"
Barillon hastened to the bedchamber, took the Duke aside, and delivered
the message of the mistress.
Barillon hastened to the bedchamber, took the Duke aside, and delivered
the message of the mistress.
Macaulay
In such a tract, squatters and trespassers were
tolerated to an extent now unknown. The peasant who dwelt there could,
at little or no charge, procure occasionally some palatable addition to
his hard fare, and provide himself with fuel for the winter. He kept a
flock of geese on what is now an orchard rich with apple blossoms.
He snared wild fowl on the fell which has long since been drained and
divided into corn-fields and turnip fields. He cut turf among the furze
bushes on the moor which is now a meadow bright with clover and renowned
for butter and cheese. The progress of agriculture and the increase of
population necessarily deprived him of these privileges. But against
this disadvantage a long list of advantages is to be set off. Of the
blessings which civilisation and philosophy bring with them a large
proportion is common to all ranks, and would, if withdrawn, be missed
as painfully by the labourer as by the peer. The market-place which the
rustic can now reach with his cart in an hour was, a hundred and sixty
years ago, a day's journey from him. The street which now affords to
the artisan, during the whole night, a secure, a convenient, and a
brilliantly lighted walk was, a hundred and sixty years ago, so dark
after sunset that he would not have been able to see his hand, so ill
paved that he would have run constant risk of breaking his neck, and so
ill watched that he would have been in imminent danger of being knocked
down and plundered of his small earnings. Every bricklayer who falls
from a scaffold, every sweeper of a crossing who is run over by a
carriage, may now have his wounds dressed and his limbs set with a skill
such as, a hundred and sixty years ago, all the wealth of a great
lord like Ormond, or of a merchant prince like Clayton, could not have
purchased. Some frightful diseases have been extirpated by science;
and some have been banished by police. The term of human life has been
lengthened over the whole kingdom, and especially in the towns. The year
1685 was not accounted sickly; yet in the year 1685 more than one in
twenty-three of the inhabitants of the capital died. [203] At present
only one inhabitant of the capital in forty dies annually. The
difference in salubrity between the London of the nineteenth century
and the London of the seventeenth century is very far greater than the
difference between London in an ordinary year and London in a year of
cholera.
Still more important is the benefit which all orders of society, and
especially the lower orders, have derived from the mollifying influence
of civilisation on the national character. The groundwork of that
character has indeed been the same through many generations, in the
sense in which the groundwork of the character of an individual may be
said to be the same when he is a rude and thoughtless schoolboy and when
he is a refined and accomplished man. It is pleasing to reflect that the
public mind of England has softened while it has ripened, and that we
have, in the course of ages, become, not only a wiser, but also a kinder
people. There is scarcely a page of the history or lighter literature
of the seventeenth century which does not contain some proof that our
ancestors were less humane than their posterity. The discipline of
workshops, of schools, of private families, though not more efficient
than at present, was infinitely harsher. Masters, well born and bred,
were in the habit of beating their servants. Pedagogues knew no way of
imparting knowledge but by beating their pupils. Husbands, of decent
station, were not ashamed to beat their wives. The implacability of
hostile factions was such as we can scarcely conceive. Whigs were
disposed to murmur because Stafford was suffered to die without seeing
his bowels burned before his face. Tories reviled and insulted Russell
as his coach passed from the Tower to the scaffold in Lincoln's Inn
Fields. [204] As little mercy was shown by the populace to sufferers of
a humbler rank. If an offender was put into the pillory, it was well
if he escaped with life from the shower of brickbats and paving stones.
[205] If he was tied to the cart's tail, the crowd pressed round him,
imploring the hangman to give it the fellow well, and make him howl.
[206] Gentlemen arranged parties of pleasure to Bridewell on court
days for the purpose of seeing the wretched women who beat hemp there
whipped. [207] A man pressed to death for refusing to plead, a woman
burned for coining, excited less sympathy than is now felt for a galled
horse or an overdriven ox. Fights compared with which a boxing match is
a refined and humane spectacle were among the favourite diversions of a
large part of the town. Multitudes assembled to see gladiators hack each
other to pieces with deadly weapons, and shouted with delight when one
of the combatants lost a finger or an eye. The prisons were hells on
earth, seminaries of every crime and of every disease. At the assizes
the lean and yellow culprits brought with them from their cells to the
dock an atmosphere of stench and pestilence which sometimes avenged them
signally on bench, bar, and jury. But on all this misery society looked
with profound indifference. Nowhere could be found that sensitive
and restless compassion which has, in our time, extended a powerful
protection to the factory child, to the Hindoo widow, to the negro
slave, which pries into the stores and watercasks of every emigrant
ship, which winces at every lash laid on the back of a drunken
soldier, which will not suffer the thief in the hulks to be ill fed or
overworked, and which has repeatedly endeavoured to save the life
even of the murderer. It is true that compassion ought, like all other
feelings, to be under the government of reason, and has, for want of
such government, produced some ridiculous and some deplorable effects.
But the more we study the annals of the past, the more shall we rejoice
that we live in a merciful age, in an age in which cruelty is abhorred,
and in which pain, even when deserved, is inflicted reluctantly and from
a sense of duty. Every class doubtless has gained largely by this great
moral change: but the class which has gained most is the poorest, the
most dependent, and the most defenceless.
The general effect of the evidence which has been submitted to the
reader seems hardly to admit of doubt. Yet, in spite of evidence, many
will still image to themselves the England of the Stuarts as a more
pleasant country than the England in which we live. It may at first
sight seem strange that society, while constantly moving forward with
eager speed, should be constantly looking backward with tender regret.
But these two propensities, inconsistent as they may appear, can easily
be resolved into the same principle. Both spring from our impatience of
the state in which we actually are. That impatience, while it stimulates
us to surpass preceding generations, disposes us to overrate their
happiness. It is, in some sense, unreasonable and ungrateful in us to be
constantly discontented with a condition which is constantly improving.
But, in truth, there is constant improvement precisely because there is
constant discontent. If we were perfectly satisfied with the present,
we should cease to contrive, to labour, and to save with a view to the
future. And it is natural that, being dissatisfied with the present, we
should form a too favourable estimate of the past.
In truth we are under a deception similar to that which misleads the
traveller in the Arabian desert. Beneath the caravan all is dry and
bare: but far in advance, and far in the rear, is the semblance of
refreshing waters. The pilgrims hasten forward and find nothing but sand
where an hour before they had seen a lake. They turn their eyes and see
a lake where, an hour before, they were toiling through sand. A similar
illusion seems to haunt nations through every stage of the long progress
from poverty and barbarism to the highest degrees of opulence and
civilisation. But if we resolutely chase the mirage backward, we shall
find it recede before us into the regions of fabulous antiquity. It
is now the fashion to place the golden age of England in times
when noblemen were destitute of comforts the want of which would
be intolerable to a modern footman, when farmers and shopkeepers
breakfasted on loaves the very sight of which would raise a riot in a
modern workhouse, when to have a clean shirt once a week was a privilege
reserved for the higher class of gentry, when men died faster in the
purest country air than they now die in the most pestilential lanes of
our towns, and when men died faster in the lanes of our towns than
they now die on the coast of Guiana. We too shall, in our turn, be
outstripped, and in our turn be envied. It may well be, in the twentieth
century, that the peasant of Dorsetshire may think himself miserably
paid with twenty shillings a week; that the carpenter at Greenwich may
receive ten shillings a day; that labouring men may be as little used to
dine without meat as they now are to eat rye bread; that sanitary police
and medical discoveries may have added several more years to the average
length of human life; that numerous comforts and luxuries which are now
unknown, or confined to a few, may be within the reach of every diligent
and thrifty working man. And yet it may then be the mode to assert that
the increase of wealth and the progress of science have benefited
the few at the expense of the many, and to talk of the reign of Queen
Victoria as the time when England was truly merry England, when all
classes were bound together by brotherly sympathy, when the rich did
not grind the faces of the poor, and when the poor did not envy the
splendour of the rich.
CHAPTER IV.
THE death of King Charles the Second took the nation by surprise. His
frame was naturally strong, and did not appear to have suffered from
excess. He had always been mindful of his health even in his pleasures;
and his habits were such as promise a long life and a robust old age.
Indolent as he was on all occasions which required tension of the mind,
he was active and persevering in bodily exercise. He had, when young,
been renowned as a tennis player, [208] and was, even in the decline of
life, an indefatigable walker. His ordinary pace was such that those who
were admitted to the honour of his society found it difficult to keep up
with him. He rose early, and generally passed three or four hours a day
in the open air. He might be seen, before the dew was off the grass in
St. James's Park, striding among the trees, playing with his spaniels,
and flinging corn to his ducks; and these exhibitions endeared him to
the common people, who always love to See the great unbend. [209]
At length, towards the close of the year 1684, he was prevented, by a
slight attack of what was supposed to be gout, from rambling as usual.
