Читать книгу: «Lives of Celebrated Women», страница 17

The other party made haste to assemble their forces. At their head was Murray, a half-brother of the queen – a man whom she had loaded with benefits and honors, and to whom she had twice granted life, when condemned for treason. He now acted as regent, in the minority of the infant prince, whom the confederates assumed to be king. The hostile bands met at Langside. From a neighboring hill, Mary viewed a conflict on which her fate depended. She beheld – with what anguish of heart may be imagined – the fortune of the day turn against her; she saw her faithful friends cut to pieces, taken prisoners, or flying before the victorious Murray. When all was lost, her general, Lord Herries, came up to her, seized her bridle, and turned her horse’s head from the dismal scene. With a few adherents she fled southwards; nor did she repose till she reached Dundrennan, sixty miles from the field of battle. There Mary, trusting in Elizabeth’s recent professions of friendship, took the fatal resolution of throwing herself upon the compassion and protection of the English queen. As she approached the boundary, her resolution faltered; the coming evils seemed to cast their shadows before; but those which awaited her, if she remained, were certain, and she crossed the small stream which formed the parting line.

Mary was at this time in her twenty-sixth year; in the very prime of existence, in the full bloom of beauty and health, when a dark pall was spread over her life. Thenceforward her history presents one painful picture of monotonous suffering on the one hand, and of meanness, treachery, and cruelty, on the other. With relentless cruelty, her rival kept her in perpetual bonds; the only changes were from prison to prison, and from one harsh keeper to another; from the gleam of delusive hope to the blackness of succeeding disappointment.

As soon as she entered England, Mary addressed a letter to Elizabeth, in which she painted in glowing colors the wrongs she had endured, and implored the sympathy and assistance of her “good sister.” A generous and magnanimous sovereign would not have hesitated as to the answer to be made to such an appeal. But Elizabeth deliberated; she consulted her counsel; the object of long years of hatred was in her power; one whose very existence was an outrage upon her personal vanity; her malicious feelings of envy and jealousy got the mastery, and Mary’s detention as a prisoner was resolved on. Still, however, a show of decency was to be preserved. Noblemen of suitable rank were sent to receive her, carrying with them letters from their sovereign filled with prostituted expressions of condolence and sympathy. At the same time, orders were given that Mary should not be allowed to leave the kingdom. To Mary’s demand of a formal interview, Elizabeth replied, that the honor must, with whatever reluctance, be denied to her, lest the imputation under which she labored of being accessory to the murder of Darnley should bring a stain upon her own reputation; but that, whenever she should clear herself of this, she should receive assistance commensurate with her distress, and a reception suitable to her dignity. By this pretence was Mary entangled in a treacherous snare. Confiding in her professions of friendship, she agreed to submit her cause to Elizabeth, and to produce to her such proofs as would convince her of her innocence, and of the malice and falsehood of her enemies. Elizabeth had now accomplished her end: she became the umpire between Mary and her rebellious subjects, and had it wholly in her power to protract and to involve the proceedings in endless mazes; having, at the same time, a pretext for keeping Mary at a distance from her court, and for withholding from her all assistance.

To save appearances, a conference was appointed to be held at York, at which, in presence of her representatives, the several parties should make known their causes of complaint. Murray appeared in person, and accused Mary of participating in the murder of her husband, and of other monstrous crimes; of all which were offered as testimony certain letters purporting to have been written by her to Bothwell. By her command, her commissioners repelled the accusation with horror, and pronounced the letters to be base forgeries, and, at the same time, accused Murray and his confederates of treason and scandal against their sovereign. As was predetermined, the conference ended without coming to any decision; and, as Murray was permitted to return to Scotland, Mary required that she should be set at liberty. In answer, it was intimated that if she would confirm the forced abdication, and would renounce her throne and country, she should be permitted to reside in quiet and privacy in England. “The eyes of Europe,” replied Mary, “are upon me; and, were I thus tamely to yield to my adversaries, I should be pronouncing my own condemnation. A thousand times rather would I submit to death than inflict this stain upon my honor. The last words I speak shall be those of the queen of Scotland.” Refusing her liberty upon these disgraceful terms, she remained a captive.

