Conclusion—Charles in 1762—Flight of Miss Walkinshaw—Charles quarrels with France—Remonstrance from Murray—Death of King James—Charles returns to Rome—His charm—His disappointments—Lochgarry enters the Portuguese service—Charles declines to recognise Miss Walkinshaw—Report of his secret marriage to Miss Walkinshaw—Denied by the lady—Charles breaks with Lumisden—Bishop Forbes—Charles’s marriage—The Duchess of Albany—‘All ends in song’—The Princesse de Talmond—The end.
With the death of Pickle, the shabby romance of the last Jacobite struggle finds its natural close.
Of Charles we need say little more. Macallester represents him as hanging about the coasts of England in 1761–1762, looking out for favourable landing-places, or sending his valet, Stuart, to scour Paris in search of Miss Walkinshaw. That luckless lady fled from Charles at Bouillon to Paris in July 1760, with her daughter, and found refuge in a convent. As Lord Elcho reports her conversation, Charles was wont to beat her cruelly. For general circulation she averred that she and James merely wished her daughter to be properly educated. [316]
Charles, in fact, picked a new quarrel with France on the score of his daughter. Louis refused to make Miss Walkinshaw (now styled Countess of Albertroff) resign her child to Charles’s keeping. He was very fond of children, and Macallester, who hated him, declares that, when hiding in the Highlands, he would amuse himself by playing with the baby of a shepherd’s wife. None the less, his habits made him no proper guardian of his own little girl. [317] In 1762, young Oliphant of Gask, who visited the Prince at Bouillon, reports that he will have nothing to do with France till his daughter is restored to him. He held moodily aloof, and then the Peace came. Lumisden complains that ‘Burton’ (the Prince) is ‘intractable.’ He sulked at Bouillon, where he hunted in the forests. Here is a sad and tender admonition from Murray, whose remonstrances were more softly conveyed than those of Goring:
‘Thursday.
‘When I have the honour of being with you I am miserable, upon seeing you take so little care of a health which is so precious to every honest man, but more so to me in particular, because I know you, and therefore can’t help loving, honouring, and esteeming you; but alass! what service can my zeal and attachment be to my dear master, unless he lays down a plan and system, and follows it, such as his subjects and all mankind will, and must approve of.’
Young Gask repeats the same melancholy tale. Charles was hopeless. For some inscrutable reason he was true to Stafford (who had aided his secret flight from Rome in 1744) and to Sheridan, supporting them at Avignon.
‘Old Mr. Misfortunate’ (King James) died at Rome it 1766; he never saw his ‘dearest Carluccio’ after the Prince stole out of the city, full of hope, in 1744—
‘A fairy Prince with happy eyes
And lighter-footed than the fox.’
James expired ‘without the least convulsion or agony,’ says Lumisden, ‘but with his usual mild serenity in his countenance. . . . He seemed rather to be asleep than dead.’ A proscribed exile from his cradle, James was true to faith and honour. What other defeated and fugitive adventurer ever sent money to the hostile general for the peasants who had suffered from the necessities of war?
On January 23, 1766, Lumisden met Charles on his way to Rome. ‘His legs and feet were considerably swelled by the fatigue of the journey. In other respects he enjoys perfect health, and charms every one who approaches him.’ The Prince was ‘miraculously’ preserved when his coach was overturned on a precipice near Bologna. Some jewels and family relics had not been returned by Cluny, and there were difficulties about sending a messenger for them: these occupy much of Lumisden’s correspondence.