 History of England, Chapter 9, Part 17 On the nineteenth James reached Salisbury, and took up his quarters in the Episcopal Palace. Evil news was now fast pouring in upon him from all sides. The western counties had at length risen. As soon as the news of Cornbury's desertion was known, many wealthy landowners took heart and hastened to Exeter. Amongst them was Sir William Portman of Brunston, one of the greatest men in Dorseture, and Sir Francis War of Hestercombe, whose interest was great in Somerseture. But the most important of the new comets was Seymour, who had recently inherited a baronetcy, which added little to his dignity, and who, in birth, in political influence and in parliamentary abilities, was beyond comparison the foremost among the Tory gentlemen of England. At his first audience he is said to have exhibited his characteristic pride in a way which surprised and amused the Prince. "'I think,' said Sir Edward, meaning to be very civil, "'that you are of the family of the Duke of Somerset?' "'Pardon me, Sir,' said Sir Edward, who never forgot that he was the head of the elder branch of the Seymours. "'The Duke of Somerset is of my family.'" The quarters of William now began to present the appearance of a court. More than sixty men of rank and fortune were lodged at Exeter, and the daily display of rich liveries and of coaches drawn by six horses in the cathedral-clothes gave to that quiet precinct something of the splendour and gaiety of Whitehall. The common people were eager to take arms, and it would have been easy to form many battalions of infantry. But Schomburg, who thought little of soldiers fresh from the plough, maintained that if the expedition could not succeed without such help. It would not succeed at all. And William, who had as much professional feeling as Schomburg, concurred in this opinion. Commissions therefore for raising new regiments were very sparingly given, and none but picked recruits were enlisted. It was now thought desirable that the Prince should give a public reception to the whole body of noblemen and a gentleman who had assembled at Exeter. He addressed them in a short but dignified and well-considered speech. He was not, he said, acquainted with the faces of all whom he saw, but he had a list of their names, and knew how high they stood in the estimation of their country. He gently ched their tardiness, but expressed a confident hope that it was not yet too late to save the kingdom. Therefore, he said, gentlemen, friends, and fellow Protestants, we bid you and all your followers most heartily welcome to our court and camp. Seymour, a keen politician, long accustomed to the tactics of faction, saw in a moment that the party which had begun to rally round the Prince stood in need of organization. It was, as yet, he said, a mere rope of sand. No common object had been publicly and formally avowed, nobody was pledged to anything. As soon as the assembly at the Denary broke up, he sent for Burnett, and suggested that an association should be formed, and that all the English adherents of the Prince should put their hands to an instrument binding them to be true to their leader and to each other. Burnett carried the suggestion to the Prince and to Shresbury by both of whom it was approved. A meeting was held in the cathedral. A short paper drawn up by Burnett was produced, approved, and eagerly signed. The subscribers engaged to pursue in concert the object set forth in the Prince's declaration, to stand by him and by each other, to take signal vengeance on all who should make any attempt on his person, and even if such an attempt should unhappily succeed, to persist in their undertaking till the liberties and the religion of the nation should be effectually secured. About the same time, a messenger arrived at Exeter from the Earl of Bath who commanded at Plymouth. Bath declared that he placed himself, his troops, and the fortress which he governed at the Prince's disposal. The invaders therefore had now not a single enemy in their rear. While the West was thus rising to confront the King, the North was all in a flame behind him. On the sixteenth Delamere took arms in Cheshire. He convoked his tenants, called upon them to stand by him, promised that if they fell in the cause their leases should be renewed to their children, and exhorted everyone who had a good horse either to take the field or to provide a substitute. He appeared at Manchester with fifty men, armed and mounted, and his force had trebled before he reached Bowden Dines. The neighbouring counties were violently agitated. It had been arranged that Danby should seize York, and that Devonshire should appear at Nottingham. At Nottingham no resistance was anticipated, but at York there was a small garrison under the command of Sir John Resby. Danby acted with rare dexterity. A meeting of the Gentry and Freeholders of Yorkshire had been summoned for the twenty-second of November to address the King on the state of affairs. All the deputy-left tenants of the three ridings, several noblemen, and a multitude of opulent esquires and substantial yeoman had been attracted to the provincial capital. Four troops of militia had been drawn out under arms to preserve the public peace. The common hall was crowded with freeholders, and the discussion had begun when a cry was suddenly raised that the papists were up and were slaying the Protestants. The papists of York were much more likely to be employed in seeking for hiding-places than in attacking enemies who outnumbered them in the proportion of a hundred to one, but at that time no story of popish atrocity could be so wild and marvellous as not to find ready belief. The meeting separated in dismay. The whole city was in confusion. At this moment Danby, at the head of about a hundred horsemen, went up to the militia and raised the cry, no popery, a free parliament, the Protestant religion. The militia echoed the shout. The garrison was instantly surprised and disarmed. The governor was placed under arrest. The gates were closed. Sentinels were posted everywhere. The populace was suffered to pull down a Roman Catholic chapel, but no other harm appears to have been done. On the following morning the guild-hall was crowded with the first gentlemen of the shire and with the principal magistrates of the city. The Lord Mayor was placed in the chair. Danby proposed a declaration setting forth the reasons which had induced the friends of the Constitution and of the Protestant religion to rise in arms. This declaration was eagerly adopted and received in a few hours the signatures of six peers, of five baronettes, of six knights, and of many gentlemen of high consideration. In the middle of the luncheon in time, at the head of a great body of friends and dependents, quitted the palace, which he was rearing at Chatsworth, and appeared in arms at Danby. There he formally delivered to the municipal authorities a paper setting forth the reasons which had moved him to this enterprise. He then proceeded to Nottingham, which soon became the headquarters of the northern insurrection. Here a proclamation was put forth couched in bold and severe terms. The name of rebellion, it was said, was a bugbear, which could frighten no reasonable man. Was it rebellion to defend those laws and that religion which every king of England bound himself by oath to maintain? How that oath had lately been observed was a question on which it was to be hoped a free parliament would soon pronounce. In the meantime the insurgents declared that they held it to be not rebellion, but legitimate self-defense to resist a tyrant who knew no law but his own will. The northern rising became every day more formidable. Four powerful and wealthy earls, Manchester, Stamford, Rutland, and Chesterfield, repaired to Nottingham, and were joined there by Lord Chumley and by Lord Gray de Ruthen. All this time the hostile armies in the south were approaching each other. The Prince of Orange, when he learned that the king had arrived at Salisbury, sought it time to leave Exeter. He placed that city and the surrounding country under the government of Sir Edward Seymour and set out on Wednesday the 21st of November, escorted by many of the most considerable gentlemen of the western counties for Axe Minster, where he remained several days. The king was eager to fight, and it was obviously his interest to do so. Every hour took away something from his own strength and added something to the strength of his enemies. It was most important, too, that his troops should be bloodied. A great battle, however it might terminate, could not but injure the Prince's popularity. All this William perfectly understood and determined to avoid an action as long as possible. It is said that when Schomburg was told that the enemy were advancing and were determined to fight, he answered with the composure of a tactician confident in his skill. That will be just as we may choose. It was, however, impossible to prevent all skirmishing between the advanced guards of the armies. William was desirous that in such skirmishing nothing might happen which could wound the pride or rouse the vindictive feelings of the nation which he meant to deliver. He therefore, with admirable prudence, placed his British regiments in the situations where there was most risk of collision. The outposts of the royal army were Irish. The consequence was that, in the little combats of this short campaign, the invaders had on their side the hearty sympathy of all Englishmen. The first of these encounters took place at Wincanton. Mackay's regiment, composed of British soldiers, lay near a body of the King's Irish troops commanded by their countrymen the gallant Sarsfield. Mackay sent out a small party under a lieutenant named Campbell to procure horses for the baggage. Campbell found what he wanted at Wincanton, and was just leaving that town on his return when a strong detachment of Sarsfield's troops approached. The Irish were four to one, but