A few days later it was known that Sir Edmondsbury Godfrey, an eminent

justice of the peace who had taken the depositions of Oates against

Coleman, had disappeared. Search was made; and Godfrey's corpse was

found in a field near London. It was clear that he had died by violence.

It was equally clear that he had not been set upon by robbers. His fate

is to this day a secret. Some think that he perished by his own

hand; some, that he was slain by a private enemy. The most improbable

supposition is that he was murdered by the party hostile to the court,

in order to give colour to the story of the plot. The most probable

supposition seems, on the whole, to be that some hotheaded Roman

Catholic, driven to frenzy by the lies of Oates and by the insults

of the multitude, and not nicely distinguishing between the perjured

accuser and the innocent magistrate, had taken a revenge of which the

history of persecuted sects furnishes but too many examples. If this

were so, the assassin must have afterwards bitterly execrated his own

wickedness and folly. The capital and the whole nation went mad with

hatred and fear. The penal laws, which had begun to lose something of

their edge, were sharpened anew. Everywhere justices were busied in

searching houses and seizing papers. All the gaols were filled with

Papists. London had the aspect of a city in a state of siege. The

trainbands were under arms all night. Preparations were made for

barricading the great thoroughfares. Patrols marched up and down the

streets. Cannon were planted round Whitehall. No citizen thought himself

safe unless he carried under his coat a small flail loaded with lead to

brain the Popish assassins. The corpse of the murdered magistrate was

exhibited during several days to the gaze of great multitudes, and was

then committed to the grave with strange and terrible ceremonies,

which indicated rather fear and the thirst of vengeance shall sorrow or

religious hope. The Houses insisted that a guard should be placed in the

vaults over which they sate, in order to secure them against a second

Gunpowder Plot. All their proceedings were of a piece with this demand.

Ever since the reign of Elizabeth the oath of supremacy had been exacted

from members of the House of Commons. Some Roman Catholics, however,

had contrived so to interpret this oath that they could take it without

scruple. A more stringent test was now added: every member of Parliament

was required to make the Declaration against Transubstantiation; and

thus the Roman Catholic Lords were for the first time excluded from

their seats. Strong resolutions were adopted against the Queen. The

Commons threw one of the Secretaries of State into prison for having

countersigned commissions directed to gentlemen who were not good

Protestants. They impeached the Lord Treasurer of high treason. Nay,

they so far forgot the doctrine which, while the memory of the civil war

was still recent, they had loudly professed, that they even attempted

to wrest the command of the militia out of the King's hands. To such

a temper had eighteen years of misgovernment brought the most loyal

Parliament that had ever met in England.

Yet it may seem strange that, even in that extremity, the King should

have ventured to appeal to the people; for the people were more excited

than their representatives. The Lower House, discontented as it was,

contained a larger number of Cavaliers than were likely to find seats

again. But it was thought that a dissolution would put a stop to the

prosecution of the Lord Treasurer, a prosecution which might probably

bring to light all the guilty mysteries of the French alliance, and

might thus cause extreme personal annoyance and embarrassment to

Charles. Accordingly, in January, 1679, the Parliament, which had been

in existence ever since the beginning of the year 1661, was dissolved;

and writs were issued for a general election.

During some weeks the contention over the whole country was fierce and

obstinate beyond example. Unprecedented sums were expended. New tactics

were employed. It was remarked by the pamphleteers of that time as

something extraordinary that horses were hired at a great charge for

the conveyance of electors. The practice of splitting freeholds for

the purpose of multiplying votes dates from this memorable struggle.

Dissenting preachers, who had long hidden themselves in quiet nooks from

persecution, now emerged from their retreats, and rode from village to

village, for the purpose of rekindling the zeal of the scattered people

of God. The tide ran strong against the government. Most of the new

members came up to Westminster in a mood little differing from that of

their predecessors who had sent Strafford and Laud to the Tower.

Meanwhile the courts of justice, which ought to be, in the midst of

political commotions, sure places of refuge for the innocent of every

party, were disgraced by wilder passions and fouler corruptions than

were to be found even on the hustings. The tale of Oates, though it had

sufficed to convulse the whole realm, would not, unless confirmed by

other evidence, suffice to destroy the humblest of those whom he had

accused. For, by the old law of England, two witnesses are necessary

to establish a charge of treason. But the success of the first impostor

produced its natural consequences. In a few weeks he had been raised

from penury and obscurity to opulence, to power which made him the dread

of princes and nobles, and to notoriety such as has for low and bad

minds all the attractions of glory. He was not long without coadjutors

and rivals. A wretch named Carstairs, who had earned a livelihood in

Scotland by going disguised to conventicles and then informing against

the preachers, led the way. Bedloe, a noted swindler, followed; and soon

from all the brothels, gambling houses, and spunging houses of London,

false witnesses poured forth to swear away the lives of Roman Catholics.

One came with a story about an army of thirty thousand men who were to

muster in the disguise of pilgrims at Corunna, and to sail thence to

Wales. Another had been promised canonisation and five hundred pounds

to murder the King. A third had stepped into an eating house in Covent

Garden, and had there heard a great Roman Catholic banker vow, in the

hearing of all the guests and drawers, to kill the heretical tyrant.

Oates, that he might not be eclipsed by his imitators, soon added

a large supplement to his original narrative. He had the portentous

impudence to affirm, among other things, that he had once stood behind a

door which was ajar, and had there overheard the Queen declare that she

had resolved to give her consent to the assassination of her husband.

The vulgar believed, and the highest magistrates pretended to believe,

even such fictions as these. The chief judges of the realm were corrupt,

cruel, and timid. The leaders of the Country Party encouraged the

prevailing delusion. The most respectable among them, indeed, were

themselves so far deluded as to believe the greater part of the evidence

of the plot to be true. Such men as Shaftesbury and Buckingham doubtless

perceived that the whole was a romance. But it was a romance which

served their turn; and to their seared consciences the death of an

innocent man gave no more uneasiness than the death of a partridge. The

juries partook of the feelings then common throughout the nation,

and were encouraged by the bench to indulge those feelings without

restraint. The multitude applauded Oates and his confederates, hooted

and pelted the witnesses who appeared on behalf of the accused, and

shouted with joy when the verdict of Guilty was pronounced. It was in

vain that the sufferers appealed to the respectability of their past

lives: for the public mind was possessed with a belief that the more

conscientious a Papist was, the more likely he must be to plot against a

Protestant government. It was in vain that, just before the cart passed

from under their feet, they resolutely affirmed their innocence: for the

general opinion was that a good Papist considered all lies which were

serviceable to his Church as not only excusable but meritorious.

While innocent blood was shedding under the forms of justice, the new

Parliament met; and such was the violence of the predominant party

that even men whose youth had been passed amidst revolutions men who

remembered the attainder of Strafford, the attempt on the five members,

the abolition of the House of Lords, the execution of the King, stood

aghast at the aspect of public affairs. The impeachment of Danby was

resumed. He pleaded the royal pardon. But the Commons treated the

plea with contempt, and insisted that the trial should proceed. Danby,

however, was not their chief object. They were convinced that the only

effectual way of securing the liberties and religion of the nation was

to exclude the Duke of York from the throne.

The King was in great perplexity. He had insisted that his brother, the

sight of whom inflamed the populace to madness, should retire for a

time to Brussels: but this concession did not seem to have produced any

favourable effect. The Roundhead party was now decidedly preponderant.

Towards that party leaned millions who had, at the time of the

Restoration, leaned towards the side of prerogative. Of the old

Cavaliers many participated in the prevailing fear of Popery, and many,

bitterly resenting the ingratitude of the prince for whom they had

sacrificed so much, looked on his distress as carelessly as he had

looked on theirs. Even the Anglican clergy, mortified and alarmed by the

apostasy of the Duke of York, so far countenanced the opposition as to

join cordially in the outcry against the Roman Catholics.

The King in this extremity had recourse to Sir William Temple. Of all

the official men of that age Temple had preserved the fairest character.

