Scarcely however had he, by that inexpiable crime, made himself an

object of hatred and contempt to the whole nation, when he learned

that the civil and ecclesiastical polity of England would shortly be

vindicated by foreign and domestic arms. From that moment all his plans

seem to have undergone a change. Fear bowed down his whole soul, and was

so written in his face that all who saw him could read. [461] It could

hardly be doubted that, if there were a revolution, the evil counsellors

who surrounded the throne would be called to a strict account: and among

those counsellors he stood in the foremost rank. The loss of his places,

his salaries, his pensions, was the least that he had to dread. His

patrimonial mansion amid woods at Althorpe might be confiscated. He

might lie many years in a prison. He might end his days in a foreign

land a pensioner on the bounty of France. Even this was not the worst.

Visions of an innumerable crowd covering Tower Hill and shouting with

savage joy at the sight of the apostate, of a scaffold hung with black,

of Burnet reading the prayer for the departing, and of Ketch leaning on

the axe with which Russell and Monmouth had been mangled in so butcherly

a fashion, began to haunt the unhappy statesman. There was yet one way

in which he might escape, a way more terrible to a noble spirit than

a prison or a scaffold. He might still, by a well timed and useful

treason, earn his pardon from the foes of the government. It was in his

power to render to them at this conjuncture services beyond all price:

for he had the royal ear; he had great influence over the Jesuitical

cabal; and he was blindly trusted by the French Ambassador. A channel of

communication was not wanting, a channel worthy of the purpose which it

was to serve. The Countess of Sunderland was an artful woman, who, under

a show of devotion which imposed on some grave men, carried on, with

great activity, both amorous and political intrigues. [462] The handsome

and dissolute Henry Sidney had long been her favourite lover. Her

husband was well pleased to see her thus connected with the court of the

Hague. Whenever he wished to transmit a secret message to Holland, he

spoke to his wife: she wrote to Sidney; and Sidney communicated her

letter to William. One of her communications was intercepted and carried

to James. She vehemently protested that it was a forgery. Her husband,

with characteristic ingenuity, defended himself by representing that it

was quite impossible for any man to be so base as to do what he was in

the habit of doing. "Even if this is Lady Sunderland's hand," he said,

"that is no affair of mine. Your Majesty knows my domestic misfortunes.

The footing on which my wife and Mr. Sidney are is but too public. Who

can believe that I would make a confidant of the man who has injured my

honour in the tenderest point, of the man whom, of all others, I ought

most to hate?" [463] This defence was thought satisfactory; and secret

intelligence was still transmitted from the wittol to the adulteress,

from the adulteress to the gallant, and from the gallant to the enemies

of James.

It is highly probable that the first decisive assurances of Sunderland's

support were conveyed orally by Sidney to William about the middle of

August. It is certain that, from that time till the expedition was

ready to sail, a most significant correspondence was kept up between the

Countess and her lover. A few of her letters, partly written in cipher,

are still extant. They contain professions of good will and promises

of service mingled with earnest intreaties for protection. The writer

intimates that her husband will do all that his friends at the Hague

can wish: she supposes that it will be necessary for him to go

into temporary exile: but she hopes that his banishment will not be

perpetual, and that his patrimonial estate will be spared; and she

earnestly begs to be informed in what place it will be best for him to

take refuge till the first fury of the storm is over. [464]

The help of Sunderland was most welcome. For, as the time of striking

the great blow drew near, the anxiety of William became intense. From

common eyes his feelings were concealed by the icy tranquillity of his

demeanour: but his whole heart was open to Bentinck. The preparations

were not quite complete. The design was already suspected, and could

not be long concealed. The King of France or the city of Amsterdam might

still frustrate the whole plan. If Lewis were to send a great force into

Brabant, if the faction which hated the Stadtholder were to raise its

head, all was over. "My sufferings, my disquiet," the Prince wrote, "are

dreadful. I hardly see my way. Never in my life did I so much feel the

need of God's guidance." [465] Bentinck's wife was at this time dangerously

ill; and both the friends were painfully anxious about her. "God support

you," William wrote, "and enable you to bear your part in a work

on which, as far as human beings can see, the welfare of his Church

depends." [466]

It was indeed impossible that a design so vast as that which had been

formed against the King of England should remain during many weeks

a secret. No art could prevent intelligent men from perceiving that

William was making great military and naval preparations, and from

suspecting the object with which those preparations were made. Early in

August hints that some great event was approaching were whispered up

and down London. The weak and corrupt Albeville was then on a visit to

England, and was, or affected to be, certain that the Dutch government

entertained no design unfriendly to James. But, during the absence of

Albeville from his post, Avaux performed, with eminent skill, the

duties both of French and English Ambassador to the States, and supplied

Barillon as well as Lewis with ample intelligence. Avaux was satisfied

that a descent on England was in contemplation, and succeeded in

convincing his master of the truth. Every courier who arrived at

Westminster, either from the Hague or from Versailles, brought earnest

warnings. [467] But James was under a delusion which appears to have

been artfully encouraged by Sunderland. The Prince of Orange, said the

cunning minister, would never dare to engage in an expedition beyond

sea, leaving Holland defenceless. The States, remembering what they had

suffered and what they had been in danger of suffering during the great

agony of 1672, would never incur the risk of again seeing an invading

army encamped on the plain between Utrecht and Amsterdam. There was

doubtless much discontent in England: but the interval was immense

between discontent and rebellion. Men of rank and fortune were not

disposed lightly to hazard their honours, their estates, and their

lives. How many eminent Whigs had held high language when Monmouth was

in the Netherlands! And yet, when he set up his standard, what eminent

Whig had joined it? It was easy to understand why Lewis affected to give

credit to these idle rumours. He doubtless hoped to frighten the King

of England into taking the French side in the dispute about Cologne. By

such reasoning James was easily lulled into stupid security. [468] The

alarm and indignation of Lewis increased daily. The style of his letters

became sharp and vehement. [469] He could not understand, he wrote, this

lethargy on the eve of a terrible crisis. Was the King bewitched? Were

his ministers blind? Was it possible that nobody at Whitehall was aware

of what was passing in England and on the Continent? Such foolhardy

security could scarcely be the effect of mere improvidence. There must

be foul play. James was evidently in bad hands. Barillon was earnestly

cautioned not to repose implicit confidence in the English ministers:

but he was cautioned in vain. On him, as on James, Sunderland had cast a

spell which no exhortation could break.

Lewis bestirred himself vigorously. Bonrepaux, who was far superior

to Barillon in shrewdness, and who had always disliked and distrusted

Sunderland, was despatched to London with an offer of naval assistance.

Avaux was at the same time ordered to declare to the States General that

France had taken James under her protection. A large body of troops was

held in readiness to march towards the Dutch frontier. This bold attempt

to save the infatuated tyrant in his own despite was made with the full

concurrence of Skelton, who was now Envoy from England to the court of

Versailles.

Avaux, in conformity with his instructions, demanded an audience of the

States. It was readily granted. The assembly was unusually large. The

general belief was that some overture respecting commerce was about

to be made; and the President brought a written answer framed on that

supposition. As soon as Avaux began to disclose his errand, signs

of uneasiness were discernible. Those who were believed to enjoy the

confidence of the Prince of Orange cast down their eyes. The agitation

became great when the Envoy announced that his master was strictly bound

by the ties of friendship and alliance to His Britannic Majesty, and

that any attack on England would be considered as a declaration of war

against France. The President, completely taken by surprise, stammered

out a few evasive phrases; and the conference terminated. It was at

the same time notified to the States that Lewis had taken under his

protection Cardinal Furstemburg and the Chapter of Cologne. [470]

The Deputies were in great agitation. Some recommended caution and

delay. Others breathed nothing but war. Fagel spoke vehemently of

the French insolence, and implored his brethren not to be daunted by

threats. The proper answer to such a communication, he said, was to

levy more soldiers, and to equip more ships. A courier was instantly

despatched to recall William from Minden, where he was holding a

consultation of high moment with the Elector of Brandenburg.

But there was no cause for alarm. James was bent on ruining himself; and

every attempt to stop him only made him rush more eagerly to his doom.

When his throne was secure, when his people were submissive, when

the most obsequious of Parliaments was eager to anticipate all his

reasonable wishes, when foreign kingdoms and commonwealths paid emulous

court to him, when it depended only on himself whether he would be the

arbiter of Christendom, he had stooped to be the slave and the hireling

of France. And now when, by a series of crimes and follies, he had

succeeded in alienating his neighbours, his subjects, his soldiers, his

sailors, his children, and had left himself no refuge but the protection

of France, he was taken with a fit of pride, and determined to assert

his independence. That help which, when he did not want it, he had

accepted with ignominious tears, he now, when it was indispensable to

him, threw contemptuously away. Having been abject when he might, with

propriety, have been punctilious in maintaining his dignity, he became

ungratefully haughty at a moment when haughtiness must bring on him

at once derision and ruin. He resented the friendly intervention which

might have saved him. Was ever King so used? Was he a child, or an

idiot, that others must think for him? Was he a petty prince, a Cardinal

Furstemburg, who must fall if not upheld by a powerful patron? Was he

to be degraded in the estimation of all Europe, by an ostentatious

patronage which he had never asked? Skelton was recalled to answer for

his conduct, and, as soon as he arrived, was committed prisoner to the

Tower. Citters was well received at Whitehall, and had a long audience.

He could, with more truth than diplomatists on such occasions think at

all necessary, disclaim, on the part of the States General, any hostile

project. For the States General had, as yet, no official knowledge of

the design of William; nor was it by any means impossible that they

might, even now, refuse to sanction that design. James declared that he

gave not the least credit to the rumours of a Dutch invasion, and that

the conduct of the French government had surprised and annoyed him.