Campbell resolved to fight it out to the last. Under a handful of resolute men he took his stand in the road. The rest of his soldiers lined the hedges which overhung the highway on the right and on the left. The enemy came up. "'Stand,' cried Campbell, "'for whom are you?' "'I am for King James,' answered the leader of the other party. "'And I for the Prince of Orange,' cried Campbell. "'We will Prince you,' answered the Irishman with a curse. "'Fire!' exclaimed Campbell, and a sharp fire was instantly poured in from both the hedges. The King's troops received three well-aimed volleys before they could make any return. At length they succeeded in carrying one of the hedges, and would have overpowered the little band which was opposed to them, had not the country people, who mortally hated the Irish, given a false alarm more of the Prince's troops were coming up. Sarsfield recalled his men fell back, and Campbell proceeded on his march, unmolested, with the baggage horses. This affair, creditable, undoubtedly to the valour and discipline of the Prince's army, was magnified by report into a victory won against great odds by British Protestants over popish barbarians who had been brought from Connaught to oppress our island. A few hours after this skirmish an event took place which put an end to all risk of a more serious struggle between the armies. Churchill and some of his principal accomplices were assembled at Salisbury. Two of the conspirators, Kirk and Trelawney, had proceeded to Warminster, where their regiments were posted. All was ripe for the execution of the long-meditated treason. End of Part 17 History of England, Chapter 9, Part 18 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. History of England, from the accession of James II, by Thomas Bavington Macaulay. Chapter 9, Part 18 Churchill advised the king to visit Warminster and to inspect the troops stationed there. James assented, and his coach was at the door of the Episcopal palace when his nose began to bleed violently. He was forced to postpone his expedition and put himself under medical treatment. Three days elapsed before the hemorrhage was entirely subdued, and during those three days alarming rumours reached his ears. It was impossible that a conspiracy so widely spread as that of which Churchill was the head could be kept altogether secret. There was no evidence which could be laid before a jury or a court-martial, but strange whispers wandered about the camp. The Beversham, who held the chief command, reported that there was a bad spirit in the army. It was hinted to the king that some who were near his person were not his friends, and that it would be a wise precaution to send Churchill and Grafton under a guard to Portsmouth. James rejected this counsel. A propensity to suspicion was not among his vices. Indeed, the confidence which he reposed in professions of fidelity and attachment was such as might rather have been expected from a good-hearted and inexperienced stripling than from a politician who was far advanced in life, who had seen much of the world, who had suffered much from villainous arts, and whose own character was by no means a favourable specimen of human nature. It would be difficult to mention any other man who, having himself so little scruple about breaking faith, was so slow to believe that his neighbours could break faith with him. Nevertheless, the reports which he had received of the state of his army disturbed him greatly. He was no longer impatient for a battle. He even began to think of retreating. On the evening of Saturday, the 24th of November, he called a council of war. The meeting was attended by those officers against whom he had been most earnestly cautioned. The councilman expressed an opinion that it was desirable to fall back. Churchill argued on the other side. The consultation lasted till midnight, at length the king declared that he had decided for a retreat. Churchill saw, or imagined, that he was distrusted, and, though gifted with a rare self-command, could not conceal his uneasiness. Before the day broke, he fled to the Prince's Quarters, accompanied by Grafton. Churchill left behind him a letter of explanation. It was written with that decorum which he never failed to preserve in the midst of guilt and dishonour. He acknowledged that he owed everything to the royal favour. Interest, he said, and gratitude impelled him in the same direction. Under no other government could he hope to be so great and prosperous as he had been. But all such considerations must yield to a paramount duty. He was a Protestant, and he could not conscientiously draw his sword against the Protestant cause. As to the rest, he would ever be ready to hazard life and fortune in defence of the sacred person and of the lawful rites of his gracious master. Next morning all was confusion in the royal camp. The king's friends were in dismay, his enemies could not conceal their exultation. The consternation of James was increased by news which arrived on the same day from Warminster. Kirk, who commanded at that post, had refused to obey orders which he had received from Salisbury. There could no longer be any doubt that he, too, was in league with the Prince of Orange. It was rumoured that he had actually gone over with all his troops to the enemy, and the rumour, though false, was, during some hours, fully believed. A new light flashed on the mind of the unhappy king. He thought he understood why he had been pressed a few days before to visit Warminster. There he would have found himself helpless at the mercy of the conspirators and in the vicinity of the hostile outposts. Those who might have attempted to defend him would easily have been overpowered. He would have been carried a prisoner to the headquarters of the invading army. Perhaps some still blacker treason might have been committed, for men who have once engaged in a wicked and perilous enterprise are no longer their own masters, and are often impelled by a fatality which is part of their just punishment, to crimes such as they would at first have shuddered to contemplate. Surely it was not without the special intervention of some guardian saint that a king devoted to the Catholic Church had at the very moment when he was blindly hastening to captivity, perhaps to death, been suddenly arrested by what he had then thought a disastrous malady. All these things confirmed, James, in the resolution which he had taken on the preceding evening. Orders were given for an immediate retreat. Salisbury was in an uproar. The camp broke up with the confusion of a flight. No man knew whom to trust or whom to obey. The material strength of the army was little diminished, but its moral strength had been destroyed. Many whom shame would have restrained from leading the way to the princes' quarters were eager to imitate an example which they would never have said, and many who would have stood by their king while he appeared to be resolutely advancing against the invaders felt no inclination to follow a receding standard. James went that day as far as Andover. He was attended by his son-in-law, Prince George, and by the Duke of Ormond. Both were among the conspirators, and would probably have accompanied Churchill, had he not, in consequence of what had passed at the Council of War, thought it expedient to take his departure suddenly. The impenetrable stupidity of Prince George served his turn on this occasion better than cunning would have done. It was his habit, when any news was told him, to exclaim in French, possible? Is it possible? This catch-word was now of great use to him. Is it possible? he cried, when he had been made to understand that Churchill and Grafton were missing. And when the ill tidings came from Warminster, he again ejaculated. Is it possible? Prince George and Ormond were invited to sup with the king at Andover. The meal must have been a sad one. The king was overwhelmed by his misfortunes. His son-in-law was the dullest of companions. I have tried Prince George sober, said Charles II, and I have tried him drunk, and drunk or sober there is nothing in him. Ormond, who was through life taciturn and bashful, was not likely to be in high spirits at such a moment. At length the repast terminated. The king retired to rest. Horses were in waiting for the prince and Ormond, who, as soon as they left the table, mounted and rode off. They were accompanied by the Earl of Drumlanrig, eldest son of the Duke of Queensbury. The defection of this young nobleman was no insignificant event. For Queensbury was the head of the Protestant Episcopalians of Scotland, a class compared with whom the bitterest English Tories might be called Wiggish. And Drumlanrig himself was Lieutenant Colonel of Dundee's regiment, a band more detested by the wigs than even Kirk's lambs. This fresh calamity was announced to the king on the following morning. He was less disturbed by the news than might have been expected. The shock which he had undergone twenty-four hours before had prepared him for almost any disaster, and it was impossible to be seriously angry with Prince George, who was hardly an accountable being, for having yielded to the arts of such a tempter as Churchill. What! said James? Is it ill-possible gone, too? After all, a good trooper would have been a greater loss. In truth, the king's whole anger seems at this time to have been concentrated and not without cause on one object. He set off for London, breathing vengeance against Churchill, and learned on arriving a new crime of the arch-deceiver. The princess Anne had been some hours missing. Anne, who had no will but that of the Churchill's, had been induced by them to notify under her own hand to William a week before her approbation of his enterprise. She assured him that she was entirely in the hands of her friends, and that she would remain in the palace or take refuge in the city as they might determine. On Sunday the 25th of November she, and those who thought for her, were under the