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would be better if I swore on your translation, which I disbelieve?"

"She then entreated to be allowed the services of her priest and almoner, who was in the castle, but had not been permitted to see her since her removal from Chartley. He would assist her, she said, in her preparations for death, and adininister that spiritual consolation, which it would be sinful to receive from any one of a different faith. To the disgrace of the noblemen, the request was refused; nor was this to be attributed to any cruelty in Elizabeth, who had given no instructions upon the subject; but to the intolerant bigotry of the Earl of Kent, who, in a long theological discourse, attempted to convert her to his own opinions; offering her, in the place of her confessor, the services of the Protestant Dean of Peterborough, Dr. Fletcher, whom they had brought with them. Mary expressed her astonishment at this last unexpected stroke of cruelty; but bore it meekly, as she had done all the rest, although she peremptorily declined all assistance from the dean. She then inquired what time she should die; and the earls having answered 'To-morrow, at eight in the morning,' made their obeisance, and left the room. On their departure she called her women, and bade them hasten supper. that she might have time to arrange her affairs. No thing could be more natural, or rather playful, than her manner at this moment. Come, come,' said she, 'Jane Kennedy, cease 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, then, nor lament, but rejoice rather that you see your poor mistress so near the end of all her troubles. Dry your eyes, then, and let us pray together.'

"After supper she called for her ladies, and asking for a cup of wine, drank to them all, begging them to pledge her; which they did on their knees, mingling their tears in the cup, and asking her forgiveness if they had ever offended her. This she readily gave them, bidding them farewell with much tenderness, entreating in her turn their pardon, and solemnly enjoining them to continue firm in their religion, and forget all their little jealousies, living in peace and love with each other. It would be easier to do so now, she added, since Nau, who had been so busy in creating dissensions, was no longer with them. This was the only subject on which she felt and expressed herself with something like keenness; repeating more than once, that he was the cause of her death, but adding that she forgave him. She next examined her wardrobe, and selected various dresses as presents to her servants, delivering them at the moment, with some kind expression to each. She then wrote to her almoner, lamenting that the cruelty of her enemies had refused her the consolation of his presence with her in her last moments, imploring him to watch and pray with her that night, and to send her his absolution. After this she made her will; and lastly, wrote to the King of France. By this time it was two in the morning, and finding herself fatigued, she lay down, having first washed her feet, whilst her women watched and read at her bedside. They observed that, though quite still and tranquil, she was not asleep, her lips moving, as if engaged in secret prayer. It was her custom to have her women read to her at night a portion of the 'Lives of the Saints,' a book she loved much; and this last night she would not omit it, but made Jane Kennedy choose a portion, for their usual devotions. She selected the life entitled the 'Good "Her men-servants, who were in tears, then Thief,' which treats of that beautiful and affectleft the room, and Mary passed some time in de-ing example of dying faith and divine compasvotion with her ladies. After which she occu- sion. Alas!' said Mary, 'he was indeed a very pied herself in counting the money which still great sinner, but not so great as I am. May my remained in her cabinet; dividing it into sepa- Saviour, in memory of His Passion, have mercy rate sums, which she intended for her servants; on me, as He had on him, at the hour of death.' and then putting each sum into a little purse At this moment she recollected that she would with a slip of paper, on which she wrote, with require a handkerchief to bind her eyes at her her own hand, the name of the person for whom execution; and bidding them bring her several, it was destined. Supper was next brought in, she selected one of the finest, which was emof which she partook sparingly, as was usual broidered with gold, laying it carefully aside. with her; conversing from time to time with Early in the morning she rose, observing that Burgoin, her physician, who served her; and now she had but two hours to live; and having sometimes falling into a reverie, during which finished her toilet she came into her oratory, and it was remarked that a sweet smile, as if she had kneeling with her women before the altar, where heard some good news, would pass over her fea. they usually said mass, continued long in prayer. tures, lighting them up with an expression of Her physician then, afraid of her being exhaustanimated joy, which, much changed as she was ed, begged her to take a little bread and wine; by sorrow and ill health, recalled to her poor which she did cheerfully, thanking him, at the servants her days of beauty. It was with one same time, for giving her her last meal. of these looks that, turning to her physician. she said, 'Did you remark, Burgoin, what that Earl of Kent said in his talk with me; that my life would have been the death, as my death would be the life of that religion? Oh, how glad am Iat that speech! Here comes the truth at last, and I pray you remark it. They told me I was to die, because I had plotted against the queen; but then arrives this Kent, whom they sent hither to convert me, and what says he? I am to die for my religion.'

