fixedly and earnestly. "Mark, child, what I say; they will cut off my head and perhaps make thee king: but mark what I say, thou must not be king so long as thy brothers Charles and James live; but they will cut off thy brothers' heads if they can catch them; and thine, too, they will cut off at last! Therefore, I charge thee, do not be made a king by them." "I will be torn in pieces first!" replied the child, with great emotion. Charles fervently kissed him, put him down, kissed his daughter, blessed them both, and called upon God to bless them; then suddenly rising: "Have them taken away," he said to Juxon; the children sobbed aloud; the king, standing with his head pressed against the window, tried to suppress his tears; the door opened, the children were going out, Charles ran from the window, took them again in his arms, blessed them once more, and at last tearing himself from their caresses, fell upon his knees and began to pray with the bishop and Herbert, the only witnesses of this deeply painful scene.

On the same morning the high court had met, and appointed the execution to take place next day, January 30, between ten and five o'clock; but when it became necessary to sign the fatal order, it was with great difficulty the commissioners could be got together; in vain two or three of the most determined stood outside the door, stopped such of their colleagues as were passing by towards the house of commons, and called upon them to come and affix their names. Several even of those who had voted for the condemnation kept out of the way, or expressly refused to sign. Cromwell himself, gay, noisy, daring as ever, gave way to his usual coarse buffoonery. After having signed himself-he was the third to do so-he smeared with ink Henry Martyn's face who sat by him, and who immediately did the same to him. Colonel Ingoldsby, his cousin, who had been appointed a member of the court, but had never taken his seat, accidentally came into the hall: "This time," said Cromwell, "he shall not escape;" and, laughing aloud, he seized Ingoldsby, and with the assistance of a few other members, put the pen between his fingers, and guiding his hand, obliged him to sign. Fifty-nine signatures were at last collected; many, either from agitation or design, such mere scrawls that it was almost impossible to make them out. The order was addressed to colonel Hacker, colonel Huncks, and lieutenant Phayre, who were charged to see to the execution. Hitherto the ambassadors extraordinary from the States, Albert Joachim and Adrien Pauw, who had been five days in London, had vainly solicited an audience of parliament; neither their official request, nor their private applications to Fairfax, Cromwell, and some other officers had obtained it for them. They were suddenly informed, about one o'clock, that they would be received at two by the lords, at three by the commons. They went immediately, and delivered their message; an answer was promised them, and as they returned to their lodgings they saw commencing, in front of Whitehall, the preparations for the execution. They had received visits from the French and Spanish ambassadors, but neither would join in their proceedings. The first satisfied himself with protesting, that for a long time past he had foreseen this deplorable event, and done all in his power to avert it; the other said he had not yet received orders from his court to interfere in the matter, though he every hour expected them. Next day, the 30th, about twelve, a second interview with Fairfax, in the house of his secretary, gave the Dutch ambassadors a gleam of hope. The general had been moved by their representations, and, seeming at length resolved to rouse himself from his inaction, promised to go immediately to Westminster to solicit at least a reprieve. But as they left him, before the very house in which they had conversed with him, they met a body of cavalry clearing the way; all the avenues to Whitehall, all the adjacent streets, were equally filled with them; on all sides they heard it said that everything was ready, and that the king would soon arrive.

And so it was. Early in the morning, in a room at Whitehall, beside the bed from which Ireton and Harrison had not yet risen, Cromwell, Hacker, Huncks, Axtell, and Phayre had assembled to draw up the last act of this fearful proceeding, the order to the executioner. "Colonel," said Cromwell to Huncks, "it is you who must write and sign it." Huncks obstinately refused. "What a stubborn grumbler!" said Cromwell. "Colonel Huncks," said Axtell, "I am ashamed of you; the ship is now coming into the harbour, and will you strike sail before we come to anchor?" Huncks persisted in his refusal; Cromwell, muttering between his teeth, sat down, wrote the order himself, and presented it to colonel Hacker, who signed it without objection.

