the effect that he "distinctly saw Lord Cardigan | of his limbs, when he invariably commenced riding into the Battery; but from the smoke moralizing on his present condition and the and the pace they were all going at, it was im- days when he pressed the sides of "Black Bess," possible to notice what took place after that." After receiving so many wounds one would of discourse was how she carried him, like a as he called his charger. One favourite subject have expected that he gave not a few in return; feather, through the Balaclava charge, or how but honest John Dryden plumply declared that his colonel singled him out as his orderly on all he was not conscious of having shed human blood on the occasion. The whole charge after important occasions. they got up to the guns, was (to use his own expression) like a "flash of lightning," and lasted only a few minutes, during which he was enveloped in smoke. He said his charger (more on its own account than from any direction from him) went about as soon as they got in rear of the guns, and he found himself retreating side by side with another rider, when suddenly the poor animal staggered and fell heavily, throwing him in front of the battery. Such was the simple, and I believe truthful, narrative of one of the actors in this grave drama. The cowardly treatment received when hors de combat elicited much angry invective on the part of many of his listeners, and certainly in cold blood such proceedings are extremely reprehensible; but when angry passions rise, and man meets man in mortal combat (especially during such fierce and daring onslaughts as that of there 25th October, 1854), there comes over the common soldier a feeling that everything is fair in war. The wild Cossack, however, was never famed for his humanity towards the vanquished-less so perhaps than the soldier of any other European army-and at times the British soldier is not exempt from the charge. I knew an officer (one of a small force that stormed a hill-fort in India), who, on severely rep; rimanding one of his men for having bayoneted an old woman during the melée, received the reply that "them be the devils that breed them." We had several other warriors, and not a few limbless heroes. There was Sergeant Mellon of the 88th Regiment, who had been shot through the right eye at the assault of the Redan; the ball, having Providentially pursued a downward course, came out behind the lower jaw. This poor fellow, although still suffering from much irritation of the orbit, was always cheerful and ready to lend a hand to keep our big ship in order, when stronger invalids were less disposed to exert themselves. Nothing during the voyage nor since the receipt of his wound seemed to give him greater delight than the information I communicated-that a glass eye would tend greatly to hide the ghastly deformity. Among the broken-down warriors was a heavy dragoon, in whose condition I took a deep interest. He was an excellent type of the fine old antiCrimean sabreur; and now like Thomas Hood (to use one of his last jokes) was "water logged;" still, in spite of manifold sufferings and the consciousness that life was ebbing fast, nothing delighted this poor fellow more than to have a chat with me as I passed down the decks. Sometimes the worn-out invalid would brighten up into the dashing dragoon and spin me "long yarns," until attracted by the dropsical condition breath, "I will never tighten her girth again." "No, Doctor," he would say, gasping for And so on in regular stable-talk. It had been whispered down the decks that the At last, one night I was sent for from below. lights of Fort St. Elmo were in view, and we were approaching Malta, when I found my patient propped up in his cot and breathing hurriedly. I saw his end was drawing near, and, wishful not to increase the symptoms, I besought him to refrain talking; but seeing he had evidently something important to communicate, I sent away the orderly who was attending on him. Then, in broken sentences, he begged of me to promise to fulfil two small requests: the first was that he should be buried parcel, directed to his wife in England, he pressed on shore, if possible; then, producing a small it into my hand, and, with big tears rushing down his weather-beaten cheeks, added, "don't tions would be obeyed, he called the attendant forget to forward that." Assured that his injuncto the bedside, and after thanking both of us for our attentions settled down on the cot, uttering in a feeble voice "now I mean to trot on easily." often precedes dissolution in such cases, yet And so he died, in that half-stupor which so still muttering and repeating words, among which "Mary," and "the children," and "Black