necessity of coming to a sudden resolution. That afternoon a courier from Salisbury brought tidings that Churchill had disappeared, that he had been accompanied by Grafton, that Kirk had proved false, and that the royal forces were in full retreat. There was, as usually happened, when great news good or bad arrived in town, an immense crowd that evening in the galleries of Whitehall. Souverity and anxiety sat on every face. The queen broke forth into natural expressions of indignation against the chief traitor, and did not altogether spare his two partial mysteries. The sentinels were doubled round that part of the palace which Anne occupied. The princess was in dismay. In a few hours her father would be at Westminster. It was not likely that he would treat her personally with severity, but that he would permit her any longer to enjoy the society of her friend was not to be hoped. It could hardly be doubted that Sarah would be placed under arrest, and would be subjected to a strict examination by shrewd and rigorous inquisitors. Her papers would be seized. Perhaps evidence affecting her life might be discovered. If so, the worst might well be dreaded. The vengeance of the Implacable King knew no distinction of sex. For offenses much smaller than those which might probably be brought home to Lady Churchill, he had sent women to the scaffold and the stake. Strong affection braced the feeble mind of the princess. There was no tie which she would not break, no risk which she would not run for the object of her idolatrous affection. I will jump out of the window, she cried, rather than be found here by my father. The favourit undertook to manage an escape. She communicated in all haste with some of the chiefs of the conspiracy. In a few hours everything was arranged. That evening Anne retired to her chamber as usual. At dead of night she rose, and, accompanied by her friend Sarah and two other female attendants, stole down the back stairs in a dressing gown and slippers. The fugitives gained the open street unchallenged. A hackney coach was waiting for them there. Two men guarded the humble vehicle. One of them was Compton, Bishop of London, the princess's old tutor. The other was the magnificent and accomplished dorset, whom the extremity of the public danger had roused from his luxurious repose. The coach drove instantly to Aldersgate Street, where the Tyne residence of the bishops of London then stood, within the shadow of their cathedral. There the princess passed the night. On the following morning she set out for Epping Forest. In that wild tract dorset possessed a venerable mansion which has long since been destroyed. In his hospitable dwelling, the favorite resort during many years of wits and poets, the fugitives made a short stay. They could not safely attempt to reach Williams Quarters, for the road thither lay through a country occupied by the royal forces. It was therefore determined that Anne should take refuge with the northern insurgents. Compton wholly laid aside for the time his sacerdotal character. Danger and conflict had rekindled in him all the military ardour which he had felt twenty-eight years before when he rode in the life-guards. He preceded the princess's carriage in a buff coat and jack-boots with a sword at his side and pistols in his holsters. Long before she reached Nottingham she was surrounded by a bodyguard of gentlemen who volunteered to escort her. They invited the bishop to act as their colonel, and he consented with an alacrity which gave great scandal to rigid churchmen, and did not much raise his character, even in the opinion of wigs. When on the morning of the twenty-sixth Anne's apartment was found empty, the consternation was great in Whitehall. While the ladies of her bed-chamber ran up and down the courts of the palace, screaming and wringing their hands, while Lord Craven, who commanded the foot-guards, was questioning the sentinels in the gallery, while the Chancellor was sealing up the papers of the churchills, the princess's nurse broke into the royal apartment, crying out that the dear lady had been murdered by the papists. The news flew to Westminster Hall. There the story was that her highness had been hurried away by force to a place of confinement. When it could no longer be denied that her flight had been voluntary, numerous fictions were invented to account for it, and that she had been grossly insulted, she had been threatened. Nay, though she was in that situation in which woman is entitled to peculiar tenderness, she had been beaten by her cruel stepmother. The populace, which years of misrule had made suspicious and irritable, was so much excited by these calamities that the queen was scarcely safe. Many Roman Catholics and some Protestant Tories whose loyalty was proved to all trials repaired to the palace that they might be in readiness to defend her in the event of an outbreak. In the midst of this distress and terror arrived the news of Prince George's flight. The courier who brought these evil tidings was fast followed by the king himself. The evening was closing in when James arrived and was informed that his daughter had disappeared. After all that he had suffered, this affliction forced a cry of misery from his lips. God help me, he said. My own children have forsaken me. That evening he sat in council with his principal ministers till a late hour. It was determined that he should summon all the Lord's spiritual and temporal who were then in London to attend him on the following day, and that he should solemnly ask their advice. Accordingly, on the afternoon of Tuesday the twenty-seventh, the Lords met in the dining-room of the palace. The assembly consisted of nine prelates and between thirty and forty secular nobles, all Protestants. The two secretaries of State, Middleton and Preston, though not peers of England, were in attendance. The king himself presided. The traces of severe bodily and mental suffering were discernible in his countenance and deportment. He opened the proceedings by referring to the petition which had been put in his hands just before he set out for Salisbury. The prayer of that petition was that he would convoke a free parliament. Situated as he then was, he had not, he said, thought it right to comply, but during his absence from London great changes had taken place. He had also observed that his people everywhere seemed anxious that the High Seas should meet. He had therefore commanded the attendance of his faithful peers in order to ask their counsel. For a time there was silence. Then Oxford, whose pedigree, unrivaled in antiquity and splendour, gave him a kind of primacy in the meeting, said that in his opinion those lords who had signed the petition to which his Majesty had referred ought now to explain their views. These words called up Rochester. He defended the petition, and declared that he still saw no hope for the throne or the country but in a parliament. He would not, he said, venture to affirm that in so disastrous an extremity even that remedy would be efficacious, but he had no other remedy to propose. He added that it might be advisable to open a negotiation with the Prince of Orange. Jeffries and Godolphin followed, and both declared that they agreed with Rochester. Then Clarendon rose, and to the astonishment of all who remembered his loud professions of loyalty and the agony of shame and sorrow into which he had been thrown only a few days before by the news of his son's defection broke forth into a vehement invective against tyranny and papery. Even now, he said, his Majesty is raising in London a regiment into which no Protestant is admitted. That is not true, cried James in great agitation from the head of the board. Clarendon persisted, and left this offensive topic only to pass to a topic still more offensive. He accused the unfortunate king of pusillanimity. Why retreat from Salisbury? Why not try the event of a battle? Could people be blamed for submitting to the invader when they saw their sovereign run away at the head of his army? James felt these insults keenly, and remembered them long. Indeed even wigs thought the language of Clarendon indecent and ungenerous. Halifax spoke in a very different turn. During several years of peril, he had defended with admirable ability the civil and ecclesiastical constitution of his country against the prerogative. But his serene intellect, singularly unsusceptible of enthusiasm and singularly averse to extremes, began to lean towards the cause of royalty at the very moment at which those noisy royalists who had lately executed the trimmers as little better than rebels were everywhere rising in rebellion. It was his ambition to be at this conjuncture the peacemaker between the throne and the nation. His talents and character fitted him for that office, and if he failed the failure is to be ascribed to causes against which no human skill could contend, and chiefly to the folly, senselessness, and obstinacy of the prince whom he tried to save. Halifax now gave utterance to much unpalatable truth, but with a delicacy which brought on him the reproach of flattery from spirits to abject to understand that what would justly be called flattery when offered to the powerful is a debt of humanity to the fallen. With many expressions of sympathy and deference he declared it to be his opinion that the king must make up his mind to great sacrifices. It was not enough to convoke a parliament or to open a negotiation with the prince of Orange. Some at least of the grievances of which the nation complained should be instantly redressed without waiting till redress was demanded by the houses or by the captain of the hostile army. Nottingham, in language equally respectful, declared that he agreed with Halifax, the chief concessions which these lords pressed the king to make were three. He ought, they said, forthwith to dismiss all Roman Catholics from office, to separate himself wholly from France, and to grant an unlimited amnesty to those