No More Learning

Both were distinguished members
of that party which had, under different names, been, during three
generations, implacably hostile to the Kings of the House of Stuart.
Both had taken a great part in the Revolution. The names of both were
subscribed to the instrument which had invited the Prince of Orange
to England. One of them was now his Minister for Maritime Affairs; the
other his Principal Secretary of State; but neither had been constantly
faithful to him. Both had, soon after his accession, bitterly resented
his wise and magnanimous impartiality, which, to their minds, disordered
by party spirit, seemed to be unjust and ungrateful partiality for the
Tory faction; and both had, in their spleen, listened to agents from
Saint Germains. Russell had vowed by all that was most sacred that he
would himself bring back his exiled Sovereign. But the vow was broken as
soon as it had been uttered; and he to whom the royal family had looked
as to a second Monk had crushed the hopes of that family at La Hogue.
Shrewsbury had not gone such lengths. Yet he too, while out of humour
with William, had tampered with the agents of James. With the power and
reputation of these two great men was closely connected the power and
reputation of the whole Whig party. That party, after some quarrels,
which were in truth quarrels of lovers, was now cordially reconciled to
William, and bound to him by the strongest ties. If those ties could be
dissolved, if he could be induced to regard with distrust and aversion
the only set of men which was on principle and with enthusiasm devoted
to his interests, his enemies would indeed have reason to rejoice.

With such views as these Fenwick delivered to Devonshire a paper so
cunningly composed that it would probably have brought some severe
calamity on the Prince to whom it was addressed, had not that Prince
been a man of singularly clear judgment and singularly lofty spirit. The
paper contained scarcely any thing respecting those Jacobite plots in
which the writer had been himself concerned, and of which he intimately
knew all the details. It contained nothing which could be of the
smallest prejudice to any person who was really hostile to the existing
order of things. The whole narrative was made up of stories, too true
for the most part, yet resting on no better authority than hearsay,
about the intrigues of some eminent warriors and statesmen, who,
whatever their former conduct might have been, were now at least hearty
in support of William. Godolphin, Fenwick averred, had accepted a seat
at the Board of Treasury, with the sanction and for the benefit of King
James. Marlborough had promised to carry over the army, Russell to
carry over the fleet. Shrewsbury, while out of office, had plotted with
Middleton against the government and King. Indeed the Whigs were now the
favourites at Saint Germains. Many old friends of hereditary right
were moved to jealousy by the preference which James gave to the new
converts. Nay, he had been heard to express his confident hope that the
monarchy would be set up again by the very hands which had pulled it
down.

Such was Fenwick's confession. Devonshire received it and sent it by
express to the Netherlands, without intimating to any of his fellow
councillors what it contained. The accused ministers afterwards
complained bitterly of this proceeding. Devonshire defended himself
by saying that he had been specially deputed by the King to take the
prisoner's information, and was bound, as a true servant of the Crown,
to transmit that information to His Majesty and to His Majesty alone.

The messenger sent by Devonshire found William at Loo. The King read the
confession, and saw at once with what objects it had been drawn up. It
contained little more than what he had long known, and had long, with
politic and generous dissimulation, affected not to know. If he spared,
employed and promoted men who had been false to him, it was not because
he was their dupe. His observation was quick and just; his intelligence
was good; and he had, during some years, had in his hands proofs of much
that Fenwick had only gathered from wandering reports. It has seemed
strange to many that a Prince of high spirit and acrimonious temper
should have treated servants, who had so deeply wronged him, with a
kindness hardly to be expected from the meekest of human beings. But
William was emphatically a statesman. Ill humour, the natural and
pardonable effect of much bodily and much mental suffering, might
sometimes impel him to give a tart answer. But never did he on any
important occasion indulge his angry passions at the expense of the
great interests of which he was the guardian. For the sake of those
interests, proud and imperious as he was by nature, he submitted
patiently to galling restraints, bore cruel indignities and
disappointments with the outward show of serenity, and not only forgave,
but often pretended not to see, offences which might well have moved him
to bitter resentment. He knew that he must work with such tools as
he had. If he was to govern England he must employ the public men of
England; and in his age, the public men of England, with much of a
peculiar kind of ability, were, as a class, lowminded and immoral. There
were doubtless exceptions. Such was Nottingham among the Tories, and
Somers among the Whigs. But the majority, both of the Tory and of the
Whig ministers of William, were men whose characters had taken the ply
in the days of the Antipuritan reaction. They had been formed in
two evil schools, in the most unprincipled of courts, and the most
unprincipled of oppositions, a court which took its character from
Charles, an opposition headed by Shaftesbury. From men so trained
it would have been unreasonable to expect disinterested and stedfast
fidelity to any cause. But though they could not be trusted, they might
be used and they might be useful. No reliance could be placed on their
principles but much reliance might be placed on their hopes and on their
fears; and of the two Kings who laid claim to the English crown, the
King from whom there was most to hope and most to fear was the King
in possession. If therefore William had little reason to esteem these
politicians his hearty friends, he had still less reason to number them
among his hearty foes. Their conduct towards him, reprehensible as it
was, might be called upright when compared with their conduct towards
James. To the reigning Sovereign they had given valuable service; to the
banished Sovereign little more than promises and professions. Shrewsbury
might, in a moment of resentment or of weakness, have trafficked with
Jacobite agents; but his general conduct had proved that he was as far
as ever from being a Jacobite. Godolphin had been lavish of fair words
to the dynasty which was out; but he had thriftily and skilfully managed
the revenues of the dynasty which was in. Russell had sworn that he
would desert with the English fleet; but he had burned the French fleet.
Even Marlborough's known treasons,--for his share in the disaster of
Brest and the death of Talmash was unsuspected--, had not done so much
harm as his exertions at Walcourt, at Cork and at Kinsale had done
good. William had therefore wisely resolved to shut his eyes to perfidy,
which, however disgraceful it might be, had not injured him, and still
to avail himself, with proper precautions, of the eminent talents which
some of his unfaithful counsellors possessed, Having determined on this
course, and having long followed it with happy effect, he could not but
be annoyed and provoked by Fenwick's confession. Sir John, it was plain,
thought himself a Machiavel. If his trick succeeded, the Princess, whom
it was most important to keep in good humour, would be alienated from
the government by the disgrace of Marlborough. The whole Whig party,
the firmest support of the throne, would be alienated by the disgrace of
Russell and Shrewsbury. In the meantime not one of those plotters whom
Fenwick knew to have been deeply concerned in plans of insurrection,
invasion, assassination, would be molested. This cunning schemer should
find that he had not to do with a novice. William, instead of turning
his accused servants out of their places, sent the confession to
Shrewsbury, and desired that it might be laid before the Lords Justices.
"I am astonished," the King wrote, "at the fellow's effrontery. You know
me too well to think that such stories as his can make any impression
on me. Observe this honest man's sincerity. He has nothing to say
except against my friends. Not a word about the plans of his brother
Jacobites. " The King concluded by directing the Lords justices to send
Fenwick before a jury with all speed. [730]

