 Section 1 of the History of England from the Accession of James II, Volume 3, Chapter 14. The History of England from the Accession of James II, Volume 3, Chapter 14 by Thomas Babington Macaulay. Section 1. Twenty-four hours before the war in Scotland was brought to a close, by the discomforture of the Celtic army at Dunkeld, the parliament broke up at Westminster. The houses had sat ever since January without a recess, the commons who were cooped in a narrow space had suffered severely from heat and discomfort, and the health of many members had given way. The brute, however, had not been proportioned to the toil. The last three months of the session had been almost entirely wasted in disputes, which have left no trace in the statute book. The progress of salutary laws had been impeded, sometimes by bickering between the wigs and the tories, and sometimes by bickering between the lords and the commons. The revolution had scarcely been accomplished when it appeared that the supporters of the exclusion-bill had not forgotten what they had suffered during the ascendancy of their enemies, and were bent on obtaining both reparation and revenge. Even before the throne was filled, the lords appointed a committee to examine into the truth of the frightful stories which had been circulating concerning the death of Essex. The committee which consisted of zealous wigs continued its inquiries till all reasonable men were convinced that he had fallen by his own hand, until his wife, his brother and his most intimate friends were desirous that the investigation should be carried no further. Atonement was made without any opposition on the part of the tories to the memory and the families of some other victims, who were themselves beyond the reach of human power. Soon after the convention had been turned into a parliament, a bill for reversing the attainer of Lord Russell was presented to the peers, was speedily passed by them, was sent down to the lower house, and was welcomed there with no common signs of emotion. Many of the members had sat in that very chamber with Russell. He had long exercised there an influence resembling the influence which, within the memory of this generation, belonged to the upright and benevolent All Thorpe, an influence derived not from superior skill in debate or in declamation, but from spotless integrity, from plain good sense, and from that frankness, that simplicity, that good nature which our singularly graceful and winning in a man raised by birth and fortune high above his fellows. By the wigs Russell had been honoured as a chief, and his political adversaries had admitted that, when he was not misled by associates less respectful and more artful than himself, he was as honest and kind-hearted a gentleman as any in England, the manly firmness and Christian migness with which he had met his death, the desolation of his noble house, the misery of the bereaved father, the blighted prospects of the orphaned children, above all the union of womanly tenderness and angelic patience in her who had been dearest to the brave sufferer, who had sat with the pen in her hand by his side at the bar, who had cheered the gloom of his cell, and who, on his last day, had shared with him the memorials of the great sacrifice, had softened the hearts of many who were little in the habits of pitying an opponent. That Russell had many good qualities, that he had meant well, that he had been hardly used, was now admitted even by courtly lawyers who had assisted in shedding his blood, and by courtly divines who had done their worst to blacken his reputation. When, therefore, the parchment which had annulled his sentence was laid on the table of that assembly, and which eight years before his face and his voice had been so well known, the excitement was great. One old Whig member tried to speak, but was overcome by his feelings. I cannot, he said, name my Lord Russell without disorder. It is enough to name him. I am not able to say more. Many eyes were directed toward that part of the house where Finch sat. The highly honourable manner in which he had quitted a lucrative office, as soon as he had found that he could not keep it without supporting the dispensing power, and the conspicuous part which he had borne in the defence of the bishops, had done much to atone for his faults. Yet on this day it could not be forgotten that he had strenuously exerted himself as counsel for the crown to obtain that judgment which was now to be solemnly revoked. He rose and attempted to defend his conduct, but neither his legal acuteness nor that fluent and sonorous elicution which was in his family hereditary gift, and of which none of his family had a larger share than himself availed him on this occasion. The house was in no humour to hear him, and repeatedly interrupted him by cries of order. He had been treated, he was told, with great indulgence. No accusation had been brought against him. Why then should he and a pretence of vindicating himself attempt to throw dishonourable imputations on an illustrious name, and to apologise for a judicial murder? He was forced to sit down after declaring that he meant only to clear himself from the charge of having exceeded the limits of his professional duty. That he disclaimed all intention of attacking the memory of Lord Russell, that he should sincerely rejoice at the reversing of the attainer. Before the house rose, the bill was read a second time, and would have been instantly read a third time, and past had not some additions and omissions been proposed, which word it was thought, make the reparation more complete. The amendments were prepared with great expedition. The Lords agreed to them, and the King gladly gave his assent. The bill was soon followed by three other bills, which annulled three wicked and infamous judgments. The judgment against Sidney, the judgment against Cornish, and the judgment against Alice Lyle. Some living wigs obtained without difficulty regressed for injuries which they had suffered in the late rain. The sentence of Samuel Johnson was taken into consideration by the House of Commons. It was resolved that the scourging which he had undergone was cruel, and that his degradation was of no legal effect. The latter proposition, admitted of no dispute, for he had been degraded by the prelates who had been appointed to govern the Diocese of London during Compton's suspension. Compton had been suspended by a decree of the High Commission, and the decrees of the High Commission were universally acknowledged to be nullities. Johnson had therefore been stripped of his robe by persons who had no jurisdiction over him. The Commons requested the King to compensate the suffer by some ecclesiastical preferment. William, however, found that he could not, without great inconvenience, grant this request. For Johnson, though brave, honest, and religious, had always been rash, mutinous, and quarrelsome, and since he had endured for his opinions a matter more terrible than death, the infirmities of his temper and understanding and increased to such a degree that he was as disagreeable to low churchmen as to high churchmen. Like too many other men who are not to be turned from the path of right by pleasure by looker or by danger, he mistook the impulses of his pride and resentment for the munitions of conscience, and deceived himself into a belief that, in treating friends and foes with indiscriminate insolence and asperity, he was merely showing his Christian faithfulness and courage. Burnett, by exhorting him to patience and forgiveness of injuries, made him a mortal enemy. Tell his lordship, said the inflexible priest, to mind his own business and to let me look after mine. It soon began to be whispered that Johnson was mad. He accused Burnett of being the author of the report, and avenged himself by writing liable so violent that they strongly confirmed the imputation which they were meant to refute. The king therefore thought it better to give out of his own revenue a liberal compensation for the wrongs which the commons had brought to his notice than to place an eccentric and irritable man in a situation of dignity and public trust. Johnson was gratified with a present of a thousand pounds, and a pension of three hundred a year for two lives. His son was also provided for in the public service. While the commons were considering the case of Johnson, the lords were scrutinizing with severity the proceedings which had, in the late rain, been instituted against one of their own order the Earl of Devonshire. The judges who had passed sentence on him were strictly interrogated, and a resolution was passed declaring that in his case the privileges of the peerage had been infringed, that the court of King's Bench, in punishing a hasty blow by a fine of thirty thousand pounds, had violated common justice and the great charter. End of section one. Recording by John Leader In the cases which have been mentioned, all parties seem to have agreed in thinking that some public reparation was due. But the fiercest passions both of wigs and tories were soon roused by the noisy claims of a wretch whose sufferings, great as they might seem, had been trifling when compared with his crimes. Oats had come back, like a ghost from the place of punishment, to haunt the spots which had been polluted by his guilt. The three years and a half which followed his scourging he had passed in one of the cells of Newgate, except when on certain days, the anniversaries of his perjuries, he had been brought forth and set on the pillory. He was still, however, regarded by many fanatics as a martyr, and it was said that they were able so far to corrupt his keepers that, in spite of positive orders from the government, his sufferings were mitigated by many indulgences. While offenders, who compared with him were innocent, grew lean on the prison allowance, his cheer was mended by turkeys and chines, capons and sucking pigs, venison pasties, and hampers of claret, the offerings of zealous protestants. When James had fled from Whitehall, and when London was in confusion, it was moved in the Council of Lords, which had provisionally assumed the direction of affairs, that oats should be set at liberty. The motion was rejected, but the jailers, not knowing whom to obey in that time of anarchy, and desiring to conciliate a man who had once been and might perhaps again be a terrible enemy, allowed their prisoner to go freely about the town. His uneven legs and his hideous face, made more hideous by the shearing which his ears had undergone, were now again seen every day in Westminster Hall and the Court of Requests. He fastened himself on his old patrons, and in that drawl which he affected as a mark of gentility, gave them the history of his wrongs and of his hopes. It was impossible, he said, that now, when the good cause was triumphant, the discoverer of the plot could be overlooked. Charles gave me nine hundred pounds a year. Sure, William will give me more. In a few weeks he brought his sentence before the House of Lords by a writ of error. This is a species of appeal which raises no question of fact. The Lords, while sitting judicially on the writ of error, were not competent to examine whether the verdict which pronounced oats guilty was or was not according to the evidence. All that they had to consider was whether the verdict being supposed to be according to the evidence the judgment was legal. But it would have been difficult even for a tribunal composed of veteran magistrates, and was almost impossible for an assembly of noblemen who were all strongly biased on one side or on the other, and among whom there was at that time not a single person whose mind had been disciplined by the study of jurisprudence to look steadily at the mere point of law, abstracted from the special circumstances of the case. In the view of one party, a party which even among the Whig peers was probably a minority, the appellant was a man who had rendered inestimable services to the cause of liberty and religion, and who had been requited by long confinement, by degrading exposure, and by torture notched to be thought of without a shudder. The majority of