If we schedule these notes we may safely conclude that the lowest tier of windows was only glazed in our own day; that those of the middle—the Ionic storey—were still unglazed in 1649; and that in Silvestre’s view, taken about fifty years after the great tragedy, there was not a single glazed window on this, the western, front. All the apparent openings were filled with masonry.
We now understand why the wall had to be broken through, and perhaps why the middle window was chosen. The scaffold stretched from the opening to the north-west corner of the hall, both it and the short passage leading to it being parallel with, and possibly close against, the face of the blank wall with its closed and built-up windows. The reason for this arrangement is obvious. Had the passage and the scaffold jutted out at right angles they would have reached far into the surging and probably angry crowd, and the number and daring of the soldiers must have been quadrupled at least. Again, had the scaffold stretched toward the southern extremity of the Banqueting House, it would have been close to the gallery by which Charles had entered the palace that morning. This gallery, in fact, touched the southern corner of the hall. The military eye of the officer who made and carried out the arrangements must have seen dangers of rescue and other possibilities which it was needful to guard against. Knowing all these things and others of the kind, we see that some of the contemporary views—they are chiefly Dutch—which show the northward position of the scaffold are correct, and not those—chiefly English—which adorn prayer-books printed after the Restoration, and place the scaffold before the middle window.
When Charles was brought out, he showed that, as he himself had said to Lord Digby, if he could not live like a King, he could die like a gentleman. Juxon, at that time Bishop of London, had the courage to attend him, as well as Herbert, his long-tried servant. The King’s last devotions in his old chapel were interrupted by the impertinences of some of the unauthorised ministers, whose nonconformist consciences probably justified their interference. There was some unexpected delay in the preparations. If the carpenters employed were not Roundheads or Fifth Monarchy fanatics, it is easy to understand that they hesitated over a task which would make them marked men among their fellows for years to come.
The Execution of Charles I.
From a Print of 1649.
The King had reached Whitehall at ten. It was now past noon, the dinner-hour of that day. Some dishes were provided for his use, but he would not eat. He had received the Holy Communion, and would eat no more in this world. Meanwhile, he retired to the apartments he had occupied in happier days, and gave himself up to private meditation and prayer. As the afternoon wore on, Bishop Juxon persuaded him, lest his strength should fail him at the last, to eat a piece of bread and drink a glass of wine. Then he went with the soldiers to where in the western wall of the Banqueting House the masonry had been pierced to give access to the scaffold. Jesse, writing just after Soane’s operations in 1830, reports that he had seen traces of the opening in the brickwork. He does not say clearly where it was, nor does it now greatly matter, as we know where it must have been. Charles very soon reached the scaffold and made ready for the end. Meanwhile, Juxon spoke to him of the future life. It was far off, he said, but the passage short. The King replied as if grateful for the good Bishop’s dry and dull remarks. If we contrast them with the “Son of Saint Louis, ascend to Heaven!” of another ecclesiastic, they seem all the more tame. But to the King’s ear they brought a different echo. He remembered that he had once been crowned. The applauding congregation had crowded round him in the old Abbey close by; and the words of Bishop Senhouse, so distasteful then, so truly prophetic now, came into his mind: “Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.” He turned to Juxon and answered, “I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown.” The Bishop, who was not at the coronation, probably wondered. Then followed the gift of his jewel of St. George, with the still unexplained charge: “Remember!” The block was low, it seemed too low. But after a moment’s hesitation—to quote the words of Marvell once more—
“He laid his comely head
Down as upon a bed;”
and in a few moments more the White King had set out on his last journey, “faithful unto death.”