No More Learning

She
had tasted all the bitterness of life, and for a few months all the
sweetness; but she would have no more of this rough and barbarous
country. Of her own free will she crossed the Solway into England, to
find herself at once a prisoner.

Never again did she set eyes on Bothwell. After the battle of Carberry
Hill he escaped to the north, gathered some ships together, and preyed
upon English merchantmen, very much as a pirate might have done. Ere
long, however, when he had learned of Mary's fate, he set sail for
Norway. King Frederick of Denmark made him a prisoner of state. He was
not confined within prison walls, however, but was allowed to hunt and
ride in the vicinity of Malmo Castle and of Dragsholm. It is probably in
Malmo Castle that he died. In 1858 a coffin which was thought to be
the coffin of the earl was opened, and a Danish artist sketched the
head--which corresponds quite well with the other portraits of the
ill-fated Scottish noble.

It is a sad story. Had Mary been less ambitious when she first met
Bothwell, or had he been a little bolder, they might have reigned
together and lived out their lives in the plenitude of that great love
which held them both in thrall. But a queen is not as other women; and
she found too late that the teaching of her heart was, after all, the
truest teaching. She went to her death as Bothwell went to his, alone,
in a strange, unfriendly land.

Yet, even this, perhaps, was better so. It has at least touched both
their lives with pathos and has made the name of Mary Stuart one to be
remembered throughout all the ages.





QUEEN CHRISTINA OF SWEDEN AND THE MARQUIS MONALDESCHI


Sweden to-day is one of the peaceful kingdoms of the world, whose people
are prosperous, well governed, and somewhat apart from the clash and
turmoil of other states and nations. Even the secession of Norway, a few
years ago, was accomplished without bloodshed, and now the two kingdoms
exist side by side as free from strife as they are with Denmark, which
once domineered and tyrannized over both.

It is difficult to believe that long ago, in the Middle Ages, the cities
of southern Sweden were among the great commercial centers of the world.
Stockholm and Lund ranked with London and Paris. They absorbed the
commerce of the northern seas, and were the admiration of thousands
of travelers and merchants who passed through them and trafficked with
them.

Much nearer to our own time, Sweden was the great military power of
northern Europe. The ambassadors of the Swedish kings were received with
the utmost deference in every court. Her soldiers won great battles
and ended mighty wars. The England of Cromwell and Charles II. was
unimportant and isolated in comparison with this northern kingdom, which
could pour forth armies of gigantic blond warriors, headed by generals
astute as well as brave.

It was no small matter, then, in 1626, that the loyal Swedes were hoping
that their queen would give birth to a male heir to succeed his splendid
father, Gustavus Adolphus, ranked by military historians as one of the
six great generals whom the world had so far produced. The queen, a
German princess of Brandenburg, had already borne two daughters, who
died in infancy. The expectation was wide-spread and intense that she
should now become the mother of a son; and the king himself was no less
anxious.

When the event occurred, the child was seen to be completely covered
with hair, and for this reason the attendants at first believed that it
was the desired boy. When their mistake was discovered they were afraid
to tell the king, who was waiting in his study for the announcement
to be made. At last, when no one else would go to him, his sister, the
Princess Caroline, volunteered to break the news.

Gustavus was in truth a chivalrous, high-bred monarch. Though he must
have been disappointed at the advent of a daughter, he showed no sign
of dissatisfaction or even of surprise; but, rising, he embraced his
sister, saying:

"Let us thank God. I hope this girl will be as good as a boy to me. May
God preserve her now that He has sent her! "

It is customary at almost all courts to pay less attention to the birth
of a princess than to that of a prince; but Gustavus displayed his
chivalry toward this little daughter, whom he named Christina. He
ordered that the full royal salute should be fired in every fortress of
his kingdom and that displays of fireworks, balls of honor, and court
functions should take place; "for," as he said, "this is the heir to my
throne. " And so from the first he took his child under his own keeping
and treated her as if she were a much-loved son as well as a successor.

He joked about her looks when she was born, when she was mistaken for a
boy.

"She will be clever," he said, "for she has taken us all in! "

The Swedish people were as delighted with their little princess as were
the people of Holland when the present Queen Wilhelmina was born, to
carry on the succession of the House of Orange. On one occasion the king
and the small Christina, who were inseparable companions, happened
to approach a fortress where they expected to spend the night. The
commander of the castle was bound to fire a royal salute of fifty cannon
in honor of his sovereign; yet he dreaded the effect upon the princess
of such a roaring and bellowing of artillery. He therefore sent a
swift horseman to meet the royal party at a distance and explain his
perplexity. Should he fire these guns or not? Would the king give an
order?

