THE PRINCESSES SOPHIA AND MARY.
In 1603 a great change came over the destinies of England. Queen
Elizabeth, the last of the house of Tudor, died. And James of Scotland,
the first of those Stuart kings who were to bring civil war, ruin and
disgrace on our land, came to the throne. A hundred years before, the
rich Tudor architecture had taken the place in Westminster of the grave
Gothic of the Middle Ages. Now the strong rule of the Tudors--often
unscrupulous, but generally able--was in like manner succeeded by the
extravagant misrule of the Stuarts.
It was, however, through their Tudor blood--through their descent from
Henry the Seventh, the great-grandfather of that most unhappy woman,
Mary, Queen of Scots--that the Stuarts succeeded to the English throne.
It was fitting, therefore, that they should turn to the chapel which
had been built as a burial place for the Tudor race. And within four
years of James the First's accession, two "royal rosebuds" were laid to
rest within its walls.
Let us go to-day and see their monuments.
We mount the wide steps at the extreme east end of the ambulatory, that
form a sort of vestibule of deepest shadow under the massive archway
which joins the Abbey to Henry the Seventh's Chapel. The black and white
marble floor gleams cold, and the sun streams in through the southern
windows upon the brass of Henry the Seventh's tomb as we look through
the great bronze gates. But we will not enter them. We will turn to the
left, where an open doorway leads us out of the dark entry at the head
of the steps into the quiet light of the north aisle. On either side of
the great central chapel run these two aisles, only divided from it by
slender pillars and by the dark oak stalls of the Knights of the Bath.
They are separate chapels, narrower and smaller than the main one, but
equally beautiful; with the same cobweb-like stone roof; the same
clusters of pillars spreading out into fan traceries; and deep, embayed
windows full of hundreds of diamond panes toned down by the grimy London
air into a mellow amber color.
[Illustration: THE MONUMENT OF QUEEN ELIZABETH IN THE NORTH AISLE.]
As we enter the north aisle we tread on a stone that bears the name of
Addison. Famous men, poets, generals, statesmen, are all about us. But
the great monument that stands in the centre of the chapel claims all
our attention. Under a magnificent marble canopy, still and stern in
death, lies the last of the Tudors--that splendid personage who, for
more than fifty years, ruled over England and kept all Europe at bay;
and who by word and deed encouraged those who laid the foundation of the
great transatlantic England. Yes! there sleeps Queen Elizabeth--the old
lioness. And in spite of vanities and weaknesses that we are apt
nowadays to dwell on all too hardly, she was perhaps the greatest woman
that England has ever seen. Her tomb, built by James the First, "of
white marble and touchstone from the royal store at Whitehall," is not
only a worthy memorial of her, but a token of the peace and goodwill
that the great Abbey speaks of to all who will hear. For by her own
desire, Elizabeth was buried in the same grave with her sister Mary,
that sister whose very name seems only to bring to mind hatred and
persecution, the stake and the fagot. Now she and Elizabeth are at
peace. And on their monument James the First inscribed "two lines full
of a far deeper feeling than we should naturally have ascribed to
him":[48]
_Fellows in the kingdom, and in the tomb. Here we sleep; Mary and
Elizabeth, the Sisters; in hope of the resurrection._
There is another effigy of Queen Elizabeth in the Abbey; and a very
curious one it is. From the thirteenth century until the beginning of
the eighteenth, it was the custom at royal funerals to carry a
life-size, waxen image before the coffin, representing the dead in the
clothes they wore. These effigies were left on the grave for about a
month, and some of the Abbey officials gained their living by showing
them to visitors. Most of the waxen figures have crumbled to dust. The
writer believes that she was the last person to look at that of hapless
Anne Boleyn. It had so fallen to pieces as to be a very hideous object,
and it has since been locked up and shown to no one. But in an upper
chamber over the Islip chapel, reached by a little dark stairway, eleven
of these strange figures are still to be seen in wainscot cupboards with
glass doors. Among them is Queen Elizabeth; not the original
effigy--that was worn out in 1708, when a certain Tom Brown who wrote _A
Walk through London and Westminster_, says that he saw the remains of
it. This is a copy made in 1760; and we see the poor old queen, dressed
in the long-waisted bodice and hooped skirt we know so well in pictures.