Middleton was directed to assure all the foreign ministers that there

existed no such alliance between France and England as the Court of

Versailles had, for its own ends, pretended. To the Nuncio the King said

that the designs of Lewis were palpable and should be frustrated.

This officious protection was at once an insult and a snare. "My good

brother," said James, "has excellent qualities; but flattery and vanity

have turned his head." [471] Adda, who was much more anxious about Cologne

than about England, encouraged this strange delusion. Albeville, who had

now returned to his post, was commanded to give friendly assurances to

the States General, and to add some high language, which might have been

becoming in the mouth of Elizabeth or Oliver. "My master," he said, "is

raised, alike by his power and by his spirit, above the position which

France affects to assign to him. There is some difference between a King

of England and an Archbishop of Cologne." The reception of Bonrepaux

at Whitehall was cold. The naval succours which he offered were not

absolutely declined; but he was forced to return without having settled

anything; and the Envoys, both of the United Provinces and of the House

of Austria, were informed that his mission had been disagreeable to

the King and had produced no result. After the Revolution Sunderland

boasted, and probably with truth, that he had induced his master to

reject the proffered assistance of France. [472]

The perverse folly of James naturally excited the indignation of his

powerful neighbour. Lewis complained that, in return for the greatest

service which he could render to the English government, that government

had given him the lie in the face of all Christendom. He justly remarked

that what Avaux had said, touching the alliance between France and Great

Britain, was true according to the spirit, though perhaps not according

to the letter. There was not indeed a treaty digested into articles,

signed, sealed, and ratified: but assurances equivalent in the

estimation of honourable men to such a treaty had, during some years,

been constantly exchanged between the two Courts. Lewis added that, high

as was his own place in Europe, he should never be so absurdly jealous

of his dignity as to see an insult in any act prompted by friendship.

But James was in a very different situation, and would soon learn the

value of that aid which he had so ungraciously rejected. [473]

Yet, notwithstanding the stupidity and ingratitude of James, it would

have been wise in Lewis to persist in the resolution which had been

notified to the States General. Avaux, whose sagacity and judgment made

him an antagonist worthy of William, was decidedly of this opinion.

The first object of the French government--so the skilful Envoy

reasoned--ought to be to prevent the intended descent on England. The

way to prevent that descent was to invade the Spanish Netherlands, and

to menace the Batavian frontier. The Prince of Orange, indeed, was so

bent on his darling enterprise that he would persist, even if the white

flag were flying on the walls of Brussels. He had actually said that, if

the Spaniards could only manage to keep Ostend, Mons, and Namur till the

next spring, he would then return from England with a force which would

soon recover all that had been lost. But, though such was the Prince's

opinion, it was not the opinion of the States. They would not readily

consent to send their Captain General and the flower of their army

across the German Ocean, while a formidable enemy threatened their own

territory. [474]

Lewis admitted the force of these reasonings: but he had already

resolved on a different line of action. Perhaps he had been provoked

by the discourtesy and wrongheadedness of the English government, and

indulged his temper at the expense of his interest. Perhaps he was

misled by the counsels of his minister of war, Louvois, whose influence

was great, and who regarded Avaux with no friendly feeling. It was

determined to strike in a quarter remote from Holland a great and

unexpected blow. Lewis suddenly withdrew his troops from Flanders, and

poured them into Germany. One army, placed under the nominal command of

the Dauphin, but really directed by the Duke of Duras and by Vauban, the

father of the science of fortification, invested Philipsburg. Another,

led by the Marquess of Boufflers, seized Worms, Mentz, and Treves. A

third, commanded by the Marquess of Humieres, entered Bonn. All down the

Rhine, from Carlsruhe to Cologne, the French arms were victorious. The

news of the fall of Philipsburg reached Versailles on All Saints day,

while the Court was listening to a sermon in the chapel. The King made

a sign to the preacher to stop, announced the good news to the

congregation, and, kneeling down, returned thanks to God for this great

success. The audience wept for joy. [475] The tidings were eagerly

welcomed by the sanguine and susceptible people of France. Poets

celebrated the triumphs of their magnificent patron. Orators extolled

from the pulpit the wisdom and magnanimity of the eldest son of the

Church. The Te Deum was sung with unwonted pomp; and the solemn notes of

the organ were mingled with the clash of the cymbal and the blast of the

trumpet. But there was little cause for rejoicing. The great statesman

who was at the head of the European coalition smiled inwardly at the

misdirected energy of his foe. Lewis had indeed, by his promptitude,

gained some advantages on the side of Germany: but those advantages

would avail little if England, inactive and inglorious under four

successive Kings, should suddenly resume her old rank in Europe. A few

weeks would suffice for the enterprise on which the fate of the world

depended; and for a few weeks the United Provinces were in security.

William now urged on his preparations with indefatigable activity and

with less secrecy than he had hitherto thought necessary. Assurances of

support came pouring in daily from foreign courts. Opposition had become

extinct at the Hague. It was in vain that Avaux, even at this last

moment, exerted all his skill to reanimate the faction which had

contended against three generations of the House of Orange. The chiefs

of that faction, indeed, still regarded the Stadtholder with no friendly

feeling. They had reason to fear that, if he prospered in England, he

would become absolute master of Holland. Nevertheless the errors of the

court of Versailles, and the dexterity with which he had availed himself

of those errors, made it impossible to continue the struggle against

him. He saw that the time had come for demanding the sanction of the

States. Amsterdam was the head quarters of the party hostile to his

line, his office, and his person; and even from Amsterdam he had at this

moment nothing to apprehend. Some of the chief functionaries of that

city had been repeatedly closeted with him, with Dykvelt, and with

Bentinck, and had been induced to promise that they would promote, or

at least that they would not oppose, the great design: some were

exasperated by the commercial edicts of Lewis: some were in deep

distress for kinsmen and friends who were harassed by the French

dragoons: some shrank from the responsibility of causing a schism which

might be fatal to the Batavian federation; and some were afraid of the

common people, who, stimulated by the exhortations of zealous preachers,

were ready to execute summary justice on any traitor to the Protestant

cause. The majority, therefore, of that town council which had long

been devoted to France pronounced in favour of William's undertaking.

Thenceforth all fear of opposition in any part of the United Provinces

was at an end; and the full sanction of the federation to his enterprise

was, in secret sittings, formally given. [476]

The Prince had already fixed upon a general well qualified to be second

in command. This was indeed no light matter. A random shot or the dagger

of an assassin might in a moment leave the expedition without a head. It

was necessary that a successor should be ready to fill the vacant place.

Yet it was impossible to make choice of any Englishman without giving

offence either to the Whigs or to the Tories; nor had any Englishman

then living shown that he possessed the military skill necessary for

the conduct of a campaign. On the other band it was not easy to assign

preeminence to a foreigner without wounding the national sensibility

of the haughty islanders. One man there was, and only one in Europe,

to whom no objection could be found, Frederic, Count of Schomberg, a

German, sprung from a noble house of the Palatinate. He was generally

esteemed the greatest living master of the art of war. His rectitude and

piety, tried by strong temptations and never found wanting, commanded

general respect and confidence. Though a Protestant, he had been,

during many years, in the service of Lewis, and had, in spite of the ill

offices of the Jesuits, extorted from his employer, by a series of great

actions, the staff of a Marshal of France. When persecution began to

rage, the brave veteran steadfastly refused to purchase the royal favour

by apostasy, resigned, without one murmur, all his honours and commands,

quitted his adopted country for ever, and took refuge at the court of

Berlin. He had passed his seventieth year; but both his mind and his

body were still in full vigour. He had been in England, and was much

loved and honoured there. He had indeed a recommendation of which very

few foreigners could then boast; for he spoke our language, not only

intelligibly, but with grace and purity. He was, with the consent of the

Elector of Brandenburg, and with the warm approbation of the chiefs of

all English parties, appointed William's lieutenant. [477]

And now the Hague was crowded with British adventurers of all the

various parties which the tyranny of James had united in a strange

coalition, old royalists who had shed their blood for the throne, old

agitators of the army of the Parliament, Tories who had been persecuted

in the days of the Exclusion Bill, Whigs who had fled to the Continent

for their share in the Rye House Plot.

Conspicuous in this great assemblage were Charles Gerard, Earl of

Macclesfield, an ancient Cavalier who had fought for Charles the First

and had shared the exile of Charles the Second; Archibald Campbell, who

was the eldest son of the unfortunate Argyle, but had inherited nothing

except an illustrious name and the inalienable affection of a numerous

clan; Charles Paulet, Earl of Wiltshire, heir apparent of the Marquisate

of Winchester; and Peregrine Osborne, Lord Dumblame, heir apparent of

the Earldom of Danby. Mordaunt, exulting in the prospect of adventures

irresistibly attractive to his fiery nature, was among the foremost

volunteers. Fletcher of Saltoun had learned, while guarding the frontier

of Christendom against the infidels, that there was once more a hope of

deliverance for his country, and had hastened to offer the help of his

sword. Sir Patrick Hume, who had, since his flight from Scotland, lived

humbly at Utrecht, now emerged from his obscurity: but, fortunately, his

eloquence could, on this occasion, do little mischief; for the Prince

of Orange was by no means disposed to be the lieutenant of a debating

society such as that which had ruined the enterprise of Argyle. The

subtle and restless Wildman, who had some time before found England an

unsafe residence, and had retired to Germany, now repaired from Germany

to the Prince's court. There too was Carstairs, a presbyterian minister

from Scotland, who in craft and courage had no superior among the

politicians of his age. He had been entrusted some years before by Fagel

with important secrets, and had resolutely kept them in spite of the

most horrible torments which could be inflicted by boot and thumbscrew.

