By WALLACE BRUCE.
“The Monastery,” “The Abbott,” and “Kenilworth,” are related to the
most interesting period of Britain’s history. The characters of
Queen Elizabeth and Mary, Queen of Scots, stand out in bold relief.
Representing, as they do, the Protestant and Catholic religions fiercely
struggling for supremacy in Britain, it is not a matter of wonder or
surprise that each has been painted, at different times, and by different
historians, as angel and as fiend.
After reading a score of histories and essays, the general reader, like
the world at large, is undecided, unless he is fortunate, or unfortunate
enough to have prejudices. According to one writer, the policy of
Elizabeth, alike toward foreign nations and toward her own subjects,
was one vast system of chicane and wrong; her life one of mischief and
misery; her character below the standard of even the closing years of the
sixteenth century. On the other hand she is the incarnation of all that
is noble and heroic; she is hailed as the “Gloriana” of Spenser, and as
“Fair Vestal throned in the West,” by Shakspere.
In like manner Mary, her queenly cousin, with a French education
calculated to prejudice her in the minds of her countrymen, appears
in some histories as a second Lady Hamlet, forgetful of her son, with
undue haste marrying the alleged murderer of her husband. Again, she
appears entirely ignorant of the conspiracy against her husband; nay
more, actually compelled by the Nobles of Scotland to take the hand of
Bothwell; while the religious feeling was so bitter that her opponents
circulated falsehood and forgery in order to poison the minds of her
subjects.
Probably no character in history has been the theme of more controversy;
and while the English speaking world for the most part glories in the
triumph of the Reformation, under the bold leadership of John Knox,
in Scotland, and the resolute founders of the Established Church in
England, it still turns with sympathy and compassion to the fate of the
unfortunate queen, made interesting alike by her wit, her beauty and the
mystery which always overhung her history. As Scott says: “Her face, her
form, have been so deeply impressed upon the imagination, that, even
at the distance of nearly three centuries, it is unnecessary to remind
the most ignorant and uninformed reader of the striking traits which
characterize that remarkable countenance, which seems at once to combine
our ideas of the majestic, the pleasing, and the brilliant, leaving us
to doubt whether they express most happily the queen, the beauty, or the
accomplished woman. Even those who feel themselves compelled to believe
all, or much, of what her enemies laid to her charge, can not think
without a sigh, upon a countenance expressive of anything rather than
the foul crimes with which she was charged when living, and which still
continue to shade, if not to blacken her memory. That brow, so truly
open and regal—those eyebrows, so regularly graceful, which yet were
saved from the charge of regular insipidity by the beautiful effect of
the hazel eyes which they overarched, and which seem to utter a thousand
histories—the nose, with all its Grecian precision of outline—the mouth,
so well proportioned, so sweetly formed, as if designed to speak nothing
but what was delightful to hear—the dimpled chin, the stately swan-like
neck form a countenance, the like of which we know not to have existed
in any other character moving in that class of life where the actresses
as well as the actors command general and undivided attention; and no
small instance it is of the power of beauty, that her charms should have
remained the subject not merely of admiration, but of warm and chivalrous
interest, after the lapse of such a length of time.”
“The Monastery,” which comes first in historic order, serves merely as a
threshold to “The Abbot.” The general plan of the story was to closely
associate two characters in that contentious age holding different views
of the Reformation, both sincere, and both dedicated to the support
of their own separate beliefs. The scene is laid in the valley of the
Tweed, in the neighborhood of Melrose Abbey, which enjoyed for many
years, even in the midst of border and national warfare, the immunities
of peace. In the portrait of Julian Avenal we recall the fierce Laird of
Black Ormiston, the friend and confidant of Bothwell, and his associate
in Darnley’s murder. The White Lady of Avenal—a sort of astral spirit,
neither fairy nor Brownie, but made up of many elements more Persian than
Gothic—can only be excused as part and parcel of the superstition of the
times; and the portrayal of Sir Percy Shafton is in no way edifying, save
as a satire upon that dudish portion of humanity, the excrescence of that
school of Euphuists which took its rise with Sir John Lilly in the age
of Elizabeth, and blossomed out again but yesterday in the full blown
sunflower of modern estheticism. It is remarkable how history repeats
itself, not only in noble deeds and high daring, but also in the social
expression of dress and language.
