in which are preserved the block and axe used at the last execution on Tower Hill, in 1747, is the Banqueting Hall of the Keep, and was the scene, so some maintain, of the trial of Anne Boleyn, in May, 1536. Raleigh, in 1601, watched the execution of Essex from one of its western windows. A mounted figure of Queen Elizabeth, dressed as on the occasion of her progress to St. Paul’s Cathedral to render thanks for the destruction of the Armada, has been removed from this room to a dark corner of the crypt of St. John’s Chapel; its place is taken by an illuminated show-case in which the Coronation robes of the reigning sovereign are displayed. Models of the instruments of torture—the rack, thumb-screws, scavenger’s daughter, iron neck-collar, and so forth—are shown in this room, reminding us that though torture was never legal punishment in England, it was practised in Tower dungeons, especially in Tudor times, when, in the wisdom of those in power, occasion demanded it. But the whole business is too despicable to dwell upon.
A continuation of the winding stairway in the south-west angle of the wall gives access to the upper floor and ancient Council Chamber, which is the room entered first. Here Richard II. abdicated in favour of Henry IV. Froissart, describing the ceremony, says, “King Richard was released from his prison and entered the hall which had been prepared for the occasion, royally dressed, the sceptre in his hand and the crown on his head, but without supporters on either side.” He said, after raising the crown from his head and placing it before him, “Henry, fair cousin, and Duke of Lancaster, I present and give to you this crown with which I was crowned King of England, and all the rights dependent on it.” When all was over and Henry “had called in a public notary that an authentic act should be drawn up of the proceedings,” Richard was led back “to where he had come from, and the Duke and other lords mounted their horses to return home.” It was in this Council Chamber of the White Tower, also, that Richard III. enacted that dramatic scene on which the curtain fell with the death of Hastings, the Lord Chamberlain. The lords were seated at council when Richard entered the broad, low room in anger, and exclaimed, to their astonishment, “What are they worthy to have that compass and imagine my destruction?” The lords, sore amazed at this, sat dumb, and none dared speak lest he be accused. Then the irate Richard bared his withered arm and called on all to look what sorcery had done. His protestation had, however, been somewhat overacted, and his lords in the Chamber of Council saw that he was but in a fit of spleen and hasty to pick a quarrel with any. Still, Lord Hastings took courage to stand and reply, “If any have so heinously done, they are worthy of heinous punishment.” “What!” said Richard, starting up; “thou servest me ill, I ween, with ‘ifs.’ I tell thee they have so done, and that I will make good on thy body, traitor.” In great anger he strode to a table and hit it heavily with his clenched fist. At this signal a great number of armed men, who had been cunningly hid in the stone passage that lay within the thickness of the wall, entered the room and blocked the doorways. Richard, coming into the centre of the chamber and pointing to Hastings, exclaimed, “I arrest thee, traitor!” “What, me, my lord?” replied the Chamberlain. “Yea, thee, traitor.” And Hastings being seized and made prisoner, “I will not to dinner,” continued his accuser, “till I see thy head off.” Without time to say a word on his own behalf, Lord Hastings, in order that the repast of Richard should not be unduly delayed, was hurried down the narrow, winding stairway in the north-east turret of the White Tower and led out upon what is now the parade ground, below. It is told that the way to the block on Tower Green near by was greatly obstructed by stones and much timber then being used in rebuilding houses within the Tower walls. Richard was watching with impatience, from a window in the Council Chamber, the progress of his victim to death, and, in order to avoid delay, Hastings was compelled by his captors to lay his head on a rough log of wood that blocked the path. So was he brought to the axe ere Richard, satisfied, and himself again, went to dine.
The crypt of St. John’s Chapel (which, with the dungeons, is shown only to those who have obtained an order and are accompanied by a special warder), a very dark place before the comparatively modern windows were put in, was used as a prison cell, and here were confined those captured in the Wyatt rebellion. Prisoners’ inscriptions may still be seen on the wall on either side of the smaller dungeon, erroneously termed “Raleigh’s Cell.” This grim chamber, hollowed out of the wall of the crypt, would, when the door was shut and all light of day excluded, have been the most unwelcome hole for any human being to linger in. To assert that Raleigh sat and wrote here, by rushlight, is drawing too heavily on our credulity. Even “that beast Waad” would not have put his famous prisoner into such a place of darkness. The crypt has a remarkable barrel-shaped roof, the stones of which are most cunningly set together. The walls are of amazing thickness, as may be seen by the depth of the window recesses. Some few years ago a quantity of stained glass was found in this crypt; some of it of sixteenth-century date, the remainder modern and of little value. Fragments of this glass have been put together with care and skill and placed in the small windows of the Chapel of St. John, above.
