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avoid. Her ladies, who had attempted to follow her, had been kept back also. She could not afford to leave the account of her death to be reported by enemies and Puritans, and she required assistance for the scene which she meditated. Missing them, she asked the reason of their absence, and said she wished them to see her die. Kent said he feared they might scream or faint, or attempt perhaps to dip their handkerchiefs in her blood. She undertook that they should be quiet and obedient. "The Queen," she said, "would never deny her so slight a request;" and when Kent still hesitated, she added with tears, "You know I am cousin to your Queen, of the blood of Henry the Seventh, a married Queen of France, and anointed Queen of Scotland."

It was impossible to refuse. She was allowed to take six of her own people with her, and select them herself. She chose her physician Burgoyne, Andrew Melville, the apothecary Gorion, and her surgeon, with two ladies, Elizabeth Kennedy and Curle's young wife, Barbara Mowbray, whose child she had baptized.

"Allons donc," she then said. "Let us go," and passing out attended by the Earls, and leaning on the arm of an officer of the guard, she descended the great staircase to the hall. The news had spread far through the country. Thousands of people were collected outside the walls. About three hundred knights and gentlemen of the county had been admitted to see the execution. The tables and forms had been removed, and a great wood fire was blazing in the chimney. At the upper end of the hall, above the fire-place, but near it, stood the scaffold, twelve feet square and two feet and a half high. It was covered with black cloth; a low rail ran round it covered with black cloth also, and the Sheriff's guard of halberdiers were ranged on the floor below on the four sides to keep off the crowd. On the scaffold was the block, black like the rest; a square, black cushion was placed behind it, and behind the cushion a black chair; on the right were two other chairs for the Earls. The axe leant against the rail, and two masked figures stood like mutes on either side at the back. The Queen of Scots, as she swept in, seemed as if coming to take a part in some solemn pageant. Not a muscle of her face could be seen to quiver; she ascended the scaffold with absolute composure, looked round her smiling, and sate down. Shrewsbury and Kent followed, and took their places, the Sheriff stood at her left hand, and Beale then mounted a platform and read the warrant aloud.

In all the assembly, Mary Stuart appeared

the person least interested in the words which were consigning her to death.

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Madam," said Lord Shrewsbury to her, when the reading was ended, "you hear what we are commanded to do."

"You will do your duty," she answered, and rose as if to kneel and pray.

The Dean of Peterborough, Dr. Fletcher, approached the rail. "Madam," he began, with a low obeisance, “the Queen's most excellent Majesty;" "Madam, the Queen's most excellent Majesty," thrice he commenced his sentence, wanting words to pursue it. When he repeated the words a fourth time, she cut him short,

"Mr. Dean," she said, "I am a Catholic, and must die a Catholic. It is useless to attempt to move me, and your prayers will avail me but little."

"Change your opinion, Madam," he cried, his tongue being loosed at last; "repent of your sins, settle your faith in Christ, by him to be saved."

"Trouble not yourself further, Mr. Dean," she answered; "I am settled in my own faith, for which I mean to shed my blood."

"I am sorry, Madam," said Shrewsbury, "to see you so addicted to Popery."

"That image of Christ you hold there," said Kent, "will not profit you if he be not engraved in your heart."

She did not reply, and turning her back on Fletcher, knelt for her own devotions.

He had evidently been instructed to im pair the Catholic complexion of the scene, and the Queen of Scots was determined that he should not succeed. When she knelt he commenced an extempore prayer, in which the assembly joined. As his voice sounded out in the hall she raised her own, reciting with powerful deep-chested tones the penitential Psalms in Latin, introducing English sentences at intervals, that the audience might know what she was saying, and praying with especial distinctness for her holy father the Pope.

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 England, that 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, O Jesus," she cried,


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.

She laid her crucifix on her chair. The 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 of crimson sleeves, with which she hastily covered her arms; and thus she stood on the black scaffold with the black figures all around her, blood-red from head to foot.

Her reasons for adopting so extraordinary a costume must be left to conjecture. It is only certain that it must have been carefully studied, and the pictorial effect must have been appalling.

