expatiates at some length upon the subject, the circumstances attending
the death of this extraordinary man have been little noticed. Rapin,
Echard, Kennet, Hume, make no mention of them whatever; and yet,
exclusively of the interest always excited by any great display of spirit
and magnanimity, his solemn denial of the project of assassination
imputed to him in the affair of the Rye House Plot is in itself a fact of
great importance, and one which might have been expected to attract, in
no small degree, the attention of the historian. That Hume, who has
taken some pains in canvassing the degree of credit due to the different
parts of the Rye House Plot, should pass it over in silence, is the more
extraordinary because, in the case of the popish plot, he lays, and
justly lays, the greatest stress upon the dying declarations of the
sufferers. Burnet adverts as well to the peculiar language used by
Rumbold as to his denial of the assassination; but having before given us
to understand that he believed that no such crime had been projected, it
is the less to be wondered at that he does not much dwell upon this
further evidence in favour of his former opinion. Sir John Dalrymple,
upon the authority of a paper which he does not produce, but from which
he quotes enough to show that if produced it would not answer his
purpose, takes Rumbold's guilt for a decided fact, and then states his
dying protestations of his innocence, as an instance of aggravated
wickedness. It is to be remarked, too, that although Sir John is pleased
roundly to assert that Rumbold denied the share he had had in the Rye
House Plot, yet the particular words which he cites neither contain nor
express, nor imply any such denial. He has not even selected those by
which the design of assassination was denied (the only denial that was
uttered), but refers to a general declaration made by Rumbold, that he
had done injustice to no man--a declaration which was by no means
inconsistent with his having been a party to a plot, which he, no doubt,
considered as justifiable, and even meritorious. This is not all: the
paper referred to is addressed to Walcot, by whom Rumbold states himself
to have been led on; and Walcot, with his last breath, denied his own
participation in any design to murder either Charles or James. Thus,
therefore, whether the declaration of the sufferer be interpreted in a
general or in a particular sense, there is no contradiction whatever
between it and the paper adduced; but thus it is that the character of a
brave and, as far as appears, a virtuous man, is most unjustly and
cruelly traduced. An incredible confusion of head, and an uncommon want
of reasoning powers, which distinguish the author to whom I refer, are, I
should charitably hope, the true sources of his misrepresentation; while
others may probably impute it to his desire of blackening, upon any
pretence, a person whose name is more or less connected with those of
Sidney and Russell. It ought not, perhaps, to pass without observation,
that this attack upon Rumbold is introduced only in an oblique manner:
the rigour of government destroyed, says the historian, the morals it
intended to correct, and made the unhappy sufferer add to his former
crimes the atrocity of declaring a falsehood in his last moments. Now,
what particular instances of rigour are here alluded to, it is difficult
to guess: for surely the execution of a man whom he sets down as guilty
of a design to murder the two royal brothers, could not, even in the
judgment of persons much less accustomed than Sir John to palliate the
crimes of princes, be looked upon as an act of blameable severity; but it
was thought, perhaps, that for the purpose of conveying a calumny upon
the persons concerned, or accused of being concerned, in the Rye House
Plot, an affected censure upon the government would be the fittest
vehicle.
The fact itself, that Rumbold did, in his last hours, solemnly deny the
having been concerned in any project for assassinating the king or duke,
has not, I believe, been questioned. It is not invalidated by the
silence of some historians: it is confirmed by the misrepresentation of
others. The first question that naturally presents itself must be, was
this declaration true? The asseverations of dying men have always had,
and will always have, great influence upon the minds of those who do not
push their ill opinion of mankind to the most outrageous and
unwarrantable length; but though the weight of such asseverations be in
all cases great, it will not be in all equal. It is material therefore
to consider, first, what are the circumstances which may tend in
particular cases to diminish their credit; and next, how far such
circumstances appear to have existed in the case before us. The case
where this species of evidence would be the least convincing, would be
where hope of pardon is entertained; for then the man is not a dying man
in the sense of the proposition, for he has not that certainty that his
falsehood will not avail him, which is the principal foundation of the
credit due to his assertions. For the same reason, though in a less
degree, he who hopes for favour to his children, or to other surviving
connections, is to be listened to with some caution; for the existence of
one virtue does not necessarily prove that of another, and he who loves
his children and friends may yet be profligate and unprincipled; or,
deceiving himself, may think that while his ends are laudable, he ought
not to hesitate concerning the means. Besides these more obvious
temptations to prevarication, there is another which, though it may lie
somewhat deeper, yet experience teaches us to be rooted in human nature:
I mean that sort of obstinacy, or false shame, which makes men so
unwilling to retract what they have once advanced, whether in matter of
opinion or of fact. The general character of the man is also in this, as
in all other human testimony, a circumstance of the greatest moment.
Where none of the above-mentioned objections occur, and where therefore
the weight of evidence in question is confessedly considerable, yet is it
still liable to be balanced or outweighed by evidence in the opposite
scale.
Let Rumbold's declaration, then, be examined upon these principles, and
we shall find that it has every character of truth, without a single
circumstance to discredit it. He was so far from entertaining any hope
of pardon, that he did not seem even to wish it; and indeed if he had had
any such chimerical object in view, he must have known that to have
supplied the government with a proof of the Rye House assassination plot,
would be a more likely road at least, than a steady denial, to obtain it.
He left none behind him for whom to entreat favour, or whose welfare or
honour was at all affected by any confession or declaration he might
make. If, in a prospective view, he was without temptation, so neither,
if he looked back, was he fettered by any former declaration; so that he
could not be influenced by that erroneous notion of consistency to which
it may be feared that truth, even in the most awful moments, has in some
cases been sacrificed. His timely escape in 1683 had saved him from the
necessity of making any protestation upon the subject of his innocence at
that time; and the words of the letter to Walcot are so far from
containing such a protestation, that they are quoted (very absurdly, it
is true) by Sir John Dalrymple as an avowal of guilt. If his testimony
is free from these particular objections, much less is it impeached by
his general character, which was that of a bold and daring man, who was
very unlikely to feel shame in avowing what he had not been ashamed to
commit, and who seems to have taken a delight in speaking bold truths, or
at least what appeared to him to be such, without regarding the manner in
which his hearers were likely to receive them. With respect to the last
consideration, that of the opposite evidence, it all depends upon the
veracity of men who, according to their own account, betrayed their
comrades, and were actuated by the hope either of pardon or reward.
It appears to be of the more consequence to clear up this matter, because
if we should be of opinion, as I think we all must be, that the story of
the intended assassination of the king, in his way from Newmarket, is as
fabulous as that of the silver bullets by which he was to have been shot
at Windsor, a most singular train of reflections will force itself upon
our minds, as well in regard to the character of the times, as to the
means by which the two causes gained successively the advantage over each
other. The Royalists had found it impossible to discredit the fiction,
gross as it was, of the popish plot; nor could they prevent it from being
a powerful engine in the hands of the Whigs, who, during the alarm raised
by it, gained an irresistible superiority in the House of Commons, in the
City of London, and in most parts of the kingdom. But they who could not
quiet a false alarm raised by their adversaries, found little or no
difficulty in raising one equally false in their own favour, by the
supposed detection of the intended assassination. With regard to the
advantages derived to the respective parties from those detestable
fictions, if it be urged, on one hand, that the panic spread by the Whigs
was more universal and more violent in its effects, it must be allowed,
on the other, that the advantages gained by the Tories were, on account
of their alliance with the crown, more durable and decisive. There is a
superior solidity ever belonging to the power of the crown, as compared
with that of any body of men or party, or even with either of the other
branches of the legislature. A party has influence, but, properly
speaking, no power. The Houses of Parliament have abundance of power,
but, as bodies, little or no influence. The crown has both power and
influence, which, when exerted with wisdom and steadiness, will always be
found too strong for any opposition whatever, till the zeal and fidelity
of party attachments shall be found to increase in proportion to the
increased influence of the executive power.