Gustavus thought for a moment, and then replied:

"My daughter is the daughter of a soldier, and she must learn to lead a
soldier's life. Let the guns be fired! "

The procession moved on. Presently fire spurted from the embrasures of
the fort, and its batteries thundered in one great roar. The king looked
down at Christina. Her face was aglow with pleasure and excitement; she
clapped her hands and laughed, and cried out:

"More bang! More! More! More! "

This is only one of a score of stories that were circulated about the
princess, and the Swedes were more and more delighted with the girl who
was to be their queen.

Somewhat curiously, Christina's mother, Queen Maria, cared little for
the child, and, in fact, came at last to detest her almost as much as
the king loved her. It is hard to explain this dislike. Perhaps she had
a morbid desire for a son and begrudged the honors given to a daughter.
Perhaps she was a little jealous of her own child, who took so much of
the king's attention. Afterward, in writing of her mother, Christina
excuses her, and says quite frankly:

She could not bear to see me, because I was a girl, and an ugly girl at
that. And she was right enough, for I was as tawny as a little Turk.

This candid description of herself is hardly just. Christina was never
beautiful, and she had a harsh voice. She was apt to be overbearing
even as a little girl. Yet she was a most interesting child, with an
expressive face, large eyes, an aquiline nose, and the blond hair of her
people. There was nothing in this to account for her mother's intense
dislike for her.

It was currently reported at the time that attempts were made to maim
or seriously injure the little princess. By what was made to seem an
accident, she would be dropped upon the floor, and heavy articles of
furniture would somehow manage to strike her. More than once a great
beam fell mysteriously close to her, either in the palace or while she
was passing through the streets. None of these things did her serious
harm, however. Most of them she luckily escaped; but when she had grown
to be a woman one of her shoulders was permanently higher than the
other.

"I suppose," said Christina, "that I could be straightened if I would
let the surgeons attend to it; but it isn't worth while to take the
trouble. "

When Christina was four, Sweden became involved in the great war
that had been raging for a dozen years between the Protestant and the
Catholic states of Germany. Gradually the neighboring powers had been
drawn into the struggle, either to serve their own ends or to support
the faith to which they adhered. Gustavus Adolphus took up the sword
with mixed motives, for he was full of enthusiasm for the imperiled
cause of the Reformation, and at the same time he deemed it a favorable
opportunity to assert his control over the shores of the Baltic.

The warrior king summoned his army and prepared to invade Germany.
Before departing he took his little daughter by the hand and led her
among the assembled nobles and councilors of state. To them he intrusted
the princess, making them kneel and vow that they would regard her as
his heir, and, if aught should happen to him, as his successor. Amid the
clashing of swords and the clang of armor this vow was taken, and the
king went forth to war.

He met the ablest generals of his enemies, and the fortunes of battle
swayed hither and thither; but the climax came when his soldiers
encountered those of Wallenstein--that strange, overbearing, arrogant,
mysterious creature whom many regarded with a sort of awe. The clash
came at Lutzen, in Saxony. The Swedish king fought long and hard, and so
did his mighty opponent; but at last, in the very midst of a tremendous
onset that swept all before him, Gustavus received a mortal wound and
died, even while Wallenstein was fleeing from the field of battle.

The battle of Lutzen made Christina Queen of Sweden at the age of six.
Of course, she could not yet be crowned, but a council of able ministers
continued the policy of the late king and taught the young queen her
first lessons in statecraft. Her intellect soon showed itself as more
than that of a child. She understood all that was taking place, and all
that was planned and arranged. Her tact was unusual. Her discretion was
admired by every one; and after a while she had the advice and training
of the great Swedish chancellor, Oxenstierna, whose wisdom she shared to
a remarkable degree.

Before she was sixteen she had so approved herself to her counselors,
and especially to the people at large, that there was a wide-spread
clamor that she should take the throne and govern in her own person. To
this she gave no heed, but said:

"I am not yet ready. "

All this time she bore herself like a king. There was nothing distinctly
feminine about her. She took but slight interest in her appearance.
She wore sword and armor in the presence of her troops, and often she
dressed entirely in men's clothes. She would take long, lonely gallops
through the forests, brooding over problems of state and feeling no
fatigue or fear. And indeed why should she fear, who was beloved by all
her subjects?

When her eighteenth year arrived, the demand for her coronation was
impossible to resist. All Sweden wished to see a ruling queen, who might
marry and have children to succeed her through the royal line of her
great father. Christina consented to be crowned, but she absolutely
refused all thought of marriage. She had more suitors from all parts of
Europe than even Elizabeth of England; but, unlike Elizabeth, she
did not dally with them, give them false hopes, or use them for the
political advantage of her kingdom.