the house more justly regarded him as the falsest, the most malignant, and the most impudent being that had ever disgraced the human form. The sight of that brazen forehead, the accents of that lying tongue, deprived them of all mastery over themselves. Many of them doubtless remembered with shame and remorse that they had been his dupes, and that, on the very last occasion on which he had stood before them, he had by perjury induced them to shed the blood of what of their own illustrious order. It was not to be expected that a crowd of gentlemen under the influence of feelings like these would act with the cold impartiality of a court of justice. Before they came to any decision on the legal question which Titus had brought before them, they picked a succession of quarrels with him. He had published a paper magnifying his merits and his sufferings. The lords found out some pretense for calling this publication a breach of privilege, and sent him to the marshall sea. He petitioned to be released, but an objection was raised to his petition. He had described himself as a doctor of divinity, and their lordships refused to acknowledge him as such. He was brought to their bar and to ask where he had graduated. He answered, at the University of Salamanca. This was no new instance of his mendacity and effrontery. His Salamanca degree had been, during many years, a favorite theme of all the Tory satirists from Dryden downwards, and even on the continent the Salamanca doctor was a nickname in ordinary use. The lords, in their hatred of oats, so far forgot their own dignity as to treat this ridiculous matter seriously. They ordered him to efface from his petition the words doctor of divinity. He replied that he could not in conscience do it, and he was accordingly sent back to jail. These preliminary proceedings indicated not obscurely what the fate of the writ of error would be. The council for oats had been heard. No council appeared against him. The judges were required to give their opinions. Nine of them were in attendance, and among the nine were the chiefs of the three courts of common law. The unanimous answer of these grave, learned, and upright magistrates was that the court of King's bench was not competent to degrade a priest from his sacred office, or to pass a sentence of perpetual imprisonment, and that therefore the judgment against oats was contrary to law, and ought to be reversed. The lords should undoubtedly have considered themselves as bound by this opinion. That they knew oats to be the worst of men was nothing to the purpose. To them, sitting as a court of justice, he ought to have been merely a John of Styles or a John of Noakes, but their indignation was violently excited. Their habits were not those which fit men for the discharge of judicial duties. The debate turned almost entirely on matters to which no illusion ought to have been made. Not a single peer ventured to affirm that the judgment was legal, but much was said about the odious character of the appellant, about the impudent accusation which he had brought against Catherine of Braganza, and about the evil consequences which might follow if so bad a man were capable of being a witness. There is only one way, said the Lord President, in which I can consent to reverse the fellow's sentence. He has been whipped from Aldgate to Tibern, he ought to be whipped from Tibern back to Aldgate. The question was put. Twenty-three peers voted for reversing the judgment. Thirty-five for affirming it. This decision produced a great sensation and not without reason. A question was now raised which might justly excite the anxiety of every man of the kingdom. That question was whether the highest tribunal, the tribunal on which, in the last resort, depended the most precious interests of every English subject. Was it liberty to decide judicial questions on other than judicial grounds, and to withhold from a suitor what was admitted to be his legal right on account of the depravity of his moral character. That the Supreme Court of Appeal ought not to be suffered to exercise arbitrary power under the forms of ordinary justice was strongly felt by the ablest men in the House of Commons, and by none more strongly than by summers. With him and with those who reasoned like him, were on this occasion, allied many weak and hot-headed zealots who still regarded oats as a public benefactor, and who imagined that to question the existence of the Popish plot was to question the truth of the Protestant religion. On the very morning after the decision of the peers had been pronounced, keen reflections were thrown in the House of Commons on the justice of their lordships. Three days later the subject was brought forward by a wig-privileged counselor, Sir Robert Howard, member for Castle Rising. He was one of the Berkshire branch of his noble family, a branch which enjoyed, in that age, the inenviable distinction of being wonderfully fertile of bad rimers. The poetry of the Berkshire Howards was the jest of three generations of satirists. The mirth began with a first representation of the rehearsal, and continued down to the last edition of the Dunsead. But Sir Robert, in spite of his bad verses and some foibles and vanities which had caused him to be brought on the stage under the name of Sir Positive et al., had in Parliament the weight which a staunch party-man of ample fortune, of illustrious name, of ready utterance, and of resolute spirit can scarcely fail to possess. When he rose to call the attention of the Commons to the case of oats, some tories, animated by the same passions which had prevailed in the other House, received him with loud hisses. In spite of this most unparliamentary insult, he persevered, and it soon appeared that the majority was with him. Some orators extolled the patriotism and courage of oats. Others dwelt much on a prevailing rumor, that the solicitors, who were employed against him on behalf of the Crown, had distributed large sums of money among the jurymen. These were topics on which there was much difference of opinion, but that the sentence was illegal was a proposition which admitted of no dispute. The most eminent lawyers in the House of Commons declared that, on this point, they entirely concurred in the opinion given by the judges in the House of Lords. Those who had hissed when the subject was introduced were so effectually cowed that they did not venture to demand a division, and a bill annulling the sentence was brought in without any opposition. The Lords were in an embarrassing situation. To retract was not pleasant. To engage in a contest with the lower House, on a question on which that House was clearly in the right, and was backed at once by the opinions of the sages of the law and by the passions of the populace, might be dangerous. It was thought expedient to take a middle course. An address was presented to the King, requesting him to pardon oaths. But this concession only made bad worse. Titus had, like every other human being, a right to justice. But he was not a proper object of mercy. If the judgment against him was illegal, it ought to have been reversed. If it was legal, there was no ground for omitting any part of it. The Commons, very properly, persisted, passed their bill, and set it up to the peers. Of this bill the only objectionable part was the preamble, which asserted, not only that the judgment was illegal, a proposition which appeared on the face of the record to be true, but also that the verdict was corrupt, a proposition which, whether true or false, was not proved by any evidence at all. The Lords were in a great strait. They knew that they were in the wrong. Yet they were determined not to proclaim, in their legislative capacity, that they had, in their judicial capacity, been guilty of injustice. They again tried a middle course. The preamble was softened down. A clause was added which provided that oaths should still remain incapable of being a witness, and the bill thus altered was returned to the Commons. The Commons were not satisfied. They rejected the amendments and demanded a free conference. Two eminent Tories, Rochester and Nottingham, took their seats in the painted chamber as managers for the Lords. With them was joined Burnett, whose well-known hatred of popery was likely to give weight to what he might say on such an occasion. Summers was the chief orator on the other side, and to his pen we owe a singularly lucid and interesting abstract of the debate. The Lords frankly owned that the judgment of the Court of King's Bench could not be defended. They knew it to be illegal, and had known it to be so even when they affirmed it, but they had acted for the best. They accused oaths of bringing an impudently false accusation against Queen Catherine. They mentioned other instances of his villainy, and they asked whether such a man ought still to be capable of giving testimony in a court of justice. The only excuse which, in their opinion, could be made for him was that he was insane, and in truth the incredible insolence and absurdity of his behavior when he was last before them seemed to warrant the belief that his brain had been turned, and that he was not to be trusted with the lives of other men. The Lords could not therefore degrade themselves by expressly rescinding what they had done, nor could they consent to pronounce the verdict corrupt on no better evidence than common report. The reply was complete and triumphant. Oates is now the smallest part of the question. He has, your Lordships say, falsely accused the Queen Dowager and other innocent persons. Be it so. This bill gives him no indemnity. We are quite willing that, if he is guilty, he shall be punished. But for him and for all Englishmen we demand that punishment shall be regulated by law and not by the arbitrary discretion of any tribunal. We demand that, when a writ of error is before your Lordships, you shall give judgment on it according to the known customs and statutes of the realm. We deny that you have any right, on such occasions, to take into consideration the moral character of a plaintiff or the political effect of a decision. It is acknowledged by yourselves that you have, merely because you thought ill of this man, affirmed a judgment which you knew to be illegal. Against this assumption of arbitrary power the commons protest, and they hope that you will now redeem what you must feel to be an error. Your Lordships intimate a suspicion that Oates is mad. That a man is mad may be a very good reason for not punishing him at all. But how can it be a reason for inflicting on him a punishment which would be illegal even if he were sane? The commons do not comprehend. Your Lordships think that you should not be justified in calling a verdict corrupt which has not been legally proved to be so. Suffer us to remind you that you have two distinct functions to perform. You are judges and you are legislators. When you judge your duty is strictly to follow the law. When you legislate you may properly take facts from common fame. You invert this rule. You relax in the wrong place and scrupulous in the wrong place. As judges you break through the law for the sake of a supposed convenience. As legislators you will not admit any fact without such technical proof as it is rarely possible for legislators to obtain. This reasoning was not and could not be answered. The commons were evidently flushed with their victory in the argument and proud of the appearance which Summers had made in the Painted Chamber. They particularly charged him to see that the report which he had made of the conference was accurately entered in the journals. The Lords very wisely abstained from inserting in their records an account of a debate in which they had been so signally discomfited. But, though conscious of their fault and ashamed of it, they could not be brought to do public penance by owning in the preamble of the act that they had been guilty of injustice. The minority was, however, strong. The resolution to adhere was carried by only twelve votes of which ten were proxies. Twenty-one peers protested. The bill dropped. Two Masters and Chancery were sent to announce to the