Chapter VIII: Part 8

Regarding these same “Silver-casket Letters,” Froude says: “These letters were found in the celebrated casket with the others to which reference was made in the preceding volume; I accept them as genuine, because, as will be seen, they were submitted to the scrutiny of almost the entire English peerage, and especially to those among the peers who were most interested in discovering them to be forged, and by them admitted to be indisputably in the handwriting of the Queen of Scots; because the letters in the text especially refer to conversations with Lord Huntley, who was then and always one of Mary Stuart’s truest adherents,—conversations which he could have denied had they been false, and which he never did deny; because their contents were confirmed in every particular unfavorable to the queen by a Catholic informant of the Spanish ambassador, who hurried from the spot to London immediately after the final catastrophe for which they prepared the way; and lastly, because there is no ground whatever to doubt the genuineness of the entire set of the casket-letters, except such as arises from the hardy and long-continued but entirely baseless denial of interested or sentimental partisans.”

But in connection with Mr. Froude’s declaration that his faith rests on them because they were submitted to the _English Peerage_, impartial statement of evidence demands another comparison between these conflicting testimonies upon a different link in the chain of evidence for and against the guilt of Mary Stuart. Randolph was the English ambassador at the court of Scotland, and in some of his letters to Leicester he has revealed the English plotting and connivance in the scheme to ruin Mary, Queen of Scots. Regarding this point Miss Strickland says:—

“In the selfsame letter which records the round of banquets, masks, and princely pleasures, the English Mephistopheles, Randolph, exultingly unfolds to Leicester the items of the black budget prepared with his approval, against the meeting of the Scottish Parliament, by the unscrupulous coalition of traitors who were secretly allied with their sovereign’s husband and his father in a dastardly bond for murder, premeditated in cold blood, and intended to be perpetrated in the presence of their queen; and the crime was to be justified, as such deeds generally are, by slander.

“‘I know now for certain,’ writes he, ‘that this queen repenteth her marriage,—that she hateth him and all his kin. I know that he knoweth himself that he hath a partner in play and game with him. I know that there are practices in hand, contrived between the father and the son, to come by the crown against her will. I know that if it take effect, which is intended, David, with the consent of the king, shall have his throat cut within these ten days. Many thing _grieveouser_, and worse than these are brought to my ears, yea, of things _intended against her own person_, which, because I think better to keep secret than to write to Mr. Secretary, I speak not of them, but now to your lordship.’ By one of the secret articles of the atrocious pact to which our worthy ambassador alludes, the life-long imprisonment of Mary was agreed, and her death, in case of her attempting to resist the transfer of the whole power of the crown to the ungrateful consort she had associated in her regality; and to this wrong Cecil, Bedford, and Elizabeth tacitly consented.”

Such was the villanous treachery of Darnley and his father, leagued with the English ministers and malcontents in Scotland, headed by Murray, the plotting half-brother of the queen, against Mary Stuart, who time and again received her inconstant and petulant husband into favor, forgiving his outrageous behavior towards her. But Darnley little knew the schemes of his vile fellow-conspirators. They but used him as a tool, as long as he could avail their purposes, and then blew him up with gunpowder, when they had matured their infamous plans, so that his death should seemingly be the work of his shamefully abused and marvellously forbearing wife.

Miss Strickland further says:—

“A startling light is thrown by a careful collation of the above letters of Randolph to Leicester and Throckmorton on the agency, as well as the incentives, employed in the successive Edinburgh assassinations of Mary Stuart’s faithful and incorruptible minister, David Rizzio, in March, 1566, and that of her husband in February, 1567, which led to the deposition of that unfortunate princess and the transfer of the government of Scotland to the sworn creatures of the English sovereign, a _great_ but _diabolical stroke of policy_. The cool revelation of our unscrupulous ambassador, that the faithful minister who would not barter his royal mistress’s interests for English gold, ‘would have his throat cut within ten days,’ is sufficient proof of his iniquitous coalition in the murderous confederacy against the first victim of the English cabinet. His hostile expressions regarding Mary’s husband, with whom he was at that very moment enleagued in the secret intrigues for obtaining the signatures of Murray and the banished lords to the bond for the murder of Rizzio, are no less worthy of observation, together with his earnest deprecation of Mary and her husband ever succeeding to the throne of England, and the emphatic desire he expressed to Throckmorton that ‘_something may be done to preclude the possibility of such a contingency_.’

“This subtle diplomatist first excited and then worked on the natural fears of better men than either himself, Leicester, or Throckmorton, to wink at, if not to sanction, the systematic train of political villany to which David Rizzio, Henry Stuart, and Mary Stuart were the successive victims. After the consummation of these astute schemes of wickedness—when Rizzio and Darnley were festering in their untimely graves, and the more pitiable survivor, Mary Stuart, languishing in her damp, noisome prison-room in Tutbury Castle, her infant son set up as a puppet king, to color the usurpation of the murderers of his father and her defamers, and her realm convulsed with civil strife—‘then,’ observes Sir James Melville, ‘as Nero stood upon a high part of Rome to see the town burning, which he had caused to be set on fire, so Master Randolph delighted to see such fire kindled in Scotland, and by his writings to some in the court of England, glorified himself to have brought it to pass in such sort that it could not be easily _slokened_ (slaked) again.’”

In proof of the importance of this link in the chain of evidence, we will quote Mr. Froude’s own words: “As the vindication of the conduct of the English government proceeds on the assumption of her guilt, so the determination of her innocence will equally be the absolute condemnation of Elizabeth and Elizabeth’s advisers.”

