BOOK VII. THE PERIOD FROM THE RESTORATION OF CHARLES THE SECOND TO THE

REVOLUTION.

CHAPTER THE FIRST. CHARLES THE SECOND.

[Illustration: 566]

Though we find Charles the Second at the commencement of this chapter

seated comfortably enough upon the English throne, the question "How

came he there?"--when we remember the straits and the crookeds through

which he passed--very naturally suggests itself. There is an anecdote

connected with his escape from Worcester, which we have not given

before, because, as it rests chiefly on the authority of the "Merry

Monarch" himself, the story is very likely to be dubious. Whether fact

or fiction, we may give it a place in the history of his reign, for if

the tale is made up, the manufacture is entirely his own, and so far

may be considered to belong to his annals. We shall therefore follow the

thread of the king's own narrative, and if the yarn he has spun was of

a fabricated fabric, it is to Charles and not to us that the imposture

must be attributed.

On the battle of Worcester being utterly lost, Charles began to think

of saving himself; but his adherents, who had been thoroughly beaten,

insisted on sticking to him with rather inconvenient loyalty. Feeling

that a small party could run away much faster than a large one, he

resolved to give his too faithful friends the slip; and when night came

on he succeeded in doing so, leaving his supporters, who would have

stuck to him till death, to shift for themselves. Charles, with that

scamp Wilmot, afterwards Rochester, and three or four others, got clean

off in a very dirty manner. Some advised the king to take shelter among

the Scotch; but his majesty, having no desire to be regularly sold,

declined putting himself in the power of a people who at that time

valued the virtues for exactly what they might bring, and would no doubt

have received the king with open arms as an eligible investment to be

speedily realised. He determined, therefore, to proceed towards London,

and, by the aid of a leathern doublet, grey breeches, and green jerkin,

he "made up" very effectually as a stage countryman.

Taking with him a real countryman, one Richard Penderell, as a

companion, Charles went into a wood, from the edge of which he saw a

troop of horse: but the rain poured down in such torrents that the troop

retired, instead of taking shelter in the wood, which was certainly

the wisest course they could have adopted. The anecdote is, however, so

essentially dramatic, that the soldiers were perfectly in character

when they went quite in the opposite direction to that they should have

taken, like those pursuers on the stage who usually overlook the person

they are in search of, and who, to every one else, is most conspicuously

visible. Charles's position on this occasion resembled, in a minor

degree, the situation of the fugitive at the fair, who, pointing to a

painted blind representing a tree with a hole cut down the centre of

it, expressed his determination to conceal himself in "yonder thicket."

Finding accommodation only for his body in the tree's imaginary trunk,

his legs of course protruded from the "shady grove," when two assassins

in hot pursuit tumbling over the out-hanging heels of the wretched

runaway, exclaimed confidentially in the ears of the audience, "By

'ivins, he 'as eluded us!" Such must have been the good fortune of

Charles, and the stupid blindness of the troop, when the former sat on

the forest's edge, and the latter never noted him.

This incident being over, another soon afterwards ensued of an equally

melodramatic character. Charles and Penderell, after travelling two

nights on foot, had put up at the house of one of Penderell's brothers;

but it was not thought safe to remain in it, and his majesty was

recommended to an oak, whose parent stem would afford friendly shelter,

while all the junior branches might be thoroughly relied upon. The king

having supplied himself with bread, cheese, and beer, which could not

have been table beer, for there was no table to put it on--though there

were plenty of leaves--made the best of the imperfect accommodation that

the tree afforded him. He had no sooner settled on his perch, and made

himself a kind of nest in the boughs, than some soldiers entered on the

o. p. side, and looked everywhere--except in the right place--for the

fugitive monarch. His legs, as usual, were visible enough, but the

troopers possibly mistook them for a pair of stockings hanging up to

dry, and they were not even struck by the shoes at the end, that

should have awakened them to the value of the booty. The most infantine

participators in the game of hide-and-seek, would not have been at

fault under circumstances of a similar kind; and there can scarcely be a

doubt, that if any urchin had only raised a suggestive cry of "Hot beans

and butter!" Charles would have been laid by the heels without a scruple

on the part of those who were in search of him.

[Illustration: 569]

Leaving his majesty's legs to dangle in the air, and allowing credulity

to score one for his heels on the cribbage-board of fancy, we proceed

to contemplate Charles in a more dignified position on the throne of

England. He arrived at Dover on the 25th of May, with his two little

brothers, who had grown to men, but were still called "the boys" by

those who remembered them before their exile from the land of their

forefathers. Monk received the royal trio, who rode to the hotel in the

same hackney-coach with the general, forgetting that there had been a

good deal of truly monkish cunning in the conduct of that individual,

who being the latest with his service, obtained the favour due to much

earlier and older royalists.

The principle of "first come, first served!" was in this instance laid

aside, and the rule of "last come served best" was ungratefully adopted.

A most unreasonable reaction towards royalty now ensued, and the anxiety

to deal mercilessly with the regicides ran into a most sanguinary

extreme, surpassing in fury the most bloodthirsty predilections of the

fiercest republicans.

Both Houses of Parliament met, and an Act of Indemnity was passed for

the benefit of the king's enemies; but, like the old story of Hamlet

without the Prince of Denmark, most of the persons interested in the

Act were excepted from its provisions. Nineteen of the regicides

surrendered; and ten more being in custody, formed a batch of

twenty-nine to be brought to trial. A commission was issued for the

purpose, and on the 9th of October, 1660, the proceedings began before

a tribunal of thirty-four, many of whom had been Long Parliament men,

masked Presbyterians, or miscellaneous scamps, of quite as revolutionary

a turn as some of the prisoners submitted to their judgment. Sir

Hardress Waller, who was number one on the list, had prepared a very

fine speech in his defence; but looking over the document he made up

his mind that it was rather strong, and could certainly do no good, upon

which he pleaded guilty. Harrison and Carew, who came next, made each

a very eloquent and enthusiastic harangue, glorying in their respective

acts, by which they laid down their lives as an investment for a

reversionary interest in the good books of posterity.

Henry Marten, "the wit of the House of Commons," made a most dismal

attempt to laugh the matter off, and to joke the prosecution out of

court; but his humour, notwithstanding its extreme heaviness, had no

weight with his judges. He began by demanding the benefit of the Act

of Oblivion, and in a lame _bon mot_ claimed to be allowed to forget

himself. He was sharply told he must plead guilty or not guilty, but he

insisted on the benefit of the Act of Indemnity, saying his name did

not appear among the exceptions, and that in fact he had never been an

exceptionable character. Irritated by these dismal jokes--so insulting

to the understanding of the court--the Solicitor-General ordered the Act

to be produced, with the name Henry Marten inserted legibly enough,

when "the droll," with a miserable quibble not even amounting to a pun,

exclaimed, "My name _is not so_--it is _Harry_ Marten." This unmeaning

objection being very properly overruled, the "mad wag" endeavoured to

stand upon his reputation for mad waggery, and urged that being known

as a wit, he had done nothing with a serious intention. He was, however,

told that regicide in sport was high treason in earnest, when, after

some few further attempts at facetiousness, the "witty Harry Marten"

was found guilty, and retired cutting wretched jokes upon the disgusted

turnkey.

The court, which, in order to get beforehand with its work, had prepared

most of its verdicts before the trials commenced, had already determined

on fixing the act of cutting off the king's head on the shoulders of

William Hewlett. Everything went to prove that the common hangman had

performed the sanguinary job for £30, but the commissioners had made up

their minds, and were unwilling to open the very small parcels for the

purpose of looking at the charge by the light of the evidence. Hewlett

was condemned, but people beginning to talk of the glaring injustice

of the verdict, he was eventually saved from capital punishment. Poor

Garland was another of the intended victims, and it may well be said

that Garland by his heroism has made himself a wreath of immortality. He

would have pleaded guilty to the accusation of having signed the death

warrant of Charles, but indignantly repudiated the charge of having

insulted the fallen sovereign. "I was a regicide, it is true," exclaimed

Garland, "but as for the assertion of my having been base enough to spit

in the face of the king, I throw it back in the face of my enemies."

Upon this the Solicitor-General called as a witness a low, needy fellow,

named Clench, who swore not only to the spitting by Garland, but to

the king having wiped his face immediately afterwards, and from the

supplementary lie told by Clench to support the first falsehood, the

term Clencher obviously took its origin. Poor Garland was found guilty,

of course, but his life was not eventually forfeited. The executions of

the regicides were very numerous, and conducted in a spirit of barbarous

brutality, that excited a great deal of disgust at the time among all

but those who were animated by the desire to retaliate the atrocities

that the other side had committed. It is in fact, a very common fault

among philanthropists, and others who rush about with a strong sense of

great social wrongs, to commit some other wrongs equally great, or even

greater, upon the persons by whom their virtuous indignation may have

been excited.

We feel naturally interested in the fate of poor Harry Marten, the

"funny man" of the Long Parliament. While in prison under sentence of

death, he was visited by some aristocratic friends, who recommended

the wit to petition in a jocose strain, but his humour had become

exceedingly dreary in his dingy dungeon. He contrived, nevertheless,

to serve up one small pun in a lengthy document begging for mercy;

and though the Commons did not see the fun of the thing, the Lords

good-naturedly took it for granted that, coming from a professed wag,

there must be "something in it," and with a patronising "Ha, hal--very

clever--amazingly droll!"--the Peers remitted his sentence.

Though Royalty had risen wonderfully in public respect, there was

nothing in the conduct of the royal family to render it respectable.

The queen-mother, Henrietta Maria, returned to England with an extensive

French suite, and ran into debt even over her head and ears, which being

very long, may enable us to measure the depths of her extravagance. The

utmost dissoluteness prevailed at Court, and the king's brother, the

Duke of York, had married--several months later than he should have

done--Miss Anne Hyde, the daughter of the Lord Chancellor Clarendon.

This consummate old humbug affected to be much pained at the degradation

of his prince, through his marriage with Clarendon's own daughter, and

the chancellor, affecting to doubt the fact, declared, if it were true,

"The woman should go to the Tower and have her head chopped off!" in

accordance with an Act of Parliament he would himself draw up for that

purpose. All this unnatural abuse of his own child, instead of earning

him the smallest respect, simply rendered him infamous in the minds of

all but those who believed he was acting a part, and who regarded him,

therefore, as simply contemptible. He is believed to have been secretly

engaged in promoting the marriage against which he publicly protested;

and the recognition of his daughter as Duchess of York, which soon

afterwards took place, was purchased, it is said, by Clarendon's paying

the debts of the queen-mother, by, of course, robbing the people.

It is impossible to say much for the magnanimity of the royalist party,

whose triumph was signalised by continued acts of mingled ferocity and

littleness. A law was passed attainting Oliver Cromwell, Ireton, and

Bradshaw, who were dragged from their graves in Westminster Abbey,

and hanged at Tyburn, on the 30th of January, the day of the death of

Charles the First--in celebration of his martyrdom. This was certainly

one way of crying quits with the regicides in the game of butchery, and

both sides were thus brought to the same degraded level. The royalist

resurrectionists having commenced the desecration of the dead did not

relinquish their loathsome pursuit until they had ex-humed, as we

learn nom Hume, the remains of Cromwell's highly-respectable mother and

inoffensive daughter, as well as numerous others who had done nothing in

life to render them in death the objects of enmity.