commons the final resolution of the peers. The commons thought this proceeding unjustifiable in substance and uncourteous in form. They determined to remonstrate, and Summers drew up an excellent manifesto in which the vile name of votes was scarcely mentioned, and in which the upper house was with great earnestness and gravity exhorted to treat judicial questions judicially, and not, under pretense of administering law, to make law. The wretched man, who had now a second time thrown the political world into confusion, received a pardon and was set at liberty. His friends in the lower house moved an address to the throne, requesting that a pension sufficient for his support might be granted to him. He was consequently allowed about three hundred a year, a sum which he thought unworthy of his acceptance, and which he took with a savage snarl of disappointed greediness. From the dispute about oats sprang another dispute, which might have produced very serious consequences. The instrument which had declared William and Mary, King and Queen, was a revolutionary instrument. It had been drawn up by an assembly unknown to the ordinary law and had never received the royal sanction. It was evidently desirable that this great contract between the governors and the govern, this title deed by which the King held his throne and the people their liberties, should be put into a strictly regular form. The Declaration of Rights was therefore turned into a Bill of Rights, and the Bill of Rights speedily passed the Commons, but in the Lords difficulties arose. The Declaration had settled the Crown, first on William and Mary jointly, then on the survivor of the two, then on Mary's posterity, then on Anne and her posterity, and lastly on the posterity of William by any other wife than Mary. The Bill had been drawn in exact conformity with the Declaration. Who was to succeed if Mary, Anne, and William should all die without posterity was left in uncertainty. Yet the event for which no provision was made for was far from improbable. Indeed it really came to pass. William never had a child. Anne had repeatedly been a mother, but had no child living. It would not be very strange if, in a few months, disease, war, or treason should remove all those who stood in the entail. In what state would the country then be left? To whom would allegiance be due? The Bill, indeed, contained a clause which excluded papists from the throne. But would such a clause supply the place of a clause designating the successor by name? What if the next heir should be a Prince of the House of Savoy not three months old? It would be absurd to call such an infant a papist. Was he then to be proclaimed King? Or was the Crown to be in abeyance till he should come to an age at which he might be capable of choosing a religion? Might not the most honest and most intelligent men be in doubt whether they ought to regard him as their sovereign? And to whom could they look for the solution of the stout? Parliament would be none, for the Parliament would expire with the Prince who had convoked it. There would be a mere anarchy, anarchy which might end in the destruction of the monarchy or in the destruction of public liberty. For these weighty reasons, Barnet, at William's suggestion, proposed it in the House of Lords that the Crown should, failing heirs of His Majesty's body, be entailed on an undoubted Protestant, Sophia, Duchess of Brunswick, Lünenberg, granddaughter of James I, and daughter of Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia. The Lords unanimously assented to this amendment, but the Commons unanimously rejected it. The cause of the rejection no contemporary writer has satisfactorily explained. One Whig historian talks of the machinations of the Republic, another of the machinations of the Jacobites. But it is quite certain that four fifths of the representatives of the people were neither Jacobites nor Republicans. Yet not a single voice was raised in the lower house in favour of the Clause, which in the upper house had been carried by acclamation. The most probable explanation seems to be that the gross injustice which had been committed in the case of oaths had irritated the Commons to such a degree that they were glad of an opportunity to quarrel with the peers. A conference was held. Neither assembly would give way. While the dispute was hottest, an event took place which, it might have been thought, would have restored harmony, and gave birth to a son. The child was baptized at Hampton Court with great pomp and with many signs of public joy. William was one of the sponsors. The other was the accomplished dorset whose roof had given shelter to the Princess in her distress. The King bestowed his own name on his Godson and announced to the splendid circle assembled around the font that the little William was henceforth to be called Duke of Gloucester. The birth of this child had greatly diminished the risk against which the Lords had thought it necessary to guard. They might therefore have retracted with good grace. But their pride had been wounded by the severity with which their decision on oaths' writ of error had been censured in the painted chamber. They had been plainly told across the table that they were unjust judges, and the imputation was not the less irritating because they were conscious that it was deserved. They refused to make any concession and the Bill of Rights was suffered to drop. But the most exciting question of this long and stormy session was, what punishment should be inflicted on those men who had, during the interval between the dissolution of the Oxford Parliament and the Revolution, been the advisers or the tools of Charles and James? It was happy for England that, at this crisis, a Prince who belonged to neither of her factions, who loved neither, who hated neither, and who, for the accomplishment of a great design, wished to make use of both, was the moderator between them. The two parties were in a position closely resembling that in which they had been twenty-eight years before. The party indeed which had then been, undermost, was now uppermost, but the analogy between the situation is one of the most perfect that can be found in history. Both the Restoration and the Revolution was accomplished by coalitions. At the Restoration, those politicians who were peculiarly zealous for liberty assisted to reestablish monarchy. At the Revolution, those politicians who were particularly zealous for monarchy assisted to vindicate liberty. The Cavalier Wood, at the former conjuncture, have been able to affect nothing without the help of Puritans who had fought for the Covenant. Nor would the Whig, at the latter conjuncture, have offered a successful resistance to arbitrary power, had he not been backed by men who had, a very short time before, condemned resistance to arbitrary power as a deadly sin. Conspicuous among those by whom, in 1660, the royal family was brought back, were Hoppus, who had, in the days of the tyranny of Charles I, held down the speaker in the chair by main force, while Blackrod knocked for admission in vain, Ingoldsby, whose name was subscribed to the memorable death warrant, and Prynne, whose ear's lod had cut off, and who, in return, had borne the chief part in cutting off lod's head. Among the seven who, in 1688, signed the invitation to William, or Compton, who had long enforced the duty of obeying Nero, Danby, who had been impeached for endeavouring to establish military despotism, and Lumley, whose bloodhounds had tracked Monmouth to that sad, last hiding-place among the fern. Both in 1660 and in 1688, while the fate of the nation still hung in the balance, forgiveness was exchanged between the hostile factions. On both occasions the reconciliation, which had seemed to be cordial in the hour of danger, proved false and hollow in the hour of triumph. As soon as Charles II was at Whitehall, the Cavalier forgot the good service recently done by the Presbyterians, and remembered only their old offences. As soon as William was king, too many of the wigs began to demand vengeance for all that they had in the days of the Ryehouse plot suffered at the hands of the Tories. On both occasions the sovereign found it difficult to save the vanquished party from the fury of his triumphant supporters, and on both occasions those whom he had disappointed of their revenge murmured bitterly against the government which had been so weak and ungrateful as to protect its foes against its friends. So early as the 25th of March William called the attention of the Commons to the expediency of quieting the public mind by an amnesty. He expressed his hope that a bill of general pardon and oblivion would be as speedily as possible presented for a sanction, and that no exceptions would be made, except such as were absolutely necessary for the vindication of public justice and for the safety of the State. The Commons unanimously agreed to thank him for this instance of his paternal kindness, but they suffered many weeks to pass without taking any step towards the accomplishment of his wish. When at length the subject was resumed, it was resumed in such a manner as plainly showed that the majority had no real intention of putting an end to the suspense which embittered the lives of all those Tories who were conscious that, in their zeal for prerogative, they had sometimes overstepped the exact line traced by law. Twelve categories were framed, some of which were so extensive as to include tens of thousands of delinquents, and the House resolved that, under every one of these categories, some exceptions should be made. Then came the examination into the cases of individuals. Numerous culprits and witnesses were summoned to the bar. The debates were long and sharp, and it soon became evident that the work was interminable. The summer glided away, the autumn was approaching, the session could not last much longer, and of the twelve distinct inquisitions which the Commons had resolved to institute, only three had been brought to a close. It was necessary to let the bill drop for that year. Among the many offenders whose names were mentioned in the course of these inquiries was one who stood alone and unapproached in guilt and infamy, and whom wigs and Tories were equally willing to leave to the extreme rigor of the law. On that terrible day which was succeeded by the Irish night, the roar of a great city disappointed of its revenge had followed Jeffries to the drawbridge of the tower. His imprisonment was not strictly legal, but he at first accepted with thanks and blessings the protection which those dark walls, made famous by so many crimes and sorrows, afforded him against the fury of the multitude. Soon, however, he became sensible that his life was still in eminent peril. For a time he flattered himself with the hope that a writ of habeas corpus could liberate him from his confinement, and that he should be able to steal away to some foreign country, and to hide himself with part of his ill-gotten wealth from the detestation of mankind. But till the government was settled there was no court competent to grant a writ of habeas corpus, and as soon as the government had been settled the habeas corpus act was suspended. Whether the legal guilt of murder could be brought home to Jeffries may be doubted, but he was morally guilty of so many murders that, if there had been no other way of reaching his life, a retrospective act of a tainer would have been clamorously demanded by the whole nation. A disposition to triumph over the fallen has never been one of the besetting sins of Englishmen, but the hatred of which Jeffries was the object was without a parallel in our history, and partook but too largely of the savishness of his own nature. The people, where he was concerned, were as cruel as himself, and exalted in his misery as he had been accustomed to exult in the misery of convicts listening to the sentence of death, and of families clad in mourning. The rabble congregated before his deserted mansion in Duke Street, and read on the door with shouts of laughter the bills which announced the sale of his property. Even delicate women, who had tears for high women