The women, whose firmness had hitherto borne the trial, began now to give way, spasmodic sobs bursting from them which they could not check. "Ne criez vous," she said, "j'ay promis pour vous." Struggling bravely, they crossed their breasts again and again, she crossing them in turn and bidding them pray for her. Then she knelt on the cushion. Barbara Mowbray bound her eyes with a handkerchief. "Adieu," she said, smiling for the last time and waving her hand to them, "Adieu, au revoir." They stepped back from off the scaffold and left her alone. On her knees she repeated the Psalm, In te, Domino, confido," In thee, O Lord, have I put my trust." Her shoulders being exposed, two scars became visible, one on either side, and the Earls being now a little behind her, Kent pointed to them with his white wand and looked enquiringly at his companion. Shrewsbury whispered that they were the remains of two abscesses from which she had suffered while living with him at Sheffield.

When the Psalm was finished she felt for the block, and laying down her head, muttered: "In manus, Domine tuas, commendo animam meam." The hard wood seemed

to hurt her, for she placed her hands under her neck. The executioners gently removed them, lest they should deaden the blow, and then one of them holding her slightly, the other raised the axe and struck. The scene had been too trying for even the practised headsman of the Tower. His arm wandered. The blow fell on the knot of the handkerchief, and scarcely broke the skin. She neither spoke nor moved. He struck again, this time effectively. The head hung by a shred of skin, which he divided without withdrawing the axe; and at once a metamorphosis was witnessed, strange as was ever wrought by wand of fabled enchanter. The coif fell off and the false plaits. The laboured illusion vanished. The lady who had knelt before the block was in the maturity of grace and loveliness. The executioner, when he raised the head, as usual, to show it to the crowd, exposed the withered features of a grizzled, wrinkled old


"So perish all the enemies of the Queen!" said the Dean of Peterborough. A loud Amen rose over the hall. "Such end," said the Earl of Kent, rising and standing over the body, "to the Queen's and the gospel's enemies!"

History of England, Vol. xii. Ch. xxxiv.


born at Holne Vicarage, Devonshire, 1819, was educated at Magdalene College, Cambridge, and became Rector of Eversley, Hampshire, 1844; died 1875.

Among his works are: The Saint's Tragedy, a Story of Elizabeth of Hungary, a Drama in Verse, Lond., 1848, 12mo: Alton Locke, Tailor and Poet, a Novel, 1850, 2 vols. p. 8vo; Yeast, a Problem, 1851, p. 8vo; Phaetheon, or, Loose Thoughts for Loose Thinkers, 1852, 12mo; Hypatia, or, New Foes with an Old Face, 1853, 2 vols. p. 8vo; Alexandria and her Schools, 1854, p. 8vo; Westward IIo! or, The Voyages and Adventures of Sir Amyas Leigh, 1855, 3 vols. cr. 8vo; Glaucus, or, The Wonders of the Shore, 1855, 12mo, 3d edit., 1856, 12mo; Poems, now first collected, 1856, 16mo; The Heroes, or, Greek Fairy Tales for my Children, 1856, 8vo; Two Years Ago, a Novel, 1857, 3 vols. p. 8vo; Miscellanies, 1859; The WaterBabies, 1863, cr. 8vo; The Roman and the Teuton; Lectures, 1864, p. 8vo; What Then Does Doctor Newman Mean? 1864; Hereward, the Wake, 1866, cr. 8vo; On the Ancien Régime, 1867, cr. 8vo; The Hermits, 1868; Madam Now and Lady Why, 1870; The Limits of Exact Science as Applied to

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It is impossible to give outward form to that which is in its very nature formless, like doubt and discontent. For on such subjects thought itself is not defined: it has no limit, no self-coherence, not even method or organic law. And in a poem, as in all else, the body must be formed according to the law of the inner life; the utterance must be the expression, the outward and visible autotype of the spirit which animates it. But where the thought is defined by no limits, it cannot express itself in form, for form is that which has limits. Where it has no inward unity it cannot have any outward one. If the spirit be impatient of all moral rule, its utterance will be equally impatient of all artistic rule; and thus, as we are now beginning to discover from experience, the poetry of doubt will find itself unable to use those forms of verse which have been always held to be the highest: tragedy, epic, the ballad, and lastly, even the subjective lyrical ode. For they, too, to judge by every great lyric which remains to us, require a groundwork of consistent, self-coherent belief; and they require also an appreciation of melody even more delicate, and a verbal polish even more complete, than any other form of poetic utterance. But where there is no melody within, there will be no melody without. It is in vain to attempt the setting of spiritual discords to physical music. The mere practical patience and self-restraint requisite to work out rhythm when fixed on, will be wanting; nay, the fitting rhythm will never be found, the subject itself being rhythmic: and thus we shall have, or rather, alas! do have, a wider and wider divorce of sound and sense, a greater and greater carelessness

