 History of England, Chapter 8, Part 14. It seemed that at length this hard fight had been won. The case for the crown was closed. Had the council for the bishops remained silent, an acquittal was certain, for nothing which the most corrupt and shameless judge could venture to call legal evidence of publication had been given. Chief Justice was beginning to charge the jury, and would undoubtedly have directed them to acquit the defendants, but Finch, too anxious to be perfectly discreet, interfered and begged to be heard. "'If you will be heard,' said Wright, "'you shall be heard, but you do not understand your own interests.' The other council for the defense made Finch sit down and begged the Chief Justice to proceed. He was about to do so when a messenger came to the solicitor general with news that Lord Sunderland could prove the publication, and would come down to the court immediately. Wright maliciously told the council for the defense that they had only themselves to thank for the turn which things had taken. The countenances of the great multitude fell. Finch was, during some hours, the most unpopular man in the country. Why could he not sit still as his betters, Sawyer, Pemberton and Polluxven, had done? His love of meddling, his ambition to make a fine speech, had ruined everything. Meanwhile, the Lord President was brought in a sedan chair through the hall. Not a hat moved as he passed, and many voices called out, Popage Dog. He came into court pale and trembling, with eyes fixed on the ground, and gave his evidence in a faltering voice. He swore that the bishops had informed him of their intention to present a petition to the King, and that they had been admitted into the royal closet for that purpose. This circumstance, coupled with the circumstance that, after they left the closet, there was in the King's hands a petition signed by them, was such proof as might reasonably satisfy a jury of the fact of the publication. The petition in Middlesex was then proved. But was the paper thus published a false, malicious, and seditious libel? Either, too, the matter in dispute had been whether a fact which everybody well knew to be true could be proved according to the technical rules of evidence, but now the contest became one of deeper interest. It was necessary to inquire into the limits of prerogative and liberty, into the right of the King to dispense with statutes, into the right of the subject to petition for the redress of grievances. During three hours the Council for the Petitioners argued with great force in defence of the fundamental principles of the Constitution, and proved from the journals of the House of Commons that the bishops had affirmed no more than the truth when they represented to the King that the dispensing power which he claimed had been repeatedly declared illegal by Parliament. Summers rose last. He spoke little more than five minutes, but every word was full of weighty matter, and when he sat down his reputation as an orator and a constitutional lawyer was established. He went through the expressions which were used in the information to describe the offence imputed to the bishops, and showed that every word, whether adjective or substantive, was altogether inappropriate. The offence imputed was a false, a malicious, a seditious libel. False the paper was not, for every fact which it set forth had been proved from the journals of Parliament to be true. Malicious the paper was not, for the defendants had not sought an occasion of strife, but had been placed by the government in such a situation that they must either oppose themselves to the royal will, or violate the most sacred obligations of conscience and honour. Seditious the paper was not, for it had not been scattered by the writers among the rabble, but delivered privately into the hands of the King alone, and a libel it was not, but a decent petition such as by the Laws of England, nay by the Laws of Imperial Rome, by the Laws of all civilised states, a subject who thinks himself aggrieved may with propriety present to the sovereign. The attorney replied shortly and feedly. The solicitor spoke at great length, and with great acrimony, and was often interrupted by the clamours and hisses of the audience. He went so far as to lay it down that no subject or body of subjects except the Houses of Parliament had a right to petition the King. The galleries were furious, and the Chief Justice himself stood aghast at the effrontery of this venal turncoat. At length, right proceeded to sum up the evidence. His language showed that the awe in which he stood of the government was tempered by the awe with which the audience, so numerous, so splendid, and so strongly excited, had impressed him. He said that he would give no opinion on the question of the dispensing power, that it was not necessary for him to do so, that he could not agree with much of the solicitor's speech, and that it was the right of the subject to petition, but that the particular petition before the court was improperly worded, and was, in the contemplation of law, a libel. Petition was of the same mind, but in giving his opinion showed such gross ignorance of law and history, as brought on him the contemptful who heard him. Holloway evaded the question of the dispensing power, but said that the petition seemed to him to be such as subjects who think themselves aggrieved are entitled to present, and therefore no libel. Powell took a bolder course. He avowed that in his judgment the declaration of indulgence was a nullity, and that the dispensing power, as lately exercised, was utterly inconsistent with all law. If these encroachments of prerogative were allowed, there was an end of parliaments. The whole legislative authority would be in the king. That issue, gentlemen, he said, I leave to God, and to your consciences. It was dark before the jury retired to consider of