He now spent his mornings in his laboratory, where he amused himself
with experiments on the properties of mercury. His temper seemed to have
suffered from confinement. He had no apparent cause for disquiet. His
kingdom was tranquil: he was not in pressing want of money: his power
was greater than it had ever been: the party which had long thwarted
him had been beaten down; but the cheerfulness which had supported him
against adverse fortune had vanished in this season of prosperity. A
trifle now sufficed to depress those elastic spirits which had borne
up against defeat, exile, and penury. His irritation frequently showed
itself by looks and words such as could hardly have been expected from a
man so eminently distinguished by good humour and good breeding. It was
not supposed however that his constitution was seriously impaired. [210]
His palace had seldom presented a gayer or a more scandalous appearance
than on the evening of Sunday the first of February 1685. [211] Some
grave persons who had gone thither, after the fashion of that age, to
pay their duty to their sovereign, and who had expected that, on such a
day, his court would wear a decent aspect, were struck with astonishment
and horror. The great gallery of Whitehall, an admirable relic of the
magnificence of the Tudors, was crowded with revellers and gamblers. The
king sate there chatting and toying with three women, whose charms were
the boast, and whose vices were the disgrace, of three nations. Barbara
Palmer, Duchess of Cleveland, was there, no longer young, but still
retaining some traces of that superb and voluptuous loveliness which
twenty years before overcame the hearts of all men. There too was the
Duchess of Portsmouth, whose soft and infantine features were lighted up
with the vivacity of France. Hortensia Mancini, Duchess of Mazarin, and
niece of the great Cardinal, completed the group. She had been early
removed from her native Italy to the court where her uncle was supreme.
His power and her own attractions had drawn a crowd of illustrious
suitors round her. Charles himself, during his exile, had sought her
hand in vain. No gift of nature or of fortune seemed to be wanting
to her. Her face was beautiful with the rich beauty of the South,
her understanding quick, her manners graceful, her rank exalted, her
possessions immense; but her ungovernable passions had turned all these
blessings into curses. She had found the misery of an ill assorted
marriage intolerable, had fled from her husband, had abandoned her
vast wealth, and, after having astonished Rome and Piedmont by her
adventures, had fixed her abode in England. Her house was the favourite
resort of men of wit and pleasure, who, for the sake of her smiles
and her table, endured her frequent fits of insolence and ill humour.
Rochester and Godolphin sometimes forgot the cares of state in
her company. Barillon and Saint Evremond found in her drawing room
consolation for their long banishment from Paris. The learning of
Vossius, the wit of Waller, were daily employed to flatter and amuse
her. But her diseased mind required stronger stimulants, and sought them
in gallantry, in basset, and in usquebaugh. [212] While Charles. flirted
with his three sultanas, Hortensia's French page, a handsome boy, whose
vocal performances were the delight of Whitehall, and were rewarded by
numerous presents of rich clothes, ponies, and guineas, warbled some
amorous verses. [213] A party of twenty courtiers was seated at cards
round a large table on which gold was heaped in mountains. [214] Even
then the King had complained that he did not feel quite well. He had
no appetite for his supper: his rest that night was broken; but on the
following morning he rose, as usual, early.
To that morning the contending factions in his council had, during some
days, looked forward with anxiety. The struggle between Halifax and
Rochester seemed to be approaching a decisive crisis. Halifax, not
content with having already driven his rival from the Board of Treasury,
had undertaken to prove him guilty of such dishonesty or neglect in the
conduct of the finances as ought to be punished by dismission from the
public service. It was even whispered that the Lord President would
probably be sent to the Tower. The King had promised to enquire into the
matter. The second of February had been fixed for the investigation; and
several officers of the revenue had been ordered to attend with their
books on that day. [215] But a great turn of fortune was at hand.
Scarcely had Charles risen from his bed when his attendants perceived
that his utterance was indistinct, and that his thoughts seemed to be
wandering. Several men of rank had, as usual, assembled to see their
sovereign shaved and dressed. He made an effort to converse with them
in his usual gay style; but his ghastly look surprised and alarmed them.
Soon his face grew black; his eyes turned in his head; he uttered a cry,
staggered, and fell into the arms of one of his lords. A physician who
had charge of the royal retorts and crucibles happened to be present.
He had no lances; but he opened a vein with a penknife. The blood flowed
freely; but the King was still insensible.
He was laid on his bed, where, during a short time, the Duchess of
Portsmouth hung over him with the familiarity of a wife. But the alarm
had been given. The Queen and the Duchess of York were hastening to
the room. The favourite concubine was forced to retire to her own
apartments. Those apartments had been thrice pulled down and thrice
rebuilt by her lover to gratify her caprice. The very furniture of
the chimney was massy silver. Several fine paintings, which properly
belonged to the Queen, had been transferred to the dwelling of the
mistress. The sideboards were piled with richly wrought plate. In
the niches stood cabinets, the masterpieces of Japanese art. On the
hangings, fresh from the looms of Paris, were depicted, in tints which
no English tapestry could rival, birds of gorgeous plumage, landscapes,
hunting matches, the lordly terrace of Saint Germains, the statues and
fountains of Versailles. [216] In the midst of this splendour, purchased
by guilt and shame, the unhappy woman gave herself up to an agony of
grief, which, to do her justice, was not wholly selfish.
And now the gates of Whitehall, which ordinarily stood open to all
comers, were closed. But persons whose faces were known were still
permitted to enter. The antechambers and galleries were soon filled
to overflowing; and even the sick room was crowded with peers, privy
councillors, and foreign ministers. All the medical men of note in
London were summoned. So high did political animosities run that the
presence of some Whig physicians was regarded as an extraordinary
circumstance. [217] One Roman Catholic, whose skill was then widely
renowned, Doctor Thomas Short, was in attendance. Several of the
prescriptions have been preserved. One of them is signed by fourteen
Doctors. The patient was bled largely. Hot iron was applied to his head.
A loathsome volatile salt, extracted from human skulls, was forced into
his mouth. He recovered his senses; but he was evidently in a situation
of extreme danger.
The Queen was for a time assiduous in her attendance. The Duke of York
scarcely left his brother's bedside. The Primate and four other bishops
were then in London. They remained at Whitehall all day, and took it
by turns to sit up at night in the King's room. The news of his illness
filled the capital with sorrow and dismay. For his easy temper and
affable manners had won the affection of a large part of the nation;
and those who most disliked him preferred his unprincipled levity to the
stern and earnest bigotry of his brother.
On the morning of Thursday the fifth of February, the London Gazette
announced that His Majesty was going on well, and was thought by the
physicians to be out of danger. The bells of all the churches rang
merrily; and preparations for bonfires were made in the streets. But in
the evening it was known that a relapse had taken place, and that the
medical attendants had given up all hope. The public mind was greatly
disturbed; but there was no disposition to tumult. The Duke of York, who
had already taken on himself to give orders, ascertained that the City
was perfectly quiet, and that he might without difficulty be proclaimed
as soon as his brother should expire.
The King was in great pain, and complained that he felt as if a fire
was burning within him. Yet he bore up against his sufferings with a
fortitude which did not seem to belong to his soft and luxurious nature.
The sight of his misery affected his wife so much that she fainted, and
was carried senseless to her chamber. The prelates who were in waiting
had from the first exhorted him to prepare for his end. They now thought
it their duty to address him in a still more urgent manner. William
Sancroft, Archbishop of Canterbury, an honest and pious, though
narrowminded, man, used great freedom. "It is time," he said, "to
speak out; for, Sir, you are about to appear before a Judge who is no
respecter of persons. " The King answered not a word.
Thomas Ken, Bishop of Bath and Wells, then tried his powers of
persuasion. He was a man of parts and learning, of quick sensibility and
stainless virtue. His elaborate works have long been forgotten; but
his morning and evening hymns are still repeated daily in thousands of
dwellings. Though, like most of his order, zealous for monarchy, he was
no sycophant. Before he became a Bishop, he had maintained the honour of
his gown by refusing, when the court was at Winchester, to let Eleanor
Gwynn lodge in the house which he occupied there as a prebendary. [218]
The King had sense enough to respect so manly a spirit. Of all the
prelates he liked Ken the best. It was to no purpose, however, that the
good Bishop now put forth all his eloquence. His solemn and pathetic
exhortation awed and melted the bystanders to such a degree that some
among them believed him to be filled with the same spirit which, in the
old time, had, by the mouths of Nathan and Elias, called sinful princes
to repentance. Charles however was unmoved. He made no objection indeed
when the service for the visitation of the sick was read. In reply to
the pressing questions of the divines, he said that he was sorry for
what he had done amiss; and he suffered the absolution to be pronounced
over him according to the forms of the Church of England: but, when he
was urged to declare that he died in the communion of that Church, he
seemed not to hear what was said; and nothing could induce him to take
the Eucharist from the hands of the Bishops. A table with bread and wine
was brought to his bedside, but in vain. Sometimes he said that there
was no hurry, and sometimes that he was too weak.
Many attributed this apathy to contempt for divine things, and many to
the stupor which often precedes death. But there were in the palace a
few persons who knew better. Charles had never been a sincere member of
the Established Church. His mind had long oscillated between Hobbism and
Popery. When his health was good and his spirits high he was a scoffer.