The effect produced by William's letter was remarkable. Every one of the
accused persons behaved himself in a manner singularly characteristic.
Marlborough, the most culpable of all, preserved a serenity, mild,
majestic and slightly contemptuous. Russell, scarcely less criminal
than Marlborough, went into a towering passion, and breathed nothing but
vengeance against the villanous informer. Godolphin, uneasy, but wary,
reserved and selfpossessed, prepared himself to stand on the defensive.
But Shrewsbury, who of all the four was the least to blame, was utterly
overwhelmed. He wrote in extreme distress to William, acknowledged with
warm expressions of gratitude the King's rare generosity, and protested
that Fenwick had malignantly exaggerated and distorted mere trifles into
enormous crimes. "My Lord Middleton,"--such was the substance of the
letter,--"was certainly in communication with me about the time of
the battle of La Hogue. We are relations; we frequently met; we supped
together just before he returned to France; I promised to take care of
his interests here; he in return offered to do me good offices there;
but I told him that I had offended too deeply to be forgiven, and that
I would not stoop to ask forgiveness. " This, Shrewsbury averred, was the
whole extent of his offence. [731] It is but too fully proved that this
confession was by no means ingenuous; nor is it likely that William
was deceived. But he was determined to spare the repentant traitor the
humiliation of owning a fault and accepting a pardon. "I can see," the
King wrote, "no crime at all in what you have acknowledged. Be assured
that these calumnies have made no unfavourable impression on me. Nay,
you shall find that they have strengthened my confidence in you. " [732]
A man hardened in depravity would have been perfectly contented with an
acquittal so complete, announced in language so gracious. But Shrewsbury
was quite unnerved by a tenderness which he was conscious that he had
not merited. He shrank from the thought of meeting the master whom he
had wronged, and by whom he had been forgiven, and of sustaining the
gaze of the peers, among whom his birth and his abilities had gained for
him a station of which he felt that he was unworthy. The campaign in
the Netherlands was over. The session of Parliament was approaching.
The King was expected with the first fair wind. Shrewsbury left town and
retired to the Wolds of Gloucestershire. In that district, then one of
the wildest in the south of the island, he had a small country seat,
surrounded by pleasant gardens and fish-ponds. William had, in his
progress a year before, visited this dwelling, which lay far from the
nearest high road and from the nearest market town, and had been much
struck by the silence and loneliness of the retreat in which he found
the most graceful and splendid of English courtiers.