who were in arms against him. The last of these propositions it should seem admitted of no dispute, for though some of those who were banded together against the king had acted towards him in a manner which might not unreasonably excite his bitter resentment, it was more likely that he would soon be at their mercy than they would ever be at his. It would have been childish to open a negotiation with William and yet to denounce vengeance against men whom William could not without infamy abandon. But the clouded understanding and implacable temper of James held out long against the arguments of those who laboured to convince him that it would be wise to pardon offences which he could not punish. I cannot do it, he exclaimed. I must make examples. Churchill above all, Churchill whom I raised so high, he and he alone has done all this. He has corrupted my army. He has corrupted my child. He would have put me into the hands of the prince of Orange, but for God's special providence. My lords, you are strangely anxious for the safety of traitors. One of you troubles himself about my safety. In answer to this burst of impotent anger, those who had recommended the amnesty represented with profound respect, but with firmness, that a prince attacked by powerful enemies can be safe only by conquering or by conciliating. If your majesty, after all that has happened, has still any hope of safety in arms we have done, but if not, you can be safe only by regaining the affections of your people. After long and animated debate, the king broke up the meeting. My lords, he said, you have used great freedom, but I do not take it ill of you. I have made out my mind on one point. I shall call a parliament. The other suggestions which have been offered are of grave importance, and you will not be surprised that I take a night to reflect on them before I decide. At first James seemed disposed to make excellent use of the time in which he had taken for consideration. The chancellor was directed to issue rits convoking a parliament for the thirteenth of January. Halifax was sent for to the closet, had a long audience, and spoke with much more freedom than he had thought it decorous to use in the presence of a large assembly. He was informed that he had been appointed a commissioner to treat with the Prince of Orange. With him were joined Nottingham and Godolphin. The king declared that he was prepared to make great sacrifices for the sake of peace. Halifax answered that great sacrifices would doubtless be required. Your Majesty, he said, must not expect that those who have the power in their hands will consent to any terms which would leave the laws at the mercy of the prerogative. With this distinct explanation of his views, he accepted the commission which the king wished him to undertake. The concessions which a few hours before had been so obstinately refused were now made in the most liberal manner. A proclamation was put forth by which the king not only granted a free pardon to all who were in rebellion against him, but declared them eligible to be members of the approaching parliament. It was not even required as a condition of eligibility that they should lay down their arms. The same gazette, which announced that the Houses were about to meet, contained a notification that Sir Edward Hales, who, as a papist, as a renegade, as the foremost champion of the dispensing power, and as the harsh jailer of the bishops, was one of the most unpopular men in the realm, had ceased to be left hernant of the tower, and had been succeeded by his late prisoner, Bevel Skelton, who, though he held no place in the esteem of his countrymen, was at least not disqualified by law for public office. But these concessions were meant only to blind the lords and the nation to the king's real designs. He had secretly determined that, even in this extremity, he would yield nothing. On the very day on which he issued the proclamation of amnesty, he fully explained his intentions to Barryon. This negotiation, said James, is a mere faint. I must send commissioners to my nephew, that I may gain time to ship off my wife and the Prince of Wales. You know the temper of my troops, none but the Irish will stand by me, and the Irish are not insufficient force to resist the enemy. A parliament would impose on me conditions which I could not endure. I shall be forced to undo all that I have done for the Catholics and to break with the King of France. As soon, therefore, as the Queen and my child are safe, I will leave England, and take refuge in Ireland, in Scotland, or with your master. Already James had made preparations for carrying this scheme into effect. Dover had been sent to Portsmouth with instructions to take charge of the Prince of Wales, and Dartmouth, who commanded the fleet there, had been ordered to obey Dover's directions in all things concerning the royal infant, and to have a yacht manned by trusty sailors in readiness to sail for France at a moment's notice. The King now sent positive orders that the child should instantly be conveyed to the nearest continental port. Next to the Prince of Wales the chief object of anxiety was the great seal. To that symbol of kingly authority our jurists have always ascribed a peculiar and almost mysterious importance. It is held that, if the keeper of the seal should affix it, without taking royal pleasure to a patent of peerage or to a pardon, though he may be guilty of a high offence, the instrument cannot be questioned by any court of law, and can be annulled only by an act of parliament. James seems to have been afraid that his enemies might get this organ of his will into their hands, and might thus give a legal validity to acts which might affect him injuriously. Nor will his apprehensions be thought unreasonable when it is remembered that, exactly a hundred years later, the great seal of a king was used, with the assent of lords and commons, and with the approbation of many great statesmen and lawyers, for the purpose of transferring his prerogatives to his son. Lest the talisman which possessed such formidable powers should be abused, James determined that it should be kept within a few yards of his own closet. Jeffries was therefore ordered to quit the costly mansion which he had lately built in Duke Street, and to take up his residence in a small apartment at White Hall. End of Part 18 History of England, Chapter 9, Part 19 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. History of England, from the accession of James II, by Thomas Babington Macaulay, Chapter 9, Part 19 The king had made all his preparations for flight, when an unexpected impediment compelled him to postpone the execution of his design. His agents at Portsmouth began to entertain scruples. Even Dover, though a member of the Jesuitical cabal, showed signs of hesitation. Dartmouth was still less disposed to comply with the royal wishes. He had hitherto been faithful to the throne, and had done all that he could do with a disaffected fleet, and in the face of an adverse wind, to prevent the Dutch from landing in England. But he was a zealous member of the established church, and was by no means friendly to the policy of that government, which he thought himself bound in duty and honour to defend. The mutinous temper of the officers and men under his command had caused him much anxiety, and he had been greatly relieved by the news that a free parliament had been convoked, and that commissioners had been named to treat with the Prince of Orange. The joy was clamorous throughout the fleet. In an address, warmly thanking the king for these gracious concessions to public feeling was drawn up on board of the flagship. The admiral signed first. Thirty-eight captains wrote their names under his. This paper, on its way to Whitehall, crossed the messenger who brought to Portsmouth the order that the Prince of Wales should instantly be conveyed to France. Dartmouth learned, with bitter grief and resentment, that the free parliament, the general amnesty, the negotiation were all parts of a great fraud on the nation, and that in this fraud he was expected to be an accomplice. In a pathetic and manly letter he declared that he had already carried his obedience to the farthest point to which a protestant and an Englishman could go. To put the heir apparent of the British crown into the hands of Louis would be nothing less than treason against the monarchy. The nation, already too much alienated from the sovereign, would be roused to madness. The Prince of Wales would either not return at all, or would return attended by a French army. If his royal highness remained in the island, the worst that could be apprehended was that he would be brought up a member of the National Church, and that he might be so brought up ought to be the prayer of every loyal subject. Portsmouth concluded by declaring that he would risk his life in defence of the throne, but that he would be no party to the transporting of the Prince into France. This letter deranged all the projects of James. He learned, too, that he could not on this occasion expect from his admiral even passive obedience, for Dartmouth had gone so far as to station several sloops at the mouth of the harbour of Portsmouth, with orders to suffer no vessel to pass out unexamined. A change of plan was necessary. The child must be brought back to London and sent thence to France. An interval of some days must elapse before this could be done. During that interval the public mind must be amused by the hope of a parliament and the semblance of a negotiation. Ritz was sent out for the elections. Trumpeters went backward and forward between the capital and the Dutch headquarters. At length passes for the King's commissioners arrived and the three lords set out on their embassy. They left the capital in a state of fearful distraction. The passions which, during three troubled years, had been gradually gathering force, now emancipated from the restraint of fear and stimulated by