There is only one other point in this evidence for and against the guilt of Mary Stuart, which will be cited. Regarding the famous confessions of Paris, Mr. Froude says:—

“Nicholas Hubert, _alias_ French Paris, was Bothwell’s page. He was taken privately to St. Andrews, where the Regent happened to be, and examined by George Buchanan, Robert Ramsey, Murray’s steward, and John Wood, his confidential secretary. Paris made two depositions: the first not touching Mary Stuart, the second fatally implicating her. This last was read over in his presence. He signed it, and was then executed, that there might be no retraction or contradiction.”

Regarding these confessions, Agnes Strickland says:—

“Nothing can, in fact, afford clearer evidence of Mary’s ignorance of the plot of her husband’s murder than this first confession of Hubert. Malcolm Laing, the most able of all the writers who have adopted the self-interested calumnies of the conspirators against Mary, put forth by their venal organ, Buchanan, and the political agents of Cecil, insists on the authenticity and credibility of this document. It contains, indeed, such strong internal evidences of reality that we fully coincide with him in its being genuine evidence, and for this reason reject the so-called second confession of Nicholas Hubert, or French Paris, as spurious, because one or the other must be false, and the second is palpably a fabrication between Murray and his secretary, Alexander Hay, to bolster up the forged letters and defame the queen. As poor Hubert could not write, it was unlikely he could read the paper to which Murray’s secretary made him put his mark. He had no trial, and though Queen Elizabeth requested he might be sent to London, Murray hanged him, that he might not contradict what had been put forth in his name.”

We mention Agnes Strickland, in these comparisons with the testimony of Froude, because she was also an English writer; and she quotes from the very same authorities, for nearly all of the historians, letters, state papers, and authorities are cited by Miss Strickland which are used by Froude in proof of his statements. We also quote Agnes Strickland because her works are within the reach of every one, and those desiring to investigate the evidences on both sides will find her authorities in the foot-notes of her “English and Scottish Queens,” and in separate lives of Mary Stuart and Elizabeth, in her historical series. It is not the authority of Agnes Strickland as against that of Froude, but the weight of the many authorities and state papers which both refer to, as evidence in proof of the different sides they take upon this perplexing question. Froude pronounces Mary Stuart as probably innocent of all evil intent regarding Rizzio, and exonerates her of any improper conduct with him further than a good-natured condescension towards one in her employ. But if Mary Stuart’s guilt with Bothwell is proven, it is idle to talk of her innocence with Rizzio.

Mary Stuart was rescued from the power of the infamous Bothwell, and he was obliged to flee the country, and died in exile ten years after. But poor abused Mary was not yet free from her enemies. The very men who rescued her from Bothwell were leagued with England, with the ambitious Murray at their head. Their plan was now to get rid of the queen and get hold of the baby prince, that they might in his name get possession of the government. And with this scheme England and Elizabeth were well pleased, forsooth, for by bribes and threats the regent of the baby king could be held in England’s power. As these nefarious schemers planned, so did they execute. Queen Mary was apparently aided by them to escape the power of Bothwell, but so cruelly was she treated that it was but an exchange of jailors. Poor, slandered, persecuted queen, thinking good of every one, she was betrayed on every hand. Husband, father-in-law, half-brother, Scottish ministers, and England’s courtiers, incited by a jealous cousin-queen, all plotted and counter-plotted and wove the web so closely around her that there was no escape. She was betrayed by one party, only to find herself more cruelly betrayed by her supposed deliverers.

To whom could she turn? Elizabeth had treacherously and hypocritically sympathized with her terrible woes. Elizabeth was a woman, and a cousin, and a queen; would she not succor her? and so the confiding heart of Mary, Queen of Scots, thinking no evil of those who professed kindness, fled to England and delivered herself unwittingly into the hands of her very worst foe. The poor fly now was entrapped, and the wily spider prepared her final doom.

The captive Queen of Scots had been transferred from prison to prison, each day more closely confined, each day treated with less respect and greater cruelty. At length Mary, Queen of Scots, was brought to trial and accused of high treason. Mary Stuart had neither advocates, counsel, nor documents; no one was allowed to plead for her, but notwithstanding, for two days, the ablest lawyers in England were held in check by her wit, skill, and marvellous presence of mind. Mary demanded to be heard by Parliament, and to be permitted to see the queen in person. But this was denied her, and sentence of death was passed upon her. It was at this time that Henry III., of France, endeavored to awaken in the heart of James VI., of Scotland, some sentiments of regard for his helpless mother. If the conduct of the King of Scotland shocked the _son_ of _Catherine de’ Medici_, what severer condemnation of the unnatural treatment of James VI. can be required?

Such is Guizot’s comment upon the treatment of the young Scottish king towards his unfortunate mother, whose pitiable misfortunes roused many princes in Europe to espouse her cause and endeavor to effect her freedom, which efforts in the end proved most disastrous, as they only brought down greater accusations upon her head.

Some writers do declare, however, that James VI., of Scotland, did make some feeble efforts in her behalf, which were quickly made unavailing through the wily cunning of Elizabeth and her scheming ministers.

When her sentence was read to the hapless Queen of Scots, Mary made the sign of the cross and calmly said “that death was welcome, but that she had not expected after having being detained twenty years in prison that her sister Elizabeth would thus dispose of her.” At the same time Mary placed her hand upon a book beside her, and swore a solemn oath that she had never contemplated nor sought the death of Elizabeth.