At one in the morning of the sixth of October, the King landed at
Margate. Late in the evening he reached Kensington. The following
morning a brilliant crowd of ministers and nobles pressed to kiss his
hand; but he missed one face which ought to have been there, and asked
where the Duke of Shrewsbury was, and when he was expected in town. The
next day came a letter from the Duke, averring that he had just had a
bad fall in hunting. His side had been bruised; his lungs had suffered;
he had spit blood, and could not venture to travel. [733] That he had
fallen and hurt himself was true; but even those who felt most kindly
towards him suspected, and not without strong reason, that he made the
most of his convenient misfortune, and, that if he had not shrunk from
appearing in public, he would have performed the journey with little
difficulty. His correspondents told him that, if he was really as ill
as he thought himself, he would do well to consult the physicians and
surgeons of the capital. Somers, especially, implored him in the most
earnest manner to come up to London. Every hour's delay was mischievous.
His Grace must conquer his sensibility. He had only to face calumny
courageously, and it would vanish. [734] The King, in a few kind lines,
expressed his sorrow for the accident. "You are much wanted here," he
wrote: "I am impatient to embrace you, and to assure you that my esteem
for you is undiminished. " [735] Shrewsbury answered that he had resolved
to resign the seals. [736] Somers adjured him not to commit so fatal an
error. If at that moment His Grace should quit office, what could the
world think, except that he was condemned by his own conscience? He
would, in fact, plead guilty; he would put a stain on his own honour,
and on the honour of all who lay under the same accusation. It would no
longer be possible to treat Fenwick's story as a romance. "Forgive me,"
Somers wrote, "for speaking after this free manner; for I do own I can
scarce be temperate in this matter. " [737] A few hours later William
himself wrote to the same effect. "I have so much regard for you, that,
if I could, I would positively interdict you from doing what must
bring such grave suspicions on you. At any time, I should consider your
resignation as a misfortune to myself but I protest to you that, at this
time, it is on your account more than on mine that I wish you to remain
in my service. " [738] Sunderland, Portland, Russell and Wharton joined
their entreaties to their master's; and Shrewsbury consented to remain
Secretary in name. But nothing could induce him to face the Parliament
which was about to meet. A litter was sent down to him from London, but
to no purpose. He set out, but declared that he found it impossible to
proceed, and took refuge again in his lonely mansion among the hills.
[739]

While these things were passing, the members of both Houses were from
every part of the kingdom going up to Westminster. To the opening of the
session, not only England, but all Europe, looked forward with intense
anxiety. Public credit had been deeply injured by the failure of
the Land Bank. The restoration of the currency was not yet half
accomplished. The scarcity of money was still distressing. Much of the
milled silver was buried in private repositories as fast as it came
forth from the Mint. Those politicians who were bent on raising the
denomination of the coin had found too ready audience from a population
suffering under severe pressure; and, at one time, the general voice of
the nation had seemed to be on their side. [740] Of course every person
who thought it likely that the standard would be lowered, hoarded as
much money as he could hoard; and thus the cry for little shillings
aggravated the pressure from which it had sprung. [741] Both the allies
and the enemies of England imagined that her resources were spent,
that her spirit was broken, that the Commons, so often querulous and
parsimonious even in tranquil and prosperous times, would now positively
refuse to bear any additional burden, and would, with an importunity not
to be withstood, insist on having peace at any price.

But all these prognostications were confounded by the firmness and
ability of the Whig leaders, and by the steadiness of the Whig majority.
On the twentieth of October the Houses met. William addressed to them
a speech remarkable even among all the remarkable speeches in which
his own high thoughts and purposes were expressed in the dignified and
judicious language of Somers. There was, the King said, great reason
for congratulation. It was true that the funds voted in the preceding
session for the support of the war had failed, and that the recoinage
had produced great distress. Yet the enemy had obtained no advantage
abroad; the State had been torn by no convulsion at home; the loyalty
shown by the army and by the nation under severe trials had disappointed
all the hopes of those who wished evil to England. Overtures tending to
peace had been made. What might be the result of those overtures,
was uncertain; but this was certain, that there could be no safe or
honourable peace for a nation which was not prepared to wage vigorous
war. "I am sure we shall all agree in opinion that the only way of
treating with France is with our swords in our hands. "

The Commons returned to their chamber; and Foley read the speech from
the chair. A debate followed which resounded through all Christendom.
That was the proudest day of Montague's life, and one of the proudest
days in the history of the English Parliament. In 1798, Burke held up
the proceedings of that day as an example to the statesmen whose hearts
had failed them in the conflict with the gigantic power of the French
republic. In 1822, Huskisson held up the proceedings of that day as an
example to a legislature which, under the pressure of severe distress,
was tempted to alter the standard of value and to break faith with
the public creditor. Before the House rose the young Chancellor of the
Exchequer, whose ascendency, since the ludicrous failure of the Tory
scheme of finance, was undisputed, proposed and carried three memorable
resolutions. The first, which passed with only one muttered No, declared
that the Commons would support the King against all foreign and domestic
enemies, and would enable him to prosecute the war with vigour. The
second, which passed, not without opposition, but without a division,
declared that the standard of money should not be altered in fineness,
weight or denomination. The third, against which not a single opponent
of the government dared to raise his voice, pledged the House to make
good all the deficiencies of all parliamentary fund's established since
the King's accession. The task of framing an answer to the royal speech
was entrusted to a Committee exclusively composed of Whigs. Montague
was chairman; and the eloquent and animated address which he drew up may
still be read in the journals with interest and pride. [742]

Within a fortnight two millions and a half were granted for the military
expenditure of the approaching year, and nearly as much for the maritime
expenditure. Provision was made without any dispute for forty thousand
seamen. About the amount of the land force there was a division. The
King asked for eighty-seven thousand soldiers; and the Tories thought
that number too large. The vote was carried by two hundred and
twenty-three to sixty-seven.

