No More Learning

On the following day he was presented and
approved. The King opened the session with a speech very skilfully
framed. He congratulated his hearers on the success of the campaign on
the Continent. That success he attributed, in language which must have
gratified their feelings, to the bravery of the English army. He spoke
of the evils which had arisen from the deplorable state of the coin, and
of the necessity of applying a speedy remedy. He intimated very plainly
his opinion that the expense of restoring the currency ought to be borne
by the State; but he declared that he referred the whole matter to the
wisdom of his Great Council. Before he concluded he addressed himself
particularly to the newly elected House of Commons, and warmly expressed
his approbation of the excellent choice which his people had made. The
speech was received with a low but very significant hum of assent both
from above and from below the bar, and was as favourably received by the
public as by the Parliament. [642] In the Commons an address of thanks
was moved by Wharton, faintly opposed by Musgrave, adopted without a
division, and carried up by the whole House to Kensington. At the palace
the loyalty of the crowd of gentlemen showed itself in a way which
would now be thought hardly consistent with senatorial gravity. When
refreshments were handed round in the antechamber, the Speaker filled
his glass, and proposed two toasts, the health of King William, and
confusion to King Lewis; and both were drunk with loud acclamations. Yet
near observers could perceive that, though the representatives of the
nation were as a body zealous for civil liberty and for the Protestant
religion, and though they were prepared to endure every thing rather
than see their country again reduced to vassalage, they were anxious and
dispirited. All were thinking of the state of the coin; all were saying
that something must be done; and all acknowledged that they did not know
what could be done. "I am afraid," said a member who expressed what many
felt, "that the nation can bear neither the disease nor the cure. " [643]

There was indeed a minority by which the difficulties and dangers of
that crisis were seen with malignant delight; and of that minority the
keenest, boldest and most factious leader was Howe, whom poverty had
made more acrimonious than ever. He moved that the House should resolve
itself into a Committee on the State of the Nation; and the Ministry,
for that word may now with propriety be used, readily consented. Indeed
the great question touching the currency could not be brought forward
more conveniently than in such a Committee. When the Speaker had left
the chair, Howe harangued against the war as vehemently as he had in
former years harangued for it. He called for peace, peace on any terms.
The nation, he said, resembled a wounded man, fighting desperately on,
with blood flowing in torrents. During a short time the spirit might
bear up the frame; but faintness must soon come on. No moral energy
could long hold out against physical exhaustion. He found very little
support. The great majority of his hearers were fully determined to put
every thing to hazard rather than submit to France. It was sneeringly
remarked that the state of his own finances had suggested to him
the image of a man bleeding to death, and that, if a cordial were
administered to him in the form of a salary, he would trouble himself
little about the drained veins of the commonwealth. "We did not," said
the Whig orators, "degrade ourselves by suing for peace when our flag
was chased out of our own Channel, when Tourville's fleet lay at anchor
in Torbay, when the Irish nation was in arms against us, when every
post from the Netherlands brought news of some disaster, when we had to
contend against the genius of Louvois in the Cabinet and of Luxemburg in
the field. And are we to turn suppliants now, when no hostile squadron
dares to show itself even in the Mediterranean, when our arms are
victorious on the Continent, when God has removed the great statesman
and the great soldier whose abilities long frustrated our efforts, and
when the weakness of the French administration indicates, in a manner
not to be mistaken, the ascendency of a female favourite? " Howe's
suggestion was contemptuously rejected; and the Committee proceeded to
take into consideration the state of the currency. [644]

Meanwhile the newly liberated presses of the capital never rested a
moment. Innumerable pamphlets and broadsides about the coin lay on the
counters of the booksellers, and were thrust into the hands of members
of Parliament in the lobby. In one of the most curious and amusing of
these pieces Lewis and his ministers are introduced, expressing the
greatest alarm lest England should make herself the richest country in
the world by the simple expedient of calling ninepence a shilling, and
confidently predicting that, if the old standard were maintained, there
would be another revolution. Some writers vehemently objected to the
proposition that the public should bear the expense of restoring
the currency; some urged the government to take this opportunity of
assimilating the money of England to the money of neighbouring nations;
one projector was for coining guilders; another for coining dollars.
[645]

Within the walls of Parliament the debates continued during several
anxious days. At length Montague, after defeating, first those who were
for letting things remain unaltered till the peace, and then those who
were for the little shilling, carried eleven resolutions in which the
outlines of his own plan were set forth. It was resolved that the money
of the kingdom should be recoined according to the old standard both of
weight and of fineness; that all the new pieces should be milled; that
the loss on the clipped pieces should be borne by the public; that a
time should be fixed after which no clipped money should pass, except in
payments to the government; and that a later time should be fixed, after
which no clipped money should pass at all. What divisions took place in
the Committee cannot be ascertained. When the resolutions were reported
there was one division. It was on the question whether the old standard
of weight should be maintained. The Noes were a hundred and fourteen;
the Ayes two hundred and twenty-five. [646]