In his few serious moments he was a Roman Catholic. The Duke of York
was aware of this, but was entirely occupied with the care of his own
interests. He had ordered the outports to be closed. He had posted
detachments of the Guards in different parts of the city. He had also
procured the feeble signature of the dying King to an instrument by
which some duties, granted only till the demise of the Crown, were let
to farm for a term of three years. These things occupied the attention
of James to such a degree that, though, on ordinary occasions, he was
indiscreetly and unseasonably eager to bring over proselytes to his
Church, he never reflected that his brother was in danger of dying
without the last sacraments. This neglect was the more extraordinary
because the Duchess of York had, at the request of the Queen, suggested,
on the morning on which the King was taken ill, the propriety of
procuring spiritual assistance. For such assistance Charles was at last
indebted to an agency very different from that of his pious wife and
sister-in-law. A life of frivolty and vice had not extinguished in the
Duchess of Portsmouth all sentiments of religion, or all that kindness
which is the glory of her sex. The French ambassador Barillon, who had
come to the palace to enquire after the King, paid her a visit. He found
her in an agony of sorrow. She took him into a secret room, and poured
out her whole heart to him. "I have," she said, "a thing of great moment
to tell you. If it were known, my head would be in danger. The King is
really and truly a Catholic; but he will die without being reconciled
to the Church. His bedchamber is full of Protestant clergymen. I cannot
enter it without giving scandal. The Duke is thinking only of himself.
Speak to him. Remind him that there is a soul at stake. He is master
now. He can clear the room. Go this instant, or it will be too late.
"
Barillon hastened to the bedchamber, took the Duke aside, and delivered
the message of the mistress. The conscience of James smote him. He
started as if roused from sleep, and declared that nothing should
prevent him from discharging the sacred duty which had been too long
delayed. Several schemes were discussed and rejected. At last the Duke
commanded the crowd to stand aloof, went to the bed, stooped down, and
whispered something which none of the spectators could hear, but which
they supposed to be some question about affairs of state. Charles
answered in an audible voice, "Yes, yes, with all my heart. " None of
the bystanders, except the French Ambassador, guessed that the King was
declaring his wish to be admitted into the bosom of the Church of Rome.
"Shall I bring a priest? " said the Duke. "Do, brother," replied the Sick
man. "For God's sake do, and lose no time. But no; you will get into
trouble. " "If it costs me my life," said the Duke, "I will fetch a
priest. "
To find a priest, however, for such a purpose, at a moment's notice,
was not easy. For, as the law then stood, the person who admitted a
proselyte into the Roman Catholic Church was guilty of a capital crime.
The Count of Castel Melhor, a Portuguese nobleman, who, driven by
political troubles from his native land, had been hospitably received at
the English court, undertook to procure a confessor. He had recourse to
his countrymen who belonged to the Queen's household; but he found that
none of her chaplains knew English or French enough to shrive the King.
The Duke and Barillon were about to send to the Venetian Minister for
a clergyman when they heard that a Benedictine monk, named John
Huddleston, happened to be at Whitehall. This man had, with great risk
to himself, saved the King's life after the battle of Worcester, and
had, on that account, been, ever since the Restoration, a privileged
person. In the sharpest proclamations which had been put forth against
Popish priests, when false witnesses had inflamed the nation to fury,
Huddleston had been excepted by name. [219] He readily consented to put
his life a second time in peril for his prince; but there was still a
difficulty. The honest monk was so illiterate that he did not know what
he ought to say on an occasion of such importance. He however obtained
some hints, through the intervention of Castel Melhor, from a Portuguese
ecclesiastic, and, thus instructed, was brought up the back stairs by
Chiffinch, a confidential servant, who, if the satires of that age
are to be credited, had often introduced visitors of a very different
description by the same entrance. The Duke then, in the King's name,
commanded all who were present to quit the room, except Lewis Duras,
Earl of Feversham, and John Granville, Earl of Bath. Both these Lords
professed the Protestant religion; but James conceived that he could
count on their fidelity. Feversham, a Frenchman of noble birth, and
nephew of the great Turenne, held high rank in the English army, and was
Chamberlain to the Queen. Bath was Groom of the Stole.
The Duke's orders were obeyed; and even the physicians withdrew. The
back door was then opened; and Father Huddleston entered. A cloak
had been thrown over his sacred vestments; and his shaven crown was
concealed by a flowing wig. "Sir," said the Duke, "this good man once
saved your life. He now comes to save your soul. " Charles faintly
answered, "He is welcome. " Huddleston went through his part better than
had been expected. He knelt by the bed, listened to the confession,
pronounced the absolution, and administered extreme unction. He asked
if the King wished to receive the Lord's supper. "Surely," said Charles,
"if I am not unworthy. " The host was brought in. Charles feebly strove
to rise and kneel before it. The priest made him lie still, and assured
him that God would accept the humiliation of the soul, and would not
require the humiliation of the body. The King found so much difficulty
in swallowing the bread that it was necessary to open the door and
procure a glass of water. This rite ended, the monk held up a crucifix
before the penitent, charged him to fix his last thoughts on the
sufferings of the Redeemer, and withdrew. The whole ceremony had
occupied about three quarters of an hour; and, during that time, the
courtiers who filled the outer room had communicated their suspicions to
each other by whispers and significant glances. The door was at length
thrown open, and the crowd again filled the chamber of death.
It was now late in the evening. The King seemed much relieved by what
had passed. His natural children were brought to his bedside, the Dukes
of Grafton, Southampton, and Northumberland, sons of the Duchess of
Cleveland, the Duke of Saint Albans, son of Eleanor Gwynn, and the Duke
of Richmond, son of the Duchess of Portsmouth. Charles blessed them all,
but spoke with peculiar tenderness to Richmond. One face which should
have been there was wanting. The eldest and best loved child was an
exile and a wanderer. His name was not once mentioned by his father.
During the night Charles earnestly recommended the Duchess of Portsmouth
and her boy to the care of James; "And do not," he good-naturedly added,
"let poor Nelly starve. " The Queen sent excuses for her absence by
Halifax. She said that she was too much disordered to resume her post
by the couch, and implored pardon for any offence which she might
unwittingly have given. "She ask my pardon, poor woman! " cried Charles;
"I ask hers with all my heart. "
The morning light began to peep through the windows of Whitehall; and
Charles desired the attendants to pull aside the curtains, that he might
have one more look at the day. He remarked that it was time to wind up
a clock which stood near his bed. These little circumstances were long
remembered because they proved beyond dispute that, when he declared
himself a Roman Catholic, he was in full possession of his faculties.
He apologised to those who had stood round him all night for the trouble
which he had caused. He had been, he said, a most unconscionable time
dying; but he hoped that they would excuse it. This was the last glimpse
of the exquisite urbanity, so often found potent to charm away the
resentment of a justly incensed nation. Soon after dawn the speech of
the dying man failed. Before ten his senses were gone. Great numbers had
repaired to the churches at the hour of morning service. When the prayer
for the King was read, loud groans and sobs showed how deeply his people
felt for him. At noon on Friday, the sixth of February, he passed away
without a struggle. [220]
At that time the common people throughout Europe, and nowhere more
than in England, were in the habit of attributing the death of princes,
especially when the prince was popular and the death unexpected, to the
foulest and darkest kind of assassination. Thus James the First had
been accused of poisoning Prince Henry. Thus Charles the First had been
accused of poisoning James the First. Thus when, in the time of the
Commonwealth, the Princess Elizabeth died at Carisbrook, it was loudly
asserted that Cromwell had stooped to the senseless and dastardly
wickedness of mixing noxious drugs with the food of a young girl whom he
had no conceivable motive to injure. [221] A few years later, the rapid
decomposition of Cromwell's own corpse was ascribed by many to a deadly
potion administered in his medicine. The death of Charles the Second
could scarcely fail to occasion similar rumours. The public ear had been
repeatedly abused by stories of Popish plots against his life. There
was, therefore, in many minds, a strong predisposition to suspicion; and
there were some unlucky circumstances which, to minds so predisposed,
might seem to indicate that a crime had been perpetrated. The fourteen
Doctors who deliberated on the King's case contradicted each other and
themselves. Some of them thought that his fit was epileptic, and that
he should be suffered to have his doze out. The majority pronounced
him apoplectic, and tortured him during some hours like an Indian at
a stake. Then it was determined to call his complaint a fever, and to
administer doses of bark. One physician, however, protested against
this course, and assured the Queen that his brethren would kill the
King among them. Nothing better than dissension and vacillation could be
expected from such a multitude of advisers. But many of the vulgar not
unnaturally concluded, from the perplexity of the great masters of the
healing art, that the malady had some extraordinary origin. There is
reason to believe that a horrible suspicion did actually cross the mind
of Short, who, though skilful in his profession, seems to have been a
nervous and fanciful man, and whose perceptions were probably confused
by dread of the odious imputations to which he, as a Roman Catholic,
was peculiarly exposed. We cannot, therefore, wonder that wild stories
without number were repeated and believed by the common people. His
Majesty's tongue had swelled to the size of a neat's tongue. A cake of
deleterious powder had been found in his brain. There were blue spots on
his breast, There were black spots on his shoulder. Something had been,
put in his snuff-box. Something had been put into his broth. Something
had been put into his favourite dish of eggs and ambergrease. The
Duchess of Portsmouth had poisoned him in a cup of chocolate. The
Queen had poisoned him in a jar of dried pears. Such tales ought to be
preserved; for they furnish us with a measure of the intelligence and
virtue of the generation which eagerly devoured them. That no rumour of
the same kind has ever, in the present age, found credit among us, even
when lives on which great interest depended have been terminated
by unforeseen attacks of disease, is to be attributed partly to the
progress of medical and chemical science, but partly also, it may be
hoped, to the progress which the nation has made in good sense, justice,
and humanity. [222]
When all was over, James retired from the bedside to his closet, where,
during a quarter of an hour, he remained alone. Meanwhile the Privy
Councillors who were in the palace assembled. The new King came
forth, and took his place at the head of the board. He commenced his
administration, according to usage, by a speech to the Council. He
expressed his regret for the loss which he had just sustained, and he
promised to imitate the singular lenity which had distinguished the late
reign. He was aware, he said, that he had been accused of a fondness for
arbitrary power. But that was not the only falsehood which had been told
of him. He was resolved to maintain the established government both in
Church and State. The Church of England he knew to be eminently loyal.