While these matters were transacting in Scotland, Monmouth, conformably
to his promise to Argyle, set sail from Holland, and landed at Lyme in
Dorsetshire, on the 11th of June. He was attended by Lord Grey of Wark,
Fletcher of Saltoun, Colonel Matthews, Ferguson, and a few other
gentlemen. His reception was, among the lower ranks, cordial, and for
some days at least, if not weeks, there seemed to have been more
foundation for the sanguine hopes of Lord Grey and others, his followers,
than the duke had supposed. The first step taken by the invader was to
issue a proclamation, which he caused to be read in the market-place. In
this instrument he touched upon what were, no doubt, thought to be the
most popular topics, and loaded James and his Catholic friends with every
imputation which had at any time been thrown against them. This
declaration appears to have been well received, and the numbers that came
in to him were very considerable; but his means of arming them were
limited, nor had he much confidence, for the purpose of any important
military operation, in men unused to discipline, and wholly unacquainted
with the art of war. Without examining the question whether or not
Monmouth, from his professional prejudices, carried, as some have alleged
he did, his diffidence of unpractised soldiers and new levies too far, it
seems clear that, in his situation, the best, or rather the only chance
of success, was to be looked for in counsels of the boldest kind. If he
could not immediately strike some important stroke, it was not likely
that he ever should; nor indeed was he in a condition to wait. He could
not flatter himself, as Argyle had done, that he had a strong country,
full of relations and dependants, where he might secure himself till the
co-operation of his confederate or some other favourable circumstance
might put it in his power to act more efficaciously. Of any brilliant
success in Scotland he could not, at this time, entertain any hope, nor,
if he had, could he rationally expect that any events in that quarter
would make the sort of impression here which, on the other hand, his
success would produce in Scotland. With money he was wholly unprovided;
nor does it appear, whatever may have been the inclination of some
considerable men, such as Lords Macclesfield, Brandon, Delamere, and
others, that any persons of that description were engaged to join in his
enterprise. His reception had been above his hopes, and his recruits
more numerous than could be expected, or than he was able to furnish with
arms; while, on the other hand, the forces in arms against him consisted
chiefly in a militia, formidable neither from numbers nor discipline, and
moreover suspected of disaffection. The present moment, therefore,
seemed to offer the most favourable opportunity for enterprise of any
that was likely to occur; but the unfortunate Monmouth judged otherwise,
and, as if he were to defend rather than to attack, directed his chief
policy to the avoiding of a general action.
It being, however, absolutely necessary to dislodge some troops which the
Earl of Feversham had thrown into Bridport, a detachment of three hundred
men was made for that purpose, which had the most complete success,
notwithstanding the cowardice of Lord Grey, who commanded them. This
nobleman, who had been so instrumental in persuading his friend to the
invasion, upon the first appearance of danger is said to have left the
troops whom he commanded, and to have sought his own personal safety in
flight. The troops carried Bridport, to the shame of the commander who
had deserted them, and returned to Lyme.
It is related by Ferguson that Monmouth said to Matthews, "What shall I
do with Lord Grey?" To which the other answered, "That he was the only
general in Europe who would ask such a question;" intending, no doubt, to
reproach the duke with the excess to which he pushed his characteristic
virtues of mildness and forbearance. That these virtues formed a part of
his character is most true, and the personal friendship in which he had
lived with Grey would incline him still more to the exercise of them upon
this occasion; but it is to be remembered also that the delinquent was,
in respect of rank, property, and perhaps too of talent, by far the most
considerable man he had with him; and, therefore, that prudential motives
might concur to deter a general from proceeding to violent measures with
such a person, especially in a civil war, where the discipline of an
armed party cannot be conducted upon the same system as that of a regular
army serving in a foreign war. Monmouth's disappointment in Lord Grey
was aggravated by the loss of Fletcher of Saltoun, who, in a sort of
scuffle that ensued upon his being reproached for having seized a horse
belonging to a man of the country, had the misfortune to kill the owner.
Monmouth, however unwilling, thought himself obliged to dismiss him; and
thus, while a fatal concurrence of circumstances forced him to part with
the man he esteemed, and to retain him whom he despised, he found himself
at once disappointed of the support of the two persons upon whom he had
most relied.
On the 15th of June, his army being now increased to near three thousand
men, the duke marched from Lyme. He does not appear to have taken this
step with a view to any enterprise of importance, but rather to avoid the
danger which he apprehended from the motions of the Devonshire and
Somerset militias, whose object it seemed to be to shut him up in Lyme.
In his first day's march he had opportunities of engaging, or rather of
pursuing, each of those bodies, who severally retreated from his forces;
but conceiving it to be his business, as he said, not to fight, but to
march on, he went through Axminster, and encamped in a strong piece of
ground between that town and Chard in Somersetshire, to which place he
proceeded on the ensuing day. According to Wade's narrative, which
appears to afford by far the most authentic account of these
transactions, here it was that the first proposition was made for
proclaiming Monmouth king. Ferguson made the proposal, and was supported
by Lord Grey, but it was easily run down, as Wade expresses it, by those
who were against it, and whom, therefore, we must suppose to have formed
a very considerable majority of the persons deemed of sufficient
importance to be consulted on such an occasion. These circumstances are
material, because if that credit be given to them which they appear to
deserve, Ferguson's want of veracity becomes so notorious, that it is
hardly worth while to attend to any part of his narrative. Where it only
corroborates accounts given by others, it is of little use; and where it
differs from them, it deserves no credit. I have, therefore, wholly
disregarded it.
From Chard, Monmouth and his party proceeded to Taunton, a town where, as
well from the tenor of former occurrences as from the zeal and number of
the Protestant dissenters, who formed a great portion of its inhabitants,
he had every reason to expect the most favourable reception. His
expectations were not disappointed.
The inhabitants of the upper, as well as the lower classes, vied with
each other in testifying their affection for his person, and their zeal
for his cause. While the latter rent the air with applauses and
acclamations, the former opened their houses to him and to his followers,
and furnished his army with necessaries and supplies of every kind. His
way was strewed with flowers; the windows were thronged with spectators,
all anxious to participate in what the warm feelings of the moment made
them deem a triumph. Husbands pointed out to their wives, mothers to
their children, the brave and lovely hero who was destined to be the
deliverer of his country. The beautiful lines which Dryden makes
Achitophel, in his highest strain of flattery, apply to this unfortunate
nobleman, were in this instance literally verified:
"Thee, saviour, thee, the nation's vows confess,
And, never satisfied with seeing, bless.
Swift unbespoken pomps thy steps proclaim,
And stammering babes are taught to lisp thy name."
In the midst of these joyous scenes twenty-six young maids, of the best
families in the town, presented him in the name of their townsmen with
colours wrought by them for the purpose, and with a Bible; upon receiving
which he said that he had taken the field with a design to defend the
truth contained in that Book, and to seal it with his blood if there was
occasion.
In such circumstances it is no wonder that his army increased; and,
indeed, exclusive of individual recruits, he was here strengthened by the
arrival of Colonel Bassett with a considerable corps. But in the midst
of these prosperous circumstances, some of them of such apparent
importance to the success of his enterprise, all of them highly
flattering to his feelings, he did not fail to observe that one
favourable symptom (and that too of the most decisive nature) was still
wanting. None of the considerable families, not a single nobleman, and
scarcely any gentleman of rank and consequence in the counties through
which he had passed, had declared in his favour. Popular applause is
undoubtedly sweet; and not only so, it often furnishes most powerful
means to the genius that knows how to make use of them. But Monmouth
well knew that without the countenance and assistance of a proportion, at
least, of the higher ranks in the country, there was, for an undertaking
like his, little prospect of success. He could not but have remarked
that the habits and prejudices of the English people are, in a great
degree, aristocratical; nor had he before him, nor indeed have we since
his time, had one single example of an insurrection that was successful,
unaided by the ancient families and great landed proprietors. He must
have felt this the more, because in former parts of his political life he
had been accustomed to act with such coadjutors; and it is highly
probable that if Lord Russell had been alive, and could have appeared at
the head of one hundred only of his western tenantry, such a
reinforcement would have inspired him with more real confidence than the
thousands who individually flocked to his standard.