His rare fortitude had earned for him as large a share of the Prince's

confidence and esteem as was granted to any man except Bentinck. [478]

Ferguson could not remain quiet when a revolution was preparing. He

secured for himself a passage in the fleet, and made himself busy among

his fellow emigrants: but he found himself generally distrusted and

despised. He had been a great man in the knot of ignorant and hotheaded

outlaws who had urged the feeble Monmouth to destruction: but there was

no place for a lowminded agitator, half maniac and half knave, among the

grave statesmen and generals who partook the cares of the resolute and

sagacious William.

The difference between the expedition of 1685 and the expedition of 1688

was sufficiently marked by the difference between the manifestoes which

the leaders of those expeditions published. For Monmouth Ferguson had

scribbled an absurd and brutal libel about the burning of London, the

strangling of Godfrey, the butchering of Essex, and the poisoning of

Charles. The Declaration of William was drawn up by the Grand Pensionary

Fagel, who was highly renowned as a publicist. Though weighty and

learned, it was, in its original form, much too prolix: but it was

abridged and translated into English by Burnet, who well understood the

art of popular composition. It began by a solemn preamble, setting forth

that, in every community, the strict observance of law was necessary

alike to the happiness of nations and to the security of governments.

The Prince of Orange had therefore seen with deep concern that the

fundamental laws of a kingdom, with which he was by blood and by

marriage closely connected, had, by the advice of evil counsellors, been

grossly and systematically violated. The power of dispensing with

Acts of Parliament had been strained to such a point that the whole

legislative authority had been transferred to the crown. Decisions at

variance with the spirit of the constitution had been obtained from

the tribunals by turning out Judge after Judge, till the bench had

been filled with men ready to obey implicitly the directions of the

government. Notwithstanding the King's repeated assurances that he would

maintain the established religion, persons notoriously hostile to that

religion had been promoted, not only to civil offices, but also to

ecclesiastical benefices. The government of the Church had, in defiance

of express statutes, been entrusted to a new court of High Commission;

and in that court one avowed Papist had a seat. Good subjects, for

refusing to violate their duty and their oaths, had been ejected from

their property, in contempt of the Great Charter of the liberties of

England. Meanwhile persons who could not legally set foot on the island

had been placed at the head of seminaries for the corruption of youth.

Lieutenants, Deputy Lieutenants, Justices of the Peace, had been

dismissed in multitudes for refusing to support a pernicious and

unconstitutional policy. The franchises of almost every borough in the

realm bad been invaded. The courts of justice were in such a state

that their decisions, even in civil matters, had ceased to inspire

confidence, and that their servility in criminal cases had brought on

the kingdom the stain of innocent blood. All these abuses, loathed by

the English nation, were to be defended, it seemed, by an army of

Irish Papists. Nor was this all. The most arbitrary princes had never

accounted it an offence in a subject modestly and peaceably to represent

his grievances and to ask for relief. But supplication was now treated

as a high misdemeanour in England. For no crime but that of offering

to the Sovereign a petition drawn up in the most respectful terms, the

fathers of the Church had been imprisoned and prosecuted; and every

Judge who gave his voice in their favour had instantly been turned out.

The calling of a free and lawful Parliament might indeed be an effectual

remedy for all these evils: but such a Parliament, unless the whole

spirit of the administration were changed, the nation could not hope to

see. It was evidently the intention of the court to bring together, by

means of regulated corporations and of Popish returning officers, a

body which would be a House of Commons in name alone. Lastly, there

were circumstances which raised a grave suspicion that the child who

was called Prince of Wales was not really born of the Queen. For these

reasons the Prince, mindful of his near relation to the royal house, and

grateful for the affection which the English people had ever shown to

his beloved wife and to himself, had resolved, in compliance with the

request of many Lords Spiritual and Temporal, and of many other persons

of all ranks, to go over at the head of a force sufficient to repel

violence. He abjured all thought of conquest. He protested that,

while his troops remained in the island, they should be kept under the

strictest restraints of discipline, and that, as soon as the nation had

been delivered from tyranny, they should be sent back. His single object

was to have a free and legal Parliament assembled: and to the decision

of such a Parliament he solemnly pledged himself to leave all questions

both public and private.

As soon as copies of this Declaration were banded about the Hague, signs

of dissension began to appear among the English. Wildman, indefatigable

in mischief, prevailed on some of his countrymen, and, among others,

on the headstrong and volatile Mordaunt, to declare that they would

not take up arms on such grounds. The paper had been drawn up merely to

please the Cavaliers and the parsons. The injuries of the Church and the

trial of the Bishops had been put too prominently forward; and nothing

had been said of the tyrannical manner in which the Tories, before their

rupture with the court, had treated the Whigs. Wildman then brought

forward a counterproject, prepared by himself, which, if it had been

adopted, would have disgusted all the Anglican clergy and four fifths of

the landed aristocracy. The leading Whigs strongly opposed him: Russell

in particular declared that, if such an insane course were taken, there

would be an end of the coalition from which alone the nation could

expect deliverance. The dispute was at length settled by the authority

of William, who, with his usual good sense, determined that the

manifesto should stand nearly as Fagel and Burnet had framed it. [479]

While these things were passing in Holland, James had at length become

sensible of his danger. Intelligence which could not be disregarded came

pouring in from various quarters. At length a despatch from Albeville

removed all doubts. It is said that, when the King had read it, the

blood left his cheeks, and he remained some time speechless. [480] He

might, indeed, well be appalled. The first easterly wind would bring

a hostile armament to the shores of his realm. All Europe, one single

power alone excepted, was impatiently waiting for the news of his

downfall. The help of that single power he had madly rejected. Nay,

he had requited with insult the friendly intervention which might have

saved him. The French armies which, but for his own folly, might

have been employed in overawing the States General, were besieging

Philipsburg or garrisoning Mentz. In a few days he might have to fight,

on English ground, for his crown and for the birthright of his infant

son. His means were indeed in appearance great. The navy was in a

much more efficient state than at the time of his accession: and the

improvement is partly to be attributed to his own exertions. He had

appointed no Lord High Admiral or Board of Admiralty, but had kept

the chief direction of maritime affairs in his own hands, and had been

strenuously assisted by Pepys. It is a proverb that the eye of a

master is more to be trusted than that of a deputy: and, in an age of

corruption and peculation, a department on which a sovereign, even of

very slender capacity, bestows close personal attention is likely to be

comparatively free from abuses. It would have been easy to find an abler

minister of marine than James; but it would not have been easy to find,

among the public men of that age, any minister of marine, except James,

who would not have embezzled stores, taken bribes from contractors, and

charged the crown with the cost of repairs which had never been made.

The King was, in truth, almost the only person who could be trusted not

to rob the King. There had therefore been, during the last three years,

much less waste and pilfering in the dockyards than formerly. Ships

had been built which were fit to go to sea. An excellent order had

been issued increasing the allowances of Captains, and at the same time

strictly forbidding them to carry merchandise from port to port

without the royal permission. The effect of these reforms was already

perceptible; and James found no difficulty in fitting out, at short

notice, a considerable fleet. Thirty ships of the line, all third rates

and fourth rates, were collected in the Thames, under the command of

Lord Dartmouth. The loyalty of Dartmouth was above suspicion; and he was

thought to have as much professional skill and knowledge as any of the

patrician sailors who, in that age, rose to the highest naval commands

without a regular naval training, and who were at once flag officers on

the sea and colonels of infantry on shore. [481]

The regular army was the largest that any King of England had ever

commanded, and was rapidly augmented. New companies were incorporated

with the existing regiments. Commissions for the raising of fresh

regiments were issued. Four thousand men were added to the English

establishment. Three thousand were sent for with all speed from Ireland.

As many more were ordered to march southward from Scotland. James

estimated the force with which he should be able to meet the invaders at

near forty thousand troops, exclusive of the militia. [482]

The navy and army were therefore far more than sufficient to repel a

Dutch invasion. But could the navy, could the army, be trusted? Would

not the trainbands flock by thousands to the standard of the deliverer?

The party which had, a few years before, drawn the sword for Monmouth

would undoubtedly be eager to welcome the Prince of Orange. And what had

become of the party which had, during seven and forty years, been the

bulwark of monarchy? Where were now those gallant gentlemen who had ever

been ready to shed their blood for the crown? Outraged and insulted,

driven from the bench of justice and deprived of all military command,

they saw the peril of their ungrateful Sovereign with undisguised

delight. Where were those priests and prelates who had, from ten

thousand pulpits, proclaimed the duty of obeying the anointed delegate

of God? Some of them had been imprisoned: some had been plundered: all

had been placed under the iron rule of the High Commission, and had been

in hourly fear lest some new freak of tyranny should deprive them of

their freeholds and leave them without a morsel of bread. That Churchmen

would even now so completely forget the doctrine which had been their

peculiar boast as to join in active resistance seemed incredible. But

could their oppressor expect to find among them the spirit which in the

preceding generation had triumphed over the armies of Essex and Waller,

and had yielded only after a desperate struggle to the genius and vigour

of Cromwell? The tyrant was overcome by fear. He ceased to repeat that

concession had always ruined princes, and sullenly owned that he must

stoop to court the Tories once more. [483] There is reason to believe

that Halifax was, at this time, invited to return to office, and that he

was not unwilling to do so. The part of mediator between the throne and

the nation was, of all parts, that for which he was best qualified, and

of which he was most ambitious. How the negotiation with him was broken

off is not known: but it is not improbable that the question of the

dispensing power was the insurmountable difficulty. His hostility to

that power had caused his disgrace three years before; and nothing that

had since happened had been of a nature to change his views. James,

on the other hand, was fully determined to make no concession on that

point. [484] As to other matters he was less pertinacious. He put forth

a proclamation in which he solemnly promised to protect the Church

of England and to maintain the Act of Uniformity. He declared himself

willing to make great sacrifices for the sake of concord. He would no

longer insist that Roman Catholics should be admitted into the House of

Commons; and he trusted that his people would justly appreciate such

a proof of his disposition to meet their wishes. Three days later

he notified his intention to replace all the magistrates and Deputy

Lieutenants who had been dismissed for refusing to support his

policy. On the day after the appearance of this notification Compton's

suspension was taken off. [485]

At the same time the King gave an audience to all the Bishops who were

then in London. They had requested admittance to his presence for the

purpose of tendering their counsel in this emergency. The Primate was

spokesman. He respectfully asked that the administration might be put

into the hands of persons duly qualified, that all acts done

under pretence of the dispensing power might be revoked, that the

Ecclesiastical Commission might be annulled, that the wrongs of

Magdalene College might be redressed, and that the old franchises of the

municipal corporations might be restored. He hinted very intelligibly

that there was one most desirable event which would completely secure

the throne and quiet the distracted realm. If His Majesty would

reconsider the points in dispute between the Churches of Rome and

England, perhaps, by the divine blessing on the arguments which the

Bishops wished to lay before him, he might be convinced that it was his

duty to return to the religion of his father and of his grandfather.

