What if this consummate dissembler should cheat both the rival kings?

What if, when he found himself commander of the army and protector of

the Parliament, he should proclaim Queen Anne? Was it not possible

that the weary and harassed nation might gladly acquiesce in such a

settlement? James was unpopular because he was a Papist, influenced

by Popish priests. William was unpopular because he was a foreigner,

attached to foreign favourites. Anne was at once a Protestant and an

Englishwoman. Under her government the country would be in no danger of

being overrun either by Jesuits or by Dutchmen. That Marlborough had the

strongest motives for placing her on the throne was evident. He could

never, in the court of her father, be more than a repentant criminal,

whose services were overpaid by a pardon. In her court the husband of

her adored friend would be what Pepin Heristal and Charles Martel had

been to the Chilperics and Childeberts. He would be the chief director

of the civil and military government. He would wield the whole power

of England. He would hold the balance of Europe. Great kings and

commonwealths would bid against each other for his favour, and exhaust

their treasuries in the vain hope of satiating his avarice. The

presumption was, therefore, that, if he had the English crown in his

hands, he would put in on the head of the Princess. What evidence there

was to confirm this presumption is not known; but it is certain that

something took place which convinced some of the most devoted friends

of the exiled family that he was meditating a second perfidy, surpassing

even the feat which he had performed at Salisbury. They were afraid

that if, at that moment, they succeeded in getting rid of William, the

situation of James would be more hopeless than ever. So fully were

they persuaded of the duplicity of their accomplice, that they not only

refused to proceed further in the execution of the plan which he had

formed, but disclosed his whole scheme to Portland.

William seems to have been alarmed and provoked by this intelligence

to a degree very unusual with him. In general he was indulgent,

nay, wilfully blind to the baseness of the English statesmen whom he

employed. He suspected, indeed he knew, that some of his servants were

in correspondence with his competitor; and yet he did not punish them,

did not disgrace them, did not even frown on them. He thought meanly,

and he had but too good reason for thinking meanly, of the whole of that

breed of public men which the Restoration had formed and had bequeathed

to the Revolution. He knew them too well to complain because he did not

find in them veracity, fidelity, consistency, disinterestedness. The

very utmost that he expected from them was that they would serve him as

far as they could serve him without serious danger to themselves. If he

learned that, while sitting in his council and enriched by his bounty,

they were trying to make for themselves at Saint Germains an interest

which might be of use to them in the event of a counterrevolution he was

more inclined to bestow on them the contemptuous commendation which was

bestowed of old on the worldly wisdom of the unjust steward than to call

them to a severe account. But the crime of Marlborough was of a very

different kind. His treason was not that of a fainthearted man desirous

to keep a retreat open for himself in every event, but that of a man of

dauntless courage, profound policy and measureless ambition. William was

not prone to fear; but, if there was anything on earth that he feared,

it was Marlborough. To treat the criminal as he deserved was indeed

impossible; for those by whom his designs had been made known to the

government would never have consented to appear against him in the

witness box. But to permit him to retain high command in that army which

he was then engaged in seducing would have been madness.

Late in the evening of the ninth of January the Queen had a painful

explanation with the Princess Anne. Early the next morning Marlborough

was informed that their Majesties had no further occasion for his

services, and that he must not presume to appear in the royal presence.

He had been loaded with honours, and with what he loved better, riches.

All was at once taken away.

The real history of these events was known to very few. Evelyn, who

had in general excellent sources of information, believed that the

corruption and extortion of which Marlborough was notoriously guilty had

roused the royal indignation. The Dutch ministers could only tell

the States General that six different stories were spread abroad by

Marlborough's enemies. Some said that he had indiscreetly suffered

an important military secret to escape him; some that he had spoken

disrespectfully of their Majesties; some that he had done ill offices

between the Queen and the Princess; some that he had been forming cabals

in the army; some that he had carried on an unauthorised correspondence

with the Danish government about the general politics of Europe; and

some that he had been trafficking with the agents of the Court of Saint

Germains. [187] His friends contradicted every one of these stories, and

affirmed that his only crime was his dislike of the foreigners who were

lording it over his countrymen, and that he had fallen a victim to the

machinations of Portland, whom he was known to dislike, and whom he had

not very politely described as a wooden fellow. The mystery, which from

the first overhung the story of Marlborough's disgrace, was darkened,

after the lapse of fifty years, by the shameless mendacity of his widow.

The concise narrative of James dispels the mystery, and makes it clear,

not only why Marlborough was disgraced, but also how several of the

reports about the cause of his disgrace originated. [188]

Though William assigned to the public no reason for exercising his

undoubted prerogative by dismissing his servant, Anne had been informed

of the truth; and it had been left to her to judge whether an officer

who had been guilty of a foul treason was a fit inmate of the palace.

Three weeks passed. Lady Marlborough still retained her post and her

apartments at Whitehall. Her husband still resided with her; and still

the King and Queen gave no sign of displeasure. At length the haughty

and vindictive Countess, emboldened by their patience, determined to

brave them face to face, and accompanied her mistress one evening to the

drawingroom at Kensington. This was too much even for the gentle Mary.

She would indeed have expressed her indignation before the crowd which

surrounded the card tables, had she not remembered that her sister was

in a state which entitles women to peculiar indulgence. Nothing was

said that night; but on the following day a letter from the Queen was

delivered to the Princess. Mary declared that she was unwilling to give

pain to a sister whom she loved, and in whom she could easily pass over

any ordinary fault; but this was a serious matter. Lady Marlborough must

be dismissed. While she lived at Whitehall her lord would live there.

Was it proper that a man in his situation should be suffered to make the

palace of his injured master his home? Yet so unwilling was His Majesty

to deal severely with the worst offenders, that even this had been

borne, and might have been borne longer, had not Anne brought the

Countess to defy the King and Queen in their own presence chamber. "It

was unkind," Mary wrote, "in a sister; it would have been uncivil in an

equal; and I need not say that I have more to claim." The Princess,

in her answer, did not attempt to exculpate or excuse Marlborough, but

expressed a firm conviction that his wife was innocent, and implored

the Queen not to insist on so heartrending a separation. "There is no

misery," Anne wrote, "that I cannot resolve to suffer rather than the

thoughts of parting from her."

The Princess sent for her uncle Rochester, and implored him to carry her

letter to Kensington, and to be her advocate there. Rochester declined

the office of messenger, and, though he tried to restore harmony between

his kinswomen, was by no means disposed to plead the cause of the

Churchills. He had indeed long seen with extreme uneasiness the absolute

dominion exercised over his younger niece by that unprincipled pair.

Anne's expostulation was sent to the Queen by a servant. The only

reply was a message from the Lord Chamberlain, Dorset, commanding Lady

Marlborough to leave the palace. Mrs. Morley would not be separated from

Mrs. Freeman. As to Mr. Morley, all places where he could have his three

courses and his three bottles were alike to him. The Princess and her

whole family therefore retired to Sion House, a villa belonging to the

Duke of Somerset, and situated on the margin of the Thames. In London

she occupied Berkeley House, which stood in Piccadilly, on the site

now covered by Devonshire House. [189] Her income was secured by Act of

Parliament; but no punishment which it was in the power of the Crown

to inflict on her was spared. Her guard of honour was taken away. The

foreign ministers ceased to wait upon her. When she went to Bath the

Secretary of State wrote to request the Mayor of that city not to

receive her with the ceremonial with which royal visitors were usually

welcomed. When she attended divine service at Saint James's Church she

found that the rector had been forbidden to show her the customary marks

of respect, to bow to her from his pulpit, and to send a copy of his

text to be laid on her cushion. Even the bellman of Piccadilly, it was

said, perhaps falsely, was ordered not to chaunt her praises in his

doggrel verse under the windows of Berkeley House. [190]

That Anne was in the wrong is clear; but it is not equally clear that

the King and Queen were in the right. They should have either dissembled

their displeasure, or openly declared the true reasons for it.

Unfortunately, they let every body see the punishment, and they let

scarcely any body know the provocation. They should have remembered

that, in the absence of information about the cause of a quarrel, the

public is naturally inclined to side with the weaker party, and that

this inclination is likely to be peculiarly strong when a sister is,

without any apparent reason, harshly treated by a sister. They should

have remembered, too, that they were exposing to attack what was

unfortunately the one vulnerable part of Mary's character. A cruel fate

had put enmity between her and her father. Her detractors pronounced

her utterly destitute of natural affection; and even her eulogists,

when they spoke of the way in which she had discharged the duties of the

filial relation, were forced to speak in a subdued and apologetic tone.