It should therefore always be his care to support and defend her. The
laws of England, he also knew, were sufficient to make him as great a
King as he could wish to be. He would not relinquish his own rights; but
he would respect the rights of others. He had formerly risked his life
in defense of his country; and he would still go as far as any man in
support of her just liberties.
This speech was not, like modern speeches on similar occasions,
carefully prepared by the advisers of the sovereign. It was the
extemporaneous expression of the new King's feelings at a moment of
great excitement. The members of the Council broke forth into clamours
of delight and gratitude. The Lord President, Rochester, in the name
of his brethren, expressed a hope that His Majesty's most welcome
declaration would be made public. The Solicitor General, Heneage Finch,
offered to act as clerk. He was a zealous churchman, and, as such, was
naturally desirous that there should be some permanent record of the
gracious promises which had just been uttered. "Those promises," he
said, "have made so deep an impression on me that I can repeat them word
for word. " He soon produced his report. James read it, approved of it,
and ordered it to be published. At a later period he said that he had
taken this step without due consideration, that his unpremeditated
expressions touching the Church of England were too strong, and that
Finch had, with a dexterity which at the time escaped notice, made them
still stronger. [223]
The King had been exhausted by long watching and by many violent
emotions. He now retired to rest. The Privy Councillors, having
respectfully accompanied him to his bedchamber, returned to their seats,
and issued orders for the ceremony of proclamation. The Guards were
under arms; the heralds appeared in their gorgeous coats; and the
pageant proceeded without any obstruction. Casks of wine were broken up
in the streets, and all who passed were invited to drink to the health
of the new sovereign. But, though an occasional shout was raised, the
people were not in a joyous mood. Tears were seen in many eyes; and it
was remarked that there was scarcely a housemaid in London who had not
contrived to procure some fragment of black crepe in honour of King
Charles. [224]
The funeral called forth much censure. It would, indeed, hardly have
been accounted worthy of a noble and opulent subject. The Tories gently
blamed the new King's parsimony: the Whigs sneered at his want of
natural affection; and the fiery Covenanters of Scotland exultingly
proclaimed that the curse denounced of old against wicked princes had
been signally fulfilled, and that the departed tyrant had been buried
with the burial of an ass. [225] Yet James commenced his administration
with a large measure of public good will. His speech to the Council
appeared in print, and the impression which it produced was highly
favourable to him. This, then, was the prince whom a faction had driven
into exile and had tried to rob of his birthright, on the ground that
he was a deadly enemy to the religion and laws of England. He had
triumphed: he was on the throne; and his first act was to declare that
he would defend the Church, and would strictly respect the rights of
his people. The estimate which all parties had formed of his character,
added weight to every word that fell from him. The Whigs called him
haughty, implacable, obstinate, regardless of public opinion. The
Tories, while they extolled his princely virtues, had often lamented his
neglect of the arts which conciliate popularity. Satire itself had never
represented him as a man likely to court public favour by professing
what he did not feel, and by promising what he had no intention of
performing. On the Sunday which followed his accession, his speech was
quoted in many pulpits. "We have now for our Church," cried one loyal
preacher, "the word of a King, and of a King who was never worse than
his word. " This pointed sentence was fast circulated through town and
country, and was soon the watchword of the whole Tory party. [226]
The great offices of state had become vacant by the demise of the crown
and it was necessary for James to determine how they should be filled.
Few of the members of the late cabinet had any reason to expect his
favour. Sunderland, who was Secretary of State, and Godolphin, who was
First Lord of the Treasury, had supported the Exclusion Bill. Halifax,
who held the Privy Seal, had opposed that bill with unrivalled powers
of argument and eloquence. But Halifax was the mortal enemy of despotism
and of Popery. He saw with dread the progress of the French arms on the
Continent and the influence of French gold in the counsels of England.
Had his advice been followed, the laws would have been strictly
observed: clemency would have been extended to the vanquished Whigs: the
Parliament would have been convoked in due season: an attempt would have
been made to reconcile our domestic factions; and the principles of
the Triple Alliance would again have guided our foreign policy. He
had therefore incurred the bitter animosity of James. The Lord Keeper
Guildford could hardly be said to belong to either of the parties into
which the court was divided. He could by no means be called a friend of
liberty; and yet he had so great a reverence for the letter of the
law that he was not a serviceable tool of arbitrary power. He was
accordingly designated by the vehement Tories as a Trimmer, and was to
James an object of aversion with which contempt was largely mingled.
Ormond, who was Lord Steward of the Household and Viceroy of Ireland,
then resided at Dublin. His claims on the royal gratitude were superior
to those of any other subject. He had fought bravely for Charles the
First: he had shared the exile of Charles the Second; and, since the
Restoration, he had, in spite of many provocations, kept his loyalty
unstained. Though he had been disgraced during the predominance of the
Cabal, he had never gone into factious opposition, and had, in the
days of the Popish Plot and the Exclusion Bill, been foremost among the
supporters of the throne. He was now old, and had been recently tried by
the most cruel of all calamities. He had followed to the grave a son who
should have been his own chief mourner, the gallant Ossory. The eminent
services, the venerable age, and the domestic misfortunes of Ormond made
him an object of general interest to the nation. The Cavaliers regarded
him as, both by right of seniority and by right of merit, their head;
and the Whigs knew that, faithful as he had always been to the cause of
monarchy, he was no friend either to Popery or to arbitrary power. But,
high as he stood in the public estimation, he had little favor to expect
from his new master. James, indeed, while still a subject, had urged his
brother to make a complete change in the Irish administration. Charles
had assented; and it had been arranged that, in a few months, there
should be a new Lord Lieutenant. [227]
Rochester was the only member of the cabinet who stood high in the
favour of the King. The general expectation was that he would be
immediately placed at the head of affairs, and that all the other great
officers of the state would be changed. This expectation proved to be
well founded in part only. Rochester was declared Lord Treasurer, and
thus became prime minister. Neither a Lord High Admiral nor a Board of
Admiralty was appointed. The new King, who loved the details of naval
business, and would have made a respectable clerk in a dockyard at
Chatham, determined to be his own minister of marine. Under him the
management of that important department was confided to Samuel Pepys,
whose library and diary have kept his name fresh to our time. No servant
of the late sovereign was publicly disgraced. Sunderland exerted so much
art and address, employed so many intercessors, and was in possession of
so many secrets, that he was suffered to retain his seals. Godolphin's
obsequiousness, industry, experience and taciturnity, could ill
be spared. As he was no longer wanted at the Treasury, he was made
Chamberlain to the Queen. With these three Lords the King took counsel
on all important questions. As to Halifax, Ormond, and Guildford, he
determined not yet to dismiss them, but merely to humble and annoy them.
Halifax was told that he must give up the Privy seal and accept the
Presidency of the Council. He submitted with extreme reluctance. For,
though the President of the Council had always taken precedence of
the Lord Privy Seal, the Lord Privy Seal was, in that age a much more
important officer than the Lord President. Rochester had not forgotten
the jest which had been made a few months before on his own removal from
the Treasury, and enjoyed in his turn the pleasure of kicking his rival
up stairs. The Privy Seal was delivered to Rochester's elder brother,
Henry Earl of Clarendon.
To Barillon James expressed the strongest dislike of Halifax. "I
know him well, I never can trust him. He shall have no share in the
management of public business. As to the place which I have given him,
it will just serve to show how little influence he has. " But to Halifax
it was thought convenient to hold a very different language. "All the
past is forgotten," said the King, "except the service which you did me
in the debate on the Exclusion Bill. " This speech has often been cited
to prove that James was not so vindictive as he had been called by
his enemies. It seems rather to prove that he by no means deserved the
praises which have been bestowed on his sincerity by his friends. [228]
Ormond was politely informed that his services were no longer needed
in Ireland, and was invited to repair to Whitehall, and to perform the
functions of Lord Steward. He dutifully submitted, but did not affect to
deny that the new arrangement wounded his feelings deeply. On the eve of
his departure he gave a magnificent banquet at Kilmainham Hospital, then
just completed, to the officers of the garrison of Dublin. After dinner
he rose, filled a goblet to the brim with wine, and, holding it up,
asked whether he had spilt one drop. "No, gentlemen; whatever the
courtiers may say, I am not yet sunk into dotage. My hand does not fail
me yet: and my hand is not steadier than my heart. To the health of King
James! " Such was the last farewell of Ormond to Ireland. He left the
administration in the hands of Lords Justices, and repaired to London,
where he was received with unusual marks of public respect. Many persons
of rank went forth to meet him on the road. A long train of eguipages
followed him into Saint James's Square, where his mansion stood; and
the Square was thronged by a multitude which greeted him with loud
acclamations. [229]
The Great Seal was left in Guildford's custody; but a marked indignity
was at the same time offered to him. It was determined that another
lawyer of more vigour and audacity should be called to assist in the
administration. The person selected was Sir George Jeffreys, Chief
Justice of the Court of King's Bench. The depravity of this man has
passed into a proverb.
tolerated to an extent now unknown. The peasant who dwelt there could,
at little or no charge, procure occasionally some palatable addition to
his hard fare, and provide himself with fuel for the winter. He kept a
flock of geese on what is now an orchard rich with apple blossoms.