The larger dungeons of the Keep are entered beneath the stairway that leads to the parade-ground from the level of the crypt we have just visited. These lower places of confinement have been sadly modernised, white-washed, and have all the appearance of respectable wine-cellars, lit by electric light. In these once gloomy chambers, deep down below the level of the ground, stood the rack; the cries of victims would not be heard beyond the massive walls. This instrument of torture was an open frame of solid oak about three feet high. The prisoner was laid within it, on the bare ground, his wrists and ankles being tied to rollers at each extremity. By means of levers these rollers were moved in opposite directions and the body of the prisoner was thereby raised to the level of the frame. While his body was thus suspended he was questioned, and if his replies came tardily a turn or two of the rollers, which threatened to pull his joints from their sockets, was considered necessary to extract from the sufferer any information desired. In this place, and in this way, Guy Fawkes was racked after Gunpowder Plot, and, between the periods of torture, was confined in a small cell called Little Ease, which was constructed so skilfully that the captive could neither lie down nor stand up with any satisfaction, but was compelled to exist there in a cramped and stooping posture. This miserable cell lay between the dungeon containing the rack and the great dungeon under the crypt of St. John’s Chapel. Though the formidable iron-studded door of Little Ease, with its ingenious system of locks and bolts, is still to be seen, the cell itself has been broken through to give entrance to the black vault beyond. Yet even to-day, in spite of foolish “improvements,” some idea of the power of Little Ease to administer suffering can be gained. In this, at one time, circumscribed space, Guy Fawkes spent his last weeks, with no fresh air to breathe and no glimmer of light to cheer. The gloomy dungeon, to which Little Ease now gives access, under St. John’s crypt, was the foulest and blackest of all the Tower cells. Even now it is a place of horror, though an attempt has been made to enlarge the single window, high up on the eastern side, and admit a little more light. Hundreds of Jews were shut up here in King John’s time, charged, as has already been stated in the previous chapter, with tampering with the coinage of the realm. No light of any kind entered the place in those days, the earthen floor was carefully kept damp for greater inconvenience, the air was poisonous, and the place was at all times infested with rats. This cell rivals in horror the Black Hole of Calcutta, and in it men were, to use a Meredithian expression, chilled in subterranean sunlessness. In the basement chambers, to the west of this dungeon and of the torture chamber, a well has, within recent years, been discovered, together with a secret passage leading towards the moat and the river. In connection with the discovery of this passage it is stated that a grated cell had been found in which the waters of the Thames flowed and receded with the tide. It is possible that some poor sufferer may have been put, for a time, in this place of horror, but we may be thankful that, as no details have survived time’s ravages, it is not necessary for us to demand definite information on the subject. There are certain corners of Tower history that are better left unexplored. The dungeons of the White Tower might conceivably have been left in something of their original state. The “modernisation” they have undergone has robbed them of all appearance of age. They have the look (with the exception of the Jews’ dungeon) of store cellars constructed last week. Utility has done its best to kill romance.