The Triple Alliance had been his work. He had refused to take any

part in the politics of the Cabal, and had, while that administration

directed affairs, lived in strict privacy. He had quitted his retreat at

the call of Danby, had made peace between England and Holland, and had

borne a chief part in bringing about the marriage of the Lady Mary to

her cousin the Prince of Orange. Thus he had the credit of every one

of the few good things which had been done by the government since the

Restoration. Of the numerous crimes and blunders of the last eighteen

years none could be imputed to him. His private life, though not

austere, was decorous: his manners were popular; and he was not to be

corrupted either by titles or by money. Something, however, was wanting

to the character of this respectable statesman. The temperature of his

patriotism was lukewarm. He prized his ease and his personal dignity

too much, and shrank from responsibility with a pusillanimous fear. Nor

indeed had his habits fitted him to bear a part in the conflicts of our

domestic factions. He had reached his fiftieth year without having sate

in the English Parliament; and his official experience had been almost

entirely acquired at foreign courts. He was justly esteemed one of the

first diplomatists in Europe: but the talents and accomplishments of a

diplomatist are widely different from those which qualify a politician

to lead the House of Commons in agitated times.

The scheme which he proposed showed considerable ingenuity. Though not

a profound philosopher, he had thought more than most busy men of the

world on the general principles of government; and his mind had been

enlarged by historical studies and foreign travel. He seems to have

discerned more clearly than most of his contemporaries one cause of the

difficulties by which the government was beset. The character of the

English polity was gradually changing. The Parliament was slowly, but

constantly, gaining ground on the prerogative. The line between the

legislative and executive powers was in theory as strongly marked as

ever, but in practice was daily becoming fainter and fainter. The theory

of the constitution was that the King might name his own ministers.

But the House of Commons had driven Clarendon, the Cabal, and

Danby successively from the direction of affairs. The theory of the

constitution was that the King alone had the power of making peace and

war. But the House of Commons had forced him to make peace with Holland,

and had all but forced him to make war with France. The theory of the

constitution was that the King was the sole judge of the cases in which

it might be proper to pardon offenders. Yet he was so much in dread

of the House of Commons that, at that moment, he could not venture to

rescue from the gallows men whom he well knew to be the innocent victims

of perjury.

Temple, it should seem, was desirous to secure to the legislature its

undoubted constitutional powers, and yet to prevent it, if

possible, from encroaching further on the province of the executive

administration. With this view he determined to interpose between the

sovereign and the Parliament a body which might break the shock of their

collision. There was a body ancient, highly honourable, and recognised

by the law, which, he thought, might be so remodelled as to serve this

purpose. He determined to give to the Privy Council a new character and

office in the government. The number of Councillors he fixed at thirty.

Fifteen of them were to be the chief ministers of state, of law, and of

religion. The other fifteen were to be unplaced noblemen and gentlemen

of ample fortune and high character. There was to be no interior

cabinet. All the thirty were to be entrusted with every political

secret, and summoned to every meeting; and the King was to declare that

he would, on every occasion, be guided by their advice.

Temple seems to have thought that, by this contrivance, he could at

once secure the nation against the tyranny of the Crown, and the Crown

against the encroachments of the Parliament. It was, on one hand, highly

improbable that schemes such as had been formed by the Cabal would

be even propounded for discussion in an assembly consisting of thirty

eminent men, fifteen of whom were bound by no tie of interest to the

court. On the other hand, it might be hoped that the Commons, content

with the guarantee against misgovernment which such a Privy Council

furnished, would confine themselves more than they had of late done

to their strictly legislative functions, and would no longer think it

necessary to pry into every part of the executive administration.

This plan, though in some respects not unworthy of the abilities of its

author, was in principle vicious. The new board was half a cabinet and

half a Parliament, and, like almost every other contrivance, whether

mechanical or political, which is meant to serve two purposes altogether

different, failed of accomplishing either. It was too large and too

divided to be a good administrative body. It was too closely connected

with the Crown to be a good checking body. It contained just enough of

popular ingredients to make it a bad council of state, unfit for the

keeping of secrets, for the conducting of delicate negotiations, and

for the administration of war. Yet were these popular ingredients by no

means sufficient to secure the nation against misgovernment. The

plan, therefore, even if it had been fairly tried, could scarcely

have succeeded; and it was not fairly tried. The King was fickle

and perfidious: the Parliament was excited and unreasonable; and the

materials out of which the new Council was made, though perhaps the best

which that age afforded, were still bad.

The commencement of the new system was, however, hailed with general

delight; for the people were in a temper to think any change an

improvement. They were also pleased by some of the new nominations.

Shaftesbury, now their favourite, was appointed Lord President. Russell

and some other distinguished members of the Country Party were sworn

of the Council. But a few days later all was again in confusion. The

inconveniences of having so numerous a cabinet were such that Temple

himself consented to infringe one of the fundamental rules which he

had laid down, and to become one of a small knot which really directed

everything. With him were joined three other ministers, Arthur Capel,

Earl of Essex, George Savile, Viscount Halifax, and Robert Spencer, Earl

of Sunderland.

Of the Earl of Essex, then First Commissioner of the Treasury, it is

sufficient to say that he was a man of solid, though not brilliant

parts, and of grave and melancholy character, that he had been connected

with the Country Party, and that he was at this time honestly desirous

to effect, on terms beneficial to the state, a reconciliation between

that party and the throne.

Among the statesmen of those times Halifax was, in genius, the first.

His intellect was fertile, subtle, and capacious. His polished,

luminous, and animated eloquence, set off by the silver tones of

his voice, was the delight of the House of Lords. His conversation

overflowed with thought, fancy, and wit. His political tracts well

deserve to be studied for their literary merit, and fully entitle him

to a place among English classics. To the weight derived from talents so

great and various he united all the influence which belongs to rank and

ample possessions. Yet he was less successful in politics than many who

enjoyed smaller advantages. Indeed, those intellectual peculiarities

which make his writings valuable frequently impeded him in the contests

of active life. For he always saw passing events, not in the point of

view in which they commonly appear to one who bears a part in them,

but in the point of view in which, after the lapse of many years, they

appear to the philosophic historian. With such a turn of mind he

could not long continue to act cordially with any body of men. All the

prejudices, all the exaggerations, of both the great parties in the

state moved his scorn. He despised the mean arts and unreasonable

clamours of demagogues. He despised still more the doctrines of divine

right and passive obedience. He sneered impartially at the bigotry of

the Churchman and at the bigotry of the Puritan. He was equally unable

to comprehend how any man should object to Saints' days and surplices,

and how any man should persecute any other man for objecting to them. In

temper he was what, in our time, is called a Conservative: in theory

he was a Republican. Even when his dread of anarchy and his disdain

for vulgar delusions led him to side for a time with the defenders of

arbitrary power, his intellect was always with Locke and Milton. Indeed,

his jests upon hereditary monarchy were sometimes such as would have

better become a member of the Calf's Head Club than a Privy Councillor

of the Stuarts. In religion he was so far from being a zealot that

he was called by the uncharitable an atheist: but this imputation he

vehemently repelled; and in truth, though he sometimes gave scandal by

the way in which he exerted his rare powers both of reasoning and

of ridicule on serious subjects, he seems to have been by no means

unsusceptible of religious impressions.

He was the chief of those politicians whom the two great parties

contemptuously called Trimmers. Instead of quarrelling with this

nickname, he assumed it as a title of honour, and vindicated, with great

vivacity, the dignity of the appellation. Everything good, he said,

trims between extremes. The temperate zone trims between the climate

in which men are roasted and the climate in which they are frozen.

The English Church trims between the Anabaptist madness and the Papist

lethargy. The English constitution trims between Turkish despotism and

Polish anarchy. Virtue is nothing but a just temper between propensities

any one of which, if indulged to excess, becomes vice. Nay, the

perfection of the Supreme Being himself consists in the exact

equilibrium of attributes, none of which could preponderate without

disturbing the whole moral and physical order of the world. [20]

Thus Halifax was a Trimmer on principle. He was also a Trimmer by the

constitution both of his head and of his heart. His understanding was

keen, sceptical, inexhaustibly fertile in distinctions and objections;

his taste refined; his sense of the ludicrous exquisite; his temper

placid and forgiving, but fastidious, and by no means prone either to

malevolence or to enthusiastic admiration. Such a man could not long

be constant to any band of political allies. He must not, however, be

confounded with the vulgar crowd of renegades. For though, like them,

he passed from side to side, his transition was always in the direction

opposite to theirs. He had nothing in common with those who fly from

extreme to extreme, and who regard the party which they have deserted

with all animosity far exceeding that of consistent enemies. His

place was on the debatable ground between the hostile divisions of the

community, and he never wandered far beyond the frontier of either. The

party to which he at any moment belonged was the party which, at that

moment, he liked least, because it was the party of which at that moment

he had the nearest view. He was therefore always severe upon his violent

associates, and was always in friendly relations with his moderate

opponents. Every faction in the day of its insolent and vindictive

triumph incurred his censure; and every faction, when vanquished and

persecuted, found in him a protector. To his lasting honour it must be

mentioned that he attempted to save those victims whose fate has left

the deepest stain both on the Whig and on the Tory name.