"A knock was now heard at the door, and a messenger came to say that the lords waited for her. She begged to be allowed a short time to conclude her devotions. Soon after, a second summons arriving, the door was opened, and the sheriff alone, with his white wand, walked into the room, proceeded to the altar, where the queen still knelt, and informed her that all was ready. She then rose, saying simply, 'Let us go;' and Burgoin, her physician, who assisted her to rise from her knees, asking her at this

then read the warrant for her death, which she
heard with apparent attention; but those near
her could see, by the sweet and absent expres-
sion of her countenance, that her thoughts were
afar off.

moment whether she would not wish to take anointed queen of Scotland. Surely, surely
with her the little cross and ivory crucifix which they will not deny me this last little request:
lay on the altar, she said, 'Oh yes, yes; it was my poor girls wish only to see me die.' As she
my intention to have done so many, many said this, a few tears were observed to fall, for
thanks for putting me in mind! She then re- the first time; and, after some consultation, she
ceived it, kissed it, and desired Annibal, one of was permitted to have two of her ladies and four
her suite, to carry it before her. The sheriff, of her gentlemen beside her. She then immedi-
walking first, now conducted her to the door of ately chose Burgoin her physician, her almoner,
the apartment; on reaching which, her servants, surgeon, and apothecary, with Jane Kennedy
who had followed her thus far, were informed and Elizabeth Curle. Followed by them, and
that they must now turn back, as a command by Melvil bearing her train, she entered the
had been given that they should not accompany great hall, and walked to the scaffold, which had
their mistress to the scaffold. This stern and been erected at its upper end. It was a raised
unnecessary order was received by them with platform, about two feet in height, and twelve
loud remonstrances and tears; but Mary only broad, surrounded by a rail, and covered with
observed, that it was hard not to suffer her poor black. Upon it were placed a low chair and
servants to be present at her death. She then cushion, two other seats, and the block. The
took the crucifix in her hand, and bade them af-queen regarded it without the least change of
fectionately adieu; whilst they clung in tears to countenance, cheerfully mounted the steps, and
her robe, kissed her hand, and were with diffi-sat down with the same easy grace and dignity
culty torn from her, and locked up in the apart with which she would have occupied her throne.
ment. The queen, after this, proceeded alone On her right were seated the Earls of Kent and
down the great staircase, at the foot of which Shrewsbury, on her left stood the Sheriffs, and
she was received by the Earls of Shrewsbury before her the two executioners. The Earl of
and Kent, who were struck with the perfect Kent, the Dean of Peterborough, Sir Amias
tranquility and unaffected grace with which she Paulet, Sir Drew Drury, Beal, the Clerk of the
met them. She was dressed in black satin, ma- Privy-council, and others, stood beside the scaf-
tronly, but richly; and with more studied care fold; and these, with the guards, officers, attend-
than she was commonly accustomed to bestow. ants, and some of the neighboring gentry, who
She wore a long veil of white crape, and her had been permitted to be present, made up an
usual high Italian ruff; an Agnus Dei was sus-assembly of about two hundred in all. Beal
pended by a pomander chain round her neck,
and her beads of gold hung at her girdle. At
the bottom of the staircase she found Sir Andrew
Melvil, her old affectionate servant, and master
of her household, waiting to take his last fare-
well. On seeing her, he flung himself on his "When it was finished, she crossed herself,
knees at her feet, and bitterly lamented it should and addressed a few words to the persons round
have fallen on him to carry to Scotland the the scaffold. She spoke of her rights as a sov-
heart-rending news of his dear mistress's death.ereign princess, which had been invaded and
'Weep not, my good Melvil,' said she, but ra-
ther rejoice that an end has at last come to the
sorrows of Mary Stuart. And 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!
He knows my heart; he knows my desire hath
ever been, that Scotland and England should be
united. Remember me to my son,' she added;
'tell him I have done nothing that may preju-
dice his kingdom of Scotland. And now, good
Melvil, my most faithful servant, once more I
bid thee farewell.' She then earnestly entreated
that her women might still be permitted to be
with her at her death; but the Earl of Kent pe-
remptorily refused, alleging that they would
only disturb every thing by their lamentations,
and be guilty of something scandalous and su-
perstitious; probably dipping their handker
chiefs in her blood. Alas, poor souls!' said
Mary, I will give my word and promise they
will do none of these things. It would do them
good to bid me farewell; and I hope your mis
tress, who is a maiden queen, hath not given you
so strait a commission. She might grant me
more than this, were I a far meaner person.
And yet, my lords, you know I am cousin to your
queen. descended from the blood of Henry the
Seventh, a married queen of France, and an