At that time Sweden was stronger than England, and was so situated as to
be independent of alliances. So Christina said, in her harsh, peremptory
voice:

"I shall never marry; and why should you speak of my having children! I
am just as likely to give birth to a Nero as to an Augustus. "

Having assumed the throne, she ruled with a strictness of government
such as Sweden had not known before. She took the reins of state into
her own hands and carried out a foreign policy of her own, over the
heads of her ministers, and even against the wishes of her people. The
fighting upon the Continent had dragged out to a weary length, but the
Swedes, on the whole, had scored a marked advantage. For this reason the
war was popular, and every one wished it to go on; but Christina, of
her own will, decided that it must stop, that mere glory was not to be
considered against material advantages. Sweden had had enough of glory;
she must now look to her enrichment and prosperity through the channels
of peace.

Therefore, in 1648, against Oxenstierna, against her generals, and
against her people, she exercised her royal power and brought the Thirty
Years' War to an end by the so-called Peace of Westphalia. At this time
she was twenty-two, and by her personal influence she had ended one of
the greatest struggles of history. Nor had she done it to her country's
loss. Denmark yielded up rich provinces, while Germany was compelled to
grant Sweden membership in the German diet.

Then came a period of immense prosperity through commerce, through
economies in government, through the improvement of agriculture and the
opening of mines. This girl queen, without intrigue, without descending
from her native nobility to peep and whisper with shady diplomats,
showed herself in reality a great monarch, a true Semiramis of the
north, more worthy of respect and reverence than Elizabeth of England.
She was highly trained in many arts. She was fond of study, spoke
Latin fluently, and could argue with Salmasius, Descartes, and other
accomplished scholars without showing any inferiority to them.

She gathered at her court distinguished persons from all countries. She
repelled those who sought her hand, and she was pure and truthful and
worthy of all men's admiration. Had she died at this time history would
rank her with the greatest of women sovereigns. Naude, the librarian of
Cardinal Mazarin, wrote of her to the scientist Gassendi in these words:

To say truth, I am sometimes afraid lest the common saying should be
verified in her, that short is the life and rare the old age of those
who surpass the common limits. Do not imagine that she is learned only
in books, for she is equally so in painting, architecture, sculpture,
medals, antiquities, and all curiosities. There is not a cunning workman
in these arts but she has him fetched. There are as good workers in
wax and in enamel, engravers, singers, players, dancers here as will be
found anywhere.

She has a gallery of statues, bronze and marble, medals of gold,
silver, and bronze, pieces of ivory, amber, coral, worked crystal, steel
mirrors, clocks and tables, bas-reliefs and other things of the kind;
richer I have never seen even in Italy; finally, a great quantity of
pictures. In short, her mind is open to all impressions.

But after she began to make her court a sort of home for art and
letters it ceased to be the sort of court that Sweden was prepared for.
Christina's subjects were still rude and lacking in accomplishments;
therefore she had to summon men of genius from other countries,
especially from France and Italy. Many of these were illustrious artists
or scholars, but among them were also some who used their mental gifts
for harm.

Among these latter was a French physician named Bourdelot--a man of keen
intellect, of winning manners, and of a profound cynicism, which was
not apparent on the surface, but the effect of which last lasting. To
Bourdelot we must chiefly ascribe the mysterious change which gradually
came over Queen Christina. With his associates he taught her a distaste
for the simple and healthy life that she had been accustomed to lead.
She ceased to think of the welfare of the state and began to look down
with scorn upon her unsophisticated Swedes. Foreign luxury displayed
itself at Stockholm, and her palaces overflowed with beautiful things.

By subtle means Bourdelot undermined her principles. Having been
a Stoic, she now became an Epicurean. She was by nature devoid of
sentiment. She would not spend her time in the niceties of love-making,
as did Elizabeth; but beneath the surface she had a sort of tigerish,
passionate nature, which would break forth at intervals, and which
demanded satisfaction from a series of favorites. It is probable that
Bourdelot was her first lover, but there were many others whose names
are recorded in the annals of the time.

When she threw aside her virtue Christina ceased to care about
appearances. She squandered her revenues upon her favorites. What she
retained of her former self was a carelessness that braved the opinion
of her subjects. She dressed almost without thought, and it is said that
she combed her hair not more than twice a month. She caroused with male
companions to the scandal of her people, and she swore like a trooper
when displeased.

Christina's philosophy of life appears to have been compounded of an
almost brutal licentiousness, a strong love of power, and a strange,
freakish longing for something new. Her political ambitions were checked
by the rising discontent of her people, who began to look down upon her
and to feel ashamed of her shame. Knowing herself as she did, she did
not care to marry.

