CHAPTER XXV

THE TRIUMPH OF FACTION

Just as peace had been cemented amongst his enemies, in preparation for a

final attack, Clarendon was struck by a heavy blow of domestic

bereavement. Throughout all the vicissitudes of his life, amidst the

hardships of exile, and in the still heavier anxieties that surrounded his

later years of seeming prosperity, Clarendon had ever found in his family

a centre of affection, and a source of consolation--broken only for a

season when his eldest daughter was raised, by her marriage with the Duke,

to a position which Clarendon knew well involved danger, both for her and

for himself. His wife had proved an affectionate helpmate, and it is to

her credit that in these Court circles which jealousy had rendered

vigilant of any trace of scandal, and keen to note any assumption of

arrogance, the wife of the Chancellor provoked the attacks of no enemies,

and managed to elude the wrangles and bickerings of the Palace. In the

summer of 1667, after a brief illness, she who had been his life's

companion was taken from him, when, deprived of all his early friends, he

was most in need of the comfort of a loving heart. Belonging, by birth, to

the higher grade of the squirearchy, Lady Clarendon had married in her own

rank, with every promise of all the comfort and dignity of honoured

station, and in the first years had enjoyed a rare felicity of happy

wedded life. When the career of politics absorbed her husband, she

submitted without murmur to the interruption of that happiness, and in

after years, without repining, she accepted the burden of the breaking up

of her home, long years of anxiety, and the trials and privations of

exile. She carried her later elevation to high rank without pride or

ostentation. She does not lose her right to our respect because she earned

what the Greek historian pronounces to be woman's highest glory, the least

noisy echo either of praise or blame. That helpmate he lost just at the

moment when all the forces of factious bitterness, of meanness, and of

ingratitude, were preparing to vent their venom upon him.

The loss fell upon one already sorely tried by long and painful illness,

against which he fought with courageous manliness. He was well aware that

the weight of ill-will was rapidly accumulating against him. He had

opposed the summoning of Parliament for the purpose of securing supplies

to meet the exigencies of the war, on the ground that such anticipation of

the day fixed for the resumption of its business was illegal. The

expedient he had contemplated was a temporary loan, and this had been

easily twisted, by the perverseness of his enemies, into a suggestion of

raising funds without the consent of Parliament, in order to maintain a

standing army. His advice had been set aside, and Parliament had been

summoned for July 25th. But peace had already been secured, and immediate

supply was no longer necessary. The King prorogued Parliament on July

29th, but not before the House had passed a resolution against a standing

army. This abrupt dismissal of Parliament, when its presence was no longer

called for, inflamed the anger against Clarendon. Those who had hoped to

find an opportunity of pressing home their attack upon him in Parliament

were indignant at the loss of this opportunity. Even the moderate men

desired an explanation, and wished to be relieved of suspicions that

arbitrary taxation was once more to be attempted. Those who were

scandalized by the proceedings of the Court were prepared to make their

anger felt, and had no mind to be silenced. The country members had

trooped to Westminster from all parts of England, when long journeys were

no easy matter. They returned home in no pleasant humour, grudging at once

the expense which they had borne, and the muzzling to which they were

subjected; [Footnote: See Pepys' _Diary_, under July 29,1667.] and

the murmuring all fell upon Clarendon's devoted head. It was just as it

grew most threatening that his wife's death plunged him into mourning.

"Within a few days after his wife's death, the King vouchsafed to come to

his house to condole with him, and used many gracious expressions to him."

[Footnote: _Life_, iii. 282.] When Charles had a scheme on foot that was

peculiarly shabby or selfish, he knew how to conceal his intention under a

gracious manner. The limit of his patience to suffer Clarendon's

scoldings, or of his power to resist the pressure of his boon companions,

was nearly reached; but he could yet hope that a solution might be found

that would save any vexatious upbraidings. Clarendon might surely be

persuaded to retire, and the peace of the Court would not then be broken

by these troublesome wranglings. Less than a fortnight afterwards, the

Duke of York was made the bearer of an astounding message. The King, he

told Clarendon, had asked after him, and had been told by the Duke that

"he was the most disconsolate man he ever saw;" that not only was he

grieved for the loss of his wife, but that he feared he had lost the

favour of his master, who seemed of late to have "withdrawn his

countenance from him." Charles had made an evasive answer; but on a later

day he explained himself more fully to the Duke. He knew, he said, from

sure information that the Chancellor was "very odious" to the Parliament,

and that at its next meeting an impeachment would certainly be moved. "Not

only had he opposed them in all those things upon which they had set their

hearts, but he had proposed and advised their dissolution." For the good

of his Majesty's service, and for his own preservation, it was

imperatively necessary that he should deliver up the seal. He might choose

himself what should be the manner of doing so--whether it should be done

personally, or through an intermediary. The Duke did not deny the danger,

but he lamented the resolution of the King.

Clarendon was profoundly astonished. That the plainness of his criticism

and advice had come to irritate the King, and that a persistent plotting

against his influence was on foot, could hardly have been news to him.

Strong as were his reasons for distrusting Charles, he can hardly have

failed to have measured the depths of his dissimulation, or to have

realized his readiness to yield to pressure. But his confidence in his own

rectitude made him bold. He refused to believe that the majority of the

House distrusted him, or that his enemies had that commanding influence

which they claimed in order to intimidate the King. He was confident that,

be their malice what it might, the Parliament was not of their mind. In

that belief he demanded to speak with the King, before he delivered up the

seal. He could not, indeed, go to the King, as gout disabled him, and the

usages of the day did not permit of his being seen abroad so soon after

the death of his wife; but the Duke did not doubt that he could prevail

with the King to do as he had often done before, and come to Clarendon

House. That hope was not fulfilled; the King declined to visit Clarendon,

but was prepared to see him at Whitehall.

It may well be doubted whether Clarendon would not have served his own

cause better, and that with no injury to public interests, had he complied

with the request. His health was now broken; the phalanx of his enemies

was overwhelmingly strong; and even had he been allowed to breast the

storm for a few years more, and had he found that courageous support which

it was not in Charles's nature to give, in maintaining the fight, he must

have carried on his work in the face of increasing petulance on the part

of his master, and increasing bitterness of venom from his enemies. The

hopes that had inspired him, when he saw the Restoration accomplished, had

long vanished; it could have been with only a shadow of his old courage

that he would still have continued to guide the ship of the State. Charles

was shrewd enough in judging the temper of the nation, and could form a

good estimate of the force of the opposition; and there is no reason to

think that he was wrong in supposing that a timely surrender would have

saved his Minister from anything more than the loss of office--a loss to

which Clarendon would not have attached much importance. The very fact

that his enemies were obnoxious to the darts of scandal, and that the

nation was watching them jealously; the very probability that many would

have resented the fall of a Minister who had notoriously fought against

the flagrant indecencies of the Court--these were additional reasons why

Arlington and his faction would have been content with the removal of the

object of their hatred, and would perhaps have foregone further

persecution. Clarendon's voluntary retirement, upon the private suggestion

conveyed from the King, might have saved him from the hardships that

darkened his closing years, and might have prevented his feeling, in its

full force, the poison of the King's ingratitude.

But we must remember other considerations that could not be absent from

Clarendon's mind. History had not yet many instances to show of a Minister

who had fallen from high place, and yet was suffered to lead a private

life in peace. It was just a quarter of a century since Essex had used the

menacing words in regard to Strafford, "Stone-dead hath no fellow."

Arlington's ill-gotten influence might have felt itself threatened, if an

ex-Chancellor with Clarendon's unrivalled prestige had been ready to

permit his mansion in Piccadilly to be the resort of all who sought to

form a powerful parliamentary opposition. The instinct of self-

preservation may well have suggested to Clarendon that there might be few

steps between his abdication and the Tower and scaffold. But still more,

the central principles of his life forbade Clarendon to desert his post.

He might not infrequently be prejudiced; he certainly was often sternly

obstinate; he took too little account of the views of other men, and

failed to adapt himself to the changed circumstances of the day. But

never, in all his career, did he compromise with his duty, or give way to

threats of personal danger. Adversity and he had long been familiar, and

it may be doubted whether he would not have preferred to accept those few

last years of banishment, rather than have yielded one jot of his own

relentless resolution, or given occasion to his enemies to boast that they

had made him shrink before them. We may doubt the wisdom of his decision;

we cannot refuse our homage to his undaunted courage.

But the breach between the King and the Chancellor, and Clarendon's

threatened fall, were already the theme of Court gossip. The Duchess

learned that his resignation had been demanded, and she, with his old

friend Archbishop Sheldon, and the Duke of Albemarle, joined in

remonstrating with the King in no measured terms. Other lesser persons

followed their example, and Charles soon found that the change was not to

be carried out without seriously impinging on his own cherished ease. He

protested that he sought nothing but Clarendon's safety, and that he had

believed from what he had heard "of the extreme agony the Chancellor was

in upon the death of his wife, that he had himself desired to be dismissed

from his office." Albemarle was sent to require Clarendon's presence at

Whitehall, and seems both to have believed, and to have desired, that what

was but a passing misunderstanding might be easily arranged. The

interview, at which the Duke of York was present, took place upon August

26th. Charles received him graciously and protested his sense of his high

services, and his earnest desire to preserve him from the malice of his

enemies. He did not scruple to add that he "had verily believed" that the

demand for his resignation "had his own consent and desire." He had

fancied that his brother concurred, however much he now protested. It is

not impossible to believe that James may have found it convenient not to

speak in exactly the same tone to his father-in-law and to his brother.

But apart from all mistakes as to personal feeling, the King was positive

not only as to the intention of impeachment, but that the fate of

Strafford would be the probable result for Clarendon, if he did not yield

to the storm. If he did so yield, Charles was confident that he could

preserve him, and that he could in this way best provide for his own

business. He added a consideration which really gave the lie to what he

had just said. "He was sorry that the business had taken so much air, and

was so publicly spoken of, that he knew not how to change his purpose." He

had surely a better reason for not changing his purpose, if he was

persuaded that no change could be made without hazard to the Chancellor's

life.