It was ordered that a bill founded on the resolutions should be brought
in. A few days later the Chancellor of the Exchequer explained to the
Commons, in a Committee of Ways and Means, the plan by which he proposed
to meet the expense of the recoinage. It was impossible to estimate
with precision the charge of making good the deficiencies of the clipped
money. But it was certain that at least twelve hundred thousand pounds
would be required. Twelve hundred thousand pounds the Bank of England
undertook to advance on good security. It was a maxim received among
financiers that no security which the government could offer was so
good as the old hearth money had been. That tax, odious as it was to the
great majority of those who paid it, was remembered with regret at the
Treasury and in the City. It occurred to the Chancellor of the Exchequer
that it might be possible to devise an impost on houses, which might be
not less productive nor less certain than the hearth money, but which
might press less heavily on the poor, and might be collected by a
less vexatious process. The number of hearths in a house could not be
ascertained without domiciliary visits. The windows a collector
might count without passing the threshold. Montague proposed that the
inhabitants of cottages, who had been cruelly harassed by the chimney
men, should be altogether exempted from the new duty. His plan was
approved by the Committee of Ways and Means, and was sanctioned by the
House without a division. Such was the origin of the window tax, a tax
which, though doubtless a great evil, must be considered as a blessing
when compared with the curse from which it rescued the nation. [647]

Thus far things had gone smoothly. But now came a crisis which required
the most skilful steering. The news that the Parliament and the
government were determined on a reform of the currency produced an
ignorant panic among the common people. Every man wished to get rid of
his clipped crowns and halfcrowns. No man liked to take them. There
were brawls approaching to riots in half the streets of London. The
Jacobites, always full of joy and hope in a day of adversity and public
danger, ran about with eager looks and noisy tongues. The health of King
James was publicly drunk in taverns and on ale benches. Many members of
Parliament, who had hitherto supported the government, began to
waver; and, that nothing might be wanting to the difficulties of the
conjuncture, a dispute on a point of privilege arose between the Houses.
The Recoinage Bill, framed in conformity with Montague's resolutions,
had gone up to the Peers and had come back with amendments, some of
which, in the opinion of the Commons, their Lordships had no right to
make. The emergency was too serious to admit of delay. Montague brought
in a new bill; which was in fact his former bill modified in some
points to meet the wishes of the Lords; the Lords, though not perfectly
contented with the new bill, passed it without any alteration; and
the royal assent was immediately given. The fourth of May, a date long
remembered over the whole kingdom and especially in the capital, was
fixed as the day on which the government would cease to receive the
clipped money in payment of taxes. [648]

The principles of the Recoinage Act are excellent. But some of the
details, both of that Act and of a supplementary Act which was passed at
a later period of the session, seem to prove that Montague had not
fully considered what legislation can, and what it cannot, effect. For
example, he persuaded the Parliament to enact that it should be penal
to give or take more than twenty-two shillings for a guinea. It may be
confidently affirmed that this enactment was not suggested or approved
by Locke. He well knew that the high price of gold was not the evil
which afflicted the State, but merely a symptom of that evil, and that a
fall in the price of gold would inevitably follow, and could by no human
power or ingenuity be made to precede, the recoinage of the silver. In
fact, the penalty seems to have produced no effect whatever, good or
bad. Till the milled silver was in circulation, the guinea continued, in
spite of the law, to pass for thirty shillings. When the milled silver
became plentiful, the guinea fell, not to twenty-two shillings, which
was the highest price allowed by the law, but to twenty-one shillings
and sixpence. [649]

Early in February the panic which had been caused by the first debates
on the currency subsided; and, from that time till the fourth of May,
the want of money was not very severely felt. The recoinage began. Ten
furnaces were erected, in the garden behind the Treasury; and every day
huge heaps of pared and defaced crowns and shillings were turned into
massy ingots which were instantly sent off to the mint in the Tower.
[650]

With the fate of the law which restored the currency was closely
connected the fate of another law, which had been several years under
the consideration of Parliament, and had caused several warm disputes
between the hereditary and the elective branch of the legislature. The
session had scarcely commenced when the Bill for regulating Trials in
cases of High Treason was again laid on the table of the Commons. Of
the debates to which it gave occasion nothing is known except one
interesting circumstance which has been preserved by tradition. Among
those who supported the bill appeared conspicuous a young Whig of
high rank, of ample fortune, and of great abilities which had been
assiduously improved by study. This was Anthony Ashley Cooper, Lord
Ashley, eldest son of the second Earl of Shaftesbury, and grandson of
that renowned politician who had, in the days of Charles the Second,
been at one time the most unprincipled of ministers, and at another
the most unprincipled of demagogues. Ashley had just been returned to
Parliament for the borough of Poole, and was in his twenty-fifth year.
In the course of his speech he faltered, stammered and seemed to lose
the thread of his reasoning. The House, then, as now, indulgent to
novices, and then, as now, well aware that, on a first appearance, the
hesitation which is the effect of modesty and sensibility is quite
as promising a sign as volubility of utterance and ease of manner,
encouraged him to proceed. "How can I, Sir," said the young orator,
recovering himself, "produce a stronger argument in favour of this
bill than my own failure? My fortune, my character, my life, are not at
stake. I am speaking to an audience whose kindness might well inspire me
with courage. And yet, from mere nervousness, from mere want of practice
in addressing large assemblies, I have lost my recollection; I am unable
to go on with my argument. How helpless, then, must be a poor man who,
never having opened his lips in public, is called upon to reply, without
a moment's preparation, to the ablest and most experienced advocates in
the kingdom, and whose faculties are paralysed by the thought that,
if he fails to convince his hearers, he will in a few hours die on a
gallows, and leave beggary and infamy to those who are dearest to him. "
It may reasonably be suspected that Ashley's confusion and the ingenious
use which he made of it had been carefully premeditated. His speech,
however, made a great impression, and probably raised expectations which
were not fulfilled. His health was delicate; his taste was refined even
to fastidiousness; he soon left politics to men whose bodies and
minds were of coarser texture than his own, gave himself up to mere
intellectual luxury, lost himself in the mazes of the old Academic
philosophy, and aspired to the glory of reviving the old Academic
eloquence. His diction, affected and florid, but often singularly
beautiful and melodious, fascinated many young enthusiasts. He had not
merely disciples, but worshippers. His life was short; but he lived
long enough to become the founder of a new sect of English freethinkers,
diametrically opposed in opinions and feelings to that sect of
freethinkers of which Hobbes was the oracle. During many years the
Characteristics continued to be the Gospel of romantic and sentimental
unbelievers, while the Gospel of coldblooded and hardheaded unbelievers
was the Leviathan.