But though Russell was no more, there were not wanting, either in the
provinces through which the duke passed, or in other parts of the
kingdom, many noble and wealthy families who were attached to the
principles of the Whigs. To account for their neutrality, and, if
possible, to persuade them to a different conduct, was naturally among
his principal concerns. Their present coldness might be imputed to the
indistinctness of his declarations with respect to what was intended to
be the future government. Men zealous for monarchy might not choose to
embark without some certain pledge that their favourite form should be
preserved. They would also expect to be satisfied with respect to the
person whom their arms, if successful, were to place upon the throne. To
promise, therefore, the continuance of a monarchical establishment, and
to designate the future monarch, seemed to be necessary for the purpose
of acquiring aristocratical support. Whatever might be the intrinsic
weight of this argument, it easily made its way with Monmouth in his
present situation. The aspiring temper of mind which is the natural
consequence of popular favour and success, produced in him a disposition
to listen to any suggestion which tended to his elevation and
aggrandisement; and when he could persuade himself, upon reasons specious
at least, that the measures which would most gratify his aspiring desires
would be, at the same time, a stroke of the soundest policy, it is not to
be wondered at that it was immediately and impatiently adopted. Urged,
therefore, by these mixed motives, he declared himself king, and issued
divers proclamations in the royal style; assigning to those whose
approbation he doubted the reasons above adverted to, and proscribing and
threatening with the punishment due to rebellion such as should resist
his mandates, and adhere to the usurping Duke of York.
If this measure was in reality taken with views of policy, those views
were miserably disappointed; for it does not appear that one proselyte
was gained. The threats in the proclamation were received with derision
by the king's army, and no other sentiments were excited by the
assumption of the royal title than those of contempt and indignation. The
commonwealthsmen were dissatisfied, of course, with the principle of the
measure: the favourers of hereditary right held it in abhorrence, and
considered it as a kind of sacrilegious profanation; nor even among those
who considered monarchy in a more rational light, and as a magistracy
instituted for the good of the people, could it be at all agreeable that
such a magistrate should be elected by the army that had thronged to his
standard, or by the particular partiality of a provincial town.
Monmouth's strength, therefore, was by no means increased by his new
title, and seemed to be still limited to two descriptions of persons;
first, those who, from thoughtlessness or desperation, were willing to
join in any attempt at innovation; secondly, such as, directing their
views to a single point, considered the destruction of James's tyranny as
the object which, at all hazards, and without regard to consequences,
they were bound to pursue. On the other hand, his reputation both for
moderation and good faith was considerably impaired, inasmuch as his
present conduct was in direct contradiction to that part of his
declaration wherein he had promised to leave the future adjustment of
government, and especially the consideration of his own claims, to a free
and independent parliament.
The notion of improving his new levies by discipline seems to have taken
such possession of Monmouth's mind that he overlooked the probable, or
rather the certain, consequences of a delay, by which the enemy would be
enabled to bring into the field forces far better disciplined and
appointed than any which, even with the most strenuous and successful
exertions, he could hope to oppose to them. Upon this principle, and
especially as he had not yet fixed upon any definite object of
enterprise, he did not think a stay of a few days at Taunton would be
materially, if at all, prejudicial to his affairs; and it was not till
the 21st of June that he proceeded to Bridgewater, where he was received
in the most cordial manner. In his march, the following day, from that
town to Glastonbury, he was alarmed by a party of the Earl of Oxford's
horse; but all apprehensions of any material interruptions were removed
by an account of the militia having left Wells, and retreated to Bath and
Bristol. From Glastonbury he went to Shipton-Mallet, where the project
of an attack upon Bristol was communicated by the duke to his officers.
After some discussion, it was agreed that the attack should be made on
the Gloucestershire side of the city, and with that view to pass the Avon
at Keynsham Bridge, a few miles from Bath. In their march from Shipton-
Mallet, the troops were again harassed in their rear by a party of horse
and dragoons, but lodged quietly at night at a village called Pensford. A
detachment was sent early the next morning to possess itself of Keynsham,
and to repair the bridge, which might probably be broken down to prevent
a passage. Upon their approach, a troop of the Gloucestershire horse-
militia immediately abandoned the town in great precipitation, leaving
behind them two horses and one man. By break of day, the bridge, which
had not been much injured, was repaired, and before noon, Monmouth,
having passed it with his whole army, was in full march to Bristol, which
he determined to attack the ensuing night. But the weather proving rainy
and bad, it was deemed expedient to return to Keynsham, a measure from
which he expected to reap a double advantage; to procure dry and
commodious quarters for the soldiery, and to lull the enemy, by a
movement, which bore the semblance of a retreat, into a false and
delusive security. The event, however, did not answer his expectation,
for the troops had scarcely taken up their quarters, when they were
disturbed by two parties of horse, who entered the town at two several
places. An engagement ensued, in which Monmouth lost fourteen men, and a
captain of horse, though in the end the Royalists were obliged to retire,
leaving three prisoners. From these the duke had information that the
king's army was near at hand, and, as they said, about four thousand
strong.
This new state of affairs seemed to demand new councils. The projected
enterprise upon Bristol was laid aside, and the question was, whether to
make by forced marches for Gloucester, in order to pass the Severn at
that city, and so to gain the counties of Salop and Chester, where he
expected to be met by many friends, or to march directly into Wiltshire,
where, according to some intelligence received ["from one Adlam"] the day
before, there was a considerable body of horse (under whose command does
not appear) ready, by their junction, to afford him a most important and
seasonable support. To the first of these plans a decisive objection was
stated. The distance by Gloucester was so great, that, considering the
slow marches to which he would be limited, by the daily attacks with
which the different small bodies of the enemy's cavalry would not fail to
harass his rear, he was in great danger of being overtaken by the king's
forces, and might thus be driven to risk all in an engagement upon terms
the most disadvantageous. On the contrary, if joined in Wiltshire by the
expected aids, he might confidently offer battle to the royal army; and,
provided he could bring them to an action before they were strengthened
by new reinforcements, there was no unreasonable prospect of success. The
latter plan was therefore adopted, and no sooner adopted than put in
execution. The army was in motion without delay, and being before Bath
on the morning of the 26th of June, summoned the place, rather (as it
should seem) in sport than in earnest, as there was no hope of its
surrender. After this bravado they marched on southward to Philip's
Norton, where they rested; the horse in the town, and the foot in the
field.
While Monmouth was making these marches, there were not wanting, in many
parts of the adjacent country, strong symptoms of the attachment of the
lower orders of people to his cause, and more especially in those
manufacturing towns where the Protestant dissenters were numerous. In
Froome there had been a considerable rising, headed by the constable, who
posted up the duke's declaration in the market-place. Many of the
inhabitants of the neighbouring towns of Westbury and Warminster came in
throngs to the town to join the insurgents; some armed with fire-arms,
but more with such rustic weapons as opportunity could supply. Such a
force, if it had joined the main army, or could have been otherwise
directed by any leader of judgment and authority, might have proved very
serviceable; but in its present state it was a mere rabble, and upon the
first appearance of the Earl of Pembroke, who entered the town with a
hundred and sixty horse and forty musketeers, fell, as might be expected,
into total confusion. The rout was complete; all the arms of the
insurgents were seized; and the constable, after having been compelled to
abjure his principles, and confess the enormity of his offence, was
committed to prison.
