The wits who accompanied Mary said that they had landed in a fog in a mischief-making country of marplots.[12] Mary's coming was entirely unexpected; so that she and her suite were, perforce, content to make their way to Edinburgh upon donkeys, wretchedly equipped, many of which were without saddles, and had nought but cords for reins and stirrups. Mary could not refrain from contrasting these sorry nags with the superb French palfreys which she was accustomed to see caracoling about in the hunting-field, or the lists. She shed a few tears of regret as she compared the fair land she had left with that upon which she now stood. But soon, with her fascinating grace, and struggling to smile through her tears, she said,-- "I must bear my ills in patience, since I have exchanged my paradise for a hell." In such manner did Mary Stuart arrive on British soil. We have narrated elsewhere ("Les Stuarts") the story of the rest of her life and her demise; and how impious England, the arch-enemy of all that France holds sacred, slew grace in her person, as it had already slain inspiration in that of Jeanne d'Arc, and was subsequently to make an end of genius in the person of Napoleon. [Footnote 10: "Sad and plaintive is my song Of the days now gone forever; And I mourn the whole day long The loss of him whom I shall never More behold. In grief and pain, alas! The fairest years of my life must pass. "How pitiless and stern is fate! That I, to fortune born and pleasure, Must bend beneath the cruel weight Of pain and sorrow without measure; While Destiny thus bounds my whole career By the dark shadow of the funeral bier. "In the bright springtime of my life, Of my youth the very flower, A melancholy, widowed wife, I sit and sob the weary hour; Nor can my heart a taste of joy acquire In aught save vain regret or vain desire. "That to me now is bitter pain Whereat my face was wont to lighten; And God's bright sunshine seeks in vain The darkness of my night to brighten: Nor in my sight is aught so fair or fine As to arouse a wish that it were mine. "Wheresoe'er my steps may lead,-- Whether through the forest roaming. Or perchance by flowery mead, Or at dawn or in the gloaming,-- Still my fond heart doth ceaselessly deplore, And mourn the loss of him who is no more.