Bess" (the mare) predominated. Finally, on the following morning, as our vessel the sound of the anchor-chain, and as I stood cast anchor off St. Angelo, he roused himself at by watching, he gave a deep sigh, and exclaimed, "Thank God, I will lie on shore!" Then the pulse ceased, and that afternoon we buried him in the island. Such was the end of one of the three hundred heroes who followed General Scarlett into the thick of the fight on the plains of Balaclava. Variable winds delayed us long on the passage, and after buffeting about in the Bay of Biscay for days, we were driven into Queen'stown harbour, where several of the invalids were landed. Then, as if doomed to delays, Falmouth; so that we did not reach our destistrong easterly winds obliged us to put into nation until the 7th of April, being ten weeks and five days on our voyage out from Constantinople. To be angry about trifles is mean and childish-to rage and be furious is brutish-and to maintain perpetual wrath is akin to the practice and temper of fiends; but to prevent and suppress rising resentment is wise and glorious, is manly and divine.-WATTS, TWO SCENES IN A WOMAN'S LIFETIME. Paris has been, for ages, the attraction of the civilized world. The man of science investigates the wonders of nature gratuitously; the artist gazes, with a species of bewildered amazement, at the gems of art displayed in the Louvre; the antiquarian is lost in delight at the various exquisite trifles which meet him in the different curiosity-shops; the historian dwells with rapture on the books and manuscripts collected for ages; and the man of fashion and pleasure finds a thousand recreations there he cannot meet elsewhere. But Paris is connected with one scene in the life of an unfortunate woman, who has a melancholy celebrity in history; and a glance at the French court in the sixteenth century may perhaps amuse a moment's leisure. Catharine de Medici was, in fact, the ruler of the kingdom. Nature had endowed her with rare personal beauty, great talents, a correct knowledge of human nature, and a love of art and literature. But these gifts were overshadowed by pride, jealousy, and bigotry. These defects were latent, and she fascinated all who approached. A number of great men clustered around her. Scotland presented a strange contrast to sunny France. Her nobles were imperious and haughty, her people almost barbarous. The old faith was rapidly passing away, and the new creed was not yet thoroughly inaugurated; education did not prevail to the same extent as in France; etill the people were brave, honest, and had a love of learning. The haughty barons, who were kings on their small estates, regarded their youthful sovereign with rough admiration. The alliance with Scotland was courted by all the monarchs of the day, and intrigue began to weave its subtle nets round Mary Stuart almost in her cradle. Spain eagerly proffered her claims; the Eighth Henry of England asked her for his loved boy, the hope of the nation; the French King besought the honour of her hand for the Dauphin, and was successful. Stirling Castle, with its grim fortifications, had been the home of Mary's earlier years, thence she was removed to Inch Mahome. Four young ladies of the same name, called the Qeeen's Marys, shared the studies of the future Dauphiness, and accompanied her to France in July, 1548. A convent's sacred walls now sheltered the bride elect of France's heir; it was then, as now, the custom on the continent to keep young girls, no matter what their rank, in the closest seclusion. A few ecclesiastics alone were admitted, or perhaps some old Scotchman of rank, who brought letters or news from the queen dowager. These were, perhaps, the most peace Education was exceedingly well understood in France, and, to use the elegant diction of Miss Benger, "Learning, far from being the badge of singularity, had become the attribute of high station. There was now a glorious crusade against ignorance." Fair dames, haughty cavaliers, intriguing statesmen, and oftentirnes simple peasants, strove for prizes in the repub-ful years of Mary's life. lic of letters. Even distinction of creeds was temporarily forgotten. Winter had passed, and the world again rejoiced in the buds and blossoms of spring. Beza, Seve, and Pelletier excelled in graver Sunny April, with its balny gales, was restudies; while Ronsard, Bellay, and Jodelle de-joicing the hearts of all the Parisians. The voted themselves to poetry and light literature. The age of chivalry had not yet passed-the Duke of Navarre, and Condé, the founder of that princely line which has given so many heroes to France, and the Constable de Montmorency, unbent from the sterner toils of war, and