Causes which render the Theory probable that makes Monmouth the Man
with the Iron Mask--Political Position of Monmouth--His Portrait--He
is persuaded to revolt against his Uncle James II.--He lands near Lyme
Regis--His first Successes--Enthusiasm with which he is received--His
premature Discouragement--His Defeat at Sedgemoor--His shameful
Flight--He is captured and taken to London--Cowardly Terrors of the
Prisoner--His Interview with James II.
“It has been asserted,” says M. de Sévelinges, in an article of the
_Biographie Universelle_,[148] “that the famous Man with the Iron
Mask was no other than the Duke of Monmouth. Of all the conjectures
that have been made upon this subject, it is perhaps one of the
least unreasonable.” M. de Sévelinges says truly that in favour of
this candidate for the honour of being the Man with the Iron Mask,
if we cannot invoke one of those decisive proofs which enforce
conviction, there are at least several indications which seem to unite
in designating him, and in forming what the English call cumulative
evidence. The greatness of the crime to be punished, the powerful
interest there was to effect the disappearance of this leader of
revolt, and carry him off for ever from his partisans, the persistent
incredulity of the people respecting his death, his near relationship
to James II., which renders the penalty of perpetual imprisonment
more probable than that of death, are so many circumstances which, in
certain respects, justify the opinion put forth in the last century by
Saint-Foix, and explain the obstinacy of this publicist in defending it.
Monmouth is one of those historical personages who have been very
variously, and in some degree contradictorily, appreciated. Placed
at the head of a party which, from the first days of the reign of
James II., sought to overthrow a king who remained a Catholic in the
midst of a nation almost entirely Protestant; having attempted in
1685 a revolution which, three years later, was to be accomplished
with perfect success by a prince better endowed and much more apt in
playing this great part, Monmouth has incurred the blind enmity of
the Catholics, and met with excessive praise from their adversaries.
Unjustly vilified by the one party, insulted beyond measure by the
other, he has been represented on the one side as an adventurer
devoid of all qualities, and rashly engaging against his uncle in a
mad enterprise fatally condemned to insuccess. Others have seen in
him the glorious defender of the interests of the Anglican religion,
threatened by the sovereign, the worthy precursor of William of Orange,
the champion of the true faith, whose failure is to be ascribed to
unforeseen circumstances and the incapacity of his lieutenants. The
same contradiction that exists in the judgments passed upon his attempt
is to be found in the opinions given by his biographers as to his
origin. Whilst some deny that he was the natural son of Charles II.,
and give us to understand that Lucy Walters was already pregnant with
him when she became the mistress of the exiled Stuart, others are
inclined to see in Monmouth his legitimate offspring, the issue of a
regular marriage contracted during his exile by a king deprived of his
crown, very thoughtless, and madly in love. As always is the case, the
truth lies between these two extremes of disparagement and favour.
Charles II. constantly showed the love of a father for Monmouth; but if
a marriage had united him to Lucy Walters, the proofs would not have
remained hidden in the famous “black box” in which Monmouth’s friends
supposed them to be. Brought to light, they would have allowed Charles
II., deprived of other legitimate descendants, to indulge his fondness
for a son, an accomplished gentleman, and already the object at
Whitehall of several distinctions reserved only for royal princes,[149]
and to whom only legitimacy was wanting for him to be universally
received as the heir-presumptive to the throne. During his father’s
reign he enjoyed, in fact, a popularity which not even great defects
had been able to compromise, and which the hatred inspired by the Duke
of York increased. People detected in the latter a future king entirely
devoted to the Papists, and loved still more in Monmouth a prince of
engaging and courteous manner, distinguished without haughtiness,
sometimes familiar, but without lowering himself, less effeminate
in his manners than his royal father,[150] and whose libertinage,
fiery character, and acts of violence, were pardoned in remembrance
of his brilliant military exploits, in consideration of his past, and
the hopes that were based upon him. But the position at which he had
arrived was far above his merits. His birth and the attractions of his
person had raised him to it. As long as his father lived he maintained
himself in it, supported by the interested affection of the Whigs,
and never having to display any qualities but those he was liberally
endowed with. When, at the death of Charles II., it was necessary for
him to exhibit not only the gifts which had made him the idol of the
people, but the talents requisite to accomplish a revolution, and
to seize upon a crown, the mediocrity of his faculties soon became
apparent. Intrepid upon the field of battle, he lacked decision in
the council, and wavered irresolute between contrary suggestions. His
natural kindness, which had won him the love of the people, sometimes
degenerated into weakness. Of a very malleable disposition, he yielded
too easily to the influence of others, and was often only the executant
of their will. His ardour in action, above all, arose from the contact
of those surrounding him. He hardly ever derived it from his own
powers, and, left to himself, he readily sank into indolence. When he
learnt in Holland the accession of James II., which closed England to
him, he could form no manly resolution, and forgot[151] in the company
of a loved woman[152] that he was the hope of a numerous party, the
support of a great cause, the pretender to a throne. This inaction
had its source in his carelessness and in his indolence of mind, much
more than in a taste for obscurity; for he did not long resist the
prayers of his friends when they came to drag him from his retreat and
arm him against James II.,[153] and not having had sufficient energy
to conceive the enterprise himself, he equally lacked the resolution
to object to it. Such was the man whose coming a notable part of the
English nation longed for, who was about to shake a throne, but without
succeeding in overthrowing it; because he had neither the profound
views nor the persevering audacity with which great ambitions ripen and
execute their projects.
