in

the shape of acorns and surrounded with pearls, her collar in the

Italian style; her doublet was of figured black satin, and underneath

she wore stays, laced behind, in crimson satin, edged with velvet of the

same colour; a gold cross hung by a pomander chain at her neck, and two

rosaries at her girdle: it was thus she entered the great hall where the

scaffold was erected.

It was a platform twelve feet wide, raised about two feet from the

floor, surrounded with barriers and covered with black serge, and on it

were a little chair, a cushion to kneel on, and a block also covered in

black. Just as, having mounted the steps, she set foot on the fatal

boards, the executioner came forward, and; asking forgiveness for the

duty he was about to perform, kneeled, hiding behind him his axe. Mary

saw it, however, and cried—

"Ah! I would rather have been beheaded in the French way, with a

sword!..."

"It is not my fault, madam," said the executioner, "if this last wish of

your Majesty cannot be fulfilled; but, not having been instructed to

bring a sword, and having found this axe here only, I am obliged to use

it. Will that prevent your pardoning me, then?"

"I pardon you, my friend," said Mary, "and in proof of it, here is my

hand to kiss."

The executioner put his lips to the queen’s hand, rose and approached

the chair. Mary sat down, and the Earls of Kent and Shrewsbury standing

on her left, the sheriff and his officers before her, Amyas Paulet

behind, and outside the barrier the lords, knights, and gentlemen,

numbering nearly two hundred and fifty, Robert Beale for the second time

read the warrant for execution, and as he was beginning the servants who

had been fetched came into the hall and placed themselves behind the

scaffold, the men mounted upon a bench put back against the wall, and

the women kneeling in front of it; and a little spaniel, of which the

queen was very fond, came quietly, as if he feared to be driven away,

and lay down near his mistress.

The queen listened to the reading of the warrant without seeming to pay

much attention, as if it had concerned someone else, and with a

countenance as calm and even as joyous as if it had been a pardon and

not a sentence of death; then, when Beale had ended, and having ended,

cried in a loud voice, "God save Queen Elizabeth!" to which no one made

any response, Mary signed herself with the cross, and, rising without

any change of expression, and, on the contrary, lovelier than ever—

"My lords," said she, "I am a queen-born sovereign princess, and not

subject to law,—a near relation of the Queen of England, and her

rightful heir; for a long time I have been a prisoner in this country, I

have suffered here much tribulation and many evils that no one had the

right to inflict, and now, to crown all, I am about to lose my life.

Well, my lords, bear witness that I die in the Catholic faith, thanking

God for letting me die for His holy cause, and protesting, to-day as

every day, in public as in private, that I have never plotted, consented

to, nor desired the queen’s death, nor any other thing against her

person; but that, on the contrary, I have always loved her, and have

always offered her good and reasonable conditions to put an end to the

troubles of the kingdom and deliver me from my captivity, without my

having ever been honoured with a reply from her; and all this, my lords,

you well know. Finally, my enemies have attained their end, which was to

put me to death: I do not pardon them less for it than I pardon all

those who have attempted anything against me. After my, death, the

authors of it will be known. But I die without accusing anyone, for fear

the Lord should hear me and avenge me."

Upon this, whether he was afraid that such a speech by so great a queen

should soften the assembly too much, or whether he found that all these

words were making too much delay, the Dean of Peterborough placed

himself before Mary, and, leaning on the barrier—

"Madam," he said, "my much honoured mistress has commanded me to come to

you—" But at these words, Mary, turning and interrupting him:

"Mr. Dean," she answered in a loud voice, "I have nothing to do with

you; I do not wish to hear you, and beg you to withdraw."

"Madam," said the dean, persisting in spite of this resolve expressed in

such firm and precise terms, "you have but a moment longer: change your

opinions, abjure your errors, and put your faith in Jesus Christ alone,

that you may be saved through Him."

"Everything you can say is useless," replied the queen, "and you will

gain nothing by it; be silent, then, I beg you, and let me die in

peace."

And as she saw that he wanted to go on, she sat down on the other side

of the chair and turned her back to him; but the dean immediately walked

round the scaffold till he faced her again; then, as he was going to

speak, the queen turned about once more, and sat as at first. Seeing

which the Earl of Shrewsbury said—

"Madam, truly I despair that you are so attached to this folly of

papacy: allow us, if it please you, to pray for you."

"My lord," the queen answered, "if you desire to pray for me, I thank

you, for the intention is good; but I cannot join in your prayers, for

we are not of the same religion."

The earls then called the dean, and while the queen, seated in her

little chair, was praying in a low tone, he, kneeling on the scaffold

steps, prayed aloud; and the whole assembly except the queen and her

servants prayed after him; then, in the midst of her orison, which she

said with her Agnus Dei round her neck, a crucifix in one hand, and her

book of Hours in the other, she fell from her seat on to, her knees,

praying aloud in Latin, whilst the others prayed in English, and when

the others were silent, she continued in English in her turn, so that

they could hear her, praying for the afflicted Church of Christ, for an

end to the persecution of Catholics, and for the happiness of her son’s

reign; then she said, in accents full of faith and fervour, that she

hoped to be saved by the merits of Jesus Christ, at the foot of whose

cross she was going to shed her blood.

At these words the Earl of Kent could no longer contain himself, and

without respect for the sanctity of the moment—

"Oh, madam," said he, "put Jesus Christ in your heart, and reject all

this rubbish of popish deceptions."

But she, without listening, went on, praying the saints to intercede

with God for her, and kissing the crucifix, she cried—

"Lord! Lord! receive me in Thy arms out stretched on the cross, and

forgive me all my sins!"

Thereupon,—she being again seated in the chair, the Earl of Kent asked

her if she had any confession to make; to which she replied that, not

being guilty of anything, to confess would be to give herself, the lie.

"It is well," the earl answered; "then, madam, prepare."

The queen rose, and as the executioner approached to assist her disrobe—

"Allow me, my friend," said she; "I know how to do it better than you,

and am not accustomed to undress before so many spectators, nor to be

served by such valets."

And then, calling her two women, she began to unpin her coiffure, and as

Jeanne Kennedy and Elspeth Curle, while performing this last service for

their mistress, could not help weeping bitterly—

"Do not weep," she said to them in French; "for I have promised and

answered for you."

With these words, she made the sign of the cross upon the forehead of

each, kissed them, and recommended them to pray for her.

Then the queen began to undress, herself assisting, as she was wont to

do when preparing for bed, and taking the gold cross from her neck, she

wished to give it to Jeanne, saying to the executioner—

"My friend, I know that all I have upon me belongs to you; but this is

not in your way: let me bestow it, if you please, on this young lady,

and she will give you twice its value in money."

But the executioner, hardly allowing her to finish, snatched it from her

hands with—

"It is my right."

The queen was not moved much by this brutality, and went on taking off

her garments until she was simply in her petticoat.

Thus rid of all her garb, she again sat down, and Jeanne Kennedy

approaching her, took from her pocket the handkerchief of

gold-embroidered cambric which she had prepared the night before, and

bound her eyes with it; which the earls, lords; and gentlemen looked

upon with great surprise, it not being customary in England, and as she

thought that she was to be beheaded in the French way—that is to say,

seated in the chair—she held herself upright, motionless, and with her

neck stiffened to make it easier for the executioner, who, for his part,

not knowing how to proceed, was standing, without striking, axe in hand:

at last the man laid his hand on the queen’s head, and drawing her

forward, made her fall on her knees: Mary then understood what was

required of her, and feeling for the block with her hands, which were

still holding her book of Hours and her crucifix, she laid her neck on

it, her hands joined beneath her chin, that she might pray till the last

moment: the executioner’s assistant drew them away, for fear they should

be cut off with her head; and as the queen was saying, "In manes teas,

Domine," the executioner raised his axe, which was simply an axe far

chopping wood, and struck the first blow, which hit too high, and

piercing the skull, made the crucifix and the book fly from the

condemned’s hands by its violence, but which did not sever the head.

However, stunned with the blow, the queen made no movement, which gave

the executioner time to redouble it; but still the head did not fall,

and a third stroke was necessary to detach a shred of flesh which held

it to the shoulders.

At last, when the head was quite severed, the executioner held it up to

show to the assembly, saying:

"God save Queen Elizabeth!"

"So perish all Her Majesty’s enemies!" responded the Dean of

Peterborough.

"Amen," said the Earl of Kent; but he was the only one: no other voice

could respond, for all were choked with sobs.

At that moment the queen’s headdress falling, disclosed her hair, cut

very short, and as white as if she had been aged seventy: as to her

face, it had so changed during her death-agony that no one would have

recognised it had he not known it was hers. The spectators cried out

aloud at this sign; for, frightful to see, the eyes were open, and the

lids went on moving as if they would still pray, and this muscular

movement lasted for more than a quarter of an hour after the head had

been cut off.

The queen’s servants had rushed upon the scaffold, picking up the book

of Hours and the crucifix as relics; and Jeanne Kennedy, remembering the

little dog who had come to his mistress, looked about for him on all

sides, seeking him and calling him, but she sought and called in vain.

He had disappeared.

At that moment, as one of the executioners was untying the queen’s

garters, which were of blue satin embroidered in silver, he saw the poor

little animal, which had hidden in her petticoat, and which he was

obliged to bring out by force; then, having escaped from his hands, it

took refuge between the queen’s shoulders and her head, which the

executioner had laid down near the trunk. Jeanne took him then, in spite

of his howls, and carried him away, covered with blood; for everyone had

just been ordered to leave the hall. Bourgoin and Gervais stayed behind,

entreating Sir Amyas Paulet to let them take the queen’s heart, that

they might carry it to France, as they had promised her; but they were

harshly refused and pushed out of the hall, of which all the doors were

closed, and there there remained only the executioner and the corpse.

Brantome relates that something infamous took place there!