“That is a popish Bible,” exclaimed the Earl of Kent, rudely; “your oath is of no value.”

“It is a Catholic testament,” said the queen with calm dignity, “and therefore, my lord, as I believe that to be the true version, my oath is the more to be relied on.”

Some writers claim that Elizabeth did not herself sign the death-warrant of Mary, Queen of Scots, but tacitly consenting thereto, her signature was at last forged by one Thomas Harrison, a private and confidential secretary of Sir Francis Walsingham. According to Elizabeth’s secretary, Davison, the warrant had been ready for six weeks when the queen signed it in private, consigning it to the Secretary of State, Davison, “without other orders,” as she afterwards declared. Regarding Harrison’s confession, which did not come to light until twenty years after Mary’s execution, it is stated that a document was found, purporting to be a Star-Chamber investigation, dated 1606. It is a deposition, attested by the signatures of two persons of the names of Mayer and Macaw, affirming, “that the late Thomas Harrison, a private and confidential secretary of the late Sir Francis Walsingham, did voluntarily acknowledge to them that, in conjunction with Thomas Phillipps and Maude, he, by the direction of his master, Sir Francis Walsingham, added to the letters of the late queen of Scotland those passages that were afterwards brought in evidence against her, and for which she was condemned to suffer death; and that he was employed by his said master, Sir Francis Walsingham, to forge Queen Elizabeth’s signature to the death-warrant of the Queen of Scots, which none of her ministers could ever induce her to sign; and that he did this with the knowledge and assent of four of her principal ministers of state.”

Regarding this point, Miss Strickland, in her life of Queen Elizabeth, says: “If she did not sign the warrant for Mary’s execution,—and we have only Davison’s asseveration in proof that she did,—then was her ignorance of the consummation real, her tears and lamentations unaffected, and her indignation against her ministers no grimace.”

But were this the case, why did Elizabeth not clear her own reputation from the stain of this infamous deed by denouncing her unscrupulous ministers who had dared thus tamper with her royal name and royal authority? Miss Strickland claims that she could not, giving the reason in these words: “The position in which her ministers had placed Elizabeth, was the more painful because, unless she could have brought them to a public trial, convicted them of the treasonable crime of procuring her royal signature to be forged, she could not explain the offence of which they had been guilty. The impossibility of proclaiming the whole truth, rendered her passionate protestations of her own innocence not only unsatisfactory, but apparently false and equivocating. While she denied the deed, she was in a manner compelled to act as if it were her own, being unable to inflict condign punishment on the subtle junta who had combined to make unauthorized use of her name for the immolation of the heiress-presumptive of the crown.”

But if Elizabeth was innocent of the death of Mary, Queen of Scots, it seems evident that with her imperious nature, she would have most daringly and publicly resented and punished such audacious villany. Had she in reality desired the death of Mary, and yet refused to sign the warrant, and had her name been forged upon it, this would have given her the very opportunity to clear her own name from infamy and the condemnation of the powers of Europe, which she well knew this execution would call forth; and yet the very end she dared to _wish for_, if not to _command_, would have been accomplished, and the blame would rest upon others rather than herself.

That Elizabeth desired the death of Mary all her previous conduct would prove; and if that death was accomplished at last through the crimes of others, unknown to the queen of England, surely she could not have had a better opportunity for proving her own innocence than the denunciation of the treacherous ministers who had committed the crime. That she denounced them it is true; but the strength and manner of those denunciations were more in keeping with the supposition that she was hypocritically screening her own aid and connivance in the treachery, than that they had dared commit so criminal a villany as the forging of her own royal name, and the commission of so grave an offence upon the strength of that forged signature.

At six o’clock on the fatal morning of the 8th of February, 1587, Mary Stuart told her ladies that “she had but two hours to live, and bade them dress her as for a festival.” The particulars of the last _toilette_ have been preserved. “She wore a widow’s dress of black velvet, spangled over with gold, a black satin pourpoint and kirtle, and under these a petticoat of crimson velvet, with a body of the same color, and a white veil of the most delicate texture, of the fashion worn by princesses of the highest rank, thrown over her coif and descending to the ground. She wore a pomander chain, and an _Agnus Dei_ about her neck, and a pair of beads at her girdle, with a cross.”

Mary Stuart had gained the reluctant consent of her inhuman jailers, that her faithful ladies, Jane Kennedy and Elizabeth Curie, should attend her in her last moments. This had been stoutly refused at first, but the eloquent exclamation of the royal captive, “I am cousin to your queen, descended of the blood-royal of Henry VII., a married queen of France, and the anointed queen of Scotland!” at length shamed them into granting this last request.

When the still-beautiful, heroic Mary Stuart entered the hall of death, followed by her faithful attendants, she gazed upon the sable scaffold, the dread block, the gleaming axe, and the revolting executioner, with calm and undaunted courage, manifesting by her majestic and intrepid demeanor, and the angelic sweetness of her countenance, that in spite of calumny and hostile hosts of pitiless foes, Mary, Queen of Scots could face the world and death undismayed.

Drawing by Gyula Benczur.]

“Weep not, my good Melville!” said Mary Stuart to the faithful servant who threw himself in a paroxysm of grief at her feet. “Weep not for me! Thou shouldst rather rejoice that thou shalt now see the end of the long troubles of Mary Stuart; know, Melville, that this world is but vanity and full of sorrows. I am Catholic, thou Protestant, but as there is but one Christ, I charge thee in His name to bear witness that I die firm to my religion, a true Scotchwoman, and true to France. Commend me to my dearest and most sweet son. Tell him I have done nothing to prejudice him in his realm, nor to disparage his dignity, and if he will live in the fear of God, I doubt not he shall do well. Tell him, from my example, never to rely too much on human aid, but to seek that which is from above. If he follow my advice, he shall have the blessing of God in heaven, as I now give him mine on earth.”