Nearly at the same moment, after four hours' profound sleep, Charles left his bed. "I have a great work to do this day," he said to Herbert; "I must get up immediately;" and he sat down at his dressing-table. Herbert, in his agitation, combed his hair with less care than usual. "I pray you," said the king, "though my head be not long to remain on my shoulders, take the same pains with it as usual; let me be as trim to-day as may be; this is my second marriage day; for before night I hope to be espoused to my blessed Jesus." As he was dressing, he asked to have a shirt on more than ordinary. "The season is so sharp," he said, "as may make me shake, which some observers will imagine proceeds from fear. I would have no such imputation; I fear not death; death is not terrible to me. I bless my God I am prepared." At daybreak the bishop arrived and commenced the holy service; as he was reading, in the 27th chapter of the gospel according to St. Matthew, the passion of Jesus Christ, the king asked him: "My lord, did you choose this chapter as being applicable to my present condition?" "May it please your majesty," said the bishop, "it is the proper lesson for the day, as the calendar indicates." The king appeared deeply affected, and continued his prayers with even greater fervour. Towards ten a gentle knock was heard at the door; Herbert did not stir; a second knock was heard, rather louder, but still gentle. "Go and see who is there," said the king. It was colonel Hacker. "Let him come in," said the king. "Sir," said the colonel, with a low and half-trembling voice, “it is time to go to Whitehall, but you will have some further time to rest there." "I will go directly," answered Charles; "leave me." Hacker went out. The king occupied a few moments more in mental prayer; then, taking the bishop by the hand : "Come," said he, "let us go. Herbert, open the door, Hacker is knocking again; and he went down into the park, through which he was to proceed to Whitehall. Several companies of infantry were drawn up there, forming a double line on each side of his way; a detachment of halberdiers marched on before with banners flying; the drums beat; not a voice could be heard for the noise. On the right of the king was the bishop; on the left, uncovered, colonel Tomlinson, the officer in command of the guard, whom Charles, touched by his attentions, had requested not to leave him till the last moment. He talked with him on the way of his funeral, of the persons to whom he wished the care of it to be entrusted, his countenance serene, his eye beaming, his step firm, walking even faster than the troops, and blaming their slowness. One of the officers on service, doubtless thinking to agitate him, asked him whether he had not concurred with the late duke of Buckingham in the death of the king his father. "Friend," answered Charles, with gentle contempt, "if I had no other sin, I speak it with reverence to God's majesty, I assure thee I should never ask him pardon." Arrived at Whitehall he ascended the stairs with a light step, passed through the great gallery into his bed-room, where he was left alone with the bishop, who was preparing to administer the sacrament. Some independent ministers, Nye and Goodwin among others, came and knocked at the door, saying that they wished to offer their services to the king. "The king is at

"

