Chapter XII.IN THE SPACIOUS DAYS.

The Murder of Rizzio.(From the picture by John Opie, R.A., in the Art Gallery of the Corporation of London.)

AT SEA. “FAREWELL, FRANCE!”(From the picture by Robert Herdman, R.S.A.)

ESCAPE OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS FROM LOCH LEVEN CASTLE.(From the picture by Thomas Danby, R.A., in Bethnal Green Museum.)

“Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England’s praise;I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days,When the great fleet invincible against her bore in vainThe richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain.”

“Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England’s praise;

I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days,

When the great fleet invincible against her bore in vain

The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain.”

IT is the afternoon of July 19, in the year of grace 1588. You are gazing at the terraced bowling-green of the Pelican Inn that looks down upon the blue waters of Plymouth Sound. A group of admirals and captains is gathered on the closely-shaven lawn, men of mark every one of them, and sea-dogs all. They are waiting, “as lions in their lair wait for the passing of a herd of deer.”

“See those five talking earnestly in the centre of a ring which longs to overhear and yet is too respectful to approach close. Those soft, long eyes and pointed chin you recognize already; they are Walter Raleigh’s. The fair young man in the flame-coloured doublet, whose arm is round Raleigh’s neck, is Lord Sheffield. Opposite them stands, by the side of Sir Richard Grenville, a man as stately as he, Lord Sheffield’s uncle, the Lord Charles Howard of Effingham, Lord High Admiral of England; next to them is his son-in-law, Sir Robert Southwell, captain of theElizabeth Jonas. But who is that short, sturdy, plainly-dressed man who stands with legs a little apart and hands behind his back, looking up with keen gray eyes into the face of each speaker? His cap is in his hands, so you can see the bullet head of crisp brown hair and the wrinkled forehead, as well as the high cheek-bones, the short square face, the broad temples, the thick lips, which are yet as firm as granite—a coarse, plebeian stamp of man. Yet the whole figure and attitude are that of boundless determination, self-possession, energy; and when at last he speaks a few blunt words, all eyes are turned respectfully upon him—for his name is Francis Drake.

“A burly, grizzled elder, in greasy, sea-stained garments contrasting oddly with the huge gold chain about his neck, waddles up, as if he had been born, and had lived ever since, in a gale of wind at sea. The upper half of his sharp, dogged visage seems of brick-red leather, the lower of badger’s fur; and as he claps Drake on the back, and, with a broad Devon twang, shouts, ‘Be you a-coming to drink your wine, Francis Drake, or be you not?—saving your presence, my lord!’ the Lord High Admiral only laughs, and bids Drake go and drink his wine with John Hawkins, admiral of the port.”

As they lift their long-necked Dutch glasses a rough-bearded old sea-dog bursts in upon them and cries to the Lord Admiral,—

“My lord! My lord! They are coming! I saw them off the Lizard last night.”

“Who, my good sir?”

“The Armada, your worship—the Spaniard! You’ll find them here before nightfall, my lord.”

“Then we must haste,” observes the Lord High Admiral; and turning to Drake, he says, “I must command the help of your counsel, vice-admiral.”

“And it’s this, my good lord,” replies Drake, who has taken up a bowl and is now aiming it at the jack: “they’ll come soon enough for us to show them sport, and yet slow enough for us to be ready; so let no man hurry himself. And as example is better than precept, here goes.” So saying he aims his bowl. Hawkins follows suit, and the game is played to a finish.

“There, vice-admiral,” cries the veteran, “you’re beaten, and that’s the rubber. Pay up three dollars, old high-flyer, and go and earn more, like an honest adventurer.”

“Well,” says Drake, pulling out his purse, “we’ll walk down now and see about these young hotheads. As I live, they are setting to tow the ships out already!—breaking the men’s backs overnight to make them fight the lustier in the morning! Well, well, they haven’t sailed round the world, John Hawkins.”

And John Hawkins, with a hearty “bye-bye” to the bystanders, waddles off with the remark, “We’re going to blow the Dons up now in earnest.”

“Night sank upon the dusky beach and o’er the purple sea;Such night in England ne’er has been, nor e’er again shall be!From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay,That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day.”

“Night sank upon the dusky beach and o’er the purple sea;

Such night in England ne’er has been, nor e’er again shall be!

From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay,

That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day.”

Meanwhile the lordly fleet of Spain, swelling in white clouds of sail to the heavens, speeds on towards the shores of our threatened land.

Why, you ask, is the Spaniard bent on invading England?