victory and sympathy, showed themselves without disguise, even in the precincts of the royal dwelling. The grand jury of Middlesex found a bill against the Earl of Salisbury for turning papist. The Lord Mayor ordered the houses of the Roman Catholics of the city to be searched for arms. The mob broke into the house of one respectable merchant who held the unpopular faith in order to ascertain whether he had not run a mine from his cellars under the neighbouring Parish church for the purpose of blowing up parson and congregation. The hawkers balled about the streets a hue and cry after Father Peter, who had withdrawn himself, and not before it was time, from his apartments in the palace. Wharton's celebrated song, with many additional verses, was chanted more loudly than ever in all the streets of the capital. The very sentinels who guarded the palace hummed as they paced their rounds. The English confusion to popeurid rink, lily bullero bullela nala. The secret presses of London worked without ceasing. Many papers daily came into circulation by means which the magistracy could not discover or would not check. One of these has been preserved from oblivion by the skillful audacity with which it was written, and by the immense effect which it produced. It purported to be a supplemental declaration, under the hand and seal of the Prince of Orange, but it was written in a style very different from that of his genuine manifesto. Vengeance, alien from the usages of Christian and civilised nations, was denounced against all papists who should dare to espouse the royal cause. They should be treated not as soldiers or gentlemen, but as freebooters. The ferocity and licentiousness of the invading army, which had hitherto been restrained with a strong hand, should be let loose on them. Good Protestants, and especially those who inhabited the capital, were adjured as they valued all that was dear to them, and commanded, on peril of the Prince's highest displeasure, to seize, disarm, and imprison their Roman Catholic neighbours. This document, it was said, was found by a weak bookseller one morning under his sharp door. He made haste to print it. Many copies were dispersed by the post, and passed rapidly from hand to hand. Discerning men had no difficulty in pronouncing it a forgery devised by some unquiet and unprincipled adventurer, such as in troubled times are always busy in the foulest and darkest offices of faction. But the multitude was completely duped. Indeed to such a height had national and religious feeling been excited against the Irish papists, that most of those who believed the spurious proclamation to be genuine were inclined to applaud it as a reasonable exhibition of vigour. When it was known that no such document had really proceeded from William, men asked anxiously what imposter had so daringly and so successfully impersonated his highness. Some suspected Ferguson, others Johnson. At length, after the lapse of twenty-seven years, Hugh's week avowed the forgery, and demanded from the House of Brunswick a reward for so eminent a service rendered to the Protestant religion. He asserted, in the tone of a man who conceives himself to have done something eminently virtuous and honourable, that when the Dutch invasion had thrown White Hall into consternation, he had offered his services to the court, had pretended to be estranged from the weeks, and had promised to act as a spy upon them. That he had thus obtained admittance to the royal closet, had vowed fidelity, had been promised large pecuniary rewards, and had procured blank passes which enabled him to travel backwards and forwards across the hostile lines. All these things he protested that he had done solely in order that he might, unsuspected, aim a deadly blow at the government, and produce a violent outbreak of popular feeling against the Roman Catholics. The forged proclamation he claimed as one of his contrivances, but whether his claim were well-founded may be doubted. He delayed to make it so long that we may reasonably suspect him of having waited for the death of those who would confute him, and he produced no evidence but his own. While these things happened in London, every post from every part of the country brought tidings of some new insurrection. They had seized Newcastle. The inhabitants had welcomed him with transport. The Statue of the King, which stood on a lofty pedestal of marble, had been pulled down and hurled into the tine. The 3rd of December was long remembered at Hull as the town taking day. That place had a garrison commanded by Lord Langdale or Roman Catholic. The Protestant officers concerted with the magistracy a plan of revolt. Langdale and his adherents were arrested, and soldiers and citizens united in declaring for the Protestant religion and a free parliament. The Pastern counties were up. The Duke of Norfolk, attended by three hundred gentlemen armed and mounted, appeared in the stately market place of Norwich. The Mayor and Alderman met him there, and engaged to stand by him against Popory and Arbitrarypah. Lord Herbert of Cherbury and Sir Edward Harley took up arms in Worcestershire. Bristol, the second city of the realm, opened its gates to Shrewsbury. Trelawney, the bishop who had entirely unlearned in the tower the Doctrine of Non-Resistance, was the first to welcome the Prince's troops. Such was the temper of the inhabitants that it was thought unnecessary to leave any garrison among them. The people of Gloucester rose and delivered lovelace from confinement. An irregular army soon gathered round him. Some of his horsemen had only halters for bridles. Many of his infantry had only clubs for weapons, but this force, such as it was, marched unopposed through counties once devoted to the House of Stuart, and at length entered Oxford in triumph. The magistrates came in state to welcome the insurgents. The university itself, exasperated by recent injuries, was little disposed to pass censures on rebellion. Already, some of the heads of houses had dispatched one of their number to assure the Prince of Orange that they were cordially with him, and that they would gladly coin their plate for his service. The wig-chief, therefore, rode through the capital of Torreism amidst general acclamation. Before him the drums beat lily-bull arrow. Behind him came a long stream of horse and foot. The whole high street was gay with orange ribbons. Before already the orange ribbon had the double signification which, after the lapse of one hundred and sixty years, it still retains. Already it was the emblem to the Protestant Englishman of civil and religious freedom, to the Roman Catholic Kelt of subjugation and persecution. While foes were thus rising up all round the King, friends were fast shrinking from his side. The idea of resistance had become familiar to every mind. Many who had been struck with horror when they heard of the first defections, now blamed themselves for having been so slow to discern the signs of the times. There was no longer any difficulty or danger in repairing de William. The King, in calling on the nation to elect representatives, had, by implication, authorised all men to repair to the places where they had votes or interest. And many of those places were already occupied by invaders or insurgents. Clarendon eagerly caught at this opportunity of deserting the falling cause. He knew that his speech in the Council of Peers had given deadly offence, and he was mortified by finding that he was not to be one of the royal commissioners. He had estates in Wiltshire. He determined that his son, the son of whom he had lately spoken with grief and horror, should be a candidate for that county, and, under pretence of looking after the election, he set out for the West. He was speedily followed by the Earl of Oxford, and by others who had hitherto disclaimed all connection with the Prince's Enterprise. By this time the invaders, steadily though slowly advancing, were within seventy miles of London. Though midwinter was approaching the weather was fine, the way was pleasant, and the turf of Salisbury plain seemed luxuriously smooth to men who had been toiling through the mirey ruts of the Devonshire and Somersetshire highways. The route of the army lay close by Stonehenge, and regiment after regiment halted to examine that mysterious ruin celebrated all over the continent as the greatest wonder of our island. William entered Salisbury with the same military pomp which he had displayed at Exeter, and was lodged there in the palace which the King had occupied a few days before. His train was now swelled by the earls of Clarendon and Oxford, and by other men of high rank, who had, till within a few days, been considered as jealous royalists. Van Kitters also made his appearance at the Dutch headquarters. He had been, during some weeks, almost a prisoner in his house near Whitehall, under the constant observation of relays of spies. Yet, in spite of those spies, or perhaps by their help, he had succeeded in obtaining full and accurate intelligence of all that passed in the palace, and now full fraught with valuable information about men and things. He came to assist the deliberations of William. Thus far the Princess Enterprise had prospered beyond the anticipations of the most sanguine, and now, according to the general law which governs human affairs, prosperity began to produce disunion. The Englishmen assembled at Salisbury were divided into two parties. One party consisted of wigs, who had always regarded the doctrines of passive obedience and of indefensible hereditary right as slavish superstitions. Many of them had passed years in exile, all had been long shut out from participation to the favours of the crown. They now exalted in the near prospect of greatness and of vengeance. Burning with resentment, flushed with victory and hope, they would hear of no compromise. Nothing less than the deposition of their enemy would content them. Nor can it be disputed that herein they were