Thus far, Sancroft said, he had spoken the sense of his brethren. There

remained a subject on which he had not taken counsel with them, but to

which he thought it his duty to advert. He was indeed the only man of

his profession who could advert to that subject without being suspected

of an interested motive. The metropolitan see of York had been three

years vacant. The Archbishop implored the King to fill it speedily with

a pious and learned divine, and added that such a divine might without

difficulty be found among those who then stood in the royal presence.

The King commanded himself sufficiently to return thanks for this

unpalatable counsel, and promised to consider what bad been said. [486]

Of the dispensing power he would not yield one tittle. No unqualified

person was removed from any civil or military office. But some of

Sancroft's suggestions were adopted. Within forty-eight hours the Court

of High Commission was abolished. [487] It was determined that the

charter of the City of London, which had been forfeited six years

before, should be restored; and the Chancellor was sent in state to

carry back the venerable parchment to Guildhall. [488] A week later the

public was informed that the Bishop of Winchester, who was by virtue of

his office Visitor of Magdalene College, had it in charge from the King

to correct whatever was amiss in that society. It was not without a long

struggle and a bitter pang that James stooped to this last humiliation.

Indeed he did not yield till the Vicar Apostolic Leyburn, who seems to

have behaved on all occasions like a wise and honest man, declared that

in his judgment the ejected President and Fellows had been wronged, and

that, on religious as well as on political grounds, restitution ought to

be made to them. [489] In a few days appeared a proclamation restoring

the forfeited franchises of all the municipal corporations. [490]

James flattered himself that concessions so great made in the short

space of a month would bring back to him the hearts of his people. Nor

can it be doubted that such concessions, made before there was reason to

expect an invasion from Holland, would have done much to conciliate the

Tories. But gratitude is not to be expected by rulers who give to fear

what they have refused to justice. During three years the King had been

proof to all argument and to all entreaty. Every minister who had

dared to raise his voice in favour of the civil and ecclesiastical

constitution of the realm had been disgraced. A Parliament eminently

loyal had ventured to protest gently and respectfully against a

violation of the fundamental laws of England, and had been sternly

reprimanded, prorogued, and dissolved. Judge after Judge had been

stripped of the ermine for declining to give decisions opposed to the

whole common and statute law. The most respectable Cavaliers had been

excluded from all share in the government of their counties for refusing

to betray the public liberties. Scores of clergymen had been deprived of

their livelihood for observing their oaths. Prelates, to whose steadfast

fidelity the King owed the crown which he wore, had on their knees

besought him not to command them to violate the laws of God and of the

land. Their modest petition had been treated as a seditious libel.

They had been browbeaten, threatened, imprisoned, prosecuted, and had

narrowly escaped utter ruin. Then at length the nation, finding that

right was borne down by might, and that even supplication was regarded

as a crime, began to think of trying the chances of war. The oppressor

learned that an armed deliverer was at hand and would be eagerly

welcomed by Whigs and Tories, Dissenters and Churchmen. All was

immediately changed. That government which had requited constant and

zealous service with spoliation and persecution, that government which

to weighty reasons and pathetic intreaties had replied only by injuries,

and insults, became in a moment strangely gracious. Every Gazette now

announced the removal of some grievance. It was then evident that on the

equity, the humanity, the plighted word of the King, no reliance could

be placed, and that he would govern well only so long as he was under

the strong dread of resistance. His subjects were therefore by no means

disposed to restore to him a confidence which he had justly forfeited,

or to relax the pressure which had wrung from him the only good acts

of his whole reign. The general impatience for the arrival of the Dutch

became every day stronger. The gales which at this time blew obstinately

from the west, and which at once prevented the Prince's armament from

sailing and brought fresh Irish regiments from Dublin to Chester, were

bitterly cursed and reviled by the common people. The weather, it was

said, was Popish. Crowds stood in Cheapside gazing intently at the

weathercock on the graceful steeple of Bow Church, and praying for a

Protestant wind. [491]

The general feeling was strengthened by an event which, though merely

accidental, was not unnaturally ascribed to the perfidy of the King. The

Bishop of Winchester announced that, in obedience to the royal commands,

he designed to restore the ejected members of Magdalene College.

He fixed the twenty-first of October for this ceremony, and on the

twentieth went down to Oxford. The whole University was in expectation.

The expelled Fellows had arrived from all parts of the kingdom, eager

to take possession of their beloved home. Three hundred gentlemen on

horseback escorted the Visitor to his lodgings. As he passed, the bells

rang, and the High Street was crowded with shouting spectators. He

retired to rest. The next morning a joyous crowd assembled at the gates

of Magdalene: but the Bishop did not make his appearance; and soon it

was known that he had been roused from his bed by a royal messenger,

and had been directed to repair immediately to Whitehall. This strange

disappointment caused much wonder and anxiety: but in a few hours came

news which, to minds disposed, not without reason, to think the worst,

seemed completely to explain the King's change of purpose. The Dutch

armament had put out to sea, and had been driven back by a storm. The

disaster was exaggerated by rumour. Many ships, it was said, had been

lost. Thousands of horses had perished. All thought of a design on

England must be relinquished, at least for the present year. Here was

a lesson for the nation. While James expected immediate invasion and

rebellion, he had given orders that reparation should be made to those

whom he had unlawfully despoiled. As soon as he found himself safe,

those orders had been revoked. This imputation, though at that time

generally believed, and though, since that time, repeated by writers who

ought to have been well informed, was without foundation. It is

certain that the mishap of the Dutch fleet could not, by any mode of

communication, have been known at Westminster till some hours after the

Bishop of Winchester had received the summons which called him away

from Oxford. The King, however, had little right to complain of the

suspicions of his people. If they sometimes, without severely examining

evidence, ascribed to his dishonest policy what was really the effect of

accident or inadvertence, the fault was his own. That men who are in the

habit of breaking faith should be distrusted when they mean to keep it

is part of their just and natural punishment. [492]

It is remarkable that James, on this occasion, incurred one unmerited

imputation solely in consequence of his eagerness to clear himself from

another imputation equally unmerited. The Bishop of Winchester had been

hastily summoned from Oxford to attend an extraordinary meeting of

the Privy Council, or rather an assembly of Notables, which had been

convoked at Whitehall. With the Privy Councillors were joined, in this

solemn sitting, all the Peers Spiritual and Temporal who chanced to be

in or near the capital, the Judges, the crown lawyers, the Lord Mayor

and the Aldermen of the City of London. A hint had been given to Petre

that he would do well to absent himself. In truth few of the Peers would

have chosen to sit with him. Near the head of the board a chair of state

was placed for the Queen Dowager. The Princess Anne had been requested

to attend, but had excused herself on the plea of delicate health.

James informed this great assembly that he thought it necessary to

produce proofs of the birth of his son. The arts of bad men had poisoned

the public mind to such an extent that very many believed the Prince

of Wales to be a supposititious child. But Providence had graciously

ordered things so that scarcely any prince had ever come into the world

in the presence of so many witnesses. Those witnesses then appeared and

gave their evidence. After all the depositions had been taken, James

with great solemnity declared that the imputation thrown on him was

utterly false, and that he would rather die a thousand deaths than wrong

any of his children.

All who were present appeared to be satisfied. The evidence was

instantly published, and was allowed by judicious and impartial persons

to be decisive. [493] But the judicious are always a minority; and

scarcely anybody was then impartial. The whole nation was convinced that

all sincere Papists thought it a duty to perjure themselves whenever

they could, by perjury, serve the interests of their Church. Men who,

having been bred Protestants, had for the sake of lucre pretended to be

converted to Popery, were, if possible, less trustworthy than sincere

Papists. The depositions of all who belonged to these two classes were

therefore regarded as mere nullities. Thus the weight of the testimony

on which James had relied was greatly reduced. What remained was

malignantly scrutinised. To every one of the few Protestant witnesses

who had said anything material some exception was taken. One was

notoriously a greedy sycophant. Another had not indeed yet apostatized,

but was nearly related to an apostate. The people asked, as they had

asked from the first, why, if all was right, the King, knowing, as he

knew, that many doubted the reality of his wife's pregnancy, had not

taken care that the birth should be more satisfactorily proved. Was

there nothing suspicious in the false reckoning, in the sudden change

of abode, in the absence of the Princess Anne and of the Archbishop of

Canterbury? Why was no prelate of the Established Church in attendance?

Why was not the Dutch Ambassador summoned? Why, above all, were not the

Hydes, loyal servants of the crown, faithful sons of the Church, and

natural guardians of the interest of their nieces, suffered to mingle

with the crowd of Papists which was assembled in and near the royal

bedchamber? Why, in short, was there, in the long list of assistants,

not a single name which commanded public confidence and respect? The

true answer to these questions was that the King's understanding was

weak, that his temper was despotic, and that he had willingly seized an

opportunity of manifesting his contempt for the opinion of his subjects.