He snared wild fowl on the fell which has long since been drained and
divided into corn-fields and turnip fields. He cut turf among the furze
bushes on the moor which is now a meadow bright with clover and renowned
for butter and cheese. The progress of agriculture and the increase of
population necessarily deprived him of these privileges. But against
this disadvantage a long list of advantages is to be set off. Of the
blessings which civilisation and philosophy bring with them a large
proportion is common to all ranks, and would, if withdrawn, be missed
as painfully by the labourer as by the peer. The market-place which the
rustic can now reach with his cart in an hour was, a hundred and sixty
years ago, a day's journey from him. The street which now affords to
the artisan, during the whole night, a secure, a convenient, and a
brilliantly lighted walk was, a hundred and sixty years ago, so dark
after sunset that he would not have been able to see his hand, so ill
paved that he would have run constant risk of breaking his neck, and so
ill watched that he would have been in imminent danger of being knocked
down and plundered of his small earnings. Every bricklayer who falls
from a scaffold, every sweeper of a crossing who is run over by a
carriage, may now have his wounds dressed and his limbs set with a skill
such as, a hundred and sixty years ago, all the wealth of a great
lord like Ormond, or of a merchant prince like Clayton, could not have
purchased. Some frightful diseases have been extirpated by science;
and some have been banished by police. The term of human life has been
lengthened over the whole kingdom, and especially in the towns. The year
1685 was not accounted sickly; yet in the year 1685 more than one in
twenty-three of the inhabitants of the capital died. [203] At present
only one inhabitant of the capital in forty dies annually. The
difference in salubrity between the London of the nineteenth century
and the London of the seventeenth century is very far greater than the
difference between London in an ordinary year and London in a year of
cholera.
Still more important is the benefit which all orders of society, and
especially the lower orders, have derived from the mollifying influence
of civilisation on the national character. The groundwork of that
character has indeed been the same through many generations, in the
sense in which the groundwork of the character of an individual may be
said to be the same when he is a rude and thoughtless schoolboy and when
he is a refined and accomplished man. It is pleasing to reflect that the
public mind of England has softened while it has ripened, and that we
have, in the course of ages, become, not only a wiser, but also a kinder
people. There is scarcely a page of the history or lighter literature
of the seventeenth century which does not contain some proof that our
ancestors were less humane than their posterity. The discipline of
workshops, of schools, of private families, though not more efficient
than at present, was infinitely harsher. Masters, well born and bred,
were in the habit of beating their servants. Pedagogues knew no way of
imparting knowledge but by beating their pupils. Husbands, of decent
station, were not ashamed to beat their wives. The implacability of
hostile factions was such as we can scarcely conceive. Whigs were
disposed to murmur because Stafford was suffered to die without seeing
his bowels burned before his face. Tories reviled and insulted Russell
as his coach passed from the Tower to the scaffold in Lincoln's Inn
Fields. [204] As little mercy was shown by the populace to sufferers of
a humbler rank. If an offender was put into the pillory, it was well
if he escaped with life from the shower of brickbats and paving stones.
[205] If he was tied to the cart's tail, the crowd pressed round him,
imploring the hangman to give it the fellow well, and make him howl.
[206] Gentlemen arranged parties of pleasure to Bridewell on court
days for the purpose of seeing the wretched women who beat hemp there
whipped. [207] A man pressed to death for refusing to plead, a woman
burned for coining, excited less sympathy than is now felt for a galled
horse or an overdriven ox. Fights compared with which a boxing match is
a refined and humane spectacle were among the favourite diversions of a
large part of the town. Multitudes assembled to see gladiators hack each
other to pieces with deadly weapons, and shouted with delight when one
of the combatants lost a finger or an eye. The prisons were hells on
earth, seminaries of every crime and of every disease. At the assizes
the lean and yellow culprits brought with them from their cells to the
dock an atmosphere of stench and pestilence which sometimes avenged them
signally on bench, bar, and jury. But on all this misery society looked
with profound indifference. Nowhere could be found that sensitive
and restless compassion which has, in our time, extended a powerful
protection to the factory child, to the Hindoo widow, to the negro
slave, which pries into the stores and watercasks of every emigrant
ship, which winces at every lash laid on the back of a drunken
soldier, which will not suffer the thief in the hulks to be ill fed or
overworked, and which has repeatedly endeavoured to save the life
even of the murderer. It is true that compassion ought, like all other
feelings, to be under the government of reason, and has, for want of
such government, produced some ridiculous and some deplorable effects.
But the more we study the annals of the past, the more shall we rejoice
that we live in a merciful age, in an age in which cruelty is abhorred,
and in which pain, even when deserved, is inflicted reluctantly and from
a sense of duty. Every class doubtless has gained largely by this great
moral change: but the class which has gained most is the poorest, the
most dependent, and the most defenceless.
The general effect of the evidence which has been submitted to the
reader seems hardly to admit of doubt. Yet, in spite of evidence, many
will still image to themselves the England of the Stuarts as a more
pleasant country than the England in which we live. It may at first
sight seem strange that society, while constantly moving forward with
eager speed, should be constantly looking backward with tender regret.
But these two propensities, inconsistent as they may appear, can easily
be resolved into the same principle. Both spring from our impatience of
the state in which we actually are. That impatience, while it stimulates
us to surpass preceding generations, disposes us to overrate their
happiness. It is, in some sense, unreasonable and ungrateful in us to be
constantly discontented with a condition which is constantly improving.
But, in truth, there is constant improvement precisely because there is
constant discontent. If we were perfectly satisfied with the present,
we should cease to contrive, to labour, and to save with a view to the
future. And it is natural that, being dissatisfied with the present, we
should form a too favourable estimate of the past.
In truth we are under a deception similar to that which misleads the
traveller in the Arabian desert. Beneath the caravan all is dry and
bare: but far in advance, and far in the rear, is the semblance of
refreshing waters. The pilgrims hasten forward and find nothing but sand
where an hour before they had seen a lake. They turn their eyes and see
a lake where, an hour before, they were toiling through sand. A similar
illusion seems to haunt nations through every stage of the long progress
from poverty and barbarism to the highest degrees of opulence and
civilisation. But if we resolutely chase the mirage backward, we shall
find it recede before us into the regions of fabulous antiquity. It
is now the fashion to place the golden age of England in times
when noblemen were destitute of comforts the want of which would
be intolerable to a modern footman, when farmers and shopkeepers
breakfasted on loaves the very sight of which would raise a riot in a
modern workhouse, when to have a clean shirt once a week was a privilege
reserved for the higher class of gentry, when men died faster in the
purest country air than they now die in the most pestilential lanes of
our towns, and when men died faster in the lanes of our towns than
they now die on the coast of Guiana. We too shall, in our turn, be
outstripped, and in our turn be envied. It may well be, in the twentieth
century, that the peasant of Dorsetshire may think himself miserably
paid with twenty shillings a week; that the carpenter at Greenwich may
receive ten shillings a day; that labouring men may be as little used to
dine without meat as they now are to eat rye bread; that sanitary police
and medical discoveries may have added several more years to the average
length of human life; that numerous comforts and luxuries which are now
unknown, or confined to a few, may be within the reach of every diligent
and thrifty working man. And yet it may then be the mode to assert that
the increase of wealth and the progress of science have benefited
the few at the expense of the many, and to talk of the reign of Queen
Victoria as the time when England was truly merry England, when all
classes were bound together by brotherly sympathy, when the rich did
not grind the faces of the poor, and when the poor did not envy the
splendour of the rich.
CHAPTER IV.
THE death of King Charles the Second took the nation by surprise. His
frame was naturally strong, and did not appear to have suffered from
excess. He had always been mindful of his health even in his pleasures;
and his habits were such as promise a long life and a robust old age.
Indolent as he was on all occasions which required tension of the mind,
he was active and persevering in bodily exercise. He had, when young,
been renowned as a tennis player, [208] and was, even in the decline of
life, an indefatigable walker. His ordinary pace was such that those who
were admitted to the honour of his society found it difficult to keep up
with him. He rose early, and generally passed three or four hours a day
in the open air. He might be seen, before the dew was off the grass in
St. James's Park, striding among the trees, playing with his spaniels,
and flinging corn to his ducks; and these exhibitions endeared him to
the common people, who always love to See the great unbend. [209]
At length, towards the close of the year 1684, he was prevented, by a
slight attack of what was supposed to be gout, from rambling as usual.