The bill, so often brought in and so often lost, went through the
Commons without a division, and was carried up to the Lords. It soon
came back with the long disputed clause altering the constitution of the
Court of the Lord High Steward. A strong party among the representatives
of the people was still unwilling to grant any new privilege to the
nobility; but the moment was critical. The misunderstanding which
had arisen between the Houses touching the Recoinage Bill had produced
inconveniences which might well alarm even a bold politician. It was
necessary to purchase concession by concession. The Commons, by a
hundred and ninety-two votes to a hundred and fifty, agreed to the
amendment on which the Lords had, during four years, so obstinately
insisted; and the Lords in return immediately passed the Recoinage Bill
without any amendment.

There had been much contention as to the time at which the new system of
procedure in cases of high treason should come into operation; and the
bill had once been lost in consequence of a dispute on this point. Many
persons were of opinion that the change ought not to take place till the
close of the war. It was notorious, they said, that the foreign enemy
was abetted by too many traitors at home; and, at such a time, the
severity of the laws which protected the commonwealth against the
machinations of bad citizens ought not to be relaxed. It was at
last determined that the new regulations should take effect on the
twenty-fifth of March, the first day, according to the old Calendar, of
the year 1696.

On the twenty-first of January the Recoinage Bill and the Bill for
regulating Trials in cases of High Treason received the royal assent. On
the following day the Commons repaired to Kensington on an errand by
no means agreeable either to themselves or to the King. They were, as
a body, fully resolved to support him, at whatever cost and at whatever
hazard, against every foreign and domestic foe. But they were, as indeed
every assembly of five hundred and thirteen English gentlemen that could
by any process have been brought together must have been, jealous of the
favour which he showed to the friends of his youth. He had set his heart
on placing the house of Bentinck on a level in wealth and splendour with
the houses of Howard and Seymour, of Russell and Cavendish.

Some of the fairest hereditary domains of the Crown had been granted to
Portland, not without murmuring on the part both of Whigs and Tories.
Nothing had been done, it is true, which was not in conformity with the
letter of the law and with a long series of precedents. Every English
sovereign had from time immemorial considered the lands to which he had
succeeded in virtue of his office as his private property. Every family
that had been great in England, from the De Veres down to the Hydes,
had been enriched by royal deeds of gift. Charles the Second had carved
ducal estates for his bastards out of his hereditary domain. Nor did the
Bill of Rights contain a word which could be construed to mean that the
King was not at perfect liberty to alienate any part of the estates of
the Crown. At first, therefore, William's liberality to his countrymen,
though it caused much discontent, called forth no remonstrance from the
Parliament. But he at length went too far. In 1695 he ordered the Lords
of the Treasury to make out a warrant granting to Portland a magnificent
estate in Denbighshire. This estate was said to be worth more than a
hundred thousand pounds. The annual income, therefore, can hardly
have been less than six thousand pounds; and the annual rent which was
reserved to the Crown was only six and eightpence. This, however, was
not the worst. With the property were inseparably connected extensive
royalties, which the people of North Wales could not patiently see
in the hands of any subject. More than a century before Elizabeth had
bestowed a part of the same territory on her favourite Leicester. On
that occasion the population of Denbighshire had risen in arms; and,
after much tumult and several executions, Leicester had thought it
advisable to resign his mistress's gift back to her. The opposition to
Portland was less violent, but not less effective. Some of the chief
gentlemen of the principality made strong representations to the
ministers through whose offices the warrant had to pass, and at length
brought the subject under the consideration of the Lower House. An
address was unanimously voted requesting the King to stop the grant;
Portland begged that he might not be the cause of a dispute between his
master and the Parliament; and the King, though much mortified, yielded
to the general wish of the nation. [651]

This unfortunate affair, though it terminated without an open quarrel,
left much sore feeling. The King was angry with the Commons, and still
more angry with the Whig ministers who had not ventured to defend his
grant. The loyal affection which the Parliament had testified to him
during the first days of the session had perceptibly cooled; and he was
almost as unpopular as he had ever been, when an event took place which
suddenly brought back to him the hearts of millions, and made him for a
time as much the idol of the nation as he had been at the end of 1688.
[652]