The malecontents flattered themselves, during a short time, that
the vigorous resolutions of the Commons would be nothing more than
resolutions, that it would be found impossible to restore public credit,
to obtain advances from capitalists, or to wring taxes out of the
distressed population, and that therefore the forty thousand seamen and
the eighty-seven thousand soldiers would exist only on paper. Howe,
who had been more cowed than was usual with him on the first day of the
session, attempted, a week later, to make a stand against the Ministry.
"The King," he said, "must have been misinformed; or His Majesty never
would have felicitated Parliament on the tranquil state of the country.
I come from Gloucestershire. I know that part of the kingdom well. The
people are all living on alms, or ruined by paying alms. The soldier
helps himself, sword in hand, to what he wants. There have been serious
riots already; and still more serious riots are to be apprehended. "
The disapprobation of the House was strongly expressed. Several
members declared that in their counties every thing was quiet. If
Gloucestershire were in a more disturbed state than the rest of England,
might not the cause be that Gloucestershire was cursed with a more
malignant and unprincipled agitator than all the rest of England could
show? Some Gloucestershire gentlemen took issue with Howe on the facts.
There was no such distress, they said, no such discontent, no such
rioting as he had described. In that county, as in every other county,
the great body of the population was fully determined to support the
King in waging a vigorous war till he could make an honourable peace.
[743]

In fact the tide had already turned. From the moment at which the
Commons notified their fixed determination not to raise the denomination
of the coin, the milled money began to come forth from a thousand strong
boxes and private drawers. There was still pressure; but that pressure
was less and less felt day by day. The nation, though still suffering,
was joyful and grateful. Its feelings resembled those of a man who,
having been long tortured by a malady which has embittered his life, has
at last made up his mind to submit to the surgeon's knife, who has gone
through a cruel operation with safety, and who, though still smarting
from the steel, sees before him many years of health and enjoyment, and
thanks God that the worst is over. Within four days after the meeting of
Parliament there was a perceptible improvement in trade. The discount
on bank notes had diminished by one third. The price of those wooden
tallies, which, according to an usage handed to us from a rude age,
were given as receipts for sums paid into the Exchequer, had risen. The
exchanges, which had during many months been greatly against England,
had begun to turn. [744] Soon the effect of the magnanimous firmness of
the House of Commons was felt at every Court in Europe. So high indeed
was the spirit of that assembly that the King had some difficulty in
preventing the Whigs from moving and carrying a resolution that an
address should be presented to him, requesting him to enter into no
negotiation with France, till she should have acknowledged him as King
of England. [745] Such an address was unnecessary. The votes of the
Parliament had already forced on Lewis the conviction that there was no
chance of a counterrevolution. There was as little chance that he would
be able to effect that compromise of which he had, in the course of
the negotiations, thrown out hints. It was not to be hoped that either
William or the English nation would ever consent to make the settlement
of the English crown a matter of bargain with France. And even had
William and the English nation been disposed to purchase peace by such a
sacrifice of dignity, there would have been insuperable difficulties in
another quarter. James could not endure to hear of the expedient which
Lewis had suggested. "I can bear," the exile said to his benefactor, "I
can bear with Christian patience to be robbed by the Prince of Orange;
but I never will consent to be robbed by my own son. " Lewis never again
mentioned the subject. Callieres received orders to make the concession
on which the peace of the civilised world depended. He and Dykvelt came
together at the Hague before Baron Lilienroth, the representative of
the King of Sweden, whose mediation the belligerent powers had accepted.
Dykvelt informed Lilienroth that the Most Christian King had engaged,
whenever the Treaty of Peace should be signed, to recognise the Prince
of Orange as King of Great Britain, and added, with a very intelligible
allusion to the compromise proposed by France, that the recognition
would be without restriction, condition or reserve. Callieres then
declared that he confirmed, in the name of his master, what Dykvelt had
said. [746] A letter from Prior, containing the good news, was delivered
to James Vernon, the Under Secretary of State, in the House of Commons.
The tidings ran along the benches--such is Vernon's expression--like
fire in a field of stubble. A load was taken away from every heart;
and all was joy and triumph. [747] The Whig members might indeed well
congratulate each other. For it was to the wisdom and resolution which
they had shown, in a moment of extreme danger and distress, that their
country was indebted for the near prospect of an honourable peace.

Meanwhile public credit, which had, in the autumn, sunk to the lowest
point, was fast reviving. Ordinary financiers stood aghast when they
learned that more than five millions were required to make good the
deficiencies of past years. But Montague was not an ordinary financier.
A bold and simple plan proposed by him, and popularly called the General
Mortgage, restored confidence. New taxes were imposed; old taxes
were augmented or continued; and thus a consolidated fund was formed
sufficient to meet every just claim on the State. The Bank of England
was at the same time enlarged by a new subscription; and the regulations
for the payment of the subscription were framed in such a manner as to
raise the value both of the notes of the corporation and of the public
securities.

