tion to those riotous
and unmannerly lords and the proud Bishop who had got the affairs of
Scotland in his hand. The two Queens might have had some previous
acquaintance with each other, at a time when both had fairer hopes; at
all events they amused themselves sadly, as they sat and talked
together, with fancies such as please women, of making a marriage
between the little Edward, the future victim of Tewkesbury, then a child
at his mother's knee, and the little Princess of Scotland who played
beside him, in the good days when all these troubles should be past, and
Henry or his son after him should have regained the English crown. One
follows with regretful interest the noble figure of Margaret, under the
guise in which that sworn Lancastrian Shakspeare has disclosed it to us,
before her sweeter mood had disappeared under the pressure of fate, and
when not curses but hopes came from her mouth in her young motherhood,
and every recovery and restoration, and happy marriage and royal state,
were possible for her boy. Mary too had been cut off in the middle of
her greatness. They were two Queens discrowned, two fair heads veiled
with misfortune, though nothing irremediable had as yet happened,
nothing that should make the future a desert though the present might be
dark; ready to live again in their children, and make premature treaties
over the little blonde heads at their knee. So natural a scene comes in
strangely to the records of violence and misery. Nothing more tragic
could be than the fate of Margaret; and the splendour and happiness had
been very shortlived in Mary's experience, soon quenched in sudden
destruction; but to see the two young mothers planning over the heads of
the little ones how the two kingdoms were to be united, and happiness
come back in a future that was never to be, while they sat together in
brief companionship in those strait rooms of Edinburgh Castle, which
were so narrow and so poor for a queen's habitation, or within the
precincts of the Greyfriars, looking out upon the peaceful Pentlands and
the soft hills of Braid, is like the recurring melody in a piece of
stormy music, the bit of light in a tempestuous picture. It teaches us
to perceive that, however the firmament of a kingdom may be torn with
storms, there are everywhere about, even in queens' chambers, scenes of
tenderness and peace.

Mary died in her own foundation of Trinity College Hospital--the
beautiful church of which was demol