Tower Green.—Beneath the western wall of the White Tower there is massed together, and now railed in, a curious collection of old guns and mortars, mostly trophies won from France, Spain and Portugal. Some are early examples of English cannon found in the Mary Rose, wrecked off Spithead in 1545. Two solemn ravens hover about these old guns day by day, and perch at times, with significant gravity, on the site of the block near by. Tower Green was the place of private, as Tower Hill was the place of public, execution, and was reserved for culprits of Royal rank. This open space in the centre of the buildings saw prisoners led from cell to cell, saw many a headless body carried on rude stretcher to burial
in St. Peter’s, and was the place of revels on far-off coronation eves when the King of the morrow was feasting in the Keep above or in the Palace. It saw, also, the last sad moments of three Queens of England. In the far corner, towards the Bloody Tower, lay the Constable’s Garden in which Raleigh walked, and in which the proud Princess Elizabeth had paced along the paths that her favourite of later days had been sent by the prouder Queen to tread. Farther westward, and marked by a sentry-box at the door, is the King’s House, in which lives the present Major of the Tower. It was from this house that Lord Nithsdale escaped, on the eve of his execution, in 1716. His wife, who had ridden in bitter, wintry weather from Scotland in order to make appeal to King George on her husband’s behalf, found only disappointment as a result of the appeal to royal clemency. But she was not to be daunted by her rebuff at Court. Though the attempt seemed quite a hopeless one, she was determined to make all effort possible to save her lord from the scaffold. From her lodgings in Drury Lane she walked to the Tower, accompanied by her landlady, Mrs. Mills, and a friend, Mrs. Morgan. Mrs. Morgan consented to wear a dress belonging to Mrs. Mills above her own dress, and Lady Nithsdale proposed to get her husband away from the Tower disguised in this extra dress. When she reached the King’s House she was allowed to take in with her only one friend at a time, and so brought in Mrs. Morgan, who had, she explained, come to bid Lord Nithsdale farewell. When the custodian of the prison room had retired, Lord Nithsdale was hastily dressed in the spare set of female garments and Mrs. Morgan was sent out to bring in “her maid, Evans.” Mrs. Mills came upstairs in answer to the call, and held a handkerchief to her face “as was natural,” wrote Lady Nithsdale when describing the events afterwards, “for a person going to take a last leave of a friend before execution. I desired her to do this that my lord might go out in the same manner. Her eyebrows were inclined to be sandy, and as my lord’s were dark and thick, I had prepared some paint to disguise him. I had also got an artificial head-dress of the same coloured hair as hers, and rouged his face and cheeks, to conceal his beard which he had not had time to shave. All this provision I had before left in the Tower. I made Mrs. Mills take off her own hood and put on that which I had brought for her. I then took her by the hand and led her out of my lord’s chamber. In passing through the next room, in which were several people, with all the concern imaginable, I said, ‘My dear Mrs. Catherine, go in all haste and send me my waiting-maid; she certainly cannot reflect how late it is. I am to present my petition to-night; to-morrow it is too late. Hasten her as much as possible, for I shall be on thorns till she comes.’... When I had seen her safe out I returned to my lord and finished dressing him. I had taken care that Mrs. Mills did not go out crying, as she came in, that my lord might better pass for the lady who came in crying and afflicted; and the more so that as he had the same dress that she wore. When I had almost finished dressing my lord, I perceived it was growing dark, and was afraid that the light of the candle might betray us, so I resolved to set off. I went out leading him by the hand, whilst he held his handkerchief to his eyes. I spoke to him in the most piteous and afflicted tone, bewailing the negligence of my maid Evans, who had ruined me by her delay. Then I said, ‘My dear Mrs. Betty ... run quickly and bring her with you. I am almost distracted with this disappointment.’ The guards opened the door, and I went downstairs with him, still conjuring him to make all possible despatch. As soon as he had cleared the door, I made him walk before me, for fear the sentinel should take notice of his walk. At the bottom of the stairs I met my dear Evans, into whose hands I confided him.” Lord Nithsdale, now safely out of the walls and on Tower Hill, was hurried to a convenient lodging in the City. Lady Nithsdale, having sent “her maid Betty” off, returned to her lord’s room, and, alone there, pretended to converse with her husband, imitating his voice so well that no suspicions were aroused. She continues her narrative thus: “I then thought proper to make off also. I opened the door and stood half at it, that those in the outward chamber might hear what I said, but held it so close that they could not look in. I bade my lord formal farewell for the night, and added that something more than usual must have happened to make Evans negligent, on this important occasion, who had always been so punctual in the smallest trifles; that I saw no other remedy but to go in person; that if the Tower was then open, when I had finished my business, I would return that night; but that he might be assured I would be with him as early in the morning as I could gain admittance to the Tower, and I flattered myself I should bring more favourable news. Then, before I shut the door, I pulled through the string of the latch, so that it could only be opened on the inside.” On her way out Lady Nithsdale told one of the servants that candles need not be taken in to his master “until he sent for them,” and so left the King’s House, crossed Tower Green in the dusk of the evening, and was soon safely in London streets. Lord Nithsdale eventually escaped, disguised as a footman, in the suite of the Venetian Ambassador, from Dover. Lady Nithsdale bravely returned to Dumfriesshire, and, at great risk, for “the King was great insensed at the trick she had played,” recovered valuable papers buried in a garden there, then joined her husband in Rome. By her splendid intrepidity she had saved her lord from the scaffold on the very eve of execution, had baffled the King’s emissaries, and altogether gave King George cause to complain that she had given him more trouble than “any other woman in the whole of Europe.”