All parties now began to claim the merit of the Restoration in the hope

of obtaining a reward, and bills for old arrears of alleged loyalty were

sent in to the Government. The Scotch were of course not backward in

looking after the profits due, or supposed to be due, on account of any

assistance rendered to Charles in his misfortunes; but the king and

his friends having been sold two or three times over by the crafty

Caledonians, his majesty thought they had really made their full money

out of him. When, therefore, the Marquis of Argyle asked permission to

pay his respects, a friendly reply was despatched to bring him up to

town; but on his arrival at Whitehall, he had scarcely knocked at the

door when he found he was regularly let in, for a guard, tapping him on

the shoulder, walked him off as a traitor. He was sent to be tried by

his own countrymen; for as some of them would profit by his death, it

was considered that making them his judges would be a sure method of

getting rid of him. The result realised the estimate formed of the

character of the Scotch, who condemned him and hanged him as a matter

of _beesness_, because there was a small profit to be got out of the

transaction. Poor Argyle had been the very party who had put the crown

on the king's head a few years before at Scone; but, "Life," said he,

on the scaffold, "is a toss up, and it's heads I lose on this melancholy

occasion."

On the 8th of May, 1661, a new Parliament met, which lasted even longer

than the long one _par excellence_, and, indeed, the lengths to which

it went might alone have entitled it to the epithet bestowed on its

Republican predecessor. The Cavaliers had a very large majority in this

assembly, and the off-hand manner in which it dealt with the country

rendered the words cavalier treatment and bad treatment synonymous.

The royal prerogative was the object of nearly all the acts of this

assembly; and the rights of monarchy were being continually declared,

in the same spirit as the artist who wrote "This is a lion," under his

picture, because there would have been room for doubt in the absence of

the epigraph. Thus the frequent assertions of the Parliament that the

king was paramount, and indeed absolute, were tolerably good evidence of

the fact that the position is not altogether incontrovertible.

After a brief session, in which the Cavaliers helped themselves to

£60,000, by way of compensation-money, and voted a supply to the

king, the Parliament adjourned from the 30th of July till the 28th of

November, by which time Charles and his minister, Clarendon, had got up

a little mare's nest of a pretended conspiracy, to give a new impetus

to the prevailing spirit of inconsiderate loyalty. The servile Commons

called at once for a few supplementary executions, and with this view

it was resolved to look through the back numbers, or stock remaining on

hand, of the regicides. Lord Monson, Sir Henry Mild-may, and Sir Robert

Wallop, were "unearthed" from the obscurity into which they had crept,

and were dragged on sledges, with ropes round their necks, to Tyburn and

back again. Poor Wallop's name was cruelly made suggestive of ruffianly

attacks, which, by turning the first person present--Wallop--into the

participle in ing, the reader will at once mentally realise.

The subserviency of the Parliament to Charles was absolutely sickening,

and it is a fact worthy of remark, that the epithet "most religious,"

applied to the sovereign in portions of the Church service, was bestowed

originally upon this profane and immoral reprobate. His necessities,

or rather his extravagances, were supplied lavishly by Parliament, who

voted him a hearth-tax for every fire-place, or in other words, gave

him a draft upon every chimney. Notwithstanding the odious domestic

character of Charles, every match-making old mother of royalty abroad

endeavoured to get off some daughter by offering her as a wife to the

heartless libertine. "He put himself up to auction," says a brother

historian, * and we may add that it is much to be regretted he was not

knocked down according to his merits. Portugal having bid the

Princess Catherine, with half a million sterling, and other contingent

advantages, the bargain was struck, and a ship sent over for herself and

her dowry.

* Mr. McFarlane's Pictorial History of England, vol. iii.

The royal marriage had recently taken place, when that unhappy

weathercock, Sir Harry Vane, was brought to trial for having compassed

the death of Charles the Second, merely by accepting employment under

the Republican Government. Relying on the indemnity, Vane had gone to

live at Hampstead, when he found there was something in the wind which

gave him an unfavourable turn; but it was too late for him to escape,

and he was accordingly sent to the Tower.

After the fashion of the period, poor Vane was condemned in the opinion

of his judges before he was tried, and he was not even allowed to make

a last dying speech; for the sheriff snatched the document from which he

was reading, drove away the reporters who were taking notes, and ordered

the drums to strike up a _rataplan_, which overwhelmed the voice of the

gallant soldier.

The exuberant loyalty of the people towards Charles received a severe

check, when, looking round for something to sell, in order to support

his extravagant habits, he determined to throw Dunkirk into the market.

Spain, Holland, and France were all in the field as customers for the

lot, which was eventually made over to the last-named power for a few

thousands, payable within three years by bills, which were discounted at

an alarming sacrifice.

Numerous Acts of oppression were passed by Charles, assisted by his most

servile Parliament; and among them, the Conventicle Act, which forbade

the Nonconformists from assembling anywhere but in the established

churches, under the penalty of transportation or long imprisonment.

Every loft, attic, or barn, where the Dissenters had got together for

psalm-singing purposes, was searched, and the occupants were dragged

away to the nearest prison.

The year 1665 was dreadfully signalised by the plague of London, from

which the king and Court fled to Oxford, as if they were aware that, by

themselves at all events, the awful visitation was thoroughly merited.

While, however, the profligate king and his dissolute companions escaped

the physical consequences of a plague, the abandoned crew carried with

them wherever they went the malaria of a moral pestilence. During the

early part of 1666, the fever in the metropolis subsided, and Charles

with his courtiers came sneaking back to town, where they resumed their

old habits as the "fast men" of the period.

On the 2nd of September, in the same year, about the middle of the

night, some smoke issued from a baker's house near London Bridge; but

the watchman on duty, being asleep, as a matter of course, took no

notice of the incident. The fire continued its progress unchecked, for

the people instead of trying to put it out, which they might have done

at first, pumps as they were, began to speculate on the subject of its

origin. For some time it was reported that Harry Marten, "the wit of the

House of Commons," as he was, on the _lucus a non lucendo_ principle,

called, had set the Thames on fire by some brilliant flashes, and the

ignition of the river had, it was alleged, communicated itself to London

Bridge, and thence to the shop of the baker. Others declared the French

had done the mischief, and instead of arresting the flames, the mob

began arresting all the foreigners.

The usual casualties contributed to heighten the destructive effect of

the fire, for the parish engine had, in the hurry of the moment, come

out in the middle of the night without its hose, and the New River had

been smoking its pipe or soldering it for the purposes of repair on

the previous day, and neither of these aids to anti-combus-tion was

available. Poor Clarendon, the Chancellor, who had got the reputation

of being a great moral engine, was disturbed in his sleep by some

mischievous boys, who, with a cry of "Fire! fire!" called upon the great

moral engine to come and spout away upon the burning city.

The devouring element continued its tremendous supper without

interruption, and there was, unfortunately, considerable difficulty

in administering anything to drink to allay the burning heat which was

rapidly consuming the whole metropolis. The most furious conflagration

will wear itself out in time, and the fire of London, after giving the

inhabitants several "Nichts wi' Burns," brought its own progress to a

conclusion. It is gratifying to be enabled to state that, even in the

seventeenth century, the English were remarkable for their charity,

and the calamities that fell upon the metropolis--particularly the

fire--stirred up the public benevolence to the fullest extent,

and inspired all classes with a warmth of feeling that was quite

appropriate.

Charles having got all he could out of the people, for the purposes of

war, thought he might as well be paid on both sides, and began to think

of selling peace to his enemies. He entered into negotiations with the

Dutch, but before they had come to terms, he commenced cutting down the

expenses by selling the furniture of his fleets to the dealers in marine

stores, and dismissing his soldiers, in order to put their pay into

his own pocket. He was properly served for his selfish parsimony by

De Buyter, the Dutch admiral, who, hearing that Charles was doing

everything upon a low and paltry scale, dashed at the Medway, surprised

Sheerness, and sacked not only the place, but several cargoes of coal

that were lying there. Upon the old English principle of guarding the

stable door after the furtive removal of the horse, Charles prepared to

collect a force to guard his country against the injury it had already

experienced. Twelve thousand men were enrolled; but during the process

of enrolment, the enemy had got safely off, and when the soldiers were

assembled, it occurred suddenly to the king that he had no means of

paying them. As the Parliament seemed quite unwilling to take this

little responsibility off his hands, the twelve thousand men were

disbanded, all of them grumbling furiously at having been made fools of

by the bankrupt monarch. Peace was concluded with De Ruyter just as if

nothing had happened; and though the English did not obtain all they

asked, they got the colony of New York, which was destined to give them

so much trouble at a far distant period.

The people were by no means satisfied with the terms of the treaty, and

as national ill-humour must always have a victim of some kind, poor old

Clarendon, the Chancellor, was pounced upon. The Nonconformists hated

him because he was a high churchman; the high church party hated him

because he wasn't; while the papists hated him, they didn't exactly know

why; and the courtiers hated him because they had got a large balance

of general animosity on hand, which they were determined to expend upon

somebody. Clarendon, in fact, was the grand centre in which all the

detestation of the country appeared to meet, or he might be more

appropriately called the bull's-eye of the target towards which the

shafts of public malignity were directed. Clarendon had been a faithful

servant to Charles, but the monarch's stock of gratitude had always been

very small, and what little he once possessed he had paid away long ago,

to less worthy objects. He accordingly sent to the Chancellor for the

Great Seal, but Clarendon, pleading gout for not immediately leaving

home, promised that when he could get out he would call and leave the

official emblem at the palace. Charles replied, that as to Clarendon's

postponing his resignation till he could get out, he must get out

at once, if he wished to avoid an ejection of a not very agreeable

character. Urged by this formidable message, he took Whitehall in his

way during a morning's walk, and having seen the king, made a desperate

but useless struggle to retain the seal, which he was forced to

surrender. His misfortunes did not end here, for the Commons impeached

him; and Clarendon, as if owning the not very soft impeachment,

absconded to France, where he ended his days in exile.

A change of ministry ensued on the downfall of Clarendon, and a

Government was formed which gave rise to almost the only constitutional

pun which we find recorded in history. The cabinet received the name of

the Cabal, from the five initial letters of the names of the quintette

to whom public affairs were intrusted. This great national acrostic

deserves better treatment than it has hitherto received at the hands of

the historians; and taking down our rhyming dictionary from the cupboard

in which it had been shelved, we proceed to invest the political _jeu

d'esprit_ with the dignity of poetry.

C was a Clifford, the Treasury's chief;

A was an Arlington, brilliant and brief;

B was a Buckingham--horrible scamp;

A was an Ashley, of similar stamp;

L was a Lauderdale, Buckingham's pal.

Now take their initials to form a Cabal.

These five individuals looked upon politics as a trade, and principles

as the necessary capital, which must be tinned over and over again

in order to realise extraordinary profits. They were all of them

out-pensioners on the bounty of France, and they soon persuaded Charles

that it was better to receive a fixed salary from abroad, than trust

for his supplies to the caprice of a Parliament. The king, therefore,

intrigued with several States at the same moment, and was taking money

from two or three different Governments, on the strength of treaties

with each, some of which he all the while intended to violate. He

nevertheless did not disdain the money of his own people, and extracted

a sum of £310,000 from the public pocket, in the shape of a supply from

Parliament.

The domestic proceedings of the king were always of the most

disreputable kind, and he had lately taken up with one Mary or Molly

Davies, a jig dancer, who pretended to come of a very ancient family in

Moldavia. This wretched little ballet-girl was introduced at Court by

the king, who was positively ambitious of being thought rather "fast,"

an epithet which is generally bestowed on loose characters. He had also

formed an intimacy with Eleanor, or Nell Gwynne, originally a vendor of

"oranges, apples, nuts, and pears," but subsequently an actress; and

it was said at the time--which is some excuse perhaps for our saying

it again--that Eleanor sounded the knell of older favourites. Lady

Castlemaine, who went by the name of "the lady," was cut by the king in

favour of the fruit girl and the figurante.

