No More Learning

Between an Act of Grace originating with the Sovereign and an Act of
Indemnity originating with the Estates of the Realm there are some
remarkable distinctions. An Act of Indemnity passes through all the
stages through which other laws pass, and may, during its progress, be
amended by either House. An Act of Grace is received with peculiar marks
of respect, is read only once by the Lords and once by the Commons,
and must be either rejected altogether or accepted as it stands,
[616] William had not ventured to submit such an Act to the preceding
Parliament. But in the new Parliament he was certain of a majority.
The minority gave no trouble. The stubborn spirit which had, during two
sessions, obstructed the progress of the Bill of Indemnity had been
at length broken by defeats and humiliations. Both Houses stood up
uncovered while the Act of Grace was read, and gave their sanction to it
without one dissentient voice.

There would not have been this unanimity had not a few great criminals
been excluded from the benefits of the amnesty. Foremost among them
stood the surviving members of the High Court of Justice which had
sate on Charles the First. With these ancient men were joined the two
nameless executioners who had done their office, with masked faces, on
the scaffold before the Banqueting House. None knew who they were, or
of what rank. It was probable that they had been long dead. Yet it
was thought necessary to declare that, if even now, after the lapse of
forty-one years, they should be discovered, they would still be liable
to the punishment of their great crime. Perhaps it would hardly have
been thought necessary to mention these men, if the animosities of the
preceding generation had not been rekindled by the recent appearance of
Ludlow in England. About thirty of the agents of the tyranny of James
were left to the law. With these exceptions, all political offences,
committed before the day on which the royal signature was affixed to the
Act, were covered with a general oblivion, [617] Even the criminals who
were by name excluded had little to fear. Many of them were in foreign
countries; and those who were in England were well assured that, unless
they committed some new fault, they would not be molested.

The Act of Grace the nation owed to William alone; and it is one of his
noblest and purest titles to renown. From the commencement of the
civil troubles of the seventeenth century down to the Revolution,
every victory gained by either party had been followed by a sanguinary
proscription. When the Roundheads triumphed over the Cavaliers, when the
Cavaliers triumphed over the Roundheads, when the fable of the Popish
plot gave the ascendency to the Whigs, when the detection of the Rye
House Plot transferred the ascendency to the Tories, blood, and more
blood, and still more blood had flowed. Every great explosion and every
great recoil of public feeling had been accompanied by severities which,
at the time, the predominant faction loudly applauded, but which, on a
calm review, history and posterity have condemned. No wise and humane
man, whatever may be his political opinions, now mentions without
reprehension the death either of Laud or of Vane, either of Stafford or
of Russell. Of the alternate butcheries the last and the worst is that
which is inseparably associated with the names of James and Jeffreys.
But it assuredly would not have been the last, perhaps it might not
have been the worst, if William had not had the virtue and the firmness
resolutely to withstand the importunity of his most zealous adherents.
These men were bent on exacting a terrible retribution for all they had
undergone during seven disastrous years. The scaffold of Sidney, the
gibbet of Cornish, the stake at which Elizabeth Gaunt had perished in
the flames for the crime of harbouring a fugitive, the porches of the
Somersetshire churches surmounted by the skulls and quarters of murdered
peasants, the holds of those Jamaica ships from which every day the
carcass of some prisoner dead of thirst and foul air had been flung to
the sharks, all these things were fresh in the memory of the party which
the Revolution had made, for a time, dominant in the State. Some chiefs
of that party had redeemed their necks by paying heavy ransom. Others
had languished long in Newgate. Others had starved and shivered, winter
after winter, in the garrets of Amsterdam. It was natural that in the
day of their power and prosperity they should wish to inflict some part
of what they had suffered. During a whole year they pursued their scheme
of revenge. They succeeded in defeating Indemnity Bill after Indemnity
Bill. Nothing stood between them and their victims, but William's
immutable resolution that the glory of the great deliverance which he
had wrought should not be sullied by cruelty. His clemency was peculiar
to himself. It was not the clemency of an ostentatious man, or of
a sentimental man, or of an easy tempered man. It was cold,
unconciliating, inflexible. It produced no fine stage effects. It drew
on him the savage invectives of those whose malevolent passions he
refused to satisfy. It won for him no gratitude from those who owed to
him fortune, liberty and life. While the violent Whigs railed at his
lenity, the agents of the fallen government, as soon as they found
themselves safe, instead of acknowledging their obligations to him,
reproached him in insulting language with the mercy which he had
extended to them. His Act of Grace, they said, had completely refuted
his Declaration. Was it possible to believe that, if there had been any
truth in the charges which he had brought against the late government,
he would have granted impunity to the guilty? It was now acknowledged
by himself, under his own hand, that the stories by which he and his
friends had deluded the nation and driven away the royal family were
mere calumnies devised to serve a turn. The turn had been served; and
the accusations by which he had inflamed the public mind to madness were
coolly withdrawn, [618] But none of these things moved him. He had done
well. He had risked his popularity with men who had been his warmest
admirers, in order to give repose and security to men by whom his name
was never mentioned without a curse. Nor had he conferred a less benefit
on those whom he had disappointed of their revenge than on those whom he
had protected. If he had saved one faction from a proscription, he
had saved the other from the reaction which such a proscription would
inevitably have produced. If his people did not justly appreciate his
policy, so much the worse for them. He had discharged his duty by them.
He feared no obloquy; and he wanted no thanks.