It is a piteous sight, however; for the effigy, battered and sorely the
worse for wear, is leaning up against the side of the glass cupboard in
a most undignified attitude. One would rather think of her as she lies
still and stately in the beautiful north aisle.
But we must linger no longer about Elizabeth's effigy or her tomb. We
must pass on to the east end of the chapel, and there we shall find the
monuments of her two little cousins.
On what used to be the altar step of the north aisle stands a baby's
cradle--a cradle on real rockers. A gorgeous coverlet, all trimmed with
rich guipure lace, falls from the corners of the cradle in splendid,
rich folds. The arms of England, Scotland, and Ireland are carved on the
back. And when you look under the head of the cradle you see that a baby
lies sleeping in it. A darling tiny baby it is--its little wee face set
in a close lace cap and lace ruff, under a kind of lace-trimmed hood
that forms part of the pillow. You can almost fancy that if the cradle
were set rocking the babe might open her eyes. But "baby and cradle, and
all," are marble--marble, yellow with the dust and wear of nearly three
hundred years.
"The Cradle Tomb" of Westminster, as it is called, has been far better
described than by any words of mine. A card hangs close beside it,
placed there by desire of Lady Augusta Stanley, on which is a poem "by
an American lady." That lady is a well-known favorite of American
readers; for she is none other than "Susan Coolidge." And the lovely
verses--some of which I venture to transcribe--appeared in _Scribner's
Monthly_ for 1875:
A little rudely sculptured bed,
With shadowing folds of marble lace,
And quilt of marble, primly spread,
And folded round a baby face.
Smoothly the mimic coverlet,
With royal blazonries bedight,
Hangs, as by tender fingers set,
And straightened for the last good-night.
And traced upon the pillowing stone
A dent is seen, as if, to bless
That quiet sleep, some grieving one
Had leaned, and left a soft impress.
* * * * *
But dust upon the cradle lies,
And those who prized the baby so,
And decked her couch with heavy sighs,
Were turned to dust long years ago.
The inscription on her cradle tells us that this dear baby,
Sophia, a royal rosebud, plucked by premature fate, and
snatched away from her parents--James, King of Great
Britain, France and Ireland, and Queen Anne--that she might
flourish again in the rosary of Christ, was placed here on
the twenty-third of June, in the fourth year of the reign of
King James, 1606.
The little creature was born on the twenty-first of June at Greenwich--a
favorite palace of the English sovereigns. Great preparations had been
made for her christening, and for the tourneys which were to be held at
the same time in honor of her grandfather the King of Denmark's visit.
But the baby only lived two days, and was hastily baptized "Sophia,"
after the Queen of Denmark. James the First gave orders that she should
be buried "as cheaply as possible, without any solemnity or
funeral."[49] Nevertheless he made a contract with Nicholas Poutrain,
the royal sculptor, for her monument, the cost of which was not to
exceed one hundred and forty pounds. And we find that her coffin was
very solemnly conveyed up the river by barge, covered with black velvet,
accompanied by three other barges covered with black cloth and bearing
many nobles, lords, ladies, and the officers-of-arms, to the Parliament
stairs at Westminster. Thence the procession went to the south-east
door of the Abbey, where it was met by the great lords of the Council,
the Heralds, and chief officers of the court, the
Dean and Prebends with the choir; and so they passed to King
Henry the Seventh's chapel where there was an Antiphon sung
with the organ; in the meantime the Body was interred in a
Vault at the end of the Tomb then erecting for Queen
Elizabeth.[50]
[Illustration: THE CRADLE TOMB.]