Notwithstanding the rivalry to which "the lady" was exposed,

her influence over the mind of Charles--if we may be allowed the

allegory--was still very considerable; and in the year 1670, which was

very soon after Miss M. Davies had danced herself into the good graces

of the king, he conferred the title of Duchess of Cleveland on Lady

Castlemaine. As many of our aristocratic families are fond of tracing

their origin to its very remotest source, we shall perhaps be thanked

for assisting some of them in the search to find the root of their

nobility. We, however, decline the, to us, wholly uninteresting task,

for we are quite content to take our peerage as it comes, and estimate

its members for their personal worth, without reference to their

ancestors. We certainly should not value the vinegar in our cruet any

the more if we knew it comprised within it a dissolved pearl, nor should

we treasure a lump of charcoal on account of its supposed relationship

to some late lamented diamond.

With our accustomed fairness, we on the other hand have no wish to throw

a degraded and abandoned ancestry into the faces of those who do

not presume upon birth, but are decently thankful for its worldly

advantages. It is only when we find rank turning up its nose at all

inferior stations that we feel delight in seizing the offending snout,

and driving home the iron ring, to show a connection between the

proboscis of pride and the humbler materials of humanity.

CHAPTER THE SECOND. CHARLES THE SECOND (CONTINUED).

[Illustration: 578]

Charles opened Parliament in person, on the 14th of February, 1670; and,

in imitation of Louis the Fourteenth, introduced some soldiers into the

procession, which had hitherto, in England, been limited to the boys,

the beef-eaters, and the blackguards. The speech from the throne had one

advantage over those of our own day, for it was perfectly intelligible,

inasmuch as it told the Commons in very plain terms that Charles "must

have cash"--a necessity he shared with the bankrupt linendrapers and the

cheap crockery dealers of a much later era. Taxation was therefore the

order of the day, and after putting a tax on everything in the shape

of property or income, it was proposed to attempt the forcing of a

sanguineous extract from stone, by putting a tax on actors' salaries.

This, however, was so preposterous an idea that it was not followed

up; for unless the poor players had been allowed to pay the impost

in gallery checks leaden damps, and the other rubbish that forms the

currency of the stage, the taxes received from the dramatic fraternity

would have given the collectors a sinecure. Though enough money to pay

off the National Debt is frequently distributed in a single scene by a

stage philanthropist, or left by an old uncle in the course of "a

tag" to a farce, there would be little prospect of the business of

the country being carried on if the supplies were contingent on such

resources as those which the actors dispose of with the most lavish

generosity.

The early part of the session was signalised by a frightful example

that was made of Sir John Coventry, who had ventured upon a joke--an

undertaking at all times perilous, and frequently entailing upon the

manufacturer the most alarming consequences. Sir John endeavoured to be

witty on the subject of a tax, but the joke, which is happily lost in

the mist of ages, was of so wretched a description that a conspiracy

was actually formed for the purpose of bringing the perpetrator to

punishment. The joke had reference to a private matter into which it

was thought Coventry had no right to poke his nose, and this being the

offending feature, was severely handled by his assailants, who took

hold of it as a prominent point, and savagely maltreated it. This was a

specimen of the practical joking adopted by the "fast men" of the time

of Charles the Second, but the king was obliged to affect disapprobation

of such an act, and a law against cutting and maiming was immediately

passed, to protect all future noses from the fate that had placed

Coventry's nose in the hands of those with whom he had fallen into bad

odour.

In the same year the notorious Colonel Blood provided matter for the

penny-a-liner of his own day, and the historian of ours, by two or three

crimes of a very audacious character. One of these was to waylay the

Duke of Ormond as he was returning from a dinner-party in the city, and

was, from that very circumstance, most unlikely to be in a fit state to

defend himself. His grace was placed upon a horse, and carried towards

Tyburn, but his coachman having undertaken to overtake Blood, soon came

up, to the consternation of the latter, who could not understand what

the former was driving at. Blood, finding the coachman had the whip

hand of him, oozed quietly away, but being incapable of keeping out of

mischief, he was soon detected in an attempt to steal the Crown jewels

from the Tower. This act of crowning audacity, as the merry monarch

lugubriously termed it, induced Charles to wish to "regale himself," as

he said, "with the sight of a fellow who could be bold enough to attempt

to steal the _regalia_." The monarch, who had a sort of sympathy with

blackguardism of every description, was mightily taken with Blood, whose

bluntness made him pass for a very sharp blade, and the ruffian was not

only allowed to go at large, but received grants of land without the

smallest ground for such a mark of royal favour.

Charles and his people did not go on together in a spirit of mutual

confidence, for from a sort of instinctive appreciation of his own

demerits, he was afraid to trust his subjects, while they reciprocated

that distrust, from a due sense of the king's worthlessness. He had

therefore entered into some foreign alliances, of which he was fearful

they would disapprove, and he had accordingly prorogued the Parliament,

in the cowardly spirit of a man who, having some bills he cannot meet,

declines meeting his creditors. Supplies were, however, necessary, and

these he secured by going down to the Exchequer, which he robbed of

every farthing deposited there by the merchants, who had been in the

habit of leaving their loose cash in the hands of the Government, at a

handsome rate of interest. When remonstrated with on the subject of this

disgraceful robbery, he defended himself on the _aide-toi_ principle,

declaring we were always told to help ourselves, and that he had

accordingly helped himself to all he could lay his hands upon.

Being now in league with France, England waged war upon Holland, but the

Dutch metal of that country soon displayed itself. The nation found in

William, Prince of Orange, a leader who did not give exactly the quarter

implied in his name, but was merciful as far as circumstances would

permit to all his enemies. He expected sympathy from the English

Parliament, which Charles was afraid to call until he found himself

without a penny in his pocket, just like the acknowledged scamp of

domestic life, as represented in the British Drama. The impossibility of

proceeding without supplies urged the king to take the dreaded step, and

the writs for summoning the Commons should have been couched in the old

popular form, commencing, "Dilly, dilly, come and be killed," for the

Commons were only called together to be victimised. It is a beautiful

fact in natural history, that even the donkey will kick when his

patience is too sorely tried; and the Commons, who had been wretchedly

subservient during Charles the Second's reign, began at last to show

symptoms of opposition under the insults they experienced. They were

angry at the war with Holland, and threatened to impeach Buckingham;

but Charles, comforting his favourite with the exclamation, "Don't be

alarmed, my Buck!" took the utmost pains to screen him. A negotiation

was commenced for a peace with Holland, but this was after all nothing

better than a Holland blind, for Charles's predilection for a French

alliance was still perceptible. This occasioned much dissatisfaction,

and the people, being in the habit of frequenting coffee-houses,

talked about the matter over their cups, and were very saucy over their

saucers, which induced Charles to order the closing of all those places

where temperate refreshment was obtainable. Thousands to whom coffee and

bread and butter formed a daily, and in many cases an only meal, were

horrified at this arrangement; while many who, not having a steak in the

country, got a chop in town, were disgusted beyond measure at the order,

which extended to taverns as well as to tea and coffee shops. A mandate

which would have dashed the muffin from the mouth of moderation, and

turned all the tea into another channel, was certain not to be obeyed,

and the doors of the marts for Mocha in your own mugs--a term synonymous

with mouths--continued open as usual.

Urged by the remonstrances and clamour of the people, Charles entered

into an alliance with William, Prince of Orange, who married the

Princess Mary, the eldest daughter of James, the young lady being used,

like so much of the cement distinguished as "Poo-Loo's," for the purpose

of mending the breakages that had occurred on both sides. William was

as deep as Charles, and soon began to pooh! pooh! the idea of having

cemented, _à la_ Poo-Loo, a rupture of such long standing, and he

positively refused to fall into Charles's projects.

The state of Scotland was not more satisfactory than that of England

at this time, for the Covenanters were striving vigorously against the

constituted authorities, both civil and ecclesiastical. Lauderdale, who

represented the king, enrolled twenty thousand militiamen; but had he

enrolled, or rolled up in old coats, as many scarecrows, they would have

been quite as serviceable as the new soldiery.

Charles is informed of a plot against his precious life.

The recent regicide having caused a reaction in favour of royalty, it

became a common trick with the king's party to get up a report of the

intended assassination of Charles the Second, whenever the stock of

popularity was running rather short, and the people seemed to be getting

dissatisfied with the Government.

[Illustration: 581]

In the absence of real objects of suspicion, there is never any

difficulty among Englishmen in drawing upon their inventive resources

for materials to make a panic, whether monetary, political, or

otherwise; and about the year 1670 rumour was very busy in manufacturing

all sorts of plots against the life of the sovereign. On the morning of

the 13th of August, which happened to be one of the dog days, Charles

was walking with his dogs in the park, when Kirby, the chemist--a highly

respectable man, but an egregious blockhead--drew to the monarch's side,

and whispered in the royal ear, "Keep within the company; your enemies

have a design upon your life, and you may be shot in this very walk."

Charles, who was a little flurried, desired to know the meaning of this

warning, when Kirby the chemist offered to produce one Doctor Tongue,

a weak-minded and credulous old parson, who said he had heard that

two fellows, named Grove and Pickering, were making arrangements for

smashing Charles on the very first opportunity. This tongue was so

exceedingly slippery that he could not be believed; but to keep himself

out of a pickle, he brought a pile of papers, containing a copious

account of the alleged conspiracy. He alleged that he had found them

pushed under his door; but we cannot very easily believe that any

conspirators would have been so foolish as to go about, dropping

promiscuously into letter-boxes, or thrusting under street doors, the

proofs of their designs on the sovereign.

[Illustration: 582]

Upon further inquiry being prosecuted, it turned out that a low

fellow, named Titus Oates, was at the bottom of this plot, to raise the

apprehensions of the public. Oates was a man of straw, the son of an

anabaptist preacher; and our antiquarian recollections have reminded

us, that from the extraordinary propensity of Oates to deceive by false

representations, the application of the term "chaff" to stories at

variance with fact, most likely owes its origin. Happy had it been for

many in those days, if Oates had been so dealt with, that the chaff had

been all thrashed out of him. The fellow is described by a writer of the

period, as "a low man of an ill cut and very short neck," with a mouth

in the middle of his face; "whereas," says the old biographer, "the nose

should always form the scenter."

"If you had put a compass between his lips," continues the quaint

chronicler we quote, "you might have swept his nose, forehead, and chin

within the same diameter." This places the nasal organ in a high, but

certainly not a very proud position, bringing it nearly flush with the

eyes, and making it a sort of inverted comma on the summit of that index

which the face is said to afford to the human character.

The stories got up by Oates were of the most elaborately absurd

description, betraying an equal ignorance of grammar, geography, and

every other branch of information, polite or otherwise. He contradicted

himself over and over again, but this only rendered his story the more

marvellous, and as the lower orders of English were always fond of the

most extravagant fictions, the terrific tales of Oates were not too

absurd to be swallowed. He became the most successful political novelist

ever known, and received a pension of £1,200 a year, besides lodgings in

Whitehall, by way of recognition for his services in contributing to the

amusement of the people, by frightening them out of their propriety.