As Mary Stuart ascended the steps of the scaffold, Sir Amyas Paulet, her last jailer, tendered his hand to aid her. With queenly courtesy she accepted it, saying: “I thank you, sir; this is the last trouble I shall ever give you.”

When her upper garments had been removed, she remained clothed in her petticoat of crimson velvet, with bodice and sleeves of the same material. As Jane Kennedy drew forth the gold-bordered handkerchief Mary had given her to bind her eyes, the faithful lady could not restrain her weeping. But Mary placed her finger on her lips, saying tenderly: “Hush! I have promised you would make no outcry; weep not, but pray for me.”

When the handkerchief was pinned over the eyes of her loved mistress Jane was forced to retire, and Mary Stuart was left alone upon the scaffold with her executioners. Kneeling on the cushion, the heroic Queen of Scots repeated with unfaltering voice: “_In te Domine speravi_” (In thee, Lord, have I hoped). As she was blindfolded she was then led by the executioner to the block, upon which she bowed her head without the least hesitation, exclaiming in firm and clear tones, “_In manus tuas_.” “Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit,” and the beautiful lips closed forever. At the first blow the agitated executioner missed his aim, and inflicted a deep wound on the side of the skull. No groan nor cry escaped the suffering victim, but the convulsion of her features evinced her terrible pain. At the third blow the “butcher work” was accomplished, and the beautiful head of the hapless Queen of Scots, streaming with blood, was held up to the gaze of the people, as holding aloft this bloody and horrible trophy of his fiendish deed, the executioner cried, “So perish all Queen Elizabeth’s enemies!”

But neither wily ministers, nor plotting knaves, nor jealous hate, nor obedient executioners, could rid Queen Elizabeth of her last great foe, who, in spite of all her schemes, and tears, and imprecations, would soon snatch the royal diadem from her brow, and take the sceptre from her clutching hands, and tear the royal ermine from her tottering form, and close her defiant eyes. The King of Terrors could neither be bribed, nor menaced, nor defeated, though she should cry in tortured agony, “_My kingdom for an hour of time!_” Steadily this conqueror approached, though she fought desperately to elude his grasp. Far differently did Elizabeth meet her doom from the heroic Queen of Scots. Refusing to go to bed lest she should be deemed dying, Elizabeth commanded that pillows should be piled for her on the floor; and there, writhing in agony of body and terror of mind, she spent her last hours. Now calling upon her chaplain to pray, and then muttering in angry complainings when her ministers requested her to name her successor. At length she was so weak that she could no longer speak, and she ordered by signs that the Archbishop of Canterbury should continue to pray. This the old man did until he was utterly exhausted, the dying queen each time motioning him to proceed, when he endeavored to stop from very weariness. Meanwhile her attendants watched her waning breath, with eager impatience to greet the coming king. But even in death their wily vigilance was overreached by the apparent sleep of their helpless sovereign, and Elizabeth had been dead several hours before it was discovered by her scheming ministers, who were eagerly awaiting the signal announcing her demise, that they might be the first to shout “God save James I.! king of England, Ireland and Scotland!”

Mr. Froude thus ably sums up the salient points in the character and reign of Elizabeth:—

“The years which followed the defeat of the Armada were rich in events of profound national importance. They were years of splendor and triumph. The flag of England became supreme on the seas; English commerce penetrated to the farthest corners of the Old World, and English colonies rooted themselves on the shores of the New. The national intellect, strung by excitement of sixty years, took shape in a literature which is an eternal possession to mankind, while the incipient struggles of the two parties in the Anglican church prepared the way for the conflicts of the coming century, and the second act of the Reformation. The Catholic England with which the century opened, the England of dominant church, and monasteries, and pilgrimages, became the England of progressive intelligence; and the question whether the nation was to pass a second time through the farce of a reconciliation with Rome was answered once and forever by the cannon of Sir Francis Drake. The action before Gravelines of the 30th of July, 1588, decided the largest problems ever submitted in the history of mankind to the arbitrement of force. Beyond and beside the immediate fate of England, it decided that Philip’s revolted provinces should never be reannexed to the Spanish Crown. It broke the back of Spain, sealed the fate of the Duke of Guise, and though it could not prevent the civil war, it assured the ultimate succession of the king of Navarre. In its remoter consequences it determined the fate of the Reformation in Germany; for had Philip been victorious the League must have been immediately triumphant; the power of France would have been on the side of Spain and the Jesuits, and the thirty years’ war would either have never been begun, or would have been brought to a swift conclusion. It furnished James of Scotland with conclusive reasons for remaining a Protestant, and for eschewing forever the forbidden fruit of popery; and thus it secured his tranquil accession to the throne of England when Elizabeth passed away. Finally, it was the sermon which completed the conversion of the English nation, and transformed the Catholics into Anglicans.

“While Parliament was busy with the condition of the people, the concerns of the Church were taken in hand by the queen herself. For Protestantism Elizabeth had never concealed her dislike and contempt. She hated to acknowledge any fellowship in religion either with Scots, Dutch, or Huguenots. She represented herself to foreign ambassadors as a Catholic in everything, except in allegiance to the papacy. Even for the Church of England, of which she was the supreme governor, she affected no particular respect.