Meanwhile the mints were pouring forth the new silver faster than ever.
The distress which began on the fourth of May 1696, which was almost
insupportable during the five succeeding months, and which became
lighter from the day on which the Commons declared their immutable
resolution to maintain the old standard, ceased to be painfully felt in
March 1697. Some months were still to elapse before credit completely
recovered from the most tremendous shock that it has ever sustained.
But
already the deep and solid foundation had been laid on which was to rise
the most gigantic fabric of commercial prosperity that the world had
ever seen. The great body of the Whigs attributed the restoration of the
health of the State to the genius and firmness of their leader Montague.
His enemies were forced to confess, sulkily and sneeringly, that every
one of his schemes had succeeded, the first Bank subscription, the
second Bank subscription, the Recoinage, the General Mortgage, the
Exchequer Bills. But some Tories muttered that he deserved no more
praise than a prodigal who stakes his whole estate at hazard, and has
a run of good luck. England had indeed passed safely through a terrible
crisis, and was the stronger for having passed through it. But she had
been in imminent danger of perishing; and the minister who had exposed
her to that danger deserved, not to be praised, but to be hanged. Others
admitted that the plans which were popularly attributed to Montague were
excellent, but denied that those plans were Montague's. The voice of
detraction, however, was for a time drowned by the loud applauses of
the Parliament and the City. The authority which the Chancellor of
the Exchequer exercised in the House of Commons was unprecedented and
unrivalled. In the Cabinet his influence was daily increasing. He had no
longer a superior at the Board of Treasury. In consequence of Fenwick's
confession, the last Tory who held a great and efficient office in the
State had been removed, and there was at length a purely Whig Ministry.

It had been impossible to prevent reports about that confession from
getting abroad. The prisoner, indeed, had found means of communicating
with his friends, and had doubtless given them to understand that he
had said nothing against them, and much against the creatures of the
usurper. William wished the matter to be left to the ordinary tribunals,
and was most unwilling that it should be debated elsewhere. But his
counsellors, better acquainted than himself with the temper of large
and divided assemblies, were of opinion that a parliamentary discussion,
though perhaps undesirable, was inevitable. It was in the power of a
single member of either House to force on such a discussion; and in both
Houses there were members who, some from a sense of duty, some from mere
love of mischief, were determined to know whether the prisoner had,
as it was rumoured, brought grave charges against some of the most
distinguished men in the kingdom. If there must be an inquiry, it was
surely desirable that the accused statesmen should be the first to
demand it. There was, however, one great difficulty. The Whigs, who
formed the majority of the Lower House, were ready to vote, as one man,
for the entire absolution of Russell and Shrewsbury, and had no wish to
put a stigma on Marlborough, who was not in place, and therefore excited
little jealousy. But a strong body of honest gentlemen, as Wharton
called them, could not, by any management, be induced to join in a
resolution acquitting Godolphin. To them Godolphin was an eyesore. All
the other Tories who, in the earlier years of William's reign, had
borne a chief part in the direction of affairs, had, one by one, been
dismissed. Nottingham, Trevor, Leeds, were no longer in power. Pembroke
could hardly be called a Tory, and had never been really in power. But
Godolphin still retained his post at Whitehall; and to the men of the
Revolution it seemed intolerable that one who had sate at the Council
Board of Charles and James, and who had voted for a Regency, should be
the principal minister of finance. Those who felt thus had learned with
malicious delight that the First Lord of the Treasury was named in
the confession about which all the world was talking; and they were
determined not to let slip so good an opportunity of ejecting him from
office. On the other hand, every body who had seen Fenwick's paper, and
who had not, in the drunkenness of factious animosity, lost all sense
of reason and justice, must have felt that it was impossible to make
a distinction between two parts of that paper, and to treat all that
related to Shrewsbury and Russell as false, and all that related to
Godolphin as true. This was acknowledged even by Wharton, who of all
public men was the least troubled by scruples or by shame. [748] If
Godolphin had stedfastly refused to quit his place, the Whig leaders
would have been in a most embarrassing position. But a politician of no
common dexterity undertook to extricate them from their difficulties.
In the art of reading and managing the minds of men Sunderland had no
equal; and he was, as he had been during several years, desirous to
see all the great posts in the kingdom filled by Whigs. By his skilful
management Godolphin was induced to go into the royal closet, and to
request permission to retire from office; and William granted that
permission with a readiness by which Godolphin was much more surprised
than pleased. [749]

One of the methods employed by the Whig junto, for the purpose of
instituting and maintaining through all the ranks of the Whig party a
discipline never before known, was the frequent holding of meetings of
members of the House of Commons. Some of those meetings were numerous;
others were select. The larger were held at the Rose, a tavern
frequently mentioned in the political pasquinades of that time; [750]
the smaller at Russell's in Covent Garden, or at Somers's in Lincoln's
Inn Fields.

On the day on which Godolphin resigned his great office two select
meetings were called. In the morning the place of assembly was Russell's
house. In the afternoon there was a fuller muster at the Lord Keeper's.
Fenwick's confession, which, till that time, had probably been known
only by rumour to most of those who were present, was read. The
indignation of the hearers was strongly excited, particularly by one
passage, of which the sense seemed to be that not only Russell, not only
Shrewsbury, but the great body of the Whig party was, and had long
been, at heart Jacobite. "The fellow insinuates," it was said, "that the
Assassination Plot itself was a Whig scheme. " The general opinion was
that such a charge could not be lightly passed over. There must be a
solemn debate and decision in Parliament. The best course would be that
the King should himself see and examine the prisoner, and that Russell
should then request the royal permission to bring the subject before the
House of Commons. As Fenwick did not pretend that he had any authority
for the stories which he had told except mere hearsay, there could be no
difficulty in carrying a resolution branding him as a slanderer, and an
address to the throne requesting that he might be forthwith brought to
trial for high treason. [751]