Who does not know something of the exploits of the sea-dogs—how they harried King Philip’s territories in America, and how no treasure ship put out from the ports save in fear and trembling? Philip, the most powerful monarch of Europe, and the champion of the Pope, had been hard hit by Drake and his fellows. He saw clearly that unless England were crushed he could not retain his empire in the New World. Further, his Flemish subjects were in desperate revolt against him, and English troops had now joined them. How he hated England! She should bite the dust, and he would stake the whole strength of his kingdom, the wealth of the two Indies, the flower of Spanish chivalry on the enterprise. It was a Crusade—nothing less. The Pope had excommunicated the heretic Elizabeth, and the martyred Queen of Scots had bequeathed England to him on the scaffold. Holy Church would fight for him, and victory was already assured. So every dockyard in Spain rang with the hammers of shipwrights, and all Latin Christendom sent him volunteers. The sea was covered with vessels freighted with arms and provisions streaming to the mouth of the Tagus. Cadiz harbour was thronged with transports, provision ships, powder vessels—a hundred sail of them—many of a thousand tons and over, loading with stores for the Armada.

Drake begged Elizabeth to let him fit out a fleet and sail along the coast of Spain to see what was going on. Very reluctantly she consented, but ere his vessels were hull down a courier galloped into Plymouth with orders that under no condition was he to enter a Spanish port or haven. The courier arrived too late—Drake, knowing the mind of his mistress, had sailed, and recall was impossible. In five days he was at Cape St. Vincent, and a day later he saw before him the forest of masts in the harbour of Cadiz. In dashed Drake, with a fair wind and flood tide, past the batteries, which hurled a storm of shot and shell at him. He did not pause to reply, but pushed on, seized and sank the guardship, took possession of the Spanish shipping, and looted everything of the slightest service to him. Then he set the hulls on fire, cut the cables, and left them blazing beneath the walls of the town. He had, in his own pleasant phrase, “singed the King of Spain’s beard.” He had delayed the Armada for a whole year, and had spoiled his Catholic Majesty to the tune of a million ducats, without losing a boat or a man!

Home came Drake, begging the queen to let him play the same game on the Tagus, where fifty great galleons, the main strength of the fighting naval force of Spain, were assembled. But the queen would not consent; she would provoke the King of Spain no further. Negotiations for peace had begun, and must not be interrupted.

In the spring of the next year the Armada was ready, and the whole Spanish nation, smarting under the indignity of Drake’s exploit, was burning to revenge itself on England. It consisted of one hundred and thirty vessels, half of them being galleons of the largest size. The ships were manned by eight thousand sailors, and overcrowded with twenty thousand soldiers, besides slaves, servants, and priests. Every noble family in Spain sent a son to fight for the holy cause. The ships, however, were ill-found and ill-provisioned, and were commanded by a modest gentleman who confessed that he was no seaman, that he hardly knew a mast from an anchor, and that when he ventured out in a boat he was always seasick. To meet this vast fleet England had but thirty-four ships in the royal navy, but almost every seaport and many rich merchants and noblemen fitted out craft to fight the Spaniard. Their crews numbered eighteen thousand men, all good seamen, and their commanders were sea-dogs all.

The Spanish Lord High Admiral—the Duke of Medina Sidonia—received his orders directly from Philip. He was to fight no battle, but was to haste with all speed to the North Foreland and there communicate with the Duke of Parma, who was in the Netherlands with thirty thousand men waiting to cross. The army would be landed, and England would be at his feet! So much for instructions. On May 14, 1588, the Armada dropped down the Tagus, and as the galleons came out the blustering north wind met them, and day by day they drifted to leeward until they were off Cape St. Vincent. The wind changed at last, and the ships steered northward again, their crews in a terrible state owing to the stinking water and the putrid pork, fish, and bread which fraudulent contractors had foisted on them. The ships were obliged to put into Corunna, with crews too weak to man the yards, and ready to desert in shoals.

At last the Armada got under way again, and the old seaman who burst in upon the admirals and captains on the Pelican bowling-green told a true tale: the Armada was coming without a doubt. Badly, indeed, was the English fleet prepared to meet them. Elizabeth’s niggardly soul would not permit her to provide sufficient stores and provisions for the fleet. The English sailors were ill-clothed and ill-provided in every way, but they did not complain. They tightened their belts and prayed for the speedy coming of the enemy. Their prayer was soon to be answered.

The Armada was now in the Channel, sailing crescent-wise. As it passed by, out went the Plymouth fleet, hanging on to its rear like grim death. The English guns were far more powerful than those of the Spaniards, and they poured in broadsides at a safe distance with deadly effect. Further, they could fire five shots to the Dons’ one. Every broadside told, and the effect of the shot and splinters on the overcrowded Spanish ships was terrible.