On the twentieth of May the Act of Grace was passed. The King then
informed the Houses that his visit to Ireland could no longer be
delayed, that he had therefore determined to prorogue them, and that,
unless some unexpected emergency made their advice and assistance
necessary to him, he should not call them again from their homes till
the next winter. "Then," he said, "I hope, by the blessing of God, we
shall have a happy meeting. "

The Parliament had passed an Act providing that, whenever he should
go out of England, it should be lawful for Mary to administer the
government of the kingdom in his name and her own. It was added that he
should nevertheless, during his absence, retain all his authority. Some
objections were made to this arrangement. Here, it was said, were
two supreme Powers in one State. A public functionary might receive
diametrically opposite orders from the King and the Queen, and might not
know which to obey. The objection was, beyond all doubt, speculatively
just; but there was such perfect confidence and affection, between the
royal pair that no practical inconvenience was to be apprehended, [619]

As far as Ireland was concerned, the prospects of William were much
more cheering than they had been a few months earlier. The activity
with which he had personally urged forward the preparations for the
next campaign had produced an extraordinary effect. The nerves of
the government were new strung. In every department of the military
administration the influence of a vigorous mind was perceptible.
Abundant supplies of food, clothing and medicine, very different in
quality from those which Shales had furnished, were sent across Saint
George's Channel. A thousand baggage waggons had been made or collected
with great expedition; and, during some weeks, the road between London
and Chester was covered with them. Great numbers of recruits were sent
to fill the chasms which pestilence had made in the English ranks. Fresh
regiments from Scotland, Cheshire, Lancashire, and Cumberland had landed
in the Bay of Belfast. The uniforms and arms of the new corners clearly
indicated the potent influence of the master's eye. With the British
battalions were interspersed several hardy bands of German and
Scandinavian mercenaries. Before the end of May. the English force in
Ulster amounted to thirty thousand fighting men. A few more troops and
an immense quantity of military stores were on board of a fleet which
lay in the estuary of the Dee, and which was ready to weigh anchor as
soon as the King was on board, [620]

James ought to have made an equally good use of the time during which
his army had been in winter quarters. Strict discipline and regular
drilling might, in the interval between November and May, have turned
the athletic and enthusiastic peasants who were assembled under his
standard into good soldiers. But the opportunity was lost. The Court of
Dublin was, during that season of inaction, busied with dice and claret,
love letters and challenges. The aspect of the capital was indeed not
very brilliant. The whole number of coaches which could be mustered
there, those of the King and of the French Legation included, did not
amount to forty, [621] But though there was little splendour there was
much dissoluteness. Grave Roman Catholics shook their heads and said
that the Castle did not look like the palace of a King who gloried in
being the champion of the Church, [622] The military administration was
as deplorable as ever. The cavalry indeed was, by the exertions of some
gallant officers, kept in a high state of efficiency. But a regiment of
infantry differed in nothing but name from a large gang of Rapparees.
Indeed a gang of Rapparees gave less annoyance to peaceable citizens,
and more annoyance to the enemy, than a regiment of infantry. Avaux
strongly represented, in a memorial which he delivered to James, the
abuses which made the Irish foot a curse and a scandal to Ireland. Whole
companies, said the ambassador, quit their colours on the line of march
and wander to right and left pillaging and destroying; the soldier takes
no care of his arms; the officer never troubles himself to ascertain
whether the arms are in good order; the consequence is that one man in
every three has lost his musket, and that another man in every three
has a musket that will not go off. Avaux adjured the King to prohibit
marauding, to give orders that the troops should be regularly exercised,
and to punish every officer who suffered his men to neglect their
weapons and accoutrements. If these things were done, His Majesty might
hope to have, in the approaching spring, an army with which the enemy
would be unable to contend. This was good advice; but James was so far
from taking it that he would hardly listen to it with patience. Before
he had heard eight lines read he flew into a passion and accused the
ambassador of exaggeration. "This paper, Sir," said Avaux, "is
not written to be published. It is meant solely for Your Majesty's
information; and, in a paper meant solely for Your Majesty's
information, flattery and disguise would be out of place; but I will not
persist in reading what is so disagreeable. " "Go on," said James very
angrily; "I will hear the whole. " He gradually became calmer, took
the memorial, and promised to adopt some of the suggestions which it
contained. But his promise was soon forgotten, [623]

His financial administration was of a piece with his military
administration. His one fiscal resource was robbery, direct or indirect.
Every Protestant who had remained in any part of the three southern
provinces of Ireland was robbed directly, by the simple process of
taking money out of his strong box, drink out of his cellars, fuel from
his turf stack, and clothes from his wardrobe. He was robbed indirectly
by a new issue of counters, smaller in size and baser in material than
any which had yet borne the image and superscription of James. Even
brass had begun to be scarce at Dublin; and it was necessary to ask
assistance from Lewis, who charitably bestowed on his ally an old
cracked piece of cannon to be coined into crowns and shillings, [624]

But the French king had determined to send over succours of a very
different kind. He proposed to take into his own service, and to form by
the best discipline then known in the world, four Irish regiments. They
were to be commanded by Macarthy, who had been severely wounded and
taken prisoner at Newton Butler. His wounds had been healed; and he had
regained his liberty by violating his parole. This disgraceful breach
of faith he had made more disgraceful by paltry tricks and sophistical
excuses which would have become a Jesuit better than a gentleman and a
soldier. Lewis was willing that the Irish regiments should be sent to
him in rags and unarmed, and insisted only that the men should be stout,
and that the officers should not be bankrupt traders and discarded
lacqueys, but, if possible, men of good family who had seen service. In
return for these troops, who were in number not quite four thousand, he
undertook to send to Ireland between seven and eight thousand excellent
French infantry, who were likely in a day of battle to be of more use
than all the kernes of Leinster, Munster and Connaught together, [625]

One great error he committed. The army which he was sending to assist
James, though small indeed when compared with the army of Flanders or
with the army of the Rhine, was destined for a service on which the fate
of Europe might depend, and ought therefore to have been commanded by a
general of eminent abilities. There was no want of such generals in
the French service. But James and his Queen begged hard for Lauzun, and
carried this point against the strong representations of Avaux, against
the advice of Louvois, and against the judgment of Lewis himself.

