That he had done nothing contrary to the laws of the kingdom, and that he had undertaken nothing but in obedience to the just commands of his sovereign, when reduced to the greatest difficulties by his rebellious subjects, who had risen up in arms against him—that his principal study had always been to fear God and honour the king, in a manner agreeable to the law of God, the laws of nature, and those of his own country; and that, in neither of these respects, had he transgressed against men, but against God alone, with whom he expected to find abundant mercy, and in the confidence of which, he was ready to approach the eternal throne without terror—that he could not pretend to foretell what might happen, or to pry into the secrets of Divine Providence; but he prayed to God that the indignities and cruelties which he was that day to suffer might not be a prelude of still greater miseries which would befall his afflicted country, which was fast hastening to ruin.
That with regard to the grievous censure of the church, which he was sorry some good people thought it a crime in him to die under, he observed, that he did not incur it from any fault of his own, but in the performance of his duty to his lawful prince, for the security of religion, and the preservation of his sacred person and royal authority—that the sentence of excommunication, so rashly laid upon him by the clergy, gave him much concern, and that he earnestly desired to be released from it, so far as that could be done, agreeably to the laws of God, and without hurting his conscience or allegiance, which, if they refused, he appealed to God, the righteous judge of the world, who, ere long, was to be his impartial judge and gracious redeemer.
In answer to the reproaches of some persons who had endeavoured to destroy the marquis’s character and reputation by spreading a report that he had laid the whole blame of what he had done upon the king and his royal father, he observed that such a thought had never once entered into his breast—that the late king had lived a saint and died a martyr, and he prayed to God, that as his own fate was not unlike his, so his death might be attended with the same degree of piety and resignation; for if he could wish his soul in another man’s stead, or to be conjoined with it in the same condition after this life, it would be his alone.
He then requested that the people would judge charitably of him and his actions, without prejudice and without passion. He desired the prayers of all good men for his soul; for his part, he said he prayed earnestly for them all; and with the greatest seriousness, submission and humility, deprecated the vengeance of Almighty God, which had been so long awakened, and which was still impending over his afflicted country—that his enemies were at liberty to exult and triumph over the perishing remains of his body, but the utmost indignities they could inflict should never prevail on him, now at his death, to swerve from that duty and reverence to God, and obedience and respect to the king, which he had manifested all his life long. “I can say no more,” concluded the marquis, “but remit myself to your charity, and I desire your prayers. You that are scandalized at me, give me your charity; I shall pray for you all. I leave my soul to God, my service to my prince, my goodwill to my friends, and my name in charity to you all. I might say more, but I have exonered my conscience; the rest I leave to God’s mercy.”[415]
A party of ministers who occupied the lower end of the scaffold now attempted, partly by persuasion and partly by threats, to induce Montrose to yield to the kirk by acknowledging his own criminality; but he denied that he had acted contrary to religion and the laws of the land, and, of course, refused to accept of a reconciliation upon such terms. Finding him inflexible, they refused to pray for him as he desired, observing, that no prayers could be of any avail to a man who was an outcast from the church of God. Being desired to pray by himself apart, he told them that if they would not permit the people to join with him, his prayers alone and separately before so large an assembly would perhaps be offensive both to them and him—that he had already poured out his soul before God, who knew his heart, and to whom he had committed his spirit. He then shut his eyes, and holding his hat before his face with his left hand, he raised his right in the attitude of prayer, in which posture he continued about a quarter of an hour in silent and fervent prayer.