Clarendon's reply to Charles's shuffling was firm and dignified. He had no

desire that the King should change his resolution. But he would not suffer

it to be believed that his delivery of the seal was his own willing act.

"He should not think himself a gentleman, if he were willing to depart,

and withdraw himself from office, in a time when he thought his Majesty

would have need of all honest men." Neither was he ready to acknowledge

that the deprivation was "in order to do him good." It was "the greatest

ruin he could undergo," and instead of saving him, it would deliver him, a

discredited man, to the malice and vengeance of his enemies. His last

declaration was the most scornful of all.

"He renounced his Majesty's protection or interposition towards his

preservation. He feared no censure, if his Majesty should reveal all that

he had counselled him in secret. If any one could charge him with a crime,

he was ready to undergo the punishment."

Such words as these are strange, to be uttered by a falling Minister to

his King, when that King is trying to cloak his own meanness by a pretence

of a single-minded desire to save that Minister; they would be stranger

still if they had been used by a man conscious of any guilt. But Clarendon

did not stop there; he turned the tables fiercely upon the King.

"He doubted very much that the throwing off an old servant who had served

the Crown in some trust near thirty years (who had the honour by the

command of his blessed father, who had left good evidence of the esteem he

had of his fidelity, to wait upon his Majesty when he went out of the

kingdom, and, by the great blessing of God, had the honour to return with

him again; which no other counsellor alive could say), on a sudden,

without any suggestion of a crime, nay, with a declaration of innocence,

would call his Majesty's justice and good nature into question."

Charles had pretended to be working for his servant's safety, and in

accordance with what he thought that he desired. That servant brushes

aside his subterfuges, renounces his protection, and plainly tells him

that the course he proposes to follow will stamp him as an ungrateful

master, and drive every honest man to abandon his service. No wonder that

the King seemed "very much troubled." He pleaded the power of Parliament,

and how he was "at their mercy." Clarendon could only advise him not to

act the coward. He had a warning in the fate of Richard II. of what faint-

heartedness in a King might bring. In his last thrust Clarendon forgot--as

he himself admits--the bounds of prudence. "In the warmth of this relation,

he found a seasonable opportunity to mention the Lady with some

reflections and cautions, which he might more advisedly have declined."

The close of his final interview was perhaps an ill-chosen moment for

wounding the King's pride by another reference to the foul-mouthed

termagant, who now swayed the Court, and trampled on her royal lover with

the usual insolence of the pampered courtesan.

The visit of the King and the Duke to Clarendon's chamber at Whitehall,

where the interview took place, lasted two hours, and at its end the King

rose in silence and retired ill-pleased. Meantime the tongues of the Court

gossips were busy. When the conference closed, the garden was filled with

a crowd of courtiers, eager to watch the countenance of the King. As the

Chancellor left the presence of his master, "the Lady, the Lord Arlington,

and Mr. May, [Footnote: Bab May, the Keeper of the Privy Purse, and

minister to Charles's pleasures. See _ante_, p. 244.] looked together

out of her open window with great gaiety and triumph, which all people

observed." The fallen Minister could spare a moment's attention, to mark

the dramatic fitness of the scene. [Footnote: Clarendon, _Life_, iii. 291.

Pepys gives us the scene with more detail (_Diary_, August 27). "Mr.

Pierce, the surgeon, tells me how this business of my Lord Chancellor's

was certainly designed in my Lady Castlemaine's chamber; and that, when he

went from the King on Monday morning, she was in bed, though about twelve

o'clock, and ran out in her smock into her aviary looking into Whitehall

Garden; and thither her woman brought her her nightgown; and stood joying

herself at the old man's going away; and several of the gallants of

Whitehall, of which there were many staying to see the Chancellor's

return, did talk to her in her bird cage; amongst others Blancfort (the

Marquis de Blanquefort), telling her she was the bird of Paradise."]

Two or three days passed, during which the plot ripened amidst the gossip

of the quidnuncs. To those of his more sober-minded counsellors, who spoke

for the Chancellor, the King professed much kindness for him, but "he had

made himself odious to the Parliament, and was no more capable to do him

service." The Lady, Arlington, and Bab May still honoured him by their

fervent denunciation, and by their sure prediction of his speedy fall.

Evelyn visited him the day after his interview with the King, and "found

him in his bedchamber, very sad." "He had enemies at Court," Evelyn goes

on, "especially the buffoons and ladies of pleasure, because he had

thwarted some of them and stood in their way; I could name some of them."

The next day Evelyn dined with him, and found him "pretty well in heart,

though now many of his friends and sycophants abandoned him." Clarendon

knew the world too well to be surprised or grieved by such abandonment, or

to allow it to affect his fortitude.

The Duke of York, none of the most adroit or persuasive of advocates,

still stood his friend, and endeavoured to bend the purpose of the King.

Sir William Coventry, always--although afterwards he disclaimed it to

Pepys--one of the most pronounced of Clarendon's enemies, found it

necessary to resign his post of secretary to the Duke, and the place was

filled by one whom Clarendon suggested. It may be doubted whether the

change was meant as more than an outward sign to Clarendon that he still

retained his son-in-law's respect. The fight between his friends and

enemies still proceeded apace. When the Duke of York attempted to stem the

tide against him, Charles only replied, "that he had gone too far to

retire; that he should be looked on as a child if he receded from his

purpose." Selfishness and love of ease blunted Charles's judgment; they

did not interfere with that obstinacy which was a dominant trait in the

family character. Only two days later he took the decisive step, and sent

Secretary Morrice with a warrant under the sign manual, to demand the

seal.[Footnote: The seal was entrusted to Sir Orlando Bridgeman, as Lord

Keeper.] The Chancellor delivered it "with all expressions of duty to the

King." If Charles felt the stings of conscience for his sorry action, he

could comfort himself with the congratulations of the Court pandar, Bab

May. That worthy fell upon his knees, kissed the King's hand, and told him

"that he was now King, which he had never been before." [Footnote: See

Pepys, _Diary_, November 11, 1667.] It was an odd change, from the

dignified loyalty of Clarendon to the fulsome flattery of Bab May. Even

the scanty pride that had survived in one degraded by sottish debauchery

might have been nauseated by the contrast.

Clarendon was mistaken if he thought that compliance with the King's

request had either satisfied the rancour of his enemies, or secured for

him the King's support. At first he hoped the storm was over, and after an

interval sufficient to show that he was conscious of no guilt, and sought

to hide himself from no inquiry, he intended to retire to the country, and

live as a private gentleman. He had no fear either of Parliament or of his

countrymen, and was ready to abide their question. He heard that the King

dreaded his assumption of the part of leader of a Parliamentary

opposition, and hastened to assure him that he had no such intention. His

friends still resorted to his house, and those who respected themselves

declined, at the bidding of an ignoble clique, to lessen the signs of

their respect for him. The King had not courage enough to forbid such

demonstrations; but at the instigation of his new confidants he sulked and

uttered vague hints, to which Clarendon's enemies gave open and more

definite utterance. They had secured the cordial alliance of Buckingham,

by persuading him that Clarendon had been at the root of his recent

prosecution. Thus reinforced they resolved to make their vengeance more

complete.

The King had induced Clarendon to yield, as the only means by which the

wrath of Parliament could be stayed, and that had undoubtedly been the

pretext put forward to the King by Arlington, and those who acted with

him. But now they went further. So long as Clarendon remained at liberty,

they dreaded his influence, and persuaded the King that he would spread

suspicion and disaffection, and would obstruct every design of the

Government. Charles was weak enough to believe a slander, which no one who

has studied Clarendon's life and character can for one moment accept, and

which Clarendon himself had expressly repudiated. When the Duke of York

expostulated, Charles shuffled and prevaricated after his wont. "All might

have been quiet, if only the Chancellor had been more practicable; but he

had delayed so long, that now the King was compelled 'in the vindication

of his honour,' to give some reason for what he had done." Those who

praised the Chancellor so loudly were reflecting upon himself. But if he

were freed from these inconvenient demonstrations, the Chancellor would

not suffer, and he would use his sons as kindly as ever, Charles was not

rancorous, but his gleams of good nature only mark his cowardice more

strongly.

In his Speech at the opening of Parliament on October loth, the King

attempted to smooth matters over. "There had been miscarriages;" but he

"had altered his counsels;" "what had been done amiss had been by the

advice of the person whom he had removed from his counsels, and with whom

he should not hereafter advise." No man ever betrayed a faithful servant

with more consummate self-abasement.

The House was asked by some to thank the King "for removing the

Chancellor," but it was thought premature to do so, and a committee was

appointed to draft a reply. The King--so Clarendon's enemies represented--

was offended by the omission, and the Court party pressed for a specific

vote, which should endorse his action in the dismissal. That was carried

after a keen debate, and by similar Court action it was pushed through the

House of Lords. The Duke remonstrated, but was told by the King "that it

should go the worse for the Chancellor if his friends opposed." We need

not be surprised that Charles doubled the weakness of the coward by the

allied blustering of the bully.

Again the King thought that he had satisfied the rancour of Clarendon's

enemies, and had vindicated sufficiently the petty jealousy which he

himself still felt at the memory of the Chancellor's sway. But he soon

found that he had to satisfy more exigent taskmasters. Clarendon's power,

they urged, was only scotched, not killed. His influence would soon be

supreme, and "he would come to the House with more credit to do mischief."

Grounds of accusation were greedily sought for, and readily supplied,

[Footnote: Briefly stated, these were--

1. That the Chancellor had advised the King to dissolve the Parliament and

said there could be no further need of Parliaments. That it would be best

for the King to raise a standing army, and govern by that.