When Lauzun went to the cabinet of Louvois to receive instructions, the
wise minister held language which showed how little confidence he felt
in the vain and eccentric knight errant. "Do not, for God's sake, suffer
yourself to be hurried away by your desire of fighting. Put all your
glory in tiring the English out; and, above all things, maintain strict
discipline. " [626]

Not only was the appointment of Lauzun in itself a bad appointment: but,
in order that one man might fill a post for which he was unfit, it was
necessary to remove two men from posts for which they were eminently
fit. Immoral and hardhearted as Rosen and Avaux were, Rosen was a
skilful captain, and Avaux was a skilful politician. Though it is not
probable that they would have been able to avert the doom of Ireland, it
is probable that they might have been able to protract the contest; and
it was evidently for the interest of France that the contest should be
protracted. But it would have been an affront to the old general to put
him under the orders of Lauzun; and between the ambassador and Lauzun
there was such an enmity that they could not be expected to act
cordially together. Both Rosen and Avaux, therefore, were, with many
soothing assurances of royal approbation and favour, recalled to
France. They sailed from Cork early in the spring by the fleet which had
conveyed Lauzun thither, [627] Lauzun had no sooner landed than he found
that, though he had been long expected, nothing had been prepared for
his reception. No lodgings had been provided for his men, no place of
security for his stores, no horses, no carriages, [628] His troops had
to undergo the hardships of a long march through a desert before
they arrived at Dublin. At Dublin, indeed, they found tolerable
accommodation. They were billeted on Protestants, lived at free
quarter, had plenty of bread, and threepence a day. Lauzun was appointed
Commander in Chief of the Irish army, and took up his residence in the
Castle, [629] His salary was the same with that of the Lord Lieutenant,
eight thousand Jacobuses, equivalent to ten thousand pounds sterling, a
year. This sum James offered to pay, not in the brass which bore his own
effigy, but in French gold. But Lauzun, among whose faults avarice had
no place, refused to fill his own coffers from an almost empty treasury,
[630]

On him and on the Frenchmen who accompanied him the misery of the Irish
people and the imbecility of the Irish government produced an effect
which they found it difficult to describe. Lauzun wrote to Louvois that
the Court and the whole kingdom were in a state not to be imagined by a
person who had always lived in well governed countries. It was, he
said, a chaos, such as he had read of in the book of Genesis. The whole
business of all the public functionaries was to quarrel with each other,
and to plunder the government and the people. After he had been about
a month at the Castle, he declared that he would not go through such
another month for all the world. His ablest officers confirmed his
testimony, [631] One of them, indeed, was so unjust as to represent the
people of Ireland not merely as ignorant and idle, which they were, but
as hopelessly stupid and unfeeling, which they assuredly were not. The
English policy, he said, had so completely brutalised them, that they
could hardly be called human beings. They were insensible to praise and
blame, to promises and threats. And yet it was pity of them; for they
were physically the finest race of men in the world, [632]

By this time Schomberg had opened the campaign auspiciously. He had with
little difficulty taken Charlemont, the last important fastness which
the Irish occupied in Ulster. But the great work of reconquering the
three southern provinces of the island he deferred till William should
arrive. William meanwhile was busied in making arrangements for the
government and defence of England during his absence. He well knew that
the Jacobites were on the alert. They had not till very lately been an
united and organized faction. There had been, to use Melfort's phrase,
numerous gangs, which were all in communication with James at Dublin
Castle, or with Mary of Modena at Saint Germains, but which had no
connection with each other and were unwilling to trust each other, [633]
But since it had been known that the usurper was about to cross the sea,
and that his sceptre would be left in a female hand, these gangs
had been drawing close together, and had begun to form one extensive
confederacy. Clarendon, who had refused the oaths, and, Aylesbury, who
had dishonestly taken them, were among the chief traitors. Dartmouth,
though he had sworn allegiance to the sovereigns who were in possession,
was one of their most active enemies, and undertook what may be called
the maritime department of the plot. His mind was constantly occupied
by schemes, disgraceful to an English seaman, for the destruction of
the English fleets and arsenals. He was in close communication with some
naval officers, who, though they served the new government, served
it sullenly and with half a heart; and he flattered himself that by
promising these men ample rewards, and by artfully inflaming the jealous
animosity with which they regarded the Dutch flag, he should prevail on
them to desert and to carry their ships into some French or Irish port,
[634]

The conduct of Penn was scarcely less scandalous. He was a zealous and
busy Jacobite; and his new way of life was even more unfavourable than
his late way of life had been to moral purity. It was hardly possible
to be at once a consistent Quaker and a courtier: but it was utterly
impossible to be at once a consistent Quaker and a conspirator. It
is melancholy to relate that Penn, while professing to consider even
defensive war as sinful, did every thing in his power to bring a foreign
army into the heart of his own country. He wrote to inform James that
the adherents of the Prince of Orange dreaded nothing so much as an
appeal to the sword, and that, if England were now invaded from France
or from Ireland, the number of Royalists would appear to be greater than
ever. Avaux thought this letter so important, that he sent a translation
of it to Lewis, [635] A good effect, the shrewd ambassador wrote, had
been produced, by this and similar communications, on the mind of King
James. His Majesty was at last convinced that he could recover his
dominions only sword in hand. It is a curious fact that it should have
been reserved for the great preacher of peace to produce this conviction
in the mind of the old tyrant, [636] Penn's proceedings had not escaped
the observation of the government. Warrants had been out against him;
and he had been taken into custody; but the evidence against him had not
been such as would support a charge of high treason: he had, as with
all his faults he deserved to have, many friends in every party; he
therefore soon regained his liberty, and returned to his plots, [637]