The success of Oates induced a number of imitators, each of whom

contrived to discover a plot to murder the king, with a complete set of

written documents, to prove the existence of the foul conspiracy. One of

these speculators on royal and public credulity was a man named William

Bedloe, a fellow who, having failed as a thief, and been detected as

a cheat, attempted to repair his fortunes by turning patriot. With the

usual injudicious energy of mere imitation, he went much further

than even Oates himself in the audacity of his statements. These two

miscreants between them sent many innocent people to the scaffold, for

if Oates only hinted his suspicion of a plot, Bealoe was at hand to

swear to the persons involved in it. As surely as Oates declared his

knowledge of some intended assassination, Bedloe would come forward to

indicate not only the assassins themselves, but to point to the very

weapons they would have used, when, if it was replied they did not

belong to the parties against whom the charge was made, he would not

scruple to swear that the instruments would have been purchased on the

next day for the deadly purpose. All the rules of evidence were outraged

without the slightest remorse, and poor Starkie * would have gone stark,

staring mad, could he have witnessed the flagrant violations of those

principles which he has expounded with so much ability.

* Starkie and Phillips are, at this day, the two

acknowledged authorities on the Law of Evidence.

The Parliament which sat during these proceedings, was in existence

for seventeen years, and has gained, or rather has deserved, an undying

reputation by the passing of the Habeas Corpus Act. This glorious

statute prohibited the sending of anyone to prison beyond the sea, and

allowed anyone in jail to insist on being carried before a judge

to inquire the cause of his detention. A troublesome captive might

therefore, by pretending never to be satisfied with the explanation of

the court, keep running perpetually backwards and forwards to ascertain

the reason of his captivity. The Oates conspiracy had not yet undergone

the winnowing which the breath of public opinion--universally right,

in the long run--was sure at one time or another to bestow, when a

new affair, called the Meal-Tub Plot, burst on the attention of

the community. A fellow of the name of Dangerfield affected to have

discovered a new field of danger in an alleged design to set up a new

form of government. This reprobate had been in the pillory, where it is

believed the quantity of eggs that met his eye gave him the notion

of hatching a plot, and he obtained the assistance of one Cellier, a

midwife, to bring the project into existence. There was something very

melodramatic in the mode of getting up accusations of treason in the

days of Dangerfield, for it was only necessary to drop some seditious

papers in a man's house, or stuff the prospectus of a revolution into

his pocket, in order to make him responsible for all the consequences

of a crime he had perhaps never dreamed about. Colonel Mansel was the

intended victim in the Dangerfield affair; and some excise officers who

had been sent to his lodgings under the pretence of being ordered to

search for contraband goods, found the heads of a conspiracy cut and

dried, crammed in among his bed-clothes. The colonel succeeded in

showing that he had nothing to do with the transaction, and declared

that, "as he had made his bed, so was he content to lie upon it." His

words carried conviction home to the minds of all, and Dangerfield

was obliged to admit the imposture he had practised; but he confessed

another conspiracy, the particulars of which were found regularly

written out and deposited in a meal-tub in the house of Cellier, the

midwife.

[Illustration: 584]

It is evident from numerous instances, that conspirators in those days

were very apt to carry their designs no further than committing them to

paper, and carefully depositing in some place or other the records

of their crime, so that in case of detection the evidence against

themselves would be complete and irresistible. Thus had the plotters

with whom Dangerfield had been acting in concert, put away in a meal-tub

the evidence of their intended proceedings, for no other purpose which

we can perceive than the ultimate finding of the documents, and the

furtherance of the ends of justice in the true poetical fashion. Lady

Powis was implicated in this affair, and was sent to the Tower; but the

Grand Jury ignored the bill against her, while Cellier, the midwife, who

had aided in the miserable abortion, was tried and acquitted at the Old

Bailey.

The rumour, or the reality of conspiracies against the royal family, did

not prevent Charles from throwing himself into the pleasures, or rather

the dissipations for which his Court was remarkable. Though political

liberty was exceedingly scarce during this reign, he did not discourage

the taking of liberties in private life, among those who formed the

society by which he was surrounded. The palace was one continued scene

of that degrading excitement which passes sometimes by the name

of gaiety, and nearly every evening was devoted to that sort of

entertainment which is sought by the snobs and shop-boys of our own day

in the casinos and masked balls. The "fast" mania, which thrusts at this

moment the penny cheroot between the lips of infancy, drags the clerk

from the desk to the dancing rooms, and perhaps urges his felonious hand

to his master's till, had in the time of Charles the Second corrupted

the whole nation, from the highest to the lowest, so that even the best

society--and bad indeed was the best--bore the impress of the

example that was furnished by the king himself. The palace balls were

accordingly conducted in a manner that would disgrace the humblest

of modern hops, and in these days deprive of its licence any place of

public entertainment where such behaviour would be permitted by the

conductors of the establishment.

[Illustration: 585]

CHAPTER THE THIRD. CHARLES THE SECOND (CONTINUED).

The Duke of York, the king's brother, being an acknowledged Papist, the

people began to look out for a Protestant successor, and turned their

eyes upon young Monmouth, a natural son of Charles, who was almost a

natural in more respects than one, for his mental capacity was more--or

less--than dubious. He was, indeed, a good-looking idiot, and nothing

more; but, coming after such a king as Charles, the nation might have

been satisfied with him; and, to oblige York, the fellow was formally

declared illegitimate. The prosecution of the Catholics was carried

on with unabated animosity; and several, among whom was the aged Lord

Stafford, were put to death, under the pretence of advancing the cause

of "peace and goodness."

The particulars of the sacrifice of Stafford afford such a faithful

sample of the mode in which justice was administered in the reign of

Charles the Second, that, converting ourselves into "our own reporter,"

we give a brief sketch of the trial. The defendant in the action, which

was in the nature of an impeachment, was accused of high treason, and

the three witnesses against him were Oates, Dug-dale, and Turberville,

three scamps who made a regular business--and a very profitable one--of

giving false evidence. Oates swore he had seen somebody deliver a

document signed by somebody else, appointing Stafford paymaster to some

army, which at some time or other was going to be got together somehow,

somewhere, for the purpose of doing something against the Government,

and in favour of the Catholics. Dugdale swore that the accused had

engaged him, Dugdale, to murder the king at so much a week, with the

offer of a saintdom in the next year's almanack. Turberville swore ditto

to Dugdale, and though Stafford was able to disprove their evidence in

many very important points, the trio of perjurers had gone so boldly to

work that there was a large balance of accusation remaining over that

could not be upset, in consequence of the unfortunate impossibility of

proving a negative.

Stafford succeeded in damaging the credit of the witnesses, but as they

came forward professedly in the character of hard swearers, who, so as

they got the prisoners executed, were indifferent about being believed,

the attack on their reputations affected them very little. The unhappy

prisoner was so taken aback by the effrontery of his accusers, that

he hardly gave himself a fair chance in his defence, which consisted

chiefly of ejaculations expressive of wonder at the excessive impudence

and audacity of the witnesses. Such exclamations as "Well, I'm sure!

what next?" though natural enough under the circumstances, did not make

up, when all put together, a very eloquent speech for the defence,

and after a trial of six days' duration, the Peers, by a majority of

twenty-four, found poor Stafford guilty.

Sentence of death was passed upon him, but the more ignominious portion

of the punishment having been remitted by the king's order, the two

sheriffs were seized with a most sanguinary fit of system, and objected

to the omission of hanging and quartering, because, as they said, the

leaving out of these barbarities would be altogether irregular. In order

to satisfy the scruples of these very punctilious gentlemen, the Peers

pronounced them "over nice," and the Commons passed a resolution of

indemnity, by which the sheriffs were made aware that they would not

be considered to have "scamped" their work, if they merely cut off

Stafford's head without proceeding to the more artistical details of

butchery.

Stafford died nobly, and the fickle populace, who had howled for his

condemnation, began sighing and grieving at his fate; but as all this

sympathy was almost in the nature of a _post obit_, it was of little

or no value to the nobleman on whose behalf it was contributed. The

executioner himself turned tender-hearted at the last moment, and

twice raised the fatal axe, but a coarse brute near him on the

scaffold--perhaps one of the thwarted sheriffs--desired the headsman not

to make two bites at a cherry, and the blow was forthwith administered.

These excesses of the Parliament caused even the dissolute Charles to

_try_, the effect of dissolution; but there was no going on for any

length of time without a House of Commons to vote the supplies; and the

king, thinking to withdraw the legislature from the influence of London

mobs, appointed the next to be held at Oxford. This a arrangement gave

great dissatisfaction to the opposition, and both parties came as

if prepared for a battle, the speakers on each side being, no doubt,

abundantly supplied with the leaden ammunition that is customarily used

for debating purposes. It was during the party bickerings prevailing

about this time, that the definitions, since so famous--and sometimes so

infamous--of Whig and Tory, were first hit upon. The former was given

to the popular party, merely because it had been given to some other

popular party, in some other place, at some previous time, and the

latter was given to the courtiers, because some Popish banditti in

Ireland had been once called Tories; * but why they had been, or why,

if they had been, the courtiers of Charles the Second's time need

have been, are points that the reader's ingenuity must serve him to

elucidate.

* Somebody, who was of course a nobody, says the word Tory

is derived from _Torrco_, to roost, because the Tories were

always clever at roasting their antagonists.

The king had usually been civil enough to his Parliaments, but on the

occasion of the assembly at Oxford he determined to speak his mind, and

his speech, being a reflection of his mind, was of course very rambling

and irregular. He complained of the last Parliament having been

refractory, and expressed a hope that the "present company" would

know how to behave themselves. He disavowed all idea of acting in an

arbitrary manner himself, but he was thoroughly determined not to be

"put upon" by any one else; and so now they knew what he meant, and he

trusted that no misunderstanding would arise to mar their efforts for

the public benefit. The Commons listened to all this with a few mental

"Oh, indeed's!" "Dear me's!" "No! 'Pon your honour's!" and "You don't

say so's!" but they were not in the least over-awed, and they set to

work exactly in the old way to choose the same Speaker and adopt the

same measures as the last Parliament, of which many of them had been

members.

The new Parliament was of course found by Charles to be no better than

any of its predecessors, and when it was a week old he jumped into a

sedan chair, had the crown put under the seat, and the sceptre slung

across the back, when, in reply to the chairman's inquiry, "Where to,

your honour?" the sovereign with a dignified voice, directed that he

might be run down to the place where Parliament was sitting. This was

the morning of the 28th of March, and Charles, bursting into the

hall where the Lords had met, dissolved the fifth and the last of his

Parliaments.

This proceeding, which, in the days of a monarchy's decline, would have

been exclaimed against as highly unconstitutional, was hailed as a

piece of vigour at a time when royalty, having been recently maltreated,

united in its favour the general sympathies. Charles, finding that

courage was likely to tell, became very liberal of its exercise, and

began to abuse the opponents of his policy with more than common energy.

"There is nothing like taking the bull by the horns," Charles would say

to his intimate friends, "and John Bull especially should be taken by

the horns, to prevent his making unpleasant use of them."

Shortly after the dissolution, Charles brought out for general perusal

a justification of the course he had thought proper to pursue; for, like

many other people in the world, he first took a step, and then began to

look for the reasons of his having taken it. The opposition brought out

a reply, written by Messrs. Somers, Sydney, and Jones, but it did not

sell, and as these gentlemen could not afford to give it away, it had

very little influence. Charles managed to get a number of addresses

presented to him, congratulating him on his deliverance from the

republicans, but the Lord Mayor and Common Council having come down to

Windsor with an address of a different kind, were told that the king was

not at home, but they had better go to Hampton Court. On their arriving

at the latter address there was a great deal of whispering among the

royal servants, who would give no other information than the words "Yes,

yes; it's all right!" At length, upon a signal from above, a domestic

exclaimed, "Now, then, gentlemen, you may walk up;" and on going into a

room on the first floor, they found the Lord Chancellor sitting there,

looking as black as thunder. His lordship, putting on a voice to match

his countenance, began asking them how they dared to come with anything

like a remonstrance to their sovereign; and the Lord Mayor, with the

Common Council, slinking timidly out of the room, made the best of their

way back to the point they had started from.