Yet Sweden must have an heir. Therefore she chose out her cousin
Charles, declared that he was to be her successor, and finally caused
him to be proclaimed as such before the assembled estates of the realm.
She even had him crowned; and finally, in her twenty-eighth year, she
abdicated altogether and prepared to leave Sweden. When asked whither
she would go, she replied in a Latin quotation:

"The Fates will show the way. "

In her act of abdication she reserved to herself the revenues of some
of the richest provinces in Sweden and absolute power over such of her
subjects as should accompany her. They were to be her subjects until the
end.

The Swedes remembered that Christina was the daughter of their greatest
king, and that, apart from personal scandals, she had ruled them well;
and so they let her go regretfully and accepted her cousin as their
king. Christina, on her side, went joyfully and in the spirit of a grand
adventuress. With a numerous suite she entered Germany, and then stayed
for a year at Brussels, where she renounced Lutheranism. After this she
traveled slowly into Italy, where she entered Borne on horseback,
and was received by the Pope, Alexander VII. , who lodged her in a
magnificent palace, accepted her conversion, and baptized her, giving
her a new name, Alexandra.

In Rome she was a brilliant but erratic personage, living sumptuously,
even though her revenues from Sweden came in slowly, partly because the
Swedes disliked her change of religion. She was surrounded by men of
letters, with whom she amused herself, and she took to herself a lover,
the Marquis Monaldeschi. She thought that at last she had really found
her true affinity, while Monaldeschi believed that he could count on the
queen's fidelity.

He was in attendance upon her daily, and they were almost inseparable.
He swore allegiance to her and thereby made himself one of the subjects
over whom she had absolute power. For a time he was the master of those
intense emotions which, in her, alternated with moods of coldness and
even cruelty.

Monaldeschi was a handsome Italian, who bore himself with a fine air of
breeding. He understood the art of charming, but he did not know that
beyond a certain time no one could hold the affections of Christina.

However, after she had quarreled with various cardinals and decided to
leave Rome for a while, Monaldeschi accompanied her to France, where
she had an immense vogue at the court of Louis XIV. She attracted wide
attention because of her eccentricity and utter lack of manners. It
gave her the greatest delight to criticize the ladies of the French
court--their looks, their gowns, and their jewels. They, in return,
would speak of Christina's deformed shoulder and skinny frame; but the
king was very gracious to her and invited her to his hunting-palace at
Fontainebleau.

While she had been winning triumphs of sarcasm the infatuated
Monaldeschi had gradually come to suspect, and then to know, that his
royal mistress was no longer true to him. He had been supplanted in her
favor by another Italian, one Sentanelli, who was the captain of her
guard.

Monaldeschi took a tortuous and roundabout revenge. He did not let the
queen know of his discovery; nor did he, like a man, send a challenge
to Sentanelli. Instead he began by betraying her secrets to Oliver
Cromwell, with whom she had tried to establish a correspondence. Again,
imitating the hand and seal of Sentanelli, he set in circulation a
series of the most scandalous and insulting letters about Christina. By
this treacherous trick he hoped to end the relations between his rival
and the queen; but when the letters were carried to Christina she
instantly recognized their true source. She saw that she was betrayed
by her former favorite and that he had taken a revenge which might
seriously compromise her.

This led to a tragedy, of which the facts were long obscure. They were
carefully recorded, however, by the queen's household chaplain, Father
Le Bel; and there is also a narrative written by one Marco Antonio
Conti, which confirms the story. Both were published privately in 1865,
with notes by Louis Lacour.

The narration of the priest is dreadful in its simplicity and minuteness
of detail. It may be summed up briefly here, because it is the testimony
of an eye-witness who knew Christina.

Christina, with the marquis and a large retinue, was at Fontainebleau in
November, 1657. A little after midnight, when all was still, the priest,
Father Le Bel, was aroused and ordered to go at once to the Galerie des
Cerfs, or Hall of Stags, in another part of the palace. When he asked
why, he was told:

"It is by the order of her majesty the Swedish queen. "

The priest, wondering, hurried on his garments. On reaching the gloomy
hall he saw the Marquis Monaldeschi, evidently in great agitation, and
at the end of the corridor the queen in somber robes. Beside the
queen, as if awaiting orders, stood three figures, who could with some
difficulty be made out as three soldiers of her guard.

The queen motioned to Father Le Bel and asked him for a packet which she
had given him for safe-keeping some little time before. He gave it to
her, and she opened it. In it were letters and other documents, which,
with a steely glance, she displayed to Monaldeschi. He was confused by
the sight of them and by the incisive words in which Christina showed
how he had both insulted her and had tried to shift the blame upon
Sentanelli.