perfectly consistent. They had exerted themselves nine years earlier to exclude him from the throne, because they thought it likely that he would be a bad king. It could therefore scarcely be expected that they would willingly leave him on the throne, now that he had turned out a far worse king than any reasonable man could have anticipated. On the other hand, not a few of William's followers were zealous Tories who had, till very recently, held the doctrine of non-resistance in the most absolute form, but whose faith in that doctrine had for a moment given way to the strong passions excited by the ingratitude of the king and by the peril of the church. No situation could be more painful or perplexing than that of the old cavalier who found himself in arms against the throne. The scruples which had not prevented him from repairing to the Dutch camp began to torment him cruelly as soon as he was there. His mind misgave him that he had committed a crime. At all events he had exposed himself to reproach by acting in diametrical opposition to the professions of his whole life. He felt insurmountable disgust for his new allies. They were people whom, ever since he could remember, he had been reviling and persecuting. Presbyterians, independents, anabaptists, old soldiers of Cromwell, brisk boys of Shaftesbury, accomplices in the Ryehouse plot, captains of the western insurrection. He naturally wished to find out some salvo which might smooth his conscience, which might vindicate his consistency and which might put a distinction between him and the crew of schismatical rebels whom he had always despised and abhorred, but with whom he was now in danger of being confounded. He therefore disclaimed with vehemence all thought of taking the crown from that anointed head which the ordinance of heaven and the fundamental laws of the realm had made sacred. His dearest wish was to see a reconciliation effected on terms which would not lower the royal dignity. He was no traitor. He was not in truth resisting the kingly authority. He was in arms only because he was convinced that the best service which could be rendered to the throne was to rescue his majesty by a little gentle coercion from the hands of wicked counsellors. The evils which the mutual animosity of these factions tended to produce were, to a great extent, averted by the ascendancy and by the wisdom of the prince. Surrounded by eager disputants, officious advisers, abject flatterers, vigilant spies, malicious tale-bearers, he remained serene and inscrutable. He preserved silence when silence was possible. When he was forced to speak, the earnest and peremptory tone in which he uttered his well-waid opinions soon silenced everybody else. Whatever some of his two zealous adherents might say, he uttered not a word indicating any design on the English crown. He was doubtless, well aware that between him and the crown were still interposed obstacles which no prudence might be able to surmount and which a single false step would make insurmountable. His only chance of obtaining the splendid prize was not to seize it rudely, but to wait till, without any appearance of exertion or stratagem on his part, his secret wish should be accomplished by the force of circumstances, by the blunders of his opponents, and by the free choice of the estates of the realm. Those who ventured to interrogate him learned nothing, and yet could not accuse him of shuffling. He quietly referred them to his declaration, and assured them that his views had undergone no change since that instrument had been drawn up. So skillfully did he manage his followers that their discord seems rather to have strengthened than to have weakened his hands, but it broke forth with violence when his control was withdrawn, interrupted the harmony of convivial meetings, and did not respect even the sanctity of the house of God. Clarendon, who tried to hide from others and from himself by an ostentatious display of loyal sentiments, the plain fact that he was a rebel, was shocked to hear some of his new associates laughing over their wine at the royal amnesty which had just been graciously offered to them. They wanted no pardon, they said. They would make the king ask pardon before they had done with him. Still more alarming and disgusting to every good Torrey was an incident which happened at Salisbury Cathedral. As soon as the officiating minister began to read the collet for the king, Barnett, among whose many good qualities, self-command and a fine sense of the becoming cannot be reckoned, rose from his knees, sat down in his stall, and uttered some contemptuous noises which disturbed the devotions of the congregation. In a short time the factions which divided the prince's camp had an opportunity of measuring their strength. The royal commissioners were on their way to him. Several days had elapsed since they had been appointed, and it was thought strange that in a case of such urgency there should be such delay. But in truth neither James nor William was desirous that negotiations should speedily commence. For James wished only to gain time sufficient for sending his wife and son into France, and the position of William became every day more commanding. At length the prince caused it to be notified to the commissioners that he would meet them at Hungerford. He probably selected this place because, lying at an equal distance from Salisbury and from Oxford, it was well situated for a rendezvous of his most important adherents. At Salisbury were those noblemen and gentlemen who had accompanied him from Holland, or had joined him in the West, and at Oxford were many chiefs of the northern insurrection. Late on Thursday the 6th of December he reached Hungerford. The town was soon crowded with men of rank and note who came thither from opposite quarters. The prince was escorted by a strong body of troops. The northern lords brought with them hundreds of irregular cavalry whose accoutrements and horsemanship moved the mirth of men accustomed to the splendid aspect and exact movements of regular armies. While the prince lay at Hungerford, a sharp encounter took place between two hundred and fifty of his troops and six hundred Irish who were posted at Reading. The superior discipline of the invaders was signally proved on this occasion. The greatly outnumbered they at one onset drove the king's forces in confusion through the streets of the town into the market place. There the Irish attempted to rally, but, being vigorously attacked in front and fired upon at the same time by the inhabitants from the windows of the neighbouring houses, they soon lost heart and fled with the loss of their colours and of fifty men. Of the conquerors only five fell. The satisfaction which this news gave to the lords and gentlemen who had joined William was unmixed. There was nothing in what had happened to gall their national feelings. The Dutch had not beaten the English, but had assisted an English town to free itself from the insupportable dominion of the Irish. On the morning of Saturday the eighth of December, the king's commissioners reached Hungerford. The prince's bodyguard was drawn up to receive them with military respect. Bentink welcomed them and proposed to conduct them immediately to his master. They expressed a hope that the prince would favour them with a private audience, but they were informed that he had resolved to hear them and answer them in public. They were ushered into his bed-chamber, where they found him surrounded by a crowd of noblemen and gentlemen. Halifax, whose rank, age, and abilities entitled him to precedence, was spokesman. The proposition which the commissioners had been instructed to make was that the points in dispute should be referred to the parliament, for which the rits were already sealing, and that in the meantime the prince's army would not come within thirty or forty miles of London. Halifax, having explained that this was the basis of on which he and his colleagues were prepared to treat, put into William's hands a letter from the king and retired. William opened the letter and seemed unusually moved. It was the first letter which he had received from his father in law since they had become avowed enemies. Once they had been on good terms and had written to each other familiarly, nor had they, even when they had begun to regard each other with suspicion and aversion, banished from their correspondence those forms of kindness which persons nearly related by blood and marriage commonly use. The letter which the commissioners had brought was drawn up by a secretary in diplomatic form and in the French language. I have had many letters from the king, said William, but they were all in English, and in his own hand. He spoke with a sensibility which he was little in the habit of displaying. Perhaps he thought at that moment how much reproach his enterprise, just, beneficent and necessary as it was, must bring on him and on the wife who was devoted to him. Perhaps he repined at the hard fate which had placed him in such a situation that he could fulfil his public duties only by breaking through domestic ties, and envied the happier condition of those who are not responsible for the welfare of nations and churches. But such thoughts, if they rose in his mind, were firmly suppressed. He requested the lords and gentlemen whom he had convoked on this occasion to consult together, unrestrained by his presence, as to the answer which ought to be returned. To himself, however, he reserved the power of deciding in the last resort after hearing their opinion. He then left them and retired to Littlecut Hall, a manor house situated about two miles off, and renowned down to our own times, not more on account of its venerable architecture and furniture than an account of a horrible and mysterious crime which was perpetrated there in the days of the Tudors. Before he left Hungerford, he was told that Halifax had expressed a great desire to see Burnett. In this desire there was