He now spent his mornings in his laboratory, where he amused himself
with experiments on the properties of mercury. His temper seemed to have
suffered from confinement. He had no apparent cause for disquiet. His
kingdom was tranquil: he was not in pressing want of money: his power
was greater than it had ever been: the party which had long thwarted
him had been beaten down; but the cheerfulness which had supported him
against adverse fortune had vanished in this season of prosperity. A
trifle now sufficed to depress those elastic spirits which had borne
up against defeat, exile, and penury. His irritation frequently showed
itself by looks and words such as could hardly have been expected from a
man so eminently distinguished by good humour and good breeding. It was
not supposed however that his constitution was seriously impaired. [210]
His palace had seldom presented a gayer or a more scandalous appearance
than on the evening of Sunday the first of February 1685. [211] Some
grave persons who had gone thither, after the fashion of that age, to
pay their duty to their sovereign, and who had expected that, on such a
day, his court would wear a decent aspect, were struck with astonishment
and horror. The great gallery of Whitehall, an admirable relic of the
magnificence of the Tudors, was crowded with revellers and gamblers. The
king sate there chatting and toying with three women, whose charms were
the boast, and whose vices were the disgrace, of three nations. Barbara
Palmer, Duchess of Cleveland, was there, no longer young, but still
retaining some traces of that superb and voluptuous loveliness which
twenty years before overcame the hearts of all men. There too was the
Duchess of Portsmouth, whose soft and infantine features were lighted up
with the vivacity of France. Hortensia Mancini, Duchess of Mazarin, and
niece of the great Cardinal, completed the group. She had been early
removed from her native Italy to the court where her uncle was supreme.
His power and her own attractions had drawn a crowd of illustrious
suitors round her. Charles himself, during his exile, had sought her
hand in vain. No gift of nature or of fortune seemed to be wanting
to her. Her face was beautiful with the rich beauty of the South,
her understanding quick, her manners graceful, her rank exalted, her
possessions immense; but her ungovernable passions had turned all these
blessings into curses. She had found the misery of an ill assorted
marriage intolerable, had fled from her husband, had abandoned her
vast wealth, and, after having astonished Rome and Piedmont by her
adventures, had fixed her abode in England. Her house was the favourite
resort of men of wit and pleasure, who, for the sake of her smiles
and her table, endured her frequent fits of insolence and ill humour.
Rochester and Godolphin sometimes forgot the cares of state in
her company. Barillon and Saint Evremond found in her drawing room
consolation for their long banishment from Paris. The learning of
Vossius, the wit of Waller, were daily employed to flatter and amuse
her. But her diseased mind required stronger stimulants, and sought them
in gallantry, in basset, and in usquebaugh. [212] While Charles. flirted
with his three sultanas, Hortensia's French page, a handsome boy, whose
vocal performances were the delight of Whitehall, and were rewarded by
numerous presents of rich clothes, ponies, and guineas, warbled some
amorous verses. [213] A party of twenty courtiers was seated at cards
round a large table on which gold was heaped in mountains. [214] Even
then the King had complained that he did not feel quite well. He had
no appetite for his supper: his rest that night was broken; but on the
following morning he rose, as usual, early.
To that morning the contending factions in his council had, during some
days, looked forward with anxiety. The struggle between Halifax and
Rochester seemed to be approaching a decisive crisis. Halifax, not
content with having already driven his rival from the Board of Treasury,
had undertaken to prove him guilty of such dishonesty or neglect in the
conduct of the finances as ought to be punished by dismission from the
public service. It was even whispered that the Lord President would
probably be sent to the Tower. The King had promised to enquire into the
matter. The second of February had been fixed for the investigation; and
several officers of the revenue had been ordered to attend with their
books on that day. [215] But a great turn of fortune was at hand.
Scarcely had Charles risen from his bed when his attendants perceived
that his utterance was indistinct, and that his thoughts seemed to be
wandering. Several men of rank had, as usual, assembled to see their
sovereign shaved and dressed. He made an effort to converse with them
in his usual gay style; but his ghastly look surprised and alarmed them.
Soon his face grew black; his eyes turned in his head; he uttered a cry,
staggered, and fell into the arms of one of his lords. A physician who
had charge of the royal retorts and crucibles happened to be present.
He had no lances; but he opened a vein with a penknife. The blood flowed
freely; but the King was still insensible.
He was laid on his bed, where, during a short time, the Duchess of
Portsmouth hung over him with the familiarity of a wife. But the alarm
had been given. The Queen and the Duchess of York were hastening to
the room. The favourite concubine was forced to retire to her own
apartments. Those apartments had been thrice pulled down and thrice
rebuilt by her lover to gratify her caprice. The very furniture of
the chimney was massy silver. Several fine paintings, which properly
belonged to the Queen, had been transferred to the dwelling of the
mistress. The sideboards were piled with richly wrought plate. In
the niches stood cabinets, the masterpieces of Japanese art. On the
hangings, fresh from the looms of Paris, were depicted, in tints which
no English tapestry could rival, birds of gorgeous plumage, landscapes,
hunting matches, the lordly terrace of Saint Germains, the statues and
fountains of Versailles. [216] In the midst of this splendour, purchased
by guilt and shame, the unhappy woman gave herself up to an agony of
grief, which, to do her justice, was not wholly selfish.
And now the gates of Whitehall, which ordinarily stood open to all
comers, were closed. But persons whose faces were known were still
permitted to enter. The antechambers and galleries were soon filled
to overflowing; and even the sick room was crowded with peers, privy
councillors, and foreign ministers. All the medical men of note in
London were summoned. So high did political animosities run that the
presence of some Whig physicians was regarded as an extraordinary
circumstance. [217] One Roman Catholic, whose skill was then widely
renowned, Doctor Thomas Short, was in attendance. Several of the
prescriptions have been preserved. One of them is signed by fourteen
Doctors. The patient was bled largely. Hot iron was applied to his head.
A loathsome volatile salt, extracted from human skulls, was forced into
his mouth. He recovered his senses; but he was evidently in a situation
of extreme danger.
The Queen was for a time assiduous in her attendance. The Duke of York
scarcely left his brother's bedside. The Primate and four other bishops
were then in London. They remained at Whitehall all day, and took it
by turns to sit up at night in the King's room. The news of his illness
filled the capital with sorrow and dismay. For his easy temper and
affable manners had won the affection of a large part of the nation;
and those who most disliked him preferred his unprincipled levity to the
stern and earnest bigotry of his brother.
On the morning of Thursday the fifth of February, the London Gazette
announced that His Majesty was going on well, and was thought by the
physicians to be out of danger. The bells of all the churches rang
merrily; and preparations for bonfires were made in the streets. But in
the evening it was known that a relapse had taken place, and that the
medical attendants had given up all hope. The public mind was greatly
disturbed; but there was no disposition to tumult. The Duke of York, who
had already taken on himself to give orders, ascertained that the City
was perfectly quiet, and that he might without difficulty be proclaimed
as soon as his brother should expire.
The King was in great pain, and complained that he felt as if a fire
was burning within him. Yet he bore up against his sufferings with a
fortitude which did not seem to belong to his soft and luxurious nature.
The sight of his misery affected his wife so much that she fainted, and
was carried senseless to her chamber. The prelates who were in waiting
had from the first exhorted him to prepare for his end. They now thought
it their duty to address him in a still more urgent manner. William
Sancroft, Archbishop of Canterbury, an honest and pious, though
narrowminded, man, used great freedom. "It is time," he said, "to
speak out; for, Sir, you are about to appear before a Judge who is no
respecter of persons. " The King answered not a word.
Thomas Ken, Bishop of Bath and Wells, then tried his powers of
persuasion. He was a man of parts and learning, of quick sensibility and
stainless virtue. His elaborate works have long been forgotten; but
his morning and evening hymns are still repeated daily in thousands of
dwellings. Though, like most of his order, zealous for monarchy, he was
no sycophant. Before he became a Bishop, he had maintained the honour of
his gown by refusing, when the court was at Winchester, to let Eleanor
Gwynn lodge in the house which he occupied there as a prebendary. [218]
The King had sense enough to respect so manly a spirit. Of all the
prelates he liked Ken the best. It was to no purpose, however, that the
good Bishop now put forth all his eloquence. His solemn and pathetic
exhortation awed and melted the bystanders to such a degree that some
among them believed him to be filled with the same spirit which, in the
old time, had, by the mouths of Nathan and Elias, called sinful princes
to repentance. Charles however was unmoved. He made no objection indeed
when the service for the visitation of the sick was read. In reply to
the pressing questions of the divines, he said that he was sorry for
what he had done amiss; and he suffered the absolution to be pronounced
over him according to the forms of the Church of England: but, when he
was urged to declare that he died in the communion of that Church, he
seemed not to hear what was said; and nothing could induce him to take
the Eucharist from the hands of the Bishops. A table with bread and wine
was brought to his bedside, but in vain. Sometimes he said that there
was no hurry, and sometimes that he was too weak.
Many attributed this apathy to contempt for divine things, and many to
the stupor which often precedes death. But there were in the palace a
few persons who knew better. Charles had never been a sincere member of
the Established Church. His mind had long oscillated between Hobbism and
Popery. When his health was good and his spirits high he was a scoffer.
In his few serious moments he was a Roman Catholic. The Duke of York
was aware of this, but was entirely occupied with the care of his own
interests. He had ordered the outports to be closed. He had posted
detachments of the Guards in different parts of the city. He had also
procured the feeble signature of the dying King to an instrument by
which some duties, granted only till the demise of the Crown, were let
to farm for a term of three years. These things occupied the attention
of James to such a degree that, though, on ordinary occasions, he was
indiscreetly and unseasonably eager to bring over proselytes to his
Church, he never reflected that his brother was in danger of dying
without the last sacraments. This neglect was the more extraordinary
because the Duchess of York had, at the request of the Queen, suggested,
on the morning on which the King was taken ill, the propriety of
procuring spiritual assistance. For such assistance Charles was at last
indebted to an agency very different from that of his pious wife and
sister-in-law. A life of frivolty and vice had not extinguished in the
Duchess of Portsmouth all sentiments of religion, or all that kindness
which is the glory of her sex. The French ambassador Barillon, who had
come to the palace to enquire after the King, paid her a visit. He found
her in an agony of sorrow. She took him into a secret room, and poured
out her whole heart to him. "I have," she said, "a thing of great moment
to tell you. If it were known, my head would be in danger. The King is
really and truly a Catholic; but he will die without being reconciled
to the Church. His bedchamber is full of Protestant clergymen. I cannot
enter it without giving scandal. The Duke is thinking only of himself.