Monaldeschi broke down completely. He fell at the queen's feet and wept
piteously, begging for pardon, only to be met by the cold answer:

"You are my subject and a traitor to me. Marquis, you must prepare to
die! "

Then she turned away and left the hall, in spite of the cries of
Monaldeschi, to whom she merely added the advice that he should make his
peace with God by confessing to Father Le Bel.

After she had gone the marquis fell into a torrent of self-exculpation
and cried for mercy. The three armed men drew near and urged him to
confess for the good of his soul. They seemed to have no malice against
him, but to feel that they must obey the orders given them.
At the
frantic urging of the marquis their leader even went to the queen to ask
whether she would relent; but he returned shaking his head, and said:

"Marquis, you must die. "

Father Le Bel undertook a like mission, but returned with the message
that there was no hope. So the marquis made his confession in French
and Latin, but even then he hoped; for he did not wait to receive
absolution, but begged still further for delay or pardon.

Then the three armed men approached, having drawn their swords. The
absolution was pronounced; and, following it, one of the guards slashed
the marquis across the forehead. He stumbled and fell forward, making
signs as if to ask that he might have his throat cut. But his throat
was partly protected by a coat of mail, so that three or four strokes
delivered there had slight effect. Finally, however, a long, narrow
sword was thrust into his side, after which the marquis made no sound.

Father Le Bel at once left the Galerie des Cerfs and went into the
queen's apartment, with the smell of blood in his nostrils. He found her
calm and ready to justify herself. Was she not still queen over all who
had voluntarily become members of her suite? This had been agreed to in
her act of abdication. Wherever she set her foot, there, over her own,
she was still a monarch, with full power to punish traitors at her will.
This power she had exercised, and with justice. What mattered it that
she was in France? She was queen as truly as Louis XIV. was king.

The story was not long in getting out, but the truth was not wholly
known until a much later day. It was said that Sentanelli had slapped
the marquis in a fit of jealousy, though some added that it was done
with the connivance of the queen. King Louis, the incarnation of
absolutism, knew the truth, but he was slow to act. He sympathized with
the theory of Christina's sovereignty. It was only after a time that
word was sent to Christina that she must leave Fontainebleau. She took
no notice of the order until it suited her convenience, and then she
went forth with all the honors of a reigning monarch.

This was the most striking episode in all the strange story of her
private life. When her cousin Charles, whom she had made king, died
without an heir she sought to recover her crown; but the estates of the
realm refused her claim, reduced her income, and imposed restraints upon
her power. She then sought the vacant throne of Poland; but the Polish
nobles, who desired a weak ruler for their own purposes, made another
choice. So at last she returned to Rome, where the Pope received her
with a splendid procession and granted her twelve thousand crowns a year
to make up for her lessened Swedish revenue.

From this time she lived a life which she made interesting by her
patronage of learning and exciting by her rather unseemly quarrels with
cardinals and even with the Pope. Her armed retinue marched through the
streets with drawn swords and gave open protection to criminals who had
taken refuge with her. She dared to criticize the pontiff, who merely
smiled and said:

"She is a woman! "

On the whole, the end of her life was pleasant. She was much admired for
her sagacity in politics. Her words were listened to at every court in
Europe. She annotated the classics, she made beautiful collections, and
she was regarded as a privileged person whose acts no one took amiss.
She died at fifty-three, and was buried in St. Peter's.

She was bred a man, she was almost a son to her great father; and yet,
instead of the sonorous epitaph that is inscribed beside her tomb,
perhaps a truer one would be the words of the vexed Pope:

"E DONNA! "





KING CHARLES II. AND NELL GWYN


One might classify the kings of England in many ways. John was
undoubtedly the most unpopular. The impetuous yet far-seeing Henry
II. , with the other two great warriors, Edward I. and Edward III. ,
and William of Orange, did most for the foundation and development of
England's constitutional law. Some monarchs, such as Edward II. and the
womanish Henry VI. , have been contemptible. Hard-working, useful kings
have been Henry VII. , the Georges, William IV. , and especially the last
Edward.

If we consider those monarchs who have in some curious way touched the
popular fancy without reference to their virtues we must go back to
Richard of the Lion Heart, who saw but little of England, yet was the
best essentially English king, and to Henry V. , gallant soldier and
conqueror of France. Even Henry VIII. had a warm place in the affection
of his countrymen, few of whom saw him near at hand, but most of whom
made him a sort of regal incarnation of John Bull--wrestling and tilting
and boxing, eating great joints of beef, and staying his thirst with
flagons of ale--a big, healthy, masterful animal, in fact, who gratified
the national love of splendor and stood up manfully in his struggle with
the Pope.

But if you look for something more than ordinary popularity--something
that belongs to sentiment and makes men willing to become martyrs for
a royal cause--we must find these among the Stuart kings. It is odd,
indeed, that even at this day there are Englishmen and Englishwomen who
believe their lawful sovereign to be a minor Bavarian princess in whose
veins there runs the Stuart blood. Prayers are said for her at English
shrines, and toasts are drunk to her in rare old wine.

