AFTER THE REVOLUTION.
WILLIAM THE THIRD.
“_I am constant as the northern star,_
_Of whose true-fixed and resting quality_
_There is no fellow in the firmament._”
A PRINCE now passes by on horseback. He is small, almost diminutive, but
by no means insignificant. His figure is slender and apparently feeble,
but few men have borne such hardships and sustained such reverses of
fortune as he. His forehead is ample, his nose aquiline, his eye bright
and keen, his lips thin and compressed, his cheek pale and deeply
furrowed by the marks of sickness and care. His whole aspect is pensive,
severe, almost morose. At a glance you judge him to be neither a happy
nor a good-humoured man. His bearing is simple; he cares nothing for
pomp and parade, and he has no particular desire for popularity; yet
there is an unmistakable dignity in his presence, and you feel as you
gaze upon him that here is a man of high spirit and of great
intellectual power, of constant and lofty soul, of unshaken courage and
calm fortitude.
This is William of Orange, the man whom the exasperated English people
called upon to invade their country in order to preserve their liberties
and the Protestant faith. He accepted the invitation, and without
striking a blow marched from Torbay to London, where he and his wife
became King and Queen of Great Britain and Ireland.
You are once more standing outside Whitehall. It is the thirteenth day
of February, in the year of grace 1689. All London is agog with
excitement. Trumpets sound and kettledrums roll as the Garter King of
Arms in tabard and plumed hat rides up to the gates, followed by
officials carrying the maces of the two Houses of Parliament, the Lord
Chancellor and the Speaker, the chief officers of state, and a long
train of coaches filled with noblemen and gentlemen. Then in loud, clear
tones he proclaims the Prince and Princess of Orange King and Queen of
England, and charges all Englishmen to bear, from that moment, true
allegiance to the new sovereigns. He concludes by praying that God, who
has already wrought a signal deliverance for Church and nation, will
bless William and Mary with a long and happy reign.
Loud cheers break forth, and the procession re-forms and winds its way
along the Strand to Temple Bar. The streets, the balconies, the very
housetops are crowded with gazers, and all the steeples from the Abbey
to the Tower ring out a joyous peal. The proclamation is repeated at
Temple Bar and in front of the Royal Exchange, amidst the shouts of
citizens and the din of trumpets.
In the evening every window from Whitechapel to Piccadilly is
illuminated. The state rooms of the palace are thrown open, and are
filled with a brilliant company of courtiers eager to see and to do
homage to their new sovereigns. The features of the Prince of Orange are
familiar to them from his portraits, but now for the first time most of
them see him in the flesh. They cannot fail to note, even in this scene
of gaiety, his cold, reserved manner and his lack of kingly grace. The
new queen, however, charms all beholders. She is beautiful, winning, and
gracious, with a good heart, an excellent disposition, and an affection
for her sullen husband which nothing can daunt. It is clear from the
first that Mary’s popularity will be great, and that William, though he
may be respected, will never be loved by his new subjects.
Look at yonder graybeard gazing up at the gay lights glittering in the
windows. He has seen many changes in his sixty-five years of life, and
he cannot but reflect on the strange vicissitudes through which the
Stuart kings, now barred for ever from the British throne, have passed.
Listen to him as he talks to the youth at his side. “My lad,” he says,
“I remember well the Scotchman James the First feasting in this very
hall, and expounding to his son Charles and the courtiers in right
learned language the pestilent principles of what he called ‘statecraft’
and the divine right of kings to rule and to suspend the laws of the
land at their will and pleasure. Right well did young Charles learn the
lesson, and perchance we should blame his father and not him for all
that happened. He held by the hateful doctrines which he had sucked in
as a youth, like the obstinate man that he was, and ruthlessly destroyed
our liberties till we were forced to take up arms and fight him for
seven long, miserable years. I got this wound, that makes me go lame, at
Naseby, the last great battle of the war. That was forty-three years ago
save three months. I mind well seeing King Charles step through a hole
in yonder wall on to the black-draped scaffold and lay his head on the
block. It was a pitiful sight. I did not hold with killing him, mark
you, but perchance it was better so.