A few more plots of an insignificant character were got up against the

Government, but met with no success; and the Bye-House conspiracy, so

called perhaps from the wry faces the parties put on when they were

found out, stands out from among the rest, which have been long ago

buried under their own insignificance. Some have suggested that the

Bye-House plot was a name invented as a kind of sequel to the notion of

Oates, and the conspiracy of the Meal-Tub; but the hypothesis is far

too trifling for us to dwell upon. As it has taken a position of

some importance in history, we must furnish a few particulars of this

Bye-House plot, which in the old nursery song, * taking for its theme

the domestic arrangements of royalty, seems to have had a slight

foreshadowing.

* "Sing a song of sixpence,

A pocket full of rye."

On the 12th of June, 1683, one Josiah Keyling, who had formerly been a

red-hot Whig, and was by trade a salter, was seized with the infamous

idea of applying his skill in business to the affairs of his country,

which he resolved to put, if he could, into a precious pickle. He went

to Lord Dartmouth, for the purpose of revealing a conspiracy that had

been formed to take away the king's life; and he declared one Burton, a

decayed cheesemonger, Thompson, a carver, who had been trying to carve

his own fortunes in vain, and Barber, an instrument-maker, as his

accomplices in the intended act of regicide. They were all to have gone

down to the house of one Bumbold, a maltster, at a place called the

Bye, where they were to have taken a chop, and cut off the king and

his brother on their return from Newmarket. They were to have purchased

blunderbusses, but, perhaps by some blunder, missing the 'bus, the

London conspirators never left town, and did not arrive at the "little

place" of Bumbold the maltster. The disclosures made by Keyling

included, at first, a few names only; but, as a brother historian *

has well and playfully suggested, "he subsequently went into a regular

_crescendo_ movement," and indulged in an _ad libitum_, introducing

several new accompaniments to the strain he had originally adopted,

besides adding new circumstances and dragging in new persons into his

accusation, without the slightest regard to harmony of detail. He at

length went off into a _largo_ of such wide and unmeasured scope, that

he included William Lord Russell in the charges made, and his lordship

was committed to the Tower.

* Macfarlane's Cabinet History of England, vol. xiii., p.

142.

Lord Grey, who was also accused, was rather more fortunate; for, having

been taken in the first instance to the home of the jailor, he had

the satisfaction of finding that official reeling about in a state of

helpless drunkenness. Lord Grey, perceiving that the functionary who

had charge of him was not in a situation to appreciate any consideration

that might be shown to him, quietly walked out at the door-way of the

serjeant's house, and jumping into a boat on the Thames, hailed a

ship for Holland. Lord Howard of Escrick, another of the alleged

conspirators, was pulled neck and heels down a chimney, into which

he had climbed for concealment, in his house at Knights-bridge. His

character has been blackened almost as much as his dress, by this

ignoble act, for it is recorded of him that when pulled out from the

grate, he looked fearfully little. He trembled, sobbed, and wept, or

in other words, had a regular good cry, and the tears forming channels

through the soot, rendered his aspect exceedingly ludicrous. He at once

confessed that he did not come out of the affair with clean hands, but

he was guilty of the very dirty trick of implicating many of his own

friends and kindred by his pusillanimous confession.

[Illustration: 591]

Besides other less illustrious victims, Lord Russell was sacrificed;

and his kinsman Howard, whom we have just had the pleasure of dragging

before the world from the chimney into which he had slunk, was one of

the witnesses against the nobleman we have mentioned. Russell behaved

with great dignity throughout his trial and during its fatal result;

but the execution was scarcely over, when the town rang with his last

speech, of whioh some enterprising Catnach of the period had obtained

the manuscript. It was actually in print before the fated event took

place; but there is every reason to believe that it was genuine,

for speculation had not in those days learned to anticipate reports,

notwithstanding the occurrence of the events described in them having

been by some accident prevented.

Individuals of lesser note than Russell were condemned to share his

fate, and among them was one Rouse, who was executed at Tyburn for

having endeavoured to house the populace. A declaration, containing

a narrative of the Rye-House plot, was published by the king, who was

exceedingly fond of performing the office of his own historian. It

enabled him to "touch up" the events in which he himself was concerned,

and give them a colouring favourable to himself; but happily for the

cause of truth, notes were being taken on its behalf, and materials were

thus collected for such truthful chronicles as those the reader's eye

now rests upon.

The trial and death of Algernon Sidney, the last of the Commonwealth

men, took place soon after Russell's execution. Though it is to be hoped

that few people in these days can be ignorant of the character of this

remarkable man, yet there may be a section of the British public from

whom will have burst the cry of "Sidney! Who is Sidney?" directly we

mentioned him. Sidney then--we state the fact for the benefit of the

benighted classes--was son of the Earl of Leicester, and had always been

a republican, and had been named one of the judges on the trial of

the king; but he was either too lazy or too loyal to take his seat

amongst-them. He opposed Cromwell's elevation, from which it might have

been inferred that he would have had no objection to the Restoration;

but he opposed that, and having nothing else to excite his resistance,

he opposed himself by refusing to take advantage of a general bill of

indemnity. He had been obliged to remain out of England, but finding

that he was seriously opposing his own interest by his absence from

home, he applied for the king's pardon, which was sent him by an early

post, and he arrived in England with his protection in his pocket. Party

spirit was running very high when Sidney returned, and he was not the

man to do anything with a view to moderation, so that he was soon at

his old trick of opposing the Government. He began talking largely about

liberty, and he was really going on in a very improper way, for he fell

into the common error of patriots, namely, that of spouting commonplace

claptraps instead of attempting every legal means to bring about a

reform of the evils that may be in need of remedy.

Sidney now became a marked man, whom the royalists were determined

to crush, and a pretext was speedily found for bringing him to trial.

Several witnesses were brought forward to prove the existence of a

plot; but what plot and what Sidney had to do with it, or whether he

was concerned in it at all, did not form any part of the subject of the

evidence. Having established a plot, the next thing to be done was

to show that Sidney was at the head of it, and the abject Howard--no

relation to the philanthropist--made his sixth or seventh appearance as

a royalist witness for the purpose specified. According to law, it was

necessary to have the testimony of a second person; but there were not

two Howards in the world, and a supplementary scoundrel to swear away

Sidney's life was nowhere to be met with.

Some papers found in the house of the accused were examined in lieu of

a second witness; and though this was a flagrant evasion of the law,

the proceeding was pronounced by the infamous Jeffreys to be perfectly

regular. He asserted that written documents were better than living

witnesses, for the former could not give an evasive reply; but the

judicial villain forgot that the papers, unless the writing happened to

be crossed, would not admit of the test of cross-examination like other

witnesses. Sidney pleaded that his hand-writing had not been proved; and

that even supposing him to be the author of the documents, he might have

been "only in fun;" but this was a frivolous excuse, for it is dear that

if "only in fun" were a good plea, there would be great difficulty

in getting over it. A verdict of "Guilty" was returned by a jury so

discreditably packed, that the box in which they sat should have been

called a packing-case.

Judge Jeffreys "came out" exceedingly on the occasion of Sidney's

sentence being passed, and insisted on proceeding to the last extremity,

notwithstanding a mass of irregularities having been pointed out to him.

Jeffreys would listen to nothing in the prisoner's favour; and upon one

Mr. Bampfield, a barrister, venturing an opinion as _amicus curia_,

that unhappy junior was smashed, snubbed, and silenced by the judge, who

recommended the learned gentleman to confine himself to those points of

practice upon which his opinion was required. The scene between Sidney

and Judge Jeffreys degenerated into a mere personal squabble before the

unhappy affair was concluded, and it ended in Jeffreys telling Sidney to

keep cool, while the judge himself was boiling over with rage, and

the prisoner tauntingly requested his "lordship" to feel his--the

prisoner's--pulse, which the latter declared was more than usually

temperate. Sidney followed the practice, prevalent at the time, of

placing a paper in the hands of the sheriff by way of legacy on the

scaffold; but we have been unable to account for the strange partiality

felt by persons at the point of death for the individual principally

concerned in their execution.

Hampden was selected as the next victim to the political persecution so

much in vogue during Charles's reign, but it was thought more profitable

to fine this gentleman than to execute him, and he was adjudged to pay

a penalty of £40,000, which added a large sum to the royal treasury,

besides saving the executioner's fee and the cost of a scaffold. Judge

Jeffreyss though balked in this instance of an opportunity for

gratifying his sanguinary propensities, took his revenge upon some

inferior prisoners, for it was his practice when one eluded the gallows

by any chance, to hang two, as a poor compensation for the

disappointment he had suffered. Professor Holloway, who had been

concerned in the Rye-House plot, was accordingly condemned to death,

with Sir Thomas Armstrong, who had had a small and very unprofitable

share in the plot.

Judge Jeffreys, who figured in these sanguinary transactions, was one

of the most extraordinary specimens of ruffianism that the world ever

produced; and if history--like Madame Tussaud--were to get up a Chamber

of Horrors, Judge Jeffreys would certainly take his place in it by the

side of Danton, Sawney Bean, Marat, Mrs. Brownrigg, and Robespierre.

Before he went on circuit he used to say he was going to give the

provinces "a lick with the rough side of his tongue"--a vulgar threat

which he carried out to its fullest extent, for he not only used

his tongue, but his teeth, in the lickings he administered to the

unfortunate prisoners brought before him for trial. He was not much

interested in dry points of law, and indeed he endeavoured to moisten

them as much as he could by drinking copiously before he went into

court, and he sometimes reeled about so unsteadily as he took his place

on the bench, that a facetious usher of the period declared Jeffreys

should be called the Master of the Rolls, for he was always rolling

about from side to side when he approached the seat of judgment.

The king endeavoured, by courting personal popularity, to avert from

himself some of the odium that attached to nis creatures and his

Government. Knowing that the suspicion of his entertaining Popish

predilections was very much about, he married his niece, the Lady Anne,

to Prince George of Denmark, a Protestant. No consideration would induce

him, however, to call another Parliament, and though he was bothered for

money on all sides, without the power of raising a supply, he preferred,

as he said, "rubbing on," to the chance of getting some much harder rubs

from the legislative body, in the event of one having been summoned. He

greatly preferred doing just as he pleased with other people's money,

to the annoyance of getting any of his own upon the conditions that a

Parliament would certainly have attached to the grant of it. His credit

being almost unlimited, he never wanted for anything that cash could

procure; and he led a much more independent life by setting Parliament

at defiance, and having nothing to thank it for, than he could have done

had he called it together, and taken an annual supply, the amount of

which would have been in some measure contingent on his good behaviour.

Charles had become as absolute as the last case of a Latin noun, but he

was not happy, and his gaiety beginning to forsake him, the picture of

the sad dog was gloomily realised. He fell into a succession of fits of

the blues, and on Monday, the 2nd of February, 1685, he put his hand to

his head, turned very pale, and seemed to be in a very shaky condition.