In “The Abbot” we find the government of Scotland almost entirely in the
hands of the Protestant party; the queen a captive in Lochleven Castle;
the regent Murray, half brother of the queen, at once governor and
dictator. The monasteries are demolished, in some cases through religious
zeal, in other cases as an act of jealousy and policy; the bold spirit of
Knox, which dared to raise its voice in behalf of individual rights and
conscience, permeates Scotland. The pulpit becomes a powerful engine for
affecting the masses. The Catholics look to France and to Spain for help,
and the Protestants to Holland. The prophecy is literally fulfilled:
“Nation divided against nation, brother against brother;” the outgrowth
of that uncompromising religion of Right, which came not to “bring peace,
but a sword.”
The first pages of “The Abbott” portray life in the feudal castle of
Julian Avenal, a retainer of the Protestant regent. In the strict
character of Minister Warden we have a sketch of the preacher of the
period, thoroughly in earnest, exceedingly austere, who seldom jested,
believing that “life was not lent to us to be expended in idle mirth,
which resembles the crackling of thorns under the pot.” We see the ruins
of costly shrines and sainted springs, and, in the midst of desolation,
hear the eloquent lamentations of mourners pouring out their sorrow like
the prophets and poets of old over their lost Jerusalem. We come upon
a party of mummers, headed by the “Abbot of Unreason,” desecrating the
high altar of St. Mary, turning the ritual of the church into ridicule,
emphasizing a custom which was not wholly discouraged at stated intervals
by the clergy in their day of power; a custom inherited perhaps from
the Roman carnival, tolerated alike by the Greek and Romish churches.
We are conveyed to Edinburgh, then as now, the most picturesque city of
Europe; we see the intrigues of the court; we witness a melée in the
streets between the Leslies and the Seytons, and it is not until we
are half through the volume that we are introduced to Queen Mary, the
Captive, about whom the whole interest of the story gathers. We see her
in an island fortress of the Douglas, confronting with haughty eloquence
the stern Melville, Ruthven and Lindsey, sent by the regent to obtain
her signature to renounce all right to the throne of Scotland. We hear
the plea of both sides distinctly stated, and transcribe a passage which
throws light upon the question at issue:
“Madam,” said Ruthven, “I will deal plainly with you. Your reign,
from the dismal field of Pinkiecleuch, when you were a babe in
the cradle, till now that you stand a grown dame before us, hath
been such a tragedy of losses, disasters, civil dissensions and
foreign wars, that the like is not to be found in our chronicles.
The French and English have, with one consent, made Scotland the
battle-field on which to fight out their own ancient quarrel. For
ourselves, every man’s hand hath been against his brother, nor
hath a year passed over without rebellion and slaughter, exile
of nobles, and oppressing of the commons. We may endure it no
longer, and, therefore, as a prince to whom God hath refused the
gift of hearkening to wise counsel, and on whose dealings and
projects no blessing hath ever descended, we pray you to give way
to other rule and governance of the land, that a remnant may yet
be saved to this distracted realm.”
“My Lord,” said Mary, “It seems to me that you fling on my
unhappy and devoted head those evils, which, with far more
justice, I may impute to your own turbulent, wild, and untamable
dispositions—the frantic violence with which you, the magnates
of Scotland, enter into feuds against each other, sticking at
no cruelty to gratify your wrath, taking deep revenge for the
slightest offenses, and setting at defiance those wise laws which
your ancestors made for stanching of such cruelty, rebelling
against the lawful authority, and bearing yourselves as if there
were no king in the land; or rather as if each were king in his
own premises. And now you throw the blame on me—on me, whose life
has been embittered—whose sleep has been broken—whose happiness
has been wrecked by your dissensions. Have I not myself been
obliged to traverse wilds and mountains, at the head of a few
faithful followers, to maintain peace and to put down oppression?