CHAPTER X

Two hours after the execution, the body and the head were taken into the

same hall in which Mary Stuart had appeared before the commissioners,

set down on a table round which the judges had sat, and covered over

with a black serge cloth; and there remained till three o’clock in the

afternoon, when Waters the doctor from Stamford and the surgeon from

Fotheringay village came to open and embalm them—an operation which they

carried out under the eyes of Amyas Paulet and his soldiers, without any

respect for the rank and sex of the poor corpse, which was thus exposed

to the view of anyone who wanted to see it: it is true that this

indignity did not fulfil its proposed aim; for a rumour spread about

that the queen had swollen limbs and was dropsical, while, on the

contrary, there was not one of the spectators but was obliged to confess

that he had never seen the body of a young girl in the bloom of health

purer and lovelier than that of Mary Stuart, dead of a violent death

after nineteen years of suffering and captivity.

When the body was opened, the spleen was in its normal state, with the

veins a little livid only, the lungs yellowish in places, and the brain

one-sixth larger than is usual in persons of the same age and sex; thus

everything promised a long life to her whose end had just been so

cruelly hastened.

A report having been made of the above, the body was embalmed after a

fashion, put in a leaden coffin and that in another of wood, which was

left on the table till the first day of August—that is, for nearly five

months—before anyone was allowed to come near it; and not only that, but

the English having noticed that Mary Stuart’s unhappy servants, who were

still detained as prisoners, went to look at it through the keyhole,

stopped that up in such a way that they could not even gaze at the

coffin enclosing the body of her whom they had so greatly loved.

However, one hour after Mary Stuart’s death, Henry Talbot, who had been

present at it, set out at full speed for London, carrying to Elizabeth

the account of her rival’s death; but at the very first lines she read,

Elizabeth, true to her character, cried out in grief and indignation,

saying that her orders had been misunderstood, that there had been too

great haste, and that all this was the fault of Davison the Secretary of

State, to whom she had given the warrant to keep till she had made up

her mind, but not to send to Fotheringay. Accordingly, Davison was sent

to the Tower and condemned to pay a fine of ten thousand pounds

sterling, for having deceived the queen. Meanwhile, amid all this grief,

an embargo was laid on all vessels in all the ports of the realm, so

that the news of the death should not reach abroad, especially France,

except through skilful emissaries who could place the execution in the

least unfavourable light for Elizabeth. At the same time the scandalous

popular festivities which had marked the announcement of the sentence

again celebrated the tidings of the execution. London was illuminated,

bonfires lit, and the enthusiasm was such that the French Embassy was

broken into and wood taken to revive the fires when they began to die

down.

Crestfallen at this event, M. de Chateauneuf was still shut up at the

Embassy, when, a fortnight later, he received an invitation from

Elizabeth to visit her at the country house of the Archbishop of

Canterbury. M. de Chateauneuf went thither with the firm resolve to say

no word to her on what had happened; but as soon as she saw him,

Elizabeth, dressed in black, rose, went to him, and, overwhelming him

with kind attentions, told him that she was ready to place all the

strength of her kingdom at Henry III’s disposal to help him put down the

League. Chateauneuf received all these offers with a cold and severe

expression, without saying, as he had promised himself, a single word

about the event which had put both the queen and himself into mourning.

But, taking him by the hand, she drew him aside, and there, with deep

sighs, said—

"Ah! sir, since I saw you the greatest misfortune which could befall me

has happened: I mean the death of my good sister, the Queen of Scotland,

of which I swear by God Himself, my soul and my salvation, that I am

perfectly innocent. I had signed the order, it is true; but my

counsellors have played me a trick for which I cannot calm myself; and I

swear to God that if it were not for their long service I would have

them beheaded. I have a woman’s frame, sir, but in this woman’s frame

beats a man’s heart."

Chateauneuf bowed without a response; but his letter to Henry III and

Henry’s answer prove that neither the one nor the other was the dupe of

this female Tiberius.

Meanwhile, as we have said, the unfortunate servants were prisoners, and

the poor body was in that great hall waiting for a royal interment.

Things remained thus, Elizabeth said, to give her time to order a

splendid funeral for her good sister Mary, but in reality because the

queen dared not place in juxtaposition the secret and infamous death and

the public and royal burial; then, was not time needed for the first

reports which it pleased Elizabeth to spread to be credited before the

truth should be known by the mouths of the servants? For the queen hoped

that once this careless world had made up its mind about the death of

the Queen of Scots, it would not take any further trouble to change it.

Finally, it was only when the warders were as tired as the prisoners,

that Elizabeth, having received a report stating that the ill-embalmed

body could no longer be kept, at last ordered the funeral to take place.

Accordingly, after the 1st of August, tailors and dressmakers arrived at

Fotheringay Castle, sent by Elizabeth, with cloth and black silk stuffs,

to clothe in mourning all Mary’s servants. But they refused, not having

waited for the Queen of England’s bounty, but having made their funeral

garments at their own expense, immediately after their mistress’s death.

The tailors and dressmakers, however, none the less set so actively to

work that on the 7th everything was finished.

Next day, at eight o’clock in the evening, a large chariot, drawn by

four horses in mourning trappings, and covered with black velvet like

the chariot, which was, besides, adorned with little streamers on which

were embroidered the arms of Scotland, those of the queen, and the arms

of Aragon, those of Darnley, stopped at the gate of Fotheringay Castle.

It was followed by the herald king, accompanied by twenty gentlemen on

horseback, with their servants and lackeys, all dressed in mourning,

who, having alighted, mounted with his whole train into the room where

the body lay, and had it brought down and put into the chariot with all

possible respect, each of the spectators standing with bared head and in

profound silence.

This visit caused a great stir among the prisoners, who debated a while

whether they ought not to implore the favour of being allowed to follow

their mistress’s body, which they could not and should not let go alone

thus; but just as they were about to ask permission to speak to the

herald king, he entered the room where they were assembled, and told

them that he was charged by his mistress, the august Queen of England,

to give the Queen of Scotland the most honourable funeral he could;

that, not wishing to fail in such a high undertaking, he had already

made most of the preparations for the ceremony, which was to take place

on the 10th of August, that is to say, two days later,—but that the

leaden shell in which the body was enclosed being very heavy, it was

better to move it beforehand, and that night, to where the grave was

dug, than to await the day of the interment itself; that thus they might

be easy, this burial of the shell being only a preparatory ceremony; but

that if some of them would like to accompany the corpse, to see what was

done with it, they were at liberty, and that those who stayed behind

could follow the funeral pageant, Elizabeth’s positive desire being that

all, from first to last, should be present in the funeral procession.

This assurance calmed the unfortunate prisoners, who deputed Bourgoin,

Gervais, and six others to follow their mistress’s body: these were

Andrew Melville, Stewart, Gorjon, Howard, Lauder, and Nicholas

Delamarre.

At ten o’clock at night they set out, walking behind the chariot,

preceded by the herald, accompanied by men on foot, who carried torches

to light the way, and followed by twenty gentlemen and their servants.

In this manner, at two o’clock in the morning, they reached

Peterborough, where there is a splendid cathedral built by an ancient

Saxon king, and in which, on the left of the choir, was already interred

good Queen Catharine of Aragon, wife of Henry VIII, and where was her

tomb, still decked with a canopy bearing her arms.

On arriving, they found the cathedral all hung with black, with a dome

erected in the middle of the choir, much in the way in which ’chapelles

ardentes’ are set up in France, except that there were no lighted

candles round it. This dome was covered with black velvet, and overlaid

with the arms of Scotland and Aragon, with streamers like those on the

chariot yet again repeated. The state coffin was already set up under

this dome: it was a bier, covered like the rest in black velvet fringed

with silver, on which was a pillow of the same supporting a royal crown.

To the right of this dome, and in front of the burial-place of Queen

Catharine of Aragon, Mary of Scotland’s sepulchre had been dug: it was a

grave of brick, arranged to be covered later with a slab or a marble

tomb, and in which was to be deposited the coffin, which the Bishop of

Peterborough, in his episcopal robes, but without his mitre, cross, or

cope, was awaiting at the door, accompanied by his dean and several

other clergy. The body was brought into the cathedral, without chant or

prayer, and was let down into the tomb amid a profound silence. Directly

it was placed there, the masons, who had stayed their hands, set to work

again, closing the grave level with the floor, and only leaving an

opening of about a foot and a half, through which could be seen what was

within, and through which could be thrown on the coffin, as is customary

at the obsequies of kings, the broken staves of the officers and the

ensigns and banners with their arms. This nocturnal ceremony ended,

Melville, Bourgoin, and the other deputies were taken to the bishop’s

palace, where the persons appointed to take part in the funeral

procession were to assemble, in number more than three hundred and

fifty, all chosen, with the exception of the servants, from among the

authorities, the nobility, and Protestant clergy.

The day following, Thursday, August the 9th, they began to hang the

banqueting halls with rich and sumptuous stuffs, and that in the sight

of Melville, Bourgoin, and the others, whom they had brought thither,

less to be present at the interment of Queen Mary than to bear witness

to the magnificence of Queen Elizabeth. But, as one may suppose, the

unhappy prisoners were indifferent to this splendour, great and

extraordinary as it was.

On Friday, August 10th, all the chosen persons assembled at the bishop’s

palace: they ranged themselves in the appointed order, and turned their

steps to the cathedral, which was close by. When they arrived there,

they took the places assigned them in the choir, and the choristers

immediately began to chant a funeral service in English and according to

Protestant rites. At the first words of this service, when he saw it was

not conducted by Catholic priests, Bourgoin left the cathedral,

declaring that he would not be present at such sacrilege, and he was

followed by all Mary’s servants, men and women, except Melville and

Barbe Mowbray, who thought that whatever the tongue in which one prayed,

that tongue was heard by the Lord. This exit created great scandal; but

the bishop preached none the less.

The sermon ended, the herald king went to seek Bourgoin and his

companions, who were walking in the cloisters, and told them that the

almsgiving was about to begin, inviting them to take part in this

ceremony; but they replied that being Catholics they could not make

offerings at an altar of which they disapproved. So the herald king

returned, much put out at the harmony of the assembly being disturbed by

this dissent; but the alms-offering took place no less than the sermon.