Nothing therefore could be more unfortunate than that she should a

second time appear unmindful of the ties of consanguinity. She was now

at open war with both the two persons who were nearest to her in blood.

Many who thought that her conduct towards her parent was justified by

the extreme danger which had threatened her country and her religion,

were unable to defend her conduct towards her sister. While Mary, who

was really guilty in this matter of nothing more than imprudence, was

regarded by the world as an oppressor, Anne, who was as culpable as her

small faculties enabled her to be, assumed the interesting character of

a meek, resigned sufferer. In those private letters, indeed, to which

the name of Morley was subscribed, the Princess expressed the sentiments

of a fury in the style of a fishwoman, railed savagely at the whole

Dutch nation, and called her brother in law sometimes the abortion,

sometimes the monster, sometimes Caliban. [191] But the nation heard

nothing of her language and saw nothing of her deportment but what was

decorous and submissive. The truth seems to have been that the rancorous

and coarseminded Countess gave the tone to Her Highness's confidential

correspondence, while the graceful, serene and politic Earl was suffered

to prescribe the course which was to be taken before the public eye.

During a short time the Queen was generally blamed. But the charm of her

temper and manners was irresistible; and in a few months she regained

the popularity which she had lost. [192]

It was a most fortunate circumstance for Marlborough that, just at the

very time when all London was talking about his disgrace, and trying to

guess at the cause of the King's sudden anger against one who had

always seemed to be a favourite, an accusation of treason was brought by

William Fuller against many persons of high consideration, was strictly

investigated, and was proved to be false and malicious. The consequence

was that the public, which rarely discriminates nicely, could not, at

that moment, be easily brought to believe in the reality of any Jacobite

conspiracy.

That Fuller's plot is less celebrated than the Popish plot is rather the

fault of the historians than of Fuller, who did all that man could do

to secure an eminent place among villains. Every person well read in

history must have observed that depravity has its temporary modes, which

come in and go out like modes of dress and upholstery. It may be doubted

whether, in our country, any man ever before the year 1678 invented and

related on oath a circumstantial history, altogether fictitious, of

a treasonable plot, for the purpose of making himself important by

destroying men who had given him no provocation. But in the year 1678

this execrable crime became the fashion, and continued to be so during

the twenty years which followed. Preachers designated it as our peculiar

national sin, and prophesied that it would draw on us some awful

national judgment. Legislators proposed new punishments of terrible

severity for this new atrocity. [193] It was not however found necessary

to resort to those punishments. The fashion changed; and during the last

century and a half there has perhaps not been a single instance of this

particular kind of wickedness.

The explanation is simple. Oates was the founder of a school. His

success proved that no romance is too wild to be received with faith by

understandings which fear and hatred have disordered. His slanders were

monstrous; but they were well timed; he spoke to a people made credulous

by their passions; and thus, by impudent and cruel lying, he raised

himself in a week from beggary and obscurity to luxury, renown and

power. He had once eked out the small tithes of a miserable vicarage by

stealing the pigs and fowls of his parishioners. [194] He was now lodged

in a palace; he was followed by admiring crowds; he had at his mercy

the estates and lives of Howards and Herberts. A crowd of imitators

instantly appeared. It seemed that much more might be got, and that

much less was risked, by testifying to an imaginary conspiracy than by

robbing on the highway or clipping the coin. Accordingly the Bedloes,

Dangerfields, Dugdales, Turberviles, made haste to transfer their

industry to an employment at once more profitable and less perilous than

any to which they were accustomed. Till the dissolution of the Oxford

Parliament Popish plots were the chief manufacture. Then, during seven

years, Whig plots were the only plots which paid. After the Revolution

Jacobite plots came in; but the public had become cautious; and though

the new false witnesses were in no respect less artful than their

predecessors, they found much less encouragement. The history of the

first great check given to the practices of this abandoned race of men

well deserves to be circumstantially related.

In 1689, and in the beginning of 1690, William Fuller had rendered to

the government service such as the best governments sometimes require,

and such as none but the worst men ever perform. His useful treachery

had been rewarded by his employers, as was meet, with money and with

contempt. Their liberality enabled him to live during some months like

a fine gentleman. He called himself a Colonel, hired servants, clothed

them in gorgeous liveries, bought fine horses, lodged in Pall Mall, and

showed his brazen forehead, overtopped by a wig worth fifty guineas, in

the antechambers of the palace and in the stage box at the theatre.

He even gave himself the airs of a favourite of royalty, and, as if he

thought that William could not live without him, followed His Majesty

first to Ireland, and then to the Congress of Princes at the Hague.

Fuller afterwards boasted that, at the Hague, he appeared with a retinue

fit for an ambassador, that he gave ten guineas a week for an apartment,

and that the worst waistcoat which he condescended to wear was of silver

stuff at forty shillings a yard. Such profusion, of course, brought him

to poverty. Soon after his return to England he took refuge from the

bailiffs in Axe Yard, a place lying within the verge of Whitehall. His

fortunes were desperate; he owed great sums; on the government he had no

claim; his past services had been overpaid; no future service was to be

expected from him having appeared in the witness box as evidence for the

Crown, he could no longer be of any use as a spy on the Jacobites; and

by all men of virtue and honour, to whatever party they might belong, he

was abhorred and shunned.

Just at this time, when he was in the frame of mind in which men are

open to the worst temptations, he fell in with the worst of tempters,

in truth, with the Devil in human shape. Oates had obtained his liberty,

his pardon, and a pension which made him a much richer man than nineteen

twentieths of the members of that profession of which he was the

disgrace. But he was still unsatisfied. He complained that he had now

less than three hundred a year. In the golden days of the Plot he had

been allowed three times as much, had been sumptuously lodged in the

palace, had dined on plate and had been clothed in silk. He clamoured

for an increase of his stipend. Nay, he was even impudent enough to

aspire to ecclesiastical preferment, and thought it hard that, while so

many mitres were distributed, he could not get a deanery, a prebend, or

even a living. He missed no opportunity of urging his pretensions. He

haunted the public offices and the lobbies of the Houses of Parliament.

He might be seen and heard every day, hurrying, as fast as his uneven

legs would carry him, between Charing Cross and Westminster Hall,

puffing with haste and self importance, chattering about what he had

done for the good cause, and reviling, in the style of the boatmen on

the river, all the statesmen and divines whom he suspected of doing him

ill offices at Court, and keeping him back from a bishopric. When he

found that there was no hope for him in the Established Church, he

turned to the Baptists. They, at first, received him very coldly; but

he gave such touching accounts of the wonderful work of grace which had

been wrought in his soul, and vowed so solemnly, before Jehovah and the

holy angels, to be thenceforth a burning and shining light, that it was

difficult for simple and well meaning people to think him altogether

insincere. He mourned, he said, like a turtle. On one Lord's day he

thought he should have died of grief at being shut out from fellowship

with the saints. He was at length admitted to communion; but before

he had been a year among his new friends they discovered his true

character, and solemnly cast him out as a hypocrite. Thenceforth he

became the mortal enemy of the leading Baptists, and persecuted them

with the same treachery, the same mendacity, the same effrontery, the

same black malice which had many years before wrought the destruction

of more celebrated victims. Those who had lately been edified by his

account of his blessed experiences stood aghast to hear him crying out

that he would be revenged, that revenge was God's own sweet morsel,

that the wretches who had excommunicated him should be ruined, that they

should be forced to fly their country, that they should be stripped to

the last shilling. His designs were at length frustrated by a righteous

decree of the Court of Chancery, a decree which would have left a

deep stain on the character of an ordinary man, but which makes no

perceptible addition to the infamy of Titus Oates. [195] Through all

changes, however, he was surrounded by a small knot of hotheaded and

foulmouthed agitators, who, abhorred and despised by every respectable

Whig, yet called themselves Whigs, and thought themselves injured

because they were not rewarded for scurrility and slander with the best

places under the Crown.

In 1691, Titus, in order to be near the focal point of political

intrigue and faction, had taken a house within the precinct of

Whitehall. To this house Fuller, who lived hard by, found admission. The

evil work which had been begun in him, when he was still a child, by the

memoirs of Dangerfield, was now completed by the conversation of Oates.