The chief mourner was that unhappy Lady Arabella Stuart, king James'
cousin, who, years after, ended her troubled life in the Tower, and was
brought like little baby Sophia "by the dark river," and laid in the
same grave as Mary, Queen of Scots, her kinswoman.
Upon the same altar step there is another monument to a little
princess--Sophia's sister Mary. She was the third daughter of James the
First: but the first princess of the new dynasty who was born in
England, and the first royal child baptized in the Reformed Church. As
"three quarters of a century had elapsed since a child was born to the
Sovereign of England," great were the rejoicings on little Mary's birth
upon the eighth of April, 1605. Bonfires were lighted, church bells were
rung all day long, and there were scrambles for money in the streets.
There is a curious account of the clothes provided for this first
princess of Great Britain, which shows us how royal babies were dressed
then. She had
a carnation velvet cradle, fringed with silver fringe, and
lined with carnation satin; a double scarlet cloth to lay
upon the cradle in the night; a cradle cloth of carnation
velvet with a train, laid with silver, and lined with
taffety to lay upon the cradle; two small mantles of unshorn
velvet, lined with the same velvet; one large bearing cloth
of carnation velvet, to be used when the child is brought
forth of the chamber, lined with taffety; one great head
sheet of cambric for the cradle, containing two breadths,
and three yards long, wrought all over with gold and colored
silks, and fringed with gold; six large handkerchiefs of
fine cambric, whereof one to be edged with fair cut work, to
lay over the child's face; six veils of lawn, edged with
fair bone lace, to pin with the mantles; six gathered bibs
of fine lawn with ruffles edged with bone lace; two bibs to
wear under them, wrought with gold and colored silks,
etc.[51]
The total value of these fineries and of all the lace and cambric
required for the baby's trousseau was estimated at three hundred pounds.
Her christening upon the fifth of May, was conducted on the most
gorgeous scale that had ever been seen in England. Many peers were
raised to higher rank, and numbers of knights were created barons in
honor of the occasion. The chapel at Greenwich palace was hung with
green velvet and cloth of gold. "A very rich and stately font of silver
and gilt, most curiously wrought with figures of beasts, serpents, and
other antique works,"[52] stood under a canopy of cloth of gold twelve
feet square. The child was carried from the queen's lodgings by the
countess of Derby, under a canopy borne by eight barons. Dukes and
bishops, earls and barons went before the Earl of Northumberland, who
bore a gilt basin; and the Countess of Worcester came after him,
"bearing a cushen covered with Lawne, which had thereon many jewels of
inestimable price."[53] The Lady Derby's train was borne by the greatest
countesses in the land; and the baby's "train of the mantle of purple
velvet, embroidered round about with gold, and furred with ermines,"[54]
was borne by noblemen. The Archbishop of Canterbury christened the
little princess. Her godparents were the Duke of Holstein, brother to
the queen, the Lady Arabella Stuart, and the Countess of Northumberland.
And when the christening was over, "the heralds put on their coats, the
trumpets sounded."
King at arms, "making low reverence unto the King's Majesty,"[55]
proclaimed the little girl's name aloud in the chapel.
Times have happily changed since those days. Contrast all this fuss and
cold formality with a simple christening that took place only a week ago
in England. A little royal duke, in whose veins the blood of the Stuarts
still flows, was brought to the font of the quiet village church of
Esher in Surrey. Very peaceful and unpretentious was the baby Duke of
Albany's christening--poor little fatherless boy. But there were none
present who did not truly love and honor the widowed grandmother who
held him in her arms and the young widowed mother who stood by, or mourn
for the accomplished, studious father, who died but a few months ago.
Which is likely to have the happiest childhood--the little Guelph
wrapped in the pure white Honiton-lace robe in which all the children
and grandchildren of Queen Victoria have been christened; or the little
Stuart in her purple velvet train, among the cloth-of-gold, and heralds,
and grandees of James the First's heartless, luxurious, extravagant
court?