Speak to him. Remind him that there is a soul at stake. He is master
now. He can clear the room. Go this instant, or it will be too late.
"
Barillon hastened to the bedchamber, took the Duke aside, and delivered
the message of the mistress. The conscience of James smote him. He
started as if roused from sleep, and declared that nothing should
prevent him from discharging the sacred duty which had been too long
delayed. Several schemes were discussed and rejected. At last the Duke
commanded the crowd to stand aloof, went to the bed, stooped down, and
whispered something which none of the spectators could hear, but which
they supposed to be some question about affairs of state. Charles
answered in an audible voice, "Yes, yes, with all my heart. " None of
the bystanders, except the French Ambassador, guessed that the King was
declaring his wish to be admitted into the bosom of the Church of Rome.
"Shall I bring a priest? " said the Duke. "Do, brother," replied the Sick
man. "For God's sake do, and lose no time. But no; you will get into
trouble. " "If it costs me my life," said the Duke, "I will fetch a
priest. "
To find a priest, however, for such a purpose, at a moment's notice,
was not easy. For, as the law then stood, the person who admitted a
proselyte into the Roman Catholic Church was guilty of a capital crime.
The Count of Castel Melhor, a Portuguese nobleman, who, driven by
political troubles from his native land, had been hospitably received at
the English court, undertook to procure a confessor. He had recourse to
his countrymen who belonged to the Queen's household; but he found that
none of her chaplains knew English or French enough to shrive the King.
The Duke and Barillon were about to send to the Venetian Minister for
a clergyman when they heard that a Benedictine monk, named John
Huddleston, happened to be at Whitehall. This man had, with great risk
to himself, saved the King's life after the battle of Worcester, and
had, on that account, been, ever since the Restoration, a privileged
person. In the sharpest proclamations which had been put forth against
Popish priests, when false witnesses had inflamed the nation to fury,
Huddleston had been excepted by name. [219] He readily consented to put
his life a second time in peril for his prince; but there was still a
difficulty. The honest monk was so illiterate that he did not know what
he ought to say on an occasion of such importance. He however obtained
some hints, through the intervention of Castel Melhor, from a Portuguese
ecclesiastic, and, thus instructed, was brought up the back stairs by
Chiffinch, a confidential servant, who, if the satires of that age
are to be credited, had often introduced visitors of a very different
description by the same entrance. The Duke then, in the King's name,
commanded all who were present to quit the room, except Lewis Duras,
Earl of Feversham, and John Granville, Earl of Bath. Both these Lords
professed the Protestant religion; but James conceived that he could
count on their fidelity. Feversham, a Frenchman of noble birth, and
nephew of the great Turenne, held high rank in the English army, and was
Chamberlain to the Queen. Bath was Groom of the Stole.
The Duke's orders were obeyed; and even the physicians withdrew. The
back door was then opened; and Father Huddleston entered. A cloak
had been thrown over his sacred vestments; and his shaven crown was
concealed by a flowing wig. "Sir," said the Duke, "this good man once
saved your life. He now comes to save your soul. " Charles faintly
answered, "He is welcome. " Huddleston went through his part better than
had been expected. He knelt by the bed, listened to the confession,
pronounced the absolution, and administered extreme unction. He asked
if the King wished to receive the Lord's supper. "Surely," said Charles,
"if I am not unworthy. " The host was brought in. Charles feebly strove
to rise and kneel before it. The priest made him lie still, and assured
him that God would accept the humiliation of the soul, and would not
require the humiliation of the body. The King found so much difficulty
in swallowing the bread that it was necessary to open the door and
procure a glass of water. This rite ended, the monk held up a crucifix
before the penitent, charged him to fix his last thoughts on the
sufferings of the Redeemer, and withdrew. The whole ceremony had
occupied about three quarters of an hour; and, during that time, the
courtiers who filled the outer room had communicated their suspicions to
each other by whispers and significant glances. The door was at length
thrown open, and the crowd again filled the chamber of death.
It was now late in the evening. The King seemed much relieved by what
had passed. His natural children were brought to his bedside, the Dukes
of Grafton, Southampton, and Northumberland, sons of the Duchess of
Cleveland, the Duke of Saint Albans, son of Eleanor Gwynn, and the Duke
of Richmond, son of the Duchess of Portsmouth. Charles blessed them all,
but spoke with peculiar tenderness to Richmond. One face which should
have been there was wanting. The eldest and best loved child was an
exile and a wanderer. His name was not once mentioned by his father.
During the night Charles earnestly recommended the Duchess of Portsmouth
and her boy to the care of James; "And do not," he good-naturedly added,
"let poor Nelly starve. " The Queen sent excuses for her absence by
Halifax. She said that she was too much disordered to resume her post
by the couch, and implored pardon for any offence which she might
unwittingly have given. "She ask my pardon, poor woman! " cried Charles;
"I ask hers with all my heart. "
The morning light began to peep through the windows of Whitehall; and
Charles desired the attendants to pull aside the curtains, that he might
have one more look at the day. He remarked that it was time to wind up
a clock which stood near his bed. These little circumstances were long
remembered because they proved beyond dispute that, when he declared
himself a Roman Catholic, he was in full possession of his faculties.
He apologised to those who had stood round him all night for the trouble
which he had caused. He had been, he said, a most unconscionable time
dying; but he hoped that they would excuse it. This was the last glimpse
of the exquisite urbanity, so often found potent to charm away the
resentment of a justly incensed nation. Soon after dawn the speech of
the dying man failed. Before ten his senses were gone. Great numbers had
repaired to the churches at the hour of morning service. When the prayer
for the King was read, loud groans and sobs showed how deeply his people
felt for him. At noon on Friday, the sixth of February, he passed away
without a struggle. [220]
At that time the common people throughout Europe, and nowhere more
than in England, were in the habit of attributing the death of princes,
especially when the prince was popular and the death unexpected, to the
foulest and darkest kind of assassination. Thus James the First had
been accused of poisoning Prince Henry. Thus Charles the First had been
accused of poisoning James the First. Thus when, in the time of the
Commonwealth, the Princess Elizabeth died at Carisbrook, it was loudly
asserted that Cromwell had stooped to the senseless and dastardly
wickedness of mixing noxious drugs with the food of a young girl whom he
had no conceivable motive to injure. [221] A few years later, the rapid
decomposition of Cromwell's own corpse was ascribed by many to a deadly
potion administered in his medicine. The death of Charles the Second
could scarcely fail to occasion similar rumours. The public ear had been
repeatedly abused by stories of Popish plots against his life. There
was, therefore, in many minds, a strong predisposition to suspicion; and
there were some unlucky circumstances which, to minds so predisposed,
might seem to indicate that a crime had been perpetrated. The fourteen
Doctors who deliberated on the King's case contradicted each other and
themselves. Some of them thought that his fit was epileptic, and that
he should be suffered to have his doze out. The majority pronounced
him apoplectic, and tortured him during some hours like an Indian at
a stake. Then it was determined to call his complaint a fever, and to
administer doses of bark. One physician, however, protested against
this course, and assured the Queen that his brethren would kill the
King among them. Nothing better than dissension and vacillation could be
expected from such a multitude of advisers. But many of the vulgar not
unnaturally concluded, from the perplexity of the great masters of the
healing art, that the malady had some extraordinary origin. There is
reason to believe that a horrible suspicion did actually cross the mind
of Short, who, though skilful in his profession, seems to have been a
nervous and fanciful man, and whose perceptions were probably confused
by dread of the odious imputations to which he, as a Roman Catholic,
was peculiarly exposed. We cannot, therefore, wonder that wild stories
without number were repeated and believed by the common people. His
Majesty's tongue had swelled to the size of a neat's tongue. A cake of
deleterious powder had been found in his brain. There were blue spots on
his breast, There were black spots on his shoulder. Something had been,
put in his snuff-box. Something had been put into his broth. Something
had been put into his favourite dish of eggs and ambergrease. The
Duchess of Portsmouth had poisoned him in a cup of chocolate. The
Queen had poisoned him in a jar of dried pears. Such tales ought to be
preserved; for they furnish us with a measure of the intelligence and
virtue of the generation which eagerly devoured them. That no rumour of
the same kind has ever, in the present age, found credit among us, even
when lives on which great interest depended have been terminated
by unforeseen attacks of disease, is to be attributed partly to the
progress of medical and chemical science, but partly also, it may be
hoped, to the progress which the nation has made in good sense, justice,
and humanity. [222]
When all was over, James retired from the bedside to his closet, where,
during a quarter of an hour, he remained alone. Meanwhile the Privy
Councillors who were in the palace assembled. The new King came
forth, and took his place at the head of the board. He commenced his
administration, according to usage, by a speech to the Council. He
expressed his regret for the loss which he had just sustained, and he
promised to imitate the singular lenity which had distinguished the late
reign. He was aware, he said, that he had been accused of a fondness for
arbitrary power. But that was not the only falsehood which had been told
of him. He was resolved to maintain the established government both in
Church and State. The Church of England he knew to be eminently loyal.