2. That he had reported that the King was a Papist in his heart.

3. That he had advised the grant of a Charter to the Canary Company for

which he had received great sums of money.

4. That he had raised great sums of money by the sale of offices.

5. That he had introduced an arbitrary government into his Majesty's

several plantations.

6. That he had issued _quo warrantos_ against most corporations till

they paid him good sums of money.

7. That he received large sums for the settlement of Ireland.

8. That he had deluded the King, and betrayed the nation in all foreign

treaties.

9. That he had farmed the customs at under rates, in return for money.

10. That he had received bribes from the Vintners, to free them from

penalties due.

11. That he had raised a great state, and got grants of Crown lands.

12. That he had advised the sale of Dunkirk.

13. That he had caused letters under the great seal to be altered.

14. That he had arbitrarily raised questions of titles to land.

15. That he had been the author of the fatal counsel of dividing the fleet

in June, 1666.

16. That he had been in correspondence with Cromwell during the King's

exile.] and these contrivances soon resulted in a violent harangue from

Edward Seymour, who now made himself conspicuous in the attack upon the

fallen Minister. It is not easy to trace the special source of Seymour's

violence, but we can find sufficient to account for it in the character of

the man himself. He was of illustrious descent, as the head of the great

house of Seymour; [Footnote: Seymour was the direct representative of the

great Duke of Somerset, the Lord Protector; but the Dukedom had, by

special remainder, passed to a younger son, over the head of Edward

Seymour's ancestor. "You are of the family of the Duke of Somerset," said

William III. when he was first presented. "Pardon me, Sire," answered

Seymour, "the Duke of Somerset is of my family." ] possessed of abundant

wealth, and unbounded territorial interest in the west. But his birth and

wealth were accompanied by overweening pride and ambition, and by a

restlessness of rancorous temper that made him for more than a generation

a thorn in the side of every successive Government. With high ability, he

combined the character of a selfish voluptuary; and although possessed of

great wealth, his support was always to be bought by the offer of a place,

and he did not disdain the malpractices of a cozener in his eagerness to

increase his store. After serving as Speaker, he remained in the

Parliament, over which he had presided, as a captious and unruly partisan,

forgetting alike dignity and honour in his factious virulence. Such was

the spokesman chosen by Clarendon's enemies to frame the indictment. It

was enough for Seymour that the task seemed likely to gratify his own

ambition. His pride of birth and station no doubt gave a zest to the

attack upon one who had raised himself from the smaller squirearchy to the

place of foremost Minister. The Chancellor, he avowed vaguely, had

designed to govern by a standing army. Seymour swore that he would produce

ample proofs, and meantime he urged that a charge of treason should be

laid against Clarendon in the House of Lords. The wiser spirits, and those

who preserved some regard for the decencies of justice, refused to assent

to a course so flagrantly illegal, upon the unsupported clamour of an

arrogant youth.

After protracted debate a committee was appointed to examine precedents in

cases of impeachment. On October 29th, it presented its report, and

another keen debate ensued. Some argued that they should prefer a general

impeachment, without adducing any special charge; others, like Maynard,

argued that "common fame is no ground to accuse a man where matter of fact

is not clear; to say an evil is done, and therefore this man hath done it,

is strange in morality, more in logic." As a result, another committee was

appointed to reduce the charge against the Chancellor into heads; and that

committee then formulated their charges in seventeen heads. Again a debate

ensued upon these charges. They were discussed _seriatim_, and the

sixteenth head was reached without one being found to involve a charge of

treason.

But the zealots had now gone too far to turn back. Another of the band,

conspicuous for his profligacy even in a Court of libertines, Lord

Vaughan, the son of the Earl of Carbery, [Footnote: With bitterness, which

is perhaps pardonable, Clarendon gives him a line of unflattering

portraiture: "A person of as ill a face as fame, his looks and his manners

both extreme bad" (Clarendon, _Life_, iii. 317).] undertook to prove

another charge. The Chancellor, he avowed, had discovered the King's

secrets to the enemy. He was prepared to prove it, and, to stimulate the

virulence of those who were bent on Clarendon's ruin, Vaughan passed the

whisper along the benches, that this was in truth the source of the King's

anger against him. Charles, it would seem, had dissembled the cause of his

own jealousy to his Minister; he was content that it should be suggested

as a new incentive to that Minister's foes. Opposition was trampled upon,

and, with unseemly haste, on November 12th, Seymour was sent to the House

of Lords to impeach the Earl of Clarendon at the bar, and to desire that

his person be secured.

A new stage in the fight now began. The House of Lords, weak as, in

Clarendon's opinion, it had often been in yielding to the encroachments of

the Commons, yet contained many members who were not prepared to abandon

the very semblance of justice, and of dignified procedure, either at the

bidding of a Court clique, or before the unseemly rancour of a party in

the House of Commons. They urged that the demand of the Commons should be

peremptorily refused, and they maintained their ground so firmly before

the blustering of those who were ready not only to commit, but to convict,

the Chancellor, in obedience to the dominant faction, that the debate was

perforce adjourned. The delay continued, and the dispute raged fiercely.

To the persecution of the Chancellor there was now added the additional

zest of a struggle between the two Houses, All business was suspended

while the fight went on. The angry clique saw all their schemes

threatened, the King found his cherished ease disturbed; by some means or

other the wrangle must cease. To those who refused to bend to the storm,

hints were conveyed that they were incurring the anger of the King.

Desperate plans were discussed; and if other means failed, a guard of

soldiers might be sent to arrest the Chancellor and convey him to the

Tower. How far Charles was privy to these designs, it is impossible to

say. Reverence for the law would be no potent motive either to him, or to

the gang who had for the moment secured his confidence.

His friends urged Clarendon to make his escape. They saw the danger

increasing, and they guessed that no ill-timed interruption would be

placed in his way. Such an escape would relieve the King of a vexing

situation, and would satisfy those enemies who might, by means of it,

effectually destroy his reputation and his influence. An escape would

doubtless have been construed as an evidence of guilt; but to give way to

the malignity of his persecutors would at least have been better than

life-long imprisonment, or death upon Tower Hill. To yield to such advice

was not in keeping with Clarendon's character. He was eager to stand his

trial. Rightly or wrongly, he did unquestionably feel absolute confidence

in the support of his countrymen at large. Even were he proved to have

been mistaken, and were the power of his enemies greater than he reckoned,

he was yet ready to bear the consequences so long as his good name was

secure. Were he to fly, he would abase his pride before his foes, and

would give just ground for impugning his innocence. Nay, more, how could

he trust that he would not be captured at the first attempt to escape? It

might only be a trap laid by his enemies, who would bring him to trial

with that frustrated attempt as their securest evidence of his guilt.

Rumours were rife of the King's growing irritation, of the specific

charges to be preferred, of the proposed constitution of the commission by

which he was to be tried. The Duke of York, still faithful to the

Chancellor's cause, resolved to seek an explanation from the King. He

asked if his Majesty was determined either to have the Chancellor's life,

or his condemnation to perpetual imprisonment. Charles repudiated with his

usual facility, either idea, and swore that he wished the matter were

ended. Had the Chancellor, asked the Duke, ever proposed to govern by an

army? "Never," answered the King; "on the contrary, his fault was that he

always insisted too much upon the law." The Duke asked again, if he might

say as much to others. "With all my heart," said the King.

The statement of the King was creditable, and gave hopes to Clarendon's

friends. But when the words were repeated, they were found to be

disheartening to the conspirators, who thereupon carried their complaints

to the King. "They had tried to serve him, and now knew not how to behave

themselves." Their weapons would be gone, if the King indulged in such

inconvenient candour. The messenger was repudiated by the King with just

as much readiness as he had shown in giving his original assurances. The

Duke remonstrated, and the King's only answer was "that he would be more

careful hereafter what he said to him." The Duke might surely have learned

that the King's candid truths were often uttered only to be repudiated

when convenient.

Once more the petty scandals of licentious intrigue obtrude themselves at

the most critical juncture of a grave historic drama. In no transaction

where Charles was concerned could such sordid details be long absent. The

King's fancy had shortly before been attracted by a new denizen of the

"Lady's" drawing room, and he had become so infatuated with the charms of

Miss Stuart, [Footnote: Frances Teresa Stuart, born in 1648, was the

daughter of Dr. Walter Stuart, a cadet of the House of Blantyre. Her

father, an ardent Royalist, fled from the vengeance of Parliament, and

Frances was brought up at Paris, where her beauty and peculiar charm

attracted even royal attention. When she joined the household of Queen

Catherine in England, her loveliness captivated all hearts, and stirred

the fire of passion even in such a jaded voluptuary as the King. Her

subtle combination of virgin simplicity and adroit prudence only inflamed

him the more. For once he was consumed by an ardent love, and tortured by

a real jealousy. Hence his anger at the runaway match and all concerned in

it.

Frances Stuart steered her course with safety through many quicksands, and

died, not without honour, in 1702.] that he had seriously contemplated a

divorce, which might enable him to offer her those terms of lawful

marriage which could alone overcome her stubborn virtue, or her ambitious

prudence. Whether any such designs were actually entertained or not, the

amorous hopes of the King were speedily disappointed by the lady's

marriage with the Duke of Richmond. The royal lover was ignominiously

defeated in the only sort of rivalry which seriously touched him, and the

pride of the jaded voluptuary was more easily wounded than the honour of

the King. His vanity was ruffled, and nothing was easier for Clarendon's

enemies than to inspire Charles with the belief that his Chancellor had

arranged the marriage as the best means of stopping his licentious freak.