He had greatly distinguished himself in opposition, and had thus drawn

on himself the royal displeasure, which was indeed so strong that he was

not admitted into the Council of Thirty without much difficulty and long

altercation. As soon, however, as he had obtained a footing at court,

the charms of his manner and of his conversation made him a favourite.

He was seriously alarmed by the violence of the public discontent.

He thought that liberty was for the present safe, and that order and

legitimate authority were in danger. He therefore, as was his fashion,

joined himself to the weaker side. Perhaps his conversion was not wholly

disinterested. For study and reflection, though they had emancipated

him from many vulgar prejudices, had left him a slave to vulgar desires.

Money he did not want; and there is no evidence that he ever obtained

it by any means which, in that age, even severe censors considered as

dishonourable; but rank and power had strong attractions for him. He

pretended, indeed, that he considered titles and great offices as baits

which could allure none but fools, that he hated business, pomp, and

pageantry, and that his dearest wish was to escape from the bustle and

glitter of Whitehall to the quiet woods which surrounded his ancient

mansion in Nottinghamshire; but his conduct was not a little at variance

with his professions. In truth he wished to command the respect at

once of courtiers and of philosophers, to be admired for attaining high

dignities, and to be at the same time admired for despising them.

Sunderland was Secretary of State. In this man the political immorality

of his age was personified in the most lively manner. Nature had given

him a keen understanding, a restless and mischievous temper, a cold

heart, and an abject spirit. His mind had undergone a training by

which all his vices had been nursed up to the rankest maturity. At his

entrance into public life, he had passed several years in diplomatic

posts abroad, and had been, during some time, minister in France. Every

calling has its peculiar temptations. There is no injustice in saying

that diplomatists, as a class, have always been more distinguished by

their address, by the art with which they win the confidence of those

with whom they have to deal, and by the ease with which they catch the

tone of every society into which they are admitted, than by generous

enthusiasm or austere rectitude; and the relations between Charles and

Lewis were such that no English nobleman could long reside in France as

envoy, and retain any patriotic or honourable sentiment. Sunderland

came forth from the bad school in which he had been brought up, cunning,

supple, shameless, free from all prejudices, and destitute of all

principles. He was, by hereditary connection, a Cavalier: but with the

Cavaliers he had nothing in common. They were zealous for monarchy, and

condemned in theory all resistance. Yet they had sturdy English hearts

which would never have endured real despotism. He, on the contrary,

had a languid speculative liking for republican institutions which was

compatible with perfect readiness to be in practice the most servile

instrument of arbitrary power. Like many other accomplished flatterers

and negotiators, he was far more skilful in the art of reading the

characters and practising on the weaknesses of individuals, than in the

art of discerning the feelings of great masses, and of foreseeing the

approach of great revolutions. He was adroit in intrigue; and it

was difficult even for shrewd and experienced men who had been amply

forewarned of his perfidy to withstand the fascination of his manner,

and to refuse credit to his professions of attachment. But he was so

intent on observing and courting particular persons, that he often

forgot to study the temper of the nation. He therefore miscalculated

grossly with respect to some of the most momentous events of his time.

More than one important movement and rebound of the public mind took

him by surprise; and the world, unable to understand how so clever a man

could be blind to what was clearly discerned by the politicians of the

coffee houses, sometimes attributed to deep design what were in truth

mere blunders.

It was only in private conference that his eminent abilities displayed

themselves. In the royal closet, or in a very small circle, he exercised

great influence. But at the Council board he was taciturn; and in the

House of Lords he never opened his lips.

The four confidential advisers of the crown soon found that their

position was embarrassing and invidious. The other members of the

Council murmured at a distinction inconsistent with the King's

promises; and some of them, with Shaftesbury at their head, again betook

themselves to strenuous opposition in Parliament. The agitation, which

had been suspended by the late changes, speedily became more violent

than ever. It was in vain that Charles offered to grant to the Commons

any security for the Protestant religion which they could devise,

provided only that they would not touch the order of succession. They

would hear of no compromise. They would have the Exclusion Bill, and

nothing but the Exclusion Bill. The King, therefore, a few weeks after

he had publicly promised to take no step without the advice of his

new Council, went down to the House of Lords without mentioning his

intention in Council, and prorogued the Parliament.

The day of that prorogation, the twenty-sixth of May, 1679, is a great

era in our history. For on that day the Habeas Corpus Act received the

royal assent. From the time of the Great Charter the substantive law

respecting the personal liberty of Englishmen had been nearly the same

as at present: but it had been inefficacious for want of a stringent

system of procedure. What was needed was not a new light, but a prompt

and searching remedy; and such a remedy the Habeas Corpus Act supplied.

The King would gladly have refused his consent to that measure: but he

was about to appeal from his Parliament to his people on the question

of the succession, and he could not venture, at so critical a moment, to

reject a bill which was in the highest degree popular.

On the same day the press of England became for a short time free. In

old times printers had been strictly controlled by the Court of Star

Chamber. The Long Parliament had abolished the Star Chamber, but had,

in spite of the philosophical and eloquent expostulation of Milton,

established and maintained a censorship. Soon after the Restoration, an

Act had been passed which prohibited the printing of unlicensed books;

and it had been provided that this Act should continue in force till

the end of the first session of the next Parliament. That moment had

now arrived; and the King, in the very act of dismissing the House,

emancipated the Press.

Shortly after the prorogation came a dissolution and another general

election. The zeal and strength of the opposition were at the height.

The cry for the Exclusion Bill was louder than ever, and with this cry

was mingled another cry, which fired the blood of the multitude, but

which was heard with regret and alarm by all judicious friends of

freedom. Not only the rights of the Duke of York, an avowed Papist,

but those of his two daughters, sincere and zealous Protestants, were

assailed. It was confidently affirmed that the eldest natural son of the

King had been born in wedlock, and was lawful heir to the crown.

Charles, while a wanderer on the Continent, had fallen in at the

Hague with Lucy Walters, a Welsh girl of great beauty, but of weak

understanding and dissolute manners. She became his mistress, and

presented him with a son. A suspicious lover might have had his doubts;

for the lady had several admirers, and was not supposed to be cruel to

any. Charles, however, readily took her word, and poured forth on little

James Crofts, as the boy was then called, an overflowing fondness, such

as seemed hardly to belong to that cool and careless nature. Soon after

the restoration, the young favourite, who had learned in France the

exercises then considered necessary to a fine gentleman, made his

appearance at Whitehall. He was lodged in the palace, attended by pages,

and permitted to enjoy several distinctions which had till then been

confined to princes of the blood royal. He was married, while still in

tender youth, to Anne Scott, heiress of the noble house of Buccleuch.

He took her name, and received with her hand possession of her ample

domains. The estate which he had acquired by this match was popularly

estimated at not less than ten thousand pounds a year. Titles, and

favours more substantial than titles, were lavished on him. He was made

Duke of Monmouth in England, Duke of Buccleuch in Scotland, a Knight of

the Garter, Master of the Horse, Commander of the first troop of Life

Guards, Chief Justice of Eyre south of Trent, and Chancellor of the

University of Cambridge. Nor did he appear to the public unworthy of his

high fortunes. His countenance was eminently handsome and engaging, his

temper sweet, his manners polite and affable. Though a libertine, he won

the hearts of the Puritans. Though he was known to have been privy

to the shameful attack on Sir John Coventry, he easily obtained the

forgiveness of the Country Party. Even austere moralists owned that, in

such a court, strict conjugal fidelity was scarcely to be expected from

one who, while a child, had been married to another child. Even patriots

were willing to excuse a headstrong boy for visiting with immoderate

vengeance an insult offered to his father. And soon the stain left by

loose amours and midnight brawls was effaced by honourable exploits.