Of course, to-day this cult of the Stuarts is nothing but a fad. No
one ever expects to see a Stuart on the English throne. But it is
significant of the deep strain of romance which the six Stuarts who
reigned in England have implanted in the English heart. The old Jacobite
ballads still have power to thrill. Queen Victoria herself used to have
the pipers file out before her at Balmoral to the "skirling" of "Bonnie
Dundee," "Over the Water to Charlie," and "Wha'll Be King but Charlie! "
It is a sentiment that has never died. Her late majesty used to say that
when she heard these tunes she became for the moment a Jacobite; just
as the Empress Eugenie at the height of her power used pertly to remark
that she herself was the only Legitimist left in France.

It may be suggested that the Stuarts are still loved by many Englishmen
because they were unfortunate; yet this is hardly true, after all. Many
of them were fortunate enough. The first of them, King James, an absurd
creature, speaking broad Scotch, timid, foolishly fond of favorites, and
having none of the dignity of a monarch, lived out a lengthy reign. The
two royal women of the family--Anne and Mary--had no misfortunes of a
public nature. Charles II. reigned for more than a quarter of a century,
lapped in every kind of luxury, and died a king.

The first Charles was beheaded and afterward styled a "saint"; yet the
majority of the English people were against his arrogance, or else he
would have won his great struggle against Parliament. The second James
was not popular at all. Nevertheless, no sooner had he been expelled,
and been succeeded by a Dutchman gnawing asparagus and reeking of
cheeses, than there was already a Stuart legend. Even had there been
no pretenders to carry on the cult, the Stuarts would still have passed
into history as much loved by the people.

It only shows how very little in former days the people expected of
a regnant king. Many monarchs have had just a few popular traits, and
these have stood out brilliantly against the darkness of the background.

No one could have cared greatly for the first James, but Charles I. was
indeed a kingly personage when viewed afar. He was handsome, as a
man, fully equaling the French princess who became his wife. He had no
personal vices. He was brave, and good to look upon, and had a kingly
mien. Hence, although he sought to make his rule over England a tyranny,
there were many fine old cavaliers to ride afield for him when he raised
his standard, and who, when he died, mourned for him as a "martyr. "

Many hardships they underwent while Cromwell ruled with his iron hand;
and when that iron hand was relaxed in death, and poor, feeble Richard
Cromwell slunk away to his country-seat, what wonder is it that young
Charles came back to England and caracoled through the streets of London
with a smile for every one and a happy laugh upon his lips? What wonder
is it that the cannon in the Tower thundered a loud welcome, and that
all over England, at one season or another, maypoles rose and Christmas
fires blazed? For Englishmen at heart are not only monarchists, but they
are lovers of good cheer and merrymaking and all sorts of mirth.

Charles II. might well at first have seemed a worthier and wiser
successor to his splendid father. As a child, even, he had shown himself
to be no faint-hearted creature. When the great Civil War broke out he
had joined his father's army. It met with disaster at Edgehill, and
was finally shattered by the crushing defeat of Naseby, which afterward
inspired Macaulay's most stirring ballad.

Charles was then only a child of twelve, and so his followers did wisely
in hurrying him out of England, through the Scilly isles and Jersey to
his mother's place of exile. Of course, a child so very young could be
of no value as a leader, though his presence might prove an inspiration.

In 1648, however, when he was eighteen years of age, he gathered a fleet
of eighteen ships and cruised along the English coast, taking prizes,
which he carried to the Dutch ports. When he was at Holland's
capital, during his father's trial, he wrote many messages to the
Parliamentarians, and even sent them a blank charter, which they might
fill in with any stipulations they desired if only they would save and
restore their king.

When the head of Charles rolled from the velvet-covered block his son
showed himself to be no loiterer or lover of an easy life. He hastened
to Scotland, skilfully escaping an English force, and was proclaimed as
king and crowned at Scone, in 1651. With ten thousand men he dashed into
England, where he knew there were many who would rally at his call. But
it was then that Cromwell put forth his supreme military genius and with
his Ironsides crushed the royal troops at Worcester.

Charles knew that for the present all was lost. He showed courage and
address in covering the flight of his beaten soldiers; but he soon
afterward went to France, remaining there and in the Netherlands for
eight years as a pensioner of Louis XIV. He knew that time would fight
for him far more surely than infantry and horse. England had not been
called "Merry England" for nothing; and Cromwell's tyranny was likely to
be far more resented than the heavy hand of one who was born a king.
So Charles at Paris and Liege, though he had little money at the time,
managed to maintain a royal court, such as it was.

