Numerous further illustrations might be added to show how great an influence dreams, at different times, have exerted over the minds of sovereigns, causing them occasionally to forego undertaking certain acts, as being divine interpositions for their special guidance.
At the age of the Reformation, Scotland was sunk into barbarism and ignorance, and on this account never did the witch-mania enter a country better suited for its reception. James VI. of Scotland, before he became the First of England, had taken an active part in several witch-trials, but especially in the inquisition directed to discover the guilt of Dr. Fian and others, to whom he had ascribed his stormy passage with his Norwegian consort from Denmark. It is unnecessary to enter on a recital of the horrible tortures inflicted upon the accused, for all the torments known to the Scottish law were successively applied. But it is evident that a monarch who had participated in such horrors, and had further committed himself by the publication of his notable work, the “Dæmonology,” must have come to the English throne decidedly predisposed to foster the popular delusions respecting witchcraft. Indeed, as Mr. Lecky observes, James “was continually haunted by the subject,” and “boasted that the devil regarded him as the most formidable of opponents.” The earliest statute against witchcraft appears to have been enacted in the reign of Henry VI., and additional penal laws were passed by Henry VIII. and Elizabeth. But there can be no doubt that in many cases witchcraft was a convenient excuse for carrying out a wicked policy. To this cause, as Sir Walter Scott says, we may impute the trial of the Duchess of Gloucester, wife of the good Duke Humphrey, accused of consulting witches concerning the mode of compassing the death of her husband’s nephew, Henry VI. The Duchess was condemned to do penance, and then banished to the Isle of Man. But the alleged witchcraft “was the only ostensible cause of a procedure which had its real source in the deep hatred between the Duke of Gloucester and Cardinal Beaufort, his half-brother.” The same pretext was used by Richard III. when he brought the charge of sorcery against the Queen-Dowager, Jane Shore, and the Queen’s kinsmen. The accusation in each case “was only chosen as a charge easily made and difficult to be eluded or repelled.”
In the same way Charles, Count of Valois, uncle of Louis X., had much influence over him. Charles believed, or pretended to believe, in sorcery. By making a waxen image of a foe, which was pricked and tortured, the person represented was supposed to pine away and die. It was a belief of the age, and a fearful belief, for who could be secure against an act of malice that might be perpetrated in the most profound secrecy?[179]
And on the Continent we find royalty tacitly in times past pandering to the superstitious spirit of their age, by sanctioning and upholding the cruelties to which supposed witches were subjected. And the most terrible scenes occurred in France, till happily the edict of Louis XIV. discharged all future persecutions for witchcraft, after which the crime was heard of no more.
The quarrel of Sancho I. of Portugal with the Bishop of Coimbra is, too, another evidence of the superstitious disposition of even a crusading monarch in those times, for it arose about a so-called witch, whom the King insisted on keeping in his palace.
And, turning to another phase of superstition of a less gloomy nature, may be briefly noticed the strong predilection displayed by some monarchs for a particular number or day of the year or week. Thus Dubois, in his Mémoire Fidèle, relates how Louis XIII. a few hours before his death—Thursday, May 14, 1643—summoned his physicians, and asked them if they thought he would live until the following day, saying that Friday had always been for him a fortunate day; that all the undertakings he had begun on that day had proved successful; that in all the battles fought on that day he had been victorious; that it was his fortunate day, and on that day he would wish to die.
Napoleon’s favourite and lucky day, like that of his nephew, Napoleon III., was the 2nd of the month. He was made consul for life on August 2, 1802; was crowned December 2, 1804; won his greatest battle, that of Austerlitz, for which he obtained the title of “Great,” December 2, 1805; and he married the Archduchess of Austria, April 2, 1810.
And going back to earlier days, according to Brantôme, Charles V. was partial to St. Matthias’s Day—February 24—because on that day he was elected emperor, on that day crowned, and on that day Francis I. was taken prisoner at the battle of Pavia. Henry IV. of France, again, considered Friday his lucky day, and began his undertakings by preference on that day.
The Prince of Orange—heir-apparent of the King of Holland—who died somewhat suddenly at Paris, June 11, 1879, was, it is said, very superstitious with regard to the numbers 6 and 11. As a sporting man, he always withdrew his horses when they were classed under the one or the other; and, by a curious coincidence, the Prince died on the eleventh day of the sixth month of the year, and at 11 o’clock. But, according to Fuller, Edward VI. was the exact opposite in point of superstition, for when it was remarked to him that Christ College, Cambridge, was a superstitious foundation, consisting of a master and twelve fellows, in imitation of Christ and His twelve apostles, he was advised by a covetous courtier to take away one or two fellowships so as to break that mystic number. “Oh no,” replied the King, “I have a far better way than that to mar their conceit; I will add a thirteenth fellowship to them”—which he accordingly did, to the disgust of the credulous and the approval of the wise.