Then, as a last attempt, he sent to them again, to tell them that the

service was quite over, and that accordingly they might return for the

royal ceremonies, which belonged only to the religion of the dead; and

this time they consented; but when they arrived, the staves were broken,

and the banners thrown into the grave through the opening that the

workmen had already closed.

Then, in the same order in which it had come, the procession returned to

the palace, where a splendid funeral repast had been prepared. By a

strange contradiction, Elizabeth, who, having punished the living woman

as a criminal, had just treated the dead woman as a queen, had also

wished that the honours of the funeral banquet should be for the

servants, so long forgotten by her. But, as one can imagine, these ill

accommodated themselves to that intention, did not seem astonished at

this luxury nor rejoiced at this good cheer, but, on the contrary,

drowned their bread and wine in tears, without otherwise responding to

the questions put to them or the honours granted them. And as soon as

the repast was ended, the poor servants left Peterborough and took the

road back to Fotheringay, where they heard that they were free at last

to withdraw whither they would. They did not need to be told twice; for

they lived in perpetual fear, not considering their lives safe so long

as they remained in England. They therefore immediately collected all

their belongings, each taking his own, and thus went out of Fotheringay

Castle on foot, Monday, 13th August, 1587.

Bourgoin went last: having reached the farther side of the drawbridge,

he turned, and, Christian as he was, unable to forgive Elizabeth, not

for his own sufferings, but for his mistress’s, he faced about to those

regicide walls, and, with hands outstretched to them, said in a loud and

threatening voice, those words of David: "Let vengeance for the blood of

Thy servants, which has been shed, O Lord God, be acceptable in Thy

sight". The old man’s curse was heard, and inflexible history is

burdened with Elizabeth’s punishment.

We said that the executioner’s axe, in striking Mary Stuart’s head, had

caused the crucifix and the book of Hours which she was holding to fly

from her hands. We also said that the two relics had been picked up by

people in her following. We are not aware of what became of the

crucifix, but the book of Hours is in the royal library, where those

curious about these kinds of historical souvenirs can see it: two

certificates inscribed on one of the blank leaves of the volume

demonstrate its authenticity. These are they:

FIRST CERTIFICATE

"We the undersigned Vicar Superior of the strict observance of the Order

of Cluny, certify that this book has been entrusted to us by order of

the defunct Dom Michel Nardin, a professed religious priest of our said

observance, deceased in our college of Saint-Martial of Avignon, March

28th, 1723, aged about eighty years, of which he has spent about thirty

among us, having lived very religiously: he was a German by birth, and

had served as an officer in the army a long time.

"He entered Cluny, and made his profession there, much detached from all

this world’s goods and honours; he only kept, with his superior’s

permission, this book, which he knew had been in use with Mary Stuart,

Queen of England and Scotland, to the end of her life.

"Before dying and being parted from his brethren, he requested that, to

be safely remitted to us, it should be sent us by mail, sealed. Just as

we have received it, we have begged M. L’abbe Bignon, councillor of

state and king’s librarian, to accept this precious relic of the piety

of a Queen of England, and of a German officer of her religion as well

as of ours.

"(Signed)BROTHER GERARD PONCET, "Vicar-General Superior."

SECOND CERTIFICATE

"We, Jean-Paul Bignon, king’s librarian, are very happy to have an

opportunity of exhibiting our zeal, in placing the said manuscript in

His Majesty’s library.

"8th July, 1724."

"(Signed) JEAN-PAUL BIGNAN."

This manuscript, on which was fixed the last gaze of the Queen of

Scotland, is a duodecimo, written in the Gothic character and containing

Latin prayers; it is adorned with miniatures set off with gold,

representing devotional subjects, stories from sacred history, or from

the lives of saints and martyrs. Every page is encircled with arabesques

mingled with garlands of fruit and flowers, amid which spring up

grotesque figures of men and animals.

As to the binding, worn now, or perhaps even then, to the woof, it is in

black velvet, of which the flat covers are adorned in the centre with an

enamelled pansy, in a silver setting surrounded by a wreath, to which

are diagonally attached from one corner of the cover to the other, two

twisted silver-gilt knotted cords, finished by a tuft at the two ends.

*KARL-LUDWIG SAND—1819*

On the 22nd of March, 1819, about nine o’clock in the morning, a young

man, some twenty-three or twenty-four years old, wearing the dress of a

German student, which consists of a short frock-coat with silk braiding,

tight trousers, and high boots, paused upon a little eminence that

stands upon the road between Kaiserthal and Mannheim, at about

three-quarters of the distance from the former town, and commands a view

of the latter. Mannheim is seen rising calm and smiling amid gardens

which once were ramparts, and which now surround and embrace it like a

girdle of foliage and flowers. Having reached this spot, he lifted his

cap, above the peak of which were embroidered three interlaced oak

leaves in silver, and uncovering his brow, stood bareheaded for a moment

to feel the fresh air that rose from the valley of the Neckar. At first

sight his irregular features produced a strange impression; but before

long the pallor of his face, deeply marked by smallpox, the infinite

gentleness of his eyes, and the elegant framework of his long and

flowing black hair, which grew in an admirable curve around a broad,

high forehead, attracted towards him that emotion of sad sympathy to

which we yield without inquiring its reason or dreaming of resistance.

Though it was still early, he seemed already to have come some distance,

for his boots were covered with dust; but no doubt he was nearing his

destination, for, letting his cap drop, and hooking into his belt his

long pipe, that inseparable companion of the German Borsch, he drew from

his pocket a little note-book, and wrote in it with a pencil: "Left

Wanheim at five in the morning, came in sight of Mannheim at a

quarter-past nine." Then putting his note-book back into his pocket, he

stood motionless for a moment, his lips moving as though in mental

prayer, picked up his hat, and walked on again with a firm step towards

Mannheim.

This young Student was Karl-Ludwig Sand, who was coming from Jena, by

way of Frankfort and Darmstadt, in order to assassinate Kotzebue.

Now, as we are about to set before our readers one of those terrible

actions for the true appreciation of which the conscience is the sole

judge, they must allow us to make them fully acquainted with him whom

kings regarded as an assassin, judges as a fanatic, and the youth of

Germany as a hero. Charles Louis Sand was born on the 5th of October,

1795, at Wonsiedel, in the Fichtel Wald; he was the youngest son of

Godfrey Christopher Sand, first president and councillor of justice to

the King of Prussia, and of Dorothea Jane Wilheltmina Schapf, his wife.

Besides two elder brothers, George, who entered upon a commercial career

at St, Gall, and Fritz, who was an advocate in the Berlin court of

appeal, he had an elder sister named Caroline, and a younger sister

called Julia.

While still in the cradle he had been attacked by smallpox of the most

malignant type. The virus having spread through all his body, laid bare

his ribs, and almost ate away his skull. For several months he lay

between life and death; but life at last gained the upper hand. He

remained weak and sickly, however, up to his seventh year, at which time

a brain fever attacked him; and again put his life in danger. As a

compensation, however, this fever, when it left him, seemed to carry

away with it all vestiges of his former illness. From that moment his

health and strength came into existence; but during these two long

illnesses his education had remained very backward, and it was not until

the age of eight that he could begin his elementary studies; moreover,

his physical sufferings having retarded his intellectual development, he

needed to work twice as hard as others to reach the same result.

Seeing the efforts that young Sand made, even while still quite a child,

to conquer the defects of his organisation, Professor Salfranck, a

learned and distinguished man, rector of the Hof gymnasium [college],

conceived such an affection for him, that when, at a later time, he was

appointed director of the gymnasium at Ratisbon, he could not part from

his pupil, and took him with him. In this town, and at the age of eleven

years, he gave the first proof of his courage and humanity. One day,

when he was walking with some young friends, he heard cries for help,

and ran in that direction: a little boy, eight or nine years old, had

just fallen into a pond. Sand immediately, without regarding his best

clothes, of which, however, he was very proud, sprang into the water,

and, after unheard-of efforts for a child of his age, succeeded in

bringing the drowning boy to land.

At the age of twelve or thirteen, Sand, who had become more active,

skilful, and determined than many of his elders, often amused himself by

giving battle to the lads of the town and of the neighbouring villages.

The theatre of these childish conflicts, which in their pale innocence

reflected the great battles that were at that time steeping Germany in

blood, was generally a plain extending from the town of Wonsiedel to the

mountain of St. Catherine, which had ruins at its top, and amid the

ruins a tower in excellent preservation. Sand, who was one of the most

eager fighters, seeing that his side had several times been defeated on

account of its numerical inferiority, resolved, in order to make up for

this drawback, to fortify the tower of St. Catherine, and to retire into

it at the next battle if its issue proved unfavourable to him. He

communicated this plan to his companions, who received it with

enthusiasm. A week was spent, accordingly, in collecting all possible

weapons of defence in the tower and in repairing its doors and stairs.

These preparations were made so secretly that the army of the enemy had

no knowledge of them.

Sunday came: the holidays were the days of battle. Whether because the

boys were ashamed of having been beaten last time, or for some other

reason, the band to which Sand belonged was even weaker than usual.

Sure, however, of a means of retreat, he accepted battle,

notwithstanding. The struggle was not a long one; the one party was too

weak in numbers to make a prolonged resistance, and began to retire in

the best order that could be maintained to St. Catherine’s tower, which

was reached before much damage had been felt. Having arrived there, some

of the combatants ascended to the ramparts, and while the others

defended themselves at the foot of the wall, began to shower stones and

pebbles upon the conquerors. The latter, surprised at the new method of

defence which was now for the first time adopted, retreated a little;

the rest of the defenders took advantage of the moment to retire into

the fortress and shut the door. Great was the astonishment on the part

of the besiegers: they had always seen that door broken down, and lo!

all at once it was presenting to them a barrier which preserved the

besieged from their blows. Three or four went off to find instruments

with which to break it down and meanwhile the rest of the attacking

force kept the garrison blockaded.