Great fears were entertained of the power of Mary’s charms over those who were suffered to approach her. “If I might give advice,” writes one of Elizabeth’s statesmen, when on a visit to her, “there should very few subjects of this land have access to a conference with this lady; for, besides that she is a goodly personage, – and yet, in truth, not comparable to our sovereign, – she hath withal an alluring grace, a pretty Scotch speech, and a searching wit, clouded with mildness.” The advice contained in this letter was too acceptable not to be followed, and every succeeding year found Mary reduced in society, in comforts, and health. The latter, which had heretofore caused her no anxiety, gradually gave way before want of exercise and the dampness of the prisons in which she was confined; and she came to suffer from constant pain in her side, rheumatism, and weakness of limbs – a state of suffering and disease which was aggravated by the penuriousness of Elizabeth, which would not permit to her even the accommodation which that comparatively rude age afforded.

Her principal occupation was needle-work, and her amusement reading and composition; she retained her early love of literature, and it was now, next to her religious feelings and hopes, her best resource. The unvarying mildness and saint-like patience with which Mary endured her captivity are the more remarkable, if we remember that she was disinclined to sedentary amusements, and by nature and habit fond of walking, riding, gardening, and all exercises in the open air. Her gentleness, therefore, under a restraint so heart-wearing, is a proof of singular sweetness of temper and strength of mind, if not of a clear and tranquil conscience.

But, if the situation of Mary was melancholy, that of her persecutor was not to be envied. Plot succeeded plot, having for ostensible object the relief of Mary. In fact, while she existed, Elizabeth was stretched on the rack of fear and suspicion. In vain did she seek to implicate Mary in these traitorous projects; Mary freely acknowledged that she should seize with eagerness any means of deliverance from a hateful captivity; but, as to being privy to any plot against the life or throne of the queen, this she constantly and strenuously denied. At last, a subservient Parliament were induced to pass a most infamous law, which declared that not only the conspirators themselves, but those in whose cause they conspired, however innocent, or ignorant of their purpose, should equally suffer the penalties of treason.

Occasion was soon made for bringing Mary to trial under this law. The arrival of the commissioners charged with the duty was a surprise to her; a public trial was an indignity wholly unexpected, and she protested against it. “I came,” said she, “into the kingdom an independent sovereign, to ask the queen’s assistance, not to subject myself to her authority. Nor is my spirit so broken by past misfortunes, or intimidated by present dangers, as to stoop to any thing unbecoming the dignity of a crowned head, or that will disgrace the ancestors from whom I am descended, and the son to whom I shall leave the throne. If I must be tried, princes only can be my peers. Since my arrival in this country, I have been uniformly confined as a prisoner. Its laws never afforded me any protection. Let them not be perverted, in order to take away my life.” But a second time was she entrapped by the plausible argument that, by avoiding a trial, she was an enemy to her own reputation. Solicitous for the vindication of her honor, she submitted to an inquiry, the result of which had been predetermined; for those who had made the law for an express purpose, would not scruple to apply it. Notwithstanding a defence which was characterized by the same vigor and dignity of mind, and the acuteness of intellect which she had displayed when in possession of youth, health, and power, a sentence universally acknowledged to be unjust and iniquitous was pronounced against her.

The news of this outrage excited horror and indignation throughout Europe, and at length roused James to attempt something in behalf of his mother. He sent ambassadors to the various sovereigns of Europe, calling upon them to join with him in this the common cause of princes. He wrote to Elizabeth, threatening her with the vengeance which, as a sovereign and as a son, he was bound in honor and in duty to inflict. But Elizabeth was deaf to the reproaches and menaces by which she was from all sides assailed. It is true that, when a servile Parliament besought her to have the sentence executed, she, with an affectation of clemency, besought them to spare her the pain of imbruing her hands in the blood of a queen and near kinswoman, and to consider if the public safety might not otherwise be provided for. But her real meaning was well understood, and the lords and commons repeated the request, without fear of offending by their importunity.

By her own command, Davison, the secretary, brought to her the death-warrant, and she subscribed it with no relenting symptoms. She was still, however, solicitous to preserve appearances, and let fall intimations which might stimulate some of her officers to extricate her from her dilemma. It was an honor to the nation that no assassin could be found. Paulet, though harsh in temper, and brutal, at times, in the discharge of what he conceived to be his duty, rejected with disdain a proposal of this nature; declaring that, though the queen might dispose of his life at her pleasure, he would not stain his honor, or cover his memory with infamy. Upon which Elizabeth called him a dainty and precise fellow, who promised much, but performed nothing.