“The want of wisdom shown in the persecution of the Nonconformists was demonstrated by the event. Puritanism was a living force in England; Catholicism was a dying superstition. Puritanism had saved Elizabeth’s crown; Catholicism was a hot-bed of disloyalty. She found herself compelled against her will to become the patron of heretics and rebels, in whose objects she had no interest and in whose theology she had no belief. She resented the necessity while she submitted to it, and her vacillations are explained by the reluctance with which each successive step was forced upon her on a road which she detested. It would have been easy for a Protestant to be decided. It would have been easy for a Catholic to be decided. To Elizabeth the speculations of so-called divines were but as ropes of sand and sea-slime leading to the moon, and the doctrines for which they were rending each other to pieces a dream of fools or enthusiasts. Unfortunately her keenness of insight was not combined with any profound concern for serious things. She saw through the forms in which religion presented itself to the world. She had none the more any larger or deeper conviction of her own. She was without the intellectual emotions which give human character its consistency and power.

“Elizabeth could rarely bring herself to sign the death-warrant of a nobleman, yet without compunction she could order Yorkshire peasants to be hung in scores by martial law. She was most remorseless when she ought to have been most forbearing, and lenient when she ought to have been stern.

“Vain as she was of her own sagacity, she never modified a course recommended to her by Burleigh, without injury both to the realm and to herself. The great results of her reign were the fruits of a policy which was not her own, and which she starved and mutilated when energy and completeness were needed.

“The greatest achievement in English history, the ‘breaking the bonds of Rome,’ and the establishment of spiritual independence, was completed without bloodshed under Elizabeth’s auspices, and Elizabeth may have the glory of the work.

“In fighting out her long quarrel with Spain and building her church system out of the broken masonry of popery, her concluding years passed away. The great men who had upheld the throne in the days of her peril dropped one by one into the grave. Walsingham died soon after the defeat of the Armada, ruined in fortune and weary of his ungrateful service. Hunsdon, Knollys, Burleigh, Drake, followed at brief intervals, and their mistress was left by herself, standing as it seemed on the pinnacle of earthly glory, yet in all the loneliness of greatness, and unable to enjoy the honors which Burleigh’s policy had won for her. The first place among the Protestant powers, which had been so often offered her and so often refused, has been forced upon her in spite of herself. She was head of the name, but it gave her no pleasure. She was the last of her race; no Tudor would sit again on the English throne. Her own sad prophecy was fulfilled, and she lived to see those whom she most trusted turning their eyes to the rising sun.

“Old age was coming upon her, bringing with it perhaps a consciousness of failing faculties; and solitary in the midst of splendor, and friendless among the circle of adorers, who swore they lived but in her presence, she grew weary of a life which had ceased to interest her. Sickening of a vague disease, she sought no help from medicine, and finally refused to take food. She could not rest in her bed, but sat silent on cushions, staring into vacancy with fixed and stony eyes, and so at last she died.

“All questions connected with the virgin queen should be rather studied in her actions than in the opinion of the historian who relates them. _Opinions_ are but forms of cloud created by the prevailing currents of the moral air. _Actions and words are carved upon eternity._”

CATHERINE DE’ MEDICI.

A.D. 1519-1589.

“What mighty ills have not been done by woman?
Who was’t betrayed the Capitol? A woman!
Who lost Mark Antony the world? A woman!
Who was the cause of a long ten years’ war,
And laid at last old Troy in ashes? Woman!
Destructive,—deceitful woman!”—OTWAY.

“Woman may err, woman may give her mind
To evil thoughts, and lose her pure estate;
But for one woman who affronts her kind
By wicked passions and remorseless hate,
A thousand make amends in age and youth,
By heavenly pity, by sweet sympathy,
By patient kindness, by enduring truth,
By love, supremest in adversity.”—CHARLES MACKAY.

“WOE to thee, O country, that hast a child for king!” exclaimed the Venetian ambassador in France, in 1560, when Charles IX., a child ten years old, ascended the throne; but greater woe to that country because the mother of that child, who held the power of government, as queen-regent, was one of the greatest monsters of crime in the annals of history, and forced that child to become a very fiend of infamy and cruelty.

Painting by François Clouet, Chantilly.]

Catherine de’ Medici was a woman devoid of every womanly instinct, every womanly virtue, every womanly attribute. She was the very incarnation of the terrible Medusa, petrifying all noble impulses, destroying all virtuous aspirations, killing every kindly feeling in the hearts of those around her.

She had been taught the doctrines of Machiavelli, whose ideal of a prince was one who should work by force, fraud, cruelty, and dissimulation to gain his desired ends; but even these dangerous theories of that crafty, though brilliant-minded Florentine, were far out-stripped in unprincipled chicanery by his ambitious follower, Catherine de Medici; so that the term Machiavellian is far too weak a word to apply to her diabolical villanies.

France ran red with blood. The terrible tocsin at midnight tolled forth the death-doom of one hundred thousand lives. The wild shrieks of the dying freighted the air of France with heart-curdling wailings from centre to circumference. French soil was deluged with the blood of her people. The blasphemous curses of the fiendish murderers polluted the very air of heaven, until it seemed as though the furies of hell were let loose upon this realm, to wreck upon the helpless people the infernal hate of the arch-demon himself.

Who was the diabolical instigator of this atrocious work? Alas! a woman! and that woman _Catherine de’ Medici_.