At the end of half an hour the messengers returned not only with levers

and picks, but also with a considerable reinforcement composed of lads

from, the village to which they had been to fetch tools.

Then began the assault: Sand and his companions defended themselves

desperately; but it was soon evident that, unless help came, the

garrison would be forced to capitulate. It was proposed that they should

draw lots, and that one of the besieged should be chosen, who in spite

of the danger should leave the tower, make his way as best he might

through the enemy’s army, and go to summon the other lads of Wonsiedel,

who had faint-heartedly remained at home. The tale of the peril in which

their Comrades actually were, the disgrace of a surrender, which would

fall upon all of them, would no doubt overcome their indolence and

induce them to make a diversion that would allow the garrison to attempt

sortie. This suggestion was adopted; but instead of leaving the decision

to chance, Sand proposed himself as the messenger. As everybody knew his

courage, his skill, and his lightness of foot, the proposition was

unanimously accepted, and the new Decius prepared to execute his act of

devotion. The deed was not free from danger: there were but two means of

egress, one by way of the door, which would lead to the fugitive’s

falling immediately into the hands of the enemy; the other by jumping

from a rampart so high that the enemy had not set a guard there. Sand

without a moment’s hesitation went to the rampart, where, always

religious, even in his childish pleasures, he made a short prayer; then,

without fear, without hesitation, with a confidence that was almost

superhuman, he sprang to the ground: the distance was twenty-two feet.

Sand flew instantly to Wonsiedel, and reached it, although the enemy had

despatched their best runners in pursuit. Then the garrison, seeing the

success of their enterprise, took fresh courage, and united their

efforts against the besiegers, hoping everything from Sand’s eloquence,

which gave him a great influence over his young companions. And, indeed,

in half an hour he was seen reappearing at the head of some thirty boys

of his own age, armed with slings and crossbows. The besiegers, on the

point of being attacked before and behind, recognised the disadvantage

of their position and retreated. The victory remained with Sand’s party,

and all the honours of the day were his.

We have related this anecdote in detail, that our readers may understand

from the character of the child what was that of the man. Besides, we

shall see him develop, always calm and superior amid small events as

amid large ones.

About the same time Sand escaped almost miraculously from two dangers.

One day a hod full of plaster fell from a scaffold and broke at his

feet. Another day the Price of Coburg, who during the King of Prussia’s

stay at the baths of Alexander, was living in the house of Sand’s

parents, was galloping home with four horses when he came suddenly upon

young Karl in a gateway; he could not escape either on the right or the

left, without running the risk of being crushed between the wall and the

wheels, and the coachman could not, when going at such a pace, hold in

his horses: Sand flung himself on his face, and the carriage passed over

him without his receiving so much as a single scratch either from the

horses or the wheels. From that moment many people regarded him as

predestined, and said that the hand of God was upon him.

Meanwhile political events were developing themselves around the boy,

and their seriousness made him a man before the age of manhood. Napoleon

weighed upon Germany like another Sennacherib. Staps had tried to play

the part of Mutius Scaevola, and had died a martyr. Sand was at Hof at

that time, and was a student of the gymnasium of which his good tutor

Salfranck was the head. He learned that the man whom he regarded as the

antichrist was to come and review the troops in that town; he left it at

once and went home to his parents, who asked him for what reason he had

left the gymnasium.

"Because I could not have been in the same town with Napoleon," he

answered, "without trying to kill him, and I do not feel my hand strong

enough for that yet."

This happened in 1809; Sand was fourteen years old. Peace, which was

signed on the 15th of October, gave Germany some respite, and allowed

the young fanatic to resume his studies without being distracted by

political considerations; but in 1811 he was occupied by them again,

when he learned that the gymnasium was to be dissolved and its place

taken by a primary school. To this the rector Salfranck was appointed as

a teacher, but instead of the thousand florins which his former

appointment brought him, the new one was worth only five hundred. Karl

could not remain in a primary school where he could not continue his

education; he wrote to his mother to announce this event and to tell her

with what equanimity the old German philosopher had borne it. Here is

the answer of Sand’s mother; it will serve to show the character of the

woman whose mighty heart never belied itself in the midst of the

severest suffering; the answer bears the stamp of that German mysticism

of which we have no idea in France:—

"MY DEAR KARL,—You could not have given me a more grievous piece of news

than that of the event which has just fallen upon your tutor and father

by adoption; nevertheless, terrible though it may be, do not doubt that

he will resign himself to it, in order to give to the virtue of his

pupils a great example of that submission which every subject owes to

the king whom God has set over him. Furthermore, be well assured that in

this world there is no other upright and well calculated policy than

that which grows out of the old precept, ’Honour God, be just and fear

not.’ And reflect also that when injustice against the worthy becomes

crying, the public voice makes itself heard, and uplifts those who are

cast down.

"But if, contrary to all probability, this did not happen,—if God should

impose this sublime probation upon the virtue of our friend, if the

world were to disown him and Providence were to become to that degree

his debtor,—yet in that case there are, believe me, supreme

compensations: all the things and all the events that occur around us

and that act upon us are but machines set in motion by a Higher Hand, so

as to complete our education for a higher world, in which alone we shall

take our true place. Apply yourself, therefore, my dear child, to watch

over yourself unceasingly and always, so that you may not take great and

fine isolated actions for real virtue, and may be ready every moment to

do all that your duty may require of you. Fundamentally nothing is

great, you see, and nothing small, when things are, looked at apart from

one another, and it is only the putting of things together that produces

the unity of evil or of good.

"Moreover, God only sends the trial to the heart where He has put

strength, and the manner in which you tell me that your master has borne

the misfortune that has befallen him is a fresh proof of this great and

eternal truth. You must form yourself upon him, my dear child, and if

you are obliged to leave Hof for Bamberg you must resign yourself to it

courageously. Man has three educations: that which he receives from his

parents, that which circumstances impose upon him, and lastly that which

he gives himself; if that misfortune should occur, pray to God that you

may yourself worthily complete that last education, the most important

of all.

"I will give you as an example the life and conduct of my father, of

whom you have not heard very much, for he died before you were born, but

whose mind and likeness are reproduced in you only among all your

brothers and sisters. The disastrous fire which reduced his native town

to ashes destroyed his fortune and that of his relatives; grief at

having lost everything—for the fire broke out in the next house to

his—cost his father his life; and while his mother, who for six years

had been stretched on a bed of pain, where horrible convulsions held her

fast, supported her three little girls by the needlework that she did in

the intervals of suffering, he went as a mere clerk into one of the

leading mercantile houses of Augsburg, where his lively and yet even

temper made him welcome; there he learned a calling, for which, however,

he was not naturally adapted, and came back to the home of his birth

with a pure and stainless heart, in order to be the support of his

mother and his sisters.

"A man can do much when he wishes to do much: join your efforts to my

prayers, and leave the rest in the hands of God."

The prediction of this Puritan woman was fulfilled: a little time

afterwards rector Salfranck was appointed professor at Richembourg,

whither Sand followed him; it was there that the events of 1813 found

him. In the month of March he wrote to his mother:—

"I can scarcely, dear mother, express to you how calm and happy I begin

to feel since I am permitted to believe in the enfranchisement of my

country, of which I hear on every side as being so near at hand,—of that

country which, in my faith in God, I see beforehand free and mighty,

that country for whose happiness I would undergo the greatest

sufferings, and even death. Take strength for this crisis. If by chance

it should reach our good province, lift your eyes to the Almighty, then

carry them back to beautiful rich nature. The goodness of God which

preserved and protected so many men during the disastrous Thirty Years’

War can do and will do now what it could and did then. As for me, I

believe and hope."

Leipzig came to justify Sand’s presentiments; then the year 1814

arrived, and he thought Germany free.

On the 10th of December in the same year he left Richembourg with this

certificate from his master:—

"Karl Sand belongs to the small number of those elect young men who are

distinguished at once by the gifts of the mind and the faculties of the

soul; in application and work he surpasses all his fellow-students, and

this fact explains his rapid progress in all the philosophical and

philological sciences; in mathematics only there are still some further

studies which he might pursue. The most affectionate wishes of his

teacher follow him on his departure.

"J. A. KEYN, "Rector, and master of the first class. "Richembourg, Sept.

15, 1814"

But it was really the parents of Sand, and in particular his mother, who

had prepared the fertile soil in which his teachers had sowed the seeds

of learning; Sand knew this well, for at the moment of setting out for

the university of Tubingen, where he was about to complete the

theological studies necessary for becoming a pastor, as he desired to

do, he wrote to them:—

"I confess that, like all my brothers and sisters, I owe to you that

beautiful and great part of my education which I have seen to be lacking

to most of those around me. Heaven alone can reward you by a conviction

of having so nobly and grandly fulfilled your parental duties, amid many

others."

After having paid a visit to his brother at St. Gall, Sand reached

Tubingen, to which he had been principally attracted by the reputation

of Eschenmayer; he spent that winter quietly, and no other incident

befell than his admission into an association of Burschen, called the

Teutonic; then came tester of 1815, and with it the terrible news that

Napoleon had landed in the Gulf of Juan. Immediately all the youth of

Germany able to bear arms gathered once more around the banners of 1813

and 1814. Sand followed the general example; but the action, which in

others was an effect of enthusiasm, was in him the result of calm and

deliberate resolution. He wrote to Wonsiedel on this occasion:—

"April 22, 1813

"MY DEAR PARENTS,—Until now you have found me submissive to your

parental lessons and to the advice of my excellent masters; until now I

have made efforts to render myself worthy of the education that God has

sent me through you, and have applied myself to become capable of

spreading the word of the Lord through my native land; and for this

reason I can to-day declare to you sincerely the decision that I have

taken, assured that as tender and affectionate parents you will calm

yourselves, and as German parents and patriots you will rather praise my

resolution than seek to turn me from it.