The plan of assassination which had been formed in the preceding
spring had been given up in consequence of William's departure for the
Continent. The plan of insurrection which had been formed in the summer
had been given up for want of help from France. But before the end of
the autumn both plans were resumed. William had returned to England; and
the possibility of getting rid of him by a lucky shot or stab was again
seriously discussed. The French troops had gone into winter quarters;
and the force, which Charnock had in vain demanded while war was raging
round Namur, might now be spared without inconvenience. Now, therefore,
a plot was laid, more formidable than any that had yet threatened
the throne and the life of William; or rather, as has more than once
happened in our history, two plots were laid, one within the other. The
object of the greater plot was an open insurrection, an insurrection
which was to be supported by a foreign army. In this plot almost all the
Jacobites of note were more or less concerned. Some laid in arms; some
bought horses; some made lists of the servants and tenants in whom they
could place firm reliance. The less warlike members of the party could
at least take off bumpers to the King over the water, and intimate by
significant shrugs and whispers that he would not be over the water
long. It was universally remarked that the malecontents looked wiser
than usual when they were sober, and bragged more loudly than usual when
they were drunk. [653] To the smaller plot, of which the object was the
murder of William, only a few select traitors were privy.

Each of these plots was under the direction of a leader specially
sent from Saint Germains. The more honourable mission was entrusted to
Berwick. He was charged to communicate with the Jacobite nobility and
gentry, to ascertain what force they could bring into the field, and
to fix a time for the rising. He was authorised to assure them that the
French government was collecting troops and transports at Calais, and
that, as soon as it was known there that a rebellion had broken out in
England, his father would embark with twelve thousand veteran soldiers,
and would be among them in a few hours.

A more hazardous part was assigned to an emissary of lower rank, but
of great address, activity and courage. This was Sir George Barclay, a
Scotch gentleman who had served with credit under Dundee, and who,
when the war in the Highlands had ended, had retired to Saint Germains.
Barclay was called into the royal closet, and received his orders from
the royal lips. He was directed to steal across the Channel and to
repair to London. He was told that a few select officers and soldiers
should speedily follow him by twos and threes. That they might have no
difficulty in finding him, he was to walk, on Mondays and Thursdays, in
the Piazza of Covent Garden after nightfall, with a white handkerchief
hanging from his coat pocket. He was furnished with a considerable sum
of money, and with a commission which was not only signed but written
from beginning to end by James himself. This commission authorised the
bearer to do from time to time such acts of hostility against the Prince
of Orange and that Prince's adherents as should most conduce to the
service of the King. What explanation of these very comprehensive words
was orally given by James we are not informed.

Lest Barclay's absence from Saint Germains should cause any suspicion,
it was given out that his loose way of life had made it necessary for
him to put himself under the care of a surgeon at Paris. [654] He set
out with eight hundred pounds in his portmanteau, hastened to the coast,
and embarked on board of a privateer which was employed by the Jacobites
as a regular packet boat between France and England. This vessel
conveyed him to a desolate spot in Romney Marsh. About half a mile
from the landing place a smuggler named Hunt lived on a dreary and
unwholesome fen where he had no neighbours but a few rude shepherds. His
dwelling was singularly well situated for a contraband traffic in French
wares. Cargoes of Lyons silk and Valenciennes lace sufficient to load
thirty packhorses had repeatedly been landed in that dismal solitude
without attracting notice. But, since the Revolution, Hunt had
discovered that of all cargoes a cargo of traitors paid best. His lonely
abode became the resort of men of high consideration, Earls and Barons,
Knights and Doctors of Divinity. Some of them lodged many days under
his roof while waiting for a passage. A clandestine post was established
between his house and London. The couriers were constantly going and
returning; they performed their journeys up and down on foot; but they
appeared to be gentlemen, and it was whispered that one of them was the
son of a titled man. The letters from Saint Germains were few and small.
Those directed to Saint Germains were numerous and bulky; they were made
up like parcels of millinery, and were buried in the morass till they
were called for by the privateer.

Here Barclay landed in January 1696; and hence he took the road
to London. He was followed, a few days later, by a tall youth, who
concealed his name, but who produced credentials of the highest
authority. This youth too proceeded to London. Hunt afterwards
discovered that his humble roof had had the honour of sheltering the
Duke of Berwick. [655]

The part which Barclay had to perform was difficult and hazardous; and
he omitted no precaution. He had been little in London; and his face was
consequently unknown to the agents of the government. Nevertheless
he had several lodgings; he disguised himself so well that his oldest
friends would not have known him by broad daylight; and yet he seldom
ventured into the streets except in the dark. His chief agent was a monk
who, under several names, heard confessions and said masses at the risk
of his neck. This man intimated to some of the zealots with whom he
consorted a special agent of the royal family was to be spoken with in
Covent Garden, on certain nights, at a certain hour, and might be known
by certain signs. [656] In this way Barclay became acquainted with
several men fit for his purpose. The first persons to whom he fully
opened himself were Charnock and Parkyns. He talked with them about the
plot which they and some of their friends had formed in the preceding
spring against the life of William. Both Charnock and Parkyns declared
that the scheme might easily be executed, that there was no want of
resolute hearts among the Royalists, and that all that was wanting was
some sign of His Majesty's approbation.