trampled on, and of her long sorrows and impris-
onment; but expressed the deepest thankfulness
to God that, being about to die for her religion,
she was permitted, before this company, to testify
that she died a Catholic, and innocent of having
invented any plot. or consented to any practices
against the queen's life. I will here,' said she,
in my last moments, accuse no one; but when
I am gone much will be discovered that is now
hid, and the objects of those who have procured
my death be more clearly disclosed to the

"Fletcher, the Dean of Peterborough, now
came up upon the scaffold, and, with the Earls of
Kent and Shrewsbury, made an ineffectual at
tempt to engage Mary in their devotions; but
she repelled all their offers, at first mildly, and
afterwards, when they insisted on her joining
with them in prayer, in more peremptory terms.
It was at this moment that Kent, in the excess of
his Puritanism, observing her intensely regard-
ing the crucifix, bade her renounce such anti-
quated superstitions: 'Madam,' said he, 'that
image of Christ serves to little purpose, if you
have him not engraved upon your heart.'-‘Åh,”
said Mary, there is nothing more becoming a
dying Christian than to carry in his hands this
remembrance of his redemption. How impossi-
ble is it to have such an object in our hands and
keep the heart unmoved!'

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"The Dean of Peterborough then prayed in English, being joined by the noblemen and gentlemen who were present; whilst Mary, kneeling apart, repeated portions of the Penitential Psalms in Latin, and afterwards continued her prayers aloud in English. By this time, the dean having concluded, there was a deep silence, so that every word was heard. Amid this stillness she recommended to God his afflicted Church, her son the King of Scotland, and Queen Elizabeth. She declared that her whole hope rested on her Saviour; and, although she confessed that she was a great sinner, she humbly trusted that the blood of that Immaculate Lamb which had been shed for all sinners would wash all her guilt away. She then invoked the blessed Virgin and all the saints, imploring them to grant her their prayers with God: and finally declared that she forgave all her enemies. It was impossible for any one to behold her at this moment without being deeply affected; on her knees, her hands clasped together 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. As she finished her devotions she kissed the crucifix. and making the sign of the cross, exclaimed in a clear, sweet voice,' As thine arms, O my God, were spread out upon the cross, so receive me within the arms of thy mercy: extend thy pity, and forgive my sins!'

"She then cheerfully suffered herself to be undressed by her two women, Jane Kennedy and Elizabeth Curle, and gently admonished them not to distress her by their tears and lamentations: putting her finger on her lips, and bidding them remember that she had promised for them. On seeing the executioner come up to offer his assistance she smiled, and playfully said 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 two women, and giving them her last blessing, desired them to leave her, one of them having first bound her eyes with the handkerchief which she had chosen for the purpose. She then sat down. and clasping her hands together, held her neck firm and erect, expecting that she was to be behealed in the French fashion, with a sword, and in a sitting attitude. Those who were present. and knew not of this misconception, wondered at this; and, in the pause, Mary, still waiting for the blow, repeated the psalm, 'In thee, O Lord, have I trusted: let me never be put to confusion. On being made aware of her mistake she instantly knelt down, and, groping with her hands for the block. 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 this moment the tears and emotions of the spectators had reached their height, and appear, unfortunately, to have shaken the nerves and disturbed the aim of the executioner. so that his first blow was ill-directed, and only wounded his victim. She lay, however, per fectly still, and the next stroke severed the head from the body. The executioner then held the head up, and called aloud, 'God save the Queen! So let all Queen Elizabeth's ene

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THERE came a voice from a distant land, with a sad lamenting toneIt told of war, and chains, and death, power lost, and glory gone; A voice of pain, despair, and woe, a wild and mournful cry— "Oh, England! mother! weep for us, a bitter death we die!