Have I not worn harness on my person, and carried pistols in
my saddle, fain to lay aside the softness of a woman, and the
dignity of a queen, that I might show an example to my followers?”
We see the queen at last, under compulsion, and with hasty indifference,
subscribe the roll of parchment; the boat containing the three envoys
turns its bow toward Edinburgh, and the square tower of Lochleven holds
a desolate heart, and a queen without a throne. The winter months go by,
a long monotony, now and then relieved by sharp encounters of wit and
sarcasm between Queen Mary and her keeper, the Lady Douglas, proprietress
of the castle. We hear among her attendants whisperings of escape from
the hated prison; we see George Douglas, moved by her beauty and gracious
art, no longer her jailer, but a friend aiding in the attempt; we see
in Scott’s graphic description the most minute and accurate account
presented in any narrative or history, of the successful adventure after
the first failure. We see her in that disastrous battle at Langside,
where her followers were driven back by the regent’s forces, and hear the
queen’s sad words, more sad because so literally true, as she pronounced
them over the dead body of the young Douglas: “Look—look at him well,”
said the queen, “thus has it been with all who loved Mary Stuart!—The
royalty of Francis, the wit of Chastelar, the power and gallantry of the
gay Gordon, the melody of Rizzio, the portly form and youthful grace of
Darnley, the bold address and courtly manners of Bothwell—and now the
deep-devoted passion of the noble Douglas—naught could save them—they
looked on the wretched Mary, and to have loved her was crime enough to
deserve early death! No sooner had the victims formed a kind thought of
me, than the poisoned cup, the ax and block, the dagger, the mine, were
ready to punish them for casting away affection on such a wretch as I am!”
Defeated at every point the crownless queen turns for deliverance to
Queen Elizabeth. In her great extremity it did not occur to her that
she might risk her liberty and perhaps imperil her life by asking the
hospitality of England. Ere she took the fatal step her friends and
counselors kneeled at her feet and entreated her to go anywhere but
there; but their entreaties were in vain; she crossed the Solway,
gave herself up to the English deputy warden, and was lodged for the
time in Carlisle Castle. Elizabeth, as Scott says in his “Tales of a
Grandfather,” had two courses in her power, alike just and lawful; to
afford her the succor petitioned for, or the liberty to depart from her
dominions as she had entered them, voluntarily. But great as she was
upon other occasions of her reign, she acted on the present from mean
and envious motives. She saw in the fugitive a princess who possessed a
right of succession to the crown of England. She remembered that Mary had
been her rival in accomplishments; and certainly she did not forget that
she was her superior in youth and beauty. Elizabeth treated her not as a
sister and friend in distress, but as an enemy over whom circumstances
had given her power. She determined upon reducing her to the condition
of a captive. It is a question whether Elizabeth had a right to take
cognizance of the charges against Mary. As a matter of fact her guilt was
not proven when she demanded her first trial, and Elizabeth so states it
over her own signature; but Mary was transported from castle to castle
until the ax and the block at Fotheringay concluded the tragedy of her
life.
As in “The Abbot,” so in “Kenilworth” the principal personage of the
story—Queen Elizabeth—is not introduced until the story is well under
way. In fact, we are introduced to the characters in the inverse ratio of
their prominence. The curtain rises on a swaggering soldier of fortune in
a country inn—a fit accomplice and lackey of Sir Richard Varney, perhaps
the most despised villain in the pages of fiction. Anthony Foster comes
next, a snivelling hypocrite, willing to coin soul and body for money.
The stately Earl of Leicester, and his noble rival, the Earl of Essex,
with gorgeous retinue pass along the stage before us; and the palace
doors open at last upon Queen Elizabeth and her court. In the meantime
we have caught glimpses, through the prison doors, of Anthony Foster’s
dilapidated mansion, of the poor deluded Amy Robsart—the wedded but not
acknowledged wife of the Earl of Leicester; we note the grief and manhood
of her former lover, Tressilian, vainly entreating her to return to her
home, where her broken-hearted father sits by his lonely fireside, too
wretched and broken in spirit to find relief in tears.