"The country calls once more for help, and this time the call is

addressed to me, too, for now I have courage and strength. It cost me a

great inward struggle, believe me, to abstain when in 1813 she gave her

first cry, and only the conviction held me back that thousands of others

were then fighting and conquering for Germany, while I had to live for

the peaceful calling to which I was destined. Now it is a question of

preserving our newly re-established liberty, which in so many places has

already brought in so rich a harvest. The all-powerful and merciful Lord

reserves for us this great trial, which will certainly be the last; it

is for us, therefore, to show that we are worthy of the supreme gift

which He has given us, and capable of upholding it with strength and

firmness.

"The danger of the country has never been so great as it is now, that is

why, among the youth of Germany, the strong should support the wavering,

that all may rise together. Our brave brothers in the north are already

assembling from all parts under their banners; the State of Wurtemburg

is, proclaiming a general levy, and volunteers are coming in from every

quarter, asking to die for their country. I consider it my duty, too, to

fight for my country and for all the dear ones whom I love. If I were

not profoundly convinced of this truth, I should not communicate my

resolution to you; but my family is one that has a really German heart,

and that would consider me as a coward and an unworthy son if I did not

follow this impulse. I certainly feel the greatness of the sacrifice; it

costs me something, believe me, to leave my beautiful studies and go to

put myself under the orders of vulgar, uneducated people, but this only

increases my courage in going to secure the liberty of my brothers;

moreover, when once that liberty is secured, if God deigns to allow, I

will return to carry them His word.

"I take leave, therefore, for a time of you, my most worthy parents, of

my brothers, my sisters, and all who are dear to me. As, after mature

deliberation, it seems the most suitable thing for me to serve with the

Bavarians. I shall get myself enrolled, for as long as the war may last,

with a company of that nation. Farewell, then; live happily; far away

from you as I shall be, I shall follow your pious exhortations. In this

new track I shall still I hope, remain pure before God, and I shall

always try to walk in the path that rises above the things of earth and

leads to those of heaven, and perhaps in this career the bliss of saving

some souls from their fall may be reserved for me.

"Your dear image will always be about me; I will always have the Lord

before my eyes and in my heart, so that I may endure joyfully the pains

and fatigues of this holy war. Include me in your Prayers; God will send

you the hope of better times to help you in bearing the unhappy time in

which we now are. We cannot see one another again soon, unless we

conquer; and if we should be conquered (which God forbid!), then my last

wish, which I pray you, I conjure you, to fulfil, my last and supreme

wish would be that you, my dear and deserving German relatives, should

leave an enslaved country for some other not yet under the yoke.

"But why should we thus sadden one another’s hearts? Is not our cause

just and holy, and is not God just and holy? How then should we not be

victors? You see that sometimes I doubt, so, in your letters, which I am

impatiently expecting, have pity on me and do not alarm my soul, for in

any case we shall meet again in another country, and that one will

always be free and happy.

"I am, until death, your dutiful and grateful son, "KARL SAND."

These two lines of Korner’s were written as a postscript:

"Perchance above our foeman lying dead

We may behold the star of liberty."

With this farewell to his parents, and with Korner’s poems on his lips,

Sand gave up his books, and on the 10th of May we find him in arms among

the volunteer chasseurs enrolled under the command of Major

Falkenhausen, who was at that time at Mannheim; here he found his second

brother, who had preceded him, and they underwent all their drill

together.

Though Sand was not accustomed to great bodily fatigues, he endured

those of the campaign with surprising strength, refusing all the

alleviations that his superiors tried to offer him; for he would allow

no one to outdo him in the trouble that he took for the good of the

country. On the march he invariably shared: anything that he possessed

fraternally with his comrades, helping those who were weaker than

himself to carry their burdens, and, at once priest and soldier,

sustaining them by his words when he was powerless to do anything more.

On the 18th of June, at eight o’clock in the evening, he arrived upon

the field of battle at Waterloo, On the 14th of July he entered Paris.

On the 18th of December, 1815, Karl Sand and his brother were back at

Wonsiedel, to the great joy of their family. He spent the Christmas

holidays and the end of the year with them, but his ardour for his new

vacation did not allow him to remain longer, and an the 7th of January

he reached Erlangen. Then, to make up for lost time, he resolved to

subject his day to fixed and uniform rules, and to write down every

evening what he had done since the morning. It is by the help of this

journal that we are able to follow the young enthusiast, not only in all

the actions of his life, but also in all the thoughts of his mind and

all the hesitations of his conscience. In it we find his whole self,

simple to naivete, enthusiastic to madness, gentle even to weakness

towards others, severe even to asceticism towards himself. One of his

great griefs was the expense that his education occasioned to his

parents, and every useless and costly pleasure left a remorse in his

heart. Thus, on the 9th of February 1816, he wrote:—

"I meant to go and visit my parents. Accordingly I went to the

’Commers-haus’, and there I was much amused. N. and T. began upon me

with the everlasting jokes about Wonsiedel; that went on until eleven

o’clock. But afterwards N. and T. began to torment me to go to the

wine-shop; I refused as long as I could. But as, at last, they seemed to

think that it was from contempt of them that I would not go and drink a

glass of Rhine wine with them, I did not dare resist longer.

Unfortunately, they did not stop at Braunberger; and while my glass was

still half full, N. ordered a bottle of champagne. When the first had

disappeared, T. ordered a second; then, even before this second battle

was drunk, both of them ordered a third in my name and in spite of me. I

returned home quite giddy, and threw myself on the sofa, where I slept

for about an hour, and only went to bed afterwards.

"Thus passed this shameful day, in which I have not thought enough of my

kind and worthy parents, who are leading a poor and hard life, and in

which I suffered myself to be led away by the example of people who have

money into spending four florins—an expenditure which was useless, and

which would have kept the whole family for two days. Pardon me, my God,

pardon me, I beseech Thee, and receive the vow that I make never to fall

into the same fault again. In future I will live even more abstemiously

than I usually do, so as to repair the fatal traces in my poor cash-box

of my extravagance, and not to be obliged to ask money of my mother

before the day when she thinks of sending me some herself."

Then, at the very time when the poor young man reproaches himself as if

with a crime with having spent four florins, one of his cousins, a

widow, dies and leaves three orphan children. He runs immediately to

carry the first consolations to the unhappy little creatures, entreats

his mother to take charge of the youngest, and overjoyed at her answer,

thanks her thus:—

"Far the very keen joy that you have given me by your letter, and for

the very dear tone in which your soul speaks to me, bless you, O my

mother! As I might have hoped and been sure, you have taken little

Julius, and that fills me afresh with the deepest gratitude towards you,

the rather that, in my constant trust in your goodness, I had already in

her lifetime given our good little cousin the promise that you are

fulfilling for me after her death."

About March, Sand, though he did not fall ill, had an indisposition that

obliged him to go and take the waters; his mother happened at the time

to be at the ironworks of Redwitz, some twelve or fifteen miles from

Wonsiedel, where the mineral springs are found. Sand established himself

there with his mother, and notwithstanding his desire to avoid

interrupting his work, the time taken up by baths, by invitations to

dinners, and even by the walks which his health required, disturbed the

regularity of his usual existence and awakened his remorse. Thus we find

these lines written in his journal for April 13th:

"Life, without some high aim towards which all thoughts and actions

tend, is an empty desert: my day yesterday is a proof of this; I spent

it with my own people, and that, of course, was a great pleasure to me;

but how did I spend it? In continual eating, so that when I wanted to

work I could do nothing worth doing. Full of indolence and slackness, I

dragged myself into the company of two or three sets of people, and came

from them in the same state of mind as I went to them."

For these expeditions Sand made use of a little chestnut horse which

belonged to his brother, and of which he was very fond. This little

horse had been bought with great difficulty; for, as we have said, the

whole family was poor. The following note, in relation to the animal,

will give an idea of Sand’s simplicity of heart:—

"19th April "To-day I have been very happy at the ironworks, and very

industrious beside my kind mother. In the evening I came home on the

little chestnut. Since the day before yesterday, when he got a strain

and hurt his foot, he has been very restive and very touchy, and when he

got home he refused his food. I thought at first that he did not fancy

his fodder, and gave him some pieces of sugar and sticks of cinnamon,

which he likes very much; he tasted them, but would not eat them. The

poor little beast seems to have same other internal indisposition

besides his injured foot. If by ill luck he were to become foundered or

ill, everybody, even my parents, would throw the blame on me, and yet I

have been very careful and considerate of him. My God, my Lord, Thou who

canst do things both great and small, remove from me this misfortune,

and let him recover as quickly as possible. If, however, Thou hast

willed otherwise, and if this fresh trouble is to fall upon us, I will

try to bear it with courage, and as the expiation of some sin.

Meanwhile, O my God, I leave this matter in Thy hands, as I leave my

life and my soul."

On the 20th of April he wrote:—"The little horse is well; God has helped

me."

German manners and customs are so different from ours, and contrasts

occur so frequently in the same man, on the other side of the Rhine,

that anything less than all the quotations which we have given would

have been insufficient to place before our readers a true idea of that

character made up of artlessness and reason, childishness and strength,

depression and enthusiasm, material details and poetic ideas, which

renders Sand a man incomprehensible to us. We will now continue the

portrait, which still wants a few finishing touches.

When he returned to Erlangen, after the completion of his "cure," Sand

read Faust for the first time. At first he was amazed at that work,

which seemed to him an orgy of genius; then, when he had entirely

finished it, he reconsidered his first impression, and wrote:—

"4th May

"Oh, horrible struggle of man and devil! What Mephistopheles is in me I

feel for the first time in this hour, and I feel it, O God, with

consternation!

"About eleven at night I finished reading the tragedy, and I felt and

saw the fiend in myself, so that by midnight, amid my tears and despair,

I was at last frightened at myself."