Babies were differently treated in those days. Now, be they children of
a queen, or of the humblest commoner, they stay safe at home in their
nice, warm nurseries, under their mother's eye. But the royal children
of that date were sent off to be cared for "by trusty persons of
quality." Little Princess Mary was given into the charge of Lady
Knyvett. And on the first of June, when she was not two months old, she
was taken down to Stanwell where Sir Thomas Knyvett lived.
He was allowed twenty pounds per week for the diet of the
princess and of her suite, consisting of six rockers, and
several inferior attendants; but the king took upon himself
the payment of their wages, the expenses of her removals
from house to house, of her apparel, coach and horses,
etc.[56]
[Illustration: THE MONUMENTS OF PRINCESS SOPHIA AND PRINCESS MARY.]
Lady Knyvett took the greatest care of her little charge. But children
were badly understood in those times. Badly nursed, and fed, and
clothed, two thirds of the babies that were born in England died. It was
only the very strong ones who could survive their bringing-up. Think
only of that stuffy cradle of "carnation velvet," and the "mantles of
unshorn velvet," and the bibs "wrought with gold and colored silks."
Hot, uncomfortable, unhealthy things--one shudders to think of a little
tender baby in such garments. Then think of the utter ignorance of most
of the physicians of those days; and of the appalling disregard of
ventilation, baths, and proper food. What wonder, then, that little
Princess Mary did not live long. When she was scarcely more than two
years old she caught a violent cold, which settled on her lungs with
burning fever. The queen came constantly to see her little girl. But no
tenderness or skill availed; and after a month's illness the little
creature sank on the sixth of September, 1607. For fourteen hours
there was no sound of any word heard breaking from her lips;
yet when it sensibly appeared that she would soon make a
peaceable end of a troublesome life, she sighed out these
words, "I go, I go!"[57]
And again when some stimulant was given her she looked up and said,
"Away, I go." And yet once more she repeated faintly "I go;" and so went
home.
Thus another "royal rosebud" was laid beside the baby Sophia at Queen
Elizabeth's feet.
On her monument Princess Mary is represented lying on her side,
half-raised on one elbow which rests upon an embroidered pillow, with
one chubby little hand uplifted and clenched. She wears a
straight-waisted bodice which looks as stiff as armor; an immensely full
skirt that stands out all round her waist; a close lace cap; and a great
square collar--the first representation in the Abbey, as far as I
recollect, of those square collars that were soon to take the place of
the beautiful Elizabethan ruff. At the corners of her tomb sit four fat
weeping cherubs, one of whom has his hands raised in a perfect agony of
grief. And a nice fierce little lion lies at the child's feet, looking
very alert, and on the watch to guard his young mistress from harm.
It is a beautiful place to rest in--this quiet chapel, with its walls
all covered with traceries, and great stone bosses suspended aloft in
the blue mist of the roof. Over the stalls in the central chapel hang
the old banners of the Knights of the Bath with famous names written
upon them in letters of gold--names of warriors, explorers, statesmen,
lawyers, men of science. Glints of deep red, blue and amber from
Storied windows richly dight,
flash through the dusky air. And above the tombs of the two young
princesses is the urn containing the bones of Edward the Fifth and
Richard Duke of York; making this chapel, as Dean Stanley aptly says,
"The Innocents' Corner."
FOOTNOTES:
[48] Memorials of Westminster Abbey. p. 181.
[49] Fuller's Worthies.
[50] Sandford. Kings and Queens of England. Book VII. p. 577.
[51] "Princesses of England." M. A. E. Green. Vol. VI. p. 91.
[52] Nichols. Vol. I. p. 572.
[53] Stow's Chronicle, p. 862.
[54] Green's Princesses, p. 92.
[55] Nichols. Vol. I. p. 573.
[56] Green's Princesses. p. 94.
[57] Funeral Sermon for Prs. Mary, by G. Leech, preached in Henry the
Seventh's Chapel, Sept. 23, 1607.