So the Armada pursued its way, and Howard “plucked out its feathers one by one.” For a week the running fight was kept up. During the first few days the English were badly hampered by want of powder and provisions, but now that danger was imminent there was no lack of ammunition and stores. Off Calais the fleets faced each other, and a long day’s battle was fought. On the night of Sunday, July 28, a memorable council of war was held in theArk’smain cabin, attended by Howard, Drake, Seymour, Hawkins, Martin Frobisher, and others. The conference was short, for there was no time to lose. Eight useless vessels were immediately coated with pitch—hulls, spars, and rigging. Pitch was poured on the decks and over the sides, and men were told off to steer them. The night was dark as the grave; a faint westerly wind was curling the waters; and towards midnight the look-outs on the Spanish galleons saw several phantom-like vessels bearing down on them.

Suddenly the ships broke into a blaze from water-line to truck, and lighted up the scene like noonday. The Spaniards lost their heads, and in their panic they slipped their cables and put to sea, uncertain which way to steer. Drake and Hawkins now bore down upon them, pouring in cataracts of round shot. The decks of the Spanish ships were like slaughter-houses. The Spanish shot flew high over the low hulls of the enemy, while every English broadside found its billet. Not until his magazines were empty and his last cartridge was fired did Drake draw off.

Then a gale sprang up and the Dons were forced to steer up the North Sea. The English closely followed them, and “the Lord sent His wind and scattered them.” Of the proud fleet which left Spain for the conquest of the heretic isle only fifty-three shattered vessels returned to Spain. Thousands of Spanish corpses strewed the shores of the Orkneys, the Western Isles, and the Atlantic coast of Ireland. Scarcely a noble family in Spain but mourned a relative slain or drowned.

Thus England and English liberty were saved. All honour to you, noble sea-dogs! May Britain never lack sons of your breed! To you we owe freedom, literature, commerce, and empire, and above all the mastery of that

“Kingdomnone can take,The realm of the circling sea.”

“Kingdomnone can take,

The realm of the circling sea.”

The Armada in Sight.(From the Picture by Seymour Lucas, R.A. By permission of Mr. Arthur Lucas.)

QUEEN ELIZABETH AT TILBURY FORT.(From the picture by Daniel Maclise, R.A. By permission of the Council of the Art Union of London.)

“For ’tis the sunrise now of zeal,And faith and hope are in their primeIn great Eliza’s golden time.”

“For ’tis the sunrise now of zeal,

And faith and hope are in their prime

In great Eliza’s golden time.”

Once more Queen Elizabeth figures in our pageant. She is passing to her barge amidst a crowd of courtiers, who buzz round her like bees seeking the honey of her smile. Amongst the spectators of her progress you observe a young man, comely of person, handsome of face, and gallant of bearing. Suddenly her Majesty pauses; the ground is miry, and she hesitates to soil her dainty shoes. In a moment the young man has pulled off his rich plush cloak and has thrown it upon the ground for the queen to walk upon. She is flattered by the attention; she smiles graciously on the young man and says, “You have this day spoiled a gay mantle in our behalf. We thank you for your service, though the manner of offering it was unusual and something bold.”

“In a sovereign’s need,” he replies, “it is each liegeman’s duty to be bold.”

“That is well said,” the queen remarks, and at a bound the young man springs into her royal favour. It was afterwards said that the spoiling of his cloak gained him a good manysuits.

The young man whose introduction to the queen you have just witnessed is Walter Raleigh, a Devonshire gentleman who has already seen much warlike service, and has shown himself to be possessed of many qualities besides personal bravery and prowess in battle. In sooth he is one of the most heroic and brilliant men of that brilliant and heroic age—explorer, soldier, sailor, poet, prose writer, and true-hearted gentleman—“a spirit without spot,” as Shelley finely calls him. Let us learn something of his career.

Raleigh was not yet thirty when he first attracted the attention of Elizabeth. He was then a tall, well-built man with thick, dark hair, a bright complexion, and an expression full of life. His dress was always magnificent, and he had the faculty of displaying himself and his capacities to the best possible advantage. His speech was bold and plausible; he was fearless and dashing, a man of a stout heart, a sound head, and a strong right hand. Now that Elizabeth had admitted him to her favour, she speedily raised him from the position of a poor gentleman adventurer to one of the most wealthy of her courtiers. He was knighted in 1584, and subsequently sat in Parliament for Devonshire.