nothing strange, for Halifax and Burnett had long been on terms of friendship. No two men indeed could resemble each other less. Burnett was utterly destitute of delicacy intact, Halifax's taste was fastidious, and his sense of the ludicrous morbidly quick. Burnett viewed every act and every character through a medium distorted and coloured by party spirit. The tendency of Halifax's mind was always to see the faults of his allies more strongly than the faults of his opponents. Burnett was, with all his infirmities and through all the vicissitudes of a life past in circumstances not very favourable to piety, a sincerely pious man. The sceptical and sarcastic Halifax lay under the imputation of infidelity. Halifax therefore often incurred Burnett's indignant censure, and Burnett was often the butt of Halifax's keen and polished pleasantry. Yet they were drawn to each other by a mutual affection, liked each other's conversation, and appreciated each other's abilities, interchanged opinions freely, and interchanged also good offices in perilous times. It was not, however, merely from personal regard that Halifax now wished to see his old acquaintance. The commissioners must have been anxious to know what was the Prince's real aim. He had refused to see them in private, and little could be learned from what he might say in a formal and public interview. Almost all those who were admitted to his confidence were men taciturn and impenetrable as himself. Burnett was the only exception. He was notoriously garrulous and indiscreet. Yet circumstances had made it necessary to trust him, and he would, doubtless, under the dexterous management of Halifax, have poured out secrets as fast as words. William knew this well, and when he was informed that Halifax was asking for the doctor, could not refrain from exclaiming, "'If they get together, there will be fine tattling.'" Burnett was forbidden to see the commissioners in private, but he was assured in very courteous terms that his fidelity was regarded by the princes above all suspicion, and that there might be no grant for complaint. The prohibition was made general. That afternoon, the nobleman and gentleman whose advice William had asked met in the great room of the principal in at Hungerford. Oxford was placed in the chair, and the King's overtures were taken into consideration. It soon appeared that the assembly was divided into two parties, a party anxious to come to terms with the King, and a party bent on his destruction. The latter party had the numerical superiority, but it was observed that Shrewsbury, who of all the English nobles was supposed to enjoy a larger share of William's confidence, though a wig sided on this occasion with the Tories. The much altercation the question was put. The majority was for rejecting the proposition which the royal commissioners had been instructed to make. The resolution of the assembly was reported to the Prince at Littlecut. On no occasion during the whole course of his eventful life did he show more prudence and self-command. He could not wish the negotiation to succeed, but he was far too wiser man not to know that if unreasonable demands made by him should cause it to fail, public feeling would no longer be on his side. He therefore overruled the opinion of his two eager followers, and declared his determination to treat on the basis proposed by the King. Many of the lords and gentlemen assembled at Hungerford remonstrated. A whole day was spent in bickering, but William's purpose was immovable. He declared himself willing to refer all the questions in dispute to the Parliament which had just been summoned and not to advance within forty miles of London. On his side he made some demands which even those who were least disposed to commend him allowed to be moderate. He insisted that the existing statutes should be obeyed till they should be altered by competent authority, and that all persons who held offices without illegal qualification should be forthwith dismissed. The deliberations of the Parliament he justly conceived could not be free, if it was to sit surrounded by Irish regiments while he and his army lay at a distance of several marches. He therefore thought it reasonable that since his troops were not to advance within forty miles of London on the west, the King's troops should fall back as far to the east. There would thus be round the spot where the Houses were to meet a wide circle of neutral ground. In that circle, indeed, there were two fastnesses of great importance to the people of the capital, the Tower, which commanded their dwellings, and Tilbury Fort, which commanded their maritime trade. It was impossible to leave these places ungarrysened. William therefore proposed that they should temporarily be entrusted to the care of the City of London. It might possibly be convenient that, when Parliament assembled, the King should repair to Westminster with a bodyguard. The Prince announced that, in that case, he should claim the right of repairing Vitha also with an equal number of soldiers. It seemed to him just that, while military operations were suspended, both the armies should be considered as alike engaged in the service of the English nation, and should be alike maintained out of the English revenue. Lastly, he required some guarantee that the King would not take advantage of the armistice for the purpose of introducing a French force into England. At the point where there was most danger was Portsmouth. The Prince did not, however, insist that this important fortress should be delivered up to him, but proposed that he should, during the truce, be under the government of an officer in whom both James and himself could confide. The propositions of William were framed with a punctilious fairness, such as might have been expected rather from a disinterested umpire pronouncing an award than from a victorious prince dictating to a helpless enemy. No fault could be found with them by the partisans of the King. But among the wigs there was much murmuring. They wanted no reconciliation with their old master. They thought themselves absolved from all allegiance to him. They were not disposed to recognize the authority of a parliament convoked by his writ. They were averse to an armistice, and they could not conceive why, if there was to be an armistice, it should be an armistice on equal terms. By all the laws of war, the stronger party had a right to take advantage of his strength, and what was there in the character of James to justify any extraordinary indulgence. Those who reasoned thus little knew from how elevated a point of view and with how discerning an eye, the leader whom they censured, contemplated the whole situation of England and Europe. They were eager to ruin James, and would therefore either have refused to treat with him on any conditions or have imposed upon him conditions insupportably hard. To the success of William's vast and profound scheme of policy, it was necessary that James should ruin himself by rejecting conditions ostentatiously liberal. The event proved the wisdom of the course which the majority of the Englishmen at Hungerford were inclined to condemn. On Sunday the 9th of December, the Prince's demands were put in writing and delivered to Halifax. The commissioners dined at Littlecott. A splendid assemblage had been invited to meet them. The old hall hung with coats of mail which had seen the wars of the roses, and with portraits of gallants who had adorned the court of Philip and Mary was now crowded with peers and generals. In such a throng a short question and answer might be exchanged without attracting notice. The Prince seized this opportunity the first which had presented itself of extracting all that Burnett knew or thought. What is it that you want? said the dexterous diplomatist. Do you wish to get the King into your power? Not at all, said Burnett. We would not do the least harm to his person. And if he were to go away, said Halifax, there is nothing, said Burnett, so much to be wished. It may come in no doubt that Burnett expressed the general sentiment of the wigs in the Prince's camp. They were all desirous that James should fly from the country, but only a few of the wisest among them understood how important it was that his flight should be ascribed by the nation to his own folly and perverseness and not to harsh usage and well-grounded apprehension. It seems probable that, even in the extremity to which he was now reduced, all his enemies united would have been unable to effect his complete overthrow had he not been his own worst enemy. But, while his commissioners were laboring to save him, he was laboring as earnestly to make all their efforts useless. His plans were at length ripe for execution. The pretended negotiation had answered its purpose. On the same day on which the three lords reached Hungerford, the Prince of Wales arrived at Westminster. It had been intended that he should come over London Bridge, and some Irish troops were sent to Sava to meet him. But they were received by a great multitude with such hooting and execration that they thought it advisable to retire with all speed. The poor child crossed the Thames at Kingston and was brought into White Hall so privately that many believed him to be still at Portsmouth. To send him and the Queen out of the country without delay was now the first object of James. But who could be trusted to manage the escape? Dartmouth was the most loyal of Protestant Tories, and Dartmouth had refused. Dover was a creature of the Jesuits, and even Dover had hesitated. It was not very easy to find an Englishman of rank and honour who would undertake to place the heir apparent of the English crown in the hands of the King of France. In these circumstances James bethought him of a French nobleman who then resided in London, Antoine Count of Louzard. Of this man it had been said that his life was stranger than the dreams of other people. At an early age he had been the intimate associate