their verdict. The night was a night of intense anxiety. Some letters are extant, which were dispatched during that period of suspense, and which have, therefore, an interest of a peculiar kind. It is very late, wrote the papal nuncio, and the decision is not yet known. The judges and the culprits have gone to their own homes. The jury remain together. Tomorrow we shall learn the event of this great struggle. The solicitor for the bishops sat up all night with a body of servants on the stairs leading to the room where the jury was consulting. It was absolutely necessary to watch the officers who watched the doors, for those officers were supposed to be in the interests of the crown, and might, if not carefully observed, have furnished a courtly juryman with food which would have enabled him to starve out the other eleven. Strict guard was therefore kept. Not even a candle to light a pipe was permitted to enter. Some basins of water for washing were suffered to pass at about four in the morning. The juryman, raging with thirst, soon lapped up the hoe. Great numbers of people walked the neighbouring streets till dawn. Every hour a messenger came from Whitehall to know what was passing. Voices, high in altercation, were repeatedly heard from within the room, but nothing certain was known. At first nine were for acquitting, and three for convicting. Two of the minorities soon gave way, but Arnold was obstinate. Thomas Austin, a country gentleman of great estate, who had paid close attention to the evidence and speeches and had taken full notes, wished to argue the question. Arnold declined. He was not used, he doggedly said, to reasoning and debating. His conscience was not satisfied, and he should not acquit the bishops. If you come to that, said Austin, look at me. I am the largest and strongest of the twelve, and before I find such a petition as this a libel, here I will stay till I am no bigger than a tobacco-pipe. It was six in the morning before Arnold yielded. It was soon known that the jury were agreed, but what the verdict would be was still a secret. At ten the court again met. The crowd was greater than ever. The jury appeared in their box, and there was a breathless stillness. So Samuel Astry spoke. Do you find the defendants, or any of them, guilty of the misdemeanor whereof they are impeached, or not guilty? Sir Roger Langley answered, not guilty. As the words passed his lips Halifax sprang up and waved his hat. At that signal benches and galleries raised a shout. In a moment ten thousand persons who crowded the great hall replied with a still louder shout which made the old oaken roof crack, and in another moment the innumerable throng without set up a third huzzah which was heard at Temple Bar. The boats which covered the Thames gave an answering cheer. A peal of gunpowder was heard on the water, and another, and another, and so in a few moments the glad tidings went flying past the Savoy and the Friars to London Bridge, and to the forest of masts below. As the news spread, streets and squares, marketplaces, and coffee-houses brought forth into acclamations. Yet were the acclamations less strange than the weeping. For the feelings of men had been wound up to such a point that at length the stern English nature, so little used to outward signs of emotion, gave way, and thousands sobbed aloud for very joy. Meanwhile from the outskirts of the multitude, horsemen were sparing off to bear along all the great roads, intelligence of the victory of our church and nation. Yet not even that astounding explosion could oar the bitter and intrepid spirit of the solicitor. Being to make himself heard above the din, he called on the judges to commit those who had violated by clamour the dignity of a court of justice. One of the rejoicing populace was seized, but the tribunal felt that it would be absurd to punish a single individual for an offence common to hundreds of thousands, and dismiss him with a gentle reprimand. It was vain to think of passing at that moment to any other business. Indeed, the roar of the multitude was such that for half an hour scarcely a word could be heard in court. Williams got to his coach amidst a tempest of hisses and curses. Cartwright, whose curiosity was ungovernable, had been guilty of the folly and indecency of coming to Westminster in order to hear the decision. He was recognized by his sacerdotal garb and by his corpulent figure, and was hooted through the hall. Make care, said one, of the wolf-in-sheep's clothing. Make room, cried another, for the man with the pope in his belly. The acquitted prelates took refuge from the crowd, which implored their blessing, and the nearest chapel where divine service was performing. Many churches were open on that morning throughout the capital, and many pious persons repaired thither. The bells of all the parishes of the city and liberties were ringing. The jury, meanwhile, could scarcely make their way out of the hall. They were forced to shake hands with hundreds. God bless you, cried the people. God prosper your families. You have done like honest good-natured gentlemen. You have saved us all to-day. As the noblemen who had appeared to support the good cause drove off, they flung from their carriage-windows hands full of money, and bade the crowd drink to the health of the king, the bishops, and the jury. The attorney went with the tidings to Sunderland, who happened to be conversing with the nuncio. "'Never,' said Pais, within man's memory, have there been such shouts and such tears of joy as to-day.' The king had that morning visited the camp on Harrensloe Heath. Sunderland instantly sent to Courier thither with the news. James was in Lord Feversham's tent when the express arrived. He was greatly disturbed and exclaimed in French, so much the worse for them. He soon set out for London. While he was present, respect prevented the soldiers from