“Then came the Commonwealth and the days of ‘Old Noll.’ It was not a
‘Merrie England’ in his time, I warrant you. There were no Maypoles and
no Bartholomew fairs in his day; it was almost a sin to eat a mince pie.
You young fellows would think yourselves hardly done by if those times
were to return. But we were a strong nation then, my lad. Foreigners
feared us, the Dutchmen had to eat humble pie, and money flowed right
merrily into our coffers. It was a harsh and cheerless time, no doubt,
and there was no liberty to speak of, but trade was brisk, and this land
has never seen such good prosperous days since.
“When Cromwell died—the night after the great storm—and his son Dick
couldn’t be bothered with business of state, we sent across the sea for
Charles’s son, and I remember well the joy with which these fickle folk
greeted him as he rode into London on Oak-apple Day. But, my lad, I
blush with shame to think of the foreign wickedness he brought with him,
of the way he squandered the public money and ‘made Israel to sin.’ Not
to my dying day shall I forget standing in the Strand—the very year in
which you were born—and hearing the Dutch guns roaring in the Thames.
It was a bitter disgrace; we all felt it, and we all longed for Blake
and Old Noll again to send the Dutchman to the right about in
double-quick time. Aye, and the second Charles did worse than that; he
sold himself and us to the French king for a dirty pension, and plotted
to overturn the Church and rob us of our liberties. But, thank God! he
went to his own place before he had time to do his worst. And then came
his brother, James the Second. Well, you know all about him. Two short
months ago he lay within these very walls. Now they say he’s with the
French king, and here’s his son-in-law standing in his shoes. The
Dutchman is welcome, lad; he is the saviour of the country, and he has
secured our liberties. Please God, under him the old days of good
government and prosperity shall come back again.”
The liberties of the land were indeed secured, for no future British
king would dare to tread the path which the Stuarts had trod to their
destruction. William and Mary now ruled in England by virtue of a solemn
contract made between themselves and their subjects. Before the crown
was offered to them they were required to assent to the Declaration of
Rights, which branded as illegal all the arrogant pretensions of the
Stuarts. This Declaration asserted anew the national liberties, and is
the third great charter of British liberty.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: =The Prince of Orange landing at Torbay.=
(_From the picture by J. M. W. Turner, R.A. in the National Gallery._)]
[Illustration]
THE GREAT DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH.
“_If I lose mine honour,_
_I lose myself._”
Who comes hither? A soldier of commanding stature and strikingly
handsome face; dignified, yet winning in manner; blessed, it would seem,
with all possible gifts and graces. He is John Churchill, Duke of
Marlborough, Prince of the Holy Roman Empire—one of the greatest
military geniuses who ever lived, the victor of one of the decisive
battles of the world, the man who overthrew the vast fabric of power
which Lewis the Fourteenth had erected, the general who never fought a
battle that he did not win and never besieged a place that he did not
take! But do not be dazzled by his noble appearance and his military
glory. His genius is transcendent, his courage is of the highest order,
his personal graces are remarkable, yet he goes down to posterity as one
of the greatest and meanest of mankind. Treacherous, ungrateful, sordid,
and miserly, he is despicable as a man though unrivalled as a
diplomatist and glorious as a soldier.
William the Third died before his work was done. The long duel between
him and Lewis was only at its opening stages when he passed away, after
a life of stubborn resistance to his invincible foe. His mantle fell on
the shoulders of John Churchill, and he it was who finished the task
which William did not live long enough to accomplish. Churchill was the
son of a Devonshire cavalier, and early became a man of fashion and
pleasure at the court of Charles the Second. At seventeen years of age
he was an ensign in the army, and at twenty-two the colonel of an
English regiment in the service of France. By this time the “handsome
Englishman,” as Marshal Turenne dubbed him, had already shown the
qualities of a great soldier. When an advance post was given up to the
enemy, Turenne actually wagered a supper that Marlborough would recover
it with half the number of men who had abandoned it, and the wager was
won. He was absolutely fearless, bold and adventurous, cool and
unruffled in temper, calm and far-seeing in judgment, and capable of
enduring all sorts of fatigue.