Then Barclay produced his commission. He showed his two accomplices that
James had expressly commanded all good Englishmen, not only to rise in
arms, not only to make war on the usurping government, not only to seize
forts and towns, but also to do from time to time such other acts
of hostility against the Prince of Orange as might be for the royal
service. These words, Barclay said, plainly authorised an attack on the
Prince's person. Charnock and Parkyns were satisfied. How in truth was
it possible for them to doubt that James's confidential agent correctly
construed James's expressions? Nay, how was it possible for them to
understand the large words of the commission in any sense but one,
even if Barclay had not been there to act as commentator? If indeed the
subject had never been brought under James's consideration, it might
well be thought that those words had dropped from his pen without any
definite meaning. But he had been repeatedly apprised that some of his
friends in England meditated a deed of blood, and that they were waiting
only for his approbation. They had importuned him to speak one word,
to give one sign. He had long kept silence; and, now that he had broken
silence, he merely told them to do what ever might be beneficial to
himself and prejudicial to the usurper. They had his authority as
plainly given as they could reasonably expect to have it given in such a
case. [657]

All that remained was to find a sufficient number of courageous and
trustworthy assistants, to provide horses and weapons, and to fix the
hour and the place of the slaughter. Forty or fifty men, it was thought,
would be sufficient. Those troopers of James's guard who had already
followed Barclay across the Channel made up nearly half that number.
James had himself seen some of these men before their departure from
Saint Germains, had given them money for their journey, had told them by
what name each of them was to pass in England, had commanded them to
act as they should be directed by Barclay, and had informed them where
Barclay was to be found and by what tokens he was to be known. [658]
They were ordered to depart in small parties, and to assign different
reasons for going. Some were ill; some were weary of the service;
Cassels, one of the most noisy and profane among them, announced that,
since he could not get military promotion, he should enter at the Scotch
college and study for a learned profession.
Under such pretexts about
twenty picked men left the palace of James, made their way by Romney
Marsh to London, and found their captain walking in the dim lamplight of
the Piazza with the handkerchief hanging from his pocket. One of these
men was Ambrose Rockwood, who held the rank of Brigadier, and who had a
high reputation for courage and honour; another was Major John Bernardi,
an adventurer of Genoese extraction, whose name has derived a melancholy
celebrity from a punishment so strangely prolonged that it at length
shocked a generation which could not remember his crime. [659]

It was in these adventurers from France that Barclay placed his chief
trust. In a moment of elation he once called them his Janissaries, and
expressed a hope that they would get him the George and Garter. But
twenty more assassins at least were wanted. The conspirators probably
expected valuable help from Sir John Friend, who had received a
Colonel's commission signed by James, and had been most active in
enlisting men and providing arms against the day when the French should
appear on the coast of Kent. The design was imparted to him; but he
thought it so rash, and so likely to bring reproach and disaster on the
good cause, that he would lend no assistance to his friends, though he
kept their secret religiously. [660] Charnock undertook to find eight
brave and trusty fellows. He communicated the design to Porter, not with
Barclay's entire approbation; for Barclay appears to have thought that
a tavern brawler, who had recently been in prison for swaggering drunk
about the streets and huzzaing in honour of the Prince of Wales, was
hardly to be trusted with a secret of such fearful import. Porter
entered into the plot with enthusiasm, and promised to bring in others
who would be useful. Among those whose help he engaged was his servant
Thomas Keyes. Keyes was a far more formidable conspirator than might
have been expected from his station in life. The household troops
generally were devoted to William; but there was a taint of disaffection
among the Blues. The chief conspirators had already been tampering
with some Roman Catholics who were in that regiment; and Keyes was
excellently qualified to bear a part in this work; for he had formerly
been trumpeter of the corps, and, though he had quitted the service, he
still kept up an acquaintaince with some of the old soldiers in whose
company he had lived at free quarter on the Somersetshire farmers after
the battle of Sedgemoor.

Parkyns, who was old and gouty, could not himself take a share in the
work of death. But he employed himself in providing horses, saddles and
weapons for his younger and more active accomplices. In this department
of business he was assisted by Charles Cranburne, a person who had long
acted as a broker between Jacobite plotters and people who dealt in
cutlery and firearms. Special orders were given by Barclay that the
swords should be made rather for stabbing than for slashing. Barclay
himself enlisted Edward Lowick, who had been a major in the Irish army,
and who had, since the capitulation of Limerick, been living obscurely
in London. The monk who had been Barclay's first confidant recommended
two busy Papists, Richard Fisher and Christopher Knightley; and this
recommendation was thought sufficient. Knightley drew in Edward King, a
Roman Catholic gentleman of hot and restless temper; and King procured
the assistance of a French gambler and bully named De la Rue. [661]