The innocent soul of a child, naturally moved by good impulses, was tutored in every vice of which human nature is capable. His childish lips were taught to pronounce the most terrible blasphemies, his kind heart was mocked and sneered at, and tempted with every ensnaring device of vile and polluting pleasures offered by the most dissolute and alluring companions, until no wickedness seemed too great to be undertaken, no degrading diversion too low to be indulged in. His constitution was purposely weakened, his mind purposely dwarfed and debased, that his life might be short, and that his will might be broken; that another’s ambitious power might be increased even though it cost the death of body and soul of the helpless victim. Who was this fiend incarnate, who could thus toy with a human soul, hourly dragging it nearer and nearer the yawning jaws of the bottomless pit of perdition? That one was a woman, the _mother_ of her quivering victim; this malevolent Gorgon was _Catherine de’ Medici_.

Even the horrors of the Inquisition in Spain pale before the horrors of the massacre of St. Bartholomew. Even the bloody “Demon of the South,” as Philip II. was called, seems not such a revolting spectacle of depraved humanity as Catherine de’ Medici; for Philip, at least, fanatically imagined he was aiding the cause of religion, as he believed the infamous Inquisition to be a righteous avenger in behalf of the Catholic Church; whereas Catherine de’ Medici had no belief, no religion, cared neither for Catholics nor Protestants, neither for the Romish Church nor for the Reformed Faith.

She flattered each by turns as it best suited her nefarious schemes; she was actuated by no motive beyond her personal ambition of holding the reins of power; she cared not who or what was sacrificed, whether the life and soul of her own child, or whether the result was the downfall of every religious belief, the blood of her subjects, the ruin of her provinces, and the desolation of the homes of her people.

Not even fanaticism can be offered as a poor excuse for her crimes; her infamous deeds can be cloaked by no paltry plea of religious fervor. Her crimes were instigated by her own diabolical soul, a willing ally of the Prince of Darkness; and were it not for the strong menial abilities she manifested, one would imagine her some grotesque monster of an animal. But her crafty schemes betokened keen intellectual powers, and made her seem some malignant demon in human shape sent forth from the lowest depths of the Inferno to lure men and women to destruction.

Catherine de’ Medici was a daughter of Lorenzo de’ Medici, that ruler of Florence for whom Machiavelli wrote the “Prince.” Having lost both her parents in early childhood, Catherine was sent to a convent to be educated. Her uncle, Pope Clement VII., arranged with Francis I. of France a marriage between Catherine and the Duke of Orleans, afterwards Henry II. of France. This marriage was celebrated in 1533, when Catherine was fourteen years of age.

During the reign of Francis, Catherine exercised no influence in France. She was a thick-set, plain, unprepossessing girl; and being so young, and a foreigner, and a native of a state having no great weight in the world of politics, she was thrown entirely into the shade by more important and attractive personages, having not yet given any proof of her after great but iniquitous ability.

The court life at the time of Francis I. was beginning to assume some of the brilliancy and splendor for which it became so famous in the reign of _le Grand Monarque_. The fall of Florence and the expulsion of the French from Italy brought many Italians into France. Among these were men of letters, poets, musicians, sculptors, painters, and architects. Italian was generally understood at court, and became a frequent medium of conversation. Many Italian words were thus introduced into French phrases, and the French tongue became thereby materially changed and softened in its pronunciation.

It was at this time that so many old feudal fortresses were torn down to give place to the châteaux of the Renaissance. The king lived familiarly with artists, men of letters and celebrities, and patronized all who had made a name in art or literature.

Fontainebleau, which was originally a hunting-seat of Saint Louis IX., began to rise into a stately palace under the direction of Sebastian Serlio and Rosso, a Florentine. This Italian artist, Rosso, or Battista di Jacopo, was named by King Francis, “chief and superintendent over all the buildings, paintings, and other decorations of the palace,” with a large salary, for Rosso lived like _en grand seigneur_. As a painter his industry was great, and he displayed much ability in his designs for the decoration of the _Galerie de François I._, which he constructed over the lower court. During the reign of Louis Philippe some of Rosso’s paintings were discovered under a coating of whitewash, and were restored by that king’s order.

But the _chef-d’œuvre_ of the Renaissance was the _Château de Chambord_, which, though it was not half completed at the time of the visit of the Emperor Charles V., so greatly excited his wonder and admiration.

One of the marvels of this château was “its double spiral staircase of two hundred and eighty-six steps, rising in the centre of the edifice from its basement to its highest point,—the lantern, crowned by an enormous _fleur-de-lys_. It was a sort of puzzle. Eight persons could walk abreast up or down it, the ascending and descending parties never meeting, yet seeing each other.”

From a painting by Titian in the Louvre.]

The Emperor Charles was also amazed at this time by the gorgeousness and extravagance in dress displayed by the _bourgeoisie_. “At Poitiers he was received by near five hundred gentlemen, richly attired, and two thousand of the citizens in robes of velvet and satin, bordered with gold and silver lace. From Orleans a still more imposing cavalcade rode out to meet him. The _bourgeoisie_ of this royal city had certain privileges which, like the citizens of Paris, they shared with the nobility. Ninety-two of these privileged merchants of the upper _bourgeoisie_ accompanied the governor and persons of distinction to greet the emperor. All of them were mounted on excellent chargers, and all wore coats or casaques of black velvet, and doublets or vests of white satin fastened with gold buttons. Their boots were of white morocco, slashed, and their spurs either silver-gilt or gold. Their caps or toques were also of velvet, elaborately ornamented with gold embroider and precious stones.”