At length the privy council determined to take upon themselves the responsibility of sending off the warrant for the execution. On the 7th of February, 1587, the Earls of Kent and Shrewsbury, being admitted to Mary’s presence, informed her that their mistress, Elizabeth, being overcome by the importunity of her subjects, had given orders for her execution. She listened unmoved to the reading of the warrant, and on its conclusion she bowed her head, and, making the sign of the cross, thanked her gracious God that this welcome news had at last come; declaring how happy she should be to leave a world where she could be of no use, and had suffered such continued affliction. After expressing her delight and her gratitude to God for the privilege of sealing, by her death, the testimony she had so often borne in behalf of her church, she went on to speak of her past suffering. Born a queen, the daughter of a king, the cousin of the queen of England, the granddaughter of Henry VII., once queen of France, and now queen-dowager of that kingdom, – and yet what had all this availed her? She then spoke of her love for England; of the desire she had ever felt to obtain the friendship of its queen; of the ignominy and injustice with which she had, notwithstanding, been treated; imprisoned contrary to all faith and treaties; kept a captive for nineteen years; and “at last,” said she, laying her hand on the New Testament, “condemned by a tribunal which had no power over me, for a crime of which I here solemnly declare I am innocent. I have neither invented, nor consented to, nor pursued, any conspiracy for the death of the queen of England.” The Earl of Kent here hastily interrupted her, declaring that the Scriptures on which she had sworn were false, and the Roman Catholic version. “It is the translation which I believe,” answered Mary. “Does your lordship think my oath would be better, if I swore on your translation, which I disbelieve?” She then requested to be allowed the services of her chaplain, whom she had not for some time been permitted to see. But the request was denied; the Earl of Kent, however, an intolerant bigot, after a long theological discourse, offered her the services of his own Protestant chaplain. Mary bore this stroke of cruelty with meekness, but declined the proffered services. She inquired at what time she was to die. “To-morrow, at eight,” was the reply; and the earls then left the room. On their departure, Mary called her women, and bade them hasten supper, that she might have time to arrange her affairs. “Come, come, Jane Kennedy,” said she, “cease your weeping, and be busy. Did I not warn you, my children, that it would come to this? and now, blessed be God, it has come, and fear and sorrow are at an end. Weep not, but rejoice rather that your poor mistress is so near the end of her troubles. Dry your tears, then, and let us pray together.” Some time was spent in her devotions; she then supped with cheerfulness. She next distributed various articles from her wardrobe among her attendants, with a kind expression for each. She then wrote her last will, which is still extant, and consists of four pages, closely written, in a neat, firm hand. Not one person was forgotten who had any claims on her gratitude or her remembrance. She also wrote several letters; but these, it is said, are blotted with her tears. It was her custom to have her women read to her, at night, a portion of the “Lives of the Saints;” and this last night she would not omit it, but made Jane Kennedy select a portion. She chose the life entitled the “Good Thief,” which treats of that beautiful and affecting example of dying faith and divine compassion. “Alas!” said Mary, “he was indeed a very great sinner, but not so great as I am. May my Savior, in memory of His passion, have mercy on me, as he had on him!”

At the hour appointed, the sheriff entered her room, and proceeding to the altar, where the queen was kneeling, informed her that all was ready. She rose, and saying simply, “Let us go,” proceeded towards the door, on reaching which, her attendants were informed that they were not to accompany her. A scene of the most distressing character now took place; but they were at last torn from her, and locked up in the apartment. Mary proceeded alone down the great staircase, at the foot of which she was received by the two earls, who were struck with the perfect tranquillity and unaffected grace with which she met them. She was dressed in black satin, matronly but richly, and with more studied care than she was commonly accustomed to bestow. At the bottom of the staircase she was also met by her old servant, Sir Andrew Melvil, waiting to take his last farewell. Flinging himself on his knees, he bitterly lamented it should have fallen to him to carry this heart-rending news to Scotland. “Weep not,” said she, “but rather rejoice, my good Melvil. Carry this news with thee, that I die firm in my religion, true to Scotland, true to France. May God, who can alone judge the thoughts and actions of men, forgive those who have thirsted for my blood. Remember me to my son; tell him I have done nothing that may prejudice his kingdom.” She then earnestly entreated that her women might be permitted to be with her at her death; but the Earl of Kent refused it, saying that they might be guilty of something scandalous and superstitious, even to dipping their handkerchiefs in her blood. But Mary plighted her word they should not offend in any wise: “Surely, surely you will not deny me this last little request; my poor girls wish only to see me die.” As she said this, a few tears were observed to fall, for the first time; and, after some consultation, she was permitted to have two ladies and four gentlemen beside her. Followed by these, she entered the great hall, and seated herself on the raised platform, prepared for a scaffold, with the same easy grace and dignity with which she would have occupied her throne. The death-warrant was then read; but those who were near could see, by the sweet and absent expression of her countenance, that her thoughts were afar off.