But the chief conspirator was Richard Graham, Viscount Preston, who had,
in the late reign, been Secretary of State. Though a peer in Scotland,
he was only a baronet in England. He had, indeed, received from Saint
Germains an English patent of nobility; but the patent bore a date
posterior to that flight which the Convention had pronounced an
abdication. The Lords had, therefore, not only refused to admit him to
a share of their privileges, but had sent him to prison for presuming to
call himself one of their order. He had, however, by humbling himself,
and by withdrawing his claim, obtained his liberty, [638] Though the
submissive language which he had condescended to use on this occasion
did not indicate a spirit prepared for martyrdom, he was regarded by his
party, and by the world in general, as a man of courage and honour. He
still retained the seals of his office, and was still considered by
the adherents of indefeasible hereditary right as the real Secretary of
State. He was in high favour with Lewis, at whose court he had formerly
resided, and had, since the Revolution, been intrusted by the French
government with considerable sums of money for political purposes, [639]

While Preston was consulting in the capital with the other heads of the
faction, the rustic Jacobites were laying in arms, holding musters, and
forming themselves into companies, troops, and regiments. There were
alarming symptoms in Worcestershire. In Lancashire many gentlemen had
received commissions signed by James, called themselves colonels and
captains, and made out long lists of noncommissioned officers and
privates. Letters from Yorkshire brought news that large bodies of men,
who seemed to have met for no good purpose, had been seen on the moors
near Knaresborough. Letters from Newcastle gave an account of a great
match at football which had been played in Northumberland, and was
suspected to have been a pretext for a gathering of the disaffected. In
the crowd, it was said, were a hundred and fifty horsemen well mounted
and armed, of whom many were Papists, [640]

Meantime packets of letters full of treason were constantly passing and
repassing between Kent and Picardy, and between Wales and Ireland.
Some of the messengers were honest fanatics; but others were mere
mercenaries, and trafficked in the secrets of which they were the
bearers.

Of these double traitors the most remarkable was William Fuller. This
man has himself told us that, when he was very young, he fell in with a
pamphlet which contained an account of the flagitious life and horrible
death of Dangerfield. The boy's imagination was set on fire; he devoured
the book; he almost got it by heart; and he was soon seized, and ever
after haunted, by a strange presentiment that his fate would resemble
that of the wretched adventurer whose history he had so eagerly read,
[641] It might have been supposed that the prospect of dying in Newgate,
with a back flayed and an eye knocked out, would not have seemed very
attractive. But experience proves that there are some distempered minds
for which notoriety, even when accompanied with pain and shame, has an
irresistible fascination. Animated by this loathsome ambition, Fuller
equalled, and perhaps surpassed, his model. He was bred a Roman
Catholic, and was page to Lady Melfort, when Lady Melfort shone at
Whitehall as one of the loveliest women in the train of Mary of Modena.
After the Revolution, he followed his mistress to France, was repeatedly
employed in delicate and perilous commissions, and was thought at Saint
Germains to be a devoted servant of the House of Stuart. In truth,
however, he had, in one of his journeys to London, sold himself to the
new government, and had abjured the faith in which he had been brought
up. The honour, if it is to be so called, of turning him from a
worthless Papist into a worthless Protestant he ascribed, with
characteristic impudence, to the lucid reasoning and blameless life of
Tillotson.

In the spring of 1690, Mary of Modena wished to send to her
correspondents in London some highly important despatches. As these
despatches were too bulky to be concealed in the clothes of a single
messenger, it was necessary to employ two confidential persons. Fuller
was one. The other was a zealous young Jacobite called Crone. Before
they set out, they received full instructions from the Queen herself.
Not a scrap of paper was to be detected about them by an ordinary
search: but their buttons contained letters written in invisible ink.

The pair proceeded to Calais. The governor of that town furnished them
with a boat, which, under cover of the night, set them on the low
marshy coast of Kent, near the lighthouse of Dungeness. They walked to
a farmhouse, procured horses, and took different roads to London. Fuller
hastened to the palace at Kensington, and delivered the documents
with which he was charged into the King's hand. The first letter which
William unrolled seemed to contain only florid compliments: but a pan
of charcoal was lighted: a liquor well known to the diplomatists of that
age was applied to the paper: an unsavoury steam filled the closet; and
lines full of grave meaning began to appear.

The first thing to be done was to secure Crone. He had unfortunately had
time to deliver his letters before he was caught: but a snare was laid
for him into which he easily fell. In truth the sincere Jacobites were
generally wretched plotters. There was among them an unusually large
proportion of sots, braggarts, and babblers; and Crone was one of these.
Had he been wise, he would have shunned places of public resort, kept
strict guard over his lips, and stinted himself to one bottle at a meal.
He was found by the messengers of the government at a tavern table in
Gracechurch Street, swallowing bumpers to the health of King James,
and ranting about the coming restoration, the French fleet, and the
thousands of honest Englishmen who were awaiting the signal to rise in
arms for their rightful Sovereign. He was carried to the Secretary's
office at Whitehall. He at first seemed to be confident and at his
ease: but when Fuller appeared among the bystanders at liberty, and in a
fashionable garb, with a sword, the prisoner's courage fell; and he was
scarcely able to articulate, [642]

The news that Fuller had turned king's evidence, that Crone had been
arrested, and that important letters from Saint Germains were in the
hands of William, flew fast through London, and spread dismay among all
who were conscious of guilt, [643] It was true that the testimony of one
witness, even if that witness had been more respectable than Fuller, was
not legally sufficient to convict any person of high treason. But Fuller
had so managed matters that several witnesses could be produced to
corroborate his evidence against Crone; and, if Crone, under the strong
terror of death, should imitate Fuller's example, the heads of all the
chiefs of the conspiracy would be at the mercy of the government. The
spirits of the Jacobites rose, however, when it was known that Crone,
though repeatedly interrogated by those who had him in their power, and
though assured that nothing but a frank confession could save his life,
had resolutely continued silent. What effect a verdict of Guilty and the
near prospect of the gallows might produce on him remained to be seen.
His accomplices were by no means willing that his fortitude should be
tried by so severe a test. They therefore employed numerous artifices,
legal and illegal, to avert a conviction. A woman named Clifford, with
whom he had lodged, and who was one of the most active and cunning
agents of the Jacobite faction, was entrusted with the duty of keeping
him steady to the cause, and of rendering to him services from which
scrupulous or timid agents might have shrunk. When the dreaded day
came, Fuller was too ill to appear in the witness box, and the trial
was consequently postponed. He asserted that his malady was not natural,
that a noxious drug had been administered to him in a dish of porridge,
that his nails were discoloured, that his hair came off, and that able
physicians pronounced him poisoned. But such stories, even when they
rest on authority much better than that of Fuller, ought to be received
with great distrust.