The Salamanca Doctor was, as a witness, no longer formidable; but he was

impelled, partly by the savage malignity which he felt towards all whom

he considered as his enemies, and partly by mere monkeylike restlessness

and love of mischief, to do, through the instrumentality of others,

what he could no longer do in person. In Fuller he had found the corrupt

heart, the ready tongue and the unabashed front which are the first

qualifications for the office of a false accuser. A friendship, if that

word may be so used, sprang up between the pair. Oates opened his house

and even his purse to Fuller. The veteran sinner, both directly and

through the agency of his dependents, intimated to the novice that

nothing made a man so important as the discovering of a plot, and that

these were times when a young fellow who would stick at nothing and

fear nobody might do wonders. The Revolution,--such was the language

constantly held by Titus and his parasites,--had produced little good.

The brisk boys of Shaftesbury had not been recompensed according to

their merits. Even the Doctor, such was the ingratitude of men, was

looked on coldly at the new Court. Tory rogues sate at the council

board, and were admitted to the royal closet. It would be a noble feat

to bring their necks to the block. Above all, it would be delightful

to see Nottingham's long solemn face on Tower Hill. For the hatred with

which these bad men regarded Nottingham had no bounds, and was probably

excited less by his political opinions, in which there was doubtless

much to condemn, than by his moral character, in which the closest

scrutiny will detect little that is not deserving of approbation. Oates,

with the authority which experience and success entitle a preceptor to

assume, read his pupil a lecture on the art of bearing false witness.

"You ought," he said, with many oaths and curses, "to have made more,

much more, out of what you heard and saw at Saint Germains. Never was

there a finer foundation for a plot. But you are a fool; you are a

coxcomb; I could beat you; I would not have done so. I used to go to

Charles and tell him his own. I called Lauderdale rogue to his face. I

made King, Ministers, Lords, Commons, afraid of me. But you young men

have no spirit." Fuller was greatly edified by these exhortations. It

was, however, hinted to him by some of his associates that, if he meant

to take up the trade of swearing away lives, he would do well not to

show himself so often at coffeehouses in the company of Titus. "The

Doctor," said one of the gang, "is an excellent person, and has done

great things in his time; but many people are prejudiced against him;

and, if you are really going to discover a plot, the less you are seen

with him the better." Fuller accordingly ceased to frequent Oates's

house, but still continued to receive his great master's instructions in

private.

To do Fuller justice, he seems not to have taken up the trade of a false

witness till he could no longer support himself by begging or swindling.

He lived for a time on the charity of the Queen. He then levied

contributions by pretending to be one of the noble family of Sidney. He

wheedled Tillotson out of some money, and requited the good Archbishop's

kindness by passing himself off as His Grace's favourite nephew. But

in the autumn of 1691 all these shifts were exhausted. After lying in

several spunging houses, Fuller was at length lodged in the King's Bench

prison, and he now thought it time to announce that he had discovered a

plot. [196]

He addressed himself first to Tillotson and Portland; but both Tillotson

and Portland soon perceived that he was lying. What he said was,

however, reported to the King, who, as might have been expected, treated

the information and the informant with cold contempt. All that remained

was to try whether a flame could be raised in the Parliament.

Soon after the Houses met, Fuller petitioned the Commons to hear what he

had to say, and promised to make wonderful disclosures. He was brought

from his prison to the bar of the House; and he there repeated a long

romance. James, he said, had delegated the regal authority to six

commissioners, of whom Halifax was first. More than fifty lords and

gentlemen had signed an address to the French King, imploring him to

make a great effort for the restoration of the House of Stuart. Fuller

declared that he had seen this address, and recounted many of the names

appended to it. Some members made severe remarks on the improbability of

the story and on the character of the witness. He was, they said, one of

the greatest rogues on the face of the earth; and he told such things

as could scarcely be credited if he were an angel from heaven. Fuller

audaciously pledged himself to bring proofs which would satisfy the most

incredulous. He was, he averred, in communication with some agents of

James. Those persons were ready to make reparation to their country.

Their testimony would be decisive; for they were in possession of

documentary evidence which would confound the guilty. They held back

only because they saw some of the traitors high in office and near the

royal person, and were afraid of incurring the enmity of men so powerful

and so wicked. Fuller ended by asking for a sum of money, and by

assuring the Commons that he would lay it out to good account. [197]

Had his impudent request been granted, he would probably have paid his

debts, obtained his liberty, and absconded; but the House very wisely

insisted on seeing his witnesses first. He then began to shuffle.

The gentlemen were on the Continent, and could not come over without

passports. Passports were delivered to him; but he complained that they

were insufficient. At length the Commons, fully determined to get at the

truth, presented an address requesting the King to send Fuller a blank

safe conduct in the largest terms. [198] The safe conduct was sent. Six

weeks passed, and nothing was heard of the witnesses. The friends of the

lords and gentlemen who had been accused represented strongly that

the House ought not to separate for the summer without coming to some

decision on charges so grave. Fuller was ordered to attend. He pleaded

sickness, and asserted, not for the first time, that the Jacobites

had poisoned him. But all his plans were confounded by the laudable

promptitude and vigour with which the Commons acted. A Committee was

sent to his bedside, with orders to ascertain whether he really had

any witnesses, and where those witnesses resided. The members who were

deputed for this purpose went to the King's Bench prison, and found him

suffering under a disorder, produced, in all probability, by some emetic

which he had swallowed for the purpose of deceiving them. In answer to

their questions he said that two of his witnesses, Delaval and Hayes,

were in England, and were lodged at the house of a Roman Catholic

apothecary in Holborn. The Commons, as soon as the Committee had

reported, sent some members to the house which he had indicated. That

house and all the neighbouring houses were searched. Delaval and Hayes

were not to be found, nor had any body in the vicinity ever seen such

men or heard of them. The House, therefore, on the last day of the

session, just before Black Rod knocked at the door, unanimously resolved

that William Fuller was a cheat and a false accuser; that he had

insulted the Government and the Parliament; that he had calumniated

honourable men, and that an address should be carried up to the throne,

requesting that he might be prosecuted for his villany. [199] He was

consequently tried, convicted, and sentenced to fine, imprisonment and

the pillory. The exposure, more terrible than death to a mind not lost

to all sense of shame, he underwent with a hardihood worthy of his

two favourite models, Dangerfield and Oates. He had the impudence to

persist, year after year, in affirming that he had fallen a victim to

the machinations of the late King, who had spent six thousand pounds

in order to ruin him. Delaval and Hayes--so this fable ran--had been

instructed by James in person. They had, in obedience to his orders,

induced Fuller to pledge his word for their appearance, and had then

absented themselves, and left him exposed to the resentment of the House

of Commons. [200] The story had the reception which it deserved, and

Fuller sank into an obscurity from which he twice or thrice, at long

intervals, again emerged for a moment into infamy.

On the twenty-fourth of February 1692, about an hour after the Commons

had voted Fuller an impostor, they were summoned to the chamber of the

Lords. The King thanked the Houses for their loyalty and liberality,

informed them that he must soon set out for the Continent, and commanded

them to adjourn themselves. He gave his assent on that day to many

bills, public and private; but when the title of one bill, which had

passed the Lower House without a single division and the Upper House

without a single protest, had been read by the Clerk of the Crown, the

Clerk of the Parliaments declared, according to the ancient form, that

the King and the Queen would consider of the matter. Those words had

very rarely been pronounced before the accession of William. They have

been pronounced only once since his death. But by him the power of

putting a Veto on laws which had been passed by the Estates of the Realm

was used on several important occasions. His detractors truly asserted

that he rejected a greater number of important bills than all the Kings

of the House of Stuart put together, and most absurdly inferred that the

sense of the Estates of the Realm was much less respected by him than by

his uncles and his grandfather. A judicious student of history will

have no difficulty in discovering why William repeatedly exercised a

prerogative to which his predecessors very seldom had recourse, and

which his successors have suffered to fall into utter desuetude.

His predecessors passed laws easily because they broke laws easily.