But the multitude, not contented with this explanation, attributed to

deep laid villany what was really the effect of folly and perverseness.

Nor was this opinion confined to the multitude. The Lady Anne, at her

toilette, on the morning after the Council, spoke of the investigation

with such scorn as emboldened the very tirewomen who were dressing her

to put in their jests. Some of the Lords who had heard the examination,

and had appeared to be satisfied, were really unconvinced. Lloyd,

Bishop of St. Asaph, whose piety and learning commanded general respect,

continued to the end of his life to believe that a fraud had been

practised.

The depositions taken before the Council had not been many hours in the

hands of the public when it was noised abroad that Sunderland had been

dismissed from all his places. The news of his disgrace seems to have

taken the politicians of the coffeehouses by surprise, but did not

astonish those who had observed what was passing in the palace. Treason

had not been brought home to him by legal, or even by tangible, evidence

but there was a strong suspicion among those who watched him closely

that, through some channel or other, he was in communication with the

enemies of that government in which he occupied so high a place. He,

with unabashed forehead, imprecated on his own head all evil here and

hereafter if he was guilty. His only fault, he protested, was that he

had served the crown too well. Had he not given hostages to the royal

cause? Had he not broken down every bridge by which he could, in case of

a disaster, effect his retreat? Had he not gone all lengths in favour

of the dispensing power, sate in the High Commission, signed the warrant

for the commitment of the Bishops, appeared as a witness against them,

at the hazard of his life, amidst the hisses and curses of the thousands

who filled Westminster Hall? Had he not given the last proof of fidelity

by renouncing his religion, and publicly joining a Church which the

nation detested? What had he to hope from a change? What had he not to

dread? These arguments, though plausible, and though set off by the most

insinuating address, could not remove the impression which whispers and

reports arriving at once from a hundred different quarters had produced.

The King became daily colder and colder. Sunderland attempted to support

himself by the Queen's help, obtained an audience of Her Majesty, and

was actually in her apartment when Middleton entered, and, by the King's

orders, demanded the seals. That evening the fallen minister was for the

last time closeted with the Prince whom he had flattered and betrayed.

The interview was a strange one. Sunderland acted calumniated virtue to

perfection. He regretted not, he said, the Secretaryship of State or the

Presidency of the Council, if only he retained his sovereign's esteem.

"Do not, sir, do not make me the most unhappy gentleman in your

dominions, by refusing to declare that you acquit me of disloyalty." The

King hardly knew what to believe. There was no positive proof of guilt;

and the energy and pathos with which Sunderland lied might have imposed

on a keener understanding than that with which he had to deal. At the

French embassy his professions still found credit. There he declared

that he should remain a few days in London, and show himself at court.

He would then retire to his country seat at Althorpe, and try to repair

his dilapidated fortunes by economy. If a revolution should take place

he must fly to France. His ill requited loyalty had left him no other

place of refuge. [494]

The seals which had been taken from Sunderland were delivered to

Preston. The same Gazette which announced this change contained the

official intelligence of the disaster which had befallen the Dutch

fleet. [495] That disaster was serious, though far less serious than

the King and his few adherents, misled by their wishes, were disposed to

believe.

On the sixteenth of October, according to the English reckoning, was

held a solemn sitting of the States of Holland. The Prince came to bid

them farewell. He thanked them for the kindness with which they had

watched over him when he was left an orphan child, for the confidence

which they had reposed in him during his administration, and for the

assistance which they had granted to him at this momentous crisis. He

entreated them to believe that he had always meant and endeavoured to

promote the interest of his country. He was now quitting them, perhaps

never to return. If he should fall in defence of the reformed religion

and of the independence of Europe, he commended his beloved wife to

their care. The Grand Pensionary answered in a faltering voice; and in

all that grave senate there was none who could refrain from shedding

tears. But the iron stoicism of William never gave way; and he stood

among his weeping friends calm and austere as if he had been about to

leave them only for a short visit to his hunting grounds at Loo. [496]

The deputies of the principal towns accompanied him to his yacht. Even

the representatives of Amsterdam, so long the chief seat of opposition

to his administration, joined in paying him this compliment. Public

prayers were offered for him on that day in all the churches of the

Hague.

In the evening he arrived at Helvoetsluys and went on board of a frigate

called the Brill. His flag was immediately hoisted. It displayed the

arms of Nassau quartered with those of England. The motto, embroidered

in letters three feet long, was happily chosen. The House of Orange had

long used the elliptical device, "I will maintain." The ellipsis was now

filled up with words of high import, "The liberties of England and the

Protestant religion."

The Prince had not been many hours on board when the wind became fair.

On the nineteenth the armament put to sea, and traversed, before a

strong breeze, about half the distance between the Dutch and English

coasts. Then the wind changed, blew hard from the west, and swelled into

a violent tempest. The ships, scattered and in great distress, regained

the shore of Holland as they best might. The Brill reached Helvoetsluys

on the twenty-first. The Prince's fellow passengers had observed with

admiration that neither peril nor mortification had for one moment

disturbed his composure. He now, though suffering from sea sickness,

refused to go on shore: for he conceived that, by remaining on board,

he should in the most effectual manner notify to Europe that the late

misfortune had only delayed for a very short time the execution of his

purpose. In two or three days the fleet reassembled. One vessel only had

been cast away. Not a single soldier or sailor was missing. Some horses

had perished: but this loss the Prince with great expedition repaired;

and, before the London Gazette had spread the news of his mishap, he was

again ready to sail. [497]

His Declaration preceded him only by a few hours. On the first of

November it began to be mentioned in mysterious whispers by the

politicians of London, was passed secretly from man to man, and was

slipped into the boxes of the post office. One of the agents was

arrested, and the packets of which he was in charge were carried to

Whitehall. The King read, and was greatly troubled. His first impulse

was to bide the paper from all human eyes. He threw into the fire every

copy which had been brought to him, except one; and that one he would

scarcely trust out of his own hands. [498]

The paragraph in the manifesto which disturbed him most was that in

which it was said that some of the Peers, Spiritual and Temporal, had

invited the Prince of Orange to invade England. Halifax, Clarendon, and

Nottingham were then in London. They were immediately summoned to the

palace and interrogated. Halifax, though conscious of innocence, refused

at first to make any answer. "Your Majesty asks me," said he, "whether I

have committed high treason. If I am suspected, let me be brought before

my peers. And how can your Majesty place any dependence on the answer

of a culprit whose life is at stake? Even if I had invited His Highness

over, I should without scruple plead Not Guilty." The King declared that

he did not at all consider Halifax as a culprit, and that he had asked

the question as one gentleman asks another who has been calumniated

whether there be the least foundation for the calumny. "In that case,"

said Halifax, "I have no objection to aver, as a gentleman speaking to a

gentleman, on my honour, which is as sacred as my oath, that I have not

invited the Prince of Orange over." [499] Clarendon and Nottingham said

the same. The King was still more anxious to ascertain the temper of the

Prelates. If they were hostile to him, his throne was indeed in danger.

But it could not be. There was something monstrous in the supposition

that any Bishop of the Church of England could rebel against his

Sovereign. Compton was called into the royal closet, and was asked

whether he believed that there was the slightest ground for the Prince's

assertion. The Bishop was in a strait; for he was himself one of the

seven who had signed the invitation; and his conscience, not a very

enlightened conscience, would not suffer him, it seems, to utter a

direct falsehood. "Sir," he said, "I am quite confident that there

is not one of my brethren who is not as guiltless as myself in this

matter." The equivocation was ingenious: but whether the difference

between the sin of such an equivocation and the sin of a lie be worth

any expense of ingenuity may perhaps be doubted. The King was satisfied.

"I fully acquit you all," he said. "But I think it necessary that you

should publicly contradict the slanderous charge brought against you

in the Prince's declaration." The Bishop very naturally begged that he

might be allowed to read the paper which he was required to contradict;

but the King would not suffer him to look at it.

On the following day appeared a proclamation threatening with the

severest punishment all who should circulate, or who should even dare to

read, William's manifesto. [500] The Primate and the few Spiritual Peers

who happened to be then in London had orders to wait upon the King.

Preston was in attendance with the Prince's Declaration in his hand. "My

Lords," said James, "listen to this passage. It concerns you." Preston

then read the sentence in which the Spiritual Peers were mentioned. The

King proceeded: "I do not believe one word of this: I am satisfied

of your innocence; but I think it fit to let you know of what you are

accused."

The Primate, with many dutiful expressions, protested that the King did

him no more than justice. "I was born in your Majesty's allegiance. I

have repeatedly confirmed that allegiance by my oath. I can have but

one King at one time. I have not invited the Prince over; and I do not

believe that a single one of my brethren has done so." "I am sure I have

not," said Crewe of Durham. "Nor I," said Cartwright of Chester.

Crewe and Cartwright might well be believed; for both had sate in the

Ecclesiastical Commission. When Compton's turn came, he parried the

question with an adroitness which a Jesuit might have envied. "I gave

your Majesty my answer yesterday."

James repeated again and again that he fully acquitted them all.

Nevertheless it would, in his judgment, be for his service and for their

own honour that they should publicly vindicate themselves. He therefore

required them to draw up a paper setting forth their abhorrence of the

Prince's design. They remained silent: their silence was supposed to

imply consent; and they were suffered to withdraw. [501]

Meanwhile the fleet of William was on the German Ocean. It was on the

evening of Thursday the first of November that he put to sea the second

time. The wind blew fresh from the east. The armament, during twelve

hours, held a course towards the north west. The light vessels sent out

by the English Admiral for the purpose of obtaining intelligence brought

back news which confirmed the prevailing opinion that the enemy would

try to land in Yorkshire. All at once, on a signal from the Prince's

ship, the whole fleet tacked, and made sail for the British Channel.