While Crone was awaiting his trial, another agent of the Court of
Saint Germains, named Tempest, was seized on the road between Dover and
London, and was found to be the bearer of numerous letters addressed to
malecontents in England, [644]

Every day it became more plain that the State was surrounded by dangers:
and yet it was absolutely necessary that, at this conjuncture, the able
and resolute Chief of the State should quit his post.

William, with painful anxiety, such as he alone was able to conceal
under an appearance of stoical serenity, prepared to take his departure.
Mary was in agonies of grief; and her distress affected him more than
was imagined by those who judged of his heart by his demeanour, [645] He
knew too that he was about to leave her surrounded by difficulties
with which her habits had not qualified her to contend. She would be in
constant need of wise and upright counsel; and where was such counsel to
be found? There were indeed among his servants many able men and a
few virtuous men.
But, even when he was present, their political and
personal animosities had too often made both their abilities and their
virtues useless to him. What chance was there that the gentle Mary would
be able to restrain that party spirit and that emulation which had been
but very imperfectly kept in order by her resolute and politic lord?
If the interior cabinet which was to assist the Queen were composed
exclusively either of Whigs or of Tories, half the nation would be
disgusted. Yet, if Whigs and Tories were mixed, it was certain that
there would be constant dissension. Such was William's situation that he
had only a choice of evils.

All these difficulties were increased by the conduct of Shrewsbury. The
character of this man is a curious study. He seemed to be the petted
favourite both of nature and of fortune. Illustrious birth, exalted
rank, ample possessions, fine parts, extensive acquirements, an
agreeable person, manners singularly graceful and engaging, combined
to make him an object of admiration and envy. But, with all these
advantages, he had some moral and intellectual peculiarities which made
him a torment to himself and to all connected with him. His conduct
at the time of the Revolution had given the world a high opinion, not
merely of his patriotism, but of his courage, energy and decision. It
should seem, however, that youthful enthusiasm and the exhilaration
produced by public sympathy and applause had, on that occasion, raised
him above himself. Scarcely any other part of his life was of a piece
with that splendid commencement. He had hardly become Secretary of State
when it appeared that his nerves were too weak for such a post. The
daily toil, the heavy responsibility, the failures, the mortifications,
the obloquy, which are inseparable from power, broke his spirit,
soured his temper, and impaired his health. To such natures as his the
sustaining power of high religious principle seems to be peculiarly
necessary; and unfortunately Shrewsbury had, in the act of shaking off
the yoke of that superstition in which he had been brought up, liberated
himself also from more salutary bands which might perhaps have braced
his too delicately constituted mind into stedfastness and uprightness.
Destitute of such support, he was, with great abilities, a weak man,
and, though endowed with many amiable and attractive qualities, could
not be called an honest man. For his own happiness, he should either
have been much better or much worse. As it was, he never knew either
that noble peace of mind which is the reward of rectitude, or that
abject peace of mind which springs from impudence and insensibility. Few
people who have had so little power to resist temptation have suffered
so cruelly from remorse and shame.

To a man of this temper the situation of a minister of state during the
year which followed the Revolution must have been constant torture.
The difficulties by which the government was beset on all sides, the
malignity of its enemies, the unreasonableness of its friends, the
virulence with which the hostile factions fell on each other and on
every mediator who attempted to part them, might indeed have discouraged
a more resolute spirit. Before Shrewsbury had been six months in office,
he had completely lost heart and head. He began to address to William
letters which it is difficult to imagine that a prince so strongminded
can have read without mingled compassion and contempt. "I am
sensible,"--such was the constant burden of these epistles,--"that I am
unfit for my place. I cannot exert myself. I am not the same man that I
was half a year ago. My health is giving way. My mind is on the rack.
My memory is failing. Nothing but quiet and retirement can restore me. "
William returned friendly and soothing answers; and, for a time, these
answers calmed the troubled mind of his minister, [646] But at length
the dissolution, the general election, the change in the Commissions
of Peace and Lieutenancy, and finally the debates on the two Abjuration
Bills, threw Shrewsbury into a state bordering on distraction. He was
angry with the Whigs for using the King ill, and yet was still more
angry with the King for showing favour to the Tories. At what moment and
by what influence, the unhappy man was induced to commit a treason, the
consciousness of which threw a dark shade over all his remaining years,
is not accurately known. But it is highly probable that his mother, who,
though the most abandoned of women, had great power over him, took a
fatal advantage of some unguarded hour when he was irritated by finding
his advice slighted, and that of Danby and Nottingham preferred. She was
still a member of that Church which her son had quitted, and may have
thought that, by reclaiming him from rebellion, she might make some
atonement for the violation of her marriage vow and the murder of her
lord, [647] What is certain is that, before the end of the spring of
1690, Shrewsbury had offered his services to James, and that James had
accepted them. One proof of the sincerity of the convert was demanded.
He must resign the seals which he had taken from the hand of the
usurper, [648] It is probable that Shrewsbury had scarcely committed his
fault when he began to repent of it. But he had not strength of mind to
stop short in the path of evil. Loathing his own baseness, dreading
a detection which must be fatal to his honour, afraid to go forward,
afraid to go back, he underwent tortures of which it is impossible to
think without commiseration. The true cause of his distress was as yet
a profound secret; but his mental struggles and changes of purpose were
generally known, and furnished the town, during some weeks, with topics
of conversation. One night, when he was actually setting out in a state
of great excitement for the palace, with the seals in his hand, he was
induced by Burnet to defer his resignation for a few hours. Some days
later, the eloquence of Tillotson was employed for the same purpose,
[649] Three or four times the Earl laid the ensigns of his office on the
table of the royal closet, and was three or four times induced, by
the kind expostulations of the master whom he was conscious of having
wronged, to take them up and carry them away. Thus the resignation was
deferred till the eve of the King's departure. By that time agitation
had thrown Shrewsbury into a low fever. Bentinck, who made a last effort
to persuade him to retain office, found him in bed and too ill for
conversation, [650] The resignation so often tendered was at length
accepted; and during some months Nottingham was the only Secretary of
State.