This transaction took place the 25th, the day before Monmouth's arrival
at Philip's Norton, and may have, in a considerable degree, contributed
to the disappointment, of which we learn from Wade, that he at this time
began bitterly to complain. He was now upon the confines of Wiltshire,
and near enough for the bodies of horse, upon whose favourable intentions
so much reliance had been placed, to have effected a junction, if they
had been so disposed; but whether that Adlam's intelligence had been
originally bad, or that Pembroke's proceedings at Froome had intimidated
them, no symptom of such an intention could be discovered. A desertion
took place in his army, which the exaggerated accounts in the Gazette
made to amount to near two thousand men. These dispiriting
circumstances, added to the complete disappointment of the hopes
entertained from the assumption of the royal title, produced in him a
state of mind but little short of despondency. He complained that all
people had deserted him, and is said to have been so dejected, as hardly
to have the spirit requisite for giving the necessary orders.
From this state of torpor, however, he appears to have been effectually
roused by a brisk attack that was made upon him on the 27th, in the
morning, by the Royalists, under the command of his half-brother, the
Duke of Grafton. That spirited young nobleman (whose intrepid courage,
conspicuous upon every occasion, led him in this, and many other
instances, to risk a life, which he finally lost in a better cause),
heading an advanced detachment of Lord Feversham's army, who had marched
from Bath, with a view to fall on the enemy's rear, marched boldly up a
narrow lane leading to the town, and attacked a barricade, which Monmouth
had caused to be made across the way, at the entrance of the town.
Monmouth was no sooner apprised of this brisk attack, than he ordered a
party to go out of the town by a by-way, who coming on the rear of the
Grenadiers while others of his men were engaged with their front, had
nearly surrounded them, and taken their commander prisoner, but Grafton
forced his way through the enemy. An engagement ensued between the
insurgents and the remainder of Feversham's detachment, who had lined the
hedges which flanked them. The former were victorious, and after driving
the enemy from hedge to hedge, forced them at last into the open field,
where they joined the rest of the king's forces, newly come up. The
killed and wounded in these encounters amounted to about forty on
Feversham's side, twenty on Monmouth's; but among the latter there were
several officers, and some of note, while the loss of the former, with
the exception of two volunteers, Seymour and May, consisted entirely of
common soldiers.
The Royalists now drew up on an eminence, about five hundred paces from
the hedges, while Monmouth, having placed, of his four field-pieces, two
at the mouth of the lane, and two upon a rising ground near it on the
right, formed his army along the hedge. From these stations a firing of
artillery was begun on each side, and continued near six hours, but with
little or no effect. Monmouth, according to Wade, losing but one, and
the Royalists, according to the Gazette, not one man, by the whole
cannonade. In these circumstances, notwithstanding the recent and
convincing experience he now had of the ability of his raw troops to
face, in certain situations at least, the more regular forces of his
enemy, Monmouth was advised by some to retreat; but upon a more general
consultation, this advice was over-ruled, and it was determined to cut
passages through the hedges and to offer battle. But before this could
be effected the royal army, not willing again to engage among the
enclosures, annoyed in the open field by the rain which continued to fall
very heavily, and disappointed, no doubt, at the little effect of their
artillery, began their retreat. The little confidence which Monmouth had
in his horse--perhaps the ill opinion he now entertained of their
leader--forbade him to think of pursuit, and having stayed till a late
hour in the field, and leaving large fires burning, he set out on his
march in the night, and on the 28th, in the morning, reached Froome,
where he put his troops in quarter and rested two days.
It was here he first heard certain news of Argyle's discomfiture. It was
in vain to seek for any circumstance in his affairs that might mitigate
the effect of the severe blow inflicted by this intelligence, and he
relapsed into the same low spirits as at Philip's Norton. No diversion,
at least no successful diversion, had been made in his favour: there was
no appearance of the horse, which had been the principal motive to allure
him into that part of the country; and what was worst of all, no
desertion from the king's army. It was manifest, said the duke's more
timid advisers, that the affair must terminate ill, and the only measure
now to be taken was, that the general with his officers should leave the
army to shift for itself, and make severally for the most convenient sea-
ports, whence they might possibly get a safe passage to the Continent. To
account for Monmouth's entertaining, even for a moment, a thought so
unworthy of him, and so inconsistent with the character for spirit he had
ever maintained--a character unimpeached even by his enemies--we must
recollect the unwillingness with which he undertook this fatal
expedition; that his engagement to Argyle, who was now past help, was
perhaps his principal motive for embarking at the time; that it was with
great reluctance he had torn himself from the arms of Lady Harriet
Wentworth, with whom he had so firmly persuaded himself that he could be
happy in the most obscure retirement, that he believed himself weaned
from ambition, which had hitherto been the only passion of his mind. It
is true, that when he had once yielded to the solicitations of his
friends so far as to undertake a business of such magnitude, it was his
duty (but a duty that required a stronger mind than his to execute) to
discard from his thoughts all the arguments that had rendered his
compliance reluctant. But it is one of the great distinctions between an
ordinary mind and a superior one, to be able to carry on without
relenting a plan we have not originally approved, and especially when it
appears to have turned out ill. This proposal of disbanding was a step
so pusillanimous and dishonourable that it could not be approved by any
council, however composed. It was condemned by all except Colonel
Venner, and was particularly inveighed against by Lord Grey, who was
perhaps desirous of retrieving, by bold words at least, the reputation he
had lost at Bridport. It is possible, too, that he might be really
unconscious of his deficiency in point of personal courage till the
moment of danger arrived, and even forgetful of it when it was passed.
Monmouth was easily persuaded to give up a plan so uncongenial to his
nature, resolved, though with little hope of success, to remain with his
army to take the chance of events, and at the worst to stand or fall with
men whose attachment to him had laid him under indelible obligations.
This resolution being taken, the first plan was to proceed to Warminster,
but on the morning of his departure hearing, on the one hand, that the
king's troops were likely to cross his march, and on the other, being
informed by a quaker, before known to the duke, that there was a great
club army, amounting to ten thousand men, ready to join his standard in
the marshes to the westward, he altered his intention, and returned to
Shipton-Mallet, where he rested that night, his army being in good
quarters. From Shipton-Mallet he proceeded, on the 1st of July, to
Wells, upon information that there were in that city some carriages
belonging to the king's army, and ill-guarded. These he found and took,
and stayed that night in the town. The following day he marched towards
Bridgewater in search of the great succour he had been taught to expect;
but found, of the promised ten thousand men, only a hundred and sixty.
The army lay that night in the field, and once again entered Bridgewater
on the 3rd of July. That the duke's men were not yet completely
dispirited or out of heart appears from the circumstance of great numbers
of them going from Bridgewater to see their friends at Taunton, and other
places in the neighbourhood, and almost all returning the next day
according to their promise. On the 5th an account was received of the
king's army being considerably advanced, and Monmouth's first thought was
to retreat from it immediately, and marching by Axbridge and Keynsham to
Gloucester, to pursue the plan formerly rejected, of penetrating into the
counties of Chester and Salop.