for polish, and for the charm of musical utterance, and watch the clear and spirit-stirring melodies of the older poets swept away by a deluge of half-metrical prose-run-mad, diffuse, unfinished, unmusical, to which any other metre than that in which it happens to have been written would have been equally appropriate, because all are equally inappropriate; and where men have nothing to sing, it is not of the slightest consequence how they sing it.

While poets persist in thinking and writing thus, it is vain for them to talk loud about the poet's divine mission, as the prophet of mankind, the swayer of the universe, and so forth. Not that we believe the poet simply by virtue of being a singer to have any such power. While young gentlemen are talking about governing heaven and earth by verse, Wellingtons and Peels, Ark wrights and Stephensons, Frys and Chis holms, are doing it by plain practical prose; and even of those who have moved and led the hearts of men by verse, every one, as far as we know, has produced his magical effects by poetry of the very opposite form to that which is now in fashion. What poet ever had more influence than Homer? What poet is more utterly antipodal to our modern schools? There are certain Hebrew Psalms, too, which will be confessed, even by those who differ most from them, to have exercised some slight influence on human thought and action, and to be likely to exercise the same for some time to come. Are they any more like our modern poetic forms than they are like our modern poetic matter? Ay, even in our own time what has been the form, what the temper, of all poetry, from Körner and Heine, what has made the German heart leap up, but simplicity, manhood, clearness, finished melody, the very opposite, in a word, of our new school? And to look at our home, what is the modern poetry which lives on the lips and in the hearts of Englishmen, Scotchmen, Irishmen? It is not only simple in form and language, but much of it fitted, by a severe exercise of artistic patience, to tunes already existing. Who does not remember how the "Marseillaise" was born, or how Burns's "Scots wha ha wi' Wallace bled," or the story of Moore's taking the old "Red Fox March," and giving it a new immortality as "Let Erin remember the days of old," while poor Emmett sprang up and cried, "Oh, that I had twenty thou sand Irishmen marching to that tune!" So it is, even to this day, and let those who hanker after poetic fame take note of it: not a poem which is now really living but has gained its immortality by virtue of simplicity and positive faith.

Miscellanies, Vol. i. pp. 298-301.


the son of a wine-merchant, from whom he inherited an ample fortune, was born in London, 1819; educated at Christ Church, Oxford, where he gained the Newdigate Prize in 1839 for an English poem entitled Salsetto and Elephanta, and graduated in 1842. He was instructed in drawing and painting by Copley, Fielding, and J. D. Harding, and became an enthusiastic admirer of Turner, to defend whom he wrote the first volume of his Modern Painters. He is a zealous Christian philanthropist, and has erected a number of model houses for the poor in London.

tion, with a Bibliography of his Works, by R. H. Shepherd (recently prepared for private distribution in a limited edition, Lond., 1878), 1879. See also Selections from the Writings of John Ruskin, M. A., London, Smith, Elder, & Co., 1861, p. 8vo; Precious Thoughts, Moral and Religious, Gathered from the Works of John Ruskin, A.M., by Mrs. L. C. Tuthill, New York, J. Wiley's Sons, 1865, 12mo; Pearls for Young Ladies, from the Later Works of John Ruskin, by Mrs. L. C. Tuthill, New York, J. Wiley's Sons, 1879, 12mo; Ruskin: His Life, His Books, His Theories, New York, D. Appleton & Co., 1879.

"Mr. Ruskin seems to me one of the few genuine writers, as distinguished from book-makers, of this age.

His earnestness even amuses me in cer

tain passages [in The Stones of Venice]; for I will fume and fret over his deep, serious, and (as cannot help laughing to think how Utilitarians they will think) fanatical reverence for Art. That

and severe mind you ascribed to him speaks

in every line. He writes like the consecrated Priest of the Abstract and Ideal."-CHARLOTTE BRONTE to GEORGE H. LEWES: Mrs. Gaskell's Life of Charlotte Bronté.

