  The convent bells are ringing, But mournfully and slow; In the gray, square turret swinging, With a deep sound, to and fro, Heavily to the heart they go! Hark! the hymn is singing— The song for the dead below, Or the living who shortly shall be so! Byron’s Parisina. The thirtieth of January, memorable in history, rose gloomy and dark, as though the heavens would express their sympathy with the tragedy about to be enacted. Three days only had been allowed the condemned prisoner between his sentence and his execution. This interval, during the day, he had spent chiefly in reading and prayer. On each night he had slept long and soundly, although the noise of the workmen employed in framing his scaffold, and making other preparations for his execution distinctly reached his ears. On the morning of the fatal day he rose early, and calling his attendant, desired him to employ great care in dressing and preparing him for the unusual solemnity before him. At length he appeared attired in his customary suit of black, arranged with more than his wonted neatness. His collar, edged with deep lace, set carefully round his neck, and was spotless in color, and accurate in every fold, while his pensive countenance exhibited no evidence of emotion or excitement. Bishop Juxon assisted him at his devotions, and paid the last melancholy duties to the king. After this, he was permitted to see such of his family as were still in England. These consisted only of his two younger children, the Princess Elizabeth and the Duke of Gloucester. Notwithstanding the tender years of the young Elizabeth, she seemed fully to appreciate her father’s unhappy situation, and her young heart appeared well nigh bursting. “Weep not for thy father, my child,” said Charles, kissing her tenderly; “he but goeth where thou mayest one day meet him again.” She threw her arms around his neck, and sobbed aloud. He pressed her to his bosom and soothed her gently, but seemed for the first time since his interview with Alice Heath, on the night previous to his sentence, half unmanned. “It is God, my love, who hath called thy poor parent hence, and we must submit to his will in all things. Bear my love to your mother, and tell her that my last thoughts were with her and our precious children.” Separating himself from her by a great effort, and then pressing the boy to his heart, he motioned to the attendants to remove them, lest the trial of this interview might, at the last, unnerve his well-sustained resolution and courage. The muffled bells now announced with mournful distinctness, that the fatal moment was approaching. The noisy tramp of the excited populace—ever eager to sate their vulgar gaze on any bloody spectacle, but anticipating extraordinary gratification from the novel sight of the execution of their king—was plainly audible. Presently, the guard came to lead him out. He was conducted by a private gallery and staircase into the court below, and thence conveyed in a sedan-chair to the scaffold, followed by the shouts and cries of the crowd. About the time that these sounds were dying away from the neighborhood of Lisle’s house, William Heath hastily entered the library, and taking pen and paper, wrote the following brief letter. My Dear Alice,—I cannot but rejoice, that after finding, as we believed, all hope for Charles Stuart at an end—your visit to Cromwell having been unsuccessful—I removed you to a distance, until the tragical scene should, as we thought, be ended. The tumult and noise which fill the city, together with the consciousness of the cause creating it, would have been too much for your nerves, unstrung as they have been of late, by the feeling you have expended for the unhappy king. There is yet, though—I delight to say, and you will delight to hear—a single hope remaining for him, even while the bells now ring for his execution. Lord Fairfax, who though, like myself, friendly to his deposition, still shudders at the thoughts of shedding his blood, will, with his own regiment, make an attempt to rescue him from the scaffold. There is, in fact, scarce any reason to doubt the success of this measure; and this evening, Alice, we will rejoice together that the only cloud to dim the first blissful days of our union has been removed—as I shall rejoin you at as early an hour as the distance will permit. I write this hastily, and send it by a speedy messenger, in order to relieve, by its agreeable tidings, the sorrowful state of mind in which I left you a few hours since. I am, my own Alice, your most affectionate husband, William Heath. The street before Whitehall was the place prepared for the execution. This arrangement had been made in order to render the triumph of popular justice over “People of England, your king dies innocent. He is sentenced for having taken up arms against Parliament. Parliament had first enlisted forces against him, and his sole object—as God is his judge, before whom he is momently to appear—was to preserve, as was his bounded duty, inviolate for himself and his successors, that authority transmitted to him by royal inheritance. Yet, although innocent toward you, and in that view undeserving of death, in the eyes of the Omniscient his other sins amply merit his coming doom; in especial, having once suffered an unjust sentence of death to be executed against another, it is but meet that he should now die thus unjustly himself. May God lay not his death in like manner to your charge; and grant that in allegiance to my son, England’s lawful sovereign at my decease, you may speedily be restored to the ways of peace.” Lord Fairfax, with his regiment, prepared for the rescue of Charles, was proceeding toward the place of execution by a by-street, at the same time that the king was being conducted thither. On his way, he was passed by Cromwell, who then, for the first time, became aware of his purpose. Much disturbed in mind at the discovery of a project so likely to thwart his own ambitious views, just ripe for fulfillment, the latter walked on for some moments in deep reflection. Presently quickening his pace, he turned a corner, and stepped, without knocking, into a house near by. His manner was that of a person perfectly at home in the premises, which, indeed, was the case; for James Harrison, the tenant, was one of his subservients, chosen by him in consequence of his austere piety, and great influence with his sect, of whom it will be recollected that Fairfax was one. Harrison’s appearance, though coarse, was not actually vulgar. He was a middle-aged man, tall and strongly made, and his manner, rough and military, might command fear, but could not excite ridicule. Cromwell found him in prayer, notwithstanding all the tumult of the day. “I have sought thee, Harrison,” he said, “to beseech thee engage in prayer with Lord Fairfax, who is now on his way to rescue this Saul from the hands of the Philistines. He should first crave the Lord’s will in regard to his errand. Wilt thou not seek him and mind him of this?” “I will e’en do thy bidding, thou servant of the Most High,” said Harrison, rising and accompanying him to the door. “Where shall I find Fairfax?” “Thou wilt overtake him by turning speedily to the right,” replied the other, parting from him. “One of his lengthy supplications at the throne of grace,” said Cromwell to himself, as he walked on, “will detain Fairfax until this son of Belial is destroyed.” Meanwhile, upon the scaffold, Charles, after delivering his address, was preparing himself for the block with perfect equanimity and composure. “There is but one stage more, sire,” said Juxon, with the deepest sympathy of look and manner. “There is but one stage more. Though turbulent, it is a very short one; yet it will carry you a long distance—from earth to heaven.” “I go,” replied the king, “from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown, where no downfall can transpire.” So saying, he laid his head upon the block, and the headsman, standing near, in a visor, at one blow struck it from his body. Another man, in a corresponding disguise, catching it and holding it up, exclaimed, “Behold the head of a traitor!” At this moment Lord Fairfax and his regiment came up. His humane purpose, so artfully defeated, becoming known, with the strange perversity of mankind, now that its benefits were too late to reach the king, an instant revulsion in the feelings of the populace took place; and the noise of quarrels—of reproaches and self-accusations rent the air, until the tumult grew terrific. But the reverberation of no thunder-clap could have reawaked the dissevered corpse of the dead monarch. Charles Stuart, the accomplished scholar and elegant poet—Charles Stuart, the husband, father, friend—Charles Stuart, the descendant of a long line of sovereigns, and legitimate king of the most potent nation upon earth—was no more; and a human life was blotted from existence! That life, what was it? Singular and mysterious essence—capable of exquisite pleasure and intense pain—held by such a precarious tenure, yet valued beyond all price—the gift of God, and destroyed by man—a moment past here, and now gone forever—tell us, metaphysician, what was it, for we cannot answer the question. —— |
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