As the fatal hour was fast approaching when this unfortunate nobleman was to bid a last adieu to sublunary things, he desired the executioner to hasten his preparations. This gloomy functionary, accordingly, brought the book of Montrose’s wars, and his late declaration, which, by the sentence, were ordered to be tied round his neck with a cord. Montrose himself assisted in carrying this part of his sentence into execution, and while the operation was performing, good-humouredly remarked, that he considered himself as much honoured then by having such tokens of his loyalty attached to his person as he had been when his majesty had invested him with the order of the garter.[416]
Hitherto, Montrose had remained uncovered; but, before ascending the ladder that conducted to the top of the gibbet, which rose to the height of thirty feet from the centre of the scaffold, he requested permission to put on his hat. This request was, however, refused. He then asked leave to keep on his cloak; but this favour was also denied him. Irritated, probably at these refusals, he appears for a moment to have lost his usual equanimity of temper, and when orders were given to pinion his arms, he told the magistrates that if they could invent any further marks of ignominy, he was ready to endure them all for the sake of the cause for which he suffered.
On arriving at the top of the ladder, which he ascended with astonishing firmness, Montrose asked the executioner how long his body was to be suspended to the gibbet. “Three hours,” was the answer. He then presented the executioner with three or four pieces of gold, told him he freely forgave him for the part he acted, and instructed him to throw him off as soon as he observed him uplifting his hands. The executioner watched the fatal signal, and on the noble victim raising his hands, obeyed the mandate, and, it is said, burst into tears. A feeling of horror seized the assembled multitude, who expressed their disapprobation by a general groan. Among the spectators were many persons who had indulged during the day in bitter invectives against Montrose, but whose feelings were so overpowered by the sad spectacle of his death that they could not refrain from tears.[417] Even the relentless Argyle, who had good feeling enough to absent himself from the execution, is said to have shed tears on hearing of Montrose’s death, but if a cavalier writer is to be believed, his son, Lord Lorne, disgraced himself by the most unfeeling barbarity.[418]
Thus died, at the early age of thirty-eight, James Graham, Marquis of Montrose, who had acquired during a short career of military glory greater reputation than perhaps ever fell to the lot of any commander within the same compass of time. That partisans may have exaggerated his actions, and extolled his character too highly, may be fairly admitted; but it cannot be denied that Montrose was really a great commander, and that there were noble and generous traits about him which indicated a high and cultivated mind, in many respects far superior to the age in which he lived. But however much the military exploits of Montrose may be admired, it must never be forgotten that his sword was drawn against his own countrymen in their struggles against arbitrary power, and that although there was much to condemn in the conduct of the Covenanters, subsequent events, in the reign of the second Charles and James, showed that they were not mistaken in the dread which they entertained of the extinction of their religious liberties, had Charles I. succeeded in his designs.
Among Montrose’s officers five of the most distinguished were selected for execution, all of whom perished under ‘the Maiden,’ a species of guillotine, introduced into Scotland by the Regent Morton, to which he himself became the first victim. The officers who suffered were Sir John Hurry,[419] Captain Spottiswood, younger of Dairsie, Sir Francis Hay of Dalgetty, Colonel William Sibbald, and Captain Charteris, a cadet of the ancient family of Amisfield. All these met death with extraordinary fortitude. Sir Francis Hay, who was a Catholic, “and therefore,” as a cavalier historian quaintly observes, “not coming within the compass of the ministers’ prayers,”[420] displayed in particular an intrepidity worthy of his name and family.[421] After a witty metaphorical allusion to “the Maiden,” he kissed the fatal instrument, and kneeling down, laid his head upon the block. Colonel Sibbald exhibited a surprising gaiety, and, “with an undaunted behaviour, marched up to the block, as if he had been to act the part of a gallant in a play.”[422] An instance of the unfeeling levity with which such melancholy scenes were witnessed, even by those who considered themselves the ministers of the gospel, occurred on the present as on former occasions. Captain Spottiswood, grandson of the archbishop of that name, having on his knees said the following prayer:—“O Lord, who hath been graciously pleased to bring me through the wilderness of this world, I trust at this time you will waft me over this sea of blood to my heavenly Canaan;” was rebuked by a minister who was near him in the following words:—“Take tent (heed), take tent, sir, that you drown not by the gate!” (way). Spottiswood replied with great modesty that “he hoped he was no Egyptian,” an answer which forced the base intruder to retire among the crowd to conceal his shame.