Thanks to the friendship of the Duke of York, afterwards James the
Second, to whose fortunes he attached himself, he was raised to the
peerage. At the time of Monmouth’s rising he was major-general of the
forces, and the victory at Sedgemoor was largely due to his coolness and
resource in rallying the royal troops when thrown into confusion by the
night attack of the rebels.
Marlborough owed much of his rapid promotion to his wife. In 1678 he
married a penniless beauty of the court named Sarah Jennings. She was a
lady of violent temper and a most domineering disposition, but she also
possessed a strange power of winning and retaining affection.
Marlborough’s love for his wife “ran like a thread of gold through the
dark web of his career.” He hated letter-writing, chiefly because his
spelling was so bad, yet in the midst of his marches and sieges, and
even from the battlefield itself, he constantly wrote his wife letters
breathing the most passionate devotion.
When Marlborough wooed and won Sarah Jennings, she was the bosom friend
and constant companion of the Princess Anne, whom she had known from
girlhood. Soon she obtained complete mastery over the weak and feeble
nature of the princess, who became a mere puppet in her hands. The
friends laid aside all the formalities of rank in their intercourse;
Anne was Mrs. Morley, and the duchess Mrs. Freeman. Anne saw with her
favourite’s eyes, heard with her ears, and spoke with her tongue. If she
attempted to show one spark of independence, she was immediately crushed
and deafened by the violent reproaches of the woman who was nominally
her servant but really her tyrant. Anne’s husband, Prince George of
Denmark, did not count. He was considered the most harmless and stupid
man in the three kingdoms. “I have tried him drunk,” said Charles the
Second, “and I have tried him sober, and there is nothing in him.”
Counting upon his wife’s complete control of the princess, Marlborough
soon began to plot against William. His plan was to take advantage of
the king’s unpopularity and drive him from the throne in favour of Anne.
The plot was discovered, and William, usually calm and cool, was roused
to the utmost indignation. “Were I and my Lord Marlborough private
persons,” he cried, “the sword would have to settle between us.” At once
the earl was stripped of his offices, and his wife was driven from St.
James’s. Anne, however, refused to be parted from her friend, and left
the court with her. Then Marlborough opened a treacherous correspondence
with the deposed king at St. Germains. He basely revealed the plan of
William’s intended expedition to Brest, expressed his deep sorrow at
having deserted his rightful sovereign, and obtained a written promise
of pardon. The attack on Brest was a complete failure; the enemy, thanks
to Marlborough, was forewarned and forearmed, and more than a thousand
Englishmen were slain. This piece of foul treachery is the blackest
stain on Marlborough’s character.
Queen Mary died childless in 1694, and Anne became the acknowledged
heiress to the throne. William was obliged to recall her to court, and
with her returned the Marlboroughs, who were reluctantly received into
favour once more. William hated the earl’s baseness and treachery, but
he was obliged to recognize his splendid gifts, and to declare that he,
of all men, was the fittest to carry on the great work of checking the
ambition of Lewis. Marlborough was therefore sent to Flanders at the
head of the army, and had only just taken command when William met with
the accident which was the immediate cause of his death.
The succession of Anne practically made the Marlboroughs King and Queen
of England. Three days later Marlborough was appointed captain-general
of the British forces at home and abroad, and was entrusted with the
entire direction of the war. Offices and gifts were showered upon his
wife, and the ministers were chosen from his friends and adherents. Most
of these men had been in treasonable correspondence with James; but now,
in accordance with the loose notions of honour prevalent at the time,
they abandoned him, and for their own selfish ends determined to keep
Anne on the throne, secure the Protestant succession, and proceed with
the war.