The opinion of the meeting was conveyed to William by his ministers;
and he consented, though not without reluctance, to see the prisoner.
Fenwick was brought into the royal closet at Kensington. A few of
the great officers of state and the Crown lawyers were present. "Your
papers, Sir John," said the King, "are altogether unsatisfactory.
Instead of giving me an account of the plots formed by you and your
accomplices, plots of which all the details must be exactly known to
you, you tell me stories, without authority, without date, without
place, about noblemen and gentlemen with whom you do not pretend to
have had any intercourse. In short your confession appears to be a
contrivance intended to screen those who are really engaged in designs
against me, and to make me suspect and discard those in whom I have good
reason to place confidence. If you look for any favour from me, give me,
this moment and on this spot, a full and straightforward account of
what you know of your own knowledge. " Fenwick said that he was taken
by surprise, and asked for time. "No, Sir," said the King. "For what
purpose can you want time? You may indeed want time if you mean to draw
up another paper like this. But what I require is a plain narrative of
what you have yourself done and seen; and such a narrative you can give,
if you will, without pen and ink. " Then Fenwick positively refused to
say any thing. "Be it so," said William. "I will neither hear you nor
hear from you any more. " [752] Fenwick was carried back to his prison.
He had at this audience shown a boldness and determination which
surprised those who had observed his demeanour. He had, ever since he
had been in confinement, appeared to be anxious and dejected; yet now,
at the very crisis of his fate, he had braved the displeasure of
the Prince whose clemency he had, a short time before, submissively
implored. In a very few hours the mystery was explained. Just before
he had been summoned to Kensington, he had received from his wife
intelligence that his life was in no danger, that there was only
one witness against him, that she and her friends had succeeded in
corrupting Goodman. [753]

Goodman had been allowed a liberty which was afterwards, with some
reason, made matter of charge against the government. For his testimony
was most important; his character was notoriously bad; the attempts
which had been made to seduce Porter proved that, if money could save
Fenwick's life, money would not be spared; and Goodman had not, like
Porter, been instrumental in sending Jacobites to the gallows, and
therefore was not, like Porter, bound to the cause of William by an
indissoluble tie. The families of the imprisoned conspirators employed
the agency of a cunning and daring adventurer named O'Brien. This
man knew Goodman well. Indeed they had belonged to the same gang of
highwaymen. They met at the Dog in Drury Lane, a tavern which was
frequented by lawless and desperate men. O'Brien was accompanied by
another Jacobite of determined character. A simple choice was offered to
Goodman, to abscond and to be rewarded with an annuity of five hundred
a year, or to have his throat cut on the spot. He consented, half from
cupidity, half from fear. O'Brien was not a man to be tricked as Clancy
had been. He never parted company with Goodman from the moment when the
bargain was struck till they were at Saint Germains. [754]

On the afternoon of the day on which Fenwick was examined by the King at
Kensington it began to be noised abroad that Goodman was missing. He had
been many hours absent from his house. He had not been seen at his usual
haunts. At first a suspicion arose that he had been murdered by
the Jacobites; and this suspicion was strengthened by a singular
circumstance. Just after his disappearance, a human head was found
severed from the body to which it belonged, and so frightfully mangled
that no feature could be recognised. The multitude, possessed by the
notion that there was no crime which an Irish Papist might not be found
to commit, was inclined to believe that the fate of Godfrey had befallen
another victim. On inquiry however it seemed certain that Goodman had
designedly withdrawn himself. A proclamation appeared promising a reward
of a thousand pounds to any person who should stop the runaway; but it
was too late. [755]

This event exasperated the Whigs beyond measure. No jury could now find
Fenwick guilty of high treason. Was he then to escape? Was a long series
of offences against the State to go unpunished merely because to those
offences had now been added the offence of bribing a witness to suppress
his evidence and to desert his bail? Was there no extraordinary method
by which justice might strike a criminal who, solely because he was
worse than other criminals, was beyond the reach of the ordinary law?
Such a method there was, a method authorised by numerous precedents, a
method used both by Papists and by Protestants during the troubles of
the sixteenth century, a method used both by Roundheads and by Cavaliers
during the troubles of the seventeenth century, a method which scarcely
any leader of the Tory party could condemn without condemning himself, a
method of which Fenwick could not decently complain, since he had, a few
years before, been eager to employ it against the unfortunate Monmouth.
To that method the party which was now supreme in the State determined
to have recourse.

Soon after the Commons had met, on the morning of the sixth of November,
Russell rose in his place and requested to be heard. The task which he
had undertaken required courage not of the most respectable kind; but to
him no kind of courage was wanting. Sir John Fenwick, he said, had sent
to the King a paper in which grave accusations were brought against some
of His Majesty's servants; and His Majesty had, at the request of his
accused servants, graciously given orders that this paper should be
laid before the House. The confession was produced and read. The Admiral
then, with spirit and dignity worthy of a better man, demanded justice
for himself and Shrewsbury. "If we are innocent, clear us. If we are
guilty, punish us as we deserve. I put myself on you as on my country,
and am ready to stand or fall by your verdict. "

It was immediately ordered that Fenwick should be brought to the
bar with all speed. Cutts, who sate in the House as member for
Cambridgeshire, was directed to provide a sufficient escort, and was
especially enjoined to take care that the prisoner should have no
opportunity of making or receiving any communication, oral or written,
on the road from Newgate to Westminster. The House then adjourned till
the afternoon.