The story of “Amy Robsart,” as here presented, is almost literally true
to fact, although Scott has introduced dramatic incidents not found in
the history. In the introduction Scott quotes at length the foundation of
the story, as given in Ashmole’s “Antiquities of Berkshire:”
“Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, a very goodly personage, and
singularly well featured, being a great favorite to Queen Elizabeth,
it was thought and commonly reported, that had he been a bachelor or
widower, the queen would have made him her husband; to this end to free
himself of all obstacles, he commands his wife to repose herself at
Anthony Foster’s house; and also prescribed to Sir Richard Varney, that
he should first attempt to poison her, and if that did not take effect,
then by any other way whatsoever to despatch her. The same accusation has
been adopted and circulated by the author of Leicester’s Commonwealth,
and alluded to in the Yorkshire Tragedy.”
Scott also quotes an old ballad, written by Mickle, called “Cumnor Hall,”
in which the fair Amy bewails her fate:
The dew of summer night did fall;
The moon, sweet regent of the sky,
Silver’d the walls of Cumnor Hall,
And many an oak that grew thereby.
Now naught was heard beneath the skies,
The sounds of busy life were still,
Save an unhappy lady’s sighs,
That issued from that lonely pile.
“Leicester,” she cried, “is this thy love
That thou so oft hast sworn to me,
To leave me in this lonely grove,
Immured in shameful privity?”
The village maidens of the plain
Salute me lowly as they go;
Envious they mark my silken train,
Nor think a Countess can have woe.
The simple nymphs! they little know
How far more happy’s their estate;
To smile for joy than sigh for woe—
To be content than to be great.
We are introduced to Queen Elizabeth at the palace gate as she takes her
royal barge for a morning’s trip upon the Thames: and it is here that
Scott introduces with grace the well-known incident of Sir Walter Raleigh
placing his mantle upon the ground before the queen to save Her Majesty’s
slippers. We see her attempting to reconcile the difference between
Leicester and Essex, who bow for the time before her haughty will; and we
wonder that her proud spirit, which brooked no opposition, could stop in
the midst of state affairs to receive as flattery an allusion to tresses
of gold braided in a metaphor of sunbeams; while Leicester, tottering
upon the precipice of infamy, by false eloquence brings a blush to her
cheek, and conjures her to strip him of all his power, but to leave him
the name of her servant. “Take from the poor Dudley,” he exclaimed, “all
that your bounty has made him, and bid him be the poor gentleman he was
when your grace first shone on him; leave him no more than his cloak and
his sword, but led him still boast he has—what in word and deed he never
forfeited—the regard of his adored Queen and mistress!”
But it is in the Halls of Kenilworth, where we trace in Scott’s picture
at once the greatness and weakness of the woman and the queen. We are
introduced to the stately castle which Scott describes with the love of
an antiquarian—a lordly structure composed of a huge pile of magnificent
castellated buildings, apparently of different ages, revealing in its
armorial bearings “the emblems of mighty chiefs who had long passed away
and, whose history, could Ambition have lent ear to it, might have read a
lesson to the haughty favorite, who had now acquired and was augmenting
the fair domain.”
Amid these princely halls, where the clocks for seven days point to the
hour of noon as if to indicate one continual banquet, we trace the misery
of those who hang on princes’ favors. The picture is a revelation of the
frailty of all human aspirations; and we close the volume recalling the
words of Burns:
“It’s no, in titles or in rank,
It’s no, in wealth like London bank
To purchase peace or rest.
If happiness has not her seat
And center in the breast,
We may be wise or rich or great,
But never can be blest.”
* * * * *
Is there not an evening to every day? Comes not the morning back again
after the most terrific night? Sometimes I have thought—the sun can never
rise again; and yet it came back again with its early dawn. The time
passes cold and indifferent over us—it knows nothing of our sorrows—it
knows nothing of our joys; it leads us with ice-cold hand deeper and
deeper into the labyrinth; at last allows us to stand still—we look
around and can not guess where we are.—_Tieck._