It should therefore always be his care to support and defend her. The
laws of England, he also knew, were sufficient to make him as great a
King as he could wish to be. He would not relinquish his own rights; but
he would respect the rights of others. He had formerly risked his life
in defense of his country; and he would still go as far as any man in
support of her just liberties.
This speech was not, like modern speeches on similar occasions,
carefully prepared by the advisers of the sovereign. It was the
extemporaneous expression of the new King's feelings at a moment of
great excitement. The members of the Council broke forth into clamours
of delight and gratitude. The Lord President, Rochester, in the name
of his brethren, expressed a hope that His Majesty's most welcome
declaration would be made public. The Solicitor General, Heneage Finch,
offered to act as clerk. He was a zealous churchman, and, as such, was
naturally desirous that there should be some permanent record of the
gracious promises which had just been uttered. "Those promises," he
said, "have made so deep an impression on me that I can repeat them word
for word. " He soon produced his report. James read it, approved of it,
and ordered it to be published. At a later period he said that he had
taken this step without due consideration, that his unpremeditated
expressions touching the Church of England were too strong, and that
Finch had, with a dexterity which at the time escaped notice, made them
still stronger. [223]
The King had been exhausted by long watching and by many violent
emotions. He now retired to rest. The Privy Councillors, having
respectfully accompanied him to his bedchamber, returned to their seats,
and issued orders for the ceremony of proclamation. The Guards were
under arms; the heralds appeared in their gorgeous coats; and the
pageant proceeded without any obstruction. Casks of wine were broken up
in the streets, and all who passed were invited to drink to the health
of the new sovereign. But, though an occasional shout was raised, the
people were not in a joyous mood. Tears were seen in many eyes; and it
was remarked that there was scarcely a housemaid in London who had not
contrived to procure some fragment of black crepe in honour of King
Charles. [224]
The funeral called forth much censure. It would, indeed, hardly have
been accounted worthy of a noble and opulent subject. The Tories gently
blamed the new King's parsimony: the Whigs sneered at his want of
natural affection; and the fiery Covenanters of Scotland exultingly
proclaimed that the curse denounced of old against wicked princes had
been signally fulfilled, and that the departed tyrant had been buried
with the burial of an ass. [225] Yet James commenced his administration
with a large measure of public good will. His speech to the Council
appeared in print, and the impression which it produced was highly
favourable to him. This, then, was the prince whom a faction had driven
into exile and had tried to rob of his birthright, on the ground that
he was a deadly enemy to the religion and laws of England. He had
triumphed: he was on the throne; and his first act was to declare that
he would defend the Church, and would strictly respect the rights of
his people. The estimate which all parties had formed of his character,
added weight to every word that fell from him. The Whigs called him
haughty, implacable, obstinate, regardless of public opinion. The
Tories, while they extolled his princely virtues, had often lamented his
neglect of the arts which conciliate popularity. Satire itself had never
represented him as a man likely to court public favour by professing
what he did not feel, and by promising what he had no intention of
performing. On the Sunday which followed his accession, his speech was
quoted in many pulpits. "We have now for our Church," cried one loyal
preacher, "the word of a King, and of a King who was never worse than
his word. " This pointed sentence was fast circulated through town and
country, and was soon the watchword of the whole Tory party. [226]
The great offices of state had become vacant by the demise of the crown
and it was necessary for James to determine how they should be filled.
Few of the members of the late cabinet had any reason to expect his
favour. Sunderland, who was Secretary of State, and Godolphin, who was
First Lord of the Treasury, had supported the Exclusion Bill. Halifax,
who held the Privy Seal, had opposed that bill with unrivalled powers
of argument and eloquence. But Halifax was the mortal enemy of despotism
and of Popery. He saw with dread the progress of the French arms on the
Continent and the influence of French gold in the counsels of England.
Had his advice been followed, the laws would have been strictly
observed: clemency would have been extended to the vanquished Whigs: the
Parliament would have been convoked in due season: an attempt would have
been made to reconcile our domestic factions; and the principles of
the Triple Alliance would again have guided our foreign policy. He
had therefore incurred the bitter animosity of James. The Lord Keeper
Guildford could hardly be said to belong to either of the parties into
which the court was divided. He could by no means be called a friend of
liberty; and yet he had so great a reverence for the letter of the
law that he was not a serviceable tool of arbitrary power. He was
accordingly designated by the vehement Tories as a Trimmer, and was to
James an object of aversion with which contempt was largely mingled.
Ormond, who was Lord Steward of the Household and Viceroy of Ireland,
then resided at Dublin. His claims on the royal gratitude were superior
to those of any other subject. He had fought bravely for Charles the
First: he had shared the exile of Charles the Second; and, since the
Restoration, he had, in spite of many provocations, kept his loyalty
unstained. Though he had been disgraced during the predominance of the
Cabal, he had never gone into factious opposition, and had, in the
days of the Popish Plot and the Exclusion Bill, been foremost among the
supporters of the throne. He was now old, and had been recently tried by
the most cruel of all calamities. He had followed to the grave a son who
should have been his own chief mourner, the gallant Ossory. The eminent
services, the venerable age, and the domestic misfortunes of Ormond made
him an object of general interest to the nation. The Cavaliers regarded
him as, both by right of seniority and by right of merit, their head;
and the Whigs knew that, faithful as he had always been to the cause of
monarchy, he was no friend either to Popery or to arbitrary power. But,
high as he stood in the public estimation, he had little favor to expect
from his new master. James, indeed, while still a subject, had urged his
brother to make a complete change in the Irish administration. Charles
had assented; and it had been arranged that, in a few months, there
should be a new Lord Lieutenant. [227]
Rochester was the only member of the cabinet who stood high in the
favour of the King. The general expectation was that he would be
immediately placed at the head of affairs, and that all the other great
officers of the state would be changed. This expectation proved to be
well founded in part only. Rochester was declared Lord Treasurer, and
thus became prime minister. Neither a Lord High Admiral nor a Board of
Admiralty was appointed. The new King, who loved the details of naval
business, and would have made a respectable clerk in a dockyard at
Chatham, determined to be his own minister of marine. Under him the
management of that important department was confided to Samuel Pepys,
whose library and diary have kept his name fresh to our time. No servant
of the late sovereign was publicly disgraced. Sunderland exerted so much
art and address, employed so many intercessors, and was in possession of
so many secrets, that he was suffered to retain his seals. Godolphin's
obsequiousness, industry, experience and taciturnity, could ill
be spared. As he was no longer wanted at the Treasury, he was made
Chamberlain to the Queen. With these three Lords the King took counsel
on all important questions. As to Halifax, Ormond, and Guildford, he
determined not yet to dismiss them, but merely to humble and annoy them.
Halifax was told that he must give up the Privy seal and accept the
Presidency of the Council. He submitted with extreme reluctance. For,
though the President of the Council had always taken precedence of
the Lord Privy Seal, the Lord Privy Seal was, in that age a much more
important officer than the Lord President. Rochester had not forgotten
the jest which had been made a few months before on his own removal from
the Treasury, and enjoyed in his turn the pleasure of kicking his rival
up stairs. The Privy Seal was delivered to Rochester's elder brother,
Henry Earl of Clarendon.
To Barillon James expressed the strongest dislike of Halifax. "I
know him well, I never can trust him. He shall have no share in the
management of public business. As to the place which I have given him,
it will just serve to show how little influence he has. " But to Halifax
it was thought convenient to hold a very different language. "All the
past is forgotten," said the King, "except the service which you did me
in the debate on the Exclusion Bill. " This speech has often been cited
to prove that James was not so vindictive as he had been called by
his enemies. It seems rather to prove that he by no means deserved the
praises which have been bestowed on his sincerity by his friends. [228]
Ormond was politely informed that his services were no longer needed
in Ireland, and was invited to repair to Whitehall, and to perform the
functions of Lord Steward. He dutifully submitted, but did not affect to
deny that the new arrangement wounded his feelings deeply. On the eve of
his departure he gave a magnificent banquet at Kilmainham Hospital, then
just completed, to the officers of the garrison of Dublin. After dinner
he rose, filled a goblet to the brim with wine, and, holding it up,
asked whether he had spilt one drop. "No, gentlemen; whatever the
courtiers may say, I am not yet sunk into dotage. My hand does not fail
me yet: and my hand is not steadier than my heart. To the health of King
James! " Such was the last farewell of Ormond to Ireland. He left the
administration in the hands of Lords Justices, and repaired to London,
where he was received with unusual marks of public respect. Many persons
of rank went forth to meet him on the road. A long train of eguipages
followed him into Saint James's Square, where his mansion stood; and
the Square was thronged by a multitude which greeted him with loud
acclamations. [229]
The Great Seal was left in Guildford's custody; but a marked indignity
was at the same time offered to him. It was determined that another
lawyer of more vigour and audacity should be called to assist in the
administration. The person selected was Sir George Jeffreys, Chief
Justice of the Court of King's Bench. The depravity of this man has
passed into a proverb.