When Charles and Lewis united their forces against Holland, Monmouth

commanded the English auxiliaries who were sent to the Continent, and

approved himself a gallant soldier and a not unintelligent officer. On

his return he found himself the most popular man in the kingdom. Nothing

was withheld from him but the crown; nor did even the crown seem to

be absolutely beyond his reach. The distinction which had most

injudiciously been made between him and the highest nobles had produced

evil consequences. When a boy he had been invited to put on his hat in

the presence chamber, while Howards and Seymours stood uncovered round

him. When foreign princes died, he had mourned for them in the long

purple cloak, which no other subject, except the Duke of York and Prince

Rupert, was permitted to wear. It was natural that these things should

lead him to regard himself as a legitimate prince of the House of

Stuart. Charles, even at a ripe age, was devoted to his pleasures and

regardless of his dignity. It could hardly be thought incredible that he

should at twenty have secretly gone through the form of espousing a lady

whose beauty had fascinated him. While Monmouth was still a child, and

while the Duke of York still passed for a Protestant, it was rumoured

throughout the country, and even in circles which ought to have been

well informed, that the King had made Lucy Walters his wife, and that,

if every one had his right, her son would be Prince of Wales. Much

was said of a certain black box which, according to the vulgar belief,

contained the contract of marriage. When Monmouth had returned from the

Low Countries with a high character for valour and conduct, and when the

Duke of York was known to be a member of a church detested by the great

majority of the nation, this idle story became important. For it

there was not the slightest evidence. Against it there was the solemn

asseveration of the King, made before his Council, and by his order

communicated to his people. But the multitude, always fond of romantic

adventures, drank in eagerly the tale of the secret espousals and the

black box. Some chiefs of the opposition acted on this occasion as they

acted with respect to the more odious fables of Oates, and countenanced

a story which they must have despised. The interest which the populace

took in him whom they regarded as the champion of the true religion, and

the rightful heir of the British throne, was kept up by every artifice.

When Monmouth arrived in London at midnight, the watchmen were ordered

by the magistrates to proclaim the joyful event through the streets of

the City: the people left their beds: bonfires were lighted: the windows

were illuminated: the churches were opened; and a merry peal rose from

all the steeples. When he travelled, he was everywhere received with not

less pomp, and with far more enthusiasm, than had been displayed when

Kings had made progresses through the realm. He was escorted from

mansion to mansion by long cavalcades of armed gentlemen and yeomen.

Cities poured forth their whole population to receive him. Electors

thronged round him, to assure him that their votes were at his disposal.

To such a height were his pretensions carried, that he not only

exhibited on his escutcheon the lions of England and the lilies of

France without the baton sinister under which, according to the law of

heraldry, they should have been debruised in token of his illegitimate

birth, but ventured to touch for the king's evil. At the same time he

neglected no art of condescension by which the love of the multitude

could be conciliated. He stood godfather to the children of the

peasantry, mingled in every rustic sport, wrestled, played at

quarterstaff, and won footraces in his boots against fleet runners in

shoes.

It is a curious circumstance that, at two of the greatest conjunctures

in our history, the chiefs of the Protestant party should have committed

the same error, and should by that error have greatly endangered their

country and their religion. At the death of Edward the Sixth they set up

the Lady Jane, without any show of birthright, in opposition, not only

to their enemy Mary, but also to Elizabeth, the true hope of England

and of the Reformation. Thus the most respectable Protestants, with

Elizabeth at their head, were forced to make common cause with the

Papists. In the same manner, a hundred and thirty years later, a part

of the opposition, by setting up Monmouth as a claimant of the crown,

attacked the rights, not only of James, whom they justly regarded as

an implacable foe of their faith and their liberties, but also of the

Prince and Princess of Orange, who were eminently marked out, both

by situation and by personal qualities, as the defenders of all free

governments and of all reformed churches.

The folly of this course speedily became manifest. At present the

popularity of Monmouth constituted a great part of the strength of the

opposition. The elections went against the court: the day fixed for

the meeting of the Houses drew near; and it was necessary that the

King should determine on some line of conduct. Those who advised him

discerned the first faint signs of a change of public feeling, and hoped

that, by merely postponing the conflict, he would be able to secure the

victory. He therefore, without even asking the opinion of the Council of

the Thirty, resolved to prorogue the new Parliament before it entered

on business. At the same time the Duke of York, who had returned from

Brussels, was ordered to retire to Scotland, and was placed at the head

of the administration of that kingdom.

Temple's plan of government was now avowedly abandoned and very soon

forgotten. The Privy Council again became what it had been. Shaftesbury,

and those who were connected with him in politics resigned their seats.

Temple himself, as was his wont in unquiet times, retired to his garden

and his library. Essex quitted the board of Treasury, and cast in his

lot with the opposition. But Halifax, disgusted and alarmed by the

violence of his old associates, and Sunderland, who never quitted place

while he could hold it, remained in the King's service.

In consequence of the resignations which took place at this conjuncture,

the way to greatness was left clear to a new set of aspirants. Two

statesmen, who subsequently rose to the highest eminence which a British

subject can reach, soon began to attract a large share of the public

attention. These were Lawrence Hyde and Sidney Godolphin.

Lawrence Hyde was the second son of the Chancellor Clarendon, and was

brother of the first Duchess of York. He had excellent parts, which

had been improved by parliamentary and diplomatic experience; but the

infirmities of his temper detracted much from the effective strength of

his abilities. Negotiator and courtier as he was, he never learned the

art of governing or of concealing his emotions. When prosperous, he

was insolent and boastful: when he sustained a check, his undisguised

mortification doubled the triumph of his enemies: very slight

provocations sufficed to kindle his anger; and when he was angry he

said bitter things which he forgot as soon as he was pacified, but which

others remembered many years. His quickness and penetration would have

made him a consummate man of business but for his selfsufficiency and

impatience. His writings proved that he had many of the qualities of an

orator: but his irritability prevented him from doing himself justice

in debate; for nothing was easier than to goad him into a passion; and,

from the moment when he went into a passion, he was at the mercy of

opponents far inferior to him in capacity.

Unlike most of the leading politicians of that generation he was a

consistent, dogged, and rancorous party man, a Cavalier of the old

school, a zealous champion of the Crown and of the Church, and a hater

of Republicans and Nonconformists. He had consequently a great body of

personal adherents. The clergy especially looked on him as their own

man, and extended to his foibles an indulgence of which, to say the

truth, he stood in some need: for he drank deep; and when he was in a

rage,--and he very often was in a rage,--he swore like a porter.

He now succeeded Essex at the treasury. It is to be observed that the

place of First Lord of the Treasury had not then the importance and

dignity which now belong to it. When there was a Lord Treasurer, that

great officer was generally prime minister: but, when the white staff

was in commission, the chief commissioner hardly ranked so high as a

Secretary of State. It was not till the time of Walpole that the First

Lord of the Treasury became, under a humbler name, all that the Lord

High Treasurer had been.

Godolphin had been bred a page at Whitehall, and had early acquired all

the flexibility and the selfpossession of a veteran courtier. He was

laborious, clearheaded, and profoundly versed in the details of finance.

Every government, therefore, found him an useful servant; and there was

nothing in his opinions or in his character which could prevent him from

serving any government. "Sidney Godolphin," said Charles, "is never

in the way, and never out of the way." This pointed remark goes far to

explain Godolphin's extraordinary success in life.

He acted at different times with both the great political parties: but

he never shared in the passions of either. Like most men of cautious

tempers and prosperous fortunes, he had a strong disposition to support

whatever existed. He disliked revolutions; and, for the same reason

for which he disliked revolutions, he disliked counter-revolutions. His

deportment was remarkably grave and reserved: but his personal tastes

were low and frivolous; and most of the time which he could save from

public business was spent in racing, cardplaying, and cockfighting. He

now sate below Rochester at the Board of Treasury, and distinguished

himself there by assiduity and intelligence.

Before the new Parliament was suffered to meet for the despatch of

business a whole year elapsed, an eventful year, which has left

lasting traces in our manners and language. Never before had political

controversy been carried on with so much freedom. Never before had

political clubs existed with so elaborate an organisation or so

formidable an influence. The one question of the Exclusion occupied the

public mind. All the presses and pulpits of the realm took part in

the conflict. On one side it was maintained that the constitution and

religion of the state could never be secure under a Popish King; on the

other, that the right of James to wear the crown in his turn was derived

from God, and could not be annulled, even by the consent of all the

branches of the legislature. Every county, every town, every family,

was in agitation. The civilities and hospitalities of neighbourhood were

interrupted. The dearest ties of friendship and of blood were sundered.