"Weary and wounded, faint and few, we fight, and fight in vain;

We die, and leave our bones to strew this desert's icy plain,

And to thee the memory of our blood, and our dis

tant tomb to be

An altar and a fitting shrine for a vengeance worthy thee.'

And England heard that woful voice, and bow'd her queenly head, And there went a wail round her sacred shores, a mourning for the dead;



many a happy heart was chill'd, and many a hope laid low,

many a warm affection sleeps with them beneath the snow.

And England wept-well may she weep-yet doth she weep in vain;

Not all her tears, her blood, her wealth, can bring Or change that note of utter grief, or hush that back life again,

voice of shame,

Which tells of chains and bitter death, defeat, and

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From the Edinburgh Review.

The Life of Joseph Addison.

By Lucy

AIRIN. Two volumes. 8vo. London: 1843.

edition of this work may probably be re-
quired. If so, we hope that every para-
graph will be revised, and that every date

direction. She is better acquainted with Shakspeare and Raleigh, than with Congreve and Prior; and is far more at home. among the ruffs and peaked beards of Theobald's, than among the Steenkirks and flowing periwigs which surrounded Queen SOME reviewers are of opinion that a lady Anne's tea-table at Hampton. She seems who dares to publish a book renounces by to have written about the Elizabethan age, that act the franchises appertaining to her because she had read much about it; she sex, and can claim no exemption from the seems, on the other hand, to have read a utmost rigor of critical procedure. From little about the age of Addison, because that opinion we dissent. We admit, in- she had determined to write about it. The deed, that in a country which boasts of consequence is, that she has had to demany female writers, eminently qualified scribe men and things without having by their talents and acquirements to in- either a correct or a vivid idea of them, fluence the public mind, it would be of and that she has often fallen into errors of most pernicious consequence that inaccu-a very serious kind. Some of these errors rate history or unsound philosophy should we may perhaps take occasion to point be suffered to pass uncensured, merely be- out. But we have not time to point out cause the offender chanced to be a lady. one half of those which we have observed; But we conceive that, on such occasions, a and it is but too likely that we may not critic would do well to imitate that cour-have observed all those which exist. The teous Knight who found himself compelled reputation which Miss Aikin has justly by duty to keep the Lists against Brada- earned stands so high, and the charm of mante. He, we are told, defended success- Addison's letters is so great, that a second fully the cause of which he was the cham. pion; but, before the fight began, exchanged Balisarda for a less deadly sword, of which he carefully blunted the point and edge.* Nor are the immunities of sex the only immunities which Miss Aikin may rightfully plead. Several of her works, and To Addison himself we are bound by a especially the very pleasing Memoirs of sentiment as much like affection as any the Reign of James the First, have fully sentiment can be, which is inspired by one entitled her to the privileges enjoyed by who has been sleeping a hundred and good writers. One of those privileges we twenty years in Westminster Abbey. We hold to be this, that such writers, when, trust, however, that this feeling will not either from the unlucky choice of a sub. betray us into that abject idolatry which ject, or from the indolence too often we have often had occasion to reprehend duced by success, they happen to fail, shall in others, and which seldom fails to make not be subjected to the severe discipline both the idolater and the idol ridiculous. which it is sometimes necessary to inflict A man of genius and virtue is but a man. upon dunces and impostors; but shall All his powers cannot be equally developmerely be reminded by a gentle touch, like ed; nor can we expect from him perfect that with which the Laputan flapper roused self-knowledge. We need not, therefore, his dreaming lord, that it is high time to hesitate to admit that Addison has left us some compositions which do not rise above mediocrity, some heroic poems hardly equal to Parnell's, some criticism as superficial as Dr. Blair's, and a tragedy not very much better than Dr. Johnson's. It is praise enough to say of a writer, that, in a high department of literature, in which many eminent writers have distinguished themselves, he has had no equal; and this may with strict justice be said of Addison.