His preparations for this march were all made, when, on the afternoon of
the 5th, he learnt, more accurately than he had before done, the true
situation of the royal army, and from the information now received, he
thought it expedient to consult his principal officers, whether it might
not be advisable to attempt to surprise the enemy by a night attack upon
their quarters. The prevailing opinion was, that if the infantry were
not entrenched the plan was worth the trial; otherwise not. Scouts were
despatched to ascertain this point, and their report being that there was
no entrenchment, an attack was resolved on. In pursuance of this
resolution, at about eleven at night, the whole army was in march, Lord
Grey commanding the horse, and Colonel Wade the vanguard of the foot. The
duke's orders were, that the horse should first advance, and pushing into
the enemy's camp, endeavour to prevent their infantry from coming
together; that the cannon should follow the horse, and the foot the
cannon, and draw all up in one line, and so finish what the cavalry
should have begun, before the king's horse and artillery could be got in
order. But it was now discovered that though there were no
entrenchments, there was a ditch which served as a drain to the great
moor adjacent, of which no mention had been made by the scouts. To this
ditch the horse under Lord Grey advanced, and no farther; and whether
immediately, as according to some accounts, or after having been
considerably harassed by the enemy in their attempts to find a place to
pass, according to others, quitted the field. The cavalry being gone,
and the principle upon which the attack had been undertaken being that of
a surprise, the duke judged it necessary that the infantry should advance
as speedily as possible. Wade, therefore, when he came within forty
paces of the ditch, was obliged to halt to put his battalion into that
order, which the extreme rapidity of the march had for the time
disconcerted. His plan was to pass the ditch, reserving his fire; but
while he was arranging his men for that purpose, another battalion, newly
come up, began to fire, though at a considerable distance; a bad example,
which it was impossible to prevent the vanguard from following, and it
was now no longer in the power of their commander to persuade them to
advance. The king's forces, as well horse and artillery as foot, had now
full time to assemble. The duke had no longer cavalry in the field, and
though his artillery, which consisted only of three or four iron guns,
was well served under the directions of a Dutch gunner, it was by no
means equal to that of the royal army, which, as soon as it was light,
began to do great execution. In these circumstances the unfortunate
Monmouth, fearful of being encompassed and made prisoner by the king's
cavalry, who were approaching upon his flank, and urged, as it is
reported, to flight by the same person who had stimulated him to his
fatal enterprise, quitted the field accompanied by Lord Grey and some
others. The left wing, under the command of Colonel Holmes and Matthews,
next gave way; and Wade's men, after having continued for an hour and a
half a distant and ineffectual fire, seeing their left discomfited, began
a retreat, which soon afterwards became a complete rout.
Thus ended the decisive battle of Sedgmoor; an attack which seems to have
been judiciously conceived, and in many parts spiritedly executed. The
general was deficient neither in courage nor conduct; and the troops,
while they displayed the native bravery of Englishmen, were under as good
discipline as could be expected from bodies newly raised. Two
circumstances seem to have principally contributed to the loss of the
day; first, the unforeseen difficulty occasioned by the ditch, of which
the assailants had had no intelligence; and secondly, the cowardice of
the commander of the horse. The discovery of the ditch was the more
alarming, because it threw a general doubt upon the information of the
spies, and the night being dark they could not ascertain that this was
the only impediment of the kind which they were to expect. The
dispersion of the horse was still more fatal, inasmuch as it deranged the
whole order of the plan, by which it had been concerted that their
operations were to facilitate the attack to be made by the foot. If Lord
Grey had possessed a spirit more suitable to his birth and name, to the
illustrious friendship with which he had been honoured, and to the
command with which he was entrusted, he would doubtless have persevered
till he found a passage into the enemy's camp, which could have been
effected at a ford not far distant: the loss of time occasioned by the
ditch might not have been very material, and the most important
consequences might have ensued; but it would surely be rashness to
assert, as Hume does, that the army would after all have gained the
victory had not the misconduct of Monmouth and the cowardice of Grey
prevented it. This rash judgment is the more to be admired, as the
historian has not pointed out the instance of misconduct to which he
refers. The number of Monmouth's men killed is computed by some at two
thousand, by others at three hundred--a disparity, however, which may be
easily reconciled, by supposing that the one account takes in those who
were killed in battle, while the other comprehends the wretched fugitives
who were massacred in ditches, corn-fields, and other hiding-places, the
following day.
In general, I have thought it right to follow Wade's narrative, which
appears to me by far the most authentic, if not the only authentic
account of this important transaction. It is imperfect, but its
imperfection arises from the narrator's omitting all those circumstances
of which he was not an eye-witness, and the greater credit is on that
very account due to him for those which he relates. With respect to
Monmouth's quitting the field, it is not mentioned by him, nor is it
possible to ascertain the precise point of time at which it happened.
That he fled while his troops were still fighting, and therefore too soon
for his glory, can scarcely be doubted; and the account given by
Ferguson, whose veracity, however, is always to be suspected, that Lord
Grey urged him to the measure, as well by persuasion as by example, seems
not improbable. This misbehaviour of the last-mentioned nobleman is more
certain; but as, according to Ferguson, who has been followed by others,
he actually conversed with Monmouth in the field, and as all accounts
make him the companion of his flight, it is not to be understood that
when he first gave way with his cavalry, he ran away in the literal sense
of the words, or if he did, he must have returned. The exact truth, with
regard to this and many other interesting particulars, is difficult to be
discovered; owing, not more to the darkness of the night in which they
were transacted, than to the personal partialities and enmities by which
they have been disfigured, in the relations of the different contemporary
writers.
Monmouth with his suite first directed his course towards the Bristol
Channel, and as is related by Oldmixon, was once inclined, at the
suggestion of Dr. Oliver, a faithful and honest adviser, to embark for
the coast of Wales, with a view of concealing himself some time in that
principality. Lord Grey, who appears to have been, in all instances, his
evil genius, dissuaded him from this plan, and the small party having
separated, took each several ways. Monmouth, Grey, and a gentleman of
Brandenburg, went southward, with a view to gain the New Forest in
Hampshire, where, by means of Grey's connections in that district, and
thorough knowledge of the country, it was hoped they might be in safety,
till a vessel could be procured to transport them to the Continent. They
left their horses, and disguised themselves as peasants; but the pursuit,
stimulated as well by party zeal as by the great pecuniary rewards
offered for the capture of Monmouth and Grey, was too vigilant to be
eluded. Grey was taken on the 7th in the evening; and the German, who
shared the same fate early on the next morning, confessed that he had
parted from Monmouth but a few hours since. The neighbouring country was
immediately and thoroughly searched, and James had ere night the
satisfaction of learning that his nephew was in his power. The
unfortunate duke was discovered in a ditch, half concealed by fern and
nettles. His stock of provision, which consisted of some peas gathered
in the fields through which he had fled, was nearly exhausted, and there
is reason to think that he had little, if any other sustenance, since he
left Bridgewater on the evening of the 5th. To repose he had been
equally a stranger; how his mind must have been harassed, it is needless
to discuss. Yet that in such circumstances he appeared dispirited and
crestfallen, is, by the unrelenting malignity of party writers, imputed
to him as cowardice and meanness of spirit. That the failure of his
enterprise, together with the bitter reflection that he had suffered
himself to be engaged in it against his own better judgment, joined to
the other calamitous circumstances of his situation, had reduced him to a
state of despondency, is evident; and in this frame of mind, he wrote, on
the very day of his capture, the following letter to the king:
"Sir,--Your majesty may think it the misfortune I now lie under makes
me make this application to you; but I do assure your majesty, it is
the remorse I now have in me of the wrong I have done you in several
things, and now in taking up arms against you. For my taking up arms,
it was never in my thought since the king died: the Prince and
Princess of Orange will be witness for me of the assurance I gave
them, that I would never stir against you. But my misfortune was such
as to meet with some horrid people, that made me believe things of
your majesty, and gave me so many false arguments, that I was fully
led away to believe that it was a shame and a sin before God not to do
it. But, sir, I will not trouble your majesty at present with many
things I could say for myself, that I am sure would move your
compassion; the chief end of this letter being only to beg of you,
that I may have that happiness as to speak to your majesty; for I have
that to say to you, sir, that I hope may give you a long and happy
reign.