were the ornaments of the nobility. Conspicuous among all for her dazzling beauty was the fair young Queen of Scotland, then betrothed to the Dauphin. After the lapse of centuries her name has a magic charm. She was now the darling of France, and the pride of her native land; she was the sole legitimate descendant of a hundred kings; a hundred knights courted her smiles, and a look or word was prized and remembered years after. Mary Stuart was born at Linlithgow Palace, December 7th, 1542; and a week after her gallant and accomplished father died of a broken heart, and thus began the life which was never free from care, lilacs were in bloom, and the buds of the horsechestnut gave promise of future flowers; the green turf, which scarcely a month before had been covered with ɛnow, was now pressed by a thousand eager feet, for there was a great bustle in Paris on the 24th of April, 1558. The streets were crowded with persons of every rank. The portly burgher, in his sad-coloured suit and high-peaked hat with a feather, took his daughter under his arm, and kept the gallants at a distance, while he secured a good place to see the approaching cavalcade. The humbie friar, with bare feet, rough habit, and knotted cord, stole timidly in the outskirts of the mob. The Gascon soldier, with many coarse oaths, elbowed his path among the men and women, who involuntarily made way before him. The peasants from Normandy gazed on the fair city with stupid admiration. The high caps, fresh complexions, and bright eyes of the country dames were admirably set off by the sallow skins and somewhat careworn faces of their Parisian sisters. Jests were freely circulated, and a general hilarity seemed to prevail among the populace. Rare sports were to be seen in the afternoon-tilts, jousts, and tournaments. Even the stern soldiers, who paraded the streets so haughtily, were gay. But the hum of conversation ceases, and all eyes are directed to the eastern part of the city. Strains of martial music fall upon the ear, and then advance the city guards, arms burnished, accoutrements in perfect order. Next the Scottish archers, wearing the national tartan; each man bore in his bonnet a silver thistle. Many of these brave men had been in the service of the French crown for nearly thirty years; their officers were the most experienced soldiers in the kingdom. The tradesmen of Paris, with their banners, succeeded the archers. Every trade had its provost, who bore the insignia of his craft. The religious orders followed these. Lastly, twelve young girls, from each of the sections of Paris, each clad in white, and crowned with roses; they were to receive a dowry in honour of the nuptials. A hundred cavaliers, mounted on thoroughbred black horses, closed the procession. The coats of these exquisitely-groomed animals shone like silk; their manes were curiously plaited with ribbons, and their hoofs finely polished. Last came two litters. The first contained three ladies of honour; the last the Queen of Scotland, accompanied by Catharine de Medici. This peerless beauty was now about sixteen; her complexion very fair, her hair and eyes of a rich chestnut; her person was finely proportioned, and all her movements were dignified and elegant. She was now the centre of all eyes, and shouts of "Vive la dauphine !" rent the air. Her toilet was admirably adapted to set off her charms. A white moiré robe (the silk stuffs from the Italian looms closely resemble that material) fell in graceful folds to the feet; a zone of pearls, terminating in two large ruby tassels, hung a little below the waist; the bodice fitted the figure closely, and revealed a superbly-developed bust; tartan ribbons of the national Stuart colours looped up rich lace sleeves; a small coronet of diamonds rested on her polished brow, and a necklace of the same gems clasped her throat. The brilliant cortège soon reached the ancient and stupendous cathedral of Notre Dame. The proudest nobles of England, France, and Scotland stood near the sanctuary. Warriors, who had conquered in many a well-contested field, were grouped around the nave, and statesmen, grown grey in the toils of diplomacy, were stationed in the eastern part of the church. The flower of the realm had assembled to grace these august nuptials. Mary Stuart advanced to the altar; the marriage benediction was pronounced by the Cardinal de Bourbon, and the Queen of Scot land now wore the crown matrimonial of France. A sumptuous banquet was prepared in the palace by the Primate of France, and largesse was distributed among the multitude, who testified their admiration by the loudest shouts. But the festivities of the day did not end here. The royal palace was brilliantly