Great Britain, Holland, Austria, and most of the smaller states of
Germany were soon leagued in arms against France, and in 1703 Lewis
found armies arrayed against him in the Spanish Netherlands, in South
Germany, in North Italy, and Spain. Marlborough was in command of the
allied British, Dutch, and Germans in the Netherlands. Though he had not
yet displayed his superb military genius, he had already exhibited his
unrivalled powers of conciliating the jarring elements which formed his
army. In North Italy the Austrian forces were under Prince Eugene of
Savoy, a man of extraordinary courage and talent, who was worshipped by
his soldiers, and still lives as a hero in song. No two such generals
had ever commanded armies against Lewis before.
The beginning of the war was uneventful. Marlborough, however, managed
to capture a number of fortresses along the line of the Meuse, and by
doing so cut off the French from the Lower Rhine and made the invasion
of Holland impossible. For the rest, the campaign was indecisive. On his
return to England he was created Duke of Marlborough, the title by which
he is best known.
Marlborough was now on the threshold of his great career. He was
fifty-four years old, and was about to win victories at an age when the
work of most men is done. Like his predecessor William, he owed little
to early training and much to his natural abilities. The keynote of his
greatness as a general was the vigour and audacity of his plans. His
greatest obstacle was the slowness and timidity of the Dutch, who
refused again and again to co-operate in the brilliant movements which
he suggested. Calm and unruffled, patient and tactful, he composed all
the differences of his allies, and proved himself even greater in the
council chamber than on the battlefield.
Lewis now began a campaign on a scale of grandeur which was only
equalled by Napoleon himself. He sent the flower of his army into
Bavaria, where the local troops joined them. Then the army of the
Danube, in massed and irresistible might, began its march on Vienna.
Marlborough saw that Austria was bound to be conquered unless prompt
action was taken, so, early in 1704, he made a dash for the Danube. To
do this he had to march right across Germany from the Lower Rhine, while
Prince Eugene had to cross the Alps from Italy. Both undertakings were
full of difficulty, but the difficulties were overcome. By his boldness
and secrecy he completely deceived his enemy, and not until he had
crossed the Neckar and united his forces with those of Eugene was his
real object revealed.
Marlborough was bound to fight a battle speedily, though his chances of
success were doubtful, and the consequences of defeat fatal. If Lewis
won, beyond all doubt “a universal despotic dominion would be
established over the bodies, a cruel spiritual thraldom over the minds
of men.” France and Spain, united in a close family alliance, would
prove irresistible. Protestantism would be destroyed, a despotism worse
than that of the Roman Empire would be set up, and the British race
would be arrested in its mission to overspread the earth. Marlborough
was not unaware of the consequences of defeat. “I know the danger,” he
said, “yet a battle is absolutely necessary; and I rely on the bravery
and discipline of the troops, which will make amends for our
disadvantages.”
On August 13, 1704, the armies faced each other. The enemy, numbering
fifty-six thousand men, was posted in a strong position, with the Nebel,
a marshy stream, in front, hill country on the left, and the Danube on
the right. A short distance from the great river stood the village of
Blenheim, which had been strongly defended by a palisade and trench, and
was occupied by Marshal Tallard’s infantry. At sunrise the allies were
in motion, but their movements were covered by a thick haze, and not
until the allied right and centre were nearly within cannon-shot of the
enemy was Tallard aware of their approach. Eugene, with twenty thousand
men, marched through broken and wooded country towards the Nebel, which
had to be crossed before he could attack the Bavarians opposed to him.
Not until midday did his troops cross the stream, and when they faced
the enemy they were so weary that they could do little more than hold
their own.
While Eugene was struggling on the right, the remainder of the allies
were inactive. During this interval, Marlborough ordered divine service
to be performed by the chaplains at the head of each regiment, for with
all his faults he was sincerely religious. Then he rode along the lines
and found officers and men in the highest spirits, waiting impatiently
for the signal to attack. At length an aide-de-camp galloped up from the
right with the welcome news that Eugene was across the stream. At once a
strong brigade of infantry under Lord Cutts was sent to assault the
village of Blenheim, and Marlborough himself led the main body down the
eastward slope of the valley of the Nebel, and crossed the stream.