Orleans was then considered a large, handsome town. Charles V. said it was the finest city he saw in France. “Where, then,” he was asked, “does your majesty place Paris?”

“Oh, Paris,” he replied, “is no city, but rather a little world.”

As Francis I. was ruled by his favorite, the _Duchesse d’ Étampes_, his wife, Queen Eleanor, was simply a dazzling ornament in his court, where she always appeared in the splendor of the most gorgeous attire, solacing herself with the only privilege left to her, of displaying her rightful rank and prestige. “Near her, as if to seek the protection which her position afforded, if not her influence,—for of that she had none,—the quiet, subtle girl-wife of the youthful Prince Henry was always to be found. Of all that passed around her nothing escaped her vigilant, restless eyes. She was inwardly taking notes to serve for her guidance in the future,—resigned to live, and learn, and bide her time, fully assured—for was it not written in the stars?—that, as time rolled on, her turn would come to sway the destinies of the kingdom.

“No attentions did Catherine de’ Medici receive or look for from her boy-husband. He was a fluttering captive in the chains of first love, and the most brilliant beauty of the court, the famed _Diana de Poitiers_, was the lady of his heart, at the shrine of whose loveliness he bowed the knee. Prince Henry was then seventeen, and the lady had numbered thirty-seven summers. As to winters, they glided o’er her smooth, fair brow, leaving no trace of their passage, or any snowy signs of age on her luxuriant raven hair. Her husband, the Comte de Dreux-Brezé, died in 1531, and she erected a magnificent monument to his memory, and ever after wore the widow’s dress. Nature had made her beautiful forever, and beautiful she remained, unaided by art, we are told, until the end of her threescore years and nine.

“At this early period of Henry’s attachment to her, Diana derived from it no influence at court. The king disliked his second son, whose sentimental worship of an ‘aged siren,’ as envious ladies were pleased to call her, was a subject of jest among his companions, while Diana professed for the royal youth a tender but motherly affection; placid Catherine looking on unmoved.”

But this placid Catherine would not always sheathe her sharp stiletto of Italian craftiness, and then its gleaming point would pierce the quivering hearts of her victims with merciless cruelty.

During the reign of her husband, Henry II., Catherine lived a quiet, unobtrusive life, having little or no influence over the king, who was completely under the fascinating sway of the beautiful widow, Diana of Poitiers, who, possessing keen insight and much quick wit, was in reality the sovereign of France during the reign of Henry II.

Catherine de’ Medici manifested no outward signs of her discomfiture in thus having her place and power usurped by her husband’s fair favorite, but she was silently waiting her turn, and carefully observing the various moves in the political game then being played in Europe. She affected not only tolerance, but even friendship towards Diana; but the crafty Italian was meanwhile watching with tiger-cunning the right moment to spring forth from her hidden lair and seize upon her coveted prize, _the imperial power of the throne_; _this_ was her only ambition. With wise insight she realized the hopelessness of endeavoring to free her husband from the ensnaring power of Diana, and so she artfully made his favorite her friend, and seemingly acquiesced in the ascendency of her rival.

On the 31st of March, 1547, Francis I. died, and in the following July, Henry II. was crowned, his elder brother having died some time before. On this occasion Diana and Catherine sat together under a “canopied tribune,” beholding the handsome prince in his royal robes, as he knelt before the archbishop and received from his hands the imperial crown.

But another character connected with this court demands attention. Jeanne d’Albret, the daughter of Queen Margaret of Navarre, was brought up at the Court of Francis I. and educated in the Romish faith. But her mother had adopted the principles of the Reformation, and Jeanne d’Albret afterwards became the most ardent defender of the Protestants at a time when such defence required the bravest heart and most unflinching courage.

Soon after the coronation of Henry II. the marriage of Jeanne d’Albret, heiress of the kingdom of Navarre, was celebrated in the Château de Moulins. The bridegroom was Antoine de Bourbon, Duc de Vendôme and first prince of the blood after the sons of Henry II. King Henry and his brilliant court repaired to Moulins to celebrate these nuptials. Upon this occasion Catherine de’ Medici was attired with gorgeous splendor. She was very fond of dress, and with the richly-robed Italian ladies in her suite presented a magnificent spectacle. Amidst all the brilliant costumes, one lady was distinguished by her widow’s garb. But Madame Diana well understood her charms, and in her costly robe of white and black velvet, with veil of silver tissue and _coiffe_ of netted velvet, bordered with pearls, she became at once _distingué_ and enchanting; and though Catherine de’ Medici might flash in gorgeous colors and royal jewels, her ugly, heavy features and ungraceful form only appeared more unattractive by the side of her beautiful rival. King Henry, who always wore black and white in compliment to Diana, was attired on this occasion “in a _pourpoint_, or vest of black velvet, slashed with white satin, with short skirts or basques, and a cloak of the same material, embroidered in broad stripes of gold. Trunk-hose of white silk, very large, and rounded with horse-hair or wool, a band of gold braiding attaching them to the long white silk stockings, and white silk shoes with black rosettes. A black velvet toque, with a white plume of two or three feathers placed on the right side, and bordered with four rows of black and white pearls. His cravat was of fine lace, and an _escarcelle_ or pocket was fastened on his right side by gold chains to an embroidered waist-belt.”

“The princes and other persons of distinction were similarly dressed, the bridegroom wearing blue and white velvet and satin, many jewels in his plumed hat, many rings on his fingers, a jewelled pouch at his side, and a massive gold chain passing twice round his neck.”