Dr. King, an eminent physician, with a taste for experimental

philosophy, was sent for; but his experiments either failed, or were put

off too long, for Charles fell on the floor as if dead when the doctor

arrived to prescribe for him. Dr. King resolved on bleeding the royal

patient, who came to as fast as he had gone off, and in a fit of

generosity the Council ordered the surgeon £1000, which, in a fit of

oblivion, was forgotten, and he was never paid anything. Perhaps payment

may have been disputed, on the ground that the doctor's treatment had

not been permanently effective, for a bulletin had scarcely been issued

declaring the king out of danger, when it was found necessary to issue

another bulletin declaring him in again. The physicians handed him over

to the ministers of the church, but Charles would not have about him any

Protestant divine, and the Duchess of Portsmouth then told it as a great

secret to the French ambassador, that the king, at the bottom of his

heart, was a Catholic. This information revealed two facts about

which there might have been considerable doubt, namely, that the king

possessed some religion, though it was the one which he had been during

the whole of his reign persecuting and executing others for following;

and secondly, that he had a heart sufficiently capacious for any moral

or virtuous principle to lie at the bottom of.

The moment the true character of Charles's faith was known to the French

ambassador, he used his utmost ingenuity to smuggle a confessor to the

death-bed of the sovereign. The English bishops, however, stuck to the

expiring monarch so pertinaciously that no Romish priest could approach,

until one Huddleston was hunted up, who had formerly been a Popish

clergyman, but had so terribly neglected his business, that the office

of confessor was quite strange to him. A wig and gown were put upon him

to disguise him, and he was taken to a Portuguese monk to be "crammed"

for the task he had to perform; and having been brought up the

back staircase to the royal chamber, he got through the duty very

respectably. Such was the disreputable imposture that was resorted to

for supplying Charles the Second with the only religious assistance

or consolation that he received before his dissolution. The Protestant

bishops, who had been all hurried into the next room, did not know

exactly what to make of it; but there were various whispers and shrewd

suspicions current among the churchmen and the courtiers.

Soon after his interview with Huddleston, who was huddled up in a cloak

to get him out of the palace without being discovered, Charles got a

little better, and sent for his illegitimate children to give them his

blessing. A catalogue of these young ladies and gentlemen would occupy

more space perhaps than they are worth, but it is sufficient perhaps to

say, that Master Peg and Miss Peg, the king's son and daughter by Mrs.

Catherine Peg, were absent from the family circle in consequence of

their having died in their infancy. Master James Walters, the eldest of

the group of naturals, who had been created Duke of Monmouth, was not

mentioned by his father in his last illness; but little Charlie

Lennox, the young Duke of Richmond, and his mother, the Duchess of

Portsmouth--Mademoiselle Querouaille--were especially recommended to the

Duke of York's attention. The dying reprobate had the good feeling to

put in a word for Mrs. Eleanor Gwynne, the actress, ancestress of the

noble house of St. Alban's; but as he only said, "Do not let poor Nelly

starve," it does not seem that his views with regard to her were very

munificent. The bishops, however, were scandalised _selon les règles_

at even this brief allusion to the "poor player," who had invariably

refused all titles of honour; but it is said that their holinesses were

not nearly so much shocked at the mention of the Duchesses of Portland

and Cleveland, who were morally not a bit better than Nell Gwynne,

though they had electrotyped their infamy with rank, which formed in

those days, as we are happy to say it does not in these, the only real

substitute for virtue.

At six in the morning of the 6th of February, 1685, Charles asked what

o'clock it was, and requested those about him to open the curtains, that

he might once more see daylight. Where he was to see it at that time

of the morning in the darkest period of the year is, like the daylight

itself, under such circumstances, not very visible. His senses, which

must have been already wandering, were by ten o'clock quite gone, and

at half-past eleven he expired without a struggle. He was in the

fifty-fifth year of his age, and the twenty-fifth of his actual reign,

though, according to legal documents, he was king for thirty-six years,

inasmuch as while he was flying about from place to place, and perching

upon trees to elude discovery, he was supposed, by a loyal fiction, to

be still sitting on the throne of England.

A report got abroad that Charles had been poisoned, but although this

deadly operation had been performed on his mind by the evil and corrupt

councillors into whose hands he fell after the death of Clarendon, there

is no reason for believing that physical poisoning was the fate of this

disreputable sovereign.

The characters of the kings and queens it is our duty to pass in review

give many a pang to our loyal bosom, and we regret to say that our

heart has been perforated, nay, riddled to an alarming extent, by the

melancholy riddle which the character of Charles presents to us. We will

begin with him as a companion--not that we should be very anxious for

his company; but because it was in the capacity of a companion that he

presented the most amiable aspect. His manners were engaging; but as his

engagements were scarcely ever kept, the quality in question was only

calculated to lead to disappointment among those who had anything to

do with him. His wit, raillery, and satire are said to have been

first-rate, but we find none of his _bon-mots_ recorded which would have

been worth more than two pence a dozen to any regular dealer in

jokes, though for private distribution they might have been a little

more-valuable, on account of their royal authorship. For his private

life he has found apologists in preceding historians * one of whom

appears to imagine that the disgusting selfishness familiarly termed

"jolly-dogism" is the highest social virtue of which human nature is

capable. Charles was, we are told, a good father, but it was to those of

whom he ought never to have been the father at all; a generous lover

to those whom he could not make the objects of generosity without the

grossest injustice to others; and a pleasing companion to those with

whom he ought to have avoided all companionship. We do not concur

in that sort of laxity which looks at the domestic ties as so many

slip-knots that may hang about the wearer as loosely as he may find

convenient.

* Hume calls him "an obliging husband."

For his public character, even those who admire him in his private

relations have not ventured to offer any apology; and his utter

disregard of the honour, the religion, the liberty, and the material

interests of the nation over which he ruled cannot be made the subject

of laudation. It is suggested that a certain reckless gaiety formed some

excuse for his defects as a sovereign; but monarchy in sport becomes

tyranny in earnest, when its affairs are conducted by a negligent and

heartless libertine. His reign was one long hoax as far as religion was

concerned, for he was a Catholic at heart while pursuing the Papists

with the most cruel persecution; and though his behaviour towards that

class would, under any circumstances, have been hateful, it seems doubly

detestable when we remember that he was himself guilty of holding the

opinions for which he sent so many to the scaffold.

There can be no doubt that the fate of his father, and the disgust

occasioned by the tyranny arising out of the ascendency of the rabid

friends of freedom during the Commonwealth, were mainly instrumental in

obtaining toleration for the vices and oppressive cruelties of Charles

the Second. The dissatisfaction caused by the abuse of the royal power

in the preceding reign must have burst out with more earnestness had it

been kept bottled up until the accession of the libertine monarch, whose

supposed sufferings during exile had attracted towards him a large

share of sympathy. Had he comc to the throne in due course, without the

intervention of a republic, he would have been swept off by a storm

of general indignation; but the rebound of public feeling in favour of

monarchy carried him in triumph to the same position that his father had

occupied.

It was remarked of Charles the Second, that he never said a foolish

thing or ever did a wise one; an observation which either he--or some

one for him--happily turned to account, by observing that his words were

his own, while his acts where those of his ministry. He has left nothing

very valuable to posterity, notwithstanding the alleged wit or wisdom

of his words, for the only persons who have been able to turn him to

profitable account are the dramatists, who have founded a few farces on

the career of that sad scamp--the Merry Monarch.

[Illustration: 598]

CHAPTER THE FOURTH. JAMES THE SECOND.

[Illustration: 599]

THOUGH James had not been popular as heir-presumptive to the crown, he

had no sooner got it on his head than loyal addresses poured in upon

him from all sides, for the attachment manifested towards the throne on

these occasions refers rather to the upholstery than to the individual.

In his capacity of Duke of York, few would have exclaimed, "York, you're

wanted!" to fill the regal office, but when he had once succeeded to it,

every one was ready to declare that the diadem became him as if it had

been expressly made for him.

James and his wife were greatly puzzled about their coronation, for

they had an objection to the ceremony being performed by a Protestant

prelate, and unfortunately for them "No other was genuine, own

conscience--a party, by the way, that is sometimes not very obstinate

in coming to terms--James and his queen not only-accepted the crown from

Protestant hands, but got over an awkward oath or two by means of some

mental quibbles. As the crown was being put upon his head, it tottered

and almost fell, which caused a bystander to paraphrase the old saying

about the slip 'twixt cup and lip, exclaiming:

"There's many a mull

'Twixt the crown and the skull,"

an observation that, happily for him who made it, was uttered in a tone

that was scarcely audible.

A few days after the coronation, Titus Oates was brought to the bar of

the Queen's Bench to be tried over again, though he was already under

sentence of perpetual imprisonment. James, however, was desirous

of feeding his revenge on Oates, who had done his worst against the

Catholics; and Jeffreys, that judicial flail, was set to work to

administer to Oates a sound thrashing.

The prisoner assumed a very bold front, and there was a sort of

desperate restlessness in his manner, which got him the name of Wild

Oates at the time he was undergoing his trial. He was convicted on two

indictments, and ordered to pay a thousand marks in respect of each.

"But," said the inhuman Jeffreys, "we will supply him with marks in

return, for he shall be whipped from Aldgate to Newgate, and from

Newgate to Tyburn." He was also granted a life interest, by way of

annuity, in the pillory, where he was adjudged to stand five days every

year, as long as he lived, and where voluntary contributions of eggs

were shelled out in most unwelcome profusion by the populace.

Parliament met on the 22nd of May, 1685, and James delivered a speech

from the throne, with notes introduced _ad libitum_, and a running

accompaniment of threats, remarkable for their extreme impudence. This

effrontery had its effect, for the Commons, having retired to their

chamber, voted him an income of a million and a quarter for his life,

with other contingencies which only required asking for. The Court party

supported him with zeal, and chiefly recommended him as a king that had

never broken his word, which appears to have placed him in the light

of a royal phenomenon. In the midst of all this comfortable and

complimentary confidence between the Parliament and James, news arrived

that Monmouth had landed in the west, with a tremendous standard, round

which the mob, who will rush anywhere to see a flag fly, were rapidly

rallying. Monmouth had only got a force of one hundred men by way of

nucleus to a larger assemblage, or, in other words, as the tag to which

the string of rag and bobtail would be most likely to attach itself.

The rebellion raised by Monmouth was very soon put down, and Monmouth

himself was found cowering at the bottom of a ditch, in the mud of which

he must have expired, had it not been for an opponent of his dy-nasty,

who would not leave him to die in such a very disagreeable manner. Poor

Monmouth was taken, tried, and condemned; and, not to be out of

fashion, he gave money to the headsman--thus paying the costs of his own

execution even upon the scaffold.

James proceeded to punish all whom he believed to be the enemies of his

Government, with a sanguinary fury worthy of the revolutionary tribunals

of France during the ascendency of Robespierre. Colonel Kirk, a soldier

who had become savage by service at Tangier, and who, having once tasted

blood, never knew when he had had enough of it, was sent to use the

sword of war upon real or suspected rebels, while Jeffreys hacked about

him right and left with the sword of justice. The king himself, with

brutal appreciation of the judge's ferocious career, gave it the name of

"Jeffreys' campaign," and this disgrace to the ermine inflamed by drink

the natural fierceness of his character. He hiccuped out sentences of

death with an idiotic stare of counterfeit solemnity, and he rolled

about the Bench in such a disgraceful manner, that a junior, who had

nothing to do in court but make bad jokes, observed that Jeffreys could

never have acted as a standing counsel, and it was, therefore, lucky

for him that he had been raised to a post of dignity which he could

conveniently lean against. This monster in judicial form was elevated to

the office of Lord Chancellor, with the title of Baron Wem, on the death

of Lord Keeper North; when, by way of earning his promotion, Jeffreys

went hanging away at a much more rapid rate than before, and the only

misfortune was, that there was not sufficient rope for him to hang

himself, notwithstanding the abundance of that material which was

supplied to him. Jeffreys added to the trade of a butcher the less

sanguinary pursuits of bribery and corruption, which enabled him to make

a certain sum per head of the prisoners, while their heads remained

upon their shoulders. He and Father Petre, the king's confessor, divided

£6000 paid by Hampden, who was in gaol, to put aside a capital charge

of high treason with which he had been threatened; and poor Prideaux, a

barrister who had talked himself into the Tower by an unfortunate "gift

of the gab," purchased his impunity for £1500, the probable amount of

his entire life's professional earnings.