Even schoolboys were divided into angry parties; and the Duke of York

and the Earl of Shaftesbury had zealous adherents on all the forms of

Westminster and Eton. The theatres shook with the roar of the contending

factions. Pope Joan was brought on the stage by the zealous Protestants.

Pensioned poets filled their prologues and epilogues with eulogies

on the King and the Duke. The malecontents besieged the throne with

petitions, demanding that Parliament might be forthwith convened. The

royalists sent up addresses, expressing the utmost abhorrence of all who

presumed to dictate to the sovereign. The citizens of London assembled

by tens of thousands to burn the Pope in effigy. The government posted

cavalry at Temple Bar, and placed ordnance round Whitehall. In that

year our tongue was enriched with two words, Mob and Sham, remarkable

memorials of a season of tumult and imposture. [21] Opponents of the

court were called Birminghams, Petitioners, and Exclusionists. Those

who took the King's side were Antibirminghams, Abhorrers, and Tantivies.

These appellations soon become obsolete: but at this time were first

heard two nicknames which, though originally given in insult, were soon

assumed with pride, which are still in daily use, which have spread as

widely as the English race, and which will last as long as the English

literature. It is a curious circumstance that one of these nicknames

was of Scotch, and the other of Irish, origin. Both in Scotland and in

Ireland, misgovernment had called into existence bands of desperate men

whose ferocity was heightened by religions enthusiasm. In Scotland some

of the persecuted Covenanters, driven mad by oppression, had lately

murdered the Primate, had taken arms against the government, had

obtained some advantages against the King's forces, and had not been put

down till Monmouth, at the head of some troops from England, had routed

them at Bothwell Bridge. These zealots were most numerous among the

rustics of the western lowlands, who were vulgarly called Whigs. Thus

the appellation of Whig was fastened on the Presbyterian zealots of

Scotland, and was transferred to those English politicians who showed a

disposition to oppose the court, and to treat Protestant Nonconformists

with indulgence. The bogs of Ireland, at the same time, afforded a

refuge to Popish outlaws, much resembling those who were afterwards

known as Whiteboys. These men were then called Tories. The name of Tory

was therefore given to Englishmen who refused to concur in excluding a

Roman Catholic prince from the throne.

The rage of the hostile factions would have been sufficiently violent,

if it had been left to itself. But it was studiously exasperated by the

common enemy of both. Lewis still continued to bribe and flatter

both the court and the opposition. He exhorted Charles to be firm: he

exhorted James to raise a civil war in Scotland: he exhorted the Whigs

not to flinch, and to rely with confidence on the protection of France.

Through all this agitation a discerning eye might have perceived that

the public opinion was gradually changing. The persecution of the Roman

Catholics went on; but convictions were no longer matters of course. A

new brood of false witnesses, among whom a villain named Dangerfield was

the most conspicuous, infested the courts: but the stories of these men,

though better constructed than that of Oates, found less credit. Juries

were no longer so easy of belief as during the panic which had followed

the murder of Godfrey; and Judges, who, while the popular frenzy was at

the height, had been its most obsequious instruments, now ventured to

express some part of what they had from the first thought.

At length, in October 1680, the Parliament met. The Whigs had so great

a majority in the Commons that the Exclusion Bill went through all its

stages there without difficulty. The King scarcely knew on what members

of his own cabinet he could reckon. Hyde had been true to his Tory

opinions, and had steadily supported the cause of hereditary monarchy.

But Godolphin, anxious for quiet, and believing that quiet could be

restored only by concession, wished the bill to pass. Sunderland, ever

false, and ever shortsighted, unable to discern the signs of approaching

reaction, and anxious to conciliate the party which he believed to

be irresistible, determined to vote against the court. The Duchess of

Portsmouth implored her royal lover not to rush headlong to destruction.

If there were any point on which he had a scruple of conscience or of

honour, it was the question of the succession; but during some days

it seemed that he would submit. He wavered, asked what sum the Commons

would give him if he yielded, and suffered a negotiation to be opened

with the leading Whigs. But a deep mutual distrust which had been

many years growing, and which had been carefully nursed by the arts of

France, made a treaty impossible. Neither side would place confidence

in the other. The whole nation now looked with breathless anxiety to the

House of Lords. The assemblage of peers was large. The King himself was

present. The debate was long, earnest, and occasionally furious. Some

hands were laid on the pommels of swords in a manner which revived the

recollection of the stormy Parliaments of Edward the Third and Richard

the Second. Shaftesbury and Essex were joined by the treacherous

Sunderland. But the genius of Halifax bore down all opposition. Deserted

by his most important colleagues, and opposed to a crowd of able

antagonists, he defended the cause of the Duke of York, in a succession

of speeches which, many years later, were remembered as masterpieces of

reasoning, of wit, and of eloquence. It is seldom that oratory changes

votes. Yet the attestation of contemporaries leaves no doubt that,

on this occasion, votes were changed by the oratory of Halifax. The

Bishops, true to their doctrines, supported the principle of hereditary

right, and the bill was rejected by a great majority. [22]

The party which preponderated in the House of Commons, bitterly

mortified by this defeat, found some consolation in shedding the blood

of Roman Catholics. William Howard, Viscount Stafford, one of the

unhappy men who had been accused of a share in the plot, was impeached;

and on the testimony of Oates and of two other false witnesses, Dugdale

and Turberville, was found guilty of high treason, and suffered death.

But the circumstances of his trial and execution ought to have given an

useful warning to the Whig leaders. A large and respectable minority of

the House of Lords pronounced the prisoner not guilty. The multitude,

which a few months before had received the dying declarations of Oates's

victims with mockery and execrations, now loudly expressed a belief that

Stafford was a murdered man. When he with his last breath protested

his innocence, the cry was, "God bless you, my Lord! We believe you, my

Lord." A judicious observer might easily have predicted that the blood

then shed would shortly have blood.

The King determined to try once more the experiment of a dissolution. A

new Parliament was summoned to meet at Oxford, in March, 1681. Since the

days of the Plantagenets the Houses had constantly sat at Westminster,

except when the plague was raging in the capital: but so extraordinary

a conjuncture seemed to require extraordinary precautions. If the

Parliament were held in its usual place of assembling, the House of

Commons might declare itself permanent, and might call for aid on the

magistrates and citizens of London. The trainbands might rise to defend

Shaftesbury as they had risen forty years before to defend Pym and

Hampden. The Guards might be overpowered, the palace forced, the King a

prisoner in the hands of his mutinous subjects. At Oxford there was no

such danger. The University was devoted to the crown; and the gentry of

the neighbourhood were generally Tories. Here, therefore, the opposition

had more reason than the King to apprehend violence.

The elections were sharply contested. The Whigs still composed a

majority of the House of Commons: but it was plain that the Tory

spirit was fast rising throughout the country. It should seem that the

sagacious and versatile Shaftesbury ought to have foreseen the coming

change, and to have consented to the compromise which the court offered:

but he appears to have forgotten his old tactics. Instead of making

dispositions which, in the worst event, would have secured his retreat,

he took up a position in which it was necessary that he should either

conquer or perish. Perhaps his head, strong as it was, had been turned

by popularity, by success, and by the excitement of conflict. Perhaps

he had spurred his party till he could no longer curb it, and was really

hurried on headlong by those whom he seemed to guide.

The eventful day arrived. The meeting at Oxford resembled rather that of

a Polish Diet than that of an English Parliament. The Whig members were

escorted by great numbers of their armed and mounted tenants and

serving men, who exchanged looks of defiance with the royal Guards. The

slightest provocation might, under such circumstances, have produced

a civil war; but neither side dared to strike the first blow. The King

again offered to consent to anything but the Exclusion Bill. The Commons

were determined to accept nothing but the Exclusion Bill. In a few days

the Parliament was again dissolved.