"I am sure, sir, when you hear me, you will be convinced of the zeal I
have of your preservation, and how heartily I repent of what I have
done. I can say no more to your majesty now, being this letter must
be seen by those that keep me. Therefore, sir, I shall make an end in
begging of your majesty to believe so well of me, that I would rather
die a thousand deaths than excuse anything I have done, if I did not
really think myself the most in the wrong that ever a man was, and had
not from the bottom of my heart an abhorrence for those that put me
upon it, and for the action itself. I hope, sir, God Almighty will
strike your heart with mercy and compassion for me, as he has done
mine with the abhorrence of what I have done: wherefore, sir, I hope I
may live to show you how zealous I shall ever be for your service; and
could I but say one word in this letter, you would be convinced of it;
but it is of that consequence, that I dare not do it. Therefore, sir,
I do beg of you once more to let me speak to you; for then you will be
convinced how much I shall ever be, your majesty's most humble and
dutiful
"MONMOUTH."
The only certain conclusion to be drawn from this letter, which Mr.
Echard, in a manner perhaps not so seemly for a Churchman, terms
submissive, is, that Monmouth still wished anxiously for life, and was
willing to save it, even at the cruel price of begging and receiving it
as a boon from his enemy. Ralph conjectures with great probability that
this unhappy man's feelings were all governed by his excessive affection
for his mistress and that a vain hope of enjoying, with Lady Harriet
Wentworth, that retirement which he had so unwillingly abandoned, induced
him to adopt a conduct, which he might otherwise have considered as
indecent. At any rate it must be admitted that to cling to life is a
strong instinct in human nature, and Monmouth might reasonably enough
satisfy himself, that when his death could not by any possibility benefit
either the public or his friends, to follow such instinct, even in a
manner that might tarnish the splendour of heroism, was no impeachment of
the moral virtue of a man.
With respect to the mysterious part of the letter, where he speaks of one
word which would be of such infinite importance, it is difficult, if not
rather utterly impossible, to explain it by any rational conjecture. Mr.
Macpherson's favourite hypothesis, that the Prince of Orange had been a
party to the late attempt, and that Monmouth's intention, when he wrote
the letter, was to disclose this important fact to the king, is totally
destroyed by those expressions, in which the unfortunate prisoner tells
his majesty he had assured the Prince and Princess of Orange that he
would never stir against him. Did he assure the Prince of Orange that he
would never do that which he was engaged to the Prince of Orange to do?
Can it be said that this was a false fact, and that no such assurances
were in truth given? To what purpose was the falsehood? In order to
conceal from motives, whether honourable or otherwise, his connection
with the prince? What! a fiction in one paragraph of the letter in order
to conceal a fact, which in the next he declares his intention of
revealing? The thing is impossible.
The intriguing character of the Secretary of State, the Earl of
Sunderland, whose duplicity in many instances cannot be doubted, and the
mystery in which almost everything relating to him is involved, might
lead us to suspect that the expressions point at some discovery in which
that nobleman was concerned, and that Monmouth had it in his power to be
of important service to James, by revealing to him the treachery of his
minister. Such a conjecture might be strengthened by an anecdote that
has had some currency, and to the truth of which, in part, King James's
"Memoirs," if the extracts from them can be relied on, bear testimony. It
is said that the Duke of Monmouth told Mr. Ralph Sheldon, one of the
king's chamber, who came to meet him on his way to London, that he had
had reason to expect Sunderland's co-operation, and authorised Sheldon to
mention this to the king: that while Sheldon was relating this to his
majesty, Sunderland entered; Sheldon hesitated, but was ordered to go on.
"Sunderland seemed, at first, struck" (as well he might, whether innocent
or guilty), "but after a short time said, with a laugh, 'If that be all
he (Monmouth) can discover to save his life, it will do him little
good.'" It is to be remarked, that in Sheldon's conversation, as alluded
to by King James, the Prince of Orange's name is not even mentioned,
either as connected with Monmouth or with Sunderland. But, on the other
hand, the difficulties that stand in the way of our interpreting
Monmouth's letter as alluding to Sunderland, or of supposing that the
writer of it had any well-founded accusation against that minister, are
insurmountable. If he had such an accusation to make, why did he not
make it? The king says expressly, both in a letter to the Prince of
Orange, and in the extract, from his "Memoirs," above cited, that
Monmouth made no discovery of consequence, and the explanation suggested,
that his silence was owing to Sunderland the secretary's having assured
him of his pardon, seems wholly inadmissible. Such assurances could have
their influence no longer than while the hope of pardon remained. Why,
then, did he continue silent, when he found James inexorable? If he was
willing to accuse the earl before he had received these assurances, it is
inconceivable that he should have any scruple about doing it when they
turned out to have been delusive, and when his mind must have been
exasperated by the reflection that Sunderland's perfidious promises and
self-interested suggestions had deterred him from the only probable means
of saving his life.
A third, and perhaps the most plausible, interpretation of the words in
question is, that they point to a discovery of Monmouth's friends in
England, when, in the dejected state of his mind at the time of writing,
unmanned as he was by misfortune, he might sincerely promise what the
return of better thoughts forbade him to perform. This account, however,
though free from the great absurdities belonging to the two others, is by
no means satisfactory. The phrase, "one word," seems to relate rather to
some single person, or some single fact, and can hardly apply to any list
of associates that might be intended to be sacrificed. On the other
hand, the single denunciation of Lord Delamere, of Lord Brandon, or even
of the Earl of Devonshire, or of any other private individual, could not
be considered as of that extreme consequence which Monmouth attaches to
his promised disclosure. I have mentioned Lord Devonshire, who was
certainly not implicated in the enterprise, and who was not even
suspected, because it appears, from Grey's narrative, that one of
Monmouth's agents had once given hopes of his support; and therefore
there is a bare possibility that Monmouth may have reckoned upon his
assistance. Perhaps, after all, the letter has been canvassed with too
much nicety, and the words of it weighed more scrupulously than, proper
allowance being made for the situation and state of mind of the writer,
they ought to have been. They may have been thrown out at hazard, merely
as means to obtain an interview, of which the unhappy prisoner thought he
might, in some way or other, make his advantage. If any more precise
meaning existed in his mind, we must be content to pass it over as one of
those obscure points of history, upon which neither the sagacity of
historians, nor the many documents since made public, nor the great
discoverer, Time, has yet thrown any distinct light.
Monmouth and Grey were now to be conveyed to London, for which purpose
they set out on the 11th, and arrived in the vicinity of the metropolis
on the 13th of July. In the meanwhile, the queen dowager, who seems to
have behaved with a uniformity of kindness towards her husband's son that
does her great honour, urgently pressed the king to admit his nephew to
an audience. Importuned, therefore, by entreaties, and instigated by the
curiosity which Monmouth's mysterious expressions, and Sheldon's story,
had excited, he consented, though with a fixed determination to show no
mercy. James was not of the number of those, in whom the want of an
extensive understanding is compensated by a delicacy of sentiment, or by
those right feelings, which are often found to be better guides for the
conduct than the most accurate reasoning. His nature did not revolt, his
blood did not run cold, at the thoughts of beholding the son of a brother
whom he had loved embracing his knees, petitioning, and petitioning in
vain, for life; of interchanging words and looks with a nephew, on whom
he was inexorably determined, within forty-eight short hours, to inflict
an ignominious death.
In Macpherson's extract from King James's "Memoirs," it is confessed that
the king ought not to have seen, if he was not disposed to pardon the
culprit; but whether the observation is made by the exiled prince
himself, or by him who gives the extract, is in this, as in many other
passages of those "Memoirs," difficult to determine. Surely if the king
had made this reflection before Monmouth's execution, it must have
occurred to that monarch, that if he had inadvertently done that which he
ought not to have done, without an intention to pardon, the only remedy
was to correct that part of his conduct which was still in his power, and
since he could not recall the interview, to grant the pardon.