and housebreakers, breathed nothing but vengeance against him. The lampoons on him which were hawked about the town were diminished by an atrocity rare even in those days. Hanging would be too mild a death for him, a grave under the jibbit too respectable a resting place. He ought to be whipped to death at the cart's tail. He ought to be tortured like an Indian. He ought to be devoured alive. The street poets portioned out all his joints with cannibal ferocity, and computed how many pounds of stakes might be cut from his well-fatted carcass. Nay, the rage of his enemies was such that, in language seldom heard in England, they proclaimed their wish that he might go to the place of wailing and gnashing of teeth, to the worm that never dies, to the fire that is never quenched. They exhorted him to hang himself in his garters and to cut his throat with his razor. They put up horrible prayers that he might not be able to repent, that he might die the same hard-hearted, wicked Jefferies that had lived. His spirit, as mean in adversity as insolent and inhuman in prosperity, sank down under the load of public adhorrence. His constitution, originally bad and much impaired by intemperance, was completely broken by distress and anxiety. He was tormented by a cruel internal disease which the most skillful surgeons of that age were seldom able to relieve. One solace was left to him, Brandy. Even when he had causes to try and counsels to attend, he had seldom gone to bed sober. Now, when he had nothing to occupy his mind save terrible recollections and terrible forebodings, he abandoned himself without reserve to his favorite vice. Many believed him to be bent on shortening his life by excess. He thought it better, they said, to go off in a drunken fit than to be hacked by catch, or torn limb from limb by the populace. Once he was roused from a state of abject despondency by an agreeable sensation, speedily followed by a mortifying disappointment. A parcel had been left for him at the tower. It appeared to be a barrel of cold-chester oysters, his favorite dainties. He was greatly moved, for there are moments when those who least deserve affection are pleased to think that they inspire it. Thank God, he exclaimed, I have still some friends left. He opened the barrel and from among a heap of shells outtumbled a stout halter. It does not appear that one of the flatterers or buffoons whom he had enriched out of the plunder of his victims came to comfort him in the day of his trouble. But he was not left in utter solitude. John Touchen, whom he had sentenced to be flogged every fortnight for seven years, made his way into the tower and presented himself before the fallen oppressor. Poor Jefferies, humbled to the dust, behaved with abject civility and called for wine. I am glad, sir, he said, to see you. And I am glad, answered the resentful wig, to see your lordship in this place. I served my master, said Jefferies, I was bound and conscious to do so. Where was your conscience, asked Touchen, when you passed that sentence on me at Dorchester? It was set down in my instructions, answered Jefferies fawningly, that I was to show no mercy to men like you, men of parts and courage. When I went back to court I was reprimanded for my leniency. Even Touchen, acrimonious as was his nature, and great as were his writings, seemed to have been a little mollified by the pitiable spectacle which he had at first contemplated with vindictive pleasure. He always denied the truth of the report that he was the person who sent the Colchester barrel to the tower. A more benevolent man, John Sharp, the excellent dean of Norwich, forced himself to visit the prisoner. It was a painful task, but Sharp had been treated by Jefferies in old times as kindly as it was in the nature of Jefferies to treat anybody, and had once or twice been able, by patiently waiting till the storm of curses and invectives had spent itself, and by dexterously seizing the moment of good humour, to obtain for unhappy families some mitigation of their sufferings. The prisoner was surprised and pleased. What, he said, dare you own me now? It was in vain, however, that the amiable divine tried to give salutary pain to that seared conscience. Jefferies, instead of acknowledging his guilt, exclaimed vehemently against the injustice of mankind. People call me a murderer for doing what at the time was applauded by some who are now high in public favour. They call me a drunkard because I take punch to relieve me in my agony. He would not admit that, as President of the High Commission, he had done anything that deserved reproach. His colleagues, he said, were the real criminals, and now they all threw the blame on him. He spoke with peculiar asperity of Spratt, who had undoubtedly been the most humane and moderate member of the board. It soon became clear that the wicked judge was fast sinking under the weight of bodily and mental suffering. Dr. John Scott, Prebendary of St. Paul's, a clergyman of great sanctity, and author of the Christian Life, a treatise once widely renowned, was summoned, probably on the recommendation of his intimate friend Sharp to the bedside of the dying man. It was in vain, however, that Scott spoke, as Sharp had already spoken, of the hideous butcheries of Dorchester and Taunton. To the last Jefferies continued to repeat that those who thought him cruel did not know what his orders were, that he deserved praise instead of blame, and that his clemency had drawn on him the extreme displeasure of his master. Disease, assisted by strong drink and misery, did its work fast. The patient's stomach rejected all nourishment. He dwindled in a few weeks from a portly and even corpulent man to a skeleton. On the eighteenth of April he died, in the forty-first year of his age. He had been Chief Justice of the King's Bench at thirty-five, and Lord Chancellor at thirty-seven. In the whole history of the English Bar there is no other instance of so rapid an elevation, or so terrible a fall. The emaciated corpse was laid, with all privacy, next to the corpse of Monmouth in the Chapel of the Tower. The fall of this man, once so great and so much dreaded, the horror with which he was regarded by all the respectable members of his own party, the manner in which the least respectable members of that party renounced fellowship with him in his distress, and threw on him the whole blame of crimes which they had encouraged him to commit, ought to have been a lesson to those intemperate friends of liberty who were clamoring for a new prescription. But it was a lesson which too many of them disregarded. The King had, at the very commencement of his reign, displeased them by appointing a few tories and trimmers to high offices, and the discontent excited by these appointments had been inflamed by his attempt to obtain a general amnesty for the vanquished. He was in truth not a man to be popular with the vindictive zealots of any faction, for among his peculiarities was a certain ungracious humanity which rarely conciliated his foes, which often provoked his adherence, but in which he doggedly persisted, without troubling himself either about the thanklessness of those whom he had saved from destruction, or about the rage of those whom he had disappointed of the revenge. Some of the wigs now spoke of him as bitterly as they had ever spoken of either of his uncles. He was a steward, after all, and was not a steward for nothing. Like the rest of the race he loved arbitrary power. In Holland he had succeeded in making himself, under the forms of a republican polity, scarcely less absolute than the old hereditary counts had been. In consequence of a strange combination of circumstances his interest had, during a short time, coincided with the interest of the English people. But though he had been a deliverer by accident, he was a despot by nature. He had no sympathy with the just resentments of the wigs. He had objects in view which the wigs would not willingly suffer any sovereign to attain. He knew that the Tories were the only tools for his purpose. He had therefore, from the moment at which he took his seat on the throne, favoured them unduly. He was now trying to procure an indemnity for those very delinquents whom he had, a few months before, described in his declaration as deserving of exemplary punishment. In November he had told the world that the crimes in which these men had borne apart had made it the duty of subjects to violate their oath of allegiance, of soldiers to desert their standards, of children to make war on their parents. With what constancy, then, could he recommend that such crimes could be covered by a general oblivion? And was there not too much reason to fear that he wished to save the agents of tyranny from the fate which they merited, in the hope that at some future time they might serve him as unscrupulously as they had served his father-in-law? of the House of Commons who were animated by these feelings, the fiercest and most audacious was Hal. He went so far on one occasion as to move that an inquiry should be instituted into the proceedings of the Parliament of 1685, and that some note of infamy should be put on all who, in that Parliament, had voted with the Court. This absurd and mischievous notion was discountenanced by all the most respectable wigs and strongly opposed by Birch and Maynard. Hal was forced to give way, but he was a man whom no check could abash, and he was encouraged by the applause of many hot-headed members of his party who were far from foreseeing that he would, after having been the most rankerous and unprincipled of wigs, become at no distant time the most rankerous and unprincipled of Tories. This quick-witted, restless and malignant politician, though himself occupying a lucrative place in the royal household, declaimed day after day against the manner in which the great offices of State were filled, and as declamations were echoed, intoned somewhat less sharp and vehement by other orators. No man, they said, who had been a minister of Charles or of James ought to be a minister of William. The first attack was directed against the Lord President, Carmarthen. Hal moved that an address should be presented to the King, requesting that all persons who had ever been impeached by the Commons might be dismissed from his Majesty's Council and Presence. The debate on this motion was repeatedly adjourned. While the event was doubtful, William sent Dykeville to expostulate with Hal. Hal was obdurate. He was what is vulgarly called a disinterested man. That is to say, he valued money less than the pleasure of venting his spleen and of making a sensation. I am doing the King a service, he said. I am rescuing him from false friends, and as to my place, that shall never be a gag to prevent me from speaking my mind. The motion was made but completely failed. In truth, the proposition that mere accusation, never prosecuted to conviction, ought to be considered as a decisive proof of guilt, was shocking to natural justice. The faults of Carmarthen had doubtless been great, but they had been exaggerated by party spirit, had been expiated by severe suffering, and had been redeemed by recent and eminent services. At the time when he raised the great county of York in arms against potpourri and tyranny, he had been assured by some of the most eminent wigs that all old quarrels were forgotten. Hal indeed maintained that the civilities which had passed in the moment of peril signified nothing. When a viper is on my hand, he said, I am very tender of him, but as soon as I have him on the ground I set my foot on him and crush him. The Lord President, however, was so strongly supported that, after a discussion which lasted three days, his enemies did not venture to take the sense of the House on the motion against him. In the course of the debate, a grave constitutional question was incidentally raised. This question was whether a pardon could be pleaded in bar of a parliamentary impeachment. The Commons resolved, without a division, that a pardon could not be so pleaded. The next attack was made on Halifax. He was in a much more invidious position than Carmarthen, who had, under pretence