But a lovely vision was presented by the bride of nineteen, Jeanne d’Albret, as she stood at the altar of the chapel of Moulins. “She was arrayed in white and silver satin brocade, her hair flowing loosely over her shoulders, but confined at the forehead by a circlet of pearls with diamond clasp, as was usual at that time for brides of high degree. Her long, heavy train, embroidered in silver and seed-pearls, was borne by four young pages in costumes of blue velvet and silver, white satin shoes with blue rosettes, and blue velvet toques with small white plumes. The great width of the deeply pendent sleeves (another distinguishing mark of the _toilettes_ of ladies of rank, women of inferior station being permitted far less latitude in this respect) heavily embroidered to match the train, seemed from their weight almost to need the services of two more pages to support them. A stomacher of pearls and diamonds, a _cordelière_ of the same, silver-embroidered satin shoes, and veil of Italian silver tissue falling very low on the back of the dress, completed this artistic and becoming bridal costume.”

But a sketch of Catherine de’ Medici has little to do with such fascinating scenes. With the death of her husband, King Henry, began the terrible spectacles of bloodshed and vice and cruelties which have made her name a synonyme of revolting wickedness. Not that Henry II. was not also cruel and guilty of many crimes, for he even celebrated his first appearance in Paris after his coronation by the public burning on the Place de Grève of half a dozen heretics; and he had established a special chamber in the Parliament called significantly the “Chambre Ardente”; and he would sit at the window of the Hôtel-de-la-Roche-Pot, which commanded a full view of the place of execution in the Rue Saint-Antoine, and watch the writhings of the burning heretics; but notwithstanding these atrocious instances, the cruelties of Catherine de’ Medici were on so much larger scale, and planned with such diabolical butchery, that in contrast Henry II. seems almost humane.

The reign of Francis I. had left France in a mournful condition. The peace of Crespy had hurt the feelings both of royalty and of the nation. It had left England in possession of Calais and Boulogne, and confirmed the ascendency of Charles V. in Germany, Italy, and Spain on the French frontiers. But Charles V. met his match as a general, in the brave defender of Metz, the valiant Duke of Guise, who commanded Henry II.’s forces at that memorable siege. This successful defence against the besieging army of the Emperor Charles V. gave Guise vast renown, and weakened materially the power of Charles.

France had been for nearly six years free from actual war with the emperor, when the German princes sought the aid of Henry II. in an alliance against Charles V., who was threatening to become as despotic in Germany as he was in Spain. The German princes had proposed to give Henry II. possession of the three cities, Metz, Toul, and Verdun, or at least allow him to conquer them, as these cities were not Germanic in language. As a further inducement to the French king to make an alliance with them, they promised to aid him in endeavoring to recover from Charles, Henry’s heritage of Milan. This had been the constant ambition of Francis I., to obtain possession of this ancestral heritage. Henry accordingly entered into negotiations with the German Princes; and to the declaration of war of Maurice of Saxony against the Emperor Charles, was appended a manifesto from the king of France. “Therein Henry announced himself the ‘Defender of the liberties of Germany, and protector of her captive princes,’ further stating, ‘that broken-hearted (_le cœur navré_) at the condition of Germany, he could not refuse to aid her, but had determined to do so to the utmost of his power and ability, even to personally engaging in this war, undertaken for liberty, and not for his personal benefit.’ This document, written in French, was headed by the representation of a cap between two poniards, and around it the inscription, ‘The emblem of liberty.’ It is said to have been copied from some ancient coins, and to have been appropriated as the symbol of freedom by Cæsar’s assassins. Thus singularly was brought to light by a king of the French Renaissance that terrible _cap of liberty_, before which the ancient crown of France was one day destined to fall.”

Henry II., thereupon leaving Catherine de’ Medici as regent in France, much to her profound surprise at such unusual attention from her indifferent husband,—who took good care, however, to tie her hands by such restrictions that she was regent only in name, while Diana held the real power,—departed with his army, and with ease took possession of the cities of Metz, Toul, and Verdun.

It was in endeavoring to reconquer Metz that Charles V. met his disastrous repulse in the brave defence of the Duke of Guise, who was then governor of Metz.

After the fatigues and horrors of war, the French court turned again to balls and tournaments, and the building of châteaux, and the patronage of art. It was at this time that Bernard Palissy was much patronized by the fair Diana, whom Henry had made _Duchesse de Valentinois_, presenting her with the _Château de Chenonceaux_, which seemed to be the only attention from the king which caused Catherine de’ Medici to vow vengeance, as she had desired to possess the château herself.

Notwithstanding desolating wars, the French court of Henry II. far outshone that of Francis I. in extravagance of dress and living.

“Never had any queen of France, except, perhaps, Queen Eleanor, and her court been arrayed in brocades so costly, or bedecked with gems more precious than Catherine de’ Medici and her ladies, though the crown jewels were worn by Madame Diana. At least they were transferred to her when the reign of _Madame d’Etampes_ ended. Diana wore pearls only, black and white, which harmonized with her mourning dress. She may, however, have sometimes condescended to wear the crown diamonds, though they were not of great value.

“Never had the _chefs-d’œuvre_ of Italian cookery been served at any state banquets on gold and silver plate in greater profusion or of more artistic workmanship, or the table ornamented with such magnificent productions of the glass manufactories of Venice. Carriages sufficiently capacious, luxuriously furnished, and ornamented with thousands of gilt nails, now took the place of the litter for travelling,—the gentlemen, when not aged or gouty, still preferring horses.”

Jeromio Lippomano, writing to the senate, says:—