"Mr. Ruskin has been before the world for some

Modern Painters, their Superiority in the Art of Landscape Painting to all the Ancient Masters, by a Graduate of Oxford, Lond., 1843-60, 5 vols. imp. 8vo; The Seven Lamps of Architecture, 1849, imp. 8vo, 2d edit., 1855, imp. 8vo; The Stones of Venice, 1851-53, 3 vols. imp. 8vo; Examples of the Architecture ure of Venice, imp. fol., Pts. i., ii., iii., 1851 (incomplete); Notes on the Construction of Sheep-folds, 1851, 8vo; Pre-Raphaelitism, 1851, 8vo, 2d edit., 1862, demy 8vo; The King of the Golden River, 1851, 16mo; The Opening of the Crystal Palace, 1854, 8vo; Lectures on Architecture and Painting, 1854, p. 8vo; Giotto and his Works in Padua, 185455, 2 Pts., r. 8vo; The Political Economy of Art, 1857, 8vo; The Elements of Drawing, 1857, p. 8vo, 6th 1000, 1860; The Elements of Perspective, 1859, cr. 8vo; The Two Paths: being Lectures on Art and its Application to Decoration and Manufacture, 1859, p. 8vo; "Unto this Last:" Four Essays on the First Principles of Political Economy, 1862, p. 8vo; Sesame and Lilies: Two Lectures, 1865, fp. 8vo, 3d edit., 1866; An Enquiry into some of the Conditions at Present affecting the Study of Architecture in our Schools: a Lecture, 1865, 8vo; The Ethics of the Dust: Ten Lectures to Little Housewives on the Elements of Crystallization, 1865, cr. 8vo; The Crown of Wild Olives: Three Lectures on Work, Traffic, and War, 1866; Time and Tide, by Weare and Tyne: Twenty-five Letters to a Working Man of Sunderland on the Laws of Work, 1867, 12mo; The Queen of the Air: being a Study of the Greek Myths of Cloud and Storm, 1869, cr. 8vo; Lectures on Art, 1870; Aratra Pentelici: The Elements of Sculpture, 1872.

He also published Notes on Pictures at the Royal Academy, 1855-59, Notes on the Turner Gallery at Marlborough House, 1857, Fors Clavigera, contributions to books, papers in the Quarterly and other Reviews, Magazines, etc. Messrs. John Wiley's Sons, New York, publish uniform editions of Ruskin's Works,—the last, Library edi


years as the most voluminous, the most confident, and the most doginatic of art-critics. He has astonished his readers no less by his platitudes than by his paradoxes. There is nothing more painful in Mr. Ruskin's writings than the total want of reverence for things human and divine that pervades them. The treasures of ancient art, draughts of inspiration, are to him nothing but from which successive ages have drunk deep stumbling-blocks in a deep valley of ruin [Lectures, p. 219]. . Mystery and unintelligibility have in all ages been the grand resource of those who have wished to impose upon the gullibility of the world and to pass for being wiser than their neighbours. Quacks religious, quacks moral, quacks political, and quacks literary, have resorted to them, no less than quacks legal; and nowhere will they be found in greater abundance than in the ponderous tomes with which, year after year, Mr. Ruskin burdens our groaning tables."Blackwood's Mag., Jan. 1860.

"We value a writer not in proportion to his freedom from faults, but in proportion to his posicontributes and suggests, to the amount of gladdentive excellencies,-to the variety of thought he ing and energizing emotions he excites. Of what comparative importance is it that Mr. Ruskin undervalues this painter or overvalues the other, that he sometimes glides from a just argument into a fallacious one, that he is a little absurd here and not a little arrogant there, if, with all these collateral mistakes, he teaches truth of infinite value, and so teaches it that men will listen? The truth

of infinite value that he teaches is realism, the doctrine that all truth and beauty are to be attained by a humble and faithful study of nature, and not by substituting vague forms, bred by imagination stantial reality. The thorough acceptance of this on the mists of feeling, in place of definite, subdoctrine would remould our life; and he who teaches its application to any one department of human activity with such power as Mr. Ruskin's is

a prophet for his generation."-Westm. Review, April, 1856.