Brigadier Rose led the British infantry to the assault of Blenheim under
a shower of grape and musketry. He ordered his men to reserve their fire
until he struck his sword against the palisades. The troops advanced
with great steadiness, but they were repulsed with severe loss; and
Marlborough, finding how strongly Blenheim was held, gave up the attempt
to capture it, and bent all his energies to breaking through the centre.
The ground which he had to traverse was very swampy; but he constructed
something like an artificial roadway, and late in the afternoon, despite
artillery fire and cavalry charges, he crossed the blood-stained stream
with eight thousand horsemen. The infantry were then brought across to
“hold up” the French troops in Blenheim.
Marlborough chiefly relied on his cavalry, and by means of this arm
Blenheim was won. Leading two furious charges in person, he completely
broke the squadrons of the enemy. They discharged their carbines,
wheeled round, and spurred from the field, leaving the infantry to be
ridden down by the victorious allies. Marlborough then drove the French
southward to the Danube, where they were obliged to drown or yield. The
troops in Blenheim, after several gallant but unsuccessful attempts to
cut their way out, laid down their arms. The French army was almost
entirely destroyed. About twelve thousand men were killed and fourteen
thousand taken prisoners; all the cannon, a vast number of colours and
standards, tents and equipages, were captured; and the French general
and twelve hundred officers of rank were in the hands of the conqueror.
“It was a famous victory.” Austria was saved, the French were driven out
of Germany, and the Elector of Bavaria was forced to make peace. The
moral effect of the battle, however, was still greater. For half a
century the French had been considered invincible; now the spell was
broken, and the prestige of France had vanished. For the rest of the war
Lewis had to act on the defensive, and “Malbrook” became a name of fear
to every child in France. The British nation in gratitude presented
Marlborough with £500,000, with which to purchase the manor of
Woodstock, and erect a house which should be named after the battle.
Blenheim Palace still remains one of the most magnificent of England’s
“stately homes,” and a not unworthy monument to Marlborough’s great
military genius.
Next year Marlborough began to attack the great line of fortifications
which then extended almost from Antwerp to Namur. He proposed to fight a
decisive action near to the field of Waterloo, but was prevented from
doing so by the persistent opposition of the Dutch. At the end of 1705
the position of affairs was “as you were.” Next year, however,
Marlborough again covered himself with glory by destroying a French army
at Ramillies. The effect of the victory was enormous. The French
garrisons were panic-stricken, and place after place fell. “It really
looks more like a dream than the truth,” wrote Marlborough. Before long
he was master of the whole of Belgium. Prince Eugene also fared well in
Italy, where lie drove the French troops across the Alps. Austrian and
British troops also entered Spain, where they met with a stubborn
resistance and made but little progress.
In 1708 Marlborough and Eugene won another great victory at Oudenarde.
The French generals would not act together, and consequently their
troops were thrown into disorder. A long, running fight on the heights
of Oudenarde followed, and the French right wing was cut to pieces. The
remainder of the army, flying back to France, was pursued, and the
fortress of Lille was captured. Lewis begged for peace; but the allies
offered him terms which he could not accept, and so, much against his
will, the war went on.
Next year (1709) Marlborough fought his last battle, and again defeated
the French at Malplaquet, in what he called a “very murdering battle.”
The French position was very strong, with a narrow front protected on
both sides by thick woods and heavy batteries. Nevertheless, after a
series of desperate assaults, he met with his usual success, though his
victory was dearly bought with a great sacrifice of life. Marlborough
was deeply affected by the horrors of the scene, and spoke with real
feeling of his misery at seeing so many of his old comrades killed. The
British nation was now weary of the war, and ready to bring it to a
close. Peace was signed at Utrecht in 1713.