giving a loose to their feelings, but he had scarcely quitted the camp when he heard a great shouting behind him. He was surprised and asked what the uproar meant. "'Nothing,' was the answer. The soldiers are glad that the bishops are acquitted. "'Do you call that nothing?' said James, and then he repeated, so much the worse for them. He might well be out of temper. His defeat had been complete and most humiliating. Had the prelates escaped on a kind of some technical defect in the case for the crown, had they escaped because they had not written the petition in Middlesex, or because it was impossible to prove, according to the strict rules of law, that they had delivered to the king the paper for which they were called in question, the prerogative would have suffered no shock. Happily for the country the fact of publication had been fully established. The Council for the Defence had therefore been forced to attack the dispensing power. They had attacked it with great learning, eloquence, and boldness. The advocates of the Government had been by universal acknowledgement overmatched in the contest. Not a single judge had ventured to declare that the declaration of indulgence was legal. One judge had in the strongest terms pronounced it illegal. The language of the whole town was that the dispensing power had received a fatal blow. Finch, who had the day before been universally reviled, was now universally applauded. He had been unwilling, it was said, to let the case be decided in a way which would have left the great constitutional question still doubtful. He had felt that a verdict which should acquit his clients without condemning the declaration of indulgence would be but half a victory. It is certain that Finch deserved neither the reproaches which had been cast on him while the event was doubtful nor the praises which he received when it had proved happy. It was absurd to blame him because, during the short delay which he occasioned, the crown lawyers unexpectedly discovered new evidence. It was equally absurd to suppose that he deliberately exposed his clients to risk in order to establish a general principle, and still more absurd was it to praise him for what would have been a gross violation of professional duty. That joyful day was followed by a not less joyous night. The bishops and some of their most respectable friends in vain exerted themselves to prevent tumultuous demonstrations of joy. They were within the memory of the oldest, not even on that evening on which it was known through London that the army of Scotland had declared for a free parliament, had the street spin in such a glare with bonfires. Around every bonfire crowds were drinking good health to the bishops and confusion to the papists. The windows were lighted with rows of candles. Each row consisted of seven, and the taper in the centre, which was taller than the rest, represented the primate. The noise of rockets, squibs and firearms was incessant. One huge pile of faggots blazed right in front of the great gate of Whitehall. Others were lighted before the doors of Roman Catholic peers. Lord Arendl of Wardock wisely quieted the mob with a little money, but at Salisbury House in the Strand an attempt at resistance was made. Lord Salisbury's servants sallied out and fired, but they killed only the unfortunate beedle of the parish who had come thither to put out the fire, and they were soon rited and driven back into the house. None of the spectacles of that night interested the common people so much, as one with which they had a few years before been familiar, and which they now, after a long interval, enjoyed once more the burning of the pope. This once familiar pageant is known to our generation only by descriptions and engravings. A figure, by no means resembling those rude representations of Guy Fawkes which are still paraded on the 5th of November, but made of wax with some skill, and adorned at no small expense with robes and a tiara, was mounted on a chair resembling that in which the bishops of Rome are still, on some great festivals, born through St Peter's Church to the High Altar. His holiness was generally accompanied by a train of cardinals and Jesuits. At his ear stood a buffoon disguised as a devil with horns and tail. No rich and zealous protestant grudged his guinea on such an occasion, and if rumour could be trusted the cost of the procession was sometimes not less than a thousand pines. After the pope had been born sometime in state over the heads of the multitude, he was committed to the flames with loud acclamations. In the time of the popularity of oats and shaft spray, this show was exhibited annually in Fleet Street before the windows of the Wieg Club on the anniversary of the birth of Queen Elizabeth. Such was the celebrity of these grotesque rites, that Barion once risked his life in order to peep at them from a hiding place. From the day when the Ryehouse plot was discovered, till the day of the acquittal of the bishops, the ceremony had been disused. Now, however, several popes made their appearance in different parts of London. The nancyre was much shocked, and the king was more hurt by this insult to his church than by all the other affronts which he had received. The magistrates, however, could do nothing. The Sunday had dawned, and the bells of the parish churches were ringing for early prayers before the fires began to languish and the crowds to disperse. A proclamation was speedily put forth against the rioters. Many of them, mostly young apprentices, were apprehended, but the bills were thrown out at the Middlesex Sessions. The magistrates, many of whom were Roman Catholics, expostulated with the grand jury, and sent them three or four times back, but to no purpose. Meanwhile, the glad tidings were flying to every part of the kingdom, and were everywhere received with rapture. Gloucester, Bedford, and