of ill health, withdrawn himself almost entirely from business. Halifax was generally regarded as the Chief Advisor of the Crown and was in a special manner held responsible for all the faults which had been committed with respect to Ireland. The evils which had brought that kingdom to ruin might, it was said, have been averted by timely precaution or remedied by vigorous exertion. But the Government had foreseen nothing. It had done little, and that little had been done neither at the right time nor in the right way. Negotiation had been employed instead of troops, when a few troops might have sufficed. A few troops had been sent when many were needed. The troops that had been sent had been ill-equipped and ill-commanded. Such, the vehement wigs exclaimed, were the natural fruits of that great error which King William had committed on the first day of his reign. He had placed in Tories and Trimmers a confidence which they did not deserve. He had, in a peculiar manner, entrusted the direction of Irish affairs to the Trimmer of Trimmers, to a man whose ability nobody disputed, but who was not firmly attached to the new Government, who indeed was incapable of being firmly attached to any Government, who had always halted between two opinions, and who, till the moment of the flight of James, had not given up the hope that the discontents of the nation might be quieted without a change of dynasty. How, on twenty occasions, designated Halifax as the cause of all the calamities of the country. Monmouth held similar language in the House of Lords. Though first Lord of the Treasury he paid no attention to financial business, for which he was altogether unfit, and of which he had very soon become weary. His whole heart was in the work of persecuting the Tories. He plainly told the King that nobody who was not a wig ought to be employed in the public service. William's answer was cool and determined. I have done as much for your friends as I can do without danger to the State, and I will do no more. The only effect of this reprimand was to make Monmouth more factious than ever. Against Halifax especially he intrigued and harangued with indefatagable animosity. The other wig-lords of the Treasury, Delamere and Caple, were scarcely less eager to drive the Lord privy seal from office, and personal jealousy and antipathy impelled the Lord President to conspire with his own accusers against his rival. What foundation there may have been for the imputations thrown at this time on Halifax cannot now be fully ascertained. His enemies, though they interrogated numerous witnesses, and though they obtained William's reluctant permission to inspect the minutes of the privy council, could find no evidence which would support a definite charge. But it was undeniable that the Lord privy seal had acted as Minister for Ireland, and that Ireland was all but lost. It is unnecessary, and indeed absurd, to suppose, as many wigs supposed, that his administration was unsuccessful because he did not wish it to be successful. The truth seems to be that the difficulties of the situation were great, and that he, with all his ingenuity and eloquence, was ill-qualified to cope with those difficulties. The whole machinery of government was out of joint, and he was not the man to set it right. What was wanted was not what he had in large measure—wit, taste, amplitude of comprehension, subtlety in drawing distinctions, but what he had not, prompt decision, indefatagable energy, and stubborn resolution. His mind was at best of too soft a temper for such work as he had now to do, and had been recently made softer by severe affliction. He had lost two sons in less than twelve months. A letter is still extant in which he at this time complained to his honoured friend Lady Russell of the desolation of his hearth and of the cruel ingratitude of the wigs. We possess also the answer in which she gently exhorted him to seek for consolation where she had found it under trials not less severe than his. The first attack on him was made in the upper house. Some wig-lords, among whom the wayward and petulant First Lord of the Treasury was conspicuous, proposed that the king should be requested to appoint a new speaker. The friends of Halifax moved and carried the previous question. About three weeks later his persecutors moved, in a committee of the whole house of commons, a resolution which imputed to him no particular crime, either of a mission or of commission, but simply declared it to be advisable that he should be dismissed from the service of the crown. The debate was warm. Moderate politicians of both parties were unwilling to put a stigma on a man, not indeed faultless, but distinguished both by his abilities and by his amiable qualities. His accusers saw that they could not carry their point, and tried to escape from a decision which was certain to be adverse to them, by proposing that the chairman should report progress. But their tactics were disconcerted by the judicious and spirited conduct of Lord Elland, now the Marquess's only son. My father has not deserved, said the young nobleman, to be thus trifled with. If you think him culpable, say so. He will at once submit to your verdict. Dismission from court has no terrors for him. He is raised by the goodness of God above the necessity of looking to office for the means of supporting his rank. The committee divided, and Halifax was absolved by a majority of fourteen. Had the division been postponed a few hours, the majority would probably have been much greater. The commons voted under the impression that Londonderry had fallen, and that all Ireland was lost. Scarcely had the house risen when a courier arrived with news that the boom on the foil had been broken. He was speedily followed by a second, who announced the raising of the siege, and by a third who brought the tidings of the Battle of Newton Butler. Hope and exultation succeeded to discontent and dismay. Ulster was safe, and it was confidently expected that Schomburg would speedily reconquer Lester, Connaught, and Munster. He was now ready to set out. The port of Chester was the place from which he was to take his departure. The army which he was to command had assembled there, and the D was crowded with men of war and transports. Unfortunately almost all those English soldiers who had seen war had been sent to Flanders. The bulk of the force destined for Ireland consisted of men just taken from the plow and the threshing floor. There was, however, an excellent brigade of Dutch troops under the command of an experienced officer, the count of Psalms. Four regiments, one of cavalry and three of infantry, had been formed out of the French refugees. Many of whom had borne arms with credit. No person did more to promote the raising of these regiments than the Marquess of Rubigny. He had been, during many years, an eminently faithful and useful servant of the French government. So highly was his merit appreciated at Versailles that he had been solicited to accept indulgences which scarcely any other heretic could by any solicitation obtain. Had he chosen to remain in his native country, he and his household would have been permitted to worship God privately according to their own forms. But Rubigny rejected all officers, cast in his lot with his brethren, and at upwards of eighty years of age, quitted Versailles, where he might still have been a favorite, for a modest dwelling at Greenwich. That dwelling was, during the last months of his life, the resort of all that was most distinguished among his fellow exiles. His abilities, his experience, and his munificent kindness made him the undisputed chief of the refugees. He was, at the same time, half an Englishman, for his sister had been Countess of Southampton, and he was uncle of Lady Russell. He was long past the time of action, but his two sons, both men of eminent courage, devoted their swords to the service of William. The younger son, who bore the name of Caimote, was appointed Colonel of one of the Huguenot Regiments of Foot. The other two regiments of foot were commanded by La Mélanie and Caimote, officers of high reputation. The regiment of horse was raised by Schaumburg himself and bore his name. Rubigny lived just long enough to see these arrangements complete. The general to whom the direction of the expedition against Ireland was confided had wonderfully succeeded in obtaining the affection and esteem of the English nation. He had been made a duke, a Knight of the Garter, and Master of the Ordinance. He was now placed at the head of an army, and yet his elevation excited none of that jealousy which showed itself as often as any mark of royal favour was bestowed on Bentinque, on Zulstein, or on Averker. Schaumburg's military skill was universally acknowledged. He was regarded by all Protestants as a confessor who had endured everything short of martyrdom for the truth. For his religion he had resigned a splendid income, had laid down the trenching of a marshal of France, and had, at near eighty years of age, begun the world again as a needy soldier of fortune. As he had no connection with the United Provinces, and had never belonged to the little court of the Hague, the preference given to him over English captains was justly ascribed, not to national or personal partiality, but to his virtues and his abilities. His department differed widely from that of the other foreigners who had just been created English peers. They, with many respectable qualities, were in tastes, manners, and predilections Dutchmen, and could not catch the tone of the society to which they had been transferred. He was a citizen of the world, had travelled over all Europe, had commanded armies on the Muses, on the Ebro, and on the Tagus, had shown in the splendid circle of Versailles, and had been in high favour at the court of Berlin. He had often been taken by French nobleman for a French nobleman. He had passed some time in England, spoke English remarkably well, accommodated himself easily to English manners, and was often seen walking in the part with English companions. In youth his habits had been temperate, and his temperance had its proper reward, a singularly green and vigorous old age. At forescore he retained a strong relish for innocent pleasures. He conversed with great courtesy and sprightliness, nothing could be in better taste than his equipages and his table, and every cornet of cavalry envied the grace and dignity with which the veteran appeared in Hyde Park on his charger at the head of his regiment. The House of Commons had, with general approbation, compensated his losses and rewarded his service by a grant of a hundred thousand pounds. Before he set out for Ireland he requested permission to express his gratitude for this magnificent present. A chair was set for him within the bar. He took his seat there with a maze at his right hand, rose, and in a few graceful words returned his thanks and took his leave. The speaker replied that the Commons could never forget the obligation under which they already lay to his grace, that they saw him with pleasure at the head of an English army, that they felt entire confidence in his zeal and ability, and that, at whatever distance he might be, he would always be in a peculiar manner an object of their care. The precedent set on this interesting occasion was followed with the utmost minuteness, a hundred and twenty-five years later, on an occasion more interesting still. Exactly on the same spot in which, in July 1689, Schomburg had acknowledged the liberality of the nation, a chair was set, in July 1814, for a still more illustrious warrior, who came to return thanks for a still more splendid mark of public gratitude. Few things illustrate more strikingly the peculiar character of the English government and people than the circumstance that the House of Commons, a popular assembly, should, even in a moment of joyous enthusiasm, have adhered to ancient forms with the punctilious accuracy of a college of heralds, that the sitting and rising, the covering and uncovering, should have been regulated by exactly the same etiquette in the nineteenth century as in the seventeenth, and that