Meanwhile the heads of the conspiracy held frequent meetings at treason
taverns, for the purpose of settling a plan of operations. Several
schemes were proposed, applauded, and, on full consideration, abandoned.
At one time it was thought that an attack on Kensington House at dead
of night might probably be successful. The outer wall might easily be
scaled. If once forty armed men were in the garden, the palace would
soon be stormed or set on fire. Some were of opinion that it would be
best to strike the blow on a Sunday as William went from Kensington
to attend divine service at the chapel of Saint James's Palace. The
murderers might assemble near the spot where Apsley House and Hamilton
Place now stand. Just as the royal coach passed out of Hyde Park, and
was about to enter what has since been called the Green Park, thirty
of the conspirators, well mounted, might fall on the guards. The guards
were ordinarily only five and twenty. They would be taken completely
by surprise; and probably half of them would be shot or cut down before
they could strike a blow. Meanwhile ten or twelve resolute men on foot
would stop the carriage by shooting the horses, and would then without
difficulty despatch the King. At last the preference was given to a plan
originally sketched by Fisher and put into shape by Porter. William was
in the habit of going every Saturday from Kensington to hunt in Richmond
Park. There was then no bridge over the Thames between London and
Kingston. The King therefore went, in a coach escorted by some of his
body guards, through Turnham Green to the river. There he took boat,
crossed the water and found another coach and another set of guards
ready to receive him on the Surrey side. The first coach and the first
set of guards awaited his return on the northern bank. The conspirators
ascertained with great precision the whole order of these journeys, and
carefully examined the ground on both sides of the Thames. They thought
that they should attack the King with more advantage on the Middlesex
than on the Surrey bank, and when he was returning than when he was
going. For, when he was going, he was often attended to the water side
by a great retinue of lords and gentlemen; but on his return he had only
his guards about him. The place and time were fixed. The place was to be
a narrow and winding lane leading from the landingplace on the north
of the rover to Turnham Green. The spot may still be easily found.
The ground has since been drained by trenches. But in the seventeenth
century it was a quagmire, through which the royal coach was with
difficulty tugged at a foot's pace. The time was to be the afternoon
of Saturday the fifteenth of February. On that day the Forty were to
assemble in small parties at public houses near the Green. When the
signal was given that the coach was approaching they were to take horse
and repair to their posts. As the cavalcade came up this lane Charnock
was to attack the guards in the rear, Rockwood on one flank, Porter on
the other. Meanwhile Barclay, with eight trusty men, was to stop the
coach and to do the deed. That no movement of the King might escape
notice, two orderlies were appointed to watch the palace. One of these
men, a bold and active Fleming, named Durant, was especially charged to
keep Barclay well informed. The other, whose business was to communicate
with Charnock, was a ruffian named Chambers, who had served in the Irish
army, had received a severe wound in the breast at the Boyne, and, on
account of that wound, bore a savage personal hatred to William. [662]

While Barclay was making all his arrangements for the assassination,
Berwick was endeavouring to persuade the Jacobite aristocracy to rise
in arms. But this was no easy task. Several consultations were held;
and there was one great muster of the party under the pretence of a
masquerade, for which tickets were distributed among the initiated
at one guinea each. [663] All ended however in talking, singing and
drinking. Many men of rank and fortune indeed declared that they would
draw their swords for their rightful Sovereign as soon as their rightful
Sovereign was in the island with a French army; and Berwick had been
empowered to assure there that a French army should be sent as soon as
they had drawn the sword. But between what they asked and what he
was authorised to grant there was a difference which admitted of no
compromise. Lewis, situated as he was, would not risk ten or twelve
thousand excellent soldiers on the mere faith of promises. Similar
promises had been made in 1690; and yet, when the fleet of Tourville had
appeared on the coast of Devonshire, the western counties had risen as
one man in defence of the government, and not a single malecontent had
dared to utter a whisper in favour of the invaders. Similar promises had
been made in 1692; and to the confidence which had been placed in those
promises was to be attributed the great disaster of La Hogue. The
French King would not be deceived a third time. He would gladly help the
English royalists; but he must first see them help themselves. There
was much reason in this; and there was reason also in what the Jacobites
urged on the other side. If, they said, they were to rise, without a
single disciplined regiment to back them, against an usurper supported
by a regular army, they should all be cut to pieces before the news that
they were up could reach Versailles. As Berwick could hold out no hope
that there would be an invasion before there was an insurrection, and
as his English friends were immovable in their determination that there
should be no insurrection till there was an invasion, he had nothing
more to do here, and became impatient to depart.

He was the more impatient to depart because the fifteenth of February
drew near. For he was in constant communication with Barclay, and was
perfectly apprised of all the details of the crime which was to be
perpetrated on that day. He was generally considered as a man of sturdy
and even ungracious integrity. But to such a degree had his sense of
right and wrong been perverted by his zeal for the interests of his
family, and by his respect for the lessons of his priests, that he did
not, as he has himself ingenuously confessed, think that he lay under
any obligation to dissuade the assassins from the execution of their
purpose. He had indeed only one objection to their design; and that
objection he kept to himself. It was simply this, that all who were
concerned were very likely to be hanged. That, however, was their
affair; and, if they chose to run such a risk in the good cause, it was
not his business to discourage them. His mission was quite distinct from
theirs; he was not to act with them; and he had no inclination to suffer
with then. He therefore hastened down to Romney Marsh, and crossed to
Calais. [664]