The story was absolutely untrue; but the certainty that it had been

conveyed to the King [Footnote: An accidental meeting of the King with

Clarendon's eldest son, Lord Cornbury, at the door of Miss Stuart's

lodging, contributed, it is said, to the King's belief of the Chancellor's

agency in the matter. Ludlow can have had no personal knowledge of the

circumstances. But he does not scruple to describe the marriage as a

contrivance of Clarendon, "that old Volpone." Volpone was a character in

one of Ben Jonson's plays.] induced Clarendon to write to Charles a letter

which might well have stirred remorse even in a heart as hardened by

selfishness as his--

"MAY IT PLEASE YOUR MAJESTY,

"I am so broken under the daily insupportable instances of your Majesty's

terrible displeasure, that I know not what to do, hardly what to wish. The

crimes which are objected against me, however passionately soever pursued,

and with circumstances very unusual, do not in the least degree fright me.

God knows I am innocent in every particular as I ought to be; and I hope

your Majesty knows enough of me to believe that I had never a violent

appetite for money that could corrupt me. But, alas! your Majesty's

declared anger and indignation deprives me of the comfort and support even

in my own innocence, and exposes me to the rage and fury of those who have

some excuse for being my enemies; whom I have sometimes displeased, when

(and only then) your Majesty believed them not to be your friends. I hope

they may be changed, I am sure I am not, but have the same duty, passion,

and affection for you that I had when you thought it most unquestionable,

and which was and is as great as ever man had for any mortal creature. I

should die in peace (and truly I do heartily wish that God Almighty would

free you from further trouble, by taking me to Himself) if I could know or

guess at the ground of your believing that I have said or done somewhat, I

have neither said nor done. If it be for anything my Lord Berkeley hath

reported, which I know he hath said to many, though being charged with it

by me he did as positively disclaim it; I am as innocent in that whole

affair, and gave no more advice or counsel or countenance in it, than the

child that is not born; which your Majesty seemed once to believe, when I

took notice to you of the report, and when you considered how totally I

was a stranger to the persons mentioned, to either of whom I never spake a

word, or received message from either in my life. And this I protest to

your Majesty is true, as I have hope in Heaven; and that I have never

wilfully offended your Majesty in my life, and do upon my knees beg your

pardon for any overbold or saucy expressions I have ever used to you;

which, being a natural disease in old servants who have received too much

countenance, I am sure hath always proceeded from the zeal and warmth of

the most sincere affection and duty.

"I hope your Majesty believes, that the sharp chastisement I have received

from the best natured and most bountiful master in the world, and whose

kindness alone made my condition these many years supportable, hath enough

mortified me as to this world; and that I have not the presumption or the

madness to imagine or desire ever to be admitted to any employment or

trust again. But I do most humbly beseech your Majesty, by the memory of

your father, who recommended me to you with some testimony, and by your

own gracious reflection upon some one service I may have performed in my

life, that hath been acceptable to you; that you will by your royal power

and interposition put a stop to this severe prosecution against me, and

that my concernment may give no longer interruption to the great affairs

of the Kingdom; but that I may spend the small remainder of my life, which

cannot hold long, in some parts beyond the seas, never to return, where I

will pray for your Majesty, and never suffer the least diminution in the

duty and obedience of,

"May it please your Majesty,

"Your Majesty's most humble and most obedient subject and servant,

"CLARENDON.

"_From my house this 16th of November._"

To our ears these words have something of exaggerated humility; as a fact

they only clothe in the formal language of the day, that overflowing and

sincere loyalty which Clarendon wore on a background of indomitable pride.

That pride was so fundamental, that the high-sounding adulation is made

almost more palpable by the evident restraint which he places upon his

underlying indignation. His love for the King was honestly felt; but it

was the fruit only of long past memories, of the tenderest associations of

his life, of his profound reverence for his first master. He scarcely even

recognized how utter was his contempt for the man himself, as he now was,

with all his vulgar licentiousness, all his superficial good nature, all

his essential selfishness and cynicism. Clarendon himself would have been

surprised had he known how much of that contempt he had unconsciously

revealed, by an occasional phrase, or a half-perceptible stroke of

sarcasm. The effect of the letter was plain enough, and it conveyed a

covert defiance from the fallen Minister, both to his faithless master and

to his triumphant foes. "Withdraw your charges, and I shall free you of my

presence, conscious of my own innocence; but do not expect that I shall

slip away like a scared criminal to avoid the consequences of my guilt, or

that your cowardly hints have power to move me."

Charles was free to accept the letter as a passionate appeal from a loyal

servant to all that there was of self-respect and honour in his breast. If

he so accepted it, he acted as only the boundless selfishness of cynicism

could have suggested. He read the letter, held it over a candle until it

was consumed, and then calmly said that he wondered that the Chancellor

did not withdraw himself. But, indeed, we can scarcely doubt that the King

was astute enough to see that the letter was, in truth, a note of

defiance. If he was to play the craven, Charles was bid to play it in the

light of day. To such a master of shuffling and evasion, the clear-sighted

determination which made Clarendon insist upon a point of form in

demanding an open order to depart, and which compelled his refusal to

allow a triumph to his foes, might well seem incomprehensible. The result

was only that Clarendon was besieged with new suggestions that he should

escape, by a flight which it was more than hinted would be connived at.

Charles's unkingly task was to bring about by hint and stratagem, what he

was not man enough to prescribe by order. He satisfied Clarendon's enemies

by openly proclaiming his anger at the Chancellor's delays; he kept up a

pretence of compunction to Clarendon's friends, and begged them to

persuade him how wise and prudent flight would be.

Herbert Croft, now Bishop of Hereford, was one of the emissaries of the

King. [Footnote: Croft belonged to a Roman Catholic family of some

importance. He had first been educated at St. Omer's, although afterwards

he was admitted to the Anglican Church, and became an object of Laud's

special patronage. This naturally secured to him the favour of Clarendon,

and, as a fact, Clarendon informs us that he had placed Croft under heavy

obligations. But the friendship had not continued. In later years Croft

showed latitudinarian tendencies in his writings, which may have been

apparent in his conversation at an earlier date, and may well have

alienated Clarendon. The fact, however, that Croft belonged to a family of

high rank and large possessions may still more probably have induced him

to feel jealous of the quick rise of the more plebeian Edward Hyde, and

may have bred ill-will between them.] He was no pleasing agent to

Clarendon. He was not churchman only, but also an aristocrat, of great

wealth, whose jealousy of Clarendon's newly acquired rank had made him,

like Seymour, keen to reduce the pride of one whom he deemed an upstart,

and led him to show ingratitude for Clarendon's early patronage. He sought

an interview with the Chancellor, through Clarendon's early and trusted

friend, George Morley, now Bishop of Winchester. He explained his mission

with all the awkwardness of one who had a double part to play. "He had

good authority for what he had to say." But he shunned any mention of the

King's name, until his more candid brother, the Bishop of Winchester,

blurted out, to Croft's annoyance, his previous confession to the Bishop

that he came by the orders of the King. He could not contradict the other,

but could only repeat that he could not be so mad as to interpose without

authority. The Chancellor was meant to infer the truth, but he was to have

no express assurance of it. All Croft could say was "that if Clarendon

would withdraw himself beyond the seas, he would pledge 'his own

salvation,' that no interruption to his journey would be given."

The Chancellor was inconveniently deaf to innuendoes. If he had the

commands of the King, or clear evidence that the King desired it, he would

face even the discredit of retreat. Without such orders or such assurance,

he would consult his own honour, and abide the issue. Clarendon was

determined to play only with the cards upon the table. Croft fell back

upon his former subterfuge, and at length it was agreed that Clarendon

should have a pass under the royal warrant which would ensure him against

misconstruction. So the interview ended.

But he had not sounded the depths of Charles's cowardice. Word came that

the King could not grant the pass; it would incense the Parliament; he

could not face the risk that he asked his aged and discarded servant to

run. Clarendon held to his former resolution. He would not obey even his

sovereign in a trick. His decision may have been stubborn and ill-advised;

it was at least courageous. His friends vainly sought to bend his will.

Ruvigny, the new French ambassador, who had come to deal with Clarendon as

first Minister, in his master's affairs, and had soon discerned his

altered situation, sent word to him of the intrigues he found at Court,

and advised his withdrawal to France, where he would find a ready welcome.

Clarendon remained immovable; and all the bluster of enemies, like

Seymour, who swore that the mob would wreak their vengeance on Clarendon's

adherents, failed to crush hia will. With a pardonable triumph, Clarendon

tells us how he scorned to take a mean advantage which offered itself

against his adversaries. Arlington had made many enemies by his insolence,

and Coventry was deeply involved in charges of malversation in dealing

with the monies of the navy, and in selling offices in the Admiralty.

Clarendon's friends urged him to divert the storm from himself by

betraying the misdeeds of these his foes. The suggestion was made in vain.

"No provocation," he declared, "should dispose him to do anything which

would not become him." These men were Privy Councillors, and of what he

saw amiss in them, he could inform the King. It was no business of his to

protect his own innocence by counter charges. He would leave them to their

fate. He would neither cower before the storm, nor divert it by spreading

scandal against others.

It seemed as if the deadlock between the two Houses, and the tortuous

twistings of the King and the angry faction that had acquired his

confidence, had come to an insoluble entanglement.

The knot was at length loosed by the Duke of York's intervention. James

had now recovered from an attack of small-pox, which had temporarily laid

him aside, and he received the personal commands of the King to "advise

the Chancellor to be gone." The Duke had no alternative but to convey this

message, through the Bishop of Winchester, to Clarendon. The King had

yielded to Clarendon's terms, so far as to send, through his brother, what

was next to a personal order. Hyde, however reluctant, had no alternative

but to obey. On the night of November 29th, he took coach, with two

servants only. A boat was ready for him at Erith, and he there embarked.

He had a stormy passage, which lasted three days and nights, and, sorely

against his will, as he knew the evil construction that would arise from

his resting on French soil, he was compelled to land at Calais.