Charles the First gave his assent to the Petition of Right, and

immediately violated every clause of that great statute. Charles the

Second gave his assent to an Act which provided that a Parliament should

be held at least once in three years; but when he died the country had

been near four years without a Parliament. The laws which abolished

the Court of High Commission, the laws which instituted the Sacramental

Test, were passed without the smallest difficulty; but they did

not prevent James the Second from reestablishing the Court of High

Commission, and from filling the Privy Council, the public offices, the

courts of justice, and the municipal corporations with persons who had

never taken the Test. Nothing could be more natural than that a King

should not think it worth while to withhold his assent from a statute

with which he could dispense whenever he thought fit.

The situation of William was very different. He could not, like those

who had ruled before him, pass an Act in the spring and violate it

in the summer. He had, by assenting to the Bill of Rights, solemnly

renounced the dispensing power; and he was restrained, by prudence as

well as by conscience and honour, from breaking the compact under which

he held his crown. A law might be personally offensive to him; it might

appear to him to be pernicious to his people; but, as soon as he had

passed it, it was, in his eyes, a sacred thing. He had therefore a

motive, which preceding Kings had not, for pausing before he passed such

a law. They gave their word readily, because they had no scruple about

breaking it. He gave his word slowly, because he never failed to keep

it.

But his situation, though it differed widely from that of the princes of

the House of Stuart, was not precisely that of the princes of the House

of Brunswick. A prince of the House of Brunswick is guided, as to the

use of every royal prerogative, by the advice of a responsible ministry;

and this ministry must be taken from the party which predominates in the

two Houses, or, at least, in the Lower House. It is hardly possible to

conceive circumstances in which a Sovereign so situated can refuse

to assent to a bill which has been approved by both branches of the

legislature. Such a refusal would necessarily imply one of two things,

that the Sovereign acted in opposition to the advice of the ministry, or

that the ministry was at issue, on a question of vital importance, with

a majority both of the Commons and of the Lords. On either supposition

the country would be in a most critical state, in a state which, if

long continued, must end in a revolution. But in the earlier part of

the reign of William there was no ministry. The heads of the executive

departments had not been appointed exclusively from either party.

Some were zealous Whigs, others zealous Tories. The most enlightened

statesmen did not hold it to be unconstitutional that the King should

exercise his highest prerogatives on the most important occasions

without any other guidance than that of his own judgment. His refusal,

therefore, to assent to a bill which had passed both Houses indicated,

not, as a similar refusal would now indicate, that the whole machinery

of government was in a state of fearful disorder, but merely that there

was a difference of opinion between him and the two other branches

of the legislature as to the expediency of a particular law. Such a

difference of opinion might exist, and, as we shall hereafter see,

actually did exist, at a time when he was, not merely on friendly, but

on most affectionate terms with the Estates of the Realm.

The circumstances under which he used his Veto for the first time have

never yet been correctly stated. A well meant but unskilful attempt

had been made to complete a reform which the Bill of Rights had left

imperfect. That great law had deprived the Crown of the power of

arbitrarily removing the judges, but had not made them entirely

independent. They were remunerated partly by fees and partly by

salaries. Over the fees the King had no control; but the salaries he had

full power to reduce or to withhold. That William had ever abused this

power was not pretended; but it was undoubtedly a power which no prince

ought to possess; and this was the sense of both Houses. A bill was

therefore brought in by which a salary of a thousand a year was strictly

secured to each of the twelve judges. Thus far all was well. But

unfortunately the salaries were made a charge on the hereditary revenue.

No such proposition would now be entertained by the House of Commons,

without the royal consent previously signified by a Privy Councillor.

But this wholesome rule had not then been established; and William could

defend the proprietary rights of the Crown only by putting his negative

on the bill. At the time there was, as far as can now be ascertained, no

outcry. Even the Jacobite libellers were almost silent. It was not till

the provisions of the bill had been forgotten, and till nothing but its

title was remembered, that William was accused of having been influenced

by a wish to keep the judges in a state of dependence. [201]

The Houses broke up; and the King prepared to set out for the Continent.

Before his departure he made some changes in his household and in

several departments of the government; changes, however, which did not

indicate a very decided preference for either of the great political

parties. Rochester was sworn of the Council. It is probable that he

had earned this mark of royal favour by taking the Queen's side in the

unhappy dispute between her and her sister. Pembroke took charge of the

Privy Seal, and was succeeded at the Board of Admiralty by Charles Lord

Cornwallis, a moderate Tory; Lowther accepted a seat at the same board,

and was succeeded at the Treasury by Sir Edward Seymour. Many Tory

country gentlemen, who had looked on Seymour as their leader in the war

against placemen and Dutchmen, were moved to indignation by learning

that he had become a courtier. They remembered that he had voted for

a Regency, that he had taken the oaths with no good grace, that he had

spoken with little respect of the Sovereign whom he was now ready to

serve for the sake of emoluments hardly worthy of the acceptance of a

man of his wealth and parliamentary interest. It was strange that the

haughtiest of human beings should be the meanest, that one who seethed

to reverence nothing on earth but himself should abase himself for the

sake of quarter day. About such reflections he troubled himself very

little. He found, however, that there was one disagreeable circumstance

connected with his new office. At the Board of Treasury he must sit

below the Chancellor of the Exchequer. The First Lord, Godolphin, was a

peer of the realm; and his right to precedence, according to the rules

of the heralds, could not be questioned. But every body knew who was the

first of English commoners. What was Richard Hampden that he should

take the place of a Seymour, of the head of the Seymours? With much

difficulty, the dispute was compromised. Many concessions were made

to Sir Edward's punctilious pride. He was sworn of the Council. He

was appointed one of the Cabinet. The King took him by the hand and

presented him to the Queen. "I bring you," said William, "a gentleman

who will in my absence be a valuable friend." In this way Sir Edward was

so much soothed and flattered that he ceased to insist on his right

to thrust himself between the First Lord and the Chancellor of the

Exchequer.

In the same Commission of Treasury in which the name of Seymour

appeared, appeared also the name of a much younger politician, who had

during the late session raised himself to high distinction in the House

of Commons, Charles Montague. This appointment gave great satisfaction

to the Whigs, in whose esteem Montague now stood higher than their

veteran chiefs Sacheverell and Littleton, and was indeed second to

Somers alone.

Sidney delivered up the seals which he had held during more than a year,

and was appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. Some months elapsed before

the place which he had quitted was filled up; and during this interval

the whole business which had ordinarily been divided between two

Secretaries of State was transacted by Nottingham. [202]

While these arrangements were in progress, events had taken place in a

distant part of the island which were not, till after the lapse of

many months, known in the best informed circles of London, but which

gradually obtained a fearful notoriety, and which, after the lapse of

more than a hundred and sixty years, are never mentioned without horror.

Soon after the Estates of Scotland had separated in the autumn of 1690,

a change was made in the administration of that kingdom. William was

not satisfied with the way in which he had been represented in the

Parliament House. He thought that the rabbled curates had been hardly

treated. He had very reluctantly suffered the law which abolished

patronage to be touched with his sceptre. But what especially displeased

him was that the Acts which established a new ecclesiastical polity had

not been accompanied by an Act granting liberty of conscience to those

who were attached to the old ecclesiastical polity. He had directed his

Commissioner Melville to obtain for the Episcopalians of Scotland an

indulgence similar to that which Dissenters enjoyed in England. [203]

But the Presbyterian preachers were loud and vehement against lenity

to Amalekites. Melville, with useful talents, and perhaps with fair

intentions, had neither large views nor an intrepid spirit. He shrank

from uttering a word so hateful to the theological demagogues of his

country as Toleration. By obsequiously humouring their prejudices he

quelled the clamour which was rising at Edinburgh; but the effect of his

timid caution was that a far more formidable clamour soon rose in

the south of the island against the bigotry of the schismatics who

domineered in the north, and against the pusillanimity of the government

which had not dared to withstand that bigotry. On this subject the High

Churchman and the Low Churchman were of one mind, or rather the Low

Churchman was the more angry of the two. A man like South, who had

during many years been predicting that, if ever the Puritans ceased to

be oppressed, they would become oppressors, was at heart not ill pleased

to see his prophecy fulfilled. But in a man like Burnet, the great

object of whose life had been to mitigate the animosity which the

ministers of the Anglican Church felt towards the Presbyterians, the

intolerant conduct of the Presbyterians could awaken no feeling but

indignation, shame and grief. There was, therefore, at the English Court

nobody to speak a good word for Melville. It was impossible that in

such circumstances he should remain at the head of the Scottish

administration. He was, however, gently let down from his high position.