illuminated by thousands of wax torches. Bands, stationed at different parts of the building, poured out the strains of music. A second collation was spread, the princes of the blood royal acting as servitors, and the members of Parliament were present in their robes. After the tables were withdrawn, masks and mummeries were introduced. Twelve artificial horses covered with cloth of gold, entered the hall and performed some tricks. These were succeeded by six richly decorated galleys, with two seats on the deck. Each cavalier gently bore off the lady of his choice and placed her in the vacant chair. A magnificent tournament concluded the day's festivities, and thus ended one scene of a woman's life. Twenty-nine years had now elapsed, and they were filled with the most important events. Fortune had not been propitious to the fair young queen, who was wedded so brilliantly to her first lord. The internal condition of Scotland was still extremely unsettled, and the barons exceedingly unruly; the middle classes began to feel their power; the Queen's religion was distasteful to many of her subjects; the powerful oratory of Knox had converted the Scottish nation; shrines, which had been hallowed for centuries, were ruthlessly destroyed, monasteries and convents suppressed, and all the vestiges of the old faith had disappeared. The death of Francis, who had ever cherished his beautiful consort, added to Mary's anxieties, and she found herself compelled to leave the land where she had passed the happiest part of her life. The struggle was severe, and the widowed queen gazed long on the fast receding shores of the sunny land which had sheltered her childhood and early womanhood, and which she was never to behold again. She left France and its luxuries and refinements to go to a land inhabited by Puritans, who saw sin in the most innocent relaxations; she contrasted the poverty which surrounded her with the magnificence of her former home-the rough manners and uncourtly speech of the rough Barons with the elegant refinement and polished bearing of the nobles of the French court, and sighed. Years passed on, but still matters did not mend. A second marriage was unhappy, and a third still more disastrous, till at length the dowager of France and Queen of Scotland is condemned to captivity in the Castle of Lochleven. A few acres, a placid lake, and a still more insipid flower-garden are her only enjoy Ꮮ ments. But the romance of her life was not yet ended; a strong party was formed, and the princess was again free. But still fortune persecuted her: the battle of Langside was lost, and the ill-fated but still lovely Queen of Scots took refuge at the court of her kinswoman. Within these bounds, not unlike the wood of Vincennes, is a very old edifice, originally a hunting lodge, built merely of lath and plaster, in many cases crumbling away. This edifice, detached from the walls about twenty feet, is sunk so low, that the rampart of earth behind the wall is level with the highest part of the building, so that here the sun can never penetrate; neither does any pure air ever visit this habitation, on which descend drizzling damps and eternal fogs to such excess that not an article of furniture can be placed beneath the roof but in four days it becomes covered with green mould. I leave you to judge in what manner such humidity must act upon the human frame; and, to say everything in one word, the apartments are in general more like dungeons This was, perhaps, the most fatal blunder of Mary's life. She was young, charming, and accomplished: above all, her birth was spotless; while, in the opinion of many subjects, the able sovereign who sat upon the English throne was illegitimate. Unhappily, too, for Mary's future fate, she had openly worn the arms of England, claimed the title of Queen, and indulged in some bitter sarcasms on her English cousin; these had been repeated, and were never forgiven. Moreover, the Queen of England had a mortal hatred to all who were to succeed her. Eliza-prepared for the reception of the vilest crimi beth forgot all the ties of blood, all the duties of hospitality, and the courtesies that usually prevail among sovereigns, and the hapless fugitive found herself a prisoner, and not a guest, nor did she ever have an interview with her kinswoman. Sad was now the life of the Queen of Scotland. Hurried from castle to castle, and strictly guarded. Now she was at Sheffield, and then under the charge of the famous Bess of Hardwick. Literature was her solace, the needle her customary resource; and plots were formed to extricate Mary from her perilous position. Elizabeth, in the meantime, was a prey to care. She had some nobility of character, but the trials