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on condition she would dismiss Bothwell from her presence, and govern the kingdom by the advice of her nobles, they would honour and obey her as their sovereign.

During this parley, Bothwell took his last fare. well of the queen, and rode off the field with a few followers. This dismal reverse happened exactly one month after that marriage which had cost him so many crimes to accomplish, and which leaves 50 foul a stain on Mary's memory.

After his flight from the confederates, Bothwell lurked for some time among his vassals in the neighbourhood of Dunbar. But finding it impose sible for him to make head in that country against his enemies, or even to secure himself from their pursuit, he fled for shelter to his kinsman the bishop of Murray; and when he, overawed by the confederates, was obliged to abandon him, he re. tired to the Orkney Isles. Hunted from place to place, deserted by his friends, and accompanied by a few retainers as desperate as himself, he suffered at once the miseries of infamy and of want. His indigence forced him upon a course which added to his infamy. He armed a few small ships, which had accompanied him from Dunbar, and attacking every vessel which fell in his way, endeavoured to procure subsistence for himself and his followers by piracy. Kirkaldy and Murray of Tullibardin were sent out against him by the confederates; and surprising him while he rode at anchor, scattered his small fieet, took a part of it, and obli. ged him to fly with a single ship towards Norway, On that coast, he fell in with a vessel richly laden, and immediately attacked it; the Norwegians sailed with armed boats to its assistance, and after a desperate fight, Bothwell and all his crew were taken prisoners. His name and quality were both

unknown, and he was treated at first with all the indignity and rigour which the odious crime of piracy merited. His real character was soon discovered; and though it saved him from the infamous death to which his associates were condemned, it 'could neither procure him liberty, nor mitigate the hardships of his imprisonment. He languished ten years in this unhappy condition: melancholy and despair deprived him of reason, and at last he ended his days, unpitied by his countrymen, and ůnassisted by strangers. Few men ever accomplished their ambitious projects by worse means, or reaped from them less satisfaction. The early part of his life was restless and enterprising, full of danger and of vicissitudes. His enjoyment of the grandeur, to which he attained by so many crimes, was extremely short; embittered by much anxiety, and disquieted by many fears. In his latter years he suffered the most intolerable calamities to which the wretched are subject, and from which persons who have moved in so high a sphere are commonly exempted.


At the period when the Scotish and English commissioners were convened to adjust matter: between the queen of Scotland and her nobles, Norfolk

was the most powerful and most popular man in England. His wife was lately dead; and he began already to form a project, which he afterwards more openly avowed, of mounting the throne of Scotland, by a marriage with the queen of Scots. He saw the infamy which would be the consequence of a public accusation against Mary, and how prejudicial it might be to her pretensions

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to the English succession. In order to save her from this cruel mortification, he applied to Maitland, and expressed his astonishment at seeing a man of so much reputation for wisdom concurring with the regent in a measure so dishonourable to themselves, to their queen, and to their country; submitting the public transactions of the nation to the judgment of foreigners; and publishing the ignominy, and exposing the faults of their sovereign, which they were bound in good policy, as well as in duty, to conceal and to cover. easy for Maitland, whose sentiments were the same with the duke's, to vindicate his own conduct. He assured him, that he had employed all his credit to dissuade his countrymen from this measure, and would still contribute to the utmost of his power to divert them from it. This encouraged Norfolk to communicate the matter to the regent. He repeated and enforced the same arguments which he had used with Maitland. He warned him of the danger to which he must expose himself by such a violent action, as the public accusation of his sove. reign. Mary would never forgive a man who had endeavoured to fix such a brand of infamy on her character. If she ever recovered any degree of power, his destruction would be inevitable, and he would justly merit it at her hands. Nor would Elizabeth screen him from this by a public approbation of his conduct. For whatever evidence of Mary's guilt he might produce, she was resolved to give no definitive sentence in the cause. Let him only demand that the matter should be brought to a decision immediately after hearing the proof, and he would be fully convinced how false and insidious her intentions were, and, by consequence, how improper it would be for him to appear as the accuser of his own sovereign. The candour.which

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Norfolk seemed to discover in these remonstrances, as well as the truth which they contained, made a deep impression on the regent. He daily received the strongest assurances of Mary's willingness to be reconciled to him, if he abstained from accusing her of such an odious crime, together with the de. nunciations of her irreconcileable hatred, if he acted a contrary part. All these considerations concurred in determining him to alter his purpose, and to make trial of the expedient which the duke had suggested.

When the intrigue between Mary and Norfolk had proceeded almost to maturity, she wrote a letter to the regent, in which she demanded that her marriage with Bothwell should be reviewed by the proper judges, and if found invalid should be dissolved by a legal sentence of divorce ; but her particular motive for proposing it at this time began to be so well known, that the demand was rejected by the convention of estates. They imputed it not so much to any abhorrence of Bothwell, as to her eagerness to conclude a marriage with the duke of Norfolk.

This marriage was the object of that secret negotiation in England which we have already mentioned. The fertile and projecting genius of Maitland first conceived this scheme. During the conference at York he communicated it to the duke himself, and to the bishop of Ross. The former readily closed with a scheme so flattering to his ambition. The latter considered it as a probable device for restoring his mistress to liberty, and replacing her on her throne. Nor was Mary, with whom Norfolk held a correspondence by means of his sister, lady Scroop, averse from a measure, which would have restored her to her kingdom with so much splendour. The sudden removal of the conference from York to Westminster suspended, but did not break off this intrigue. Maitland and Ross were still the duke's prompters, and his agents; and many letters and love tokens were exchanged between him and the queen of Scots.

Norfolk succeeded in gaining the consent and approbation of the regent; and the greater part of the English peers, either directly or tacitly approved of it as a salutary measure.

The intrigue was now in so many hands, that it could not long remain a secret. It began to be whispered at court; and Elizabeth calling the duke into her presence, expressed the utmost indignation at his conduct, and charged him to lay aside all thoughts of prosecuting such a dangerous design. Soon after Leicester, who perhaps had countenanced the project with no other intention, revealed the whole circumstances of it to the queen. Pembroke, Arundel, Lumley, and Throgmorton, were confined and examined. Mary was watched more narrowly than ever; and Ilastings, carl of Huntington, who pretended to dispute with the Scottish queen her right to the succession, being joined in commission with Shrewsbury, rendered her imprisonment more intolerable, by the excess of his vigilance and rigour. The Scottish regent, threatened with Elizabeth's displeasure, meanly betrayed the duke; put his letters into her hands, and furnished all the intelligence in his power.

The duke himself retired first to Ilowardhouse, and then, in contempt of a summons to appear

before the privy council, fled to his seat in Norfolk. Intimidated by the imprisonment of his associates ; coldly received by his friends in that country; unprepared for a rebellion; and unwilling perhaps to rebel ; he hesitated for some days; and at last obeyed a second call, and repaired to Windsor. He was first kept as a prisoner in a private house, and then sent to the tower. After

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