Our readers will probably infer from what we have said that Miss Aikin's book has disappointed us. The truth is, that she is not well acquainted with her subject. No person who is not familiar with the political and literary history of England during the reigns of William III., of Anne, and of George I., can possibly write a good life of Addison. Now, we mean no reproach to Miss Aikin, and many will think that we pay her a compliment, when we say that her studies have taken a different

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and statement of fact about which there

can be the smallest doubt will be carefully


As a man, he may not have deserved the adoration which he received from those who, bewitched by his fascinating society, and indebted for all the comforts of life to his generous and delicate friendship, wor

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shipped him nightly, in his favorite temple | interesting volume on the Polity and Reliat Button's. But, after full inquiry and gion of Barbary; and another on the Heimpartial reflection, we have long been brew Customs, and the State of Rabbinical convinced, that he deserved as much love Learning. He rose to eminence in his proand esteem as can be justly claimed by any fession, and became one of the royal chapof our infirm and erring race. Some blem- lains, a doctor of divinity, archdeacon of ishes may undoubtedly be detected in his Salisbury, and dean of Lichfield. It is said character; but the more carefully it is ex- that he would have been made a bishop afamined, the more will it appear, to use the ter the Revolution, if he had not given ofphrase of the old anatomists, sound in the fence to the Government by strenuously noble parts-free from all taint of perfidy, opposing, in the Convocation of 1689, the of cowardice, of cruelty, of ingratitude, of liberal policy of William and Tillotson. envy. Men may easily be named, in whom some particular good disposition has been more conspicuous than in Addison. But the just harmony of qualities, the exact temper between the stern and the humane virtues, the habitual observance of every law, not only of moral rectitude, but of moral grace and dignity, distinguish him from all men who have been tried by equal. ly strong temptations, and about whose conduct we possess equally full informa


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In 1672, not long after Dr. Addison's return from Tangier, his son Joseph was born. Of Joseph's childhood we know little. He learned his rudiments at schools in his father's neighborhood, and was then sent to the Charter House. The anecdotes which are popularly related about his boyish tricks, do not harmonize very well with what we know of his riper years. There remains a tradition that he was the ringleader in a barring-out; and another tradition that he ran away from school and hid His father was the Reverend Lancelot himself in a wood, where he fed on berries Addison, who, though eclipsed by his more and slept in a hollow tree, till after a long celebrated son, made some figure in the search he was discovered and brought world, and occupies with credit two folio home. If these stories be true, it would pages in the Biographia Britannica." be curious to know by what moral disciLancelot was sent up, as a poor scholar, pline so mutinous and enterprising a lad from Westmoreland to Queen's College, was transformed into the gentlest and most Oxford, in the time of the Commonwealth; modest of men. made some progress in learning; became, We have abundant proof that, whatever like most of his fellow-students, a violent Joseph's pranks may have been, he pursued Royalist; lampooned the heads of the his studies vigorously and successfully. At university, and was forced to ask pardon fifteen he was not only fit for the university, on his bended knees. When he had left but carried thither a classical taste, and a college, he earned a humble subsistence by stock of learning which would have done reading the liturgy of the fallen Church, to honor to a Master of Arts. He was enterthe families of those sturdy squires whose ed at Queen's College, Oxford; but he had manor-houses were scattered over the Wild not been many months there, when some of Sussex. After the Restoration, his loy- of his Latin verses fell by accident into the alty was rewarded with the post of chaplain hands of Dr. Lancaster, Dean of Magdalene to the garrison of Dunkirk. When Dun- College. The young scholar's diction and kirk was sold to France, he lost his em- versification were already such as veteran ployment. But Tangier had been ceded professors might envy. Dr. Lancaster was by Portugal to England as part of the mar-desirous to serve a boy of such promise; riage-portion of the Infanta Catharine; and nor was an opportunity long wanting. The to Tangier Lancelot Addison was sent. A Revolution had just taken place; and nomore miserable situation can hardly be where had it been hailed with more delight conceived. It was difficult to say whether than at Magdalene college. That great the unfortunate settlers were more tor- and opulent corporation had been treated mented by the heats or by the rains; by by James, and by his Chancellor, with an the soldiers within the wall or by the Moors insolence and injustice which, even in such without it. One advantage the chaplain a Prince and in such a Minister, may justly had. He enjoyed an excellent opportunity excite amazement; and which had done of studying the history and manners of more than even the prosecution of the Jews and Mahommedans; and of this op- Bishops to alienate the Church of England portunity he appears to have made excel from the throne. A president, duly electlent use. On his return to England, after ed, had been violently expelled from his some years of banishment, he published an dwelling: a Papist had been set over the

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