When the Chancellor left, he deemed it right in the interests of his own

honour, to leave a letter of explanation, which was read to the House of

Lords by the Earl of Denbigh. [Footnote: An early friendship, long

interrupted by estrangement during the Civil War, perhaps accounted for

Clarendon's choice of an intermediary. Basil Feilding, in age a

contemporary of Clarendon, was the son of William Feilding, whose marriage

to the sister of the first Duke of Buckingham had procured him advancement

at Court and high rank in the peerage as Earl of Denbigh. That Earl had

joined the Royalist forces, and died of wounds received in battle in 1643.

His son had, in 1628, been called to the House of Lords as Lord Feilding;

but for some reason, in spite of his antecedents, and the strong

remonstrances of his family, he joined the side of the Parliament, and

became one of their leading commanders. When Commissioner at Uxbridge, in

1645, he renewed his old intercourse with Hyde, who formed a high estimate

of his abilities, and Denbigh explained to Hyde his desire to get rid of

his present allies, and do something for the royal cause. "If any

conjunction fell out," he said, "in which by losing his life he might

preserve the King, he would embrace the occasion, otherwise he would shift

the best he could for himself" (_Hist. of Rebellion_, viii. 246). He

was one of several peers whose pride was wounded, and whose resentment

against Parliament was aroused, by the injury to their own order. He took

no part in the King's trial, and gradually withdrew from the Parliamentary

side. In 1660, he managed to prove himself of sufficient use to the

Royalists, to secure indemnity, and a certain degree of favour. He

retained enough of his former reputation as an ally of Parliament to be

characterized by Ludlow as "a generous man, and a lover of his country."]

It grieved him, he said, that he should be the cause of difference between

the two Houses, and of obstruction to the business of the King. It was his

misfortune to stand accused of two charges, neither of which had any

foundation: that he had enriched himself wrongfully, and that he had been

sole and chief Minister, and was thus responsible for all miscarriages. As

to the first, he could only avow that he had received nothing, except by

the bounty of the King, beyond the lawful perquisites of his office, as

regulated by the traditions of the best holders of that office. For no

courtesies or favours, of which he had been the medium, had he ever

received as much as five pounds. He was now more than £20,000 in debt,

and, when his debts were paid, his estate was not worth two thousand a

year. All that he possessed did not amount to what the King in his bounty

had granted him--the gift of £20,000 when he first came over; £6000 from

the Crown estates in Ireland, and a yearly allowance to supplement the

scanty profits of his office. As Minister, he had only shared power and

responsibility with others; and it was notorious that, after the dismissal

of Secretary Nicholas, his influence had been greatly diminished. The new

appointments to the Privy Council had been, none of them, given to his

intimates, and many of them had gone to his most implacable enemies. As

for the mischief of the war, it had been undertaken against his earnest

advice, and his efforts to negotiate alliances, and to introduce order

into the conduct of the war, had been thwarted by the very men who now

charged him with the results of their own misdeeds. The conduct of foreign

affairs rested, not with him, but with the secretaries: and so far from

having been sole Minister, his advice had, of recent years especially,

been often opposed, solely because it was his. The storm now raised

against him was due only to his having discharged his duty without fear or

favour. He closes with these dignified words--

"This being my present condition, I do most humbly beseech your lordships

to retain a favourable opinion of me, and to believe me to be innocent

from those foul aspersions, until the contrary shall be proved: which I am

sure can never be by any man worthy to be believed. And since the

distemper of the time, and the difference between the two Houses in the

present debate, with the power and malice of my enemies, who give out that

I shall prevail with his Majesty to prorogue or dissolve this Parliament

in displeasure, and threaten to expose me to the rage and fury of the

people, may make me looked upon as the cause which obstructs the King's

service, and the unity and peace of the kingdom; I humbly beseech your

lordships, that I may not forfeit your favour and protection, by

withdrawing myself from so powerful a persecution, in hopes I may be able,

by such withdrawing, hereafter to appear and make my defence, when his

Majesty's justice, to which I shall always submit, may not be obstructed

or controlled by the power and malice of those who have sworn my

destruction."

Not now only, but in the later years of his lonely banishment, Clarendon's

unbending courage saved him from despair, and he continued to hope for

brighter days. [Footnote: In his preface to his commentary on the Psalms,

addressed to his children, in 1670, he still hopes "that I shall yet

outlive this storm."] But he underrated the rancour and the twistings of

his enemies. The very men who had used every device to force him to

retire, and who knew that he was at Calais, now hypocritically urged that

the ports should be stopped, and pretended to be eager for his

apprehension. The Commons urged that he should be committed, in absence,

on the general charge of treason. The Lords declined to accede to their

request, and, in impotent revenge, the Commons resolved that his apology

should be publicly burned by the hangman. In this innocuous resolution the

Lords were persuaded to concur.

From Calais Clarendon addressed the following memorable letter to the

University of Oxford:--

"GOOD MR. VICE-CHANCELLOR,

"Having found it necessary to transport myself out of England, and not

knowing when it will please God that I shall return again, it becomes me

to take care that the University may not be without the service of a

person better able to be of use to them, than I am like to be. And I do

therefore hereby surrender the office of Chancellor into the hands of the

said University, to the end that they may make choice of some other person

better qualified to assist and protect them than I am. I am sure he can

never be more affectionate towards it. I desire you as the last suit I am

like to make to you, to believe that I do not fly my country for guilt,

and how passionately soever I am pursued, that I have not done anything to

make the University ashamed of me, or to repent the good opinion they once

had of me. And though I must have no further mention in your public

devotions, which I have always exceedingly valued, I hope I shall always

be remembered in your private prayers, as, good Mr. Chancellor,

"Yours, etc., "CLARENDON. "Calais, Dec. 17, 1667."

Archbishop Sheldon, his life-long friend, was elected as his successor.

Clarendon stayed on at Calais, at a loss where he should turn. He knew the

suspicions which he might arouse, if he resorted to Paris, and meanwhile

wrote to the Earl of St. Albans, and desired to know whether he might

proceed to Rouen. The Earl of St. Albans acted as the representative of

the Queen Dowager, [Footnote: To whom he was generally believed to be

married.] and from her Clarendon could scarcely expect a cordial welcome.

St. Albans' reply was cold, but Clarendon learned both from him, and from

the Minister Louvois, that he had full permission to proceed to Rouen. At

first he received all courteous attention from the representatives of the

French Court. His only desire was to reach some mild climate before the

rigour of winter, which he was in no condition to sustain, should set in.

With all proper respect and escort, he passed on to Boulogne; from thence

to Montreuil, and next day to Abbeville. On Christmas Eve he reached

Dieppe, within a day's journey of Rouen. The gates of Dieppe were opened

at an unusually early hour next morning, at his request, to allow him to

begin that journey betimes. But, before he reached Rouen, a change had

come in his treatment by the French authorities. As he approached the

halting-place about noon, he was stopped by a gentleman on horseback, who

inquired whether "the Chancellor of England was in the coach," and, on

learning that he was, presented to him a letter from the French King,

desiring him to follow the directions which the bearer would give him.

These were, that his presence in France might occasion a breach between

the Crowns; that he was to make what speed he could to quit the dominions

of the king; and the bearer was to escort him, for his accommodation,

until he saw him out of France.

Clarendon was sorely perplexed by this unexpected message, which was

explained by the negotiations now on foot between the French and English

Crowns. It was with difficulty that he persuaded his appointed escort to

accompany him to Rouen, rather than return to Dieppe, which the escort

would have preferred as the shortest way out of France. The journey to

Rouen was a hard one, and the Chancellor was bruised by repeated

overturnings of the coach. He was in no state to make forced journeys, and

begged time to write to Paris, and ask for less stringent orders. With

difficulty this small concession was obtained. But the reply from the

French Court only brought more peremptory orders to expedite his

departure. His health was now grievously broken. The severity of the

weather, the rapidity of his journeys under the most trying conditions,

above all, the anxieties and perplexities of his position, had brought on

an aggravated attack of the gout, and he was unable either to stand or

walk. Again he pleaded for that delay and consideration which even the

most meagre courtesy and the barest humanity regard as the prerogative of

the sick. He had no wish to linger on the inhospitable soil of France, and

desired only to reach Avignon, so that he might be beyond the King's

boundary; but he begged at least to be allowed to rest at Orleans. The

reply was barbarous in its peremptoriness. "His Majesty was much

displeased that he had not made more haste; if he chose to pass to

Avignon, he might rest one day in ten, which was all his Majesty would

allow."

Meanwhile the virulence of his enemies at home was as relentless as the

barbarity of the French Court. The party which still adhered to him in

both houses was sufficiently large to be formidable to his opponents, who

could only feel themselves secure by his perpetual banishment. On the

pretext that he had fled from justice, a Bill of Banishment was passed

through both Houses, by which he was pronounced incapable of returning to

the country unless he surrendered before February 1st. It might have been

thought that it transcended even the bounds of Charles's shifty cowardice,

to give his assent to a Bill which imposed a punishment on his late

Minister, solely because he had done what the King commanded him to do.

But even to this depth the King descended. It was in vain that the Duke of

York urged that it was the King's own order that betrayed Clarendon into

making that escape from which his own judgment was so averse. Charles

could only plead "that the condescension was necessary for his own good,"

and that he must compound with those who would else press for worse.

Charles shared in that fantastic pride of his family that often betrayed

them to their fall; in him it was united with a depth of abasement to

which only the selfish libertine could descend. What is strangest of all

is, that a man guilty of such meanness should yet have attracted to

himself such wealth of generous loyalty.

When the news arrived that the Bill of Banishment had received the King's

assent, Clarendon resolved to make all haste back to England, before the

appointed day. All thought of Avignon was abandoned, and, at the risk of

his life, he pushed on to Calais. There he arrived on the last day of

January, a broken, and, it might well appear, a dying man. He was carried

helpless to bed, and there lay unable even to read the letters from

England, and incapable of thought and of speech. Even the wretched

emissary of the French Court, Le Fonde, was fain to leave him for a few

days, on what seemed to be his death-bed; but fresh orders compelled him

again to undertake the irksome task of harrying the sick-bed of a dying

man. "He must leave town next day; a few hours would carry him into

Spanish territory."