Here there came out another side of his nature. As a child he had
borne hardship and privation and had seen the red blood flow upon
the battlefield. Now, as it were, he allowed a certain sensuous,
pleasure-loving ease to envelop him. The red blood should become the
rich red burgundy; the sound of trumpets and kettledrums should give way
to the melody of lutes and viols. He would be a king of pleasure if he
were to be king at all. And therefore his court, even in exile, was a
court of gallantry and ease. The Pope refused to lend him money, and the
King of France would not increase his pension, but there were many who
foresaw that Charles would not long remain in exile; and so they gave
him what he wanted and waited until he could give them what they would
ask for in their turn.

Charles at this time was not handsome, like his father. His complexion
was swarthy, his figure by no means imposing, though always graceful.
When he chose he could bear himself with all the dignity of a monarch.
He had a singularly pleasant manner, and a word from him could win over
the harshest opponent.

The old cavaliers who accompanied their master in exile were like
Napoleon's veterans in Elba. With their tall, powerful forms they
stalked about the courtyards, sniffing their disapproval at these
foreign ways and longing grimly for the time when they could once more
smell the pungent powder of the battle-field. But, as Charles had hoped,
the change was coming. Not merely were his own subjects beginning
to long for him and to pray in secret for the king, but continental
monarchs who maintained spies in England began to know of this. To them
Charles was no longer a penniless exile. He was a king who before long
would take possession of his kingdom.

A very wise woman--the Queen Regent of Portugal--was the first to act on
this information. Portugal was then very far from being a petty state.
It had wealth at home and rich colonies abroad, while its flag was seen
on every sea. The queen regent, being at odds with Spain, and wishing to
secure an ally against that power, made overtures to Charles, asking him
whether a match might not be made between him and the Princess Catharine
of Braganza. It was not merely her daughter's hand that she offered,
but a splendid dowry. She would pay Charles a million pounds in gold and
cede to England two valuable ports.

The match was not yet made, but by 1659 it had been arranged. The
Spaniards were furious, for Charles's cause began to appear successful.

She was a quaint and rather piteous little figure, she who was destined
to be the wife of the Merry Monarch. Catharine was dark, petite, and by
no means beautiful; yet she had a very sweet expression and a heart of
utter innocence. She had been wholly convent-bred. She knew nothing of
the world. She was told that in marriage she must obey in all things,
and that the chief duty of a wife was to make her husband happy.

Poor child! It was a too gracious preparation for a very graceless
husband. Charles, in exile, had already made more than one discreditable
connection and he was already the father of more than one growing son.

First of all, he had been smitten by the bold ways of one Lucy Walters.
Her impudence amused the exiled monarch. She was not particularly
beautiful, and when she spoke as others did she was rather tiresome; but
her pertness and the inexperience of the king when he went into exile
made her seem attractive. She bore him a son, in the person of that
brilliant adventurer whom Charles afterward created Duke of Monmouth.
Many persons believe that Charles had married Lucy Walters, just as
George IV. may have married Mrs. Fitzherbert; yet there is not the
slightest proof of it, and it must be classed with popular legends.

There was also one Catherine Peg, or Kep, whose son was afterward
made Earl of Plymouth. It must be confessed that in his attachments
to English women Charles showed little care for rank or station. Lucy
Walters and Catherine Peg were very illiterate creatures.

In a way it was precisely this sort of preference that made Charles
so popular among the people. He seemed to make rank of no account, but
would chat in the most familiar and friendly way with any one whom he
happened to meet. His easy, democratic manner, coupled with the grace
and prestige of royalty, made friends for him all over England. The
treasury might be nearly bankrupt; the navy might be routed by the
Dutch; the king himself might be too much given to dissipation; but his
people forgave him all, because everybody knew that Charles would clap
an honest citizen on the back and joke with all who came to see him feed
the swans in Regent's Park.

The popular name for him was "Rowley," or "Old Rowley"--a nickname
of mysterious origin, though it is said to have been given him from a
fancied resemblance to a famous hunter in his stables. Perhaps it is the
very final test of popularity that a ruler should have a nickname known
to every one.

Cromwell's death roused all England to a frenzy of king-worship. The
Roundhead, General Monk, and his soldiers proclaimed Charles King of
England and escorted him to London in splendid state. That was a day
when national feeling reached a point such as never has been before or
since. Oughtred, the famous mathematician, died of joy when the royal
emblems were restored. Urquhart, the translator of Rabelais, died, it is
said, of laughter at the people's wild delight--a truly Rabelaisian end.