Long before the treaty was signed, Marlborough, once the darling of the
nation, was in dire disgrace. He had gone into the war as a Tory, but
during its continuance had allied himself with the Whigs, and by 1708
the ministry almost entirely consisted of men of his new party. Anne was
at heart a Tory, and she greatly disliked the change. Indeed, she only
agreed to the appointment of the Whig leader, Lord Sunderland, because
Marlborough threatened to resign and the duchess fiercely upbraided her
for daring to have inclinations of her own. Anne was now tired of the
Marlboroughs, and was only waiting for an opportunity to throw off their
yoke. A Mrs. Masham, cousin of the duchess, had contrived to usurp the
position of “Mrs. Freeman,” and she now encouraged the queen to rebel. A
bitter quarrel broke out between the queen and the duchess on the
occasion of the “Te Deum” for the victory of Oudenarde. The duchess had
selected certain jewels for the queen to wear, but Anne rejected them,
whereupon there was a furious scene. Violent quarrels and angry letters
followed, but peace was patched up for a time, though the end was fast
drawing near.
In 1710 a clergyman, named Dr. Sacheverell, in the course of a dull,
foolish sermon at St. Paul’s, preached the old Tory doctrine of the
divine right of kings. Very injudiciously, and against Marlborough’s
advice, the Whig ministers determined to prosecute him for the sermon.
The trial resolved itself into a great struggle between the two parties,
and Sacheverell became a martyr. The nation generally supported him, and
a storm of hatred arose against the Whigs. Thereupon the queen dismissed
them from office, restored the Tories, sent “Mrs. Freeman” about her
business, and removed Marlborough from his command. It is said that he
actually went on his knees to the queen and begged her to let him retain
the gold key which was the symbol of his office. There was a final
interview between the queen and the duchess, at which the latter shed
floods of tears, but could not shake Anne’s new-found determination. All
was over, and “Mrs. Freeman” set about removing the brass locks from her
apartments in the palace, and giving orders for the removal of the
marble mantel-pieces and other fixtures.
The Tories, headed by Henry St. John, Viscount Bolingbroke, a subtle
traitor in secret correspondence with the “old Pretender,” now wreaked
their vengeance on Marlborough. He was charged with embezzling public
money, and the charge was only too true, though it is but fair to say
that sums of money thus obtained were generally regarded as the
customary perquisites of his office. With all his greatness, Marlborough
had a mean and miserable soul. It has been said that he was perhaps the
only really great man who ever loved money for its own sake. He was
actually accused of sending officers unnecessarily into the thick of the
fight, so that he might fill his pocket by selling the commissions of
those who fell.
Instead of answering his accusers he fled to the Continent, where he
remained in voluntary exile until news reached him of Anne’s last
illness. He landed at Dover on the day of her death. The new king,
George the First, restored him to his command and his honours; but two
years later he had a paralytic stroke, followed by another. His great
physical strength, hardly tried by the fatigues of his many campaigns,
and his brilliant intellect, broken down by the stress and anxieties of
his labours and responsibilities, began to give way. He spent his
declining days in riding, playing with his grandchildren, and keeping
minute accounts of his most trifling expenditure. Even when old and
infirm, it was said that he walked in order to save sixpence for a
chair. He died on June 16, 1722, and was buried with great splendour in
Westminster Abbey. So passes Marlborough. He leaves a stained memory, it
is true, but let us not dwell upon his vices and failings. Let us rather
remember how—
“Calm and serene, he drives the furious blast;
And pleased th’ Almighty’s orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration: =The British Assault on the Village of Blenheim.=
(_From the picture by Allan Stewart, specially painted for this book._)]
Brigadier Rose led the British infantry to the assault under a shower of
grape and musketry, and ordered them not to fire a shot until he struck
his sword against the palisades. While the flower of the French troops
were thus “held up” in the village, Marlborough broke the center with
the allied cavalry.
[Illustration]