Clarendon's old heat of temper burst out once more. The conversation was

in Latin, and the Chancellor's sick brain did not at once supply him with

sufficient store of classical phrases to express his wrath. At last he

told the Court emissary "that he must bring orders from God Almighty, as

well as from the King, before he could obey." The struggle still went on:

on the one side, the unlucky envoy of the Court was compelled to pursue

his degrading persecution; on the other hand, Clarendon and his physicians

urged the murderous cruelty of the King's orders. At length, in a last

burst of passion, he told the King's messenger that, though the King was a

great and powerful prince, he was not yet so omnipotent as to make a dying

man strong enough to undertake a journey. The King might send him a

prisoner to England, or carry his dead body into Spanish territory; but he

would not be the author of his own death by undertaking a journey which

was beyond his powers. Le Fonde was left to do his best to reconcile the

ruthless orders of his master with Clarendon's resolute appeal to a power

higher than that of kings.

But of a sudden the scene changed. The negotiations between England and

France had failed, and the French Court no longer found themselves

compelled to sacrifice courtesy, and even humanity, in order to conciliate

a hopeful alliance. They had harassed Clarendon to please the English

Court; they were now to pay him every courtesy in order to show their

carelessness of English interests. The French Government had, perhaps,

found that a common hatred of Clarendon was not an enduring bond amongst

his enemies, and that the new administration of England rested on no very

secure foundation. A letter now reached him from the French Minister,

announcing that nothing was further from his Christian Majesty's wish than

in any way to endanger his health. All France was open to him, and the

King's subjects would have orders to pay him all honour. Le Fonde rejoiced

at this relief from a thankless task. He came now to say that he was to

attend the Chancellor, only to receive his orders.

This happy alteration relieved Clarendon of his worst anxieties. He was no

longer a hunted fugitive, but an honoured guest. The rancour of his

enemies in England, however bitter, had now spent its force, and he could

despise it. His sons still held their places at Court. His household now

attended him, and the savage provisions of the Act of Banishment no longer

prevented the easy passage of correspondence between Clarendon and his

family and friends.

He was still grievously ill, and for six weeks more be was confined to

bed. But as his health recovered he determined still to pass to Avignon,

by way of Rouen, and to take a course of the waters of Bourbon on the way.

He was not prepared to place undue trust in the new-found courtesy of the

French Court.

It was on April 3rd, 1668, that he was strong enough to begin his journey.

We are again reminded of the hardships of travel in the France of the

Grand Monarch, when we read of repeated overturnings of his coach, and of

perils both by land and water that pursued the poor Chancellor, even under

the careful escort of attentive Court messengers. It was not till April

23rd that he left Rouen, and the stay for the next day was at Evreux,

where he had a most untoward experience. It chanced that a company of

English sailors, who appear to have been serving as a mercenary troop of

artillery in the French army, heard of the Chancellor's arrival. The

drunken crowd got out of hand, and vague memories of the naval pay of

which they had been bilked prompted them to take vengeance for old arrears

upon the luckless Chancellor, whom they deemed responsible for all the

misdeeds of the Admiralty. Old echoes of "Dunkirk House," and the ill-

gotten gains of Ministers who fattened on the plunder of poor men, were

doubtless ringing in their muddled heads.

It would be absurd to attribute any political meaning to the incident, or

to suppose that it had any connivance from the French Government. The inn

where Clarendon alighted was attacked by the riotous mob. The local

magistrates were incapable of dealing with the riot, and were perplexed as

to the limits of their jurisdiction. Clarendon's attendants made what

defence they could, and Le Fonde, his former persecutor, and now his

courteous escort, received a dangerous wound in his defence. It was like

to go hard with the Chancellor himself. At the beginning of the fray, he

was struck a violent blow on the head with the flat of a broadsword. The

rioters used him with great violence, rifled his pockets and his baggage,

and dragged him into the courtyard to dispatch him with their swords. Not

a moment too soon, the commanding officer of the English sailors, with

some magistrates and a guard, broke into the inn, and rescued Clarendon,

when he seemed at the point of death. It looked as if his troubles were

not over; the magistrates were ready to fight upon the question of their

own jurisdiction, and would allow no one else to show that vigour of

resistance to the rioters of which they were themselves incapable. It was

only on Le Fonde's vigorous remonstrance, and his threats of the royal

vengeance on their remissness, that proper steps were taken for the safety

of the company. The Chancellor and his attendants obtained lodgings in the

neighbouring castle of the Duc de Bouillon. Having escaped from the perils

of the mob, Clarendon had to resist the equally dangerous designs of the

French physicians, who wished to perform the operation of trepanning. With

what haste he might, he pressed on to Bourbon, and, after some stay there,

he reached Avignon in June, Such satisfaction as he could find, in the

exemplary punishment of the rioters and in the gracious apologies of the

King, was readily accorded by his hosts of France.

At Avignon he reached a haven of refuge, where he might rest from the

troubled experiences of the year that was past. It had, indeed, been one

of trial sufficient to test the staunchest courage. Within little more

than twelve months, he had lost his oldest and most trusted colleague,

Lord Southampton. His home had been made desolate by the death of his

wife. He had seen the growing boldness of his enemies, had detected their

ruthlessness in falsehood and in knavery, and had found that his loyalty

to the Crown was to go for nothing, and that his trust in the honour of

the King was based on no sound foundation. Against his own judgment, he

had resigned the seal, in order that the King's business might prosper,

and that the bitterness of his enemies might be assuaged. When he had been

persuaded to resign, he had found that his resignation was to be a new

ground of triumph for his enemies, and that it was a foothold for a new

attack. By the threat of prosecution they strove to drive him to fly, and

when he refused to yield to their threats, they contrived to make the King

the agent in their knavish schemes, and procured from him the peremptory

message which made Clarendon quit the field. No sooner was he gone, than

the very flight which they had contrived was made the ground of new

accusations, and he was sentenced to perpetual banishment for avoiding a

trial for which no summons had been issued, no indictment laid, no

commitment made. Stricken down by illness, he could not meet their

challenge by the date enjoined, and the beginning of February found him a

proscribed exile, a persecuted fugitive, hounded from post to post, a

stricken invalid, longing for the release of death. A few weeks brought

some relief at least to the stout spirit that had borne so much. His

enemies at home had sped their last bolt, and were fast becoming absorbed

in their own sordid quarrels. The French King had abandoned the barbarity

of which his own servants were ashamed, and addressed the honoured exile

in terms of gracious and almost fulsome courtesy. That exile reached the

haven of Avignon, to be received there not only without any of the

annoyance of suspicious espionage, but with all the courtesies that could

be paid to an honoured guest. The Vice-Legate and the Archbishop vied with

one another in the formal stateliness of their reception. The consuls and

the magistrates attended him with all ceremony, and paid him their service

in a Latin oration. The Court of St. James's might reject him, but the

high functionaries of European diplomacy accorded to him all that tribute

of respect which was due to the man who had shaped the policy of the

restored English monarchy, and had raised the standard of English

statesmanship. Clarendon was not too proud to feel his sense of self-

complacency flattered by such homage, and we like him none the less

because he allows his satisfaction to appear.

Thus closes the political career which we have endeavoured to trace from

its first beginnings, through the period of long and arduous struggle,

amidst the clouds of exile and poverty, and once more in the full sun of a

triumphant restoration, largely contrived by his wisdom, and dominated by

his guiding hand. We have seen the disappointments that marred that

triumph, and the ignoble stain that smirched the ideal of a restored

monarchy which he had formed. We have seen how, one by one, his cherished

aims had been defeated, and how a King, the slave of selfish libertinism,

and a Court, the scene of gross debauchery and undisguised corruption, had

tempted him to despair of England. We have seen how high he bore himself

amidst the degraded crew, and how boldly he attacked the scandals of the

Court, and rebuked the craven self-indulgence of the King. We have marked

how the various factions that felt uneasy under his sway, gradually

coalesced into a rancorous opposition, that knew no bounds in the meanness

of their intrigues, and in the barefaced falsehood of their accusations.

We have seen how the King stooped to be their instrument, and allowed

himself to be the tool of their deceptions. Clarendon became an exile,

and, after a brief period of inhuman persecution from a false view of

diplomatic expediency, he received the homage of European Powers, as an

honoured guest. In honouring him, they showed what they thought of England

under the Cabal. Of what England lost in Clarendon, we can allow the

sordid history that followed his fall to afford a sufficiently sure and

graphic indication.

It is no part of Clarendon's biography to linger over the revolting

details of that disgraceful time. Even in Clarendon's day, the King had

lamentably failed to maintain his dignity or to discharge his task. His

life now outraged all decency, and his Court fell below the standard of

the common bagnio. His prime favourite and his chief Minister was

Buckingham, stained by every crime, at once coward and bully, haughty in

his arrogant insolence, and yet stooping to intrigues that would have

disgraced the veriest rogue from the hulks. In the course of what seems to

have been rather a riotous brawl, than an honourable duel--a brawl in

which seconds as well as principals took part, and in which more than one

life was lost--the King's First Minister killed Lord Shrewsbury, the

husband of his paramour. The town was filled with the scandal, but by the

personal influence of the King, it was withdrawn from the courts of law.