Soon, however, he wearied of a life of luxury and busy idleness at the court, and arranged with his half-brother, Sir Humphrey Gilbert, to join him in his projected voyage to Newfoundland. But Elizabeth positively forbade him to go, and reluctantly he bowed to the royal command. Gilbert never returned from Newfoundland. On the homeward voyage he stuck to his little, unseaworthy vessel, theSquirrel, and declined to take his passage on board theGolden Hind, the larger vessel which convoyed him. To all arguments he had but one reply, “I will not forsake my little company, with whom I have passed through so many storms and perils.” When the ships were to the north of the Azores terrible seas arose, and theSquirrelwas well-nigh swamped. Through all the foul weather Sir Humphrey, gallant gentleman that he was, sat on deck, calm and unmoved, reading a book. When they besought him to board theGolden Hindhe said, “We are as near to heaven by sea as by land.” During the night of Monday, September 9, 1583, the watchers on theGolden Hindsuddenly missed the lights of theSquirrel. She had gone down with all her crew.

Raleigh applied for the patent which Sir Humphrey, his half-brother, had held, and was accorded the royal permission to discover unknown lands, take possession of them in the queen’s name, and hold them to his own profit for six years. At once he fitted out an expedition, which coasted northward from Florida and took possession of Roanoke Island, within the lagoons of what is now North Carolina. His captains returned with a glowing account of the “good land” which they had discovered, and Raleigh took immediate steps to colonize it. He called it Virginia, in honour of the Virgin Queen.

Accordingly, in the year 1585, he sent out Sir Richard Grenville with one hundred and eight men, and on Roanoke Island a little colony was established. Ralph Lane was left in charge of the party, and Grenville sailed for home, hoping for the best but fearing the worst. Unhappily the wrong sort of men had been sent out—soft-handed gentlemen who could not dig, and were ashamed to beg. Before long there were bitter quarrels in the little hive between the drones and the workers, food ran short, and the colonists were on the verge of starvation.

In the next year Drake touched at Roanoke after his attack on Cartagena, and seeing what a helpless, shiftless crew the colonists were, he carried them all back to England save fifteen. The colony had thus proved a costly failure, but the experiment was notable, because it was the first attempt to found a greater Britain beyond the seas. He who writes the history of British expansion must never forget to give Raleigh a foremost place in the roll of Empire-makers.

One of the immediate results of the voyage was the introduction into this country of the potato and the tobacco plant. Raleigh grew potatoes in his garden at Youghal, and thus gave Ireland the staple food of her peasantry. According to an old story, he was the first man to smoke tobacco in England. It is said that his servant, seeing volumes of smoke issuing from his mouth, concluded that he was on fire, and promptly poured a bucket of water over him, thus effectually putting out his pipe.

A second attempt to found a colony on Roanoke Island failed, and Raleigh was terribly disappointed. He could do no more; so in 1589, the year after he helped to repel the Armada, he disposed of his rights to a company of merchants, who made no attempt to found a new colony on the ruins of the old. Thus the sixteenth century came to an end, and England had no colony of any kind in America.

In the year 1592 Raleigh fell into disgrace with his royal mistress. She discovered that the man she had delighted to honour and enrich had actually dared to love one of her maids of honour. An excuse was speedily found by the jealous queen for sending Raleigh and his lady-love, Elizabeth Throgmorton, to the Tower. At length, however, the queen relented and restored Raleigh to liberty, but forbade him the court. The lovers were married and settled at Sherborne, where Raleigh busied himself in erecting a magnificent mansion and laying out its grounds with great taste.

About this time he made acquaintance with the Spanish legend of the fabulous wealth of El Dorado, the city of Manoa, in South America. The story fascinated his romantic nature, and he could not rest until he had attempted its discovery. Yielding to his wife’s entreaties, he refrained from going in search of it himself, and sent his tried and trusty servant, Jacob Whiddon, in his stead. Whiddon returned without having discovered anything, and Raleigh now essayed the adventure himself. With a fleet of five ships he sailed in February 1595, and in the next month arrived at the island of Trinidad. He seized the capital and captured the governor, who confirmed the stories of the richness and wonder of Manoa, and told him of its remarkable inhabitants, the dog-headed men “whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders.”

Early in April Raleigh started on the quest with a little flotilla of five boats, a hundred men, and provisions for a month. He entered the Orinoco, but found the labour of rowing against the vast and powerful stream most exhausting. Sometimes his boats did not progress a stone’s-throw in an hour. After struggling onwards for nearly four hundred miles he was obliged to own himself beaten. He brought back with him some pieces of quartz showing grains of gold and the earliest specimens of mahogany ever seen in this country. Subsequently he attacked several Spanish settlements and then returned to England, where his enemies declared that the story of his river voyage was an invention. As a matter of fact, Guiana is rich in gold, and more than one famous mine has been worked in the country which Raleigh endeavoured to explore.