Sand was falling by degrees into a deep melancholy, from which nothing

could rouse him except his desire to purify and preach morality to the

students around him. To anyone who knows university life such a task

will seem superhuman. Sand, however, was not discouraged, and if he

could not gain an influence over everyone, he at least succeeded in

forming around him a considerable circle of the most intelligent and the

best; nevertheless, in the midst of these apostolic labours strange

longings for death would overcome him; he seemed to recall heaven and

want to return to it; he called these temptations "homesickness for the

soul’s country."

His favourite authors were Lessing, Schiller, Herder, and Goethe; after

re-reading the two last for the twentieth time, this is what he wrote:

"Good and evil touch each other; the woes of the young Werther and

Weisslingen’s seduction, are almost the same story; no matter, we must

not judge between what is good and what is evil in others; for that is

what God will do. I have just been spending much time over this thought,

and have become convinced that in no circumstances ought we to allow

ourselves to seek for the devil in others, and that we have no right to

judge; the only creature over whom we have received the power to judge

and condemn is ourself, and that gives us enough constant care,

business, and trouble.

"I have again to-day felt a profound desire to quit this world and enter

a higher world; but this desire is rather dejection than strength, a

lassitude than an upsoaring."

The year 1816 was spent by Sand in these pious attempts upon his young

comrades, in this ceaseless self-examination, and in the perpetual

battle which he waged with the desire for death that pursued him; every

day he had deeper doubts of himself; and on the 1st of January, 1817, he

wrote this prayer in his diary:—

"Grant to me, O Lord, to me whom Thou halt endowed, in sending me on

earth, with free will, the grace that in this year which we are now

beginning I may never relax this constant attention, and not shamefully

give up the examination of my conscience which I have hitherto made.

Give me strength to increase the attention which I turn upon my own

life, and to diminish that which I turn upon the life of others;

strengthen my will that it may become powerful to command the desires of

the body and the waverings of the soul; give me a pious conscience

entirely devoted to Thy celestial kingdom, that I may always belong to

Thee, or after failing, may be able to return to Thee."

Sand was right in praying to God for the year 1817, and his fears were a

presentiment: the skies of Germany, lightened by Leipzig and Waterloo,

were once more darkened; to the colossal and universal despotism of

Napoleon succeeded the individual oppression of those little princes who

made up the Germanic Diet, and all that the nations had gained by

overthrowing the giant was to be governed by dwarfs. This was the time

when secret societies were organised throughout Germany; let us say a

few words about them, for the history that we are writing is not only

that of individuals, but also that of nations, and every time that

occasion presents itself we will give our little picture a wide horizon.

The secret societies of Germany, of which, without knowing them, we have

all heard, seem, when we follow them up, like rivers, to originate in

some sort of affiliation to those famous clubs of the ’illumines’ and

the freemasons which made so much stir in France at the close of the

eighteenth century. At the time of the revolution of ’89 these different

philosophical, political, and religious sects enthusiastically accepted

the republican doctrines, and the successes of our first generals have

often been attributed to the secret efforts of the members. When

Bonaparte, who was acquainted with these groups, and was even said to

have belonged to them, exchanged his general’s uniform for an emperor’s

cloak, all of them, considering him as a renegade and traitor, not only

rose against him at home, but tried to raise enemies against him abroad;

as they addressed themselves to noble and generous passions, they found

a response, and princes to whom their results might be profitable seemed

for a moment to encourage them. Among others, Prince Louis of Prussia

was grandmaster of one of these societies.

The attempted murder by Stops, to which we have already referred, was

one of the thunderclaps of the storm; but its morrow brought the peace

of Vienna, and the degradation of Austria was the death-blow of the old

Germanic organisation. These societies, which had received a mortal

wound in 1806 and were now controlled by the French police, instead of

continuing to meet in public, were forced to seek new members in the

dark. In 1811 several agents of these societies were arrested in Berlin,

but the Prussian authorities, following secret orders of Queen Louisa,

actually protected them, so that they were easily able to deceive the

French police about their intentions. About February 1815 the disasters

of the French army revived the courage of these societies, for it was

seen that God was helping their cause: the students in particular joined

enthusiastically in the new attempts that were now begun; many colleges

enrolled themselves almost entire, and chose their principals and

professors as captains; the poet, Korner, killed on the 18th of October

at Liegzig, was the hero of this campaign.

The triumph of this national movement, which twice carried the Prussian

army—largely composed of volunteers—to Paris, was followed, when the

treaties of 1815 and the new Germanic constitution were made known, by a

terrible reaction in Germany. All these young men who, exiled by their

princes, had risen in the name of liberty, soon perceived that they had

been used as tools to establish European despotism; they wished to claim

the promises that had been made, but the policy of Talleyrand and

Metternich weighed on them, and repressing them at the first words they

uttered, compelled them to shelter their discontent and their hopes in

the universities, which, enjoying a kind of constitution of their own,

more easily escaped the investigations made by the spies of the Holy

Alliance; but, repressed as they were, these societies continued

nevertheless to exist, and kept up communications by means of travelling

students, who, bearing verbal messages, traversed Germany under the

pretence of botanising, and, passing from mountain to mountain, sowed

broadcast those luminous and hopeful words of which peoples are always

greedy and kings always fear.

We have seen that Sand, carried away by the general movement, had gone

through the campaign of 1815 as a volunteer, although he was then only

nineteen years old. On his return, he, like others, had found his golden

hopes deceived, and it is from this period that we find his journal

assuming the tone of mysticism and sadness which our readers must have

remarked in it. He soon entered one of these associations, the Teutonia;

and from that moment, regarding the great cause which he had taken up as

a religious one, he attempted to make the conspirators worthy of their

enterprise, and thus arose his attempts to inculcate moral doctrines, in

which he succeeded with some, but failed with the majority. Sand had

succeeded, however, in forming around him a certain circle of Puritans,

composed of about sixty to eighty students, all belonging to the group

of the ’Burschenschaft’ which continued its political and religious

course despite all the jeers of the opposing group—the ’Landmannschaft’.

One of his friends called Dittmar and he were pretty much the chiefs,

and although no election had given them their authority, they exercised

so much influence upon what was decided that in any particular case

their fellow-adepts were sure spontaneously to obey any impulse that

they might choose to impart. The meetings of the Burschen took place

upon a little hill crowned by a ruined castle, which was situated at

some distance from Erlangen, and which Sand and Dittmar had called the

Ruttli, in memory of the spot where Walter Furst, Melchthal, and

Stauffacher had made their vow to deliver their country; there, under

the pretence of students’ games, while they built up a new house with

the ruined fragments, they passed alternately from symbol to action and

from action to symbol.

Meanwhile the association was making such advances throughout Germany

that not only the princes and kings of the German confederation, but

also the great European powers, began to be uneasy. France sent agents

to bring home reports, Russia paid agents on the spot, and the

persecutions that touched a professor and exasperated a whole university

often arose from a note sent by the Cabinet of the Tuileries or of St.

Petersburg.

It was amid the events that began thus that Sand, after commending

himself to the protection of God, began the year 1817, in the sad mood

in which we have just seen him, and in which he was kept rather by a

disgust for things as they were than by a disgust for life. On the 8th

of May, preyed upon by this melancholy, which he cannot conquer, and

which comes from the disappointment of all his political hopes, he

writes in his diary:

"I shall find it impossible to set seriously to work, and this idle

temper, this humour of hypochondria which casts its black veil over

everything in life,—continues and grows in spite of the moral activity

which I imposed on myself yesterday."

In the holidays, fearing to burden his parents with any additional

expense, he will not go home, and prefers to make a walking tour with

his friends. No doubt this tour, in addition to its recreative side, had

a political aim. Be that as it may, Sand’s diary, during the period of

his journey, shows nothing but the names of the towns through which he

passed. That we may have a notion of Sand’s dutifulness to his parents,

it should be said that he did not set out until he had obtained his

mother’s permission. On their return, Sand, Dittmar, and their friends

the Burschen, found their Ruttli sacked by their enemies of the

Landmannschaft; the house that they had built was demolished and its

fragments dispersed. Sand took this event for an omen, and was greatly

depressed by it.

"It seems to me, O my God!" he says in his journal, "that everything

swims and turns around me. My soul grows darker and darker; my moral

strength grows less instead of greater; I work and cannot achieve; walk

towards my aim and do not reach it; exhaust myself, and do nothing

great. The days of life flee one after another; cares and uneasiness

increase; I see no haven anywhere for our sacred German cause. The end

will be that we shall fall, for I myself waver. O Lord and Father!

protect me, save me, and lead me to that land from which we are for ever

driven back by the indifference of wavering spirits."

About this time a terrible event struck Sand to the heart; his friend

Dittmar was drowned. This is what he wrote in his diary on the very

morning of the occurrence:

"Oh, almighty God! What is going to become of me? For the last fortnight

I have been drawn into disorder, and have not been able to compel myself

to look fixedly either backward or forward in my life, so that from the

4th of June up to the present hour my journal has remained empty. Yet

every day I might have had occasion to praise Thee, O my God, but my

soul is in anguish. Lord, do not turn from me; the more are the

obstacles the more need is there of strength."

In the evening he added these few words to the lines that he had written

in the morning:—

"Desolation, despair, and death over my friend, over my very deeply

loved Dittmar."

This letter which he wrote to his family contains the account of the

tragic event:—

"You know that when my best friends, A., C., and Z., were gone, I became

particularly intimate with my well-beloved Dittmar of Anspach; Dittmar,

that is to say a true and worthy German, an evangelical Christian,

something more, in short, than a man! An angelic soul, always turned

toward the good, serene, pious, and ready for action; he had come to

live in a room next to mine in Professor Grunler’s house; we loved each

other, upheld each other in our efforts, and, well or ill, bore our good

or evil fortune in common. On this last spring evening, after having

worked in his room and having strengthened ourselves anew to resist all

the torments of life and to advance towards the aim that we desired to

attain; we went, about seven in the evening, to the baths of Redwitz. A

very black storm was rising in the sky, but only as yet appeared on the

horizon. E., who was with us, proposed to go home, but Dittmar

persisted, saying that the canal was but a few steps away. God permitted

that it should not be I who replied with these fatal words. So he went

on. The sunset was splendid: I see it still; its violet clouds all

fringed with gold, for I remember the smallest details of that evening.