There was the king once more; and England, breaking through its long
period of Puritanism, laughed and danced with more vivacity than ever
the French had shown. All the pipers and the players and panderers to
vice, the mountebanks, the sensual men, and the lawless women poured
into the presence of the king, who had been too long deprived of the
pleasure that his nature craved. Parliament voted seventy thousand
pounds for a memorial to Charles's father, but the irresponsible king
spent the whole sum on the women who surrounded him. His severest
counselor, Lord Clarendon, sent him a remonstrance.

"How can I build such a memorial," asked Charles, "when I don't know
where my father's remains are buried! "

He took money from the King of France to make war against the Dutch,
who had befriended him. It was the French king, too, who sent him that
insidious, subtle daughter of Brittany, Louise de Keroualle--Duchess
of Portsmouth--a diplomat in petticoats, who won the king's wayward
affections, and spied on what he did and said, and faithfully reported
all of it to Paris. She became the mother of the Duke of Lenox, and
she was feared and hated by the English more than any other of his
mistresses. They called her "Madam Carwell," and they seemed to have an
instinct that she was no mere plaything of his idle hours, but was like
some strange exotic serpent, whose poison might in the end sting the
honor of England.

There is a pitiful little episode in the marriage of Charles with his
Portuguese bride, Catharine of Braganza. The royal girl came to him
fresh from the cloisters of her convent. There was something about her
grace and innocence that touched the dissolute monarch, who was by no
means without a heart. For a time he treated her with great respect,
and she was happy. At last she began to notice about her strange
faces--faces that were evil, wanton, or overbold. The court became more
and more a seat of reckless revelry.

Finally Catharine was told that the Duchess of Cleveland--that splendid
termagant, Barbara Villiers--had been appointed lady of the bedchamber.
She was told at the same time who this vixen was--that she was no fit
attendant for a virtuous woman, and that her three sons, the Dukes of
Southampton, Grafton, and Northumberland, were also the sons of Charles.

Fluttered and frightened and dismayed, the queen hastened to her husband
and begged him not to put this slight upon her. A year or two before,
she had never dreamed that life contained such things as these; but now
it seemed to contain nothing else. Charles spoke sternly to her until
she burst into tears, and then he petted her and told her that her
duty as a queen compelled her to submit to many things which a lady in
private life need not endure.

After a long and poignant struggle with her own emotions the little
Portuguese yielded to the wishes of her lord. She never again reproached
him. She even spoke with kindness to his favorites and made him feel
that she studied his happiness alone. Her gentleness affected him so
that he always spoke to her with courtesy and real friendship. When the
Protestant mobs sought to drive her out of England he showed his
courage and manliness by standing by her and refusing to allow her to be
molested.

Indeed, had Charles been always at his best he would have had a very
different name in history. He could be in every sense a king. He had a
keen knowledge of human nature. Though he governed England very badly,
he never governed it so badly as to lose his popularity.

The epigram of Rochester, written at the king's own request, was
singularly true of Charles. No man relied upon his word, yet men loved
him. He never said anything that was foolish, and he very seldom did
anything that was wise; yet his easy manners and gracious ways endeared
him to those who met him.

One can find no better picture of his court than that which Sir Walter
Scott has drawn so vividly in Peveril of the Peak; or, if one wishes
first-hand evidence, it can be found in the diaries of Evelyn and of
Samuel Pepys. In them we find the rakes and dicers, full of strange
oaths, deep drunkards, vile women and still viler men, all striving for
the royal favor and offering the filthiest lures, amid routs and balls
and noisy entertainments, of which it is recorded that more than once
some woman gave birth to a child among the crowd of dancers.

No wonder that the little Portuguese queen kept to herself and did not
let herself be drawn into this swirling, roaring, roistering saturnalia.
She had less influence even than Moll Davis, whom Charles picked out
of a coffee-house, and far less than "Madam Carwell," to whom it is
reported that a great English nobleman once presented pearls to the
value of eight thousand pounds in order to secure her influence in a
single stroke of political business.

Of all the women who surrounded Charles there was only one who cared
anything for him or for England. The rest were all either selfish or
treacherous or base. This one exception has been so greatly written of,
both in fiction and in history, as to make it seem almost unnecessary to
add another word; yet it may well be worth while to separate the fiction
from the fact and to see how much of the legend of Eleanor Gwyn is true.

The fanciful story of her birthplace is most surely quite unfounded. She
was not the daughter of a Welsh officer, but of two petty hucksters who
had their booth in the lowest precincts of London. In those days the
Strand was partly open country, and as it neared the city it showed the
mansions of the gentry set in their green-walled parks. At one end of
the Strand, however, was Drury Lane, then the haunt of criminals and
every kind of wretch, while nearer still was the notorious Coal Yard,
where no citizen dared go unarmed.

Within this dreadful place children were kidnapped and trained to
various forms of vice.