The Marquess of Halifax had sat at the council board for some time with

Rochester, who, though swearing from morning till night, and drunk from

night till morning, was the recognised head of the high church party,

and the great hope of the religious section of the community. Halifax,

not exactly liking the projects of his royal master, and the character

of his colleague, turned a little refractory; and being dismissed

from office, became in the natural order of things the leader of the

opposition. His hostility told even upon the haughty Jeffreys, who was

made to perform the unpleasant operation of biting the dust--a fate to

which those who are always opening their mouths and showing their teeth

are necessarily reduced when they are brought to a prostrate condition.

James was so much disgusted and disappointed that he dissolved the

Parliament, to avoid further discussion, thus as it were turning off

the gas by which a light was being thrown upon his own real views and

character.

The undisguised object of James was to Catholicise the whole country by

dismissing from office all who had the slightest shade of Protestantism

in their principles; and even Rochester, the head of the high church

party, having got argumentative and disputatious over his drink, was

turned out of the council. This ejectment was judicious in the main,

though the immediate cause for it scarcely warranted the act; but the

council room had been little better than a public-house parlour during

the whole time that Rochester had been suffered to sit in it. James next

drew up a declaration of liberty of conscience, to be read in all

the churches, but the bishops, with very great spirit, resisted the

introduction of the obnoxious document. They were consequently summoned

on a charge of high misdemeanor before the King's Bench, when Jeffreys

tried to cajole them with such amiable observations as "Now then, what's

this little affair? There's some mistake, is there not? but we shall

soon put it all to rights, I dare say;"--a style of conciliation to

which the bishops did not take as kindly as the king and his creatures

desired. The people were greatly in favour of the prelates, who were

cheered on their way to their trial by an enthusiastic mob of juveniles;

for it is worthy of remark, that the boys are ever in advance of their

age, as the pioneers of popular opinion.

The jury, having in their own hearts an echo to the general voice,

acquitted the defendants, after an adjournment and a locking up for

a night, which had been rendered necessary by the obstinacy of a Mr.

Arnold, the king's brewer, who supplied the palace with beer, and

insisted upon putting what he called "nice pints," for the purpose of

raising difficulties in the minds of his colleagues. A verdict of "Not

guilty" was however eventually returned, and a round of applause having

started in the court itself, passed from group to group till it got to

Temple Bar, where the porters taking it up with terrific force, gave it

a lift down Fleet Street, and it was thence forwarded by easy stages as

far as the Tower. London was illuminated in honour of the occasion,

and the Pope having been hanged in effigy, some wag put "a light in his

laughing eye," which caused it to twinkle for a few moments, until, like

the fire of genius, it consumed the frame in which it was deposited.

On the 10th of June, 1688, the queen, Mary d'Este, the second wife of

James, was declared to have been delivered of a "fine bouncing boy," but

the people, who would have no Papist heir to the throne, declared the

alleged "bouncing boy" to be a bounce altogether. There was not over

nicety in the mode chosen to account for the presence of the child, by

those who would not believe that it was the son of the king and queen;

but the most popular story was, that the little fellow had been brought

in a warming-pan into the royal bedchamber. This was hauling the young

Pretender rather prematurely over the coals, but as the contents of the

warming-pan were never regularly sifted, we cannot vouch for the truth

or falsehood of the account that has been handed down to us. The event,

whether real or fictitious, was celebrated by a brilliant display of

fireworks, which proved a sad failure; for the lightning, which

was exceedingly vivid, completely took the shine out of the _feu

d'artifice_, and thoroughly "paled," as if with a pail of cold water,

"their ineffectual fires."

All eyes were now turned upon William, Prince of Orange, who, naturally

enough, became as proud as a peacock at having so many eyes upon him.

Having received a very pressing invitation from England, he determined

to come over and question the legitimacy of the alleged Prince of

Wales--our young friend of the warming-pan. On Friday, the 16th of

October, 1688, William of Orange set sail, and stood over for the

English coast; but old Boreas, who stands as sentinel over the British

Isles, began railing and blustering in such a boisterous manner, that

the invading fleet was driven out of its course, and the order on board

every ship was to "Ease her," "Back her," or "Turn her astarn," to

prevent a collision that might have proved disagreeable. The fleet,

however, sailed definitively on the 1st of November, and arriving at

Torbay on the 4th, he landed there amid the usual kissing of

hands, grasping of legs, hanging on at the coat tails, and tugging

affectionately at the cloak skirts, which form the ordinary

demonstrations of affectionate loyalty towards any new object, who can

bid tolerably high for it. Nevertheless, the people did not come out

half so strongly as he could have desired; and, indeed, he complained

that the warmth of his first reception had soon cooled down to mere

politeness with the chill off. It is said that he even threatened to

return, but recollecting that such quick returns would be productive of

no profit, he abandoned the notion of going home, and said to himself,

very sensibly, "Well, well! now I am here, I suppose I must make the

best of it."

James was completely taken aback at the news of what had occurred, and

tried to get up a little bit of popularity by turning quack doctor and

running about in all directions to touch people for tne king's evil. It

was, however, a mere piece of claptrap, or, as some term it, touch

and go; for directly the people had been touched they were found to go

without evincing the smallest symptoms of attachment to their doctor and

master. James had certainly got a considerable number of soldiers; but

he could not rely upon them for three reasons--first, because they were

not to be trusted; secondly, because they were not to be depended upon;

and thirdly, because there was no reliance to be placed upon them. Any

one of these causes would of itself have been sufficient; but James was

almost as difficult of conviction as the celebrated angler, who only

abandoned his fishing expedition upon finding that there were, in the

first place, no fish; secondly, that he had no fishing-rod; and thirdly,

that if there were any fish, he did not think they would allow him to

catch them.

The soldiers soon began to justify James's doubt of their fidelity, by

rapidly deserting him. Lord Colchester went first, and the example was

so catching that it ran through all the forces, and when James made up

his mind to join the army, he made the mortifying discovery that there

was nothing to join, for all the officers were unattached to the cause

of the sovereign. The bishops advised him to call a Parliament, and

the little Prince of Wales was packed off in a parcel, with "This side

upwards" legibly inscribed on the crown of his hat, to Portsmouth. In

the midst of his other distresses, the king's nose began to bleed, in

consequence, it was said, of the repeated blows he had endured from

the soldiery, who had flown in his face with the utmost disloyalty. He

consequently made up his mind and his portmanteau to retreat, when, in

stopping at Andover, he asked his son-in-law, Prince George of Denmark,

and the young Duke of Ormond, to sup with him. They accepted the

invitation; but in the morning they were both missing, having run

off--without paying their bills--to join the Prince of Orange, whom they

found in quarters. On arriving at Whitehall, James found that even his

daughter Anne had followed her husband's example and joined the enemy.

As every one else was flying, James began to think that it was high

time for himself to run for it. The little Prince of Wales, who had been

forwarded to Portsmouth, was actually declined as a parcel on which the

carriage had not been paid, and was sent back like a returned letter to

London. The queen, putting the little fellow under her arm, walked over

Westminster Bridge, popped into the Gravesend coach, and hailed a yacht,

which took her and her infant to Calais. James, only waiting to pocket

the great seal, ran after his wife; but finding the bauble heavy, and

that the great seal, by making him look conspicuous, would perhaps

seal his doom, he pitched it into the river. On reaching Lambeth they

exclaimed, "Hoy, a hoy!" and a hoy was provided in which he took his

passage; but the vessel putting in at the Isle of Sheppy for ballast,

the people attacked him with great rudeness, and called him, without

knowing who he was, a "hatchet-faced Jesuit." This proves he must have

had a very sharp expression, for with a face like a hatchet, he would

no doubt have had teeth like a saw, and presented altogether a rather

formidable aspect. To save himself from outrage he announced himself as

the king, but this disclosure had only the effect of making them rob

as well as insult him, for knowing he had money of his own, they were

determined to get it out of him. He was seized by a mob of fish-women,

sailors, and smugglers, who turned his pockets inside out, and bullied

him so severely that he howled out piteously for mercy, and adopted a

favourite oath of his brother Charles's, when a salmon lighting rather

heavily on his eye, he exclaimed, "Odds fish!" with considerable

earnestness. He at length "put up" at the nearest public-house, where he

wrote a note to Lord Winchilsea. Upon the arrival of this nobleman, the

king sat down and had a good cry, but Winchilsea sagaciously observed

to him, "Come, come; it's no use taking on so; you had much better take

yourself off as speedily as possible."

The moment the flight of James from his palace was known, the city was

thrown into the utmost excitement, and by way of making each other more

nervous than need be, the inhabitants set all the bells ringing with

incessant vehemence. The people might have knocked each other down with

feathers, so agitated had they become; and in their frenzy they not only

began burning all the Popish chapels, but looked everywhere for Father

Petre to make the same use of him that his namesake saltpetre might have

been turned to on such a very explosive occasion. Father Petre had

taken himself off to France, but the pope's nuncio, who was in general

denounced by the mob, disguised himself as a footman, and kept jumping

up behind a carriage, to look as if he was in service, whenever he

observed any one apparently watching him with suspicion. Judge Jeffreys

having been stupidly intoxicated over some sittings in _banco_ at a

public-house, followed by a trial at bar of some cream gin that had been

strongly recommended to his lordship for mixing, was unable of course to

fly--or even to stand--but, disguised as a sailor, he was perambulating

the streets of Wapping. Having been discovered, he was seized by the

mob, who, instead of exercising a summary jurisdiction, and hanging him

at once, as they might have done had they determined to pay him in

his own coin, turned him over to the Lord Mayor as a preliminary to a

regular trial.

A provisional Government of the bishops and peers was formed in London,

and a note despatched to the Prince of Orange, saying, "that the first

time he came that way, if he would drop in they should be very happy to

see him." James showed considerable obstinacy before he could be got

rid of; and he continued exercising, as long as he could, some of

the smaller functions of royalty. He came back to London, and to

the surprise of everybody, sat down to dinner as usual at Whitehall,

forgetting, perhaps, that his father had taken a chop there on

a previous occasion for having given offence to his people. Four

battalions of the Dutch Guards were marched into Westminster by way of

hint, which James for some time refused to take, and he had actually

gone to bed, when Halifax roused him up by the information that he must

start off to Ham, as the Prince of Orange was expected at Whitehall the

first thing in the morning. James observed that the place suggested

to him was very chilly, and as he could not bear cold Ham, he had much

rather go to Rochester if it was all the same to Halifax. This was

agreed to on behalf of the Prince of Orange; and James, taking the

Gravesend boat, quitted London with a very few followers. There was an

explosion of cockney sentimentality on this occasion; for the citizens,

who had been the first to demand his expulsion, began shedding tears in

teacupfuls when they witnessed the departure of the sovereign. Having

remained for the night at Gravesend, he started the next morning for

Rochester, and after a very brief stay, he went in a fishing-smack smack

across the channel to Ambleteuse, a small town in Picardy. From thence

he hastened to the Court of Louis the Fourteenth, where James still

enjoyed the empty title of king, which was not the only empty thing

he possessed, for his pockets were in the same condition until Louis

replenished them. He sometimes compared them to a couple of exhausted

non-receivers, for these were utterly exhausted, and were not in the

receipt of anything but what he obtained from his brother sovereign's

munificence. Some historians tell us that James had made a purse, but

if he had, it is doubtful whether he had any money remaining to stock it

with after the fishermen, who made all fish that came to their net, had

encountered him at Torbay, and deprived him of all the loose cash he had

about him.