Buckhurst and Sedley, the chosen associates of the King in his notorious

bouts of drunken debauchery, roused disgust by a freak of sickening

lewdness; the only result was the committal to prison, by the order of the

Lord Chief Justice, and at the behest of the King, of the constable who

interfered with the indecent escapade. We have a proof of the change that

had come since Clarendon's controlling hand had gone, when we remember

that some three years before, the same Buckhurst, for a similar outbreak

of indecency, was rated in terms of scornful rebuke by the King's Bench

Judges, and was bound over to good behaviour by a bond of £5000. The

King's harem was augmented by a flower-girl, who had attracted attention

on the stage, and was the discarded mistress of two of the King's

associates. Clarendon lamented what he had seen, as a sad lapse from

dignity, a grievous fall from the ideals that he had hoped for. What

followed was nothing but a carnival of mad obscenity. Samuel Pepys was no

squeamish critic; but even he was moved to some earnestness of indignation

at the foul orgies in which Charles and his new associates indulged, in

shameless publicity. As was natural, such advisers were no careful

guardians of Parliamentary or popular liberty. What attention could be

spared from debauchery was given to degrading compacts by which the King

was to be the submissive pensioner of Louis; to plans for thwarting the

prerogative of Parliament; to secret intrigues for subverting the

Protestant religion. If the cost to England of his fall was to be measured

by the depth of dishonour, and the flagrantly treasonable plots, of those

who followed him, Clarendon was triumphantly vindicated, and his wrongs

were amply avenged.

In spite of the cordiality of his reception, Clarendon did not find

Avignon a desirable residence in the heat of summer. The streets had an

ill savour "by the multitude of dyers and of silk manufactures, and the

worse smell of the Jews," and he presently moved on to Montpelier, where

he made a lengthened stay. His reception was as courteous as before, and

this he ascribed to the good offices of Lord and Lady Mordaunt, old

friends whom he recommends to the good offices of his children. "When any

English came thither," he tells us, "none forbore to pay respect to the

Chancellor"; and, with a certain pride, he records how Sir Richard

Temple's refusal to visit Clarendon caused "a general aversion towards

him," so that he was compelled to quit the town, where "he left behind him

the reputation of a very vain, humorous, and sordid person." The good

Chancellor was not above the human capacity of a very cordial hatred, or

the inclination to feel piqued at a failure of kindly courtesy.

He was now at ease, and in peace of mind. His health, although undermined

by long and painful illness, was sufficiently restored to enable him to

indulge his old habits of intellectual activity. "It pleased God in a

short time, after some recollections, and upon his entire confidence in

Him, to restore him to that serenity of mind, and resignation of himself

to the disposal and good pleasure of God, that they who conversed most

with him could not discover the least murmur of impatience in him, or any

unevenness in his conversations." Clarendon is none the less lovable,

because a good conscience preserved for him his old self-complacency. His

studies were again renewed. He made himself master of the French language

so far as the reading of its literature was concerned. The power of

speaking the language he, like many another, found "many inconveniences

in." He made a competent progress also in Italian.

But his chief work was the preparation of his defences against the

seventeen clauses of the charges formulated against him in the Commons.

These were so extravagant that his accusers never sought to make them the

foundation of an indictment, and he had little difficulty in showing their

baselessness, and how much they contradicted the clearest features of his

policy, and the most notorious evidence as to his acts. The Vindication

carefully avoided anything that reflected on the King, and he left it to

his children, to whom it was conveyed by Lord and Lady Mordaunt, to choose

their own time for making it public. He was careful not to prejudice that

position at Court which they still owed to Charles's sense of justice.

His serenity was disturbed only by two lingering apprehensions. The first

was the insufficiency of his means to maintain the establishment which his

crippled health rendered necessary. For that he could only trust the

affection and piety of his children, who, he doubted not, would do their

best to transmit to him, from their estates or his own, enough to secure

the decencies of life in a foreign land. The other more serious

apprehension was the fear that the machination of his enemies might still

have power to prejudice the French Court against him. He saw enough to

know that that Court still viewed his presence on French soil with some

nervousness. He could only soothe his anxieties by his trust in

Providence, and by the company of his books. "God blessed him very much in

this composure and retreat."

He did not spare himself in his reflections on what had been amiss in his

own conduct. "There was nothing of which he was so ashamed, as he was of

the vast expense he had made in the building of his house." He could only

excuse, but not justify it. This is an old topic of accusation, to which

we have already alluded, but we may revert to it once again. Since the

Restoration, Clarendon had commanded little leisure to find a suitable

house, and had moved frequently from one to another. At first he had

resided at Dorset House, in Fleet Street, once occupied by Bacon, and

formerly the town house of the Bishop of Salisbury. From there he went to

Worcester House, [Footnote: The residence of the Marquis of Worcester

(previously Lord Glamorgan), and used by Cromwell during the Commonwealth]

for which he paid the large rent of £500 a year. After the Fire, he moved

to Berkshire House, in St. James (on the site of the present Bridgewater

House), which became known as Cleveland House when adopted as the

residence of Lady Castlemaine, then Duchess of Cleveland, in 1668. York

House, Twickenham, was assigned to him after the marriage of his daughter

to the Duke of York, and there the Princess, afterwards Queen Anne, was

born. It was only after many changes that he ventured, in the full tide of

his prosperity, and with the encouragement of the King, to provide a house

of his own; but his ignorance of architecture--and probably also his

absorption in weightier affairs--made him the victim of the architect,

[Footnote: The architect was Pratt. The house was built during Clarendon's

absence from London in the Plague year, when Parliament sat at Oxford.]

who estimated the cost at less than one-third of what it came to, which

was £50,000. He found himself not only involved in debt, but the mark of

envious scandal for the pride and ostentation of his dwelling. Yet when

its sale was proposed to him "he remained so infatuated with the delight

he had enjoyed, that, though he was deprived of it, he hearkened very

unwillingly to the advice." A lingering hope remained that he might still

live there, in all the pride of a restored good name. A weakness so

confessed may readily be forgiven. The harm it did was only to his own

estate. [Footnote: Evelyn, as we have seen (_ante_, p. 254) had

praised the house more guardedly than Pepys, but in a letter to Lord

Cornbury (Jan. 20, 1665/6) he speaks of it with perhaps courteous excess

of admiration. "Let me speak ingenuously," he says: "I went with

prejudice, and a critical spirit, incident to those who fancy they know

anything in art. I acknowledge to your Lordship that I have never seen a

nobler pile.... It is, without hyperbolies, the best contrived, the most

useful, graceful, and magnificent house in England." He enters into the

details of the building, and concludes thus: "May that great and

illustrious person, whose large and ample heart has honoured his country

with so glorious a structure, and by an example worthy of himself, showed

our nobility how they ought indeed to build, and value their qualities,

live many long years to enjoy it; and when he shall be passed to that

upper building, not made with hands, may his posterity (as you, my lord)

inherit his goodness, this palace, and all other circumstances of his

grandeur, to consummate their felicity."

Evelyn may best be allowed to tell of the passing of Clarendon's

architectural glory. It is in the _Diary_ for September 18, 1683.

"After dinner I walked to survey the sad demolition of Clarendon House,

that costly and only sumptuous palace of the late Lord Chancellor Hyde,

where I have often been so cheerful with him, and sometimes so sad;

happening to make him a visit but the day before he fled from the angry

Parliament, accusing him of maladministration, and being envious at his

grandeur, who, from a private lawyer, came to be father-in-law to the Duke

of York, and, as some would suggest, designing his Majesty's marriage with

the Infanta of Portugal, not apt to breed; to this they imputed much of

our unhappiness, and that he being sole Minister and favourite at his

Majesty's restoration, neglected to gratify the King's suffering party,

preferring those who were the cause of our troubles. But perhaps as many

of those things were injuriously laid to his charge, so he kept the

Government far steadier than it has since proved. I could name some who, I

think, contributed greatly to his ruin, the buffoons and the _misses_, to

whom he was an eye-sore. 'Tis true he was of a jolly temper after the old

English fashion; but France had now the ascendant, and we were become

quite another nation. The Chancellor gone, and dying in exile, the Earl

his successor sold that which cost £50,000 building to the young Duke of

Albemarle for £25,000, to pay debts which how contracted remains yet a

mystery, his son being no way a prodigal.... However it were, this stately

palace is decreed to ruin, to support the prodigious waste the Duke of

Albemarle had made of his estate since the old man died. He sold it to the

highest bidder, and it fell to certain rich bankers and mechanics, who

gave for it and the ground about it £35,000; they design a new town as it

were, and a most magnificent piazza.... See the vicissitudes of earthly

things!"

In June of the following year Evelyn found streets and buildings--Bond

Street and Albemarle Street--encroaching on the beauty of the site. The

fall of Clarendon House had tempted Lady Berkeley to turn her gardens into

squares, and she actually realized the then amazing amount of £1000 a year

"in mere ground rents"! "To such a mad intemperance has this age come of

building about a city by far too disproportionate already to the nation."

If Evelyn's ghost still haunts the scene, what are its reflections now?]

At the date of his banishment, Clarendon was not an old man, as age is

generally reckoned. He had not yet reached the age of sixty years, which

finds many men in possession of their full powers. But ill health,

anxiety, long years of hardship and incessant labour, had combined to make

him prematurely old. For a time, indeed, it seemed as if he could only

survive his fall by a few weeks or months, and as if his work were to

finish when he left his country for the last time. But his indomitable

energy, and the brave spirit that sustained him, brought back first a

tolerable measure of good health; then serenity of mind; and, lastly, that

industry which opened to him, in the reading and in the making of books, a

new world from which all the sordid pettiness, and the infinite

annoyances, of the political arena were banished. There is but little more

to tell of that strenuous life, which had seen so much of storm and

tempest, varied by gleams of sunshine, and, above all, illuminated by an

imagination so rich, and by an historic sense so gorgeous and so inspiring

to a man whose life was spent in making history. From what his pen has

left us, from that incomparable history where the scenes in which he had

played so great a part, and the actors amongst whom he had moved, are

portrayed with such dramatic force, we can easily picture to ourselves how

vivid were Clarendon's memories, and how richly the days of his retirement

were peopled with the thoughts of what had been. The respect paid to him,

the homage accorded to his great achievements and his great name, were not

merely soothing to his personal vanity--they served to bring him closer to

those historic scenes in which he had moved. He had still the invaluable

treasures of industry and hope. He could still add to that which he would

leave to his world; he could still hope that he might see his country, and

be honoured as of old by his countrymen. We must accept Clarendon as

nature made him. For him life was a large stage, on which he must act his

part with dignity. Like Ulysses, he "was a part of all that he had known";

he could not rest from effort; if he could not act great deeds, he could

still wield his pen in stately eloquence.