On June 11, 1685, Monmouth, accompanied by eighty men well armed,
landed on the coast of Dorsetshire, near the little port of Lyme. The
result of this expedition is a matter of history. There is no need
to recount the triumphant march to Taunton, the enthusiasm of the
West, the fatal field of Sedgemoor, and the ignominious flight of the
leader of the insurgents.[154] Some days afterwards a man in tattered
garments, with haggard face and hair prematurely white, is dragged
from a ditch, at the bottom of which he was crouching, half hidden by
the long grass and nettles, trembling and livid with fear, his pockets
filled with peas gathered to satisfy the cravings of ravenous hunger.
It was the darling of Charles’s court, the hero of Bothwell Brig, “King
Monmouth.”
Finding himself in the power of a monarch whom he had come to
overthrow, whose real faults he had not only pointed out, but whom he
had also calumniated by accusations as infamous as unmerited, Monmouth
did not understand that he was lost, and that James II., always
inexorable, would not feel for his most cruel enemy a pity that was
unknown to him. Self-respect and his own dignity should have prohibited
the vanquished from appealing to the clemency of his conqueror, even
had this clemency been at all probable. But mere reason indicated that
to ask mercy of James II. would only be a useless abasement, and that
there was nothing left but to prepare for death. Monmouth had neither
the courage nor the wisdom to reject the thought of an unavailing
humiliation. He wrote to James II. in the most abject terms.[155] His
letter was that of a man crushed by the approach of death, and who
sacrifices to the desire of living his past, his honour, those whom he
had sought to gain over without succeeding, as well as the partisans
whom he had conducted to their ruin. This was not all: no longer
able to arrest himself in his ignominious descent, he desired to see
James II., and the latter was sufficiently inhuman to consent to an
interview, which it was his unalterable will should remain sterile.
Not to spare such an enemy was justified to a certain extent by the
violence of his attacks; but to admit him to his presence without
pardoning him was a refinement of vengeance and harshness. He enjoyed
the barbarous pleasure of seeing his redoubtable adversary confounded,
falling at his feet, embracing his knees, shedding bitter tears, vainly
trying to hold out his fettered hands to him, acknowledging and cursing
his crime, offering to abjure his religion, and become a Catholic,[156]
beseeching pardon, pardon at any price. To this eagerness for life, to
these supplications James II. only opposed silence, and turning away
his head he terminated an interview, in which we hardly know whether
to feel most indignant at the cold cruelty of the conqueror or at the
degrading terror and cowardly humiliation of the vanquished.
It is at this moment that Saint-Foix, introducing Monmouth into this
problem, gives him Louis XIV. for a guardian, Saint-Mars for a gaoler,
and the prison of Pignerol for a residence.
FOOTNOTES:
[148] _Biographie Universelle_ of Michaud, article “Monmouth.”
[149] He resided in the King’s palace, had pages, and when he travelled
was everywhere received like a prince. Charles II. created him
successively Earl of Orkney, Knight of the Garter, and Duke of Monmouth.
[150] Grammont says of Monmouth in his _Mémoires:_ “His face and the
graces of his person were such that Nature has perhaps never formed
any more accomplished. His countenance was perfectly charming. It was
the face of a man; nothing insipid, nothing effeminate about it. Every
feature had its attraction and its especial delicacy. A marvellous
inclination for all kinds of exercises, an engaging manner, an air of
grandeur--in short, all bodily advantages pleaded in his favour; but he
had no sentiment except such as was inspired by others.”
[151] Letter from Monmouth to James, dated from Ringwode, quoted by
Macaulay, _Histoire d’Angleterre depuis l’Avénement de Jacques II._,
translation of M. de Peyronnet, vol. i. p. 398.
[152] Lady Henrietta Wentworth.--_Trans._
[153] Burnet, vol. i. p. 630.
[154] M. Topin’s narrative has been here condensed, as it was hardly
necessary to repeat to English readers the well-known story of
Monmouth’s futile enterprise, more especially as it has no kind of
bearing on the point as to whether he was or was not the Man with the
Iron Mask.--_Trans._
[155] _Original Letters_ of Sir H. Ellis; Newspapers of the period;
Despatch of the French Ambassador Barillon, July 13, 1685.
[156] Letter of James II. to the Prince of Orange, July 14, 1685; _Sir
J. Bramston’s Memoirs_, related by Macaulay; Burnet, vol. i. p. 644.