66

prayers," answered Juxon: they still insisted. Well, then," said Charles to the bishop, "thank them from me for the tender of themselves, but tell them plainly, that they that so often causelessly prayed against me, shall not pray with me in this agony. They may, if they please, I'll thank them for it, pray for me." They retired; the king knelt, received the communion from the hands of the bishop, then rising with cheerfulness: "Now," said he, "let the rogues come; I have heartily forgiven them, and am prepared for all I am to undergo." His dinner had been prepared; he declined taking any. Sire," said Juxon, "your majesty has long been fasting; it is cold; perhaps on the scaffold some faintness- -" "You are right," said the king, and he took a piece of bread and a glass of wine. It was now one o'clock: Hacker knocked at the door; Juxon and Herbert fell on their knees: "Rise, my old friend," said Charles, holding out his hand to the bishop. Hacker knocked again; Charles ordered the door to be opened: "Go on," said he, "I follow you." He advanced through the banqueting hall, still between a double rank of soldiers. A multitude of men and women, who had rushed in at the peril of their lives, stood motionless behind the guard, praying for the king as he passed, uninterrupted by the soldiers, themselves quite silent. At the extremity of the hall an opening made in the wall led straight upon the scaffold, which was hung with black; two men, dressed as sailors and masked, stood by the axe. The king stepped out, his head erect, and looking around for the people, to address them; but the troops occupied the whole space, so that none could approach: he turned towards Juxon and Tomlinson. "I cannot be heard by many but yourselves," he said, "therefore to you I will address a few words; " and he delivered to them a short speech which he had prepared, grave and calm, even to coldness, its sole purport being to show that he had acted right, that contempt of the rights of the sovereign was the true cause of the people's misfortunes, that the people ought to have no share in the government, that upon this condition alone would the country regain peace and its liberties. While he was speaking, some one touched the axe; he turned round hastily, saying: "Do not spoil the axe, it would hurt me more; " and again, as he was about to conclude his address, some one else again approaching it: "Take care of the axe, take care!" he repeated, in an agitated tone. The most profound silence prevailed. He put a silk cap upon his head, and addressing the executioner, said: "Is my hair in the way?" "I beg your majesty to put it under your cap,' replied the man, bowing. The king, with the help of the bishop, did so. "I have on my side a good cause and a merciful God!" he said to his venerable servant. Juxon: "Yes, sire, there is but one stage more: it is full of trouble and anguish, but it is a very short one; and consider, it will carry you a great way; it will carry you from earth to heaven!" The king: "I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown, where I shall have no trouble to fear!" and, turning towards the executioner : "Is my hair right?" He took off his cloak and George, and gave the George to Juxon, saying: "Remember!" He then took off his coat, put on his cloak again, and looking at the block, said to the executioner: "Place it so it may be firm." "It is firm, sir." The king: "I will say a short prayer, and when I hold out my hands, then He stood in meditation, murmured a few words to himself, raised his eyes to heaven, knelt down, and laid his head upon the block; the executioner touched his hair to put it still further under his cap; the king thought he was going to strike. "Wait for the signal," he said. "I shall wait for it, sir, with the good pleasure of your majesty." In a minute the king held out his hands; the executioner struck ; the head fell at a blow. "This is the head of a traitor!" cried he, holding it up to the people. A long deep groan arose from the multitude; many persons rushed to the scaffold to dip their handkerchiefs in the king's blood. Two troops of horse

**

. . .”

K

advancing in different directions, slowly dispersed the crowd,

The scaffold being

well desired to see it; he looked at it attentively, and, raising the head, as if to cleared, the body was taken away: it was already enclosed in a coffin when Crom

This," he said, "was a

On the 6th of February,

make sure that it was indeed severed from the body: well-constituted frame, and which promised a long life." The cottin remained exposed for seven days at Whitehall; an immense concourse pressed round the door, but few obtained leave to go in. to bury it in Windsor castle, in St. George's chapel, where Henry the Eighth lies. by order of the commons, it was delivered to Herbert and Mildmay, with authority cloth drew the hearse; four coaches followed, two of which, also hung with black cloth, conveyed the king's latest servants, those who had followed him to the Isle of The procession was decent, though without pomp; six horses covered with black Richmond, the marquis of Hertford, the earls of Southampton and Lindsey, and bishop Juxon, arrived at Windsor, to assist at the funeral; they had engraved on

Wight.

Next day, the 8th, with the consent of the commons, the duke of

the coffin these words only :

CHARLES, REX,

1648.