The Earl of Kent next solicited her to join with him and the Protestant chaplain in their devotions. But she declined, and, kneeling apart, repeated a part of the penitential Psalms, and afterwards continued her prayers aloud in English. By this time, the chaplain had concluded; there was a deep silence, so that every word was heard. It was impossible for any one to behold her at this moment without being deeply affected – on her knees, her hands clasped and raised to heaven, an expression of adoration and divine serenity lighting up her features, and upon her lips the words of forgiveness to her persecutors. Having finished, she cheerfully suffered herself to be undressed by her women, gently admonishing them not to distress her by their lamentations; putting her finger on her lips, and bidding them remember that she had promised for them. On seeing the executioner approach to offer his assistance, she smiled, and playfully said, “that she had neither been used to such grooms of the chamber, nor to undress before so many people.” When all was ready, she kissed her women, and, giving them her last blessing, she knelt down and groped her way to the block, – for her eyes were bound, – and laid her neck upon it without the slightest mark of trembling or hesitation. Her last words were, “Into thy hands I commend my spirit, for thou hast redeemed me, O Lord God of truth.” At two strokes, her head was severed from her body, and the executioner, holding it up, called aloud, “God save the queen!” “So let all Queen Elizabeth’s enemies perish!” was the prayer of the chaplain; but the spectators were dissolved in tears, and one deep voice alone answered, “Amen!” It came from the Earl of Kent. On removing the body, and the clothes and mantle which lay beside it, Mary’s favorite little dog, which had followed its mistress unperceived, was found nestling under them. No entreaty could prevail on it to quit the spot; and it remained lying beside the corpse, and stained in the blood, till forcibly carried away by the attendants.

Elizabeth affected to receive the news of the death of her rival with surprise and grief; she even carried her artifice to so barbarous a length, as to render Davison, the secretary, and the innocent instrument of her cruelty and dissimulation, the victim of her perfidy. Under pretence that he had orders not to let the warrant go out of his office, he was degraded, fined, imprisoned, and utterly ruined. By this sacrifice, she hoped to appease the king of Scots, whom the death of his mother had filled with grief and resentment, which yielded, however, at length, to the necessities of his situation. Having affected to admit the excuses of Elizabeth, and to be satisfied with the sacrifice of Davison, he stifled his indignation, and continued the semblance of amity with the English court. Thus the death and sufferings of Mary remained unavenged, while Elizabeth was suffered to reap the advantages of her malignity.

ELIZABETH, QUEEN OF ENGLAND

This extraordinary woman, the daughter of Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn, was born in 1533. Being educated a Protestant, and having adopted the principles of the reformation, she was looked upon with suspicion and treated with harshness during the reign of her sister Mary. She devoted herself, however, to study, and is thus described at this period: “She was of admirable beauty, and well deserving a crown; of a modest gravity, excellent wit, royal soul, happy memory, and indefatigably given to the study of learning, insomuch as, before she was seventeen years of age, she understood well the Latin, French, and Italian tongues, and had an indifferent knowledge of the Greek. Neither did she neglect music, so far as it became a princess, being able to sing sweetly, and play handsomely on the lute.”

On the death of Mary, in 1558, she was immediately proclaimed queen, and was received in the metropolis with the loudest acclamations. She consigned to oblivion all the affronts she had received during the late reign, and prudently assumed the gracious demeanor of the common sovereign of all her subjects. Philip of Spain soon made her proposals of marriage; but she knew the aversion borne him by the nation too well to think of accepting him.

She now proceeded to the arduous task of settling the religion of the state. In comparison with the harsh and cruel measures of her predecessor, her conduct was marked with moderation. Yet the Catholics were made to feel the severest restraints upon their liberty of thought and action. It was not long before she began that interference in the affairs of Scotland which produced the most singular and painful events in her reign. These we have sufficiently detailed in the life of the unhappy Queen Mary.

The political history of Elizabeth would fill a volume. She soon acquired great reputation for vigor and sagacity, and was regarded as the head of the Protestant party in Europe. She took the part of the revolted provinces of Holland against Spain in 1585, and three years after, when threatened by what was called the “Invincible Armada,” she displayed a degree of energy and personal courage which would have done credit to a sovereign of the other sex. She mingled largely in the political affairs of the continent, and, in 1601, held a conference with the celebrated Sully, with a view to the adjustment of a new balance of European power. While thus directing her attention to general politics, she did not neglect the internal affairs of her kingdom. These were indeed conducted with great sagacity and wisdom, and such was the state of prosperity among the people, that the “good old days of Queen Bess” is still a proverb in England. Although thus attentive to the concerns of government, Elizabeth devoted much time and expense to dress, of which she was excessively fond; and she even affected a love of literature and learning. The age in which she lived is remarkable for the great men it produced – Shakspere, Bacon, Sidney, Hooker, and Raleigh, whose works contributed so much to give vigor, strength, and elegance, to the English tongue. Literature owes, however, little to her; she was much more fond of displaying her own acquirements than encouraging the learned. Whatever countenance Shakspere received from royalty, he owed to his friends Essex and Southampton; and Spenser, who has sung the praises of the queen in “strains divine,” died in neglect and poverty.