of her youth had not softened a naturally imperious temper. She had learned to distrust mankind; and though honoured at home and feared abroad, she stood alone-she never dared to think of her mother's fate. She well knew that many of her subjects regarded Mary as their lawful ruler-that they considered her as a usurper. She also well knew, that even in Mary's captivity, many of the continental princes would cheerfully unite their fate to hers, but that she would be wedded for her kingdom. The history of the time is exceedingly interesting, and there is no doubt that plots and counterplots were woven to dethrone Elizabeth. At last she resolved to bring the Queen of Scots to trial; and, unfortunately for the alleged culprit, she consented. For nearly twenty years she had languished in the most hopeless captivity, deprived of all that her rank and sex demanded. Perfectly helpless, she was exposed to the malice of her enemies. The ministers of Elizabeth feared that, should she mount the throne, their lives would not be worth a moment's purchase. Vain fear! The damps and chills of England must inevitably have shortened the captive's life. The wretched woman writes thus, concerning her apartments, which will give a good idea of the rigors to which the captive heiress of the crown was subjected: "To convey to you an idea of my present situation: I am on all sides inclosed by fortified walls on the summit of a hill, which lies exposed to every wind. nals, than suited to persons of a station far inferior to mine, inasmuch as I do not believe there is a lord or a gentleman, or even yeoman, in the kingdom, who would patiently endure the penance of living in so wretched a habitation. "With regard to accommodation, I have two wretched little chambers, so intensely cold during the night, that, but for the ramparts and intrenchments of tapestry and curtains, it would be impossible to prolong my existence. And of those who sat up with me during my last illness, not one has escaped malady." Nearly all her personal friends had passed from the stage with some of her foes; few remained who could help her. Still the jealousy of the English Queen was constantly kept alive by reports of conspiracies. At last she determined to sift the whole matter. Mary had been removed to Fotheringay Castle. Her secret repositories had been searched, her papers carried off, and she herself sent to another castle. When she returned and saw the devastation that had been committed in her absence, she exclaimed, that they could not take away either her birth or her religion. But a decent pretext was lacking to send the victim to the scaffold. She must be tried. A difficulty presented itself: she was no subject of England, and indignantly objected to the jurisdiction of the court, "That she was an independent queen as well as she, and would not consent to anything unbecoming the majesty of a crowned head. "Worn out as my body is, my mind is not yet so enfeebled as to make me forget what is due to myself, my ancestors, and my country. Whatever the laws of England may be, I am not subject to them; for I came into the realm to ask assistance from a sister-queen, and I have been detained an unwilling prisoner." The court, however, induced the defendant to plead, and ultimately she consented. The scene was imposing and solemn. The Attorney-General of the kingdom conducted the case; the Lord Chancellor, the Treasurer, and other persons of distinction were present. All the legal acumen of the kingdom was exerted against Mary Stuart. Letters were produced, but not the writers, though they could readily have been summoned; parts of notes, but not the whole, were read. No witness was confronted with the accused. Mary was now asked for her defence. Though a forlorn woman, a stranger, in the midst of foes, deprived of her papers, and unsupported by legal aid, she did not despair; the spirit of her ancestors had not forsaken her, and she stood ready to answer. The Queen of Scots first denied that she had been concerned in any of the plots hatched against the life and crown of the Queen of England. She further alleged that no witnesses had been produced, and quoted a statute recently passed, that two lawful witnesses should be called, and concluded with an indignant appeal to the mercy of a higher tribunal. The Commissioners were astounded at her sagacity and boldness, but adjourned to the Star Chamber at Westminster, and there finally pronounced judgment. The prisoner seemed deserted. All Christendom was in expectation of the impending doom, but no energetic efforts were made to avert the blow. Elizabeth herself coquetted to the last, but eventually signed the warrant, which consigned her nearest female