Mary Stuart | Page 6

There she was
entrusted to M. de Breze, sent by Henry II to-fetch her. Having set out
in the French galleys anchored at the mouth of the Clyde, Mary, after
having been hotly pursued by the English fleet, entered Brest harbour,
15th August, 1548, one year after the death of Francis! Besides the
queen's four Marys, the vessels also brought to France three of her
natural brothers, among whom was the Prior of St. Andrews, James
Stuart, who was later to abjure the Catholic faith, and with the title of
Regent, and under the name of the Earl of Murray, to become so fatal
to poor Mary. From Brest, Mary went to St. Germain-en- Laye, where
Henry II, who had just ascended the throne, overwhelmed her with
caresses, and then sent her to a convent where the heiresses of the
noblest French houses were brought up. There Mary's happy qualities
developed. Born with a woman's heart and a man's head, Mary not only
acquired all the accomplishments which constituted the education of a
future queen, but also that real knowledge which is the object of the
truly learned.
Thus, at fourteen, in the Louvre, before Henry II, Catherine de Medici,
and the whole court, she delivered a discourse in Latin of her own
composition, in which she maintained that it becomes women to
cultivate letters, and that it is unjust and tyrannical to deprive flowery
of their perfumes, by banishing young girls from all but domestic cares.
One can imagine in what manner a future queen, sustaining such a
thesis, was likely to be welcomed in the most lettered and pedantic

court in Europe. Between the literature of Rabelais and Marot verging
on their decline, and that of Ronsard and Montaigne reaching their
zenith, Mary became a queen of poetry, only too happy never to have to
wear another crown than that which Ronsard, Dubellay, Maison-Fleur,
arid Brantome placed daily on her head. But she was predestined. In the
midst of those fetes which a waning chivalry was trying to revive came
the fatal joust of Tournelles: Henry II, struck by a splinter of a lance for
want of a visor, slept before his time with his ancestors, and Mary
Stuart ascended the throne of France, where, from mourning for Henry,
she passed to that for her mother, and from mourning for her mother to
that for her husband. Mary felt this last loss both as woman and as poet;
her heart burst forth into bitter tears and plaintive harmonies. Here are
some lines that she composed at this time:--
"Into my song of woe, Sung to a low sad air, My cruel grief I throw,
For loss beyond compare; In bitter sighs and tears Go by my fairest
years.
Was ever grief like mine Imposed by destiny? Did ever lady pine, In
high estate, like me, Of whom both heart and eye Within the coffin lie?
Who, in the tender spring And blossom of my youth, Taste all the
sorrowing Of life's extremest ruth, And take delight in nought Save in
regretful thought.
All that was sweet and gay Is now a pain to see; The sunniness of day
Is black as night to me; All that was my delight Is hidden from my
sight.
My heart and eye, indeed, One face, one image know, The which this
morrnful weed On my sad face doth show, Dyed with the violet's tone
That is the lover's own.
Tormented by my ill, I go from place to place, But wander as I will My
woes can nought efface; My most of bad and good I find in solitude.
But wheresoe'er I stay, In meadow or in copse, Whether at break of day
Or when the twilight drops, My heart goes sighing on, Desiring one

that's gone.
If sometimes to the skies My weary gaze I lift, His gently shining eyes
Look from the cloudy drift, Or stooping o'er the wave I see him in the
grave.
Or when my bed I seek, And-sleep begins to steal, Again I hear him
speak, Again his touch I feel; In work or leisure, he Is ever near to me.
No other thing I see, However fair displayed, By which my heart will
be A tributary made, Not having the perfection Of that, my lost
affection.
Here make an end, my verse, Of this thy sad lament, Whose burden
shall rehearse Pure love of true intent, Which separation's stress Will
never render less."
"It was then," says Brantorne, "that it was delightful to see her; for the
whiteness of her countenance and of her veil contended together; but
finally the artificial white yielded, and the snow-like pallor of her face
vanquished the other. For it was thus," he adds, "that from the moment
she became a widow,