The same breeze which favoured the voyage of the invaders prevented

Dartmouth from coming out of the Thames. His ships were forced to strike

yards and topmasts; and two of his frigates, which had gained the open

sea, were shattered by the violence of the weather and driven back into

the river. [502]

The Dutch fleet ran fast before the gale, and reached the Straits at

about ten in the morning of Saturday the third of November. William

himself, in the Brill, led the way. More than six hundred vessels,

with canvass spread to a favourable wind, followed in his train. The

transports were in the centre. The men of war, more than fifty in

number, formed an outer rampart. Herbert, with the title of Lieutenant

Admiral General, commanded the whole fleet. His post was in the rear,

and many English sailors, inflamed against Popery, and attracted by

high pay, served under him. It was not without great difficulty that the

Prince had prevailed on some Dutch officers of high reputation to

submit to the authority of a stranger. But the arrangement was eminently

judicious. There was, in the King's fleet, much discontent and an ardent

zeal for the Protestant faith. But within the memory of old mariners

the Dutch and English navies had thrice, with heroic spirit and various

fortune, contended for the empire of the sea. Our sailors had not

forgotten the broom with which Tromp had threatened to sweep the

Channel, or the fire which De Ruyter had lighted in the dockyards of the

Medway. Had the rival nations been once more brought face to face on the

element of which both claimed the sovereignty, all other thoughts might

have given place to mutual animosity. A bloody and obstinate battle

might have been fought. Defeat would have been fatal to William's

enterprise. Even victory would have deranged all his deeply meditated

schemes of policy. He therefore wisely determined that the pursuers,

if they overtook him, should be hailed in their own mother tongue,

and adjured, by an admiral under whom they had served, and whom they

esteemed, not to fight against old mess-mates for Popish tyranny. Such

an appeal might possibly avert a conflict. If a conflict took place, one

English commander would be opposed to another; nor would the pride of

the islanders be wounded by learning that Dartmouth had been compelled

to strike to Herbert. [503]

Happily William's precautions were not necessary. Soon after midday he

passed the Straits. His fleet spread to within a league of Dover on the

north and of Calais on the south. The men of war on the extreme right

and left saluted both fortresses at once. The troops appeared under arms

on the decks. The flourish of trumpets, the clash of cymbals, and the

rolling of drums were distinctly heard at once on the English and French

shores. An innumerable company of gazers blackened the white beach of

Kent. Another mighty multitude covered the coast of Picardy. Rapin de

Thoyras, who, driven by persecution from his country, had taken service

in the Dutch army and accompanied the Prince to England, described the

spectacle, many years later, as the most magnificent and affecting that

was ever seen by human eyes. At sunset the armament was off Beachy Head.

Then the lights were kindled. The sea was in a blaze for many miles. But

the eyes of all the steersmen were fixed throughout the night on three

huge lanterns which flamed on the stern of the Brill. [504]

Meanwhile a courier bad been riding post from Dover Castle to Whitehall

with news that the Dutch had passed the Straits and were steering

westward. It was necessary to make an immediate change in all the

military arrangements. Messengers were despatched in every direction.

Officers were roused from their beds at dead of night. At three on the

Sunday morning there was a great muster by torchlight in Hyde Park.

The King had sent several regiments northward in the expectation that

William would land in Yorkshire. Expresses were despatched to recall

them. All the forces except those which were necessary to keep the peace

of the capital were ordered to move to the west. Salisbury was appointed

as the place of rendezvous: but, as it was thought possible that

Portsmouth might be the first point of attack, three battalions of

guards and a strong body of cavalry set out for that fortress. In a few

hours it was known that Portsmouth was safe; and these troops received

orders to change their route and to hasten to Salisbury. [505]

When Sunday the fourth of November dawned, the cliffs of the Isle

of Wight were full in view of the Dutch armament. That day was the

anniversary both of William's birth and of his marriage. Sail was

slackened during part of the morning; and divine service was performed

on board of the ships. In the afternoon and through the night the fleet

held on its course. Torbay was the place where the Prince intended to

land. But the morning of Monday the fifth of November was hazy. The

pilot of the Brill could not discern the sea marks, and carried the

fleet too far to the west. The danger was great. To return in the face

of the wind was impossible. Plymouth was the next port. But at Plymouth

a garrison had been posted under the command of Lord Bath. The landing

might be opposed; and a check might produce serious consequences. There

could be little doubt, moreover, that by this time the royal fleet had

got out of the Thames and was hastening full sail down the Channel.

Russell saw the whole extent of the peril, and exclaimed to Burnet,

"You may go to prayers, Doctor. All is over." At that moment the wind

changed: a soft breeze sprang up from the south: the mist dispersed; the

sun shone forth and, under the mild light of an autumnal noon, the fleet

turned back, passed round the lofty cape of Berry Head, and rode safe in

the harbour of Torbay. [506]

Since William looked on that harbour its aspect has greatly changed. The

amphitheatre which surrounds the spacious basin now exhibits everywhere

the signs of prosperity and civilisation. At the northeastern extremity

has sprung up a great watering place, to which strangers are attracted

from the most remote parts of our island by the Italian softness of the

air; for in that climate the myrtle flourishes unsheltered; and even the

winter is milder than the Northumbrian April. The inhabitants are about

ten thousand in number. The newly built churches and chapels, the baths

and libraries, the hotels and public gardens, the infirmary and the

museum, the white streets, rising terrace above terrace, the gay

villas peeping from the midst of shrubberies and flower beds, present

a spectacle widely different from any that in the seventeenth century

England could show. At the opposite end of the bay lies, sheltered by

Berry head, the stirring market town of Brixham, the wealthiest seat of

our fishing trade. A pier and a haven were formed there at the beginning

of the present century, but have been found insufficient for the

increasing traffic. The population is about six thousand souls. The

shipping amounts to more than two hundred sail. The tonnage exceeds many

times the tonnage of the port of Liverpool under the Kings of the House

of Stuart. But Torbay, when the Dutch fleet cast anchor there, was known

only as a haven where ships sometimes took refuge from the tempests of

the Atlantic. Its quiet shores were undisturbed by the bustle either

of commerce or of pleasure and the huts of ploughmen and fishermen

were thinly scattered over what is now the site of crowded marts and of

luxurious pavilions.

The peasantry of the coast of Devonshire remembered the name of Monmouth

with affection, and held Popery in detestation. They therefore

crowded down to the seaside with provisions and offers of service. The

disembarkation instantly commenced. Sixty boats conveyed the troops to

the coast. Mackay was sent on shore first with the British regiments.

The Prince soon followed. He landed where the quay of Brixham now

stands. The whole aspect of the place has been altered. Where we now see

a port crowded with shipping, and a market place swarming with buyers

and sellers, the waves then broke on a desolate beach: but a fragment of

the rock on which the deliverer stepped from his boat has been carefully

preserved, and is set up as an object of public veneration in the centre

of that busy wharf.

As soon as the Prince had planted his foot on dry ground he called for

horses. Two beasts, such as the small yeomen of that time were in the

habit of riding, were procured from the neighbouring village. William

and Schomberg mounted and proceeded to examine the country.

As soon as Burnet was on shore he hastened to the Prince. An

amusing dialogue took place between them. Burnet poured forth his

congratulations with genuine delight, and then eagerly asked what were

His Highness's plans. Military men are seldom disposed to take counsel

with gownsmen on military matters; and William regarded the interference

of unprofessional advisers, in questions relating to war, with even more

than the disgust ordinarily felt by soldiers on such occasions. But he

was at that moment in an excellent humour, and, instead of signifying

his displeasure by a short and cutting reprimand, graciously extended

his hand, and answered his chaplain's question by another question:

"Well, Doctor, what do you think of predestination now?" The reproof was

so delicate that Burnet, whose perceptions were not very fine, did not

perceive it. He answered with great fervour that he should never forget

the signal manner in which Providence had favoured their undertaking.

[507]

During the first day the troops who had gone on shore had many

discomforts to endure. The earth was soaked with rain. The baggage was

still on board of the ships. Officers of high rank were compelled to

sleep in wet clothes on the wet ground: the Prince himself had no better

quarters than a hut afforded. His banner was displayed on the thatched

roof; and some bedding brought from his ship was spread for him on the

floor. [508] There was some difficulty about landing the horses; and it

seemed probable that this operation would occupy several days. But on

the following morning the prospect cleared. The wind was gentle. The

water in the bay was as even as glass. Some fishermen pointed out a

place where the ships could be brought within sixty feet of the beach.

This was done; and in three hours many hundreds of horses swam safely to

shore.

The disembarkation had hardly been effected when the wind rose again,

and swelled into a fierce gale from the west. The enemy coming in

pursuit down the Channel had been stopped by the same change of weather

which enabled William to land. During two days the King's fleet lay on

an unruffled sea in sight of Beachy Head. At length Dartmouth was able

to proceed. He passed the Isle of Wight, and one of his ships came

in sight of the Dutch topmasts in Torbay. Just at this moment he was

encountered by the tempest, and compelled to take shelter in the harbour

of Portsmouth. [509] At that time James, who was not incompetent to

form a judgment on a question of seamanship, declared himself perfectly

satisfied that his Admiral had done all that man could do, and had

yielded only to the irresistible hostility of the winds and waves. At

a later period the unfortunate prince began, with little reason, to

suspect Dartmouth of treachery, or at least of slackness. [510]

The weather had indeed served the Protestant cause so well that some men

of more piety than judgment fully believed the ordinary laws of nature

to have been suspended for the preservation of the liberty and religion

of England. Exactly a hundred years before, they said, the Armada,

invincible by man, had been scattered by the wrath of God. Civil freedom

and divine truth were again in jeopardy; and again the obedient elements

had fought for the good cause. The wind had blown strong from the east

while the Prince wished to sail down the Channel, had turned to the

south when he wished to enter Torbay, had sunk to a calm during the

disembarkation, and, as soon as the disembarkation was completed, had

risen to a storm, and had met the pursuers in the face. Nor did men omit

to remark that, by an extraordinary coincidence, the Prince had reached

our shores on a day on which the Church of England commemorated, by

prayer and thanksgiving, the wonderful escape of the royal House and

of the three Estates from the blackest plot ever devised by Papists.