It was, he tells, the third of the retreats from a life of trouble and

vexation, which Heaven had granted him, and which he reckoned amongst his

choicest blessings. After the storms of the Civil War, he had one such

retreat at Jersey, when the Prince had, much against his advice, left for

France. In that first retreat he had gained much. He learned to know

himself better, and other men more truly. His youth had been engaged in

company and conversation, and in the full tide of early success at the

bar, followed by absorption in the turmoil of politics, he had moved on

the quick current, and had not had leisure for contemplation, or for

studying the ways of men. His early life had been one "of ease and

pleasure and too much idleness"; it was only the instinct of association

with men whom he could respect, that preserved him from "any notable

scandal," and made him live, as he naively tells us, at least

"_caute_, if not _caste_." Too much idleness he had exchanged for

too much business. The retreat at Jersey had come just when it was well

"to compose those affections and allay those passions, which, in the

warmth of perpetual actions, and chafed by continual contradictions, had

need of rest, and cool and deliberate cogitations." He learned "how blind

a surveyor he had been of the inclinations and affections of the heart of

man," and how warily he must walk who would avoid the pitfalls of human

intercourse.

The next retreat came during the two years of his Embassy in Spain. It

gave him a respite from the petty, but none the less rancorous, bickerings

of the exiled Court. It offered him a new period of intercourse with his

books. It opened a new world to him in the intricacies of European

diplomacy. Above all, it allowed him once again to renew that spirit of

fervent religious devotion, which always served as the background of his

busy life.

Now, in this the third of his retreats, spent and wearied, and, as it

might seem, baffled, he could find consolation in the opportunity of once

more adding to his intellectual stores, enriching his bequest to the

world, and amplifying the proud record which should serve as his

vindication to posterity. In his "Devotions on the Psalms," in his replies

to Cressy and to Hobbes, in a crowd of miscellaneous essays on those

general ethical topics which were suited to the taste of that day, and

have proved singularly ill-adapted to the taste of our own; above all, in

the completion of his great _History of the Rebellion_, with which he

incorporated his autobiography, Clarendon found abundant employment for

his crowded leisure.

He remained at Montpelier until June, 1671, and thereafter resided at

Moulins, until the spring of 1674. He had the comfort of abundant friends,

of frequent correspondence, and of occasional visits from his sons, Lord

Cornbury, and Lawrence Hyde. [Footnote: Lawrence Hyde is always referred

to as "Lory" in his father's correspondence. He became Earl of Rochester.]

The management of his property, so far as he could carry it out in exile,

was a source of some annoyance, but doubtless also helped to keep alive

his hope of a return to his country and his home. We have no details of

his life in exile. We only know enough to show that it was one of no

listless indolence, no craven depression, and no vain repining. Clarendon

died, as he had lived, with energy unconquered, with hope unabated, still

clinging to all that made human life more noble in action, more stately in

its ordering, more lofty in its ideals. Alike by temperament, by training,

by all that had roused his enthusiastic devotion, and attracted his

passionate loyalty, and by the moulding of a long experience of struggle

and of suffering, he was apt to frame these ideals on the historic records

of the past. It was not his to strike out daring enterprises or to

initiate sweeping reforms. He built upon the associations that had been

handed down to him. But the memory of his achievements, marred and blurred

as these were by sordid surroundings, ignoble intrigues, and the

disappointments that tried his loyalty, was none the less precious; nor

was the inheritance of his literary accomplishment the less valuable. Can

England point to one who at once filled a larger part in her history, and

left a more enduring monument in the annals of her literature?

Vexations still came to him in these closing years of exile. He had the

bitter mortification of learning, on evidence which he strove to think was

not fully proved, that his daughter had betrayed the traditions of his

house and of his teaching, and had been persuaded to accept those

doctrines of the Roman Catholic Church, which he held to be false to the

truth, and dangerous to the welfare of his country. In dignified words, he

strove to turn her from that error with all the weight of a father's

authority, which her exalted position as the wife of the Heir Presumptive

did not, in his view, weaken or control; but he heard of her death on

March 3lst, 1671, in the thirty-fourth year of her age, as the avowed

adherent of a Church of which he had all his life been a convinced

opponent. In June, 1671, through his son Lawrence, then returning from a

visit to Moulins, he addressed a letter to the King, beseeching him, in

memory of all his tried service and his devoted loyalty, to allow that he

should return to die in his own country. In August, 1674, he again

addressed the King, the Queen, and the Duke of York, in words of still

more earnest entreaty.

"Seven years," he wrote to the Queen, in asking her aid, "was a time

prescribed and limited by God Himself for the expiration of some of his

greatest judgments, and it is full that time since I have with all

possible humility, sustained the insupportable weight of the King's

displeasure, so that I cannot be blamed if I employ the short breath that

is remaining in me, in all manner of supplication, which may contribute to

the lessening this burthen that is so heavy upon me. I do not presume to

hope ever to be admitted to your Majesty's presence. Though I have all

imaginable duty, I have no ambition, and only pray for leave to die in my

own country amongst my own children, which I hope his Majesty will at some

time vouchsafe to grant."

"It is now full seven years," he wrote to the King, "since I have been

deprived of your Majesty's favour, with some circumstances of

mortification which have never been exercised towards any other man, and

therefore I may hope from your good nature and justice, that a severity

which you have never practised upon any other man for half the time, may

be diminished in some degree towards me."

He prays "that you will at least signify your consent that I may return to

beg my bread in England, and to die amongst my own children." In terms as

strong and moving he besought the mediation of the Duke of York. But these

appeals, which might have touched the heart of the sternest tyrant, fell

dead upon the selfish cynicism of Charles, deaf at once to the calls of

honour, and to the gratitude due to unswerving loyalty. They met with no

response.

In the spring of 1674, Clarendon moved to Rouen, indulging the hope of a

return to his country and his home, and eager to be nearer to answer any

summons sent by a relenting sovereign. But no such summons came, and the

weary exile was now at the end of his brave and strenuous labour. On

December 9th, 1674, he breathed his last. His son, Lord Cornbury, was

present at his deathbed, having been summoned when the end was near. The

French Court had granted him the privilege of making testamentary

provisions, which otherwise would not have been possible to him as a

foreigner on French soil. His will was dated on December 11th (French

style [Footnote: December 1st, according to the English calendar.]), but

it related only to his writings and papers, with which his heirs were to

deal subject to the advice of his old friends, Sheldon, Archbishop of

Canterbury, and Morley, Bishop of Winchester. He had probably disposed of

his other property by earlier gifts. His body was brought to England, and

was buried in the Henry VII. Chapel at Westminster. No monument marks the

spot where the great Minister rests amongst the monarchs whose throne he

served so well. [Footnote: The name was inscribed on the site of the

family vault, under Dean Stanley, in 1867. Clarendon's mother had been

buried there in 1661; and afterwards his third son, in 1664. It is at the

foot of the steps to Henry VII.'s Chapel.] We have endeavoured, from the

varied episodes of his life of strange vicissitude, and from the records

of his strenuous action, of his undaunted courage, and of his well-tried

loyalty, to draw the portrait of Lord Clarendon, to describe his character

as we conceive it, and to vindicate his place in history. We have not

sought to conceal his foibles, nor to palliate what may appear to some to

be his prejudices. We are concerned mainly to claim for him, as the first

of a long line of Conservative statesmen, a high ideal of statecraft, a

lofty patriotism, and a clear-sighted honesty of purpose. We admit,

without considering it necessary to apologize for, that impetuous temper,

which does not make us love him less, and those traits of self-complacency

which were a part of his fearless candour, and in no wise detract from the

dignity of his nature. We have tried to portray the secret of his

influence, his genius for friendship, and the wide range of his outlook

upon the drama of history. We have abundant evidence of the impression of

his personality upon life-long friends, and even upon doubtful critics.

"He spoke well," says Burnet: "his style had no flaw in it, but had a just

mixture of wit and sense, only he spoke too copiously; he had a great

pleasantness in his spirit, which carried him sometimes too far into

raillery, in which he sometimes showed more wit than discretion."

That is the verdict of an acute, but at best a lukewarm, judge. Elsewhere

Burnet writes:

"Upon the whole matter, he was a true Englishman, and a sincere

Protestant, and what has passed at Court since his disgrace has

sufficiently vindicated him from all ill designs."

"Sir Edward Hyde," writes Sir Philip Warwick, "was of a cheerful and

agreeable conversation, of an extraordinary industry and activity, and of

a great confidence, which made him soon at home at a Court... He had a

felicity both of tongue and pen, which made him willingly hearkened unto

and much approved." [Footnote: _Memoirs_, p. 196.] "I am mad in love

with my Lord Chancellor," says Pepys, "for he do comprehend and speak out

well, and with the greatest ease and authority that ever I saw man in my

life. I did never observe how much easier a man do speak when he knows all

the company to be below him, than in him."

The gossipping diarist was no inapt observer of the ways of men, and had

no small experience. Evelyn was a more attached and grateful admirer. To

him, the great Chancellor was "of a jolly temper, of the old English

fashion." Yet Evelyn had known Clarendon when his courage was most tried,

when his hopes were baffled, and when the sordid crowd of courtiers and

profligates had baited him almost to the death. It is little touches like

these that fill in the picture of the man.

Of his literary achievement this is not the place to speak. It has a

secure and proud niche in the annals of our literature. We have tried to

present him as the Statesman and the Man of Action, and as the tried, the

faithful, and the ungrudging, friend.