See also Blackw. Mag., Oct. 1843, Sept. 1851, Nov. 1856; Brit. Quar. Rev., May, 1847, Oct. 1860; N. Amer. Rev., Jan. 1848, April, 1857; Edin. Rev., Oct. 1851, April, 1856; Fraser's Mag., April, 1854; Lond. Quar. Rev., April, 1856; Westm. Rev., April, 1856, April, 1857, Oct. 1863; N. Brit. Rev., Feb. 1862, and many other references in Allibone's Critical Dictionary of English Literature, ii. 1894.


And now come with me, for I have kept you too long from your gondola; come with me. on an autumnal morning, through the dark gates of Padua, and let us take the broad road leading towards the east. It lies level, for a league or two, between its elms and vine festoons full laden, their thin leaves veined into scarlet hectic, and their clusters deepened into gloomy blue; then mounts an embankment above the Brenta, and runs between the river and the broad plain, which stretches to the north in endless lines of mulberry and maize. The Brenta flows strongly, but slowly; a muddy volume of yellowish-grey water, that neither hastens nor slackens, but glides heavily between its monotonous banks, with here and there a short, babbling eddy twisted for an instant into its opaque surface, and vanishing, as if something had been dragged into it and gone down. Dusty and shadeless, the road fares along the dyke on its northern side; and the tall white tower of Dolo is seen trembling in the heat mist far away, and never seems nearer than it did at first. Presently, you pass one of the much-vaunted villas on the Brenta :" a glaring, spectral shell of brick and stucco, its windows with painted architraves like picture-frames, and a court-yard paved with pebbles in front of it, all burning in the thick glow of the feverish sunshine, but fenced from the high road, for magnificence' sake, with goodly posts and chains; then another, of Kew Gothic, with Chinese variations, painted red and green; a third, composed for the greater part of dead wall, with fictitious windows painted upon it, each with a pea-green blind, and a classical architrave in bad perspective; and a fourth, with stucco figures set on the top of its garden-wall: some antique, like the kind to be seen at the corner of the New Road, and some of clumsy grotesque dwarfs, with fat bodies and large


This is the architecture to which her studies of the Renaissance have conducted modern Italy. The sun climbs steadily,

and warms into intense white the walls of the little piazza of Dolo, where we change horses. Another dreary stage among the now divided branches of the Brenta, forming irregular and half-stagnant canals; with one or two more villas on the other side of them, but these of the old Venetian type, which we may have recognized before at Padua, and sinking fast into utter ruin. black, and rent, and lonely, set close to the edge of the dull water, with what were once small gardens beside them, kneaded into mud, and with blighted fragments of gnarled hedges and broken stakes for their fencing; and here and there a few fragments of marble steps, which have once given them graceful access from the water's edge, now settling into the mud in broken joints, all aslope, and slippery with green wood. At last the road runs sharply to the north, and there is an open space, covered with bent grass, on the right of it: but do not look that way. Five minutes more, and we are in the upper room of the little inn at Mestre, glad of a moment's rest in shade. The table is (always I think) covered with a cloth of nominal white and perennial grey, with plates and glasses at due intervals, and small loaves of a peculiar white bread made with oil, and more like knots of flour than bread. The view from its balcony is not cheerful : a narrow street, with a solitary brick church and barren campanile on the other side of it; and some conventual buildings, with a few crimson remnants of fresco about their windows; and between them and the street, a ditch with some slow current in it, and one or two small houses beside it, one with an arbour of roses at its door, as in an English tea-garden, the air, however, about us having in it nothing of roses, but a close smell of garlic and crabs, warmed by the smoke of various stands of hot chestnuts. There is much vociferation also going on beneath the window respecting certain wheelbarrows which are in rivalry for our baggage: we appease their rivalry with our best patience, and follow them down the narrow street. We have but walked some two hundred yards when we come to a low wharf or quay, at the extremity of a canal, with long steps on each side down to the water, which latter we fancy for an instant has become black with stagnation: another glance undeceives us, it is covered with the black boats of Venice. We enter one of them, rather to try if they be real boats or not, than with any definite purpose, and glide away; at first feeling as if the water were yielding continually beneath the boat and letting her sink into soft vacancy. It is something clearer than any water we have seen lately, and of a pale green; the banks

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