As they were removing the body from the interior of the castle to the chapel, the weather, hitherto clear and serene, changed all at once: snow fell in abundance; it entirely covered the black velvet pall, and the king's servants, with a melancholy satisfaction, viewed in this sudden whiteness of their unhappy master's coffin, a symbol of his innocence. sepulture, bishop Juxon was preparing to officiate according to the rites of the On the arrival of the procession at the place selected for English church, but Whychcott, the governor of the castle, would not permit this : "The liturgy decreed by parliament," he said, "is obligatory for the king as for all." They submitted; no religious ceremony took place, and the coffin being lowered into the vault, all left the chapel, and the governor closed the door. The house of commons called for an account of the expense of the obsequies, and allowed five hundred pounds to pay for them. On the day of the king's death, before any express had left London, they published an ordinance, declaring whomsoever should proclaim in his stead and as his successor "Charles Stuart his son, commonly called prince of Wales, or any other person whatsoever, a traitor. discussion, and notwithstanding a division of twenty-nine to forty-four, the house of On the 6th February, after a long lords was solemnly abolished. Finally, the next day, the 7th, a decree was adopted, running thus: "It hath been found by experience, and this house doth declare, that the office of a king, in this nation, and to have the power thereof in any single person, is unnecessary, burthensome, and dangerous to the liberty, safety, and public interest of the people of this nation, and therefore ought to be abolished;" and a new great seal was engraved, bearing on one side a map of England and Ireland, with the arms of the two countries; and on the reverse, a representation of the house of commons sitting, with this inscription, suggested by Henry Martyn: "The first year of liberty restored by the blessing of God, 1648."

KING, CAVALIERS, AND ROUNDHEADS.

ELIOT WARBURTON.

How many of us can recollect our childish sympathy for the first time touched by the power of art, as we gazed upon the portrait of that mournful face [the portrait of Charles I.] the innocent boyish enthusiasm that kindled within us as we heard from loyal lips of the wrongs and sufferings for which so many of our fathers died. It was only in after years, when reluctantly forced to abandon the once literal creed of "Kings can do no wrong," that we detected other characteristics besides those of nobleness and truth in the martyr monarch of Vandyke and the Cavaliers. Yet even there, when better read in the dark facts and darker calumny that history reveals, we trace in those sad features the characters of weakness rather than of wickedness; the unerring signs of a vacillating mind are visible; and that high arched brow and uncertain lip, the delicate soft hand that droops by his side with all the helpless grace of a girl; the very attitude in which he stands-all bespeak a spirit ill-calculated to encounter the storms of a State. It is not only after misfortune and disappointment have done their work that these characteristics become visible in the portraits of Charles. From the very first, even when he sate to Velasquez during his romantic visit to romantic Spain, buoyed up by lusty youth and a bridegroom's hope-even then his portrait wears a sad doomed look, as if he felt already destined to expiate the crimes and the follies of his tyrant ancestors.

*

* * No human character has ever been so rigorously scrutinised by contemporaries and historians as that of Charles I. His public and private conduct have been exposed to every test and inquisition that the most malignant hatred could suggest, or the most subtle genius could invent. The greatest writers of our

own day have exercised all their ingenuity, and practised all the easy but imposing art of denunciation upon this conspicuous theme. The Milton, the Pym, and other leading minds of his own time sought out, as a matter of conscience and duty, how they could most bitterly malign him. Every sentence that admitted of a second meaning was perverted to his reproach, every action was distorted, exaggerated, exhibited in the darkest point of view, and immortalised in sublime invective.

The glory of freedom was then the great theme of the orator and poet; the crime of despotism was a necessary antithesis, and its attributed author was magnified into proportionally colossal guilt. Charles I. was identified with the principles that were then most obnoxious; he was driven forth, like the scapegoat of the Hebrews, into the wilderness of reprobation with the curses due to all others' crime heaped thickly upon his devoted head.

The very scurrility and bitterness of the party pamphlets of that unscrupulous and heated time have been ever since sustained, enlarged upon, and taken for truth by the anti-monarchical writers of a later period. Yet how little comparatively has this awful array of persecution and arraignment brought home against their victim, setting aside his one great and inexcusable vice of insincerity, which he mistook for policy and statecraft necessity. Grievous and many wrongs he wrought against the liberties of England; fatally he persevered in the prejudices instilled into his youth concerning kingcraft, divine right, and royal prerogative; and terribly he atoned for these his errors. Nevertheless, when we peruse, even as chronicled by his enemies, his words, his letters, his expressions; when we observe his patience, his undaunted spirit; his piety, his long long-suffering, and his redeeming death, we are forced to acknowledge that there was somewhat of righteous and heroic in this much vilified inonarch; something, apart from the high sentiment of loyalty, that justified the