The King had triumphed. The reaction, which had begun some months before

the meeting of the House at Oxford, now went rapidly on. The nation,

indeed, was still hostile to Popery: but, when men reviewed the whole

history of the plot, they felt that their Protestant zeal had hurried

them into folly and crime, and could scarcely believe that they had been

induced by nursery tales to clamour for the blood of fellow subjects

and fellow Christians. The most loyal, indeed, could not deny that the

administration of Charles had often been highly blamable. But men who

had not the full information which we possess touching his dealings with

France, and who were disgusted by the violence of the Whigs, enumerated

the large concessions which, during the last few years he had made to

his Parliaments, and the still larger concessions which he had declared

himself willing to make. He had consented to the laws which excluded

Roman Catholics from the House of Lords, from the Privy Council, and

from all civil and military offices. He had passed the Habeas Corpus

Act. If securities yet stronger had not been provided against the

dangers to which the constitution and the Church might be exposed under

a Roman Catholic sovereign, the fault lay, not with Charles who had

invited the Parliament to propose such securities, but with those Whigs

who had refused to hear of any substitute for the Exclusion Bill. One

thing only had the King denied to his people. He had refused to take

away his brother's birthright. And was there not good reason to believe

that this refusal was prompted by laudable feelings? What selfish motive

could faction itself impute to the royal mind? The Exclusion Bill did

not curtail the reigning King's prerogatives, or diminish his income.

Indeed, by passing it, he might easily have obtained an ample addition

to his own revenue. And what was it to him who ruled after him? Nay, if

he had personal predilections, they were known to be rather in favour

of the Duke of Monmouth than of the Duke of York. The most natural

explanation of the King's conduct seemed to be that, careless as was

his temper and loose as were his morals, he had, on this occasion, acted

from a sense of duty and honour. And, if so, would the nation compel

him to do what he thought criminal and disgraceful? To apply, even by

strictly constitutional means, a violent pressure to his conscience,

seemed to zealous royalists ungenerous and undutiful. But strictly

constitutional means were not the only means which the Whigs were

disposed to employ. Signs were already discernible which portended the

approach of great troubles. Men, who, in the time of the civil war and

of the Commonwealth, had acquired an odious notoriety, had emerged

from the obscurity in which, after the Restoration, they had hidden

themselves from the general hatred, showed their confident and busy

faces everywhere, and appeared to anticipate a second reign of the

Saints. Another Naseby, another High Court of Justice, another usurper

on the throne, the Lords again ejected from their hall by violence, the

Universities again purged, the Church again robbed and persecuted, the

Puritans again dominant, to such results did the desperate policy of the

opposition seem to tend.

Strongly moved by these apprehensions, the majority of the upper and

middle classes hastened to rally round the throne. The situation of the

King bore, at this time, a great resemblance to that in which his father

stood just after the Remonstrance had been voted. But the reaction of

1641 had not been suffered to run its course. Charles the First, at the

very moment when his people, long estranged, were returning to him with

hearts disposed to reconciliation, had, by a perfidious violation of the

fundamental laws of the realm, forfeited their confidence for ever.

Had Charles the Second taken a similar course, had he arrested the Whig

leaders in an irregular manner, had he impeached them of high treason

before a tribunal which had no legal jurisdiction over them, it is

highly probable that they would speedily have regained the ascendancy

which they had lost. Fortunately for himself, he was induced, at this

crisis, to adopt a policy singularly judicious. He determined to conform

to the law, but at the same time to make vigorous and unsparing use

of the law against his adversaries. He was not bound to convoke a

Parliament till three years should have elapsed. He was not much

distressed for money. The produce of the taxes which had been settled on

him for life exceeded the estimate. He was at peace with all the world.

He could retrench his expenses by giving up the costly and useless

settlement of Tangier; and he might hope for pecuniary aid from France.

He had, therefore, ample time and means for a systematic attack on

the opposition under the forms of the constitution. The Judges were

removable at his pleasure: the juries were nominated by the Sheriffs;

and, in almost all the counties of England, the Sheriffs were nominated

by himself. Witnesses, of the same class with those who had recently

sworn away the lives of Papists, were ready to swear away the lives of

Whigs.

The first victim was College, a noisy and violent demagogue of mean

birth and education. He was by trade a joiner, and was celebrated as the

inventor of the Protestant flail. [23] He had been at Oxford when the

Parliament sate there, and was accused of having planned a rising and an

attack on the King's guards. Evidence was given against him by Dugdale

and Turberville, the same infamous men who had, a few months earlier,

borne false witness against Stafford. In the sight of a jury of

country squires no Exclusionist was likely to find favour. College was

convicted. The crowd which filled the court house of Oxford received the

verdict with a roar of exultation, as barbarous as that which he and

his friends had been in the habit of raising when innocent Papists were

doomed to the gallows. His execution was the beginning of a new judicial

massacre not less atrocious than that in which he had himself borne a

share.

The government, emboldened by this first victory, now aimed a blow at an

enemy of a very different class. It was resolved that Shaftesbury should

be brought to trial for his life. Evidence was collected which, it was

thought, would support a charge of treason. But the facts which it was

necessary to prove were alleged to have been committed in London. The

Sheriffs of London, chosen by the citizens, were zealous Whigs. They

named a Whig grand jury, which threw out the bill. This defeat, far from

discouraging those who advised the King, suggested to them a new and

daring scheme. Since the charter of the capital was in their way, that

charter must be annulled. It was pretended, therefore, that the City

had by some irregularities forfeited its municipal privileges; and

proceedings were instituted against the corporation in the Court of

King's Bench. At the same time those laws which had, soon after the

Restoration, been enacted against Nonconformists, and which had remained

dormant during the ascendency of the Whigs, were enforced all over the

kingdom with extreme rigour.

Yet the spirit of the Whigs was not subdued. Though in evil plight, they

were still a numerous and powerful party; and as they mustered strong in

the large towns, and especially in the capital, they made a noise and

a show more than proportioned to their real force. Animated by the

recollection of past triumphs, and by the sense of present oppression,

they overrated both their strength and their wrongs. It was not in

their power to make out that clear and overwhelming case which can alone

justify so violent a remedy as resistance to an established government.

Whatever they might suspect, they could not prove that their sovereign

had entered into a treaty with France against the religion and liberties

of England. What was apparent was not sufficient to warrant an appeal

to the sword. If the Lords had thrown out the Exclusion Bill, they had

thrown it out in the exercise of a right coeval with the constitution.

If the King had dissolved the Oxford Parliament, he had done so by

virtue of a prerogative which had never been questioned. If he had,

since the dissolution, done some harsh things, still those things were

in strict conformity with the letter of the law, and with the recent

practice of the malecontents themselves. If he had prosecuted his

opponents, he had prosecuted them according to the proper forms, and

before the proper tribunals. The evidence now produced for the crown was

at least as worthy of credit as the evidence on which the noblest blood

of England had lately been shed by the opposition. The treatment which

an accused Whig had now to expect from judges, advocates, sheriffs,

juries and spectators, was no worse than the treatment which had lately

been thought by the Whigs good enough for an accused Papist. If the

privileges of the City of London were attacked, they were attacked, not

by military violence or by any disputable exercise of prerogative,

but according to the regular practice of Westminster Hall. No tax was

imposed by royal authority. No law was suspended. The Habeas Corpus

Act was respected. Even the Test Act was enforced. The opposition,

therefore, could not bring home to the King that species of

misgovernment which alone could justify insurrection. And, even had his

misgovernment been more flagrant than it was, insurrection would still

have been criminal, because it was almost certain to be unsuccessful.

The situation of the Whigs in 1682 differed widely from that of the

Roundheads forty years before. Those who took up arms against Charles

the First acted under the authority of a Parliament which had been

legally assembled, and which could not, without its own consent, be

legally dissolved. The opponents of Charles the Second were private men.

Almost all the military and naval resources of the kingdom had been at

the disposal of those who resisted Charles the First. All the military

and naval resources of the kingdom were at the disposal of Charles the

Second. The House of Commons had been supported by at least half the

nation against Charles the First. But those who were disposed to levy

war against Charles the Second were certainly a minority. It could

hardly be doubted, therefore, that, if they attempted a rising, they

would fail. Still less could it be doubted that their failure would

aggravate every evil of which they complained. The true policy of the

Whigs was to submit with patience to adversity which was the natural

consequence and the just punishment of their errors, to wait patiently

for that turn of public feeling which must inevitably come, to observe

the law, and to avail themselves of the protection, imperfect indeed,

but by no means nugatory, which the law afforded to innocence. Unhappily

they took a very different course. Unscrupulous and hot-headed chiefs of

the party formed and discussed schemes of resistance, and were heard, if

not with approbation, yet with the show of acquiescence, by much better

men than themselves. It was proposed that there should be simultaneous

insurrections in London, in Cheshire, at Bristol, and at Newcastle.