At Calais he found preparations making for a descent on Kent. Troops
filled the town; transports filled the port. Boufflers had been ordered
to repair thither from Flanders, and to take the command. James himself
was daily expected. In fact he had already left Saint Germains. Berwick,
however, would not wait. He took the road to Paris, met his father at
Clermont, and made a full report of the state of things in England. His
embassy had failed; the Royalist nobility and gentry seemed resolved
not to rise till a French army was in the island; but there was still a
hope; news would probably come within a few days that the usurper was
no more; and such news would change the whole aspect of affairs. James
determined to go on to Calais, and there to await the event of
Barclay's plot. Berwick hastened to Versailles for the purpose of giving
explanations to Lewis. What the nature of the explanations was we know
from Berwick's own narrative. He plainly told the French King that a
small band of loyal men would in a short time make an attempt on the
life of the great enemy of France. The next courier might bring tidings
of an event which would probably subvert the English government and
dissolve the European coalition. It might have been thought that a
prince who ostentatiously affected the character of a devout Christian
and of a courteous knight would instantly have taken measures for
conveying to his rival a caution which perhaps might still arrive in
time, and would have severely reprimanded the guests who had so grossly
abused his hospitality. Such, however, was not the conduct of Lewis. Had
he been asked to give his sanction to a murder he would probably
have refused with indignation. But he was not moved to indignation by
learning that, without his sanction, a crime was likely to be committed
which would be far more beneficial to his interests than ten such
victories as that of Landen. He sent down orders to Calais that his
fleet should be in such readiness as might enable him to take advantage
of the great crisis which he anticipated. At Calais James waited with
still more impatience for the signal that his nephew was no more. That
signal was to be given by a fire, of which the fuel was already prepared
on the cliffs of Kent, and which would be visible across the straits.
[665]

But a peculiar fate has, in our country, always attended such
conspiracies as that of Barclay and Charnock. The English regard
assassination, and have during some ages regarded it, with a loathing
peculiar to themselves. So English indeed is this sentiment that it
cannot even now be called Irish, and till a recent period, it was not
Scotch. In Ireland to this day the villain who shoots at his enemy from
behind a hedge is too often protected from justice by public sympathy.
In Scotland plans of assassination were often, during the sixteenth
and seventeenth centuries, successfully executed, though known to great
numbers of persons. The murders of Beaton, of Rizzio, of Darnley, of
Murray, of Sharpe, are conspicuous instances. The royalists who murdered
Lisle in Switzerland were Irishmen; the royalists who murdered Ascham at
Madrid were Irishmen; the royalists who murdered Dorislaus at the Hague
were Scotchmen. In England, as soon as such a design ceases to be a
secret hidden in the recesses of one gloomy and ulcerated heart, the
risk of detection and failure becomes extreme. Felton and Bellingham
reposed trust in no human being; and they were therefore able to
accomplish their evil purposes. But Babington's conspiracy against
Elizabeth, Fawkes's conspiracy against James, Gerard's conspiracy
against Cromwell, the Rye House conspiracy, the Cato Street conspiracy,
were all discovered, frustrated and punished. In truth such a conspiracy
is here exposed to equal danger from the good and from the bad qualities
of the conspirators. Scarcely any Englishman, not utterly destitute of
conscience and honour, will engage in a plot for slaying an unsuspecting
fellow creature; and a wretch who has neither conscience nor honour is
likely to think much on the danger which he incurs by being true to his
associates, and on the rewards which he may obtain by betraying them.
There are, it is true, persons in whom religious or political fanaticism
has destroyed all moral sensibility on one particular point, and yet has
left that sensibility generally unimpaired. Such a person was Digby. He
had no scruple about blowing King, Lords and Commons into the air. Yet
to his accomplices he was religiously and chivalrously faithful; nor
could even the fear of the rack extort from him one word to their
prejudice. But this union of depravity and heroism is very rare. The
vast majority of men are either not vicious enough or not virtuous
enough to be loyal and devoted members of treacherous and cruel
confederacies; and, if a single member should want either the necessary
vice or the necessary virtue, the whole confederacy is in danger. To
bring together in one body forty Englishmen, all hardened cutthroats,
and yet all so upright and generous that neither the hope of opulence
nor the dread of the gallows can tempt any one of them to be false to
the rest, has hitherto been found, and will, it is to be hoped, always
be found impossible.

There were among Barclay's followers both men too bad and men too good
to be trusted with such a secret as his. The first whose heart failed
him was Fisher. Even before the time and place of the crime had been
fixed, he obtained an audience of Portland, and told that lord that a
design was forming against the King's life. Some days later Fisher came
again with more precise intelligence. But his character was not such
as entitled him to much credit; and the knavery of Fuller, of Young, of
Whitney and of Taffe, had made men of sense slow to believe stories of
plots. Portland, therefore, though in general very easily alarmed where
the safety of his master and friend was concerned, seems to have thought
little about the matter. But, on the evening of the fourteenth of
February, he received a visit from a person whose testimony he could not
treat lightly. This was a Roman Catholic gentleman of known courage and
honour, named Pendergrass. He had, on the preceding day, come up to town
from Hampshire, in consequence of a pressing summons from Porter, who,
dissolute and unprincipled as he was, had to Pendergrass been a
most kind friend, indeed almost a father. In a Jacobite insurrection
Pendergrass would probably have been one of the foremost. But he learned
with horror that he was expected to bear a part in a wicked and shameful
deed. He found himself in one of those situations which most cruelly
torture noble and sensitive natures. What was he to do? Was he to
commit a murder? Was he to suffer a murder which he could prevent to be
committed? Yet was he to betray one who, however culpable, had loaded
him with benefits? Perhaps it might be possible to save William without
harming Porter? Pendergrass determined to make the attempt. "My Lord,"
he said to Portland, "as you value King William's life, do not let
him hunt tomorrow. He is the enemy of my religion; yet my religion
constrains me to give him this caution. But the names of the
conspirators I am resolved to conceal; some of them are my friends; one
of them especially is my benefactor; and I will not betray them. "

Portland went instantly to the King; but the King received the
intelligence very coolly, and seemed determined not to be frightened
out of a good day's sport by such an idle story. Portland argued and
implored in vain. He was at last forced to threaten that he would
immediately make the whole matter public, unless His Majesty would
consent to remain within doors during the next day; and this threat was
successful. [666]

Saturday the fifteenth came. The Forty were all ready to mount, when
they received intelligence from the orderlies who watched Kensington
House that the King did not mean to hunt that morning. "The fox," said
Chambers, with vindictive bitterness, "keeps his earth. " Then he opened
his shirt; showed the great scar in his breast, and vowed revenge on
William.