Carstairs, whose suggestions were sure to meet with attention from the

Prince, recommended that, as soon as the landing had been effected,

public thanks should be offered to God for the protection so

conspicuously accorded to the great enterprise. This advice was taken,

and with excellent effect. The troops, taught to regard themselves as

favourites of heaven, were inspired with new courage; and the English

people formed the most favourable opinion of a general and an army so

attentive to the duties of religion.

On Tuesday, the sixth of November, William's army began to march up the

country. Some regiments advanced as far as Newton Abbot. A stone, set

up in the midst of that little town, still marks the spot where the

Prince's Declaration was solemnly read to the people. The movements of

the troops were slow: for the rain fell in torrents; and the roads

of England were then in a state which seemed frightful to persons

accustomed to the excellent communications of Holland. William took

up his quarters, during two days, at Ford, a seat of the ancient and

illustrious family of Courtenay, in the neighbourhood of Newton Abbot.

He was magnificently lodged and feasted there; but it is remarkable that

the owner of the house, though a strong Whig, did not choose to be the

first to put life and fortune in peril, and cautiously abstained from

doing anything which, if the King should prevail, could be treated as a

crime.

Exeter, in the meantime, was greatly agitated. Lamplugh, the bishop, as

soon as he heard that the Dutch were at Torbay, set off in terror for

London. The Dean fled from the deanery. The magistrates were for the

King, the body of the inhabitants for the Prince. Every thing was in

confusion when, on the morning of Thursday, the eighth of November, a

body of troops, under the command of Mordaunt, appeared before the city.

With Mordaunt came Burnet, to whom William had entrusted the duty of

protecting the clergy of the Cathedral from injury and insult. [511] The

Mayor and Aldermen had ordered the gates to be closed, but yielded on

the first summons. The deanery was prepared for the reception of

the Prince. On the following day, Friday the ninth, he arrived. The

magistrates had been pressed to receive him in state at the entrance of

the city, but had steadfastly refused. The pomp of that day, however,

could well spare them. Such a sight had never been seen in Devonshire.

Many went forth half a day's journey to meet the champion of their

religion. All the neighbouring villages poured forth their inhabitants.

A great crowd, consisting chiefly of young peasants, brandishing their

cudgels, had assembled on the top of Haldon Hill, whence the army,

marching from Chudleigh, first descried the rich valley of the Exe, and

the two massive towers rising from the cloud of smoke which overhung the

capital of the West. The road, all down the long descent, and through

the plain to the banks of the river, was lined, mile after mile, with

spectators. From the West Gate to the Cathedral Close, the pressing and

shouting on each side was such as reminded Londoners of the crowds on

the Lord Mayor's day. The houses were gaily decorated. Doors, windows,

balconies, and roofs were thronged with gazers. An eye accustomed to

the pomp of war would have found much to criticize in the spectacle.

For several toilsome marches in the rain, through roads where one who

travelled on foot sank at every step up to the ancles in clay, had not

improved the appearance either of the men or of their accoutrements.

But the people of Devonshire, altogether unused to the splendour of well

ordered camps, were overwhelmed with delight and awe. Descriptions of

the martial pageant were circulated all over the kingdom. They contained

much that was well fitted to gratify the vulgar appetite for the

marvellous. For the Dutch army, composed of men who had been born in

various climates, and had served under various standards, presented an

aspect at once grotesque, gorgeous, and terrible to islanders who had,

in general, a very indistinct notion of foreign countries. First rode

Macclesfield at the head of two hundred gentlemen, mostly of English

blood, glittering in helmets and cuirasses, and mounted on Flemish war

horses. Each was attended by a negro, brought from the sugar plantations

on the coast of Guiana. The citizens of Exeter, who had never seen so

many specimens of the African race, gazed with wonder on those black

faces set off by embroidered turbans and white feathers. Then with drawn

broad swords came a squadron of Swedish horsemen in black armour and fur

cloaks. They were regarded with a strange interest; for it was rumoured

that they were natives of a land where the ocean was frozen and where

the night lasted through half the year, and that they had themselves

slain the huge bears whose skins they wore. Next, surrounded by a goodly

company of gentlemen and pages, was borne aloft the Prince's banner. On

its broad folds the crowd which covered the roofs and filled the windows

read with delight that memorable inscription, "The Protestant religion

and the liberties of England." But the acclamations redoubled when,

attended by forty running footmen, the Prince himself appeared, armed on

back and breast, wearing a white plume and mounted on a white charger.

With how martial an air he curbed his horse, how thoughtful and

commanding was the expression of his ample forehead and falcon eye,

may still be seen on the canvass of Kneller. Once those grave features

relaxed into a smile. It was when an ancient woman, perhaps one of

the zealous Puritans who through twenty-eight years of persecution had

waited with firm faith for the consolation of Israel, perhaps the mother

of some rebel who had perished in the carnage of Sedgemoor, or in the

more fearful carnage of the Bloody Circuit, broke from the crowd, rushed

through the drawn swords and curvetting horses, touched the hand of the

deliverer, and cried out that now she was happy. Near to the Prince was

one who divided with him the gaze of the multitude. That, men said, was

the great Count Schomberg, the first soldier in Europe, since Turenne

and Conde were gone, the man whose genius and valour had saved the

Portuguese monarchy on the field of Montes Claros, the man who had

earned a still higher glory by resigning the truncheon of a Marshal of

France for the sake of the true religion. It was not forgotten that the

two heroes who, indissolubly united by their common Protestantism, were

entering Exeter together, had twelve years before been opposed to each

other under the walls of Maestricht, and that the energy of the young

Prince had not then been found a match for the cool science of the

veteran who now rode in friendship by his side. Then came a long column

of the whiskered infantry of Switzerland, distinguished in all the

continental wars of two centuries by preeminent valour and discipline,

but never till that week seen on English ground. And then marched a

succession of bands designated, as was the fashion of that age, after

their leaders, Bentinck, Solmes and Ginkell, Talmash and Mackay. With

peculiar pleasure Englishmen might look on one gallant regiment which

still bore the name of the honoured and lamented Ossory. The effect of

the spectacle was heightened by the recollection of the renowned events

in which many of the warriors now pouring through the West Gate had

borne a share. For they had seen service very different from that of the

Devonshire militia or of the camp at Hounslow. Some of them had repelled

the fiery onset of the French on the field of Seneff; and others had

crossed swords with the infidels in the cause of Christendom on that

great day when the siege of Vienna was raised. The very senses of the

multitude were fooled by imagination. Newsletters conveyed to every

part of the kingdom fabulous accounts of the size and strength of the

invaders. It was affirmed that they were, with scarcely an exception,

above six feet high, and that they wielded such huge pikes, swords, and

muskets, as had never before been seen in England. Nor did the wonder

of the population diminish when the artillery arrived, twenty-one huge

pieces of brass cannon, which were with difficulty tugged along by

sixteen cart horses to each. Much curiosity was excited by a strange

structure mounted on wheels. It proved to be a moveable smithy,

furnished with all tools and materials necessary for repairing arms and

carriages. But nothing raised so much admiration as the bridge of

boats, which was laid with great speed on the Exe for the conveyance of

waggons, and afterwards as speedily taken to pieces and carried away.

It was made, if report said true, after a pattern contrived by the

Christians who were warring against the Great Turk on the Danube. The

foreigners inspired as much good will as admiration. Their politic

leader took care to distribute the quarters in such a manner as to cause

the smallest possible inconvenience to the inhabitants of Exeter and of

the neighbouring villages. The most rigid discipline was maintained. Not

only were pillage and outrage effectually prevented, but the troops were

required to demean themselves with civility towards all classes. Those

who had formed their notions of an army from the conduct of Kirke and

his Lambs were amazed to see soldiers who never swore at a landlady or

took an egg without paying for it. In return for this moderation the

people furnished the troops with provisions in great abundance and at

reasonable prices. [512]

Much depended on the course which, at this great crisis, the clergy

of the Church of England might take; and the members of the Chapter of

Exeter were the first who were called upon to declare their sentiments.

Burnet informed the Canons, now left without a head by the flight of the

Dean, that they could not be permitted to use the prayer for the Prince

of Wales, and that a solemn service must be performed in honour of the

safe arrival of the Prince. The Canons did not choose to appear in their

stalls; but some of the choristers and prebendaries attended. William

repaired in military state to the Cathedral. As he passed under the

gorgeous screen, that renowned organ, scarcely surpassed by any of those

which are the boast of his native Holland, gave out a peal of triumph.

He mounted the Bishop's seat, a stately throne rich with the carving of

the fifteenth century. Burnet stood below; and a crowd of warriors and

nobles appeared on the right hand and on the left. The singers, robed

in white, sang the Te Deum. When the chaunt was over, Burnet read the

Prince's Declaration: but as soon as the first words were uttered,

prebendaries and singers crowded in all haste out of the choir. At the

close Burnet cried in a loud voice, "God save the Prince of Orange!" and

many fervent voices answered, "Amen." [513]

On Sunday, the eleventh of November, Burnet preached before the Prince

in the Cathedral, and dilated on the signal mercy vouchsafed by God

to the English Church and nation. At the same time a singular event

happened in a humbler place of worship. Ferguson resolved to preach

at the Presbyterian meeting house. The minister and elders would not

consent but the turbulent and halfwitted knave, fancying that the times

of Fleetwood and Harrison were come again, forced the door, went through

the congregation sword in hand, mounted the pulpit, and there poured

forth a fiery invective against the King. The time for such follies had

gone by; and this exhibition excited nothing but derision and disgust.

