THE DAY OF DAYS.
A cloudless sun rose upon the 2d of June, 1780. Before six o'clock a
large crowd filled Saint George's Fields and the neighborhood. A certain
number of the men sought each other and stood in groups as if in
obedience to a previous word of command. They talked together in low
tones and wore a sombre air of resolution. A great number of humble folk
and shop-keepers had come hither at the request of their clergymen,
convinced that they were destined to do a pious work in repulsing the
religious joke of which their fathers had rid themselves; though from
their very bearing it was evident that these worthies were ready to do
more barking than biting. A multitude of the curious surrounded them,
resolved to see the show out, though it should cost them a cracked pate
or two. Occasionally a face betrayed fierce expectation of disorder, a
sort of presentiment of what might occur; but the great day still hung
heavily on their hands, and the men felt that their hour had not yet
come, and that they must leave it to the psalm-singers and idlers to
lead the way. About eleven o'clock Lord George Gordon appeared, and was
received with acclamation. Mounted upon a table, he delivered some words
which were quite lost, but his desperately energetic gestures were seen
and were responded to with cries of "Down with popery!" "Death to the
papists!"
The leaders passed from place to place endeavoring to enforce order in
this vast assemblage of men animated by such contrasting sentiments, but
scarcely had they turned their backs ere the confusion was renewed. At
last they succeeded in forming four main bodies, which, taking different
ways, crossed the Thames upon three bridges,--Westminster, Blackfriars,
and London Bridge.
[Illustration]
At the head of this last column marched Reuben Marsham, whose fine,
menacing face, flashing eyes, and floating yellow locks attracted
universal attention, especially among the women. Men bore before him
several banners upon which was emblazoned the legend, "No popery!"
Behind came a silent phalanx of fanatical sectarians, who ordered their
marching-step to the slow measures of a religious chant. The crowd
followed in clamorous disorder, struggling with a thousand emotions,
like a tempestuous flood-tide sweeping between the walls of the narrow
streets. From the windows and the thresholds of the shops a curious,
amused, but perfectly peaceful horde of people watched the progress of
the procession.
Here and there a philosopher or practical man would shrug his shoulders,
murmuring, "Fanatics!" or, "Still another working day wasted!" But the
majority sympathized with the object of the expedition, and saluted the
passage of the manifesto with answering cries of "No popery!"
No effort was made to interfere with the proceedings; not a red-coat nor
an officer of police appeared. What could all the watchmen in
London--those timid, innocent watchmen--have availed against such a
multitude, even though they had been united in one solid troop? As for
the soldiers, they were only called out as a last resort.
Reuben crossed Ludgate Hill without obstacle, went up Fleet Street, and,
having passed through old Temple Bar, entered the Strand. As a river
receives its affluents, the column constantly grew larger through the
human currents which joined it from the north and swept into it from the
side-streets. In front of houses where well-known Catholics dwelt the
procession would pause while, amidst groans and cries of execration from
the crowd, men slashed the doors with a chalk-mark, which designated the
places for approaching vengeance.
Having followed the Strand to its end, traversed Charing Cross, and
passed through Whitehall, the procession spread over Westminster Place,
which, despite its somewhat confined dimensions and the buildings which
obstructed it, nevertheless offered a favorable stamping-ground for such
popular displays. The other bodies had already arrived at the
rendezvous, and being united formed an immense, compact mass which
nothing could resist. The crowd, proud of its power, gave voice to a
long acclamation, above which isolated voices were heard, and which
caused every window in Westminster to rattle.
The afternoon being far advanced, the hour of the meeting approached.
The members of the two assemblies who had not taken time by the forelock
and reached the House of Parliament were recognized as they courageously
tried to penetrate the crowd, were marked out, abused, and beaten; but
the popular hatred was particularly directed against the orators,
ministers, and prelates, who were roundly accused, as they made their
appearance, of betraying the cause of religion and of selling England to
the Pope. With their carriage windows broken, their horses wildly
snorting, their coachmen purple with rage or pallid with fear and
deprived of their whips and reins, their terrified footmen clinging to
the straps behind, the coaches swayed like ships in distress upon this
furious human sea. They cracked and oscillated, until it was quite a
wonder they were not overturned. The unfortunate occupants were torn
from their seats and dragged over the pavements by the legs, arms, and
even by their powdered cues. "Kill them! Drown them!" was the cry. Lord
North, Lord Sandwich, the Archbishop of York, and several others thus
saw imminent death staring them in the face, and escaped it only by
their presence of mind or the energy of their friends. The crowd grew
intoxicated with success, but more particularly with the gin and the
beer which were dispensed in floods by the publicans of the
neighborhood. Who could foretell to what point of excess the affair
would be carried?