Pursuant to this hard-hearted arrangement, Monmouth and Grey, on the very
day of their arrival, were brought to Whitehall, where they had severally
interviews with his majesty. James, in a letter to the Prince of Orange,
dated the following day, gives a short account of both these interviews.
Monmouth, he says, betrayed a weakness which did not become one who had
claimed the title of king; but made no discovery of consequence.
Grey was more ingenuous (it is not certain in what sense his majesty uses
the term, since he does not refer to any discovery made by that lord),
and never once begged his life. Short as this account is, it seems the
only authentic one of those interviews. Bishop Kennet, who has been
followed by most of the modern historians, relates, that "This unhappy
captive, by the intercession of the queen dowager, was brought to the
king's presence, and fell presently at his feet, and confessed he
deserved to die; but conjured him, with tears in his eyes, not to use him
with the severity of justice, and to grant him a life, which he would be
ever ready to sacrifice for his service. He mentioned to him the example
of several great princes, who had yielded to the impressions of clemency
on the like occasions, and who had never afterwards repented of those
acts of generosity and mercy; concluding, in a most pathetical manner,
'Remember, sir, I am your brother's son, and if you take my life, it is
your own blood that you will shed.' The king asked him several
questions, and made him sign a declaration that his father told him he
was never married to his mother: and then said, he was sorry indeed for
his misfortunes; but his crime was of too great a consequence to be left
unpunished, and he must of necessity suffer for it. The queen is said to
have insulted him in a very arrogant and unmerciful manner. So that when
the duke saw there was nothing designed by this interview but to satisfy
the queen's revenge, he rose up from his majesty's feet with a new air of
bravery, and was carried back to the Tower."
The topics used by Monmouth are such as he might naturally have employed,
and the demeanour attributed to him, upon finding the king inexorable, is
consistent enough with general probability, and his particular character;
but that the king took care to extract from him a confession of Charles's
declaration with respect to his illegitimacy, before he announced his
final refusal of mercy, and that the queen was present for the purpose of
reviling and insulting him, are circumstances too atrocious to merit
belief, without some more certain evidence. It must be remarked also,
that Burnet, whose general prejudices would not lead him to doubt any
imputations against the queen, does not mention her majesty's being
present. Monmouth's offer of changing religion is mentioned by him, but
no authority quoted; and no hint of the kind appears either in James's
Letters, or in the extract from his "Memoirs."
From Whitehall Monmouth was at night carried to the Tower, where, no
longer uncertain as to his fate, he seems to have collected his mind, and
to have resumed his wonted fortitude. The bill of attainder that had
lately passed having superseded the necessity of a legal trial, his
execution was fixed for the next day but one after his commitment. This
interval appeared too short even for the worldly business which he wished
to transact, and he wrote again to the king on the 14th, desiring some
short respite, which was peremptorily refused. The difficulty of
obtaining any certainty concerning facts, even in instances where there
has not been any apparent motive for disguising them, is nowhere more
striking than in the few remaining hours of this unfortunate man's life.
According to King James's statement in his "Memoirs," he refused to see
his wife, while other accounts assert positively that she refused to see
him, unless in presence of witnesses. Burnet, who was not likely to be
mistaken in a fact of this kind, says they did meet, and parted very
coldly, a circumstance which, if true, gives us no very favourable idea
of the lady's character. There is also mention of a third letter written
by him to the king, which being entrusted to a perfidious officer of the
name of Scott, never reached its destination; but for this there is no
foundation. What seems most certain is, that in the Tower, and not in
the closet, he signed a paper, renouncing his pretensions to the crown,
the same which he afterwards delivered on the scaffold; and that he was
inclined to make this declaration, not by any vain hope of life, but by
his affection for his children, whose situation he rightly judged would
be safer and better under the reigning monarch and his successors, when
it should be evident that they could no longer be competitors for the
throne.
Monmouth was very sincere in his religious professions, and it is
probable that a great portion of this sad day was passed in devotion and
religious discourse with the two prelates who had been sent by his
majesty to assist him in his spiritual concerns. Turner, bishop of Ely,
had been with him early in the morning, and Kenn, bishop of Bath and
Wells, was sent, upon the refusal of a respite, to prepare him for the
stroke, which it was now irrevocably fixed he should suffer the ensuing
day. They stayed with him all night, and in the morning of the 15th were
joined by Dr. Hooper, afterwards, in the reign of Anne, made bishop of
Bath and Wells, and by Dr. Tennison, who succeeded Tillotson in the see
of Canterbury. This last divine is stated by Burnet to have been most
acceptable to the duke, and, though he joined the others in some harsh
expostulations, to have done what the right reverend historian conceives
to have been his duty, in a softer and less peremptory manner. Certain
it is, that none of these holy men seem to have erred on the side of
compassion or complaisance to their illustrious penitent. Besides
endeavouring to convince him of the guilt of his connection with his
beloved lady Harriet, of which he could never be brought to a due sense,
they seem to have repeatedly teased him with controversy, and to have
been far more solicitous to make him profess what they deemed the true
creed of the Church of England, than to soften or console his sorrows, or
to help him to that composure of mind so necessary for his situation. He
declared himself to be a member of their Church, but, they denied that he
could be so, unless he thoroughly believed the doctrine of passive
obedience and non-resistance. He repented generally of his sins, and
especially of his late enterprise, but they insisted that he must repent
of it in the way they prescribed to him, that he must own it to have been
a wicked resistance to his lawful king, and a detestable act of
rebellion. Some historians have imputed this seemingly cruel conduct to
the king's particular instructions, who might be desirous of extracting,
or rather extorting, from the lips of his dying nephew such a confession
as would be matter of triumph to the royal cause. But the character of
the two prelates principally concerned, both for general uprightness and
sincerity as Church of England men, makes it more candid to suppose that
they did not act from motives of servile compliance, but rather from an
intemperate party zeal for the honour of their Church, which they judged
would be signally promoted if such a man as Monmouth, after having
throughout his life acted in defiance of their favourite doctrine, could
be brought in his last moments to acknowledge it as a divine truth. It
must never be forgotten, if we would understand the history of this
period, that the truly orthodox members of our Church regarded monarchy
not as a human, but as a divine institution, and passive obedience and
non-resistance, not as political maxims, but as articles of religion.
At ten o'clock on the 15th Monmouth proceeded in a carriage of the
lieutenant of the Tower to Tower Hill, the place destined for his
execution. The two bishops were in the carriage with him, and one of
them took that opportunity of informing him that their controversial
altercations were not yet at an end, and that upon the scaffold he would
again be pressed for more explicit and satisfactory declarations of
repentance. When arrived at the bar which had been put up for the
purpose of keeping out the multitude, Monmouth descended from the
carriage, and mounted the scaffold, with a firm step, attended by his
spiritual assistants. The sheriffs and executioners were already there.