Raleigh lived peacefully at home for nearly two years, and then played a brilliant part in Drake’s daring attack on Cadiz. He commanded theWarspite, the leading ship, and though severely wounded, landed with his men for the storming of the town. His gallantry won him the queen’s forgiveness, and once more he was a familiar figure about the court. Under Essex he commanded a ship in the fleet which sailed for Flores, in the Azores, to lie in wait for Spanish treasure galleons. His disobedience of orders in his capture of Fayal earned for him the enmity of Essex, who now became one of his bitterest enemies. Essex, however, came to the block, but not before he had done Raleigh considerable mischief.

Queen Elizabeth died in 1603, and James the Sixth of Scotland became James the First of England. There were plots to prevent his accession and to put Lady Arabella Stewart, an Englishwoman of the royal house, on the throne. The cowardly Lord Cobham was at the head of the Main Plot, and when arrested he made a lying confession implicating Raleigh, who was tried and found guilty of compassing the death of the king, of endeavouring to set Arabella Stewart on the throne, of receiving bribes from the court of Spain, and of seeking to deliver the country into the hands of its enemy. Raleigh’s execution was ordered, and he wrote a touching farewell to his wife; but on the eve of the fatal day he was reprieved and committed to the Tower with the death sentence hanging over his head. For about twelve years he remained a prisoner. He was treated leniently, and given apartments in the Bloody Tower, where he lived with his wife and son and his attendants. Frequently the young Prince Henry visited him, and the lad grew fond of his gallant and brilliant friend. “No man but my father,” he once said, “would keep such a bird in a cage.”

Raleigh now busied himself in a variety of occupations: he designed a model of a ship, he condensed fresh water from salt, he compounded drugs, he began his “History of the World,” and wrote verses and political pamphlets. About the year 1610 he revived his old project for discovering Manoa. Twenty years had now passed since he had returned from Guiana, but during his long solitude in the Tower his mind returned again and again to the fabulous riches of El Dorado, and he devised plan after plan for securing its wealth. He now made a proposition to certain lords of the Council, and they listened to it. “If I bring them not to a mountain covered with gold and silver ore,” he wrote, “let the commander have commission to cut off my head there.” All he stipulated for was that if half a ton of precious ore should be brought home he should have a free pardon. At length the king was persuaded to agree to the proposal, and in March 1617 the order for his release was signed.

Raleigh and his wife adventured all they had in fitting out the expedition. Ere it sailed the Spanish ambassador intervened. He protested loudly that Guiana belonged to Spain, and that Raleigh’s expedition proposed an invasion of Spanish territory, and was simply a cloak for piracy on a gigantic scale. The ambassador believed that Raleigh had his eye on the Mexican Plate fleet, and as after events proved, he was right. James warned Raleigh that he was not to fight the Spaniards, and on this understanding he was permitted to sail.

Misfortune dogged him from the outset. Foul winds and storms drove him back, and afterwards scattered his fleet and sank one of his vessels. He had difficulty in getting water at the Canaries, and a hurricane drove him from the Cape Verde Islands. For forty days he lay in the doldrums, while his men fell a prey to scurvy and fever and grew mutinous. At length, when the remnant of his ten ships arrived off the mouth of the Orinoco, Raleigh was prostrate with fever, and his men had lost all hope of success. But his courageous spirit was equal to the occasion. “We can make the adventure,” he cried; “and if we perish, it shall be no honour to England or gain to his Majesty to lose one hundred as valiant men as England hath in it.”

While he remained off the mouth of the river, his lieutenant, Thomas Keymis, with five ships and four hundred men, undertook the great quest. For three weeks they battled against the mighty current, but when they approached the proposed landing-place they found a Spanish settlement blocking their path. This they stormed and burnt, Raleigh’s son being killed in the attack. Though the settlement was captured, the Spaniards were still in the woods, and Keymis, having done all that man could do, was forced to retreat. Raleigh met him with a bitter reproach——“You have undone me by your obstinacy.” Keymis said not a word, but betook himself to his cabin, where he ran a dagger through his heart.

Raleigh was now desperate. He proposed to go himself in search of the mine, but his men would not follow him. Then he suggested the capture of the Mexican Plate fleet; but they refused, saying that, even if they succeeded, the king would hang them when they got home. There was no help for it, so Raleigh was obliged to return to England. With angry reproaches to his “rabble of idle rascals,” he set sail, knowing well the fate which awaited him.

In June 1618 he was back at Plymouth, and was at once arrested. James was courting the favour of his “dear brother of Spain,” and the Spanish ambassador had obtained a promise from him that, “if Raleigh returned loaded with gold acquired by an attack on the subjects of the King of Spain, he would surrender it all, and would give up the authors of the crime to be hanged in the public square of Madrid.” Now the Spaniard claimed his victim, and James actually proposed to keep his word; but he dared not do so, for England now regarded Raleigh as a champion of English interests against Spanish tyranny. He was thereupon brought to trial. In the course of it the Attorney-General said, “Sir Walter Raleigh hath been as a star at which the world hath gazed; but stars may fall—nay, they must fall when they trouble the sphere where they abide.” There was a legal difficulty in the way: Raleigh was under sentence of death, and therefore could not be legally tried. The easiest way out of the difficulty was to order his execution on the old charge of treason. This was done. As Raleigh returned to his prison he remarked, “The world itself is but a larger prison, out of which some are daily selected for execution.”