One after another the members of Parliament succeeded in joining their
colleagues. With their frills and ruffles in streamers, soiled with mud
and blood, they bore ample testimony of the violence to which they had
been subjected. Each one regarded the event according to his particular
humor; some laughed and swore, while others, grinding their teeth and
pale with rage, silently wiped their faces where they had been wounded
by the missiles, or their lacerated ears, which dripped blood upon their
fine attire. All these men bore the sword; many had used it; the
majority had risked their lives for a trifle in worldly duels, genuine
tilting scrimmages with bare bodkins. They had no fear of a London
rabble; the instinct of battle, the taste for combat, which is never
quite dormant in the breast of an Englishman, awoke within them. One
very aged member recounted how, sixty years before, the gentlemen of the
Loyal Societies, whom a Jacobite mob of 1720 undertook to prevent from
drinking King George's health, had charged upon the crowd in Cheapside
and Fleet Street and had broken not a few worthless skulls. The
recollection caused the old man's eyes to dance and excited the group of
his more youthful hearers. "What say you if we make an onslaught?"
proposed one of them.
With brandished canes a dozen of the younger members fell suddenly upon
the multitude and disengaged a friend from his perilous situation.
Several times was this manoeuvre repeated, with visible pleasure on
the part of those who executed it. What sport it was to warm the
rascals' backs! Directly their canes did not suffice, they drew their
swords and let a little blood for the good of their patients. Each time
that this occurred the populace fell back with a howl to give them place
out of respect for their quality, but instantly closed in again more
furious than ever. Soon with that destructive power of crowds it had
broken down the gates which had been closed against them, and had
invaded the courtyard; even now it had surged to the foot of the
staircase. Separated from the insurgents by only a few steps, the
deputies, crowded together in a solid mass, stamped with rage the
vestibule leading to the House. From time to time a member of the
government would come to take a bird's-eye view of the state of affairs,
as a sailor watches the weather, and would then return to the
Treasurer's office and report to his colleagues.
Nathaniel Wraxall, who had travelled everywhere, conspired with a queen,
risked his head in various countries, and had been mixed up in all the
brawls of his time, stood leaning upon the balustrade, watching the
spectacle with the calmly profound scrutiny of an entomologist at his
microscope. He listened to the remarks, studied the faces, and took
mental notes for the edification of posterity. From time to time he
would draw forth his watch, a beautiful work of art purchased in Paris,
which struck the hours and played the chimes of Dunkirk at noon and
midnight, in order not to make any error in the chronology of the
different phases of the day. If the precincts of Parliament, violated by
Cromwell and his Round-heads, but unassailed unto the present time by
vulgar invasion, were fated to be profaned by the mob, it was important
that Wraxall should be able to state historically at what precise moment
the fact was accomplished.
At this moment Lord George Gordon, borne in triumph upon the shoulders
of the people, and accompanied by a deafening tumult, mounted the
staircase. He was received with a burst of violent exclamations. His
colleagues apostrophized him, seized him by the arms, and called upon
him to order back the crowd. Without paying the slightest heed, Lord
George, with his eternal smile upon his face and as calm as possible,
very gently remarked:--
"By your leave, gentlemen."
Thereupon they followed him into the hall. With its vaulted ceiling, its
sombre woodwork richly carved, its Gothic ornamentation and fine stained
glass, which represented the story of Adam and Eve, together with that
of the patriarchs and the principal events in the life of Christ, the
ancient chapel of St. Stephen still preserved its religious character.
Therein Parliament had sat for upwards of one hundred and twenty years.
To be sure, it had not echoed the voices of Sir Thomas More and Bacon,
but it had vibrated to the accents of Shaftesbury, of Bolingbroke, and
the elder Pitt, and it still preserved the echoes of those noble
harangues which Voltaire declared worthy of the Roman senate. Just then
the silence which reigned within contrasted strangely with the infernal
tumult outside. At the usual hour prayer had been said, the speaker had
taken his seat, and the mace, that "plaything" of which Cromwell spoke
so disdainfully, had been laid upon the table, which indicated the
official opening of the meeting. The ministers upon their long,
high-backed bench at the right hand of the speaker, the leaders of the
opposition upon the opposite bench, the sergeant-at-arms standing just
beyond the bar, the clerk seated at the table,--every one was at his
post, as tranquil as though nothing out of the common were taking place.
Lord George Gordon demanded and obtained permission to lay upon the
table a petition from the inhabitants of London who protested against
the favors accorded to the Catholics.
"Two hundred thousand citizens have accompanied me in order to bear
respectful witness," he said.
A bitter burst of sneering interrupted him, but Lord George repeated his
phrase,--
"In order to bear respectful but firm witness of their immutable,
unreserved devotion to the liberty acquired by their fathers at the cost
of almost superhuman efforts."