It was no small addition to William's troubles that, at such a moment,
his government should be weakened by this defection. He tried, however,
to do his best with the materials which remained to him, and finally
selected nine privy councillors, by whose advice he enjoined Mary to be
guided. Four of these, Devonshire, Dorset, Monmouth, and Edward
Russell, were Whigs. The other five, Caermarthen, Pembroke, Nottingham,
Marlborough, and Lowther, were Tories, [651]

William ordered the Nine to attend him at the office of the Secretary of
State. When they were assembled, he came leading in the Queen, desired
them to be seated, and addressed to them a few earnest and weighty
words. "She wants experience," he said; "but I hope that, by choosing
you to be her counsellors, I have supplied that defect. I put my kingdom
into your hands. Nothing foreign or domestic shall be kept secret from
you. I implore you to be diligent and to be united. " [652] In private
he told his wife what he thought of the characters of the Nine; and it
should seem, from her letters to him, that there were few of the number
for whom he expressed any high esteem. Marlborough was to be her guide
in military affairs, and was to command the troops in England. Russell,
who was Admiral of the Blue, and had been rewarded for the service which
he had done at the time of the Revolution with the lucrative place
of Treasurer of the Navy, was well fitted to be her adviser on all
questions relating to the fleet. But Caermarthen was designated as the
person on whom, in case of any difference of opinion in the council,
she ought chiefly to rely. Caermarthen's sagacity and experience were
unquestionable; his principles, indeed, were lax; but, if there was any
person in existence to whom he was likely to be true, that person was
Mary. He had long been in a peculiar manner her friend and servant: he
had gained a high place in her favour by bringing about her marriage;
and he had, in the Convention, carried his zeal for her interests to a
length which she had herself blamed as excessive. There was, therefore,
every reason to hope that he would serve her at this critical
conjuncture with sincere good will, [653]

One of her nearest kinsmen, on the other hand, was one of her bitterest
enemies. The evidence which was in the possession of the government
proved beyond dispute that Clarendon was deeply concerned in the
Jacobite schemes of insurrection. But the Queen was most unwilling that
her kindred should be harshly treated; and William, remembering through
what ties she had broken, and what reproaches she had incurred, for his
sake, readily gave her uncle's life and liberty to her intercession.
But, before the King set out for Ireland, he spoke seriously to
Rochester. "Your brother has been plotting against me. I am sure of it.
I have the proofs under his own hand. I was urged to leave him out of
the Act of Grace; but I would not do what would have given so much pain
to the Queen. For her sake I forgive the past; but my Lord Clarendon
will do well to be cautious for the future. If not, he will find that
these are no jesting matters. " Rochester communicated the admonition to
Clarendon. Clarendon, who was in constant correspondence with Dublin and
Saint Germains, protested that his only wish was to be quiet, and that,
though he had a scruple about the oaths, the existing government had not
a more obedient subject than he purposed to be, [654]

Among the letters which the government had intercepted was one from
James to Penn. That letter, indeed, was not legal evidence to prove that
the person to whom it was addressed had been guilty of high treason; but
it raised suspicions which are now known to have been well founded. Penn
was brought before the Privy Council, and interrogated. He said very
truly that he could not prevent people from writing to him, and that he
was not accountable for what they might write to him. He acknowledged
that he was bound to the late King by ties of gratitude and affection
which no change of fortune could dissolve. "I should be glad to do
him any service in his private affairs: but I owe a sacred duty to
my country; and therefore I was never so wicked as even to think of
endeavouring to bring him back. " This was a falsehood; and William was
probably aware that it was so. He was unwilling however to deal harshly
with a man who had many titles to respect, and who was not likely to be
a very formidable plotter. He therefore declared himself satisfied,
and proposed to discharge the prisoner. Some of the Privy Councillors,
however, remonstrated; and Penn was required to give bail, [655]

On the day before William's departure, he called Burnet into his closet,
and, in firm but mournful language, spoke of the dangers which on every
side menaced the realm, of the fury or the contending factions, and of
the evil spirit which seemed to possess too many of the clergy. "But my
trust is in God. I will go through with my work or perish in it. Only
I cannot help feeling for the poor Queen;" and twice he repeated with
unwonted tenderness, "the poor Queen. " "If you love me," he added, "wait
on her often, and give her what help you can. As for me, but for one
thing, I should enjoy the prospect of being on horseback and under
canvass again. For I am sure I am fitter to direct a campaign than to
manage your House of Lords and Commons. But, though I know that I am in
the path of duty, it is hard on my wife that her father and I must be
opposed to each other in the field. God send that no harm may happen to
him. Let me have your prayers, Doctor. " Burnet retired greatly moved,
and doubtless put up, with no common fervour, those prayers for which
his master had asked, [656]

On the following day, the fourth of June, the King set out for Ireland.
Prince George had offered his services, had equipped himself at great
charge, and fully expected to be complimented with a seat in the royal
coach. But William, who promised himself little pleasure or advantage
from His Royal Highness's conversation, and who seldom stood on
ceremony, took Portland for a travelling companion, and never once,
during the whole of that eventful campaign, seemed to be aware of the
Prince's existence, [657] George, if left to himself, would hardly have
noticed the affront. But, though he was too dull to feel, his wife felt
for him; and her resentment was studiously kept alive by mischiefmakers
of no common dexterity. On this, as on many other occasions, the
infirmities of William's temper proved seriously detrimental to the
great interests of which he was the guardian. His reign would have been
far more prosperous if, with his own courage, capacity and elevation of
mind, he had had a little of the easy good humour and politeness of his
uncle Charles.