The first thought of the conspirators was that their design had been
detected. But they were soon reassured. It was given out that the
weather had kept the King at home; and indeed the day was cold and
stormy. There was no sign of agitation at the palace. No extraordinary
precaution was taken. No arrest was made. No ominous whisper was
heard at the coffeehouses. The delay was vexatious; but Saturday the
twenty-second would do as well.

But, before Saturday the twenty-second arrived, a third informer, De
la Rue, had presented himself at the palace. His way of life did not
entitle him to much respect; but his story agreed so exactly with what
had been said by Fisher and Pendergrass that even William began to
believe that there was real danger.

Very late in the evening of Friday the twenty-first, Pendergrass, who
had as yet disclosed much less than either of the other informers, but
whose single word was worth much more than their joint oath, was sent
for to the royal closet. The faithful Portland and the gallant Cutts
were the only persons who witnessed the singular interview between the
King and his generous enemy. William, with courtesy and animation
which he rarely showed, but which he never showed without making a
deep impression, urged Pendergrass to speak out. "You are a man of true
probity and honour; I am deeply obliged to you; but you must feel that
the same considerations which have induced you to tell us so much ought
to induce you to tell us something more. The cautions which you have as
yet given can only make me suspect every body that comes near me. They
are sufficient to embitter my life, but not sufficient to preserve it.
You must let me know the names of these men. " During more than half an
hour the King continued to entreat and Pendergrass to refuse. At last
Pendergrass said that he would give the information which was required,
if he could be assured that it would be used only for the prevention of
the crime, and not for the destruction of the criminals. "I give you
my word of honour," said William, "that your evidence shall not be used
against any person without your own free consent. " It was long
past midnight when Pendergrass wrote down the names of the chief
conspirators.

While these things were passing at Kensington, a large party of the
assassins were revelling at a Jacobite tavern in Maiden Lane. Here they
received their final orders for the morrow. "Tomorrow or never," said
King. "Tomorrow, boys," cried Cassels with a curse, "we shall have the
plunder of the field. " The morrow came. All was ready; the horses
were saddled; the pistols were loaded; the swords were sharpened; the
orderlies were on the alert; they early sent intelligence from the
palace that the King was certainly going a hunting; all the usual
preparations had been made; a party of guards had been sent round by
Kingston Bridge to Richmond; the royal coaches, each with six horses,
had gone from the stables at Charing Cross to Kensington. The chief
murderers assembled in high glee at Porter's lodgings. Pendergrass, who,
by the King's command, appeared among them, was greeted with ferocious
mirth. "Pendergrass," said Porter, "you are named one of the eight who
are to do his business. I have a musquetoon for you that will carry
eight balls. " "Mr. Pendergrass," said King, "pray do not be afraid of
smashing the glass windows. " From Porter's lodgings the party adjourned
to the Blue Posts in Spring Gardens, where they meant to take some
refreshment before they started for Turnham Green. They were at table
when a message came from an orderly that the King had changed his mind
and would not hunt; and scarcely had they recovered from their first
surprise at this ominous news, when Keyes, who had been out scouting
among his old comrades, arrived with news more ominous still. "The
coaches have returned to Charing Cross. The guards that were sent round
to Richmond have just come back to Kensington at full gallop, the flanks
of the horses all white with foam. I have had a word with one of
the Blues. He told me that strange things are muttered. " Then the
countenances of the assassins fell; and their hearts died within them.
Porter made a feeble attempt to disguise his uneasiness. He took up
an orange and squeezed it. "What cannot be done one day may be done
another. Come, gentlemen, before we part let us have one glass to the
squeezing of the rotten orange. " The squeezing of the rotten orange was
drunk; and the company dispersed. [667]

A few hours elapsed before all the conspirators abandoned all hope. Some
of them derived comfort from a report that the King had taken physic,
and that this was his only reason for not going to Richmond. If it were
so, the blow might still be struck. Two Saturdays had been unpropitious.
But Sunday was at hand. One of the plans which had formerly been
discussed and abandoned might be resumed. The usurper might be set upon
at Hyde Park Corner on his way to his chapel. Charnock was ready for any
enterprise however desperate. If the hunt was up, it was better to die
biting and scratching to the last than to be worried without resistance
or revenge. He assembled some of his accomplices at one of the numerous
houses at which he had lodgings, and plied there hard with healths to
the King, to the Queen, to the Prince, and to the Grand Monarch, as they
called Lewis. But the terror and dejection of the gang were beyond the
power of wine; and so many had stolen away that those who were left
could effect nothing. In the course of the afternoon it was known that
the guards had been doubled at the palace; and soon after nightfall
messengers from the Secretary of State's office were hurrying to and fro
with torches through the streets, accompanied by files and musketeers.