Having pronounced these words he retired, taking special care to salute
the speaker at the exact spot where this formality is expected.
Again the hall was nearly deserted, the members crowding out into the
vestibule. Gordon reappeared and the vociferations were renewed. The
maledictions and menaces from above were answered by an enthusiastic
clamor from below. The tumult assumed such proportions that a man
speaking in his neighbor's ear and using the whole power of his lungs
was unable to make himself understood. Believing that Gordon was about
to join his friends, they barred his passage.
"You are a hostage," they said, "and you shall not go out!"
Lord George made a sign that he had no idea of going; he only desired to
speak a few encouraging words to the crowd. He descended a few steps and
attempted to speak, but all that was heard were such fragments as:
"Cause of God ... generous martyrs ... detestable idolatry ... rights of
the people ... even unto death."
Finding that his voice failed to prevail against the noise, he returned
to his colleagues; whereupon the multitude prepared to follow him. Then
Col. Gordon, who was a relative of the young lord, but of quite a
different calibre, drew his sword.
"You see!" he exclaimed. "Now I swear to you, sir, that if one of these
wretches enters here you are a dead man! Before he crosses the threshold
of Parliament I shall have passed my sword through your body!"
The little sleek, colorless face preserved its slyly evil smile. He
scarcely blinked his eyes before the tempest of furious insults which
burst upon him.
"The villains!" cried Reuben. "They are going to murder him!"
Drawing a pistol from his mantle, he was about to rush forward, when the
roll of drums was heard. It was Col. Woodford with a detachment of the
Guards coming to the relief of Parliament.
The crowd recoiled step by step, without panic or disorder, but with a
dull muttering of hate which presaged a lively resistance. As for the
soldiers, they advanced with precaution, content to occupy the abandoned
ground and to rescue the gates. From all sides a rain of invective
poured upon them, and even stones thrown from a distance fell within the
ranks.
"Are you going to fight for the Pope now?" cried one; while another
added,--
"Is it with the blood of Englishmen that the cardinals' gowns are dyed?"
The soldiers appeared crestfallen, disgusted with the part they were
obliged to play. These fine fair-weather soldiers, who are rarely sent
to war, relished still less the repression of a riot; and somehow the
rumor passed from mouth to mouth that they were about to revolt, to
refuse to obey their officers.
Within the Houses of Parliament a sudden change had taken place. If some
of the members rejoiced at the deliverance, others murmured thereat. The
presence of the soldiers in the precincts of the representatives of the
nation seemed to them a violation of the rights of Parliament almost as
grave as had been the vulgar invasion. One phrase, always magical under
such circumstances, circulated among them,--"Breach of privilege." The
danger being passed, or at least avoided, the sentiment of justice
towards and respect for the person of every citizen took its place.
After all, these men who protested against the resolutions of the
legislators were but using their right, albeit in rather buoyant
fashion. Were they going to massacre them? Fists, canes and the flat of
swords did not count, but gunshots were quite another matter! No, no: it
was wiser to save the powder for the Frenchmen.
Night was closing in upon the field of battle. Their spirits were
beginning to flag, for spirits cannot continue keyed up to a high pitch
forever, and the most critical situations in great popular movements
frequently languish for the reason that they have been too long
sustained. The supper hour was keenly appreciated by every stomach,
especially by those who had given themselves no time for dinner. Judge
Addington profited by these circumstances to make an attempt at
conciliation.
"Friends," he cried, "give me your word of honor that you will retire
and I will dismiss the soldiers!"
A burst of applause followed the words. The Guards made ready to beat a
retreat. A louder burst of applause. Considering that they had
manifested their power and given their betters a lesson, the mob slowly
evacuated the neighborhood of Parliament. By degrees the cries grew more
indistinct, and at last Westminster Place was deserted. Both parties
fancied themselves conquerors, and order appeared to be re-established.
This illusion was of short duration. A few minutes later prolonged
cries, and flames which suddenly burst forth, reddening the heavens,
announced the fact that the true excesses had but just begun. It soon
became known that the populace had attacked the chapel of the Sardinian
ambassador in Duke Street, and still another of the Romish persuasion in
Warwick Street. Benches, pictures, chairs, crucifixes, and
confessionals,--all had been torn down and dragged out of doors, leaving
merely the four walls standing, and a bonfire was made of these
instruments of idolatry. Menaced upon every hand, the Catholics fled in
hot haste, as if London in the midst of the eighteenth century was about
to assist at a Protestant "Saint Bartholomew."
Thus alarm reigned in one quarter of the town, while joy presided in
another. While the shrieks of death resounded in Duke Street, they were
dancing at the Pantheon!