William of Orange could not exactly make up his mind what to do upon

the flight of James; but he very wisely declined to follow the advice of

some injudicious friends, who recommended him to appear in the character

of William the Conqueror. He sagaciously observed that imitations were

always bad, evincing an utter absence of any original merit in the

imitator, and certain in the end to have their hollowness detected.

He admitted that the idea of entering England as William the Conqueror

might have been a very good one at first; but that he should very

justly be denounced as an impudent humbug if he endeavoured to obtain

popularity by trading on the reputation of another. Scorning, therefore,

to be a servile copyist, he determined on striking out a path for

himself, and tried the "moderately constitutional dodge," which

succeeded so well, that he is to this day recognised as the hero of what

is termed the "glorious Revolution." He called together some members

of Charles the Second's Parliaments, and recommended them, with the

assistance of the Lord Mayor and forty Common Councilmen, to consider

what had better be done under the peculiar circumstances of the nation.

There is something richly ludicrous, according to modern notions, in the

idea of consulting a Lord Mayor and forty Common Councilmen on a great

political question; for though we would cheerfully be guided by such

authorities in the choice of a sirloin of beef or the framing of a bill

of fare, their views on the cooking up of a constitution would not in

these days be gravely listened to. The peers and bishops had already

recommended the summoning of a convention, and the Lord Mayor having

proposed that the Commons should say "ditto to that," the suggestion was

forthwith adopted.

The Convention having met, the first question it proceeded to discuss

was whether James had not, in leaving the kingdom, run away, in fact,

from his creditors, for every king owes a debt to his people; and

whether the throne, crown and sceptre might not be seized for the

benefit of those to whom he was under liabilities. The Commons soon came

to the resolution that the throne was vacant, a conclusion which we must

not examine too strictly; for if the principle involved in it were to be

generally admitted, we should find that a freeholder running away from

his freehold house to avoid meeting his Christmas bills, would, by

that act, not only oust himself from his property, but cut off all his

successors from their right of inheritance. Upon the broad and vulgar

principle that the Stuarts were a bad lot, the Convention was justified

perhaps in changing the succession to the throne; but, for our own

parts, we must confess our disinclination to let in such a plea for

the wholesale setting aside of a reigning family. As the last of the

Pretenders is happily defunct, we may venture upon taking the line of

argument we have adopted, without running the risk of a public meeting

being called on the appearance of this number, to consider the immediate

restoration of the Stuarts, a measure which our loyalty to the reigning

sovereign, who fortunately unites in her own person all claims to the

crown, would never tolerate. Had it been otherwise, we should not have

been surprised by the announcement of a league, with the usual staff of

a chairman, a boy, a brass plate, and a bell, to restore to the house of

Stuart the crown of England.

To return, however, to William of Orange, whom we left waiting to be

asked to walk up the steps of the throne; and we have great pleasure

in taking him by the hand, for the purpose of giving him a lift to that

exalted station he was now called to occupy. Some were for engaging him

as regent during the minority of the Prince of Wales; but William flatly

refused to become a warming-pan for one whose alleged introduction into

the royal bed-chamber through the medium of a warming-pan, rendered the

simile at once striking and appropriate. "All or none" was the motto

adopted by William in his negotiations with the Convention, and it was

at length resolved to settle the crown on the joint heads of himself and

the Princess of Orange, with a stipulation that the prince should hold

the reins of government. A declaration of rights was drawn up, so that

everything was reduced to writing, and put down in black and white, for

the purpose of avoiding disputes between the king and the people.

James's reign was now hopelessly at an end, and entirely by his own act;

for, after he had absconded, it would have been idle for the nation to

have been satisfied with writing, "Gone away; not known where," over the

throne of England. A sketch of the character of this king is scarcely

required from the English historian, who may fairly say, "My former man,

James, quitted my service, and you had better make inquiries in his last

place, for I have ceased to have anything to do with him. I can venture

to say he was sober; but I am not quite sure about his honesty; for

though in looking over the plate basket where I kept the regalia,

I found the crown, sceptre, and other articles of that description

perfectly right, I had missed from time to time a great deal of money,

which I verily believe that man James had pocketed. I should say that

the fellow was very weak, and not being strong enough for his place,

he left his work a great deal to inferior servants, who behaved very

shamefully. I think the fellow was willing, and it might be said of him,

that he would if he could, but he couldn't--a state in which the servant

of a nation is not likely to give much satisfaction to those who require

his services." Such is the character that may be fairly written of

James the Second, who, we may as well add, was promoted to a saintdom in

France, by way of compensation for his forfeiture of the "right divine

to govern wrong" in England.

CHAPTER THE FIFTH. LITERATURE, SCIENCE, FINE ARTS, MANNERS, CUSTOMS, AND

CONDITION OF THE PEOPLE.

It is now necessary to sink the historian for a time in the reviewer,

and to take a retrospect of the literature of the period through which

our narrative has passed. The republic of politics was not favourable to

the republic of letters, and the Elizabethan dramatists were followed by

a few playwrights of a very inferior class. The mantle of Shakespeare,

or even of Beaumont and Fletcher, who had flourished under the monarchy,

was caught by no worthy object, and it fell upon Shirley, for whom

it was evidently a great deal too large. Denham and Waller, those

two commonplace songsters, set up a faint warbling, and Hobbes had

sufficient fire to burn with philosophic ardour, though his thoughts

were fettered by his royalist principles. Hobbes, however, was a

fireside companion to many, though they dared scarcely hang over Hobbes

in the broad light of day.

Milton had written little till he gave to the world--which is true

enough, for the world can hardly be said to have bought it--his

"Paradise Lost," which he brought out in 1667, and though the sale was

limited, it was sufficiently encouraging to induce him to baffle the

crowd of imitators by advertising a new poem, to be called "Paradise

Regained." He feared the sort of impertinent opposition which echoes

every new work, and which, when an original writer takes it into his

head to bid anyone "Go where the aspens quiver," "Meet him in the

willow-glen," or commit some other foolery, will reply by expressing a

desire to come where the aspens are actually quivering, and to be

punctual at the willow-glen, for which the invitation is forwarded.

"Paradise Regained" had the fate of all merely imitative literature, for

it never acquired, and will never attain, the reputation its prototype

or predecessor has enjoyed.

The Restoration seemed to act as a restorative to Milton's powers, for

he published many of his finest things after Charles the Second returned

to the throne. Cowley was one of the earliest writers who took to

diluting the works of other people in some stuff of his own; and, taking

the materials of Donne, he set an example of the modern practice of

seizing upon another man's original ideas, for the purpose of beating or

spinning them out into a shape that may, if possible, prevent the real

authorship from being recognised. There was, however, a great deal

of true genius among the literary men of the age, through which our

narrative has just carried us. Spenser, whose tales were only too short,

would have been sufficient to redeem the period from the imputation of

mediocrity.

The stage was, during the reign of Charles the Second, in a very

degraded state; but the cry for the restoration of the drama has been

kept up so long, that we really do not know what there is to restore,

if everything has been always bad, except the works of two or three

writers, whose productions are being so constantly performed that the

public cannot reasonably complain of not getting enough of them. The

"palmy days of dramatic literature" are, according to the ordinary

acceptation of those who use the term, any days but the present, and it

is not improbable that our own will be looked back upon and lamented

as the genuine "palmy days" by the generation of grumblers who may come

after us. If everything is objected to in its turn--and such has been

the fate of every successive crop of writings for the stage--we of

course cannot tell with accuracy what it would be considered worth

while to restore in the judgment of those who are clamorous for the

restoration of the drama. There is also considerable difference of

opinion as to how the restoration is to be effected; and we may perhaps

be excused, therefore, for suggesting that some good strong salts--attic

salts, of course--are likely to prove the most effectual restoratives to

a drama in a languishing condition.

There was an immense increase in the family of science at or about the

period we have been speaking of, and indeed science had so many sons,

that it would not have been very surprising if the fate of the domestic

circle of the old lady who lived in a shoe--namely, an abundance of

broth and a scarcity of bread--had been their inheritance.

The illustrious Boyle might frequently have been left without a roast

by the number of competitors who were seeking a living round him through

the exercise of their talents; and amidst his curious experiments on

air, that of trying to live upon it might, if successful, have been of

the greatest use to him. He was an enthusiast in the splendid career he

had long and perseveringly pursued; nor is it going beyond the truth

to say of him, that he combined ecstatics with hydrostatics, by the

eagerness and animation with which he threw himself into water, whose

properties were almost the only property he ever realised. There were

several other scientific luminaries in this age, and we must not forget

Hooke, who always had an eye to the capabilities of the microscope, and

took an enlarged view of everything that fell under his observation. For

Sydenham, the restorer of true physio, we have not so much veneration;

but Newton is a name that we cannot pass over so slightingly. This great

man, to whom science was the apple of his eye, and to whose eye the

apple had revealed one of the greatest truths ever discovered, lived for

some time a most retired life, which he passed in tranquil obscurity.

Such was his position when the fruits of his contemplation came home to

him in the shape of a golden pippin, which he revolved in his mind as it

revolved in the air, and the result was the great fact by the perception

of which his name has been immortalised. Though Newton was a pattern of

modesty in his intercourse with the external world, he was bold enough

in his approaches to Dame Nature, and would not allow her to hide her

face from him, if by any amount of perseverance he could get a peep at

it. He even had the audacity to go the length of tearing off her veil,

for the purpose of revealing her beauties; and Nature, instead of

becoming indignant at this rough treatment, was evidently flattered by

his attentions, to which she offered every encouragement.

It is a curious fact, that the institution of the Royal Society

commenced under the auspices of a brother-in-law of Cromwell, one

Wilkins, a clergyman, who, although so nearly allied to the republican

leader, had no objection to accept facilities from a regal hand for

promoting the objects of science, in which he felt a zealous interest.

This brother-in-law of Cromwell was Bishop of Chester under the

Restoration, which he liked just as well as the Commonwealth, and

perhaps better, for his mitre was rather safer under a royal rule than

it could have been during a republican government.

Charles the Second was without doubt a lover of the sciences to a

certain extent; but his disgusting depravities left him neither

money nor time for the advancement of genius and literary merit. His

contemporary, Louis the Fourteenth, was more liberal of his bounty to

those whose intellect formed their chief claim to consideration; but

even this magnificent monarch scarcely devoted to literature, science,

and art, as much as he often lavished on one worthless courtier. It is,

however, a matter for humiliation and regret that we have not advanced

upon the munificence of Charles the Second and Louis the Fourteenth;

for, notwithstanding all the acknowledgment that talent in these days

receives by way of personal consideration and respect, a few paltry

thousands a year form the whole amount that the nation will afford

to pension its instructors or entertainers, when their powers of

instruction and entertainment have failed to afford them the means of

comfortable livelihood.

Of the condition of the people during the period described in the few

last chapters, we had rather say very little, as we can say nothing

complimentary. Hypocrisy, during the Commonwealth, and unbridled

licentiousness at the Restoration, were the characteristic features of

the two divisions of a period which cast upon the respectability of the

nation a blot that time has only turned to iron-mould. The fame of a

nation, like a damask table-cloth, when once stained is never thoroughly

restored; for, send them both to the wash--immersing the former in tears

of regret, and the latter in the soapsuds--the stain is still indelibly

there, beyond the power of pearl-ash or penitence.