Elizabeth was fond of multiplying pictures of herself, and so far encouraged painting. One of her most characteristic ordinances is a proclamation forbidding all manner of persons from drawing, painting, graving, &c., her majesty’s person and visage, till some perfect pattern should be prepared by a skilful limner, “for the consolation of her majesty’s loving subjects, who were grieved, and took great offence, at the errors and deformities committed by sundry persons in this respect.” She was so little capable of judging of works of art, that she would not allow a painter to put any shadows upon the face, “because,” as she said, “shade is an accident, and not in nature.”

During her whole reign, Elizabeth was subjected to the influence of favorites. The most celebrated of these are the Earls of Leicester and of Essex. The first was a most weak and worthless man, contemned and feared by the nobles, and odious to the people; yet, in spite of all his vices and incapacity, he maintained his influence for nearly thirty years. Her partiality for Essex seems to have been the dotage of a vain old woman. She could not appreciate his fine qualities; she would not make allowance for his faults; and he was too frank and spirited to cringe at her footstool. “I owe her majesty,” said he upon an occasion when she had repaid some want of obsequiousness by a blow, “the duty of an earl, but I will never serve her as a villain and a slave!” Essex was too rash and unsuspecting to be a match for the cool and wily ministers, whose interest it was to have him out of their way, not only as the favorite of the present sovereign, but as likely to be all powerful with her successor; and partly by their arts, and partly by his own fiery temper, he was brought to the block in the thirty-fourth year of his age. In the exasperation of offended power and jealous self-will, the queen signed the warrant for his execution, and pined away the remainder of her life in unavailing remorse. This grief, with which she long struggled in secret, at length broke forth superior to control. The occasion was as follows: —

The Countess of Nottingham, a near relation, but no friend, of Essex, being on her death-bed, entreated to see the queen, declaring that she had something to confess to her before she could die in peace. On her majesty’s arrival, the countess produced a ring, which she said the Earl of Essex had sent to her, after his condemnation, with an earnest request that she would deliver it to the queen, as a token by which he implored her mercy; but that, in obedience to her husband, she withheld it. Elizabeth at once recognized the ring as one which she had herself presented to her favorite, with the tender promise, that of whatsoever crimes his enemies might have accused him, or whatever offences he might actually have committed against her, on his returning to her that pledge, she would either pardon him, or admit him, at least, to justify himself in her presence. It was in a moment of pique at his supposed pride and obstinacy in refusing to ask her forgiveness, that she had signed the death-warrant. She now learned that he had been the victim, and herself the dupe, of the most barbarous treachery. Transported with grief and rage, she shook the dying countess in her bed; and, vehemently exclaiming, “God may forgive, but I never will,” she flung herself out of the chamber.

Returning to the palace, she surrendered herself without resistance to the despair which had seized her heart on this fatal disclosure. She refused medicine, and almost the means of sustenance; days and nights she sat upon the floor, sleepless, her eyes fixed, and her finger pressed upon her mouth, the silence only broken by her sighs, groans, and ejaculations of anguish. Her sufferings were at length relieved by her death, on the 24th of March, 1603. Her last words were strongly characteristic. During her whole life, she had shown a perverse dread of naming her successor; but it was necessary that the question should be put to her in her last moments. She replied, “My seat has been the seat of kings, and I will have no rascal to succeed me.” Cecil, whom the weakness of the dying lioness rendered bold, inquired what she meant by the words, “that no rascal should succeed her;” to which she answered, “I will have a king to succeed me, and who should that be but the king of Scots?”

The personal character of Elizabeth presents little that excites our sympathy or respect. She was vain, jealous, and selfish, in the extreme. She was capable of the deepest hypocrisy, and often practised it. She sacrificed every thing to her despotic love of sway, her pride, and her vanity, except the interests of her kingdom. These she guarded with care, and, though a tyrannical and selfish monarch, she must be ranked as among the best sovereigns of her time.