At five o'clock, then a late hour, the mace was again put on the table;
candles were lighted; and the House and lobby were carefully cleared of
strangers. Fenwick was in attendance under a strong guard. He was called
in, and exhorted from the chair to make a full and ingenuous confession.
He hesitated and evaded. "I cannot say any thing without the King's
permission. His Majesty may be displeased if what ought to be known only
to him should be divulged to others. " He was told that his apprehensions
were groundless. The King well knew that it was the right and the duty
of his faithful Commons to inquire into whatever concerned the safety of
his person and of his government. "I may be tried in a few days," said
the prisoner. "I ought not to be asked to say any thing which may rise
up in judgment against me. " "You have nothing to fear," replied the
Speaker, "if you will only make a full and free discovery. No man
ever had reason to repent of having dealt candidly with the Commons of
England. " Then Fenwick begged for delay. He was not a ready orator; his
memory was bad; he must have time to prepare himself. He was told, as he
had been told a few days before in the royal closet, that, prepared or
unprepared, he could not but remember the principal plots in which he
had been engaged, and the names of his chief accomplices. If he
would honestly relate what it was quite impossible that he could have
forgotten, the House would make all fair allowances, and would grant him
time to recollect subordinate details. Thrice he was removed from the
bar; and thrice he was brought back. He was solemnly informed that the
opportunity then given him of earning the favour of the Commons would
probably be the last. He persisted in his refusal, and was sent back to
Newgate.

It was then moved that his confession was false and scandalous.
Coningsby proposed to add that it was a contrivance to create jealousies
between the King and good subjects for the purpose of screening real
traitors. A few implacable and unmanageable Whigs, whose hatred of
Godolphin had not been mitigated by his resignation, hinted their doubts
whether the whole paper ought to be condemned. But after a debate
in which Montague particularly distinguished himself the motion was
carried. One or two voices cried "No;" but nobody ventured to demand a
division.

Thus far all had gone smoothly; but in a few minutes the storm broke
forth. The terrible words, Bill of Attainder, were pronounced; and all
the fiercest passions of both the great factions were instantly roused.
The Tories had been taken by surprise, and many of them had left the
house. Those who remained were loud in declaring that they never would
consent to such a violation of the first principles of justice. The
spirit of the Whigs was not less ardent, and their ranks were unbroken.
The motion for leave to bring in a bill attainting Sir John Fenwick
was carried very late at night by one hundred and seventy-nine votes to
sixty-one; but it was plain that the struggle would be long and hard.
[756]

In truth party spirit had seldom been more strongly excited. On both
sides there was doubtless much honest zeal; and on both sides an
observant eye might have detected fear, hatred, and cupidity disguised
under specious pretences of justice and public good. The baleful heat
of faction rapidly warmed into life poisonous creeping things which had
long been lying torpid, discarded spies and convicted false witnesses,
the leavings of the scourge, the branding iron and the shears. Even
Fuller hoped that he might again find dupes to listen to him. The world
had forgotten him since his pillorying. He now had the effrontery to
write to the Speaker, begging to be heard at the bar and promising much
important information about Fenwick and others. On the ninth of November
the Speaker informed the House that he had received this communication;
but the House very properly refused even to suffer the letter of so
notorious a villain to be read.

On the same day the Bill of Attainder, having been prepared by the
Attorney and Solicitor General, was brought in and read a first time.
The House was full and the debate sharp. John Manley, member for
Bossiney, one of those stanch Tories who, in the preceding session,
had long refused to sign the Association, accused the majority, in no
measured terms, of fawning on the Court and betraying the liberties of
the people. His words were taken down; and, though he tried to explain
them away, he was sent to the Tower. Seymour spoke strongly against
the bill, and quoted the speech which Caesar made in the Roman Senate
against the motion that the accomplices of Catiline should be put to
death in an irregular manner. A Whig orator keenly remarked that the
worthy Baron had forgotten that Caesar was grievously suspected of
having been himself concerned in Catiline's plot. [757] In this stage
a hundred and ninety-six members voted for the bill, a hundred and
four against it. A copy was sent to Fenwick, in order that he might
be prepared to defend himself. He begged to be heard by counsel; his
request was granted; and the thirteenth was fixed for the hearing.

Never within the memory of the oldest member had there been such a stir
round the House as on the morning of the thirteenth. The approaches
were with some difficulty cleared; and no strangers, except peers, were
suffered to come within the doors. Of peers the throng was so great that
their presence had a perceptible influence on the debate. Even Seymour,
who, having formerly been Speaker, ought to have been peculiarly mindful
of the dignity of the Commons, so strangely forgot himself as once to
say "My Lords. " Fenwick, having been formally given up by the Sheriffs
of London to the Serjeant at Arms, was put to the bar, attended by two
barristers who were generally employed by Jacobite culprits, Sir
Thomas Powis and Sir Bartholomew Shower. Counsel appointed by the House
appeared in support of the bill.