He continued during more than a year to be Secretary of State; but

another Secretary was appointed, who was to reside near the King, and to

have the chief direction of affairs. The new Prime Minister for Scotland

was the able, eloquent and accomplished Sir John Dalrymple. His father,

the Lord President of the Court of Session, had lately been raised to

the peerage by the title of Viscount Stair; and Sir John Dalrymple was

consequently, according to the ancient usage of Scotland, designated

as the Master of Stair. In a few months Melville resigned his

secretaryship, and accepted an office of some dignity and emolument, but

of no political importance. [204]

The Lowlands of Scotland were, during the year which followed the

parliamentary session of 1690, as quiet as they had ever been within the

memory of man; but the state of the Highlands caused much anxiety to the

government. The civil war in that wild region, after it had ceased to

flame, had continued during some time to smoulder. At length, early in

the year 1691, the rebel chiefs informed the Court of Saint Germains

that, pressed as they were on every side, they could hold out no longer

without succour from France. James had sent them a small quantity of

meal, brandy and tobacco, and had frankly told them that he could do

nothing more. Money was so scarce among them that six hundred pounds

sterling would have been a most acceptable addition to their funds,

but even such a sum he was unable to spare. He could scarcely, in such

circumstances, expect them to defend his cause against a government

which had a regular army and a large revenue. He therefore informed them

that he should not take it ill of them if they made their peace with

the new dynasty, provided always that they were prepared to rise in

insurrection as soon as he should call on them to do so. [205]

Meanwhile it had been determined at Kensington, in spite of the

opposition of the Master of Stair, to try the plan which Tarbet had

recommended two years before, and which, if it had been tried when

he recommended it, would probably have prevented much bloodshed and

confusion. It was resolved that twelve or fifteen thousand pounds should

be laid out in quieting the Highlands. This was a mass of treasure which

to an inhabitant of Appin or Lochaber seemed almost fabulous, and which

indeed bore a greater proportion to the income of Keppoch or Glengarry

than fifteen hundred thousand pounds bore to the income of Lord Bedford

or Lord Devonshire. The sum was ample; but the King was not fortunate in

the choice of an agent. [206]

John Earl of Breadalbane, the head of a younger branch of the great

House of Campbell, ranked high among the petty princes of the mountains.

He could bring seventeen hundred claymores into the field; and, ten

years before the Revolution, he had actually marched into the Lowlands

with this great force for the purpose of supporting the prelatical

tyranny. [207] In those days he had affected zeal for monarchy and

episcopacy; but in truth he cared for no government and no religion.

He seems to have united two different sets of vices, the growth of

two different regions, and of two different stages in the progress of

society. In his castle among the hills he had learned the barbarian

pride and ferocity of a Highland chief. In the Council Chamber at

Edinburgh he had contracted the deep taint of treachery and corruption.

After the Revolution he had, like too many of his fellow nobles, joined

and betrayed every party in turn, had sworn fealty to William and Mary,

and had plotted against them. To trace all the turns and doublings of

his course, during the year 1689 and the earlier part of 1690, would

be wearisome. [208] That course became somewhat less tortuous when the

battle of the Boyne had cowed the spirit of the Jacobites. It now seemed

probable that the Earl would be a loyal subject of their Majesties, till

some great disaster should befall them. Nobody who knew him could trust

him; but few Scottish statesmen could then be trusted; and yet Scottish

statesmen must be employed. His position and connections marked him out

as a man who might, if he would, do much towards the work of quieting

the Highlands; and his interest seemed to be a guarantee for his zeal.

He had, as he declared with every appearance of truth, strong personal

reasons for wishing to see tranquillity restored. His domains were so

situated that, while the civil war lasted, his vassals could not tend

their herds or sow their oats in peace. His lands were daily ravaged;

his cattle were daily driven away; one of his houses had been burned

down. It was probable, therefore, that he would do his best to put an

end to hostilities. [209]

He was accordingly commissioned to treat with the Jacobite chiefs, and

was entrusted with the money which was to be distributed among them. He

invited them to a conference at his residence in Glenorchy. They came;

but the treaty went on very slowly. Every head of a tribe asked for a

larger share of the English gold than was to be obtained. Breadalbane

was suspected of intending to cheat both the clans and the King. The

dispute between the rebels and the government was complicated with

another dispute still more embarrassing. The Camerons and Macdonalds

were really at war, not with William, but with Mac Callum More; and

no arrangement to which Mac Callum More was not a party could really

produce tranquillity. A grave question therefore arose, whether

the money entrusted to Breadalbane should be paid directly to the

discontented chiefs, or should be employed to satisfy the claims

which Argyle had upon them. The shrewdness of Lochiel and the arrogant

pretensions of Glengarry contributed to protract the discussions. But

no Celtic potentate was so impracticable as Macdonald of Glencoe, known

among the mountains by the hereditary appellation of Mac Ian. [210]

Mac Ian dwelt in the mouth of a ravine situated not far from the

southern shore of Lochleven, an arm of the sea which deeply indents the

western coast of Scotland, and separates Argyleshire from Invernesshire.

Near his house were two or three small hamlets inhabited by his tribe.

The whole population which he governed was not supposed to exceed two

hundred souls. In the neighbourhood of the little cluster of villages

was some copsewood and some pasture land; but a little further up the

defile no sign of population or of fruitfulness was to be seen. In the

Gaelic tongue Glencoe signifies the Glen of Weeping; and in truth that

pass is the most dreary and melancholy of all the Scottish passes,

the very Valley of the Shadow of Death. Mists and storms brood over it

through the greater part of the finest summer; and even on those rare

days when the sun is bright, and when there is no cloud in the sky, the

impression made by the landscape is sad and awful. The path lies along

a stream which issues from the most sullen and gloomy of mountain pools.

Huge precipices of naked stone frown on both sides. Even in July the

streaks of snow may often be discerned in the rifts near the summits.

All down the sides of the crags heaps of ruin mark the headlong paths of

the torrents. Mile after mile the traveller looks in vain for the smoke

of one hut, for one human form wrapped in plaid, and listens in vain for

the bark of a shepherd's dog or the bleat of a lamb. Mile after mile the

only sound that indicates life is the faint cry of a bird of prey from

some stormbeaten pinnacle of rock. The progress of civilisation, which

has turned so many wastes into fields yellow with harvests or gay with

apple blossoms, has only made Glencoe more desolate. All the science

and industry of a peaceful age can extract nothing valuable from that

wilderness; but, in an age of violence and rapine, the wilderness itself

was valued on account of the shelter which it afforded to the plunderer

and his plunder. Nothing could be more natural than that the clan to

which this rugged desert belonged should have been noted for predatory

habits. For, among the Highlanders generally, to rob was thought at

least as honourable an employment as to cultivate the soil; and, of

all the Highlanders, The Macdonalds of Glencoe had the least productive

soil, and the most convenient and secure den of robbers. Successive

governments had tried to punish this wild race; but no large force

had ever been employed for that purpose; and a small force was easily

resisted or eluded by men familiar with every recess and every outlet of

the natural fortress in which they had been born and bred. The people of

Glencoe would probably have been less troublesome neighbours if they

had lived among their own kindred. But they were an outpost of the

Clan Donald, separated from every other branch of their own family, and

almost surrounded by the domains of the hostile race of Diarmid. [211]

They were impelled by hereditary enmity, as well as by want, to live

at the expense of the tribe of Campbell. Breadalbane's property had

suffered greatly from their depredations; and he was not of a temper to

forgive such injuries. When, therefore, the Chief of Glencoe made his

appearance at the congress in Glenorchy, he was ungraciously received.