On October 19, 1618, he was brought to the scaffold, which had been erected in Old Palace Yard. He met his fate cheerfully, and jested pleasantly even on the way to the block. He addressed the crowd in a well-known speech, thanking God heartily that He had brought him to die in the light, and not left him to perish obscurely in the dark prison of the Tower. He denied all accusations of treason, and defended himself against other charges. When he had finished he said, “And now I have a long journey to go, and must take my leave.” As he laid his head on the block the executioner bade him turn his head to the east. “What matter,” he answered, “how the head lies, so that the heart be right?” These noble words had hardly fallen from his lips when the axe descended.

THE BOYHOOD OF SIR WALTER RALEIGH.(From the picture by Sir J. E. Millais, Bart., P.R.A., in the National Gallery of British Art.)

Chapter XIII.THE GREAT REBELLION.

“He nothing common did or meanUpon that memorable scene,But with his keener eyeThe axe’s edge did try;Nor called the gods with vulgar spiteTo vindicate his helpless right,But bowed his comely headDown, as upon a bed.”

“He nothing common did or mean

Upon that memorable scene,

But with his keener eye

The axe’s edge did try;

Nor called the gods with vulgar spite

To vindicate his helpless right,

But bowed his comely head

Down, as upon a bed.”

THE incident you are now to witness is without a parallel in the history of our land. The scene opens in Westminster Hall, the vast building erected for the judicial courts of the realm by William the Second. There is a troop of horse in the courtyard, and armed men guard the doors. Now a procession enters, and as the doors open to admit it you hear loud shouts of “Justice! justice!” from the mob in the courtyard. At the head of the procession are officers bearing the mace and the sword of state; behind them, in black robes, you see John Bradshaw, and with him a number of members of Parliament. He takes his seat on a chair of crimson velvet, and his companions range themselves to the right and left of him. The sword and the mace are placed on the table at which the clerk sits, and the doors are flung open. At once a tumultuous crowd rushes in, eager to witness the dread ceremony. They struggle for places, and the hall rings with their shouts. At length order is restored, and the clerk reads the Act of Parliament constituting the court. Then the roll of judges is called over. Out of one hundred and thirty-five on the list only sixty-nine answer to their names.

“Mr. Sergeant,” says the president, “bring in the prisoner.”

There is a deep hush, and you hear the tramp of armed men and the clank of scabbards on the pavement. A guard of thirty-two officers leads the prisoner to a chair of crimson velvet at the bar. Now you see him clearly; he is none other thanCharles Stuart, King of England.

Look at him well. He is tall, dark, and handsome, with a long, fine face, large black eyes, thick eyebrows, a pointed beard, and black, curly hair streaked with silver. His whole aspect is noble, dignified, and refined. He is a chaste, temperate man, devout at prayers, a good father, and a fond husband, a lover of music and painting. Nevertheless he is faithless by nature, and addicted to dark and crooked ways. Seldom or never is he straightforward in his dealings. He is firmly convinced that between him and his subjects there can be no agreement which will bind him, and he holds that whether he keeps a promise or breaks it is a matter for him to decide, and for him alone. He has inherited his father’s beliefs in the doctrines of the Divine right and the absolute power of kings, and he has pushed these doctrines to such utmost extremes that he has plunged the nation into civil war, and in the contest has irretrievably ruined himself.

He is not a clever man, and he is incurably obstinate. He cannot understand the great movements which have been going on around him. He has never been able to perceive that the time has gone by when men will allow the king to be a tyrant, and permit him to override both the law and the will of the people. For eleven years he has ruled the land without a Parliament, aided by subservient ministers, who have been very geniuses of tyranny, and have goaded and maddened the people by all sorts of illegal expedients. These ministers have gone to the block, and he has been powerless to save them. One of them has died with the ominous words on his lips, “Put not your trust in princes.”

Charles has endeavoured to make himself absolute alike in Church and State. The Puritans, who are now very strong, have been the especial object of his hatred. They have been tormented, fined, whipped, pilloried, and imprisoned. His wife is a Roman Catholic princess, whose intrigues have still further brought him into bad odour, and he has showed such favour to those of her faith that the Puritans bitterly denounce him. Many earnest men of less fanatical mind have long ago come to the conclusion that unless he is removed all freedom will be banished from the land.