The examination of the witnesses and the arguments of the advocates
occupied three days. Porter was called in and interrogated. It was
established, not indeed by legal proof, but by such moral proof as
determines the conduct of men in the affairs of common life, that
Goodman's absence was to be attributed to a scheme planned and executed
by Fenwick's friends with Fenwick's privity. Secondary evidence of what
Goodman, if he had been present, would have been able to prove,
was, after a warm debate, admitted. His confession, made on oath and
subscribed by his hand, was put in. Some of the grand jurymen who had
found the bill against Sir John gave an account of what Goodman had
sworn before them; and their testimony was confirmed by some of the
petty jurymen who had convicted another conspirator. No evidence was
produced in behalf of the prisoner. After counsel for him and against
him had been heard, he was sent back to his cell. [758] Then the real
struggle began. It was long and violent. The House repeatedly sate from
daybreak till near midnight. Once the Speaker was in the chair fifteen
hours without intermission. Strangers were freely admitted; for it was
felt that, since the House chose to take on itself the functions of a
court of justice, it ought, like a court of justice, to sit with
open doors. [759] The substance of the debates has consequently been
preserved in a report, meagre, indeed, when compared with the reports
of our time, but for that age unusually full. Every man of note in the
House took part in the discussion. The bill was opposed by Finch with
that fluent and sonorous rhetoric which had gained him the name of
Silvertongue, and by Howe with all the sharpness both of his wit and of
his temper, by Seymour with characteristic energy, and by Harley with
characteristic solemnity. On the other side Montague displayed
the powers of a consummate debater, and was zealously supported by
Littleton. Conspicuous in the front ranks of the hostile parties were
two distinguished lawyers, Simon Harcourt and William Cowper.

Both were gentlemen of honourable descent; both were distinguished
by their fine persons and graceful manners; both were renowned for
eloquence; and both loved learning and learned men. It may be added that
both had early in life been noted for prodigality and love of pleasure.
Dissipation had made them poor; poverty had made them industrious; and
though they were still, as age is reckoned at the Inns of Court, very
young men, Harcourt only thirty-six, Cowper only thirty-two, they
already had the first practice at the bar. They were destined to rise
still higher, to be the bearers of the great seal of the realm, and
the founders of patrician houses. In politics they were diametrically
opposed to each other. Harcourt had seen the Revolution with disgust,
had not chosen to sit in the Convention, had with difficulty reconciled
his conscience to the oaths, and had tardily and unwillingly signed the
Association. Cowper had been in arms for the Prince of Orange and a free
Parliament, and had, in the short and tumultuary campaign which preceded
the flight of James, distinguished himself by intelligence and courage.
Since Somers had been removed to the Woolsack, the law officers of the
Crown had not made a very distinguished figure in the Lower House, or
indeed any where else; and their deficiencies had been more than once
supplied by Cowper. His skill had, at the trial of Parkyns, recovered
the verdict which the mismanagement of the Solicitor General had, for a
moment, put in jeopardy. He had been chosen member for Hertford at
the general election of 1695, and had scarcely taken his seat when he
attained a high place among parliamentary speakers. Chesterfield many
years later, in one of his letters to his son, described Cowper as an
orator who never spoke without applause, but who reasoned feebly, and
who owed the influence which he long exercised over great assemblies to
the singular charm of his style, his voice and his action. Chesterfield
was, beyond all doubt, intellectually qualified to form a correct
judgment on such a subject. But it must be remembered that the object of
his letters was to exalt good taste and politeness in opposition to much
higher qualities. He therefore constantly and systematically attributed
the success of the most eminent persons of his age to their superiority,
not in solid abilities and acquirements, but in superficial graces of
diction and manner. He represented even Marlborough as a man of very
ordinary capacity, who, solely because he was extremely well bred and
well spoken, had risen from poverty and obscurity to the height of power
and glory. It may confidently be pronounced that both to Marlborough and
to Cowper Chesterfield was unjust. The general who saved the Empire and
conquered the Low Countries was assuredly something more than a fine
gentleman; and the judge who presided during nine years in the Court of
Chancery with the approbation of all parties must have been something
more than a fine declaimer.

Whoever attentively and impartially studies the report of the debates
will be of opinion that, on many points which were discussed at great
length and with great animation, the Whigs had a decided superiority in
argument, but that on the main question the Tories were in the right.

It was true that the crime of high treason was brought home to Fenwick
by proofs which could leave no doubt on the mind of any man of common
sense, and would have been brought home to him according to the strict
rules of law, if he had not, by committing another crime, eluded the
justice of the ordinary tribunals. It was true that he had, in the very
act of professing repentance and imploring mercy, added a new offence
to his former offences, that, while pretending to make a perfectly
ingenuous confession, he had, with cunning malice, concealed every thing
which it was for the interest of the government that he should divulge,
and proclaimed every thing which it was for the interest of the
government to bury in silence. It was a great evil that he should be
beyond the reach of punishment; it was plain that he could be reached
only by a bill of pains and penalties; and it could not be denied,
either that many such bills had passed, or that no such bill had ever
passed in a clearer case of guilt or after a fairer hearing.

All these propositions the Whigs seem to have fully established.
They had also a decided advantage in the dispute about the rule which
requires two witnesses in cases of high treason. The truth is that the
rule is absurd. It is impossible to understand why the evidence which
would be sufficient to prove that a man has fired at one of his fellow
subjects should not be sufficient to prove that he has fired at his
Sovereign. It can by no means be laid down as a general maxim that
the assertion of two witnesses is more convincing to the mind than the
assertion of one witness. The story told by one witness may be in itself
probable. The story told by two witnesses may be extravagant.