The concourse of spectators was innumerable; and if we are to credit
traditional accounts, never was the general compassion more affectingly
expressed. The tears, sighs, and groans, which the first sight of this
heartrending spectacle produced, were soon succeeded by a universal and
awful silence; a respectful attention and affectionate anxiety to hear
every syllable that should pass the lips of the sufferer. The duke began
by saying he should speak little; he came to die, and he should die a
Protestant of the Church of England. Here he was interrupted by the
assistants, and told, that if he was of the Church of England, he must
acknowledge the doctrine of non-resistance to be true. In vain did he
reply that if he acknowledged the doctrine of the Church in general it
included all: they insisted he should own that doctrine, particularly
with respect to his case, and urged much more concerning their favourite
point, upon which, however, they obtained nothing but a repetition in
substance of former answers. He was then proceeding to speak of Lady
Harriet Wentworth, of his high esteem for her, and of his confirmed
opinion that their connection was innocent in the sight of God, when
Goslin, the sheriff, asked him, with all the unfeeling bluntness of a
vulgar mind, whether he was ever married to her. The duke refusing to
answer, the same magistrate, in the like strain, though changing his
subject, said he hoped to have heard of his repentance for the treason
and bloodshed which had been committed; to which the prisoner replied,
with great mildness, that he died very penitent. Here the Churchmen
again interposed, and renewing their demand of particular penitence and
public acknowledgment upon public affairs, Monmouth referred them to the
following paper, which he had signed that morning:
"I declare that the title of king was forced upon me, and that it was
very much contrary to my opinion when I was proclaimed. For the
satisfaction of the world, I do declare that the late king told me he
was never married to my mother. Having declared this, I hope the king
who is now will not let my children suffer on this account. And to
this I put my hand this fifteenth day of July, 1685.
"MONMOUTH."
There was nothing, they said, in that paper about resistance; nor, though
Monmouth, quite worn-out with their importunities, said to one of them,
in the most affecting manner, "I am to die--pray my lord--I refer to my
paper," would those men think it consistent with their duty to desist.
There were only a few words they desired on one point. The substance of
these applications on the one hand, and answers on the other, was
repeated over and over again, in a manner that could not be believed, if
the facts were not attested by the signatures of the persons principally
concerned. If the duke, in declaring his sorrow for what had passed,
used the word invasion, "Give it the true name," said they, "and call it
rebellion." "What name you please," replied the mild-tempered Monmouth.
He was sure he was going to everlasting happiness, and considered the
serenity of his mind in his present circumstances as a certain earnest of
the favour of his Creator. His repentance, he said, must be true, for he
had no fear of dying; he should die like a lamb. "Much may come from
natural courage," was the unfeeling and stupid reply of one of the
assistants. Monmouth, with that modesty inseparable from true bravery,
denied that he was in general less fearful than other men, maintaining
that his present courage was owing to his consciousness that God had
forgiven him his past transgressions, of all which generally he repented
with all his soul.
At last the reverend assistants consented to join with him in prayer, but
no sooner were they risen from their kneeling posture than they returned
to their charge. Not satisfied with what had passed, they exhorted him
to a true and thorough repentance. Would he not pray for the king, and
send a dutiful message to his majesty to recommend the duchess and his
children? "As you please," was the reply; "I pray for him and for all
men." He now spoke to the executioner, desiring that he might have no
cap over his eyes, and began undressing. One would have thought that in
this last sad ceremony, the poor prisoner might have been unmolested, and
that the divines would have been satisfied that prayer was the only part
of their function for which their duty now called upon them. They judged
differently, and one of them had the fortitude to request the duke, even
in this stage of the business, that he would address himself to the
soldiers then present, to tell them he stood a sad example of rebellion,
and entreat the people to be loyal and obedient to the king. "I have
said I will make no speeches," repeated Monmouth, in a tone more
peremptory than he had before been provoked to; "I will make no speeches.
I come to die." "My lord, ten words will be enough," said the
persevering divine; to which the duke made no answer, but turning to the
executioner, expressed a hope that he would do his work better now than
in the case of Lord Russell. He then felt the axe, which he apprehended
was not sharp enough, but being assured that it was of proper sharpness
and weight, he laid down his head. In the meantime many fervent
ejaculations were used by the reverend assistants, who, it must be
observed, even in these moments of horror, showed themselves not
unmindful of the points upon which they had been disputing, praying God
to accept his imperfect and general repentance.
The executioner now struck the blow, but so feebly or unskilfully, that
Monmouth, being but slightly wounded, lifted up his head, and looked him
in the face as if to upbraid him, but said nothing. The two following
strokes were as ineffectual as the first, and the headsman, in a fit of
horror, declared he could not finish his work. The sheriffs threatened
him; he was forced again to make a further trial, and in two more strokes
separated the head from the body.
Thus fell, in the thirty-sixth year of his age, James, Duke of Monmouth,
a man against whom all that has been said by the most inveterate enemies
both to him and his party amounts to little more than this, that he had
not a mind equal to the situations in which his ambition, at different
times, engaged him to place himself. But to judge him with candour, we
must make great allowances, not only for the temptations into which he
was led by the splendid prosperity of the earlier parts of his life, but
also for the adverse prejudices with which he was regarded by almost all
the contemporary writers, from whom his actions and character are
described. The Tories, of course, are unfavourable to him; and even
among the Whigs, there seems, in many, a strong inclination to disparage
him; some to excuse themselves for not having joined him, others to make
a display of their exclusive attachment to their more successful leader,
King William. Burnet says of Monmouth, that he was gentle, brave, and
sincere: to these praises, from the united testimony of all who knew him,
we may add that of generosity; and surely those qualities go a great way
in making up the catalogue of all that is amiable and estimable in human
nature. One of the most conspicuous features in his character seems to
have been a remarkable, and, as some think, a culpable degree of
flexibility. That such a disposition is preferable to its opposite
extreme, will be admitted by all who think that modesty, even in excess,
is more nearly allied to wisdom than conceit and self-sufficiency. He
who has attentively considered the political, or, indeed, the general
concerns of life, may possibly go still further, and rank a willingness
to be convinced, or in some cases even without conviction, to concede our
own opinion to that of other men, among the principal ingredients in the
composition of practical wisdom. Monmouth had suffered this flexibility,
so laudable in many cases, to degenerate into a habit which made him
often follow the advice, or yield to the entreaties, of persons whose
characters by no means entitled them to such deference. The sagacity of
Shaftesbury, the honour of Russell, the genius of Sydney, might, in the
opinion of a modest man, be safe and eligible guides. The partiality of
friendship, and the conviction of his firm attachment, might be some
excuse for his listening so much to Grey; but he never could, at any
period of his life, have mistaken Ferguson for an honest man. There is
reason to believe that the advice of the two last-mentioned persons had
great weight in persuading him to the unjustifiable step of declaring
himself king. But far the most guilty act of this unfortunate man's life
was his lending his name to the declaration which was published at Lyme,
and in this instance Ferguson, who penned the paper, was both the adviser
and the instrument. To accuse the king of having burnt London, murdered
Essex in the Tower, and, finally, poisoned his brother, unsupported by
evidence to substantiate such dreadful charges, was calumny of the most
atrocious kind; but the guilt is still heightened, when we observe, that
from no conversation of Monmouth, nor, indeed, from any other
circumstance whatever, do we collect that he himself believed the horrid
accusations to be true. With regard to Essex's death in particular, the
only one of the three charges which was believed by any man of common
sense, the late king was as much implicated in the suspicion as James.
That the latter should have dared to be concerned in such an act, without
the privacy of his brother, was too absurd an imputation to be attempted,
even in the days of the popish plot. On the other hand, it was certainly
not the intention of the son to brand his father as an assassin. It is
too plain that, in the instance of this declaration, Monmouth, with a
facility highly criminal, consented to set his name to whatever Ferguson
recommended as advantageous to the cause. Among the many dreadful
circumstances attending civil wars, perhaps there are few more revolting
to a good mind than the wicked calumnies with which, in the heat of
contention, men, otherwise men of honour, have in all ages and countries
permitted themselves to load their adversaries. It is remarkable that
there is no trace of the divines who attended this unfortunate man having
exhorted him to a particular repentance of his manifesto, or having
called for a retraction or disavowal of the accusations contained in it.
They were so intent upon points more immediately connected with orthodoxy
of faith, that they omitted pressing their penitent to the only
declaration by which he could make any satisfactory atonement to those
whom he had injured.