Fifteen years ago John Hampden refused to pay an illegal tax, and though he was heavily fined, his resistance thrilled all England and made him “the argument of all tongues.” The patience of the Scots also broke down, and they indignantly refused to permit the king to alter their mode of worship. In the churchyard of Greyfriars, Edinburgh, they signed their bond of resistance with blood and tears. Charles would gladly have chastised them, but his soldiers were unwilling to fight and his treasury was empty. In this plight he was forced to call a Parliament, which was full of opponents, who were determined to grant no supplies until the causes of all grievances were pulled up by the roots. But when this Parliament had done much good work for liberty, the members split on religious questions, and Charles, profiting by their dissensions, was safe for a time.

Suddenly terrible news arrived from Ireland. The native Irish, who were Roman Catholics to a man, had attacked the Protestant English colonists, and had slaughtered five thousand of them with horrible cruelty. The leader of the Irish had showed his followers a letter purporting to come from the king and encouraging him to the massacre. The letter had the royal seal attached to it, and looked genuine, but it was a forgery. The English Puritans, however, were now ready to think the worst of Charles, and they firmly believed that he had instigated the Irish to slaughter their fellow-countrymen and his own subjects. When Parliament reassembled, the Puritan leaders drew up a long list of all the illegal acts which the king had done, and issued it as a manifesto to the nation. Tact and conciliation might have worked wonders at this time, but Charles was in no mood for pacific measures. His wife urged him to go to Parliament and seize the five Puritan leaders. “Pull the rascals out by the ears,” she cried, and in fatal hour Charles took her advice. He went down to Westminster at the head of five hundred men, and entered the House only to discover that “the birds had flown.” The five members had escaped to the city, and the king was foiled and humiliated. He left the House amidst low mutterings of fierce discontent and loud cries of “Privilege! privilege!” The London militia rose in arms to protect the five members, and war could no longer be avoided.

In April 1642 the king rode to Hull, where there was a large magazine of arms and gunpowder, and demanded admittance. The gates were shut in his face, and the governor declared that he would only take orders from Parliament. This was the first act of war.

On the stormy evening of August 22 the king raised his standard at Nottingham, and when it was blown down there were many who saw in the occurrence an evil omen. Then began a series of miserable years, during which father fought against son and brother against brother. The fortune of war at first favoured the king; but the tide turned, and the forces of the Parliament gradually gained the upper hand. It was inevitable that they should win: London and the most populous and wealthy part of the country were with them; the great military genius, Cromwell, rose amongst them; and a deep, religious fervour inspired them.

For three years the land rang with the tumult of battle, but on one June day in the year 1645 the crisis arrived. The Parliamentary horsemen scattered the Cavaliers of the king like chaff before the wind, and they were never dangerous again. The king fled from the field, and in his captured baggage the victors found damning proof of his intrigues with the French and the Irish, and proposals that foreign armies should come over and subdue his revolting subjects.

The king’s cause was now desperate, and he rode to the camp of the Scots, who had come to the assistance of the English Parliament, and yielded himself to them. The Scots were glad to have him, and were ready to restore him to his throne if he would promise to support Presbyterianism in Scotland and make the Church of England a Presbyterian Church. Charles indignantly refused to make the Church which he loved so well the price of his freedom, and the Scots handed him over to the Parliament. At this time the Parliament was divided in opinion. The Presbyterians, who were the stronger party and had the custody of the king, were eager for peace, so they offered to set Charles on his throne again if he would agree to their demands, which included the abolition of bishops in the English Church. Charles had sworn that he would never sacrifice his crown or his Church even to save his life, and he kept his word. But for months he would not give a straightforward answer. He tried every sort of shift and trick to gain time, and in doing so disgusted many of those who would gladly have been his friends.

Now the army, which was largely composed of Independents, took matters into its own hands. It seized the king, marched to London, expelled the members of Parliament opposed to it, and so obtained a majority. But even the stern men who had overthrown the king on the field of battle were ready to offer him terms which he might easily have accepted. He refused them, because he was still hopeful of regaining his throne without making terms. It was an evil hour when he rejected the final olive branch. When a Royalist rising took place in Scotland, and a second and quite unnecessary civil war broke out in England, the army felt that the end of his tether had come. They hopelessly crushed the royal forces in less than three months, and the king’s doom was sealed. The Independent remnant of Parliament passed a Bill for bringing him to trial, and appointed a High Court of Justice for the purpose.