the same mace which had been held at the right hand of Schomburg should have been held in the same position at the right hand of Wellington. On the twentieth of August the Parliament, having been constantly engaged in business during seven months, broke up by the royal command for a short recess. The same gazette which announced that the houses had ceased to sit announced that Schomburg had landed in Ireland. During the three weeks which preceded his landing, the dismay and confusion at Dublin Castle had been extreme. Disaster had followed disaster so fast that the mind of James, never very firm, had been completely prostrated. He had learned first that London Derry had been relieved, then that one of his armies had been beaten by the innest killeners, then that another of his armies was retreating, or rather flying, from Ulster, reduced in numbers and broken in spirit, then that Sligo, the key of Canot, had been abandoned to the Englishry. He had found it impossible to subdue the colonists even when they were left almost unaided. He might therefore well doubt whether it would be possible for him to contend against them when they were backed by an English army, under the command of the greatest general living. The unhappy prince seemed during some days to be sunk in despondency. On Avod the danger produced a very different effect. Now, he thought, was the time to turn the war between the English and the Irish into a war of extirpation, and to make it impossible that the two nations could ever be united under one government. With this view he coolly submitted to the king a proposition of almost incredible atrocity. There must be a St. Bartholomew. A pretext would easily be found. No doubt when Schomburg was known to be in Ireland there would be some excitement in those southern towns of which the population was chiefly English. Any disturbance, wherever it might take place, would furnish an excuse for a general massacre of the Protestants of Lentster, Munster, and Canot. As the king did not at first express any horror at this suggestion, the envoy a few days later renewed the subject, and pressed his majesty to give the necessary orders. Then James, with a warmth which did him honour, declared that nothing should induce him to commit such a crime. These people are my subjects and I cannot be so cruel as to cut their throats while they live peaceably under my government. There is nothing cruel, answered the callous diplomatis, in what I recommend. Your majesty ought to consider that mercy to Protestants is cruelty to Catholics. James, however, was not to be moved, and Avaud retired in a very bad humour. His belief was that the king's professions of humanity were hypocritical, and that if the orders for the butchery were not given, they were not given only because his majesty was confident that the Catholics all over the country would fall on the Protestants without waiting for orders. But Avaud was entirely mistaken. That he should have supposed James to be as profoundly immoral as himself is not strange. But it is strange that so able a man should have forgotten that James and himself had quite different objects in view. The object of the ambassador's politics was to make the separation between England and Ireland eternal. The object of the king's politics was to unite England and Ireland under his own scepter, and he could not but be aware that, if there should be a general massacre of the Protestants of three provinces, and he should be suspected of having authorised it, or if having connived at it, there would in a fortnight be not a Jacobite left, even at Oxford. CHAPTER XIV Just at this time the prospects of James, which had seemed hopelessly dark, began to brighten. The danger which had unnerved him had roused the Irish people. They had, six months before, risen up as one man against the Saxons. The army which Tyr Connell had formed was, in proportion to the population from which it was taken, the largest that Europe had ever seen. But that army had sustained a long succession of defeats and disgraces, unredeemed by a single brilliant achievement. It was the fashion, both in England and on the Continent, to ascribe those defeats and disgraces to the pusil and eminy of the Irish race. That this was a great error is sufficiently proved by the history of every war which has been carried on in any part of Christendom during five generations. The raw material out of which a good army may be formed existed in great abundance among the Irish. Bo informed his government that they were a remarkably handsome, tall, and well-made race, that they were personally brave, that they were sincerely attached to the cause for which they were in arms, that they were violently exasperated against the colonists. After extolling their strength and spirit he proceeded to explain why it was that, with all their strength and spirit, they were constantly beaten. It was vain, he said, to imagine that bodily prowess, animal courage, or patriotic enthusiasm would, in the day of battle, supply the place of discipline. The infantry were ill-armed and ill-trained. They were suffered to pillage wherever they went. They had contracted all the habits of benditi. There was among them scarcely one officer capable of showing them their duty. Their colonels were generally men of good family, but men who had never seen service. The captains were butchers, tailors, shoemakers. Hardly one of them troubled himself about the comforts, the accoutrements, or the drilling of those over whom he was placed. The dragoons were little better than the infantry. But the horse were, with some exceptions, excellent. Almost all the Irish gentlemen who had any military experience held commissions in the cavalry, and by the exertions of these officers some regiments had been raised in disciplines which avó pronounced equal to any that he had ever seen. It was therefore evident that the inefficiency of the foot and of the dragoons was to be ascribed to the vices, not of the Irish character, but of the Irish administration. The events which took place in the autumn of 1689 sufficiently proved that the ill-fated race, which enemies and allies generally agreed in regarding with unjust contempt, had together with the faults inseparable from poverty, ignorance, and superstition some fine qualities which have not always been found in more prosperous and more enlightened communities. The evil tidings which terrified and bewildered James stirred the whole population of the southern provinces, like the peel of a trumpet sounding to battle. That Ulster was lost, that the English were coming, that the death grapple between the two hostile nations was at hand, was proclaimed from all the altars of three and twenty counties. One last chance was left, and if that chance failed, nothing remained but the despotic, the merciless rule of the Saxon colony and of the heretical church. The Roman Catholic priest who had just taken possession of the Glebe house and the chancel, the Roman Catholic squire who had just been carried back on the soldiers of the shouting tenetry into the hall of his fathers, would be driven forth to live on such alms as peasants themselves oppressed and miserable could spare. A new confiscation would complete the work of the act of settlement, and the followers of William was seized whatever the followers of Cromwell had spared. These apprehensions produced such an outbreak of patriotic and religious enthusiasm as deferred for a time the inevitable day of subjugation. Avau was amazed by the energy which, in circumstances so trying, the Irish displayed. It was indeed the wild and unsteady energy of a half-barbarous people. It was transient. It was often misdirected. But though transient and misdirected, it did wonders. The French ambassador was forced to own that those officers of whose incompetency and inactivity he had so often complained had suddenly shaken off their lethargy. Recruits came in by thousands. The ranks which had been thinned under the walls of London Derry were soon again full to overflowing. Great efforts were made to arm and clothe the troops, and in the short space of a fortnight everything presented a new and cheering aspect. The Irish required of the king in return for their strenuous exertions in his cause one concession which was by no means agreeable to him. The unpopularity of Melfort had become such that his person was scarcely safe. He had no friend to speak a word in his favour. The French hated him. In every letter which arrived at Dublin from England or from Scotland he was described as the evil genius of the House of Stuart. It was necessary for his own sake to dismiss him. An honourable pretext was found. He was ordered to repair to Versailles to represent there the State of Affairs in Ireland and to implore the French government to send over without delay six or seven thousand veteran infantry. He laid down the seals, and they were, to the great delight of the Irish, put into the hands of an Irishman, Sir Richard Nagel, who had made himself conspicuous as Attorney General and Speaker of the House of Commons. Melfort took his departure under cover of the night, for the rage of the populace against him was such that he could not without danger show himself in the streets of Dublin by day. On the following morning James left his capital in the opposite direction to encounter Schomburg. Schomburg had landed in Antrim. The force which he had brought with him did not exceed ten thousand men. But he expected to be joined by the armed colonists and by the regiments which were under Kirk's command. The coffee-house politicians of London fully expected that such a general with such an army would speedily reconquer the island. Unhappily it soon appeared that the means which had been furnished to him were altogether inadequate to the work which he had to perform. Of the greater part of these means he was speedily deprived by a succession of unforeseen calamities, and the whole campaign was merely a long struggle maintained by his prudence and resolution against the utmost spite of fortune. He marched first to Carrick-Fergus. That town was held for James by two regiments of infantry. Schomburg battered the walls and the Irish after holding out a week capitulated. He promised that they should depart unharmed, but he found it no easy matter to keep his word. The people of the town and neighborhood were generally Protestants of Scottish extraction. They had suffered much during the short ascendancy of the native race, and what they had suffered they were now eager to retaliate. They assembled in great multitudes, exclaiming that the capitulation was nothing to them and that they would be revenged. They soon proceeded from words to plows. The Irish, disarmed, stripped and hustled, clung for protection to the English officers and soldiers. Schomburg with difficulty prevented a massacre by spurring, pistol in hand, through the throng of the enraged colonists. From Carrick-Fergus Schomburg proceeded to Lisburn, and thence, through towns left without an inhabitant, and over plains on which not a cow, nor a sheep, nor a stack of corn was to be seen, to Lowbrookland. Here he was joined by three regiments of Innis-Kelliners, whose dress, horses, and arms looked strange to eyes accustomed to the pomp of reviews, but who in natural courage were inferior to no troops in the world, and who had, during months of constant watching and skirmishing, acquired many of the essential qualities of soldiers. Schomburg continued to advance towards Dublin through a desert. The few Irish troops which remained in the south of Ulster retreated before him, destroying as they retreated. Neury, once a well built and thriving Protestant borough, he found a heap of smoking ashes. Carlingford, too, had perished. The spot where the town had once stood was marked only by the massy remains of the old Norman Castle. Those who ventured to wander from the camp reported that the country, as far as they could explore it, was a wilderness. There were cabins, but no inmates. There was rich pasture, but neither flock nor herd. There were cornfields, but the harvest lay on the ground soaked with rain. While Schomburg