In four days the King arrived at Chester, where a fleet of transports
was awaiting the signal for sailing. He embarked on the eleventh of
June, and was convoyed across Saint George's Channel by a squadron of
men of war under the command of Sir Cloudesley Shovel, [658]

The month which followed William's departure from London was one of the
most eventful and anxious months in the whole history of England. A
few hours after he had set out, Crone was brought to the bar of the Old
Bailey. A great array of judges was on the Bench. Fuller had recovered
sufficiently to make his appearance in court; and the trial proceeded.
The Jacobites had been indefatigable in their efforts to ascertain the
political opinions of the persons whose names were on the jury list.
So many were challenged that there was some difficulty in making up the
number of twelve; and among the twelve was one on whom the malecontents
thought that they could depend. Nor were they altogether mistaken; for
this man held out against his eleven companions all night and half the
next day; and he would probably have starved them into submission had
not Mrs. Clifford, who was in league with him, been caught throwing
sweetmeats to him through the window. His supplies having been cut off,
he yielded; and a verdict of Guilty, which, it was said, cost two of the
jurymen their lives, was returned. A motion in arrest of judgment was
instantly made, on the ground that a Latin word indorsed on the back
of the indictment was incorrectly spelt. The objection was undoubtedly
frivolous. Jeffreys would have at once overruled it with a torrent of
curses, and would have proceeded to the most agreeable part of his duty,
that of describing to the prisoner the whole process of half hanging,
disembowelling, mutilating, and quartering. But Holt and his brethren
remembered that they were now for the first time since the Revolution
trying a culprit on a charge of high treason. It was therefore desirable
to show, in a manner not to be misunderstood, that a new era had
commenced, and that the tribunals would in future rather err on the side
of humanity than imitate the cruel haste and levity with which Cornish
had, when pleading for his life, been silenced by servile judges. The
passing of the sentence was therefore deferred: a day was appointed
for considering the point raised by Crone; and counsel were assigned to
argue in his behalf. "This would not have been done, Mr. Crone,"
said the Lord Chief Justice significantly, "in either of the last two
reigns. " After a full hearing, the Bench unanimously pronounced the
error to be immaterial; and the prisoner was condemned to death.
He owned that his trial had been fair, thanked the judges for their
patience, and besought them to intercede for him with the Queen, [659]

He was soon informed that his fate was in his own hands. The government
was willing to spare him if he would earn his pardon by a full
confession. The struggle in his mind was terrible and doubtful. At one
time Mrs. Clifford, who had access to his cell, reported to the Jacobite
chiefs that he was in a great agony. He could not die, he said; he was
too young to be a martyr, [660] The next morning she found him cheerful
and resolute, [661] He held out till the eve of the day fixed for his
execution. Then he sent to ask for an interview with the Secretary of
State. Nottingham went to Newgate; but, before he arrived, Crone
had changed his mind and was determined to say nothing. "Then," said
Nottingham, "I shall see you no more--for tomorrow will assuredly be
your last day. " But, after Nottingham had departed, Monmouth repaired
to the gaol, and flattered himself that he had shaken the prisoner's
resolution. At a very late hour that night came a respite for a week,
[662] The week however passed away without any disclosure; the gallows
and quartering block were ready at Tyburn; the sledge and axe were at
the door of Newgate; the crowd was thick all up Holborn Hill and along
the Oxford Road; when a messenger brought another respite, and Crone,
instead of being dragged to the place of execution, was conducted to the
Council chamber at Whitehall. His fortitude had been at last overcome
by the near prospect of death; and on this occasion he gave important
information, [663]

Such information as he had it in his power to give was indeed at that
moment much needed. Both an invasion and an insurrection were hourly
expected, [664] Scarcely had William set out from London when a great
French fleet commanded by the Count of Tourville left the port of Brest
and entered the British Channel. Tourville was the ablest maritime
commander that his country then possessed. He had studied every part
of his profession. It was said of him that he was competent to fill any
place on shipboard from that of carpenter up to that of admiral. It was
said of him, also, that to the dauntless courage of a seaman he united
the suavity and urbanity of an accomplished gentleman, [665] He now
stood over to the English shore, and approached it so near that his
ships could be plainly descried from the ramparts of Plymouth.
From Plymouth he proceeded slowly along the coast of Devonshire and
Dorsetshire. There was great reason to apprehend that his movements had
been concerted with the English malecontents, [666]

The Queen and her Council hastened to take measures for the defence of
the country against both foreign and domestic enemies. Torrington took
the command of the English fleet which lay in the Downs, and sailed to
Saint Helen's. He was there joined by a Dutch squadron under the command
of Evertsen. It seemed that the cliffs of the Isle of Wight would
witness one of the greatest naval conflicts recorded in history. A
hundred and fifty ships of the line could be counted at once from the
watchtower of Saint Catharine's. On the cast of the huge precipice of
Black Gang Chine, and in full view of the richly wooded rocks of Saint
Lawrence and Ventnor, were mustered the maritime forces of England and
Holland. On the west, stretching to that white cape where the waves roar
among the Needles, lay the armament of France.