Communications were opened with the discontented Presbyterians of

Scotland, who were suffering under a tyranny such as England, in the

worst times, had never known. While the leaders of the opposition thus

revolved plans of open rebellion, but were still restrained by fears

or scruples from taking any decisive step, a design of a very different

kind was meditated by some of their accomplices. To fierce spirits,

unrestrained by principle, or maddened by fanaticism, it seemed that to

waylay and murder the King and his brother was the shortest and surest

way of vindicating the Protestant religion and the liberties of England.

A place and a time were named; and the details of the butchery were

frequently discussed, if not definitely arranged. This scheme was known

but to few, and was concealed with especial care from the upright and

humane Russell, and from Monmouth, who, though not a man of delicate

conscience, would have recoiled with horror from the guilt of parricide.

Thus there were two plots, one within the other. The object of the great

Whig plot was to raise the nation in arms against the government. The

lesser plot, commonly called the Rye House Plot, in which only a few

desperate men were concerned, had for its object the assassination of

the King and of the heir presumptive.

Both plots were soon discovered. Cowardly traitors hastened to save

themselves, by divulging all, and more than all, that had passed in

the deliberations of the party. That only a small minority of those

who meditated resistance had admitted into their minds the thought of

assassination is fully established: but, as the two conspiracies ran

into each other, it was not difficult for the government to confound

them together. The just indignation excited by the Rye House Plot was

extended for a time to the whole Whig body. The King was now at

liberty to exact full vengeance for years of restraint and humiliation.

Shaftesbury, indeed, had escaped the fate which his manifold perfidy had

well deserved. He had seen that the ruin of his party was at hand, had

in vain endeavoured to make his peace with the royal brothers, had

fled to Holland, and had died there, under the generous protection of a

government which he had cruelly wronged. Monmouth threw himself at his

father's feet and found mercy, but soon gave new offence, and thought

it prudent to go into voluntary exile. Essex perished by his own hand

in the Tower. Russell, who appears to have been guilty of no offence

falling within the definition of high treason, and Sidney, of whose

guilt no legal evidence could be produced, were beheaded in defiance of

law and justice. Russell died with the fortitude of a Christian, Sidney

with the fortitude of a Stoic. Some active politicians of meaner

rank were sent to the gallows. Many quitted the country. Numerous

prosecutions for misprision of treason, for libel, and for conspiracy

were instituted. Convictions were obtained without difficulty from Tory

juries, and rigorous punishments were inflicted by courtly judges. With

these criminal proceedings were joined civil proceedings scarcely less

formidable. Actions were brought against persons who had defamed

the Duke of York and damages tantamount to a sentence of perpetual

imprisonment were demanded by the plaintiff, and without difficulty

obtained. The Court of King's Bench pronounced that the franchises of

the City of London were forfeited to the Crown. Flushed with this great

victory, the government proceeded to attack the constitutions of other

corporations which were governed by Whig officers, and which had been in

the habit of returning Whig members to Parliament. Borough after borough

was compelled to surrender its privileges; and new charters were granted

which gave the ascendency everywhere to the Tories.

These proceedings, however reprehensible, had yet the semblance of

legality. They were also accompanied by an act intended to quiet the

uneasiness with which many loyal men looked forward to the accession of

a Popish sovereign. The Lady Anne, younger daughter of the Duke of York

by his first wife, was married to George, a prince of the orthodox House

of Denmark. The Tory gentry and clergy might now flatter themselves that

the Church of England had been effectually secured without any violation

of the order of succession. The King and the heir presumptive were

nearly of the same age. Both were approaching the decline of life. The

King's health was good. It was therefore probable that James, if he came

to the throne, would have but a short reign. Beyond his reign there was

the gratifying prospect of a long series of Protestant sovereigns.

The liberty of unlicensed printing was of little or no use to the

vanquished party; for the temper of judges and juries was such that

no writer whom the government prosecuted for a libel had any chance of

escaping. The dread of punishment therefore did all that a censorship

could have done. Meanwhile, the pulpits resounded with harangues against

the sin of rebellion. The treatises in which Filmer maintained that

hereditary despotism was the form of government ordained by God, and

that limited monarchy was a pernicious absurdity, had recently appeared,

and had been favourably received by a large section of the Tory party.

The university of Oxford, on the very day on which Russell was put

to death, adopted by a solemn public act these strange doctrines,

and ordered the political works of Buchanan, Milton, and Baxter to be

publicly burned in the court of the Schools.

Thus emboldened, the King at length ventured to overstep the bounds

which he had during some years observed, and to violate the plain letter

of the law. The law was that not more than three years should pass

between the dissolving of one Parliament and the convoking of another.

But, when three years had elapsed after the dissolution of the

Parliament which sate at Oxford, no writs were issued for an election.

This infraction of the constitution was the more reprehensible, because

the King had little reason to fear a meeting with a new House of

Commons. The counties were generally on his side; and many boroughs in

which the Whigs had lately held sway had been so remodelled that they

were certain to return none but courtiers.

In a short time the law was again violated in order to gratify the Duke

of York. That prince was, partly on account of his religion, and partly

on account of the sternness and harshness of his nature, so unpopular

that it had been thought necessary to keep him out of sight while the

Exclusion Bill was before Parliament, lest his appearance should give

an advantage to the party which was struggling to deprive him of his

birthright. He had therefore been sent to govern Scotland, where the

savage old tyrant Lauderdale was sinking into the grave. Even Lauderdale

was now outdone. The administration of James was marked by odious laws,

by barbarous punishments, and by judgments to the iniquity of which even

that age furnished no parallel. The Scottish Privy Council had power to

put state prisoners to the question. But the sight was so dreadful that,

as soon as the boots appeared, even the most servile and hardhearted

courtiers hastened out of the chamber. The board was sometimes quite

deserted: and it was at length found necessary to make an order that the

members should keep their seats on such occasions. The Duke of York, it

was remarked, seemed to take pleasure in the spectacle which some of

the worst men then living were unable to contemplate without pity

and horror. He not only came to Council when the torture was to be

inflicted, but watched the agonies of the sufferers with that sort of

interest and complacency with which men observe a curious experiment in

science. Thus he employed himself at Edinburgh, till the event of the

conflict between the court and the Whigs was no longer doubtful. He then

returned to England: but he was still excluded by the Test Act from all

public employment; nor did the King at first think it safe to violate a

statute which the great majority of his most loyal subjects regarded as

one of the chief securities of their religion and of their civil rights.

When, however, it appeared, from a succession of trials, that the nation

had patience to endure almost anything that the government had courage

to do, Charles ventured to dispense with the law in his brother's

favour. The Duke again took his seat in the Council, and resumed the

direction of naval affairs.

These breaches of the constitution excited, it is true, some murmurs

among the moderate Tories, and were not unanimously approved even by the

King's ministers. Halifax in particular, now a Marquess and Lord Privy

Seal, had, from the very day on which the Tories had by his help gained

the ascendant, begun to turn Whig. As soon as the Exclusion Bill had

been thrown out, he had pressed the House of Lords to make provision

against the danger to which, in the next reign, the liberties and

religion of the nation might be exposed. He now saw with alarm the

violence of that reaction which was, in no small measure, his own

work. He did not try to conceal the scorn which he felt for the servile

doctrines of the University of Oxford. He detested the French alliance.

He disapproved of the long intermission of Parliaments. He regretted the

severity with which the vanquished party was treated. He who, when the

Whigs were predominant, had ventured to pronounce Stafford not guilty,

ventured, when they were vanquished and helpless, to intercede for

Russell. At one of the last Councils which Charles held a remarkable

scene took place. The charter of Massachusetts had been forfeited. A

question arose how, for the future, the colony should be governed. The

general opinion of the board was that the whole power, legislative as

well as executive, should abide in the crown. Halifax took the opposite

side, and argued with great energy against absolute monarchy, and in

favour of representative government. It was vain, he said, to think that

a population, sprung from the English stock, and animated by English

feelings, would long bear to be deprived of English institutions. Life,

he exclaimed, would not be worth having in a country where liberty and

property were at the mercy of one despotic master. The Duke of York was

greatly incensed by this language, and represented to his brother the

danger of retaining in office a man who appeared to be infected with all

the worst notions of Marvell and Sidney.