Lichfield were among the places which were distinguished by peculiar zeal, but Bristol and Norwich, which stood nearest to London in population and wealth, approached nearest to London in enthusiasm on this joyful occasion. The prosecution of the bishops is an event which stands by itself in our history. It was the first and the last occasion on which two feelings of tremendous potency—two feelings which have generally been opposed to each other, and either of which, when strongly excited, has sufficed to convulse the state—were united in perfect harmony. Those feelings were love of the church, and love of freedom. During many generations every violent outbreak of high church feeling, with one exception, has been unfavorable to civil liberty. Every violent outbreak of zeal for liberty, with one exception, has been unfavorable to the authority and influence of the prelacy and the priesthood. In 1688 the cause of the hierarchy was, for a moment, that of the popular party. More than nine thousand clergymen, with the primate and his most respectable suffragans at their head, offered themselves to end your bonds and the spoiling of their goods for the great fundamental principle of our free constitution. The effect was a coalition which included the most zealous cavaliers, the most zealous republicans, and all the intermediate sections of the community. The spirit which had supported Hamden in the preceding generation, the spirit which, in the succeeding generation, supported Sachevril, combined to support the archbishop who was Hamden and Sachevril in one. Those classes of society which are most deeply interested in the preservation of order, which in troubled times are generally most ready to strengthen the hands of government, and which have a natural antipathy to agitators, followed without scruple the guidance of a venerable man, the first pier of the realm, the first minister of the church, a tori in politics, a saint in manners whom tyranny had in his own despite turned into a demagogue. Those on the other hand who had always abhorred episcopacy as a relic of popery and as an instrument of arbitrary power, now asked on bended knees the blessing of a prelate who was ready to wear fetters and to lay his aged limbs on bare stones rather than betray the interests of the Protestant religion and set the prerogative above the laws. With love of the church and with love of freedom was mingled at this great crisis a third feeling which is among the most honourable peculiarities of our national character. An individual oppressed by power, even when destitute of all claim to public respect and gratitude, generally finds strong sympathy among us. Thus, in the time of our grandfather's society was thrown into confusion by the persecution of Wilkes. We have ourselves seen the nation roused almost to madness by the wrongs of Queen Caroline. It is probable therefore that, even if no great political and religious interests had been staked on the event of the proceeding against the bishops, England would not have seen, without strong emotions of pity and anger, old men of stainless virtue pursued by the vengeance of a harsh and inexorable prince who owed to their fidelity the crown which he wore. Actuated by these sentiments our ancestors arrayed themselves against the government in one huge and compact mass. All ranks, all parties, all Protestant sects made up that vast phalanx. In the van were the lords spiritual and temporal, then came the landed gentry and the clergy, both the universities, all the inns of court, merchants, shopkeepers, farmers, the porters who plied in the streets of the great towns, the peasants who plowed the fields. The league against the king included the very foremost men who manned his ships, the very sentinels who guarded his palace. The names of Whig and Tory were for a moment forgotten. The old exclusionist took the old abhorah by the hand. Episcopalians, Presbyterians, independents, Baptists forgot their long feuds and remembered only their common Protestantism and their common danger. Divines bred in the school of Lord talked loudly not only of toleration but of comprehension. The Archbishop, soon after his acquittal, put forth a pastoral letter which is one of the most remarkable compositions of that age. He had, from his youth up, been at war with the nonconformists, and had repeatedly assailed them with unjust and unchristian asperity. His principal work was the hideous caricature of the Calvinistic theology. He had drawn up for the thirtieth of January, and for the twenty-ninth of May forms of prayer which reflected on the Puritans in language so strong that the government had thought fit to soften it down. But now his heart was melted and opened. He solemnly enjoined the bishops and clergy to have a very tender regard to their brethren, the Protestant dissenters, to visit them often, to entertain them hospitably, to discourse with them civilly, to persuade them if it might be to conform to the church, but, if that were found impossible, to join them heartily and affectionately in exertions for the blessed cause of the Reformation. Many pious persons in subsequent years remembered that time with bitter regret. They described it as a short glimpse of a golden age between two iron ages. Such lamentation, though natural, was not reasonable. The coalition of 1688 was produced, and could be produced, only by tyranny which approached to insanity, and by danger which threatened at once all the great institutions of the country. If there has never since been similar union, the reason is that there has never since been similar misgovernment. It must be remembered that, though concord is in itself better than discord, discord may indicate a better state of things than is indicated by concord. Calamity and peril often force men to combine. Prosperity and security often encourage them to separate. End of part 14