Beauchamp Tower.—This tower lies in the centre of the western Ballium Wall, and is entered at the foot of a flight of steps leading down from the level of the Green. A narrow winding stairway, which is typical of the means of ingress and egress in all the lesser towers on the walls, brings us to the large prison-chamber of this tower, the only portion shown to the public. In Tudor days the Beauchamp Tower was set aside specially as the place of detention of captives of high estate in the realm. It is the least gloomy of the towers. It must at all times have had a good supply of light, if we may judge by the delicacy of the inscriptions and carvings that those imprisoned there have left upon its walls. On entering the prison-room an inscription bearing the word “Peveril” will be seen on the wall to the left. This caught the eye of Sir Walter Scott when visiting the Tower, and suggested the title for the then unwritten novel, the scenes of which are laid in the time of Charles II. In that book a description is given, in chapter xl, of the King’s visit to the fortress. “In the meantime the royal barge paused at the Tower; and, accompanied by a laughing train of ladies and of courtiers, the gay monarch made the echoes of the old prison-towers ring with the unwonted sounds of mirth and revelry.... Charles, who often formed manly and sensible resolutions, though he was too easily diverted from them by indolence or pleasure, had some desire to make himself personally acquainted with the state of the military stores, arms, etc., of which the Tower was then, as now, the magazine.... The King, accompanied by the Dukes of Buckingham, Ormond, and one or two others, walked through the well-known hall [in the White Tower] in which is preserved the most splendid magazine of arms in the world, and which, though far from exhibiting its present extraordinary state of perfection, was even then an arsenal worthy of the great nation to which it belonged.” In the same chapter the Tower legend of the King’s discovery of Coleby (who had helped the King at Worcester fight) as a warder in the Tower is told. Sir Walter adds a footnote to the tale: “The affecting circumstances are, I believe, recorded in one of the little manuals which are put into the hands of visitors.” In this room of the Beauchamp Tower, Nigel, Lord Glenvarloch, is imprisoned as narrated in The Fortunes of Nigel, which pictures earlier days—the times of James I. Nigel “followed the lieutenant to the ancient buildings on the western side of the parade, and adjoining to the chapel, used in those days as a State prison, but in ours [this was written in 1822] as the mess-room of the officers of the guard upon duty at the fortress. The double doors were unlocked, the prisoner ascended a few steps, followed by the lieutenant and a warder of the higher class. They entered a large, but irregular, low-roofed and dark apartment, exhibiting a very scanty proportion of furniture.... The lieutenant, having made his reverence with the customary compliment that ‘He trusted his lordship would not long remain under his guardianship,’ took his leave.... Nigel proceeded to amuse himself with the melancholy task of deciphering the names, mottoes, verses and hieroglyphics with which his predecessors in captivity had covered the walls of their prison-house. There he saw the names of many forgotten sufferers mingled with others which will continue in remembrance until English history shall perish. There were the pious effusions of the devout Catholic, poured forth on the eve of his sealing his profession at Tyburn, mingled with those of the firm Protestant about to feed the fires of Smithfield.... It was like the roll of the prophet, a record of lamentation and mourning, and yet not unmixed with brief interjections of resignation, and sentences expressive of the firmest resolution.” There are ninety-one names on the walls of this room in the Beauchamp Tower, and the earliest date, 1462, is cut beside the name of Talbot. Other notable inscriptions are those of the Pole family (No. 33), of which two members died in