The Earl, who ordinarily bore himself with the solemn dignity of a

Castilian grandee, forgot, in his resentment, his wonted gravity, forgot

his public character, forgot the laws of hospitality, and, with angry

reproaches and menaces, demanded reparation for the herds which had

been driven from his lands by Mac Ian's followers. Mac Ian was seriously

apprehensive of some personal outrage, and was glad to get safe back to

his own glen. [212] His pride had been wounded; and the promptings of

interest concurred with those of pride. As the head of a people who

lived by pillage, he had strong reasons for wishing that the country

might continue to be in a perturbed state. He had little chance of

receiving one guinea of the money which was to be distributed among

the malecontents. For his share of that money would scarcely meet

Breadalbane's demands for compensation; and there could be little

doubt that, whoever might be unpaid, Breadalbane would take care to

pay himself. Mac Ian therefore did his best to dissuade his allies from

accepting terms from which he could himself expect no benefit; and his

influence was not small. His own vassals, indeed, were few in number;

but he came of the best blood of the Highlands; he had kept up a close

connection with his more powerful kinsmen; nor did they like him

the less because he was a robber; for he never robbed them; and that

robbery, merely as robbery, was a wicked and disgraceful act, had never

entered into the mind of any Celtic chief. Mac Ian was therefore held in

high esteem by the confederates. His age was venerable; his aspect was

majestic; and he possessed in large measure those intellectual qualities

which, in rude societies, give men an ascendency over their fellows.

Breadalbane found himself, at every step of the negotiation, thwarted

by the arts of his old enemy, and abhorred the name of Glencoe more and

more every day. [213]

But the government did not trust solely to Breadalbane's diplomatic

skill. The authorities at Edinburgh put forth a proclamation exhorting

the clans to submit to King William and Queen Mary, and offering pardon

to every rebel who, on or before the thirty-first of December 1691,

should swear to live peaceably under the government of their Majesties.

It was announced that those who should hold out after that day would be

treated as enemies and traitors. [214] Warlike preparations were made,

which showed that the threat was meant in earnest. The Highlanders were

alarmed, and, though the pecuniary terms had not been satisfactorily

settled, thought it prudent to give the pledge which was demanded of

them. No chief, indeed, was willing to set the example of submission.

Glengarry blustered, and pretended to fortify his house. [215] "I will

not," said Lochiel, "break the ice. That is a point of honour with me.

But my tacksmen and people may use their freedom." [216] His tacksmen

and people understood him, and repaired by hundreds to the Sheriff to

take the oaths. The Macdonalds of Sleat, Clanronald, Keppoch, and

even Glengarry, imitated the Camerons; and the chiefs, after trying to

outstay each other as long as they durst, imitated their vassals.

The thirty-first of December arrived; and still the Macdonalds of

Glencoe had not come in. The punctilious pride of Mac Ian was doubtless

gratified by the thought that he had continued to defy the government

after the boastful Glengarry, the ferocious Keppoch, the magnanimous

Lochiel had yielded: but he bought his gratification dear.

At length, on the thirty-first of December, he repaired to Fort William,

accompanied by his principal vassals, and offered to take the oaths. To

his dismay he found that there was in the fort no person competent to

administer them. Colonel Hill, the Governor, was not a magistrate;

nor was there any magistrate nearer than Inverary. Mac Ian, now fully

sensible of the folly of which he had been guilty in postponing to the

very last moment an act on which his life and his estate depended, set

off for Inverary in great distress. He carried with him a letter from

Hill to the Sheriff of Argyleshire, Sir Colin Campbell of Ardkinglass, a

respectable gentleman, who, in the late reign, had suffered severely for

his Whig principles. In this letter the Colonel expressed a goodnatured

hope that, even out of season, a lost sheep, and so fine a lost sheep,

would be gladly received. Mac Ian made all the haste in his power, and

did not stop even at his own house, though it lay nigh to the road. But

at that time a journey through Argyleshire in the depth of winter was

necessarily slow. The old man's progress up steep mountains and along

boggy valleys was obstructed by snow storms; and it was not till

the sixth of January that he presented himself before the Sheriff at

Inverary. The Sheriff hesitated. His power, he said, was limited by the

terms of the proclamation, and he did not see how he could swear a

rebel who had not submitted within the prescribed time. Mac Ian begged

earnestly and with tears that he might be sworn. His people, he said,

would follow his example. If any of them proved refractory, he would

himself send the recusant to prison, or ship him off for Islanders. His

entreaties and Hill's letter overcame Sir Colin's scruples. The oath

was administered; and a certificate was transmitted to the Council at

Edinburgh, setting forth the special circumstances which had induced the

Sheriff to do what he knew not to be strictly regular. [217]

The news that Mac Ian had not submitted within the prescribed time was

received with cruel joy by three powerful Scotchmen who were then at the

English Court. Breadalbane had gone up to London at Christmas in order

to give an account of his stewardship. There he met his kinsman Argyle.

Argyle was, in personal qualities, one of the most insignificant of

the long line of nobles who have borne that great name. He was the

descendant of eminent men, and the parent of eminent men. He was the

grandson of one of the ablest of Scottish politicians; the son of one of

the bravest and most truehearted of Scottish patriots; the father of one

Mac Callum More renowned as a warrior and as an orator, as the model of

every courtly grace, and as the judicious patron of arts and letters,

and of another Mac Callum More distinguished by talents for business and

command, and by skill in the exact sciences. Both of such an ancestry

and of such a progeny Argyle was unworthy. He had even been guilty

of the crime, common enough among Scottish politicians, but in him

singularly disgraceful, of tampering with the agents of James while

professing loyalty to William. Still Argyle had the importance

inseparable from high rank, vast domains, extensive feudal rights,

and almost boundless patriarchal authority. To him, as to his cousin

Breadalbane, the intelligence that the tribe of Glencoe was out of the

protection of the law was most gratifying; and the Master of Stair more

than sympathized with them both.

The feeling of Argyle and Breadalbane is perfectly intelligible.

They were the heads of a great clan; and they had an opportunity of

destroying a neighbouring clan with which they were at deadly feud.

Breadalbane had received peculiar provocation. His estate had been

repeatedly devastated; and he had just been thwarted in a negotiation

of high moment. Unhappily there was scarcely any excess of ferocity

for which a precedent could not be found in Celtic tradition. Among all

warlike barbarians revenge is esteemed the most sacred of duties and the

most exquisite of pleasures; and so it had long been esteemed among the

Highlanders. The history of the clans abounds with frightful tales,

some perhaps fabulous or exaggerated, some certainly true, of vindictive

massacres and assassinations. The Macdonalds of Glengarry, for example,

having been affronted by the people of Culloden, surrounded Culloden

church on a Sunday, shut the doors, and burned the whole congregation

alive. While the flames were raging, the hereditary musician of the

murderers mocked the shrieks of the perishing crowd with the notes of

his bagpipe. [218] A band of Macgregors, having cut off the head of an

enemy, laid it, the mouth filled with bread and cheese, on his sister's

table, and had the satisfaction of seeing her go mad with horror at the

sight. They then carried the ghastly trophy in triumph to their chief.

The whole clan met under the roof of an ancient church. Every one in

turn laid his hand on the dead man's scalp, and vowed to defend the

slayers. [219] The inhabitants of Eigg seized some Macleods, bound them

hand and foot, and turned them adrift in a boat to be swallowed up by

the waves or to perish of hunger. The Macleods retaliated by driving the

population of Eigg into a cavern, lighting a fire at the entrance, and

suffocating the whole race, men, women and children. [220] It is much

less strange that the two great Earls of the house of Campbell, animated

by the passions of Highland chieftains, should have planned a Highland

revenge, than that they should have found an accomplice, and something

more than an accomplice, in the Master of Stair.

The Master of Stair was one of the first men of his time, a jurist, a

statesman, a fine scholar, an eloquent orator. His polished manners and

lively conversation were the delight of aristocratical societies; and

none who met him in such societies would have thought it possible that

he could bear the chief part in any atrocious crime. His political

principles were lax, yet not more lax than those of most Scotch

politicians of that age. Cruelty had never been imputed to him. Those

who most disliked him did him the justice to own that, where his schemes

of policy were not concerned, he was a very goodnatured man. [221] There

is not the slightest reason to believe that he gained a single pound

Scots by the act which has covered his name with infamy. He had no

personal reason to wish the Glencoe men ill. There had been no feud

between them and his family. His property lay in a district where their

tartan was never seen. Yet he hated them with a hatred as fierce and

implacable as if they had laid waste his fields, burned his mansion,

murdered his child in the cradle.

To what cause are we to ascribe so strange an antipathy? This question

perplexed the Master's contemporaries; and any answer which may now be

offered ought to be offered with diffidence. [222] The most probable

conjecture is that he was actuated by an inordinate, an unscrupulous, a

remorseless zeal for what seemed to him to be the interest of the state.