"Dittmar went down first; he was the only one of us who knew how to

swim; so he walked before us to show us the depth. The water was about

up to our chests, and he, who preceded us, was up to his shoulders, when

he warned us not to go farther, because he was ceasing to feel the

bottom. He immediately gave up his footing and began to swim, but

scarcely had he made ten strokes when, having reached the place where

the river separates into two branches, he uttered a cry, and as he was

trying to get a foothold, disappeared. We ran at once to the bank,

hoping to be able to help him more easily; but we had neither poles nor

ropes within reach, and, as I have told you, neither of us could swim.

Then we called for help with all our might. At that moment Dittmar

reappeared, and by an unheard-of effort seized the end of a willow

branch that was hanging over the water; but the branch was not strong

enough to resist, and our friend sank again, as though he had been

struck by apoplexy. Can you imagine the state in which we were, we his

friends, bending over the river, our fixed and haggard eyes trying to

pierce its depth? My God, my God! how was it we did not go mad?

"A great crowd, however, had run at our cries. For two hours they sought

far him with boats and drag-hooks; and at last they succeeded in drawing

his body from the gulf. Yesterday we bore it solemnly to the field of

rest.

"Thus with the end of this spring has begun the serious summer of my

life. I greeted it in a grave and melancholy mood, and you behold me

now, if not consoled, at least strengthened by religion, which, thanks

to the merits of Christ, gives me the assurance of meeting my friend in

heaven, from the heights of which he will inspire me with strength to

support the trials of this life; and now I do not desire anything more

except to know you free from all anxiety in regard to me."

Instead of serving to unite the two groups of students in a common

grief, this accident, on the contrary, did but intensify their hatred of

each other. Among the first persons who ran up at the cries of Sand and

his companion was a member of the Landmannschaft who could swim, but

instead of going to Dittmar’s assistance he exclaimed, "It seems that we

shall get rid of one of these dogs of Burschen; thank God!"

Notwithstanding this manifestation of hatred, which, indeed, might be

that of an individual and not of the whole body, the Burschen invited

their enemies to be present at Dittmar’s funeral. A brutal refusal, and

a threat to disturb the ceremony by insults to the corpse, formed their

sole reply. The Burschen then warned the authorities, who took suitable

measures, and all Dittmar’s friends followed his coffin sword in hand.

Beholding this calm but resolute demonstration, the Landmannschaft did

not dare to carry out their threat, and contented themselves with

insulting the procession by laughs and songs.

Sand wrote in his journal:

"Dittmar is a great loss to all of us, and particularly to me; he gave

me the overflow of his strength and life; he stopped, as it were, with

an embankment, the part of my character that is irresolute and

undecided. From him it is that I have learned not to dread the

approaching storm, and to know how to fight and die."

Some days after the funeral Sand had a quarrel about Dittmar with one of

his former friends, who had passed over from the Burschen to the

Landmannschaft, and who had made himself conspicuous at the time of the

funeral by his indecent hilarity. It was decided that they should fight

the next day, and on the same day Sand wrote in his journal.

"To-morrow I am to fight with P. G.; yet Thou knowest, O my God, what

great friends we formerly were, except for a certain mistrust with which

his coldness always inspired me; but on this occasion his odious conduct

has caused me to descend from the tenderest pity to the profoundest

hatred.

"My God, do not withdraw Thy hand either from him or from me, since we

are both fighting like men! Judge only by our two causes, and give the

victory to that which is the more just. If Thou shouldst call me before

Thy supreme tribunal, I know very well that I should appear burdened

with an eternal malediction; and indeed it is not upon myself that I

reckon but upon the merits of our Saviour Jesus Christ.

"Come what may, be praised and blessed, O my God!

"My dear parents, brothers, and friends, I commend you to the protection

of God."

Sand waited in vain for two hours next day: his adversary did not come

to the meeting place.

The loss of Dittmar, however, by no means produced the result upon Sand

that might have been expected, and that he himself seems to indicate in

the regrets he expressed for him. Deprived of that strong soul upon

which he rested, Sand understood that it was his task by redoubled

energy to make the death of Dittmar less fatal to his party. And indeed

he continued singly the work of drawing in recruits which they had been

carrying on together, and the patriotic conspiracy was not for a moment

impeded.

The holidays came, and Sand left Erlangen to return no more. From

Wonsiedel he was to proceed to Jena, in order to complete his

theological studies there. After some days spent with his family, and

indicated in his journal as happy, Sand went to his new place of abode,

where he arrived some time before the festival of the Wartburg. This

festival, established to celebrate the anniversary of the battle of

Leipzig, was regarded as a solemnity throughout Germany, and although

the princes well knew that it was a centre for the annual renewal of

affiliation to the various societies, they dared not forbid it. Indeed,

the manifesto of the Teutonic Association was exhibited at this festival

and signed by more than two thousand deputies from different

universities in Germany. This was a day of joy for Sand; for he found in

the midst of new friends a great number of old ones.

The Government, however, which had not ’dared to attack the Association

by force, resolved to undermine it by opinion. M. de Stauren published a

terrible document, attacking the societies, and founded, it was said,

upon information furnished by Kotzebue. This publication made a great

stir, not only at Jena, but throughout all Germany. Here is the trace of

this event that we find in Sand’s journal:—

24th November "Today, after working with much ease and assiduity, I went

out about four with E. As we crossed the market-place we heard

Kotzebue’s new and venomous insult read. By what a fury that man is

possessed against the Burschen and against all who love Germany!"

Thus for the first time and in these terms Sand’s journal presents the

name of the man who, eighteen months later, he was to slay.

On the 29th, in the evening, Sand writes again:

"To-morrow I shall set out courageously and joyfully from this place for

a pilgrimage to Wonsiedel; there I shall find my large-hearted mother

and my tender sister Julia; there I shall cool my head and warm my

heart. Probably I shall be present at my good Fritz’s marriage with

Louisa, and at the baptism of my very dear Durchmith’s first-born. God,

O my Father, as Thou hast been with me during my sad course, be with me

still on my happy road."

This journey did in fact greatly cheer Sand. Since Dittmar’s death his

attacks of hypochondria had disappeared. While Dittmar lived he might

die; Dittmar being dead, it was his part to live.

On the 11th of December he left Wonsiedel, to return to Jena, and on the

31st of the same month he wrote this prayer in his journal.

"O merciful Saviour! I began this year with prayer, and in these last

days I have been subject to distraction and ill-disposed. When I look

backward, I find, alas! that I have not become better; but I have

entered more profoundly into life, and, should occasion present, I now

feel strength to act.

"It is because Thou hast always been with me, Lord, even when I was not

with Thee."

If our readers have followed with some attention the different extracts

from the journal that we have placed before them, they must have seen

Sand’s resolution gradually growing stronger and his brain becoming

excited. From the beginning of the year 1818, one feels his view, which

long was timid and wandering, taking in a wider horizon and fixing

itself on a nobler aim. He is no longer ambitious of the pastor’s simple

life or of the narrow influence which he might gain in a little

community, and which, in his juvenile modesty, had seemed the height of

good fortune and happiness; it is now his native land, his German

people, nay, all humanity, which he embraces in his gigantic plans of

political regeneration. Thus, on the flyleaf of his journal for the year

1818, he writes:

"Lord, let me strengthen myself in the idea that I have conceived of the

deliverance of humanity by the holy sacrifice of Thy Son. Grant that I

may be a Christ of Germany, and that, like and through Jesus, I may be

strong and patient in suffering."

But the anti-republican pamphlets of Kotzebue increased in number and

gained a fatal influence upon the minds of rulers. Nearly all the

persons who were attacked in these pamphlets were known and esteemed at

Jena; and it may easily be comprehended what effects were produced by

such insults upon these young heads and noble hearts, which carried

conviction to the point of blindness and enthusiasm to that of

fanaticism.

Thus, here is what Sand wrote in his diary on the 5th of May.

"Lord, what causes this melancholy anguish which has again taken

possession of me? But a firm and constant will surmounts everything, and

the idea of the country gives joy and courage to the saddest and the

weakest. When I think of that, I am always amazed that there is none

among us found courageous enough to drive a knife into the breast of

Kotzebue or of any other traitor."

Still dominated by the same thought, he continues thus on the 18th of

May:—

"A man is nothing in comparison with a nation; he is a unity compared

with millions, a minute compared with a century. A man, whom nothing

precedes and nothing follows, is born, lives, and dies in a longer or

shorter time, which, relatively to eternity, hardly equals the duration

of a lightning flash. A nation, on the contrary, is immortal."

From time to time, however, amid these thoughts that bear the impress of

that political fatality which was driving him towards the deed of

bloodshed, the kindly and joyous youth reappears. On the 24th of June he

writes to his mother:—

"I have received your long and beautiful letter, accompanied by the very

complete and well-chosen outfit which you send me. The sight of this

fine linen gave me back one of the joys of my childhood. These are fresh

benefits. My prayers never remain unfulfilled, and I have continual

cause to thank you and God. I receive, all at once, shirts, two pairs of

fine sheets, a present of your work, and of Julia’s and Caroline’s work,

dainties and sweetmeats, so that I am still jumping with joy and I

turned three times on my heels when I opened the little parcel. Receive

the thanks of my heart, and share, as giver, in the joy of him who has

received.

"Today, however, is a very serious day, the last day of spring and the

anniversary of that on which I lost my noble and good Dittmar. I am a

prey to a thousand different and confused feelings; but I have only two

passions left in me which remain upright and like two pillars of brass

support this whole chaos—the thought of God and the love of my country."

