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 than Charles 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.

Charles I. leaving Westminster Hall after his Trial.
(From the picture by Sir John Gilbert, R.A., in the Mappin Art Gallery, Sheffield. By permission of the Corporation of Sheffield.)