was advancing through a vast solitude, the Irish forces were rapidly assembling from every quarter. On the 10th of September the royal standard of James was unfurled on the Tower of Droghetta, and beneath it were soon collected twenty thousand fighting men. The infantry generally bad, the cavalry generally good, but both infantry and cavalry full of zeal for their country and their religion. The troops were attended, as usual, by a great multitude of camp-followers, armed with siths, half-pikes, and skeins. By this time Schomburg had reached Dundalk. The distance between the two armies was not more than a long day's march. It was therefore generally expected that the fate of the island would speedily be decided by a pitched battle. In both camps all who did not understand war were eager to fight, and in both camps the few who had a high reputation for military science were against fighting. Neither Rosen nor Schomburg wished to put everything on a cast. Each of them knew intimately the defects of his own army, and neither of them was fully aware of the defects of the other's army. Rosen was certain that the Irish infantry were worse equipped, worse officered, and worse drilled than any infantry that he had ever seen from the gulf of Bothnia to the Atlantic, and he supposed that the English troops were well trained, and were, as they doubtless lot to have been, amply provided with everything necessary to their efficiency. Numbers, he rightly judged, would avail little against a great superiority of arms and discipline. He therefore advised James to fall back, and even to abandon Dublin to the enemy, rather than hazard a battle the loss of which would be the loss of all. Athelon was the best place in the kingdom for a determined stand. The passage of the Shannon might be defended till the suckers which Melford had been charged to solicit came from France, and those suckers would change the whole character of the war. But the Irish, with Tyr Connell at their head, were unanimous against retreating. The blood of the whole nation was up. James was pleased with the enthusiasm of his subjects, and positively declared that he would not disgrace himself by leaving his capital to the invaders without a blow. In a few days it became clear that Schomburg had determined not to fight. His reasons were weighty. He had some good Dutch and French troops. The Innis-Killeners who had joined him had served a military apprenticeship, though not in a very regular manner. But the bulk of his army consisted of English peasants who had just left their cottages. His musketeers had still to learn how to load their pieces. His dragoons had still to learn how to manage their horses. And these inexperienced recruits were, for the most part, commanded by officers as inexperienced as themselves. His troops were therefore not generally superior in discipline to the Irish and were, in number, far inferior. Nay, he found that his men were almost as ill-armed, as ill lodged, as ill clad, as the Celts to whom they were opposed. The wealth of the English nation and the liberal votes of the English parliament had entitled him to expect that he should be abundantly supplied with all the munitions of war. But he was cruelly disappointed. The administration had, ever since the death of Oliver, been constantly becoming more and more imbecile, more and more corrupt, and now the revolution reaped what the restoration had sown. A crown of negligent or ravenous functionaries, formed under Charles and James, plundered, starved, and poisoned the armies and fleets of William. Of these men the most important was Henry Shales, who in the late reign had been commissary general to the camp at Hounslow. It is difficult to blame the new government for continuing to employ him, for in his own department his experience far surpassed that of any other Englishman. Unfortunately, in the same school in which he had acquired his experience, he had learned the whole art of speculation. The beef and brandy which he furnished were so bad that the soldiers turned from them with loathing. The tents were rotten, the clothing was scanty, the muskets broke in the handling. Great numbers of shoes were set down to the account of the government, but in two months after the treasury had paid the bill, the shoes had not arrived in Ireland. The means of transporting baggage and artillery were almost entirely wanting. An ample number of horses had been purchased in England with the public money, and had been sent to the banks of the D. But Shales had let them out for harvest work to the farmers of Cheshire, had pocketed the hire, and had left the troops in Ulster to get on as best they might. Schomburg thought that, if he should, with an ill-trained and ill-appointed army, risk a battle against a superior force, he might not improbably be defeated, and he knew that a defeat might be followed by the loss of one kingdom, perhaps by the loss of three kingdoms. He therefore made up his mind to stand on the defensive till his men had been disciplined, and till reinforcements and supplies should arrive. He entrenched himself near Dundalk in such manner that he could not be forced to fight against his will. James, emboldened by the caution of his adversary, and disregarding the advice of Rosen, advanced to R.D., appeared at the head of the whole Irish army before the English lines, drew up horse, foot, and artillery in order of battle, and displayed his banner. The English were impatient to fall on. But their general had made up his mind, and was not to be moved by the bravados of the enemy, or by the murmurs of his own soldiers. During some weeks he remained secure within his defenses, while the Irish lay a few miles off. He set himself assiduously to drill those new levies which formed the greater part of his army. He ordered the musketeers to be constantly exercised in firing, sometimes at marks and sometimes by platoons, and from the way in which they at first acquitted themselves it plainly appeared that he had judged wisely in not leading them out to battle. It was found that not one in four of the English soldiers could manage his peace at all, and whoever succeeded in discharging it, no matter in what direction, thought that he had performed a great feat. CHAPTER XIV While the Duke was thus employed, the Irish eyed his camp without daring to attack it. But within that camp soon appeared two evils more terrible than the foe, treason and pestilence. Among the best troops under his command were the French exiles. And now a grave doubt arose touching their fidelity. The real Huguenot refugee indeed might safely be trusted. The dislike with which the most zealous English Protestants regarded the House of Bourbon and the Church of Rome was a lukewarm feeling when compared with that indistinguishable hatred which glowed in the bosom of the persecuted, dragooned, expatriated Calvinist of Langdok. The Irish had already remarked that the French heretic neither gave nor took quarter. Now, however, it was found that with those immigrants who had sacrificed everything for the reformed religion were intermingled immigrants of a very different sort, deserters who had run away from their standards in the low countries, and had colored their crime by pretending that they were Protestants, and that their conscience would not suffer them to fight for the persecutor of their church. Some of these men, hoping that by a second treason they might obtain both pardon and reward, opened a correspondence with Avot. The letters were intercepted, and a formidable plot was brought to light. It appeared that, if Schaumburg had been weak enough to yield to the importunity of those who wished him to give battle, several French companies would, in the heat of the action, have fired on the English, and gone over to the enemy. Such a defection might well have produced a general panic in a better army than that which was encamped under Dundalk. It was necessary to be severe. Six of the conspirators were hanged. Two hundred of their accomplices were sent in irons to England. Even after this winnowing, the refugees were long regarded by the rest of the army with unjust but not unnatural suspicion. During some days, indeed, there was great reason to fear that the enemy would be entertained with a bloody fight between the English soldiers and their French allies. A few hours before the execution of the chief conspirators, a general muster of the army was held, and it was observed that the ranks of the English battalions looked thin. From the first day of the campaign there had been much sickness among the recruits, but it was not till the time of the equinox that the mortality became alarming. The autumnal rains of Ireland are usually heavy, and this year they were heavier than usual. The whole country was deluged, and the Duke's camp became a marsh. The Innis-Killen men were seasoned to the climate. The Dutch were accustomed to live in a country which, as a wit of that age said, draws fifty feet of water. They kept their huts dry and clean, and they had experienced and careful officers who did not suffer them to omit any precaution. But the peasants of Yorkshire and Derbyshire had neither constitutions prepared to resist the pernicious influence, nor skill to protect themselves against it. The bad provisions furnished by the commissariat aggravated the maladies generated by the air. Remedies were almost entirely wanting. The surgeons were few. The medicine chests contained little more than lint and plasters for wounds. The English sickened and died by hundreds. Even those who were not smitten by the pestilence were unnerved and dejected, and instead of putting forth the energy which is the heritage of our race, awaited their fate with the helpless apathy of Asiatics. It was in vain that Schaumburg tried to teach them to improve their habitations, and to cover the wet earth on which they lay with a thick carpet of fern. Exertion had become more dreadful to them than death. It was not to be expected that men who would not help themselves should help each other. Nobody asked and nobody showed compassion. Familiarity with ghastly spectacles produced a hard-heartedness and a desperate impiety, of which an example will not easily be found even in the history of infectious diseases. The moans of the sick were drowned by the blasphemy and ribaldry of their comrades. Sometimes, seated on the body of a wretch who had died in the morning, might be seen a wretch destined to die before night, cursing, singing loose songs, and spoling Usba to the health of the devil. When the corpses were taken away to be buried the survivors grumbled. A dead man, they said, was a good screen and a good stool. Why, when there was so abundant a supply of such useful articles of furniture, were people to be exposed to the cold air and forced to crouch on the moist ground. Many of the sick were sent by the English vessels which lay off the coast to Belfast, where a great hospital had been prepared. But scarce half of them lived to the end of the voyage. More than one ship lay long in the Bay of Carrick Fergus heaped with carcasses and exhaling the stench of death without a living man on board. The Irish army suffered much less. The current of Munster or Canot was dune as well off in the camp as if he had been in his own mud cabin inhaling the vapours of his own quagmire. He naturally exalted in the distress of the Saxon heretics and flattered himself that they would be destroyed without a blow. He heard with delight the guns peeling all day over the graves of the English officers till at length the funerals became too numerous to be celebrated with military pomp and the mournful sounds were succeeded by a silence more mournful still. The superiority of force was now so decidedly on the side of James that he could safely venture to detach five regiments from his army and to send them into Canot. Sarsfield commanded them. He did not, indeed, stand so high as he deserved in the royal estimation. The king, with an air of intelligent superiority which must have made Avau and Rosen bite their lips, pronounced him a brave fellow, but very scantily supplied with brains. It was not without great