of Louis and had been encouraged to expect the highest employments under the French crown. Then his fortunes had undergone an eclipse. Louis had driven from him the friend of his youth with bitter reproaches and had, it was said, scarcely refrain from adding blows. The fallen favourite had been sent prisoner to a fortress, but he had emerged from this confinement, had once again enjoyed the smiles of his master, and had gained the heart of one of the greatest ladies in Europe, Anna Maria, daughter of Gaston-du-Cavollion, granddaughter of King Henry IV, and heiress of the immense domains of the House of Montpensier. The lovers were bent on marriage. The royal consent was obtained. During a few hours Lausanne was regarded by the court as an adopted member of the House of Bourbon. The portion which the princess brought with her might well have been an object of competition to sovereigns, three great dukedoms, an independent principality with its own mint and with its own tribunals, an income greatly exceeding the whole revenue of the Kingdom of Scotland, but this splendid prospect had been overcast. The match had been broken off. The aspiring suitor had been, during many years, shut up in an alpine castle. At length Louis relented. Lausanne was forbidden to appear in the royal presence, but was allowed to enjoy liberty at a distance from the court. He visited England, and was well received at the Palace of James, and in the fashionable circles of London, for in that age the gentlemen of France were regarded throughout Europe as models of grace, and many chivaliers and vicounts who had never been admitted to the interior circle at Versailles found themselves objects of general curiosity and admiration at White Hall. Lausanne was in every respect to the man for the present emergency. He had courage and a sense of humour, had been accustomed to eccentric adventures, and, with the keen observation and ironical pleasantry of a finished man of the world, had a strong propensity to knight errantry. All his national feelings and all his personal interests impelled him to undertake the adventure from which the most devoted subjects of the English crown seemed to shrink. As the guardian at a perilous crisis of the Queen of Great Britain and of the Prince of Wales, he might return with honour to his native land, he might once more be admitted to see Louis Dresden Dine, and might, after so many vicissitudes, recommence in the decline of life the strangely fascinating chase of royal favour. Animated by such feelings, Lausanne eagerly accepted the high trust which was offered to him. The arrangements for the flight were promptly made. A vessel was ordered to be in readiness at Graves End, but to reach Graves End was not easy. The city was in a state of extreme agitation. The slightest cause sufficed to bring a crowd together. No foreigner could appear in the streets without risk of being stopped and questioned, and carried before a magistrate as a Jesuit in disguise. It was therefore necessary to take the road on the south of the Thames. No precaution which could quiet suspicion was omitted. The King and Queen retired to rest as usual. When the palace had been some time profoundly quiet, James rose and called a servant who was in attendance. You will find, said the King, a man at the door of the antechamber, bring him hither. The servant obeyed, and Lausanne was ushered into the royal bedchamber. I confide to you, said James, my Queen and my son, everything must be risked to carry them into France. Lausanne, with a truly chivalrous spirit, returned thanks for this dangerous honour which had been conferred on him, and begged permission to avail himself of the assistance of his friend Saint-Victor, a gentleman of Provence, whose courage and faith had been often tried. The services of so valuable an assistant were readily accepted. Lausanne gave his hand to Mary. Saint-Victor wrapped up in his warm cloak the ill-fated air of so many kings. The party stole down the back stairs, and then barked in an open skiff. It was a miserable voyage. The night was bleak, the rain fell, the wind roared, the waves were rough. At length the boat reached Lambeth, and the fugitives landed near and in, where a coach and horses were in waiting. Some time elapsed before the horses could be harnessed. Mary, afraid that her face might be known, would not enter the house, she remained with her child, cowering for shelter from the storm under the tar of Lambeth Church, and distracted by terror whenever the Osler approached her with his lantern. Two of her women attended her, one who gave succ to the prince, and one whose office was to rock his cradle, but they could be of little use to their mysteries, for both were foreigners, who could hardly speak the English language, and who shuddered at the rigor of the English climate. The only consolatory circumstance was that the little boy was well, and uttered not a single cry. At length the coach was ready. Sir Victor followed it on horseback. The fugitives reached Gravesend safely, and embarked in the yacht which waited for them. They found there Lord Powys and his wife. Three Irish officers were also on board. These men had been sent thither, in order that they might assist Lazar in any desperate emergency, for it was thought not impossible that the captain of the ship might prove false, and it was fully determined that, on the first suspicion of treachery, he should be stabbed to the heart. There was, however, no necessity for violence. The yacht proceeded down the river with a fair wind, and Sir Victor, having seen her undersales, spurred back with the good news to Whitehall. On the morning of Monday the 10th of December, the King learned that his wife and son had begun their voyage with a fair prospect of reaching their destination. About the same time a courier arrived at the palace with dispatches from Hungerford. Had James been a little more discerning, or a little less obstinate, those dispatches would have induced him to reconsider all his plans. The commissioners wrote hopefully. The conditions proposed by the conqueror were strangely liberal. The King himself could not refrain from exclaiming that they were more favourable than he would have expected. He might indeed not unreasonably suspect that they had been framed with no friendly design, but this mattered nothing, for whether they were offered in the hope that, by closing with them, he would lay the ground for a happy reconciliation, or, as is more likely, in the hope that, by rejecting them, he would exhibit himself to the whole nation as utterly unreasonable and incorrigible, his course was equally clear. In either case his policy was to accept them promptly, and to observe them faithfully. But it soon appeared that William had perfectly understood the character with which he had to deal, and, in offering those terms which the wigs at Hungerford had censured as too indulgent, had risked nothing. The solemn farce by which the public had been amused since the retreat of the royal army from Salisbury was prolonged during a few hours. All the lords who were still in the capital were invited to the palace that they might be informed of the progress of the negotiation which had been opened by their advice. Another meeting of peers was appointed for the following day. The Lord Mayor and the Sheriffs of London were also summoned to attend the King. He exhorted them to perform their duties vigorously, and owned that he had thought it expedient to send his wife and child out of the country, but assured them that he would himself remain at his post. While he uttered this unkingly and unmanly falsehood, his fixed purpose was to depart before daybreak. Already he had entrusted his most valuable moveables to the care of several foreign ambassadors. His most important papers had been deposited with the Tuscan minister. But before the flight there was still something to be done. The tyrant pleased himself with the thought that he might avenge himself on a people who had been impatient of his despotism by inflicting on them at parting all the evils of Anarchy. He ordered the great seal and the rites for the new parliament to be brought to his apartment. Those rites which could be found he threw into the fire. Those which had already been sent out he annulled by an instrument drawn up in legal form. To Feversham he wrote a letter which could be understood only as a command to disband the army. Still, however, the King concealed his intention of absconding, even from his chief ministers. Just before he retired he directed Jeffries to be in the closet early on the morrow, and while stepping into bed whispered to Mulgrave that the news from Hungerford was highly satisfactory. Everybody withdrew except the Duke of Northumberland. This young man, a natural son of Charles II by the Duchess of Cleveland, commanded a troop of life-guards and was a Lord of the Bedchamber. It seems to have been then the custom of the court that, in the Queen's absence, a Lord of the Bedchamber should sleep on a pallet in the King's room, and it was Northumberland's turn to perform this duty. At three in the morning of Tuesday the 11th of December, James Rose took the great seal in his hand, laid his commands on Northumberland not to open the door of the Bedchamber till the usual hour, and disappeared through a secret passage, the same passage probably through which Huddleston had been brought to the bedside of the late King. Sir Edward Hales was in attendance with a Hackney coach. James was conveyed to Milbank, where he crossed the Thames in a small wary. As he passed Lambeth he flung the great seal into the midst of the stream, where, after many months, it was accidentally caught by a fishing net, and dragged up. At Vauxhall he landed. A carriage and horses had been stationed there for him, and he immediately took the road towards Sheerness, where a boy belonging to the Custom House had been ordered to await his arrival. End of Part 19 End of Chapter 9