Now you know why Charles faces a court of his subjects in Westminster Hall. Now you know why the members keep their hats on their heads, and refuse to show him honour. To them he is a malefactor, a “man of blood.” He is now sitting in his chair waiting for the proceedings to begin. Bradshaw rises and says:—

“Charles Stuart, King of England, the Commons of England assembled in Parliament, taking notice of the effusion of blood in the land, which is fixed on you as the author of it, and whereof you are guilty, have resolved to bring you to a trial and judgment, and for this cause the tribunal is erected. The charges will now be read by the Solicitor-General.”

As the Solicitor-General rises to speak, the king touches him with his cane on the shoulder and cries “Silence!” The head of the king’s cane falls off! It is a ghastly portent, and the king himself shows a momentary sign of emotion. Then the Solicitor-General reads out a long indictment, and concludes by demanding that justice be done upon the king as a tyrant, traitor, and murderer. At these words Charles laughs in the face of the court.

Usually he hesitates in his speech, but to-day he is very fluent. He refuses to plead before such a court. He tells his judges that they are an illegal meeting appointed by a mere remnant of the House of Commons. Again and again he declares that they have no authority to sit in judgment on him.

Then Bradshaw cries, “Take away the prisoner. The court adjourns to Monday next.” The escort marches up, and the king rises to depart with them. As he does so his eye falls on the sword placed on the table. “I do not fear that,” he says, pointing to it with his cane. Then he is led forth, and the populace greet him with mingled cries of “Justice! justice!” and “God save the king!” “God save your Majesty!”

On Monday the court sits again, and the king makes the same protest. On Tuesday the same scene is enacted, and meanwhile popular sympathy for the royal prisoner is growing rapidly. The shouts of “Justice!” and “Execution!” are now only raised by the soldiers. The crowd cries “God save the king!” whenever it can do so with impunity. As the hours pass by the same cry is heard amongst the troops. A soldier of the guard who has dared to say to the king, “Sire, God bless you!” is struck by his officer. “Methinks,” says Charles, “the punishment exceeds the offence.”

On Wednesday and Thursday the court meets to hear evidence, and then retires to consider its verdict. On the 27th, at noon, it assembles again, and all men notice that Bradshaw wears a red robe in place of the customary black. As the roll of judges is called over there is no response to the name of Fairfax. Suddenly the silence is broken by the voice of his wife in the gallery, “He has too much wit to be here.” The king enters, and loud shouts of “Justice!” “Execution!” are raised by the soldiers, but the crowd is silent.

The president harangues the prisoner; but when he speaks of the crimes charged against him in the name of the people of England, he is cut short by the voice which has answered to the name of Fairfax, “Where are they or their consents? Oliver Cromwell is a traitor!”

Excitement and confusion break out for a space, but the cry of “Justice! execution!” is again raised. The king, almost beside himself, passionately cries, “Hear me! hear me!” but he is not permitted to speak. Then Bradshaw delivers a long and solemn address, the clerk reads the sentence, and the judges stand in their places to signify their assent. The king again tries to speak, but being considered dead in law is not permitted to do so. He is led away, and as he leaves the hall the soldiers on the stairs puff smoke in his face and hurl the grossest insults at him. But outside the mob shouts, “God save your Majesty!” “God deliver your Majesty from the hands of your enemies!” The soldiers retort with cries of “Justice!” “Execution!” and the king, who has now regained his serenity, observes, “Poor souls! for a piece of money they would do so to their commanders.”

The condemned king is lodged in St. James’s Palace, where he is allowed to take a last fond farewell of his weeping children. He takes the little boy on his knee, and says, “My dear heart, they will soon cut off thy father’s head. Mark, child, what I say: they will cut off my head, and perhaps make thee king; but thou must not be king so long as thy brothers Charles and James live. I charge thee, do not be made a king by them.” To which the child replies amidst its tears, “I will be torn in pieces first.” The children are removed, and the king spends the few remaining hours in prayer with his good friend Bishop Juxon. On January 30, between two and three in the afternoon, he is led by armed men through the leafless avenues of St. James’s Park to his palace of Whitehall, before which a scaffold draped with black has been erected. All marvel at the calm dignity which he displays.

The scaffold is hedged round with soldiers, and the headsman stands beside the block. The king, with head erect, steps through an opening in the wall of the banqueting hall on to the scaffold. He addresses himself to the bystanders, and in the last words he utters he shows clearly that he has not abandoned his fatal theory of kingship. Then he turns to the good Juxon, who says, “There is but one stage more, sire; it is full of trouble and anguish, but it is a very short one, and it will carry you a great way—from earth to heaven!” “I go,” returns the king, “from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown, where I shall have no trouble to fear.” Then with a mysterious admonition—“Remember!”—he lays his head on the block. The axe falls, and a deep groan of pity and horror goes up from the people.

A blood-red line has been ruled across the page of our national history—the Old Rule has gone; the New Rule has yet to appear.

Back to Index Next