This explanation may startle those who have not considered how large a

proportion of the blackest crimes recorded in history is to be ascribed

to ill regulated public spirit. We daily see men do for their party, for

their sect, for their country, for their favourite schemes of political

and social reform, what they would not do to enrich or to avenge

themselves. At a temptation directly addressed to our private cupidity

or to our private animosity, whatever virtue we have takes the alarm.

But, virtue itself may contribute to the fall of him who imagines that

it is in his power, by violating some general rule of morality, to

confer an important benefit on a church, on a commonwealth, on mankind.

He silences the remonstrances of conscience, and hardens his heart

against the most touching spectacles of misery, by repeating to himself

that his intentions are pure, that his objects are noble, that he is

doing a little evil for the sake of a great good. By degrees he comes

altogether to forget the turpitude of the means in the excellence of the

end, and at length perpetrates without one internal twinge acts which

would shock a buccaneer. There is no reason to believe that Dominic

would, for the best archbishopric in christendom, have incited

ferocious marauders to plunder and slaughter a peaceful and industrious

population, that Everard Digby would for a dukedom have blown a large

assembly of people into the air, or that Robespierre would have murdered

for hire one of the thousands whom he murdered from philanthropy.

The Master of Stair seems to have proposed to himself a truly great and

good end, the pacification and civilisation of the Highlands. He was, by

the acknowledgment of those who most hated him, a man of large views. He

justly thought it monstrous that a third part of Scotland should be in

a state scarcely less savage than New Guinea, that letters of fire

and sword should, through a third part of Scotland, be, century after

century, a species of legal process, and that no attempt should be made

to apply a radical remedy to such evils. The independence affected by a

crowd of petty sovereigns, the contumacious resistance which they were

in the habit of offering to the authority of the Crown and of the Court

of Session, their wars, their robberies, their fireraisings, their

practice of exacting black mail from people more peaceable and more

useful than themselves, naturally excited the disgust and indignation of

an enlightened and politic gownsman, who was, both by the constitution

of his mind and by the habits of his profession, a lover of law

and order. His object was no less than a complete dissolution and

reconstruction of society in the Highlands, such a dissolution and

reconstruction as, two generations later, followed the battle of

Culloden. In his view the clans, as they existed, were the plagues of

the kingdom; and of all the clans, the worst was that which inhabited

Glencoe. He had, it is said, been particularly struck by a frightful

instance of the lawlessness and ferocity of those marauders. One of

them, who had been concerned in some act of violence or rapine, had

given information against his companions. He had been bound to a tree

and murdered. The old chief had given the first stab; and scores

of dirks had then been plunged into the wretch's body. [223] By the

mountaineers such an act was probably regarded as a legitimate exercise

of patriarchal jurisdiction. To the Master of Stair it seemed that

people among whom such things were done and were approved ought to be

treated like a pack of wolves, snared by any device, and slaughtered

without mercy. He was well read in history, and doubtless knew how great

rulers had, in his own and other countries, dealt with such banditti.

He doubtless knew with what energy and what severity James the Fifth had

put down the mosstroopers of the border, how the chief of Henderland had

been hung over the gate of the castle in which he had prepared a banquet

for the King; how John Armstrong and his thirty-six horsemen, when they

came forth to welcome their sovereign, had scarcely been allowed time

to say a single prayer before they were all tied up and turned off. Nor

probably was the Secretary ignorant of the means by which Sixtus the

Fifth had cleared the ecclesiastical state of outlaws. The eulogists

of that great pontiff tell us that there was one formidable gang which

could not be dislodged from a stronghold among the Apennines. Beasts of

burden were therefore loaded with poisoned food and wine, and sent by a

road which ran close to the fastness. The robbers sallied forth, seized

the prey, feasted and died; and the pious old Pope exulted greatly when

he heard that the corpses of thirty ruffians, who had been the terror

of many peaceful villages, had been found lying among the mules and

packages. The plans of the Master of Stair were conceived in the spirit

of James and of Sixtus; and the rebellion of the mountaineers furnished

what seemed to be an excellent opportunity for carrying those plans

into effect. Mere rebellion, indeed, he could have easily pardoned. On

Jacobites, as Jacobites, he never showed any inclination to bear hard.

He hated the Highlanders, not as enemies of this or that dynasty, but as

enemies of law, of industry and of trade. In his private correspondence

he applied to them the short and terrible form of words in which the

implacable Roman pronounced the doom of Carthage. His project was no

less than this, that the whole hill country from sea to sea, and the

neighbouring islands, should be wasted with fire and sword, that the

Camerons, the Macleans, and all the branches of the race of Macdonald,

should be rooted out. He therefore looked with no friendly eye on

schemes of reconciliation, and, while others were hoping that a little

money would set everything right, hinted very intelligibly his opinion

that whatever money was to be laid out on the clans would be best laid

out in the form of bullets and bayonets. To the last moment he continued

to flatter himself that the rebels would be obstinate, and would thus

furnish him with a plea for accomplishing that great social revolution

on which his heart was set. [224] The letter is still extant in which

he directed the commander of the forces in Scotland how to act if the

Jacobite chiefs should not come in before the end of December. There is

something strangely terrible in the calmness and conciseness with which

the instructions are given. "Your troops will destroy entirely the

country of Lochaber, Lochiel's lands, Keppoch's, Glengarry's and

Glencoe's. Your power shall be large enough. I hope the soldiers will

not trouble the government with prisoners." [225]

This despatch had scarcely been sent off when news arrived in London

that the rebel chiefs, after holding out long, had at last appeared

before the Sheriffs and taken the oaths. Lochiel, the most eminent man

among them, had not only declared that he would live and die a true

subject to King William, but had announced his intention of visiting

England, in the hope of being permitted to kiss His Majesty's hand. In

London it was announced exultingly that every clan, without exception,

had submitted in time; and the announcement was generally thought most

satisfactory. [226] But the Master of Stair was bitterly disappointed.

The Highlands were then to continue to be what they had been, the shame

and curse of Scotland. A golden opportunity of subjecting them to the

law had been suffered to escape, and might never return. If only the

Macdonalds would have stood out, nay, if an example could but have been

made of the two worst Macdonalds, Keppoch and Glencoe, it would have

been something. But it seemed that even Keppoch and Glencoe, marauders

who in any well governed country would have been hanged thirty years

before, were safe. [227] While the Master was brooding over thoughts

like these, Argyle brought him some comfort. The report that Mac Ian had

taken the oaths within the prescribed time was erroneous. The Secretary

was consoled. One clan, then, was at the mercy of the government, and

that clan the most lawless of all. One great act of justice, nay of

charity, might be performed. One terrible and memorable example might be

given. [228]

Yet there was a difficulty. Mac Ian had taken the oaths. He had taken

them, indeed, too late to be entitled to plead the letter of the royal

promise; but the fact that he had taken them was one which evidently

ought not to have been concealed from those who were to decide his fate.

By a dark intrigue, of which the history is but imperfectly known, but

which was, in all probability, directed by the Master of Stair, the

evidence of Mac Ian's tardy submission was suppressed. The certificate

which the Sheriff of Argyleshire had transmitted to the Council at

Edinburgh, was never laid before the board, but was privately submitted

to some persons high in office, and particularly to Lord President

Stair, the father of the Secretary. These persons pronounced the

certificate irregular, and, indeed, absolutely null; and it was

cancelled.

Meanwhile the Master of Stair was forming, in concert with Breadalbane

and Argyle, a plan for the destruction of the people of Glencoe. It was

necessary to take the King's pleasure, not, indeed, as to the details

of what was to be done, but as to the question whether Mac Ian and his

people should or should not be treated as rebels out of the pale of

the ordinary law. The Master of Stair found no difficulty in the royal

closet. William had, in all probability, never heard the Glencoe men

mentioned except as banditti. He knew that they had not come in by the

prescribed day. That they had come in after that day he did not know. If

he paid any attention to the matter, he must have thought that so fair

an opportunity of putting an end to the devastations and depredations

from which a quiet and industrious population had suffered so much ought

not to be lost.