difficulty that the ambassador prevailed on his majesty to raise the best officer in the Irish army to the rank of brigadier. Sarsfield now fully vindicated the favourable opinion which his French patrons had formed of him. He dislodged the English from Sligo, and he effectually secured Galway which had been in considerable danger. No attack, however, was made on the English entrenchments before Dundalk. In the midst of difficulties and disasters hourly multiplying the great qualities of Schaumburg appeared hourly more and more conspicuous. Not in the full tide of success, not on the field of Monts Clarose, not under the walls of Maastricht, had he so well deserved the admiration of mankind. His resolution never gave way. His prudence never slept. His temper, in spite of manifold vexations and provocations, was always cheerful and serene. The effective men under his command, even if all were reckoned as effective who were not stretched on the earth by fever, did not now exceed five thousand. These were hardly equal to their ordinary duty, and yet it was necessary to harass them with double duty. Nevertheless so masterly were the old man's dispositions that with this small force he faced during several weeks twenty thousand troops who were accompanied by a multitude of armed bandities. At length early in November the Irish disbursed and went to winter quarters. The duke then broke up his camp and retired into Ulster. Just as the remains of his army were about to move, a rumor spread that the enemy was approaching in great force. Had this rumor been true the danger would have been extreme. But the English regiments, though they had been reduced to a third part of their complement, and though the men who were in best health were hardly able to shoulder arms, showed a strange joy and alacrity at the prospect of battle, and swore that the papas should pay for all the misery of the last month. We English, Schomburg said, identifying himself good-humoredly with the people of the country which had adopted him. We English have stomach enough for fighting. It is a pity that we are not as fond of some other parts of a soldier's business. The alarm proved false. The duke's army departed unmolested, but the highway along which he retired presented a piteous and hideous spectacle. A long train of wagons laden with the sick jolted over the rugged pavement. At every jolt some wretched man gave up the ghost. The corpse was flung out and left unburied to the foxes and crows. The whole number of those who died, in the camp at Dundalk, in the hospital at Belfast, on the road and on the sea, amounted to above six thousand. The survivors were quartered for the winter in the towns and villages of Ulster. The general fixed his headquarters at Lisburn. His conduct was variously judged. Wise and candid men said that he had surpassed himself, and that there was no other captain in Europe who, with raw troops, with ignorant officers, with scanty stores, having to contend it once against a hostile army of greatly superior force, against a villainous commissariat, against a nest of traitors in his own camp, and against a disease more murderous than the sword, would have brought the campaign to a close without the loss of a flag or a gun. On the other hand, many of those newly commissioned majors and captains, whose helplessness had increased all his perplexities, and who had not one qualification for their post except personal courage, grumbled at the skill and patience which had saved them from destruction. Their complaints were echoed on the other side of St. George's Channel. Some of the murmuring, though unjust, was excusable. The parents, who had sent a gallant lad in his first uniform to fight his way to glory, might be pardoned if, when they learned that he had died on a wisp of straw without medical attendance, and had been buried in a swamp without any Christian or military ceremony, their affliction made them hasty and unreasonable. But with the cry of bereaved families was mingled another cry much less respectable. All the heroes and tellers of news abused the general who furnished them with so little news to hear and to tell. For men of that sort are so greedy after excitement that they far more readily forgive a commander who loses a battle than a commander who declines one. The politicians, who delivered their oracles from the thickest cloud of tobacco smoke at Garroway's, confidently asked, without knowing anything, either of war in general or of Irish war in particular, why Schaumburg did not fight. They could not venture to say that he did not understand his calling. No doubt he had been an excellent officer, but he was very old. He seemed to bear his years well, but his faculties were not what they had been, his memory was failing, and it was well known that he sometimes forgot in the afternoon what he had done in the morning. It may be doubted whether there ever existed a human being whose mind was quite as firmly toned at eighty as at forty. But that Schaumburg's intellectual powers had been little impaired by years is sufficiently proved by his dispatches, which are still extant and which are models of official writing, terse, perspicuous, full of important facts and weighty reasons, compressed into the smallest possible number of words. In those dispatches he sometimes alluded, not angrily but with calm disdain, to the censures thrown upon his conduct by shallow babblers, who never having seen any military operation more important than the relieving of the Guard at Whitehall, imagined that the easiest thing in the world was to gain great victories in any situation and against any odds, and by sturdy patriots who were convinced that one English tartar or thresher, who had not yet learned how to load a gun or port a pike, was a match for any five musketeers of King Lewis's household. Unsatisfactory as had been the result of the campaign in Ireland, the results of the maritime operations of the year were more unsatisfactory still. It had been confidently expected that, on the sea, England, allied with Holland, would have been far more than a match for the power of Lewis, but everything went wrong. Herbert had, after the unimportant skirmish of Bantry Bay, returned with his squadron to Portsmouth. There he found that he had not lost the good opinion either of the public or of the government. The House of Commons thanked him for his services, and he received signal marks of the favour of the Crown. He had not been at the coronation, and had therefore missed his share of the rewards which, at the time of that solemnity, had been distributed among the chief agents of the Revolution. The omission was now repaired, and he was created Earl of Torrington. The King went down to Portsmouth, dined on board of the Admiral's flagship, expressed the fullest confidence in the valor and loyalty of the navy, knighted two gallant captains, Cloudsley Shovel and John Ashby, and ordered a donative to be divided among the seamen. We cannot justly blame William for having a high opinion of Torrington, for Torrington was generally regarded as one of the bravest and most skillful officers in the navy. He had been promoted to the rank of Rear Admiral of England by James, who if he understood anything understood maritime affairs. That place and other lucrative places Torrington had relinquished when he found that he could retain them only by submitting to be a tool of the jazidical cabal. No man had taken a more active, a more hazardous, or a more useful part in affecting the Revolution. It seemed, therefore, that no man had fairer pretensions to be put at the head of the naval administration. Yet no man could be more unfit for such a post. His morals had always been loose, so loose indeed that the firmness with which in the late rain he had adhered to his religion had excited much surprise. His glorious disgrace indeed seemed to have produced a salutary effect on his character. In poverty and exile he rose from a voluptuary into a hero. But as soon as prosperity returned the hero sank again into a voluptuary, and the lapse was deep and hopeless. The nerves of his mind, which had been during a short time braced to a firm tone, were now so much relaxed by vice that he was utterly incapable of self-denial or of strenuous exertion. The vulgar courage of a formist man he still retained. But both as admiral and as First Lord of the Admiralty he was utterly inefficient. Month after month the fleet, which should have been the terror of the seas, lay in harbour while he was diverting himself in London. The sailors, punning upon his new title, gave him the name of Lord Terry in town. When he came on shipboard he was accompanied by a bevy of courtesans. There was scarcely an hour of the day or of the night when he was not under the influence of Claret. Being insatiable of pleasure he necessarily became insatiable of wealth. Yet he loved flattery almost as much as either wealth or pleasure. He had long been in the habit of exacting the most object homage from those who were under his command. His flagship was a little Versailles. He expected his captains to attend him in his cabin when he went to bed, and to assemble every morning at his levee. He even suffered them to dress him. One of them combed his flowing wig, another stood ready with the embroidered coat. Under such a chief there could be no discipline. His Tars passed their time in riding among the rabble of Portsmouth. Those officers who won his favour by servility and adulation easily obtained leave of absence, and spent weeks in London, reveling in taverns, scouring the streets, or making love to the masked ladies in the pit of the theatre. The victulers soon found out with whom they had to deal, and sent down to the fleet casks of meat which dogs would not touch, and barrels of beer which smelt worse than bilge water. Meanwhile the British Channel seemed to be abandoned to French rovers. Our merchantmen were boarded inside of the ramparts of Plymouth. The sugar fleet from the West Indies lost seven ships. The whole value of the prizes taken by the cruisers of the enemy in the immediate neighbourhood of our island, while Torrington was engaged with his bottle and his harem, was estimated at six hundred thousand pounds. So difficult was it to obtain the convoy of a man of war, except by giving immense bribes, that our traders were forced to hire the services of Dutch privateers, and found these foreign mercenaries much more useful and much less greedy than the officers of our own Royal Navy. The only department with which no fault could be found was the Department of Foreign Affairs. There William was his own minister, and where he was his own minister there were no delays, no blunders, no jobs, no treasons. The difficulties with which he had to contend were indeed great. Even at the Hague he had to encounter an opposition which all his wisdom and firmness could, with the strenuous support of Hanesius, scarcely overcome. The English were not aware that, while they were murmuring at their sovereign's partiality for the land of his birth, a strong party in Holland was murmuring at his partiality for the land of his adoption. The Dutch ambassadors at Westminster complained that the terms of alliance which he proposed were derogatory to the dignity and predetional to the interests of the Republic, that wherever the honour of the English flag was concerned he was punctilious and obstinate, that he peremptorily insisted on an article which interdicted all trade with France, and which could not be but grievously felt on the exchange of Amsterdam, that when they expressed a hope that the Navigation Act would be repealed he burst out laughing, and told them that the thing was not to be thought of. He carried all his points, and a solemn contract was made by which the English and the Batavian Federation bound themselves to stand firmly by each other against France, and not to make peace except by mutual consent. But one of the Dutch plenipotentaries declared that he was afraid of being one day held to Oblique as a traitor, for conceding so much, and the signature of another plainly appeared to have been traced by a hand shaking with emotion.