Some modern writers have blamed Halifax for continuing in the ministry

while he disapproved of the manner in which both domestic and foreign

affairs were conducted. But this censure is unjust. Indeed it is to be

remarked that the word ministry, in the sense in which we use it, was

then unknown. [24] The thing itself did not exist; for it belongs to an

age in which parliamentary government is fully established. At present

the chief servants of the crown form one body. They are understood to be

on terms of friendly confidence with each other, and to agree as to

the main principles on which the executive administration ought to be

conducted. If a slight difference of opinion arises among them, it is

easily compromised: but, if one of them differs from the rest on a vital

point, it is his duty to resign. While he retains his office, he is held

responsible even for steps which he has tried to dissuade his colleagues

from taking. In the seventeenth century, the heads of the various

branches of the administration were bound together in no such

partnership. Each of them was accountable for his own acts, for the

use which he made of his own official seal, for the documents which he

signed, for the counsel which he gave to the King. No statesman was held

answerable for what he had not himself done, or induced others to do.

If he took care not to be the agent in what was wrong, and if, when

consulted, he recommended what was right, he was blameless. It would

have been thought strange scrupulosity in him to quit his post, because

his advice as to matters not strictly within his own department was

not taken by his master; to leave the Board of Admiralty, for example,

because the finances were in disorder, or the Board of Treasury because

the foreign relations of the kingdom were in an unsatisfactory state. It

was, therefore, by no means unusual to see in high office, at the same

time, men who avowedly differed from one another as widely as ever

Pulteney differed from Walpole, or Fox from Pitt.

The moderate and constitutional counsels of Halifax were timidly and

feebly seconded by Francis North, Lord Guildford who had lately been

made Keeper of the Great Seal. The character of Guildford has been drawn

at full length by his brother Roger North, a most intolerant Tory, a

most affected and pedantic writer, but a vigilant observer of all those

minute circumstances which throw light on the dispositions of men. It is

remarkable that the biographer, though he was under the influence of the

strongest fraternal partiality, and though he was evidently anxious to

produce a flattering likeness, was unable to portray the Lord Keeper

otherwise than as the most ignoble of mankind. Yet the intellect of

Guildford was clear, his industry great, his proficiency in letters and

science respectable, and his legal learning more than respectable. His

faults were selfishness, cowardice, and meanness. He was not insensible

to the power of female beauty, nor averse from excess in wine. Yet

neither wine nor beauty could ever seduce the cautious and frugal

libertine, even in his earliest youth, into one fit of indiscreet

generosity. Though of noble descent, he rose in his profession by paying

ignominious homage to all who possessed influence in the courts. He

became Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, and as such was party to some

of the foulest judicial murders recorded in our history. He had sense

enough to perceive from the first that Oates and Bedloe were impostors:

but the Parliament and the country were greatly excited: the government

had yielded to the pressure; and North was not a man to risk a good

place for the sake of justice and humanity. Accordingly, while he was in

secret drawing up a refutation of the whole romance of the Popish plot,

he declared in public that the truth of the story was as plain as

the sun in heaven, and was not ashamed to browbeat, from the seat of

judgment, the unfortunate Roman Catholics who were arraigned before him

for their lives. He had at length reached the highest post in the law.

But a lawyer, who, after many years devoted to professional labour,

engages in politics for the first time at an advanced period of life,

seldom distinguishes himself as a statesman; and Guildford was no

exception to the general rule. He was indeed so sensible of his

deficiencies that he never attended the meetings of his colleagues on

foreign affairs. Even on questions relating to his own profession his

opinion had less weight at the Council board than that of any man who

has ever held the Great Seal. Such as his influence was, however, he

used it, as far as he dared, on the side of the laws.

The chief opponent of Halifax was Lawrence Hyde, who had recently

been created Earl of Rochester. Of all Tories, Rochester was the

most intolerant and uncompromising. The moderate members of his party

complained that the whole patronage of the Treasury, while he was First

Commissioner there, went to noisy zealots, whose only claim to promotion

was that they were always drinking confusion to Whiggery, and lighting

bonfires to burn the Exclusion Bill. The Duke of York, pleased with

a spirit which so much resembled his own supported his brother in law

passionately and obstinately.

The attempts of the rival ministers to surmount and supplant each other

kept the court in incessant agitation. Halifax pressed the King to

summon a Parliament, to grant a general amnesty, to deprive the Duke of

York of all share in the government, to recall Monmouth from banishment,

to break with Lewis, and to form a close union with Holland on the

principles of the Triple Alliance. The Duke of York, on the other hand,

dreaded the meeting of a Parliament, regarded the vanquished Whigs with

undiminished hatred, still flattered himself that the design formed

fourteen years before at Dover might be accomplished, daily represented

to his brother the impropriety of suffering one who was at heart a

Republican to hold the Privy Seal, and strongly recommended Rochester

for the great place of Lord Treasurer.

While the two factions were struggling, Godolphin, cautious, silent,

and laborious, observed a neutrality between them. Sunderland, with his

usual restless perfidy, intrigued against them both. He had been turned

out of office in disgrace for having voted in favour of the Exclusion

Bill, but had made his peace by employing the good offices of the

Duchess of Portsmouth and by cringing to the Duke of York, and was once

more Secretary of State.

Nor was Lewis negligent or inactive. Everything at that moment favoured

his designs. He had nothing to apprehend from the German empire, which

was then contending against the Turks on the Danube. Holland could

not, unsupported venture to oppose him. He was therefore at liberty

to indulge his ambition and insolence without restraint. He seized

Strasburg, Courtray, Luxemburg. He exacted from the republic of Genoa

the most humiliating submissions. The power of France at that time

reached a higher point than it ever before or ever after attained,

during the ten centuries which separated the reign of Charlemagne from

the reign of Napoleon. It was not easy to say where her acquisitions

would stop, if only England could be kept in a state of vassalage. The

first object of the court of Versailles was therefore to prevent the

calling of a Parliament and the reconciliation of English parties.

For this end bribes, promises, and menaces were unsparingly employed.

Charles was sometimes allured by the hope of a subsidy, and sometimes

frightened by being told that, if he convoked the Houses, the secret

articles of the treaty of Dover should be published. Several Privy

Councillors were bought; and attempts were made to buy Halifax, but in

vain. When he had been found incorruptible, all the art and influence

of the French embassy were employed to drive him from office: but his

polished wit and his various accomplishments had made him so agreeable

to his master, that the design failed. [25]

Halifax was not content with standing on the defensive. He openly

accused Rochester of malversation. An inquiry took place. It appeared

that forty thousand pounds had been lost to the public by the

mismanagement of the First Lord of the Treasury. In consequence of this

discovery he was not only forced to relinquish his hopes of the white

staff, but was removed from the direction of the finances to the more

dignified but less lucrative and important post of Lord President.

"I have seen people kicked down stairs," said Halifax; "but my Lord

Rochester is the first person that I ever saw kicked up stairs."

Godolphin, now a peer, became First Commissioner of the Treasury.

Still, however, the contest continued. The event depended wholly on

the will of Charles; and Charles could not come to a decision. In

his perplexity he promised everything to everybody. He would stand

by France: he would break with France: he would never meet another

Parliament: he would order writs for a Parliament to be issued without

delay. He assured the Duke of York that Halifax should be dismissed from

office, and Halifax that the Duke should be sent to Scotland. In public

he affected implacable resentment against Monmouth, and in private

conveyed to Monmouth assurances of unalterable affection. How long, if

the King's life had been protracted, his hesitation would have lasted,

and what would have been his resolve, can only be conjectured. Early

in the year 1685, while hostile parties were anxiously awaiting his

determination, he died, and a new scene opened. In a few mouths the

excesses of the government obliterated the impression which had been

made on the public mind by the excesses of the opposition. The violent

reaction which had laid the Whig party prostrate was followed by a still

more violent reaction in the opposite direction; and signs not to be

mistaken indicated that the great conflict between the prerogatives of

the Crown and the privileges of the Parliament, was about to be brought

to a final issue.