[514]

While these things were passing in Devonshire the ferment was great in

London. The Prince's Declaration, in spite of all precautions, was now

in every man's hands. On the sixth of November James, still uncertain on

what part of the coast the invaders had landed, summoned the Primate and

three other Bishops, Compton of London, White of Peterborough, and

Sprat of Rochester, to a conference in the closet. The King listened

graciously while the prelates made warm professions of loyalty, and

assured them that he did not suspect them. "But where," said he, "is

the paper that you were to bring me?" "Sir," answered Sancroft, "we have

brought no paper. We are not solicitous to clear our fame to the

world. It is no new thing to us to be reviled and falsely accused. Our

consciences acquit us: your Majesty acquits us: and we are satisfied."

"Yes," said the King; "but a declaration from you is necessary to my

service." He then produced a copy of the Prince's manifesto. "See," he

said, "how you are mentioned here." "Sir," answered one of the Bishops,

"not one person in five hundred believes this manifesto to be genuine."

"No!" cried the King fiercely; "then those five hundred would bring the

Prince of Orange to cut my throat." "God forbid," exclaimed the prelates

in concert. But the King's understanding, never very clear, was now

quite bewildered. One of his peculiarities was that, whenever his

opinion was not adopted, he fancied that his veracity was questioned.

"This paper not genuine!" he exclaimed, turning over the leaves with his

hands. "Am I not worthy to be believed? Is my word not to be taken?"

"At all events, sir," said one of the Bishops, "this is not an

ecclesiastical matter. It lies within the sphere of the civil power.

God has entrusted your Majesty with the sword: and it is not for us

to invade your functions." Then the Archbishop, with that gentle and

temperate malice which inflicts the deepest wounds, declared that he

must be excused from setting his hand to any political document. "I and

my brethren, sir," he said, "have already smarted severely for meddling

with affairs of state; and we shall be very cautious how we do so again.

We once subscribed a petition of the most harmless kind: we presented it

in the most respectful manner; and we found that we had committed a high

offence. We were saved from ruin only by the merciful protection of God.

And, sir, the ground then taken by your Majesty's Attorney and Solicitor

was that, out of Parliament, we were private men, and that it was

criminal presumption in private men to meddle with politics. They

attacked us so fiercely that for my part I gave myself over for lost."

"I thank you for that, my Lord of Canterbury," said the King; "I should

have hoped that you would not have thought yourself lost by falling

into my hands." Such a speech might have become the mouth of a merciful

sovereign, but it came with a bad grace from a prince who had burned

a woman alive for harbouring one of his flying enemies, from a

prince round whose knees his own nephew had clung in vain agonies of

supplication. The Archbishop was not to be so silenced. He resumed his

story, and recounted the insults which the creatures of the court had

offered to the Church of England, among which some ridicule thrown on

his own style occupied a conspicuous place. The King had nothing to say

but that there was no use in repeating old grievances, and that he had

hoped that these things had been quite forgotten. He, who never forgot

the smallest injury that he had suffered, could not understand how

others should remember for a few weeks the most deadly injuries that he

had inflicted.

At length the conversation came back to the point from which it had

wandered. The King insisted on having from the Bishops a paper declaring

their abhorrence of the Prince's enterprise. They, with many professions

of the most submissive loyalty, pertinaciously refused. The Prince,

they said, asserted that he had been invited by temporal as well as by

spiritual peers. The imputation was common. Why should not the purgation

be common also?"I see how it is," said the King. "Some of the temporal

peers have been with you, and have persuaded you to cross me in this

matter." The Bishops solemnly averred that it was not so. But it would,

they said, seem strange that, on a question involving grave political

and military considerations, the temporal peers should be entirely

passed over, and the prelates alone should be required to take a

prominent part. "But this," said James, "is my method. I am your King.

It is for me to judge what is best. I will go my own way; and I call on

you to assist me." The Bishops assured him that they would assist him in

their proper department, as Christian ministers with their prayers, and

as peers of the realm with their advice in his Parliament. James, who

wanted neither the prayers of heretics nor the advice of Parliaments,

was bitterly disappointed. After a long altercation, "I have done," he

said, "I will urge you no further. Since you will not help me, I must

trust to myself and to my own arms." [515]

The Bishops had hardly left the royal presence, when a courier arrived

with the news that on the preceding day the Prince of Orange had landed

in Devonshire. During the following week London was violently agitated.

On Sunday, the eleventh of November, a rumour was circulated that

knives, gridirons, and caldrons, intended for the torturing of heretics,

were concealed in the monastery which had been established under the

King's protection at Clerkenwell. Great multitudes assembled round the

building, and were about to demolish it, when a military force arrived.

The crowd was dispersed, and several of the rioters were slain. An

inquest sate on the bodies, and came to a decision which strongly

indicated the temper of the public mind. The jury found that certain

loyal and well disposed persons, who had gone to put down the meetings

of traitors and public enemies at a mass house, had been wilfully

murdered by the soldiers; and this strange verdict was signed by all

the jurors. The ecclesiastics at Clerkenwell, naturally alarmed by these

symptoms of popular feeling, were desirous to place their property in

safety. They succeeded in removing most of their furniture before any

report of their intentions got abroad. But at length the suspicions of

the rabble were excited. The two last carts were stopped in Holborn, and

all that they contained was publicly burned in the middle of the street.

So great was the alarm among the Catholics that all their places of

worship were closed, except those which belonged to the royal family and

to foreign Ambassadors. [516]

On the whole, however, things as yet looked not unfavourably for James.

The invaders had been more than a week on English ground. Yet no man of

note had joined them. No rebellion had broken out in the north or the

east. No servant of the crown appeared to have betrayed his trust. The

royal army was assembling fast at Salisbury, and, though inferior in

discipline to that of William, was superior in numbers.

The Prince was undoubtedly surprised and mortified by the slackness

of those who had invited him to England. By the common people of

Devonshire, indeed, he had been received with every sign of good will:

but no nobleman, no gentleman of high consideration, had yet repaired

to his quarters. The explanation of this singular fact is probably to

be found in the circumstance that he had landed in a part of the island

where he had not been expected. His friends in the north had made their

arrangements for a rising, on the supposition that he would be among

them with an army. His friends in the west had made no arrangements

at all, and were naturally disconcerted at finding themselves suddenly

called upon to take the lead in a movement so important and perilous.

They had also fresh in their recollection, and indeed full in their

sight, the disastrous consequences of rebellion, gibbets, heads, mangled

quarters, families still in deep mourning for brave sufferers who had

loved their country well but not wisely. After a warning so terrible and

so recent, some hesitation was natural. It was equally natural, however,

that William, who, trusting to promises from England, had put to

hazard, not only his own fame and fortunes, but also the prosperity and

independence of his native land, should feel deeply mortified. He

was, indeed, so indignant, that he talked of falling back to Torbay,

reembarking his troops, returning to Holland, and leaving those who had

betrayed him to the fate which they deserved. At length, on Monday, the

twelfth of November, a gentleman named Burrington, who resided in the

neighbourhood of Crediton, joined the Prince's standard, and his example

was followed by several of his neighbours.

Men of higher consequence had already set out from different parts

of the country for Exeter. The first of these was John Lord Lovelace,

distinguished by his taste, by his magnificence, and by the audacious

and intemperate vehemence of his Whiggism. He had been five or six times

arrested for political offences. The last crime laid to his charge was,

that he had contemptuously denied the validity of a warrant, signed by

a Roman Catholic Justice of the Peace. He had been brought before

the Privy Council and strictly examined, but to little purpose. He

resolutely refused to criminate himself; and the evidence against

him was insufficient. He was dismissed; but, before he retired, James

exclaimed in great heat, "My Lord, this is not the first trick that you

have played me." "Sir," answered Lovelace, with undaunted spirit, "I

never played any trick to your Majesty, or to any other person. Whoever

has accused me to your Majesty of playing tricks is a liar." Lovelace

had subsequently been admitted into the confidence of those who planned

the Revolution. [517] His mansion, built by his ancestors out of the

spoils of Spanish galleons from the Indies, rose on the ruins of a house

of Our Lady in that beautiful valley through which the Thames, not yet

defiled by the precincts of a great capital, nor rising and falling with

the flow and ebb of the sea, rolls under woods of beech round the gentle

hills of Berkshire. Beneath the stately saloon, adorned by Italian

pencils, was a subterraneous vault, in which the bones of ancient monks

had sometimes been found. In this dark chamber some zealous and daring

opponents of the government had held many midnight conferences during

that anxious time when England was impatiently expecting the Protestant

wind. [518] The season for action had now arrived. Lovelace, with

seventy followers, well armed and mounted, quitted his dwelling,

and directed his course westward. He reached Gloucestershire without

difficulty. But Beaufort, who governed that county, was exerting all his

great authority and influence in support of the crown. The militia had

been called out. A strong party had been posted at Cirencester. When

Lovelace arrived there he was informed that he could not be suffered to

pass. It was necessary for him either to relinquish his undertaking

or to fight his way through. He resolved to force a passage; and his

friends and tenants stood gallantly by him. A sharp conflict took place.

The militia lost an officer and six or seven men; but at length the

followers of Lovelace were overpowered: he was made a prisoner, and sent

to Gloucester Castle. [519]