An order was laid before him for signature. He signed it, but, if Burnet

may be trusted, did not read it. Whoever has seen anything of public

business knows that princes and ministers daily sign, and indeed

must sign, documents which they have not read; and of all documents

a document relating to a small tribe of mountaineers, living in a

wilderness not set down in any map, was least likely to interest a

Sovereign whose mind was full of schemes on which the fate of Europe

might depend. [229] But, even on the supposition that he read the order

to which he affixed his name, there seems to be no reason for blaming

him. That order, directed to the Commander of the Forces in Scotland,

runs thus: "As for Mac Ian of Glencoe and that tribe, if they can be

well distinguished from the other Highlanders, it will be proper, for

the vindication of public justice, to extirpate that set of thieves."

These words naturally bear a sense perfectly innocent, and would, but

for the horrible event which followed, have been universally understood

in that sense. It is undoubtedly one of the first duties of every

government to extirpate gangs of thieves. This does not mean that every

thief ought to be treacherously assassinated in his sleep, or even that

every thief ought to be publicly executed after a fair trial, but

that every gang, as a gang, ought to be completely broken up, and that

whatever severity is indispensably necessary for that end ought to be

used. If William had read and weighed the words which were submitted

to him by his Secretary, he would probably have understood them to

mean that Glencoe was to be occupied by troops, that resistance, if

resistance were attempted, was to be put down with a strong hand, that

severe punishment was to be inflicted on those leading members of the

clan who could be proved to have been guilty of great crimes, that some

active young freebooters, who were more used to handle the broad sword

than the plough, and who did not seem likely to settle down into quiet

labourers, were to be sent to the army in the Low Countries, that others

were to be transported to the American plantations, and that those

Macdonalds who were suffered to remain in their native valley were to be

disarmed and required to give hostages for good behaviour. A plan very

nearly resembling this had, we know, actually been the subject of much

discussion in the political circles of Edinburgh. [230] There can be

little doubt that William would have deserved well of his people if he

had, in this manner, extirpated not only the tribe of Mac Ian, but every

Highland tribe whose calling was to steal cattle and burn houses.

The extirpation planned by the Master of Stair was of a different kind.

His design was to butcher the whole race of thieves, the whole damnable

race. Such was the language in which his hatred vented itself. He

studied the geography of the wild country which surrounded Glencoe, and

made his arrangements with infernal skill. If possible, the blow must

be quick, and crushing, and altogether unexpected. But if Mac Ian should

apprehend danger and should attempt to take refuge in the territories of

his neighbours, he must find every road barred. The pass of Rannoch must

be secured. The Laird of Weems, who was powerful in Strath Tay, must

be told that, if he harbours the outlaws, he does so at his peril.

Breadalbane promised to cut off the retreat of the fugitives on one

side, Mac Callum More on another. It was fortunate, the Secretary wrote,

that it was winter. This was the time to maul the wretches. The nights

were so long, the mountain tops so cold and stormy, that even the

hardiest men could not long bear exposure to the open air without a roof

or a spark of fire. That the women and the children could find shelter

in the desert was quite impossible. While he wrote thus, no thought that

he was committing a great wickedness crossed his mind. He was happy in

the approbation of his own conscience. Duty, justice, nay charity and

mercy, were the names under which he disguised his cruelty; nor is it by

any means improbable that the disguise imposed upon himself. [231]

Hill, who commanded the forces assembled at Fort William, was not

entrusted with the execution of the design. He seems to have been a

humane man; he was much distressed when he learned that the government

was determined on severity; and it was probably thought that his heart

might fail him in the most critical moment. He was directed to put a

strong detachment under the orders of his second in command, Lieutenant

Colonel Hamilton. To Hamilton a significant hint was conveyed that he

had now an excellent opportunity of establishing his character in the

estimation of those who were at the head of affairs. Of the troops

entrusted to him a large proportion were Campbells, and belonged to a

regiment lately raised by Argyle, and called by Argyle's name, It was

probably thought that, on such an occasion, humanity might prove

too strong for the mere habit of military obedience, and that little

reliance could be placed on hearts which had not been ulcerated by a

feud such as had long raged between the people of Mac Ian and the people

of Mac Callum More.

Had Hamilton marched openly against the Glencoe men and put them to the

edge of the sword, the act would probably not have wanted apologists,

and most certainly would not have wanted precedents. But the Master of

Stair had strongly recommended a different mode of proceeding. If the

least alarm were given, the nest of robbers would be found empty; and

to hunt them down in so wild a region would, even with all the help that

Breadalbane and Argyle could give, be a long and difficult business.

"Better," he wrote, "not meddle with them than meddle to no purpose.

When the thing is resolved, let it be secret and sudden." [232] He was

obeyed; and it was determined that the Glencoe men should perish, not

by military execution, but by the most dastardly and perfidious form of

assassination.

On the first of February a hundred and twenty soldiers of Argyle's

regiment, commanded by a captain named Campbell and a lieutenant named

Lindsay, marched to Glencoe. Captain Campbell was commonly called in

Scotland Glenlyon, from the pass in which his property lay. He had every

qualification for the service on which he was employed, an unblushing

forehead, a smooth lying tongue, and a heart of adamant. He was also one

of the few Campbells who were likely to be trusted and welcomed by the

Macdonalds; for his niece was married to Alexander, the second son of

Mac Ian.

The sight of the red coats approaching caused some anxiety among the

population of the valley. John, the eldest son of the Chief, came,

accompanied by twenty clansmen, to meet the strangers, and asked what

this visit meant. Lieutenant Lindsay answered that the soldiers came as

friends, and wanted nothing but quarters. They were kindly received, and

were lodged under the thatched roofs of the little community. Glenlyon

and several of his men were taken into the house of a tacksman who was

named, from the cluster of cabins over which he exercised authority,

Inverriggen. Lindsay was accommodated nearer to the abode of the old

chief. Auchintriater, one of the principal men of the clan, who governed

the small hamlet of Auchnaion, found room there for a party commanded by

a serjeant named Barbour. Provisions were liberally supplied. There was

no want of beef, which had probably fattened in distant pastures; nor

was any payment demanded; for in hospitality, as in thievery, the Gaelic

marauders rivalled the Bedouins. During twelve days the soldiers lived

familiarly with the people of the glen. Old Mac Ian, who had before felt

many misgivings as to the relation in which he stood to the government,

seems to have been pleased with the visit. The officers passed much of

their time with him and his family. The long evenings were cheerfully

spent by the peat fire with the help of some packs of cards which had

found their way to that remote corner of the world, and of some French

brandy which was probably part of James's farewell gift to his Highland

supporters. Glenlyon appeared to be warmly attached to his niece and her

husband Alexander. Every day he came to their house to take his morning

draught. Meanwhile he observed with minute attention all the avenues by

which, when the signal for the slaughter should be given, the Macdonalds

might attempt to escape to the hills; and he reported the result of his

observations to Hamilton.

Hamilton fixed five o'clock in the morning of the thirteenth of February

for the deed. He hoped that, before that time, he should reach Glencoe

with four hundred men, and should have stopped all the earths in which

the old fox and his two cubs,-so Mac Ian and his sons were nicknamed

by the murderers,--could take refuge. But, at five precisely, whether

Hamilton had arrived or not, Glenlyon was to fall on, and to slay every

Macdonald under seventy.

The night was rough. Hamilton and his troops made slow progress, and

were long after their time. While they were contending with the wind and

snow, Glenlyon was supping and playing at cards with those whom he

meant to butcher before daybreak. He and Lieutenant Lindsay had engaged

themselves to dine with the old Chief on the morrow.

Late in the evening a vague suspicion that some evil was intended

crossed the mind of the Chief's eldest son. The soldiers were evidently

in a restless state; and some of them uttered strange cries. Two men,

it is said, were overheard whispering. "I do not like this job;" one of

them muttered, "I should be glad to fight the Macdonalds. But to kill

men in their beds--" "We must do as we are bid," answered another voice.

"If there is any thing wrong, our officers must answer for it." John

Macdonald was so uneasy that, soon after midnight, he went to Glenlyon's

quarters. Glenlyon and his men were all up, and seemed to be getting

their arms ready for action. John, much alarmed, asked what these

preparations meant. Glenlyon was profuse of friendly assurances. "Some

of Glengarry's people have been harrying the country. We are getting

ready to march against them. You are quite safe. Do you think that, if

you were in any danger, I should not have given a hint to your brother

Sandy and his wife?" John's suspicions were quieted. He returned to his

house, and lay down to rest.