It was on the twenty-sixth of June, less than a fortnight after William
had sailed for Ireland, that the hostile fleets took up these positions.
A few hours earlier, there had been an important and anxious sitting of
the Privy Council at Whitehall. The malecontents who were leagued with
France were alert and full of hope. Mary had remarked, while taking her
airing, that Hyde Park was swarming with them. The whole board was of
opinion that it was necessary to arrest some persons of whose guilt the
government had proofs. When Clarendon was named, something was said
in his behalf by his friend and relation, Sir Henry Capel. The other
councillors stared, but remained silent. It was no pleasant task to
accuse the Queen's kinsman in the Queen's presence. Mary had scarcely
ever opened her lips at Council; but now, being possessed of clear
proofs of her uncle's treason in his own handwriting, and knowing that
respect for her prevented her advisers from proposing what the public
safety required, she broke silence. "Sir Henry," she said, "I know, and
every body here knows as well as I, that there is too much against my
Lord Clarendon to leave him out. " The warrant was drawn up; and Capel
signed it with the rest. "I am more sorry for Lord Clarendon," Mary
wrote to her husband, "than, may be, will be believed. " That evening
Clarendon and several other noted Jacobites were lodged in the Tower,
[667]

When the Privy Council had risen, the Queen and the interior Council of
Nine had to consider a question of the gravest importance. What orders
were to be sent to Torrington? The safety of the State might depend
on his judgment and presence of mind; and some of Mary's advisers
apprehended that he would not be found equal to the occasion. Their
anxiety increased when news came that he had abandoned the coast of the
Isle of Wight to the French, and was retreating before them towards
the Straits of Dover. The sagacious Caermarthen and the enterprising
Monmouth agreed in blaming these cautious tactics. It was true that
Torrington had not so many vessels as Tourville; but Caermarthen thought
that, at such a time, it was advisable to fight, although against odds;
and Monmouth was, through life, for fighting at all times and against
all odds. Russell, who was indisputably one of the best seamen of the
age, held that the disparity of numbers was not such as ought to cause
any uneasiness to an officer who commanded English and Dutch sailors. He
therefore proposed to send to the Admiral a reprimand couched in terms
so severe that the Queen did not like to sign it. The language was much
softened; but, in the main, Russell's advice was followed. Torrington
was positively ordered to retreat no further, and to give battle
immediately. Devonshire, however, was still unsatisfied. "It is my duty,
Madam," he said, "to tell Your Majesty exactly what I think on a matter
of this importance; and I think that my Lord Torrington is not a man to
be trusted with the fate of three kingdoms. " Devonshire was right; but
his colleagues were unanimously of opinion that to supersede a commander
in sight of the enemy, and on the eve of a general action, would be a
course full of danger, and it is difficult to say that they were wrong.
"You must either," said Russell, "leave him where he is, or send for him
as a prisoner. " Several expedients were suggested. Caermarthen proposed
that Russell should be sent to assist Torrington. Monmouth passionately
implored permission to join the fleet in any capacity, as a captain, or
as a volunteer. "Only let me be once on board; and I pledge my life that
there shall be a battle. " After much discussion and hesitation, it was
resolved that both Russell and Monmouth should go down to the coast,
[668] They set out, but too late. The despatch which ordered Torrington
to fight had preceded them. It reached him when he was off Beachy Head.
He read it, and was in a great strait. Not to give battle was to be
guilty of direct disobedience. To give battle was, in his judgment, to
incur serious risk of defeat. He probably suspected,--for he was of a
captious and jealous temper,--that the instructions which placed him in
so painful a dilemma had been framed by enemies and rivals with a
design unfriendly to his fortune and his fame. He was exasperated by the
thought that he was ordered about and overruled by Russell, who, though
his inferior in professional rank, exercised, as one of the Council of
Nine, a supreme control over all the departments of the public service.
There seems to be no ground for charging Torrington with disaffection.
Still less can it be suspected that an officer, whose whole life had
been passed in confronting danger, and who had always borne himself
bravely, wanted the personal courage which hundreds of sailors on board
of every ship under his command possessed. But there is a higher
courage of which Torrington was wholly destitute. He shrank from all
responsibility, from the responsibility of fighting, and from the
responsibility of not fighting; and he succeeded in finding out a middle
way which united all the inconveniences which he wished to avoid. He
would conform to the letter of his instructions; yet he would not put
every thing to hazard. Some of his ships should skirmish with the enemy;
but the great body of his fleet should not be risked. It was evident
that the vessels which engaged the French would be placed in a most
dangerous situation, and would suffer much loss; and there is but too
good reason to believe that Torrington was base enough to lay his plans
in such a manner that the danger and loss might fall almost exclusively
to the share of the Dutch. He bore them no love; and in England they
were so unpopular that the destruction of their whole squadron was
likely to cause fewer murmurs than the capture of one of our own
frigates.

It was on the twenty-ninth of June that the Admiral received the order
to fight. The next day, at four in the morning, he bore down on the
French fleet, and formed his vessels in order of battle. He had not
sixty sail of the line, and the French had at least eighty; but his
ships were more strongly manned than those of the enemy. He placed the
Dutch in the van and gave them the signal to engage. That signal was
promptly obeyed. Evertsen and his countrymen fought with a courage to
which both their English allies and their French enemies, in spite of
national prejudices, did full justice. In none of Van Tromp's or De
Ruyter's battles had the honour of the Batavian flag been more gallantly
upheld. During many hours the van maintained the unequal contest with
very little assistance from any other part of the fleet. At length the
Dutch Admiral drew off, leaving one shattered and dismasted hull to
the enemy. His second in command and several officers of high rank had
fallen. To keep the sea against the French after this disastrous and
ignominious action was impossible. The Dutch ships which had come out of
the fight were in lamentable condition. Torrington ordered some of them
to be destroyed: the rest he took in tow: he then fled along the coast
of Kent, and sought a refuge in the Thames. As soon as he was in the
river, he ordered all the buoys to be pulled up, and thus made the
navigation so dangerous, that the pursuers could not venture to follow
him, [669]

It was, however, thought by many, and especially by the French
ministers, that, if Tourville had been more enterprising, the allied
fleet might have been destroyed.