University of Virginia Library

10. X.
THE WALK TO WHITEHALL.

At midnight the king, after performing his devotions,
lay down, and was soon asleep. All had retired
but his attendant Herbert and myself, who had been
commanded to remain.

The king had given me both a letter and messages
for the queen. I was to convey these to her majesty
after witnessing the king's last hours, of which I was
to give her a detailed account.

I lay down on a pallet,—Herbert occupying another,
—but could not sleep. The terrible events occurring
around me excited my nerves and drove away my
slumbers. Providence had decreed that I should thus
witness the last moments of a condemned king, should
be beside him and lose no detail of the tragedy. All

had passed before me; I was to be present to the end;
and the thought of what would take place on the
morrow banished sleep.

The night thus passed, the chamber lit only by a
large taper which burned in the centre of a silver basin.
Long shadows, funereal and ominous, fell upon the
walls: nothing was heard but the quiet breathing of
the king, who had for the time lost all consciousness
of his misfortunes.

About daybreak I was startled, however, by a deep
groan from the pallet occupied by Herbert, the king's
attendant. I looked in the direction of the sound,
and saw that the sleeper was tossing to and fro, the
victim, it seemed, of some painful dream. Suddenly
I saw the king rise on his elbow.

“Herbert!” he called; and the faithful attendant
at once awoke.

“What is the matter?” said the king. “You groan
fearfully in your sleep!”

Herbert passed his hand across his brow, as though
he were confused.

“I have been dreaming, your majesty,” he stammered.

“Tell me your dream,” came from the king.

Herbert sighed, and said,—

“I dreamed, your majesty, that Archbishop Laud, in
his pontifical robes, entered this apartment and knelt
before your majesty, who looked at him with a pensive
expression of countenance. Conversation then took
place between the archbishop and your majesty; he
sighed deeply, seemed in pain; then the talk ended;
he inclined before your majesty, and was going towards

the door again, when suddenly he fell prostrate on the
floor.”

The king had listened without interrupting the
speaker. He now remained an instant buried in reflection.

“Your dream is remarkable, Herbert,” he said, at
length, in a pensive tone. “But the archbishop is dead.”

He paused again for a moment.

“Had I conferred with the archbishop,” he added,
“it is possible, albeit I loved him well, that I might
have said somewhat which would have caused his sigh.”

As he spoke, the king threw aside the coverlet.

“I will now rise,” he said. “I have a great work
to do this day.”

He seated himself, and motioned to Herbert to dress
his hair. The attendant obeyed, but his hand trembled,
as though from cold,—the fire in the apartment
having died out.

“Nay,” the king said, calmly, “though my head
be not to stand long on my shoulders, take the same
pains with it that you were wont to do. This is my
second marriage-day, Herbert.”

Herbert obeyed with trembling hands, and I observed
the king shiver.

“'Tis very cold,” he said. “Give me an additional
shirt. The weather may make me shake; and I would
have no imputation of fear. Death is not terrible to
me. I bless my God I am prepared.”

As he spoke, Bishop Juxon entered, his face pale and
woe-begone.

“Welcome, my lord,” the king said. “Will you
pray with me?”

The bishop knelt down, and in a faltering voice
uttered a fervent prayer, which the king listened to,
kneeling also devoutly. He then resumed his seat;
and the bishop read from the Gospel of St. Matthew.

“Did you choose this chapter, my lord, as applicable
to my situation?” asked the king, when he had ended.

“It is the gospel of the day, as the calendar indicates,
your majesty,” replied the bishop.

The king's face exhibited great emotion. The chapter
read by the bishop was that which gives an account
of the trial, condemnation, and execution of our Saviour.
A strange chance—if there be any chance—
had made it the regular gospel of the day, in accordance
with the calendar. The king resumed a moment
afterwards his kneeling position. I could see his lips
moving. A deep silence—the silence of prayer and
pity—reigned in the apartment.

The king had just risen, when the door opened, and
the guard appeared.

“I am ready,” he said, calmly.

And, placing his hat upon his head, he descended the
staircase into St. James's Park. The path to Whitehall
was lined with ten companies of infantry. In front of
the king moved a detachment of halberdiers, with drums
beating and colors flying.

The king walked on slowly, exhibiting no emotion
of any description,—on his right the good bishop, on
his left Colonel Tomlinson, of the army, and myself.
The king was absolutely composed, the soldier full of
compassion for him. This sentiment was so plain that
his majesty observed it, and, taking a gold etui which
he wore, said,—

“I beg you will accept this, sir, as a token of remembrance,
and that you will not leave me until all is over.”

The soldier bowed his head, and took the gift with
deep emotion.

“I will observe your majesty's command,” he said.
“Dare I ask your majesty if there be any truth in what
I conceive to be a terrible slander concerning you?”

“Ask your question, my friend.”

“Did your majesty concur with the Duke of Buckingham
in causing your late father's death?”

The king's face assumed a smile of pity.

“My friend,” he said, “if I had no other sin than
that, God knows I should have little need to beg his
forgiveness at this hour.”

“Then—”

The reply was not finished. A sudden roar from the
drums interrupted it. They were near Whitehall, and
the king said to the guard,—

“Come on, my good fellows: step apace.”

And, pointing to a tree, he added, to Bishop Juxon,—

“That tree was planted by my brother Henry.”

These trifles all engraved themselves indelibly upon
my memory. If they are otherwise unimportant, they
still indicate the king's calmness.

He had now reached the flight of stairs which leads
from the park into Whitehall. As he entered the
palace, Colonel Tomlinson said,—

“Here are two Independent ministers, your majesty,
who offer their spiritual aid and prayers.”

The king paused, but replied, almost immediately,—

“Say to them frankly that they have so often prayed
against me that they shall not pray with me in my

agony; but if they will pray for me now, tell them
that I shall be thankful.”

As he spoke, the king turned to me, and held out
his hand.

“I must leave you now, friend,” he said. “You
must not go with me to the scaffold. You have my
last request. Convey the letter you wot of; tell her
to whom 'tis addressed that she was in my heart to the
last; and may God bless and keep you, as my faithful
friend, always!”

I could make no reply, but, falling upon my knees,
pressed the king's hand to my lips, with sobs.

A moment afterwards he had disappeared within the
palace.