During all this time Sand’s life remains apparently calm and equal; the

inward storm is calmed; he rejoices in his application to work and his

cheerful temper. However, from time to time, he makes great complaints

to himself of his propensity to love dainty food, which he does not

always find it possible to conquer. Then, in his self-contempt, he calls

himself "fig-stomach" or "cake-stomach." But amid all this the religious

and political exaltation and visits all the battlefields near to the

road that he follows. On the 18th of October he is back at Jena, where

he resumes his studies with more application than ever. It is among such

university studies that the year 1818 closes far him, and we should

hardly suspect the terrible resolution which he has taken, were it not

that we find in his journal this last note, dated the 31st of December:

"I finish the last day of this year 1818, then, in a serious and solemn

mood, and I have decided that the Christmas feast which has just gone by

will be the last Christmas feast that I shall celebrate. If anything is

to come of our efforts, if the cause of humanity is to assume the upper

hand in our country, if in this faithless epoch any noble feelings can

spring up afresh and make way, it can only happen if the wretch, the

traitor, the seducer of youth, the infamous Kotzebue, falls! I am fully

convinced of this, and until I have accomplished the work upon which I

have resolved, I shall have no rest. Lord, Thou who knowest that I have

devoted my life to this great action, I only need, now that it is fixed

in my mind, to beg of Thee true firmness and courage of soul."

Here Sand’s diary ends; he had begun it to strengthen himself; he had

reached his aim; he needed nothing more. From this moment he was

occupied by nothing but this single idea, and he continued slowly to

mature the plan in his head in order to familiarise himself with its

execution; but all the impressions arising from this thought remained in

his own mind, and none was manifested on the surface. To everyone else

he was the same; but for some little time past, a complete and unaltered

serenity, accompanied by a visible and cheerful return of inclination

towards life, had been noticed in him. He had made no change in the

hours or the duration of his studies; but he had begun to attend the

anatomical classes very assiduously. One day he was seen to give even

more than his customary attention to a lesson in which the professor was

demonstrating the various functions of the heart; he examined with the

greatest care the place occupied by it in the chest, asking to have some

of the demonstrations repeated two or three times, and when he went out,

questioning some of the young men who were following the medical

courses, about the susceptibility of the organ, which cannot receive

ever so slight a blow without death ensuing from that blow: all this

with so perfect an indifference and calmness that no one about him

conceived any suspicion.

Another day, A. S., one of his friends, came into his room. Sand, who

had heard him coming up, was standing by the table, with a paper-knife

in his hand, waiting for him; directly the visitor came in, Sand flung

himself upon him, struck him lightly on the forehead; and then, as he

put up his hands to ward off the blow, struck him rather more violently

in the chest; then, satisfied with this experiment, said:—

"You see, when you want to kill a man, that is the way to do it; you

threaten the face, he puts up his hands, and while he does so you thrust

a dagger into his heart."

The two young men laughed heartily over this murderous demonstration,

and A. S. related it that evening at the wine-shop as one of the

peculiarities of character that were common in his friend. After the

event, the pantomime explained itself.

The month of March arrived. Sand became day by day calmer, more

affectionate, and kinder; it might be thought that in the moment of

leaving his friends for ever he wished to leave them an ineffaceable

remembrance of him. At last he announced that on account of several

family affairs he was about to undertake a little journey, and set about

all his preparations with his usual care, but with a serenity never

previously seen in him. Up to that time he had continued to work as

usual, not relaxing for an instant; for there was a possibility that

Kotzebue might die or be killed by somebody else before the term that

Sand had fixed to himself, and in that case he did not wish to have lost

time. On the 7th of March he invited all his friends to spend the

evening with him, and announced his departure for the next day but one,

the 9th. All of them then proposed to him to escort him for some

leagues, but Sand refused; he feared lest this demonstration, innocent

though it were, might compromise them later on. He set forth alone,

therefore, after having hired his lodgings for another half-year, in

order to obviate any suspicion, and went by way of Erfurt and Eisenach,

in order to visit the Wartburg. From that place he went to Frankfort,

where he slept on the 17th, and on the morrow he continued his journey

by way of Darmstadt. At last, on the 23rd, at nine in the morning, he

arrived at the top of the little hill where we found him at the

beginning of this narrative. Throughout the journey he had been the

amiable and happy young man whom no one could see without liking.

Having reached Mannheim, he took a room at the Weinberg, and wrote his

name as "Henry" in the visitors’ list. He immediately inquired where

Kotzebue lived. The councillor dwelt near the church of the Jesuits; his

house was at the corner of a street, and though Sand’s informants could

not tell him exactly the letter, they assured him it was not possible to

mistake the house. [At Mannheim houses are marked by letters, not by

numbers.]

Sand went at once to Kotzebue’s house: it was about ten o’clock; he was

told that the councillor went to walk for an hour or two every morning

in the park of Mannheim. Sand inquired about the path in which he

generally walked, and about the clothes he wore, for never having seen

him he could only recognise him by the description. Kotzebue chanced to

take another path. Sand walked about the park for an hour, but seeing no

one who corresponded to the description given him, went back to the

house.

Kotzebue had come in, but was at breakfast and could not see him.

Sand went back to the Weinberg, and sat down to the midday table d’hote,

where he dined with an appearance of such calmness, and even of such

happiness, that his conversation, which was now lively, now simple, and

now dignified, was remarked by everybody. At five in the afternoon he

returned a third time to the house of Kotzebue, who was giving a great

dinner that day; but orders had been given to admit Sand. He was shown

into a little room opening out of the anteroom, and a moment after,

Kotzebue came in.

Sand then performed the drama which he had rehearsed upon his friend A.

S. Kotzebue, finding his face threatened, put his hands up to it, and

left his breast exposed; Sand at once stabbed him to the heart; Kotzebue

gave one cry, staggered, and fell back into an arm-chair: he was dead.

At the cry a little girl of six years old ran in, one of those charming

German children, with the faces of cherubs, blue-eyed, with long flowing

hair. She flung herself upon the body of Kotzebue, calling her father

with piercing cries. Sand, standing at the door, could not endure this

sight, and without going farther, he thrust the dagger, still covered

with Kotzebue’s blood, up to the hilt into his own breast. Then, seeing

to his surprise that notwithstanding the terrible wound—he had just

given himself he did not feel the approach of death, and not wishing to

fall alive into the hands of the servants who were running in, he rushed

to the staircase. The persons who were invited were just coming in;

they, seeing a young man, pale and bleeding with a knife in his breast,

uttered loud cries, and stood aside, instead of stopping him. Sand

therefore passed down the staircase and reached the street below; ten

paces off, a patrol was passing, on the way to relieve the sentinels at

the castle; Sand thought these men had been summoned by the cries that

followed him; he threw himself on his knees in the middle of the street,

and said, "Father, receive my soul!"

Then, drawing the knife from the wound, he gave himself a second blow

below the former, and fell insensible.

Sand was carried to the hospital and guarded with the utmost strictness;

the wounds were serious, but, thanks to the skill of the physicians who

were called in, were not mortal; one of them even healed eventually; but

as to the second, the blade having gone between the costal pleura and

the pulmonary pleura, an effusion of blood occurred between the two

layers, so that, instead of closing the wound, it was kept carefully

open, in order that the blood extravasated during the night might be

drawn off every morning by means of a pump, as is done in the operation

for empyaemia.

Notwithstanding these cares, Sand was for three months between life and

death.

When, on the 26th of March, the news of Kotzebue’s assassination came

from Mannheim to Jena, the academic senate caused Sand’s room to be

opened, and found two letters—one addressed to his friends of the

Burschenschaft, in which he declared that he no longer belonged to their

society, since he did not wish that their brotherhood should include a

man about to die on the scaffold. The other letter, which bore this

superscription, "To my nearest and dearest," was an exact account of

what he meant to do, and the motives which had made him determine upon

this act. Though the letter is a little long, it is so solemn and so

antique in spirit, that we do not hesitate to present it in its entirety

to our readers:—

"To all my own "Loyal and eternally cherished souls

"Why add still further to your sadness? I asked myself, and I hesitated

to write to you; but my silence would have wounded the religion of the

heart; and the deeper a grief the more it needs, before it can be

blotted out, to drain to the dregs its cup of bitterness. Forth from my

agonised breast, then; forth, long and cruel torment of a last

conversation, which alone, however, when sincere, can alleviate the pain

of parting.

"This letter brings you the last farewell of your son and your brother.

"The greatest misfortune of life for any generous heart is to see the

cause of God stopped short in its developments by our fault; and the

most dishonouring infamy would be to suffer that the fine things

acquired bravely by thousands of men, and for which thousands of men

have joyfully sacrificed themselves, should be no more than a transient

dream, without real and positive consequences. The resurrection of our

German life was begun in these last twenty years, and particularly in

the sacred year 1813, with a courage inspired by God. But now the house

of our fathers is shaken from the summit to the base. Forward! let us

raise it, new and fair, and such as the true temple of the true God

should be.

"Small is the number of those who resist, and who wish to oppose

themselves as a dyke against the torrent of the progress of higher

humanity among the German people. Why should vast whole masses bow

beneath the yoke of a perverse minority? And why, scarcely healed,

should we fall back into a worse disease than that which we are leaving

behind?

"Many of these seducers, and those are the most infamous, are playing

the game of corruption with us; among them is Kotzebue, the most cunning

and the worst of all, a real talking machine emitting all sorts of

detestable speech and pernicious advice. His voice is skillful in

removing from us all anger and bitterness against the most unjust

measures, and is just such as kings require to put us to sleep again in

that old hazy slumber which is the death of nations. Every day he

odiously betrays his country, and nevertheless, despite his treason,

remains an idol for half Germany, which, dazzled by him, accepts

unresisting the poison poured out by him in his periodic pamphlets,

wrapped up and protected as he is by the seductive mantle of a great

poetic reputation. Incited by him, the princes of Germany, who have

forgotten their promises, will allow nothing free or good to be

accomplished; or if anything of the kind is accomplished in spite of

them, they will league themselves with the French to annihilate it. That

the history of our time may not be covered with eternal ignominy, it is

necessary that he should fall.