relation to a cruel death. All distinctions due to her rank were removed, her canopy of state removed, and she was informed that she was no more to be treated as a princess. These petty indignities were disregarded, and Mary addressed a letter to Elizabeth containing some last requests. This was entirely unnoticed. The eighth of February, 1587, rose dark and lowering; it was Mary Stuart's last day on earth. A few hours before the close of the seventh, the information had been conveyed to her. This melancholy news she heard with the most unshaken equanimity; treachery and disease had done their worst. She had nothing left on earth to tempt her to remain. Even the last request made to the Earl of Kent, for a confessor, was refused. Seven o'clock had struck, and the Queen, dressed with an unusual but sombre magnificence, calmly waited, on her knees before the crucifix, the fatal summons. The sheriff, in his official costume, rapped at the door; Mary, with with an undismayed air, at once arose. Sir Andrew Melville, the steward of her household, whom she had not seen for some time, took a final leave of her. Mary now turned to the Earls of Kent and Shrewsbury, who superintended the execution of the sentence, and desired that some of her servants might witness her agony. Several objections were silenced by her energetic protest, and some of her followers were allowed to be present. Mary was again, as at her bridal, the prominent figure in the fatal procession which was moving to the scaffold. This was hung with black, and a chair of the same was placed for the Queen's accommodation. The joyous acclamations which greeted her on the first prominent scene of her life were hushed for ever. few gentlemen of the neighbourhood, the earls and the gloomy officials, were the only specta A tors of this final triumph. But even now she was destined to be insulted. The Dean of Peterborough, with more zeal than tact or good feeling, pronounced a discourse. Mary turned a deaf ear to his address, and proceeded with her own devotions according to the Roman ritual. Persecution blighted her youth, and the same fell spirit attended her to the last. What strange recollections must have crossed the mind of the ill-starred descendant of a royal house! Treason, poison, and the dagger had done their worst for many of Scotland's kings, but she was the first who had fallen beneath the executioner's axe. She whom nobles had fêted, whose name had been in the mouth of every gallant knight of Europe, stood alonethree men and two women were all that escorted her to death. Her enemies had triumphed, but still she did not repine. A species of martyrdom at once consoled, exalted, and freed her from revenge and malice. This last lurid scene in Mary's life has been frequently described, but never, we think, with such pictorially tragic power as in the graphic pages of Mr. Froude's last volume. Our readers will judge for themselves :* "From time to time, with conspicuous vehemence, she struck the crucifix against her bosom, and then, as the Dean gave up the struggle, leaving her Latin, she prayed in English wholly, still clear and loud. She prayed for the Church, which she had been ready to betray, for her son whom she had disinherited, for the Queen, whom she had endeavoured to murder. She prayed God to avert his wrath from Englandthat England which she had sent a last message to Philip to beseech him to invade. She forgave her enemies, whom she had invited Philip not to forget, and then, praying to the saints to intercede for her with Christ, and kissing the crucifix and crossing her own breast,' Even as thy arms, oh Jesus,' she cried, 'were spread upon the cross, so receive me into thy mercy, and forgive my sins.' "With these words she rose; the black mutes stepped forward, and in the usual form begged her forgiveness. "I forgive you,' she said, 'for now I hope you shall end all my troubles.' They offered their help in arranging her dress. Truly, my lords,' she said with a smile to the Earls, 'I never had such grooms waiting on me before.' Her ladies were allowed to come up upon the scaffold to assist her; for the work to be done was considerable, and had been prepared with no common thought. The "She laid her crucifix on her chair. chief executioner took it as a perquisite, but was ordered instantly to lay it down. The lawn veil was lifted carefully off, not to disturb the hair, and was hung upon the rail. The black robe was next removed. Below it was a petticoat of crimson velvet. The black jacket followed, and under the jacket was a body of crimson satin. One of her ladies handed her a pair *The difference of opinion as to the character and conduct of Mary is of frequent recurrence. |